The Ides of March Read online

  Silius watched him intently. So Caesar’s words had real significance for him.

  ‘It’s true,’ Antistius continued, ‘that after Caesar’s victory at Munda there was talk of a conspiracy.’

  ‘A conspiracy? What kind of conspiracy?’

  ‘Against Caesar. A plot to bring him down. Or worse.’

  ‘Wait. Explain that more clearly, please,’ said Silius. ‘Just what are you saying?’

  ‘Our own men, I’m afraid. Highly ranked officers, former magistrates.’

  ‘I don’t understand . . . If you knew these things, why didn’t you tell him? Why didn’t you give him their names? You know their names, don’t you?’

  Antistius sighed. ‘They were just rumours . . . You can’t condemn a man to death on the basis of a rumour. You can never rule out slander – perhaps lies were being circulated deliberately to ruin someone. Anyway, I’m sure he was just as aware of those rumours as I was. I’ve heard him say the same things he said to you today.’

  ‘Well, then, why doesn’t he crush them? Destroy them?’

  ‘Why? Only he knows. If you want my opinion, I think it’s because he believes so strongly in what he did and in what he’s doing. He believes unquestioning in his – how can I say this? – his historical mission. To end the season of civil wars. Establish a period of reconciliation. Put a stop to the bloodshed.’

  Silius shook his head with a dismayed expression. He’d seen too much slaughter to have faith in such ideas.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. And yet he is sure that the only possible solution was – and still is – to destroy, on the battlefield, all those who do not realize that the times have changed, that the institutions capable of ruling a city are not capable of ruling the world. He is determined to convince them one way or another – by hook or by crook – to come round to his way of thinking. To collaborate with him in his plan. He forced them to recognize his logic and then he held out a hand to those who had survived and honoured those who hadn’t. Remember the ceremony he prepared for Labienus? A hero’s funeral. His coffin was borne by six legion commanders, three of ours and three of theirs, escorted by five thousand legionaries in full dress uniform, carried to the pyre up an artificial ramp five hundred feet high to the roll of drums, the sound of trumpets and bugles. The Eagles draped in black were lowered as the coffin passed. No one could hold back his tears, not even Caesar.’

  ‘But if the very men he holds his hand out to are those who are conspiring against him, what sense does any of this make?’

  ‘No sense at all, apparently. But he is certain that there is no way other than his own and he is set on putting his plan into operation. He wants to reconcile the factions, to extinguish the bitterness and to protect the poor, who are deeply in debt, by guaranteeing loans at a low rate of interest, while not frightening the authorities by cancelling their debts completely. On this basis he will build a new order. He will succeed or he will die trying.’

  Silius shook his head. ‘I just don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s rather simple, actually. Civil wars have raged for the last twenty years: Marius against Sulla, Pompey against Sertorius, Caesar against Pompey, Pompey’s sons against Caesar. All this can lead in just one direction: to the ruin of our world, our order, our civilization. Caesar is convinced that he is the only person on this earth who has the military might and the political intelligence to put an end to the past, once and for all, and make way for a new era. He has pursued this goal by every means available—’

  There was a knock at the door and Antistius’s Greek assistant, a young Ephesian slave, entered.

  ‘Master,’ he said, ‘Lollius Sabinus’s freedman is here waiting. He says it’s about an ulcer on his left leg.’

  Antistius waved him away, saying, ‘Cancel all of my appointments for this morning. I’m busy.’

  The slave nodded and backed out. Immediately, loud protests could be heard coming from the antechamber, followed by a door slamming and then silence.

  ‘I can’t stand the vulgarity of these freedmen,’ said Antistius in an irritated tone, before continuing with his earlier train of thought: ‘On the other hand, I agree with you. Certain aspects of Caesar’s behaviour are disconcerting.’

  ‘That’s how I feel,’ Silius said, nodding, ‘but I’m only his adjutant. I can’t criticize him. I don’t dare.’

  ‘No one dares, Silius. No one.’

  ‘He places too much trust in those who fought against him. He has forgiven them. That’s the problem, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. In part.’

  ‘But why, in the name of the gods? Why?’

  ‘Perhaps he feels he has no alternative. He won and therefore he must be magnanimous and pardon them, in order to break the endless round of vengeance, and retaliation. This new order has to start somewhere and this is it. Obviously there are many risks in an approach like this, some of them quite serious. But there is a certain logic, you could say, in the way he’s proceeding . . . if it weren’t for other aspects that seem contradictory.

  ‘The idea of this campaign against the Parthians, for example. From what I’ve heard, we’re talking about a huge expedition, prohibitively expensive, which would involve advancing over vast distances, through deserts and over mountains, against an elusive enemy. Unconquerable, or so they say. You realize that this might be the end of Caesar, like Crassus nine years ago at Carrhae. None of his men ever returned. They say that the entire legion was deported to a distant land at the very ends of the earth. Now, it’s evident that a man like Caesar, who has fought over half the world in any number of different conditions, is perfectly aware of the situation. He must know that if he is defeated or killed, everything he has worked for will be lost. His sacrifices, the battles he has fought – all will count for nothing. It almost makes you think that this Parthian expedition of his represents some sort of heroic suicide. A titanic enterprise that will consume what’s left of his life. But there’s no sense in any of this . . . none at all.’

  Silius sighed and raised a hand to his forehead. ‘I imagine you’ve seen the writing on the walls of Rome, on Brutus’s Tribunal, on the statue of Brutus the Great?’

  ‘I’ve seen it,’ replied Antistius. ‘And I’m not the only one.’

  ‘Is seems that someone is inciting Brutus to emulate his ancestor who dethroned the last king of Rome.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Do you think Brutus may be tempted to accept the challenge and dethrone – that is, kill – Caesar?’

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose, but it seems that nothing can alter the affection Caesar feels for Brutus. Which is hard to explain in itself, although I don’t believe, as so many claim, that Brutus is really his son . . . a son he supposedly conceived when he was only sixteen. Though that at least would explain such a strong, stubborn attachment. But there’s another problem.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Even if the writing on the wall seems to implicate Brutus, it puts him in the public eye and thus effectively exonerates him. If we’re talking about a conspiracy, the essential thing is keeping it secret. No conspirator would dream of making his intentions public.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, of course,’ admitted Silius. ‘But it’s hard to believe that Caesar doesn’t know or can’t imagine who is behind these messages. He’s well aware what his so-called “friends” are up to. What they’re thinking, what they’re hoping, what they’re plotting . . . Right?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ replied Antistius. ‘Caesar could be thinking of an attempt to discredit Brutus in his eyes. There were others aspiring to the office of praetor, which was granted to him. But it all seems completely absurd to me.’

  Silius fell silent and tried to think things through; tried to impose some sort of order on the contradictory ideas racing through his head. Antistius watched him with his clear, penetrating gaze, wearing the same intent look that his patients were accustomed to seeing.

  Sounds could be heard coming from
the docks: the brisk step of an honour guard rushing over from the guardhouse to pay homage to a dignitary whose boat was pulling up to the wharf. Their officer ordered them to present arms and two trumpet blasts greeted whoever it was that was disembarking. It might have been Lepidus himself, from the fuss they were making.

  Silius shook off his pensive mood. ‘Tell me in all honesty what you’re thinking. If he was aware of a threat, would he take measures to protect himself ? Would he react?’

  ‘Quite frankly, I don’t know the answer to that,’ said Antistius. ‘One would think so, but his behaviour leads me to fear otherwise.’

  ‘Then I’m going to do something myself. I can’t stand the thought of a threat looming over him and nothing being done to thwart it.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ replied Antistius. ‘But taking action of any sort could be risky. It’s best to continue investigating at this point and find out exactly what’s going on, using discretion and prudence.’

  ‘How do you propose to do that?’

  ‘There’s one person in the middle, someone who stands between Caesar and his probable enemies, who is capable of learning what’s going on in both camps without alerting either of them. Servilia.’

  ‘Brutus’s mother?’

  ‘Yes. Brutus’s mother, Cato’s sister, Caesar’s long-time mistress. Perhaps still his mistress now.’

  ‘Why would she talk to me?’

  ‘There’s no saying she will, but she’d have good reason to do so. She may very well want to prevent the worst from happening. Look, Servilia has already lost Cato, who preferred death over Caesar’s pardon after he’d been defeated in the African campaign. If Caesar were to be killed, Servilia would lose the only man she’d genuinely loved in her whole life. If he were to be saved, she would probably lose her son, assuming Brutus is implicated in the plot. So in either case she would be interested in averting the threat, no matter where it’s coming from or at whom it’s directed. On the other hand, we can’t imagine that she would warn Caesar personally if she did know something, because doing so would put her son’s life at risk, if what we’re thinking turns out to be true. There are some that say that Caesar spared Brutus after the Battle of Pharsalus because he didn’t want Servilia to be hurt.’

  Silius raised his hands to his temples. ‘This is . . . a labyrinth! How can I hope to make my way through such a tangle of conflicting motives? I’m just a soldier.’

  ‘You’re right,’ replied Antistius. ‘Better not to get mixed up in it.’

  ‘You,’ continued Silius, ‘how do you know so many things?’

  ‘I don’t “know”. I make assumptions, reflect on them, draw my own conclusions. And then I’m a doctor, don’t forget that. Any doctor who’s worth the name has to strive to understand what isn’t explained, to see what’s hidden, to hear what hasn’t been said. A doctor is accustomed to fending off death. And what I think is that Servilia – if she’s privy to what’s happening, that is – has only one option. To approach the person she holds dearest and point them in the right direction. And only she knows exactly what that might be.’

  ‘But if you wanted to help Caesar, what would you do now?’ asked Silius after another long pause.

  ‘I have already taken certain initiatives,’ replied Antistius enigmatically.

  ‘So why haven’t you told me? What were you waiting for?’

  ‘For you to ask me.’

  ‘I’m asking you now. Please. You know you can trust me.’

  ‘I know. And I would never tell anyone else what I’m about to tell you.’

  Silius leaned in closer and awaited Antistius’s revelation in silence.

  Eventually the doctor began, speaking slowly and clearly: ‘Brutus has a Greek teacher . . .’

  Silius widened his eyes.

  ‘His name is Artemidorus. I cured him of an ugly case of vitiligo. You know how much the Greeks care about their looks . . .’

  Silius smiled, thinking of all the attention Antistius devoted to his own personal appearance.

  ‘I believe he is grateful to me. I’ve never told him how I do it and every once in a while he calls on me to repeat the miracle. So, you see, I have considerable power over him. I’m trying to get information from him, although I’ve acted very carefully. I don’t want to jeopardize everything. I know what you’re about to tell me: that there’s no saying we have the time, but that’s a risk I’m ready to take. I don’t have any alternative, at least not for the moment.’

  Silius thought of the centurion Caesar had sent north on a mysterious mission. Publius Sextius was the one person he would have liked to talk to at this moment of such anxiety and uncertainty. It was some consolation to think that Caesar would certainly never have allowed him to go if he had felt there was any immediate danger. Or maybe he’d sent him away because he couldn’t stand the waiting any more and wanted to face his destiny. Whatever destiny that might be. There was no definite answer, no obvious solution.

  At length Silius got to his feet and thanked Antistius for his time. ‘I realize that it may have sounded as if I was ranting, but I needed to talk about this with someone I trust. I feel better now.’

  ‘I’m glad you did,’ replied Antistius. ‘Come whenever you like. I’d rather it was here than at the Domus Publica. If I can give you some advice, don’t take any initiative on your own without consulting me. And don’t torture yourself. Remember that we know nothing for certain and may well be worrying for no reason. All Caesar said was that he’d heard strange rumours, after all. Such a vague expression.’

  ‘All right,’ said Silius. ‘I’ll do as you suggest.’

  As he left, crossing the square in front of the Temple of Aesculapius, he could see the standard of the Ninth Legion flying from the island’s main building. So Marcus Aemilius Lepidus was present with his soldiers. Only a madman would risk taking any kind of action with an entire cohort quartered in the heart of Rome and the rest of the legion camped just outside her gates.

  Romae, in Domo Publica, a.d. VIII Id. Mart., hora octava

  Rome, the residence of the Pontifex Maximus, 8 March, one p.m.

  SILIUS WENT directly into the kitchen to check that Caesar’s lunch was ready. The usual: flatbread with olive oil, mixed sheep’s and cow’s milk cheese, a few slices of Gallic ham from Cremona, the boiled eggs and crushed salt that he invariably requested, and a plate of freshly picked bitter greens. Silius lifted up the tray and took it into the study.

  ‘Where were you?’ Caesar asked as soon as Silius walked in.

  ‘On the island, commander. Antistius wanted to know how you were feeling.’

  ‘And what did you tell him?’

  ‘That you were quite well and were working.’

  ‘That’s almost true. Eat something yourself,’ he added. ‘All this is too much for me. Have you seen my wife?’

  ‘No. I’ve just come from the kitchen.’

  ‘She left shortly after you did and hasn’t returned. She’s just not the same any more. She seems so . . . I don’t know, restless.’

  Caesar began to eat, sipping now and then from a glass of the Retico wine which one of his officers, stationed at the foot of the eastern Alps, regularly sent him. He mentioned a shooting pain that an old wound on his left side was causing: a sign that the weather wasn’t quite settled and that sooner or later it would begin to rain again or worse. Silius cut the flatbread and ate some with an egg and a little salt. He agreed that the weather could certainly be better given the season, with springtime just around the corner, and it was evident to both of them that their conversation was a thousand miles away from their thoughts.

  All at once Caesar wiped his lips with a napkin and said, ‘While you were at the island a message from Publius Sextius arrived.’

  5

  Mutatio ad Medias, a.d. VIII Id. Mart., hora decima

  The Medias changing station, 8 March, three p.m.

  THE FIELDS STRETCHING south of the Po flew by under the hoofs of Publius
Sextius’s horse as he raced down the road that unwound like a grey ribbon through the green meadows at the foot of the Apennines. The fog had dissipated and the sun shone in a clear, cold sky, its light reflecting off the snow which still covered the mountain peaks.

  The swift Hispanic steed, his coat shining with sweat, was showing signs of fatigue, but Publius Sextius continued to push him on nonetheless, snapping the ends of the reins against the horse’s neck and urging him continually forward with words of encouragement.

  The rest station, a low brick building with a red-tile roof, was coming into sight now. It stood near a little stream, surrounded by bare hawthorn bushes and flanked by two ancient pine trees. He slowed the horse to a walk and entered the main gate, a stone archway with a sculpted sun at its keystone. The small porticoed courtyard inside had a little fountain at its centre that poured water into a drinking trough carved from a boulder.

  Publius Sextius jumped to the ground, took the copper ladle at the end of a chain and drank in long draughts, then let the horse slake his thirst as well, a little at a time so he wouldn’t catch a chill, clammy as he was with sweat. He untied a blanket from behind the saddle and covered the horse’s rump. Then he went towards a side door that led to the office of the station attendant. The man stood at the sound of his knock and let him in.

  Publius Sextius opened a wooden tablet with the symbol of the Eagle and the man was quick to ask what he could do for him.

  ‘I need a fresh horse as soon as possible and . . . something else. Does anyone else in the station have . . . this?’ he asked, indicating the image carved in the wood.

  The man walked to the threshold and pointed at a man intent on unloading sacks of wheat from a cart. ‘Him,’ he answered. ‘The Wrestler.’

  Publius Sextius nodded. He walked towards the workman and came straight out with what he had to say. ‘I’m told I can talk to you.’

  The man let go of the sack he had hauled on to his shoulders and let it drop with a thud. ‘And I’ve been told to answer you. If I want to.’