The Ides of March Read online

  The workman certainly had the build of a wrestler, with hair shaved close to his skull, a few days’ growth of beard and thick eyebrows that joined together across his forehead. He wore a dusty work tunic and a pair of sandals worn at the heel. His hands were as big as shovels, rough and callused. There was a leather bracelet on his left wrist and he wore a studded belt at his waist. Publius Sextius sized him up, while the other man had already looked him over from head to toe.

  ‘All right,’ Publius Sextius began, ‘I have a restricted message that must be taken to Rome. Extremely urgent, extremely important, very high risk.’

  The wrestler wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. ‘I get it. You need some runners.’

  ‘I need them now. This instant,’ pressed Publius Sextius. ‘I must be certain that the message gets there . . . Or is there an alternative?’

  ‘No, but I’ll do what I can. You can go on your way, friend, no trouble.’

  ‘No trouble?’ replied the centurion as his mouth twisted into a sneer. ‘There is nothing but trouble, from Cadiz to the Red Sea. I’m afraid there’s a storm brewing that is about to break and it won’t subside until it has swept away everything that has been accomplished so far. We have to stop it, at any cost.’

  The wrestler scowled and at the same moment a cloud covered the sun, plunging the courtyard into shadow. The sky seemed to be echoing his words.

  ‘What are you getting at, man? I can’t understand what—’

  Publius Sextius drew in closer. ‘The message must be delivered as quickly as possible to the old guard post at the eighth milestone on the Via Cassia. The message is: “The Eagle is in danger.”’

  The other man grabbed his cloak to pull him closer. ‘Almighty gods, what’s going on? What else must I tell them?’

  ‘Nothing more than what I’ve just said,’ replied Publius Sextius. ‘I’ll take care of the rest myself. I’ll be setting off at once. You get started on this as soon as possible. Good luck.’

  As Publius Sextius was walking back towards the main building, he noticed a man sitting over on the ground, not far from them, behind one of the columns of the portico. He was slurping from a bowl of soup, his head low. He was wearing a grey cape and the hood covered his head but not his weaselly face. An ugly mug with a few straggly yellow hairs on his upper lip.

  Publius Sextius rejoined the man in charge of the post, asked about his horse and exchanged a few words. A servant brought him something to eat with a glass of wine, while the stable hands prepared the new mount and transferred his baggage.

  The man in the grey cape was still bent over his bowl of soup, but he hadn’t missed a word of what had been said. He watched as Publius Sextius downed the wine in a couple of gulps, jumped on to the fresh horse and rode off at a gallop. Then he set his bowl on the ground, got up and, with a steady step, went straight to the stables.

  There he put a coin into the groom’s hand and asked, ‘Did you talk to that man who just rode away?’

  ‘No,’ replied the servant.

  ‘Did you hear what he said to the attendant?’

  ‘He asked if he’d be sure to find another horse at the next rest stop.’

  ‘So he’s in one hell of a hurry, then . . .’

  ‘You said it. He didn’t even finish eating.’

  ‘Prepare a horse for me as well. Your best. I’ll be leaving tonight, late.’

  ‘He took the best one.’

  ‘The best of what’s left, you idiot.’

  The servant obeyed at once. He prepared a sturdy-legged bay, harnessed him and took him over to the man in the grey cloak.

  ‘If you leave late at night,’ he said, ‘be careful. You never know who you might meet up with.’

  ‘Mind your own business,’ the other shot back. ‘And don’t talk to anyone if you want more of these.’

  He shook the coins in his sack before returning to the courtyard, where he slumped down in the same place, leaning against one of the columns.

  A convoy of carts piled high with hay, evidently for restocking the stables, entered the courtyard. The drivers were in a jolly mood and the first thing they wanted to know was whether there was any more of the wine they’d had last time. The attendant stood at the door of his office, holding a tablet and stylus, keeping an eye on the dealings and taking note of what was being sold and what the Senate and people of Rome were spending.

  ‘I hope this stuff isn’t damp,’ he grumbled, leaning over the carts. ‘The last load was all mouldy. I should take off more than half of what I paid you for that last lot.’

  ‘Blame your lazy servants, not us,’ one of the drivers replied. ‘They left it out all night because they were too tired to haul it under cover in the hayloft. This stuff is perfect, governor, dry as my thirsty throat.’

  The attendant took his clue and had some wine brought out for the men, then returned to his office.

  A little later another horseman arrived, this one just as out of breath as the first. He glanced around until he found the rat-faced man he was looking for. He gave Mustela the eye and they walked off together. He showed Mustela a receipt and handed him a scroll on which an itinerary was mapped out. Mustela took what he had been waiting for. Now he could continue.

  MEANWHILE, Publius Sextius was advancing at a gallop along the dirt border that ran alongside the paved road, the Via Emilia, in the direction of Rimini, checking the milestones as he rode to calculate how far he had to go to the next station. He’d passed this way three years earlier, marching with the boys of the Twelfth. It was with them that he had most unwillingly crossed the Rubicon. He well remembered the scenario he’d been forced to invent in order to convince his men that taking that step – against their country and against the law – was necessary.

  The sun had begun to set. He had at most another hour and a half of light, sufficient to reach his next stop along the left bank of the Reno. There he would decide whether to set off again or remain for the night. He slowed down when he could feel his mount straining, not wanting to wear him out. He was an infantryman and he’d learned to get to know horses and understand their needs. But he was convinced that Caesar was in great danger and that the threat was imminent. It wasn’t so much Nebula’s hints as his own instinct, the same feeling that, during his guard shifts on the Gallic campaigns, had allowed him to sense the enemy arrow an instant before it was let loose.

  Caupona ad Salices, a.d. VIII Id. Mart., hora duodecima

  The Willows Inn, 8 March, five p.m.

  PUBLIUS SEXTIUS reached the banks of the Reno just short of Bologna and turned right, heading south as he followed the river upstream, according to the directions on Nebula’s map. He didn’t reach the inn, which acted as a changing station, until the sun had already dipped below the mountains. He entered, eager to change his horse. At the door he noticed a little statue of Isis. It wasn’t particularly well crafted, but it made a certain impression nonetheless. Inside, the servants were getting ready to light the oil lamps in the rooms, taking the oil from a jar at the end of the courtyard.

  He felt tired. His old wounds were bothering him, as they always did when the weather was bad. The little he’d eaten at the previous station wasn’t enough to keep him going. He tied the horse’s reins to a post and went to find the station attendant, who turned out to be busy playing dice with the innkeeper.

  He showed the attendant his credentials and watched the man’s embarrassment at being caught neglecting his duty. But Publius Sextius waved off his anxiety.

  ‘I’m not an inspector. I’m a simple traveller and I need your advice.’

  ‘Whatever I can help you with, centurion.’

  ‘I’m in a hurry, but I don’t know whether to continue on or stop for the night.’

  ‘I suggest,’ replied the attendant, ‘that you stop and rest. You’re not looking too good and in a short while it will be pitch black out there. Don’t risk it.’

  ‘How far is the next rest stop?’ asked Publius Sex
tius.

  ‘A little over three hours from here. It depends how fast you’re going.’

  ‘That depends on the horse you give me.’

  ‘So you want to leave?’

  ‘That’s right. It won’t be completely dark for at least an hour. Then I’ll see. Before I go I’ll have a hunk of bread and a little of whatever you’ve got. Change my horse. He’s outside tied to a post. Give me the best you have and I’ll remember you.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the attendant promptly, dropping his dice. ‘This is our innkeeper. He’ll serve you some dinner while I prepare the finest horse in the stables. Why are you in such a hurry, if I may ask?’

  ‘No, you may not,’ replied Publius Sextius curtly. ‘Get moving instead.’

  The attendant did as he was told and the centurion soon set off again. The temperature was falling rapidly because of the snow still covering great swathes of the mountainside, frosting the air as it swept down the icy gullies.

  Publius Sextius told himself that he was worrying too much, that there was no reason to think anything was about to happen so soon. But it relieved him to know that other couriers were already on their way, making it much more probable that the message would reach its destination.

  He hoped the couriers would be equal to the task. The state had been lacerated by rival factions for too long now; even the local administrations had been infiltrated by men of different and conflicting loyalties.

  Any lingering reflections of the sunset had been doused and the sky, clear now and deep blue, twinkled with its brightest stars. A crescent moon took shape over the white crests of the Apennines and the horseman felt even more alone on the deserted road, his only company the pounding of the horse’s hoofs and its heavy breathing.

  Mutatio ad Medias, a.d. VIII Id. Mart., prima vigilia

  The Medias changing station, 8 March, first guard shift, seven p.m.

  AS SOON AS darkness fell, while the others were preparing for dinner and lamps flickered on inside and outside the inn to guide in any latecomers, the man who had been unloading the sacks of wheat climbed the stairs that led to the upper balcony.

  His move did not escape the grey-caped man. Under cover of the shadows that lined the portico, he stealthily reached the stairs and crept up behind him without making a sound, stopping at a door that the man had left half open.

  The building was topped by a kind of tower that rose about twenty feet over the rest of the construction. Once the wrestler had reached the upstairs balcony, he walked over to this tower and used the steps built into the wall to reach its top. Out of sight now, he took wood from a readied stack and lit a fire inside a sort of cast-iron basket supported by a tripod. The wind soon whipped up the flames. The wrestler walked to a little door on the western side of the tower, opened it and retrieved a sackcloth bundle. Inside was a large, polished bronze disc. He used this to project the light of the fire towards a point high on the Apennines where someone was hopefully waiting for his signal and would understand. He made wide gestures with his arms, alternating and repeating them. The air was becoming quite chilly and the wrestler felt his chest burning so close to the flames, while his back was freezing in the cold night that was getting blacker and blacker by the moment.

  The clanking of dishes and drinking jugs wafted up from below, along with the good-natured bawling of the guests, but the man didn’t take his eyes off the white blanket of the mountain. Although it was surrounded by darkness, it emanated an immaculate glow all its own.

  He finally made out a red spot that became bigger and bigger until it was a pulsing red globe. The signalman up on the summit had received his message and was responding.

  Down below, the man in the grey cloak didn’t dare go up the tower stair: he had no desire to provoke a run-in with that animal. Even from the balcony, he could tell that the man was sending a signal, so he just flattened himself against the wall and waited for the reply.

  In Monte Appennino, Lux Fidelis, a.d. VIII Id. Mart., prima vigilia

  The Apennine Mountains, Faithful Light, 8 March, first guard shift, seven p.m.

  THE MAN AT the signal station held a canvas screen that he raised and lowered over the fire, but the wind was picking up, making his task much more difficult. The terrace at the outpost was covered with icy snow and behind the building stretched a forest of fir trees that were bent under the weight of the recently fallen snow. A hatch suddenly opened in the floor and the station commander emerged, wrapped in a coarse woollen cloak with a fur-lined hood. He was an army officer, an engineer.

  ‘What are they sending?’ he asked.

  The signalman leaned the tablet on which he’d written the message close to the light of the fire. ‘ “The Eagle is in danger. Warn Cassia VIII.” Do you know what that means? Do you know who the Eagle is, commander?’

  ‘I do know and it means trouble. Terrible trouble. How many men have we got?’

  ‘Three, including the one who just sent us the signal.’

  ‘The wrestler?’

  ‘Yes, him, plus the two we have here.’

  ‘The wrestler will be leaving as soon as possible, if he hasn’t left already. The other two will set off immediately from here. They’re used to travelling at night. I’ll talk to them myself.’

  The light pulsing from the top of the Medias tower stopped. Transmission of the message was complete.

  The commander went back down the steps, pulling the wooden hatch shut after him. Three oil lamps illuminated the passageway that led to a landing from which the living quarters of the staff on duty at the station could be accessed. The two young men inside were both about thirty. The first, clearly a local, had a Celtic build and features. He was tall, blond and brawny, with iridescent blue eyes and long, fine hair. The second was a Daunian, from Apulia in the south. He wasn’t nearly as tall, his hair was sleek and dark and his black eyes sparkled. The first was called Rufus, the second Vibius. They used a strange jargon when speaking to each other, a mix of Latin and dialect from their native lands. There was probably no one else in the world who could have understood them.

  They were eating bread and walnuts when their commander walked in. Jumping to their feet they swallowed quickly. They could see from the scowl on his face that the situation was serious.

  ‘Orders to deliver a message of the highest priority,’ he began. ‘Naturally, you won’t be alone. You know the protocol. Relying on light signals at this time of year with this bad weather is madness. If they tried it, it must mean they’re trying everything. A good courier is always the safest way. The message is simple. Easy to memorize, even for a couple of chumps like yourselves. “The Eagle is in danger.”’

  ‘ “The Eagle is in danger”,’ they repeated in unison. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The concise nature of the message leads me to believe it’s come from Nebula. Dirty son of a bitch, but he’s rarely wrong. I can’t tell you any more, but I want you to realize that the lives of a great number of men – perhaps the destinies of entire cities and even nations – depend on this message reaching its destination in time. It must be delivered orally to the old guard post at the eighth milestone on the Via Cassia. I don’t care how you get there – take any damned route you please – and I don’t care if you have to sweat blood to make it, but for all the demons in Hades, before you breathe your last, you must deliver this fucking message. Is that clear?’

  ‘Perfectly clear, commander.’

  ‘Someone is already taking care of getting your gear together. The horses will be ready as I finish speaking. You will take off in two different directions. You can decide between you which routes you’re going to take. I’m not saying you have to remain on a single road the whole time, but since you’ll be needing to change horses, you will have to use a road as your reference point. For the sake of security, I do not know the itineraries of any other couriers, but it’s possible that they are different from your own. If necessary use your speculator badge to identify yourself as a scout, although it’
s best to complete the mission incognito if possible. The system is designed to guarantee that at least one message arrives, if the other attempts fail for any reason.’

  ‘The reason,’ said Rufus, ‘being that the messenger is killed. Correct, commander?’

  ‘That is correct,’ replied his superior. ‘Those are the rules of the game.’

  ‘Who, besides us, may be aware of the operation?’ asked Vibius.

  ‘No one, as far as I understand. But that’s not to say we know everything we’d like to know, and what we think most probable may be the furthest from the truth. So keep your eyes and ears open. Your order is this and only this: deliver the message at any cost.’

  Taking leave of the commander, the two men went down the stairs that led to the inner courtyard, where a couple of sorrels had been kitted out for a long journey: blankets, knapsacks containing food, flasks containing watered-down wine, moneybelts. A servant helped them put on their reinforced-leather corselets, thick enough to stop an arrow from getting to the heart but light enough to permit agile movement. A Celtic dagger was the standard weapon for this type of mission. The baggage was completely covered by a coarse woollen cloak, good in the cold, good in the heat.

  They walked their horses out through the main gate, where two lanterns cast a yellow halo on to snow soiled by mud and horse dung.

  ‘What now?’ asked Vibius. ‘Shall we separate here or ride down to the bottom of the valley together?’

  Rufus stroked the neck of his horse, who was restlessly pawing the ground and snorting big puffs of steam from his nostrils.

  ‘That would be most logical and I’d greatly prefer it. But if they sent the signal in this direction it’s because they expect at least one of us to take the short cut across the ridge in the direction of the Via Flaminia. It’s tough going but will save a good half-day’s journey. Sometimes half a day can make all the difference.’

  ‘You’re right,’ agreed Vibius. ‘So what do we use? A straw or a coin?’