The Ides of March Read online

  ‘What’s more,’ added Cimber, ‘we can’t predict how Antony and Lepidus will react. They might become dangerous.’

  Just then Brutus noticed that a scattering of fine sawdust had settled to the floor near his feet and he instinctively raised his eyes to the ceiling, just in time to see a fleeting shadow.

  The sound of footsteps was heard along the corridor, coming from the back door that led out on to the street. Cassius Longinus soon joined them, his emaciated, pale face appearing at the entrance to Brutus’s study. Right behind him was Quintus Ligarius, along with Decimus Brutus and Caius Trebonius, two of Caesar’s greatest generals.

  ‘Cassius!’ exclaimed Cimber. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to.’

  Cassius appeared no less agitated than Casca. ‘As you know,’ he began, a little breathlessly, ‘Lepidus landed yesterday morning on the Tiber Island and has every intention of staying put. The commander’s standard has been hoisted on the praetorium. That can mean only one thing: Caesar suspects something. We have to act sooner than we planned.’

  ‘We were just saying the same thing,’ said Casca, nodding approvingly at Pontius Aquila.

  ‘No,’ shot back Brutus resolutely. ‘No. We will keep to the date we decided on. There will be no discussion. We need time to explore the intentions of Lepidus and Antony.’

  ‘Lepidus and Antony are not stupid and they’ll adapt,’ replied Cassius. ‘Smite the shepherd and the sheep will scatter.’

  ‘Sheep?’ retorted Trebonius. ‘I wouldn’t call Antony a sheep. Nor Lepidus. They are fighters and they’ve given proof of their courage and valour on more than one occasion.’

  ‘But,’ Cassius chimed in, ‘exploring their intentions would mean widening the circle of those who know even further, increasing the risk of a leak, which would be fatal. I say leave them where they are. Too dangerous.’

  Brutus started to reply, but Cassius shot him a look and he stopped.

  ‘Perhaps Brutus is right,’ said Cassius after a while. ‘A few days more or less won’t make any difference. The situation has generated a lot of anxiety and so we’re naturally tending to exaggerate, to fret about perils that in all likelihood don’t exist. At least not yet. Let’s maintain the date we decided on. Changing it would be complicated. I still have to see a few people and I’m hopeful these meetings will clear the air, eliminate any doubts we may still have.

  ‘What matters is that you are still determined – that we all are. Sure of doing the right thing. Certain that what we’re preparing to do is just and proper. Once this is over with, we’ll be freed of a weight that has been burdening our conscience as free men. No doubt, no hesitation, no uncertainty. We have the right to do what we are doing. The law is on our side, the tradition of our fathers who made us the great, invincible people we are. Caesar triumphed in the blood of his fellow citizens, massacred at Munda. He committed a sacrilege that he must pay for with his life.’

  Caius Trebonius, who had listened silently to Cassius’s impassioned speech, came forward. He was a veteran of the Gallic War, had commanded the siege of Marseilles and had conducted the repression three years before in Spain against the Pompeians.

  ‘Cut the crap, Cassius,’ he said. ‘Spare us your patriotic exhortations. We – all of us – have been his faithful companions or the faithful executors of his orders. We all accepted his nominations to become praetors, quaestors, tribunes of the plebs. Some of you were pardoned by him but none of you took your own lives as Cato did. Quintus Ligarius was pardoned twice: a true record. Where are you, Ligarius? Show your face.’

  The man advanced, scowling. ‘So what?’ he said. ‘I’ve remained loyal to my convictions. I never asked Caesar to pardon me. It was his decision to spare my life.’

  ‘He would have spared Cato’s as well had he been given the chance, but Cato preferred suicide to putting himself in that situation. Tell me, friends, is there anyone here who feels animated by the noble sentiments that Cassius has just expressed? Are those really good reasons? I think not. And yet we all want him dead. Some of you because you were faithful to Pompey and Pompey no longer exists. Not that Caesar was the one who killed him. The dirty work was done by a little Egyptian king, a puppet who wouldn’t have lasted three days without our support. Others claim they want to defend republican values. But each of us has a deeper, truer reason. Each of us thinks that Caesar doesn’t deserve what he has, that he owes it all to us, that without us he would have achieved nothing. He has all the glory, the love of the most fascinating woman on earth, power over the entire world, while we have to be happy with the crumbs that fall from his table. We’re like dogs he tosses bones to after he’s finished gnawing at them. And that’s why he must die!’

  No one said a word, not Casca, nominated praetor a year before, not Cassius Longinus, whom Caesar had welcomed among the officers of his army after he had opposed him at the Battle of Pharsalus, not Ligarius, twice-pardoned, not Decimus Brutus, who would soon be governor of Cisalpine Gaul and who held his tongue, frowning. Nor any of the others.

  Marcus Junius Brutus, who perhaps could have spoken, said nothing because he knew he was at the centre of that eye staring down on him from the middle of the ceiling.

  He knew who was watching him.

  The enquiring eye, which sparkled with a light that was almost manic, belonged to Porcia, his wife. The daughter of Cato, the republican hero who killed himself at Utica rather than accept the clemency of the tyrant. Porcia, whom he’d kept in the dark about everything. Porcia had first guessed and was now certain of what he was plotting.

  He remembered what had happened just a few days before. It was the middle of the night and he was sitting in his study wide awake, tormented by his own thoughts, nightmares, doubts and fears and remorse. She’d appeared in the open doorway, a vision advancing from the other side of the atrium. She was barefoot and seemed to be walking on air. She moved like a ghost, white in the dim glow of a single lamp.

  She’d never looked so beautiful. She wore a light nightgown, open at the sides. Her thighs, white and perfect as ivory, and her girlish, shapely knees, were bared with every step as she came closer. She was brandishing a stylus and she had that light in her eyes, fixed and trembling at the same time, the feverish light of a state not unlike madness.

  ‘Why are you hiding your plans from me?’

  ‘I’m not hiding anything from you, my love.’

  ‘Don’t lie. I know you’re hiding something important.’

  ‘Please, love, don’t torment me.’

  ‘I know why you won’t tell me. It’s because I’m a woman. You’re afraid that, if I were tortured, I’d reveal the names of your comrades. Isn’t that so?’

  Brutus shook his head in silence, trying to hide his glistening eyes.

  ‘But you’re wrong. I’m strong, you know. I’m Cato’s daughter and I have his temperament. Pain means nothing to me. No one could force me to talk if I didn’t want to.’

  The stylus glittered in her hand like a cursed jewel. Brutus couldn’t tear his eyes away from it.

  ‘Watch!’ she exclaimed, turning the stylus against herself.

  Brutus had shouted, ‘No!’ and run towards her, but Porcia had already stuck the stylus deep in her left thigh, digging the tip into the wound so it tore cruelly into her flesh. Blood surged out and he fell to his knees before her, ripped the iron out of her hand and covered the wound with his mouth, licked it with his tongue, weeping.

  He shook when Trebonius’s voice exclaimed, ‘The day of the final reckoning will be the day we decided upon: the Ides of March!’

  8

  In Monte Appennino, Taberna ad Quercum, a.d. VI Id. Mart., hora duodecima

  The Apennine Mountains, the Oak Tavern, 10 March, five p.m.

  THE MAN IN the grey cloak arrived out of breath, his horse exhausted and wild-eyed in fright at the lightning and thunder so loud the whole mountain seemed to shake. An angry wind whistled through the bare branches of the old oak trees, each new bla
st tearing away the last remaining leaves and carrying them off in a spin to the bottom of the dark valley. The high snowy peaks were barely visible against the black sky.

  He found himself in front of the inn unexpectedly, after a bend in the road, and had to yank at the reins to avoid crashing into the doorway, which was already bolted against the approaching storm and the dark night. Another flash lit up the figure of the rearing horse and its rider for a moment, casting their shadow on the ground that was already drinking in the first heavy drops of rain. The odour of wet dust saturated the air, mixed with the metallic scent of the lightning bolts searing the face of the sky.

  The horseman jumped to the ground and pounded hard on the door, using the knocker and then the hilt of his sword. The great oak tree that gave the inn its name loomed at its side, its gnarled boughs reaching to the roof of the building.

  A stable boy came to answer the door. He took the horse by his reins and covered him immediately with a blanket.

  The man dressed in grey entered and pulled the door shut behind him, bolting it as if he were in his own home. He walked towards the tavern as the rain began to pour, instantly filling all the cracks in the stony courtyard.

  The inside of the tavern was a smoky hole. Crookedly placed beams held up a low ceiling and a round hearth in the middle of the room shot fumes and sparks towards an opening in the roof from which the rain dripped in, sizzling on the embers. An old man with a long white beard and eyes veiled by cataracts, wooden spoon in hand, was mixing some concoction bubbling in the copper pot. The newcomer took off his soaked cape and placed it on the back of a chair near the fire.

  ‘There’s spelt-meal mush and red wine,’ coughed out the old man without turning.

  ‘I have no time to eat,’ replied the other. ‘I have to get to—’

  ‘Mustela, it’s you, isn’t it?’

  ‘You can’t see a damned thing, old man, but your ears are holding out.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I have to get to the House of the Cypresses as fast as I can. Matter of life or death.’

  ‘We’ve got a good horse for you, Mustela. Yours must be done in.’

  ‘Don’t make me waste time. You know another way to get there.’

  ‘The short cut.’

  ‘Not fast enough. Faster.’

  ‘It’ll cost you.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Two thousand.’

  ‘I have less than a third of that, but if you tell me how to get there fast, I’ll give you double what you’re asking as soon as this is over.’

  ‘Why such haste?’

  ‘Do you want the money or don’t you? I guarantee you’ll get the full four thousand.’

  ‘All right.’

  Mustela reached over to his cloak and pulled out a bag. ‘Shall I dump them here or should we go into the back?’ he asked.

  The old man left the spoon in the pot and led his guest to the larder, which was dimly lit by a smoky tallow-burning lamp. Mustela poured the contents of the bag on to the table: all silver coins, looking newly minted.

  ‘Count them. There are five hundred, more or less. I’ll keep as little as possible for myself, but let’s get moving, damn it!’

  The old man returned to the room with the fireplace, followed by Mustela. He called the stable boy as his guest retrieved his cloak, which was no less drenched than before but a little warmer. They walked into the courtyard and were greeted by a thunderclap that seemed to announce the collapse of the heavenly vault above them.

  ‘You won’t need your horse,’ said the old man, ignoring the storm. ‘I’ll keep him here as part payment of what you still owe me.’

  ‘What do you need all that money for?’ grumbled Mustela between one roll of thunder and the next.

  ‘I like to touch it,’ answered the old man.

  The servant led the way, holding his lantern high enough to light up a tortuous path full of rain-soaked dead leaves. The red light cast a bloody glow on the trunks and branches of the big oaks and twisted chestnuts. The old man moved with a sure step over the slippery ground, as if he knew its every bump and hollow. He gave the impression of moving onward with eyes closed, guided more by the hooked toes of his feet than by the dim haze of his vision.

  They ended up in front of a rock covered with moss and tangled thorn bushes. The servant pushed away a creeping bramble with his hands and uncovered a crevice in the rock.

  The two men entered.

  They found themselves in a narrow underground tunnel ending in a rough stairway cut into the stone, worn by time and dripping water. They groped their way down with their hands on the walls, step after step. The stairs became steeper and more irregular, but the difficulty of their descent was offset now by a rope that had been threaded through holes made in the jutting rocks. From deep below they could hear the sound of rushing water and the tunnel soon widened into a sandy-bottomed cave crossed by an underground torrent that bubbled up ferociously between the bare rocks and big limestone boulders.

  ‘This leads to a tributary of the Arno,’ said the old man pointing to the coursing stream.

  Mustela looked at him in shock.

  ‘Isn’t this what you wanted?’ asked the old man. ‘The secret way?’

  ‘How long?’ asked Mustela with terror in his gaze.

  ‘That depends on you.’

  ‘What are you saying? Isn’t there a boat?’

  ‘There will be when you surface. You’ll find it hidden among the willows on the left bank.’

  Mustela couldn’t tear his eyes away from the water, which in the dim light of the lantern seemed as violent and threatening as the surging Styx. The old man’s sunken, wrinkled face, framed by a stringy beard, was Charon’s.

  He looked back at the water foaming between the sharp rocks and said with horror in his voice, ‘This is madness.’

  ‘You’re not obliged to take this way,’ said the old man. ‘I can understand your uncertainty. We’ll go back, if you like. I’ll give you a strong, experienced horse who will take you down the short cut.’

  Mustela’s eyes hadn’t left the swirling current, as though he had been bewitched by it. ‘I’ll end up smashed against the rocks,’ he whispered, ‘it’s so dark down here . . . or I’ll die of the cold.’

  ‘Half make it,’ muttered the old man.

  ‘And half don’t,’ Mustela replied.

  The old man shrugged, as if to say, ‘So what?’, and Mustela realized with a rush how stupid he’d been to pay so much for a passage to Hades. But evidently his terror conflicted with the even greater fear of being required to explain why he had failed.

  In the end, with a deep sigh, he lowered himself into the torrent, holding on to the river rocks in an attempt to steady himself. He fought against the current briefly, then slowly let himself go and was sucked into the darkness, swallowed up by the swirling waters.

  In Monte Appennino, Caupona ad Silvam, a.d. VI Id. Mart., prima vigilia

  The Apennine Mountains, the Woodland Inn, 10 March, first guard shift, eight p.m.

  PUBLIUS SEXTIUS galloped along the track that wound down into the valley and then ascended again towards the summit. He was following Nebula’s map along a route that left Aemilia and cut through the mountains heading south, towards Etruria.

  He rode mostly under the cover of the twisted boughs, his path lit up now and then by flashes of lightning. When the road started ascending, he slowed his pace so he wouldn’t exhaust his horse, letting him walk once in a while to allow him to catch his breath. He was a generous animal and it pained the centurion to oblige him to undergo such strain, to put his life at risk in such a desperate race against time. The rain began falling and the storm broke as he came into sight of the mansio. Just in time, as the horse was about to collapse beneath him. It seemed that one of the soldiers on guard had recognized him.

  ‘Something wrong, soldier?’ he asked as he dismounted and led the horse towards the stables.

  ‘No,’ sai
d the legionary. ‘I was just thinking I’d seen you somewhere before.’

  ‘You’re right. Weren’t you with the Thirteenth?’

  ‘Ye gods!’ exclaimed the guard. ‘But you are—’

  ‘Front-line centurion Publius Sextius,’ replied the officer, turning to face the soldier.

  The guard saluted him. ‘Can I be of help, centurion? It’s an honour to serve you. There’s no one who fought in Gaul who hasn’t heard about your deeds.’

  ‘Yes, you can, son,’ replied Publius Sextius. ‘I need to rest for a couple of hours while they change my horse and bring me something to eat. Keep your eyes open and, if anyone else arrives, inform me immediately, especially if it’s someone asking questions. You understand?’

  ‘Count on me, centurion. Not even the air can get by here without our permission. Rest easy. I’ll have something to tell my grandchildren about when I’m an old man. Great gods, Publius Sextius in person. “The Cane” himself ! I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Thank you. You won’t regret it. You’re doing me a great service and I’ll remember this. What’s your name, boy?’

  ‘It’s Baebius Carbo,’ replied the soldier, standing stiffly at attention.

  ‘Very good. Keep your eyes open, then, Baebius Carbo. It’s a bad night.’

  Another soldier took the horse and led him into the stables. Publius Sextius pulled his cloak up over his head to protect himself from the rain, walked to the door of the inn and entered. He was dead on his feet, but a couple of hours’ sleep would do the job and he’d be ready to resume his journey. At least he hoped so.

  The innkeeper came up to him. ‘You must be in one hell of a hurry to be out on a night like this, my friend. But you’re in our hands now and you can take it easy.’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Prepare me something for dinner, but give me a couple of hours’ sleep first. Then I’ll eat and be on my way.’

  The tone of his voice was peremptory, while the look in his eye and his bearing commanded fear and respect. The innkeeper didn’t say another word. He had the guest accompanied upstairs and went into the kitchen to prepare something for his dinner. The wind was getting stronger outside and it was pouring, but as the temperature dropped the rain mixed with sleet and covered the ground in white slush. When Publius Sextius awoke it had stopped raining completely and the snow had begun falling.