The Ides of March

‘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?’

‘Straw burns, coins endure,’ replied Rufus, and tossed a shiny Caius Marius penny into the air. It glittered like gold.

‘Heads you get the short cut,’ said Vibius.

Rufus clapped his hand down over the coin in his left palm, then looked.

‘Horses!’ he said, showing Vibius the quadriga that adorned the back of the coin. ‘You win. I’ll take the Via Flaminia Minor.’

The two friends looked each other straight in the eye for a moment, as they drew their horses close and gave each other a big punch on the right shoulder.

‘Watch out for cow shit!’ exclaimed Vibius, reciting his favourite charm against the evil eye.

‘Same to you, you cut-throat!’ shot back Rufus.

‘See you when this is all over,’ Vibius promised.

‘If worse comes to worst,’ snickered Rufus, ‘there’s always Pullus. His mother must have been a goat. He’ll reach us wherever we get stuck.’

He touched his heels to the horse’s flanks and set off along a barely visible trail that descended the mountainside, leading to the valley and the footbridge that crossed the Reno, which was glinting like a sword under the moon.

Vibius went straight up the slope instead and headed towards the ridge, where he would find the short cut through the mountains that led towards Arezzo.

6

Romae, a.d. VII Id. Mart., hora sexta

Rome, 9 March, eleven a.m.

Titus Pomponius Atticus to his Marcus Tullius, hail!

I received your letter the other day and have meditated at length on what you’ve told me. The thoughts which trouble you in this crucial moment are many and of a complex nature. Nonetheless I feel that you cannot shun the role that the best men of this city have ascribed to you. You must not let it worry you that your merits in the course of past events have gone unacknowledged in Brutus’s writings, which I myself have read recently. What he says is dictated by the love he feels for his wife, a woman who is as wise as she is charming, but above all the daughter of so great a father, whom she held in such high esteem. Whoever loves his homeland and is grateful to those who defend it certainly knows what a debt of gratitude is owed to you and knows that you are a model to be held up to the new generations that will one day succeed us.

If I can, I will pay you a visit shortly after you have received this letter, entrusted to the messenger you know so well.

Take care of yourself.

Marcus Tullius Cicero placed his friend’s letter, which he’d received the day before, in a drawer with others and sighed. He hoped the promised visit would take place soon. He’d never felt such a great need to speak to Titus Pomponius in private, to have the comfort of his opinion, his advice. He knew that his friend had long ago decided to keep out of the civil conflict and in the end he couldn’t blame him. The confusion had been enormous, decisions difficult and consequences almost always unpredictable, and the situation had certainly not improved with Caesar assuming full powers.

The conqueror of Gaul had seized upon completely marginal events as a pretext for invading the metropolitan territory of the republic at the head of an army, committing an act that violated every law, tradition and sacred boundary of Rome. At first Cicero had seen Caesar’s assumption of power as the lesser evil and had even gone so far as to declare, in one of the last sessions of the Senate, that if Caesar were in danger the senators themselves would be the first to defend his life. But now he understood that discontent was rife and he realized that the defence of civil liberties could not be subordinated to the desire — no matter how legitimate and understandable — for peace and tranquillity that most of Rome’s citizens yearned for.

Just then his secretary walked in. Tiro had been his right hand for many years and now, at the age of fifty- nine, he enjoyed Cicero’s complete and unconditional trust. Nearly bald, he walked with a limp because of arthritis in his right hip and appeared older than he was.

‘Master,’ he began.

‘You’ve been a free man for a long time now, Tiro, you mustn’t call me master. I’ve always asked you not to.’

‘I wouldn’t know how else to address you. The habits of a lifetime become part of us,’ the secretary replied calmly.

Cicero shook his head with the hint of a smile. ‘What is it, Tiro?’

‘Visitors, sir. A litter is approaching from down the road. If my eyes don’t deceive me, I would say it is Titus Pomponius.’

‘At last! Quickly, go to meet him and bring him here to my study. Have the triclinia prepared. He’s sure to stay for lunch.’

Tiro bowed and went towards the atrium and the front door. But as soon as he glanced out at the road, an expression of disappointment crossed his face. The litter, which was only about fifty paces away, had just turned on to a little road on the left and disappeared from sight. How could he tell his master that the friend he’d been anxiously awaiting had changed his mind? He paused a few minutes in the shade of an old laurel tree that stood next to the gate to reflect on what had happened, then he turned to go and tell Cicero the curious news that as Titus Pomponius’s litter was nearing the gate, it vanished all at once, as if its occupant had had second thoughts.

As he was going in, one of the servants came rushing over, saying, ‘Tiro, there’s someone knocking at the