friendship and in gratitude.’
‘I know. He’s already made him praetor and next year he’ll be the governor of Cisalpine Gaul.’
‘As far as I know, tonight there will be a preliminary meeting to assess the advisability of a campaign against the Parthians. Caesar is in possession of a map that Publius Sextius sent him some time ago which will serve to formulate a plan of invasion. But I’ve come to speak with you now for another reason. I was wondering whether you’d heard anything from your informer in Brutus’s house.’
‘No, unfortunately not,’ replied Antistius. ‘I’m hoping he’ll show up soon. If he has detailed intelligence we can approach Caesar directly. Even in the absence of hard proof, he may be persuaded to act with prudence.’
‘If we have names, the proof may come of itself. A number of unusual coincidences might be proof enough on their own.’
‘There’s Servilia as well. She may have succeeded in getting a warning through to him.’
‘I hope so. I have reason to believe that she found a way to see him. You know that Caesar’s no longer using his Hispanic guard?’
‘What? That’s impossible.’
‘It’s true. He told me he dismissed them because he doesn’t want to be seen as a tyrant. Only tyrants need bodyguards.’
‘Where’s the sense in that? Does he want to die? All it takes is one fanatic — one lunatic — who would like to go down in the annals of history and he’s gone.’
‘You know what? I think it’s a wager he’s made with himself. He wants to prove that his clemency and the generosity he’s shown, to friends and enemies alike, are sufficient to put him beyond risk. That he can walk the streets of Rome just like anyone else, without having to check his back all the time. He wants to believe that the people of Rome themselves are his garrison — his bodyguard. Along with the Senate, who have sworn to defend him with their own lives.’
‘He can’t be so naive.’
‘It’s not naivety. It’s his faith in himself and in the people. He’s the greatest man alive, Antistius. And only a great man can defy death so boldly.’
He didn’t wait for an answer, but walked to the door.
‘We’ll stay in touch regarding all of this,’ said Antistius. ‘Let me know tomorrow who participated in the meeting Caesar has called for this evening and who, among those summoned, found an excuse not to attend.’
Silius nodded and left without another word.
Rome, the home of Brutus, 13 March, five p.m.
Artemidorus had been attending to the library all day and had not yet managed to restore order to the chaos he’d found that morning. He was certain that the upheaval had been caused deliberately and the outright absurdity of the situation meant that he must obey without asking for any explanation. Perhaps this was just the start of a Sisyphean ordeal: once he’d reorganized the library, he’d come back the next day to find it turned upside down again and would have to start anew. What was the intention behind creating such a scene, if not to keep him busy, and distracted, and unable to deal with other activities? And if this were true, what activities was he being kept away from?
The mere thought that Brutus knew what he’d been up to terrified him, but he didn’t dare make a move, demand an explanation or even give the impression that he was disturbed or frightened, because whatever he did would only worsen his plight. He tried to focus on the situation at hand with as much lucidity as possible and deduced that if someone had wanted to harm him, this was not the way to go about it. This ruse had been crafted to get across a clear message: ‘Do as you’re ordered and no harm will befall you.’ There was no other explanation, as he’d left the library in perfect order just the day before. At this point, he was even hoping to find the same mess the next day, in order to confirm his hypothesis.
As he was painstakingly thinking all this through, the boy who sometimes assisted him came in. He looked around in bewilderment and asked, ‘Do you need help, Artemidorus?’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I can manage on my own.’
‘Fine. Then I’ll be on my way. But if you need my help, just let me know and I’ll come immediately. I’ve done this kind of work before.’
As he was speaking, the boy fingered the scrolls and their labels, picking them up and turning them over curiously. Then he took a little scroll nonchalantly from under his tunic and placed it on the catalogue table. He gave Artemidorus a sly grin and walked away without adding a word.
At first the Greek didn’t even touch the scroll. It was as if he could feel invisible eyes watching him and he continued his work. But his gaze was increasingly drawn to that little roll of parchment and he finally gave in and opened it. It contained the other names!
He felt overwhelmed by a huge responsibility. How could he ever have agreed to do such a thing for Antistius? How could he have got himself into such a fix? And now how could he get out? He could choose to ignore the scroll, but it was too late now to feign ignorance. The boy knew that he knew and so did his friend. If he did not pass on the information and the plot was averted by some other means, what punishment would await him? And if he did pass on the message and things ended up badly, how would the people on that list see fit to deal with him?
He was floundering between Scylla and Charybdis, like Odysseus’s fragile ship looking for a way through the straits. In either direction he saw monsters with gaping jaws ready to tear into him. In the end, he did nothing. He hid the scroll inside another bigger one and changed its label, and then set back to work, trying to appear busy. He was so worried about getting caught that he was even afraid of himself. As time passed, however, an idea began to form in his mind, a plan. If Brutus’s faction won, the situation could only worsen for him, seeing that the man obviously suspected him of something if he was treating him in this way. If, on the other hand, the conspiracy were thwarted thanks to him, the most powerful man in the world would owe Artemidorus his life. A man who had shown thousands of times how generous he could be to those who had helped him. Antistius himself had guaranteed this and the doctor had always been true to his word.
Thrilling scenarios blossomed before his eyes. He could see himself in the house of the perpetual dictator, honoured and respected, dressed in the most sumptuous garments, delighting in the most refined delicacies. Served by young boys of beauty and grace who would respect him and indulge his every whim. He would have hairdressers, servants, secretaries. An opportunity like this came only once in a lifetime and he would be a fool to let it slip away. Therefore he would act.
His hands swiftly sorted through the scrolls now, one after another: Thucydides slipped easily into place, beneath him Callimachus and Apollonius Rhodius, one next to the other, neatly filling the slots allocated to them. Luxury editions of Homer and Hesiod occupied the top shelf at the centre of the library, earning this place both chronologically and because of their literary eminence. Every poet, historian, philosopher and geographer was returned to the spot he had always rightfully occupied and when, finally, sweaty and satisfied, Artemidorus studied the outcome of his labours, he could see that the library had been restored to its original glory.
He breathed a sigh of relief, more for having resolved his inner dilemma than for having completed the task assigned to him. But he did not leave the library. He preferred to remain there, reading and reflecting on how he could communicate the results of his investigation to Antistius.
He opened the door a crack and noticed one of Brutus’s bodyguards leaning against the wall in the corridor. His arms were folded and he gave the impression of being there just for him. The first problem had been solved, but the one that remained was no less thorny.
Rome, the home of Brutus, 13 March, first guard shift, seven p.m.
Artemidorus reasoned that, whatever happened, he would not be able to spend the rest of his life in the library and that it was time to move to the kitchen for the evening meal, where he joined several guests, none of whom was particularly important. Once in a while he was invited to join the master of the house at his table, but only on special occasions, when his erudition might contribute to enlivening the conversation.
