The Ides of March

towards the atrium, staying close to the wall.

A voice rang out behind him as the light of several torches flooded the portico. ‘Quite a bad cold you have there, Silius Salvidienus. What are you doing out at this time of night?’

It was Mark Antony.

16

In Monte Appennino, mansio ad Castaneam, a.d. III Id. Mart., prima vigilia

The Apennine Mountains, the Chestnut Tree station, 13 March, first guard shift, six p.m.

Since Publius Sextius had reached the Arno before daylight, he decided to rest for a couple of hours until he could hear the ferryman stirring. He led his horse on to the pontoon, which was on a ferry rope, and soon found himself on the other side of the river. He resumed his journey, keeping within sight of the Via Cassia as he rode. He travelled the entire day, until dusk, when he decided to head towards a light he could see in the distance at the edge of a wood. The terrain was uneven and rocky and the path he was using so rutted he couldn’t wait to get there. It was marked on the map he’d been given and looked like a mansio, so he thought he’d be able to get something to eat and perhaps even change his horse there.

As he got closer, he realized the light was actually reflecting from a fire burning inside the building’s enclosure wall. He could see nothing else; the place did not seem to be guarded.

He stopped his horse, dismounted and began to approach cautiously on foot. Realizing that the horse would draw attention, he tied the animal’s reins to an oak sapling and went on alone.

There was indeed a fire burning in the courtyard. Four individuals had gathered around it, sitting on their travel bags. He thought he recognized one of them, a man wearing a grey cloak; his face was very pale and had a weaselly look. In the corner was a wagon with two horses still yoked to the shaft.

When the man in the grey cloak got to his feet, one of the other men followed suit. The other two remained sitting near the fire.

‘I prefer working on my own, but seeing as you’ve caught up with me, at least keep your eyes open,’ the man in grey said. ‘Be wary of anyone who approaches. We’ll relieve you in a couple of hours and then we’ll be off. We’ll take the same roads that he’ll have to take, assuming, of course, that he’s still behind us.’

‘Have no fear, Mustela,’ replied one of the two. ‘No one gets by here without my permission.’

The man called Mustela answered, ‘Decius, don’t let your guard down. You know him. And beware of his cane. It’s more deadly than a sword in his hands. He’s very dangerous-’

‘I know, I know, you’ve told me already. Just take it easy.’

Publius Sextius started at those words. Of all the roads that led to Rome, these four cut-throats had found the very one he had taken and were lying in wait for him no less. He had to act at once, without alerting them to his presence.

Mustela and his companion went in and Publius Sextius soon saw the light of a lamp behind a window on the second floor. It soon went out.

He slipped into the stables and sat down on the straw. A hound started barking, but Publius Sextius reached into his satchel for a chunk of salted meat, which he tossed over to the dog, who swallowed it whole. He came closer, wagging his tail, hoping for more food. It wasn’t often that he enjoyed such generosity. Never, in fact. Publius Sextius petted him and gave him another bite. He’d made a friend who would not betray him.

Knowing he could rest easy from that point of view, he went into the hayloft and then back outdoors again through a door that was slightly ajar. He was now on the opposite side of the mansio. The gigantic chestnut tree from which the station got its name extended its boughs towards the room that had been lit up a few moments before. The moon appeared in a wide gap between the clouds.

Publius Sextius began to climb the tree, pulling himself up on the lower branches, then using the forks in the trunk like a ladder. He soon arrived at the branch leaning closest to the window. It was easy work to open the unlocked shutters and prise the windowpanes apart with the knife he wore at his belt. He pulled it open cautiously and slipped inside without making a sound, but a beam of moonlight from the open window gave him away.

One of the two men jumped to his feet, shouting, ‘What in Hades. .’

Sextius, who already had his cane in hand, struck the man violently, knocking him to the floor.

Mustela, realizing that from being hunter he had become prey, was out of his room and in the hall in no time. He found a small balcony from which he could leap to the ground, stifling a cry of pain when he hit the hard earth below.

Publius Sextius was close behind and vaulted down after him. Decius Saurus had been left alone next to the fire, while his companion had gone off in search of wood. He tried to block the centurion’s way, but Publius Sextius tackled him full on, sending him rolling into the flames.

Mustela jumped on to the first horse he could find and flew through the main gate at a gallop. Publius Sextius ran in the opposite direction until he found his own horse, untied him, leapt on to his back and urged him forward in pursuit of the fugitive.

Mustela had bolted off and was careering about madly, in the light of the moon, among the shadows cast by the trees that streaked the ground with eerie shapes. At every bend in the road, the gravel flew and scattered on to the embankment below.

All at once a bird, frightened by Mustela’s passage, rose to the air directly in front of Sextius’s horse, spooking him and causing him to rear up. The centurion, taken completely by surprise, fell and tumbled down the cliff that edged the road.

Mustela continued to race off at breakneck speed until he realized that he was no longer being followed. He pulled on the reins and his horse jerked to a halt. He turned back, sensing a trap. He moved slowly, looking in every direction, as tense and suspicious as the animal he resembled and whose nickname he bore.

When he spotted Publius Sextius’s horse running wild, a self-satisfied grin curled his lips, deforming his features.

The centurion’s horse was neighing and snorting, still obviously frightened by what had happened. Mustela dismounted and walked to the brink of the embankment. He saw broken branches and a scrap of the cloak his pursuer had been wearing stuck to a twig and waving in the wind.

‘Farewell, Publius Sextius,’ he murmured under his breath, still afraid that somehow the centurion might hear him. Then he remounted his horse and rode off.

Romae, in aedibus Bruti, a.d. III Id. Mart., secunda vigilia

Rome, the home of Brutus, 13 March, second guard shift, eleven p.m.

Artemidorus was stretched out on his bed open-eyed, his lamp burning. He stared at the ceiling beams in a daze as he wondered what to do next. Every now and then he got up to spy on the two guards blocking the hallway. They were still there, unmoving and silent.

At times he would hear noises, footsteps along the corridor or crossing the atrium. He could tell where they were coming from by the noise they made. Brick, marble, stone: each material sounded different. He had grown used to distinguishing them in that house of ghosts, even in the dark: Brutus’s nervous step, Porcia’s pacing, even Servilia’s light footfall when she came to visit her son and would stay for dinner or overnight.

Artemidorus poured himself another glass of water and looked glumly at the untouched tray of cakes that his young servant had brought to his room.

What the boy had reported had filled him with anguish. Thus far he’d said nothing, but what if they tortured him? What would happen then? Could he expect a slave to withstand torture and keep what he knew a secret?

Time must be running out. If Brutus was asking such questions, if the others had come back so soon, it must mean that action was imminent. Artemidorus was desperate to make plans, take precautions, protect himself. . The boy had promised to come back, but that had been hours ago. Had his worst fears come to pass?

The silence and his anxiety had sharpened his senses to breaking point and he was sweating profusely,