The Ides of March

straw. He wears a grey cloak, day and night. Have you seen him, by any chance?’

The innkeeper nodded. ‘Your man passed through here.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘He’s gone.

‘Gone where?’

The innkeeper hesitated. The information he had received didn’t match what the centurion had just told him.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Publius Sextius.

‘Seems strange to me that a pickpocket and horse thief like the one you’ve described would have access to a signalling station. That’s where he’s headed, but he’ll be back. I gave him a better horse than the one he was riding and he left me all the money he had as surety.’

Publius Sextius scratched his chin. ‘I know that place. It isn’t far. Bring me a jug of wine, some bread and a piece of cheese. I have to eat something. And give some barley to my horse — he’s earned it.’

The innkeeper served both man and horse promptly, relieved that he wasn’t getting involved in this story, at least not for the time being.

In Monte Appennino, statio Vox in Silentio, a.d. III Id. Mart., secunda vigilia

The Apennine Mountains, the Voice in the Silence station, 13 March, second guard shift, eleven p.m.

The station, perched high on the mountain ridge, was situated in such a way as to receive signals from both west and east. The second guard shift was ending and three men were on duty, two inside and one up in the watchtower. A gusty north wind was blowing and the man posted up there came inside, shivering and stamping his feet on the floor.

‘There’s a priority code coming in,’ he said. ‘The message regards the security of the republic.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked one of his two comrades.

‘We have to intercept any messengers directed south, especially two men fitted out as speculatores.’

‘What do you mean by “intercept”?’ asked the other.

‘Stop them, I suppose,’ replied the man who had just come in.

‘What if they won’t stop?’

The man drew his finger across his throat in an eloquent gesture and added, ‘How else?’

Mansio ad Vicum, a.d. III Id. Mart., tertia vigilia

The Village station, 13 March, start of third guard shift, midnight

The milestone marked the sixth mile from Chiusi and Mustela turned to enter the courtyard of the mansio. He tethered his horse, walked up the stairs to his room, opened the door and closed it behind him. He was exhausted. He raised the wick on the oil lamp that was about to go out.

‘Hello there,’ said a voice in the dark.

Mustela drew his sword.

‘I guess my time hadn’t come yet,’ said Publius Sextius. ‘Surprised, my friend? Dead men don’t show up out of nowhere, do they? But as you can see, I’m not. You thought you could take your time since I was out of the picture and so I made it here first.’

Mustela lunged forward, but Publius Sextius was ready for him. He parried the blow with his gladius and with a quick thrust sent the weapon flying from his attacker’s hand. He then pounded his cane flat against Mustela’s chest. The man collapsed to the ground.

Publius Sextius jerked him up and sat him down on the only chair in the room. Leaning back awkwardly, he seemed a disjointed puppet.

‘Let’s start by you telling me what signal you sent,’ he hissed into his face.

‘Forget it.’

Publius landed a stone-hard punch in the middle of his face and Mustela whimpered in pain.

‘You’ll kill me anyway, so why should I tell you anything?’

‘You’re wrong. If you talk I give you my word of honour I will not spill your blood.’

Mustela, still in pain from the wounds incurred during his long journey, was destroyed in body and spirit.

‘They say that Publius Sextius always keeps his word,’ he managed to get out.

‘And so be it, in the name of the gods,’ replied Publius Sextius. ‘Well, then?’ he said, raising his cane again.

‘The message was to intercept two speculatores on the Via Flaminia or Cassia.’

‘I see,’ replied Publius Sextius, receiving the news with seeming indifference. He moved behind Mustela. ‘Anything else?’

‘Nothing else, I swear it. I’m a wreck. I can’t take this. Leave me in peace.’

Publius grabbed his head and twisted it with a swift wrench, breaking the man’s neck.

‘There you go. You’re at peace now and I’ve kept my word.’

He went down to the courtyard, mounted his horse and set off at a gallop.

17

In Monte Appennino, Lux Insomnis, pridie Id. Mart., tertia vigilia

The Apennine Mountains, Never-Sleeping Light, 14 March, third guard shift, one a.m.

Publius Sextius had assumed control of the signalling station manu militari. He had taken command of the squad of signal corps auxiliaries by showing them his titulus and the persuasive, knotty symbol of his rank. He went straight to the signalling tower to transmit the counter-order and save the lives of Rufus and Vibius, whom he didn’t know but who, he was sure, were two courageous young servants of the state. Lighting the fire for the beacon was difficult enough in itself. The weather had worsened considerably. Clouds covered the moon and lightning bolts were discharging their flames on the mountain peaks, swept by a raging wind. It had started raining again, on and off. Publius Sextius was gripped by mounting distress, obsessed by the realization that time was slipping away. His mind continued to calculate the distance he might have been covering if he had not been forced to interrupt his onward journey. But how could he go on without trying to protect the other messengers? The only way to stop them from being killed was using the light, Lux Insomnis, like the code name of the station. But when he was finally able to transmit the message, no one answered.

‘Answer me, you drunk bastards, answer me,’ growled Publius Sextius, teeth clenched, but no light shone back over the Apennines, apart from the bluish flashes of lightning.

He left the signalling tower and went down to the room below, spreading the map that Nebula had given him out on the table. He placed a lamp on the map and ran his finger along the route to the point at which it intersected with the Via Cassia.

‘Too far,’ he murmured. ‘Too far off my road. I would never make it in time. May fortune assist you, lads.’

He walked out to where his horse was waiting and rode off.

In truth they had received his signals up at the station, but could do nothing but remain inside the building because the storm was lashing the post with unnatural force. Clouds heavy with hail, edged in white, shot through with flashes and bolts of lightning, were unleashing a torrent of freezing rain on the signalling tower. Clumps of ice exploded upon impact with the stone paving slabs, shattering into thousands of pieces that glittered like diamonds in the sudden bursts of light. The whole building resounded with the incessant clatter, as if it were being targeted by a thousand catapults.