way, no matter what happens they can always say they foresaw it.’
‘You’re right,’ said Caesar. ‘But why the Ides of March?’
‘Why not?’ replied Calpurnia. ‘He might have said any date at all.’ But her voice betrayed her concern.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Caesar. ‘He was thinking of something specific. I could read it in his eyes. I can see things in men’s eyes. I’ve had a lot of practice: the eyes of my soldiers, of my officers. Tension, resentment, fear, resignation. A commander has to know what’s going on in his men’s minds.’
Calpurnia tried to sustain her hypothesis. ‘Maybe he saw illness, or the loss of a loved one, or. .’
‘Or the loss of everything,’ concluded Caesar darkly.
Calpurnia’s eyes filled with tears. ‘You know I can’t stand to hear you talk this way. I’m not strong enough. I’ve put up with a lot, you know I have, without ever losing my dignity. It hasn’t been easy being the wife of Caesar. I’ve even accepted not having a child, not giving you an heir. But this I can’t bear.’
She burst into tears.
Caesar got out of his bath and wrapped himself in a linen cloth. He brushed Calpurnia’s hand with his fingers.
‘Don’t cry, please don’t. We’re both very tired and I feel alone. Silius hasn’t come back. I haven’t heard from Publius Sextius in days. Come now. Let’s try to get some rest.’
A peal of thunder crashed over the Domus Publica and the floodgates of heaven opened. A downpour of rain mixed with hail rattled on the roof of the building and pelted over the eaves. Each antefix on the roof vomited a spray of dirty water on to the pavement below, while the flashes of lightning illuminated the leering satyr masks with a ghostly light.
Calpurnia reached over to her husband in their bed and curled her arm over his chest, rested her head on his shoulder. She held him thus until she could hear his breathing becoming deep and regular. Julius Caesar slept. Then Calpurnia abandoned herself to sleep as well, lulled by the sound of water on the roof.
Rome, the residence of the Pontifex Maximus, 15 March, third guard shift, two a.m.
The marble statue of Julius Caesar at the entrance to the Domus Publica shone under the beating rain. The right arm of the perpetual dictator was raised in an oratorical pose and the breastplate he wore, sculpted in grey marble, gleamed like real metal. A sudden flash lit up the statue, then a bolt of lightning struck it full on and exploded Caesar’s likeness into a million pieces, which flew in every direction, then clattered down the stairway. On the pedestal only the legs remained, truncated below the knees, and the statue’s feet, still strapped into their military sandals.
Jolted awake in the dead of night by the crash of thunder, Calpurnia sat up in bed and saw that the window shutters had become unhooked and were banging noisily against the outside wall. The statue flashed into her mind and she screamed. A shrill, prolonged shriek that Caesar stopped by pulling her close in bed.
‘Calm down! It’s only the window!’
‘No!’ cried Calpurnia. ‘Your statue was struck by lightning — it has smashed to pieces! What a terrible omen. .’
She got out of bed and ran towards the window, followed by Caesar, who had tried in vain to hold her back.
Caesar got there first and looked below. The statue was in its place.
‘It was only a dream,’ he said. ‘Nothing has happened. The statue is intact.’
Calpurnia approached hesitantly, as if she were afraid to look. Caesar was right: the statue stood upright on its pedestal, glittering with rain at every flash of lightning.
‘Go back to sleep now,’ Caesar told her. ‘Try to calm down.’ But as he said those words he felt his own terror mounting and knew that an attack was coming on. Cold sweat beaded his forehead. He went to the ground floor on the excuse of needing a glass of water and made for Antistius’s room to wake him, but then he paused.
The feeling had passed. Perhaps it had been a nightmare, like Calpurnia’s.
Instead he went to his study, where the oil lamps hanging from the big bronze candelabrum still burned. His glance fell on the table and the scroll of his
He was fighting on the front line. A gigantic Gaul struck him with his axe and snapped his shield in two. He tried to defend himself with his sword, but he felt himself slipping on the blood-slick ground. He fell to his knees and was about to be killed when Publius Sextius, wounded himself, lunged at the enemy and ran him through from front to back with his sword. Publius was holding out his hand, helping him to get to his feet.
‘We’ll see this through, commander!’
‘We’ll see this through, centurion!’
A voice rang out from behind him: ‘Caesar? What are you doing here? I heard noises. . Why don’t you try to get some rest? Shall I prepare another potion for you?’
‘Antistius. . No, I just wanted a glass of water and I came in here to. . put out the lights.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘I thought I was about to have a seizure, but no. . I feel fine.’
‘Any news of Silius?’
‘Unfortunately not.’
‘Or Publius Sextius?’
‘No. I thought I’d send a message to the changing station, in case they see him. .’
‘Silius has already taken care of that. He told me so himself. If he passes through, they’ll stop him and let him know he should report to you at once.’
‘Good. . good.’ Caesar nodded meditatively. ‘Then I’ll go back to bed.’
He put out the lamps, one after the other, murmuring to himself, ‘Where are you? Where have you gone, Publius Sextius?’
Rome, the residence of the Pontifex Maximus, 15 March, end of the fourth guard shift, before six a.m.
Caesar was already up. Disturbed by Calpurnia’s nightmare, he hadn’t slept more than a few hours. Antistius heard him, put on a dressing gown and went into the kitchen to prepare a hot potion of aromatic herbs. He took the drink to Caesar’s study. A trumpet sounded from the west, announcing the last watch.
‘The guards are going off duty.’
‘Yes. Today will be a long, tiring day. First you have a session with the Senate, then a private meeting with your chiefs of staff, followed by the ceremony on the Capitol in the late afternoon. And you have an invitation to dinner as well. .’
‘Bring me a cloak,’ said Caesar. ‘I’m cold.’
‘Don’t you feel well?’
‘I’ve got a chill and my head hurts.’
Antistius attempted to make light of this. ‘Lepidus’s wine doesn’t have a reputation for being the best.’
‘I don’t think it’s the fault of the wine. I haven’t been able to sleep well for ages now.’
Antistius touched Caesar’s forehead. ‘You have a fever. Lie down and try to relax. I’ll fix you something that will help you sweat it off.’
Caesar lay back on a couch and lifted a hand to his forehead. He would have liked to ask for news of Silius or Publius Sextius, but he knew there was no point.
19
