make his apologies to the assembly.’
He was still speaking when Decimus Brutus leaned close and asked, ‘What has happened, Antistius?’
‘Caesar is ill. He won’t be joining the Senate this morning.’
‘What? That’s impossible.’
‘No, it’s true. He had a sleepless night and is running a temperature. He requests that the session be adjourned.’
Decimus Brutus turned to the chancellor and said, ‘Make no announcement before I come back.’
Antistius was struck by how coldly Decimus Brutus had reacted to the news, not even asking what the problem was with his friend and commander. He decided to return to the Domus to see what would happen.
A murmur ran through the assembled senators, who were perhaps already consulting on the matters of the day. Now they had something else to talk about. Many of them looked worried. Some left the group they were with to join another, while others whispered into the ear of a companion, who nodded gravely or showed surprise, concern, uneasiness.
Antistius left through the large portico and hurried back, taking care to avoid Decimus Brutus, who preceded him by about ten paces. He entered the Domus just a few moments after Brutus. He could already hear his voice and Caesar’s.
‘Caesar, the Senate is waiting for you. What’s wrong?’
Antistius entered just then. Caesar was lying on the couch, looking grim.
Antistius spoke up: ‘Haven’t I answered that one already? Can’t you see he’s ill?’
Decimus Brutus didn’t even turn in his direction. He got closer to Caesar and peered at him, before announcing, ‘He doesn’t look so bad.’
‘I’ll decide how serious this is,’ replied Antistius. ‘He has even had an asthma attack,’ he lied. ‘He must rest.’
Decimus Brutus struggled to hold his temper against the insolent little doctor who dared to contradict him. He ignored him and turned to Caesar instead.
‘You convened the Senate. Your absence will be interpreted as an insult, a lack of respect. In the name of the gods, don’t do this. We have enough difficulties as it is.’
Calpurnia entered the room as well and said, ‘He’s ill. Go back and tell the Senate that Caesar is unable to preside over the session. Even a blind man could see how sick he is.’
‘Not going at all would be much worse than making this small effort. He can go in his litter. All he has to do is put in an appearance: greet the Senate, express his respect, apologize for his poor state of health and return home. In an hour he’ll be back. Not showing up would be a huge political mistake. It would fuel rumours, gossip, slander and nastiness of every type.’
Caesar sat up and turned to Calpurnia. ‘Decimus is right. I’ll open the session and then I’ll leave. I’ll just stay long enough to be seen and exchange a few words with some of the senators, then I’ll come back here. We’ll soon be having lunch together, Calpurnia, you’ll see.’
He drew close and, in an affectionate tone, said, ‘There’s no need to worry. Trust me.’
Calpurnia looked back with dismay and resignation. She knew she’d lost. Her eyes filled with tears nonetheless. Antistius did not move. He stood at the threshold, watching as Caesar’s litter went off, accompanied by Decimus Brutus, bound for the Theatre of Pompey.
Rome, the home of Brutus, 15 March, eight a.m.
The boy slipped up to Artemidorus’s quarters, after making sure that he was no longer under surveillance.
‘Master,’ he said, ‘what are you doing here?’
‘What are you doing here?’ replied Artemidorus.
‘Antistius sent me. I came to tell you that Caesar has left the Domus Publica. He had decided not to go, because his wife wanted him to stay, but then an important person — a man with the same name as your master — came to call.’
‘Brutus?’
‘Yes, that’s right. He convinced him, forced him really, to go and meet with the Senate. They’ll be arriving about now. Antistius is worried. He wants to know if you have any news for him.’
‘Gods!’ exclaimed Artemidorus. ‘Quickly, take me to an unguarded exit.’
As the boy went out into the hall, Artemidorus put a scroll into his pocket and rapidly wrote out a few words on another:
He then followed the boy to one of the rear doors.
‘Take this,’ he said, pressing the note into his hand. ‘Run as fast as you can and give it to Caesar before he gets to the Curia. I’ll try as well to get to the entrance of the theatre before he does. One of us has to succeed. If you can’t find Caesar, go to Antistius at the Domus and give the scroll to him. Give it to no one but him! Tell him that I’m going directly to the Senate to bring Caesar the same message.’
The boy cut down a side road and started running as swiftly as he could, eager to reach Caesar before he arrived at his destination. Artemidorus set off for the Curia by another route. The boy caught up with Caesar’s entourage as they were about to enter the Campus Martius. He tried to get close, but there was an enormous crowd thronging around Caesar. Everyone wanted to talk to him; everyone had a petition they wanted him to hear. Although he tried as best he could to push his way through, the boy was shoved rudely out of the way and nearly trampled on. He tried again, but found himself blocked by an impenetrable wall of human bodies. Out of breath and disheartened, he ran back to the Domus. When he arrived he asked one of the servants where Antistius was, only to be told that he had left. The boy curled into a corner of the kitchen. ‘I’ll wait here until he comes back,’ he said. ‘I have to give him a personal message.’
Artemidorus was still pushing his way through the crowds that were milling around the streets and squares, not even sure why he’d taken on such a daunting task. Perhaps he’d realized that destiny had given him the chance to change the course of events and he couldn’t miss the opportunity.
Rome, the Sublicius Bridge, 15 March, eight a.m.
The boat drew up at the dock on the far side of the bridge and the boatman descended below deck.
‘We’re here, commander!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’ve had a good rest.’
Publius Sextius opened his eyes and covered them at once with his hand to protect them from the glaring light of the sun. He slowly made his way to the deck as the boatman finished mooring the vessel and lowered the gangplank. The centurion untied the horse and led him carefully to dry land.
‘Wait here,’ he told the man. ‘I’ll send someone to pay you. I need the horse.’
‘Don’t worry,’ replied the boatman. ‘I can recognize a man of his word at first glance. Ill wait.’
Publius Sextius mounted his horse and headed towards Caesar’s gardens.
Rome, Pompey’s Curia, 15 March, nine a.m.
Caesar stepped down from the litter shortly before it arrived at the Senate, preferring to arrive on foot as he always had. But there was yet another crowd of people awaiting him at the entrance to the Curia. Antony, who had been standing on the stairway, spotted Caesar and went towards him to guide him in. Decimus Brutus never left his side, determined to protect him from the pressing throng. One man reached out to grab him by his tunic, a second tried to hand him an appeal, another a petition. Others merely wanted to touch him because he was everything they would have liked to be.
