down to where his brother was waiting to report that the proposal was acceptable. Antony bade his young sons farewell, embracing them and instructing them to behave well in his absence. He then mounted a horse and rode off.
Rome, the residence of the Pontifex Maximus, 15 March, first guard shift, seven p.m.
Silius entered with a hesitant step, as if he were crossing into the other world. The door jambs were veiled in black. Cries and laments rose from inside. He walked through the
Calpurnia, dressed in black, was weeping softly in a corner. Her eyes were swollen and her cheeks were pallid. She too had been defeated by a death that she had felt coming, that she had practically announced — unheeded, like Cassandra, by gods and men.
Antistius looked up but said nothing, because the stony expression on Silius’s face allowed no words. He walked away and went to sit on a bench leaning against the wall, his head low. Every attempt to stop this from happening, he thought, had been thwarted. He turned over the small, bloodied parchment scroll he held in his hands. It was Artemidorus’s warning, along with the complete list of the conspirators: the message that had never been opened, that had not saved Caesar’s life, due to a cruel trick of fate. Had Caesar found an instant to read it, the destiny of the world would have changed.
On the bench beside Antistius was a tablet with his notes, along with another message, the one that Artemidorus’s young friend had carried. In vain. On the tablet the doctor had diligently noted, as was his habit, a description of every wound. Caesar had suffered many of them, but the cuts that had penetrated his flesh, those that had drained him of the last drop of blood, were twenty-three in number.
Only one of which was mortal.
A wound to his heart.
Who had it been? Who had cleaved the heart of Caius Julius Caesar?
Thoughts flitted through his mind continuously. Elusive, indefinable, useless thoughts. ‘If only I had realized. . if only I had told. .’
At least he was used to seeing Caesar dead, to considering him gone. But not Silius. Silius was seeing him for the first time in that state. The composure of his features lent a total absurdity to his silence and immobility. He, Silius Salvidienus, could neither accept nor believe that Caesar’s arm might not rise, that his eye might not open, bright with that imperious expression. He could not believe that Caesar’s face, so intact, so recognizable, could not suffice to call his limbs back to life.
In the end, he surrendered to the extreme, inescapable violence of death, this death, and then the tears fell from his dull, dazed eyes and scalded his ashen face.
He remained on his feet, still and silent, for a long time in front of the bier, then, with a distressed expression, he stiffened into a military salute, his voice ringing metallic from behind clenched teeth: ‘Front-line centurion Silius Salvidienus, second century, third maniple, Tenth Legion. Hail and farewell, commander!’
He turned then and walked out.
He wished he had a horse on which to gallop far away, to another world, over endless plains; to be carried off by the wind like a leaf dried up by the long winter. He stopped, instead, after a few steps, incapable of going on. He sat down on the Domus stair that opened up on to the Sacred Way. Not much later, he saw two people leaving the House of the Vestals on his right. People he knew well: Mark Antony and Calpurnius Piso, Caesar’s father-in-law. What were they doing at this time of day, in such a situation, at the House of the Vestals?
They stood in front of the entrance and appeared to be waiting for someone. A servant soon came up with an ass-drawn cart holding a box. They set off again all together and he lost sight of them in the darkness.
Silius realized that Antistius had come out of the Domus as well and had witnessed the scene.
Antistius said, ‘They went to get Caesar’s will, without a doubt. The Vestalis Maxima herself is responsible for holding his will and testament, and can release it only to the executor, Piso.’
‘What about Antony, then? What does Antony have to do with Caesar’s will?’
Antistius reflected a few moments before answering. ‘It’s not inheriting his worldly goods he’s interested in. It’s his political inheritance. Brutus and Cassius were deceived. Caesar demonstrated that it is possible for a single man to rule the world. No one had ever wielded such unlimited power. Others will want what he had. Many will try to take his place. The republic, in any case, is dead.’
Rome, the home of Mark Antony, 15 March, second guard shift, after nine p.m.
Antony received Cassius as promised, while his sons were being held hostage on the Capitol. At the same moment Brutus was dining on the Tiber Island, at the headquarters of Marcus Aemilius Lepidus. Everything had been planned, down to the last detail.
Cassius, the victor, was even paler than usual. His gaunt face spoke of nothing but sleepless nights and dark thoughts.
The two men reclined on dining couches facing each other. Only two tables separated the
Antony began to speak: ‘Caesar dared too greatly and was punished. I. . understand the significance of your gesture. You did not mean to strike the friend, the benefactor, the man whose magnanimity spared your lives, but the tyrant, the man who broke the law, who reduced the republic to an insubstantial ghost. I understand you, then, and recognize that you are men of honour.’
Cassius gave a deep nod and a fleeting, enigmatic smile crossed his lips.
Antony continued, ‘But I am incapable of separating the friend from the tyrant. I’m a simple man and you must try to understand me. For me, Caesar was first and foremost a friend. Actually, now that he’s dead, lying cold and white as marble on his bier, only a friend.’
‘Each man is what he is,’ replied Cassius coldly. ‘Go on.’
‘Tomorrow the Senate will meet at the Temple of Tellus. Pompey’s Curia is still. . a bit of a mess.’
‘Go on,’ insisted Cassius, fighting his irritation.
‘Order must be restored. Everything must return to normal. I will propose an amnesty for all of you and you will be given governmental appointments in the provinces. If the Senate wishes to honour you they may do so. What do you say?’
‘These seem like reasonable proposals,’ replied Cassius.
‘I want only one thing for myself.’
Cassius stared at him suspiciously.
‘Allow me to celebrate his funeral. Allow me to bury him with honour. He made mistakes, it’s true, but he expanded the dominion of the Roman people enormously. He extended the confines of Rome to the shores of the Ocean and he was the Pontifex Maximus. What’s more. . he loved Brutus. Now he’s dead. Fine. His punishment was commensurate with his error. Let us deliver him to his final rest.’
Cassius bit his lower lip and remained silent for a considerable length of time. Antony gazed at him serenely with a questioning expression.
‘It’s not in my power to grant your request.’
‘I know, but you can convince the others. I’m sure you’ll succeed. I have done my duty and I’ve given proof of my good faith. Now you do your part. I won’t ask for anything else.’
Cassius stood, nodded in leaving and walked out of the room. The food was still on the table. He hadn’t touched a thing.
The port of Ostia, 15 March, end of the second guard shift, midnight
