was moved to a military camp where he could recover from his injuries, but when the camp came under siege, food and supplies were cut off for days on end. Nonetheless, when the enemy succeeded in breaking through the gate, there he was at the entrance to his tent in full armour. What he did next was the stuff of legends. Although he could barely stand, he convinced the others to join him in fighting off the enemy. When he was wounded again in close combat, his men managed to pull him out of the fray and drag him to safety.
Reduced to skin and bones, more dead than alive, he struggled through a long convalescence, regained his strength and returned to his place in the ranks. It was men such as Publius Sextius who had built the Roman Empire. And there were plenty more like him on both sides of the political divide, separated by their beliefs and by their allegiances during the Civil War.
Publius Sextius had earned his nickname, ‘the Cane’, because he never parted with the emblem of his rank: the sturdy cane of a grapevine, used to toughen up the young recruits. A man of unshakeable loyalty, he was one of the very few people Caesar knew he could trust blindly. He was indestructible, a man who didn’t know the meaning of fear. The mission he was carrying out must be of exceptional importance, because Caesar asked for news of him constantly. Silius couldn’t help but wonder exactly what was he doing up north. What task had the centurion been entrusted with?
As Silius followed this train of thought, he realized they’d already reached the doors to the Domus, with the litter following about twenty steps behind them.
Before entering, Caesar turned towards him and said, ‘Remember, at any hour of the day or night.’
‘Of course, commander.’ Silius nodded. ‘At any hour of the day or night.’
And while Caesar was being welcomed by the gatekeeper, Silius went to his office to check on the commander’s appointments scheduled for that day.
Just then the storm that had been threatening since dawn finally broke in an explosion of roaring thunder and pelting water. The big square emptied instantly and the marble pavement became as shiny as a mirror under the pouring rain.
3
Modena, 8 March, seven a.m.
The fog that rose from the rivers, from the earth and from the rain-damp meadows had veiled everything: the fields and the vineyards, the farms scattered through the countryside, the stables and haylofts. Only the tips of the tallest trees emerged — the ancient oaks, elms and maples that had seen Hannibal and his elephants pass this way. Now the bare silent giants watched over the colonized land, which bore the marks of Roman centuriation: the plots were edged by long rows of poplar trees and by boundary stones identified by consecutive numbers and by direction.
Here and there farmers were at work pruning the grapevines which dripped milky tears, the sap already flowing through their veins in anticipation of the still-mute spring. Towards the west rose the walls of the city, their dank blocks made of grey hewn stone from the Apennines. To the south loomed the snow-covered peak of Mount Summano, a towering pyramid with a blunted top.
Suddenly a figure materialized in the fog — a man of sturdy build, his head and shoulders covered by a military cloak. He held a cane in one hand and wore heavy, mud-caked boots. He advanced on foot, leading his horse by the reins, down a path which led to a modest brick building whose curved clay roof tiles were adorned at the centre by a Gorgon’s mask. It was a small rural sanctuary dedicated to the nearby spring, which shot out of the ground a cubit high before gurgling away into a ditch which became lost to sight as it snaked through the countryside.
The man stopped at the temple wall and looked around as if he were expecting someone. The sun appeared through the misty haze as a pale disc, casting a milky light on the scene. The fields seemed deserted.
All at once, a voice rang out behind him.
‘Fog is a friend to certain encounters and in this land it is never lacking.’
‘Who are you?’ asked the man in the cloak, without turning.
‘My code name is Nebula, my friend. No stranger to fog myself, as my name attests.’
‘What news do you have for me?’
‘I’ll need a password before I can give you any. Better to be prudent in such times.’
‘Aeneas has landed.’
‘That’s right. Which means I’m speaking with a living legend: front-line centurion Publius Sextius of the Twelfth Legion, known as “the Cane”, hero of the Gallic War. They say that at Caesar’s triumph you paraded bare- chested to show off your battle scars. It seems to be impossible to kill you.’
‘Wrong. We’re all mortal. You just have to strike at the right spot.’
Publius Sextius turned to face his interlocutor.
‘No. Don’t,’ said the voice. ‘This is dangerous work. The fewer people see my face the better.’
Publius Sextius turned back towards the countryside. Stretching out before him were long rows of maples, to which the grapevines were tied. Dark against the brilliant green meadows.
‘Well, then?’
‘Rumours.’
‘That’s all you have to tell me? Rumours?’
‘These are quite consistent.’
‘Get to the point. What rumours are you talking about?’
‘One month ago someone approached the authorities of this city to obtain their support for the Cisalpine governor who will be named next year. These same authorities are in close contact with Cicero and other influential members of the Senate.’
A dog barked from a farmhouse that was wrapped in fog, making it look as if it was further away than it was in reality. He was promptly answered by more barking and then a third dog joined in. They stopped suddenly and silence fell again.
‘Sounds like ordinary politicking to me. In any case, what does that have to do with my mission?’
‘More than it may seem,’ replied Nebula. ‘The Senate have already decided who they will appoint governor. Why are they seeking the support of the local authorities for this coming year? But that’s not all. You’ll have noticed that there is construction work going on in the city.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘They are reinforcing the city walls and building emplacements on the turrets for war machines. War against whom?’
‘I have no idea. Have you?’
‘If they’re not expecting an invasion from outside, and I don’t think they are, it’s likely that what they’re afraid of is a new civil war. And that suggests a very specific scenario. Quite a disturbing one, I might add.’
‘A scenario where Caesar is out of the picture, is that what you’re trying to say?’
‘Something of the sort. What else?’
‘Who will the new governor be?’
‘Decimus Brutus.’
‘Almighty gods!’
‘Decimus Brutus is, at this moment, assistant praetor and therefore, as I’ve said, has already been designated to take the office of governor next year. So why would he need to build up local support or reinforce the walls of Modena unless he knows that Caesar will no longer be around?’
Publius Sextius snorted and a burst of steam issued from his nose. It was still quite cold for the season.
‘Sorry, but I’m still not convinced of what you’re saying. Couldn’t the work on the walls just be ordinary maintenance?’
‘There’s more,’ continued Nebula.
‘All right. Now we’re getting somewhere. Let’s hear.’
