pursuers. He rounded a corner, and then another, and could not see them behind him at all. But he was growing weary; he needed refuge. He realized that he was near the house of Publius Servilius Casca. Surely he could trust Casca, who was deeply indebted to Caesar. The rotund, red-cheeked, bumbling Casca was something of a buffoon. It was impossible to imagine him as a menace to anyone.
Lucius paused for a moment to get his bearings, then sprinted to the end of the street and rounded a corner. There was Casca’s house-and Casca himself standing in the open doorway, evidently on his way out but pausing to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. He was reaching into the folds of his voluminous toga, searching for something and looking befuddled.
Exhilarated by the run and by his narrow escape, Lucius drew a deep lungful of air. Casca, startled by his sudden approach, gave a jerk and stumbled against the doorjamb.
“Casca! What are you looking for?” said Lucius, gasping. “If you can hide me half as well-”
Even as Lucius spoke, Casca produced the thing he had been searching for. In his fist he held a short but very sharp dagger. The look in his eyes raised the hackles on Lucius’s neck.
Lucius heard shouts behind him. He had not escaped his pursuers after all. He bolted, but Casca grabbed his arm. The man was stronger than he looked. He called for slaves to come and help him. Lucius struggled. As he sprang free, he felt a searing pain across one forearm. Casca’s blade had scraped him, just deeply enough to drawn a line of blood. Lucius felt sick, but he did not dare to stop running.
The flight continued across the valley of the Circus Maximus and up the winding streets of the Aventine. Near the Temple of Juno, Lucius was sure he had lost them. He hid in a doorway, his heart pounding and his lungs on fire. The trail of blood had thickened on his forearm. The shallow wound burned as if he had been seared by a brand.
Where was Caesar? He must be on his way to the meeting of the Senate by now. Antonius would be with him, surely, along with others who would defend him. But could even Antonius be trusted? And what if Caesar insisted on leaving his bodyguards behind? Lucius thought of the risk the two of them had taken the previous night, walking alone across the Palatine, and trembled.
He must reach Caesar and warn him, but how? Lucius was a fast runner, but even if he sprouted wings and flew, Caesar would almost certainly arrive at the Theater of Pompeius ahead of him, and if Brutus and the rest were already waiting for him…
Lucius had to try. He took a deep breath and began to run again.
Down the Aventine he ran, around the fountain of the Appian Aqueduct and past the Ara Maxima. He was suddenly very weary. His legs turned to lead and his chest seemed to have a tight band of iron across it. There were blisters on his feet. The shoes he had put on that morning were not good for running.
Still he ran, faster than he had thought possible.
At last, the massive facade of the theater loomed before him. To avoid accusations of decadence, Pompeius had dedicated the complex not as a theater but as a temple. By a clever architectural trick, the rows of theater seats also served as steps leading up to a sanctuary of Venus at the summit. Branching off from the theater itself were several porticos decorated with hundreds of statues. These arcades housed shrines, gardens, shops, and public chambers, including the large assembly room where the Senate was to meet.
The public square and the broad steps leading up to the main portico were empty. Lucius had hoped to see the area awash with red and white; here the senators in their crimson-bordered togas were accustomed to mill about before going inside. They had gone inside already.
But no-not quite all of them were inside yet. Lucius spied two figures on the steps, near the top. They stood close together, apparently engaged in a serious conversation. Lucius hurried across the square and reached the bottom of the steps. Looking up, he could see that one of the men was Antonius. The other was a senator he vaguely recognized, a man named Trebonius.
Lucius bounded up the steps. The men saw him approaching and broke off their conversation. Lucius drew near, dizzy and gasping for breath. He staggered. Antonius seized his arm to steady him.
“By Hercules, you look a fright!” Antonius smiled. He seemed more amused than alarmed by Lucius’s appearance. “What’s the matter, young man?”
Lucius was so out of breath it was difficult to speak. “Caesar…” he managed to say.
“Inside, along with everyone else,” said Antonius.
“But why-why are you not with him?”
Antonius raised an eyebrow. “Trebonius here drew me aside-”
“To discuss an important matter-
“But we’re done with that, aren’t we, Trebonius? We really should go in. They haven’t shut the doors yet, have they?” Antonius looked over his shoulder, toward the entrance to the assembly hall. In front of the massive bronze doors, which stood open, priests were clearing blood and organs from the stone altar where auspices were taken before the start of each day’s business. Antonius, whose buoyant mood seemed unshakable, smiled and laughed.
“You wouldn’t believe the slaughter that just went on over there,” he said to Lucius. “One poor creature after another sacrificed and cut open, to take the omens. The first chicken had no heart, which rather alarmed the priests. Caesar ordered another sacrifice, and another, but the priests kept telling him that the entrails were twisted and all the omens were contrary. He finally told them, ‘To Hades with this nonsense, the omens before the battle of Pharsalus were just as bad. Let the Senate get on with its business!’”
Antonius grinned. Why was he in such a jovial mood? Lucius stepped back from the two men. Could even Antonius be trusted?
Lucius felt faint. Spots swam before his eyes. The moment seemed unreal and dreamlike. He stared at the nearby altar, where a priest was mopping up remains. The sight of the rag, saturated with blood and dripping gore, sent a thrill of panic through him. He pushed past the two men and raced toward the entrance.
The hall was an oval-shaped well, with seats on either side descending in tiers to the main floor. The session had not yet commenced. There was a low hubbub of conversation. Most of the senators had taken their seats, but others were milling about on the main floor in front of the chair of state-no one yet dared to call it a throne-on which Caesar was seated. How serene Caesar looked, how confident! In one hand he held a stylus, for marking documents. He turned the stylus this way and that with nimble fingers, the only sign of the nervous excitement he must be feeling on such a momentous day.
One of the senators, Tillius Cimber, stepped toward him, bowing slightly as if importuning Caesar for a favor. Caesar apparently found the request inappropriate. He shook his head and waved his stylus dismissively. Instead of withdrawing, Cimber stepped closer and clutched Caesar’s toga near his shoulder.
“No!” Lucius shouted. His voice rang out high and shrill, like a boy’s. Heads turned toward him. Caesar looked up, saw him and frowned, then immediately returned his attention to Cimber.
Caesar spoke through clenched teeth. “Take your hand off me, Cimber!”
Instead, Cimber yanked at the toga, so forcefully that Caesar was almost pulled from his chair. His toga was askew. The naked flesh of his shoulder was bared.
Holding fast to Caesar’s toga, Cimber looked at the others nearby. As Caesar tried to pull free, Cimber’s expression became frantic.
“What are you all waiting for?” cried Cimber. “Do it! Do it now!”
The portly Casca stepped forward. His forehead was beaded with sweat. A grimace bared his gums. He raised his dagger high in the air.
The sight elicited gasps and exclamations from all over the hall. Only Caesar appeared not to realize what was about to happen; he was still staring at Cimber, looking angry and confused. He turned his head just as Casca plunged the dagger downward. His face registered shock as the blade struck the exposed skin below his neck. There was a sickening sound of metal cutting into flesh.
Caesar let out a roar. He seized Casca’s wrist with one hand. With the other he stabbed his stylus deep into Casca’s forearm. Casca bleated in pain, withdrew his bloody dagger and scurried back.
Others stepped forward, baring their daggers.
Caesar jerked free from Cimber’s grip. His toga was in such disarray that he tripped on it. He was bleeding profusely from the wound at his neck. The look on his face was of outrage and disbelief.
Even then, Lucius thought that disaster might be averted. Caesar was wounded, but on his feet. He had a
