Silius was not fooled. When the commander changed the subject so abruptly, it meant that he was bent on avoiding some particularly distressing thought.
‘Beer, commander? There’s a tavern at Ostia that serves excellent beer. Just the way you like it, dark and at the right temperature, straight out of the cellar. But seeing as you probably don’t want to go so far, I can have an amphora brought by for lunchtime tomorrow.’
But Silius was waiting for an answer, not about the beer, and Caesar knew that.
‘What do you know about Antony that I don’t know?’ he said eventually, scowling.
‘Nothing. . nothing that you don’t know. Nonetheless I think that. . Publius Sextius might. .’
‘Might what?’
‘Might be able to learn what he’s up to.’
‘Have you spoken to him about this?’
‘Not exactly, but I know that he has his suspicions and I’d say that he won’t give up until he finds a convincing answer.’
‘Are you trying to tell me that Publius Sextius is investigating Antony on his own initiative?’
‘Publius Sextius would investigate anything that could possibly involve your personal safety, if I know him well. But you, commander, what do you think? What do you think of Mark Antony? Of the man who would have made you king? That gesture of his at the Lupercalia, how do you explain it? Recklessness? Mere distraction?’
Caesar was quiet for quite some time, considering all the angles of the thorny question as perhaps he never had before. In the end, he said, ‘Antony may not have understood what was happening and acted instinctively. Perhaps he’s been feeling overlooked lately and thought he would gain favour in my eyes with a gesture of that sort. Antony is a good soldier but he’s never understood much about politics. And it’s all about politics. . knowing what your adversaries are thinking, foreseeing their moves and having your counter-moves ready.’
‘In any event, you came through well, Caesar, thanks to your renowned quick thinking. The same that’s made you victorious time and time again on the battlefield.’
‘You say so? The fact remains that I still do not know whom I can trust.’
‘Me, commander,’ replied Silius, looking straight into those grey eyes — those hawk’s eyes — that had dominated so many in battle but seemed bewildered now, in the convoluted labyrinths of Rome. ‘You can trust Publius Sextius, “the Cane”, and you can trust your soldiers, who would follow you all the way to Hades.’
‘I know,’ replied Caesar, ‘and I’m comforted by that. And yet I do not know what awaits me.’
He stood and began to walk down the podium steps. A stiff breeze had picked up from the west, whipping his clothes around his body.
‘Come,’ he told Silius. ‘Let’s go home.’
Romae, in aedibus M. J. Bruti, a.d. VII Id. Mart., hora duodecima
Rome, the home of Marcus Junius Brutus, 9 March, five p.m.
The soft burbling of the hydraulic clock was the only sound to be heard in the big silent house. It was an object of extraordinary refinement that had been crafted by a clockmaker from Alexandria. The hours of the day were represented in a mosaic of minute tesserae on a field of blue depicting young maidens dressed in white with golden highlights in their hair for the daytime hours, in black with silver highlights for the night.
Voices could suddenly be heard from outside, then the clanking of a gate as it slammed shut, followed immediately by quick steps. A door opened and a hissing wind invaded the house, reaching its innermost rooms. A dry leaf was carried along to the end of the corridor, where it stopped.
The woman who walked out of her bedroom upstairs was strikingly beautiful. Barefoot, she wore a light gown. She closed the door behind her without making a sound and moved down the hall to the back stairs, where the noise was coming from. She leaned over the balustrade to see what was happening below. A servant had opened the back door and was letting in a group of six or seven men, who entered one or two at a time. Each man took a quick look at the road behind him before crossing the threshold.
The servant accompanied them down the corridor towards the study of the master of the house, who was expecting them. Someone was at the door, waiting to receive them. After they had gone in the servant closed the door behind them and walked away.
The woman pulled back from the balustrade and returned to her room. She locked herself in, then went to the middle of the floor and knelt down. Using a stylus, she prised free one of the bricks. Underneath was a little wooden wedge with a cord tied at its centre. She pulled the cord and a glimmer of light shone through from the room below. She bent closer and put her eye to the crack so she could see what was going on in the study of Marcus Junius Brutus.
The first to speak was Pontius Aquila. He was tense, refusing to take a seat despite his host’s invitation.
‘Tell me, Brutus,’ he said. ‘What have you decided?’
The master of the house sat down with an apparent show of calm. ‘We’ll wait for Cicero’s answer,’ he said.
‘To hell with Cicero!’ burst out Tillius Cimber. ‘All he does is talk. What do we need him for? We don’t need any more volunteers. How many men does it take to kill just one?’
Publius Casca broke in, ‘Hadn’t we already decided to keep him out of this? Everyone knows he hasn’t got the guts.’
Brutus tried to regain control of the situation. ‘Calm down. Haste is a notoriously poor counsellor. I want to be sure that Cicero is on our side before we make a move. I’m not asking him to take up a dagger. The fact is that Cicero enjoys great prestige in the Senate. If our plan is to be successful we have to make arrangements for what will happen afterwards. Cicero will be fundamental in managing what comes next.’
‘The earth is starting to burn beneath our feet,’ shot back Casca. ‘We have to act now.’
‘Casca’s right,’ said Pontius Aquila. ‘I’ve heard that Caesar is setting his hounds on our tracks. All that it takes is one man letting his tongue slip, or one wayward look, to betray our plan. If he catches on and loses his temper, it’s all over for us. Time is against us.’
‘What exactly have you heard?’ demanded Brutus.
‘Caesar has sent his most faithful men on investigative missions to the outlying territories, so that we’ll feel safe here in the capital. It’s the old noose trick: pull it a little tighter each day until he strangles us. I’m telling you, we have to act now.’
Their voices were muffled and difficult to hear on the floor above, just a confused muttering with a few shrill notes here and there. The woman tried to adjust her position to find the best point from which to both hear and see.
Marcus Brutus’s voice again, scornfuclass="underline" ‘We’re his most faithful men, aren’t we?’
Casca had no desire for banter. ‘Listen, if you don’t feel up to this, say so now,’ he said.
The woman in the room upstairs started, as if she’d been hit by an unseen object.
‘I’ve always spoken the truth,’ replied Brutus. ‘So how dare you insinuate-’
‘Enough!’ shouted Casca. ‘This whole situation has become intolerable. There are already too many of us. The more there are, the greater the chance that someone will lose control, get panicky.’ He turned to Aquila. ‘What do you mean by “outlying territories”?’
‘What I’ve heard,’ answered the other, ‘is that Publius Sextius, the centurion who saved Caesar’s life in Gaul, has been in Modena since the end of last month and he’s going around asking strange questions. Modena, just by chance, happens to be where one of the best informers on the market is based. A man who has no qualms about selling information to just about anybody, without a thought to principle or political alliances. As long as he’s well paid.