Publius Sextius pushed his way into their midst and found the object of their attention: the body of a man, lying with his face in the dung, with a large wound at the nape of his neck from which dark, steaming blood was still flowing. He was wearing a grey wool cloak, torn in several places and stained with dried blood as well. Cuts on his arms and hands showed how hard he’d fought off his assailants.
Filled with foreboding, Sextius got down to his knees in front of the stiff body. He signalled for one of the bystanders to shine his lantern closer and turned the man over.
It was the workman he’d met at the changing station. How could he have made it so far, so soon? Certainly by way of short cuts that he’d kept secret, but that had ensured he’d arrive just in time for an appointment with death.
His hands were as big as shovels, his palms covered with calluses. The eyebrows meeting at the centre of his forehead, the bristly beard and the wide wrestler’s shoulders left no doubt as to his identity.
Now he was only a poor lifeless thing.
Publius Sextius felt a wave of fury swelling the veins in his neck and accelerating the beating of his heart. He turned to the bystanders and got to his feet, a man of imposing bulk, gripping his shiny, knotty cane in his hand.
‘Who did it?’ he growled.
A timid, stout man with watery eyes stepped forward — surely the innkeeper.
‘Two blokes showed up three hours ago, from the south. We had already tended to their horses and they were about to leave when this man arrived. He watered his horse and asked for fodder and barley. He said he’d eat something in the stable, because he had to set off again immediately. I thought I saw the other two exchanging a look. .’
Publius Sextius loomed over the little man. ‘Continue,’ he ordered.
‘They must have gone after him. We didn’t hear anything. It was the stable boy who found him when he went to change the bedding for the animals and he ran in to get me. When we arrived he was already dead. Then you showed up.’
Publius Sextius glared at them as if deciding which of them to assault with his cane, but he saw only bewildered expressions, faces frozen with cold and fear.
‘We had nothing to do with it, centurion,’ swore the innkeeper, who had noticed the knotty symbol of Publius’s rank. ‘I promise you. I’ll make a written report and you can give it to the judge in town.’
‘There’s no time for that,’ replied Publius Sextius brusquely. ‘Tell me what the two of them looked like.’
‘Oh, they were riding fine horses, they were well dressed and equipped, they wore boots of good leather. But they were as ugly as could be, jailbirds if you ask me. Hired assassins, most probably. This man had nothing valuable with him. And it doesn’t look like they stole anything from the satchel he was carrying, although it was clear they searched through it. They were looking for something, that’s for sure.’
‘Was there anything peculiar about their features?’
‘One of them had a slash across his right cheek, ten or twelve stitches wide, an old scar. The other was hairy as a bear and his bottom teeth protruded over the top ones. Really ugly, like I said. Looked like gladiators.’
‘You’re quite observant,’ noted Publius Sextius.
‘You have to be, doing the job I do.’
‘How far is it to the Arno river ferry?’
‘It’s over that way,’ said the innkeeper, pointing towards a path that headed down into the valley. ‘It won’t take more than two hours. You might even make it across in that time if you manage to wake up the ferryman and convince him to take you.’
‘Can you change my horse?’ asked Publius Sextius. ‘This one is done in. But he’s a fine animal. In a couple of days you’ll be able to use him again.’
‘All right,’ said the innkeeper. ‘Can you pay the fee?’
‘Yes, if it’s not too high. And I’ll leave you something to bury this poor wretch.’
Publius Sextius quickly settled his negotiations with the innkeeper for changing his horse, adding enough for a modest funeral. He was deathly tired, the muscles in his arms and legs were seizing up with cramp and he had blisters on his inner thighs from riding so long. Still, he gritted his teeth; he’d known worse.
He rode off, and after a while realized that the road had begun to descend. Well before dawn he heard the voice of the river flowing down below.
In Monte Appennino, ad rivum vetus, a.d. IV Id. Mart., tertia vigilia
The Apennine Mountains, at the old river, 12 March, third guard shift, one a.m.
Rufus, who had managed to escape the clutches of the over-zealous guard, was trying to make up for lost time by travelling as fast as he could along a short cut through the chestnut wood. The ride wasn’t too difficult, since the earth had been beaten flat by the passage of innumerable flocks of sheep and he was able to keep up a good pace. Every now and then he’d run into a tree trunk and a pile of snow would come crashing down on to his head or on to the horse’s neck, but that didn’t slow him down. The freshly fallen snow still reflected enough light and, if his calculations were right, the moon would be rising soon. He thought of Vibius, who was travelling just as fast as he was, towards the Via Flaminia, cutting straight across Italy to get there. He’d always arrived sooner than his comrade and he wasn’t going to be beaten this time either.
A night bird, maybe a tawny owl, let out a hoot in the silent immensity of the surrounding mountains and Rufus muttered a magic spell under his breath.
13
Romae, in aedibus Bruti, a.d. IV Id. Mart., hora secunda
Rome, the home of Brutus, 12 March, seven a.m.
Artemidorus’s room was worthy of a master of rhetoric who thrived on literature and Stoic philosophy. His capsawas filled to the brim with scrolls, each of which was classified and labelled. They were his wealth and well-being, and he would never dream of parting with them. He sat on a wooden chair with a dark leather seat and back. On his work table were a pitcher of water and a trayful of his favourite sweets prepared by one of the girls in the kitchen, a hedonistic weakness that he would swiftly spirit away whenever anyone knocked at his door.
His relationship with the master of the house was based mainly on his imparting instruction in the technical skills required for speaking the Greek language, such as grammar and syntax, the correct pitch required for public discourse, the ability to cite the great authors with due emphasis. Brutus had never sought other knowledge from Artemidorus, had never asked for a lesson in the art of living or in philosophical meditation, and this made the Greek feel belittled, his intellectual status disparaged. Whenever he had attempted to introduce a loftier topic, Brutus had cut him off, making it clear that he didn t consider him equal to the task. This was the true reason Artemidorus despised his student and was willing to betray him. He couldn t stand feeling excluded, his status as a philosopher going unrecognized.
Brutus’s stoic faith ran deep; he was nearly a fanatic. His idol, as everyone knew, was the uncle who had died at Utica. Cato, the patriot — the man who had preferred to die rather than to plead for his life, to give up his freedom.
Brutus had joined Pompey’s cause before the Battle of Pharsalus and was proud of his choice. Although he held Pompey responsible for his father s death, at that moment he was the defender of the republic, and Brutus had been ready to set personal resentment aside and fight at his side.
Artemidorus’s bedchamber communicated directly with his study and that morning, at dawn, as he was still half sleeping, he had heard noises. He went from his bed to his study and from there, standing at a slight distance from the window, he could see the little portico of the inner courtyard, where a group of people had gathered. It was almost impossible to recognize them, however, from that vantage point. He left his study, moving stealthily down a narrow corridor and into a tiny service yard. From there it was just a few steps to the latrine, which was separated from the courtyard where they’d chosen to meet by a flimsy wall that Artemidorus realized he could easily perforate with a stylus. There were areas where the urine fumes had eaten away the whitewash, leaving it paper thin. He could see, and hear, what was taking place on the other side.