Текст книги "The Ides of March"

Автор книги: Valerio Massimo Manfredi

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

3

Mutinae, a.d. VIII Id. Mart., hora secunda

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.’

‘This is information that will cost you.’

‘I don’t have much money with me, but I do have this,’ said Publius Sextius, his hands flexing the cane that was a symbol of his rank.

‘What do you suppose I care about that?’ shot back Nebula. ‘Don’t think you can intimidate me. I’ve been doing this for a long time.’

‘I’m not leaving here until you tell me what I need to know. I was assured that I would be getting important information from you and get it I will. You decide how.’

Nebula fell silent for a long moment, weighing his options. When he began to speak again, it was in a different voice, as if he were another person. ‘Give me whatever you can, please. I need money. I spent a fortune to get this information and risked my neck as well. I’ve had to take out a loan and if I don’t pay them back they’ll slaughter me.’

‘How much do you need?’

‘Eight thousand.’

Publius Sextius opened one of the bags hanging from his horse’s rump and handed over a satchel. ‘Five thousand. It’s all I have for now, but if you give me the information I need you’ll get twice that.’

‘Publius Sextius is known as a man of his word,’ said Nebula.

‘That’s the truth,’ replied the centurion.

‘Six months ago, at Narbonne, after the Battle of Munda, while Caesar was still in Spain, someone was working on a plot to murder him.’

‘I’ve heard the rumours.’

‘We all have. But I have proof not only that the plot was put into effect but also that it may still be active.’

‘Names.’

‘Caius Trebonius.’

‘I know him. And?’

‘Cassius Longinus and Publius Casca, and maybe his brother. Those are the names I’m sure of. I also believe that Caesar himself knows something, or at least suspects something, though he’s not letting on. But there’s one name he doesn’t know and this is the true shocker. At Narbonne, Trebonius asked Mark Antony if he wanted to join the party.’

‘Watch out, Nebula. Words are stones.’

‘Or daggers. In any case, Antony refused the invitation and has never made any further mention of it.’

‘How can you be certain?’

‘If Antony had spoken, do you suppose Trebonius would still be around?’

‘All right. But how much can we conclude from that? What I’m interested in is knowing whether this plot is still active. I want proof. The rumour is out and it’s impossible that Caesar hasn’t heard of it. What you’ve told me regarding Antony disturbs me. Did you hear about what happened at the Lupercalia?’

Nebula nodded. ‘Everyone knows about it.’

‘Fine. In the light of what you’ve just told me, Antony’s behaviour is suspect. He offered Caesar the king’s crown in front of the people of Rome. I would call that provocation, or, worse, a trap. Caesar’s reaction confirms it. Antony is no fool. He wouldn’t have done such a thing without a reason. One thing is certain: if Caesar had known what Antony was planning before it happened, he would have stopped him.’

‘I could learn more, but I need time.’

‘There’s no saying we’ve got the time. The situation might come to a head at any moment.’

‘You may be right about that.’

‘Well, then?’

‘There is a solution. Don’t wait here any longer. You leave now for Rome, taking a route that will allow me to reach you with messages and information.’

‘That’s unlikely. I’ll be moving fast.’

‘I have ways and means.’

‘As you wish.’

‘In the meantime, I’ll look for more proof.’

‘Do you have something specific in mind?’

‘Yes. But it’s still entirely hypothetical. In any case, before I take action of any sort, there’s something very important that I need to know.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Who sent you here? Who are you working for?’

Publius Sextius hesitated a moment before answering, then said, ‘For him. For Caesar.’

‘What is your mission? To find out if a plot exists?’

‘Not as such. My immediate instructions are to contact several army officers who have informers infiltrated at the court of the Parthian king. I’m to provide Caesar’s general staff with advance information regarding the routes the expedition will take, procure special maps and see that they get to Rome.’

‘So then what are we talking about?’

‘My task is twofold. I’m also to discover if there is a plot and who the conspirators are. First name, clan name, family name.’

‘Is it Caesar who wants to know?’

‘This may surprise you, but no. It’s a very high-ranking person who happens to be extremely interested in Caesar’s state of health. Add to that that I’m just as interested. I’d give my life for him.’

‘Fine. Even if you won’t tell me his name, the fact of this person’s “extreme interest”, as you say, is a further sign that the plot may very well be active and ready to go into effect at any moment.’

‘Caesar is preparing an expedition against the Parthians. It’s plausible to think that this might be the moment to act against him. If he were to win, his prestige would increase beyond measure.’

‘You’re right. And Decimus Brutus should be departing with him, as the second in command of the Twelfth Legion. .’

Publius Sextius bowed his head in a pensive gesture. The screeching of birds broke through the fog before he saw their dark shapes streaking like shadows across the heavy, humid sky.

‘Decimus Brutus. . one of his best officers. One of the few friends he trusts,’ he whispered. ‘Who could have convinced him to. .’

Nebula drew closer and Publius Sextius could hear the sound of three or four steps on the gravel path.

‘His friend Cassius, probably, or his namesake Marcus Junius Brutus. Or both.’

Publius Sextius felt like turning round but stopped himself.

‘Why, though? Caesar has never harmed either Marcus Junius Brutus or Cassius Longinus. He spared both of their lives! Why should they want him dead?’

Nebula didn’t answer at once, almost as if it were difficult for him to understand what Publius Sextius was getting at. A barely perceptible breath of air made the fog quiver as it rose from the ditches and the furrows in the ploughed earth.

‘You’re a true soldier, Publius Sextius. A politician would never ask that question. It’s precisely because he spared their lives that they may want to kill him.’

Publius Sextius shook his head incredulously. He couldn’t deny that things were beginning to add up. Trebonius inviting Antony to take part in a conspiracy. Antony just a few days earlier offering Caesar the king’s crown in front of a vast, excited crowd who reacted badly. Decimus Brutus acting as though there were a civil war to prepare for. . Vague signals that were now suddenly becoming very clear.

‘We must warn Caesar immediately,’ Publius Sextius said suddenly. ‘There’s not a moment to lose.’

‘It’s best he be informed as soon as possible,’ agreed Nebula. ‘Even if it’s not certain that the conspirators’ plans are close to being carried out. There are further leads I need to follow up. I’ll let you know when to make the next move.’

‘Help me get to the bottom of this affair and you won’t be sorry. I promise you it will be the best deal you ever made. You’ll be able to retire and live in comfort for the rest of your life.’

There was no answer.

‘Nebula?’

He turned round slowly. Nebula seemed to have melted away, leaving no trace. Or was he behind one of those trees lined up in rows, watching him? Or inside the temple, perhaps, in some hiding place only he knew about, chuckling at Publius Sextius’s astonishment at such a vanishing trick? As the centurion scanned the land all around, he noticed a leather scroll tied with a string lying on the temple steps. He picked it up and opened it. It was a map of the route he was to follow to get to Rome.

At that moment the sun finally began to break through the fog and stripe the ground with shadows. Publius Sextius put a couple of fingers in his mouth and whistled, then watched as a bay horse promptly trotted up. He jumped on to its back and spurred the horse on.

‘No need to break your neck, centurion!’ rang out a voice. ‘It won’t be today, or even tomorrow.’

But Publius Sextius had already disappeared from sight.

Nebula came out from behind a stack of bundled twigs left by the men pruning the grapevines. ‘Then again, maybe it will,’ he said to himself.

Mutinae, in Caupona ad Scultemnam, a.d. VIII Id. Mart., hora tertia

Modena, the Scoltenna River Inn, 8 March, eight a.m.

The river rushing nearby, swollen by recent rains, was just as loud as the buzz of the regulars and the customers planning to spend the night. Nebula entered after wiping his boots on the mat at the entrance and crossed the nonetheless muddy floor of the inn, settling into a spot in a corner at the back near the kitchen. The person he was waiting for was not long in arriving.

‘Well? How did it go, then?’

‘There are two missions, not one. Both are vital for the man who holds supreme power in our republic.’

‘Where is your man now?’

‘He’s racing faster than the wind along the shortest route that leads back to Rome.’

‘What does that mean?’

Nebula gave a sigh, but said nothing.

‘All right. How much do you want?’

‘To get this information I was forced to go into debt and risk my very life.’

‘What a bastard you are, Nebula. Spit it out and let’s get this over with.’

‘He’s following a map that I made for him. I’m the only one who knows the route.’

‘How much?’

‘Ten thousand.’

‘Forget it.’

Nebula shrugged. ‘Too bad. That means I’ll have to make a hasty retreat before my creditors send me to the underworld. Into Pluto’s arms. But if I die, it’s all over, just remember that.’

‘Come outside,’ growled the other man, a veteran of the civil war who had fought on Pompey’s side. His arms had more scars than the paws of a wolf caught in a trap.

Outside, they walked over to a cart under the close watch of a couple of nonchalant but clearly armed thugs.

‘You can put the money on my mule,’ said Nebula, handing him a copy of the map.

The man stuck it into his belt, then smiled smugly. ‘Now that I think about it, it seems that two hundred ought to be enough.’

‘Do you really imagine you can screw Nebula? An idiot like you?’

The smirk disappeared from the other man’s face.

‘You think you’re so clever. You’ll be giving me all of it, down to the very last penny. There’s a key for reading the map and the fellow who’s got it works for you lot at the Medias horse-changing station. Weasel-faced guy named Mustela. He’s in with me on this, you see, and he’ll open his mouth only after you’ve given him my receipt for payment, which you’ll find in the usual place. By then I’ll be long gone. Oh, and by the way, Mustela is included in the price. He’ll do the walking, because you’d never manage it on your own.’

The man nodded, cursing under his breath, and transferred the money, all of it, on to the mule’s packsaddle. Nebula then mounted and set off at an easy trot.

‘I forgot to tell you,’ he added. ‘As soon as you have the receipt you’d better get a move on, because Mustela won’t wait long.’

Romae, in Domo Publica, a.d. VIII Id. Mart., hora quinta

Rome, the residence of the Pontifex Maximus, 8 March, ten a.m.

The storm had abated and, having gathered up his papers, Silius went from his office to Caesar’s.

‘There are documents here to be signed, commander.’

‘What are they?’ asked Caesar, raising his eyes from the scroll he was writing on.

Silius couldn’t help but notice that he was doing the writing himself, in contrast to his usual practice. Since the day they’d met, Silius had always seen him dictating his thoughts. During the Gallic campaign he’d even heard Caesar, on horseback, dictating two letters at the same time, for two different recipients. But since Caesar had returned from Spain he’d taken to doing his own writing, as he worked on correcting and revising his Commentaries.

‘All acts to be submitted to the Senate for their approval: decrees, appropriations, payments for the army, special financing for paving a road in Anatolia. . the usual. And there’s correspondence.’

Caesar looked up sharply with an inquisitive expression.

‘Not from him, commander. Don’t worry. As soon as something comes in, it will be on your table in the blink of an eye. Or it will find you wherever you are.’

Caesar continued writing, hiding his disappointment. ‘Who are the letters from, then?’

‘Pollio, in Cordova. .’

‘Right.’

‘Plancus, in Gaul. .’

‘Anything marked urgent?’

‘Pollio. The situation is Spain is still difficult.’

‘Let me see.’

Silius handed him Pollio’s letter, sent seventeen days earlier. Caesar broke the seal and gave the missive a quick look. Silius noticed his wide brow furrowing.

‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

‘Everything that happens in Spain is serious. Pompey’s followers are still strong and still looking for a fight, despite it all. At Munda I was ready to commit suicide.’

‘Yes, commander. I was there too, but in the end we pulled through.’

‘So many deaths, though. . They’ll never forgive me for that. Thirty thousand Romans cut to pieces by my men.’

‘They had it coming, Caesar. They asked for it.’

‘I see you like reminding me of my own words.’

‘It’s the truth.’

‘No, it’s not. The phrase has a certain propaganda value, but it doesn’t hold up to in-depth analysis. No one willingly chooses to die. The massacre of that many valiant warriors was an intolerable waste. Just imagine, if they were still alive, they could come with me to make war on the Parthians. . or garrison the borders of a world at peace.’

He began scribbling on a tablet with a silver stylus that Cleopatra had given him.

‘You know. . lately I’ve been adding up a few numbers.’

‘What kind of numbers, commander?’

‘I’ve been counting the Roman soldiers killed in combat against other Romans during the civil wars. Marius against Sulla, Pompey against Sertorius, me against Pompey and then against Scipio and Cato at Tapsus, then against Pompey’s sons and against Labienus at Munda. .’

‘What are you thinking?’

‘Nearly a hundred thousand dead. Some of the best soldiers to be found anywhere in the world. If instead of fighting among themselves they had fought united against their enemies outside, the dominion of the Roman people would stretch all the way to India and the Eastern Ocean.’

‘You’ll succeed where others have failed.’

Caesar angrily rubbed out the marks he’d made on the tablet using the amber ball set into the stylus before speaking.

‘I don’t know. I’m tired. The fact is that I can’t stand being here in Rome any more. The sooner I leave the better. My departure would be opportune for a number of reasons.’

‘Is that why you’re waiting so anxiously for news from Publius Sextius?’

Caesar did not answer, but stared directly into the eyes of his adjutant.

Silius could not hold his gaze and lowered his head. ‘Forgive me, commander. I did not want-’

‘Never mind. You know I trust you. I haven’t told you anything because I don’t want to expose you to unnecessary risk. There’s a certain tension in the air. There are. . signs. . clues that something is about to happen. The wait is agonizing and I can’t take it any longer. Maybe that’s why my illness comes upon me so suddenly, when I least expect it. I’ve experienced many things in my life, but I must say that there’s an advantage to being on the battlefield. You know exactly where the enemy stands.’

Silius nodded and watched as Caesar turned his attention back to Pollio’s letter, making notes on his tablet as he read. It seemed that months had passed since his early-morning crisis. Caesar was in perfect control of the situation, but he was tense, worried, and Silius couldn’t help him because he did not know what was upsetting him.

Caesar raised his head again and looked straight into Silius’s eyes. ‘Did you know that last year, when I was in Spain, there were strange rumours circulating in the rear lines?’

‘What rumours, commander?’ asked Silius. ‘What are you referring to?’

‘Just rumours,’ replied Caesar. ‘Pass me those papers to be signed. I’ll read the letters later.’