Текст книги "The Ides of March"

Автор книги: Valerio Massimo Manfredi

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

No one said a word, not Casca, nominated praetor a year before, not Cassius Longinus, whom Caesar had welcomed among the officers of his army after he had opposed him at the Battle of Pharsalus, not Ligarius, twice-pardoned, not Decimus Brutus, who would soon be governor of Cisalpine Gaul and who held his tongue, frowning. Nor any of the others.

Marcus Junius Brutus, who perhaps could have spoken, said nothing because he knew he was at the centre of that eye staring down on him from the middle of the ceiling.

He knew who was watching him.

The enquiring eye, which sparkled with a light that was almost manic, belonged to Porcia, his wife. The daughter of Cato, the republican hero who killed himself at Utica rather than accept the clemency of the tyrant. Porcia, whom he’d kept in the dark about everything. Porcia had first guessed and was now certain of what he was plotting.

He remembered what had happened just a few days before. It was the middle of the night and he was sitting in his study wide awake, tormented by his own thoughts, nightmares, doubts and fears and remorse. She’d appeared in the open doorway, a vision advancing from the other side of the atrium. She was barefoot and seemed to be walking on air. She moved like a ghost, white in the dim glow of a single lamp.

She’d never looked so beautiful. She wore a light nightgown, open at the sides. Her thighs, white and perfect as ivory, and her girlish, shapely knees, were bared with every step as she came closer. She was brandishing a stylus and she had that light in her eyes, fixed and trembling at the same time, the feverish light of a state not unlike madness.

‘Why are you hiding your plans from me?’

‘I’m not hiding anything from you, my love.’

‘Don’t lie. I know you’re hiding something important.’

‘Please, love, don’t torment me.’

‘I know why you won’t tell me. It’s because I’m a woman. You’re afraid that, if I were tortured, I’d reveal the names of your comrades. Isn’t that so?’

Brutus shook his head in silence, trying to hide his glistening eyes.

‘But you’re wrong. I’m strong, you know. I’m Cato’s daughter and I have his temperament. Pain means nothing to me. No one could force me to talk if I didn’t want to.’

The stylus glittered in her hand like a cursed jewel. Brutus couldn’t tear his eyes away from it.

‘Watch!’ she exclaimed, turning the stylus against herself.

Brutus had shouted, ‘No!’ and run towards her, but Porcia had already stuck the stylus deep in her left thigh, digging the tip into the wound so it tore cruelly into her flesh. Blood surged out and he fell to his knees before her, ripped the iron out of her hand and covered the wound with his mouth, licked it with his tongue, weeping.

He shook when Trebonius’s voice exclaimed, ‘The day of the final reckoning will be the day we decided upon: the Ides of March!’

8

In Monte Appennino, Taberna ad Quercum, a.d. VI Id. Mart., hora duodecima

The Apennine Mountains, the Oak Tavern, 10 March, five p.m.

The man in the grey cloak arrived out of breath, his horse exhausted and wild-eyed in fright at the lightning and thunder so loud the whole mountain seemed to shake. An angry wind whistled through the bare branches of the old oak trees, each new blast tearing away the last remaining leaves and carrying them off in a spin to the bottom of the dark valley. The high snowy peaks were barely visible against the black sky.

He found himself in front of the inn unexpectedly, after a bend in the road, and had to yank at the reins to avoid crashing into the doorway, which was already bolted against the approaching storm and the dark night. Another flash lit up the figure of the rearing horse and its rider for a moment, casting their shadow on the ground that was already drinking in the first heavy drops of rain. The odour of wet dust saturated the air, mixed with the metallic scent of the lightning bolts searing the face of the sky.

The horseman jumped to the ground and pounded hard on the door, using the knocker and then the hilt of his sword. The great oak tree that gave the inn its name loomed at its side, its gnarled boughs reaching to the roof of the building.

A stable boy came to answer the door. He took the horse by his reins and covered him immediately with a blanket.

The man dressed in grey entered and pulled the door shut behind him, bolting it as if he were in his own home. He walked towards the tavern as the rain began to pour, instantly filling all the cracks in the stony courtyard.

The inside of the tavern was a smoky hole. Crookedly placed beams held up a low ceiling and a round hearth in the middle of the room shot fumes and sparks towards an opening in the roof from which the rain dripped in, sizzling on the embers. An old man with a long white beard and eyes veiled by cataracts, wooden spoon in hand, was mixing some concoction bubbling in the copper pot. The newcomer took off his soaked cape and placed it on the back of a chair near the fire.

‘There’s spelt-meal mush and red wine,’ coughed out the old man without turning.

‘I have no time to eat,’ replied the other. ‘I have to get to-’

‘Mustela, it’s you, isn’t it?’

‘You can’t see a damned thing, old man, but your ears are holding out.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I have to get to the House of the Cypresses as fast as I can. Matter of life or death.’

‘We’ve got a good horse for you, Mustela. Yours must be done in.’

‘Don’t make me waste time. You know another way to get there.’

‘The short cut.’

‘Not fast enough. Faster.’

‘It’ll cost you.’

‘How much?’

‘Two thousand.’

‘I have less than a third of that, but if you tell me how to get there fast, I’ll give you double what you’re asking as soon as this is over.’

‘Why such haste?’

‘Do you want the money or don’t you? I guarantee you’ll get the full four thousand.’

‘All right.’

Mustela reached over to his cloak and pulled out a bag. ‘Shall I dump them here or should we go into the back?’ he asked.

The old man left the spoon in the pot and led his guest to the larder, which was dimly lit by a smoky tallow-burning lamp. Mustela poured the contents of the bag on to the table: all silver coins, looking newly minted.

‘Count them. There are five hundred, more or less. I’ll keep as little as possible for myself, but let’s get moving, damn it!’

The old man returned to the room with the fireplace, followed by Mustela. He called the stable boy as his guest retrieved his cloak, which was no less drenched than before but a little warmer. They walked into the courtyard and were greeted by a thunderclap that seemed to announce the collapse of the heavenly vault above them.

‘You won’t need your horse,’ said the old man, ignoring the storm. ‘I’ll keep him here as part payment of what you still owe me.’

‘What do you need all that money for?’ grumbled Mustela between one roll of thunder and the next.

‘I like to touch it,’ answered the old man.

The servant led the way, holding his lantern high enough to light up a tortuous path full of rain-soaked dead leaves. The red light cast a bloody glow on the trunks and branches of the big oaks and twisted chestnuts. The old man moved with a sure step over the slippery ground, as if he knew its every bump and hollow. He gave the impression of moving onward with eyes closed, guided more by the hooked toes of his feet than by the dim haze of his vision.

They ended up in front of a rock covered with moss and tangled thorn bushes. The servant pushed away a creeping bramble with his hands and uncovered a crevice in the rock.

The two men entered.

They found themselves in a narrow underground tunnel ending in a rough stairway cut into the stone, worn by time and dripping water. They groped their way down with their hands on the walls, step after step. The stairs became steeper and more irregular, but the difficulty of their descent was offset now by a rope that had been threaded through holes made in the jutting rocks. From deep below they could hear the sound of rushing water and the tunnel soon widened into a sandy-bottomed cave crossed by an underground torrent that bubbled up ferociously between the bare rocks and big limestone boulders.

‘This leads to a tributary of the Arno,’ said the old man pointing to the coursing stream.

Mustela looked at him in shock.

‘Isn’t this what you wanted?’ asked the old man. ‘The secret way?’

‘How long?’ asked Mustela with terror in his gaze.

‘That depends on you.’

‘What are you saying? Isn’t there a boat?’

‘There will be when you surface. You’ll find it hidden among the willows on the left bank.’

Mustela couldn’t tear his eyes away from the water, which in the dim light of the lantern seemed as violent and threatening as the surging Styx. The old man’s sunken, wrinkled face, framed by a stringy beard, was Charon’s.

He looked back at the water foaming between the sharp rocks and said with horror in his voice, ‘This is madness.’

‘You’re not obliged to take this way,’ said the old man. ‘I can understand your uncertainty. We’ll go back, if you like. I’ll give you a strong, experienced horse who will take you down the short cut.’

Mustela’s eyes hadn’t left the swirling current, as though he had been bewitched by it. ‘I’ll end up smashed against the rocks,’ he whispered, ‘it’s so dark down here. . or I’ll die of the cold.’

‘Half make it,’ muttered the old man.

‘And half don’t,’ Mustela replied.

The old man shrugged, as if to say, ‘So what?’, and Mustela realized with a rush how stupid he’d been to pay so much for a passage to Hades. But evidently his terror conflicted with the even greater fear of being required to explain why he had failed.

In the end, with a deep sigh, he lowered himself into the torrent, holding on to the river rocks in an attempt to steady himself. He fought against the current briefly, then slowly let himself go and was sucked into the darkness, swallowed up by the swirling waters.

In Monte Appennino, Caupona ad Silvam, a.d. VI Id. Mart., prima vigilia

The Apennine Mountains, the Woodland Inn, 10 March, first guard shift, eight p.m.

Publius Sextius galloped along the track that wound down into the valley and then ascended again towards the summit. He was following Nebula’s map along a route that left Aemilia and cut through the mountains heading south, towards Etruria.

He rode mostly under the cover of the twisted boughs, his path lit up now and then by flashes of lightning. When the road started ascending, he slowed his pace so he wouldn’t exhaust his horse, letting him walk once in a while to allow him to catch his breath. He was a generous animal and it pained the centurion to oblige him to undergo such strain, to put his life at risk in such a desperate race against time. The rain began falling and the storm broke as he came into sight of the mansio.Just in time, as the horse was about to collapse beneath him. It seemed that one of the soldiers on guard had recognized him.

‘Something wrong, soldier?’ he asked as he dismounted and led the horse towards the stables.

‘No,’ said the legionary. ‘I was just thinking I’d seen you somewhere before.’

‘You’re right. Weren’t you with the Thirteenth?’

‘Ye gods!’ exclaimed the guard. ‘But you are-’

‘Front-line centurion Publius Sextius,’ replied the officer, turning to face the soldier.

The guard saluted him. ‘Can I be of help, centurion? It’s an honour to serve you. There’s no one who fought in Gaul who hasn’t heard about your deeds.’

‘Yes, you can, son,’ replied Publius Sextius. ‘I need to rest for a couple of hours while they change my horse and bring me something to eat. Keep your eyes open and, if anyone else arrives, inform me immediately, especially if it’s someone asking questions. You understand?’

‘Count on me, centurion. Not even the air can get by here without our permission. Rest easy. I’ll have something to tell my grandchildren about when I’m an old man. Great gods, Publius Sextius in person. “The Cane” himself! I can’t believe it.’

‘Thank you. You won’t regret it. You’re doing me a great service and I’ll remember this. What’s your name, boy?’

‘It’s Baebius Carbo,’ replied the soldier, standing stiffly at attention.

‘Very good. Keep your eyes open, then, Baebius Carbo. It’s a bad night.’

Another soldier took the horse and led him into the stables. Publius Sextius pulled his cloak up over his head to protect himself from the rain, walked to the door of the inn and entered. He was dead on his feet, but a couple of hours’ sleep would do the job and he’d be ready to resume his journey. At least he hoped so.

The innkeeper came up to him. ‘You must be in one hell of a hurry to be out on a night like this, my friend. But you’re in our hands now and you can take it easy.’

‘I’m afraid not. Prepare me something for dinner, but give me a couple of hours’ sleep first. Then I’ll eat and be on my way.’

The tone of his voice was peremptory, while the look in his eye and his bearing commanded fear and respect. The innkeeper didn’t say another word. He had the guest accompanied upstairs and went into the kitchen to prepare something for his dinner. The wind was getting stronger outside and it was pouring, but as the temperature dropped the rain mixed with sleet and covered the ground in white slush. When Publius Sextius awoke it had stopped raining completely and the snow had begun falling.

The centurion opened the window and looked outside. The two lanterns out in the courtyard lit up the big white flakes whirling about on the north wind. The tree trunks and branches were fast being blanketed by a layer of pure white which was getting thicker and thicker by the moment. The room was warm, thanks to the braziers and to the fire blazing in the fireplace downstairs, which warmed the walls and ceiling as well. Publius Sextius sighed at the idea of going out in the cold to travel down a road covered with snow in the middle of the night.

The innkeeper arrived to wake him and to tell him that dinner was ready. Having found the centurion already on his feet, he couldn’t resist warning the man against his plan.

‘You can’t really mean to resume your journey now. You can’t be so mad, my friend! Setting off at night, in such foul weather. . Who could blame you for staying? Listen to me. Forget about leaving now. Eat, drink a glass of good wine and go back to bed while it’s still warm. Tomorrow I’ll call you early, as soon as it’s light enough to see, and you’ll go wherever it is you need to go. Consider that you’re likely to get lost in the dark, in this snowstorm, and then any time you’d gained would go wasted.’

‘You’re right,’ replied Publius Sextius. ‘I need a guide.’

‘A guide? But. . I don’t know, I don’t have any-’

‘Listen, friend, I don’t enjoy travelling under these conditions and I have no time to lose. Is that clear? Find me a guide or you’ll be sorry. I have written orders of absolute priority. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

‘Yes, yes, I understand. I’ll try to find someone who can take you to the next rest stop. But if you end up down in a gully, you’ll have only yourself to blame.’

‘That I already know. I’ll eat whatever you’ve got prepared. You worry about arranging the rest.’

The innkeeper accompanied him downstairs, grumbling and holding his lantern high. He sat his guest down in front of a plate of lamb with lentils and went off, still muttering.

Publius Sextius began to eat. The meat was good, the lentils tasty and, as for the wine, he’d drunk worse. A hot meal was just what he needed to get himself moving again. As he ate, he calculated and recalculated how he might make his route any quicker. He began to wonder whether the innkeeper wasn’t right after all about waiting until morning, but when he’d swallowed the last mouthful of food and downed the last of his wine, he was more convinced than ever that he’d made the right decision. He threw his cloak over his shoulders and went outside.

The courtyard was completely white. A stable hand brought out a horse with his baggage strapped on to its back. Nearby stood another horse and, beside him, the man Publius Sextius assumed would be his guide: a fellow of about fifty wearing a waxcloth over his shoulders and a hood pulled up over his head. His face was stony, completely impassive, and he held a lit torch in his left hand to light their way. Another three or four spare torches were tied to the horse’s side.

There were only two legionaries on guard now. Neither one of them was Baebius Carbo.

‘I’m sorry to put you to this trouble, friend,’ said Publius Sextius to the guide, ‘but I’m in a hurry and I can’t afford to waste any time. Do your duty well and you’ll be amply rewarded. Just take me to the next rest station and after that you can turn back.’

The man nodded his head and then, without saying a word, got on his horse. Publius Sextius mounted as well, touched his heels to the horse’s flanks and rode him out the gate. The two legionaries saluted him and the other rider gave them a quick salute back. They let the two horsemen pass before closing the gate behind them.

As soon as they were outside, they were struck by a blast of cold wind and blowing snow, which was beginning to fall faster and faster.

Publius Sextius drew closer to his companion, who still hadn’t opened his mouth. ‘What’s your name, friend?’ he asked.

‘Sura.’

‘I’m Publius. We can go.’

Sura started down the road, setting a slow, steady pace and lighting the way with his torch. Publius Sextius rode behind him, staying to the centre of the path. He couldn’t shake the impression that they were being followed, and kept turning to scan the forest around them. The road was winding and sloped steeply upwards through the oak and chestnut trees green with moss and white with snow. There were no signs of human presence, but the light cast by Sura’s smoky torch was weak, so he couldn’t be sure.

Publius Sextius had realized immediately that his guide was not a man of many words and he didn’t try to make conversation. He asked questions only when necessary, obtaining grunts of assent or refusal in response. He tried to keep his mind occupied with thoughts, reflections, plans. His intention was to reach Caesar in time to depart with him on his expedition to the east, about which he’d heard great things. Caesar’s objectives were, as always, formidable.

He had been with Caesar in Gaul and in Spain, and would gladly follow him to Mesopotamia, to Hyrcania, to Sarmatia if necessary. He would follow him to the ends of the earth.

Publius Sextius believed that Caesar was the only man who could save the world.

Caesar had ended the civil wars and had achieved reconciliation with all his adversaries. He was firmly convinced that the only civilization capable of governing humankind was the one that had its fulcrum and force in Rome. He believed that Rome was the world and the world was Rome. He understood his enemies, the peoples who had fought against him to save their independence, he even admired their bravery, but he knew that his victory over them was already destined, written in stone.

Whenever Publius Sextius had had the opportunity to speak with him, he’d been impressed by the expression in Caesar’s eyes and by the sense of determination and command that emanated from him. A predator, yes, but not bloodthirsty. He was quite sure that Caesar felt repugnance at the sight of blood.

How often he had marched at his side, watching as the commander rode by, as he spoke with his officers and with his soldiers. When Caesar recognized someone who had distinguished himself on a day of pitched battle, he would always get off his horse to talk with him, make a joke or two. But his most vivid memory of Caesar went back to the night after the battle against the Nervii, after he, Publius Sextius, commander of the Twelfth, had returned to camp on a stretcher, a bloody mess, more dead than alive, but victorious. He had seized the standard that day and carried it forward towards the enemy himself. He had regrouped the fighting units, instilling courage into his men, and had been the first to set an example.

Caesar had come to visit him, alone, in the tent where the surgeons were trying to stitch him up by the dim light of a few tallow lamps. Leaning close, Caesar had said:

‘Publius Sextius.’

The centurion could barely form a word but he recognized his commander.

‘You saved your comrades today. Thousands of them would have been massacred and years of work would have been lost in a single moment. You saved me, too, along with the honour of the republic, the people and the Senate. There’s no reward that equals such an act, but if it means anything to you, you should know that you will always be the man I rely on, even if everyone else abandons me.’

Then he’d lowered his gaze to look at the centurion’s body, covered with cuts and gashes.

‘So many wounds,’ he whispered with dismay in his voice, ‘so many wounds. .’

Publius Sextius wondered why, in this moment of total solitude, in the middle of a night-long journey through the deserted forests of the Apennines, with a snowstorm raging all around, he should remember those words.

In front of him, the inscrutable Sura plodded on at a steady pace, holding the torch high, staining the immaculate snow with its ruddy reflection, leaving behind him the prints of a good, strong, patient horse who continued, one step after another, further and further up the twisting path, under the skeletal branches of the beeches and oaks.

It occurred to Publius Sextius that someone might have gone ahead and be setting a trap. Maybe Sura was leading him into an ambush from which he wouldn’t escape. Maybe the message would never arrive at its destination in time. But then he remembered how the innkeeper had insisted that he spend the night in the mansio, safe inside under the watchful eye of four legionaries, including Baebius Carbo of the Thirteenth. No one knew where dawn would find him tomorrow.

Sura lit the second torch and threw the first stub into the snow. It glowed for an instant, then died in the darkness of the night. A bird surprised by the sudden light of the torch took to the sky with a shriek that sounded like despair before disappearing far away in the valley.

The wind died down. There wasn’t a sound now, or traces of life of any sort. Even the rare milestones along the road were buried in the snowdrifts. All Publius Sextius could hear were Caesar’s words, repeated endlessly in his lonely, empty mind: ‘So many wounds. . so many wounds.’