Текст книги "The Ides of March"

Автор книги: Valerio Massimo Manfredi

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

10

Romae, in insula Tiberis, a.d. V Id. Mart., hora tertia

Rome, the Tiber Island, 11 March, eight a.m.

Antistius had arrived early, by boat, from Ostia, and was already at the Temple of Aesculapius preparing for the day’s work. He belonged to the Hippocratic school and set great store by symptomatology. He kept a register for each and every patient, with a detailed description of his illness, the diet he’d recommended, the remedies applied and the results obtained. He also believed strongly in cleanliness, beating his servants with a rod if he found dust anywhere, or any other sort of filth in the more remote and less visible corners of his office.

This morning he was even more scrupulous than usual, since he was expecting a client for whom he had the highest regard: Artemidorus. He wanted to check on the state of the Greek teacher’s vitiligo.

One of Antistius’s secrets, and one of the reasons for his success, was his reliance on empirical medicine. But this was something he could ill afford to confess and would never do so, not even under torture.

In the course of his long practice as a physician, he had become convinced that women were the true repositories of medical wisdom, their knowledge being far superior to that of men. He based this conviction on a simple observation: women had cared for their own children since the beginning of time, and since their children’s survival was more important to them than their own lives, they had built up a store of remedies whose effectiveness had actually been tested. In other words, they weren’t interested in what had caused the illness, what balance or imbalance of humours and elements was at the root of it. They were interested only in stopping the illness from killing their children, and finding reliable strategies to fight it off.

Men were much more adept in the field of surgery: cutting, sawing, cauterizing, amputating, stitching. These were all arts in which men excelled, both because they were more brutal by nature and because they had had ample practice in the rear lines of the field of battle, where – since the beginning of time – thousands upon thousands of men had been sent out to massacre each other, for reasons that had never been adequately studied, much less explained.

This was how Antistius had become the personal physician of Caius Julius Caesar: by demonstrating his imperturbable skill in recomposing the mangled limbs of battlefield survivors. Later, he had also proved that he could take on the elusive symptoms of stealthy diseases by applying remedies known only to him, whose composition he would reveal to no one.

When his assistant announced that Artemidorus had arrived for his check-up, Antistius said that he would see him immediately. He peeked outside and saw no litters. So, Artemidorus had arrived on foot.

‘How’s it going, then?’ asked Antistius as soon as his patient stepped in.

‘What can I say? These Romans try hard, you can’t deny them that, but what a travesty! Their accent is horrible when applied to the masters of our poetry. But if you were referring to my condition, it’s here, look, on the nape of my neck, that I think something is coming out again.’

‘Let’s take a look,’ said Antistius solicitously.

He moved aside the Greek’s hair and found the area he was complaining about. It was just slightly reddened. With a worried clucking, he diligently examined the spot, then went to his locked medicine cabinet. From there he extracted an ointment which he applied with a gentle touch to his patient’s neck, which was soon showing signs of improvement.

‘This remedy is so effective!’ Artemidorus exclaimed gratefully. ‘I don’t know how to thank you. How much do I owe you?’

‘No, nothing at all. Not this time. It’s just a little relapse; it’s only right that I treat it without asking for a further fee.’

‘No, I absolutely won’t accept that,’ replied Artemidorus, insisting that he must pay, but Antistius was adamant.

‘To think,’ said the Greek, ‘on top of everything, that I’m being treated by the personal physician of Julius Caesar!’

‘Our perpetual dictator does honour me with his trust, that’s true,’ replied Antistius, ‘and I’m quite proud of that. In all frankness, I do believe I’m the person best suited to curing his ailments, at least those I have a hand in. The rest. . is in the laps of the gods,’ he concluded with an eloquent sigh.

Artemidorus was puzzled. It was clear that the doctor’s words, in particular their tone and the sigh at the end, concealed some kind of message. He might have ignored this and pretended not to understand, but his curiosity and the sensation that something big was in the offing led him to take the bait.

‘What do you mean by that?’ he asked.

‘There are rumours circulating to the effect that Caesar’s. . health may be at risk,’ replied Antistius. ‘If not much worse.’

‘Much worse. . than his health?’ prompted Artemidorus.

Antistius gave a slow nod, accompanying the movement of his head with a long sigh.

Artemidorus leaned in closer until he was practically whispering into the doctor’s ear. ‘Is it something to do with Brutus?’

Antistius’s answering expression needed no words.

‘I see,’ said Artemidorus.

‘You’ve heard the rumours?’ asked Antistius, adding, ‘You know, I do realize that I’m asking a lot of you, perhaps too much, but I swear to you that whatever you tell me will remain within these walls. I will never reveal the source of any information you give me. I must say that I’m honoured to have one of the most eminent proponents of Hellenic culture in the entire city in my care.’

Artemidorus was struck by the doctor’s praises. He pondered at length before answering.

‘Brutus treats me like a servant,’ he finally confessed. ‘With arrogance. He humiliates my dignity, for the sole reason that my livelihood here depends on the meagre salary he pays me. You have taken care of me, and you continue to treat me for a repugnant disease that would have disfigured me and made me a laughing stock, without worrying about how much I can pay you. You’ve expressed more appreciation for my modest talents than I deserve. If I have to make a choice, I would prefer to be on your side, whatever that may involve.’

‘I’m infinitely grateful to you,’ replied Antistius, trying to hide his excitement. ‘When the moment comes, I promise you won’t be sorry about this.’

‘Tell me what I can do for you.’

‘Brutus’s name has recently appeared on the city walls and even on the courthouse door, accompanied by an instigation to emulate the distant forefather who drove the last king out of Rome. The implication is clear. It means there’s someone out there who wants Brutus to take matters into his own hands and bring down Caesar, the very man who spared his life.’

Artemidorus did not answer and Antistius hurried to reinforce his words.

‘Brutus acts in a way that is difficult to understand. Some time ago, he sided with Pompey, despite the fact he was behind his father’s death, and now it seems he’s plotting against Caesar, to whom he owes his life. Caesar, who pardoned him after the Battle of Pharsalus and allowed him to take up his seat in the Senate and continue his political career. .

‘You Greeks hold liberty and democracy in great regard, and I can imagine that you do not think well of Caesar. But remember that he refused the king’s crown when it was offered to him and has used the powers granted to him only to end civil strife. Don’t forget that Caesar has no legitimate son. Why would he aspire to a monarchy that would die with him?’

‘I’m convinced of what you say. There’s no need for you to justify Caesar to me.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that Brutus treats you unfairly, even as far as your salary is concerned. I want you to know that if you help us, your troubles will be over for ever. Caesar’s generosity knows no limits.’

‘I’m willing to help you without any recompense,’ replied Artemidorus firmly. ‘What do you need to know?’

‘Forgive me! I did not mean to imply that I was offering you money in exchange for your help, although we’re both well aware that in this corrupt city money is often the only solution. The truth is that I’m very worried about Caesar. I’ve heard disturbing rumours and the writing on the walls speaks clearly. I’m afraid that Brutus might be persuaded to act rashly, to make a move that would have dramatic consequences.’

‘Do you mean. . a conspiracy?’

Antistius nodded with an enquiring expression on his face. ‘Do you know anything that could help me?’

‘Nothing certain, mind you. It’s really no more than a fleeting. . sensation. People coming in and going out of the house at odd hours.’

‘What do you mean by odd?’

‘In the middle of the night, before dawn. Why would anyone receive friends so late at night unless he was hiding something?’

‘You’re absolutely right. Do you know who these friends are?’

‘No. It’s always been after dark and the meetings are always held behind closed doors, in Brutus’s study. Once I was awakened by the dog barking and then I heard Brutus’s voice greeting a group of people coming in through the rear gate.’

‘How many people, would you say?’

‘I couldn’t be sure, but quite a few. Six or seven, maybe more.’

‘Can you think of any reason besides a conspiracy for such meetings?’ asked Antistius.

‘Yes, of course there could be other reasons. . a political alliance, for example. There are elections coming up. Maybe they are putting together some electoral strategy that they want to keep secret.’

‘Possibly, but I’m suspicious nonetheless, and worried. I’d ask you to remain watchful. I want to know who is visiting the house, how many of them there are and why they are meeting. Are there others involved, perhaps, who never show up in person? Keep your eyes open and inform me of anything new immediately.’

‘It won’t be easy,’ replied Artemidorus, ‘but I’ll do my best. If I learn anything, I’ll be sure to let you know.’

‘Come here when you have news. If I’m not around, my assistant will know where I am and how to find me at any time. Farewell, Artemidorus. Be careful.’

Artemidorus promised he would and took his leave.

Antistius reflected on the meeting in silence and didn’t move until the servant knocked to say that a new patient had arrived.

Romae, Taberna ad Oleastrum, a.d. V Id. Mart., hora octava

Rome, the Wild Olive tavern, 11 March, one p.m.

Sitting under the olive tree, Silius looked at the sun and then at the shadow cast by the pole holding up a skeletal grapevine. He called the tavern boy over and said, ‘Bring me a glass of Tuscolano Rosso and some toasted bread.’

His order was promptly filled. Silius dipped the toasted bread into the wine and began to eat. There weren’t many people on the road at this time of day. A sausage vendor had set up a cart at the other end of the square and a group of rowdy youths was swarming around him. Two or three of them distracted him while the others were busy stealing sausages and passing them behind their backs to the last in line. At this point, they exchanged a signal and scampered off laughing. The vendor ran after them with a whip, while others popped out of a narrow alleyway and made off with another three or four sausages.

‘The pack at work,’ mused Silius, ‘drawing the victim away from safety.’

He raised his eyes to the sky for a moment to watch the flight of a couple of gulls. There was no sign of the person he was waiting for. He finished eating and waited some more, ordering another glass of wine now and then.

The owner of the tavern passed by with a bowl of dormouse stew for some other customers and Silius stopped him.

‘Are you sure no one has asked for me?’

‘I’ve already told you,’ replied the man, ‘not a living soul. I know everyone around here. If a stranger showed up I would spot him immediately. Don’t you know what this bloke looks like? Tall, short, fat, thin. .’

‘No,’ said Silius, looking down. ‘I have no idea.’

The tavern owner shrugged and widened his hands as if to say, ‘So what do you want from me?’

Silius swallowed another mouthful of wine, wiped his lips with the back of his hand and made to leave. But as he was getting to his feet, he saw a person at the corner of the house on his left making an odd gesture. Could it be him?

Silius took a quick look around and, trying not to attract any attention, walked towards the individual who was beckoning to him. Now he could see the person well. It was a woman of modest appearance, probably a servant or a freedwoman, wearing work clothes, with a rope belt around her waist. She looked about forty, and had the callused hands of a woman accustomed to working in the fields.

‘Come this way,’ she called as Silius approached. ‘I’m the person you’ve been waiting for.’

‘Good. Well, then?’

‘The person who sends me says they can’t meet with you. They don’t know you well enough and can’t receive you.’

Silius was clearly irritated. ‘Damn it all! But why? Don’t they know how important this is? That it’s a matter of life or death?’

‘I know nothing,’ replied the woman. ‘I’ve never even seen the person who sent me here before. I don’t even know who it is.’

Silius grabbed her arm. ‘Listen to me! I must – whatever the cost – meet with the person who sent you. If you do as I say, I’m willing to pay you well. Say that I have very important information that directly regards the person – and that person’s son. You’re a slave, aren’t you? Am I right?’

‘You are,’ she replied.

‘Well, I promise you here and now that I’ll give you enough money to buy your freedom. Just do what I’m asking, by all the gods!’

The woman lightly touched the hand that was gripping her sleeve so Silius would let go, then responded without looking at him, ‘Do you really imagine that a woman of my condition can speak to a high-ranking person? I received an order and I learned the words I told you by heart. Tomorrow I’ll be on some farm or other tying up bundles of twigs. I’m sorry. I would have helped you willingly.’

She hurried away.

Silius leaned his elbow against the wall, his head on his arm, and didn’t move from that position for a long time, torn between anger and frustration, not knowing what to do.

A hand fell on his shoulder. Silius spun around, his fingers round the hilt of the dagger he wore in his belt. He found the innkeeper in front of him.

‘That person you were looking for came.’

‘What are you saying? I just-’

‘A tall bloke, skinny, black circles around his eyes. He left a message for you.’

Silius didn’t say another word, but followed the man back to the tavern. The people sitting at the other table were just mopping up the remains of their tasty dormouse stew with some bread. A dog waited hopefully for the bones, which were not forthcoming. The wine jug and empty glass still occupied the table where Silius had been sitting.

The owner took him to the back of the shop and handed him a small sealed scroll. Silius reached for his moneybag and handed over a couple of denariifor his trouble, which the man pocketed happily.

Silius moved away until he was safely out of sight in the shade of a portico, then opened the message:

To Silius Salvidienus, hail!

Although your words were veiled, what you are asking is sufficiently clear. I cannot meet you for reasons you can easily imagine. There’s not much I can accomplish because I’ve been kept out of everything.

A chasm lies on either side of the road that will be taken. I shall do whatever is in my power to do, however small that may be.

This letter begins without my signature. My name is in the person you met a short time ago.

Farewell.

Silius at on the base of a column and reflected upon each word of the letter he’d been given. The response to his request was thorough, but difficult to interpret. If the person writing to him had been kept out of everything, what could be done? What was this road between two chasms?

As he pondered the puzzling message, the words fell into place.

A person who was torn between two powerful, contrasting emotions.

A person who could do little but who promised to act.

The signature was there. The name lay in the messenger who had been sent: a servant.

This confirmed that the person writing to him was Servilia.

He had to conclude that she was being kept under strict surveillance, so someone must be afraid that she might reveal something. Who, if not her son? What, if not a plot against Caesar’s life?

She couldn’t say anything specific because she evidently feared, despite her precautions, that her letter might be intercepted. That was why she signed the letter so cryptically, so that only the designated receiver could identify the sender. Perfect. At this point he had sufficient evidence to warn Antistius first and then Caesar. He would force his commander to defend himself! Perhaps Publius Sextius would arrive soon and could be consulted about organizing a proper defence.

He destroyed the letter and scattered the pieces as he walked swiftly down the long stretch of road that led towards Antistius’s hospital on the Tiber Island.

He arrived as the sun was beginning to set. The legionaries of the Ninth, guarding the Fabricius Bridge, lowered their spears as a sign of respect for his rank, since they knew him well. He entered Antistius’s office. Each had important news for the other.

Antistius went first: ‘Artemidorus says he’ll collaborate. He has reason to detest Brutus.’

‘What does he know?’

‘Not much, to tell the truth. Strange meetings at odd times – in the middle of the night, just before dawn.’

‘Names?’

‘Not a single one. He couldn’t see them in the dark and they went straight to Brutus’s study. But I’ve asked him to investigate and to report back anything he learns. He’s said he will and I believe him. And you? Any news?’

‘I got a message through to Servilia. It wasn’t explicit, but she understood and answered. She can’t meet me but she says that she will do whatever she can.’

‘Can I see the letter?’ asked Antistius.

‘I destroyed it as soon as I’d read it, but I remember it very well. It wasn’t very long.’ He recited it word by word.

‘Yes,’ agreed Antistius. ‘Your interpretation is correct, I’d say.’

‘Good. I’ll go and tell Caesar.’

Antistius didn’t answer at first and Silius watched him, perplexed by his silence. Finally, the doctor said, ‘Are you sure that’s a wise decision?’

‘Of course. Without a doubt.’

‘What can you tell him that he doesn’t already know? Do you really think he hasn’t picked up on the rumours, felt conspiracy in the air, if not already in making? It’s clear to me that he doesn’t intend to quash any uprising on the basis of hearsay alone. He doesn’t want blood. Not now, at least.’

‘But Servilia is under surveillance, isn’t that sufficient evidence?’

‘No, it’s not. It means that Brutus might – just might, mind you – be involved. If a conspiracy exists, that is.’

‘But don’t you understand her words, “a chasm lies on either side of the road”?’

‘It depends on how you interpret them. The expression she’s chosen is anything but clear. Listen. Imagine that Caesar takes your word on this and unleashes a wide-scale repression. What would he have to do then, exactly? Capture Brutus and put him to death? On the basis of what accusation? Or hire some assassin to take him out? His murder would be instantly attributed to Caesar by those who seek to destroy him. He would be held up to public scorn as a bloody tyrant whose true, vindictive nature had finally been unmasked. That’s exactly what Caesar wants to avoid. Telling him would just put him in a worse dilemma.’

‘So what should we do?’

‘I’m counting on Artemidorus. Imagine that he manages to discover that there truly is a conspiracy and to identify who is in on it. At that point it will be easier for Caesar to lay a trap, expose their plan and then decide what should happen to them. What’s more, Servilia has said that she will do something and I think that something may prove to be important. She’ll find a way to save her son and the man she loves, even if that seems impossible. We must give her that chance.’

‘How can she accomplish such a thing?’

Antistius was creating elaborate doodles on a wax tablet with the tip of his scalpel, as though he were mapping out complex thoughts. He raised his head slightly and looked up at Silius.

‘By letting Caesar know the day they’ve chosen.’