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.’

Ad fundum Quintilianum, a.d. V Id. Mart., hora duodecima

Villa Quintiliana, 11 March, five p.m.

‘You’re finally awake! I thought you'd never open your eyes.’

Mustela turned in the direction the voice was coming from and met the eyes of a heavy-set man with a vigorous, no-nonsense look. A soldier at first glance. An officer.

‘It was careless of you to reveal your code name to a servant and even more so to ask to meet me in my home,’ he said.

Mustela tried to bolster himself up on his elbows but the effort made him grimace in pain.

‘What time is it?’ he asked.

‘Forget about the time and answer me.’

‘I had no choice,’ said Mustela. ‘Look at me. Your men were about to throw me into the cesspool. Wouldn’t have been a nice death, not even for a bloke like me.’

‘It’s dangerous for you to be here. The sooner you go the better. What do you want?’

Mustela looked out of the window, then said, ‘It’s late.’

‘The twelfth hour, more or less.’

‘Oh, gods, I risked my life for nothing. You should have woken me. Why didn’t you wake me?’

‘Have you lost your mind, man? They had to stitch you up, in case you haven’t noticed, with needle and thread. You were more dead than alive when you got here. They had no choice.’