‘Shut up, you idiot,’ his commander hissed at him. ‘You’ll do as I say! You two take the Via Flaminia going through the mountains, the rest of you,’ he said, turning to the veterans, ‘use the Flaminia Minor and then turn on to the Via Cassia. Mustela prefers to work alone, but if you meet up with him and he asks you to follow him, do as he says. The other men you’re looking for are from the Information Service. One of them will be easy to identify — a big, burly guy with hands like a bear’s paws and eyebrows joined up over his nose. What I told you holds for him as well. He’s tough and probably an officer. There’s something else that will help you identify them. They’re all in a hurry. They won’t sit down to eat or stop to sleep. Maybe you’ll find them sleeping on their feet, like horses, an hour at a time, then off again. They are determined to get to Rome at any cost. If you succeed in this mission you’ll be amply rewarded. You’ll earn more than your miserable lives are worth. Now get a move on.’

The men split up, hurrying to prepare their mounts and assemble supplies. The first to set off were Decius and the two veterans. They galloped away down the little path and, once they reached the end, took off to the left, disappearing in a cloud of dust. The others headed in the opposite direction.

The man who owned the villa stood at the doorway watching them until they had all vanished from sight. He signalled for his servants to close up and went back to his study, where he could ponder what had happened in these few hours.

His name was Sergius Quintilianus and he had fought against Caesar at Pharsalus, where he had lost a son in battle. From there, he had followed Pompey to Egypt. He had been on the ship that fated day, had seen Pompey get into the boat that had been sent from shore. Pompey had been led to believe that he would meet King Ptolemy, from whom he hoped to receive aid, but instead he met his death. Quintilianus had watched helplessly as the commander of Ptolemy’s army, Achillas, pulled out his sword and drove it into Pompey’s side: a terrible scene that continued to haunt his dreams. How many times he’d woken himself up, shouting, ‘Watch out!’ only to realize bitterly that there was no one left to warn. His ears were still full of the screams of despair of the women on board the ship as the sails were immediately raised so they could flee that land of traitors!

After that, Quintilianus went to Africa, where he joined the republican troops of Cato and Scipio Nasica, who had fought and failed against Caesar at Thapsus. He had even taken up arms under Titus Labienus at Munda.

The final outcome of all those battles was that he had lost his son and seen his own men massacred.

He had always fought against other Romans. In defence of political ideals at first, then later consumed by hatred and a thirst for revenge. Always with infinite, piercing bitterness, a feeling that had eaten away at his soul and hardened him against himself and against the world.

Finally, once there was nothing left to hope for and nothing left to believe in, he had retreated to the villa enclosed by ancient cypress trees. He had surrounded himself with armed guards, gladiators and cut-throats, and now and then he indulged in the pleasure of attacking one of his political adversaries. They lived such tranquil lives now, smug in their victory and certain that they were shielded from all danger. He paid well and his mercenaries never failed. Many knew who he was and realized what he was doing, but no one dared react. Their protectors were far away, while he was close.

And merciless.

Mustela had given him reason to hope. Perhaps all was not lost. If he could stop the message from reaching Rome, then everything would fall into place, just as it should.

As he was brooding over his thoughts, he wondered whether he shouldn’t have gone out on his own, got into the game personally. Why not defy fate himself, run the risk of dying on a mission fraught with such danger? But he hadn’t gone in the end. He hadn’t saddled his Pannonian steed, black as the cypresses that loomed over his villa. There was no specific reason, just a kind of paralysis. He was so full of bile he was powerless to make any decision, much less take any action. All he could do was pace back and forth like a lion in a cage, in a house whose decorations spoke only of defeat and humiliation.

Among his mementoes was a portrait of Cato, who, after being defeated at Thapsus, took his own life at Utica rather than live under a tyrant. He was portrayed dressed in a toga as he harangued the Senate. Quintilianus had been there, at that session, and he had been able to instruct the artist in such detail about the bearing of that great orator and patriot that the image was incredibly lifelike and very powerful.

Sergius Quintilianus was a superstitious man as well. In a corner of the room, on a carved wooden pedestal, stood a wax statue of Caius Julius Caesar decked out in full triumphal garb, his decorations a testament to his victories over other Romans, his booty for having spilt the blood of his fellow citizens. The statue was pierced by a number of long pins that Quintilianus scalded in the lamp flame before driving into the wax. It felt like sinking iron into flesh.

Now all he had to do was wait until his men intercepted those messengers. He had no doubt about the reason for such haste, even if Mustela had not explicitly confirmed it. The conspirators had finally decided on the day of reckoning. So it would be happening soon, even though the date remained a secret. Caesar’s murder.

Could that be true? The death. . of Caesar!

The thought took root in his turbulent thoughts.

In front of his eyes was a small door that was closed.

Suddenly he got up and opened it. He found himself inside the little domestic sanctuary that he had dedicated to his fallen son, run through from front to back before his father’s eyes on the bloody field of Pharsalus.

He had had a statue crafted, at the base of which was an urn containing the boy’s ashes. Every now and then he entered that place of pain and spent some time there. He felt as though he could speak to his son and hear his voice answering him.

He said aloud, ‘I will go myself this time. I will be the one to avenge you, son. And if I fail, at least I’ll join you in Hades. I’ll have put an end to this unbearable life.’

It had become quite dark. Sergius Quintilianus went to the armoury and donned the armour in which he had fought all his battles. He went to the stable, put a bridle and bit on the black stallion and, having mounted, spurred him on.

After a while he had melted into the night, black as his own grief and hatred.

In Monte Appennino, Caupona ad Silvam, a.d. V Id. Mart., hora duodecima

The Apennine Mountains, the Woodland Inn, 11 March, five p.m.

It was still coming down. Not quite as heavily and without the wind, but the steadily falling flakes continued to thicken the blanket of snow on the ground. In the inn’s courtyard, the servants were shovelling the snow into a pile, trying to clear as much of the paved area as possible. The sentry on guard up on the walkway was struck by a dark figure advancing on horseback, coming towards the station. He called his comrade on guard at the main gate, Baebius Carbo.

‘Hey, someone’s coming!’

‘Who is it?’ asked Carbo.

‘I don’t know. A big, heavy-set man on a fine horse. He’s heading this way. This place is funny all right. Not a living soul for days and days, then two in a row.’

‘All right. I’ll open up.’

Carbo pulled back the gate and the horseman entered.

‘I’m exhausted and hungry,’ he said. ‘Is there anything to eat?’

‘There’s a tavern inside,’ replied Carbo. ‘If you’ve got the money.’