‘Is there nothing else you want to tell me?’ asked Caesar.

‘Yes, that I love you. As I always have and as I always will. Good luck, Caesar.’

As she walked away, he leaned his head against a column and let out a deep sigh.

Servilia crossed the threshold into the bright sunlight, tinted golden in the doorway. Her figure was about to dissolve in the rosy glow of the setting sun but she stopped, without turning.

‘Heed the warnings of the gods. Do not ignore them. That’s all I can tell you. Farewell.’

She vanished.

Caesar stood pondering over those words, which sounded so mysterious on Servilia’s lips. She knew how little stock he placed in the gods and in their warnings. What was she trying to tell him?

He left the temple as he had come in, through the side door, and walked towards the Tiber. Servilia had disappeared completely. He couldn’t catch sight of her anywhere. A couple of beggars asked for alms without recognizing him. A dog chased after him for a little while, wagging its tail, then stopped, panting, weak from hunger.

Further up the road on the right, near the banks of the Tiber, stood a sacellum, an old shrine displaying the image of an Etruscan demon, worn with age. As if by magic, as Caesar was approaching a man cloaked in grey emerged from behind the little shrine. He was neither young nor old, his hair was straggly and matted, his sandals unstitched. Jangling metallic discs hung from the cane he held tight in his hand. Caesar recognized him. He was an Etruscan augur, from an ancient, noble family, the Spurinna line. He led a lowly life, scraping by thanks to the offerings of the faithful and those who came to him to learn what the future would bring. Caesar had often seen him attending the ceremonies at which he officiated, when the augur had sometimes been allowed to examine the entrails of the animals killed in sacrifice and to interpret the will of the gods.

He meant to approach him and to greet him, but the man stopped short. He stared at Caesar, his eyes rolling, and hissed, ‘Beware the Ides of March!’

Caesar blurted out, ‘What on earth. .’ but he never finished his question, for Titus Spurinna had already vanished, like a ghost.

Upset by the soothsayer’s words, Caesar wandered the city streets for some time, seeking to understand their meaning, while Silius, troubled by his long absence, was at the Domus Publica, preparing a search party. If anything had happened to Caesar he could never forgive himself.

When he was close to the Tiber Island, Caesar was startled by the blast of a bugle that called him back to the real world: the signal that the first shift was mounting guard at Ninth Legion headquarters. He quickened his pace and soon met up with Silius at the Temple of Saturn, just as his adjutant was about to unleash a thousand men to turn the city upside down.

Calpurnia, who had been told of his return, ran towards him weeping.

Caesar looked around in amazement. ‘What is happening here?’ he said with a tinge of irritation.

‘We feared for your life, commander,’ replied Silius. ‘You were gone too long.’

Caesar did not answer.

In via Flaminia Minore, Caupona ad sandalum Herculis, a.d. IV Id. Mart., ad initium tertiae vigiliae

The Via Flaminia Minor, the Hercules’s Sandal tavern, 12 March, start of the third guard shift, after midnight

The horseman rode up at a brisk pace from the snowy road. He was numb with the cold. There was a vast clearing at the side of the road where a stone house stood, covered with slate roof tiles. A squared-off stone wall enclosed the courtyard and a wooden shed with a lean-to on the right offered shelter for horses and pack animals, on a nice bed of straw. A sign hung over the main entrance with a drawing of the sandal that gave the inn its name. The place seemed deserted. The man dismounted and passed under the torch that lit the entrance, revealing the gaunt face and prickly beard of Publius Sextius, ‘the Cane’. He strained his ears and heard the faint sound of voices and other noises coming from the courtyard.

He tied his horse to an iron ring hanging from the wall and knocked three times on the door with the hilt of his sword. There was no answer, but the door swung open and inside he could see a knot of people gathered around something near the stable. As he got closer he noticed a trickle of clotted blood at their feet, staining the snow that covered the ground.

Publius Sextius pushed his way into their midst and found the object of their attention: the body of a man, lying with his face in the dung, with a large wound at the nape of his neck from which dark, steaming blood was still flowing. He was wearing a grey wool cloak, torn in several places and stained with dried blood as well. Cuts on his arms and hands showed how hard he’d fought off his assailants.

Filled with foreboding, Sextius got down to his knees in front of the stiff body. He signalled for one of the bystanders to shine his lantern closer and turned the man over.

It was the workman he’d met at the changing station. How could he have made it so far, so soon? Certainly by way of short cuts that he’d kept secret, but that had ensured he’d arrive just in time for an appointment with death.

His hands were as big as shovels, his palms covered with calluses. The eyebrows meeting at the centre of his forehead, the bristly beard and the wide wrestler’s shoulders left no doubt as to his identity.

Now he was only a poor lifeless thing.

Publius Sextius felt a wave of fury swelling the veins in his neck and accelerating the beating of his heart. He turned to the bystanders and got to his feet, a man of imposing bulk, gripping his shiny, knotty cane in his hand.

‘Who did it?’ he growled.

A timid, stout man with watery eyes stepped forward — surely the innkeeper.

‘Two blokes showed up three hours ago, from the south. We had already tended to their horses and they were about to leave when this man arrived. He watered his horse and asked for fodder and barley. He said he’d eat something in the stable, because he had to set off again immediately. I thought I saw the other two exchanging a look. .’

Publius Sextius loomed over the little man. ‘Continue,’ he ordered.

‘They must have gone after him. We didn’t hear anything. It was the stable boy who found him when he went to change the bedding for the animals and he ran in to get me. When we arrived he was already dead. Then you showed up.’

Publius Sextius glared at them as if deciding which of them to assault with his cane, but he saw only bewildered expressions, faces frozen with cold and fear.

‘We had nothing to do with it, centurion,’ swore the innkeeper, who had noticed the knotty symbol of Publius’s rank. ‘I promise you. I’ll make a written report and you can give it to the judge in town.’

‘There’s no time for that,’ replied Publius Sextius brusquely. ‘Tell me what the two of them looked like.’

‘Oh, they were riding fine horses, they were well dressed and equipped, they wore boots of good leather. But they were as ugly as could be, jailbirds if you ask me. Hired assassins, most probably. This man had nothing valuable with him. And it doesn’t look like they stole anything from the satchel he was carrying, although it was clear they searched through it. They were looking for something, that’s for sure.’

‘Was there anything peculiar about their features?’

‘One of them had a slash across his right cheek, ten or twelve stitches wide, an old scar. The other was hairy as a bear and his bottom teeth protruded over the top ones. Really ugly, like I said. Looked like gladiators.’

‘You’re quite observant,’ noted Publius Sextius.

‘You have to be, doing the job I do.’

‘How far is it to the Arno river ferry?’