‘It’s over that way,’ said the innkeeper, pointing towards a path that headed down into the valley. ‘It won’t take more than two hours. You might even make it across in that time if you manage to wake up the ferryman and convince him to take you.’

‘Can you change my horse?’ asked Publius Sextius. ‘This one is done in. But he’s a fine animal. In a couple of days you’ll be able to use him again.’

‘All right,’ said the innkeeper. ‘Can you pay the fee?’

‘Yes, if it’s not too high. And I’ll leave you something to bury this poor wretch.’

Publius Sextius quickly settled his negotiations with the innkeeper for changing his horse, adding enough for a modest funeral. He was deathly tired, the muscles in his arms and legs were seizing up with cramp and he had blisters on his inner thighs from riding so long. Still, he gritted his teeth; he’d known worse.

He rode off, and after a while realized that the road had begun to descend. Well before dawn he heard the voice of the river flowing down below.

In Monte Appennino, ad rivum vetus, a.d. IV Id. Mart., tertia vigilia

The Apennine Mountains, at the old river, 12 March, third guard shift, one a.m.

Rufus, who had managed to escape the clutches of the over-zealous guard, was trying to make up for lost time by travelling as fast as he could along a short cut through the chestnut wood. The ride wasn’t too difficult, since the earth had been beaten flat by the passage of innumerable flocks of sheep and he was able to keep up a good pace. Every now and then he’d run into a tree trunk and a pile of snow would come crashing down on to his head or on to the horse’s neck, but that didn’t slow him down. The freshly fallen snow still reflected enough light and, if his calculations were right, the moon would be rising soon. He thought of Vibius, who was travelling just as fast as he was, towards the Via Flaminia, cutting straight across Italy to get there. He’d always arrived sooner than his comrade and he wasn’t going to be beaten this time either.

A night bird, maybe a tawny owl, let out a hoot in the silent immensity of the surrounding mountains and Rufus muttered a magic spell under his breath.

Romae, in aedibus Bruti, a.d. IV Id. Mart., hora secunda

Rome, the home of Brutus, 12 March, seven a.m.

Artemidorus’s room was worthy of a master of rhetoric who thrived on literature and Stoic philosophy. His capsawas filled to the brim with scrolls, each of which was classified and labelled. They were his wealth and well-being, and he would never dream of parting with them. He sat on a wooden chair with a dark leather seat and back. On his work table were a pitcher of water and a trayful of his favourite sweets prepared by one of the girls in the kitchen, a hedonistic weakness that he would swiftly spirit away whenever anyone knocked at his door.

His relationship with the master of the house was based mainly on his imparting instruction in the technical skills required for speaking the Greek language, such as grammar and syntax, the correct pitch required for public discourse, the ability to cite the great authors with due emphasis. Brutus had never sought other knowledge from Artemidorus, had never asked for a lesson in the art of living or in philosophical meditation, and this made the Greek feel belittled, his intellectual status disparaged. Whenever he had attempted to introduce a loftier topic, Brutus had cut him off, making it clear that he didn t consider him equal to the task. This was the true reason Artemidorus despised his student and was willing to betray him. He couldn t stand feeling excluded, his status as a philosopher going unrecognized.

Brutus’s stoic faith ran deep; he was nearly a fanatic. His idol, as everyone knew, was the uncle who had died at Utica. Cato, the patriot — the man who had preferred to die rather than to plead for his life, to give up his freedom.

Brutus had joined Pompey’s cause before the Battle of Pharsalus and was proud of his choice. Although he held Pompey responsible for his father s death, at that moment he was the defender of the republic, and Brutus had been ready to set personal resentment aside and fight at his side.

Artemidorus’s bedchamber communicated directly with his study and that morning, at dawn, as he was still half sleeping, he had heard noises. He went from his bed to his study and from there, standing at a slight distance from the window, he could see the little portico of the inner courtyard, where a group of people had gathered. It was almost impossible to recognize them, however, from that vantage point. He left his study, moving stealthily down a narrow corridor and into a tiny service yard. From there it was just a few steps to the latrine, which was separated from the courtyard where they’d chosen to meet by a flimsy wall that Artemidorus realized he could easily perforate with a stylus. There were areas where the urine fumes had eaten away the whitewash, leaving it paper thin. He could see, and hear, what was taking place on the other side.

He put his eye to the hole he’d made in the wall, but his view was mostly blocked by the grey tunic of whoever was standing closest to it. He could clearly hear, on the other hand, the unmistakable timbre of Cassius’s voice addressing a man he called Rubius, then naming Trebonius and Petronius.

This last man asked, ‘Where’s Antony?’

‘Antony,’ replied the man who had answered to the name of Trebonius, ‘must stay out of this. I’ve always said he shouldn’t be involved.’

Another man, whom Artemidorus could not see, said, ‘Right. Which means we’ll leave him with a free hand to play whatever game he pleases. The old man says-’

‘Hold your tongue,’ ordered Brutus’s distinct voice. ‘We all know what the old man thinks. But I’m convinced he’s wrong. There will be no discussion. Antony has nothing to do with this.’

‘No?’ shot back the man Brutus had hushed. ‘Antony is closer to him than anyone else. He is the consul in office, and he may well take the situation in hand once our man is eliminated.’

‘He won’t make a move,’ replied Brutus. ‘I’m sure of it. What do you think, Quintus?’

‘Quintus,’ reflected Artemidorus inside the latrine. ‘That must be Quintus Ligarius. Yes. The man who was accused of high treason before Caesar, who was defended by Cicero and absolved of his crime.’ He was becoming more certain with every passing moment that these were conspirators and they were plotting against Caesar. They meant to kill him.

Quintus’s reply was muffled as the group moved off through the garden, probably heading for Brutus’s study. He recognized again, at a distance, the voice of Cassius, who had visited the house countless times. He was thinking of going back to his room when he heard the crunch of approaching footsteps on the gravel in the courtyard. He realized he was trapped. One of the men was coming to use the latrine and he would be caught in an embarrassing, and highly suspicious, position. He tried to act like a man who’d had an urgent call of nature so they wouldn’t imagine he was there for other reasons, but the footsteps suddenly stopped. Another step and then that one stopped as well.

Voices.

One belonged to Quintus Ligarius. ‘Do you want to know what I think, Cassius? I think the old man’s right.’

‘Yes, so do I. Antony is too dangerous. He must be eliminated as well. His first reaction will be to seek revenge and then to take our man’s place. Or vice versa. It won’t matter, will it?’

Quintus had called this man Cassius, but his voice was quite different from the Cassius Artemidorus knew so well. So there must be two Cassiuses. This one must be. . Of course, he’d met the man himself right there in Brutus’s house. They’d spoken about the theatre on an evening that Cicero had been present as well. So it must be Cassius Parmensis, then. Imagine that! The tragic poet meant to move from fiction to reality, to stain his hands with blood just as his characters dipped into the red lead oxide on stage.