He was floundering between Scylla and Charybdis, like Odysseus’s fragile ship looking for a way through the straits. In either direction he saw monsters with gaping jaws ready to tear into him. In the end, he did nothing. He hid the scroll inside another bigger one and changed its label, and then set back to work, trying to appear busy. He was so worried about getting caught that he was even afraid of himself. As time passed, however, an idea began to form in his mind, a plan. If Brutus’s faction won, the situation could only worsen for him, seeing that the man obviously suspected him of something if he was treating him in this way. If, on the other hand, the conspiracy were thwarted thanks to him, the most powerful man in the world would owe Artemidorus his life. A man who had shown thousands of times how generous he could be to those who had helped him. Antistius himself had guaranteed this and the doctor had always been true to his word.

Thrilling scenarios blossomed before his eyes. He could see himself in the house of the perpetual dictator, honoured and respected, dressed in the most sumptuous garments, delighting in the most refined delicacies. Served by young boys of beauty and grace who would respect him and indulge his every whim. He would have hairdressers, servants, secretaries. An opportunity like this came only once in a lifetime and he would be a fool to let it slip away. Therefore he would act.

His hands swiftly sorted through the scrolls now, one after another: Thucydides slipped easily into place, beneath him Callimachus and Apollonius Rhodius, one next to the other, neatly filling the slots allocated to them. Luxury editions of Homer and Hesiod occupied the top shelf at the centre of the library, earning this place both chronologically and because of their literary eminence. Every poet, historian, philosopher and geographer was returned to the spot he had always rightfully occupied and when, finally, sweaty and satisfied, Artemidorus studied the outcome of his labours, he could see that the library had been restored to its original glory.

He breathed a sigh of relief, more for having resolved his inner dilemma than for having completed the task assigned to him. But he did not leave the library. He preferred to remain there, reading and reflecting on how he could communicate the results of his investigation to Antistius.

He opened the door a crack and noticed one of Brutus’s bodyguards leaning against the wall in the corridor. His arms were folded and he gave the impression of being there just for him. The first problem had been solved, but the one that remained was no less thorny.

Romae, in aedibus Bruti, a.d. III Id. Mart., prima vigilia

Rome, the home of Brutus, 13 March, first guard shift, seven p.m.

Artemidorus reasoned that, whatever happened, he would not be able to spend the rest of his life in the library and that it was time to move to the kitchen for the evening meal, where he joined several guests, none of whom was particularly important. Once in a while he was invited to join the master of the house at his table, but only on special occasions, when his erudition might contribute to enlivening the conversation.

He passed in front of the hulking guard acknowledging him with a slight nod of the head, which the guard did not return, and reached the kitchen safely. Even here the atmosphere seemed rather tense, although he couldn’t have said why. He imagined that the openly worried demeanour of the master of the house had become contagious, influencing other members of the family as well.

After dinner he bade the others a good evening and retired to his quarters, exhausted after a day so full of work and emotions. But it wasn’t over yet.

A short time later he heard knocking at the back door and a number of people entered, one or two at a time, in the space of less than an hour. Cassius was the last man to join the others; his sharp voice was unmistakable in the silence of the evening.

The young slave who had brought him the scroll came up to his room with a tray full of freshly baked cakes. This was clearly a pretext, for as soon as he had placed the tray on a little table, he turned to Artemidorus and said in a whisper, ‘The master has been asking me strange questions.’

‘What kind of questions?’ asked Artemidorus, with a feeling of dread.

‘About you. He said that if I had anything interesting to tell him, he would be most grateful.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘Nothing,’ said the boy softly. ‘I said I had nothing to tell him. I have to go now.’

‘No, wait. What will you do if he insists? If he puts pressure on you, threatens you. .’

‘You don’t understand. I have to go. A lot of people have just arrived. No one will notice me. I’ll be back later,’ he murmured, then, without waiting for an answer, he went back downstairs.

Meetings were usually held in Brutus’s study and this one was no exception. There was a broom closet next door which was accessible from the pantry, such a tight space that only a single person could enter. The boy slipped in and put his ear to the wall.

About fifteen men had gathered in Brutus’s study, including Tillius Cimber, Pontius Aquila, Cassius Parmensis, Petronius, Rubrius Ruga, Publius and Caius Servilius Casca and Cassius Longinus, as well as others among the main supporters of the conspiracy. Quintus Ligarius had sent word that he wasn’t feeling well but was awaiting instructions. Caesar’s closest friends, like Decimus Brutus, and members of his general staff, like Caius Trebonius, were missing, since they were attending the meeting Caesar had called for that same evening.

Cassius Longinus spoke first, describing the stages of the attack, which would take place during the senatorial session on the Ides of March.

Since work was still being done on the Curia in the Forum, the Senate would be meeting at Pompey’s Curia in the Campus Martius. Their first task would be to isolate Caesar from the rest of the senators and from any friends who might attempt to interfere, Antony, above all.

‘I still feel that the best option would be to kill him,’ he said impassively. ‘But I know that Brutus does not agree with me.’

Brutus, having been singled out like this, spoke up at once. ‘We’ve already discussed this and I’ve said what I think. We are killing Caesar to save the republic and that gives us the right to do so, but if we kill Antony, we are simply committing a crime. A murder.’

‘Murder’ was the first word the slave heard as he slipped into the broom closet and it made him shiver.

Cassius found Brutus’s idealism unsettling, but tried to make him see reason: ‘When safeguarding the state means taking up arms, it is evident that the violence will have to extend to those who protect the tyrant. It’s the price that must be paid to recover the freedom of the Senate and the people of Rome. Antony cannot be held innocent. He has never strayed from Caesar’s side and has reaped all possible benefits.’

‘So have we reaped all possible benefits,’ replied Brutus wryly.

A moment of heavy silence followed, during which Cassius realized that involving Brutus in the conspiracy had been rash. His fanaticism was a double-edged sword. It was becoming more and more difficult to control him.

‘And it must be said that Antony has never sought to endanger the legitimacy of the state,’ Brutus continued, ‘or its institutions.’

‘That can’t be assumed,’ protested Cassius. ‘If he has designs on the state, he certainly wouldn’t come running to tell us about them.’

‘There’s more,’ Brutus said. ‘All of you know that Caius Trebonius asked Antony to join with him and the others in Gaul, after they’d learned of the unhappy outcome of the Battle of Munda. He refused, but he kept that request secret. He was respectful of the choices of others and did not report anyone. Many of you owe him your lives. Trebonius will take care of Antony. He knows what to do.’