Mustela and his companion went in and Publius Sextius soon saw the light of a lamp behind a window on the second floor. It soon went out.

He slipped into the stables and sat down on the straw. A hound started barking, but Publius Sextius reached into his satchel for a chunk of salted meat, which he tossed over to the dog, who swallowed it whole. He came closer, wagging his tail, hoping for more food. It wasn’t often that he enjoyed such generosity. Never, in fact. Publius Sextius petted him and gave him another bite. He’d made a friend who would not betray him.

Knowing he could rest easy from that point of view, he went into the hayloft and then back outdoors again through a door that was slightly ajar. He was now on the opposite side of the mansio. The gigantic chestnut tree from which the station got its name extended its boughs towards the room that had been lit up a few moments before. The moon appeared in a wide gap between the clouds.

Publius Sextius began to climb the tree, pulling himself up on the lower branches, then using the forks in the trunk like a ladder. He soon arrived at the branch leaning closest to the window. It was easy work to open the unlocked shutters and prise the windowpanes apart with the knife he wore at his belt. He pulled it open cautiously and slipped inside without making a sound, but a beam of moonlight from the open window gave him away.

One of the two men jumped to his feet, shouting, ‘What in Hades. .’

Sextius, who already had his cane in hand, struck the man violently, knocking him to the floor.

Mustela, realizing that from being hunter he had become prey, was out of his room and in the hall in no time. He found a small balcony from which he could leap to the ground, stifling a cry of pain when he hit the hard earth below.

Publius Sextius was close behind and vaulted down after him. Decius Saurus had been left alone next to the fire, while his companion had gone off in search of wood. He tried to block the centurion’s way, but Publius Sextius tackled him full on, sending him rolling into the flames.

Mustela jumped on to the first horse he could find and flew through the main gate at a gallop. Publius Sextius ran in the opposite direction until he found his own horse, untied him, leapt on to his back and urged him forward in pursuit of the fugitive.

Mustela had bolted off and was careering about madly, in the light of the moon, among the shadows cast by the trees that streaked the ground with eerie shapes. At every bend in the road, the gravel flew and scattered on to the embankment below.

All at once a bird, frightened by Mustela’s passage, rose to the air directly in front of Sextius’s horse, spooking him and causing him to rear up. The centurion, taken completely by surprise, fell and tumbled down the cliff that edged the road.

Mustela continued to race off at breakneck speed until he realized that he was no longer being followed. He pulled on the reins and his horse jerked to a halt. He turned back, sensing a trap. He moved slowly, looking in every direction, as tense and suspicious as the animal he resembled and whose nickname he bore.

When he spotted Publius Sextius’s horse running wild, a self-satisfied grin curled his lips, deforming his features.

The centurion’s horse was neighing and snorting, still obviously frightened by what had happened. Mustela dismounted and walked to the brink of the embankment. He saw broken branches and a scrap of the cloak his pursuer had been wearing stuck to a twig and waving in the wind.

‘Farewell, Publius Sextius,’ he murmured under his breath, still afraid that somehow the centurion might hear him. Then he remounted his horse and rode off.

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

Rome, the home of Brutus, 13 March, second guard shift, eleven p.m.

Artemidorus was stretched out on his bed open-eyed, his lamp burning. He stared at the ceiling beams in a daze as he wondered what to do next. Every now and then he got up to spy on the two guards blocking the hallway. They were still there, unmoving and silent.

At times he would hear noises, footsteps along the corridor or crossing the atrium. He could tell where they were coming from by the noise they made. Brick, marble, stone: each material sounded different. He had grown used to distinguishing them in that house of ghosts, even in the dark: Brutus’s nervous step, Porcia’s pacing, even Servilia’s light footfall when she came to visit her son and would stay for dinner or overnight.

Artemidorus poured himself another glass of water and looked glumly at the untouched tray of cakes that his young servant had brought to his room.

What the boy had reported had filled him with anguish. Thus far he’d said nothing, but what if they tortured him? What would happen then? Could he expect a slave to withstand torture and keep what he knew a secret?

Time must be running out. If Brutus was asking such questions, if the others had come back so soon, it must mean that action was imminent. Artemidorus was desperate to make plans, take precautions, protect himself. . The boy had promised to come back, but that had been hours ago. Had his worst fears come to pass?

The silence and his anxiety had sharpened his senses to breaking point and he was sweating profusely, despite the fact that the temperature in his bedroom was always quite chilly. His tongue felt as dry as a piece of leather and stuck to his palate. He took another sip of water and tried to calm down.

He heard the dog whining in the rear courtyard, the creaking of the outside door, the scamper of feet on the gravel and then on the pavement of the atrium.

The sound was coming closer, turning into the footsteps of his young friend in the corridor leading to his room. At last!

He waited for the boy to knock.

‘Come in,’ he said.

‘You know those two out there in the hallway are gone?’ said the boy, entering.

‘That’s not possible!’

‘Look for yourself.’

Artemidorus opened the door a crack and looked out into the corridor, which was lit by a single lamp. No one was there.

‘I can’t explain it. I’m afraid it’s a trap.’

‘They probably think you’re sleeping. They’ve got other things to take care of. The master’s guests are leaving.’

He picked up the tray with the uneaten cakes and made to leave, then turned at the touch of Artemidorus’s hand on his arm.

‘I’m afraid,’ he blurted out. ‘I heard terrible things downstairs. You must let me go.’

‘No, wait,’ said Artemidorus. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you told me and I’ve come to a conclusion. You have to leave this house now, while you are still free to do so, before they start to suspect you. I’m saying this for your sake. I don’t want them to hurt you.’

‘I know, Artemidorus,’ said the boy with a smile. ‘But where can I go? Don’t you know what they do with runaway slaves?’

‘I would testify that I sent you out on an errand. I’m a free man and I have a good reputation. What’s more, Decimus Brutus is the Praetor Peregrinus and deals with all foreign residents. He knows me well. Listen to me. As soon as day breaks, leave the house with an excuse. Say that you’re going to buy me some medicine for my vitiligo; say the itching is driving me crazy. It’s true. Here, take the money. Go to the Tiber Island and look for the hospital. Find Antistius, who is my doctor. Tell him that I’ve sent you and that you need to stay with him for a few days. You’ll be safe, because he lives with Caesar, in the Domus Publica. No one will ever think of looking for you there. Do you understand?’

‘Yes. I understand. Do you want me to tell him the names?’

‘Shh! Are you mad? Whisper! No, don’t tell him anything for any reason whatsoever. You stay out of this. I’ll see to the matter myself.’