The roar of the wounded lion thundered in the hall and outside of it.

He shouted, ‘This is violence!’ and before the dagger could strike him again he twisted around, stylus in fist, ready to plunge it into his assailant’s arm. Casca’s hand trembled and the second cut was only skin deep. But there was no escaping the daggers that surrounded Caesar now, everywhere he turned.

The entire Senate was afire with shouts and cries. Someone called out Cicero’s name.

Absent.

Outside, Antony turned instinctively towards the door, but Caius Trebonius’s hand nailed him to the wall.

‘Don’t. It’s all over by now.’

Antony pulled away from him and fled.

Caius Trebonius took his own dagger in hand and entered.

Caesar was still trying to defend himself, but they were all upon him. He was struck by Pontius Aquila, then Cassius Longinus, Casca again and Cimber, Ruga and Trebonius himself. .

Each of them wanted to sink his dagger into Caesar’s flesh and they ended up hindering — even wounding — each other. Caesar was writhing about furiously, still roaring and spouting blood from his wounds. His garments had turned red and a vermilion pool was widening at his feet. With each move he made, the conspirators closed in further, slashing at him as at an animal caught in a trap. The more their victim became incapable of defending himself or even moving, the more their ferocity grew.

A last stab from Marcus Junius Brutus.

To the groin.

Caesar whispered something, looked him in the eye and gave up.

He pulled his toga over his head then, like a shroud, in a final attempt to save his dignity, and collapsed at the feet of Pompey’s statue.

The conspirators raised their bloody daggers high, shouting, ‘The tyrant is dead! You are free!’

But the senators were scrambling to get out, overturning their chairs and seeking a way to escape.

The few who remained, most of them part of the conspiracy, followed Cassius and Brutus through the city streets towards the Capitol, shouting to the odd frightened bystander, ‘You’re free! Romans, we have set you free!’

No one dared join them. Doors and window were bolted shut and shops were closed. Shock and panic spread.

An old beggar glanced up with rheumy eyes, his skin pink with scabies. It made no difference to him.

Romae, in Curia Pompeii, Id. Mart., hora sexta

Rome, Pompey’s Curia, 15 March, eleven a.m.

Publius Sextius rode up at a gallop and leapt to the ground in front of the Curia stair. A trickle of blood came from the hall.

His heart contracted in his chest.

He walked up the steps one by one, certain of what had already happened, overwhelmed by a sense of infinite despair.

All his efforts had been in vain.

He took in the scene at once: Caesar’s disfigured body, his garments heavy with blood; the impassive expression of Pompey’s statue.

Silence. A bloody silence.

From behind the pedestal appeared Antistius, who had recognized him. His eyes were full of terror and tears.

‘Help me,’ he said.

Three of the four litter-bearers entered then, carrying the folding stretcher that was always kept inside the litter, in keeping with Antistius’s instructions. They set it on the floor.

Publius Sextius lifted the corpse by the shoulders and eased it on to the stretcher, as Antistius took the feet. They covered it as best they could with Caesar’s blood-soaked toga.

The litter-bearers then raised the makeshift bier and walked towards the exit.

Publius Sextius unsheathed his sword and thrust it into the air. He stiffened in a final salute to his commander as he was taken out of the Senate hall. At that same moment Caesar’s arm slipped from the stretcher and dangled in the air, swaying with every movement the bearers made. And that was the last image impressed on the mind of Publius Sextius, known as ‘the Cane’: the arm that had conquered the Celts and the Germans, the Hispanics and the Pontians, the Africans and the Egyptians, hanging limply from a lifeless body.

Viae Cassiae, ad VIII lapidem, Id. Mart, hora decima

The Via Cassia, eight miles from Rome, 15 March, three p.m.

Rufus careered into the station at the eighth milestone, having pushed his steed to the limit. His destination, finally, after such a long struggle. He jumped to the ground and rushed past the two sentries, displaying his speculatorbadge.

‘Where is the commanding officer?’ he asked as he raced past.

‘Inside,’ replied one of the two.

Rufus entered and reported to the young decurion on duty. ‘Message from the service. Top priority and maximum urgency

The decurion rose to his feet.

‘The message is: “The Eagle is in danger.” ’

The decurion regarded him darkly.

‘The Eagle is dead,’ he replied.

Romae, in insula Tiberis, Id. Mart, hora undecima

Rome, the Tiber Island, 15 March, four p.m.

Lepidus, barricaded inside army headquarters, was meeting with his chiefs of staff to decide on the best way to proceed when Mark Antony was announced.

Filthy and sweating, dressed in a ragged cloak and looking like a beggar, the only remaining Roman consul was brought before Lepidus.

‘We know everything,’ said Lepidus. ‘I had hoped you would come here. Where have you been until now?’

‘Around. I was hiding. I saw what happened afterwards. Those idiots thought that if they went around shouting, “Freedom!” the people would run to their sides and applaud them as tyrant-killers. Instead, they came close to being murdered themselves when they started ranting against Caesar. They had to turn tail and run back to the Capitol, and as far as I know they’re still there, with the crowd outside calling for their blood. In any case, I’ve understood something important: they don’t know what to do. They don’t have a clue. None of them even started to think of what would happen afterwards. It’s incredible but it’s true.’

‘Fine,’ was Lepidus’s response. ‘The Ninth is camped just outside the city, in full combat order and in a state of alert. All it takes is one order from me and they’ll descend on Rome. We’ll rout them out one by one and-’

Antony raised his hand. ‘We need none of that, Marcus Aemilius Lepidus. It would be a grave mistake to use the army. The people would be terrified and the Senate even more so. We’d find ourselves directly in a state of civil war, which is exactly what he strove to end once and for all. We’ll negotiate.’

‘Negotiate? Are you mad?’

‘I’m perfectly lucid and I’m telling you it’s the only sensible way to proceed. The people are completely disoriented and the Senate is panicking. The situation is on the verge of mayhem. We have to take the time to turn things around, in our favour, to fight the spread of terror, blood, despair. We must make Rome understand that Caesar’s legacy is still alive and will be perpetuated. Sending the army into the city would signal that the institutions are no longer capable of governing the state, and that would be a very bad message indeed. I say that tomorrow you have dinner with Brutus and I with Cassius.’

Lepidus listened incredulously as Antony explained exactly what he would ask from Brutus and what he could concede. He continued in a resolute tone, ‘We have to put them at ease, make them believe that we respect their ideals of liberty. More, that we share their ideals. Only when we are sure that the city is on our side will we go ahead with the counter-attack.’

Lepidus thought over Antony’s words in silence as his officers — six military tribunes in full battledress — looked on. At last, he said, ‘How am I to greet my guest, then? “Hail, Brutus, how did it go in the Senate this morning? Lively session, I hear. Do you want to wash your hands?”’