The Ides of March by Valerio Massimo Manfredi, Christine Feddersen-Manfredi

he’s never understood much about politics. And it’s all about politics . . . knowing what your adversaries are thinking, foreseeing their moves and having your counter-moves ready.’
    ‘In any event, you came through well, Caesar, thanks to your renowned quick thinking. The same that’s made you victorious time and time again on the battlefield.’
    ‘You say so? The fact remains that I still do not know whom I can trust.’
    ‘Me, commander,’ replied Silius, looking straight into those grey eyes – those hawk’s eyes – that had dominated so many in battle but seemed bewildered now, in the convoluted labyrinths of Rome. ‘You can trust Publius Sextius, “the Cane”, and you can trust your soldiers, who would follow you all the way to Hades.’
    ‘I know,’ replied Caesar, ‘and I’m comforted by that. And yet I do not know what awaits me.’
    He stood and began to walk down the podium steps. A stiff breeze had picked up from the west, whipping his clothes around his body.
    ‘Come,’ he told Silius. ‘Let’s go home.’
    Romae, in aedibus M. J. Bruti, a.d. VII Id. Mart., hora duodecima
    Rome, the home of Marcus Junius Brutus, 9 March, five p.m.
    T HE SOFT BURBLING of the hydraulic clock was the only sound to be heard in the big silent house. It was an object of extraordinary refinement that had been crafted by a clockmaker from Alexandria. The hours of the day were represented in a mosaic of minute tesserae on a field of blue depicting young maidens dressed in white with golden highlights in their hair for the daytime hours, in black with silver highlights for the night.
    Voices could suddenly be heard from outside, then the clanking of a gate as it slammed shut, followed immediately by quick steps. A door opened and a hissing wind invaded the house, reaching its innermost rooms. A dry leaf was carried along to the end of the corridor, where it stopped.
    The woman who walked out of her bedroom upstairs was strikingly beautiful. Barefoot, she wore a light gown. She closed the door behind her without making a sound and moved down the hall to the back stairs, where the noise was coming from. She leaned over the balustrade to see what was happening below. A servant had opened the back door and was letting in a group of six or seven men, who entered one or two at a time. Each man took a quick look at the road behind him before crossing the threshold.
    The servant accompanied them down the corridor towards the study of the master of the house, who was expecting them. Someone was at the door, waiting to receive them. After they had gone in the servant closed the door behind them and walked away.
    The woman pulled back from the balustrade and returned to her room. She locked herself in, then went to the middle of the floor and knelt down. Using a stylus, she prised free one of the bricks. Underneath was a little wooden wedge with a cord tied at its centre. She pulled the cord and a glimmer of light shone through from the room below. She bent closer and put her eye to the crack so she could see what was going on in the study of Marcus Junius Brutus.
    The first to speak was Pontius Aquila. He was tense, refusing to take a seat despite his host’s invitation.
    ‘Tell me, Brutus,’ he said. ‘What have you decided?’
    The master of the house sat down with an apparent show of calm. ‘We’ll wait for Cicero’s answer,’ he said.
    ‘To hell with Cicero!’ burst out Tillius Cimber. ‘All he does is talk. What do we need him for? We don’t need any more volunteers. How many men does it take to kill just one?’
    Publius Casca broke in, ‘Hadn’t we already decided to keep him out of this? Everyone knows he hasn’t got the guts.’
    Brutus tried to regain control of the situation. ‘Calm down. Haste is a notoriously poor counsellor. I want to be sure that Cicero is on our side before we make a move. I’m not asking him to take up a dagger. The fact is that Cicero enjoys great prestige in the Senate. If