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  When he spoke, he hoped not to betray his emotions. “As I said to your servant, domina, we are here to protect you. You will have heard of the atrocious crime of which your great-uncle was the victim. Rome is unsafe for the moment, even more so for the family of the dictator…”

  “And Lepidus is so thoughtful as to send an escort?” said Pinarius, with a pointedly sarcastic tone. “How kind of him to… guard us against any eventuality.”

  He hadn't fallen for it. What this know-all didn't know, however, was that he, Gaius, actually was interested in saving Octavia, and so – despite Lepidus's intentions, the escort really would have a protective function.

  “Senator, we are here only to protect the family of the dictator,” he specified, answering Pinarius but staring at Octavia, with the hope that she understood his position. But the woman's eyes were dimmed with tears. Chaerea remembered how fragile she had been, and now he saw that time had not instilled in her any more confidence in herself.

  And yet she surprised him by finding the strength to take a few steps toward him. She stopped a short distance from the centurion, and addressed those present. “We accept the protection offered by the magister equitum,” she said, punctuating her words with occasional sobs. “Until my husband returns, I leave it to you, centurion, to decide what is to be done,” she added, staring into his eyes for a moment, only to look away immediately.

  “Thank you, domina,” Gaius Chaerea felt compelled to say, before turning to his soldiers. “Dispose yourselves in pairs on either side of the door, and then at the back, along the wall of the garden. I'll join you after I have inspected the house for places which need guarding.”

  “This is an outrage!” shouted Lucius Pinarius. “You have no right! I will take my grievances to the magister equitum! And the consul Mark Antony!” Octavia, however, reached out and grabbed his arm, trying to calm him.

  “We are in a situation, Senator,” replied Gaius, pulling his robust figure to its full height, “in which we do not know to whom you will need to take your precious grievances tomorrow. The authorities may change by the hour, and perhaps it is not clear to you that we are again faced with the spectre of a civil war – one where it will be every man for himself, because it is not clear who is on whose side. The only thing that matters now is saving those who are most at risk.”

  Pinarius opened his mouth to reply, but gave up and looked at his cousin, who nodded in assent. “So I may not even leave to go home?” he said, with little conviction.

  “I would suggest avoiding it, at least until the situation is clearer. As far as I know, they are taking important decisions on the Capitol,” said Chaerea.

  Pinarius snorted, then grabbed the centurion's arm and squeezed it with force. “You are right. I apologize. I realize that your presence is the lesser of two evils, in this moment. Allow me just to go and tell my slave to inform my family I will not be returning.”

  Gaius Chaerea liked people who knew how to apologize. Especially when they were powerful with deeply rooted pride. He decided that he liked Pinarius, all things considered. “Go ahead, senator. Know, however, that Lepidus also sent soldiers to your home, as well as that of your cousin Quintus Pedius,” he said.

  Pinarius nodded and left the atrium, leaving him alone with Octavia. They looked at one another for a long time, without saying a word. There was so much Gaius wanted to tell her, but he did not know how to begin: every possible opening gambit seemed vacuous and shallow. And then… he simply could not read Octavia's mood. She was very upset, of course, but that might just be because of the dramatic situation in which her family found itself. And then, she always had been so easily upset. That, above all, was why he could not forgive himself for what he had done to her, even though he certainly had not forced her.

  “Octavia… I…” he mumbled finally, unsure as to how to continue.

  She shook her head. “There is no need to say anything or to justify yourself. Just tell me how Marcus is. Etain tells me he is growing healthy and strong.”

  Gaius felt reassured and made to answer, but the noise of a struggle coming from the vestibule caught his attention. Was it possible that the house was already under attack, when it wasn't even clear yet who was leading the opposition to the murdered dictator? He left the atrium and rushed toward the entrance. When he arrived, he saw one of his soldiers on the ground with a gash in his abdomen, two more disarmed and three he did not recognise, their swords extended towards their fellow soldiers. One of the armed legionaries was holding Octavia's daughter while the other held Etain by the wrist.

  “What is this?” he asked, with all the authority he could muster, but without drawing his sword.

  The soldier with the child replied. “You've not understood the development of events, centurion. We are taking this family: the praetors who killed the tyrant are taking control of the city and they will be extremely grateful if we deliver them over. Draw your sword and throw it on the floor, or the child will grow up without her pretty little nose.”

  Octavia cried out in terror, and Gaius had no choice but to obey.

  *

  It hardly seemed possible to Maecenas that he had bumped into Claudius Marcellus in the crowd that had formed on the Capitol around the murderers of Caesar. But it seemed even more incredible that it had been Caesar's closest allies who had killed him.

  “Marcus Junius Brutus… By the gods, Caesar pardoned him for having sided against him in the civil war, he made him praetor urbanus and future propraetor of an important province,” he said to Marcellus while their litters, side by side, attempted to make their way down the Clivus Capitolinus.

  Marcellus answered, but the Etruscan could hear nothing. The voice of his interlocutor, lying in the litter alongside, was drowned out by the cries of Caesar's veterans, now retired settlers who had gathered in the city to be present for the dictator's departure to the East and to receive the handouts he had promised them. However, he sensed from the movement of his lips that Marcellus was talking about Cassius, the praetor peregrinus who, even more than Brutus, had benefited from the clemency of Caesar during the civil war, and who had likewise been assigned the governorship of a province.

  His litter swayed violently, and Maecenas suddenly found himself almost embracing a crude individual who another citizen was grimly pummelling.

  “How much did you pay those murderers, you pig? Enough to forget what Caesar has done for you, was it?” cried the incensed man, who seemed to be prevailing in the altercation, while the other, indifferent to having ended up upon the Etruscan's litter, tried to force him back through the expedient of wild kicks.

  In confirmation of the citizen's words, coins fell onto the stuffed fabric and between the cushions upon which Maecenas lay.

  “You defend a tyrant! A man who deprived us of liberty!” cried the victim, turning and exposing his back to the blows of his persecutor as he tried to recover his money from between the legs of the Etruscan. Now it was Maecenas’s turn to kick frantically, more horrified by the discomfort caused by the proximity of an individual with an unbearable stench than by the intrusion itself. But he was also worried that one of the two might notice the chest hidden beneath one of the cushions: inside was the sum that he intended to give Marcellus for the purchase of the villa of Cuma.

  The two men Maecenas had hired to protect him finally decided to intervene, though in their defence, they'd had their work cut out freeing the litter from people squabbling in the street. The two litigants were unceremoniously thrown to the ground and kicked mercilessly, but it didn't prevent them from continuing their quarrel. Maecenas looked around and saw that more and more people were fighting. Getting away from here was a priority.

  “Is everything all right?” asked Marcellus.

  “Yes, fine,” replied the Etruscan, adding, “Apparently, the conspirators have managed to win over rather a lot of people to their cause thanks to the money they gave out after their speech…”

  “Bah! But then, Caesar too
won popular favour with his gifts. The people are scum. What are these veterans who praise him except the people he himself corrupted with the spoils of war and the settlements in the colonies he forced we senators to authorise?”

  Marcellus was another of the senators pardoned by Caesar after the civil war, and it was not difficult to see that he was in no way sorry about the dictator's death, though he didn't go as far as Publius Cornelius Dolabella, the man the dictator had chosen as consul in his place after his departure for the Parthian campaign; Dolabella had climbed onto the plinth of the Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus along with the conspirators and had boasted of having participated in the attack, although others had denied it soon after. Other important personages had done the same, giving a clear indication of the feeling among the people who mattered in Rome.

  Maecenas preferred to avoid this discussion with the man with whom he was preparing to conclude a business transaction. He had greatly appreciated the work of the late dictator, and if it had been up to him he would have had all the murderers unceremoniously imprisoned and executed. Apparently, however, Roman politics were taking another direction. He decided to continue reviewing the list of conspirators, now that they seemed on the verge of leaving the rowdiest area.

  “I was more surprised by the presence of Decimus Brutus Albinus among the conspirators,” he said. “He has won more than one battle for Caesar, and was such a close part of the dictator's inner circle that he had been given the governorship of Gaul for next year.”

  “Keep in mind that Caesar was betrayed by his main collaborator, Titus Labienus,” replied Marcellus. “What is certain is that, if he managed to earn the hatred even of those of his aides he had most rewarded, he must have been an autocrat. And what of Gaius Trebonius? It seems that he kept Mark Antony occupied while the others were busy holding this little party for Caesar. Trebonius, can you believe it? He was Caesar's legate in Gaul for many years, and was even in Britain with him, and then magistrate, and consul, and future proconsul of Asia. A man thus rewarded by a superior should have nothing but unconditional devotion for him. And instead he did not hesitate to kill him. Precisely because he worked in close contact with Caesar, he must have been exasperated by his tyranny.”

  Maecenas, however, had the impression that the personages just mentioned as well as the others he had heard named in connection with the conspiracy had acted mainly because they were in the shadow of the dictator, who had condemned them to a life as half-men. It was one thing to be consul in a Republic which followed its normal institutional course, quite another under an oppressive figure like that of Caesar: history would remember him, and relegate those around him to mere supporting players, even if they did occupy the highest positions of the state.

  They had probably done it out of pride and ambition, as well as solid economic interests. Maecenas was ready to wager good money that the killers – those who had stated upon the podium of the temple that they had acted in the name of freedom of choice – would not give up the positions of command that Caesar himself had assigned them for the next five years. Unless, of course, people like Mark Antony and Lepidus or Cicero managed to turn the popular mood against them and put them out of action, but something told him that this would not happen: Antony, for example, had not been seen since, and it was rumoured that he had barricaded himself in his house for fear of attempts on his life. And Lepidus, who was supposed to take Caesar's place, had hastened to take refuge beyond the Tiber.

  And these were the two men who, more than any others, would presumably have been aspiring to take the dictator's place.

  Maecenas shuddered at the thought of what might happen: those two would not hand over power to Caesar's murderers so easily, and were surely preparing their next move. Which would certainly not be to flee! And in the meanwhile, the conspirators would have plenty of time to win over the favour of the crowd, which was by definition capricious: yesterday praising Caesar for the wheat that he distributed free, and now ready to go along with his killers for a handful of sestertii.

  “At last the Republic is restored! It has been transformed and replaced by a monarchy for at least four years – ever since Caesar's crossing of the Rubicon!” said Marcellus, interrupting the flow of his thoughts.

  Maecenas saw that they had begun the ascent of the Aventine Hill, where Marcellus had his home. The company of this man had begun to weigh upon him. He did not like him. He did not like his politics, nor his attitude. He was a coward who had always opposed Caesar, but who only dared come out into the open now that Caesar was dead. Evidently, the conspirators were well aware of his cowardice and had been careful not to involve him. Yet even he could sense the contempt that the senator harboured against him: Marcellus was of those patricians of ancient nobility who looked down upon the members of the equestrian class like him, who were Italics and not Romans, upon whom Caesar had relied more than upon the senators themselves. But at the same time, nobles like Marcellus did not let their prejudices affect their business: they held their noses and did not hesitate to enter into contracts with the recipients of their scorn.

  But then, he told himself, that was what he himself was doing. Holding his nose.

  He could not keep quiet in the face of Marcellus’s absurd ingenuity, though. The statement needed correction, albeit with the proper manners.

  “Are you certain you know what Marcus Brutus and Cassius, Decimus Brutus and Trebonius, Casca and the others really want?” he asked the senator, while the bearers continued to keep the two litters side by side. “They have announced no plans or projects. They have not said that they wish to give up the positions which Caesar had assigned them for the future, which suggests that they do not want new elections. And I do not think that they are so naive as to think that the Republic will resume its normal course as though these last years had not happened. Caesar paved the way for ambition. You will see how now many imitators he will have…”

  Marcellus smugly dismissed his words with a gesture. “Nonsense! Democracy is too deeply-rooted in Romans for it not to resume its course, now that the tyrant has been got rid of. Caesar's assassins will not give up their positions simply because they give them immunity in the face of Caesar's supporters. If they did, they would be at the mercy of Antony and Lepidus, who would take them to trial whenever they liked and thus get them out of the way and seize power for themselves! But Cicero will bring all to agreement, you'll see. I know that he intends to propose an amnesty for the murderers…”

  As far as democracy went, thought Maecenas to himself, the Romans had long since lost any right to call themselves masters: Marcellus pretended to have forgotten the dictatorships of Marius and Silla, the triumvirate of Caesar, Pompey and Crassus, the failed attempts of Catiline and of Lepidus' father, the civil wars, the proscriptions, as well as Caesar's lifetime dictatorship, which had dominated the last half century of Roman politics. He could not see how the future would differ from the years that had gone before. But this time he preferred to keep quiet and pretended to have been convinced by the soundness of his interlocutor's arguments. In business, lying was essential, he concluded, and he was there for business alone.

  Which was why he stiffened when Marcellus stopped before an elegant domus guarded by two legionaries. If it was Marcellus's home, carrying out their transaction under the greedy gaze of soldiers was not ideal. And if the senator wanted to intimidate him… well, he had succeeded.

  But he noticed that his host seemed bewildered too. “Soldiers! Why are you here?” Marcellus asked the two legionaries, descending from his litter.

  “For your protection, sir. Yours and that of your family, by order of magister equitum Lepidus!” said one of them. Warily, the senator hesitated, then nodded and invited Maecenas to descend from his litter too. Maecenas silently ordered two of his bearers to take the chest containing the money and follow him to the door. He was aware of the risks of carrying a chest full of coins with him, but he had wanted to rub Marcellus’s nose in his wealth and s
mother him with cold, hard cash so as to stifle his air of superiority towards the equestrians. People like that were in awe of no one, and tolerated those who had no illustrious ancestors only if they were filthy rich. He was, and had no intention of hiding it when it was useful. Flaunting his possessions in the senator’s face might make his noble interlocutor show him the respect that senators usually only accorded their peers. The doorkeeper, tenser than he should have been, did little to re-assure him, though. Rather than feeling protected, he began to feel threatened. Marcellus looked nervous, a sign that he too sensed something amiss. In the vestibule, several busts lay broken on the ground, and a certain disorder was evident. Maecenas and Marcellus entered the lobby and two other soldiers barred their way.

  “Who are you?” asked one of them, his face grim behind the visor of his helmet.

  “What do you mean, who am I? I am the master of this house, imbecile!” answered Marcellus, already red with anger. “Who are you, rather, and what are you doing here?”

  The soldier gave him a violent backhanded slap on the cheek which sent him reeling. Maecenas rushed over to support him and prevent him from reacting, and realised straightaway that he had done the right thing: the senator saw what must be his wife immediately behind the soldiers, a baby in her arms, and launched himself at them, only to find spears blocking his way.

  “Calm down, my friend. You are not in command. The city is in chaos and it is the soldiers who decide the law, for now,” said another soldier, who only then made an appearance. He waved his sword under Marcellus's nose and added, “Now be a good boy and shut up until we decide who to deliver you to. You're worth a lot of money, you know. And Caesar's killers are giving plenty of it out, or so they say…”