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Titus Faberius’ knees and lower back throb from standing around in the damp for nearly an hour. The dictator of the Roman Republic’s chief secretary stares longingly at the folding chair his enslaved assistant has slung over his shoulder, yearning for Caesar to bloody well get a move on and enter the meeting chamber, which is a little warmer and where he will finally be able to sit down.
The fourth lamb selected to be sacrificed before the senate meeting bleats incessantly, drowning out the prayers. Its black eyes bulging, it kicks its skinny legs, spraying liquid shit onto the sodden ground around the altar. The priest’s assistant hurriedly draws his knife across its neck and wine-dark blood spurts, dribbles, then soaks into its curling fleece. He rolls the animal onto its back, deftly slicing it open like a peach so that the priest can poke at its guts with his stylus.
‘Well?’ Caesar demands, his voice sharp. Faberius notices several beads of liquid on his forehead, but can’t tell whether it’s sweat or rain.
Flavius, the officiating priest, grimaces. ‘This one’s just as bad as the others, Pontifex Maximus. The liver is misshapen, and the heart is unusually small. The offering has been rejected.’
Piso, Caesar’s father-in-law, rests a hand on his shoulder and shakes his veiled head. ‘Give it up as a bad job, Caesar. Postpone the meeting until tomorrow or the day after. There’s still time before you leave to join the army.’
The dictator ignores him. ‘What about the birds?’ he asks the augur standing beside Piso: his cousin, Lucius.
Lucius shakes his head as well. ‘Inauspicious.’ He raises his hand to cut Caesar off. ‘I made the observations several times, Gaius. I agree with Piso. Postpone. It’s already late in the day to be starting, anyway.’
Faberius winces at Lucius’ tactlessness: they are running so late because Caesar very nearly stayed at home, unsettled by his wife’s pleading, and fighting yet another bout of dizziness. Caesar swears with uncharacteristic venom and flips the fold of toga off his head, dislodging his laurel wreath, which he immediately nudges back into place, cursing again. The crease between his brows has become a fissure and his eyes are sunk in hollow pits. ‘What possible objection can Jupiter have to this meeting?’ he snaps. Piso and Lucius look at each other; they are hardly more qualified to answer that question than the chief priest.
A younger man is hovering a short distance away, waiting for the verdict so he can relay it back to the senators assembled in the meeting hall. Decimus Brutus, who has stuck to Caesar like a burr in a hog’s bristles since he came out to Gaul and benefited accordingly. Decimus is a praetor this year and Caesar’s choice to govern Gaul on this side of the Alps after his term ends. He pushes himself away from the column he has been leaning against and steps forward, smiling. Of course, it was Decimus who eventually persuaded Caesar to come to the meeting this morning and he won’t give up his triumph without a fight. ‘Caesar, what does it matter?’ he says with earnest grey eyes. ‘How many times have you turned a bad omen into good fortune? You remember that day when we landed in Africa?’
The lines smooth, the shadows retreat and Caesar laughs. Decimus has always been able to cheer him up. Noting Piso and Lucius’ confusion, he explains. ‘I had the good fortune to think of the right words at the right time. Wading from my boat onto the shore, I tripped on a rock and fell flat on my face in the wet sand. Gods, how the men groaned at that! So I simply dug out two handfuls of sand, jumped straight up, and cried, “You’re mine, Africa!”. That seemed to do the trick. You’re quite right, Decimus, let’s proceed.’
Faberius inwardly cheers and falls into step behind his patron, gesturing to his assistant, Lyco, to follow along. The procession leaves the courtyard used for sacrifices by all the priests of the little cluster of temples and shrines packed close to the entrance to the steps leading up to Pompey’s meeting chamber.
~*~
Faberius gazes around the vast hall, taking note of every detail and committing it to memory. In five days, after more than twenty years in Caesar’s employ, he will be on his way south to retirement in Campania and never have to endure a senate meeting again. He closes his eyes briefly to savour the pleasure this thought brings.
At his shoulder, his son and apprentice Gaius bounces on the balls of his feet, restless after waiting so long for his father to join him. Fifteen now, and a freshly minted citizen in his immaculate new toga, the boy is already half a handspan taller than him. Shaking his head, Faberius wonders for the thousandth time where Gaius’ height comes from. It certainly isn’t from his side of the family. Well, Gaius was lucky enough to enjoy regular meals growing up, of course, which he hadn’t himself as a boy in the Subura, so maybe that’s it. He allows himself a small smile: he missed much of his son’s childhood traipsing around the world in his patron’s shadow, but at least he has provided well for the boy and his sister. Gods above, the Faberii are equestrians now! And Gaius will continue to stand at Caesar’s side and have every opportunity to earn further advancement. He can retire a happy man.
‘What’s he waiting for?’ Gaius asks, shifting his writing case from one hand to the other. He indicates the dictator, who is seated on the consuls’ low dais, flipping through the pile of tablets Faberius has deposited on his folding table, occasionally making a mark with his bronze stylus. There is another leather bucket squatting at his feet stuffed with the various notes and petitions continually shoved in his face on their journey across the city, but those will surely have to wait until after the meeting. Faberius studies Caesar carefully, but the dizziness he was suffering from that morning seems to have passed entirely and he is fully focused on his reading. ‘Surely there’s a quorum present. Even old Cicero’s here.’ So he is, seated on the front bench nattering to his fellow consular, Appius Claudius. Faberius looks away quickly to avoid catching Cicero’s eye; he owes him money.
‘We’re missing Marcus Antonius,’ he explains. ‘He’s still outside talking to Trebonius. Caesar can’t begin the meeting without his fellow-consul.’
‘Should I go and fetch him?’
Since they are in public, Faberius resists the urge to smack his son around the back of the head. ‘No, you should not. How many times have I told you that if Caesar wants you to do something, he’ll tell you? Never presume.’ He looks around for their slave; even with Antonius dawdling, it won’t be long before they start work and it’s time to set up their own chairs. ‘Where’s Lyco?’
‘Waiting just outside with Meles.’
‘Right, well you can certainly go and fetch him for me. I need to sit down – my knees are killing me.’
‘Yes, Father.’
As Gaius turns to leave, a movement catches Faberius’ eye. A knot of men, who have been huddled together at the far end of the hall by the open doors, have now broken apart and begun to move purposefully up the central aisle. It isn’t unusual for the junior senators to take the opportunity to petition Caesar before a meeting, since his schedule is so full that it is almost impossible to see him at any other time, but these aren’t the usual inconsequential backbenchers. Lucius Cimber, a good friend of Caesar’s and one of this year’s praetors, is at the group’s head, flanked by his permanently grim-faced colleague Gaius Cassius, and Publius Casca, a tribune. Faberius frowns. These three are pushing it – they have already benefited significantly from Caesar’s patronage, and he won’t take kindly to them asking for more favours.
As they draw closer to the dais, other senators rise from their places or peel away from their conversations to join them until they are more than a dozen men. They reach the praetors’ bench to the right of the tribunal. Up stands Decimus Brutus, who perched himself next to his distant cousin Marcus as soon as he left Caesar’s side. Marcus is a very different fish from Decimus – dark, dour and a former Pompeian pardoned to please his mother Servilia, whom Faberius suspects Caesar still visits from time to time. How the man finds the time – or the energy - is a mystery. Gaius Casca, Publius’ brother, stalks across from the tribune’s bench on the opposite side of the aisle. An embassy of this size and motley composition makes no sense; if they have yet more honours to offer Caesar, why not do so formally once the meeting begins? And surely Decimus could have said anything he wished to Caesar on the walk over?
Caesar looks up. Expecting it, Faberius catches the flash of impatience that creases his brow and hardens his dark eyes for the briefest moment before he snaps his customary smile into place. Titus isn’t quite close enough to hear Cimber’s appeal, but Caesar shakes his head and waves his hand, dismissing the supplicants back to their seats. He closes the tablet he’s been working on and stacks it on the pile, evidently preparing to begin the meeting whether Antonius is present or not. Meles, Caesar’s valet, who often seems to share a mind with his master, will be in momentarily to fold up his table.
But Cimber doesn’t back off, nor do the others. To Faberius’ astonishment, the praetor suddenly lunges forward to wrench Caesar’s toga away from his neck, causing the dictator to cry out, eyes blazing.
And then there is the flash of a blade.
~*~
They have all fled; friends, foes, the sycophants, the undecided, the apathetic, all of them. Even Cicero, supposed saviour of the nation, took to his heels as soon as he saw the daggers.
The consuls’ dais is slick with blood. Titus Faberius feels it congeal around his knees as he drops down beside the pile of sodden wool pressed hard against the square base of Pompey’s statue. He bites back a sob when he realises that Caesar has pulled a fold of his toga across his face to keep his dignity: he believes he’s dying. Perhaps he is already dead. No soldier or physician, Faberius has no idea whether it’s possible for a man to survive losing this much blood. Tugging the stiffened toga aside, he rests his palm against Caesar’s heart and swears when yet more blood seeps up between his fingers. But beneath that, he feels a fluttering movement and relief spirals in his chest. Leaning closer, he uncovers Caesar’s face and recoils, tears in full flood: two great slashes have carved bone-baring trenches across his forehead and down through his left cheek, only narrowly missing his eye. A scarlet trail joins the corner of his mouth to a shallow wound across his collar bone. Distracted by the ruin of Caesar’s face, Faberius only slowly realises that he is looking at him.
‘Venus be praised, you’re alive,’ he breathes, sliding one hand gently beneath his patron’s long neck to support his head.
Faberius angles his ear closer to Caesar’s lips to hear his whispered gasps and feels his bloody spittle on his cheek. ‘Only just, Titus. Not for long.’
His son appears at his side. Faberius doesn’t take his eyes off Caesar, but he can hear Gaius weeping. The boy has sacrificed his brand-new toga to fold a pillow. Between them, they ease it into place. Faberius takes Caesar’s hand, which is cooler than it should be. He is fading; his gaze is unfocused and heavy-lidded.
It’s too late, but he must do something. ‘Gaius, run, now. Find a doctor!’
Caesar squeezes his fingers weakly. ‘No. Stupid. Lost too much blood. Listen.’ Faberius swipes his free hand across his eyes. This man’s voice has commanded thousands, changing the fate of millions. Now it’s almost more than he can manage to force two syllables together. A heavy lead weight falls through his chest as he realises that very soon, he will never hear Gaius Caesar speak again. How can that possibly be? ‘Help Octavius, Titus,’ Caesar continues, so quietly that Faberius has to strain to make out the words. ‘Promise me.’
For a moment, Faberius sees the brightly painted colonnade of his new house just outside Stabiae, the gold-flecked blue of the sea in the morning. But he cannot refuse the man who made him everything he is, and he nods his retirement away. At least for now. ‘Yes, of course I promise. You know you could ask me anything and I would do it.’ He allows his voice to break a little. ‘Dying or not.’
Despite the pain he must be in, Caesar smiles, causing the gashes across his face to weep blood again. ‘Not… without. Complaining, though. Young Gaius…’ He addresses the boy as if he were his own.
Gaius shuffles close, red-eyed and trembling. ‘I’m here, Caesar.’ he croaks. Somehow, he extracts Caesar’s other hand and brings his knuckles to his lips, painting his beardless chin in vermilion.
Caesar jerks his chin. ‘My stylus. There. Yours now, son. A memento.’ Faberius spies the object lying abandoned a few feet away from them, close to where the dictator’s chair of office now rests on its side. He can see the streaks of blood striping it. It’s a fine gift, moulded in bronze to fit Caesar’s hand and inlaid with silver. Gaius, clearly as confused as his father by the unexpected gesture, stutters his thanks and rises slowly to retrieve the stylus.
Caesar meets Titus Faberius’ gaze one last time. Gaius stays back, allowing them this intimacy. ‘I warned… them… there will be chaos… Antonius…’ Caesar rasps. Then, abruptly, his grip on Faberius’ hand relaxes. His dilated pupils stare at nothing, his lips remaining slightly apart. A final choked expulsion of air, and then he is still.
‘Gaius,’ Faberius says eventually. The boy’s chest is heaving, his great sobs loud in Pompey’s high-ceilinged hall. He forces himself to speak calmly, as if all were well. ‘Go outside and find Lyco – he can’t have gone far. We must take Caesar home somehow.’
Unable to speak, the boy nods and jogs towards the open doors.
Faberius holds Caesar’s hand a few moments longer, then places it gently on his chest; he closes his friend’s eyes and smooths his stiffened hair. Where is his wreath? Ah, there beneath his gilded chair. Faberius retrieves it and arranges it carefully on Caesar’s brow, tweaking the battered laurel leaves into place. He lays a kiss on his broken forehead, before shrugging off his toga and spreading it over Caesar’s body, tucking it in tightly around his feet and elbows.
He leaves the chair where it is and drops down to sit on the gory steps, which is where his son and Lyco find him. Gaius is still weeping quietly.
‘There are a couple of abandoned litters outside, sir,’ says Lyco, eyes glued to the dead dictator. ‘We could use one of those.’
The Republic’s greatest son should be draped in purple and gold and borne through the city on the shoulders of consuls, but for now, the three of them and a commandeered litter will have to do.
‘Did you see where Meles went?’ Faberius asks.
Lyco shrugs. ‘No, sir. Must’ve run off like the rest.’
Somehow, the valet’s betrayal seems the worst of all to Faberius, but he sets aside his anger for later. ‘That’s a shame; a fourth man would have made this easier. Come on. Lyco, you take his feet – for the gods’ sake, be careful – and Gaius, help me with his head.’
As they gently lift Caesar out of the viscous pool of his own blood, slide him into the litter, carry him home through eerily empty streets with aching arms and ashen faces, Cassandra’s words at the end of the Iliad chant over and over in Titus Faberius’ mind: “Men and women of Troy, if ever you rejoiced when Hector returned from battle, come now and gaze on him, who brought joy beyond compare to the city and its people.”