Part II
The omens had been disastrous for months, but this particular sacrifice was going especially badly.
Posca had served his master for over twenty years and seen him officiate at hundreds of such sacrifices as Pontifex Maximus. Always Caesar had somehow managed to transform even the worst signs into indications of his legendary good fortune. During the recent war, Posca had once looked on in horror as the general jumped from his landing boat onto the shore of Africa and tripped on the rough sand (or poorly tied sandals, Posca had afterwards asserted), falling flat on his aristocratic nose. Amusing if it had been any normal citizen, but a prodigiously bad omen in the eyes of the legionaries who witnessed their commander falling before blood had even been split. Fortunately, Caesar had averted the crisis by what even his cynical secretary considered a stroke of genius. Clutching the sand with both hands, he had cried out in triumph, not despair, "Africa! I have a hold on you now!" The cheering of his relieved army was thunderous.
The young cow was not going willingly to her sacred death this day. That in itself was unlucky and could warrant repetition of the whole ritual before the Senate could meet with the blessing of Jupiter. Posca observed the slight frown on Caesar's face as he poked at the animal's corpse, clearly visible despite the fold of toga praetexta raised over his head; apparently the entrails did not read well either. So much for a speedy exit.
Gentle footsteps drew Posca's attention towards the open archway. A mousy-haired man of about Posca's own age smoothly sidled up to him and jabbed an elbow sharply into his side.
"What in Hades is going on? They've been sitting in there for bloody hours waiting for our glorious dictator and frankly, Posca, I'd rather my balls be mashed into dog food for Cerberus than listen to Cicero go on about the ghastly state of the republic any longer."
"I thought you admired your master's literary brilliance and engaging conversation, Tiro?"
"Former master, you impertinent old bastard. Not that being freed has got me out of being bored to death. Obligations and all that. I've been taking down his unutterably officious musings since I could first hold a stylus and I won't be able to stop until either Antonius actually does nail his noggin to the rostra or my hand drops off. Go over there and see what's happening, would you?"
Inwardly, Posca rolled his eyes. He'd known Tiro for years – or Marcus Tullius Tiro, as was now – and considered him quite as pompous and self-obsessed as Cicero, but he was a useful source of information when properly plied with Caesar's best wine. That snippet about Aufidius Dento had been invaluable. "You can see for yourself what's happening. If the omens are bad, the meeting must be delayed until they aren't. There are two more victims standing by – just pray that he won't need any more than that!"
Tiro huffed noisily and drew his Greek-style cloak more closely around him. "Why's it so bloody cold all of a sudden?" he hissed, "It's playing merry hell with my knees."
"Remember the lighting and rain last night? That's what we call a storm, Tiro." The freedman glared darkly at the slave. "It's cooled the air right down. Terrified the sense out of the lady Calpurnia, which is why we were late getting here in the first place." Tiro's ears visibly perked up at that and Posca cursed his loose tongue. Still, it wasn't as if he wouldn't hear about it from other sources: Calpurnia's uncharacteristic shrieking and wailing had let half the forum know something was wrong. Nightmares, Caesar had quietly told his secretary later – and that in itself told Posca that Caesar himself had been shaken by whatever his wife had seen.
"Oh?" said Tiro with a grin, "Although I can't say I'm surprised. The old bat's not used to being woken up suddenly in the middle of the night."
"Why do you say that?"
"Well, it's not like Caesar's got much use for her, has he? What with Servilia, then Cleopatra and all the others!" Tiro smirked at his own joke and didn't probe any further, but a change of topic was definitely in order.
"That cloak another gift from Titus Atticus, then?" asked Posca slyly. He'd discovered the covert relationship between Cicero's secretary and his oldest friend quite by accident. Opening the wrong door at a dinner party in Caesar's honour at one of Cicero's country villas, Posca had been mildly surprised to find Tiro and Atticus engaged in an activity that would have made Marcus Cicero blush to the roots of his hair and splutter incoherently if he'd known about it. The father of his country was still a prudish country boy at heart, despite having now been resident in the dregs of Romulus for over forty years.
"Shut it, Posca. Seriously. If Cicero ever hears about that, he'll have my guts for bootstraps. I doubt he'd see Atticus and me as an example of his beloved union of the classes, exactly. I told him I bought the cloak out of my savings. Why in Jupiter's name you had to go for a wander during a perfectly good banquet that evening, I still don't know. We were having fun until you blundered in." He paused. "Thank the gods and all their second cousins – looks like Caesar's shifting his pontifical arse at last. I'm starving. Have fun in Parthia, if I don't see you." With that, Tiro glided back out of the room to warn his patron that tyranny was on the move.
Posca turned back to the scene at the altar and found that Tiro was apparently correct. Caesar was washing his hands in a bowl of water held out by a slave, having whispered the appropriate prayers to Jupiter Optimus Maximus. To one side stood Decimus Brutus, who had actually persuaded Caesar to attend the Senate meeting in spite of Calpurnia's fears. Caesar had in truth been feeling ill – not that even Decimus could be told so. Posca fully agreed with his master that public knowledge of his epilepsy would be disastrous. Posca himself had advised Caesar to put the meeting off – if he were to collapse in the Senate itself…
Where was Lucius Vorenus? He'd been right behind them practically until they were in sight of the theatre. Clever idea of Caesar's, to use him as a bodyguard. Posca had been appalled when his master had dismissed his special guard of Spaniards after the Senate had collectively sworn to protect his safety. The state would descend into chaos if Caesar were killed, but such logic might not be enough to penetrate the thick skull of the average republican agitator. Come to think of it, where was Antonius? Surely he must have finished talking to Gaius Trebonius by now?
Caesar approached, emotions erased from his tanned face and eyes hard. "Go and give the petitions to one of your underlings, Posca. I want my own recording of the debate today, just in case. Follow me in. And if Antonius is out there idling with Trebonius, tell them both that if they don't get in here like the Furies are on their heels, I'll have them thrown off the Tarpeian rock. Rephrase as you like."
"Yes, domine." Posca sighed in relief and trotted outside to find his assistant, Ajax. The light bursts of rain had cleared up and people were starting to emerge from their houses and tenements into the sludgy streets to celebrate the festival of Anna Perenna, who was said to have been a lover of Caesar's ancestor, Aeneas. A crowd still gathered around the steps to the Senate chamber, awaiting news of what was said inside. Antonius and Trebonius, however, were not to be seen or found in the near vicinity.
Posca transferred the instruction to chivvy the two senators if he saw them to Ajax, then hurried into the chamber, wax tablets and stylus gripped tightly in his right hand.
He found chaos. Purple and white-clad senators and their secretaries fought their way out of the chamber, expressions of horror and fear distorting their faces. Posca wove his way through the press of men and wool, trying to catch sight of Caesar, who must surely have begun the meeting by now. Terror gripped the slave like an eagle's claws as he glimpsed the late-morning light catch steel and fresh blood on the marble floor.
Posca felt the blow to the back of his head only barely, before collapsing into darkness.
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Author's Note: Found Robert Harris's Tiro extremely dull, so I've corrupted him a bit! All the ancient sources record that the omens noted in the run-up to Caesar's death were pretty doom-laden. Caesar ignored them. My thoughts on why coming up in Part III!
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