Read Online The Ides of March by Valerio Massimo Manfredi, Christine Feddersen-Manfredi - Free Book Online

tablet with the symbol of the Eagle and the man was quick to ask what he could do for him.
    ‘I need a fresh horse as soon as possible and . . . something else. Does anyone else in the station have . . . this?’ he asked, indicating the image carved in the wood.
    The man walked to the threshold and pointed at a man intent on unloading sacks of wheat from a cart. ‘Him,’ he answered. ‘The Wrestler.’
    Publius Sextius nodded. He walked towards the workman and came straight out with what he had to say. ‘I’m told I can talk to you.’
    The man let go of the sack he had hauled on to his shoulders and let it drop with a thud. ‘And I’ve been told to answer you. If I want to.’
    The workman certainly had the build of a wrestler, with hair shaved close to his skull, a few days’ growth of beard and thick eyebrows that joined together across his forehead. He wore a dusty work tunic and a pair of sandals worn at the heel. His hands were as big as shovels, rough and callused. There was a leather bracelet on his left wrist and he wore a studded belt at his waist. Publius Sextius sized him up, while the other man had already looked him over from head to toe.
    ‘All right,’ Publius Sextius began, ‘I have a restricted message that must be taken to Rome. Extremely urgent, extremely important, very high risk.’
    The wrestler wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. ‘I get it. You need some runners.’
    ‘I need them now. This instant,’ pressed Publius Sextius. ‘I must be certain that the message gets there . . . Or is there an alternative?’
    ‘No, but I’ll do what I can. You can go on your way, friend, no trouble.’
    ‘No trouble?’ replied the centurion as his mouth twisted into a sneer. ‘There is nothing but trouble, from Cadiz to the Red Sea. I’m afraid there’s a storm brewing that is about to break and it won’t subside until it has swept away everything that has been accomplished so far. We have to stop it, at any cost.’
    The wrestler scowled and at the same moment a cloud covered the sun, plunging the courtyard into shadow. The sky seemed to be echoing his words.
    ‘What are you getting at, man? I can’t understand what—’ Publius Sextius drew in closer. ‘The message must be delivered as quickly as possible to the old guard post at the eighth milestone on the Via Cassia. The message is: “The Eagle is in danger.” ’
    The other man grabbed his cloak to pull him closer. ‘Almighty gods, what’s going on? What else must I tell them?’
    ‘Nothing more than what I’ve just said,’ replied Publius Sextius. ‘I’ll take care of the rest myself. I’ll be setting off at once. You get started on this as soon as possible. Good luck.’
    As Publius Sextius was walking back towards the main building, he noticed a man sitting over on the ground, not far from them, behind one of the columns of the portico. He was slurping from a bowl of soup, his head low. He was wearing a grey cape and the hood covered his head but not his weaselly face. An ugly mug with a few straggly yellow hairs on his upper lip.
    Publius Sextius rejoined the man in charge of the post, asked about his horse and exchanged a few words. A servant brought him something to eat with a glass of wine, while the stable hands prepared the new mount and transferred his baggage.
    The man in the grey cape was still bent over his bowl of soup, but he hadn’t missed a word of what had been said. He watched as Publius Sextius downed the wine in a couple of gulps, jumped on to the fresh horse and rode off at a gallop. Then he set his bowl on the ground, got up and, with a steady step, went straight to the stables.
    There he put a coin into the groom’s hand and asked, ‘Did you talk to that man who just rode away?’
    ‘No,’ replied the servant.
    ‘Did you hear what he said to the attendant?’
    ‘He asked if he’d be sure to find another horse at the next rest stop.’
    ‘So he’s in one hell of a hurry,