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writing himself, in contrast to his usual practice. Since the day they’d met, Silius had always seen him dictating his thoughts. During the Gallic campaign he’d even heard Caesar, on horseback, dictating two letters at the same time, for two different recipients. But since Caesar had returned from Spain he’d taken to doing his own writing, as he worked on correcting and revising his Commentaries .
    ‘All acts to be submitted to the Senate for their approval: decrees, appropriations, payments for the army, special financing for paving a road in Anatolia . . . the usual. And there’s correspondence.’
    Caesar looked up sharply with an inquisitive expression.
    ‘Not from him, commander. Don’t worry. As soon as something comes in, it will be on your table in the blink of an eye. Or it will find you wherever you are.’
    Caesar continued writing, hiding his disappointment. ‘Who are the letters from, then?’
    ‘Pollio, in Cordova . . .’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘Plancus, in Gaul . . .’
    ‘Anything marked urgent?’
    ‘Pollio. The situation is Spain is still difficult.’
    ‘Let me see.’
    Silius handed him Pollio’s letter, sent seventeen days earlier. Caesar broke the seal and gave the missive a quick look. Silius noticed his wide brow furrowing.
    ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
    ‘Everything that happens in Spain is serious. Pompey’s followers are still strong and still looking for a fight, despite it all. At Munda I was ready to commit suicide.’
    ‘Yes, commander. I was there too, but in the end we pulled through.’
    ‘So many deaths, though . . . They’ll never forgive me for that. Thirty thousand Romans cut to pieces by my men.’
    ‘They had it coming, Caesar. They asked for it.’
    ‘I see you like reminding me of my own words.’
    ‘It’s the truth.’
    ‘No, it’s not. The phrase has a certain propaganda value, but it doesn’t hold up to in-depth analysis. No one willingly chooses to die. The massacre of that many valiant warriors was an intolerable waste. Just imagine, if they were still alive, they could come with me to make war on the Parthians . . . or garrison the borders of a world at peace.’
    He began scribbling on a tablet with a silver stylus that Cleopatra had given him.
    ‘You know . . . lately I’ve been adding up a few numbers.’
    ‘What kind of numbers, commander?’
    ‘I’ve been counting the Roman soldiers killed in combat against other Romans during the civil wars. Marius against Sulla, Pompey against Sertorius, me against Pompey and then against Scipio and Cato at Tapsus, then against Pompey’s sons and against Labienus at Munda . . .’
    ‘What are you thinking?’
    ‘Nearly a hundred thousand dead. Some of the best soldiers to be found anywhere in the world. If instead of fighting among themselves they had fought united against their enemies outside, the dominion of the Roman people would stretch all the way to India and the Eastern Ocean.’
    ‘You’ll succeed where others have failed.’
    Caesar angrily rubbed out the marks he’d made on the tablet using the amber ball set into the stylus before speaking.
    ‘I don’t know. I’m tired. The fact is that I can’t stand being here in Rome any more. The sooner I leave the better. My departure would be opportune for a number of reasons.’
    ‘Is that why you’re waiting so anxiously for news from Publius Sextius?’
    Caesar did not answer, but stared directly into the eyes of his adjutant.
    Silius could not hold his gaze and lowered his head. ‘Forgive me, commander. I did not want—’
    ‘Never mind. You know I trust you. I haven’t told you anything because I don’t want to expose you to unnecessary risk. There’s a certain tension in the air. There are . . . signs . . . clues that something is about to happen. The wait is agonizing and I can’t take it any longer. Maybe that’s why my illness comes upon me so suddenly, when I least expect it. I’ve experienced many things in my life, but I must