Leon Garfield's Shakespeare Stories

by Leon Garfield

  Then the storm broke, and all Rome shook. It was a strange storm, of sudden enormous glares and enormous blacknesses, and unnatural roarings as if huge lions were rending the sky. Some said blood drizzled on the Capitol, others saw men, all in flames, walking the streets, and dead men shrieking down alleys with their stained winding-sheets streaming out in the dark wind.

  “Who’s there?”

  “A Roman.”

  Two muffled figures, meeting in a narrow way, drew close together. One was Casca, white with fear at the supernatural violence of the night; the other was Cassius, exulting in it, for he had a storm within as wild as the one above. Fearfully, Casca spoke of monsters in the sky; fiercely Cassius spoke of a monster in Rome—

  “ ’Tis Caesar that you mean, is it not, Cassius?”

  “Let it be who it is,” muttered Cassius; and, while the earth shook and glaring terrors piled up in the sky, he led the trembling Casca into the darker terror of his own design: the murder of Caesar!

  He was not alone, he promised Casca. Even now there were others who had no love for Caesar, waiting in the night. But first they must win Brutus to the cause. The plot had need of him. His noble name would make the deed seem just and honourable in all men’s eyes.

  “Three parts of him is ours already,” whispered Cassius, “and the man entire upon the next encounter . . .” He drew a scroll of paper from his sleeve. It was to be thrown in at Brutus’s window. In fiery words it urged him, in the name of the people, to rise up like his great ancestor and rid Rome of the tyrant! Cassius had written it himself. Once more he was playing upon his friend’s honour; and this time the tune would lead Brutus to take the final step.

  Lightning flashed. The muffled figures shrank back, and their monstrous double shadow was flung across the street like a pall. Then blackness engulfed them . . .

  Brutus walked alone in his orchard. The worst of the storm’s violence was over, but not its weirdness. Mad shooting stars whizzed across the black sky, breaking up the darkness into a patchwork of flickering sights. At one moment all was hidden and secret; at the next, the clustering trees threw up their thin arms in despair.

  “It must be by his death,” he whispered as, with an anguished heart, he contemplated the terrible deed that Cassius had put into his thoughts: the killing of a friend, for Caesar was his friend. But Caesar’s spirit, that huge, ambitious thing that stretched its arm across the world, was the enemy of all free men. “It must be by his death . . .” not because of what he was, but because of what he might become . . .

  Someone was coming. It was Lucius, his servant. The boy was puzzled. He’d found a scroll of paper inside the window of his master’s room. It had not been there before. Brutus took it, and, when the boy had gone, broke the seal and read:

  “Brutus, thou sleep’st. Awake and see thyself! Speak, strike, redress!”

  He breathed deeply. It was not the first such letter to reach him. There had been others that had been put in his way. It seemed that all Rome was begging him to act. He clenched up the paper in his fist. Rome should not beg in vain! “It must be by his death!”

  There was a knocking at the gate. Lucius came to tell him that Cassius was waiting.

  “Is he alone?”

  “No, sir, there are more with him.”

  “Do you know them?”

  Lucius shook his head. They had all been hidden in their cloaks.

  “Let ’em enter,” said Brutus, and frowned. Unlike Cassius, he was not a man of plots and conspiracy. He despised concealment and felt ashamed to be a part of it.

  Presently, quiet, faceless figures approached from among the trees. One by one, they made themselves known: Casca, Decius, Cinna, Metellus Cimber, Trebonius . . . By the light of day, they were men of substance, worthy Romans; but by night, they were something different . . . Softly, they talked together while Cassius and Brutus whispered apart. Then Cassius smiled and nodded, and they knew that Brutus was theirs!

  He stepped forward and shook each man firmly by the hand, and the bond was sealed. At once, all constraint vanished and they began talking eagerly of what must be done. Brutus was ever in the forefront; his doubts resolved, he embraced the cause with all his heart, and took it upon himself to lead. Should Cicero be approached? His age and dignity would gain all men’s respect. But Brutus was against it, and Brutus had his way. Should no one else but Caesar be killed?

  “Let Antony and Caesar fall together,” said Cassius; but Brutus was against it, and Brutus had his way.

  The death of Caesar was to be the sacrifice of a single man for the good of all. “And for Mark Antony,” he said, “think not of him, for he can do no more than Caesar’s arm when Caesar’s head is off.”

  “Yet I fear him,” muttered Cassius; but he was overruled.

  The hour was late. It was three o’clock in the morning, and the heavy blackness was already wearing thin.

  “Good gentlemen,” urged Brutus, as his companions, with pale and desperate looks, took their leave, “look fresh and merrily . . .” but when they had gone, the show of ease he had put on, left him, and once more he was the lonely brooding figure among the trees. “It must be by his death . . .” They were to meet at Caesar’s house at eight o’clock to bring him to the Capitol, and there to kill him—

  “Brutus, my lord.”

  He started. Portia, his wife, stood beside him, like a good spirit in the ugly dark. She was troubled. She had seen the secret men in the orchard, and she knew her husband was distressed. Gently, she begged him to tell her the cause.

  He turned away. He dared not tell her. He feared her honesty too much.

  “I am not well in health,” he said, “and that is all.”

  Angered at being put off with thin excuses, as if she had no more understanding than a child, she reproached him for his lack of trust. Were he and she not one? Why, then, should she not share in his griefs as well as in his joys?

  “Am I your self,” she demanded, confronting him wherever he turned, “in sort or limitation, to keep with you at meals, comfort your bed, and talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs of your good pleasure? If it were no more, then Portia is Brutus’ harlot, not his wife!” In despair, she knelt. “Tell me your counsels,” she pleaded, “I will not disclose ’em!”

  Eagerly, she dragged up her gown and displayed a deep and bloody wound in her white thigh. She herself had done it and endured the pain in silence as a proof of her fortitude.

  “Can I bear that with patience, and not my husband’s secrets?”

  “O ye gods,” wept Brutus, shamed by Portia’s courage, “render me worthy of this noble wife!” and, with a warm embrace, promised that she should share in the terrible secret he carried in his heart.

  “Help, ho, they murder Caesar!”

  But it was only in the dreams of Caesar’s wife. She awoke with a cry. She left her bed and rushed in search of her husband. She found him already preparing himself to go to the Capitol. Urgently, she begged him to stay at home that day. Not only had her dreams been full of blood, but all night the sky had roared and glared with fiery doom. But Caesar only smiled and shook his head.

  “These predictions are to the world in general as to Caesar.”

  “When beggars die there are no comets seen,” cried Calpurnia, “the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes!”

  Caesar was unmoved. Neither the savage sights in the streets nor the dreadful portents in the sky could shake him. He was always Caesar.

  “Alas, my lord,” pleaded Calpurnia, her fears increasing a thousandfold as a troubled servant came to tell that the morning’s sacrifice had been unlucky: no heart had been found in the slaughtered beast, “do not go forth today!”

  She knelt and, weeping, implored him to send Mark Antony to say he was not well and would not come to the Capitol today.

  Caesar gazed down. A single word from him would turn Calpurnia’s trembling fear to boundless joy. He raised her to her feet.

  �
��Mark Antony shall say I am not well,” he said; but even as Calpurnia burst into sunshine smiles, a gentleman arrived, a gentleman whose looks were fresh and merry. It was Decius. It was eight o’clock and he had come to take Caesar to the Capitol.

  “Bear my greeting to the senators,” said Caesar, “and tell them I will not come today.”

  Decius stared, and the freshness seemed to wither on his cheeks.

  “Say he is sick,” said Calpurnia quickly.

  Caesar frowned. “Shall Caesar send a lie? Go tell them Caesar will not come.”

  “Most mighty Caesar,” pleaded Decius, plainly distressed, “let me know some cause—”

  “The cause is in my will. I will not come. That is enough to satisfy the Senate.” Then, taking pity on the bewildered Decius, he explained that Calpurnia had begged him, on her knees, to stay at home. She had had bad dreams. She had dreamed that Caesar’s statue had spouted blood, and that smiling Romans had come to bathe their hands in it.

  Decius, clever Decius, listened carefully. He shook his head. Calpurnia had interpreted her dream quite wrongly. Its true meaning was life, not death. The spouting blood plainly signified the nourishment that Caesar was to give to Rome. Caesar nodded thoughtfully. He picked up his laurel wreath and absently fingered the leaves as Decius went on to say that he’d heard the Senate meant to offer Caesar the crown that very day; but if Caesar did not come, Decius feared they’d change their minds and even whisper that Caesar had been frightened by his wife’s dreams.

  Caesar’s brow grew dark. “Give me my robe,” he commanded, outraged that a pack of feeble old men should dare to think Caesar afraid. “I will go!”

  Calpurnia cried out in dismay; but her voice was lost and she was brushed aside and forgotten as the room was suddenly filled with smiling friends who had come to drink wine with Caesar, and then to take him to the Capitol and his death.

  They were betrayed! A man stood in the crowd outside the Capitol, with a letter for Caesar in his hand. In it, the conspiracy was revealed and every guilty name written down! There was a sound of cheering from afar. Caesar was coming! Trembling with excitement, the man began to push his way towards the front . . .

  Portia in her house also heard the cheering, but to her distracted ears it sounded ragged and dismayed. Every noise from the Capitol excited her, every silence drove her mad. A dozen times she’d bade Lucius run to the Senate House; but still he stayed, for she could think of no likely reason for his errand. Her husband’s secret struggled in her breast, and it needed all her strength to keep it confined.

  “O Brutus,” she whispered, “the heavens speed thee in thine enterprise!” and once more she bade Lucius run to her husband, for no better purpose than to tell him she was merry!

  The sun glared down after the night’s storm, as if to see where all the monsters had gone. It was past nine o’clock and Caesar, walking in the midst of his friends, approached the Capitol. He paused. He had spied a face that he remembered among the waiting crowds. It was the mad old man who had spoken to him yesterday. He beckoned and the old man came forward, leaning on his staff.

  “The Ides of March are come,” said Caesar mockingly.

  “Ay, Caesar,” answered the soothsayer, “but not gone.”

  Caesar laughed, and passed on.

  “Hail, Caesar! Read this—”

  A man had rushed out of the crowd and, before anyone could stop him, had thrust a letter into Caesar’s hand! Swiftly Decius interposed with a letter of his own for Caesar to read.

  “O Caesar, read mine first,” begged the man, “for mine’s a suit that touches Caesar nearer!”

  “What touches us ourself shall be last served,” said Caesar royally; and thrust the fatal letter into the oblivion of his sleeve.

  “Delay not, Caesar,” cried the man, “read it instantly!”

  “What, is the fellow mad?” demanded Caesar; and Cassius bustled him back into the crowd.

  Then, with a last smile and wave to the people of Rome, Caesar mounted up the steps of the Capitol and disappeared within. ‘Caesar, beware of Brutus. Take heed of Cassius. Come not near Casca . . .’ warned the letter in his sleeve; but in vain.

  Trebonius was deep in talk with Mark Antony, and was gently leading him away. It had been agreed. Caesar’s was the only blood to be shed. There was to be no frantic butchery. It was to be done swiftly and sternly, in a spirit of justice, not revenge.

  Casca was to strike the first blow. With his right hand hidden in his gown, he walked as if on egg-shells, and sweated like an actor fearful of mangling his part. Every sight, every sound was betrayal—the echoing footsteps on the huge marble floor, the murmuring of senators as they moved among the tall shadowy columns to take their places in the solemn circle of chairs; the quick glances, the sudden silences . . . Cassius was pale, anxious; his eyes were burning as if his brain was on fire. But Brutus, as always, was upright and calm . . .

  Suddenly there was a stirring. The senators were standing. What had happened? What had they seen? But it was for Caesar. He had taken his place in the chair of state. He motioned graciously with his hand and the senators seated themselves again. They leaned forward, like an expectant audience at the beginning of a play.

  It was to begin with Metellus Cimber. Casca moved quietly to the back of Caesar’s chair. He waited. Metellus had not moved. He had been forestalled. Someone else was addressing Caesar, and speaking at length. Metellus was rubbing his hands together, as if to wipe off the skin. At last it was his turn. Quickly he came forward and knelt before Caesar and began to plead for the pardon of his banished brother. Coldly, Caesar denied him. Then Brutus came forward, then Cassius, then Cinna . . . until all were kneeling, pleading:

  “Most high, most mighty . . . Pardon, Caesar, pardon . . . O Caesar . . .”

  But Caesar was unmoved.

  Casca stood directly behind. His heart was knocking violently. Of a sudden, the man seated in the chair seemed immense! He towered above the crouching figures before him like a god! Cinna had clutched the hem of his robe, in abject supplication. Caesar spurned him.

  “Great Caesar—” cried Decius; and Casca’s hidden hand was out!

  “Speak,” he screamed, “hands for me!” and, reaching forward, plunged his dagger into Caesar’s neck!

  Caesar cried out! He clapped his hand to his wound as if an insect had stung him. He rose to his feet, turned, seized Casca by the wrist—But Casca’s cry had been answered! The kneeling figures were up, their arms were lifted, and in every hand was a weapon!

  Amazed, Caesar stared from face to terrible face. He knew them all. They were his friends . . .

  Then they fell upon him. With gasps and cries and savage grunts, they stabbed and slashed and hacked where they could, driving him this way and that, until Caesar was no more than a swaying, staggering remnant, everywhere spouting blood. But still he would not die; until Brutus, with a sad look, struck the last blow.

  “Et tu, Brute?” he sighed as his friend’s dagger pierced him through. “Then fall Caesar!” and with his ruined face muffled in his slashed gown, he fell at the base of Pompey’s statue. Caesar was dead.

  There was silence. It was as if the heart of the world had been torn out, leaving an emptiness. Then Cinna cried out:

  “Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is dead!” and the world awoke!

  There was an uproar of overturned chairs and stumbling feet as terrified senators, squealing like chickens rushing from the axe, fled from the men of blood.

  “Fly not, stand still!” shouted Brutus. “Ambition’s debt is paid!” but the senators, seeing only wild-eyed murderers and streaming knives, stumbled out of doors, leaving behind one old man, grey-faced and trembling, who had been too frightened to move.

  “There’s no harm intended to your person,” Brutus assured him; and Cassius led him gently away.

  The conspirators were alone. They stared down at the fallen Caesar. The hugeness of their deed filled them with awe and robbed them of all thoug
ht and action. Then Brutus proposed they should stoop and bathe their hands, ceremonially, in Caesar’s blood, to sanctify what they had done.

  “How many ages hence,” murmured Cassius, as his kneeling friends, some boldly, some fearfully, fumbled in the dead man’s wounds, “shall this our lofty scene be acted over in states unborn and accents yet unknown?” and he gazed round at the wrenched and broken circle of empty chairs, as if the countless generations to come were already crowding in and looking on.

  “How many times shall Caesar bleed in sport?” wondered Brutus.

  “So oft as that shall be,” said Cassius proudly, “so often shall the knot of us be called the men that gave their country liberty!”

  A shadow fell across them. There was a figure standing in the open doorway. It was a servant of Mark Antony. He came quickly forward and knelt to Brutus. His master had sent him. Antony asked for no more than safe conduct to come before Brutus; and, if Brutus should satisfy him that Caesar’s death had been necessary, he would be content to follow where the noble Brutus led.

  “He shall be satisfied,” said Brutus, and sent the servant back. It would be well to have Mark Antony for a friend.

  “I wish we may,” said Cassius quietly. “But yet I have a mind that fears him much.”

  Mark Antony came directly. His eyes were still looped with shadows from a long night’s drinking and his step was unsteady; for he was a lover of wine and good company. Then he saw Caesar, huddled in his torn and bloody gown, like a dead beast roughly covered over, to keep the flies away. He stopped, and tears filled his eyes.

  “O mighty Caesar! Dost thou lie so low?” he wept helplessly. “Fare thee well!”

  He was a young man of quick, strong feelings which, try as he might, he could not hide. His heart was breaking, for he had loved and admired Caesar above all other men. He turned to Brutus and his friends and begged them, if they bore him any ill-will, to kill him there and then, with the very weapons with which they had killed Caesar.