Brutus stood up with the furious swiftness of youth. “Then, I ask only one thing of you: that you do not interfere.”
“With what?”
“With what younger and more vital and more determined men than yourself swear to accomplish.”
Cicero smiled drearily. “With joy, Brutus, I give into your hands my fading torch. Blow it well; replenish it. May you be more successful than I.”
It was only the flickering lamplight in this cold wet March evening that made Brutus’ sudden smile so terrible. “We,” said the younger man, bowing mockingly to Cicero, “receive the torch. We shall light up Rome with it!”
“One moment,” said Cicero, quickly. “While I was at Arpinum I heard that the crown had actually been offered Caesar, thrice, in the very Senate itself, and thrice he rejected it! He was addressed as ‘King of Rome,’ and he repudiated the title.”
“That was months ago. He saw by the faces of the Senators, and by the grumbling of the mobs outside, that he had been premature. Now he is more confident. He has been speaking to the people, denigrating the Senate as old men who wish to oppose progress and keep to ‘the old oppressive ways.’ So much support did he receive from the people that he appointed his own choices to replace dead Senators, uncouth rascals who will follow his will. He has raised the number of supreme judges to sixteen; he has increased the number of national finance officers. Now he is subtly threatening the ruling classes with what he has always claimed to detest: a military dictatorship. They will give him his way or submit to military rule, and he has the soldiers under his thumb.”
Cicero was silent. He knew all this too well. Brutus gave him a bow and left without another word. A direful sense of supreme weakness and prostration came to Cicero, and he decided to go to bed without supping.
It was on the next morning that Calpurnia, white-faced and in anguished tears, said to Julius Caesar, “Do not go to the Senate today, when it convenes! I have had a frightful dream in the night. I have seen you murdered. Julius, if you love me, remain at home today. You have been unwell for days. Julius, do not leave our house today!” She threw herself at his feet and groaned and held his legs in her arms.
He smiled down at her indulgently and raised and embraced her. “Sweetheart, how different is today from any other day? I have matters of importance to present to the Senate, the dull, stupid old men! They will not dare refuse. The people of Rome are with me.” He patted her cheek and kissed her shaking lips and wiped away her tears. He was indeed unwell, and there was a leaden shade under his brown skin. His eyes were sunken. He had had several attacks, lately, of his “falling sickness.” But he felt no presentiment when he took leave of his wife and was taken to the Senate, which was convening in a hall next to the Theatre of Pompey on the Campus Martius. And the sun was shining, the wild brilliant sun of March, and the air, after all the rain, was warm and smiling and the streets were thronged and the people, recognizing Caesar’s litter, pressed about it and hailed it and gleamed upon it with joy. His special legion marched about him and were proud with banners and lictors and fasces.
He had reached the supreme point in his life. His friends had assured him only yesterday that the crown would again be offered him in the Senate, and that this time he must accept it. The hour had come. By sunset he would be Imperator, the first emperor of Rome. His beloved, Cleopatra, in his villa in the suburbs, was with his son, Caesarion. He regretted that it was not to Caesarion that the crown would descend, but to Octavius his nephew. He thought of his unacknowledged son, Marcus Brutus, of the gloomy brows and the narrow and strenuous nature. But Octavius, the fair and haughty, was a worthy heir, a true prince. He was also a soldier of considerable fame, for all his youth. Julius smiled and waved to the people and his legion marched beside his litter and the March sun shone on helmets and on the wet streets and the burning roofs of Rome. The hour had come.
Quintus Cicero came early to the house of his brother that morning and Cicero received him with his usual deep love. He was so pleased to see Quintus that he did not notice that his brother was not smiling as usual. He talked of young Marcus, in Greece, and his philosophic progress. He asked of young Quintus affectionately. He had forced out of his mind the duplicity of his nephew; after all, fearful events create fearful upheavals in the natures of men. (Or, he would think, was it the contrary?) His night had been unusually restful; he had not had to take the sleeping draught prescribed by his physicians, on which he had come to depend. His sleep had been unmarred by old nightmares. He had awakened refreshed, and some measure of his old optimism had returned.
Then, as Quintus breakfasted with him, he became aware that Quintus was unusually quiet and dark of face, Quintus the ruddy and vital, Quintus the soldier. “Is something wrong?” he asked. “Have you quarreled with Pomponia again?”
“I am going to divorce her,” said Quintus. His voice was particularly harsh. He waved his hand, brushing aside the subject of Pomponia. “I hope it will not disturb your relations with Atticus, who is her brother. No matter. Do you know that Caesar is appearing before the Senate today, asking for new reforms?”
“He usually does,” said Cicero, buttering a white roll, and surveying the fresh fish, delicately broiled, which lay before him on a silver plate. Then he looked up. Quintus was frowning. Cicero said, “I thought you and Caesar were now friends.”
Quintus, who loved food, put down his fork. He drank heavily of wine. “I love my country,” he said.
“Granted,” replied Cicero, somewhat puzzled. “Who disputes it?”
Quintus, always voluble, fell into silence, and Cicero studied him more puzzled than ever. Then Quintus raised his eyes, so like Cicero’s, and the blue in them flooded its sockets fiercely. Cicero, too, laid down his fork. “What is it, Quintus?”
“Go to the Senate meeting with me today,” said the soldier in a pent voice.
“I have nothing to suggest to the Senate just now.”
“Nevertheless, go with me.” Quintus paused. “You may—hear—something which will rejoice you.”
“Nothing that Caesar can say will rejoice me.” But Cicero looked through the window and observed the shining March sunlight. It was so warm that the window had been opened and the curtains thrust aside. Now a scent of greening soil came to him, vital and poignant, full of the innocent carnality of the earth, and he thought of his gardens slowly coming to life about the house and the new greenish light on the dark cypresses and the blossoming of fruit trees. He had not left the house for many days. The air would refresh him. He heard the song of birds and the joyous rippling of released fountains. All at once he felt young again and almost hopeful, though he knew that springtime did this to all men even the old. It would be good to see the teeming Forum and the temples; it would be pleasant to smell the baking bread in the bakeshops, and the odor of cooking meat in the inns. Even the rank stench of Rome would not be disagreeable today. Rome was always exuberant in the spring; the sun had a special brilliance in Rome at this time of the year, an atmosphere of revival. There are not many years left for me, Cicero thought. I must take advantage of every glowing day now. When one is young there are many gold coins in the purse; but now the coins are few. He said, “I will go with you to the Senate, Quintus, though I should prefer to saunter through the streets.”
He put all things aside in his mind when he was in his litter, with Quintus riding beside him on his horse. He left the curtains open so that he might look upon the city he loved. So great a city, so powerful, so puissant, swarming on her seven hills, roofs alight like rubies, ochre, yellow, sepia, green and red walls brilliant in the sunshine! He had had a dream when he was young, that Rome was eternal, that men passed but the city would remain through the ages. He remembered his vision as an augur; curiously he looked at the hills and wondered on which the mighty dome would rise with its strange symbol. He touched his neck; the cross Anotis had given him was about his throat, and the amulet which dead Aurelia had presented to him so long ago. He was ne
ver without these talismans.
It was good even to be anonymous now. No crowds hailed his litter; no glance lingered on his worn and ravished face and tired eyes; no one marked his white hair. But he was happy to hear the cheeping of Rome’s swallows and watch their wild flight in the blue air. The little red poppies of spring rippled over every untended spot. They were sanguine in the sun. The litter passed under triumphal arches, and the crowds grew thicker on the way to the Forum. The vast humming of their voices seemed brisker and more imminent to Cicero.
The Senators, in their white and scarlet robes, were moving with unusual nimbleness through the columns of the Theatre of Pompey. They were not meeting in the Senate Chamber, for little of note was expected and few would be present at this humdrum session. Then Cicero, alighting from his litter, saw Julius Caesar walking up the steps, surrounded by a number of friends. He saw the fierce and eagle profile, the purple robes embroidered with gold, the dark smile, the easy and eloquent gestures. He could not help himself. He called, “Julius!” And Julius turned, saw him over many heads, and waved to him affectionately. Julius went within. “Julius,” muttered Cicero. He did not know why, but his heart had turned over and all at once the sun was bleak and cold. He and the unspeaking Quintus followed, walking about the white columns with others, and seeing reflections of light on the white marble floor.
He and Quintus were not far behind Julius. So they halted when a curious flurry and confusion began ahead, and a vehement sound of voices. “What is it?” asked Cicero of his brother. But Quintus was staring before him, his hand suddenly on Cicero’s arm, holding him. The soldier’s lips had parted; an awful smile was on his lips and his teeth glittered. Cicero, his heart suddenly pounding with pain, shook off his brother’s hand and moved forward a little. “Wait!” cried Quintus. Cicero took another step or two toward the flurry of bodies and the passionate cries.
Then he saw upraised and reddened daggers, flashing in the light of the sun. He heard exclamations, ferocious and victorious. Quintus caught his arm again to hold him, but with new strength Cicero fought him off and pressed onward, and there was a bulk of salt in his throat and mist before his eyes. His limbs were heavy; it seemed he moved marble to approach the spot where he had last seen Julius among his friends. Now an awful uproar was about him, like thunder, and screams and shouts. He was jostled; he staggered. Men were wrestling, grasping each other, panting, their eyes gleaming like the eyes of wild beasts.
Cicero reached the spot he had struggled to gain. Julius Caesar was lying on the white stones; he had covered his body with his cloak. He was bleeding from a dozen wounds. And he, dying, was staring up at those who had assassinated him. But then his clouding eyes sought the face of but one, and he said in a faint breath, “And you, Brutus.” He died at the foot of the statue of Pompey.
Brutus cried aloud, “So perishes the tyrant!” and his bloody dagger was raised high and exultantly. Cicero fell against a column, smothered and half-fainting. At his feet lay Julius, whose eyes had closed. Cicero dropped to his knees beside the dead man. Gently, he moved aside the cloak which half-concealed the face of the victim. All sound receded from him, and he and Julius were alone, and they were children again. He did not see the blood, nor the livid hue that spread over Julius’ fierce face, nor the bald head pathetic in the sun. He saw the little Julius and not the majesty of the murdered Caesar. He began to weep. “You would not listen, little playmate,” he whispered. “No, you would not listen.”
Someone seized his arm and bodily lifted him and bore him away like an infant. It was Quintus, rushing him to his litter, Quintus panting and like a Titan in his strength. His eyes were blinded with tears; he did not resist Quintus. He saw nothing but the face of the dead Caesar, and he prayed for the terrible spirit which had led the flesh to this rendezvous.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Had Quintus known that this would happen today, on the Ides of March? Cicero never knew; he never wanted to know. Had Quintus been part of the plot? Cicero never asked; he feared the reply. Quintus asked him, “Why do you grieve?” But Cicero could not answer. He visited Caesar’s widow and listened to her sobs and saw her tears, and he held her hand mutely and wept with her. He walked through old streets where he had walked with the child, Julius. He looked at the statues of the Gemini, and thought of Caesar’s words. Yes, their lives had been entangled together, diverse though they were. Caesar was dead. But Caesar was not dead.
Cicero had expected chaos in Rome following the assassination. But Caesar’s favorite, Mark Antony, the handsome and virile young man, the ingenuous soldier who had always walked in Caesar’s shadow, took amazingly strong charge of the city. He had command of the legions; he convened the Senate. Soldiers thronged the streets, which were constantly filled with aghast and confused mobs, questioning, fighting, disputing, asking neighbors what all this meant and what would be the fate of Rome now. The soldiers were competent and authoritative. They kept the crowds moving. They subdued incipient riots.
Julius’ will was read in the Forum to the people, by Mark Antony. Caesar’s bier stood before Antony on the steps of the Forum. It was a remarkable oration, delivered with astounding eloquence by the young soldier. Caesar had left his estates beyond the Tiber to the people, as a public trust, and to every citizen a sum of money equal to many weeks’ wages. (No one questioned as to how Caesar had been able to acquire so vast a fortune.) Cicero had feared that Mark Antony, who was full of temper and very emotional, would stir up the mobs against the assassins, and thus throw Rome into disorder and violence. But Antony was oddly prudent for so vehement a man, and one so proud, and a man who was a soldier above all. He cried to the people, “The shadow of great Caesar is upon the city, and I am only his servant, and I do his will, and yours!”
Cicero was to ask himself who were those behind Antony, for Antony possessed no innate wisdom of great intellect or administrative genius. He was to ask himself who guided Antony when Antony declared a general amnesty for the assassins and their followers. Who was so cautious, so coldly deliberate? Not Antony, for it was not in his nature. He talked like a statesman: who wrote his speeches? Antony made much of the fact that some of the Senators, suspected as among the assassins, had benefitted from Caesar’s will, and that he had mentioned them affectionately. A general confusion began to prevail. Who had really murdered Caesar? Not the Senators, surely; not the aristocrats, for Caesar was one of them. The very red-handed began to ask serious questions: Who would have done this fearful deed? Disordered minds among the populace? Surely not, for Caesar had loved the people. Octavius, his nephew, who was barely nineteen? No, for he had loved Octavius, his heir. Brutus? The very witnesses who had seen the flashing of Brutus’ dagger declared that Brutus had only cried, “So perishes the tyrant!” and had had no weapon in his hand. All had seen the assassins, and all passionately declared that none of them had raised even a finger.
The assassins had received amnesty; the names were never named. Finally the people began to believe that some disordered creature, alone and mad, had done the deed in a fit of violence. The ranks of the powerful drew together. “We shall never know who killed Caesar,” the people said seriously to themselves. “Who is safe from a mad assassin?” They shook their heads and deplored violence and demanded more protection for those in power, and the Senate smiled in relief at each other, and the Consuls whispered, “So long as the people ask themselves harmless questions there will be no trouble, no act of vengeance.” The judges and magistrates conducted an investigation which came to nothing. “Assassins not proved to the satisfaction of the courts.” The men, or man, remained nameless except to those who knew the truth and they did not speak.
Antony was now Consul of Rome, and all his acts were conciliatory. “Above all, we must have order, for we are the people of the law.” Antony put into law decrees which he said were the will of Caesar, but Cicero, broken of heart, told friends that the “decrees” were forged. The old enmity between the two men was renewed fr
eshly, and Antony vowed to his followers that this old man must be destroyed, one way or another. “He is a menace to Rome.” To show that he had no desire to be a military dictator, himself, Antony declared that the office of dictator was “now permanently abolished.” The people said, with the sober faces of the naïve, “Now we shall be free again.”
Then young Octavius moved with the cold and serene deliberation which was to mark him in the future when he became Caesar Augustus. His parents advised him to refuse the inheritance Caesar had left him, naming him as his successor. He listened gravely; but it was in his nature that he listened to no one but himself. Unscrupulous and determined and ambitious, he knew his own powerful temperament and had only confidence in it. Men in Rome called him a “mere boy.” He smiled bleakly to himself. But he was cautious and never moved precipitously. Each step was calculated. He listened to Antony, and he said to his mother, “He is only an echo of others. He never had an original thought of his own.” He said to friends, “I will discover the murderers of Caesar in my own good time. It is my duty to avenge him.” The friends, of course, did not keep good counsel; Antony inevitably heard of the threats and Octavius’ remarks concerning his, Antony’s, lack of true intellect and ability. But Antony thought of Octavius as a very young man, and not to be considered. Octavius smiled coldly. In the meantime he declared that he had every intention of supporting Antony in whatever the latter decreed. “Caesar trusted him.” Antony received this confidence with open gratitude but he could not refrain from giving Octavius a superior smile such as one bestows on a schoolboy.
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