by Talbot Mundy
“Which of the gods should care about phenomenal events?” he answered. “They have lived through that experience and they are gods, not mortals. Does a ray of sunlight worry about rotting husks or green sprouts? Does it know of darkness? Nay, it shines! It summons, it evokes the life that lies imprisoned in the clothes of death; and if they fall off, is the life less living? So, the gods care nothing for events. They look for qualities. As quality emerges out of quantity, they cherish it and if the quantity should perish, are they answerable? One by one we meet our destiny, and no man’s quality is limited or governed by another’s nor by quantity nor rank nor even opportunity. And one by one we change as seed that changes into flowers, species evolving out of species. Eternities are moments. Moments are eternities. There is neither time nor size in the eternal calculus, but only quality. The quality of water is inherent in the least drop equally with oceans. And yet who shall name the quality? And who shall name the spirit of a man, or say that this one is a laggard — that one speeding into godliness? A destiny is neither more nor less than character; and he who would change his destiny, for better or for worse, needs no more for that purpose than to change his character — for better if he study gratitude and duty; but for worse if he indulge himself in greed and hate and envy. Morals are geography and law is land-marks, like the banks of rivers and the boundaries of peoples, ever changing. There is nothing to be won but character, and character begets its destiny as certainly as light begets the day, and darkness night.”
“And Caesar’s character?” asked Cleopatra.
“That is Caesar’s. Good, bad, splendid, mean and envious, magnanimous and patient, intolerant, generous; in some ways reckless and in others rigid; critical of self in some ways and in others purblind. Caesar’s! His and no other’s. He who judges Caesar, let him stand, if he dare, in Caesar’s sandals — and then judge himself in that fierce light, with all that opportunity to show himself his hidden qualities!”
“But he is great?” asked Cleopatra. “Do you reckon him not great, Olympus?”
“Greatness, Royal Egypt, is the measure of a man’s or woman’s will to face a destiny and build a nobler one on character — not others’ but his own.”
“And Caesar’s destiny? What of it?”
“It is Caesar’s. If he meet it like a man, then he is master of it. An event has no importance saving how each man and woman meets it; and to each his consequences, each of his own doing or not doing.”
“You have read no stars,” she said. “These two nights past the clouds have been a veil between us and heaven. And you make no prophecy. And yet, I feel foreboding in your words, Olympus. Or is that my own gloom shadowing your thought? — Tros—”
She turned toward him suddenly, and paused, and met his gaze.
“When do we leave?” she asked him.
“To-night. The last loads go on at noon. I have a barge for you with cushions in the stern, and curtains — fifty rowers—”
“Tros! I have promised Caesar I will not attempt again to see him before leaving. Will you go for me, with Apollodorus — armed, the two of you — and watch him — . watch him from the time he leaves his house until he leaves the curia again — as close to him as you can come without his seeing you — will you bring me back word he is safe? And if you see a danger to him, will you—”
Tros laughed — something like an anchor going overside, with cable out-following over the hawse.
“Save Caesar and slay Parthia! A destiny is, as Olympus intimates, a puzzle for us, one by one! However, many a long league stretches between here and Parthia. And one thing at a time. I have been Caesar’s enemy since I was old enough to lay my weight against a weather helm. Myself, I had three opportunities to slay him in a war of his own seeking. I am wondering how many men and women have paid in blood and anguish for my sparing him. And yet, if Caesar perish, who next? And how many slaves would Caesar’s death set free?”
“And what is freedom?” asked Olympus. “Is it not, when all is said and done, the right to hammer our own character upon the anvil of events?”
“No, freedom is art,” said Apollodorus. “Art is an amusing dream that no one understands.”
“Cock-crow! Do you understand that? Time to wake up and cease dreaming,” Tros remarked and hid a yawn behind a giant hand. “I go to have a last word with the boat-crews. Then a meal. And then into the city to watch Caesar. Do you come?”
The streets were chilly and a cold wind swept along in gusts under a leaden sky. Apollodorus, loathing Rome at any time, half smothered his face in his toga and made muttered comments on the filth of the winding thoroughfares and the uncivilized behavior of citizens who let their slaves sweep clouds of house-dust on the passer-by.
Drunken men were lying in the gutters, with pigs and fowls and mangy dogs investigating them for pickings. They avoided more than one corpse, product of a midnight brawl, not yet stripped and tossed into the sewer (to save trouble) by the slaves of the municipium. The drinking booths were opening and sleepy slaves were measuring out wine to legionaries home on leave and to all the olla-podrida of mean humanity that had excuse or inclination to exist in Rome. Beggars everywhere, maimed and starving, begging the lees of wine-cups or disputing with the dogs for leavings from the tavern meals — veterans most of them, many laying bare the scars of honorable wounds for Tros to see and pity. For Tros looked a warrior, every inch of him — a man who would understand, and grieve and give.
To the curia first, beside the forum, where a mute crowd loitered, mostly shrugging in their togas from the raw wind, idly curious and no man knowing when the Senate session would begin. And so to Caesar’s house, not very far away, where lictors stood on guard and there was almost endless running to and fro of secretaries, military messengers and orderlies — a small house in a rather wide street (wide, that is, by Roman standards) where the sunlight on an ordinary day should glimmer on the stucco walls. None knew when Caesar was expected to come striding out, though scores were watching, many of them bearing their petitions written out on parchment scrolls that they hoped to thrust into his hand as he passed.
And so nothing to do but wait, and grumble at the weather, and observe the individuals who also waited, speculating as to which one might have nerve enough to be a murderer. But they were all too gloomy and depressed, and evidently thinking of nothing except their own discomfort in the wind and whether their petitions had a chance of being read. No fanatic, no resolute- or reckless-looking man among them.
Presently down-street there came a cohort, Caesar’s bodyguard, all polished bronze and red plumes, stately, as imposing as the thought of eons, an embodiment of vigor harnessed to obedience, in charge of a gray centurion who knew that life and death are all one in the long run and there is nothing to be gained by flinching. They had an “eagle” with them — bronze on a white ash pole — its S.P.Q.R. polished and assertive as if Caesar had not subordinated Senate and Roman people both. They halted, fifty paces down-street from the front of Caesar’s house, then faced about and stood at ease. Tros spoke with the centurion:
“Caesar has sent word,” he answered, “that he is indisposed. He may go to the Senate and he may not. We are here in case he does go. That is all I know.”
Another long wait. Then a messenger in high haste — Decimus Brutus Albinus, a senator, notoriously Caesar’s friend, approaching from the curia with half a dozen slaves around him and a number of curious hangers-on, who joined the crowd that waited in the street. The newcomers had information; they exuded it while Decimus entered Caesar’s house, where he remained a long time.
“They are waiting in the curia to offer Caesar, after all, the kingdom of all Roman possessions outside Italy.”
“He has sent word he is unwell, but Decimus is to try to persuade him to come.”
“There is a strange excitement in the curia. Some men think there must have been a disaster somewhere, that the senators are keeping from public knowledge for fear of a panic.”
&nb
sp; “Have you heard about the auguries this morning? Adverse, every one of them! Ominous — ominous! There have been weird birds roosting on the forum. Some say that when Caesar performed the sacrifice a day or two ago the victim’s heart was missing!”
“Aye, aye. Others say that Caesar stays at home because of it; and who shall blame him?”
“Have you heard how the old soothsayer followed Caesar through the streets and cried out, ‘Caesar, beware the Ides — beware the Ides. — Beware the Ides of March!’ I heard that. It made the blood run cold in me.”
But Caesar came forth, chatting pleasantly with Decimus, whose hand he held, and there was no sign on his face of any nervousness. He was wearing his purple imperator’s cloak, the gilded laurel-wreath that now he never went without, and a very deep purple fringe to his embroidered toga. There was a cheer from the crowd as the cohort clanged its shields on armor in salute and the lictors, fasces over shoulder, strode ahead, up-street, in the direction of the curia, and Caesar, still in conversation, followed about twenty paces behind them. Fifty or sixty slaves came running from the house to crowd back the petitioners, and into the space they cleared the cohort strode, reforming until, shoulder touching shoulder in four ranks, they closed the rear in such way that no friend nor enemy could possibly get by.
Tros and Apollodorus followed, keeping step to the swing and the clank of the cohort. As they neared the curia they had to wait, because a senator named Popilius Laena came out from the portico to talk with Caesar, holding him in low-voiced conversation for several minutes while the cohort, spreading out to two ranks, blocked the wider thoroughfare.
“They take good care of him. Not much risk of anything happening to him,” said Apollodorus, his voice sounding almost disappointed. “Have we had all our trouble for nothing? Not even a riot?”
But Tros was gazing at the gloom under the portico, where half a dozen senators whose names he knew, were lurking and not acting with the normal dignity of Romans in a public place. He saw Cassius and Brutus. They and the rest of that group were watching Caesar as if, it might be, they had set a trap for him. They appeared self-conscious — nervous. When a loud voice, from an unseen hiding-place across the forum, cried out, “Caesar, beware the Ides of March!” they glanced at one another as if terrified, though Caesar only smiled, not even glancing to see whence the voice had come. There was a large crowd lining the forum porticoes; its voice rose in questioning, querulous snarl and the centurion of the bodyguard looked to his men to assure himself that they were ready for an instant service. But that bodyguard and the lictors set Tros’ mind at rest; without a bow and arrow or a javelin it was impossible to reach Caesar, let alone to injure him.
Then he saw Antony, close to one end of the portico, talking with the senator Trebonius, who held a paper in his hand and seemed to be convincing Antony that there were matters elsewhere calling for immediate attention. Antony appeared in two minds, but Trebonius in one, and it emphatic. When Popilius Laena walked away at last and Caesar resumed his stride toward the curia, Trebonius appeared to be almost using physical force with Antony to keep him from turning toward the door. But Cassius and Brutus and the others, on the far side of the door, looked visibly elated. First they surged forward. Then they fell back as the lictors advanced up the steps and formed in two lines, facing inward, raising their fasces in salute as Caesar passed between them, Decimus following.
Tros strode up to Antony, who was still in the midst of an argument, insisting that Trebonius was wrong about some proposal or other. Antony appeared glad to see him since it gave him an excuse to turn away from his persistent companion.
“By Heracles! I thought you were already on your way to Egypt!”
“No, not until to-night,” said Tros. “I thought to witness what goes on within the curia. Are visitors admitted?”
“Wait and I will lead you in,” said Antony. “There is a place behind the columns at the rear where strangers properly accredited may stand and look on.”
Trebonius resumed his argument with Antony, or rather tried to. Antony rudely broke away from him, Trebonius persisting:
“Antony, will you not understand that as a friend and your admirer I have more than an idle purpose in prevailing on you to come away with me?”
“You have kept me standing idle too long,” Antony retorted. “Can you not see I have friends who wait my courtesy?” But it was several minutes yet before Trebonius would let him enter through the door, past Cerberus-like attendants, sharp-eyed, armed with long wands, who made Tros and Apollodorus leave their swords in a little anteroom.
“There will be nothing much to-day,” said Antony, “except a speech by Caesar and an address in response from some senator expressing confidence and good-will. Everything purely formal. Possibly a few petitions to begin with.”
He led them by a passageway around the rear of the columned hall — a very ordinary building, with the seats arranged in tiers in a wide semicircle facing the tribune, where Caesar was already seated on a throne of gold. There was a rustle as if all the senators had stood to receive their arrogant dictator and had hardly again settled in their places.
“Here,” said Antony, “stand here.”
He stood between them with a hand on Tros’ great shoulder. But Trebonius came whispering and Antony went with him, back through the door to the forum, two other senators following.
It appeared that a petition was on foot. A group of senators, with Tullius Cimber leading and with Brutus bringing up the rear, were crossing the curia floor toward where Caesar sat. They moved swiftly, almost treading one another’s heels. They pressed so closely around Caesar that he sharply ordered them to stand back. Suddenly he stood up, towering above them on the step below the throne, his face a livid mask of anger. Tullius Cimber, snatching at his toga, dragged it from him, pulling him down from the step, and after that none very clearly saw what happened, for the curia became a pandemonium, with senators standing on seats and struggling in a panic in one another’s way.
But Caesar’s voice came loud above the din: “You villain, Casca!”
Tros and Apollodorus tried to fight their way toward the tribune, but they were met by a tide of fleeing senators, who swept them backward; and the next that Tros saw, Caesar was bleeding from a dozen dagger-wounds and fighting like a madman with his stylus — successfully fighting — his assailants were too many and in one another’s way — his strength and savagery cowed them — he broke free, reeled and stood gasping, with his back against the pedestal of Pompey’s statue.
Tros tried to get to him, to rescue him. He bellowed, hardly forming anger into words, not caring what he said but fighting against the crowd of senators that bore him backward, pressing him beside Apollodorus back against the rear wall in their frenzy to escape. Then both of them were hustled along before a tide of about two hundred fugitives toward the door, where there was a panic in which men tried to tread one another underfoot, and Tros, with cracking muscles, in a burst of fury raised himself head and shoulders above the rest of them — so crushed, at that, that he could hardly breathe.
And so he saw the last of it as he was borne out backward through the doorway. Casca was the first to close again with Caesar, who defended himself and, seizing Casca’s wrist, attempted to wrench away the dagger. But the others came on, Brutus last, until a few of them made way for Brutus, thrusting him forward — and Caesar saw him — recognized him.
“You, too, Brutus? You, my son!” he exclaimed. And Brutus struck at him.
Then Caesar fell, and even in that moment he was thoughtful of appearances; he gathered the folds of his tunic and was careful they should cover his thighs as dagger after dagger stabbed into his spare frame. The murderers, like white wolves worrying their kill, knelt on him, hacking and stabbing, wounding one another in their frenzy.
Weaponless and breathless, Tros and Apollodorus faced each other on the portico. For a moment there was a stream of fleeing figures in the forum. In another moment the who
le forum was deserted. Even the cohort vanished — Caesar’s hand-picked bodyguard, with its “eagle” and its gray centurion-commander. The doorkeepers were gone and there was utter silence — until three crows came into view and settled on the rostra at the far end, cawing.
Tros shuddered. Apollodorus adjusted his toga. Neither spoke. Then Tros turned to the curia and entered to hunt for his sword. Apollodorus followed him. They were in the anteroom when the murderers came striding down the passage, no man making any noise and most of them with togas held before their faces. Brutus had a paper in his hand, and it appeared that Brutus meant to make a speech to the excited crowd that he expected in the forum. He and the rest of the murderers appeared more frightened by the silence and the loneliness than if a mob had been awaiting them to wreak swift justice. For a while they spoke in undertones, then strode away across the forum in the direction of the capitol — a blood-bespattered, furtive, fearful group, who made haste, appearing to dread to look behind them.
Tros came out into the passage, paused a moment watching them, then turned into the curia. He had his sword drawn, ready for he knew not what contingency. Apollodorus followed and together the two stood in silence, staring at the pale face of the man who had been ready to go forth and conquer all the world. He lay in pools of blood but his features were not badly injured and the hand of death was dealing kindly with him, softening the harsh lines and the furrows that had made him look so old and tired. He was almost young again; and Pompey, his old enemy, whose marble statue Caesar himself had ordered replaced in the curia, stood smiling down at him with a gaze that suggested half-amused, half-pitying contemplation.
Tros was not the first to speak. It was Apollodorus’ pleasant voice that brought Tros back to earth, and now he was remembering old battles on the coast of Britain against Caesar and his veterans from Gaul — land- and sea-fights, and his own determination to fight Caesar to the end, whatever that might be: a promise to himself that he had not kept, because of destiny that had determined otherwise.
