Caesar is Dead

by Jack Lindsay

  Caesar could do anything.

  *

  The senators, walking in the Portico, chatted of business affairs or of the approaching quarrel between Antonius and Dolabella. The quarrel was not a serious issue, but everyone wished to see how Caesar would deal with this breach between his two favourites. The more staid Republicans smiled on the events, taking it as a sign of the instability of the Caesarian Party. But was it true that Cotta would raise today the question of the Sibylline prophecy that only a king could conquer Parthia? Was the prophecy an artifice of the conservatives to embarrass Caesar, or had he set it going in order to have an excuse for assuming the title of king in the provinces while remaining Dictator at Rome?

  “I said to her: What is a man to think when he finds his wife stripped in the arms of his best friend? And she answered: How dare you say such a thing, you know I never take my bracelets off.”

  “I rather like ivy myself, even if it does mean a plague of spiders in the summer. But a house looks positively bald if you take away ivy after it’s once been there.”

  “I’m going to ask Caesar to add a clause to his Sumptuary Law forbidding pet monkeys. That will annoy the wife.”

  “What do you think of a state where the police actually force their way into the kitchen and ravish a peacock-pie? Said they’d traced it from the market. But I’ll insist they put the pie in as evidence. If they’ve eaten it, I’ll expose them.”

  The conspirators, mingling with their fellows, discussed the same questions with the urbane sarcasm of a Roman noble. The first-comers drew strength from the appearance of other senators whom they knew to be in the plot. It had been too dangerous to hold a general meeting, but they knew one another’s names. Now, meeting, they gave no sign. They exchanged salutations punctiliously, and walked on; but they were counting the numbers and feeling more relieved. Seventy-five senators. The slaying could not be taken as an act of unbalanced aggression. It would be seen as it was, the act of the State against its usurper. As soon as Caesar lay dead, Brutus was to address the Senate, announce the causes of the deed and the return of constitutional government, and call on Antonius to hold an election for Caesar’s successor to the vacant consulship and chief priesthood. Before nightfall the Republic would be quietly and thoroughly re-established, as if Caesar had never been. Could there be a stronger proof that the state was enduring and the usurper a mere excrescence?

  Cassius arrived and took his seat in the Curia, waiting for Brutus to finish. He watched Brutus sombrely proceeding with the details of the cases and thought how changed Brutus was from the febrile despairs of the night before. The man looked sturdy as bronze, indeed a figure of the primordial lawgiver. Cassius felt an unwilling respect, and, more strongly, a teasing wish to disturb, to probe, to dissect that impressive calm. He himself disliked the office of judicial chairmanship at Rome, though he had enjoyed acting as judge over disputes in Syria. There he had felt unfettered.

  At Rome everything was artificial, suppressed; everyone was looking out to trip up his fellows; all action was hampered by minutiae. For the first time Cassius realised how he envied Caesar in his dictatorship, though the envy faded back into habitual anger and contempt. There was no virtue in such power; it affronted the intelligence which demanded a fraternity of competing equals, if life was to be worth living. But as Cassius looked at Brutus, he again felt envy. Caesar had appointed Brutus and Cassius as the main praetors of the year, and Cassius had been enraged that Brutus should be city praetor, while he was second in rank. Without feeling jealous of Brutus, he felt insulted by Caesar; and the rankling of that insult had made him discover the necessity of removing Caesar. If the Parthians were to be compelled to deliver up their thousands of Roman prisoners, who could better command the army than Cassius who had held the eastern frontier for years? Cassius would have accepted, however angrily, the insult of being turned down by the Senate; but to be turned down and supplanted by Caesar was different. The anger that emerged was robbed of egoism. The outraged self found its pain to be identical with the pain of the community. To hell with those who would call it thwarted ambition!

  *

  Trebonius and Decimus Brutus halted to exchange a few words beside a lisping fountain. They wanted to babble out their hopes and fears, their plans and irresolutions; but though no one seemed near, they did not speak a word of what was seething in their heads. Decimus asked politely about the health of the mother of Trebonius. Her asthma was better. Very good news. Why not try a concoction of blackcurrants, syrup, and mint? That was a family recipe.

  Trebonius assured him that he would suggest it to his mother, but knew he would do no such thing. For she was a very strong-willed old lady, and had her own ideas. She insisted that the smoke of burnt parsley roots eased her, though it did nothing of the sort; and after she had inhaled she would choke herself rather than admit the truth.

  Decimus listened distractedly to the thanks of Trebonius. His thoughts had turned to his own mother, Sempronia. Dead she was; that vivid face closed in death, masked with greeny pallor; those restless hands laid out straight; flat hands, hands that had clawed for life in the death-throes. Furiously she had died, throwing off the bedclothes, shamelessly imploring the doctors to put one of the bed-slaves to bed with her. She had declared that only one thing could keep her alive; she would never die if there was someone embracing her. She had said it all in front of Decimus; and he had blushed, and she had raved at him. A fearful end. Fever, the doctors explained, only fever. And then, during the night, she had inveigled one of the slaves to bed after all, and died in his arms.

  Decimus wondered why the memory returned — unless it was because Sempronia had always disliked Caesar, and had tried to stop her son from joining the army in Gaul. She had died on the eve of his departure, and he had gone off to act as a lieutenant under Caesar. A wish to be back in those battle-days, dangerous and filled with comradeship, swept over Decimus. He had commanded the fleet that destroyed the Veneti, while Caesar and the land-army watched from the cliffs. They had sailed up close and slashed through the ropes and sailyards with long hooks at the ends of poles; and then had stormed the heavier ships at ease. The wind of the combat blew in his hair a moment, and he felt like the smell of corpses in the night the treachery with which he and the others were surrounding Caesar. But it was too late now, and the decision had been right.

  Trebonius too felt shaken. He and Decimus had been in charge of the operations against Massilia, and had grown to like one another dearly. It was then that Decimus had beaten the relieving fleet sent by the conservatives, and had saved Caesar, who was operating perilously in Spain. They had both fought through the Gallic War; they had seen Caesar at bay before Alesia, besieging a strong mountain-town, and besieged in turn by a vast Gallic army. They had gone through much together, following Caesar.

  A great weariness descended on Trebonius. Men fought, and there was no end to the fighting. But Rome must live. Rome was the law, and the voice of the law must speak on; for by the law alone could mankind be saved.

  *

  Casca and his brother passed. They bowed carelessly to Trebonius and Decimus, as they had bowed to scores of others. The slaves, moving at their backs, saw no difference in the salute — and watchful-eyed are the slaves in a state where the masters must live in incessant fear of their slaves as spies — but Trebonius and Decimus know what spoke in those well-bred nods. Torment and determination, and the blood pouring rapturously like a torrent past the cataract of the ears, diving for its ancient home in the earth. Blood that cried out for a sacrifice, the earth-spirit trembling on the verge of birth and death, and crying out to man: “Rescue me, child of darkness, pour out the strength that will draw me across the last barrier into the summer of fruitfulness. Without your aid I sink back into the pits of winter.”

  “A pleasantly mild morning,” said Casca.

  They moved on; and further down the collonade, stopping beside Basilus, inquired with friendly unconcern, “Have you seen
Cimber yet? We promised to give him our support in the petition for his brother’s recall.”

  Nobody had seen Cimber. That was worrying, as the presentation of his petition was an integral part of the plot. As if a messenger had whispered the news among the conspirators, all noticed Cimber’s absence at the same time, and began searching anxiously for him; though with faces sharpened by control in the same courteous aloofness.

  *

  Cicero’s arrival was the signal for hoots from the crowd outside and for a stir among the senators; for Cicero was the philosopher of Republicanism, the sole figure of importance still representing an opposition to the dominant popular party. He was aware of his role and maintained it largely by ironical comments. It was under the shadow of the authority wielded by him in however limited a fashion that the conspiracy had found its confidence; but the younger men who were conspiring had considered it wrong to entangle the old orator in the scheme which they knew he would have welcomed.

  Cicero was accustomed to the mob’s dislike. Gone were the days when it had hurt him deeply; he took it all as part of the tribute to his position. He had some strong slaves at his back and did not fear violence. Walking along the portico, he accepted the greetings of the senators; for all admired him as a national figure, and even the shadow-senators, Caesar’s nominees, knew that Caesar had insisted on disregarding Cicero’s politics and considering Cicero only as a great man-of-letters.

  The chief interest of the senators today was the question whether Caesar had some scheme ready about the kingship. Caesar had tried to settle the rumours by arranging for Antonius to offer him a crown at the Lupercal Festival; he had then refused the crown and ordered a note of his refusal to be entered in the Records. It was power, not a name, that he coveted; but his enemies were doing their best to spread the tale that he sought the traditionally-abhorred title, King of Rome. Caesar had disdainfully exposed his attitude when he said to some protesting followers, in explanation of his clemency, “I wish nothing more than that I should be like myself, and my enemies like themselves.”

  And when some of the crowd had hailed him as king, he had replied, “I am no king, but Caesar.” But because he had protected from two conservative tribunes the men who started the cry, he had given further excuse to his detractors.

  *

  Would Caesar never come? Brutus had finished, but did not wish to leave his seat. It was easy to keep intact his self-control while looking down on the world from the seat of judgment, but it would be harder among his fellows. Cassius waited irritably, tapping the arms of his seat. Dolabella had come. That was a good sign. He would be with Caesar if Caesar had suspected anything. But the sun was clear in the sky, and there was no sign of Caesar.

  In the portico it was noticed that Cimber had been present all the while, talking with a friend at the farther end on a seat under a flower-bush. That was a great relief, and it was all the conspirators could do to stop from rubbing their hands and laughing outright. From the Theatre opposite came a continuous hum, the hive-noise of conglomerate humanity. The shouts of the merrymakers on their way to the Field, the chatter of the street, the subdued conversations of the senators and their attendants, the chinkling rustle of water — the sounds wove a lively background to the clear, faintly-grey sunlight.

  Someone had dropped a bottle of wine on the pavement; and a disconsolate, speechless drunkard was eyeing the wasted liquor, unable to tear himself away from the painful sight, revolving in his dim head impracticable schemes for reclaiming wine from mud. A woman was seated on the roots of one of the plane trees that lined the street, hushing her baby by suckling it. A quarrel was going on between another mother and a man who had been dirtied in the crush by her sick baby. Outside the Theatre were small Jew-boys begging, and a man who with some shells on a tray challenged the onlookers to point out under which shell he placed a bean. Costermongers had set up stalls. At one stall a strong-wristed fellow was breaking apples between his palms to please his girl, while nearby an aggrieved man was looking for a vanished enemy. “I opened my mouth to tell him what I thought of him, and he spat into it.”

  Birds flew about the tree-tops. City-sparrows gave themselves up to love-chases, knowing that there would be abundant crumbs when the crowd dispersed.

  Where was Caesar? The time for the session had arrived, and the senators were filing into the Curia, discussing the latest money-reports from the Forum; but no word had come that Caesar was seen on the road.

  *

  “What do you think is the reason?”

  Brutus stared impassively ahead. “Can’t you bear waiting? By God, I feel I’ve been waiting all my life for this moment.” All doubt had passed from him as he stepped down from the tribunal. He was exalted, like Porcia. He gazed up at the statue of Pompeius and felt as stable as the man of stone. It was right that Caesar should die in the building set up by his great opponent Pompeius. Stare down on me, man of stone; I am your equal; I am your avenger; when I strike, the hand of stone strikes with me.

  Cassius was flustered by the calm of Brutus, for until now he had dominated their relationship. Suddenly he felt that Brutus was indeed the stronger, that the mask of strength had a real face behind it. A love of the world overcame him, and his heart sang. He loved everyone, for they all had that reality of virtue if they faced the testing moment. Even Caesar he loved, but would slay nevertheless. He would slay him all the more happily. Under his cloak he grasped the dagger, and with it the large pearl-pendant that Caesar had given Tertulla. Gossipers said that the gift had been made for a fleshly return, but Cassius knew that a lie. Caesar had given it out of fondness for Servilia, because he had been Servilia’s lover when Tertulla was a baby. Cassius had abstracted the pearl from Tertulla’s jewel-box that morning, and was now embarrassed by it. He had had some vague idea of dropping it on Caesar’s corpse; for he would have none of the man’s bounty. Tertulla would weep when she saw the pearl gone. He prayed that she would not remember about it till she had borne her child. Perhaps he would take it back after all. Others would misinterpret the gesture if he threw it away. But again he marvelled at the obtuseness of Brutus. How could the fool hide from what everyone knew about Servilia?

  A slave came hurrying in.

  Had Caesar been seen? No, a false alarm. News for one of the senators that his wife had fallen downstairs and broken her leg. “Which leg?” the senator asked, as if that was the main point; but the slave didn’t know. Apologies to his friends for his wife’s gaucherie; the senator decided he had better go home.

  *

  Listen to the voices passing. Is this the world for which we slay, for which we are ready to die?

  *

  “You know how to keep a secret,” said a senator, approaching Casca, and taking him by a fold of the toga. “But Brutus has told me everything.”

  Casca gave a wild look round, gripping at the dagger hung under his left armpit. Some of the conspirators noticed his face and drew nearer, determined to cut the man down and sell their lives dearly if need be. But the man went on airily: “Why haven’t you told your friends that you’re standing for the tribuneship? I wish you the best of luck.”

  Casca nodded, stammered, and broke away. “I must speak to my brother. I’ve remembered something.”

  *

  An hour has passed. Why hadn’t Caesar come? The senators who knew nothing were stretching themselves, bored; but the conspirators forced themselves to speak as if the delay was perfectly natural. Caesar would come. He must come.

  Cassius left Brutus and walked up to the painting by Pausias. Beautiful white bulls crowned with flowers were being led to the sacrifice. The beasts must die that man may live. They are his fosterers, and the dark gods have their faces. The victim becomes the god. That is the law of compensation. In eating flesh we partake of the beasts that died for us. When is the end of it all?

  What of the scrupulous eye of Pausias that could see man and beast so purely, set them both down so beautifully, so unchangingly? St
ill are the beasts led to slaughter, under the eternal eye.

  The clear sunlight tautened. The world was still, like a raped woman. Cassius felt himself falling between two pulse-beats, stranded on an ever-widening sense of loss. Day and night. All things flow; but the flux is a beautiful gyre of unrepeated energy; it flows, but it returns. It is immortal, a shape as well as a crumbling, man as well as the maggots in the corpse. But never the same shape, the same man. Cassius will die, and there will be a beautiful world blessed by his unavailing love.

  There seemed to be no air in the long hall of veined marbles with trophies from the wars of Pompeius hanging on the columns.

  *

  “I spend my time writing,” said Cicero, fitting his fingertips together, and addressing his audience with slightly-raised eyebrows. “What else is there to do while we are, shall I say, ah, so fortunate as to possess an official who capably engrosses to himself the whole work of the State?”

  He turned to the nearest man and fixed him with a half-frown, then smiled. “I’ve turned Platonist. I write of what exists only in heaven. My dear sir, the title of the book is Civic Duty.”

  He left the group, knowing that in a few moments his jests would be whispered along the rows, and went to accost Brutus. But Brutus, noticing the movement, walked away. Cicero was hurt. Brutus was really too boorish sometimes; he wasn’t even truthful; he had told a most discourteous lie in refusing to stay at one of Cicero’s villas a while ago. Too vain and bad-tempered. A pity, since he might have achieved something if he had only had some decency and common sense.

  Cicero looked round for a friend, but his eye was caught by Europa in the picture. She was riding her god-bull, one hand resting on the broad brow; and something in her young, guileless face suggested the face of Tullia — Cicero’s beloved daughter, now dead in childbirth, after being divorced by Dolabella. The grief of the last year stirred in Cicero brokenly, and he set his jaw. The world should not see his sorrow in his eyes, even if it read his book of consolation addressed to the lost girl. Thrice married, she had been yet so young, so entirely his. He felt for a moment that his regretful love was so great that it could create for her an existence beyond death if there was none there already. But what was the use? He would die and there would be no one to sustain the dream.