Caesar is Dead

by Jack Lindsay

  Elsewhere was silence. In the slums and fine houses, the taverns and baths, the workshops and factories, the stores and markets, the dockyards and squares, the colonnades and offices, the word was passed round, and everyone paused. The people saw in Caesar’s death the end of all their hopes; the landlord-class felt any pleasure overmastered by the fear of reprisals. All was silent, seeking to discover how Caesar’s death would affect their lives.

  When the conspirators entered the Gate, the citizens fled before them, diving into cook-shops or lodging-houses, workshops or private lobbies. House-owners looked darkly on their cowering slaves, and the fear on the faces of the slaves looked like a menace, and the owners quailed. For the great fear of a slave-owning community is murder in the darkness. But the slaves were more disturbed than their masters; they were drawn for a moment out of their fatalistic submission and felt, they knew not how, that they had lost a benefactor. That emotion was conscious among the proletarians and veterans. Uncertain, scared of the unknown forces that had stricken Caesar, the people were yet murmuring their wrath together.

  The conspirators marched on, shouting reassurances whenever they met a group of citizens who had not yet been able to find refuge; but the universal fear reacted on their spirits, and it was with difficulty they maintained the demeanour of liberators. Brutus marched at the head, still gripped by a feeling of illusion. The unexpected disappearance of the senators had not depressed or frightened him; it had robbed him of all emotion, stranding him on a blankness. He found it difficult even to focus his eyes.

  But Cassius, for all his anxiety, was happy. Caesar was dead, and there was a need of action. The other conspirators drifted between a vague oppression and a hovering ecstasy. The flight of the citizens conveyed to them an effect of invincibility, but also made them look doubtfully on all dim lane-entrances and temple-doors, fearful of an onset of yelling veterans.

  But the veterans were too disconcerted and dispersed. They swore, and roared for more wine, and kicked the slave-waiters, and again swore thundering oaths; but what course to take they had no notion.

  *

  The cobwebs were never taken from the ceiling till they fell on the customers’ heads in the tavern where Gallus was drinking. Not that he cared. There were fouller cobwebs in his mind, blotching his skin with streaks of heat. He hadn’t been to bed all night. When the last guest was leaving Dolabella’s house, he could stay no longer, and, making excuses to Nicias, he had turned aside for the first public-house, where some wafers of light came through the shutters. It had been a half-lupanar, but he was in no mood for caresses. He sat drinking; and the insults that he bestowed on troublesome girls, the sight of maudlin staggering couples, the loud mirthless laughter, rasped his nerves to an exquisite torment. He drank and brooded on other loveless beds. At least these women pretended nothing. Each set a price-ticket over her particular alcove and abided by that evaluation of her flesh. “Phyllis, nice to nice fellows.” These women didn’t deliver soliloquies in verse that mocked and pleaded and teased the spirit — the spirit that stood aside from the body’s degradation, recording, re-defining, seeking to make self-knowledge safe in its structure of expression.

  What was the use of poetry unless it gave one something to grasp in the turmoil of experience, an image of desire which released by its finality of possessive utterance?

  No use at all.

  Towards morning he slept a while, uneasily, his head on a footstool; and a girl named Flaviola, a little over thirty, stirred from the cramping position in which she lay beside a hulking Thracian. And she watched the man who had refused her earlier in the night and who did nothing but drink. She stole away, and found a cloth and some watered vinegar, and bathed the forehead of Gallus, and kissed him once, a butterfly-kiss, on the mouth; and he knew nothing of what she had done, but groaned in his sleep; and the girl crept back to her straw-mattress and cried quietly, afraid of disturbing the others, doubling up her little fist and biting it. And Gallus groaned in his sleep at the hard hearts of women.

  At dawn he struggled up, wrote the name of Cytheris with obscene comments on the wall, ate some pulse-porridge, and went to wander in the streets. He loathed drinking alone, but drank from tavern to tavern, watching his small stock of money dwindle. Why was he drinking? He detested Cytheris and would die rather than touch her, but he wanted the chance of refusing her, and that chance would never be his. So why ask questions? He drank because he had started drinking and couldn’t stop.

  He stumbled out of the tavern in the Oil Market and made his way towards the Capitol. Suddenly there were cries of alarm and a press of elbowing men and women; but the scene fitted in so well with his emotions that he did not notice its unusualness. He pushed on and came out the other side of the fugitives. There he stood swaying, heartened by the effort needed to push through. It was natural he should be going the opposite way to everyone else.

  Then, along the street that led from the wall, a band of men came marching, headed by a detachment of gladiators. They were calling out, singing, brandishing blood-stained daggers. Gallus stared. Then he saw the Phrygian cap, and he joined in the cheering. That was the cap of freedom. The world had been freed. Beyond that he realised nothing, but what else was worth realising? The conspirators stared back at their solitary adherent, more abashed by his response than by the terror of all the others. That everyone should flee before them was in its way a stirring compliment; that one bedraggled man should stand in the gutterway cheering and clapping his hands reduced their demonstration to a tawdry futility. They walked faster, some dropping into silence, others shouting louder to drown the noise that Gallus was making.

  They passed, and Gallus stood looking after them, stopping his applause with open mouth and lifted hands. What was the meaning of it all? He heard footsteps behind him, and turned with the intention of inquiring; but as he turned, a club came down on his head and the world darkened, bleeding with flame-drops and wheeling into deeper darkness. Gallus fell to the pavement.

  “Pull him down that lane there,” said the veteran who had clubbed him. “That’ll teach him to go cheering a pack of bloody murderers.”

  *

  Down the street towards the Gate Amos ran. Tears were in his eyes, and he still thought himself alone in the world, not noticing the people who were peeping cautiously out after the conspirators. An awful thought had come to him. 15th March: the grand feast of the Passover, the 15th Nissen, the day of the first full moon of the year, the day of the eating of the Paschal Lamb.

  The doorposts and lintels were smeared with blood, and the world was redeemed by the meat of the Lamb. Deep had the world eaten of Caesar, bowels and all, and the seasoning was the unleavened bread and the herbs of bitterness.

  *

  It was the end of everything. Marcus Antonius glowered at his two brothers. Fulvia sat on her chair, her hands loose on her lap. “So we ran away like cowards,” Antonius repeated. “Miserable stinking cowards. Come and tread on us.”

  He reached out for the wine-flagon. Fulvia took it quickly away. He caught her wrist, his mouth opening savagely. “Give me that wine.” He twisted her wrist, but she refused to let go. The flagon turned slowly upside-down, spilling on the floor. She showed nothing of the pain she felt. Antonius dropped her wrist.

  “Another flask,” he shouted, and a slave brought the wine. Fulvia ignored him this time as he poured out a goblet-full. She sat with her hands loose in her lap as before, taking no notice of the badly smarting wrist.

  “Wait and see,” said Gaius, with a side-leer at Fulvia. “We may be able to come to terms with them yet.”

  “What use is that?” Marcus turned on him with twitching brows and nose. “That won’t bring Caesar back to life. I’ll never forget that I ran away while they hacked him down. What chance did he have?”

  “None,” said Fulvia, calmly. “But it’s your chance now.”

  Marcus Antonius swung round to reply. He hesitated, looked at her wrist, and raised it to his l
ips. “Don’t come between me and my flagon when I need a drink,” he said, humbly. “But you’re wrong. I’m no Caesar.” He rolled over on the couch and laid his head on her lap. “I loved him, though I had my grievances. I’m nothing now he’s gone.”

  Fulvia, stroking his hair, playfully nipped his ear. He stopped speaking. Was there truth in what she had said? But he couldn’t think; he was tormented by the certainty that he could have saved Caesar. If he’d knocked Trebonius down and rushed to the rescue, others would have rallied. Caesar had already been stabbed, but it needed more than a few stabs to kill such a man; he would have recovered. But they had all closed round; it would have been too late, surely too late.

  “I am no Caesar,” he repeated, through his teeth; and suddenly, out of the stirring veils of his mind, there came a clear thought. What if he was named as Caesar’s adopted son in the will? He fought the thought down, but it recurred with hope. He knew that Caesar had anxiously canvassed the question of an adoption, and once there had been a hint ...

  He leaped up and strode about the room. Ah, if that hope were true. If he had the name, he could carry on; he knew it. Somebody must carry on. “More wine please.”

  “Let’s die so wet that we’ll put out the funeral-pyre,” said Gaius.

  “We shan’t die easily,” said Marcus, and left the room.

  “Where’s he gone?” asked Gaius, holding a crystal cup to the light. “I drink to the Shade of Caesar.”

  “He’s gone to send out men and see what veterans can be collected,” said Lucius, rising. “You one-eyed sot. And I’m going to do the same.”

  “Well, that’s no reason why we shouldn’t have a drink,” said Gaius, stretching out his cup towards Fulvia and bowing over it. He looked round to make sure no one was listening. “Eh, Fulvia, when are you taking me to bed?”

  She rose, struck the wine-cup from his hand, and walked without haste from the room. Gaius sneered after her; then noticing the broken cup and the wine spilt on the floor, he approached the doorway to summon a slave and have the mess removed. Pisidice, a slave-girl of Fulvia’s, was passing.

  “Come in here,” said Gaius. The girl, a slight thing with reddish hair and snub nose, obeyed; he pointed to the carpet. “Clean it up.”

  She pouted. “I’m not used to such work.”

  “You’re a slave,” said Gaius, pulling her hair. “Get down to it.” Then, as she bent, he pushed her over, stained her dress in the red wine and floor-dust, and held her there, taking care not to wet his own tunic.

  The girl did not struggle or cry out, but watched him with eyes of hatred till he had finished with her.

  “Now, go back and tell your mistress that I don’t like having my wine spilt.”

  She rose and hurried out without a word.

  *

  Diphylus, the slave who had been manumitted before Brutus that morning was wringing his hands as he paced up and down the lane. What would happen to him? All his slave-savings had been used up in buying his freedom, paying the tax, and negotiating for a job as agent in the emigration-office. This office was an informal organisation, under the charge of Caesar’s secretary, Balbus. Now it would disappear, and what would happen to Diphylus?

  He realised the huge indifference of the world and longed for the snug tasks of slavery again. Who wanted freedom to starve? It was his wife’s fault, for she taunted him so much with her status of freedwoman that he had bought his freedom prematurely. He had been a fool; afraid that the child his wife had conceived would be claimed as a slave. O why had he done it? Even if the doles were continued and he managed to get on the list, where was the rent to come from? And his wife wanted new clothes and medicine. Caesar’s death had ruined everything. O for slavery again.

  Diphylus paced up and down the lane, unable to climb the side-stairs of the tenement-block and face his wife.

  *

  How would Rome take the news? That was the question. Cicero had been among the fleeing senators, and he now cursed his timidity. He had seen the sight he longed to see, and had fled from it. But he had been carried away in the crush; the contagion of panic had been irresistible. Could he have helped by staying? Caesar was dead. Cicero had seen enough to know that. And Brutus and Cassius were the Liberators. But how would Rome take the news?

  He had bidden the litter-men carry him back to his house on the Palatine, though he hated the house. All his houses and villas were hateful, stained with the ghostly presence of the dead Tullia; and while in Rome, he dreaded that he would meet his young second-wife, Publilia. He had divorced her, but couldn’t complete the arrangements on account of the money-shortage. Publilia had been his ward; she was very rich; and he had married her after divorcing Terentia some eighteen months ago. Terentia and he had been married thirty years; and though they jarred at times the divorce had come as a surprise to the world and the divorced pair themselves. It was all Terentia’s fault, Cicero decided; she became mean about money; she was rude; she let herself be cheated by that accountant of hers; she was a fool; her voice was intolerable; she jeered at him in bed; she was old; her breath smelt; she shouldn’t have worn that flighty embroidered dress; she talked too much — she was impossible, and yet he had been used to her. It had been more than madness to take Publilia to wife.

  He sweated as he thought of the marriage-night. The little skimpy girl, barely past puberty, and himself suddenly aware of rheumatic joints and grey hairs and dried skin. He patted her and told her to go to sleep, and while she slept he had been unable to restrain himself. Was she not his wife? He had taken her in the dark while she wept through her hair; and then she had clung to him, and he had felt fear soak through his bones. How could he mate with one so young? Her crude vitality would absorb him, break him down as a dog crunches a soft bone for its marrow. She whispered and clumsily called him love-names, and wanted to be kissed. He had sweated with misery in the darkness, and he sweated now that he thought of her. She was a siren-spasm, a moon-dream sucking out a man’s life, a wicked little brat. Her hot, young mouth had moved over his mouth pleadingly. Surely Terentia had not kissed him like that even thirty years ago?

  Then Tullia had died, and her death had seemed like a punishment. He had married a girl far younger than his daughter, and his daughter died; and Publilia had wanted to kiss him instead of mourning the dead.

  Cicero groaned as the litter began to ascend the steep road leading up from the Forum beside the Temple of the Twin Brothers. He had peeped out as they passed through the Forum. All the shops were shut. What would the day bring forth? The incline forced his head against the litter-back. He shouted to the men to go faster. They plodded on, the muscles of thigh and calf torn by the strain, the back aching. How they would have liked to trundle the fat beast down the road in a barrel full of nails. At last the top was reached, and a few easy steps brought the litter to Cicero’s door. He emerged hastily and went straight into the house; but without waiting to change his clothes or to rest he climbed the stairs and walked out on to the roof.

  Rome lay below, a strangely quiet Rome. Never had he seen it so quiet. He stood watching in fear. Then he saw the band ascending the Capitol stairs. Surely it could not be insurgents? It must be the Liberators. How well they had arranged everything. He felt happier. Something was happening at last. The dictatorship was ended. Brutus was the greatest Roman who had ever been.

  But as the certainty of success grasped Cicero, he felt his eyes drawn to the house next door. There, on the roof, he had stood nineteen years ago at the side of Clodia and looked down on a Rome conquered by his consulship. He had beaten the anarchist Catilina; and then Caesar had spoiled everything, and Clodius had organised the workers and ruled the city with riot till he was killed on the Appian Way. The house further down had belonged to Clodius, and he had leased it some ten years past to young Marcus Caelius, who had been such a staunch friend to Cicero. Then, five years ago, Caelius had transformed himself into a mob-agitator and behaved like Clodius, till he was cut down in the
south by some Spanish cavalry. There was no principle anywhere. Dolabella had been Cicero’s son-in-law, and then he had stepped into the place vacated by Caelius, agitating for communistic measures.

  Where would it all stop?

  The men on the Capitol were barricading the passages. Some of them were armoured, and Cicero could see the glitter of the weapons. He felt strong again. It was not Brutus after all who was the leader of the day. Who had kept alive the thought of a free State in the hearts of men but Cicero himself? Cicero was the force that had struck Caesar down and that now occupied the Capitol where the God of the Romans dwelt.

  Then Cicero saw a girl coming along the street below. He thought for a moment of agony that she was Publilia. He grasped the railings. Would the slaves remember their instructions to say he was out, to refuse entrance at all costs? But it wasn’t Publilia. No need to fear that whining little voice, that hot child-mouth.

  *

  “It would not be disadvantageous to Your Majesty,” said the lean, withered man clad in white linen, and shod with shoes of the finest woven-papyrus, “to have a Temple of the Holy Mother at Rome.” He folded the hands, in which he held a short branch of sea-wormwood, and looked at Cleopatra with bright, small eyes.

  Cleopatra knew what he meant. She would be decidedly pleased at any Egyptianising of Rome, and the priesthood of Isis would be valuable spies and agents when they had established their influence.

  “I have no doubt Caesar will consider having the Senatorial Decree against our worship withdrawn,” she said, negligently.

  “You can, of course, count on my aid, such as it is. Caesar has no prejudices in these matters, and the decree was passed before he took control. Why don’t you go to him direct?”

  The priest lowered his eyes and answered mildly, “Are you not the Queen of Egypt, the blessed patroness of Isis? Are you not of divine blood, her starry sister?”

  Cleopatra signed to him to cease, and smiled regally. “I know my names of power. I am Egypt. But I think you can go back to Puteoli with an easy heart. However, you will first call on Caesar, and you will not say I sent you. By the end of the week I think you will have your decree.”