Caesar is Dead

by Jack Lindsay

  The senators were cheered to hear a soldier giving such eminently peaceful advice.

  Cicero saw that any attempt to break their mood was vain. Instead of arguing he watched the sun, the setting of Caesar’s empire. The sun was nearing the Ianiculan crests, turning the hills into blue flatness while picking out a villa-roof here and there. As the dusk grew, the statues that crowded the Capitol seemed coming to life. The men of stone swayed in the wind, growing taller and slightly menacing. All the past of Rome was historied in those stones, and they stretched and rustled about the men of the living hour. Stealthily Rome’s tremendous past engulfed the moment of choice; the heroes and lawgivers came to life under the unchanging stars and spoke a word greater than all the wandering speeches of those who debated the present fate. Shiveringly Cicero remembered that Caesar, the dead man, was standing among this dynasty of stone. The whispering of the night was Caesar taking counsel with the spirits of the race.

  Below, a few torch-lights were sparkling in the mauve dusk. A faint life was returning to the expectant city.

  *

  Somewhere near a dog with a broken leg was yelping. Gallus stirred. His face was half lying in a puddle, but not under the water, or he would have drowned. Struggling up, he saw the first stars quivering on the pallid dusk. There was a dull pulse of pain in his head; he was filthy, and bewildered with shock and the dregs of wine; but out of the dusk of his mind there winged a thought. He must find Cytheris. Dimly he recalled the march he had seen. Something was afoot. He didn’t know if he meant to save Cytheris or be saved by her, hut only knew that he must find her; and in his vague fixation it seemed that she would be awaiting him. It was to a tryst he was going.

  But where did she live? His mind blankly put aside all consideration of inquiring at Dolabella’s house. He refused to connect her with the place, but the effort of banishing it dredged up a remark that she had made while reclining on Dolabella’s couch. Someone had talked of gems, and she had shown a bracelet delicately set with split jewels to look like flowers. She had mentioned some jeweller as the maker. Who was it?

  Without further thought Gallus picked himself up, rubbed aimlessly at the mud on his dinner-tunic, and set off in the direction of the Forum. Beyond that lay the Sacred Way where most of the jewellers were found. Perhaps he would remember the name if he read the notices. The streets were darkening, but he knew his way. Into the empty Forum he stumbled, mistily surprised; his steps in the deserted square sounded so loud. He tried to walk quietly but could not then keep his balance, and relapsed into stamping along; but even this did not save him from a fall. In the gloom he failed to note the deep gutter running along the middle of the Forum. He tripped and lay at full length, once more drenched and befouled.

  As he rose, he cursed: “Falcidius will have shut his shop.” He had remembered the name! He realised this, and clapped his hands; but the hollow echoes frightened him, and he hastened across the pavement to the shelter of the opposite colonnade. Falcidius? He was uncertain again. Falx was a reaping-hook. When he fell, he had been cast down like a swathe before the hook. Was that what had made him think of the name? “Scythe-man, are you my destroyer, the evil of the dark, or are you a fat-faced tradesman, waiting to tell me where Cytheris lives?”

  He tramped on and reached the head of the Sacred Way. But it was too dark to read any signs. He saw a skulking figure and called out, but it fled, and Gallus, giving chase, fell on the roadway and lost the shadow. Going up to the nearest doorway, he banged on the shutters.

  “Go away,” came a quaking voice.

  “I want Falcidius, the jeweller, damn him.” Gallus tried to think of an excuse. “His house is on fire. His country house.”

  “The tenth shop down,” answered the voice, suspiciously. Gallus set off counting the houses, but lost one and had to return. He banged again. “Was it here I asked?”

  “Yes,” said the hidden householder. “But you won’t ask another time. I can see you’re alone, and if you don’t go off I’ll come out with some men and a cudgel.”

  Gallus took more care after the threat. He left one of his shoes before the house, to mark it, and then hobbled away. But he didn’t need any more reminders. He counted carefully and was sure he had the tenth house.

  He rattled at the shutters. “Falcidius. I want Falcidius.”

  There was no reply. Gallus kicked and punched. His hands were bleeding. The family must have run away. Perhaps they were all dead. He gave one last crashing kick, and a voice answered from the roof, “Go away.”

  Gallus had learned cunning. “I’m not alone,” he bawled. “My men are waiting up the road. Are you Falcidius?”

  “What do you want?” On any other evening a householder could have relied on calling aid from the neighbours, but it was no use shouting when all were locked away in terror of riots.

  “Tell me where Cytheris lives.”

  The question was so unrelated to the fears of the jeweller that he couldn’t understand. “What?” he asked, faltering. Gallus repeated his question in tones of menace.

  “Cytheris ...” the man said. “The actress? Let me think. How can I remember off-hand?”

  “Go and find out,” called Gallus, “and I’ll spare your house.”

  The man sped downstairs, rushing for the ledger of accounts. Then ravishing was the order of the night, not looting. So much the better. It was quite mad, but so was everything else. He found the entry with tremulous fingers and hurried upstairs again, hugging the tablet lest he should forget the ransoming address.

  “Cytheris,” he gabbled. “Cytheris lives off the Via Nova, the first lane past the Temple of Aius Loquens, third house on the right.”

  “Say it again,” replied Gallus, trying to memorise the words. The jeweller once more recited the address, and Gallus with an effort got his bearings. He must enter the Forum. The Via Nova branched off before one came to the Temple of Vesta. Muttering the directions over and over, he strode away, forgetting to reclaim his shoe as he passed back up the road.

  *

  Antonius and Lepidus were disheartened. They had sat talking all the afternoon, hoping for explicit news of the conspiracy’s extent, but so far they knew no more than in the morning. They had exhausted their fund of good-humoured defiance; the wine was turning sour in their stomachs; and they couldn’t see why the conservatives waited to complete their coup. The only definite news was depressing. Messengers reported that all the Caesarian officials had run away — gone south for a health-cure. One alone remained, Hirtius, consul-elect for the next year. He had answered that he would come when called. So Antonius and Lepidus, with a backing of one man, sat and waited and drank; and the day drew on.

  Lucius Antonius spoke every now and then, scratching at the scar on his cheek. He wanted something violent. Start a riot; then see what happened.

  “No use,” said Marcus. “Merely the excuse these pig-stickers want, if they’re looking for one to settle with us.”

  “Invite them here to a party,” sneered Gaius.

  “Wait,” said Fulvia, who was embroidering.

  “We’ll wait,” replied Marcus, “because there’s nothing else to do.” What was the use of drinking? It couldn’t swab away the image of Caesar stricken, the knowledge of cowardice in the blood of the drinker. But nothing could have saved Caesar. I was too far away, too late, I tell you.

  Suddenly he leapt to his feet. “There’s someone coming. Listen.”

  They listened. Nothing. Then voices, the sound of doors scraping. The four men reached for their swords. Marcus drained his cup slowly, then flung it down with a laugh. “It’s come,” he said, in a voice of fierce satisfaction.

  But only a slave entered. Some senators wished to see the consul. Who were they? No names given, but they came from the Capitol. Bring them in.

  The four men sat back, taking a deep breath. Gaius hummed. Lucius gave a short, wild snigger. Lepidus yawned, Marcus narrowed his eyes, crouching tensely with broad shoulders. Fulvia, who h
ad not ceased embroidering, said softly, “I told you to wait.”

  Nothing more was said till the half-dozen senators were ushered in. Marcus Antonius showed them courteously to their seats. He had noticed at once that they were embarrassed and that they were comparatively unimportant men.

  “You come from the Capitol?”

  The spokesman, Servilius, bowed. “To speak with the consul.”

  Antonius waved his hand lightly towards his brothers and Lepidus. “Consider these my council.”

  Fulvia rose. “Since men have so far ruled the State with such brilliant success as not to need woman’s aid, I’ll leave you to decide the fate of Rome. If the mental strain is too great and you want dice to settle things for you, I’ll send them in.” She walked from the room with her lithe stride, belly out-thrust.

  “Lepidus has no rank at Rome,” commented Antonius, “since his title ceased with Caesar’s death; but I remind you that he is still governor of the Province.” He looked round alertly and then fixed on Servilius with an air of frank confidence. “Caesar is dead. We are all agreed on that point. Who sends you?”

  “Perhaps you would like a list of those who struck down the tyrant?”

  Antonius nodded, and Servilius read out the imposing list of names. The four men listened with growing despair. So many of the most active senators with administrative or war experience, the main Caesarians, were in the conspiracy. Each name meant several lesser names; taken together, the list represented practically the whole of upper-class interests. Servilius ended, “That is the list of those who acted this morning. Of course such a list does not include the well-nigh endless supporters of their act of justice.”

  Antonius nodded again. The conspiracy was far more widespread, had deeper ramifications, than he had surmised in his most pessimistic calculations. “Since you have such an interesting list of adherents,” he said, “why am I honoured with your visit?”

  “As consul you have your duty to the State,” said Servilius, hectoringly.

  Antonius nodded. “I have my duty,” he repeated, gravely.

  “The group of public-spirited citizens now assembled on the Capitol,” Servilius went on, “have decided therefore to see if you are ready to co-operate with them in re-establishing the State.”

  Antonius thought hard. These men had every power in their hands, yet they feared to call the Senate on their own responsibility and take over the government. In a revolution the sticklers for legality are doomed. But was it a revolution? Were these men so sure of their position that they could afford the luxury of strictly correct procedure?

  “You mean you want me to join you — on the Capitol?”

  “Put it that way. I prefer to say we offer you a chance to re-enter the life of the State. Two years ago you acted worthily as a defender of the peace. I am instructed to say that we invite you to fulfil that promise.”

  Antonius looked him in the face. “I was Caesar’s friend.”

  “So were others.”

  “Leave that out of it. I was Caesar’s friend. I speak of my reputation. The populace, as you know, are liable to become unruly at any moment now. If I were to ascend the Capitol with you, it would disturb them unduly — while, as you know, their emotions have no lasting power. If you really wished me to help you, would you ask me to come to the Capitol?”

  “You are for the State or against the State.”

  “Now, now,” said Antonius, suavely. “We have discussed that already. You know where my heart lies. Explain what I have said to Brutus. Tell him I have great trust in his judgment. Meanwhile I must discuss the matter with my friends. Surely that is all you wish. Let us agree to leave the matter open till this time tomorrow.”

  The ambassadors had come determined to extort a definite reply, but they looked doubtfully at one another. After all, Antonius had taken the whole matter very quietly. Why unnecessarily precipitate things? One day’s truce wouldn’t do any harm; there was truth in the remark about the populace. Antonius saw the men wavering and felt that he had them. There was a basic weakness somewhere, if he could find it, he would beat them all. One of the senators plucked at the sleeve-fold of the gown of Servilius, who was the only choleric-minded among the six. Whispers. Antonius looked away, composing his face into an expression of decorous grief.

  “Till this time tomorrow then,” said Servilius, grudgingly.

  Antonius rose. “You will be returning to the Capitol?” Politely he ushered the men out. “Lucky the air is not chilly. I trust you will not be disturbed by the populace on your way back. Most likely they won’t recognise you in the dark. I’m doing my best to keep them orderly. But you know what a Roman mob is like ...”

  He saw the embassy out through the hall, and then came slowly back. The others sat motionless, waiting his return. Standing in the doorway he regarded his brothers and Lepidus for a few moments. They waited for him to speak. At last he spoke quietly.

  “It was kind of our friends on the Capitol to let us know they’re a pack of scared fools. Now let us see what can be done about it.”

  He came suddenly to life. He slapped his chest and boomed with laughter. Leaping into the room, he caught up a flagon, drained it greedily, threw it at the ceiling, gripped Lucius, and rolled with him, wrestling on the floor.

  Fulvia appeared at the doorway. “You needn’t explain. I listened through the curtains.”

  Antonius rose with bright eyes. “Now, Lepidus, you get to work among the veterans. It’s dark, but much can be done. Send out everyone you can find to visit the taverns. Ask them all to spread the news. A roll-up in the Forum tomorrow. Revenge Caesar that’s the password. And send a few men to follow up that deputation and pelt them in the dark. It’ll put them in the right frame of mind to deliver our message.” He turned to his brothers. “You, my lads, come with me. I’ve a small job to do.”

  *

  Past the Temple of the Speaker Speaking, the first lane. Gallus found it at last, after piteous inquiries at taverns. The fifth house. Five was an easy number to count, but he made a mistake and wasted half an hour knocking at the wrong house, till he counted again and found the house of his search. The door opened at once, and a sleepy janitor looked out.

  “I must see your mistress. Cytheris. Tell Cytheris I’m here,” said Gallus, pushing his way in. The disgusted slave stared at the torn and muddied man whose breath stank of wine.

  “She’s out,” he said, sure that such a visitor would be unwelcome.

  Gallus took him by the throat. “Tell her it’s me, Gallus,” he said ferociously.

  The slave disengaged himself and retreated. Help would be needed to eject this madman. Putting his head round the hangings on the left, he called, “Gnatho ... Tlepolemus ...”

  Gallus recognised the trick and charged; but the slave dropped to the floor without waiting to be attacked, and continued shouting. Other slaves came running down the passage, and a woman’s voice was heard.

  Gallus stepped back. “Cytheris!”

  She appeared at the end of the hall. Now that the search was completed, Gallus suddenly knew that he had no right to be where he was, that his claim on Cytheris was entirely one-sided, that he had made himself ridiculous, that he was in a degraded condition. He turned to run from the house, but the slaves were upon him, pinioning him roughly. Cytheris walked up, her face flushing indignantly.

  “What is the meaning of this outrage?”

  Gallus lowered his head and mumbled. “I’m a fool. I’m drunk. Forgive me.”

  She caught him by the chin and forced him to look up. “Who are you?”

  That was the final blow. She did not even remember him. What was the use of saying anything? Let him be thrown out as he deserved, and let that be the end of it all.

  But Cytheris at last remembered. He saw recognition awakening in her eyes. “What has happened to you?” she asked. “What have you done with yourself since last night?” He saw wonderment increasing. “And why have you come here?”

  �
�I can’t tell you.” He twisted in the arms of the slaves. “I can’t.” He wailed. “Let me go.”

  Then she saw the blood matted on his head. “You’re hurt.”

  He shook his head as if he could throw the wound off. “Nothing. Let me go. I’ve spoilt everything. It was mad of me to come. Look at me. I’m drunk.”

  She stood back and studied him with slow, pitying eyes. To his strained vision her eyes seemed opening wider and wider, dilating with petals of light.

  “I love you,” he said, very distinctly, and fainted.

  *

  Obsessed with the consequences of Caesar’s death, everyone had forgotten the body of Caesar dead. But three slaves, who had hidden behind the pillars of a portico, came out after a while and entered the Curia. They saw their butchered master, and stood lamenting round the corpse, afraid to touch it. At length they gathered courage, draped it with the rent purple gown, and lifted it reverently. They bore it out, and, choosing the least damaged of the abandoned litters, took home to Calpurnia all that was left of Caesar; and Calpurnia looked at her dead husband and found him even stranger dead than living. But she was a faithful wife, and laid out the body on the best couch, and stripped it and laved it with scented water and clad it in the purest linen; and she would allow none of her slave-women to touch the body. All the offices of the dead she did with her own hands, shuddering as she washed the loins. Then she sat at the side of the corpse and rocked herself, moaning, as if she were rocking at her breast the child that she had failed to bear.

  So Caesar lay at rest; and those of his friends who had not stabbed him ran away; and the people skulked in the cellars and tenements; and his enemies held the Capitol.

  When dusk came, Calpurnia lighted candles in bronze candle-sticks around the couch, and sat at the side of the corpse, still mourning dutifully and trying to think what manner of man he had been, and whether he had been very kind or very cruel. She anointed his brow and his hands and the soles of his feet with oil, and washed his wounds with old wine; and after that she felt easier. No one came to the house. But that she did not think strange, for she had forgotten that he once ruled the world. She did not eat or drink. Finally, noticing that the bald patch he had disliked was visible, she fetched some bay leaves and made a garland and crowned him; and then she was contented, though she still sat at his side, rocking.