Caesar is Dead

by Jack Lindsay

  When Antonius knocked at the door, she bade the whimpering servants admit him. He entered with his two brothers and stood looking at the dead man whom he had served for ten years, and thought that he had never seen him resting until now; and all that was generous in him kindled and drew the heart out of him. He knelt and kissed Caesar’s right hand, which was torn where it had grasped one of the daggers.

  Then he spoke to Calpurnia. “As your husband’s colleague in the consulship, I have come to claim his papers, and any public funds that are here.”

  Calpurnia rose, eager to get rid of all such evidences of Caesar’s troubling past. She hurried from the room, and Antonius was left with his two brothers.

  “I thought those blunderers would have neglected to come here.”

  But his elation faded again as he looked at Caesar, at the mangled body, at the man so immeasurably greater than his slayers.

  “By God, Caesar,” he cried, passionately, grinding his teeth, his chest heaving, “they have carved you for their dish, and I’ll make them swallow the meat though they vomit out their guts.”

  Lucius nodded his head with slow decision, his eyes turned broodingly inwards. Gaius whistled softly.

  Her arms piled with tablets and papyrus-rolls, Calpurnia returned. She threw the bundles on the floor. “There is more, much more,” she said, wearily, passing her hand over her brow. “Please take it all. And the money too.” She wanted to be alone with Caesar again, though she knew she would not close her eyes in sleep until the body was carried away out of the house; but she had felt uncannily peaceful and wished to see the visitors go.

  Antonius moved towards the door. “I have men here.” He beckoned to the veterans in the hall.

  IV — THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE

  Men, awaking next morning, turned over and began gathering their minds with difficulty towards the accustomed tasks; and suddenly they remembered. Caesar was dead, and nothing was settled. The voice was stopped, and now there was only silence. The tasks, the routine existence of each man seemed drably unfamiliar, disturbed and disturbing. Those who were free, lay abed, and grasped their wives, not from desire, but from the desperate wish to hide; and the wives closed their eyes and held fast to the bed-frame, for they too were frightened.

  On the Capitol, the Liberators, who had slept in beds hastily prepared from rushes and mattresses, were sick and depressed. Their bones were sore, and the morning was cold. The gladiators, who had camped in one of the small groves near the Tarpeian Steps, were stamping about, wondering if they would get a chance to cut throats and be praised for it; and they and the freedmen, who had emerged from the opposite grove, were starting fires. A breakfast of porridge, bread, honey, and watered wine was shared out. Decimus Brutus had taken charge of the Commissariat last evening and sent down some slaves to collect food; which had been done after some doors were knocked down. The shaking shopkeepers had produced the goods and then stared incredulously at the proffered coins. But the word had got round that pillaging was begun; and before dawn some hungry proletarians had sacked a few bakeries in the Subura.

  All through the night the messengers from the Capitol and the house of Antonius on the Carina had been threading the streets, occasionally blundering into one another and brawling. With dawn Lepidus sent men still further afield. All the veterans in Rome or the vicinity were to be warned; the bosses of the remaining workers’ clubs were asked to marshal their men and roll up in the Forum. The sun had no sooner scattered the first gleams of his uprising over the house-tops than Lepidus, with the body of soldiers already collected, marched to the Forum and picketed all the strategic points. The smaller bands of the conservatives’ freedmen retreated after some skirmishing; and it was clear that the reactionaries, however imposing on paper, had not enough strength to seize Rome. The absence of Brutus, the city-praetor, from his tribunal particularly roused the spirits of the Caesarians.

  One episode alone lent courage to the conservatives. A minor praetor, Cinna, after mounting the dais beside Gaius Antonius, bade his lictors depart, threw off his purple-edged gown, overturned his ivory curule-chair, and declared that he would hold office from the People but from no Tyrant. There was a shout of rage from the soldiers, but Cinna withdrew with his supporters before the crowd understood what he was doing. But his defection was soon forgotten, and merely underlined the apparent abdication of the conspirators from the magistracies.

  Business was suspended and no litigants appeared before the courts; but the fact that the only magistrates present were Caesarians had its effect. Antonius had arrived early to show himself in consular insignia and carry through formalities that would emphasise still further the withdrawal of the conspirators. He was feeling very confident, deliberately casting himself into the swirl of events that had succeeded the deadly inaction of yesterday afternoon. What he sought he did not know. Fear of his own destruction, a bitter wish to revenge Caesar, a stormy hope of achieving power: his motives were hotly entangled, and he did not wish to dissect them. He wanted the escape of action; wine-fumes rayed the world with an insidious excitement and contempt.

  He had it all clear. The conspirators were a set of flabby fools. Decimus Brutus, a good soldier, must be overawed; for he alone could become a danger. Cassius had no province allotted; Trebonius had Asia, but Asia was far away; Decimus had Cisalpine Gaul. The man who swayed Cisalpine Gaul with an army would be master of Rome. Antonius recalled the moment when, six years ago, he had sighted Caesar at Ariminum, just across the border-line; as tribune he had been fleeing from Rome to announce to Caesar the wilful infringement of the inviolable rights of the people, and that had been the signal for the Civil War. He felt his heart smitten at the memory of Caesar’s welcoming smile, his far-seeing smile. Don’t haunt me, Caesar, I’m doing your will. The soldier with Cisalpine Gaul was master of Rome. Therefore Decimus must be dislodged. If he was persuaded to resign, Antonius could arrange to get the province.

  So, waiting till news of the demonstrations in the Forum had had time to reach the Capitol, Antonius sent an amiable message, suggesting that Decimus Brutus should descend to discuss matters with Hirtius. Hirtius couldn’t be trusted; but he was thoroughly frightened and would frighten Decimus in turn. That was all that was needed. The conservatives wouldn’t suspect Hirtius of double-dealing — and rightly so, for, a sincere admirer of Caesar, he saw now only that everything was ruined and that any compromise was preferable to the threatening anarchy.

  The reply came, and Antonius smiled on the world. The worried conspirators agreed to the suggestion; and soon the reluctant Decimus descended with his bodyguard and a worthless promise of safe passage. Without a doubt he would be depressed into making the concession.

  It was all so very easy, thought Antonius.

  *

  Dolabella strode into the Forum. Both sides had forgotten his existence, and now Antonius cursed. He felt his anger against the youth die away; trivial feuds couldn’t survive the coming of real stress. If only he’d remembered to get in touch with Dolabella and guarantee to drop the veto of his consulship — that would have checkmated the conservatives for it would have meant two Caesarian consuls. Why hadn’t the fool sent word? Was it too late? Antonius looked round for Lepidus, to use him as a go-between; but Dolabella had already precipitated matters.

  Gowned as consul, he mounted a tribunal, and, surrounded by a group of followers, spoke to the Forum. “Romans, you can rely on me to see that no one meddles with the popular rights; but I refuse to act with a colleague who has shown himself a murderer of Roman citizens when they were only asking for their dues — a traitor to Caesar, since he sought to thwart Caesar’s wish and hinder my election — a rogue and a drunken opportunist, Marcus Antonius.”

  Antonius did not stir. Let the boy have his say. It was a pity, but Antonius himself was to blame for not having remembered.

  The crowd didn’t know how to take Dolabella’s speech. The group near the tribunal cheered loudly, and Dolabella continued. “S
ince, therefore, the State has ceased to exist, I see no other course than to approach the senators now occupying the Capitol. As deputy-consul, I am made full consul by Caesar’s death. I shall thus be able to offer a mediating and mollifying influence, and to safeguard your interests. Romans, have no doubt that I am acting only on your behalf.”

  He stepped quickly from the tribunal, and, amid the plaudits of his followers and a growl of puzzled dissatisfaction from the mob, proceeded towards the Capitol. The fool, thought Antonius; he thinks himself very clever; he knows they’ll leap at anyone that can claim consular position; he thinks he’s played a fine trick against me; perhaps he has, but there’s little he’ll gain out of it.

  *

  On the wall was a painted curtain showing Helen as she came naked from the bath to be surprised by her guest Paris. Gallus tried hard to think where he had seen it before. Nowhere. It was Helen that he had seen, Helen who died hundreds of years ago, the heroine of poetry who parted the murmuring words of Homer like a wood-goddess with eyes slanting through the lifted leaves. Verses from the elegy that Catullus had written fourteen years before on his dead brother drifted through the mind of Gallus:

  Troy then by Helen’s rape had roused the host ...

  Ah Troy where Europe on to Asia bleeds,

  the bitter tomb of men and worthy deeds ...

  my brother also died at Troy. I weep.

  I weep O my lost brother ...

  far in an alien land, and here mourn I ...

  that Paris might not laugh and toss his hair ...

  Gallus would be a better poet yet. Poor Catullus coughing blood. He moaned feebly and heard a sound on the other side of the curtain. Though he didn’t know it, the sound came from a slave-girl posted to call Cytheris when he awoke.

  He drew back his head into the covert of sleep, fading into a half-dream. He was hiding from the searchers, under a bed, a cavern of maidenhair, under the boughs of a forest rifted with light, running; and a panther leapt at him, but missed. Gallus laughed, knowing that he was dreaming, and yet believing the dream. He was sure he had forgotten to take his mother home, though she was dead five long years. Someone pounded on the rock, breaking into the cavern; and his head pained.

  Cytheris was standing over him. He opened his eyes and remembered, but did not dare speak first. She also seemed shy. At last she said, “How do you feel this morning?”

  “Better, much better,” he babbled, finding his voice and then unable to control it. “How can I thank you? You ought to have had me thrown out. It was unforgivable. I can’t imagine what you thought of me —”

  She silenced him by placing her finger on his lips. “Don’t exhaust yourself. I have some medicine here that will help you. You’ll sleep again and awaken refreshed.” She took up a small crystal phial and poured out six drops through the tiny spout; then she held the cup to his lips. “It’s bitter but there’s a little wine in the cup.”

  He pushed the cup aside, not wanting to lose her presence yet. “Why are you so good?” His voice, meant to be pleasing and tender, sounded querulous. He wanted her to make some reference to his declaration of love; for that, and that alone, he recalled of what he had said. She knew what was in his mind, and dreaded him speaking.

  “Drink,” she said, gently.

  “But you don’t even know my name.” He was affronted by her impersonal solicitude. She treated him merely as a patient, not as a man who had dramatically declared his love for her.

  “Your name is Cornelius Gallus. I know.”

  He was blissfully satisfied by her remark, and drank the potion down noisily, held up by her arm behind his back. She had known who he was. That made everything different. She knew he was a poet.

  Cytheris watched him as he lay back with happily closed eyes, his wet mouth parted, the tip of his tongue moving uneasily across his lips. She had sent a slave to inquire at Dolabella’s house who was the young man next to her at the dinner — but not so as to betray any interest. The slave had been told to call for a bracelet that she had left in the bedroom, and to ask casually. So she had learned the name, but no more. She was troubled as she looked down at Gallus, and wished that he would recover quickly; but she couldn’t turn him out till he was able to walk. Again she felt shy. She hoped that he wouldn’t mention love again. She had never felt shy before — or not as far back as she could remember.

  She sighed. She preferred not to remember. She walked swiftly from the room, drawing the curtains with clumsy speed. She wanted to shut out the past, to shut out this Gallus who made her think of past and future. Wretched creature, why didn’t he get better?

  Stopping in the hall, she instructed the janitor that the expected visitors — a young noble and his friends — were not to be admitted.

  *

  The arrival of Dolabella on the Capitol raised the spirits of the conspirators, though Cicero, in his animosity, could not let the occasion pass without commemorative sarcasms. “Why has little Dolabella been arrested?” he asked, in a loud voice, referring to the guard of tall lictors. “And why has he dressed up as a small boy again?” For children wore the purple-edged gown, and Dolabella was very short and slight.

  The senators grinned, but hastily agreed to authenticate Dolabella’s claim to the consulship in return for any needed support against Antonius. A new discussion arose, and it was decided that any impression of fear must be removed; the people must be shown that the Liberators were merely biding their time, confident in the justice of their cause and the strength of their resources. Brutus and Cassius, as the chief conspirators and as praetors, must appear in the Forum; Brutus could then deliver a speech and put everything right.

  All agreed at once on this course. Let Brutus and Cassius go down. Brutus and Cassius stood palely and proudly in their places, and assented. But when the question arose as to the escort for the praetors, there was less energetic insistence. The other conspirators had no wish to face the mob. Speakers pointed out that the wish was to impress, not aggravate. Finally it was decided that all the supporters who had not actually joined in the slaying should accompany the praetors, and make as formidable a procession as possible, guarded by the gladiators and armed slaves.

  Down from the Capitol wound the procession. Cicero was close behind Brutus and Cassius, and he remembered that other procession made by the conservatives to impress the mob — on the evening when the Catilinarian conspirators had been led to their death. Then Cicero had marched at the head, and it had been the revolutionaries who were on their trial; now it was the oligarchy that stood at the tribunal, and the populace were sitting in judgment. He hated this appeal to the mob; but he had raised no objections; it would have been useless.

  Brutus felt stifled. That feeling had grown on him ever since the barricades had been raised on the Capitol. The argument about slave and free continued in his head, unnerving him. The slaying of Caesar should have ended all doubts. It was in that belief he had forced himself to the blow; but the act had made things worse, far worse. What he would say in the Forum, he had no idea. He wanted to curse the mob as a pack of wolves that deserved nothing better than a despot, a cruel not a paternal one like Caesar. He would have to speak from the Rostra — Caesar’s Rostra, placed at the south-eastern end of the square. That was most distasteful. Caesar had demolished the old platform beside the Senate House, and set up the new one at a distance, to show that appeal henceforth must be made to public opinion, not to a privileged class; and here Brutus was about to emphasise the intention by making that very appeal.

  The lofty platform, lined with Grecian marbles and hung with two lines of bronze ship-beaks, was not yet quite finished; the gracefully moulded plinths and cornices lacked a few pieces, revealing the travertine-blocks beneath, and the sides were not fully connected with the Graecostasis, the curved stand at the rear thick with statues. The only way to get on to the Rostra was to ascend the Graecostasis, which rested on the Capitoline slope, and then step across.

  The crowd was i
nclined to become noisy; but Antonius had told the soldiers to keep order and bid the people restrain themselves. The show of upper-class strength must be met with a show of proletarian solidarity: a stubborn silence would effect this better than any uproar. So Brutus and his companions found a passage cleared for them without outcry, without even occasional whistlings or jeers. At first the quiet was a relief; then it turned into a menace, the dull brooding atmosphere before a thunderstorm. Heavily it closed round the limbs of the men moving; heavily it muffled their words. Brutus felt it even more oppressive as he came forward to the marble rail of the Rostra; the sea of faces below seemed packed motionless, dead, frozen in a stony hatred. He was gazing on an ugly mosaic flat as the pavement on which the men stood; and the herring-bone pattern of the tiles at his feet wavered and blurred like the ribbed waves of the sea. How could he stand there and speak?

  But he spoke. He did not need to think of what to say. The burning thoughts came to him, clear, elementally urgent; but, as ever, he uttered them with a pedantic stolid vehemence, a ponderous fury, making jerky broken gestures, then standing still and sinking his head a moment. The obsessed sincerity of his voice gripped the listeners, but not with sympathy; it held and yet repelled.

  Cicero listened with the discomfort that a speech from Brutus always awoke in him, but this time the emotion was infinitely intensified. What a chance was being wasted. What a different speech he himself would have delivered. Yet he knew that his own speech, beautifully considered as a thing of accumulative persuasion, would have provoked abuse and howls of rage; the mob at least listened to Brutus, though they would as likely turn to the statues of orators on the Graecostasis for words that meant anything in their ears.