by Allan Massie
Cicero left early, explaining that, at his age (which in conversation he sometimes liked to exaggerate, perhaps to make himself seem more remarkable, or in an effort to attract sympathy) he required longer hours of sleep — "not that I sleep sound, you understand, but I must at least rest in bed" — than vigorous youth or beauties like Longina and Porcia.
It was, incidentally, absurd to describe Porcia as a beauty. She was very thin, and her lower jaw was of the type described, I believe, as "lantern" — long and lean. Moreover, her eyes were dull, without sparkle. You had only to look at her to sense that she was devoid of imagination.
"What an old bore he is," Longina said. "I had to keep pinching myself to keep awake and not yawn in his face." She giggled. "He would have liked that, I don't think."
Markie frowned again.
"He is a man of the very greatest distinction. I confess I find it difficult sometimes to follow his conversation, partly because it's so copious, but I never leave Cicero's company without feeling enriched."
"Yes," Porcia said. "A very great man, but a thinker, not a man of action, and as my father, the great Cato, used to say, 'Action is the test of a man.' I think that's so true. After all, anyone is capable of speaking virtuously, even the greatest hypocrites, even Caesar when he pleases, but to act virtuously, in accordance with the example of our ancestors, and the duties enjoined on us by the gods, that's a different matter."
"There's something strange, and disturbing, about which I wish to consult with you, cousin," Markie said. "I don't know quite what it means or how I should respond."
"Well?"
"It's been reported to me, reliably reported, that a paper has been found under the statue of our great ancestor who destroyed the Tarquins, with the legend: 'O, that we had a Brutus now! O, that Brutus were living at this hour!' Then, when I took my seat as praetor at the tribunal today, I discovered a message laid before me there, which read: 'Brutus, thou sleepest. Thou art not a true Brutus if you will not wake from your shameful slumber.' I am puzzled to know the import of these things."
"Husband," Porcia said, while I still deliberated how I should best answer my wooden-headed cousin, "husband, you are too modest, and it makes you slow. These messages which puzzle you so strangely ought not to do so. They are arrows directed at your conscience. They call upon you to imitate the action of your great ancestor, and rid Rome of a tyrant."
"A tyrant? Caesar?"
Longina shifted on her couch. Like me, I think, she suspected her father's hand in these messages.
"Yes," Porcia said, "a tyrant. One who is smothering liberty in Rome as surely as he destroyed my noble father. And so the people turn to you, Brutus, as one whose virtue they recognise."
It was as if she had forgotten our presence. She was concentrated utterly on her husband.
"But Caesar has been kind to me," Brutus said. "I bear him no grudge, have nothing with which to reproach him. And, compared to those who have gone before, like Marius and Sulla, he has displayed a notable clemency to those who fought against him. I can't forget that, or ignore it. What do you say, Mouse?"
"What do I say? I say that I owe as much to Caesar as you do, but I owe more to Rome. Whatever Caesar's virtues, and nobody is more conscious of them than I am, his position in the State has become vicious. We may have nothing with which to reproach Caesar himself, personally, but Caesar will have an heir…"
And so, with infinite patience, I spelled out again, in still greater detail, on account of my cousin's slow understanding, the arguments I had employed to Caesar himself.
And I concluded: "Think of Caesar as a serpent's egg. An egg does no harm, but when hatched, it will breed vipers who will poison Rome with their sting. So, what do you do if you find a serpent's egg? You crush it."
"Husband, darling," Longina murmured in my ear, when our guests had departed, and we lay in bed, having made tender love, "Mouse-husband, I am afraid."
I stroked her breasts, ran my hand over her belly, and between her legs. I brushed her lips with mine.
"It is not a fear that you can banish with kisses."
But she clung to me and kissed me hard; yet I felt a trembling run through her body.
"I'm not going to question you, but again I'm afraid of my father's influence on you. At the moment all is imaginary, in your head. Let it remain there, please, not translated into action… it's not Caesar I'm thinking of, though when I think of him, and of how he is so full of life, I'm horrified to think of the plans you are brooding on. But it's not Caesar, it's you. My father is rash. His enterprises go astray. I'm afraid that everything will go wrong."
"There's another fear you might consider," I said. "Suppose I stand out. Suppose I even tell Caesar what is planned. It won't be the last attempt. There will be others, and one will succeed, since Caesar refuses to take precautions. What then? What will be the fate of someone known to be Caesar's ally? How long would I last in such circumstances?"
Chapter 18
My nights are disturbed. I woke this morning in cold terror. Caesar had visited me in a dream. At least I am sure it was a dream, and not his ghost — small consolation. I was in bed with Longina, who lay damply weeping in my arms, overcome with the sadness that succeeds desire and its performance. Her grief was the greater because she had revealed to me that our little son was dead: "crushed in the egg", she said, over and over again. I do not know whether this is true, for I have had no word from Longina. Her silence distresses me, even though I tell myself that she may have no means of knowing where I am, may not have received my letters, and may ache because of my absence, as I do on account of hers. The pains of love, once satisfied, now denied, are sharper even than the pang of unattainable desire. To lose what you know and trust is more cruel than never to have what you hoped for.
But Caesar stood at the end of the bed, displaying his wounds. He did not speak, but his gestures, as he touched first this gash, then another, finally that which was my own work, were pitiful.
I wanted to cry out that I could acquit myself of envy, that that had not been my motive as it was (I now realise) Cassius', but there was an obstruction in my throat, and though I could form words, I was unable to utter them.
Then Caesar beckoned to Longina, and she withdrew herself from me, and slipped, silver as Diana in the shaft of moonlight, from our bed, and threw her arms around Caesar, and kissed him full on the lips. I was compelled to watch as they withdrew, with many lascivious gestures, both all at once oblivious of my presence, my rights, my very existence. The moonlight slid away with them, and I was left in the dark, and a long silence, which was broken first by a cackle of laughter, and then by a sound which I knew to be my own sobbing, though my body did not move and my eyes were dry.
A dream? Of course. I don't believe in spectres. But it left me like the last, solitary ant of a broken ant hill.
As for Longina, there, undoubtedly, my dream told the truth. She had turned away from me towards the memory of Caesar. She would, I am now certain, deny me if we should ever meet again. And what difference would that make? Would it stimulate my jealousy? I don't think so, I have never been a jealous man. Rather, the thought provokes a serene and sombre resignation, a type of detachment.
It has come to me that if we were to meet again, she might yield to my desires, something might revive in her of her former feeling, but even if this was not the case, even if my love was not returned, it would no longer matter. If we were together again, we might resume our former habits, or we might not. In any case I wouldn't stop loving her.
When I think how I took her for convenience, as an act of policy, and how I despised her, now there I find cause for shame.
My preference for Octavius over her! How callow it seems, how stupid! What nonsense the Greeks talked about the superiority of the love between a man and a youth! Perhaps it merely reflected the inferiority of Greek women? But I don't think so. There is nothing after all like the love for a woman who has given herself to you.
&
nbsp; And if both Octavius and Longina now think of me with contempt, well, it is only her contempt that can distress me.
And yet, having written that, with the utmost sincerity, I have to confess that three weeks ago, I wrote to Octavius, pleading with him to intercede on my behalf, and so save my life. I am ashamed of that letter now, and of the terms in which it was couched. Yet if a man was cast into the sea and drowning, would he care on what terms he was rescued? There are two voices at war in my head. Thus:
Reproach: Such a plea is a denial of virtue. It is less than should become a man.
Response: We have made too much of virtue. We have made fools of ourselves over our concept of virtue. It was virtue brought me to my present state.
Reproach: Ah, then, do you deny the virtue of that act? Would you have it undone?
And then there is silence.
Octavius has not replied. Perhaps there has not yet been time. Perhaps when he received my letter, he tore it into angry pieces. Perhaps — a worse thought — he read it aloud at the supper-table to amuse his companions, to make Maecenas snigger.
On the other hand, starved as I am of news, my letter may have been pointless, too late. Octavius himself may no longer be in a position to do anything for anyone.
That thought doesn't distress me.
Artixes has grown more distant. He no longer asks me to read my memoirs to him. Either his father has grown suspicious of our friendship, or he has conceived an abhorrence for either my person or my history. So I am truly alone now.
History… there is a chance, I suppose, that this manuscript will survive me. I write it partly to fill the time, to revive memory and banish thought of the future (which nevertheless keeps breaking in); partly as an act of self-justification. This is my testimony.
Will those who read it understand me, or will they continue to reproach me with that single word Octavius directed at me: traitor?
Very well, I accept the word, adding only this: I had a deeper and more true affection for Caesar than Octavius had. My life had been bound up in his. I served him with the utmost loyalty. Does the boy suppose that it cost me nothing to put a higher duty above my debt to Caesar? Besides, I had been subject to his charm… that famous charm.
Another dream: desert sands extend in all directions, grey-purple in the lingering light of the sun that has slid behind the distant hills. I am alone. Around me lie evidences of disaster: dead horses, scraps of armour, abandoned swords, spears, great lumbering baggage carts. But there are no corpses of dead legionaries. It is as if I gaze on the debris of an army without soldiers.
I stumble on, weary, thirsty and afraid. The moon has risen as the chants begin. From a sandbank on a ridge, I look down on a hollow place, where naked figures dance around a stone altar, in barbaric but compulsive rhythm. There is a figure bound to the altar. It keeps changing in the shifting light. Now it seems young, now old, now a woman, now a youth. A squat shape disengages itself from the dancers, and hops in a crouched position towards the altar. Only the head of the bound figure is free and it turns from side to side. The mouth is open as if it is screaming, but no sound comes from those lips which are the colour of dead ashes. Then the crouching thing rises. It turns towards me and I see that it is masked. The company is silent. In the distance a wolf howls. A cloud of birds — kites or vultures — descend on the altar with the slow beating of heavy wings. They cover the figure, so that the last I see is that grey-lipped mouth, stretched wide, emitting screams that never sound. And at that moment, hands pluck at my garments, sharp nails tear at my flesh, and I wake screaming the screams that the figure was unable to release.
In the words of my poor Catullus:
"Miser a miser, querendum est etiam atque etiam, anime." — "Twice-wretched soul, again and again must I sound my sadness."
Chapter 19
Enough of these black dreams t hat come on stealthy feet to make me fear sleep itself. Let me resume my narrative.
Of all our traditional Roman ceremonies the strangest, and to me perhaps for that reason th e most compelling, is the Luper calia. Its origins, even its purpose, are unknown, lost in the mists of time. It takes place two days after the Ides of February, in the middle of the ten days of ceremonies in honour of our departed ancestors; but whether it is connected with these, no one even among the priests can confidently say.
It centres on the cave of the Lupercal, on the south-west side of the steep and leafy Palatine. It was at that spot that the she-wolf succoured Romulus, our founder, and his brother Remus, and this connection and the name of the festival would seem to insist that in some mysterious fashion it celebrates that deed. If so, many changes must have taken place since it was first inaugurated, for there is no evident resemblance between its rites and the suckling of Romulus and Remus.
The festival commences with the sacrifice of goats and the offering of sacred cakes baked by the Vestal Virgins from ears of corn of the last harvest. Two nobly-born youths have their heads smeared with blood from the knife employed in the sacrifice, and this is then wiped off with wool dipped in milk. Then they are required to laugh. Wrapped in the skins of the goats, they eat a lavish meal, after which they lead two companies of noble youths at the run around the base of the Palatine. All carry februa, strips of purified goatskin, with which they lash any women they encounter. Needless to say, the more enterprising among them seek out the prettiest girls, who, regarding it as both an honour and a good omen to receive the lash, make little effort to escape. I have been fascinated by the Lupercalia, since I was myself one of the two chosen youths, and I know how it generates an uncanny excitement. It invites the participants to shed for the moment the trappings of the civilisation which at other times we so highly value. I attended it this year with Casca.
"I like its savagery," he said. "As you know, old dear, I generally give well-born boys a wide berth. They are rarely sufficiently pliable for my taste. All the same there are always one or two beauties disporting themselves who take my fancy and give me a bit of the old excitement. So, yes, I'm on."
It was a cold bright day, with snow on the hills. There was the usual confusion, yelps of excitement, laughter and taunting. Caesar sat on a golden chair among the dancing priests of the Luperci. He wore a purple toga and a golden wreath on his head. Because of the cold he had a shawl round his neck. He seemed to be paying no attention to what was happening. I let my gaze wander.
Then Casca nudged me in the ribs.
"Look at this."
A large figure, dressed in skins, pranced towards Caesar, bearing a crown. For a moment I didn't recognise him as Antony. He knelt before Caesar, extending the crown to him. Caesar made no response.
Crown of Romulus? I thought.
The crowd fell silent, all eyes now fixed on Caesar.
He stretched out his hand, touched the crown, let his fingers lie on it, while his gaze travelled the thronging mass. Then, without looking at Antony, he pushed the crown away, and let his hand drop. The crowd roared applause.
But Antony did not desist. He remained on his knees, still holding out the crown to Caesar, as if he was a suppliant, begging a favour. This time, Caesar's fingers closed on the crown, while once again his gaze shifted from it, sweeping the assembly. But again he let his hand fall, and again there was a roar of approval.
Antony did not move. He held the crown steady, level with his eyes. He pushed it a little towards Caesar. Caesar stretched out his hand again. He took the crown. Antony loosened his hold. For a moment the crown was all Caesar's. The silence held, to be broken by yells of disapproval. Caesar smiled, still looking at the crown and not at the people. The crown trembled in his hands. Then he thrust it at Antony, almost knocking him over backwards, such was the vigour of the thrust. The boos and hisses which had begun (as if the mob were in the theatre and Caesar a player who had displeased them) were translated into cheers.
Caesar rose, a little unsteadily, so that he laid his hand on Antony's head. He pulled the shawl away, and let
it fall. He pointed his index finger at his naked throat. His mouth moved, but what he said couldn't be heard in the tumultuous din. From his action I deduced that he was inviting any whom his response displeased to cut his throat. The invitation was not accepted. The cheers resounded louder. Caesar swayed, and fell to the ground.
Casca whispered: "I expect he's been choked by their stinking breath, they crowd around him so close."
"No," I said. "It's his old complaint, the falling sickness." A voice close to my other ear said:
"It's not Caesar who suffers from the falling sickness, but us. Yes, and Casca too, we all have the falling sickness."
I didn't have to turn to identify my father-in-law.
"An interesting charade," he said. "We need to talk about it. Come home with me after this is all over."
Caesar had recovered, was on his feet again, very pale, and still trembling. He held up his hand for silence.
He obtained it, which says much for his authority and presence.
"Good people," his voice was faint.
"The poor soul," a sluttish girl near us muttered.
"Good people," Caesar said again, "I apologise for disturbing you with this strange infirmity of mine, which, as veterans of my campaigns will tell you, has often preceded my greatest triumphs. If I have offended any of you in any way this day, think kindly of me, and attribute the offence to the onset of my malady."
Then, leaning ostentatiously on Antony's shoulder, he made his slow, almost regal, way through the crowd in the direction of the Forum.
"The poor soul," the girl said again, "you can see how he suffers."
"He should never have been out today, I could see that as soon as I clapped eyes on the poor man," one of her companions said, "but there it is, he's a martyr to duty."
"Yes," said another, "and he knew how it would disappoint us if he wasn't, with us."
"Poor soul," the first girl said again. "You can see how hard it is for him."