by Sam Starbuck
Rome was silent as they marched to the Capitol to proclaim Caesar’s death. Rome was silent too when they dispersed, each man to his own home and perhaps his own fate. The citizens, hearing what had happened, had locked themselves indoors for fear of the men who’d killed Caesar.
If Brutus hadn’t known it was wrong when he’d killed Caesar, the silence of the city would have told him. Cassius sneered at the stupid, fearful populace, but Brutus could taste the fear and anger in the air, scent it like a hunting dog. This had been wrong.
Cassius danced around him as they walked home after the murder, Caesar’s body still lying in his own blood outside the Senate. He talked constantly, of the glory of Rome and the goodness of their deeds, of the coming days and what they would bring, and how, when Rome had settled and the people understood the favor they’d performed, things would be different. Brutus walked wearily, half-blind, a roaring in his ears. When they reached the town house, they passed into the triclinium without seeing a soul.
“Brutus, why can’t you smile?” Cassius asked as Brutus settled heavily on one of the couches. “We’ve won! Rome is free. This is your greatest moment. The people will acclaim you.”
Brutus shook his head. “Something’s wrong,” he murmured.
“It’s just the fading heat of battle. You know how it is when you get the cut-and-thrust going,” Cassius said, miming a stabbing motion, and Brutus felt sick. “You’ll be fine in a little while. Have some wine. Hey! Wine in here!” he yelled into the corridor, but nobody answered. “Some wine, some food, you’ll feel better.”
“We shouldn’t have,” Brutus answered, his voice thin and small.
“What else was there to do?” Cassius asked, crouching in front of him. “We agreed we must.”
“I don’t know. But we should have—we shouldn’t have done that. We had no choice, but . . .” Brutus shook his head again. Cassius caught his face between his hands and looked him in the eye, thumbs rubbing his temples. Brutus tried to pull away.
“Come here. It’s all right,” Cassius said, leaning in, unbelievably, pressing a kiss to his lips. Brutus jerked away. “Marcus, Marcus, it’s me. I love you, and you were magnificent. Just this once I can—”
Brutus drew back. “But I can’t.”
“What?” Cassius asked, shock in his voice.
“I can’t, Cassius.”
“That’s just . . .” Cassius went to kiss him again, and Brutus pushed him away. All he saw was the blood flowing out around his dagger and Cassius over Caesar’s shoulder, his arm raised to strike him through the throat.
“We had to do it, Brutus. We had to.”
Brutus hung his head. “Maybe so, but it was still wrong.”
“Then there is no right in the world,” Cassius said, his words falling on Brutus like stones thrown by an enemy.
“Perhaps there is no right,” Brutus agreed. “But I can’t look at you and not see Caesar’s death. I can’t—”
“You can, it will fade, just give it time—”
“I can’t, Gaius,” Brutus snarled, shoving him back and standing, backing away. “I’ll fight for you, conspire with you again if we must, but not this, not any longer. I can’t look you in the face.”
Cassius had fallen to the floor and was sitting there, propped on his arms, his face dark. When he spoke, his voice was resigned. “Then I’ve sacrificed two tyrants for Rome.”
Brutus turned away.
“Caesar who would be emperor, and the rule you held over me.”
There was nothing he could say. Eventually he heard a rustle as Cassius lifted himself off the floor, and then footsteps, Cassius’s long stride, leaving the villa. He heaved a great sigh and sat down again, feeling cold and alone. Perhaps Cassius was right, and there was no justice in the world. Certainly for him there was no more love. He would never be able to look on Cassius again without seeing the tip of his dagger stuck through Caesar’s throat.
He wasn’t sure how long it was before he heard footsteps again, this time lighter, quicker.
Tiresias crept into the room like a shadow, settling next to Brutus on the couch, looking up at him with serene, trusting eyes. After a long moment, he slung his arm around Brutus’s broad shoulders and pulled him down to rest his face in the soft crook of Tiresias’s throat. Another moment and Brutus slumped over, head in his lap, breath coming fast and shallow.
He turned his face into the linen and felt the bump underneath of the phallus Tiresias wore. It was reassuring, somehow; Tiresias was ever unchanging, utterly confident in himself, utterly confident in his Dominus.
Brutus closed his eyes and allowed himself to weep for Caesar and for Cassius and for Rome, tears falling into the lap of his boy.
Assarius: A Roman coin, worth roughly the day’s salary of a menial laborer.
Atrium: One of two types of courtyard found in Roman houses, usually adorned with a fountain.
Centurion: A military commander, generally in charge of sixty to eighty men.
Consul: A high government official in Rome.
Cubiculum: A bedroom in a Roman house.
Decorum: In Rome, a codified law of social behavior, as well as a term for a nobleman’s reputation or dignity.
Domina: A title given to the female head of a household.
Dominus: A title given to the male head of a household.
Equestrian: A high-ranking Roman, though not necessarily a noble.
Forum: The central public gathering place in Rome, or in any Roman-plan city.
Freedman: A former slave who has earned his or her freedom.
Gladii: Plural of “gladius,” the name for a short sword carried by Roman soldiers.
Legatus: A military commander of senatorial rank, generally in charge of about five thousand men.
Ludi Romani: An ancient Roman religious festival consisting of athletic games, theatrical performances, and feasts.
Lupercalia: An ancient Roman religious festival in honor of Lupercus, the god of shepherds. The festival is associated with fertility rites and is meant to purify the city.
Luperci: The young men who run naked through the streets during the Lupercalia, generally nobles belonging to the cult of Lupercus.
Patrician: A member of the noble ruling class of Rome.
Platonist: A follower of the teachings of Plato, a complex philosophical belief which is predicated on the three virtues of Wisdom, Courage, and Moderation.
Plebian: A member of the common class of Rome; a non-aristocratic citizen.
Peristylium: One of two types of open courtyard found in Roman houses, usually a decorated garden.
Praetorship: A high government office, usually a military command or the oversight of a geographical region belonging to Rome.
Primipilus: A term given to centurions of the Roman army to denote seniority.
Princeps: “The first citizen.” Leader of the Senate and, later, used to denote the Emperor of Rome.
Pugio: A dagger carried by Roman soldiers as a secondary weapon.
Rostrum: The Latin term for a lectern or speaking platform.
Saturnalia: An ancient Roman religious festival in honor of the agricultural god Saturn, consisting of a carnival-like series of feasts, parties, and gift-giving.
Stoic: A follower of the teachings of Zeno of Citium, a philosophical system that emphasizes strong ethics, self-control, and emotional fortitude.
Tribune: A high government official in Rome.
Triclinium: A formal Roman dining room.
Vestibulum: The narrow entry hall of a Roman house.
Villa rustica: A country mansion or estate owned by wealthy Romans. The family name of the owner would be appended to the title, hence Villa Rustica Bruti.
Villa urbana: A city dwelling. Usually applied to the houses of the wealthy.
Nameless
Charitable Getting
Trace
Sam Starbuck is a novelist and blogger living in Chicago because he enjoys trains, snow, and political
scandals. By day, he manages operations for a research department at a large not-for-profit, and by night he is a pop-culture commentator, experimental cook, advocate for philanthropy, and writer of fiction. He holds two degrees in theatre, which haven’t done much for his career but were fun while they lasted. His love of ancient cultures and art crimes makes him a very strange conversationalist at parties.
You can find Sam at his website, http://extribulum.wordpress.com; at his blog, http://copperbadge.dreamwidth.org; and on Twitter as @ouija_sam.
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