by Allan Massie
"Well," young Cinna said, "I admit I don't know anything about horses, can't stand the brutes, bite at one end and kick at the other as they say. It's not that I'm frightened of them, it's just that they have an unfortunate effect on me. So I didn't know that. But, don't you see, that makes the story more extraordinary still. It's against nature, and when something happens that's against nature, that's really significant."
"Oh dear," I said.
That was the sort of story, and that the sort of conversation, common in Rome that winter. Credulity ran riot.
Our talk was interrupted by Cassius banging the handle of a knife on the table to attract our attention.
Then he said:
"I don't intend to make a speech, my friends. As some of you know, I detest after-dinner speeches. That's why Cicero isn't here." (An obedient titter ran round the table.) "But I have a few things I want to say to you. They are not entirely safe things to say. If you listen to me, we could change our lives, and restore liberty to Rome. So I'm asking two things of you, before we start. First, I would ask anyone who isn't prepared to take the responsibility of action to leave us now . . ."
Nobody moved.
"Good, I've judged you well. Second, I would ask you all to swear, on the honour and reputation of your ancestors, and in the name of whichever gods you reverence, that everything said here tonight from this moment will remain confidential, that you will speak of it to nobody who is not now with us, unless you have my permission, and that you will not discuss it beyond this circle or in other company. Will you swear? Will you swear such an oath?"
Again nobody moved, nobody spoke.
I was the first to rise to my feet and swear a formal oath in the terms requested. One after another, some slowly as if with fear, each man rose and followed suit, most of them employing the very words which first Cassius, and then I myself, had uttered. At last only my cousin Markie was left seated.
"Marcus Junius Brutus, heir to one of the noblest names in Roman history, will you swear ..."
Markie crumbled bread.
"This disturbs me," he said. "I have indeed been much disturbed of late. I am vexed with perplexities, ideas which I feel it proper to keep to myself. Many of you will know that I love honour more than I fear death. But now, I suspect that you are about to urge a course upon us to which I cannot honourably reconcile myself."
"Come, Brutus," Cassius said, "there is no man in Rome held in higher respect than yourself. I have heard people say that they wished the noble Brutus had eyes to see what is plain to others. I'm afraid you are too bound up in your own perplexities. I can't force you to swear, but I can urge you, even beg you. We would not wish to be deprived of your counsel."
"Well, naturally" - the bread was now in crumbs - "I'm honoured that you should think so well of me. But suppose I hear something said in this room tonight which honour would urge me to reveal, and suppose I have bound myself by an oath to remain silent, then that will make my perplexities worse. Cassius, you know I love and respect you, but I cannot deviate from my sense of what is right..."
("Little prig," whispered Casca, "fucking little cowardly prig-")
"So, with respect, Cassius, I cannot bring myself to offer the promise you demand. Therefore, I think I should take my leave.
Which I do, wishing you all well, and sound judgment in whatever you choose to deliberate."
He folded his napkin and got to his feet. He went round the table and embraced Cassius, and so departed from us. It has always been said that he left with dignity. My memory is that he scuttled from the room like a frightened rabbit.
The young Cato looked for a moment as if he would follow his brother-in-law, glanced across the table, caught my eye, and remained where he stood. Only one young man, whose name I did not know (it was Favonius, I later discovered) chose to follow Markie.
When they had gone, Cassius resumed his couch and motioned to us to do likewise. Then he began to speak.
"I am sorry that Marcus Brutus, whom I admire as I am sure you all do, has felt unable to remain with us. He is a man I honour and respect. Perhaps, you will say, he is over-scrupulous.
"There was another man with us earlier today of whom that cannot be said. You all know that I speak of Caesar. Men have said many things against Caesar but I doubt if anyone has ever accused him of being over-scrupulous . . .
"I would ask you to think of Caesar and of the relationship in which we now stand to him, in which Rome now stands to him.
"I can't tell what you and others think of the life we lead, but speaking for myself, I would as willingly cease to breathe as continue to live in . . . awe ... of a man no different from myself.
"I was born in liberty, as was Caesar. I was born his equal. We are men like each other, heated by the same sun in summer, shivering in the same cold winter blast.
"Equals, did I say? I remember once when we were young Caesar challenged me to swim across the Tiber. The river ran high, but I plunged in regardless. Then I heard a cry behind me, and looking over my shoulder, saw that Caesar was in difficulties. And so, just as Aeneas, our noble ancestor, carried Anchises from the flames of burning Troy, so I bore Caesar from the turbulent water, brought him to the bank, and safety. You may imagine I have often dwelled on that moment since.
"And others have performed similar feats. My son-in-law, Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus, here today, why . . ." he turned his gaze directly on me, ". . . why, did you not rescue Caesar from the storm of battle at Munda?" "Yes, I can make that claim."
"And now," Cassius said, dropping his voice to a whisper, as actors do when they wish to silence the murmurings in the theatre, "and now, this Caesar is a god, and Cassius or Decimus Brutus, or Metellus Cimber who has done great things in battle, or Casca, or young Cato sprung from the noblest stock of Rome, or any of you here - any, in the Senate, camp or temple, must bow and bend and scrape, and flush with pleasure, if Caesar should condescend to nod his head at us.
"Is that a way to live, an honourable way?
"I remember too that Labienus, the noble, honourable Labienus, told me once of an occasion when Caesar fell sick in Gaul, and lay on his pallet bed and called for water. It was pathetic, like a little girl.
"Some of us have seen him suffer fits, have seen him shake, have seen this god tremble, all control departed from his limbs.
"This god . . . this man like us . . .
"And now he is the eighth wonder of the world. Why, he bestrides the world as the great Colossus you have seen at Rhodes, and we others, little men, men become petty inconsiderable things, must walk about peering between his legs, as if we searched for a dishonourable grave.
"Caesar talks of Destiny. There is no word more often on his lips. The stars, the stars, as if it was decreed by Fate that we should be subordinate, subservient, subdued.
"But I say ..." and again he broke off, again he rapped the table with the hilt of his knife, again he paused, holding us, while each man both longed and feared to hurry on the conclusion to which he was inexorably driving. "I say, the fault does not lie in the stars. It lies rather in ourselves.
"What meat has Caesar fed on that he has grown so great?
"If our ancestors, the men who broke Hannibal, laid Carthage waste, pursued the great King Mithridates to his doom, conquered Spain and Africa and Asia, if these men whom we revere, could see us now? If they could observe our fallen State? If they could see how abject we now seem? If they could see how Caesar, a man of our own stock, a gambler, debtor, lecher, one who has broken the historic links that held the State together, if they could see how he lords us, dominates us, holds us as his . . . subjects? If they saw all this, would they laugh or weep, or weeping laugh and laughing weep?
"This is the question that I put to you tonight: are you not ashamed, as I feel shame, that we have come to this abject condition? Or are you ready to bow down and worship Caesar, call him God, even King, regard him as a creature of a wholly different order from ourselves, his fellow nobility of
Rome?"
Then he was silent, very pale, sipped wine, looked hard at each of us in turn. One by one eyes fell away, unable to hold his gaze, and there was silence. It was broken by the one man who had not met his gaze, had not done so for the excellent reason that his eyes were closed as he lay on his couch, in apparent indifference: Casca, of course.
"Words, words, words, Cassius, Cassius, Cassius, you have out-Ciceroed Cicero. There was no need indeed to ask the old man here tonight, for he couldn't have given a better exhibition of rhetoric than you have treated us to . . ."
"Do you think I mean nothing but words?"
"Can't say for sure, old thing, can't say." Casca hauled himself half upright, slapped his belly. "I am fat, fat, fat. That was a good dinner you have given us, Cassius. Caesar thinks only lean men are dangerous, and I am fat."
Metellus Cimber interrupted:
"Enough of this comedy. You have given us much to think of, Cassius. If it is any satisfaction to you, you have brought the blush of shame to my cheek."
"And to mine."
"And mine."
"And mine . . . alas."
"Well, Casca?" Cassius said.
"Put away shame a long time ago, old dear. Give me comfort, wine and a bit of slap and tickle - kill my creditors or let them live as long as you keep them off — and what more could Casca seek from life? I am fat, you see. Words, words, words. Well, I'll reply in words - the proof of the pudding's in the eating -how's that for a proverb? Your cook has a light hand with the pastry, Cassius. Congratulate him from me on those lobster patties ..."
Again Metellus Cimber broke the silence:
"What you have said, Cassius, can only be a beginning. I would wish Marcus Brutus had stayed. That's a man whose opinion I value. But you have given us all much to think of. Therefore I invite all here tonight to dine with me in seven days' time. Meanwhile we shall ponder these matters, consult our hearts, consciences, interests, whatever; and observe the oath of silence which we swore. Casca, you will find my cook, an Armenian, has a light hand with pastry too, and a deft imagination when it comes to the filling. So, shall we conclude here, and resume our discussion as I have invited?"
We all assented, but, as we made to leave, Cassius beckoned to me, and laid a restraining hand on young Cato's shoulder. When the three of us were alone, he said:
"An interesting response, better than I had dared hope for. But if we could have another word before you follow our friends, I should be grateful."
So we resumed our couches. Cassius poured more wine.
"Mouse," he said, "you know Caesar better than any of us."
"I owe him much."
"He is as greatly in debt to you."
"Well, I won't deny that."
"You knew what I was driving at . . . and yet you stayed."
I spat out an olive stone.
"There are loyalties and there is loyalty."
"What do you mean?" Cato said.
"One owes something to one's friends and benefactors, one owes more to oneself, one owes most to Rome." "Precisely my thought," Cassius said.
"Oh, you made that clear. I do no more than echo what you said. For months I have been seeking an alternative. I see none."
"If Caesar takes the name of King," Cato said, "the people themselves will quit us of responsibility. They will tear him apart."
"They might," I said. "In any case, he will not assume the title, not yet, not here, not in Rome. If he sets off for Parthia, then, yes, somewhere in the East he will permit himself, with a deprecating smile, to be called King. Perhaps there he will share a throne with the Queen of Egypt. It would be a long campaign, two or three years. In that time the people may grow accustomed to the title. Who knows? But he may never use the name in
Rome. Caesar is indifferent to mere words. He suggested to me recently that the name 'Caesar' might itself come to have a grander sound than the name of 'King'. He may well be right. When I said I saw no alternative to what you, Cassius, did not quite bring yourself to propose this evening, that is because I have already explored the possibility of abdication, that he might follow the example of Sulla, and retire into private life. I did not mention Sulla to him, of course, since we all know that he detests the very name, but even the hint displeased him. He is determined to keep hold of power. He is determined to conquer Parthia."
"He might not return from Parthia," Cato said.
"He might not," Cassius said, "but it is a risk we cannot take, for if he did return, in triumph, then . . ."
He swept his hand, palm uppermost, before him, then turned his thumb down.
"Rome, all of us, in his grip for ever, liberty dead for ever. Cato, you and I stand in the same relation to Marcus Brutus . . ." This was true, for as Cato's sister was married to Brutus, so also Cassius himself had taken Brutus' half-sister as his own third wife the previous summer. "If you are committed to the enterprise I have suggested, Cato, I wish you would urge it on Brutus. I shall myself in private conversation. His nature is slow, reluctant, I was not surprised when he left us tonight. But we must have Brutus. Will you speak to him?"
"Certainly. I shall speak to my sister Porcia also. As you know, she was devoted to our father, has indeed made almost a cult of his memory. Consequently she loathes Caesar more than anyone I know. And she has great influence on her husband."
"Excellent," Cassius said. "I would trust few women with our intentions, but I am ready to make an exception of Cato's daughter."
When young Cato had left us, my father-in-law looked on me with something approaching affection.
"You are ready to bear the accusations of treachery that will be levelled at you?"
"Yes," I said.
"I know you don't share my regard for your cousin Marcus, nor the general high opinion in which he is held. I believe you underestimate him. Sometimes indeed I wonder if you are jealous of the golden opinions he wins."
"Jealous of Markie? No. But I question his capacity, and I don't see why you think him so essential."
"You have chosen the right word. I do think him essential. So much so that I believe we have no chance of success if he refuses to join us. Oh, we might succeed in our immediate aim. We don't need him for that. But it is precisely because he is held in such high esteem by the people."
"Oh yes, as the model of 'antique Roman virtue' - Markie. Yes, it baffles me."
"And by the senators ... so I truly believe that his adherence is necessary if we are to succeed in what must be our wider aim — the restoration of the Free State. If he joins us, our act will be considered disinterested. If he refuses, our own regard for the Republic will not be credited. So I must ask you to lay aside your prejudice, and woo him also."
"It goes against the grain."
"Nevertheless ..."
"And he will blunder, I warn you."
"Nevertheless . . ."
"Very well, I submit, reluctantly, to your judgment." "Thank you. How is Longina?"
"Blooming, and a joy. Indeed, we are now so happy that I could easily be tempted to subside into contented domesticity."
"No, son-in-law, you are too much the Roman. And it is the noblest and most Roman of enterprises to which we have now committed ourselves."
We both rose. He embraced me, and I departed into the cloudy night.
Chapter 17
Let the dice fly high." Caesar's words came back to me many times in the days that followed. "Let the dice fly high" - no matter how they land. It perplexed me - I had never been a gambler. Mark Antony used to mock me for my reluctance to take chances. I replied that that was all right for a genius like Caesar, but even a genius required sober men like Labienus and myself to keep him straight. "And what about me?" Antony said.
It was a question I could never answer. I never knew Antony's capacity. He fascinated me, I suppose, because he seemed so careless in all he did, careless of everything he did, careless of reputation, careless of consequences. Now I argued with myself, argued with Cassius, whether
we should invite Antony to join us. He was consul that year. That was a point in favour, for it would mean that we had the legally constituted authority to back us. On the other hand, I could not be sure of his answer. He was incalculable. Besides there was the danger that he would reveal things in his cups. Cassius made two points: first, that Antony's adherence would repel Markie whose participation he was still eagerly seeking; second, that we would find it easy to approach Antony after the deed.
"He will be alarmed for his own safety. He will have no choice but to assent."
I wished I could be as certain.
Longina kissed me soft on the lips. My fingers danced on her belly, scarcely swollen yet.
"My father . . ." she said, ". . . it worries me that you and he. . . I don't know how best to put this. My father pretends to detachment. What does his philosophy say? Moderation in all things, isn't that it? He assents to that only in his mind, you know. He's impetuous, impulsive, dangerous. He always finds a respectable reason for anything he wants to do, but the real reason is different. Don't forget I've studied him all my life. I'll tell you something else, something I never . . . he's always frightened me. It's because he's bitter, disappointed."
"Don't worry," I said, and tried to kiss her fears away.
"It's because I don't want to lose you," she said, "and that's what's dangerous about my father. He costs other people things they prize."
For a little her tenderness unmanned me. Then I thought of the son we would have. I thought of the two avenues before him: the free life of a Roman noble: the subservient existence of a subject.
"Citizens!" Thus had Caesar addressed the mutinous soldiers of the Tenth.
But it was an honourable title too. How long could it survive in Caesar's Rome?
The tramontana continued to blow harsh from the north. Caesar occupied himself with the planning of his campaign. He was as ever meticulous in his arrangements for the legions' supplies -or he saw to it that others were meticulous.