Caesar

by Allan Massie

  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.

  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 that 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 the most compelling, is the Lupercalia. 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 th
emselves 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."

  "I'm glad he put the crown aside."

  "Oh it was a crown, was it? I couldn't see."

  "Aye, I'm that glad, though, mind you, if anyone deserves a crown, it's Caesar."

  "Did 'ee hear what he said, though, when someone called him 'King' one day? 'My name's not King, but Caesar.'"

  "Oh he's quick. You won't outsmart our Caesar."

  "No, he's our boy, we're safe with Caesar."

  "I don't know what that Antony was thinking of."

  "Drunk, I daresay. He nearly fell on his arse when Caesar gave him that little shove."

  "What was it all about then?"

  "Well, he was just proving, like, if you ask me, that he doesn't want a crown. It's enough for him to be Caesar." "Too much for most."

  "He don't look well. I worry about him, nights, you know." "Poor soul.. ."

  Bombarded by such comments, with praise of Caesar ringing in our ears, we made our way to Cassius' house.

  "There's a depth of affection for him, you know, love almost, one mustn't forget that," I said.

  "I don't," Cassius said. "It preys on my mind."

  "Pish and tush," Casca said. "The rabble is fickle. Believe me, I know. With good reason. Today, yes, that was their mood. If Caesar had told them to go home and stab their mothers, they'd have obeyed him. But that's today. Tomorrow they'll scream equally loud for a new hero. That's the rabble. Trash. You don't want to take any heed of them."

  "I hope you may be right," I said.

  * *

  Cassius called on a slave to bring us wine mulled with spices.

  "Drink it up. It was cold out there," he said, handing us goblets, and downing his own.

  "That's better. Well?"

  "That's better, as you say; and again, as you say, well?"

  "I had hoped," Cassius said, "that Caesar's popularity would decline. But it still increases."

  "Would they have cheered as loud," I asked, "if he had accepted Antony's gift?"

  "Every bit," Casca said.

  "If his popularity," Cassius said, "is still waxing, then the day threatens when there will be nothing he cannot do, for there will be nothing, not even public opinion, to restrain him . . ."

  "So?"

  "So, we must do as we have determined. So also, Mouse, it becomes ever more necessary to recruit your cousin Marcus. He must be persuaded. I have sent for young Cato to consult how we may bring matters to the point. Mouse, it's no use turning down the corners of your mouth. Consider the three of us here. I have no illusions about my own standing: I am detested by the common people as the very expression of aristocratic pride. They loathe what they understand - and misunderstand - about the philosophy that informs my actions. You, Casca, are you respected? I think not. And, Mouse, are you popular? If you make a speech in the Forum, will the people cheer? Who will die for you or your cause?"

  "The Ninth Legion is devoted to me. I have led them to fame and victory. They stand to in my allotted province of Cisalpine Gaul, and, believe me, Cassius, you couldn't wish for a finer body of men."

  "Mouse, Mouse, soldiers, soldiers . . . they will follow whoever pays them."

  "No, they have deeper loyalties. Caesar's strength derives from the army. Never forget that."

  "Caesar's strength derives from his being Caesar, and from our weakness. No, however much you dislike it, we need Marcus Brutus. He is the only man we can hope to recruit who is held in high esteem by mob and senators alike. He is the only man who can make our cause . . ." he paused, and smiled; there was a sneer in his smile, ". . . respectable," he finished with a bark of laughter.

  "We would do better with Antony," I said.

  "Antony?" Cassius said. "After that comedy today?"

  I argued the case for Antony at length. I dismissed what we had just seen. We couldn't know Antony's motives, not till we had discussed the matter with him, as I was quite willing to do. Antony was consul, I said, and that alone gave our cause authority. It meant we could take whatever measures were necessary
to secure order, and do so legally. I emphasised the importance of legality. It was true, I admitted, that Antony had been a devoted partisan of Caesar's — but no more than I myself; he had rarely questioned Caesar's actions. Well, how many of us had? But he was not infatuated with Caesar; he had resented Caesar's refusal to support him in his quarrel with Dolabella the previous year. Antony was popular with the crowd and, as consul, could legally take command of the legions. I admitted his frailties, but insisted that they were outweighed by his ability. We ought at least to sound him out. If he adhered to us, our cause would be immeasurably strengthened.

  "Antony is not respectable," Cassius said.

  "The same charge could be levelled at me, old fruit," Casca said.

  "Your case is different, and not only because you can keep a secret in your cups, which Antony can't. Mouse, even if I agreed with everything that you have said - and you have argued the case for Antony with an eloquence of which Cicero might be proud — there remains one insuperable objection: we will never secure Marcus Brutus if he thinks Antony is engaged in the enterprise, for Antony is everything Brutus despises and detests."

  "Bugger Markie," I said.

  "Not me, old boy," Casca said. "You'll have to find another candidate for that job."

  My doubts grew when young Cato arrived, fresh-faced, handsome, incurious. He brought good news, he said. His sister Porcia was exercising all her charms ("Bloody few, I'd have thought," muttered Casca) to persuade her husband. Brutus was half-convinced. He had written some pages of an essay on the virtues of the Republic. It was provisionally entitled Against the Government of a Single Person.

  I remarked that this did not really take us any further.

  "Besides, the Republic is easier to applaud than to achieve."

  "But I must tell you something else," Cato said. "Supporters of Caesar have crowned his statues with royal diadems. And the mob cheered them as they did so."