The forum was filled with citizens and soldiers, come to honour Caesar for the last time. Rich and poor were forced to mingle and there were constant shouts of irritation and outrage as more and more pressed in from the roads around. A woman cried out somewhere for her lost child and Mark Antony sighed, wishing Julius could have been there to stand with him and watch, just watch, as Rome swirled and coalesced around the body of a god.
There could never be enough space for all those who wanted to see. The sun was a hammer on bare heads as they struggled for the best view. The heat had been building steadily from the first moments of dawn, when Caesar had been laid out and forty centurions of the Tenth legion had taken position around him. The body rested on a golden bier, the focus and the centre of the world for that day.
Mark Antony raised his head with an effort of will. He had not slept through two nights and he sweated ceaselessly. Thirst was already unpleasant, but he dared not drink and be forced to leave the forum to empty his bladder. He would have to sip a cup of wine to speak to the crowd, and a slave stood at his shoulder with a cup and cloth. Mark Antony was ready and he knew he would not fail on that day. He did not look at the face of his friend. He had stared too long already as the corpse was washed, the wounds counted and drawn in charcoal and ink by learned doctors for the Senate. It was just a gashed thing now, empty. It was not the man who had cowed the Senate, who had seen kings and pharaohs kneel. Swaying slightly in a wave of dizziness, Mark Antony closed his right hand tightly on the scrolls, making the vellum crackle and crease. He should have stolen a few hours of sleep, he knew. He must not faint or fall, or show any sign of the grief and rage that threatened to ruin him.
He could not see the Liberatores, though he knew they were all there. Twenty-three men had plunged knives into his friend, many of them after life had fled, as if they were joining a ritual. Mark Antony’s eyes grew cold, his back straightening as he thought of them. He had wasted hours wishing he could have been there, that he could have known what was going to happen, but all that was dust. He could not change the past, not a moment of it. When he wanted to cry out against them, to summon soldiers and have them torn and broken, he had been forced to smile and treat them as great men of Rome. It brought acid into his mouth to think of it. They would be watching, waiting for the days of funeral rites to end, waiting for the citizens to settle down in their grief, so they could enjoy the new posts and powers their knives had won. Mark Antony clenched his jaw at the thought. He had worn a mask from the moment the first whispers reached his ears. Caesar was dead and yapping dogs sat in the Senate. Keeping his disgust hidden had been the hardest task of his life. Yet it had been worth proposing the vote for amnesty. He had drawn their teeth with that simple act and it had not been hard to have his remaining friends support his right to give the funeral oration. The Liberatores had smirked to themselves at the idea, secure in their victory and their new status.
‘Cloth and cup,’ Mark Antony snapped suddenly.
The slave moved, wiping sweat from his master’s face as Mark Antony took the goblet and sipped to clear his throat. It was time to speak to Rome. He stood straight, allowing the slave to adjust the folds of his toga. One shoulder remained bare and he could feel sweat grow cold in the armpit. He walked out of shadow into the sun and passed through the line of centurions glaring out at the crowd. In just four steps, he was on the platform with Julius for the last time.
The crowd saw the consul and stillness spread out from that one point in all directions. They did not want to miss a word and the sudden silence was almost unnerving. Mark Antony looked at the grand buildings and temples all around. Every window was full of dark heads and he wondered again where Brutus and Cassius were. They would not miss the moment of their triumph, he was certain. He raised his voice to a bellow and began.
‘Citizens of Rome! I am but one man, a consul of our city. Yet I do not speak with one voice when I talk of Caesar. I speak with the tongue of every citizen. I speak today for our countrymen, our people. The Senate decreed honours for Caesar and when I tell all his names, you will hear not my voice but your own.’
He turned slightly on the rostrum to look at the body of his friend. The silence was perfect and unbroken across the forum of Rome. Caesar’s wounds had been covered in a white toga and undertunic, sewn so that it hid the gashes. There was no more blood in him and Mark Antony knew the toga concealed wounds that had grown pale and stiff during the days of handling and preparation. Only the band of green laurel leaves around Caesar’s head was a thing of life.
‘He was Gaius Julius Caesar, son of Gaius Julius and Aurelia, descendant of the Julii, from Aeneas of Troy, a son of Venus. He was Consul and he was Imperator of Rome. He was Father to his Country. The old month of Quintilis itself was renamed for him. More than all of those, he was granted the right to divine worship. These names and titles show how we honoured Caesar. Our august Senate decreed that his body be inviolate, on pain of death. That anyone with him would have the same immunity. By the laws of Rome, the body of Caesar was sacrosanct. He could not be touched. The temple of his flesh could not be injured, by all the authority of our laws.’
He paused, listening to a murmur of anger that rumbled through the vast crowd.
‘He did not tear these titles by force from the hands of the Senate, from our hands. He did not even ask for them, but they were granted to him in a flood, in thanks for his service to Rome. Today you honour him again by your presence. You are witnesses to Roman honour.’
One of the centurions shifted uncomfortably by his feet and Mark Antony glanced down, then up again, meeting the eyes of hundreds as he looked across the heaving crowd. There was anger and shame there and Mark Antony nodded to himself, taking a deep breath to continue.
‘By our laws, by our Roman honour, we gave oath to protect Caesar and Caesar’s person with all our strength. We gave oath that those who failed to defend him would be forever accursed.’
The crowd groaned louder as they understood and Mark Antony raised his voice to a roar.
‘O Jupiter and all the gods, forgive us our failure! Grant mercy for what we have failed to do. Forgive us all our broken oaths.’
He stepped away from the rostrum, standing over the body that lay before them. For a moment, his gaze flickered towards the senate house. The steps there were filled with white-robed figures, standing and watching. No one had a better view of the funeral oration and he wondered if they were enjoying their position as much as they’d expected. Many in the crowd turned hostile eyes on those gathered figures.
‘Caesar loved Rome. And Rome loved her favourite son, but would not save him. There will be no vengeance for his death, for all the laws and empty promises that could not hold back the knives. A law is but the wish of men, written and given a power that it does not own in itself.’
He paused to let them think and was rewarded with a surge of movement in the crowd, a sign of hearts beating faster, of blood rushing from the outer limbs. He had them all waiting for his words. Another centurion glared up in silent warning, trying to catch his eye. Mark Antony ignored him.
‘In your name, our august Senate has granted amnesty to those who call themselves “Liberatores”. In your name, a vote, a law held good by your honour. That too is sacrosanct, inviolate.’
The crowd made a sound like a low growl and Mark Antony hesitated. He was as exposed as the soldiers around the platform. If he drove them too far in guilt and anger, he could be swallowed up in the mob. He rode a knife edge, having seen before what the people of Rome could do in rage. Once again, he looked to the senators and saw their number had dwindled as they read the crowd; as they read the wind. He smiled wearily, gathering his courage and knowing what Julius would want him to do. Mark Antony had known from the moment he saw Cassius and his conspirators enter the chamber, holding their hands high to show the blood of a tyrant. He would make the people of Rome understand what had been done. He would make them see.
Mark Antony bent
down to the line of polished centurions, lowering his voice to speak to the closest man.
‘You. Come up here. Stand with me,’ he said.
The centurion was the image of martial perfection for such a post, his armour gleaming in the sun and his plume trimmed to a perfect uniform length. Veteran that he undoubtedly was, he responded with the utmost reluctance. Every instinct told him to keep his eyes on the crowd pressing close all around them.
‘Consul, my post is here …’ the man began.
Mark Antony dropped to one knee, his voice low and angry.
‘As you say, I am a consul of Rome. Is the Republic now such a broken thing that even a Roman officer will not follow orders?’
The centurion dipped his plumed head in shame as he flushed. Without another word, he clambered up onto the platform and the silent rank of his companions shuffled to close the gap he left behind.
Mark Antony rose to his full height, so that his eyes were at the level of the man’s plume. He looked down sternly.
‘There is an effigy in wax below the body, Centurion. Take hold of it for me. Raise it up so that they can see.’
The man’s jaw dropped in shock and he was shaking his head even before he replied.
‘What? What game is this? Consul, please. Finish the oration and let me get you safely away.’
‘What is your name?’ Mark Antony asked.
The centurion hesitated. He had been anonymous before, hidden in a line of similar men. In an instant, he had been singled out for no good reason. He swallowed bitterly, thanking his personal gods for giving him such a run of bad luck.
‘Centurion Oppius, Consul.’
‘I see. I am going to speak slowly and clearly to you, Oppius. Obey my lawful orders. Uphold your oath to the Republic, or remove that plume and report to your legion tribune with my request that you be shown the Roman discipline you seem to have forgotten.’
The centurion’s mouth tightened into a pale line. His eyes glittered in anger, but he nodded sharply. Such a ‘request’ would see him flogged to ribbons under a weighted lash, perhaps even executed as an example. He turned stiffly, looking down at the body of Caesar for a moment.
‘He would not mind, Oppius,’ Mark Antony went on, his voice suddenly gentle. ‘He was my friend.’
‘I don’t know what you are doing, Consul, but if they rush us, I will see you again in hell,’ Oppius growled.
Mark Antony clenched his fist, perhaps to strike a blow, but the centurion bent low and jerked back the gold cloth. Below the body of Caesar lay a full-sized model of a man in white wax, dressed in a purple toga with gold trim. Oppius hesitated, repelled. Its features had been modelled after Caesar’s own. To his disgust, he saw that it too wore a band of fresh laurel leaves.
‘What is this … thing?’ he muttered.
Mark Antony only gestured and Oppius lifted it out. It was surprisingly heavy and he staggered slightly as he came upright.
The crowd had been murmuring, unable to understand the furious conversation on the platform. They gasped and cried out as they saw the effigy with its blind, white eyes.
‘Consul!’ another centurion shouted back over the noise. ‘You must stop whatever you are doing. Step down, Oppius. They won’t stand for this.’
‘Be silent!’ Mark Antony bellowed, losing his patience with the fools around him.
The crowd grew still in horror, their gazes riveted on the mockery of a man which stood before them, supported by Oppius.
‘Let me show you, citizens of Rome. Let me show you what your word is worth!’
Mark Antony stepped forward and drew a grey iron blade from his sash. He wrenched the purple robe that clothed the mannequin, baring the chest and the line of the throat. The crowd gasped, unable to look away. Many of them made the horn sign of protection with their shaking hands.
‘Tillius Cimber held Caesar, while Suetonius Prandus struck the first blow … here!’ Mark Antony said.
He pressed his left hand against the shoulder of the effigy and shoved his knife into the wax under the moulded collarbone, so that even old soldiers in the crowd winced. The senators on the steps stood rooted and Suetonius himself was there, his mouth sagging open.
‘Publius Servilius Casca sliced this wound across the first,’ Mark Antony went on. With a savage movement, he sawed at cloth and wax with his blade. He was already panting, his voice a bass roar that echoed from the buildings all around. ‘His brother, Gaius Casca, stepped in then as Caesar fought! He thrust his dagger … here.’
Over by the senate house, the Casca brothers looked at each other in horror. Without a word, both men turned away, hurrying to get out of the forum.
Sweating, Mark Antony pulled back the sleeves of the toga, so that the mannequin’s right arm was revealed. ‘Lucius Pella made a cut here, a long gash.’ With a jerk of his blade, Mark Antony sliced the wax and the crowd moaned. ‘Caesar still fought! He was left-handed, and he raised his bloody right arm to hold them off. Decimus Junius slashed at him then, cutting the muscle so that the arm fell limp. Caesar called for help on the stone benches of Pompey’s theatre. He called for vengeance, but he was alone with these men … and they would not stop.’
The crowd surged forward, driven almost to madness by what they were seeing. There was no logic in it, simply a growing, seething mass of rage. Just a few senators still stood by the senate house and Mark Antony saw Cassius turn to go.
‘Gaius Cassius Longinus stabbed the Father of Rome then, shoving his thin arms into a gap between the others.’ With a grunt, Mark Antony punched the blade into the wax side through the toga, leaving the cloth torn as the knife came out. ‘The blood poured, drenching Caesar’s toga, but still he fought! He was a soldier of Rome and his spirit was strong as they struck and struck at him!’ He punctuated his words with blows, tearing ribbons from the ruined toga.
He broke off, gasping and shaking his head.
‘Then he saw a chance to live.’
His voice had dropped and the crowd pushed even closer, driven and wild, but hanging on every word. Mark Antony looked across them all, but his eyes were seeing another day, another scene. He had listened to every detail of it from a dozen sources and it was as real to him as if he had witnessed it himself.
‘He saw Marcus Brutus step onto the floor of the theatre. The man who had fought at his side for half their lives. The man who had betrayed him once and joined an enemy of Rome. The man Julius Caesar had forgiven when anyone else would have had him butchered and his limbs scattered. Caesar saw his greatest friend and for a moment, for a heartbeat, in the midst of those stabbing, shouting men, he must have thought he was saved. He must have thought he would live.’
Tears came to his eyes then. Mark Antony brushed them away with his sleeve, feeling his exhaustion like a great weight. It was almost over.
‘He saw that Brutus carried a blade like all the rest. His heart broke and the fight went out of him at last.’
Centurion Oppius was standing stunned, barely holding the figure of wax. He flinched as Mark Antony reached over and yanked a fold of the purple toga over the figure’s head, so that the face was covered.
‘Caesar would not look at them after that. He sat as Brutus approached and they continued to stab and tear at his flesh.’
He held his dark blade poised over the heart and many in the crowd were weeping, men and women together as they waited in agony for the last blow. The moaning sound had grown so that it was almost a wail of pain.
‘Perhaps he did not feel the final blade; we cannot know.’
Mark Antony was a powerful man and he punched the blade up where the ribs would have been, sinking it to the hilt and cutting a new hole in the ragged cloth. He left the blade there, for all to see.
‘Set it down, Oppius,’ he said, panting. ‘They have seen all I wanted them to see.’
Every pair of eyes in the crowd moved to follow the torn figure as it was laid down on the platform. The common people of Rome visited no theatres w
ith the noble classes. What they had witnessed had been one of the most powerful scenes of their lives. A sigh went around the forum, a long breath of pain and release.
Mark Antony gathered slow-moving thoughts. He had pushed the crowd and ridden them, but he had judged it well. They would go from this place in sombre mood, talking amongst themselves. They would not forget his friend, and the Liberatores would be followed by scorn all their lives.
‘To think,’ he said, his voice gentle, ‘Caesar saved the lives of many of the men who were there, in Pompey’s theatre, on the Ides of March. Many of them owed their fortunes and their positions to him. Yet they brought him down. He made himself first in Rome, first in the world, and it did not save him.’
His head came up when a voice yelled out in the crowd.
‘Why should they live?’
Mark Antony opened his mouth to reply, but a dozen other voices answered, shouting angry curses at the murderers of Caesar. He held up his hands for calm, but the lone voice had been a spark on dry wood and the noise spread and grew until there were hundreds and hundreds pointing to the senate house and roaring out their rage.
‘Friends, Romans, countrymen!’ Mark Antony bellowed, but even his great voice was swallowed. Those further back pushed forward mindlessly and the centurions were battered by fists and heaving bodies.
‘That’s it,’ one of the centurions growled, shoving back with all his strength to give himself room to draw a gladius. ‘Time to get away. On me, lads. Surround the consul and stay calm.’
Yet the crowd were not rushing the consul’s platform. They surged towards the senate house and the now empty steps.
‘Wait! They will hear me yet. Let me speak!’ Mark Antony shouted, shoving past a centurion trying to guide him down the steps.
A stone soared from somewhere further back, hammering a dent in an ornate chestplate and sending a senior man staggering. The crowd were levering up the cobblestones of the forum. The centurion who had taken the impact was on his back, gasping for breath as his companions cut the leather ties that bound him into his armour.
The Emperor Series: Books 1-5 Page 180