by Tony Bradman
‘Of course you can,’ said Brutus. Now it was Cassius’s turn to scowl.
‘What in Jupiter’s name are you doing, Brutus?’ he whispered, pulling Brutus aside. ‘We can’t let him do that. He might try to turn the people against us.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Brutus hissed back, annoyed. ‘It will look better for us if we make sure Caesar has a proper funeral, and Antony should be part of it. But don’t worry, I’ll speak first and explain to the people why we killed Caesar. And before Antony speaks I’ll tell them he’s only there with our permission.’
‘But who knows what mischief he’ll get up to?’ said Cassius. ‘I don’t like it.’
Cassius, however, had no say in the matter. Brutus had already turned his attention back to Mark Antony. ‘Good, so that’s settled,’ he said, smiling. ‘Just make sure you don’t say anything bad about us,’ he added.
‘Fear not, Brutus,’ said Mark Antony. ‘Nothing is further from my mind.’
Brutus led the assassins out, leaving Mark Antony alone with Caesar’s body. Antony watched them go, outwardly calm. But inside he was seething with fury.
‘I curse these men, and I swear they will pay for this foul crime,’ he growled. ‘Caesar, your spirit will return with the lord of Hell, unleashing the dogs of war and bringing havoc to Rome!’
Just then a slave came into the chamber and approached him. ‘You’re Octavius Caesar’s man, aren’t you?’ said Antony.
Young Octavius was Caesar’s great-nephew and heir, and Antony knew that Caesar had summoned him to Rome. ‘I am, my lord,’ said the slave. ‘He sent me to tell you that he isn’t far from the city … but oh, gods! Poor Caesar…’
The slave had seen Caesar’s body, and was horrified. Antony thought of sending the slave straight back to Octavius to tell him what had happened, and warn him to stay clear of Rome for the time being. But it might be wiser to wait until after he had made his speech at Caesar’s funeral. Then he would have a much better idea of how the people felt, and what he and Octavius should do.
‘I’ll explain everything later,’ said Antony. ‘In the meantime, you’d better come with me. I have to arrange for Caesar’s body to be taken to the Forum…’
Mark Antony hurried out of the chamber now, too, heading for his house, where he had armed men to protect him. Things were tense on the streets of Rome. The news had spread like wildfire, and soon angry crowds stood on corners, some talking in hushed voices, others shouting, all of them hardly able to believe that Caesar had been murdered. Word went round that Caesar’s body was being taken to the Forum, and that Brutus and Mark Antony were going to speak. By mid-afternoon it seemed that everyone in Rome was there.
Brutus stood at the top of the steps of the Temple of Jupiter to address the huge crowd. Caesar’s body was laid out on a bier just below him, and legionaries in battle gear stood on either side, low sunlight glinting off their armour and shields, the red crests of their helmets like splashes of blood.
‘My fellow Romans,’ Brutus began. ‘You know me as a man of honour…’
He spoke for quite some time, explaining that he and the others had killed Caesar because they loved their country, and that he would kill himself then and there if anyone thought he had done it for another reason. There was some heckling, but not that much, and it seemed that Brutus had them on his side.
‘And now the noble Mark Antony, Caesar’s friend, would like to speak,’ he said at last. ‘Although I would add that he only does so with our permission. Anyway, I would urge all of you not to leave until you have heard what he has to say.’
Brutus gestured for Mark Antony to step forward, and then left. Antony stood at the top of the steps as Brutus had done, and remained silent for a moment, looking down on the crowd below him. ‘Friends, Romans and countrymen,’ he said at last. ‘Lend me your ears… I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.’ But he did praise him, reminding the Roman people of everything that Caesar had done – the nations he had conquered for them, the treasure he had brought back to fill the empire’s coffers, the glory he had brought to Rome’s name.
The crowd cheered Caesar’s memory, but they fell silent again when Antony talked of the conspirators, and how Brutus had claimed that Caesar was too ambitious. ‘Brutus is an honourable man,’ said Antony. ‘But you all know I offered Caesar a crown three times, and three times he turned it down.’
The crowd murmured angrily, and Antony worked on them, whipping up their fury against the murderers. Soon the crowd was yelling, calling out for their deaths.
Antony’s face lit up with a grin. Now let the mischief truly begin…
ACT FOUR
ARMIES ON THE MARCH
The streets of Rome were filled once more with restless crowds, although perhaps mobs would be a better word. Until Antony’s funeral speech, the people had been frightened by what had happened, uncertain what to believe or who to support. But Antony had made things easy. Now they were sure Caesar had been a hero, and that the plotters should pay dearly for what they’d done.
The mobs knew where Brutus and Cassius and the others lived, and by the evening their houses were burning, the flames lighting the sky over the city. Most of the plotters managed to escape, fleeing with little more than the clothes they wore, but some were caught and torn limb from limb. One man – the poet Cinna – was unlucky enough to die because he had the same name as a plotter.
Mark Antony stood at the window of his grand villa watching the blood-red sky. Lying on couches behind him were Octavius and Lepidus, a man older than the other two, and much richer as well. Lepidus wore a toga, but Antony had changed into his military uniform, his breastplate reflecting the distant fires, his short sword – the gladius of the legions – in a scabbard at his side. Octavius was in uniform, too, but he was still covered in the dust and dirt of his journey.
Antony turned and walked over to a low table. A heap of papyrus rolls stood on it, each one covered with a long list of names. None of the three men had enough supporters to claim power alone now Caesar was gone, so they had decided to join forces. They had begun by working out who they could count on and, more importantly, who would be against them. ‘These then shall die,’ said Antony, picking up one of the rolls. ‘Their names are all marked.’
‘Your brother, too, Lepidus,’ said Octavius. Caesar’s heir was very young, barely a grown man, and quite slender. But he had a strong face with a faint resemblance to Caesar, and an air of certainty about him. ‘Do you agree?’
Lepidus shrugged. ‘So long as Antony’s nephew Publius dies, too.’
‘That’s all right by me,’ said Antony. ‘Look, I’ve damned him with a cross against his name. Listen, Lepidus, I think you should go to Caesar’s house and dig out a copy of his will. We need to look at it and make sure we don’t give away too much of his fortune in legacies, whatever he might have wanted…’
Octavius smiled to himself. He knew Mark Antony had made a great show of telling the people at Caesar’s funeral how generous Caesar had been in his will, and that many would benefit from it. But that had just been to keep the fools in the streets on their side. He and Antony weren’t stupid enough to give away Caesar’s money when they needed all they could get to pay for the coming war.
‘Er, good idea!’ said Lepidus, hurrying off.
Antony scowled after him. ‘The man’s a moron, only fit to be sent on errands,’ he muttered. ‘It seems madness to divide up the world and give someone like him a third of it!’
‘If that’s what you think, why did you let him add names to the lists of who should die?’ Octavius said. His voice was soft, but his eyes were hard.
‘Trust me on this, Octavius,’ said Antony. ‘I’m older than you, so I know what I’m doing. We’ll use Lepidus to do our dirty work for the time being, and then as soon as he’s no longer useful, we’ll cut him loose. But we have more important things to discuss. Brutus and Cassius are putting together an army – we need to do the same as soon as possible, and t
o make some plans.’
‘Quite right,’ said Octavius, jumping to his feet. ‘This is a dangerous time, and we have many enemies. Even some of our allies might be false friends.’
Things moved quickly over the next few weeks. Brutus and Cassius had crossed the Adriatic Sea to Illyria, and most of the legions in the eastern part of the Empire joined them. But Mark Antony and Octavius raised an army from Caesar’s old legions in Italy and the other western provinces. And soon both armies were marching down the long, straight Roman roads, seeking out each other like two red-crested, many-legged monsters of sharp steel and soft flesh.
Brutus and Cassius split up at one point, Cassius going off to recruit more troops, Brutus setting up a fortified camp near the coast. As was their habit, the legionaries dug a deep ditch around the camp and used the soil to build a square rampart, adding a wall of sharpened stakes on top. Then they put up their tents in straight rows, with a large tent for Brutus and his officers in the centre.
It was a warm summer’s day when Cassius returned, his new recruits behind him on the road. A messenger rode ahead to let Brutus know Cassius was coming, a certain Lucilius, a man who had served Brutus for many years.
‘Well then, Lucilius,’ said Brutus, emerging from his tent. The two soldiers guarding it, one on either side of the flap, snapped to attention. Brutus was in full armour, sunshine glinting off his breastplate. ‘Is Cassius near at last?’
‘He is, and sends you his greetings,’ said Lucilius, jumping off his horse.
‘A word with you, Lucilius,’ Brutus said quietly, drawing the messenger away from the guards. ‘Now tell me honestly, how did Cassius treat you?’
‘Well enough,’ said Lucilius. ‘But he wasn’t as friendly as he used to be.’
‘Ah, I thought so,’ said Brutus. ‘His feelings towards me are cooling.’
Just then they heard the sound of horses and men marching, their armour and weapons chinking. Cassius rode up and dismounted, his recruits behind him.
‘I bid you welcome, Cassius!’ said Brutus, raising a hand in greeting.
‘Most noble brother, you have done me wrong!’ Cassius shouted. He stamped right up to Brutus and stood before him, a scowl on his beaky Roman face.
‘But I don’t understand…’ murmured Brutus, confused. Cassius opened his mouth to say something else, but Brutus stopped him before he could get going. ‘Keep your voice down,’ he whispered. ‘We really shouldn’t argue in front of the men. Come into my tent and tell me what’s upset you so much.’
Cassius agreed to do as Brutus asked, but it was clear he was very angry. The tent was plainly furnished – it contained a couch for Brutus to sleep on, a chest for his clothes, a stand for his armour, a table covered in lists and maps. The two men stood facing each other. ‘You condemned one of my men, Lucius Pella, for supposedly taking bribes,’ Cassius snarled. ‘And then you simply chose to ignore my letter to you saying that you should let him off.’
‘You should never have written it,’ snapped Brutus. ‘He was guilty and that’s all there is to it. But then it seems you’ve been taking a few bribes yourself.’
‘How … how dare you!’ spluttered Cassius, his face red. ‘If anyone else had accused me of such a thing, those would be the last words they ever spoke!’
‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ said Brutus. ‘Don’t you remember why we acted as we did on the Ides of March? We killed Caesar for the sake of a just cause, for the good of Rome. Are we going to contaminate ourselves now with bribes? I’d rather be a dog and howl at the moon than be a wretch like that.’
‘Take care, Brutus!’ Cassius yelled in the other man’s face, spit flying from his lips. ‘You don’t want to make me do something I’ll regret, do you?’
‘You’ve already done things you should be sorry for, Cassius,’ hissed Brutus, not giving any ground. ‘And you don’t frighten me, however much you yell. It’s all a lot of hot air. And what about that gold I asked you for? Unlike you, I’m not willing to extract money from the local peasants by force, but I still have to pay my legions. I wrote to you for help, and you turned me down!’
They wrangled on, shouting and yelling, giving vent to their frustration and worries, until finally Cassius sank onto the couch in despair. ‘I wish Antony and Octavius were here to take their revenge on me now,’ he moaned, holding his head in his hands. ‘I’m tired of this world, of being told what to do and having my faults thrown in my face.’ He pulled a dagger from a scabbard on his belt and held the hilt out to Brutus. ‘Kill me as you did Caesar,’ he moaned. ‘For even when you hated him, you loved him better than you have loved me…’
‘Put your dagger away, Cassius,’ said Brutus, shaking his head and sighing. ‘Your anger always goes as quickly as it comes. I was wrong to argue, too.’
Cassius stood up and they hugged, slapping each other’s backs. One of the guards looked in through the flap and nervously asked if they were all right.
‘We’re fine,’ Brutus said. ‘Have some wine brought in, and ask Messala to come and see us, will you?’ The guard nodded and let the tent flap fall again. But now it was Brutus’ turn to sit on the couch, his head in his hands. ‘Oh, Cassius, I am sick with grief,’ he murmured. ‘My wife Portia is dead.’
‘I’m sorry to hear such bad news,’ said Cassius. ‘Had she been ill?’
‘No, I left her alone in Rome, and the growing power of Octavius and Mark Antony frightened her,’ said Brutus. ‘She lost her mind … and killed herself.’
Cassius put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, and just then Brutus’ servant Lucius came in with a jug of wine, and Messala behind him. Messala was a grizzled old soldier, and chief of staff to the army of the plotters. Lucius poured wine into cups for the three men, then Brutus asked the servant to leave them.
‘Our intelligence reports tell me our enemies are making for the town of Philippi, Messala,’ said Brutus. ‘Is that right? It isn’t very far from here.’
‘That seems to be their plan,’ growled Messala. ‘We’ve also heard that Octavius and Antony have had a hundred senators put to death in Rome.’
‘As many as that?’ said Brutus. ‘I’d heard it was only seventy, including Cicero… Anyway, I think we should march on Philippi and confront them.’
‘Oh no, I don’t agree,’ said Cassius, horrified. ‘We should let our enemies tire themselves out trying to find us, while we keep rested and stay nimble.’
Brutus shook his head once more, over-ruling him. ‘Their army is still growing, and ours won’t get any bigger. Besides, we’re ready to fight now. If you leap into the flood when the tide is going your way, it will take you to glory. But if you miss that moment, all that happens is you drown.’
As usual, Cassius gave in, defeated by Brutus’ firmness and eloquence, and it was decided that the army should set off at first light. Night had already fallen, and now Cassius and Messala shook hands with Brutus and left. Brutus made ready to sleep, asking Lucius to sing him a song to calm his racing mind.
Lucius sat at the end of the couch, playing his lyre and singing in a quiet voice. But he fell asleep first. Brutus smiled, then picked up a roll of papyrus and started reading. After a while, he looked up – and his blood ran cold.
The ghost of Caesar was standing over him, its bloody wounds gaping.
‘Why … why have you come?’ whispered Brutus, his heart thumping.
‘To tell you that you’ll see me at Philippi,’ the ghost murmured, its face unforgiving. Brutus opened his mouth to say something else, but it was too late. The ghost vanished, the tent flapping wildly as if there were a storm outside.
Brutus shook his head, trying to get the image out of his mind.
But it haunted his dreams, and no rest could he find.
ACT FIVE
THE NOBLEST ROMAN
The rival armies found each other at last, near the town of Philippi in Illyria. Both sides took up position, the morning sun glinting off weapons and armour, the dusty air fu
ll of the sounds of soldiers shouting and horses neighing. But no one crossed the open ground between the armies as yet. Now was the time to organise and prepare for the coming battle, and to observe the enemy, too.
Octavius and Antony were in the centre of their line, sitting astride their horses, their officers flanking them, scanning the troops opposite. ‘Well, it looks like you were wrong, Antony,’ said Octavius, the tall red crest on his shiny helmet rippling in the light breeze. ‘You thought they wouldn’t be willing to face us and would stay in the hills. But here they are, ready to take us on, it seems.’
‘They’re trying to show us they’re not scared,’ said Antony. ‘But if you ask me, they’d rather be anywhere else. You will advance on the left, Octavius –’
‘Oh no, my men will advance on the right,’ Octavius said firmly, and Antony glared at him, obviously quite cross at being contradicted. The two allies were just beginning to argue with each other properly when a messenger rode up.
‘Small party approaching on horseback under a flag of truce, sir!’ he said, saluting Octavius. ‘It’s Brutus and Cassius, and I think they want to talk.’
Octavius and Mark Antony rode out of the line with a few guards to protect them. Brutus and Cassius, who had also brought their own guards along, were waiting in the open ground halfway between the two armies.
‘I thought it would be a good idea to talk a little before we come to blows, my fellow countrymen,’ said Brutus. ‘Perhaps we could settle our differences…’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Octavius. ‘We’re not so fond of talking as you.’
‘Lying, more like,’ growled Antony, moving his horse forward. ‘Aren’t you the men who walked up to Caesar crying “Hail, Caesar! Long live Caesar!” and then stabbed him to death? You’re nothing but a bunch of murderers. You two were practically kissing his feet while that dog Casca crept up behind him.’