He soon veritably lived for her laugh, and Octavius was but a shadow of himself when out of her company. They got into the routine of Briseis bringing the young master some light supper to his room of an early evening. She gazed at him with wonder and seduction as Octavius recounted some of the deeds and sayings of his great-uncle. Briseis, for her part, would tell him how other servants mistreated her, or confess how she worried for her future and that she did not want to marry someone she didn’t love. Or the girl would ask him how she should wear her hair, or if a new piece of jewellery looked nice. One evening, when Atia and Marcus Phillipus were staying the weekend on a neighbouring estate, the serving girl stole a jug of wine to bring it to Octavius with his meal. They drank it together. His aspect glowed with drunkenness and desire. After a bout of giggling about nothing in particular, Briseis suddenly got up from the bed which they were sitting upon and twirled in front of the virginal youth.
“Oh, I forgot. Do you like? I just bought it?” the girl said excitedly, showing off both her new dress and the sweet-smelling figure inside of it. Briseis tantalisingly hitched up the skirt of the russet coloured garment to reveal a sun-kissed leg.
Octavius was too dumbstruck, awed, shy, possessed to reply. Before he had a chance however to give in to the temptation to reach out and touch the dress, or rather drunkenly paw its wearer, Briseis twirled once more, lost her balance and fell upon the Roman. He caught her by her hips as she fell towards him upon the bed, yet also he clutched her towards him - and Briseis fell willingly into his arms. Her soft thigh nestled itself into his groin. Her hands were pressed either side of his head, her scented hair falling around his flushed face. For a brief moment there was a pause, but then their lips mutually met. They kissed tentatively at first, then seductively - and then hungrily. The bed creaked a little. The flame upon the candle wriggled. The aromatic smell of the girl’s hands, from where she had been working in the kitchen with spices, filled the air. For half a minute or so an aroused, awakened Octavius groped and felt every part of the girl’s lithe body, which he had yearned to touch for so long. Briseis soon took control however - she grabbed his hands, entwining her spidery fingers in his. She kissed him softly and slowly, briefly sucking on his bottom lip as she withdrew. By now, without him noticing it - but yet Octavius appreciated it all the same - Briseis had straddled herself over her young master. The nubile but experienced woman pulled her skirt up so it was bunched around her waist, her thighs bare and bronze in the candlelight. With one hand she undid the buttons of her dress, provocatively slipping each side off her smooth shoulders to let the dress fall and reveal her round, hardening breasts. Octavius gazed up at her, adoringly, absorbing and admiring Briseis as if she were a goddess who had sparked a fire within him. His erotic dreams of her were coming true. On another night he might’ve even wept with happiness at the scene.
They made love when possible after that revelatory evening, although no matter how many times Octavius took Briseis, or vice versa, it was never enough for the youth. Satisfaction only fed his appetite. Sometimes the servant girl almost had to fight her young lover off as she refused to allow stolen kisses to transform themselves into something more time and energy consuming. And partly she denied Octavius to tease him - and increase his anticipation, as well as her power over him.
10.
Rome.
The moon slipped behind a brown-grey cloud but still his lean, bony face shone pale in the glossy night. On more than one occasion his senatorial companion for the evening thought that Cassius Longinus looked like a ghost, such was his bloodless pallor. The milky radiance of the moonlight was displaced by the orange glow of torches as a quartet of former lictors, who had served two optimate consuls, illuminated the meeting between the two conspiratorial statesmen.
It was the dead of night, even the stars appeared sleepy. The two men stood atop Capitoline Hill, under the adamantine gaze of Lucius Iunius Brutus. The sword was unsheathed in the hand of the statue, symbolic of the legendary figure’s duty to forever defend the Republic. He had even executed his own two sons for conspiring against the state. Marcus Brutus thought it was a cheap, transparent trick for Cassius to arrange for them to meet before his ancestor’s statue, but more than once of late he had himself traversed up the hill and stood before the famed Roman who had vanquished Tarquin the Proud - a despotic King - and established the Republic. Neither of the two men mentioned the graffiti that had been inscribed upon part of the plinth. ‘O that we had you now, Brutus.’ ‘Would that Brutus was alive.’ The descendant of the first consul did not need to read the phrases again, for it seemed now they were carved, or branded, upon his conscience. Cassius however did not need to scan and mention the graffiti because he had been the author behind the inscriptions; so too Cassius had been behind the anonymous letters sent to the praetor’s house, calling on him to defend the Republic. ‘Brutus, are you asleep?’ ‘You are no true Brutus.’ In the past the spiteful practical joker had employed the use of similar anonymous letters to cause mischief. Cassius had revealed to fellow senators that their wives were having affairs, or alternatively he had blackmailed and extorted money out of his victims to help him pay off his debts. Or sometimes he composed various missives just to amuse his black humour. Yet now Cassius could tell himself that his deceptions were ultimately honourable, to the extent even that he could and should be forgiven for all his previous misdemeanours.
An acrid smell filled Brutus’ nostrils as Cassius’ breath misted up in front of him in the gelid air. For a moment Brutus fleetingly fancied that the smell came directly from the source of the man’s bitter heart. More than from any Republican principle Brutus knew only too well that Cassius’ motives were borne from ambition and a personal sense of vengeance against Caesar. It still rankled Cassius that Caesar had confiscated his pride of lions which he had intended to display during Rome’s Public Games. So too Brutus himself had been involved in provoking Cassius, yet was not Caesar also responsible for that episode? Both men had been competing for the Praetorship of Rome. The dictator finally summoned both candidates to stand before him, his judgement being thus, “Cassius has the stronger case, but we must give Brutus the first Praetorship.” It was not a love of Republicanism which had eventually prompted Cassius to heal his rift with Brutus, but rather it was his hatred for Caesar and his need to recruit Brutus to his cause. Whilst Brutus resented the idea of dictatorship, Cassius resented the dictator.
“Soon Caesar will join his army; or rather I should call them hired mercenaries, for they serve him rather than Rome. Once ensconced with his legions he will prove untouchable. We must strike at the heart of his despotism in the Forum, the home of the Republic. And we must act soon. After the Ides I warrant that it is his intention to leave for Apollonia to collect his precious whelp of a nephew and march on to subdue the Parthians.”
Brutus here briefly thought of Octavius. He had met him on a couple of occasions and was justly impressed with the youth. At first he seemed shy, or rather observant, as he positioned himself in a corner of the room. When Caesar introduced his nephew to Brutus though he found the teenager to be confident, well-read and witty. Brutus hoped however that Octavius was not susceptible to certain other, darker, Caesarian traits.
“Agreed. The Forum it is,” Brutus replied, with perhaps as much resignation as resolution entwined in his voice.
Marcus Brutus was a man of few words but yet when he spoke people listened. And whatever he said, he meant. The loose folds of his woollen toga could not disguise his muscular build. His face was squarish, strong and handsome - if a little humourless. Pompey once joked that Brutus had even come out of the womb with the demeanour and seriousness of a forty-three-year-old. Yet Brutus was not without a sense of humour, contrary to what some of his detractors might have sniped - but the need to laugh, smile and flatter were of secondary importance to the judicious Roman.
Cassius smiled - his white teeth momentarily flashing in the darkness - and clasped a fraternal han
d upon his fellow conspirator’s shoulder. As much as Cassius was central to the plot, he knew that he needed Brutus, his reputation and name, as a figurehead. Finally Cassius dared to call the priggish but influential senator a “libertore”, a freedom fighter.
“You represent both the old and hopefully new Rome my friend. The people look to other praetors for public doles, spectacles and gladiatorial shows but they look to you to deliver them from tyranny.”
“Should we include Cicero?” Brutus asked, all but ignoring Cassius’ rehearsed flattery.
“No. The new man is now an old man. Even if I thought he could keep his mouth shut before the deed, I dare say he would be unbearable should we succeed. He would doubtless try to propagate the argument that he was the saviour of Rome again - and that we should honour him with a triumph for delivering the Republic. No, Cicero has become weak, foolish. He’s become as garrulous as Nestor. He either lives in the past or dreams of fantastical futures that only he can orchestrate. Did you also catch the story of how he cried like a baby after hearing about his daughter’s death?”
Brutus declined to respond, but he judged that it was not weakness which had made Cicero weep so for the estimable Tullia, but love. And love bred strength. He briefly thought of the strength he gained from Porcia and fondly smiled to himself (albeit Cassius believed his companion was smirking at his jibes). But no, Cicero could not wholly be trusted, Brutus concluded. Despite being opposed to the idea of dictatorship, there was a strange bond between Caesar and Cicero - and the personal could affect the political. Brutus respected the ex-consul, perhaps as much as his former mentor Cato, but Cicero would want to seek a compromise. For Brutus there could be none. His reasoning, or rather logical syllogism was thus: Monarchy is bad. Caesar desires to be King. Therefore, Caesar is bad.
“My concern is rather with Antony,” Cassius issued.
“No. Our cause is to kill a man who would make himself a King, not murder one of his subjects who could redeem himself and become a good citizen and servant of Rome. Mark Antony may have proved himself to be corrupt, incompetent and a bully - but he isn’t a tyrant. The purity of our cause would be tainted with his blood on our hands. History must judge us as liberators, not murderers,” Brutus replied.
“You underestimate how much trouble he could cause.”
“And you overestimate him, Cassius. He’s little more than a drunk and a letch. Once we have done the deed, as you say, we will send him off to some distant battlefield, where he belongs. I would stake my honour on posterity not remembering Mark Antony.”
“But he is Caesar’s right arm.”
“And he can do no more than Caesar’s arm, when Caesar’s head is off. Our cause is justice Cassius, not revenge or ire,” Brutus calmly, but firmly, charged.
The wind suddenly howled, congealing the air even more. Cassius drew his toga tighter to his lean body - trapping the warm air between his skin and the silk laden material. He stamped his feet to quicken his ice-ridden blood. He glanced at his companion to see him register the cold also, but Brutus remained unperturbed by the sudden drop in temperature. Cassius believed that his fellow conspirator was equally chilled however - but that he was either too proud or affected to admit it.
“Lepidus too will serve Rome rather than Caesar when he is removed. He is a soldier, and soldiers follow orders,” Brutus confidently remarked in reference to Rome’s Master of the Horse, whose troops were posted just outside the city.
“And what about the people? His reforms have purchased their love. They could riot,” Cassius warned.
“You say the people love Caesar. But the people also loved Gracchus and Marius and Clodius and Pompey. They love anyone who puts on a show for them and doles out corn. They are as constant, yet changeable, as the weather,” Brutus issued; his tone imbued with a certain amount of disdain for ‘the people’, who he was intending to liberate and, as a praetor, had vowed to serve. “I will address the people afterwards. You saw their reaction at Lupercalia. For all of their wishes to put their demagogue up on a pedestal, they will be grateful for us toppling Caesar when they are told the truth.”
Cassius nodded in agreement, but shared not his friend’s confidence.
*
Brutus, along with his torch bearers, descended the hill alone. Cassius walked off in the opposite direction, deflecting the question as to where he was heading. Brutus marched, as if still on campaign with a legion, and every now and then the former lictors trotted a couple of steps to keep up with their master.
Even from half-way down the hill the senator could still see a fair amount of the city below him, white and grey in the moonlight. From left to right he scanned the Campus Martius and the phalanx of tents, ordered like its own city. The meandering Tiber, like liquid jade, flowed and glistened in the background. Brutus briefly remembered how Caesar, when he had been his mother’s lover, had taught him to swim in the river one summer. Always his thoughts turned back to Julius. Compelled. Condemned.
The gardens of Lucullus possessed an air of colour and vitality even in the distance, in the dark. Maybe the pleasure-loving ex-consul had been right to retire from the political circus of Rome and the Senate. But this idle fancy of the Roman praetor was ultimately rootless. Duty was the highest pleasure.
The Forum, Senate House and Sacred Way remained bold and divine even in silhouette for the devout Republican as they stood before him. Yet, whereas he once strode up the Sacrae Via filled with the pride of achieving his ambition of becoming a Senator, Brutus of late felt repulsed and righteously indignant during his time spent, wasted, in the Forum. It was a farce to think that the Republic was still just that. It was fast becoming a royal court, filled with cronies and profligates.
A patternless group of dimly burning oil lamps littered a large part of the landscape, where the masses resided. A fire from a house, which thankfully seemed to be under control, illuminated the less scenic and less celebrated quarter of the city, the Subura. Caesar had once lived there. Was that why he could sympathise with the people so? The flames flickered out into the void like a serpent’s tongue tasting the air, and lit up the wooden and red clay roofs of the surrounding jerry-built tenement blocks which stood, or rather leant, like a blot upon the landscape. Each room would be crammed with more than one family, often immigrants, with little or no access to running water or other basic amenities. Sooner or later the building would collapse or be consumed in a fire, if disease did not kill off the tenants first. When would Rome finally have its own official fire brigade and all-encompassing sewer and aqueduct system? The Senate would not pay for it and the people couldn’t. As much concern and compassion as Brutus felt for some of his fellow citizens - indigent, trapped - the Roman aristocrat could also feel a strain of contempt and snobbery towards “the great unwashed”, as Cicero called them, slavish to demagogues like Caesar and parasitic by nature.
It was so late that Brutus barely encountered a soul during his walk home. Even the nocturnal thugs and low-lives had drunk themselves into a stupor by now, or were in the arms of some poxed harlot within one of the city’s sordid brothels. Despite pondering Rome’s splendour, depravity, history and various odours (of stale wine, exotic spices, sweat, ordure, musty perfumes, damp and smoke) Brutus returned to looking inwards and was again absorbed by his thoughts.
His footsteps across the stone streets sounded like a sculptor chipping away at a block of marble, as Brutus chipped away again at why his personal feelings should not influence his sense of duty. Personal feelings, and self-serving motives, were certainly influencing many of his co-conspirators. Some were former Caesarians who felt resentful towards the dictator for overlooking them and advancing their rivals. Some craved revenge for fallen comrades and family members that Julius had vanquished in the Civil War. Others were offended and rebellious due to Caesar’s undemocratic reforms, which favoured the people over the plutocrats; the once all powerful oligarchs were now being taxed on their extravagant lifestyles and their wealth dist
ributed to the poor. Their dignitas was being insulted, their authoritas undermined.
Brutus smiled, thinking about Caesar’s brio when announcing his reforms and remembering the confounded looks upon certain faces as they heard the revolutionary proclamations. Yet whereas personal feelings and self-serving motives spurred Cassius on, if Brutus considered his personal feelings towards Caesar then perhaps he would be dying for him now rather than plotting to kill his friend and sometime surrogate father. More than any other enemy soldier it had been Brutus who Caesar had sought out in order to spare his life after the Battle of Pharsalus. Caesar trusted him. Brutus experienced the shame again, as if he were in the room once more, when Caesar, not two weeks ago, dismissed the suggestion that there was a conspiracy against him - and that Brutus had somehow been implicated in the plot. Julius merely smiled confidently, paternally, at his adviser. He remarked, whilst laying a hand on his body, that “Brutus will wait for this skin of mine,” - not only implying that Brutus was worthy to take his place, but that if he did so he would act honourably. In many ways Julius was worth a thousand squabbling, corrupt senators. And that same day hadn’t he himself renounced any monarchical ambitions, replying to a supplicant who called him a king that “he was Caesar, not king?”
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