Thunder growled in the background, seemingly undecided as to whether it should unleash itself or not. Rain began to spot his toga but Brutus reached his house before the downpour commenced in earnest. He entered quietly, not wishing to disturb his wife. He had been an inconsiderate enough husband of late. With a brief nod of his head Marcus Brutus dismissed his man-servants and thanked them for their service for the evening. He retained one of their torches however and, retreating into the triclinium, lit a brazier and sat with his head in his hands before it. Tired. Tortured.
Brutus momentarily lifted a corner of his mouth, straining it upwards as if a weight dangled from his face, as he caught the pleasant fragrance in the air. Porcia had scented the coals with his favourite aromatic oil. The praetor again thought how he would be lost without her.
The flames flickered - dancing in the air to the rhythmic drumming of the swirling rain upon the tiled roof - and created hypnotic shadows along the plaster wall behind. Brutus scrunched up his crop of black hair in his hands. He suddenly got up, strode over to a low pine table next to the end of the couch and poured himself a large measure of wine. The sediment was heavy at the bottom of the jug from where he usually didn’t touch the intoxicating vintage. He winced slightly at the taste of the first mouthful but then adjusted himself to the flavour. It was impossible to discern whether the troubled figure was drinking to find his resolve, or lose himself.
After a couple more cups Brutus, with a wistful drowsiness in his expression, half-smiled as he recalled how much the present scene resembled that of when Caesar crossed the Rubicon, and he had to choose between his friend and Pompey. Reason had overruled his personal feelings then; despite his attachment to Caesar - and his resentment of Pompey for being involved in his father’s death. But yet, like now, Brutus served the Republic, not any one man. The debt he owed Caesar for sparing his life should not overrule his debt, duty, to Rome. He again mournfully, angrily, weighed up the case against Caesar in his mind.
Although there had once been three hundred senators - and now there were over eight hundred - power had increasingly become conferred upon one man. He had even dared to proclaim himself Dictator for Life. Caesar was a King in all but name. Officials were no longer elected, but personally chosen by Caesar - he bestowed offices like favours - and in return his supplicants would support his radical reforms. Statues had been commissioned - and placed in the company of images of the gods. Brutus sneered in contempt at the egoist as he remembered his near blasphemous comments, attacking the state and constitution that his heroic ancestor had helped establish. Caesar had dismissively called the Republic “a mere name without a substance” in front of everyone.
And then there was the would-be coronation at Lupercalia. Mid-February. Ironically the festival was in part a celebration of the renewal of civic order, but Brutus’ sense of irony was eventually replaced with indignation. The day owned a religious and ritual significance. Young noblemen would dress up in animal skins. Carrying small leather thongs they would proceed to chase women around the city who were childless - and then gently whip them across the hand, or more indecorous areas. Many desired to be caught, believing in the superstition that the touch of the whip would increase fertility. Caesar presided over the rite, sitting on top of a gilded throne. He wore a lavish purple toga and red boots, similar to those worn by the legendary monarchs of the past. Mark Antony was also there. Although a little too old for such sport - and it was a blight on the honour of the Consulship which he held - he also dressed himself up in the ceremonial goat-skin loin cloth and joined in the ritual, half-drunk and debauched from the night before. Brutus thought he looked ridiculous and was at first as contemptuous as he was confused as to why Mark Antony was taking part in the far from august festivities. One couldn’t help but notice also how Antony gave certain girls a kiss on the hand that he had first struck, intending no doubt to increase their fertility through less superstitious means in the near future. As well as a whip however, the consul produced a diadem and a wreath when he approached the rostra on which Caesar surveyed the crowds before him. It was here that Cassius gave Brutus his first knowing, conspiratorial look.
“The people offer this to you through me,” Antony grandly announced whilst lifting the golden wreath aloft. A small section of the crowd cheered enthusiastically, as if on cue. Their enthusiasm however proved to be far from infectious. Yet Antony was but one of the actors performing in the regal drama. If not for the sacrilege and malign ambition involved, Brutus might have deemed the display a mere pantomime act.
“Jupiter alone is King of the Romans,” Caesar replied, refusing the wreath in a grandiose manner. A genuine wave of applause and love here erupted, drowning out those who called for the people’s hero to accept the crown. Facing away from him, Marcus found it hard to discern Julius’ expression - but for a moment or two he thought he saw him wryly smile. Perhaps he knew that it was the people’s love - and power - which were important to him, not the ornaments of a crown and title. And Brutus truly believed that Julius loved the people in return. He had done so much for them - and not just from the cynical motives of ambition and the vanity of a legacy. His clemency was sincere, his reforms were progressive and his generosity was not a smokescreen.
Mark Antony, either desiring the spotlight or merely obeying pre-arranged stage direction, attempted however to bestow the crown on Caesar again. Boos and jeers though accompanied the mock coronation - and this time it was Brutus who permitted himself a discreet smile in favour of the people. Rome did not want a King, but yet Caesar here perhaps mistook their displeasure as a rejection of him. Mark Antony, either too drunk or obtuse, misjudged his performance - and his audience. He insisted on playing his part. Although seemingly not part of the script Caesar wrestled the wreath from his clownish lieutenant and tossed it aside. A few cheers here punctured the boos, but the damage was done.
The official record stored in the archive for the Lupercalia read ‘Caesar offered the kingship: Caesar was unwilling.’
Rome must not become a monarchy Brutus again told himself, his face ploughed with determination. There was an almost religious fervour in his aspect. The removal of Caesar would be tantamount to a ritual killing, a purge. He could not compromise his ideals. If he sacrificed his idealism, that which sets Man apart from the beasts, then Man, Rome, was not worth saving. Marcus Brutus would rather die than live ignobly. “I love the name honour more than fear death,” he had once proudly exclaimed to Cassius, unwittingly plagiarising the line from a play that he had seen over a year ago.
Brutus’ eyelids soon weighed as heavy upon him as his mood. Drowsiness swiftly succeeded his fervent resolution, dovetailing almost within the blink of an eye. His brow throbbed from the wine and the heat, which pounded out from the roaring brazier. His head swayed and drooped as if set upon a pivot, as if sleep were about to draw a veil over his evening. A gust of cold air feathered his flushed cheek however. The door creaked open.
Porcia entered. She walked a little gingerly at first but then, realising that her husband was aware of her presence, regained her natural poise and graceful gait. Despite his fatigue Brutus awoke to his wife immediately, revitalised. Her black hair cascaded down her elegant shoulders and back like liquid ebony. Her eyes were dark, but warm - and a little red and puffy from sleeplessness. Her face was feminine without being coquettish. She wore a sky-blue linen gown which stretched down to her ankles but revealed her slender arms and fine, ivory hands and fingers. Her features were aristocratic and intelligent, an inheritance from her father Cato, but yet as soon as she gazed at her husband her countenance softened and expressed devotion. Only after moving out of the half-light did Brutus notice the pale, almost translucent hue, to her skin. He felt an immediate mixture of both pity towards his wife and anger directed at himself for being so distant over the past month. But yet he could not burden her with his own anxieties. He loved her too much. And if she was party to the plot then she would be in mortal peril. Porcia smi
led a little falteringly. She then wordlessly cuddled up to her husband, slotting her contoured body into his; his tautness lessened as she stroked his hair and kissed him upon the cheek. Either from the strain, or his love for his wife, Brutus was close to tears. She nestled her head against his muscular shoulder. Torrents of rain still splintered the air in the background. They both simultaneously looked up and furrowed their brows in slight apprehension at the storm growing stronger. Out of the corner of his sight Brutus observed his wife briefly close her eyes - either in sorrow or wincing in actual pain - before resting her head on his shoulder. Caesar was not to blame for this anguish. He was. Brutus burned with impotence and guilt, his feelings unleashed like Cerberus, yet muzzled.
“Are you not coming to bed? What’s wrong?” Porcia asked. Although she had ached to ask this question before, she had not relented until now.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing can come from nothing Marcus,” she replied, both wittily and ruefully.
“Telling you would only make me worry for you my love, and thus increase my worries still. I will take care of things. I promise that everything will be alright,” Brutus remarked with unconvincing reassurance.
“For better or for worse, remember? I would share your worries, as well as your love Marcus,” she expressed whilst removing her head from his side and raising herself to look her husband in the eye.
He loved her. She was beautiful. Porcia was much younger than her husband but her good sense and wit belied the maturity of a woman twice her age. She first cupped his sorrowful face in her satin hands and then tenderly, almost maternally, stroked his cheek. He strangely never noticed it himself but others remarked how much Porcia resembled her aunt, Brutus’ mother. Yet his wife had loved him more unconditionally than his mother. Whilst growing up Servilia had been more concerned with playing mistress to Crassus and Caesar, than she had been with being a mother to her son. Only when she finally lost her looks and the patronage of certain men of power dried up (Crassus had died in battle and Caesar now had his Egyptian consort) had Servilia turned her attention to her son and her ambitions for him.
“You have not been yourself lately,” Porcia said, concerned. Probing.
“Aye, I have been more subject than citizen,” Brutus replied, ruefully and wittily.
The thoughtful young woman paused before speaking, as if either mustering the courage for what needed to be said or pausing to remember her lines like an actress.
“Marcus, I am Cato’s daughter, and I gave myself to you not just to share your bed and board, but to be a true partner in your joys and suffering. I have no reproach to make, but what proof can I give you of my love, if you forbid me to share the kind of trouble that demands a loyal friend to confide, and keep your suffering to yourself? I know that men think women’s nature too weak to be entrusted with secrets, but surely a good upbringing and the company of honourable men can do much to strengthen us, and at least Porcia can claim that she is the daughter of Cato and the wife of Brutus. I did not know before how either of these blessings could help me, but now I have put myself to the test and find that I can conquer pain.”
As her father had suffered from a surfeit of conceit, Porcia too was not immune to a strain of Cato’s pride and self-consciousness. Thankfully however the daughter did not inherit from her father his frigidity and haughtiness. Indeed more so than conceit one may have argued that Porcia suffered rather from an excess of sensibility, which was heightened all the more by the trappings of youth and her bookish education.
For a moment Brutus was confused as to the content - and portent - of his wife’s remarks. He merely looked quizzically into her mahogany eyes. Confusion blurred into apprehension however as Porcia’s lace-like features unbound themselves. The wild fervour of her looks then possessed the rest of her delicate figure as she dramatically scrunched up the skirt to her gown in two small fists and ripped the garment open to reveal her right thigh, stained with both dry and fresh blood. With a trembling hand the stoical woman peeled back the scarlet bandage and displayed her glistening, gory wound. Porcia had sliced into a major vein in her leg with a small knife that she used to cut her nails earlier in the evening. She wanted to prove to herself, and her husband, that she was strong - and could conceal a secret. Cherry-red blood still oozed out of the cut.
Brutus - shocked, cherishing - hastily pressed the blood-strewn gauze back onto the unsightly wound and with his other clasped his wife’s head to his.
“I’m so sorry. I should have trusted you. I love you so much. I don’t deserve you,” Brutus half whispered, half moaned, whilst tears streamed from his eyes - tears of sorrow, devotion and rage. His marble heart crumbled. He kissed her on her snow-white cheek, slaked lips and brackish eyelids. Porcia, drained, barely heard what Marcus said. She just felt that a weight had been lifted from her heart and dreamily smiled whilst leaning into her virtuous husband.
He picked her up like a child and carried her into their room. All through the night Brutus attended to his wife. He redressed the wound and sent for a physician. Not once did he let go of her limp, but responsive hand. After the surgeon departed, and Porcia had regained some of her strength, Brutus poured out his dilemma to his wife. As tempted as the young woman was to influence her husband - for although she kept it from Brutus she had never forgiven Caesar for her father’s suicide - Porcia for the most part just listened. She knew how much Marcus admired and loved Julius as a friend, or father figure even. Porcia felt more concern for Brutus’ torment than vengeance towards Caesar. The morning sun eventually poured through the window like honey. Porcia drew her husband close, tenderly kissed him on the temple and whispered, “I know that you will do what you believe is right, my love.”
11.
Octavius opened his eyes, squinting in the half-light. His stiff limbs ached and his head felt like an anvil after a day’s work at the blacksmiths. Briseis was no longer lying beside him, having crept out before dawn to avoid being caught in the young master’s bedroom by a loose-lipped slave or soldier. The room still reeked of wine and body odours, as well as the girl’s cheap perfume, but Octavius smirked when recalling the scenes of the night before.
After their encounter outside of the house, Briseis, wordlessly, suggestively, led him by the hand into the bath house of the estate. The love-struck youth followed her. She immediately placed a finger over his lips when Octavius tried to say something, and then kissed him teasingly, with the unspoken promise of more kisses to come. Water sizzled across the red hot stones, producing even more steam. The comely serving girl gently ran the back of her hand down her master’s arm, following and stroking in the droplets of perspiration which formed upon his skin. She then sat him down on the large wicker chair which occupied the centre of the room. His eyes only diverted themselves from hers when he glanced and admired the rest of her provocative curves. Again he tried to speak but Briseis grinned and shook her head as she crouched down and placed her hands into a bowl filled with warm water and a sponge. Her skin and eyes glowed in the mellow light of the torches which adorned the chamber. First she removed his sandals, dusty from the bouts of walking during the day. For a moment the water tickled as it trickled down his foot, but then the sensation grew more sensuous as she freshened his skin. Her eyes slinkily gazed up at his servile aspect as she knelt before him. Once his feet and calves were washed, scraped and dried, Octavius, unable to contain himself, reached out to touch the girl but Briseis deftly moved away, denying and arousing her master with a playful, chiding look. He grinned, lasciviously. She smiled, deliciously, as she knelt before him again and, dipping her hand into a small bowl beneath the chair, rubbed olive oil into his feet. Slowly, deliberately, alluringly, Briseis moved around to the back of her lover. With neither master nor mistress issuing a word she began to loosen his tunic. Octavius drew in the scent of her breath, skin and damp hair as if it were the finest of fragrances. Briseis, hardly able to contain her own self now, leaned over Gaius and, before he had tim
e to fully respond, kissed him hungrily upon the mouth. He tried to turn his head and return her amorous sortie but once more the girl tantalisingly retreated and shook her head, indicating that he was breaking the rules or not playing to her script. The pace again grew slower, sultrier, as Briseis returned to her position close behind Octavius. Her left hand stroked his ear and cheek as her right, soaked in oil, massaged his chest - delving down to his stomach and beyond. Octavius soaked up the warm sensations - the seduction. Yet he could not totally tame his excitement; his heart pumped blood into a somewhat different but equally ardent organ and he tapped his foot impatiently. Anticipant.
Gaius closed his eyes and cocked his head back, emitting a sound of pleasure - which somehow eased his troubled soul as well. Briseis couldn’t help but sigh with gratification, half-lost in the eroticism, too. But then the handmaiden suddenly ceased her caresses. All was silent, apart from the noise of Octavius breathing - and the slight rustling sound of the seductress disrobing. Octavius remained speechless as Briseis appeared before him, naked - her ripened flesh glistening with perspiration and oil. She licked her lips, moistening their splendour even more. The look the lovers shared conveyed a million words - playful, carnal, and intimate. For a brief second or two a shy teenage girl was also to be seen in the sexually powerful woman as Briseis coyly bit her bottom lip and smiled a little nervously - but then her prowess returned as she grasped the two wooden arms of the chair and inserted her slender legs each side of her master, to perch herself upon his lap. Octavius clasped his hands around her waist and brought the girl towards him, her firm yet soft breasts pressing against his chest. Despite the fervour of their passion the maturing lovers kissed each other tenderly. He then kissed her neck as Briseis pulled her head back in response to Octavius stroking his fingertips up and down her back.
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