Sextus Pompey saw the last arrow sizzle into the ocean behind him. Ribbons of foam littered the sea, but for the most part the sea was as black as the pirate commander’s mood.
“Perhaps they are worthy of their nicknames. If only those two nobodies realised who they had just encountered Menodoros,” the Son of Neptune posed, allowing himself a brief philosophical smile amidst his ire and frustration.
“It’s a shame we don’t know who they are,” his lieutenant replied bitterly, “as I’d cut their throats without you even having to ask.”
15.
Under a gibbous moon the two friends sat down and toasted their victory. Their drunkenness provided a welcome release for the pair’s frayed nerves and erratic hearts. Exhilaration had succeeded terror within the space of ten minutes. Octavius especially was edgy, shifting between nervous laughter and energy - and then sinking into moments of chilling gloom. After one such bout of silence between the two youths, Octavius suddenly retrieved his good humour and asked, “How did you learn to throw a knife like that?”
“The harder I practise, the luckier I get,” a grinning Agrippa replied.
Octavius raised a corner of his mouth in a knowing smile, yet later that night when contemplating Oppius’ tutelage of Marcus he felt a stabbing sense of jealousy, that his friend had somehow eclipsed him and was favoured by the centurion, who was supposed to be attending to him.
Envy again would hiss in his ear like a snake a few days later. Agrippa revealed how Oppius and Roscius had taken him into town. They had spent the night in the tavern - and then brothel - as a reward for the youth’s first kill. “He has lost his virginity as a soldier, now he has to as a man,” Lucius had drunkenly proposed to Roscius. The two men then pooled their funds and paid for a clean whore who specialised in first-timers. Her make-up papered over the cracks of her fading beauty, but she was coaxing and patient with the handsome youth. By the morning Agrippa had lost his shyness without losing his courteousness and the woman said that he should come again, which he did.
Yet more than envy, Octavius experienced an overwhelming sense of gratitude and love in regards to his friend. They shared an uncommon and unspoken sense of trust and respect. They would share in each other’s successes - and be a pillar of support for the misfortunes. If they argued, they could forgive as well. Their interests differed, but not their values or sense of humour. “To have a friend is to be one,” Cleanthes had once expressed, and Octavius was now fortunate enough to understand what he meant by it.
Oppius headed up the group of cavalry, which arrived a couple of hours after the pirate ship had long since been swallowed into the night. He first questioned the two youths as to the size of the vessel and its crew compliment. The officer then sent orders back for a couple of warships to disembark and patrol the waters in the direction to where the vessel was heading.
16.
The Ides were a public holiday, to mark the end of winter. Hydra-headed Rome was rousing itself early this morning, in preparation for the day’s festivities. Wine had been uncorked before even the dawn had un-bottled its honey-coloured light. Best tunics had been washed and were drying on the line. Picnics were being packed for those who were visiting the delights and quietude of the countryside. Even the horses and bullocks seemed ebullient, chomping on dewy hay and best, crunchy oats. The paint was still moist and glistening upon gaudy and garish banners, competing for attention in wishing Caesar well for his forthcoming campaign. It was as if the city was a creature coming out of hibernation and he now craved sustenance, society and merriment.
Drovers, dyers, farriers, furriers, tanners, tonsors, waggoners, wharfmen, carpenters, cobblers, blacksmiths, boatmen, surgeons, shipwrights, merchants, mid-wives, perfumers, pastry-chefs, rope makers, ribbon-sellers, quaestors, quacks, actors, aediles, augurs, jewellers, jugglers, vintners, vendors, haberdashers, herbalists, upholsterers, urchins, kitchen-hands and knife-sharpeners all buzzed around the streets, as industrious and content as a colony of bees.
*
Caesar woke and was briefly startled to see, hazing in and out of focus in his sleep-filled eyes, various attendants positioned around his bed, smiling obsequiously or gawping. Fury briefly knitted his brow before the statesman realised that he had instructed many of his staff to be ready to attend him as soon as he arose.
Dimpled serving girls held strigils, oils, soaps and sponges in their hands, ready should Caesar wish to take a bath. An over-worked but ever-ready secretary stood poised with a wax tablet and stylus, should Caesar suddenly decide to write a letter. Two dressers, brothers, held a woollen, circular-shaped piece of material aloft which - after meticulous draping, folding and pleating - would be transformed into Caesar’s magisterial toga.
For a telling moment the pontifex maximus, and dictator perpetuus, closed his eyes again after waking, perhaps wishing that the bothersome retinue could vanish and he could continue to bury his head in the swan down of his pillow. But the purple, gold-bordered garment loomed large in the tired fifty-five year old’s eyes, reminding the consul of the significance of the day ahead. It was to be the last gathering of the Senate before Caesar departed for Apollonia - and then onto Parthia.
He yawned and stretched simultaneously - the yawn dovetailing into a small roar. Caesar duly put the clicking of his joints down to the frigid morning air, rather than his age. Julius smiled winsomely at his retinue.
“Would you like some breakfast Caesar?” Joseph, one of the dictator’s oldest servants, asked. ‘Joseph the Jew’ as he was called, to mark him out from ‘Joseph the Carpenter’ (who was also a Jew), had been with the Jullii household for as long as Julius could recall, to the point where the duteous and sometimes over fussy manservant had asked his master’s father the same question once as a serving boy.
“A cup of water will suffice Joseph, thank you.”
“Is that all Caesar?” Joseph replied, with a hint of disappointment and criticism in his voice. The servant was forever trying to encourage his master to eat more.
“If you’re worried it’s not enough Joseph, I’ll have two cups,” Julius replied, his features bright with fondness and charm. The good-humoured smile ebbed from Caesar’s expression however as he noticed his wife’s absence from the other side of the bed - and the uncommonly ruffled state she had left it in. Was something wrong?
*
The early dawn had been snuffed out by leaden skies. Slowly but surely though the overcast clouds, slate by slate, had been lifted and fine sunshine sprinkled itself over Rome as if nature wished to give the city a climate deserving of its jubilant mood.
Brutus stood, where others leaned, next to a pillar in the large portico before Pompey’s Theatre. Cassius had once satirically commented that the praetor’s posture was “as upright as his morals”. Sometimes his ashen expression seemed watchful, sometimes pre-occupied. He bit his nails again. The rings around his eyes marked out a sleepless night. Brutus had tried to read to take his mind off things but familiar friends - such as Cato the Elder, Carneades and Hesiod - brought little or no consolation for once. The words seemed empty, or loose on the page, as if a gust of wind could blow them all away. And the bookish praetor would have noticed not, or cared little, should they have done so. Books could not help him now. Where once a copy of Plato’s Symposium rested in the inside fold of his toga, there now resided a dagger.
Usually the stoical statesman dressed himself in the morning, having been taught by Cato how to don his toga without assistance, but this morning Porcia had helped him. His hands had been shaking too much. She had also calmly placed the ceremonial dagger, used for religious sacrifices, into the large inside pleat of the garment. Again, the conspirator covertly touched his midriff to check if the weapon was still there.
“He who many fear must go in fear of many.”
At first the words but sounded as loud as an echo in his ears - and they emanated from a man who appeared and disappeared in front of his person in a blur. But then reality, oppr
essive reality, took hold. The quote was from a play by Liberius - and Cassius had adopted the phrase as code for the conspirators, to indicate that a member would be in his designated position. Brutus but caught the back of the libertore but he recognised the figure as Servius Galba, a former general of Caesar’s in Gaul. Was his cause the Republic? - Or was Galba rather acting out of envy or revenge, for being passed over for promotion in Caesar’s new campaign? Brutus sadly already knew the answer to the question.
The ill-at-ease senator seemed strangely out of place in the gay, bustling square. The mood seemed especially fraternal. Citizens had even been considerate enough to avoid dumping their toilet buckets on passers-by beneath their windows this morning, the praetor had noticed. Banter and laughter were freely exchanged, between friends and strangers alike. Gossips twittered like crickets. People were either purposeful in the act of shopping, or setting up shop. Brutus overheard the latest epigram doing the rounds and, for the first time that morning, his dour countenance fleetingly broke out into a smile.
“I have heard that Fulvia cries
Ev’rytime her husband returns home late.
Either Mark Antony must change his ways
Or his wife will dehydrate.”
The ardent Republican surveyed the scene however and his expression became pained. Was this really a tyranny? Was Caesar really a tyrant? More than the people and Caesar even, had it not been resentful patricians and the taxed merchant class who had propagated the idea of the consul acting like a king? Brutus even posed that some had perhaps feted and honoured Julius - commissioning statues and awarding him further bombastic titles - in order to build him up and inspire jealousy, breeding reasons to knock him down.
“He who many fear must go in fear of many.”
The words sent a chill down the conspirator’s spine. Instead of a sense of duty the call to arms began to stir feelings of doubt, guilt. The line this time had been uttered by Decimus Brutus, a distant relation and a man Marcus had perhaps admired more before the instigation of the conspiracy. Where once he had thought Decimus intelligent, he now thought him politic; ambition whispered in his ear as much as a sense of justice. Cassius had called Decimus “a good man” but he meant it in the treacherous rather than true sense of the term, Brutus despondently judged.
Taking charge somewhat of the libetores’ final gathering it had been Brutus himself who had recommended that Decimus be the one to make sure Caesar attended the Senate meeting on the Ides. And so Marcus now watched his fellow conspirator walk off in the direction of Julius’ house. His voice and resolution were too weak to call him back.
The die was cast.
*
Caesar was torn. The duty of office, rather than a desire to do so, suggested that he should attend to the Senate. Yet Calpurnia had asked him to remain at home for the day. First she had said that she was unwell, which from her abnormal pallor and strange manner Caesar could well discern himself - and then she had argued that they did not have that much time left before he departed on his new campaign. She wanted to spend some time with him. It was uncharacteristic of her to plead and make a demand on her husband’s day in such a way, which is why Caesar wanted to oblige her. Unlike Cleopatra, Calpurnia seldom asked anything of Caesar.
Rather than answer yes or no, then and there, the consummate politician had told his wife that he would think about it - and make his decision after his morning shave. As to their daily routine Caesar took his chair and Joseph stropped the razor. The dictator liked to be clean-shaven to the point of it seeming an obsession. He once joked to his servant that he liked to remain so because it gave the impression of him having more hair upon his head.
“I’m a dog caught between the call of two masters Joseph, the Senate and my wife. What would you do?” Caesar posed, half-jokingly, as he sat down.
“I would pray to my God for direction.”
“And what do you think He would say?”
“For an easy life He will say whatever my wife tells him to,” Joseph said after a short mock-philosophical pause, the barest flicker of a smile upon his face. Julius smirked, enjoying the dry wit of his old friend. Behind closed doors Caesar gave licence to Joseph to say anything he wished to his master.
“You have a wise God, Joseph.”
“Or a frightening wife,” the old Jew wryly replied.
*
Brutus nervously fingered the dagger beneath his toga, repositioning the weapon once more. A small volcano of terror suddenly erupted within his stomach, thinking how if Caesar should embrace him he would notice the knife press against him. His breath quivered. The logician reined himself in however by arguing that Caesar only embraced him after an absence of seeing him - and had he not last seen his former mentor only yester night? There had been a dinner party at Lepidus’ house. Brutus’ stomach had tightened and the blood drained from, and then flooded his face in succession as the topic of conversation turned to “a good death”. A pregnant silence filled the room just before their dictator spoke.
“Let it come quickly and unexpectedly,” Caesar had expressed. Brutus darted an anxious glance towards Cassius, but his co-conspirator merely popped a grape into his mouth and nodded in agreement with the dictator, briefly raising a corner of his thin cruel mouth in an amused smirk.
“One cannot spend one’s life constantly worrying about and trying to prevent one’s inevitable demise. The sands of time will always slip through our fingers. Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.”
“Wise words, Caesar,” Lepidus ingratiatingly pronounced in reply, raising his cup of second-rate Chianti and toasting his consul. The Master of Horse’s most pronounced feature, in Brutus’ eyes, was his mediocrity. He was as bald as Caesar, as uneducated as Mark Antony and as self-serving as Cassius. His virtues as a general were that of being a good administrator and following the orders of his superiors. Cassius, who had served with Lepidus in Spain, thought little of him - but Cassius thought little of everybody, Brutus mused.
It was an act of courage, bravado and hubris for Caesar to dismiss his bodyguard like he did. “There is no worse fate than to be continuously protected, for that means you are in constant fear,” Julius had remarked to Brutus in private. Cassius had exclaimed that it was fitting that it should be Caesar’s pride and arrogance, those traits that had made him First Man of Rome, which should also be the authors of his downfall.
Out of the corner of his eye Brutus saw now his sharp-faced co-conspirator, leading his own personal bodyguard of a dozen gladiators. The plan was for them to be stationed outside of the Senate meeting, just in case Caesar’s supporters should come to his aid. Cassius had not informed them of the plot, only that he might call on them to restore order. Trebonius, Pompey’s former fleet-commander, also stood in place. His task was to detain Mark Antony, so he would not be present when the deed was done. Everyone was now in their place, like actors waiting for their cues upon the stage, except for the villain. For so long Julius had been Marcus’ hero. He owed Caesar gratitude and respect. As well as a gift of a necklace or silks for Servilia, his mother’s lover would always bring the budding scholar a copy of the latest translation of Plato or Euripides. So too it had been Julius who had financed the opportunity for Brutus to further his education and visit Athens all those years ago. He was still the greatest man Marcus had ever known, eclipsing even Pompey, Cato and Cicero in his range of virtues and accomplishments.
Punctuality was never one of the dictator’s most prevalent virtues, however. Or had the conspiracy been uncovered? It surprised Brutus how much this last thought did not alarm him. Perhaps he just wanted for the day to be over.
“Either this dagger will end Caesar’s or my own life by the end of today,” he had flatly stated to his wife that morning.
*
“You have not usually suffered from such superstitions before my dear.”
“I have not suffered such a dream before,” Calpurnia replied. The c
ouple sat ensconced in a small arbour within the villa’s garden. Lilies bloomed at their feet. Ivy hung down like the auburn ringlets framing Calpurnia’s once elegant, now grief-stricken, features. A tardy lark warbled its dawn chorus. Dark rings still circled her teary aspect - and the image of Caesar, bloody and dying in her arms, still plagued her inward eye. She had at first lied, pleaded and then raged to keep her husband at home for the day. The violent nightmare scarred her waking reality. Caesar had been loving and patient towards his wife all throughout her pained histrionics - all the while rehearsing his arguments as to why he still needed to attend the Senate meeting that morning.
“I dreamed you were murdered.”
“Even if death is calling, duty is also calling my love.”
“Are you not worried about the auspices? It might be written in the stars.”
“Then I shall change the calendar again if need be,” Caesar replied, tenderly cupping her distraught face in his strong hand - and smiled that smile which had conquered more hearts than just his wife’s. “Let it not be said that Caesar does not know how to compromise. I will be as quick as I can in dealing with the Senate - and then I will return home and we can spend the day together. Indeed I promise to spend so much time with you my love that you’ll be veritably sick of me by the time I leave.”
Calpurnia let out a laugh cum sob at her husband’s sardonic wit. More than anyone, Julius knew how to judge his wife’s mood and make her feel good. It had not always been the case. Their marriage had originally been one of political convenience. So too Caesar nearly divorced his high-born wife, offering her to Pompey in order to maintain strong relations with his fellow triumvir. Yet fondness, respect and love eventually fostered themselves into the union. Calpurnia’s cold patrician humour melted under the light of Caesar’s charm; duty turned into devotion. Caesar appreciated his wife’s faithfulness - and forgiving nature; she tolerated his indiscretions, moods and vanity. She nursed him like his mother and Cornelia - and kept it secret when he suffered from his increasing bouts of falling sickness. Julius in return enjoyed lavishing her with gifts of jewellery and clothes (although Calpurnia would rather have had her husband spend time, than money, on her). He even made love to her outside of her cycle, when she was least fertile. It had frustrated and saddened Caesar that Calpurnia had not been able to furnish him with an heir, but after being informed that his wife might be barren Caesar dismissed the idea of re-marrying. Julius had of late appreciated his wife’s Roman virtues in light of his mistress’ recent behaviour and demands. When Cleopatra had witnessed an attack of his epilepsy Caesar somehow felt ashamed or vulnerable in the politic queen’s eyes; when it similarly occurred under the gaze of his wife, he absorbed love and compassion in her maternal aspect. Calpurnia was, as much as Mark Antony and Marcus Brutus, a friend and confidante. He had enjoyed the dinner last night, partly because he could see how much Calpurnia had enjoyed it, basking in the attention and honour of being Caesar’s wife. When they had returned home Calpurnia had read to her husband (which, as much of a pleasure as it was, it had of late became a practicality - as Caesar’s eyesight seemed to be receding as quickly as his hairline).
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