Augustus- Son of Rome

by Richard Foreman

  Caesar paced up and down in the courtyard of his villa, his sandals clacking over the veined marble floor. He ruminated still upon his wife’s unnerved - and unnerving - state of mind. She had said how she had never ever asked anything of Caesar, except to stay at home with her for this one day - and she was right. Guilt prodded at him, like a blunt bodkin into his ribcage.

  “Morning Caesar,” a bleary-eyed Mark Antony tiredly but amiably announced when entering the courtyard. Caesar smiled, thinking how, even hung over, his lieutenant was strikingly handsome and good humoured.

  “Late night?”

  “Let’s just say I spent half the evening drinking with Lepidus - and the other half eating with his niece,” Mark Antony replied, lazily raising a corner of his mouth in a boyish smirk.

  “You seem to be systematically working your way through our Master of Horse’s stable. I would ask you to refrain from riding his wife though Mark Antony,” Caesar expressed, with the hint of a warning.

  “Fear not, she’s a nag. So are we off to the Senate today?” the soldier asked - and then yawned. He hoped that Caesar wouldn’t have any official business or role for him to perform at the session. Sleep was beckoning him like a mistress to bed.

  “No, you are off to the Senate today my old friend, alone. Announce that I have urgent business to attend to. Calpurnia is unwell. I promised to spend the day with her.”

  “Nothing too serious I hope. Would you like me to summon a physician before I attend to the rabble?” Mark Antony asked with genuine concern in his voice for his friend and his wife. His disdain for the Senate was equally sincere.

  “No, I have a feeling it will just be a twenty-four hour fever, but thank you. How is your wife by the way? I didn’t get the chance to speak with Fulvia last night.”

  “Lucky you. Two of her slaves died this week. She says she has nothing to wear. Her brassiere keeps pinching. And she’s putting on too much weight. I’ve never heard her complain so much. In short, Fulvia’s as happy as she’s ever been and back to her old self. Never mind wedding feasts, the party should come when people divorce.”

  Caesar laughed, happily and unaffectedly. It would be the last time that he would do so.

  “I am going to miss you my friend when I leave for Parthia. I can’t quite decide whether you have been a son or brother to me Antony, but Caesar would not be now Caesar without you.”

  A sense of gratitude and love permeated the heart of the sybarite and wastrel. Caesar was the only man who Antony could, or would, serve as a lieutenant to. The two men shared a brief, wordless moment. Mark Antony approached his surrogate father and older brother - and hugged him as such. Tears glistened in soldierly aspects.

  *

  Mark Antony formally nodded to Decimus Brutus as he exited the courtyard. The two men tolerated rather than liked each other. Mark Antony couldn’t help but notice the disdain and disapproval which Decimus cultivated in regard to the dissolute soldier. In return Mark Antony was suspicious of the patrician’s sobriety and ambition.

  Decimus Brutus had served under Caesar in Gaul and, although from a prominent optimate family, he had sided with Julius in the civil war. His military successes had been many - and many of them had been key. Yet his victories had always been under Caesar’s banner. Decimus believed that he deserved to share some of the pages of history that had been written by Caesar, Pompey and Lucullus - rather than just serve as a footnote to their triumphs. Like so many of his fellow libertores he trumpeted the cause of the Republic, but more so it rankled with the patrician that scoundrels like Mark Antony had been promoted to consul ahead of him. He seethed with resentment as well, believing that Caesar intended to announce his nephew as a successor. Caesar wanted to establish a dynasty, as well as a monarchy. His dagger would plunge deep into such transgressions Decimus had promised himself and the others, baring his teeth as he did so. “Let us see how immortal the self-proclaimed son of Venus is,” he had sardonically added in a private chamber of Servilia’s house, where the conspirators had hatched their plan. Trebonius had called it a coup, yet Decimus argued that, rather than a coup or revolution, they were merely re-establishing the rightful government of Rome.

  The middle-aged senator straightened out a pleat in his toga and smoothed his oiled hair. Baring his teeth, this time in the form of an oleaginous smile, Decimus approached Caesar.

  “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Decimus?” Caesar exclaimed upon seeing his former General, clasping and scrunching his shoulder in fraternal affection.

  “I was just passing, Julius, and I thought you might like some company in walking to the Senate meeting.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey, Decimus. I will not be attending the session today. Mark Antony has just left to send word of the fact. Would you like some refreshment?” Caesar said, distracted somewhat as he took in the new pastoral landscape which Calpurnia had purchased to decorate a wall of the atrium. As such the dictator did not notice his friend blanch, or almost choke on his words before he replied.

  “May I ask why?”

  “Calpurnia is unwell, or rather she had a bad dream last night and she remains unsettled.” Julius pursed his lips, pouting almost, and gently nodded his approval at the picture. The landscape was a little too symmetrical, artificial, but the colours and style of the painting were striking. The deep blue sky briefly reminded Julius of the woad-dyed faces of the barbaric Britons. Caesar smiled, remembering his triumph over the distant isle, but then his smile faltered as he remembered the cost of his victory.

  “Permission to speak freely Caesar?” Decimus asked, as if he were back upon the battlefields of Gaul.

  “Granted,” Caesar replied, curious and concerned by his friend’s tone.

  “It might be interpreted that you are somehow dishonouring the Senate, should you listen to your wife’s dreams rather than the dictates of your duty.”

  “The Senate has been dishonouring itself for years Decimus. Another day will not make much difference I warrant.”

  “But more than criticise you Julius, they will laugh at you. The Senate can abide the judgement of Caesar directing the governance of Rome, but I fear they will not be able to stomach the dreams of your wife dictating policy and state business. The paint of the graffiti artists will have dried upon the cartoons before the close of day.”

  Creases found their way into his brow at Decimus’ frank words. Caesar pursed his lips, in deliberation. Calpurnia was asleep. He would be home before she woke, he argued. Caesar did not wish to leave for Parthia with a chorus of laughter or satirical comments echoing up from the city. More than his love for his wife Caesar ultimately cared for his own pride and auctoritas - and Decimus knew the dictator well enough to play upon Caesar’s weakness, and strength.

  “You’re a persuasive fellow Decimus - and a good friend. I feel that not even Massilia was besieged as much by you as I am now. To Pompey’s theatre then. ‘Tis time for a final performance before I leave this stage for good,” Julius exclaimed, clapping his lieutenant affectionately on the back and leading him out.

  *

  Marcus Brutus heard the procession before he saw it. The praetor was standing outside Pompey’s Theatre.

  Caesar’s litter was unmistakable and unrivalled. Disgust, despondency and envy fought for pre-eminence in the Republican’s heart as he witnessed various people, from the Sabura and Palatine districts alike, throng around their consul, behaving like beggars more than citizens.

  The procession and adoration was akin to that of an official Triumph, at which a Roman general would celebrate a historic victory over the city’s enemies. Rather than a chariot however Caesar rode in an ornate litter - the polished gold of which radiated in the sunlight, giving its occupant a further divine aura. Yet, unlike a Triumph, Brutus judged, no voice would be now whispering in Julius’ ear, “Remember you are mortal, remember you are mortal”. Would Julius even hear such sage advice though at present, over the chants of “Caesar? Caesar
!” which rose up like puffs of smoke and choked out all other sounds?

  People continued to flock towards Caesar, like iron filings to a magnet. A young couple finished kissing, people gave up their places in the queues for various food stalls and augurs lost their audiences. And the litter continued to make its way through the undulating sea of people. Heads bobbed upon necks, as if they were pigeons about to be fed, as the adoring crowd attempted to sneak a peek at the dictator. Maybe Cleopatra was with him? “She can turn more heads than a garrotte” a cartoon had once commented on a wall next to the Forum.

  Faces beamed with religious adulation. A few children were crushed in the chaos. Drunken cheers were thrown up for no apparent reason. Rome had forgotten its sober spirit, Brutus lamented.

  Even through the frenetic and knotted forest of limbs Brutus could still discern the calf-length red leather boots of Julius as he stepped out from his carriage. The roar from the various supplicants eclipsed even that of what had come before, as if the people were attempting to send man-made thunder from earth up into the heavens. Brutus was not the only one to close his eyes and shake his head in derision at the raucous din.

  Across the portico Cassius sneered at the ignoble exhibition. His eyes became two slits as he tried to focus on the swirling and slavish congregation and pick out Caesar; the sight of Julius’ self-satisfied and pompous air would feed his blood-lust. The senator’s knuckles turned white as he viciously clasped the hilt of his dagger beneath his toga.

  The brawny litter bearers formed a protective cordon around their master, albeit even they found themselves buffeted by the force of the eddying mob. Caesar, in the eye of the hurricane, was a picture of imperious calm however. He gratefully collected scrolls and petitions which were thrust over and through the arms of his entourage. He smiled and waved, sparking a sense of devotion and satisfaction in every soul he interacted with.

  Brutus was suddenly checked in his derision by the sight of a friend of his, Artemidoros, a Greek teacher of public speaking, fighting his way through the tightly-knit horde in order to contact Caesar. Brutus squinted in an attempt to better observe the exchange. Artemidoros seemed to be trying to articulate something to the Consul - and hand him a scroll. Caesar cupped a hand to his ear yet still couldn’t understand the strange petitioner above the applause of the crowd. Brutus wasn’t aware that Artemidoros was on familiar terms with Julius. The Greek orator had even stayed over at his house a week ago - Brutus gave his friend permission to use his library and study - and he hadn’t mentioned having any business in regards to Caesar.

  The scroll contained details of the conspiracy. Julius was momentarily tempted to peruse the document then and there such was the singular manner of the fellow who had made such an effort to give it to him, as if his life depended on it. But he merely passed the document over to his clerk and continued to make his way towards the surrogate Forum for the day.

  Pompey’s Theatre. It was rare, if far from unprecedented, that the Senate would gather here. The grand building, constructed to celebrate Pompey’s equally grand victories, was the first stone theatre to be permanently housed in the capital. The stone seating, preferably softened by a cushion, could accommodate close to ten thousand people. The monument was a testament to the great man’s achievements as well as his (then) unparalleled wealth and unrivalled status. The semi-circular theatre was situated on the edge of the Campus Martius, next to - and towering over - various other temples and buildings dedicated to Rome’s triumphs and heroes over the centuries.

  A boisterous sun reflected off the luna marble as Caesar gazed up at the row of elaborate statues built into the monument. Venus Victrix (Venus the Victorious) was the most prominent and beautiful sculpture. Julius allowed himself a brief smile, thinking how he had stolen her as his mistress from Pompey, as well as the title of First Man of Rome.

  At seeing Brutus, Caesar waved off his entourage and walked towards his old friend. The dictator nodded his head backwards at the commotion behind him and rolled his eyes to express how he felt suitably divorced from the scenes in the square, and a little embarrassed by them.

  “Morning Brutus.”

  “Morning Julius.”

  “You look a little pale my friend.”

  “It’s nothing. I think I was just close to being bored to death by Lepidus last night, that’s all. I spent all this morning remembering to forget his insights into the merits of satin compared to silk - and how his augur is exceptional at reading the entrails of seagulls and quails, but not blackbirds.”

  “In other words, he was talking shit. I tell Aemilius that the reason why I keep him busy so much is that I trust and value him as an administrator, which I confess I do - but more so I am just trying to save other people from suffering his company for too long.”

  Brutus smiled. Julius was one of the few people who could make him laugh.

  A group of senators walked past the two men. Out of sight of Caesar, a couple eyed Brutus anxiously. Sweaty palms clutched their stylus cases. Rather than writing implements though, the cases carried their daggers.

  “Right, let’s get this over with. Are you coming in now?”

  “I will be with you in a moment,” Brutus replied. Whether Brutus knew it or not, the cancer of guilt had already lodged itself into his soul.

  “If I don’t see you afterwards, please try and call on me before I leave. Calpurnia and I would dearly love to have yourself and Porcia over for dinner. Just the four of us. Have a good day, my friend.”

  Marcus could not quite look his friend in the eye as Caesar said this, and clasped his forearm in a Roman handshake. He quickly turned away, sheepish, pained - and observed that, as to plan, Trebonius was detaining Mark Antony in the portico outside the theatre. As instructed the libertore was advising the consul on how he could consolidate his debts and decrease his interest payments.

  *

  Julius strode into the meeting and sat down on the gilded throne, which resided next to, but above, Antony’s curule chair. The murmuring gathering quietened. Sleepers were nudged and woken up. Some still gazed down at the speeches they had prepared. Caesar apologised for his lateness and then immediately asked if there were any urgent petitions which needed to be addressed.

  A few statesmen duly approached the dictator, some clutching scrolls or pieces of papyrus. Julius was far from impressed at seeing Tillius Cimber step forward however. This was now the third time that he would try and persuade Caesar to permit his brother to return from exile.

  “You are wasting your time. Hannibal has more chance of returning to Rome than your brother. And my patience is now growing short with you,” Caesar exclaimed, responding to Tillius’ petition - shaping his features so as to leave Cimber in no doubt as to his displeasure at having to address the issue again.

  Pretending to be desperate and unhinged the libertore suddenly rushed up to Caesar and grabbed him by the arms, pulling the dictator’s toga tight. “Once Cimber has grabbed his toga, we strike, all of us,” Cassius had coldly ordered at the final gathering of the conspirators. Caesar was at first shocked and disgusted at the supplicant’s unbecoming display, but then Julius saw the glint of the first blade.

  Servilius Casca was the first assassin to strike. He aimed for the dictator’s bare neck but, with reflexes and strength hewn from years of campaigning, Caesar managed to free himself from Cimber and avoid the intended blow. Instead of stabbing his neck Casca merely sliced his chest.

  “This is violence!” the dictator roared, calling out to his friends. But only his enemies sped towards him. Caesar wounded Casca in the arm with his stylus, but as he did so Julius felt the point of a dagger skewer into his side. The pain brought Caesar down onto one knee, but he gritted his teeth and rose again, punching one assassin in the throat and throwing another off. Such was the confusion and unwieldy strategy with which the attackers each attempted to get their blow in that many ended up stabbing or cutting each other. Blood flowed and stained like wine. Already a nu
mber of senators ran for the door, believing themselves to be fleeing for their lives.

  Such was Cassius’ determination to deliver the fatal blow that he actually pulled off one of his fellow conspirators to get to Caesar, who was still fending off many of his attackers. The blade arced over the shoulder of a blood strewn libertore. Cassius screwed up his face in bitterness and fury, exorcising all his jealousy and hatred in a paroxysm of violence. The dagger was just about to stab at Caesar’s once imperious - but now crimson and contorted - countenance when it suddenly failed to reach its target. To Cassius’ astonishment he witnessed Caesar standing there, his forearm bulging, his hand dripping blood from where he had hold of the blade up to its hilt. For a second, not even that, the two men glowered at each other - Caesar with contempt, Cassius with venom - before the dictator finally floored the wiry assassin by knocking him to the floor.