During the Festival of the Saturnalia, in the dark afternoon of the shortest day of the year, Mark Antony arrived at my house, half-cut and still crapulous from the previous night's debauch. He demanded wine and leered at Longina, who properly retired to her own chamber.
Antony stretched himself on a couch, drank the wine the slave had brought in one gulp and held out the goblet to be refilled.
"You're a lucky bugger, Mouse, always were," he said, and leaned over sideways and vomited on the marble.
He watched with a smile curling his lips — a smile that contradicted the bleariness of his gaze — while the slave cleaned up the mess.
"Sorry about that. More wine's the answer. Keep bunging the stuff down till some of it sticks, I always say."
"Well, Antony, you are always welcome to my hospitality, within reason."
"Cagey bugger, aren't you, always were. Tell you what I've been trying to decide. Am I celebrating or am I not?"
He gulped more wine, steadied himself on his elbow.
"That's better. Send this little brat away. We don't want slaves to hear what we have to say. Bloody gossips, every man jack of them. Fuck off, do you hear, and leave the sodding wine. That's better."
He poured himself another measure with a trembling hand that made the jug rattle against the goblet.
"D'you understand what I said? Am I celebrating or am I not?"
"You tell me, Antony. You ought to know after all."
"Ah, crafty… crafty… but that's the point, I don't know.
So I come to you, little Mous e, to find out. And when I say ‘I’, I include you. Are we celebrating, or are we not? Here, you're not drinking. Bloody drink, will you. It's uncivilised to leave a man to drink on his own. Uncivilised and ungenerous. But I'm. generous, so I'm offering you one."
"Very well. And let me answer your question. You appear to be celebrating, but not perhaps very happily."
"Got it in one. I knew I was right. Said to myself, bloody Mouse'll see the bloody point. I am celebrating, been celebrating for two, three days, maybe four, but not happy. Good. So next question, next question… Very diffy one. Why? Got everything to be happy about, don't I. Antony starts his consulship in ten days, maybe a fortnight, lost count's a matter of fact. But not happy. Why?"
"I can't answer that. You ought to be happy. You'll make a fine consul."
(As long as you can contrive to be at least half-sober at the necessary official ceremonies, I thought.)
"Mouse, you've let me down. Little Mouse, let old Antony down. Never would have thought it… Tell you why, give you the answer myself. We won the bloody civil war, didn't we? Yes, can't deny that. But we're losing the peace, that's why. All those buggers on the other side, like your esteemed father-in-law, like that prig of a cousin of yours, Marcus Brutus, are slipping back into power. By Hercules, there was a fucking Augean stable to be cleansed, and nothing has been done. There are plots against Caesar, Antony, loyal old Antony, goes and tells the General, and he laughs, says, go and sleep it off, there's a good chap. So: answer. I'm not celebrating…"
And then he fell asleep.
I am aware that throughout this memoir I have presented Antony in an unfavourable light: as uncouth, boorish, impetuous, wrong-headed. He was all these things. But he was also more, and different, something which many who had not served alongside him failed to realise. His charm was formidable. When he chose to exert it, the radiance of his smile, the eagerness with which he charged at life, lit up the existence of those around him. And he was no fool. He said many foolish things, but he was also capable of flashes of unexpected intelligence. And strangest of all, this man who appeared so heedless of the impression he made, who even at times seemed to delight in presenting himself as disreputably as possible, was also possessed of a rare sensitivity: a sensitivity that quivered, sunbeamlike, in response to the moods of others. This was one reason why his soldiers adored him. There is no general men will follow so eagerly as one who has an intuitive understanding of how they feel at any moment. And Antony had that quality. Even in drunkenness, he was never cut off — as I have seen other drunkards separated — from the way others felt. He was an utterly social being, one who could not be imagined in isolation. And because he was this, he understood far more than those who are wrapped up in their own concerns ever do. Now he opened one eye.
"Fuck the Queen of Egypt, I say. But when I tried, she said, fuck yourself, old boy."
He closed the eye again and began to snore.
If Antony believed that men like my father-in-law and Marcus Brutus were plotting against Caesar, he was almost certainly correct.
This left me in an alarming position. As Caesar's closest adherent, known to be the favourite among his surviving generals, was I the object of such a plot also? Was it possible to plot against Caesar alone, and leave the Caesarian party unmolested?
The next afternoon I encountered Antony in the Forum. He had just emerged from a barber's shop, spruced, shaved, pomaded and sober.
"Afraid I was a bit of a bore yesterday, old boy. Sorry and all that. Hope I didn't say anything I shouldn't, specially to your lovely wife."
"Not at all. You indicated you hadn't got far with the Queen of Egypt, that's all."
"Did I now? Between you and me and the gatepost, old boy, she's a bit more than I'd care to tackle. She may be only a child, but she's a man-eating one, don't you know."
"Antony," I said, taking his arm, "this Parthian campaign. Will he go ahead with it?"
"Oh, I should think so, wouldn't you? The old boy's bored, you know." "And after it?"
"After it? Well, I should think it might be the end. First rule of war: don't invade Parthia. I've tried telling him that. Imagine you've done the same in different words. Doesn't do a bit of bloody good, does it. So, it's us for the desert song, and us for… who knows what?"
"That's my opinion. So how do we set about stopping it?"
He lifted his head, like a lion sniffing the breeze.
"Wind's blowing cold from the East. Think you can stop that, old boy?"
I had to admit Antony was right. My fears were intensified when I learned that various members of the old Pompeian party, including some who had affected to be most closely reconciled to Caesar's rule — for that of course is what it was, despite the" punctiliousness with which the traditional posts in the Republic were filled — that some of these, as I say, were urging the Parthian campaign on him. The ignominy of Crassus' defeat was a stain on Rome's reputation, they said, that must be wiped out; and Caesar was the only man capable of doing so. This of course was music to his ears, and he did not reflect that these men urged him to the enterprise in the hope that he would fail.
I confess that the same thought had also occurred to me: that Caesar's death on the Parthian campaign might be the most honourable way out of the difficulties that his continuing and ever-growing ascendancy was now so evidently presenting. But it was not a way of escape that I could honourably dwell on.
Instead, I went to see him at his own house, choosing an hour in the morning when he would not be over-tired as a result of the business he had been transacting, for I had noticed that in recent months, he was more amenable to reason in the first part of the day; and that when he was tired his mind delighted in ever more extravagant flights.
He received me kindly, as was his wont, and dismissed his secretaries when I said I had important matters which I wished to raise.
For a moment we sat in silence. All at once he looked an old man. It was the first time that thought had ever struck me, and I experienced a wave of tenderness and affection.
"Well, Mouse," he said, "it must be a grave matter that brings you here at this time of the day when you know I am accustomed to be at work."
"It is precisely of work that I wish to speak."
I then explained to him the causes of my anxiety: that it was now nine months since the Battle of Munda; that there could be no question but that the civil wars were at last concluded; but that it seemed to me that we were no nearer a resolution of the problems that had caused the wars.
He frowned when I said that, as if to remind me that in his opinion, and as he had so often asserted, the cause of the wars had been the determination of his enemies to destroy him.
So, to prevent him from raising the point and thus provoking an argument that might divert me from the course on which I had determined, I interpolated an acknowledgment that this had been the immediate cause of the wars. That of course, I admitted, had properly been removed. But I hastened to add that we both realised, as historians and politicians well versed in these matters, that the underlying causes of the wars went beyond personalities and turned on the question of the Constitution. Now Caesar had been granted the title of Perpetual Dictator, which ensured that authority could be maintained in Rome and throughout the Empire. Yet I could not see, I said, with all the respect that I could muster, how a perpetual dictatorship could answer.
"I must warn you," I said, "that there are even some who put it about that you wish to be crowned king. It is naturally a rumour which I deny whenever I hear it."
Again he frowned, then waved a hand to indicate that I was to continue.
Very well, I said; he had made minor reforms. He had enlarged the Senate, and although many of our fellow members of the old nobility complained that those he had admitted were scarcely gentlemen, I was in full agreement with him as to the value of the enlargement. Likewise, I was in favour of his decision to increase the number of praetors and quaestors, not only because it gave more men the rewards of office, but because there was more public business of a greater variety of sorts to be transacted. And yet such reforms could hardly be thought sufficient to tackle fundamental problems.
I hurried on here, for I could see that he was becoming bored, and I did not wish to exhaust his patience.
And now, I said, he was engaged in preparing for war against Parthia. There were good reasons for such an undertaking. Nevertheless it must distract us from other business for two or three years, and in this interval, with Caesar absent from Rome, it could not be imagined that any of the causes of our discontents would be removed. The Parthian expedition, dangerous in itself, was therefore in a sense an act of evasion. I spoke respectfully, of course, but it seemed to me that the most urgent task before him was the repair of our fractured State…
I paused, dismayed. He had ceased to listen. His gaze had drifted away. He had withdrawn himself, perhaps into boredom, perhaps into dreams. Then, made aware of my silence, he gave me a smile that had all its old accustomed charm.
"The Queen of Egypt tells me that the title of King would be of great service in the East. I care nothing for the nonsense of titles, but she may be right. Naturally, many in Rome would object, for men grow fond of their old ways and hate innovation. Perhaps anyway, in time, the name Caesar will come to mean more than 'King'. Who can tell? But I have been wondering whether I might not permit myself to be entitled 'King' beyond the boundaries of Italy, while retaining here in Rome simply the style of 'Perpetual Dictator'. It might be a way out of the dilemma. What do you think, Mouse?"
What I thought was that he had been paying no attention to my argument at all. Nevertheless, I replied:
"I do not see how that would solve anything, though of course I understand the Queen's argument comes naturally to her. But the point, Caesar, turns not on titles — and you are quite right in believing that everyone in Rome would resent the assumption of the name of 'King'; it turns on the relationship between you, and the immeasurable power you now wield, on the one hand, and the best means of revivifying the traditional institutions of the Republic on the other."
"You don't understand, Mouse. Perhaps you have been listening to Cicero. I revere Cicero myself, and am delighted to converse with him, so long as we confine the topics of conversation to literature and philosophy. Incidentally, he is doing useful work there, finding Latin equivalents for Greek terms which are necessary to the development of the subject. But when he talks of the Constitution, he is talking of something as mythical as the Minotaur. For all his brilliance, he doesn't understand that history is a living thing. When he speaks of the Constitution in terms of reverence, I admire his sentiments, but I know that he is talking of something which ceased to exist before he was born. What does he really believe in? He seems to think that our armies should be commanded by a noble officer — once it was Pompey, now perforce it is Caesar — while Rome, Italy and the pacified provinces are governed or administered by the Senate under the guidance of honourable, public-spirited conservatives prepared themselves to be guided by his golden oratory. He should know that such an assembly doesn't exist, even if it once did, and he should be modest enough to acknowledge that his own record is littered with gross blunders and misapprehensions."
He rose, and took a turn around the room. He still moved, even in his middle fifties, with that athleticism which his soldiers had so admired.
"You should realise, Mouse, for you have followed Caesar, that for the last two, even three generations, our Republic — that wonderful, resounding, moribund name — has proved itself incapable of performing the simplest and most necessary part of government: the maintenance of law and order here in Rome. During this period more Romans — including members of the nobility — have fallen in civil wars, been killed in street battles, or just assassinated — than in any foreign wars. That is not on account of my ambition, or Pompey's ambition, or my uncle Gaius Marius' ambition, or even the ambition of the loathsome Sulla; it has been because the old institutions are no longer answerable to circumstances…
"You call for reforms, Mouse. I have no reform to offer. Once, perhaps, I too thought things might be restored simply by the eradication of abuses. No longer. Such hopes are but an idle dream. You imply that there is resentment because I have appointed consuls, praetors and other magistrates, and made the elections into a merely formal ceremony of confirmation.
But you know, in your heart, that for longer than our lifetime, these elections have been either fraudulent or farcical. They have also been dangerous, for they have provoked the violence which government should restrain, and which the Republic has failed to restrain.
"And so, I say… the Republic is dead. You cannot breathe life into a corpse. What is left is a sham, and a dangerous sham.
"Things must change. But they will change gradually, as men grow accustomed to new realities. The first reality is that power now rests with the army and whoever controls it. Well, fortunately for Rome, Caesar controls it. As long as Caesar controls the army, Caesar controls Rome. That is the reality against which Cicero's dreams shatter themselves like a piece of pottery thrown against a wall. Time, that is the watchword. Time and I against any two; that is my faith.
"Yes, I shall go to Parthia, because it is necessary. What I choose to call myself is immaterial. In Rome, I am Caesar, and Caesar rules. In the provinces Caesar may be king, even a god, it is not important. What Rome needs is a period of calm, free from civil strife. Only Caesar can provide it, and Caesar can do so only while he controls and commands the army. That is reality, Mouse, I insist on it.
"So, don't listen to Cicero, there's a good chap. He represents the past. The future is quite different, because it will be based on an understanding of the ultimate reality of power: the sword. Naturally the Senate will survive; has Caesar not refreshed it, even as you admit yourself? So will the magistracies for there is necessary work for them to do. But remember: the strong govern the world, and Caesar is the strongest, while he commands the strength of the legions.
"Nobody will ever hold power in Rome again unless he commands that support. If he relinquishes command to others, he will perish. Rome is an Empire, not a city-state. Tell me, in your heart, don't you find it absurd that a mob of greasy unwashed plebeians should be entrusted with the choice of their government, when that government has the responsibility for the whole Mediterranean world… and after my next campaign for the government of Parthia also…"
I left in despair, for he had sketched a future in which liberty was dead, and in which honour was at the disposal of whoever had seized power… It was not for that reason, not to achieve this, that I had fought from the Rubicon to Greece and saved the day at Munda.
A lthough the year began traditionally on the Kalends of March (a date altered by Caesar's reform of the calendar) my father-in-law, Caius Cassius, was accustomed to throw a party at the January Kalends, for, as he rightly said, "Janus, the guardian spirit of entrances and the god presiding over the beginning of all things and all deeds, deserves our respect." The fact that the party, coming so soon after the debauchery of the Saturnalia, had been known to revive the spirit of that festival and thus degenerate into something which might fairly be described as an orgy, didn't alter my father-in-law's determination to honour the god.
His party in this momentous year took on an unusual significance, for Cassius had pruned his guest-list of all those who were known to be the most devoted to Caesar, even though, as a precaution, he felt it necessary to invite the dictator himself.
Perhaps my presence reassured Caesar that he was not among enemies for he was in genial form throughout his fairly brief stay at Cassius' house. Some say it was the presence of my cousin Marcus Brutus which calmed the agitation he revealed when he first looked round the room, but this is not so: he was on bad terms with Markie on account of rumours that my cousin was ambitious to replace him in the dictatorship.
"Surely Brutus can wait till the breath is out of this frail body," he said.
Besides, any of those present — and alas, some are no longer among us — could confirm that it was to me that the dictator directed most of his conversation that evening. Cassius had asked me to make sure that Caesar was happily engaged, and of course I was delighted to obl ige. My father-in-law knew very well that the dictator neither liked nor trusted him; and so, after a brief and ceremonious greeting, he was pleased to see me take him off his hands, as it were.
Caesar departed early, saying that, however festive the occasion, he had work to do.
"Work with the Queen of Egypt," young Cinna sniggered, as soon as the dictator was out of earshot.
After we had eaten and drunk — the sucking-pig was especially delicious, I recall, because, Cassius assured me, the sows on his farms near Tivoli were fed a milk diet which ensured that their own supply of milk was both plentiful and rich — Cassius dismissed the slaves, having first ascertained that they had left an ample supply of wine, both white and red. It was one of his maxims that, in honour of Janus, it was proper to drink alternate glasses.
There were some twenty of us left, reclining on couches and all at our apparent ease. Yet, when the slaves departed, a tremor ran round the room, as if we all sensed the imminency of something of great moment. I may say that my father-in-law had given me no warning of his intentions, which is proof of the confidence in my virtue which he had learned to feel.
We were a varied party. Let me stress that from the start. Cassius himself and Markie had been Pompeians; they had fought (or, in the case of Markie, found safer occupation) at Pharsalus. Quintus Ligarius was a Pompeian, pardoned (as I have related) as a result of Ci cero's eloquence. Decimus Turul lius and Quintus Cassius (from Parma), more obscure figures, had also fought in Pompey's army. There was the young Cato, less gloomy and uncouth than his father, more intelligent too, as devoted to the Republic, but with a truer appreciation of what was possible; a young man indeed of some charm with his chestnut hair and melancholy expression. He was of course now Markie's brother-in-law, though I had observed with some amusement earlier that he had removed himself from my cousin's conversation, and not only, I was certain, because of Markie's unfortunate habit of occasionally spitting in his interlocutor's face; this was due to a childhood infirmity which he had never overcome, rather than to bad manners. Probably Cato knew this; so he had, I imagined, removed himself simply because he was bored. I couldn't blame him for that. Another Pompeian was Lucius Cornelius Cinna, married to the Great One's daughter.
But I had old colleagues of my own there: Casca, of course, Lucius Tillius Cimber and Caius Trebonius, men with whom I had fought side by side. There were others whose position was more dubious, and whom I would be disinclined to trust: Ser Sulpicius Galba, well-born, skilled in the military art, but of a sour and truculent disposition. I knew he hated Caesar because Caesar had refused his request to be nominated as consul for any of the immediately succeeding years. More disreputable was Lucius Minucius Basilus, whom Caesar had denied the governorship of a province on the grounds that he was unfit for the responsibility; instead the dictator had offered him money. Basilus claimed to have been insulted, but he took the money all the same.
I knew from my father-in-law's manner that this was not a purely social gathering. Though he had been polite and courteous throughout the reception and the meal, I was aware that his nerves were drawn taut as a bowstring.
"Balbus told me an odd thing the other day," my neighbour, the younger Cinna, said. "You know, Balbus the banker."
"Of course I know Balbus. What was this story?"
"Well, it seems that some of the veterans who had been discharged and granted farms in the region of Capua were breaking up some ancient tombs to obtain stone with which to build their new farmhouses. Now it seems that one of these tombs belonged to Capys, founder of the city, and on it they discovered an inscription which read: 'Disturb the bones of Capys and a man of Trojan stock will be murdered by his friends and kinsfolk and later avenged at great cost to Italy.' What do you make of that, eh?"
"Not a lot," I replied. "After all, I suppose all we Romans may lay claim to being of Trojan stock, in some remote manner, and there are Romans murdered by their friends and kinsmen any day of the week."
"No, but," he said, "naturally I'm not superstitious, but it makes you think, doesn't it?"
"Does it?" said Casca. "Well, that's quite an achievement, my dear. On the other hand, once you start heeding old wives' tales of that sort, you'll never come to the end of it. Why, only yesterday my fat old mother told me a story which she'd had on the best authority — her manicurist's, I suppose — that a herd of horses which our Lord and Master dedicated to the River Rubicon, on account, you know, of its significance in his career, crossed the stream — a miserable ditch as you would know if you had been with us — and began to eat the grass on the other side. As soon as they did so, my ma was told, they evinced a great repugnance, and some of them actually started to be sick."
"Good heavens, that's extraordinary."
"Isn't it? It would be more extraordinary still, my dear, if Caesar had ever dedicated a herd of horses to that beastly little stream. But can you imagine him taking the trouble to do so?"
"It would be still more extraordinary," I said, "if any such horses, even if they existed, had been sick. But horses can't, you know. That's why colic can kill them so easily. If you get a disturbed stomach you vomit. So does a dog. But a horse can't. End of story."
"Well," young Cinna said, "I admit I don't know anything about horses, can't stand the brutes, bite at one end and kick at the other as they say. It's not that I'm frightened of them, it's just that they have an unfortunate effect on me. So I didn't know that. But, don't you see, that makes the story more extraordinary still. It's against nature, and when something happens that's against nature, that's really significant."
"Oh dear," I said.
That was the sort of story, and that the sort of conversation, common in Rome that winter. Credulity ran riot.
Our talk was interrupted by Cassius banging the handle of a knife on the table to attract our attention.
Then he said:
"I don't intend to make a speech, my friends. As some of you know, I detest after-dinner speeches. That's why Cicero isn't here." (An obedient titter ran round the table.) "But I have a few things I want to say to you. They are not entirely safe things to say. If you listen to me, we could change our lives, and restore liberty to Rome. So I'm asking two things of you, before we start. First, I would ask anyone who isn't prepared to take the responsibility of action to leave us now…"
Nobody moved.
"Good, I've judged you well. Second, I would ask you all to swear, on the honour and reputation of your ancestors, and in the name of whichever gods you reverence, that everything said here tonight from this moment will remain confidential, that you will speak of it to nobody who is not now with us, unless you have my permission, and that you will not discuss it beyond this circle or in other company. Will you swear? Will you swear such an oath?"
Again nobody moved, nobody spoke.
I was the first to rise to my feet and swear a formal oath in the terms requested. One after another, some slowly as if with fear, each man rose and followed suit, most of them employing the very words which first Cassius, and then I myself, had uttered. At last only my cousin Markie was left seated.
"Marcus Junius Brutus, heir to one of the noblest names in Roman history, will you swear…"
Markie crumbled bread.
"This disturbs me," he said. "I have indeed been much disturbed of late. I am vexed with perplexities, ideas which I feel it proper to keep to myself. Many of you will know that I love honour more than I fear death. But now, I suspect that you are about to urge a course upon us to which I cannot honourably reconcile myself."
"Come, Brutus," Cassius said, "there is no man in Rome held in higher respect than yourself. I have heard people say that they wished the noble Brutus had eyes to see what is plain to others. I'm afraid you are too bound up in your own perplexities. I can't force you to swear, but I can urge you, even beg you. We would not wish to be deprived of your counsel."
"Well, naturally" — the bread was now in crumbs — "I'm honoured that you should think so well of me. But suppose I hear something said in this room tonight which honour would urge me to reveal, and suppose I have bound myself by an oath to remain silent, then that will make my perplexities worse. Cassius, you know I love and respect you, but I cannot deviate from my sense of what is right…"
("Little prig," whispered Casca, "fucking little cowardly prig-")
"So, with respect, Cassius, I cannot bring myself to offer the promise you demand. Therefore, I think I should take my leave.
Which I do, wishing you all well, and sound judgment in whatever you choose to deliberate."
He folded his napkin and got to his feet. He went round the table and embraced Cassius, and so departed from us. It has always been said that he left with dignity. My memory is that he scuttled from the room like a frightened rabbit.
The young Cato looked for a moment as if he would follow his brother-in-law, glanced across the table, caught my eye, and remained where he stood. Only one young man, whose name I did not know (it was Favonius, I later discovered) chose to follow Markie.
When they had gone, Cassius resumed his couch and motioned to us to do likewise. Then he began to speak.
"I am sorry that Marcus Brutus, whom I admire as I am sure you all do, has felt unable to remain with us. He is a man I honour and respect. Perhaps, you will say, he is over-scrupulous.
"There was another man with us earlier today of whom that cannot be said. You all know that I speak of Caesar. Men have said many things against Caesar but I doubt if anyone has ever accused him of being over-scrupulous…
"I would ask you to think of Caesar and of the relationship in which we now stand to him, in which Rome now stands to him.
"I can't tell what you and others think of the life we lead, but speaking for myself, I would as willingly cease to breathe as continue to live in… awe… of a man no different from myself.
"I was born in liberty, as was Caesar. I was born his equal. We are men like each other, heated by the same sun in summer, shivering in the same cold winter blast.
"Equals, did I say? I remember once when we were young Caesar challenged me to swim across the Tiber. The river ran high, but I plunged in regardless. Then I heard a cry behind me, and looking over my shoulder, saw that Caesar was in difficulties. And so, just as Aeneas, our noble ancestor, carried Anchises from the flames of burning Troy, so I bore Caesar from the turbulent water, brought him to the bank, and safety. You may imagine I have often dwelled on that moment since.
"And others have performed similar feats. My son-in-law, Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus, here today, why…" he turned his gaze directly on me, "… why, did you not rescue Caesar from the storm of battle at Munda?" "Yes, I can make that claim."
"And now," Cassius said, dropping his voice to a whisper, as actors do when they wish to silence the murmurings in the theatre, "and now, this Caesar is a god, and Cassius or Decimus Brutus, or Metellus Cimber who has done great things in battle, or Casca, or young Cato sprung from the noblest stock of Rome, or any of you here — any, in the Senate, camp or temple, must bow and bend and scrape, and flush with pleasure, if Caesar should condescend to nod his head at us.
"Is that a way to live, an honourable way?
"I remember too that Labienus, the noble, honourable Labienus, told me once of an occasion when Caesar fell sick in Gaul, and lay on his pallet bed and called for water. It was pathetic, like a little girl.
"Some of us have seen him suffer fits, have seen him shake, have seen this god tremble, all control departed from his limbs.
"This god… this man like us…
"And now he is the eighth wonder of the world. Why, he bestrides the world as the great Colossus you have seen at Rhodes, and we others, little men, men become petty inconsiderable things, must walk about peering between his legs, as if we searched for a dishonourable grave.
"Caesar talks of Destiny. There is no word more often on his lips. The stars, the stars, as if it was decreed by Fate that we should be subordinate, subservient, subdued.
"But I say…" and again he broke off, again he rapped the table with the hilt of his knife, again he paused, holding us, while each man both longed and feared to hurry on the conclusion to which he was inexorably driving. "I say, the fault does not lie in the stars. It lies rather in ourselves.
"What meat has Caesar fed on that he has grown so great?
"If our ancestors, the men who broke Hannibal, laid Carthage waste, pursued the great King Mithridates to his doom, conquered Spain and Africa and Asia, if these men whom we revere, could see us now? If they could observe our fallen State? If they could see how abject we now seem? If they could see how Caesar, a man of our own stock, a gambler, debtor, lecher, one who has broken the historic links that held the State together, if they could see how he lords us, dominates us, holds us as his… subjects? If they saw all this, would they laugh or weep, or weeping laugh and laughing weep?
"This is the question that I put to you tonight: are you not ashamed, as I feel shame, that we have come to this abject condition? Or are you ready to bow down and worship Caesar, call him God, even King, regard him as a creature of a wholly different order from ourselves, his fellow nobility of Rome?"
Then he was silent, very pale, sipped wine, looked hard at each of us in turn. One by one eyes fell away, unable to hold his gaze, and there was silence. It was broken by the one man who had not met his gaze, had not done so for the excellent reason that his eyes were closed as he lay on his couch, in apparent indifference: Casca, of course.
"Words, words, words, Cassius, Cassius, Cassius, you have out-Ciceroed Cicero. There was no need indeed to ask the old man here tonight, for he couldn't have given a better exhibition of rhetoric than you have treated us to…"
"Do you think I mean nothing but words?"
"Can't say for sure, old thing, can't say." Casca hauled himself half upright, slapped his belly. "I am fat, fat, fat. That was a good dinner you have given us, Cassius. Caesar thinks only lean men are dangerous, and I am fat."
Metellus Cimber interrupted:
"Enough of this comedy. You have given us much to think of, Cassius. If it is any satisfaction to you, you have brought the blush of shame to my cheek."
"And to mine."
"And mine."
"And mine… alas."
"Well, Casca?" Cassius said.
"Put away shame a long time ago, old dear. Give me comfort, wine and a bit of slap and tickle — kill my creditors or let them live as long as you keep them off — and what more could Casca seek from life? I am fat, you see. Words, words, words. Well, I'll reply in words — the proof of the pudding's in the eating — how's that for a proverb? Your cook has a light hand with the pastry, Cassius. Congratulate him from me on those lobster patties…"
Again Metellus Cimber broke the silence:
"What you have said, Cassius, can only be a beginning. I would wish Marcus Brutus had stayed. That's a man whose opinion I value. But you have given us all much to think of. Therefore I invite all here tonight to dine with me in seven days' time. Meanwhile we shall ponder these matters, consult our hearts, consciences, interests, whatever; and observe the oath of silence which we swore. Casca, you will find my cook, an Armenian, has a light hand with pastry too, and a deft imagination when it comes to the filling. So, shall we conclude here, and resume our discussion as I have invited?"
We all assented, but, as we made to leave, Cassius beckoned to me, and laid a restraining hand on young Cato's shoulder. When the three of us were alone, he said:
"An interesting response, better than I had dared hope for. But if we could have another word before you follow our friends, I should be grateful."
So we resumed our couches. Cassius poured more wine.
"Mouse," he said, "you know Caesar better than any of us."
"I owe him much."
"He is as greatly in debt to you."
"Well, I won't deny that."
"You knew what I was driving at… and yet you stayed."
I spat out an olive stone.
"There are loyalties and there is loyalty."
"What do you mean?" Cato said.
"One owes something to one's friends and benefactors, one owes more to oneself, one owes most to Rome." "Precisely my thought," Cassius said.
"Oh, you made that clear. I do no more than echo what you said. For months I have been seeking an alternative. I see none."
"If Caesar takes the name of King," Cato said, "the people themselves will quit us of responsibility. They will tear him apart."
"They might," I said. "In any case, he will not assume the title, not yet, not here, not in Rome. If he sets off for Parthia, then, yes, somewhere in the East he will permit himself, with a deprecating smile, to be called King. Perhaps there he will share a throne with the Queen of Egypt. It would be a long campaign, two or three years. In that time the people may grow accustomed to the title. Who knows? But he may never use the name in
Rome. Caesar is indifferent to mere words. He suggested to me recently that the name 'Ca esar' might itself come to have a grander sound than the name of 'King'. He may well be right. When I said I saw no alternative to what you, Cassius, did not quite bring yourself to propose this evening, that is because I have already explored the possibility of abdication, that he might follow the example of Sulla, and retire into private life. I did not mention Sulla to him, of course, since we all know that he detests the very name, but even the hint displeased him. He is determined to keep hold of power. He is determined to conquer Parthia."
"He might not return from Parthia," Cato said.
"He might not," Cassius said, "but it is a risk we cannot take, for if he did return, in triumph, then…"
He swept his hand, palm uppermost, before him, then turned his thumb down.
"Rome, all of us, in his grip for ever, liberty dead for ever. Cato, you and I stand in the same relation to Marcus Brutus…" This was true, for as Cato's sister was married to Brutus, so also Cassius himself had taken Brutus' half-sister as his own third wife the previous summer. "If you are committed to the enterprise I have suggested, Cato, I wish you would urge it on Brutus. I shall myself in private conversation. His nature is slow, reluctant, I was not surprised when he left us tonight. But we must have Brutus. Will you speak to him?"
"Certainly. I shall speak to my sister Porcia also. As you know, she was devoted to our father, has indeed made almost a cult of his memory. Consequently she loathes Caesar more than anyone I know. And she has great influence on her husband."
"Excellent," Cassius said. "I would trust few women with our intentions, but I am ready to make an exception of Cato's daughter."
When young Cato had left us, my father-in-law looked on me with something approaching affection.
"You are ready to bear the accusations of treachery that will be levelled at you?"
"Yes," I said.
"I know you don't share my regard for your cousin Marcus, nor the general high opinion in which he is held. I believe you underestimate him. Sometimes indeed I wonder if you are jealous of the golden opinions he wins."
"Jealous of Markie? No. But I question his capacity, and I don't see why you think him so essential."
"You have chosen the right word. I do think him essential. So much so that I believe we have no chance of success if he refuses to join us. Oh, we might succeed in our immediate aim. We don't need him for that. But it is precisely because he is held in such high esteem by the people."
"Oh yes, as the model of 'antique Roman virtue' — Markie. Yes, it baffles me."
"And by the senators… so I truly believe that his adherence is necessary if we are to succeed in what must be our wider aim — the restoration of the Free State. If he joins us, our act will be considered disinterested. If he refuses, our own regard for the Republic will not be credited. So I must ask you to lay aside your prejudice, and woo him also."
"It goes against the grain."
"Nevertheless…"
"And he will blunder, I warn you."
"Nevertheless…"
"Very well, I submit, reluctantly, to your judgment." "Thank you. How is Longina?"
"Blooming, and a joy. Indeed, we are now so happy that I could easily be tempted to subside into contented domesticity."
"No, son-in-law, you are too much the Roman. And it is the noblest and most Roman of enterprises to which we have now committed ourselves."
We both rose. He embraced me, and I departed into the cloudy night.