Enough of these black dreams t hat come on stealthy feet to make me fear sleep itself. Let me resume my narrative.
Of all our traditional Roman ceremonies the strangest, and to me perhaps for that reason th e most compelling, is the Luper calia. Its origins, even its purpose, are unknown, lost in the mists of time. It takes place two days after the Ides of February, in the middle of the ten days of ceremonies in honour of our departed ancestors; but whether it is connected with these, no one even among the priests can confidently say.
It centres on the cave of the Lupercal, on the south-west side of the steep and leafy Palatine. It was at that spot that the she-wolf succoured Romulus, our founder, and his brother Remus, and this connection and the name of the festival would seem to insist that in some mysterious fashion it celebrates that deed. If so, many changes must have taken place since it was first inaugurated, for there is no evident resemblance between its rites and the suckling of Romulus and Remus.
The festival commences with the sacrifice of goats and the offering of sacred cakes baked by the Vestal Virgins from ears of corn of the last harvest. Two nobly-born youths have their heads smeared with blood from the knife employed in the sacrifice, and this is then wiped off with wool dipped in milk. Then they are required to laugh. Wrapped in the skins of the goats, they eat a lavish meal, after which they lead two companies of noble youths at the run around the base of the Palatine. All carry februa, strips of purified goatskin, with which they lash any women they encounter. Needless to say, the more enterprising among them seek out the prettiest girls, who, regarding it as both an honour and a good omen to receive the lash, make little effort to escape. I have been fascinated by the Lupercalia, since I was myself one of the two chosen youths, and I know how it generates an uncanny excitement. It invites the participants to shed for the moment the trappings of the civilisation which at other times we so highly value. I attended it this year with Casca.
"I like its savagery," he said. "As you know, old dear, I generally give well-born boys a wide berth. They are rarely sufficiently pliable for my taste. All the same there are always one or two beauties disporting themselves who take my fancy and give me a bit of the old excitement. So, yes, I'm on."
It was a cold bright day, with snow on the hills. There was the usual confusion, yelps of excitement, laughter and taunting. Caesar sat on a golden chair among the dancing priests of the Luperci. He wore a purple toga and a golden wreath on his head. Because of the cold he had a shawl round his neck. He seemed to be paying no attention to what was happening. I let my gaze wander.
Then Casca nudged me in the ribs.
"Look at this."
A large figure, dressed in skins, pranced towards Caesar, bearing a crown. For a moment I didn't recognise him as Antony. He knelt before Caesar, extending the crown to him. Caesar made no response.
Crown of Romulus? I thought.
The crowd fell silent, all eyes now fixed on Caesar.
He stretched out his hand, touched the crown, let his fingers lie on it, while his gaze travelled the thronging mass. Then, without looking at Antony, he pushed the crown away, and let his hand drop. The crowd roared applause.
But Antony did not desist. He remained on his knees, still holding out the crown to Caesar, as if he was a suppliant, begging a favour. This time, Caesar's fingers closed on the crown, while once again his gaze shifted from it, sweeping the assembly. But again he let his hand fall, and again there was a roar of approval.
Antony did not move. He held the crown steady, level with his eyes. He pushed it a little towards Caesar. Caesar stretched out his hand again. He took the crown. Antony loosened his hold. For a moment the crown was all Caesar's. The silence held, to be broken by yells of disapproval. Caesar smiled, still looking at the crown and not at the people. The crown trembled in his hands. Then he thrust it at Antony, almost knocking him over backwards, such was the vigour of the thrust. The boos and hisses which had begun (as if the mob were in the theatre and Caesar a player who had displeased them) were translated into cheers.
Caesar rose, a little unsteadily, so that he laid his hand on Antony's head. He pulled the shawl away, and let it fall. He pointed his index finger at his naked throat. His mouth moved, but what he said couldn't be heard in the tumultuous din. From his action I deduced that he was inviting any whom his response displeased to cut his throat. The invitation was not accepted. The cheers resounded louder. Caesar swayed, and fell to the ground.
Casca whispered: "I expect he's been choked by their stinking breath, they crowd around him so close."
"No," I said. "It's his old complaint, the falling sickness." A voice close to my other ear said:
"It's not Caesar who suffers from the falling sickness, but us. Yes, and Casca too, we all have the falling sickness."
I didn't have to turn to identify my father-in-law.
"An interesting charade," he said. "We need to talk about it. Come home with me after this is all over."
Caesar had recovered, was on his feet again, very pale, and still trembling. He held up his hand for silence.
He obtained it, which says much for his authority and presence.
"Good people," his voice was faint.
"The poor soul," a sluttish girl near us muttered.
"Good people," Caesar said again, "I apologise for disturbing you with this strange infirmity of mine, which, as veterans of my campaigns will tell you, has often preceded my greatest triumphs. If I have offended any of you in any way this day, think kindly of me, and attribute the offence to the onset of my malady."
Then, leaning ostentatiously on Antony's shoulder, he made his slow, almost regal, way through the crowd in the direction of the Forum.
"The poor soul," the girl said again, "you can see how he suffers."
"He should never have been out today, I could see that as soon as I clapped eyes on the poor man," one of her companions said, "but there it is, he's a martyr to duty."
"Yes," said another, "and he knew how it would disappoint us if he wasn't, with us."
"Poor soul," the first girl said again. "You can see how hard it is for him."
"I'm glad he put the crown aside."
"Oh it was a crown, was it? I couldn't see."
"Aye, I'm that glad, though, mind you, if anyone deserves a crown, it's Caesar."
"Did 'ee hear what he said, though, when someone called him 'King' one day? 'My name's not King, but Caesar.'"
"Oh he's quick. You won't outsmart our Caesar."
"No, he's our boy, we're safe with Caesar."
"I don't know what that Antony was thinking of."
"Drunk, I daresay. He nearly fell on his arse when Caesar gave him that little shove."
"What was it all about then?"
"Well, he was just proving, like, if you ask me, that he doesn't want a crown. It's enough for him to be Caesar." "Too much for most."
"He don't look well. I worry about him, nights, you know." "Poor soul…"
Bombarded by such comments, with praise of Caesar ringing in our ears, we made our way to Cassius' house.
"There's a depth of affection for him, you know, love almost, one mustn't forget that," I said.
"I don't," Cassius said. "It preys on my mind."
"Pish and tush," Casca said. "The rabble is fickle. Believe me, I know. With good reason. Today, yes, that was their mood. If Caesar had told them to go home and stab their mothers, they'd have obeyed him. But that's today. Tomorrow they'll scream equally loud for a new hero. That's the rabble. Trash. You don't want to take any heed of them."
"I hope you may be right," I said.
Cassius called on a slave to bring us wine mulled with spices.
"Drink it up. It was cold out there," he said, handing us goblets, and downing his own.
"That's better. Well?"
"That's better, as you say; and again, as you say, well?"
"I had hoped," Cassius said, "that Caesar's popularity would decline. But it still increases."
"Would they have cheered as loud," I asked, "if he had accepted Antony's gift?"
"Every bit," Casca said.
"If his popularity," Cassius said, "is still waxing, then the day threatens when there will be nothing he cannot do, for there will be nothing, not even public opinion, to restrain him…"
"So?"
"So, we must do as we have determined. So also, Mouse, it becomes ever more necessary to recruit your cousin Marcus. He must be persuaded. I have sent for young Cato to consult how we may bring matters to the point. Mouse, it's no use turning down the corners of your mouth. Consider the three of us here. I have no illusions about my own standing: I am detested by the common people as the very expression of aristocratic pride. They loathe what they understand — and misunderstand — about the philosophy that informs my actions. You, Casca, are you respected? I think not. And, Mouse, are you popular? If you make a speech in the Forum, will the people cheer? Who will die for you or your cause?"
"The Ninth Legion is devoted to me. I have led them to fame and victory. They stand to in my allotted province of Cisalpine Gaul, and, believe me, Cassius, you couldn't wish for a finer body of men."
"Mouse, Mouse, soldiers, soldiers… they will follow whoever pays them."
"No, they have deeper loyalties. Caesar's strength derives from the army. Never forget that."
"Caesar's strength derives from his being Caesar, and from our weakness. No, however much you dislike it, we need Marcus Brutus. He is the only man we can hope to recruit who is held in high esteem by mob and senators alike. He is the only man who can make our cause.. " he paused, and smiled; there was a sneer in his smile, "… respectable," he finished with a bark of laughter.
"We would do better with Antony," I said.
"Antony?" Cassius said. "After that comedy today?"
I argued the case for Antony at length. I dismissed what we had just seen. We couldn't know Antony's motives, not till we had discussed the matter with him, as I was quite willing to do. Antony was consul, I said, and that alone gave our cause authority. It meant we could take whatever measures were necessary to secure order, and do so legally. I emphasised the importance of legality. It was true, I admitted, that Antony had been a devoted partisan of Caesar's — but no more than I myself; he had rarely questioned Caesar's actions. Well, how many of us had? But he was not infatuated with Caesar; he had resented Caesar's refusal to support him in his quarrel with Dolabella the previous year. Antony was popular with the crowd and, as consul, could legally take command of the legions. I admitted his frailties, but insisted that they were outweighed by his ability. We ought at least to sound him out. If he adhered to us, our cause would be immeasurably strengthened.
"Antony is not respectable," Cassius said.
"The same charge could be levelled at me, old fruit," Casca said.
"Your case is different, and not only because you can keep a secret in your cups, which Antony can't. Mouse, even if I agreed with everything that you have said — and you have argued the case for Antony with an eloquence of which Cicero might be proud — there remains one insuperable objection: we will never secure Marcus Brutus if he thinks Antony is engaged in the enterprise, for Antony is everything Brutus despises and detests."
"Bugger Markie," I said.
"Not me, old boy," Casca said. "You'll have to find another candidate for that job."
My doubts grew when young Cato arrived, fresh-faced, handsome, incurious. He brought good news, he said. His sister Porcia was exercising all her charms ("Bloody few, I'd have thought," muttered Casca) to persuade her husband. Brutus was half-convinced. He had written some pages of an essay on the virtues of the Republic. It was provisionally entitled Against the Government of a Single Person.
I remarked that this did not really take us any further.
"Besides, the Republic is easier to applaud than to achieve."
"But I must tell you something else," Cato said. "Supporters of Caesar have crowned his statues with royal diadems. And the mob cheered them as they did so."
"Well," Cassius said, "that warns us that delay is dangerous. Cato, will you accompany me to Brutus? It is time to twist his arm in order to release the obstruction that holds his noble spirit from action."
Even now, I do not know how Cassius truly regarded Brutus. The note of irony was rarely absent from his voice when he spoke of him; and yet no one could have set higher store by his adherence to our party. Perhaps the truth is that Cassius both admired and despised him, valued and resented him, distrusted his capacity and yet felt the need of his reputation for virtue. Perhaps even Cassius shared the doubts that disturbed me as to the morality of our plan, and, feeling such uncertainty, thought it could be banished only if Brutus, whose virtue none could reproach, collaborated with us. I do not know. I know only that his insistence that we must recruit Brutus was the chief cause of our failure, as I shall prove, given time to do so.
Casca and I left Cassius' house together. Our spirits were low. Heavy clouds, threatening snow, had blown up from the northeast. We both felt we had committed ourselves to an uncertain enterprise. Our trust in Cassius had diminished. And yet…
"Have you considered, Mouse, that we could still blow the whole bloody thing? Tell Caesar what is planned, and so… Yes, of course you have, and we won't, will we?"
"No, we won't. Whatever the risk, we've both been brought to this point. That charade this morning… did you see how at the third offering his hands clung to the crown?"
"I saw."
"There's a Greek word." "There would be." "Megalomania." "Well, bugger that."
"If you say so."
"No, I've just spotted something I fancy. See you later, old bean. Be good."
And Casca left me in pursuit of a curly headed epicene with a dancer's gait. I saw him take the boy by the elbow, and the pair disappeared up a narrow alley.
The snow came, lay in the city for two days, silencing the noise of wagons. Then the weather turned wet and windy, staying like that for the rest of February. Cassius reported that Markie was still wrestling with his conscience, but that both he and young Cato were confident that Porcia, reason, and the public interest would prevail. He told me that Brutus was like a general compelled to yield one position after another: "Finally, he will be trapped in the citadel from which he will find only one escape."
Without seeking authority from Cassius, I sounded out Mark Antony. He admitted that he was perturbed by Caesar's state of mind.
"That bitch the Queen has him in a vice. He's no longer capable of thinking straight."
I was convinced that he understood my purpose; yet he affected not to. Nevertheless, he laid his finger along his nose; and it seemed to me that this gesture indicated that though he would have no hand in the business, he would not seek to obstruct it.
"Caesar's not immortal," he said as he left. "And he's a lot older than we are. This Parthian campaign will probably finish him off — his health's not what it was, you know. And then things will revert to normal — whatever that can be said to be."
Trebonius pressed Cassius to include Cicero in our plans. He received some support from Metellus Cimber, but the rest of us were opposed.
"We shall need Cicero," I said, "after the deed. Can anyone doubt that he will approve it? But till that moment is reached he is more likely to be a hindrance than a help in our enterprise."
My opinion carried weight, and Trebonius desisted from his attempt to persuade us.
Diadems appeared again on Caesar's statues. This time two noble tribunes, men of exemplary Republican virtue, Flavius and Marullus, tore them off with their own hands and cast them on the ground. This action received the approbation of the mob, though some said later that the tribunes themselves had seen to it that their defiance would be witnessed only by those whom they knew to be favourable, and whom indeed they had with them by design. Caesar was incensed by what he termed their insolence. Exercising the authority which he possessed as Perpetual Dictator, he deposed the tribunes, and then, when they were private citizens and no longer protected by their office, had them cast into prison. Of all his tyrannical acts, this made the greatest impression on those who were wavering, eager for the restoration of the Republic, yet held back by fear of Caesar. For they saw that if he could treat the most honourable office of the tribunate with such cavalier authority, he had become capable of anything.
Casca laughed: "It's rich to remember, ain't it, that the ostensible cause of the civil war was the treatment meted out by the Senate to the tribunes who supported Caesar."
"Yes," I said, "and the theme of his memoirs of the war was to insist on 'with what great zeal I sought peace'. What does he seek now?"
That question hung over all our deliberations, and the answers we suspected fortified many minds.
"Your cousin inches towards a resolution," young Cato said. "This business of the tribunes has made a deep impression on him."
The Kalends of March ushered in spring. There was a lightness in the air calling one to action. The sky was soft and blue and the air fragrant. My soul was filled with eagerness. I rose early in the morning, leaving Longina beautiful in happy sleep, and sought out Cassius. I apologised for the early hour.
"Not at all. I always rise at first light. I study philosophy for an hour, then practise fencing or do gymnastics. When you reach my age, it is necessary to keep both mind and body in training. Otherwise deterioration is rapid. Well, things go merrily, don't they?"
His insouciance annoyed me. It belied his reputation. Cassius was seen, by most, as saturnine, sour, pessimistic.
"We are almost there," he said. "I dined with Marcus Brutus last night. He is on the point of committing himself. Then we must move quickly."
"Before he changes his mind, you mean, or loses his nerve?"
"If you choose to put it like that. But, as I've said before, you underestimate him. He is scrupulous, and that is to his credit. The Senate is scheduled to meet on the Ides of March, ironically in Pompey's theatre."
(This was on account of a fire in the Senate House, necessitating repairs.)
"I have marked that as an appropriate day."
"Very well," I said. "I'm agreed. I shall send Longina to the country."
"Is that necessary? Might it give rise to suspicion?"
"Her pregnancy will serve as excuse."
"You look troubled."
"Then my looks betray my state of mind."
What disturbed me, as I explained to him at length, was that no preparations had been made for anything beyond the deed itself. We seemed to be working on an assumption that everything would fall comfortably into place. I didn't believe that. There would be danger. We might have need of troops to maintain order. It couldn't be assumed that all Caesar's partisans would submit to our will. Antony's position had to be considered. I suggested that the Ninth Legion, which was devoted to me, should be put on the alert; I was ready to give orders that it should leave its winter quarters at Bologna, and march towards Rome.
"Can such an order be given without awakening Caesar's suspicions? Can such a move take place without confirming them? Besides, afterwards, the consuls, Antony and Dolabella, will be legally in command of the armies."
"Legality will have to be set aside. Perhaps Antony should be set aside also. Dolabella is of no account. He'll run around like a headless chicken."
"Well," Cassius said, "your proposal is risky. It will need to be pondered on, and more widely discussed. I have convened a meeting this day week. By then, I am certain Marcus will be ready to commit himself."
Longina protested when I told her she must leave Rome. Her lips formed in a delicious pout. Her eyes brimmed with tears. She met my guarded explanation of necessity with a tilt of the head and further questions. Then defiance. She would not be persuaded, would not obey. If I loved her, I would not ask this of her. Her lovely breasts heaved. I took her in my arms and tried to kiss her mood away. But she disengaged herself, and said:
"I've warned you against my father. I haven't asked what you are plotting together, because I haven't needed to. Are you afraid that I will betray you?"
"No," I said.
"Then I still don't understand."
"I am afraid," I said, "yes… Since you know what we are best not to talk about, let me confess my fear. I'm afraid, horribly afraid, that everything will go wrong. I'm afraid of failure, but, where you are concerned, for our failure would not place you in danger, I am still more afraid of success. My friends are blind to the devotion That Man inspires in the people. They therefore take no thought of the possible consequences of our success. Violence, rioting, revenge — that's what I fear. And I want you safe from that. I need you safe from that, if I am to play my part as a man of virtue."
"Very well," she said, "but do you need to play this part? I've been thinking about that."
She took a green apple from a dish and bit into it. The juice ran like a tiny rivulet from the corner of her mouth.
"Lord, I have such a lust for apples. Old wives say that means our child will be a daughter."
"It will be a boy, and in any case, only the first."
"If you were to stand aside, then when it was over, you would be in a strong position, wouldn't you? Especially if my father and the rest are as ill-prepared as you suggest."
The idea had occurred to me. Of course it had. Temptation never fails to offer itself: Caesar dead, and myself innocent of his blood, and in a position to mediate between the two parties. Visions of authority beckoned as insistently as an eager whore.
"I am in too deep for that," I said.
It was true. If I stepped back now, I would earn only contempt from those who held to their word. In extremities there is no place for the man who seeks the palm without the dust. It was months too late for the course Longina suggested.
"You could be sick."
"They would only believe my resolution had failed. Do you suppose a man of your father's penetration would be deceived by a pretence of sickness?"
"Don't you understand," she cried, "I am afraid for you, you fool, because I love you. I am afraid for myself and for my son."
She broke down in tears. I knelt to comfort her. Her arm stole round my neck. I scarcely felt the knife enter my back just below the left shoulder.
As it happened I had turned myself in order to kiss her mouth which was itself averted from me, so that the dagger did not penetrate, and I received only a glancing wound. But the knife came away red, and I felt the warm rush of blood, and Longina held the knife aloft and gazed on it as the drops fell to the marble. We drew apart. She held the dagger, point downwards, between us.
"What have I done?"
"What have you tried to do?" I think I smiled; I hope I did. "I have never been stabbed for love before. You goose."
I took the dagger from her trembling hand. She made no resistance. I ran my finger along the blade, and touched her lips with my blood.
"You goose," I said again.
"I might have killed you."
"With this toy? Unlikely. Anyway, it's no more than a scratch, I think. Deep wounds bleed slower."
"Come, let me bathe it and clean it. What was I doing?" "There's no need for tears."
Her shame and horror — also unnecessary, in my opinion, for her motive only made me love her more — served my purpose. She abandoned her opposition to my plans for her safety. She was humble and submissive. When I saw her like that, I reproached myself, and came closer than at any other moment to yielding to what she wanted. Our plan seemed feeble, irrelevant to the things that really matter in life. What did I care tor public virtue or the seedy old, worm-eaten Republic in comparison with the revelation just vouchsafed me?
"After all," I said to myself, "there is nothing, not even the thrill of battle, to compare with the satisfaction to be had from a woman who truly loves you."
But love dies when respect dies, and that depends on the loved one's self-respect. Otherwise it becomes that debilitating emotion: pity.
A paradox: Longina's love made her fear the course on which I had embarked. I feared her love would die, with my self-respect, if I abandoned it.
I accompanied her two mornings later out of the city by the Appian Way. The sun shone, the light sparkled and the dark pines were touched with gold. Then at the fourth milestone we stopped, embraced, tongue searching tongue, as if by that we expressed not only desire, but unity of word, deed, spirit.
I laid my hand on her belly.
"I felt her move last night," Longina said.
"Him."
"You will have it your way, but you may be disappointed." "Nothing you do, nothing you produce, can disappoint me." "I'm not so sure about that."
"Remember," I said, "what I do is for our children, that they may grow up free, and not slaves. It's not for myself. How could it be, when I blossom in Caesar's sunlight? But the course he is embarked on promises only darkness for Rome and her children, for our children and theirs. I wish you could believe that."
"I believe you believe it. That's enough, even though it remains rhetoric for me. So Mouse-husband, the gods go with you."
"And with you."
She laughed as she had not laughed for a long time, a deep full-throated laugh that was one of her glories.
"As if we either of us believed in these gods, to whom we commend each other."
"Oh Longina…"
I had mounted my horse. I leaned across the side of the carriage to kiss her a last time. I lingered on her lips, drawing honey and comfort from them. Then the horse shied and we were separated.
I linger on that moment of memory now.
I watched the carriage move away from me, slowly. Once she turned and waved to me, and then looked away and bowed her head, and I knew that tears blinded her eyes. I brushed my sleeve across my own. The carriage passed between tombs that flanked the road. It grew smaller till it was only a speck on the horizon, and then it was no more, and I turned my horse's head, and rode back to the city and Destiny.
So, laughing at the gods, weeping on account of necessity, Longina departed from me. I have never seen her since, except in dreams, waking or sleeping. As I write this, she returns to me; and yet I am mocked by the distance between us.