Стивен Сейлор - The Throne of Caesar

“Meto, you’re not even armed. And there’s blood on your hands … and on your tunic … from carrying the body—”

“ His blood,” Meto said, his stern voice breaking. “I wear it proudly.” Then he turned and strode swiftly away.

* * *

Hours later, after darkness fell, Meto came home.

He looked worn with care and utterly exhausted, too weary even to speak. He was still wearing his bloodstained clothes. Without protest he allowed Bethesda and Diana to pull the tunic over his head, to bathe him with wet sponges, and then to dress him in an old tunic suitable for sleeping. He collapsed onto a chair beside a flaming brazier in the garden, too tired to stand a moment longer.

After eating a bit of food and drinking some wine, he finally spoke .

“They came down from the Capitoline…”

“Who, Meto?”

“The killers. Most of them. Or some of them. And among them were some who weren’t in on the plot but now are quite happy to join the men who killed Caesar and sing their praises. A huge crowd gathered in the Forum—people who’d heard the rumor and couldn’t believe it. Some wept. Some danced with joy.…”

“Was there violence?” asked Bethesda.

“Not at the beginning. Decimus’s gladiators were there to protect the speakers. I saw some fistfights. Most people were there to find out what really happened … and what might happen next. That’s the Roman way, isn’t it, when there’s a crisis? Citizens gather and listen to speeches. That’s what sets us apart from the barbarians. Anyone can sack a city, Caesar used to say, but only a Roman can make a proper speech to justify doing so.…”

“They spoke, then? The assassins?” I said.

Meto shuddered and shrugged. “Cassius, Decimus, the Casca brothers, several others. They all took turns boasting and congratulating each other.”

“Boasting?” said Diana.

“They’ve saved the Republic, don’t you know? Killed a tyrant even more wicked than the old kings of Rome, a monster who ruled by fear and violence. Now everything can go back to the way it was before, back when—yes, when, I wonder? When was that Golden Age they hearken back to? Certainly no time since I was born, or in your lifetime either, Papa. It’s always been violence and disorder and the likes of Brutus and Cassius fighting among themselves and ruling over the rest of us. That’s what Caesar put an end to. Or tried to…”

“What else did they say? How did the crowd react?” I asked.

“Oh, the crowd seemed to love it. For a while, at least. Cassius made a great point of promising to restore free and open elections—no more of having one man decide who gets which magistracy and for how long. It was quite clear what he meant—free meals and gladiator shows put on for the voters by candidates from a handful of the ‘best’ families, who can get back to splitting the real power and wealth among themselves. Shameless pandering to the plebs, distracting them from the fact that Cassius and the rest are murderers, oath breakers who betrayed the man they were sworn to defend, who spilled blood in a consecrated space…”

“No one spoke against them?” asked Diana.

“Not one man. They convened the meeting as if it were a legitimate public debate, but only one side was allowed to speak. Only Caesar’s enemies were on the platform, men who hated him enough to kill him. Dolabella was among them, can you believe it? The man Caesar insisted on naming as consul, despite Antony’s objections. And daring to wear his consul’s toga!”

“Surely Dolabella didn’t speak,” I said.

“Yes, he did. Not for long, and not to much effect, but he wanted everyone to know that he was on the side of the assassins, now the deed is done. Too cowardly to raise a dagger himself but smiling at every filthy word that came out of their mouths. What a viper!”

Meto paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. “Brutus gave the speech of his life, I’ll grant him that. How Caesar would have loved that speech! Brutus must have been practicing it for months. Every rhetorical flourish and orator’s trick in the book. Praising his ancestor for driving out the kings, saying he had no choice but to do the same thing himself. Appealing to everyone in the crowd who’s lost a son or a brother or a father in the civil wars, saying their sacrifice was not in vain, for now the Republic will be reborn. He even took advantage of his injured hand, wincing and making sure we all saw the bloody bandage—never mind that it must have been another of those vultures on the stage who cut him by accident. Cicero couldn’t have done better.”

“Cicero? Did he speak? Was he on the stage?”

Meto shook his head. “I didn’t see him. I’d have spotted that gray head. Come to think of it, I saw hardly any older men among them. They were mostly my age, the men on that platform.…”

“What did the crowd make of Brutus?”

“They loved him! They applauded. They cheered. They practically blew kisses. Oh, it was vile to watch, how he made them hang on every word and bent them to his will. Caesar … Caesar also knew … how to do that.…”

Meto seemed about to weep. I gestured to a slave to offer him more wine, which he eagerly accepted.

“But there was violence?” I said. “Earlier, you said something to that effect. ‘Not at the beginning,’ you said.”

“Yes, that’s right. It happened so suddenly. Like that, ” he said, and from the way he turned his gaze to the dark sky above, I knew he meant the abrupt change in the atmosphere felt by everyone in the garden, the precursor to a storm. The wind rose. The smell of rain was on the air. The sky flashed, and from somewhere far away I heard a peal of thunder. There had been a storm the night before—it seemed very long ago—and now there would be another.

“After Brutus spoke, the crowd was clearly on his side. I looked around me in disgust, wanting to shake every smiling, mindlessly clapping man I saw by the shoulders. And then Cinna spoke.”

“ Cinna? ” I said.

“Oh, not your Cinna, Papa. The other one, the praetor. Believe me, two men could hardly be more different.”

“Yes, I’ve met that other Cinna. By accident, thinking I was at the poet’s house. And I saw him today, in the Senate House. But not … on the dais.”

“That’s right, he wasn’t among the killers. But he felt inspired to speak up for them nonetheless. People were shocked to see him on the platform. His late sister was Caesar’s first wife, you know. He was Julia’s favorite uncle, before she died. He and Caesar are family. Caesar made him praetor this year. But what an ingrate! He didn’t have a speech ready. He made it up as he went along. He started with some crude jokes about Caesar—so stupid I can’t remember them. People booed. And then he began to gush about the killers, saying we must all vote them public honors, even erect statues to them! Make the Ides of March a holiday, he said, the birthday of the reborn Republic. Celebrate it every year—an act of murder in a consecrated space! Then someone in the crowd challenged him, saying he was ungrateful for the robe Caesar had put on him. ‘This rag?’ he said, and then he pulled off his praetorian toga, tossed it to the ground, and stamped on it. People were outraged. The fickle mob! The same men who cheered Brutus rushed the platform and tried to grab hold of Cinna. There was a riot. I’ve never seen anything like it. In the blink of an eye. Complete chaos.”

“And Cinna?”

“He picked up his praetorian toga and rushed off in a panic, followed by Brutus and the rest of that rotten bunch. Decimus’s gladiators closed ranks behind them while they retreated up to the Capitoline. Down in the Forum, I saw blood spilled, but I can’t say how much or whose blood it was—I just wanted to get away, as quickly as I could. It wasn’t easy. Everywhere I went, lawlessness. Looters. Men with knives and cudgels out to settle scores. Women screaming—gangs of rapists on the prowl. I had to circle back and make one detour after another. The darker it grew, the wilder the streets. Then things quieted down, quite suddenly. There’s a rumor that Lepidus has brought his legion stationed on the Tiber Island into the city—”