Текст книги "The Ides of March"

Автор книги: Valerio Massimo Manfredi

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

‘I fear that you are. There may nonetheless be men among them who have not displayed outstanding capabilities yet, but who may well surprise us. And that would represent an even more serious problem.’

Atticus sighed. ‘When Alexander died, all of his friends became great kings. And what did they do? They dismembered his empire so each of them could have a little piece, after they’d finished tearing each other to shreds.’

‘I understand what you’re getting at and that’s exactly why I’m worried. Brutus. .’

‘Yes. . Brutus. You’ll have heard the phrase going around about him. Something that Caesar himself came up with.’

Upon hearing that name, Cicero gave a slight but perceptible start.

Atticus continued, ‘Yes, Caesar himself apparently said, “Brutus does not know what he wants, but he wants it badly.” ’

Atticus gave a bitter smile, then shook his head. ‘Stay out of this, my friend. Thank the gods that no one has approached you with a concrete proposal. I. .’

‘What?’ prompted Cicero anxiously.

‘I’ve been told. . well, nothing specific, mind you, but the information I’ve been given seems plausible. I’ll try to dig a little deeper and find out whether someone has an institutional role in mind for you should this. . event take place. I can’t do much more than that. I’m no politician, my friend, all I can do is try to understand. But if I can help you I will. Don’t make any move on your own. If I should learn where the danger is coming from or when the event may occur, I’ll let you know. I may not be able to communicate with you in person. Most probably you’ll receive a message with my seal. Inside you’ll find our usual password, in code. On that day, do not set foot outside your house, for any reason.’

Atticus rose to his feet and Cicero with him. The two men exchanged a firm embrace. They were united by their anxiety in such a critical moment, by their long friendship, by their faith in the same philosophical creed and by their nostalgia for the lost traditions and values of their homeland, which had been trampled by an avidity for power and money, by partisan hatred, by resentment and by revenge.

Atticus had always remained on the sidelines, had long decided to detach himself from that decline. He had a fatalistic bent and was calmly convinced that the chaotic component of history – always predominant – had taken the whiphand. The fragile forces of humankind had no hope of prevailing.

Cicero still believed in the role of politics, but he had neither the courage nor the strength to transform his beliefs into action. He was tormented by his impotence and lived in the memory of the triumphs of his glorious consulate, when he had boldly attacked Catiline in the Senate, unmasked him and forced him to flee.

He personally accompanied his faithful friend to the rear courtyard door. Atticus stopped on the threshold before going out on to the street and pulled the hood of his cloak over his head.

‘Just one more thing,’ he said.

‘Tell me.’

‘Are you the one behind the writings that have appeared on all the walls of Rome inciting Brutus to live up to his name?’

‘No,’ replied Cicero.

‘That’s good to hear,’ said Atticus, and he left.

Romae, in Campo Martis, a.d. VII Id. Mart., hora octava

Rome, Campus Martius, 9 March, one p.m.

Antistius caught up with Silius under the portico of the theatre dedicated to Pompey, which had been finished a decade earlier. Adjacent to the theatre was the Curia, where the Senate was meeting temporarily until works in the Forum were completed. The two men sat at a table in front of an inn. The doctor ordered two cups of hot wine with honey and spices.

‘Has Caesar really received a message from Publius Sextius?’ asked Antistius.

‘Yes, but it was written seven days ago.’

‘Do you know what it says?’

‘It refers to the information Caesar was expecting, regarding his expedition against the Parthians. All good news. We can count on support from Anatolia and Syria, and even Armenia, and we have a complete listing of all our forces deployed from the Danube to the Euphrates. The commander has decided to call a meeting of the general staff in order to examine the feasibility of the invasion plan.’

‘So that’s why he was awaiting the message so impatiently.’

‘I see no other reason and he did not mention anything else himself. He seems quite determined. He means to put his plans into action.’

Antistius shook his head repeatedly. ‘I don’t understand. He’s not well, his work here is not finished, Spain and Syria have not been entirely pacified and yet he wants to take off on an adventure with an uncertain outcome that will keep him away from Rome for years and may cost him his life. An adventure from which there may be no return.’

Silius sipped at his wine.

‘Has he had any more seizures?’ asked Antistius.

‘No, not that I know of. I hope he never has another.’

‘No one can say. Where is he now?’

‘With her.’

Antistius lowered his head without speaking.

Silius put a hand on his shoulder. ‘That Greek teacher. . Artemidorus, wasn’t it? Have you managed to contact him?’

‘I’ll be seeing him soon. I sent him word that he needed a check-up.’

‘Keep me informed if you learn anything new. It’s very important.’

‘You’ll be the first to know. Don’t worry. In any case, don’t leave Rome. I may need you.’

‘I won’t go beyond the city limits unless he orders me to do so in person.’

‘Take care of yourself.’

‘You too.’

The two men parted. Antistius went back to his island, while Silius remained seated, sipping his spiced wine. A stiff wind began blowing from the north and he gathered his cloak around him to ward off the chill.

Romae, in hortis Caesaris, a.d. VII Id. Mart., hora nona

Rome, Caesar’s gardens, 9 March, two p.m.

‘You’re the most powerful man on earth. If you don’t do something it’s because you don’t want to do it, not because anyone or anything is standing in your way!’

The queen had raised her voice and the flush on her cheeks was visible even under the make-up smoothing her skin. Her features were too exotic for her face to be perfect, but they only added to her undeniable allure, which many felt showed the influence of her mother’s native blood. Her figure was absolutely sublime, its perfection untouched by her first pregnancy.

Caesar got up abruptly from the couch she’d been reclining on when she’d received him.

‘I’ve done what I thought was right. You should show some appreciation for the decisions I’ve made regarding both you and the child. I’ve recognized him as my son and I gave you permission to give him my name.’

‘How good of you! He is your son, Caesar, what else could you have done?’

‘I could have done anything. You said so yourself. But I recognized him, not only by allowing him to take my name but by placing a golden statue of you-’

‘Gold-plated,’ the queen corrected him haughtily.

‘In any case, a statue of you in the Temple of Venus Genetrix. Do you realize what that means? That temple is the sanctuary of my family. It means that by having borne Caesar’s child, you have become part of my family and that he, your son, is of divine lineage.’

Cleopatra seemed to calm down. She rose from the couch, drew close and took his hand.

‘Listen to me. Your wife is sterile and Ptolemy Caesar is your only son. I am the last heir of Alexander the Great and you are the new Alexander. In truth, you are greater than he ever was! You have conquered the West and you are about to conquer the East. No one is your equal anywhere in the world, was or will be. You will be considered a god, Caesar, and that means that two divine dynasties will be united in your son! I’ve heard, by the way, that in the Senate there’s been a proposal to make polygamy legal – that is, a man will be permitted to take more than one wife in order to guarantee a bloodline. Is that so?’

‘The initiative didn’t come from me.’

‘Well, it should have!’ burst out Cleopatra, raising both of her hands almost to his face.

Caesar took a step back and stared into her fiery black eyes without saying a word.

‘Don’t you understand?’ the queen continued. ‘Without that law, your son will remain the bastard son of a foreign woman. You must become the king of Rome and of the world, Caesar, and your only successor will be your son, your only true son, blood of your blood. Why did you refuse the crown Antony offered you that day of the Lupercalia?’

‘Because there’s nothing my enemies would have liked better! They are bent on my ruin. They would do anything to make me fall out of favour with the people, to make me look like a tyrant. Can’t you understand that? In Rome, being a king is detestable. Any Roman magistrate in the provinces has a queue of kings and princes waiting months on end just to be received by him. Why would Caesar aspire to a position that is inferior to that of any one of his governors?’

The queen bowed her head and turned her back to him as tears of rage and frustration flowed from her eyes.

Caesar looked at her and couldn’t help but remember that night of intrigue and betrayal in Alexandria, when Cleopatra had been brought to his chambers in secret, wrapped up in a carpet. He had been under siege from every direction and was convinced there was no way out. No way out for him! The conqueror of Gaul and victor over Pompey, caught in a trap of his own making. And yet, when he had seen her standing before him dressed only in a fine, transparent linen gown, her hair pulled back in the Egyptian manner, her shiny eyes rimmed in black, framed by incredibly long lashes, her splendid breasts, everything else had vanished. The besieging armies, Pompey’s beheading, the underhand manoeuvrings of those scheming Greeks. . all faded away. Only she remained, proud and tender, so young in her body and face and so perverse in her gaze. No woman he had ever known – not even Servilia, his lifelong mistress, Brutus’s mother and Cato’s sister – had ever had such a dark, thrilling gleam in her eyes.

Her voice shook him from his musings: ‘What will become of us? Of me and your son?’

‘My son will be the king of Egypt and you will be the regent until the day he comes of age. You will be protected, honoured, respected.’

‘King of Egypt?’ repeated Cleopatra, in an offended tone.

‘Yes, my queen,’ replied Caesar. ‘You should be glad of it. Only a Roman can govern Rome and only as long as he succeeds in justifying his powers.’

Caesar was plagued by the disagreeable thought that the only emotion emanating from Cleopatra was raw ambition. Nothing else. Not that he expected love from a queen, but it made him feel very alone at that moment. He felt torn by doubt and menaced by impending threats, by his own physical ailments, by the awareness that he who climbs high has much further to fall.

‘I must go now,’ he said. ‘I’ll come back to see you, if you like, as soon as I can.’

He walked towards the door and a servant rushed over to open it for him.

‘There are men who would do much more for me,’ said Cleopatra.

Caesar turned.

‘You’ll have noticed, I imagine, how Mark Antony looks at me.’

‘No, I haven’t. But you may be right. That’s why he is Antony and I am Caesar.’

7

Romae, in Foro Caesaris, a.d. VII Id. Mart., hora undecima

Rome, the Forum of Caesar, 9 March, four p.m.

The evening service was over and Caesar was leaving, accompanied by the priests who had celebrated the rites in the Temple of Venus Genetrix. He saw Silius coming towards him from the Rostra and stopped under the portico, allowing the priests to go on their way.

‘Where were you?’ asked Caesar.

Silius came closer. ‘I ran into some friends near the Theatre of Pompey and we had a drink together. Do you think Publius Sextius will join us here in Rome?’

‘I think so. Actually, according to my calculations, he should be here within a day or two at most.’

‘So he has completed his mission.’

‘As far as I’m concerned, he has. But you can never say. Something unexpected might hold him up. What kills me is the waiting. Rome has a system of roads and communications like nowhere else has ever had, but still news travels slowly. Too slowly for the person waiting.’

He sat on the steps of the temple to watch the men at work in the Curia and every once in a while raised his eyes to the tattered grey clouds that flitted over the city.

‘I can’t wait to get away. Politics in Rome are so tiresome.’

‘The expedition will not be risk-free,’ remarked Silius.

‘At least there I’ll have my enemies opposite me, on the battlefield, and I’ll be surrounded by men I can trust. Here I never know what to think about the person in front of me.’

‘What you say is true. In battle you have to trust the others around you. Everyone’s life depends on it.’

‘See this portico? Not too long ago a delegation from the Senate came to meet me here. To inform me of all the honours they’d heaped upon me in a single session. I told them I’d rather they stop adding on new honours and appointments, and start taking them away.’

Silius smiled.

‘Do you know what they answered? That I was an ingrate. That I hadn’t risen to my feet as they approached, as if I considered myself a god, given the situation, or a king. Seated on my throne under the portico of a temple.’

‘Yes, I heard that as well. But there’s no way you can avoid such talk. Any gesture you make, even the most trifling, is amplified and suddenly assumes great significance. Major significance! It’s the price you have to pay for your rise to power.’

‘Well, the true reason was that even Caesar must partake in his share of human misery. Do you know why I didn’t get up?’ he said with an ironic smile. ‘Because I had diarrhoea. The consequences might have been embarrassing.’

‘No one would believe such a thing, you know that. But it is through such stories that they’re trying to ruin your image with the people. Convince them that you would be their king.’

Caesar lowered his head in silence and sighed. With his arms folded across his knees he looked like a tired labourer. Then he raised his eyes and gazed at Silius with an enigmatic expression.

‘Do you believe that?

‘What, that you want to be king?’

‘Yes. What else?’

Silius gave him a puzzled look. ‘Only you can answer that, but several things you’ve done or said would make one believe so. Not this last thing you’ve told me, of course.’

‘Tell me what, then.’

‘The day of the Lupercalia. .’

Caesar sighed again, shaking his head. ‘We’ve talked about that. I told you exactly how things really went. But of course no one believes that it wasn’t a scene I’d orchestrated myself. Perhaps not even you, Silius.’

‘To be honest, it’s difficult to believe otherwise. What’s more, the presence of Cleopatra here in Rome with the child has really struck people the wrong way. Cicero for one can’t stand her. It’s only natural for people to think that she’d be pushing for the establishment of a hereditary monarchy, with little Ptolemy Caesar as your natural heir.’

The forum was beginning to empty out little by little. People were leaving the square and making their way back home to prepare for dinner, especially those who had guests. The priests closed the sanctuary doors and from the Capitol the smoke of a sacrifice rose and drifted into the grey clouds. Even the columns of Venus’s temple had taken on the colour of the sky.

‘You can’t believe such a thing. Only an idiot would do something so foolish. It’s sheer madness to think that the Romans would allow themselves to be governed by any king, much less a foreign one.’

‘Exactly, commander. It’s not about Cleopatra. It’s Antony’s behaviour that I can’t explain. I’ve reflected on this at length. The question is crucial, because the answer implies a fundamental failing on the part of one of your most important supporters, a man whose loyalty you need to be able to count on.’

The look in Caesar’s eye was like none Silius had ever seen there before, not even when Antistius had told him openly what he thought about his illness. A feeling of intense sadness flooded through Silius as he thought he recognized dismay and perhaps even fear in the gaze of his invincible commander.

‘You know,’ said Caesar, ‘every so often I feel like a beer. It’s been a long time since I had a beer.’

Silius was not fooled. When the commander changed the subject so abruptly, it meant that he was bent on avoiding some particularly distressing thought.

‘Beer, commander? There’s a tavern at Ostia that serves excellent beer. Just the way you like it, dark and at the right temperature, straight out of the cellar. But seeing as you probably don’t want to go so far, I can have an amphora brought by for lunchtime tomorrow.’

But Silius was waiting for an answer, not about the beer, and Caesar knew that.

‘What do you know about Antony that I don’t know?’ he said eventually, scowling.

‘Nothing. . nothing that you don’t know. Nonetheless I think that. . Publius Sextius might. .’

‘Might what?’

‘Might be able to learn what he’s up to.’

‘Have you spoken to him about this?’

‘Not exactly, but I know that he has his suspicions and I’d say that he won’t give up until he finds a convincing answer.’

‘Are you trying to tell me that Publius Sextius is investigating Antony on his own initiative?’

‘Publius Sextius would investigate anything that could possibly involve your personal safety, if I know him well. But you, commander, what do you think? What do you think of Mark Antony? Of the man who would have made you king? That gesture of his at the Lupercalia, how do you explain it? Recklessness? Mere distraction?’

Caesar was quiet for quite some time, considering all the angles of the thorny question as perhaps he never had before. In the end, he said, ‘Antony may not have understood what was happening and acted instinctively. Perhaps he’s been feeling overlooked lately and thought he would gain favour in my eyes with a gesture of that sort. Antony is a good soldier but he’s never understood much about politics. And it’s all about politics. . knowing what your adversaries are thinking, foreseeing their moves and having your counter-moves ready.’

‘In any event, you came through well, Caesar, thanks to your renowned quick thinking. The same that’s made you victorious time and time again on the battlefield.’

‘You say so? The fact remains that I still do not know whom I can trust.’

‘Me, commander,’ replied Silius, looking straight into those grey eyes – those hawk’s eyes – that had dominated so many in battle but seemed bewildered now, in the convoluted labyrinths of Rome. ‘You can trust Publius Sextius, “the Cane”, and you can trust your soldiers, who would follow you all the way to Hades.’

‘I know,’ replied Caesar, ‘and I’m comforted by that. And yet I do not know what awaits me.’

He stood and began to walk down the podium steps. A stiff breeze had picked up from the west, whipping his clothes around his body.

‘Come,’ he told Silius. ‘Let’s go home.’

Romae, in aedibus M. J. Bruti, a.d. VII Id. Mart., hora duodecima

Rome, the home of Marcus Junius Brutus, 9 March, five p.m.

The soft burbling of the hydraulic clock was the only sound to be heard in the big silent house. It was an object of extraordinary refinement that had been crafted by a clockmaker from Alexandria. The hours of the day were represented in a mosaic of minute tesserae on a field of blue depicting young maidens dressed in white with golden highlights in their hair for the daytime hours, in black with silver highlights for the night.

Voices could suddenly be heard from outside, then the clanking of a gate as it slammed shut, followed immediately by quick steps. A door opened and a hissing wind invaded the house, reaching its innermost rooms. A dry leaf was carried along to the end of the corridor, where it stopped.

The woman who walked out of her bedroom upstairs was strikingly beautiful. Barefoot, she wore a light gown. She closed the door behind her without making a sound and moved down the hall to the back stairs, where the noise was coming from. She leaned over the balustrade to see what was happening below. A servant had opened the back door and was letting in a group of six or seven men, who entered one or two at a time. Each man took a quick look at the road behind him before crossing the threshold.

The servant accompanied them down the corridor towards the study of the master of the house, who was expecting them. Someone was at the door, waiting to receive them. After they had gone in the servant closed the door behind them and walked away.

The woman pulled back from the balustrade and returned to her room. She locked herself in, then went to the middle of the floor and knelt down. Using a stylus, she prised free one of the bricks. Underneath was a little wooden wedge with a cord tied at its centre. She pulled the cord and a glimmer of light shone through from the room below. She bent closer and put her eye to the crack so she could see what was going on in the study of Marcus Junius Brutus.

The first to speak was Pontius Aquila. He was tense, refusing to take a seat despite his host’s invitation.

‘Tell me, Brutus,’ he said. ‘What have you decided?’

The master of the house sat down with an apparent show of calm. ‘We’ll wait for Cicero’s answer,’ he said.

‘To hell with Cicero!’ burst out Tillius Cimber. ‘All he does is talk. What do we need him for? We don’t need any more volunteers. How many men does it take to kill just one?’

Publius Casca broke in, ‘Hadn’t we already decided to keep him out of this? Everyone knows he hasn’t got the guts.’

Brutus tried to regain control of the situation. ‘Calm down. Haste is a notoriously poor counsellor. I want to be sure that Cicero is on our side before we make a move. I’m not asking him to take up a dagger. The fact is that Cicero enjoys great prestige in the Senate. If our plan is to be successful we have to make arrangements for what will happen afterwards. Cicero will be fundamental in managing what comes next.’

‘The earth is starting to burn beneath our feet,’ shot back Casca. ‘We have to act now.’

‘Casca’s right,’ said Pontius Aquila. ‘I’ve heard that Caesar is setting his hounds on our tracks. All that it takes is one man letting his tongue slip, or one wayward look, to betray our plan. If he catches on and loses his temper, it’s all over for us. Time is against us.’

‘What exactly have you heard?’ demanded Brutus.

‘Caesar has sent his most faithful men on investigative missions to the outlying territories, so that we’ll feel safe here in the capital. It’s the old noose trick: pull it a little tighter each day until he strangles us. I’m telling you, we have to act now.’

Their voices were muffled and difficult to hear on the floor above, just a confused muttering with a few shrill notes here and there. The woman tried to adjust her position to find the best point from which to both hear and see.

Marcus Brutus’s voice again, scornful: ‘We’re his most faithful men, aren’t we?’

Casca had no desire for banter. ‘Listen, if you don’t feel up to this, say so now,’ he said.

The woman in the room upstairs started, as if she’d been hit by an unseen object.

‘I’ve always spoken the truth,’ replied Brutus. ‘So how dare you insinuate-’

‘Enough!’ shouted Casca. ‘This whole situation has become intolerable. There are already too many of us. The more there are, the greater the chance that someone will lose control, get panicky.’ He turned to Aquila. ‘What do you mean by “outlying territories”?’

‘What I’ve heard,’ answered the other, ‘is that Publius Sextius, the centurion who saved Caesar’s life in Gaul, has been in Modena since the end of last month and he’s going around asking strange questions. Modena, just by chance, happens to be where one of the best informers on the market is based. A man who has no qualms about selling information to just about anybody, without a thought to principle or political alliances. As long as he’s well paid.

‘Anyway,’ continued Aquila, ‘he’s what I mean by faithful. Publius Sextius is incorruptible. He’s not a man, he’s a rock. If Caesar has decided to use him, it means he doesn’t trust any of us. And Publius Sextius may not be the only one.’

A leaden silence fell over the room. Pontius Aquila’s words had reminded each one of them that there were men for whom loyalty to one’s principles and one’s friends was a natural, unfailing quality. Men who were incapable of compromise, men who remained true to their convictions.

None of them meeting here in Brutus’s home, on the other hand, had refused the favours, the help, the forgiveness of the man they were preparing to murder. And this couldn’t help but give rise to an intense, grudging sense of unease – more in some than in others – and deep shame that was becoming more and more unbearable with every day that passed. Certainly, each of them could find noble reasons for the act they were preparing to carry out: stamping out tyranny, restoring faith – that word again! – in the republic. But in reality one true reason stood above all others, like a prickly weed above the prettily mowed lawn: their resentment at owing it all to him – their lives, their salvation, their possessions – after they’d lost everything, after they’d realized that they had been playing at the wrong table.

‘I think it would be better to move soon. Even tomorrow. I’m ready,’ said Aquila.

‘So am I. The sooner the better,’ added Casca, increasingly restless.

Brutus looked into their faces, one by one. ‘I need to know if you are speaking on your own behalf or in the name of the others as well.’

‘Let’s say that most of us are in agreement,’ replied Aquila.

‘But I’m not,’ retorted Brutus. ‘Every last one of us has to agree. When a decision is made, it’s necessary to stick to that decision, no matter what it costs. If there are risks, we will run those risks together.’

‘What’s more,’ added Cimber, ‘we can’t predict how Antony and Lepidus will react. They might become dangerous.’

Just then Brutus noticed that a scattering of fine sawdust had settled to the floor near his feet and he instinctively raised his eyes to the ceiling, just in time to see a fleeting shadow.

The sound of footsteps was heard along the corridor, coming from the back door that led out on to the street. Cassius Longinus soon joined them, his emaciated, pale face appearing at the entrance to Brutus’s study. Right behind him was Quintus Ligarius, along with Decimus Brutus and Caius Trebonius, two of Caesar’s greatest generals.

‘Cassius!’ exclaimed Cimber. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to.’

Cassius appeared no less agitated than Casca. ‘As you know,’ he began, a little breathlessly, ‘Lepidus landed yesterday morning on the Tiber Island and has every intention of staying put. The commander’s standard has been hoisted on the praetorium. That can mean only one thing: Caesar suspects something. We have to act sooner than we planned.’

‘We were just saying the same thing,’ said Casca, nodding approvingly at Pontius Aquila.

‘No,’ shot back Brutus resolutely. ‘No. We will keep to the date we decided on. There will be no discussion. We need time to explore the intentions of Lepidus and Antony.’

‘Lepidus and Antony are not stupid and they’ll adapt,’ replied Cassius. ‘Smite the shepherd and the sheep will scatter.’

‘Sheep?’ retorted Trebonius. ‘I wouldn’t call Antony a sheep. Nor Lepidus. They are fighters and they’ve given proof of their courage and valour on more than one occasion.’

‘But,’ Cassius chimed in, ‘exploring their intentions would mean widening the circle of those who know even further, increasing the risk of a leak, which would be fatal. I say leave them where they are. Too dangerous.’

Brutus started to reply, but Cassius shot him a look and he stopped.

‘Perhaps Brutus is right,’ said Cassius after a while. ‘A few days more or less won’t make any difference. The situation has generated a lot of anxiety and so we’re naturally tending to exaggerate, to fret about perils that in all likelihood don’t exist. At least not yet. Let’s maintain the date we decided on. Changing it would be complicated. I still have to see a few people and I’m hopeful these meetings will clear the air, eliminate any doubts we may still have.

‘What matters is that you are still determined – that we all are. Sure of doing the right thing. Certain that what we’re preparing to do is just and proper. Once this is over with, we’ll be freed of a weight that has been burdening our conscience as free men. No doubt, no hesitation, no uncertainty. We have the right to do what we are doing. The law is on our side, the tradition of our fathers who made us the great, invincible people we are. Caesar triumphed in the blood of his fellow citizens, massacred at Munda. He committed a sacrilege that he must pay for with his life.’

Caius Trebonius, who had listened silently to Cassius’s impassioned speech, came forward. He was a veteran of the Gallic War, had commanded the siege of Marseilles and had conducted the repression three years before in Spain against the Pompeians.

‘Cut the crap, Cassius,’ he said. ‘Spare us your patriotic exhortations. We – all of us – have been his faithful companions or the faithful executors of his orders. We all accepted his nominations to become praetors, quaestors, tribunes of the plebs. Some of you were pardoned by him but none of you took your own lives as Cato did. Quintus Ligarius was pardoned twice: a true record. Where are you, Ligarius? Show your face.’

The man advanced, scowling. ‘So what?’ he said. ‘I’ve remained loyal to my convictions. I never asked Caesar to pardon me. It was his decision to spare my life.’

‘He would have spared Cato’s as well had he been given the chance, but Cato preferred suicide to putting himself in that situation. Tell me, friends, is there anyone here who feels animated by the noble sentiments that Cassius has just expressed? Are those really good reasons? I think not. And yet we all want him dead. Some of you because you were faithful to Pompey and Pompey no longer exists. Not that Caesar was the one who killed him. The dirty work was done by a little Egyptian king, a puppet who wouldn’t have lasted three days without our support. Others claim they want to defend republican values. But each of us has a deeper, truer reason. Each of us thinks that Caesar doesn’t deserve what he has, that he owes it all to us, that without us he would have achieved nothing. He has all the glory, the love of the most fascinating woman on earth, power over the entire world, while we have to be happy with the crumbs that fall from his table. We’re like dogs he tosses bones to after he’s finished gnawing at them. And that’s why he must die!’