Caesar

Porcia said: 'My father always used to say that Caesar was a careerist, nothing else, that he cared for nothing but his own position, and would be absolutely unscrupulous in advancing it.'

'But that precisely confirms what I have been telling you,' Cicero said. 'I would expect, of course, nothing but good sense and accurate observation from Marcus Cato. Caesar is essentially limited. He feels none of the affections which bind men to each other and to their ancestors. I do not think it has ever occurred to Caesar that society is a partnership between the living, the dead and those yet to be born.'

'I have heard Caesar deny the very existence of society,' I said. 'In his opinion, society is an invented concept which enables men to acquit themselves of full responsibility for their actions.'

'Precisely,' Cicero said again. 'I have talked to you, before now, Decimus Brutus, of the threat which I choose to call individualism — which, by the way, is my own poor attempt at providing a Latin equivalent for a Greek philosophical term — the threat which this presents to the community of Rome, and by community I would wish you to understand that I mean all that we have inherited from our ancestors who forged the

Republic and the means of Rome's greatness, and also what we are in duty bound to transmit to our children and grandchildren. I am an old man, near the end of life, near at least the natural term of days, and I see very clearly that, however conscious each of us may be of his own self, and of the demands it makes, the desires it engenders, yet we are all caught in a web of circumstance and connection, which in our case is Rome — its history, its political structure, the duties it imposes. Therefore, in the last resort, I say that whoever injures Rome, injures me, injures my friends, injures all I hold dear and reverent.'

Cicero left early, explaining that, at his age (which in conversation he sometimes liked to exaggerate, perhaps to make himself seem more remarkable, or in an effort to attract sympathy) he required longer hours of sleep — 'not that I sleep sound, you understand, but I must at least rest in bed' — than vigorous youth or beauties like Longina and Porcia.

It was, incidentally, absurd to describe Porcia as a beauty. She was very thin, and her lower jaw was of the type described, I believe, as 'lantern' — long and lean. Moreover, her eyes were dull, without sparkle. You had only to look at her to sense that she was devoid of imagination.

'What an old bore he is,' Longina said. 'I had to keep pinching myself to keep awake and not yawn in his face.' She giggled. 'He would have liked that, I don't think.'

Markie frowned again.

'He is a man of the very greatest distinction. I confess I find it difficult sometimes to follow his conversation, partly because it's so copious, but I never leave Cicero's company without feeling enriched.'

'Yes,' Porcia said. 'A very great man, but a thinker, not a man of action, and as my father, the great Cato, used to say, 'Action is the test of a man.' I think that's so true. After all, anyone is capable of speaking virtuously, even the greatest hypocrites, even Caesar when he pleases, but to act virtuously, in accordance with the example of our ancestors, and the duties enjoined on us by the gods, that's a different matter.'

'There's something strange, and disturbing, about which I wish to consult with you, cousin,' Markie said. 'I don't know quite what it means or how I should respond.'

'Well?'

'It's been reported to me, reliably reported, that a paper has been found under the statue of our great ancestor who destroyed the Tarquins, with the legend: 'O, that we had a Brutus now! O, that Brutus were living at this hour!' Then, when I took my seat as praetor at the tribunal today, I discovered a message laid before me there, which read: 'Brutus, thou sleepest. Thou art not a true Brutus if you will not wake from your shameful slumber.' I am puzzled to know the import of these things.'

'Husband,' Porcia said, while I still deliberated how I should best answer my wooden-headed cousin, 'husband, you are too modest, and it makes you slow. These messages which puzzle you so strangely ought not to do so. They are arrows directed at your conscience. They call upon you to imitate the action of your great ancestor, and rid Rome of a tyrant.'

'A tyrant? Caesar?'

Longina shifted on her couch. Like me, I think, she suspected her father's hand in these messages.

'Yes,' Porcia said, 'a tyrant. One who is smothering liberty in Rome as surely as he destroyed my noble father. And so the people turn to you, Brutus, as one whose virtue they recognise.'

It was as if she had forgotten our presence. She was concentrated utterly on her husband.

'But Caesar has been kind to me,' Brutus said. 'I bear him no grudge, have nothing with which to reproach him. And, compared to those who have gone before, like Marius and Sulla, he has displayed a notable clemency to those who fought against him. I can't forget that, or ignore it. What do you say, Mouse?'

'What do I say? I say that I owe as much to Caesar as you do, but I owe more to Rome. Whatever Caesar's virtues, and nobody is more conscious of them than I am, his position in the State has become vicious. We may have nothing with which to reproach Caesar himself, personally, but Caesar will have an heir…'

And so, with infinite patience, I spelled out again, in still greater detail, on account of my cousin's slow understanding, the arguments I had employed to Caesar himself.

And I concluded: 'Think of Caesar as a serpent's egg. An egg does no harm, but when hatched, it will breed vipers who will poison Rome with their sting. So, what do you do if you find a serpent's egg? You crush it.'

'Husband, darling,' Longina murmured in my ear, when our guests had departed, and we lay in bed, having made tender love, 'Mouse-husband, I am afraid.'

I stroked her breasts, ran my hand over her belly, and between her legs. I brushed her lips with mine.

'It is not a fear that you can banish with kisses.'

But she clung to me and kissed me hard; yet I felt a trembling run through her body.

'I'm not going to question you, but again I'm afraid of my father's influence on you. At the moment all is imaginary, in your head. Let it remain there, please, not translated into action… it's not Caesar I'm thinking of, though when I think of him, and of how he is so full of life, I'm horrified to think of the plans you are brooding on. But it's not Caesar, it's you. My father is rash. His enterprises go astray. I'm afraid that everything will go wrong.'

'There's another fear you might consider,' I said. 'Suppose I stand out. Suppose I even tell Caesar what is planned. It won't be the last attempt. There will be others, and one will succeed, since Caesar refuses to take precautions. What then? What will be the fate of someone known to be Caesar's ally? How long would I last in such circumstances?'

Chapter 18

My nights are disturbed. I woke this morning in cold terror. Caesar had visited me in a dream. At least I am sure it was a dream, and not his ghost — small consolation. I was in bed with Longina, who lay damply weeping in my arms, overcome with the sadness that succeeds desire and its performance. Her grief was the greater because she had revealed to me that our little son was dead: 'crushed in the egg', she said, over and over again. I do not know whether this is true, for I have had no word from Longina. Her silence distresses me, even though I tell myself that she may have no means of knowing where I am, may not have received my letters, and may ache because of my absence, as I do on account of hers. The pains of love, once satisfied, now denied, are sharper even than the pang of unattainable desire. To lose what you know and trust is more cruel than never to have what you hoped for.

But Caesar stood at the end of the bed, displaying his wounds. He did not speak, but his gestures, as he touched first this gash, then another, finally that which was my own work, were pitiful.

I wanted to cry out that I could acquit myself of envy, that that had not been my motive as it was (I now realise) Cassius', but there was an obstruction in my throat, and though I could form words, I was unable to utter them.

Then Caesar beckoned to Longina, and she withdrew herself from me, and slipped, silver as Diana in the shaft of moonlight, from our bed, and threw her arms around Caesar, and kissed him full on the lips. I was compelled to watch as they withdrew, with many lascivious gestures, both all at once oblivious of my presence, my rights, my very existence. The moonlight slid away with them, and I was left in the dark, and a long silence, which was broken first by a cackle of laughter, and then by a sound which I knew to be my own sobbing, though my body