Caesar

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.