I do not believe the poets who promise… but it is not good to brood on these matters. It serves nothing.
I also wrote again to Octavius, for my mind was full of him:
Do you recall that dinner at Cicero's where we first met? (Incidentally, I wager that Cicero is included, at Antony's insistence, on your list of those proscribed and that you have washed your hands of his fate; am I right?) On that occasion you said: 'A man is but a man; he should not see himself as a tragic figure.' I agree.
And do you recall how we talked of the danger that the pursuit of self-interest portended for the Republic?
Think of that now that you are about to be assailed by the temptations which lured Caesar to his death. Recall your friend and lover whose only crime was to care more for the Republic than for himself or Caesar. Reflect that other Brutuses will arise, if virtue and the love of liberty have not been extinguished in Rome.
You will destroy Antony. You will be wiser than Caesar and not assume the appearance of absolute power.
Yet you will possess it.
Will its exercise corrupt and obliterate the boy I loved?
I beg you to care for my wife Longina. As the da ughter of Gaius Cassius and the spouse of Decimus Brutus she suffers from connections that may do her harm. Pray see to it that neither she nor our son is afflicted on my account.
It is hard to end, hard to finish all, confess ing failure. Yet, Crassus, Pompey, Caesar, the great men of my youth and manhood, all met inglorious death.
Beware the jealous gods, Octavius…
Remember me, while the flesh is on you. In time you too will be spilt on air.
The grey morning is touched with rosy fingers. At the door of my hut, I have breathed free air, soft for the mountains. Cocks crow in the valley.
What were Clodia's words?
'The cold grey clutch of death…' Something like that. 'We cannot play gods,' she said. When we slew Caesar we dared all that a man is fit for.
The dagger with which I stabbed him is to hand. There is no more to be said.
