weapon of sorts-his stylus. If he could hold the would-be assassins at bay long enough for the other senators to rush to his assistance, all might be well. If only Lucius had a weapon!
And where was Antonius?
Lucius looked back toward the entrance. Antonius had just appeared. He stood in the doorway with a puzzled look on his face, realizing from the sudden uproar that something was terribly wrong.
Lucius called to him. “Antonius! Hurry! Come quickly!”
But when Lucius looked back toward Caesar, he lost all hope. The assassins had converged on their victim. Caesar had dropped his stylus. He held up both arms, desperately trying to fend off his attackers. They stabbed him again and again. In all the confusion, a few of them appeared to have stabbed one another by accident.
Blood was everywhere. Caesar’s toga was drenched with it, and the togas of the assassins were spotted with red. There was so much blood on the floor that Casca slipped and fell.
Amid the flashing daggers, Lucius caught a glimpse of Caesar. His face was barely recognizable, contorted with agony. He let out a scream that seemed to come from an animal, not a man. The sound chilled Lucius to the marrow.
Caesar broke free from the men surrounding him. He reeled backward, tripping on his toga and stamping his feet as he staggered past the chair of state, toward the wall, where a statue of the hall’s founder stood in a place of honor. Caesar fell against the pedestal of Pompeius’s statue. He slid downward, smearing the inscription with blood. He ended up slumped on the floor, his back against the pedestal, his legs outstretched.
His disarray was indecent; his undertunic was twisted and pulled aside so as to bare a patch of flesh where his thigh met his groin. Jerking like a spastic, flailing grotesquely, he seemed to be trying with one hand to cover his face with a fold of his toga, and with the other to cover his nakedness. Caesar was dying, yet he still sought to preserve his dignity.
Some of the assassins looked horrified at what they had done. Others looked exhilarated, even jubilant. Among the latter was Cassius, who was covered with blood. He strode toward Brutus, who stood at the edge of the group and had not a drop of blood on him. Nor was there any blood on the dagger in his hand.
“You, too, Brutus!” said Cassius.
Brutus looked numb. He seemed unable to move.
“You have to do it,” insisted Cassius. “Each of us must strike a blow. Twenty-three brave men; twenty-three blows for freedom. Do it!”
Brutus stepped slowly toward the twitching, bloody figure at the base of Pompeius’s statue. He seemed horrified by Caesar’s appearance. He swallowed hard, clutched his dagger, and knelt beside him.
With blood spilling from his mouth and running over his chin, Caesar managed one last utterance. “You, too…my child?”
Brutus appeared emboldened by the words. He gritted his teeth, pulled back his dagger, and plunged it into the exposed place where Caesar’s thigh met his groin. Caesar thrashed and convulsed. Blood bubbled from his lips. He stiffened, uttered a final grunt, and did not move again.
Lucius, watching from a distance, saw everything. He was transfixed with horror, oblivious to the stampede of senators rushing to the exit. He felt a hand on his shoulder and gave a start. It was Antonius. The man’s face was ashen. His voice trembled.
“Come with me, Lucius. You’re not safe here.”
Lucius shook his head. He was rooted to the spot, unable to move. He had come to warn Caesar. He had failed.
Brutus walked slowly and calmly toward them. The feverish glimmer had left his eyes. His held his shoulders back, his chin up. He had the look of a man who had done a difficult thing and done it well.
“No one will harm you, Lucius Pinarius. You have nothing to fear. Neither do you, Antonius, as long as you don’t raise your sword against us.”
The chamber was almost empty. The only senators who remained were those too old to run.
Brutus shook his head in disgust. “This wasn’t the reaction we anticipated. I meant to give a speech after it was done, to explain ourselves to the others. But they’ve all run off, like frightened geese.”
“A speech?” said Antonius, incredulous.
Brutus reached into his toga and produced a scrap of parchment. His fingers smudged the document with blood. He frowned, displeased that he had marred it. “I was up all night working on it. Well, if not today, then I’ll deliver it tomorrow, when the Senate resumes normal business.”
“Normal business?” Antonius shook his head in disbelief.
“Yes. The normal business of the Senate of Roma, freed from the rule of a tyrant. The Republic has been restored. The people will rejoice. Five hundred years ago, my ancestor Brutus freed Roma from a wicked king. Today we followed his example-”
“Give your speech to somebody else!” shouted Lucius. He shoved Brutus aside and ran toward the exit, weeping.
Antonius caught up with him. “Come with me, Lucius. No matter what Brutus says, we’re not safe. My house has strong doors, high walls…”
They were on the steps, descending to the public square. There was not a person in sight.
“But…his body,” said Lucius. “What if they throw him in the Tiber, as they did the Gracchi?”
“That will not happen,” said Antonius grimly. “I won’t let such a thing happen. Caesar will have a proper funeral. On my honor as a Roman, I promise you that!”
When he was annoyed, Gaius Octavius’s voice could become quite shrill. He needed oratorical training to overcome the defect, thought Lucius. In the days since Caesar’s assassination and Gaius Octavius’s return to Roma, Lucius had grown very tired of hearing that shrill note in his cousin’s voice.
“From this day forward, Antonius, you will address me as
“Demand it?
“Only because Caesar saw fit to appoint you-as he saw fit to name me his son and heir!” snapped Octavius.
Antonius bristled. “This is my house, Octavius. You are my guest-”
Lucius rose to his feet. “Marcus! Cousin Gaius! Does this meeting have to be so contentious? The whole city is a viper’s nest. If I want to be subjected to vicious arguments and hateful words, I have only to step outside the door. Can the three of us not speak to one another with some degree of decorum?”
“A good idea, cousin,” said Octavius. “Decorum begins with addressing a man by his rightful name. Caesar’s will made me his son by adoption, and I have taken his name. I am now Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus.”
“I understand,” said Lucius. “But if Antonius happens to address you by your old name, why not allow it? Octavius an honorable name, a patrician name, and he honors you and your ancestors when he speaks it. Antonius is our friend, cousin. We need him. He is the shield between us and the men who murdered our uncle. Are we not allies? Do we not share a common purpose? Are the three of us not close enough to call each other by first name, or family name, or whatever name we wish? Can you not simply drop the point for now, cousin Gaius? The question at hand isn’t what we call each other, or yet another discussion of Caesar’s will, but how to keep our heads!”
For the moment, Octavius was silenced, and so was Antonius. It still surprised Lucius that he could command their attention and argue with such self-confidence. Almost overnight, after the initial shock of Caesar’s assassination had passed, Lucius had felt himself transformed. He was no longer a callow youth who hesitated to assert himself in conversation with his elders. He was one of Caesar’s heirs, engaged in a desperate struggle for the future.
When it came down to it, Octavius was only a couple of years older and only slightly more experienced than himself. True, Octavius had seen a bit of battle, but not enough to prove himself a gifted strategist, much less a hero. His overbearing pride sprang from vanity, not accomplishments. In some ways, at least in Lucius’s opinion, his
