The Ides of March (31 page)

Only one of which was mortal.

A wound to his heart.

Who had it been? Who had cleaved the heart of Caius Julius Caesar?

Thoughts flitted through his mind continuously. Elusive, indefinable, useless thoughts. ‘If only I had realized . . . if only I had told . . .’

At least he was used to seeing Caesar dead, to considering him gone. But not Silius. Silius was seeing him for the first time in that state. The composure of his features lent a total absurdity to his silence and immobility. He, Silius Salvidienus, could neither accept nor believe that Caesar’s arm might not rise, that his eye might not open, bright with that imperious expression. He could not believe that Caesar’s face, so intact, so recognizable, could not suffice to call his limbs back to life.

In the end, he surrendered to the extreme, inescapable violence of death, this death, and then the tears fell from his dull, dazed eyes and scalded his ashen face.

He remained on his feet, still and silent, for a long time in front of the bier, then, with a distressed expression, he stiffened into a military salute, his voice ringing metallic from behind clenched teeth: ‘Front-line centurion Silius Salvidienus, second century, third maniple, Tenth Legion. Hail and farewell, commander!’

He turned then and walked out.

He wished he had a horse on which to gallop far away, to another world, over endless plains; to be carried off by the wind like a leaf dried up by the long winter. He stopped, instead, after a few steps, incapable of going on. He sat down on the Domus stair that opened up on to the Sacred Way. Not much later, he saw two people leaving the House of the Vestals on his right. People he knew well: Mark Antony and Calpurnius Piso, Caesar’s father-in-law. What were they doing at this time of day, in such a situation, at the House of the Vestals?

They stood in front of the entrance and appeared to be waiting for someone. A servant soon came up with an assdrawn cart holding a box. They set off again all together and he lost sight of them in the darkness.

Silius realized that Antistius had come out of the Domus as well and had witnessed the scene.

Antistius said, ‘They went to get Caesar’s will, without a doubt. The Vestalis Maxima herself is responsible for holding his will and testament, and can release it only to the executor, Piso.’

‘What about Antony, then? What does Antony have to do with Caesar’s will?’

Antistius reflected a few moments before answering. ‘It’s not inheriting his worldly goods he’s interested in. It’s his political inheritance. Brutus and Cassius were deceived. Caesar demonstrated that it is possible for a single man to rule the world. No one had ever wielded such unlimited power. Others will want what he had. Many will try to take his place. The republic, in any case, is dead.’

Romae, in aedibus M. Antonii, Id. Mart., secunda vigilia

Rome, the home of Mark Antony, 15 March, second guard shift, after nine p.m.

A
NTONY RECEIVED
Cassius as promised, while his sons were being held hostage on the Capitol. At the same moment Brutus was dining on the Tiber Island, at the headquarters of Marcus Aemilius Lepidus. Everything had been planned, down to the last detail.

Cassius, the victor, was even paler than usual. His gaunt face spoke of nothing but sleepless nights and dark thoughts.

The two men reclined on dining couches facing each other. Only two tables separated the
triclinia
, set with a simple meal: bread, eggs, cheese and beans. Antony had chosen a dense, blood-red wine and he mixed it personally in front of his guest, lingering deliberately at the task, taking care not to spill a single drop.

Antony began to speak: ‘Caesar dared too greatly and was punished. I . . . understand the significance of your gesture. You did not mean to strike the friend, the benefactor, the man whose magnanimity spared your lives, but the tyrant, the man who broke the law, who reduced the republic to an insubstantial ghost. I understand you, then, and recognize that you are men of honour.’

Cassius gave a deep nod and a fleeting, enigmatic smile crossed his lips.

Antony continued, ‘But I am incapable of separating the friend from the tyrant. I’m a simple man and you must try to understand me. For me, Caesar was first and foremost a friend. Actually, now that he’s dead, lying cold and white as marble on his bier, only a friend.’

‘Each man is what he is,’ replied Cassius coldly. ‘Go on.’

‘Tomorrow the Senate will meet at the Temple of Tellus.

Pompey’s Curia is still . . . a bit of a mess.’

‘Go on,’ insisted Cassius, fighting his irritation.

‘Order must be restored. Everything must return to normal. I will propose an amnesty for all of you and you will be given governmental appointments in the provinces. If the Senate wishes to honour you they may do so. What do you say?’

‘These seem like reasonable proposals,’ replied Cassius.

‘I want only one thing for myself.’

Cassius stared at him suspiciously.

‘Allow me to celebrate his funeral. Allow me to bury him with honour. He made mistakes, it’s true, but he expanded the dominion of the Roman people enormously. He extended the confines of Rome to the shores of the Ocean and he was the Pontifex Maximus. What’s more . . . he loved Brutus. Now he’s dead. Fine. His punishment was commensurate with his error. Let us deliver him to his final rest.’

Cassius bit his lower lip and remained silent for a considerable length of time. Antony gazed at him serenely with a questioning expression.

‘It’s not in my power to grant your request.’

‘I know, but you can convince the others. I’m sure you’ll succeed. I have done my duty and I’ve given proof of my good faith. Now you do your part. I won’t ask for anything else.’

Cassius stood, nodded in leaving and walked out of the room. The food was still on the table. He hadn’t touched a thing.

Portus Ostiae, Id. Mart., ad finem secundae vigiliae

The port of Ostia, 15 March, end of the second guard shift, midnight

A
NTONY ARRIVED
at the port accompanied by a couple of gladiators, who remained at a distance.

A plank was lowered from the ship and he began to walk up it. The still water in the basin gave off a putrid stench and made Antony feel nauseous. The ship was about to set sail, the Queen on board, about to make her escape. The whole world was breaking up.

Cleopatra suddenly emerged from the aft cabin.

Regal even in this situation, she stood haughty, garbed in a pleated, transparent linen gown, her forehead crossed by a fine gold-leaf diadem, her arms bare, her lips red, her eyes lengthened with shadow nearly all the way to her temples.

‘Thank you for coming to bid me farewell,’ she said. She spoke softly, but in the silence of the night her voice rang out clearly nonetheless.

They were alone. There was no one else to be seen on the deck. And yet the ship was ready to set sail.

‘Where is he now?’

‘At home,’ replied Antony. ‘Watched over by his friends.’

‘Friends? Caesar had no friends.’

‘We were taken by surprise. No one could have imagined it would happen that day, in that way.’

‘But you were prudent, as I had asked.’ The Queen’s voice was calm but ironic, like that of any powerful person satisfied at having corrupted a man, or brought him to his knees. ‘What will happen now?’

‘They are in trouble already. They have no plan, no design. They are dreamers and fools. I am the surviving consul. I’ve convened the Senate for tomorrow and I’ve urged them all to show up. Before his ashes are placed in the urn, they’ll be reduced to impotence. There will be a new Caesar, my queen.’

‘When that happens, come to me, Antony, and you will have everything you’ve always desired.’

Light as a dream, Cleopatra turned and vanished.

Antony went back to the shore.

The ship pulled away from the harbour and was soon swallowed up by the night. All that could be seen, for a short time, was the sail being raised at the helm, fluttering in the dark air like a ghost.

21

Romae, in templo Telluris, a.d. XVII Kalendas Apriles, hora secunda

Rome, the Temple of Tellus, 16 March, seven a.m.

T
HE ATMOSPHERE
at the beginning of the session, which was presided over by Mark Antony, consul in office, was tense and decidedly cold. There were plenty of drawn faces and hostile looks. Caesar’s supporters were still shaken, indignant and seething with resentment. The conspirators and their friends could not mask a certain arrogance. Cicero was among the first to take the floor. He had been absent the day of the plot but someone, in the confusion of the attack, had called out his name.

He was proud of having put down Catiline’s conspiracy in the past, so although he was not technically one of these conspirators he didn’t want to miss out on the opportunity of playing a leading role this time as well.

He spoke as the consummate orator he was. He who not so long ago had proposed that the senators shield Caesar with their very bodies should he be threatened, and had even had his proposal approved with a
senatus consultum
, was now singing the praises of those who had stabbed him to death with their daggers. He celebrated the courage of the tyrant-killers who had restored the liberty of the republic and the dignity of its highest assembly.

They had had every right to murder him; the despot had been justly punished according to the laws of the state. They should thus be immediately absolved of any criminal charges, since they had acted – at their own risk and peril – for the common good. He proposed, therefore, an amnesty for all those involved, and despite some disappointed grumbling, a vote was taken and this was approved.

But it was not enough to satisfy him. After exchanging a few words in an undertone with Cassius, Cicero said, ‘This unhappy time, this dark age of the republic, must be forgotten as soon as possible. The body of the tyrant must be buried as soon as possible, in private and at night. Such a burial should be considered an act of piety towards a dead man and nothing more.’

A murmur of protest rippled around the room.

It was the turn of Caesar’s supporters to speak now and Munatius Plancus took the floor.

‘We shall allow posterity to judge whether what happened at Pompey’s Curia was an act of justice. Those of us who were friends of Caesar are grieving and living a moment of bitter sorrow, but we are prepared to disregard these emotions so as not to fuel an endless round of hatred and revenge.

‘I would like to draw attention to the courage and generosity of consul Mark Antony. Distressed and saddened as he is over the death of a friend he loved deeply, he has refrained from taking revenge and has even offered his own sons as hostages, so that all quarrels and conflicts may come to an end, so that no more Roman lives are taken, so that the menace of a disastrous new civil war may be averted. I move that he be paid public tribute and that he be invited to make his thoughts known, here and now, within these sacred walls.’

Plancus’s proposal won a large majority of votes. Everyone was terrified at the prospect of a new civil war. Antony thus took the floor and began to speak.

‘Conscript fathers! I thank you for having recognized my efforts and my commitment. I myself voted in favour of your request that amnesty be granted to Brutus, Cassius, Trebonius and their companions. But I cannot accept that Caesar be buried at night and in secret, as if he were a criminal. He did make mistakes, although his hand was forced at times. He sought to solve Rome’s problems through negotiations and dialogue on innumerable occasions and he did all he could to prevent Roman blood from being spilled.’

A burst of indignant protest rose from the group that supported Brutus, Cassius and Cicero, and Antony swiftly changed his tactics.

‘If you don’t want to believe this, how can you not believe in what the man accomplished? He expanded the borders of the Roman Empire all the way to the waves of the Ocean. He subjugated the Celts and Germans, and he dared to raise the Eagle on ground never before trodden by Roman feet: the remote land of Britannia. He defeated Pharnaces and added the kingdom of Pontus to our dominions. He approved a great number of laws to help and sustain the populace. He filled our coffers with immense treasures pillaged in the territories he conquered. He promulgated measures to defend the provinces but also to punish local governors who were incapable or corrupt. Do you believe that the tomb of the man who will be forever remembered for having carried out such glorious enterprises should be hidden in some obscure site, his funeral kept a secret?

‘No, conscript fathers! You must grant me this. Allow me to celebrate his funeral and to read his will in public. His testament, at least, will help us to understand if we have acted justly or if the last honours I wish to attribute to him are undeserved.’

Upon hearing these words, Cicero hissed at Cassius, ‘What did I tell you? If you allow him to celebrate Caesar’s funeral and read his will, your undertaking will have been in vain! You must absolutely prevent him from doing so.’

But Brutus disagreed. As Antony continued with his fervent plea, he replied, ‘No, you’re wrong, Marcus Tullius. Antony has always been a man of his word. He left his sons in our hands, he dispersed the hostile crowd that had formed on the Capitol and he voted in favour of our amnesty. We are men of honour and we must behave as such. Antony is brave and valiant. We must not turn him into our enemy. We shall convince him to join us, in order to restore the authority of the republic and the liberty of the Roman people. Trust me. If he were not well meaning, he would already have unleashed the legion camped outside the walls on us. It would have been easy for him to do away with us in no time. But he didn’t. All he’s asking for is a funeral and we have to allow it.’

Brutus was adamant, and if Brutus voted in favour of the motion, the others could not vote against it.

Cicero, outraged and impotent, snapped at Brutus, ‘You will see! This will be no ordinary funeral!’