The Dogs of War (Unabridged Version)

By Marky Sparky and Hunter Graham

‘Et tu, Brute?’

With these words, the man who for years had bestrode the narrow world like a Colossus broke the long silence. We were alone, perhaps for the final time. I knew that my fate was hanging by a thread. Slowly, I nodded.

‘Aye, Caesar. Even Brutus, your friend. The bitterest of betrayals, save one. For which part, I will perchance be remembered as a serpent.’

‘Rather, would I think of you as a serpent’s egg, which hatch’d, would as your kind grow mischievous. It would have been better, by far, for me to have killed such a creature in the shell.’

‘Your honey tongue drips more venom than any viper, O Caesar,’ I retorted.

He smiled. ‘Come, Brutus. You can’t compare my words with those of Cicero. His rancorous wit displayed each day in the Senate is a thousand times more astringent than anything I could come up with.’ He leaned over, and filled two goblets from the richly decorated pitcher resting on the table between us. I noted the glazed scene displayed on the pitcher – it was that of Horatius defending the Pons Sublicius against the Etruscans. I murmured:

‘And how can man die better than facing fearful odds, for the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his Gods?’

‘How indeed,’ replied my friend, the tyrant of Rome. ‘I have only ever desired the good of Rome. Just like you, just like Horatius, I am a patriot.’ He gestured towards the goblets. ‘Slake your thirst, Brutus. Choose whichever one you would.’

I took the one nearest to me. I was not so stupid as to think that Caesar might seek to poison me: not when I was completely at his mercy, and he could end my life by summoning with a mere snap of his fingers the guards that stood ever vigilant in the corridor without.

‘Your health,’ I said, unironically, raising the wine to my lips. I drank deeply. It was good.

He raised his own goblet and sipped: savouring the drink more slowly, as was his want. ‘To Rome,’ he said.

I snorted. I couldn’t help myself. ‘Rome? There is no Rome. It was an idea. More…’ I paused. ‘More an ideal. A city of the people, governed by the people, for the people. That Rome is no more. It ceased to exist when you accepted the adulation of those who would acclaim you as King.’

‘Not so, Brutus. Three times I was offered the crown during the Lupercalia: three times I refused.’

‘O Caesar, your truths prove you false: your lies march in legions. And yet, I have shed tears for your love; experienced joy for your fortune; known honour for your valour–’

‘Yet desired death for my ambition,’ he countered. ‘Can you not see my ambition, and Rome’s ambition, are one and the same? My glory: and Rome’s glory. Who has loved Rome with a greater love than I?’

‘My ancestors,’ I replied, ‘who from the streets of Rome the Tarquin drove, when he was called a King. But what does that matter now? Give me a sword, that I might cut my heart out. I cannot live with the shame of having failed.’

‘You will live, dear Brutus, for as long as it takes for me to fathom the full extent of this conspiracy. There’s much that I still do not understand. The peculiar prescience of the Soothsayer, for instance.’

‘Did his words concerning the Ides of March put you on your guard?’ I asked, curious. ‘Or was it the dream of your wife Calpurnia?’

Caesar shook his dead. ‘Neither. I paid no heed to the words of the Soothsayer; and when Decimus Brutus – your cousin – came to escort me to the Senate meeting, he dissuaded me with considerable eloquence from giving credence to the premonitions of my wife. No, it was this letter’–he picked up a piece of parchment that was lying on the desk–‘that made the difference. It was thrust into my hand by the philosopher Artemidorus of Cnidos as I was about to enter the Senate. Shall I read what is written within?’

I shrugged, and drank the dregs of my cup. I was still thirsty. ‘As Caesar wishes.’

‘Caesar, beware of Brutus; take heed of Cassius; come not near Casca; have an eye to Cinna; trust not Trebonius; mark well Metellus Cimber; Decimus Brutus loves thee not; thou hast wronged Caius Ligarius. There is but one mind in all these men, and is bent against Caesar. The mighty gods defend thee!’

He tossed the parchment to one side. ‘You showed the open palm of peace and welcome with one hand, Brutus, but hid a poisoned dagger behind your back with the other!’ The level of reproach in his voice had become heightened. ‘And for what? For all your protestations about liberty and freedom, you have chosen to align yourself not with the people, but with the patricians. Fill their purses. Weight them heavily. And when the city sinks into the mud of the Tiber, the gold will drag them down all the faster.’

He paused, his face flushed, and waited for me to respond to his challenge: but I said nothing. He took another sip of his wine, before continuing, rather more calmly. ‘No matter. Your co-conspirators have all been arrested, and interrogated, quite thoroughly: save for Cassius, the ring-leader. He took his own life, alas, before we could prevent it. But I wanted to leave questioning you until last, old friend. Marcus Antonius thinks I’m wasting my time, yet I believe you to be an honourable man. More so than Cassius was, for certain. He always had a lean and hungry look; the look of one who thinks too much. Such men are dangerous. So, Brutus: do you have anything more to say?’

There was one more thing I could add, that I knew would devastate this proud man. I did not know if he would believe me: but there was nothing to be achieved by deception. A man facing almost certain death is surely the most honest, and honourable, of men. What could I lose?

‘There is one person whose treachery is greater than that of Cassius, or Cinna, or even of Marcus Brutus, your friend. One other who believed he stood to profit greatly from your death. One who had assured Cassius he would readily lend his support to our cause once the fatal blow had been struck. For my part, I mistrusted his words. But I know that Cassius believed them.’

Caesar leaned forward, an intense look on his face. His eyes bored deep into me. ‘To whom do you refer? Who, Brutus?’

‘Someone who assured us of a promise that you had made to him, a few years ago. A promise sealed in your last will and testament. The conviction of a young man who believes himself to be heir to the conqueror of Gaul. The heir to the man who crossed the Rubicon in defiance of the will of the Senate, who defeated Pompey and who went on to capture the hearts and minds of the plebeians of Rome. The heir to the great consul, the wooer of Cleopatra, the Colossus who had everything he could desire, save only for a legitimised natural-born heir. I speak of one who believes himself to be the heir by adoption of Gaius Julius Caesar. I speak of–’

‘Gaius Octavius. My great-nephew.’ Caesar’s tone was flat, completely devoid of emotion: but I was conscious that his eyes had not flickered once. He was scrutinising me intensely, looking for any clue that I might be speaking falsely.

‘Yes. Cassius learnt you’d lodged your will last year. Naturally, he couldn’t verify the claim of Octavius: any more than Octavius could be certain that you had honoured your promise to him. But I note you do not deny it, O Caesar.’

‘What would motivate my great-nephew – if, indeed, I have named him as my heir – to turn against me?’

‘The fear of being unnamed, of course. In favour of a natural-born heir.’

‘I have no such heir.’

His denials meant nothing. ‘No legitimised heir, it’s true. So the rumours that the young child born to Queen Cleopatra three summers ago is your son are false?’

'Your words fall on deaf ears, Brutus. I will not lend you mine.’ There was a cold look of anger in his eyes now: but it was not, I sensed, aimed at me. He had considered the possibility that I might be seeking to deceive him, and had clearly dismissed it.

Not for one moment did I believe that Octavius’ secret pledge of support had been motivated by a desire to see the Republic saved. It was nothing more than a duplicitous piece of political manoeuvring on the part of an ambitious young man who aimed to become a second Caesar.

The now unchallenged ruler of Rome sat stock still, looking deeply into his half-empty wine goblet, silent for a while. He was calculating furiously, I knew. I hardly dared to breathe. I had prayed to the Gods for the wisdom of Jupiter and the strength of Mars, but they had blessed – or cursed – me instead with the winged sandals of Mercury. Don’t fire arrows at the messenger, I thought. Was it yet possible that my life – and the lives of my fellow conspirators – might be spared? Would Caesar act swiftly, and decisively, to eliminate his dangerous great-nephew? Might he yet recognise the young boy that Cleopatra had named Caesarion? And what counsel might be given by his fellow consul, Marcus Antonius?

As I waited for his decision, a sudden chill overtook my heart. I might, perhaps, have saved my own life. The crisis might pass: a reconciliation between the fractious parties of Caesar and the Republic might yet be possible. But was this, truly, the dawn of a Pax Romana? I looked at the great dictator across the table, and thought: ‘The name of Caesar will die with Rome, but everything you are will rise again in the hearts and minds of others. The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power; and men who will crawl their way to absolute power only to abuse it. Crying havoc, and letting loose their dogs of war!’

Finally, Gaius Julius Caesar looked up, and his gaze met mine once more. His pale blue eyes were clearer than I’d ever seen them. At that moment, I knew exactly what his decision would be.

***

Commentary

The Dogs of War is a joint endeavour between @hunter_graham and myself. I’ve really enjoyed the collaboration, and Hunter came up with some sparkling lines of dialogue. The observant will notice that there’s also a judicious sprinkle of quotations from William Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, as well as Abraham Lincoln’s famous observation on democracy from the Gettysburg Address, and the most well-known extract from Thomas Macaulay’s ‘Horatius’, the finest of his Lays of Ancient Rome.

Although Shakespeare’s retelling of the assassination of Julius Caesar, and the events preceding and following it, is perhaps the best known today, his play was based upon far earlier accounts recorded in classical literature, notably those of the Greek historian Plutarch and the Roman historian Suetonius. Most of what we know about Caesar’s death comes from these two sources.

When considering the parameters of this challenge, two questions immediately presented themselves. Firstly, how did the conspiracy fail? Secondly, what could have caused Caesar to even consider clemency for Brutus, given his exposure as a would-be assassin?

In answer to the first question, Caesar was presented with several opportunities to escape his date with destiny. He had been forewarned by the Soothsayer who had cautioned him about the Ides of March. Calpurnia’s reporting to her husband of her dream was another moment when history could have taken a different course. But perhaps the most dramatic moment was when the philosopher Artemidorus tries, and fails, at the very last to prevent Caesar from meeting with the plotting senators. What if Caesar had read the note Artemidorus had given him? In our story we quote directly from Shakespeare - albeit in slightly truncated form - the contents of that fateful letter.

As for the second question: one of the most fascinating of all the characters from Roman history during the last century of the Republic was Gaius Octavius (frequently anglicised as Octavian), the future first Emperor of Rome, Caesar Augustus. In the final act of Julius Caesar, Shakespeare is already hinting at the trouble that will follow in his next Roman play, Antony and Cleopatra, when Octavian makes his play for supreme power. Roddy McDowall completely nails the true character of Octavian, in the 1963 Hollywood epic Cleopatra. The serene public image personified by the surviving sculptures of this first, and greatest, Roman Emperor, should not disguise his utter ruthlessness. The propaganda that followed once Octavian, now Augustus, had eliminated all his enemies and attained mastery of Rome – imposing the Pax Romana that would last throughout his forty-year-long reign, and building up the Imperial cult of the divine emperor – was impressive. There is, of course, nothing in the public record to suggest that Octavian knew anything of the conspiracy against Caesar in advance, much less had any part in it. At the time of the assassination, he was hundreds of miles away from Rome studying in Apollonia (in modern-day Albania).

But just suppose he had been aware of the plot; was additionally aware that Caesar had named him as his heir; but was also fearful that Caesar was about to legitimise the young son, Caesarion, whom he had sired with the Egyptian queen? This is precisely the situation we have envisaged in our re-imagining of events.

The historical facts (as far as we know them) are that Julius Caesar had little or no interest in Caesarion, and no plan to acknowledge him publicly; and we have no evidence that Octavian himself was already aware of the contents of Caesar’s will. It almost certainly came as a rude surprise to Mark Antony, Caesar’s co-consul and closest political ally, when he opened the will and discovered Caesar’s bequest to Octavian. It is likely that Antony saw himself as the primary leader of the anti-revolutionary forces up to that point, and fully intended to seize supreme power for himself in Rome, before realising that Caesar’s unexpected inheritance would force him to come to an accommodation with the late dictator’s great-nephew. Their alliance, as part of the Second Triumvirate (with Lepidus) was uneasy from the start, and Antony seems to have been responsible for rumours (probably unfounded) that Caesar had only appointed Octavian as his heir in the first place as a reward for various sexual favours. Finally, the character of Octavian we have hinted at our re-imagining is entirely consistent with the man believed responsible for the death of Caesarion (probably by strangulation) following the suicide of Mark Antony and Cleopatra.

It has been interesting to speculate on the alternative course of events had Cassius and Brutus been unsuccessful. And what if Octavian’s ascent to power had been thwarted? The history of Rome, the Empire, the world itself, might have been very different.

And as we all know, it’s the victor who writes the history books. To what extent have the motivations of Cassius, Brutus, Antony, Octavian and others been lost – or manipulated – by the likes of Plutarch and Suetonius? We shall never know.

As for our ending: would Caesar have forgiven Brutus, in the circumstances Hunter and I have outlined in The Dogs of War? Well, that’s for you - Dear Reader - to decide.