The Dogs of War (Abridged)
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. 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 filled two goblets from the richly decorated pitcher resting on the table between us. I noted the glazed scene displayed on the pitcher – 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 Caesar. ‘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.’
‘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. ‘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? 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. 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. ‘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, and 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.
‘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. 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 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.
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, 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 chill overtook my heart. I might, perhaps, have saved my own life. The crisis might pass: a reconciliation between the 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, 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.
*
Note:
Abridged slightly to fit the word limit of this challenge!