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From the moment I met him, I knew I’d do anything for Caesar.
That glory, that ambition! It was mine to partake in.
Senators whispered, wondered, accused,
but he was never more than a father to me,
and I his favored son, with whom he shared
every secret that nagged at his noble mind.
He spoke to me, one morning, of his fears of Caius Cassius,
but I was foolishly focused on the bright, bold robes Julius wore.
What hunger for power could strike down this man,
a king and god in all but name?
Worse yet, Caesar felt the same—beyond danger’s touch.
Maybe it was his own lofty ambitions that made him a target.
It still seemed my fault when I saw Caesar’s blood
pooling at Cassius’ feet,
smeared on Brutus’ dagger,
staining the robes of every senator Caesar had wondered about in his lowest moments.
I wished it had been me.
I wished it was my blood on their daggers.
In that moment, I wanted my blood to mingle with Caesar’s on the floor.
What was the point of living without him?
But Brutus refused,
so as not to look like “butchers”—
as if their hands weren’t already beyond washing.
And as they filed out of the theater, hands open wide in the air,
I wished I had grabbed someone’s blade and done the work myself.
But I had shaken their hands—
I had made promises.
So I covered his body in the closest fabric available—
my own robes, suddenly far too similar to the blood staining my fingers—
and carried his body to the forum.
I don’t remember what I said to stir the plebians to action—
I only recall the haze of rage that clouded my vision
and spread across Rome in one afternoon.
Senators’ houses burned the horizons,
and through the smoke walked Octavian.
We were united by the goal of avenging Caesar,
but only one of us was his son in the legal sense.
He was half my age and thought he knew better than me,
but I let my fury bubble up quietly. Mostly.
There were more important things than my own pride—
namely, control of the Roman Republic.
Ultimately, the conspirators were no match
for my cunning and Octavian’s bloodlust.
Still, when he triumphed over Brutus’ dead body,
I finally understood.
Where Julius had treated me as an equal,
Octavian relished in the pedestal he knew he had over me—
the thought of this boy ruling a republic, an empire , uneased me.
But I could not stir myself to action as Brutus did,
so once we parceled Rome’s lands,
I distanced myself. Master of the Roman East, I was.
There was still a war to contend with,
and a kingdom to the south that wished to maintain its independence.
I thought that, perhaps, this queen and I could help each other.
O, she did so much more.
From the moment I first saw her—
the rouge of her cheeks,
the cunning tilt of her stained lips—
I knew I would do anything for Cleopatra.
She was the answer to everything,
the reason to live that escaped me when I cried on the floor of the theater.
When her eyes sparkled for me—
when her lips smiled for me!—
I was the most special person on Earth.
She stole my words from me,
and she knew it,
but I watched that cunning turn into kindness. Passion.
Diplomacy was replaced by intimacy,
careless and careful, thoughtless and thoughtful, all at once.
Some nights we forgot everything in the world except each other.
The weight of leadership still rested on our shoulders,
but even this was a joy we could share.
Over the decade our political goals became unified.
I gave her land,
she gave me children,
and together we promised that land to our children.
We were bound by political loyalty and love
and we were as powerful as gods—
or so we thought.
Octavian didn’t care for my handing out land to children of a foreign queen.
His navy overpowered mine and Cleopatra’s,
and I fled once again.
He followed us all the way back to Egypt,
and I knew there was no more escape.
Someone whispered that Cleopatra had already poisoned herself.
This time I had no one to avenge. No purpose to fulfill.
What point was there in living without her?
I made a terribly final decision,
and my sword clattered to the floor
just as I heard that my wife was still alive after all.
My friends brought me to her hiding spot.
She held me in her arms.
In that moment I imagined the future we could have had—
parading down Roman streets
emblazoned with Roman banners.
She and I could have borne the shame of Octavian’s triumph together,
hand in hand—
prisoners of Rome,
yet beholden to nothing but each other.
But it was too late.
My blood was already spilling over her fingers.
She pressed a kiss against my forehead—
the last thing I remember is
Cleopatra’s lips
drifting away.