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“Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more.” -
Julius Caesar
William Shakespeare
Midnight at the Forum
Turning round the corner of the forum, proud Caesar walked side by side with the devoted Brutus. The night air nipped at Brutus’ bare knuckles and he clasped them tighter together as they silently strolled along, with only the hissing breeze to dull their echoing footsteps.
Caesar’s bronze-kissed hair shone silver in the moonlight, and Brutus’ dark forest eyes drank in the sight as if he were gazing at the glimmering stars above. He did not know which visage took his awe more agonizingly; that of his… his what? His ruler, his king, his friend? Or of the gods that painted the sky with ornate admiration; the stars shone and the moon was full, but by Jupiter, Brutus can’t help but look at great Caesar instead of those carefully crafted stars. No, rather the stars reminded him of the dashes of light that would hit Caesar's eyes when they scrunched in laughter. Yes, to imagine Caesar as a star, the Northern Star; how is one mortal man expected to look for greatness anywhere else?
And yet, how cruel! How tortuous, how depraved his Caesar made him; yes, Caesar made him the man he was; Brutus a man, who does not create but is created! To be but a mirror of Caeser’s beauty, a reflection of power, readily distorted by seeking in himself that which is not for him.
But no, why Caeser… No. Brutus knew why the gods chose him, for Brutus too would choose Caesar over any other man… but could he choose him over himself? Over Rome? Over…
“Dear Brutus, my beloved friend. You wished to speak to me?”
Brutus’s hands fell to his side, briefly brushing the rough, warm skin of Caesar's hand. Caesar made no comment.
“Yes, my Caeser.”
“Then speak.” The pace of their steps marched on in unison, both looking ahead, not to avoid the other's eyes, but to keep their minds forward.
“Do you oft’ think of Mars?” Caesar shot him a quick peculiar look before looking forward once more
.
“Brutus, truly? Is that all? You’ve called for me to come so late, the moon at nigh high and you ask if I think of Mars? I think of him as often as I think of any such type of power.”
“And what becomes of power in your heart, Caesar?” Brutus' tanned face flushed; his face felt hot and his jaw twitched.
“Matters of the heart are not meant for the twilight evening, as you should well know. What does the heart say, what does the mind say, Brutus, when the breath of Rome falls from one man’s tongue, his lips?” Caesar's voice remained quiet, but he quickened the pace of his speech. With a heavy sigh, he stopped walking. Brutus stopped a step away from him.
“Then why, Caesar? Why? Why bear this burden, this blessing, distant from those who love you, distant,” he moved to grab Caesar, his body hot with stinging nerves and rancid pride. Caesar jolted to rip his arms away from his hungry grip, but his dark-haired friend tightened his hands around the midst of his scared forearms. Caesar’s cracked lips pursed, his face tightening.
“You think too much, and you know such men are dangerous,” uttered Caesar, his voice strong and soft. Caesar's silver leaden eyes did not leave the greenwood hues of Brutus’s.
“Who is dangerous, Caesar? Is it I, who you now accuse, who thinks too much? I, who love you, Caesar? Is it my thoughts that are dangerous or is it my love? I am but one of those who love you, yet you say such men are dangerous?”
“Brutus,” Caesar hissed through clenched teeth. Ripping his arms free of Brutus' calloused grasp, he grabbed the other man’s shoulders with the grip of a raging eagle. “Do you love me, as the good Mark Antony? Do you love me as Decimus does or as Cassius does? All these men are dangerous, and yet it is I who they love. Where is this love, Brutus?”
The forum was cold and barren. The lateness of the evening warded off even the most excitable men. Only with the company of the occasional bird's cry did Brutus exist. Caesar was close enough to fall into; his hot breath fell on the shorter man’s forehead, covered in a darker shadow as Caesar loomed over him, interrupting the guiding moonlight’s path. Here, gazing through his eyelashes, Brutus wished to lash out, to scream and claw and stab. Even shrouded in darkness, where most men would cower and beg, Caesar stood as strong as the day he’d met him. The sea light of his eyes fell from a morning tide to a midnight storm over the sea. The darkness coiled in his curled hair, and Brutus wished to reach out and grab it.
“I love you, my Caesar.”
“I repeat, because you seem to be deaf: how do you love me, Brutus?” His voice fell into a whisper, but with his lips so close and his hands so tightly bound to his shoulders, Brutus’ mind seemed to ache. “Is it me, or is it Rome that you love?”
Brutus shut his eyes hard enough to hurt, and his arms stood stiff and tensed at his sides. The warmth from Caesar’s body felt like the first ray of light as an unforgiving winter began to die.
“Caesar, forgive me, but one more time in my life. Grant me one request, but one more favor.” Caesar’s hands lost their vigor around his shoulders and slid up to the sides of Brustus’ neck, simply sitting there.
“Yes?”
“You love Rome,” the dark-haired man whispered, “but can you dare to love me more? Will you consider for a moment that we could…”
“Yes?”
“That we could leave? Together? Thoughts of men are dangerous and these storms of words and wickedness stalk your name, Caesar. You are in danger.”
With a sobering suddenness, Caesar pulled back. The world felt so cold.
“Leave?” Laughed Caesar, his voice filling the void of the night sky.
“Then you do not love me, nor do you love Rome! What a joke, at such a time as this.” Caesar smiled, but his words felt as sharp as his gaze. “And here I thought you had something to say.”
Hit by an icy wave of desperation, Brutus took a leaping step forward and crashed to his knees, the stone scraping against his bones. Caesar exhaled but did not move. Fearing his hands would tremble, Brutus dug them into the hems of Caesar’s toga, steadying himself.pi With shaky arms, he brought the moonlit fabric to his trembling lips and gently kissed its softness.
The world felt like it was spinning; here was Brutus, down on his knees in front of Caesar, just like the rest of Rome. Brutus was no better than a common man, led blindly by the rule of another. But Caesar was no common man and neither was Brutus; rather, one was a sheep made for the slaughter and the other a feral wolf, made by the gods to keep the cycle of life steady. Who was who, Brutus thought lightly.
Brutus kept his lips stiff against the toga. Neither spoke, an earth-shattering silence in the wake of their dragging breaths.
“Brutus.”
“Caesar,” muttered Brutus through the cloth, refusing to look up. Because what would he see upon gazing upward: the Northern star that would lead him astray.
Brutus' whole body tensed when a strong but gentle hand fell upon the top of his head. Hesitant, it sat lightly before the finger curled tightly around Brutus’ hair, making him gasp as Caesar lightly tugged.
“Brutus, my dear, dear friend,” eyes still shut tight, Brutus felt Caesar kneel in front of him, letting his hands slide from his head to the sides of his arms, squeezing lightly. “you are so foolish, you make me want to act in kind.” He inhaled with a rattling sigh, “Do you love me well? If so then by the gods you will stand or kneel or sit close to my side. To leave, dear Brutus is to die.”
“I plead with you, my Caesar, I beg,”
“No, you do not. You beg the impossible.”
No, no, no, the impossible is now, is yesterday, Brutus wanted to scream from his closing throat. Impossible is my destiny when at your side; I too want what you have, but what is it that you have? Do you have my heart, Caesar? Or have you cast it aside for your own heart, consumed by the grainy walls of Rome? If thou hast my heart, then I with raised fists want to tear it from your careless grasp, from your steady, warm hands.
“I only ask what I must; whence have I given you this raw desperation? If not only this very moment.”
“Look at me with your mind, yes, with that dangerous mind Brutus.” Brutus kept his eyes shut. “I said, look at me, Brutus. I demand it.” With his strong jaw clenched, and teeth aching, he kept his head facing down as he looked up through his dark eyelashes. Caesar, still cast in darkness, looked older than ever. The lines on his head deepened with the night and behind his eyes raged an unfamiliar storm. Old, young, alive, dead; they mean nothing when faced with the star-filled eyes of Caesar. “I will not leave. You will not leave.” He leaned in closer, grabbing Brutus' hands in his own. “I’d rather you die than leave my side. Should you run, my dear Brutus, I would have you killed.”
“Is this a promise, Caesar?”
“I have a desinty, Brutus. Won’t you let me share it with you?”
I will not share; there are not two or three men of Rome with Caesar; it is him or nothing, me or you, him or her, thought Brutus. To share; with Caesar as the sun and I as the eclipsed moon; a desolate swarthy planet, forgotten when the sun adorns the sky with jeweled colors. Why am I tormented yet with his tantalizing proposition, when he gives me but a dream, doomed to fall through the cracks of glory’s gilded armor?
“I love you well, Caesar. I love you to death.”
Caesar stood slowly, and Brutus rose in kind.
“Let us finish our stroll, dear Brutus. Tomorrow the senate meets at the theater, and the next day approaches quickly.”
Brutrus’ own words from days past echoed back to him, rattling his wicked skull. “I would not, Cassius; yet I love him well.” The stars seemed dull now; their shine stolen by the hungry Caesar, who consumed all that was beautiful and good. Perhaps Caesar thought Brutus was good, as he too felt his shine had been stolen. Caesar, ever ambitious, ever taking Caesar. How Brutus hated to love him.
“Yes, Caesar. As you please.”
…
The next day, when the blood dried and red faded into rust, Brutus cried to the streets, “People of Rome, we are once again free!”
When the funeral oration proceeded, Brutus called with an erratic voice, “Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more.” No man knew if his words were true; not even Brutus knew if they were honest. But what is honesty in the face of a dead star; when there is no way to know which way is north, when the sky is but another reminder of Caesar’s decayed destiny? The sun, the moon, the sky, the stars, the sea; Brutus has become nothing, for Caesar was not just Rome: he was everything.
Days later, kneeling on the same apathetic stone where Caesar was slain, Brutus touched his head to its smooth surface, face wet from searing tears.
“Yes, my Caesar. I love you more.”
~End~