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‘Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?’
(As You Like It – Act 3, Scene 5)
William Shakespeare
Midnight at the Forum —-> Dawn on the Trastevere
“When Caesar’s wife shall meet with better dreams. If Caesar hide himself, shall they not whisper, lo, Caesar is afraid’?”
“Ay, I should have made myself a fool. I will attend in kind; send off my decision with haste.” Contented with Caesar’s final response, the man left with a neutral expression.
Caesar, ignoring the revitalized cries from his wife’s rosy lips, donned his garments and readied himself with quick urgency. The night was long and tense; like a tension given unto the sea, unfillable and unaffected; and so was Caesar as he threw his mind against the raging thoughts of the previous night.
A dream of his death, how foolish, how weak! To be shaken by a false vision; when there is Rome to tend to, how his wife falls from his mind like the drooping red flowers that spring from the grass between the bricks of the Forum. Of all the nights to wake in a fit of sleepless unrest; the morning of the Ides of March and but three days before he took his leave for the Parthian campaign.
Donning his robes, he made haste with heavy eyes and heavy hands; his name did not mean heavy, but he must assuredly felt the weight of the future upon him, crashing like a wave unto the ever-changing shore.
Before long, with his drowsy, dragging movements to ready himself, Caesar was yet again affronted with an unwanted messenger.
“Caesar! Peace, ho!” Cried out the sweating, gasping messenger. His face was red with warmth and his eyes were blown wide.
“No, no, what need you? Say nothing, should it be pleasing.”
“No, Caesar. There is great cause for your presence; a terrible thing has occurred!”
“What of it? The terrible thing I know is how late I am to attend the Forum meeting. Leave. Nothing could hold more weight than my absence,” he continued, hands clasped tightly behind his back.
“No, fair Caesar, it is Brutus! There was an attempt on his life!”
For but one moment, smaller than a single grain of sand swept away into the ocean's ravenous tides, time seemed to halt completely. An attempt on the life of dear Brutus? Brutus who Caesar saw not but hours ago as they wandered the moonlit forum? His Brutus? No, no, he thought, let this be but one misunderstanding amongst many.
“An attempt, an attack? Who sent you, where is Brutus? Why, are you mute? Speak before I die of old age, you fool!”
“Yes, yes! Brutus sent me, in his bloody, injured state! He now waits outside of his current home, near Trastevere. I saw him by chance, Caesar, and he pleaded I retrieve you swiftly.”
“Damn him, damn that dear Brutus,” muttered Caesar through his grinding teeth, pushing past the servant. “Inform the statesmen, should they try to retrieve me, that a matter of utmost importance interrupted my attendance at the meeting. Give my greatest and most sincere apologies, should they be required!” He called out, hastening to leave his home with shaky hands and deafened ears. Damn Brutus, to Hades with him… That thoughtless, incompetent fool. To get himself attacked outside of his very home? Of all the interruptions…
Caesar’s mind raged, swept into a hurricane of violent warfare. Red, rage, smoke, and steam; a whirlwind wound by Ares’ rueful hands. This burning sensation blurred his heart and mind; one started where the other ended, but he could not differentiate either; there was no start, no end; only the heat of the moment in the now. To love his friend, his Brutus, but oh! Now to hate him with no real passion; in this singular moment, his only passion was a furious rage, which messily masked his quivering fear.
The streets blurred past him: the colors, the morning dew, the towering, heavy-topped trees. Between the thump of his sandals against the stone streets and the thump of his buzzing heart, the world seemed to fade; Rome seemed to vanish. There was only Ceasar lost in a sea of spite and rushing darkness, like the Mediterranean waves, crashing down into themselves amid the night. But no, Caesar recognizes, it is no longer midnight, and Brutus is not by his side.
“You, there! Brutus!” cried Caesar through his unwilling lips. There, breath ragged, leaning his bodyweight into the stone of his building, was fair Brutus. His eyes were dark and dull; his hooded gaze snuffed out the stars from the previous night that gave him a glimmering, subtle joy. At Caesar’s cry, Brutus tilted his head up just slightly; upon seeing Caesar, a straining grin grew on his lips.
“Caesar?”
With this pitiful utterance, his body gave out and with a heavy thump, he hit the ground below.
“Brutus!” Rushing to his side, his knees hit the ground, leaving an echoing ache in his bones. Caesar’s eyes narrowed, lips pursing as he shook Brutus' stiff shoulders with trembling hands. “Brutus, you indigent fool, what has happened?” Raising his voice, he all but screamed, “What of it, Brutus! Where are you injured?”
“Caesar… my, it is my side, lord.” Ripping open the side of his clothing, there stood a risen wound, pulsing with matted, dark blood and dirt; even his wounds shone like jewels, his blood decorating his skin like a trove of well-placed garnets. “I’ve been bested, it seems.”
“How deep is it?” Caesar heavily sighed, shrugging off his outer cloth, and pressing it into Brutus’ gaping side.
“As deep as a shallow stream, I hope.”
“You despair at nothing, even now! You never mourn shadows when the sun rises and the stars when they fade, and still yet, you despair at nothing,” he mutters under his breath quietly, “nothing but my absence in your thick, unruly skull…”
“Lo, Caesar is afraid?” Brutus smirked stiffly.
“I demand your silence, Brutus, unless you still have some wit left in you,” Caesar's hands were damp; the warm blood seeping through the clothes Caesar still pressed into Brutus' wound.
“Demand anything of me, Caesar, anything but my silence.”
“Tell me what happened.” The emperor’s voice was steady with a dark inflection. Looking up dazedly through his lashes, Brutus met his eyes before quickly looking away.
“I rose with the sun, Caesar, attempting to leave early to attend today’s meeting, but lo! Upon my departure, like a fox in the night, was a man drowning in dark cloth. Before I could take action, he leaped upon me like an animal. He ran as soon as he got his first stab. Cowardly, was he not, my Caesar?”
“Brutish indeed, Brutus.”
“Yes,” the dark-haired man teased with a small grin, “Brutus indeed.”
“Know that this is the worst morning for you to be stabbed, fair friend. Do you understand the significance of today? What I miss because of your stupid recklessness?”
“Yes, because I planned an attempt on my life,” sneered Brutus, still avoiding Caesar’s unwavering gaze. “I shall make it my business to avoid such circumstances in the future, my Caesar.”
“Unwavering, faithful Brutus, make sure to be good on that promise. Should you die, I’d strangle you for leaving without my knowledge.” Caesar attempted to joke, but his voice came out flat. He leaned closer to Brutus, his hands still pressing harshly into his side. Caesar angled his face towards the side of Brutus’ sideward-turned head. LEaning close enough that his lips fell on the shell of Brutus' ear, Caesar felt the burning warmth emanating from his tan, freckled skin. Leaning even closer, lips now brushing against Brutus' ear, sending a shiver across his shoulders, Caesar whispered, “I would kill you first, Brutus. Do not die without me.”
Eyes fluttering closed, Brutus could all but sigh, muscles losing, “I should never die, Caesar.”
“Unknowing Brutus, and what of the dangers you faced this morning?”
“Into what dangers should you lead me, Caesar: any and all upon your cry. Any other danger is an unfortunate and slight mishap.”
Holding Brutus close, Caesar let himself half-lay on the ground without further thought. The Ides of March, the meeting, the day as a whole; it could all wait. He was meant to sail for his Parthian campaign in three days; he will have to take the brunt of criticism for his absence, but that could be dealt with graciously according to the severity of what his people have to say. As long as Brutus should live, Caesar will continue with as much rationale as is required of him.
“Rest now, beloved Brutus. I will not leave you.”
…
What Caesar would never know is that Brutus planned this attempt. After they walked on the forum the previous night, Brutus felt gutted. He sat on the cobblestone streets for hours after Caesar’s departure as the stars flared and fell; to kill Caesar, his heart! His mind, his soul! By the gods, with the death of his Caesar, would a part of him not perish as well? Caesar, his own personal Rome, who is the very heart of Rome, to kill! To kill, to kill, to die! Not that Brutus did not love Caesar, but that he should love Rome more? Is that not how his heart should lean, into the betterment of Rome? But in truth, what is left but an empty shell of a throne and a trove of shallow men slithering around Caesar's grave, hungry for his glory. Is Brutus one of these snakes, lured into temptation? Or is Caesar the snake with glittering scales and Brutus is one out of many willing victims: daring anything to please his Caesar?
So, with great haste and little thought for consequence, Brutus sent an anonymous missive with a request for someone to take his life. He reported with unsteady, trembling hands the location of his home and when he should leave it in the morning. He accompanied this sealed letter with many tokens of his golden gratitude. Soon enough, as he stood but two hours later outside of his home, there slinked the shadowed city walls, was a brooding figure dressed in dark, broad clothes. Brutus let the man approach, pretending to focus on the lavender, hazy dark hue of the drowsy sky. With a swift lunge, there was a brutal, heavy-handed dagger to his side. His insides felt like fire, then ice, as if the metal of the dagger was melting into his oozing flesh. Quickly blinded by the flash of pain, Brutus used all his strength to strike the side of the assassin's skull. With a heavy hit, the assassin fell to the ground with a small snap sounding from somewhere in his body, not that Brutus was concerned. Before he could rise, Brutus took one step and kicked with all his might into where he assumed the man’s ribs were. He yelped like a wounded mutt, and scampered off, equally as animalistic to his cry. So was this so-called ‘assassination’ attempt.
Watching the man limp away, Brutus tripped backward, his back hitting the wall of his home with a thud. By the grace of the gods, one of Caesar’s messengers happened to skittishly pass by. His face turned white, his eyes bugging out of his small head.
“My-m-I! Ho, you! Bru-? Brutus! What has happened!” His voice was high and scratchy; another pain to add to Brutus’ body.
“Retrieve Caesar, now.”
“Bru-”
“Retrieve him. I do not care for your babbling. Retrieve. Him.”
Without another word, the small man took off, sprinting as if his life depended on it; which fell upon Brutus like a blanket of irony; his life certainly depended on it.
So came Caesar, panting, with savage eyes and messy clothing. He looked like he was ready to kill, even as he pressed his own cloak into Brutus’ wound. Brutus could do nothing but look up at Caesar in what must have been delusional admiration. The moonlight made Caesar into a gilded apollo, the silver light whispering sweet-nothings into the gold of Caesar’s sweetened skin. But now, in the dreamy, rosy light of dawn, Caesar had become a rueful rose in full bloom. To lick the salt from his tense brow; to scrape his nails along the scars of his broad shoulders; what would Brutus do to savor Caesar?
Well; he would die, apparently.
...
Truly by the luck of the gods, for there is no other explanation, Brutus did not die that day, and neither did his most cherished Caesar. Caesar never attended the meeting on the Ides of March; the ravenous group of men that awaited him belatedly realized with great horror, that Caesar decided to leave for the campaign three days earlier, taking with him the traitorous Brutus; for how could Brutus trade Rome for Caesar? How could he betray the men with whom he had tediously planned this revolution for months on end? Where did Brutus’ passions go, his passion for true freedom?
As Brutus lay, half-awake, half lost in comforting dreams, on his bed in Caesar’s boat, he pondered these truths. But as Caesar gently sat by his bedside, resting his rough palm on Brutus' arm, telling him he must now wake, Brutus decided that he simply did not care.
Swept away by the sounds of the sea, and the gentleness of the ruthless Caesar by his side, Brutus killed his passions with his joys. Perhaps a part of him did die upon his ‘assassination’; but with Caesar, he had not the room to miss the part of him that died. To die, to die, to live! So was life under his beloved’s watchful, hungry gaze.
It was not that Brutus loved Rome less, but that he loved Caesar more.
~ e n d ~