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At Philippi, says Caesar, as solid and true as he was in life, his armor gleaming. At Philippi, says the ghost, a copy of a copy of a copy, the cloth of his suit stained with his blood. At Philippi, says the man who would have been king, and Brutus lived and loved and killed with all of the heart he had in him, but he never did learn to ask the right questions.
At Philippi, he says, and Brutus never asked, should have asked, And where after that?
☼
The stars are always the same. Gleaming and cold, they are; Brutus never learned to pick out constellations, but he draws lines through the black with his finger, connecting. One. Two. Three.
He can't see them so well, not with Rome blazing around him, bright as a hundred suns. The streets are full of headlights, pouring down Main Avenue. Behind him, the rooms are cold, and dark, and empty but for Portia's sleeping form.
There's a scrap of crumpled newspaper on the edge of the balcony. He stoops to pick it up, smooths it out: CAESAR TRIUMPHS IN GAUL, screams the headline, from almost a year ago now, and over it in a hasty black scrawl someone's scribbled, help me.
The handwriting is achingly familiar.
It's all achingly familiar, of course. He leans against the balcony, waits for the knock on the door.
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Antony's voice hisses over the radio, all static and snarl and spite. The dust motes jump in the air, and the sun slants through the curtains. Brutus closes his eyes.
A bony hand tangles itself with his. He presses himself into the burnt heat of Cassius' body, lets the breath go out of him in one long rush. The voice on the radio drones on, on.
This is a test. This is only a test. If this had been an actual emergency you would have been instructed--
Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.
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This is not a ghost story.
On the Senate floor, on the Senate floor, on the Senate floor, he kneels for the hundredth time, for the only time that has ever mattered. Somewhere in this city is a throne that will never be more than wood, now. If it ever was more. If any throne can ever be anything more than splinters, digging into each other, all fire and fury and fear, until they finally split apart.
His name is Marcus Junius Brutus. This is how it goes: our Rome and Rome of our ancestors, Rome of Lucius, Rome of Decimus, Rome of Publius, support our fallen, heal our sick, set free those of us who are slaves, keep faith with those of us who lie in the dust. Rome, restore our dead to life.
Brutus of the Junii wipes his hands in Caesar's blood, red as a soldier's coat. This never was a ghost story.
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Rome is marble-white pillars and dusty roads. Rome is smoke-black skies and carriages in the streets. Rome is buildings as tall as gods, needles scraping the sky raw. Rome is in Brutus' veins. Rome is in Cassius' lips and eyes.
Cassius' hand is hot on Brutus' cheek, and his voice is burning Brutus up, and the streets run beneath their feet like a river; Brutus tilts his head back, lets Cassius' words sear into his ears, knows in his heart that something very old and very beautiful has died, has been dead for a very long time.
He leans into that heat. Somewhere in the distance, a great shout goes up from the crowd.
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The trouble with the television, says Cassius, is that it only has two dimensions. The trouble with the television is that once you're close enough you can see everything it's made out of, and Brutus doesn't understand a word, and loves him for it anyway.
In a hundred blurred pixels, Caesar smiles, and Rome screams for him. Cassius stares into the static. The revolution, he says, will be televised.
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Antony cannot believe the god he loves has been so easily murdered; Brutus knows the feeling.
His hands are dripping with Caesar's blood. It is, of all things, only blood. His arms are red up to the elbows, and his dagger is lying beside the body; he turns to scoop it up, but Cassius' hand is warm on his shoulder, a warning.
Antony draws his sword. Someone stiffens, makes a move toward him, but Antony drops to one knee, lays the sword at their feet, bows his head. His eyes are like ice.
The king is dead, says an awful voice in Brutus' head. Long live the king.
But Cassius is pulling Antony to his feet, and if Antony is ice than as always Cassius is fire; he stares into Antony's face for a long moment, his hand on Antony's arm.
Then he leans down to dip a hand into the pool of blood spreading on the Senate floor, strokes Antony's cheek, impossibly gentle. He presses his lips to the stain he leaves behind, kisses Antony's other cheek, his forehead.
When he steps back, his lips are red, and he smiles. A moment later, he catches Brutus' gaze, and something in his face shifts at what he finds there. Brutus loves him. Brutus will always love him, in this moment. Blood will out.
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Brutus knows, has always known, that it is the last night he will spend in the city. Portia is already away somewhere safe. His balcony is empty of newspaper scraps, this time; the stars pulse in the sky above him, too far away.
Cassius' arms slide around his waist, and his chin hooks onto Brutus' shoulder. For the first time, he is silent. It cuts at Brutus like a knife.
He stares into the heart of the city, all light and heat and fury. The funeral is tomorrow; the life and the glory that are Rome outshine anything the stars could even hope to dream of. Somewhere between the skyscrapers and the stars, the gods are plotting and planning in vain.
Brutus lets his eyes slide shut, imagines for a long moment that he can see the future in the afterimages the streetlights leave on the inside of his eyelids. Then he turns in Cassius' arms, curls a hand around the back of his neck, kisses him as if the world is falling apart. He can feel Cassius smile against his lips.
Rome is ending, and Rome is going to end. The Republic has narrowed down to two, their hands sticky with blood. There was a reason the gods punished Tantalus, but it's not the judgment of the gods they're waiting on.
Cassius kisses Brutus under the lights of Rome, a hundred times, and each time it hurts, and each time it is their last.
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At Philippi, says the ghost, again. Brutus closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, Caesar is gone, was never there, never lived. Rome never falls. Marcus Junius Brutus never kills a tyrant. Antony never speaks. There are no villains; there are no heroes. There are no stories.
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This is the world, and all roads in it lead, will always lead, to Rome. This is Rome, and it's ending, one minute at a time.
When Brutus runs a finger along the edge of the sword Strato clutches, he can feel the ghosts of Cassius' hands wrapped around his.
Et tu, Brute, says Caesar. The stars always come back to where they began. On the inside of his skull, Cassius is smiling. Brutus closes his eyes.