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So.
The sun rises over the skyscrapers.
This is Rome.
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There's a soothsayer on the streets tonight. Let's tell this story in order, shall we?
Her eyes are blue, and her lips are blue, and her veins run blue blue blue up her arms. She's wrapped in ratty blankets she's stolen from the temple around the corner, and she's huddled on the sidewalk beside a hundred grocery bags that scream in the wind, and she's shivering hard enough to break something. Who says all the witches are dead?
There's only so many times you can deliver a warning before you know it goes unheeded, unwanted, unneeded. This time the smoke blows black over the city. Caesar passes by. She sings the Marseillaise under her breath, watches him stumble in his steps, watches Antony pause and turn to stare at her, shivers and shivers and shivers until she can't sing any more. Cassandra was never this lucky.
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Here's a world where Caesar takes the crown. Go on, picture it.
The people cheer. The people always cheer. There's feasting, wine running in the streets dark and red, crowds packing the plazas, the mob one animal screaming for blood. It's Rome. What else would they scream for?
Here's a world where Caesar takes the crown. The graffiti streaks the streets. There's been a throne prepared for weeks; when he sinks into it, something in the wind shifts. Rome always smelled of smoke, and now it smells like it's going to burn.
Here's a world where Caesar takes the crown. His fingers brush Antony's, every time.
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Thrones aren’t built in a day, you know.
The subway winds under the city, like a worm at its heart. The towers reach up to the night sky, bright with electricity, grasping their hands at the pale stars. Everyone wants a little of that fire.
There’s a crown on Antony’s pillow.
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Brutus wipes his hands in Caesar's blood. Brutus smears himself with Caesar' blood, up to the elbows. Brutus is red and dripping with Caesar's blood, and Caesar's body is lying unmoving on the Senate floor, and Caesar's crown is lying unworn and discarded on Antony's bed, and Caesar's throne is nothing more than a chair, dead and cold.
Brutus wipes his hands in Caesar's blood, and Cassius kisses Antony's cheeks, leaves behind Caesar's bloodstains, as if he's trying to paint Antony as one of their own, as if he's trying to brand Antony as one of them. This is because Cassius has never been Caesar's general.
After the liberators have gone, Antony dips his fingers in the bloodstains, draws two straight lines along his cheeks. It's as if they've never heard of war paint.
The king is dead.
Long live the king.
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Temples come in all shapes and sizes.
The moon's glittering red off the windows of Rome. There's a reason they built this city high enough to touch the gods; whose fault is it if the Romans only realize it a hundred years late?
The city breathes. Steam curls out of the cracks in the streets; blood flows through the sewers. Here's how it goes: our Rome and Rome of our ancestors, give me victory over my enemies, subdue the nations under me, save me from my foes. Rome, give great victories to your king.
This building? They call it Empire. Don't act so surprised.
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Antony says, Brutus is an honorable man, and digs his fingernails into his palm. Honorable—it’s a funny word. Almost sounds like something.
He lets his face split open into a wolf’s grin.
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Look at it this way, says Antony. He's speaking to Brutus from the radio, from the television, from the newspapers, from the spaces in between the constellations. Your precious Rome isn't really dead, is she? She's just-- changed. Different. Better.
From Brutus' balcony the city pulses in a steady heartbeat. Headlights draw neon lines in the night that outshine the stars. The moon's the color of rust. Everything's alive, and everything's speaking to him with Antony's voice, with Antony's face, with Antony's too-quick eyes.
The streets are shuddering with noise. There are people pouring into the streets from every direction, screaming and shouting, and somewhere in the static, Antony's laughing. Really, Brutus, he says. Who the hell did you think this city belonged to?
The people, says Brutus aloud.
There are footsteps behind him. The people, Cassius repeats, his hand warm on Brutus’ back, and it's not quite a question.
The Antony on the television won't stop laughing. He says, Exactly.
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Temples come in all shapes and sizes. Who says the Senate is even one of them?
On the fields of Philippi, he slashes across his own palm with a knife, squeezes until he feels blood dripping down his wrist. The pain’s a line of fire, blazing on his hand, and his knife is warm where his blood runs. Old sacrifices. New god.
How many men has he seen with blades deep in their stomachs, cold as honor?
Not enough, yet.
Lose the battle. Win the war. Burn the bodies. Burn the Republic. What, like it's hard?
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This is how it goes: the gods love a man with too much hubris.
This is how it goes: you can control the mob, but that doesn't mean you can control the people. This is how it goes: you can make all the speeches you want, but that doesn't mean you can tell the story. This is how it goes: there's a soothsayer on the streets tonight, singing the Marseillaise under her breath, over and over again.
This is how it goes: if Rome is greater than the gods, then, ask Rome to protect you from them. After all you've done for her? She'll be glad to do you the favor.
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Antony only ever sees one ghost.
What were Caesar's last words? says Brutus. He's sitting by Antony's bed, his eyes sad, and there's a hole where his heart should be.
Et tu, Brute, says Antony, because the whole of Rome knows it, because every schoolchild knows it, because that's how the story goes. He's made sure of it.
Brutus smiles at him, says, καὶ σὺ, τέκνον.
Antony doesn't believe in ghosts.
You too, boy, says Brutus, anyway. You, too.
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Here's the sun setting. Antony can still feel Caesar's heartbeat inside his head.
These streets are empty. The sky is a deep and dusky red; he thinks he can see the first star, bright as daylight.
Rome's streets are never empty. Antony's hand goes to his side, where his sword ought to be. There's nothing there.
The Lethe is crueler than the Tiber, says Brutus behind him. Antony whirls, but there's nothing there. Crueler, Brutus goes on, still at his back, because all the Tiber can do is kill you, but the Lethe, it can take away your whole life.
There's a hand on his neck. Antony stands very still. Brutus' voice is in his ear: But the Rubicon, Antony, the Rubicon is crueler than them both. The die was never cast. It was never a damn game.
You're dead, says Antony. I'm dreaming.
And finally Brutus stands in front of him-- only it's not Brutus at all. It smiles Brutus' smile, though, sweet and sad, and it speaks with Brutus' voice. Close enough, Mark Antony, it says. For once.
The sky is the color of pomegranates.
This is not the end.