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Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears—
Which in the Forum is a terrible gamble. The ears in question are mostly cauliflowered from too many legionary drills, or simply grimy with the day’s trade. Moreover, the citizens attached to these ears are already shifting their weight. They have seen the processions and the blood. They have just heard Brutus, and that was very fine, very noble. This one — Antony — is merely the second offering of the afternoon.
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
A woman who once sold Caesar lettuces remembers the way he’d pinch a leaf, inspect it as if it were a Gaulish chieftain, then nod. A small, regal acknowledgement of its existence and, by extension, hers. She is here to see him put into the ground, but she also remembers the pinch. It is confusing, to be mourned by a dead man who bought your vegetables.
The evil that men do lives after them;
A senator, one of the conspirators who did not get a seat at the front for the speeches, thinks of Caesar’s vanity. And yes, it was vanity. The way he would dictate letters while pretending not to have the falling sickness, waving away concerned glances, insisting it was merely a dizzy spell. The way he’d refuse to stand for the Senate, claiming fatigue when everyone knew he was simply too proud to have them see him weak. The man will be remembered for the civil war, the senator thinks. Not for the way his eyes would roll back, then snap forward, acting as if nothing happened. The senator is wrong.
The good is oft interred with their bones;
Caesar’s barber, lurking at the back, recalls the exact spot on the scalp where the hair thinned. He would comb over it, with a practiced flick. The general was utterly self-absorbed. He was also an utter gentleman about it. Never blamed the barber. Never tipped poorly. The barber feels a hot, stupid prick behind his eyes.
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answer’d it.
At the name Brutus, a centurion who served under Caesar in Gaul spits onto the cobblestone. He remembers a night around a campfire, Caesar and Brutus laughing at something — a joke about a nervous recruit, probably. Caesar had clapped the young man on the shoulder, and Brutus had smiled, genuinely, without the careful courtesy he wore in Rome. The centurion had thought, look at them. Like brothers. The memory curdles now, a sour taste under his tongue.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest—
For Brutus is an honourable man;
A young patrician woman, who once received a single, scandalous glance from Brutus at a dinner thinks: He is. He really is. She had hoped the glance meant something. It did not; he was simply looking past her at a book on the shelf behind her. But still. Honourable.
So are they all, all honourable men—
A soothsayer, tucked into an archway, thinks of Cassius, and thinks: No. Not that one. He remembers Cassius’ eyes, which were always counting something, always weighing. The soothsayer had warned Caesar. Caesar had smiled, called him a dreamer. The soothsayer feels a grim, private satisfaction. He was right. It is a comfortless comfort.
Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
A slave, one of Antony’s own, hears this and thinks of the time Antony, drunk, had tried to give Caesar his toga at a dinner. Caesar had simply wrapped it back around Antony’s shoulders, steadying him with a hand on his elbow. He had not laughed, nor had he told anyone the next day. The slave tucks this away, an unspoken act of kindness from a dead man to his ridiculous master.
But Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
In the crowd, Portia tightens her grip on her own arm. She knows her husband is honourable. She has tended that honour, fed it, worried over it like a sickly bird. She also knows that honour, right now, is a stone at the bottom of a well her arms cannot reach. Her arms are tired. The well is bottomless.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
A veteran, missing an ear, remembers the gold. Not for himself, of course, never for himself — but the sheer, impossible wealth of the Gallic chiefs, paraded through these very streets. He remembers Caesar riding at the head. The triumph had long drained from his face, and all that remained was boredom. As if the whole spectacle was beneath him. The veteran had thought then that was the mark of a true leader. Now he is not so sure.
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:
A woman who lost her son in the wars remembers this. She had been crying in a side street, and Caesar’s litter had stopped. He had not gotten out. He had not even spoken. But from within the curtained box, she had heard a sound. A sniff. A wet, human sniff. She had gone home and told her husband, and her husband had said, “He’s a politician. They all know when to cry.” But she knew a real sniff when she heard one.
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
A shopkeeper, who rents his stall from a property owned by Brutus’ family, thinks: Well, he’s honourable enough to send the rent collector on time. He does not think about Caesar at all. He thinks about his rent, and about whether the crowds today will mean business tomorrow.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Near the front of the crowd, almost close enough to touch the bier, a woman in black stands. She has not moved since the procession began. And she remembers, three nights ago, waking screaming, her hand clutching at empty air where her husband should have been. She had described it all — the statue spouting blood, smiling Romans bathing in it — and he had almost listened. Almost. She remembers watching him go, standing in the doorway, her hand raised, her mouth open to call him back. She did not call. She does not know why. She will never know why.
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
A young man in the crowd, who was barely alive during the Lupercal, squints. He remembers his father shouting, “He refused it! He refused it!”. Later, at home, his father had muttered, “Of course he refused it. He’s not an idiot.” The young man is confused. He decides to just watch Antony’s face. It looks very sad. He decides to be sad too.
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honourable man.
A priest of Jupiter, standing stiffly in his robes, thinks of the omens: the dreams, the animal sacrificed with no heart, the lion in the Capitol, the dead men walking. He had told Caesar. Caesar had laughed. The priest had felt a flicker of anger then. He feels it now too. A smug, righteous flicker. You should have listened to the gods, he thinks. But the gods, he notices, are silent today.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
Lepidus, standing near Antony but slightly behind him, thinks: I know nothing. He is perfectly content with that.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
A woman in a rabbit pall, half-hidden behind a column, flinches. Her name is Servilia. She is Brutus’ mother. And Caesar’s lover, for a time. A long time ago. A very long time ago. Her love was stubbornly distinct from the love of the crowd. It was a secret, warm, and now it is a secret, cold. She looks at her son, standing shadowed by the speaker’s platform, so noble, so pale, so very much his father’s son. The love she had for Caesar was one thing. The love she has for her son is another. They are pulling her apart.
What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?
A young tribune, who admired Caesar’s prose, thinks: Because you’ll be killed if you do. That’s a pretty good cause. He keeps his face carefully blank.
O judgment! Thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason.
A philosopher, who had once debated Caesar on the nature of the soul, snorts quietly. He had lost the debate. Caesar had been quick, and charming, and wrong about the immortality of the soul — arrogantly wrong, condescendingly wrong. The philosopher had held onto the wrongness with a fierce, private pride. Now Caesar is dead, and the wrongness is in a coffin. It is not as satisfying as he thought it would be.
Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.
Antony stops. He knows the value of a pause. He looks down at the coffin, a fine piece of work in marble and gold, and lets his shoulders shake, just slightly.
And in the silence, Brutus finally looks up.
He has been staring at his own feet, at the worn leather of his sandals, at a small scuff mark on the toe. He has been absorbing the crowd’s murmur, the shifting air, the weight of his name in Antony’s mouth. He has been holding himself very, very still.
But now, in the pause, he does not think of honour. He does not think of Rome, or the conspiracy, or the justification, or even the bloody, necessary act.
He thinks of a garden. Late evening. Cicadas. A hand on his shoulder. Just a hand, warm through the fabric of his tunic. A squeeze. A moment that had no words and needed none, that was simply two people who had known each other for a very long time, standing in the dusk.
The hand is gone. The shoulder is cold.
Brutus does not weep. He is an honourable man.
Antony takes a breath, and the pause is over. He raises his head, the mask of grief settling back into place. He begins again, his voice a little thicker now, a little more sincere. The crowd, moved by the pause, moves with him. They are ready to be angry. They are ready to be anything.
But Brutus does not hear the rest. His heart is in a garden.
He must pause till it come back to him.