Julius Caesar (37 page)

…Caesar intended to move the seat of government to Troy or Alexandria, taking with him all the national resources, drafting every man in Italy of military age for service with the army, and leaving his friends to govern what was left of the city.

(Suetonius)

The idea of Troy as capital city of the empire (based solely on his claimed descent from Aeneas) can be dismissed, but Alexandria retains an element of probability. After the conclusion of the campaign against Parthia, it would offer a suitable base for administering the new territories in the East, and it was in many ways far better designed to be a capital than Rome. It was nearer to the richest provinces of the empire for one thing, and for another it had been specifically intended by Alexander and his architect as a capital, whereas Rome had just grown over the centuries, unplanned and in many respects provincial. In Alexandria, a god-king and a goddess-queen would not only be accepted but expected. A Julian-Ptolemaic dynasty, ruling out of Egypt over all the known world, and backed by the immense riches of the East (immeasurably increased by recent conquests), would have nothing to fear from the almost tribal squabbles of a few dissident families in Rome. That city, like Athens and Antioch, Gades and Corduba, Narbo and Gergovia, would take its place among the great administrative capitals of the empire. Such was indeed a possibility, and though it may not ever have been carefully formulated by Caesar (like so much else) as a master-plan, the very idea of it—spread by rumor—was enough to arouse feelings of the utmost hatred.

One rumor which probably contributed to the decision of his assassins to act swiftly was that a consultation of the Sibylline Books had revealed that the Roman armies could only be victorious over the Parthians if commanded by a king. These prophetic books, most of the originals of which had long since been lost or destroyed (and suitably replaced), were consulted in emergencies by order of the senate. In charge of them were the
quindecemvirs
(a college of fifteen priests), at the head of whom, as of all Roman religious institutions, was the
pontifex maximus.
Since Caesar had long held this office, it was not difficult to arrange for the Books to be consulted—nor for the desired answer to a question to be found. The Parthian disclosure, so it was said, would be officially made by Lucius Cotta, a member of the college which kept the Books who was also a relative of Caesar (his mother’s cousin). The announcement of the prophecy, followed by a speech proposing that the title of Rex should be immediately conferred upon Caesar to secure the success of Roman arms in Parthia, would be made at the next meeting of the senate on 15 March. This was three days before Caesar was due to leave Rome.

Once Caesar was away in the East with his legions, Rome being administered by consuls and other officials whom he had appointed to take charge during the next two years, there would be no redress. The
Optimates
and many of a genuine republican persuasion, as well as those who simply detested Caesar, were conscious that time was running out. If the tyrant (as they now saw him) was to be removed, they must act at once, and the meeting of the senate on the Ides of March would present the ideal opportunity—not only for the murder but to involve the whole senate in the action. They could be confident that Caesar would be present, for it was then that he expected to hear from that august body (which he too openly despised) the confirmation of his kingship. Their oath to protect him meant little to them now that they had decided that in every respect he fulfilled the role of tyrant. From the moment that he had accepted the dictatorship for life, thus depriving all future consuls and indeed all officers of state of any real significance, he had stood openly revealed. Romulus, it was remembered, had moved from the position of constitutional monarch to absolute ruler—and had been put to death by his senators. After the death of the last King of Rome, Tarquinius Superbus, the Roman people had taken a solemn oath never again to have a king. Junius Brutus, from whom Marcus Junius Brutus claimed descent, was the hero of many legends about the expulsion of the last king of Rome. Tyrannicide was a virtue.

Chief instigator of the conspiracy was Gaius Cassius, an able general who had also been one of Pompey’s admirals, was married to a sister of Brutus and had fought against Caesar at Pharsalus—subsequently being pardoned in the amnesty. Long an ardent republican, he had headed the few senators who had voted against the accordance of honors to Caesar after the battle of Munda. An embittered man, who felt that he had been unfairly set aside by Caesar for one of the more coveted offices of state, he was to win over his brother-in-law Marcus Brutus to the conspiracy, although Brutus seems to have had some reservations about its morality. Caesar had been suspicious of Cassius for some time and had once remarked that he mistrusted him: “Cassius looks so pale. What can he be up to?”

Marcus Brutus was a very different kind of man. Young, scholarly, an intellectual, he was treated by Caesar like the son that he may well have been. His pride lay in his legal father, husband of Caesar’s much-loved Servilia and descendant of the Roman hero. Caesar had given special orders that if Brutus was captured at Pharsalus (he was not, in fact, present) he should be spared. He had pardoned him for his adherence to Pompey and had given him high office: he was praetor at the time, along with Cassius, and expected to become consul in 41. Like his father-in-law Cato he was high-minded, something of a prig, and his inclination to moralize when speaking in the senate had once caused Caesar to say: “I don’t know what the young man means, but whatever it is, he means it vehemently.”

Decimus Brutus, favored by Caesar since he was a young man, one of his best generals and consul-designate for 42, was another leading conspirator, along with Gaius Trebonius the unsuccessful governor of Farther Spain who had been consul in 45; he was another of Caesar’s men, but had already tried to involve Antony in an assassination plot. The leaders of the conspiracy, then, were all successful politicians, and came from both sides in the civil war. Many had enjoyed his friendship, and admired and been charmed by his intelligence and wit. Among the lesser conspirators (Suetonius says there were sixty in all) there was to be found a mixture of idealism, personal hatred of the dictator, self-seeking and a confused desire to return to the days of the republic. After the death of Caesar they hoped that normal government by the senate would once more be resumed.

Caesar was well enough aware of the hatred by which he was surrounded, but he counted upon his enemies possessing something that they did not have—foresight. With his intimate knowledge of home politics as well as the affairs of the empire, he saw quite clearly that his death would bring such chaos to the state that the confusion from which he had just rescued it would be as nothing. As usual, he was more prescient and astute than everyone else, and his accurate assessment that his death would cause “a new civil war far worse than the last” did not deter the conspirators. He failed to understand just how strong was the republican ideal, nor how much the image of Cato, as an embodiment of the old principles which had saved and governed Rome in times past, meant to his opponents. They for their part did not understand—or did not wish to understand—that the immense changes brought about by Caesar could never be eradicated. An assembly of noble Roman families—the
Optimates
—could no longer dominate the senate, let alone deal with the complexities of running a vast empire.

At the same time, obsessed as they were with pride of rank and position, they were more than unwilling to become mere officials in the dictator’s bureaucracy. In the appointment of consuls and other officials who were merely executors of his designs, Caesar had removed all hope and ambition from the whole ruling class of Romans. He had cynically used the plebeians against them to gain his way, and yet he had no more use for them than they! His exaltation of the Julian clan, as if it were above all others, offended men whose families over the centuries had been just as distinguished and rendered even more service to the state. Quite apart from any personal reasons (Tullius Cimber, for instance, had an exiled brother whom Caesar refused to pardon), this hatred for what Caesar represented was the main motive for his assassination.

There is little reason to doubt that in the weeks before his death the atmosphere of Rome was somber in the extreme. The legions were about to march against the dreaded Parthians. Small groups of men were known to be meeting behind closed doors in private houses, and the air was full of rumors. The murder of Caesar made such an impression upon ancient historians that it was natural that, with the benefit of hindsight, they should describe innumerable portents foretelling his end. It was said that the horses which Caesar had consecrated to the gods on crossing the Rubicon had declined to eat, and had shed vast tears. Spurinna, a renowned soothsayer, of whom there were many in Rome (who naturally kept themselves well-informed for their “magic” information), had come to him and warned him to beware of the Ides of March. Caesar paid no more attention to him than he did at any time to auguries, religious rituals or diviners. A sacrifice before the battle of Munda had proved unfavorable, but he had merely dismissed it, saying that everything would turn out well since such was his wish. Similarly, in the days before his death, and even right up to the last morning, he paid no attention to ill omens. As head of the established religion of Rome he had never had any use for it, except where he could turn it to his advantage for political ends. Unlike many of his contemporaries he had no use for philosophers either—he believed in Luck. Fortuna, that was his goddess, and always had been. She was not always inclined in your favor, but you could assist her—and if Luck turned against you, then there was nothing you could do about it. As for death, he had made his feelings quite clear on a number of occasions. On the very evening of 14 March he had dined with Lepidus, his Master of the Horse, and a few friends. The conversation had taken a philosophical turn and among other things the guests had expressed their opinions as to what manner of death they would prefer. Caesar had no doubt: he desired an end, he said, that was both sudden and unexpected.

That night, so Plutarch tells us, as Caesar was lying next to Calpurnia, all the doors and windows of the room suddenly burst open as if struck with a great gale of wind. At the same time the ceremonial armor of Mars, which Caesar as Pontifex Maximus kept in his house, fell with a crash from the wall. Calpurnia is said to have had terrible visions and nightmares, to have lain moaning in her sleep and, on Caesar’s awaking her, to have said that she had dreamed he was murdered. She implored him not to leave the house that day. Calpurnia, the childless wife who had seen very little of her husband since she had married him in 59, who had organized his household like any Roman matron of her standing, dutifully accepted his affairs with other women—including this Egyptian Queen who now held court in Rome—who had seen him depart for many a campaign and battlefield, seems to have been distraught at the dark image of her dream.

Troubled by the strange events of the night and by his wife’s entreaties, Caesar, who may have been genuinely indisposed, sent for Antony in the morning with the intention of postponing his visit to the senate. His doctors advised him to stay at home, and the augurs reported that the sacrifices for the day were inauspicious. As the time went by, and the dictator failed to make an appearance, the conspirators were on tenterhooks. An agony of fear possessed them as they imagined that perhaps the plot had leaked out, and that Caesar was even now on his way with his legionaries to surround Pompey’s Theater where they were assembled. In their terrified quandary they sent Decimus Brutus as an emissary to persuade him of the importance of his personal attendance, no doubt urging upon him his necessary acceptance of the title
Rex
before he left for Parthia with the legions. This Brutus, the Judas of the story, who owed his whole career to Caesar (like Labienus before him), was destined like most of the others to die in the civil war that followed his death.

Persuaded against his will to attend the meeting, Caesar was being borne in his litter through the streets of Rome when a man ran after him waving a message. This was Artemidorus, a Greek rhetorician, who had long ago been Greek tutor to Marcus Brutus and who had accompanied Caesar as a secretary during his passage through Asia Minor after his victory at Pharsalus. As Caesar prepared to enter the portico to Pompey’s Theater, brushing aside petitioners and referring them to his officers, he recognized Artemidorus and acknowledged the urgency of his request to read the note. Caesar took it, but was prevented from reading it by another petitioner who claimed his attention. Undoubtedly Artemidorus had discovered the details of the plot and his note would have saved the dictator; it is said that it was still with him when he died. Spurinna, too, was waiting for him at the entrance, where it was customary to take the auspices. To Caesar’s ironical remark that the Ides of March had come and here he was, Spurinna replied: “They have come, but they are not yet gone.”

The auguries were inauspicious, the beast’s entrails defective, and another victim was tried—with the same result. Impatient of this antiquated ritual, remembering so many other occasions when he had confidently disregarded such superstitions, Caesar entered the portico and made his way toward the assembly. The senators were awaiting him, although it was curious perhaps that Antony should be deeply engaged in conversation with Trebonius in the anteroom. Apparently Trebonius had distracted Antony sufficiently to prevent his being present at this all-important meeting, which Caesar had reluctantly agreed to attend…

The whole senate rose to its feet as he entered the building, walked over to his throne and took his place. While the senate as a body was paying the dictator its usual formal tribute, the conspirators, as if to ask him questions or favors, gathered round in a half circle so as to screen him from the others. One of the foremost was Tullius Cimber, petitioning Caesar to recall his brother from exile and, when the latter refused his request, stretching out his hand toward Caesar’s robe in a gesture of supplication. When he drew back, Cimber, as if turning from pleading to indignation, laid his hand on the dictator’s purple robe and pulled it down from his shoulder. It was the signal. The other conspirators crowded round him as he stood there, clad only in the simple Roman tunic. They had stripped him of his emperorship, and Caesar, as if divining the symbolism of the act as well as their hostility, cried out: “But this is violence!” At this, Casca, who was standing behind him, struck the first blow at the victim’s neck but, missing, pierced only his shoulder. Caesar wheeled round, caught Casca’s arm and ran it through with the stylus that he used for writing, crying out, “You villain, Casca! What are you about?”