Page 24 of Cleopatra

24

SERVILIA

W e stood in the atrium, now thronging with slaves and several other senators, similarly spattered with blood. I ignored them, looking only at my son. I could not be with Caesar as he died nor share his pain, but I had to feel its echo. The pain brought me closer to him. I wanted it.

‘Tell me again,’ I repeated.

I listened, dry-eyed, to the account of the crime. I would cry later. Brutus stared at me. The blood on his toga had dried to brown. I could see a rind of blood beneath his nails and all the way up his arm. ‘Continue,’ I said, impatient.

He shook his head, pleading with me.

‘Please, Mother, there is no more to tell. You’ve heard it all a dozen times. Every detail. Every drop of blood.’

‘Tell me again. You owe me this much.’

I wanted to hear it repeated until it made sense to me, but of course it never could. Wincing, face pale except for the freckles of dried blood, he began once more.

‘When Caesar entered the senate, we all stood up to show our respect to him.’

I made a sound in my throat, and spat, ‘Your respect? Knowing what you were about to do to the man who saved you, pardoned you, loved you?’

Brutus did not answer, merely waited a moment and then continued again. ‘And then some senators came about his chair—’

‘And who led those senators? Don’t leave any part out. Do not leave Brutus out.’

Now he cringed, but only for a moment, then straightened. ‘It is true. Brutus was the leader of the small group who gathered about Caesar.’

I glanced about the room, where the household was now gathered with several more senators, and the co-conspirators, their togas similarly dowsed in blood.

‘Brutus? Did you all hear? Brutus, my son. My son,’ I said, gesturing to him.

The senators and slaves huddled alike, big-eyed with fear. None of them would meet my eye. I waved at Brutus to continue.

‘We urged our petitions upon Caesar but he would not grant them. And then when Caesar was sat down, he refused to comply with our requests. We urged him again and again, until eventually he began to reproach us for our rudeness.’

‘But this was a ruse, was it not? A meaningless provocation?’ I said, my voice rising.

Brutus hesitated. ‘His reaction was anticipated. And next, grabbing hold of his robe with both my hands, I pulled it down from his neck, which was the signal for the assault. Cassius gave the first cut.’

‘In his neck?’

‘Yes, madam. In his neck. It was not mortal or dangerous.’

I gave a short laugh, aware of the shrill note of grief in my voice. ‘A cut to the neck sounds dangerous to me. But I was not there. I do not know. And he is dead, is he not? So it was both mortal and dangerous.’

‘Yes, he is dead. But that was the first blow, madam. It did not kill him.’

Brutus swallowed and I saw that he was sweating, his face bathed in perspiration that coated his unnatural pallor. I did not offer him wine nor any other restorative. Merely waved for him to continue.

‘Caesar immediately turned about and grasped the dagger and kept hold of it. He cried out.’

‘And tell me what he said?’

Brutus sighed. ‘He said, “This is violence!”, his voice heavy with dismay and shock.’

‘And what did the senators do? Did none help him?’

‘Those who were not privy to the plot were astonished and looked on in shock. In their panic they did not fly to assist Caesar, nor so much as speak a word.’

I could not understand those cowards and their hesitation. Their guilt did not lie as heavily as Brutus’s, but it was weighted all the same. I hated them all for their hesitation and cowardice. I would have rushed to Caesar and shielded his body with my own. Let them rain their blows upon my soft flesh, pierce my breast and thigh and stomach with their blades, my skin and muscle a mere cushion to soften the blows aiming for his. But these brave men, these senators, commanders of legions and conquerors, were too frightened and stood rooted there like children fearful of the dark.

Brutus hurried on with his account, as eager to have done with the telling as with the deed.

‘But those of us who knew in advance about the business enclosed him on every side, daggers drawn in our hands. Which way soever he turned, he met with blows and blades, and saw our swords levelled at his face and eyes, and was trapped, like a wild beast, on every side. It was agreed we should all make a thrust at him and wet ourselves with his blood. All equal in this glorious act. For now, blighted Rome is rid of its tyrant.’

I was silent for moment and did not acknowledge his words of self-justification. Then I asked, ‘And Brutus? What did Brutus do?’

‘I stabbed him.’

‘Just once?’

‘Aye.’

‘Where?’

‘In the groin.’

Sickness rose in my throat. I forced it down. I’d heard the story repeated so many times now that I took over the final portion.

‘Caesar fought and resisted, wrenching his body every which way to avoid the blows, and crying out for help, but when he saw Brutus’s sword drawn, his own Brutus, the boy who’d been as a son to him, beloved and tender, Julius covered his face with his robe and submitted, letting himself fall.’

‘I loved him too,’ said Brutus.

‘Of course, my darling. Your actions speak of your devotion,’ I spat. For a moment I could not look at him, then I inhaled slowly and continued. ‘And whether it was by chance or fate or that he was shoved there by his murderers, he lay at the foot of Pompey’s statue. The white marble of Pompey anointed wetly with Caesar’s blood. And then Caesar lay there at his old enemy’s feet, and breathed out his soul through his multitude of wounds. For this was not just murder, it was butchery.’

I turned on Brutus, my voice shrilling with fury and desperation. ‘You all stabbed him so hard and so often that in your frenzy you sliced open your own hands and each other’s. And then after he was dead and his soul flown this charnel house, you stabbed him as he lay stilled in the river of his own blood.’

Brutus remained motionless, saying nothing.

The gathered senators and slaves stared at me. No one spoke. The silence throbbed, a held breath. I edged closer to Brutus, took his hand, doused with the blood of my love, my Caesar, and I held it to my lips, and kissed it.

‘And you too, Brutus?’ I whispered. ‘You, Brutus, my child? You killed us both with the same knife. Caesar is dead, free from this restless earth, but I still breathe and move and speak, though I am dead all the same and you killed me. My heart is no longer in my chest. It no longer fits.’

Brutus gazed at me, his eyes wet with tears. Then he said, his voice low, ‘I am sorry for your pain but I am not ashamed. I acted for the good of Rome and the republic. I had to rid it of Caesar to save it.’

I stared at my son, so foolish and wretched and cruel. He made himself a murderer to save the republic, and yet was so short-sighted that he had no plan for Rome after his act. The streets were empty, silent. Everyone cowered inside their houses in terror. Brutus had torn down the sun without another lamp to hand. The silence and fear would not last. It would soon turn to rage, and maybe war. Caesar’s allies would hunt down Brutus and the other plotters. I had no doubt that Antony would demand that they be killed for this treason. I started at my son, wondering if he knew what he’d unleashed.

He took my silence as an invitation to continue.

‘My father was Brutus and my ancestor Brutus rid Rome of the tyrannicide. It was not merely my duty, but my fate, for I am Brutus.’

‘You are Brutus,’ I said, my voice little more than a whisper.

‘Will you help me, madam? There are those who call for my blood, my death.’

My beloved foolish son, who started an uprising by committing murder and sacrilege and could not think to plan what might happen next. I could not breathe. I was done. And gone. I stared into the eyes of my lover’s murderer. The face of the only man left alive whom I loved.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I will help you.’