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A Beautiful March Day


The thing that most disturbs me as we wait -- and we're all here now, under the Senate portico, each in his place, Metellus Cimber with the petition he has to present, Casca behind him who is to strike the first blow, Brutus down there under the statue of Pom-pey, and it's almost the fifth hour, he shouldn't be long now -- the thing that most disturbs me is not this cold dagger hidden under my toga here, nor any tension as to how it will go, the possibility that something unforeseen could thwart our plans, it isn't the fear that someone has betrayed us, nor uncertainty as to what will happen afterwards: it's just seeing that it's a beautiful March day, a holiday like so many others, and that people are going around enjoying themselves, not giving a damn about the Republic and Caesar's powers, families heading for the country, young folks going to the chariot races, the girls wearing a kind of tunic that falls straight down, a new more cunning way of having you guess their shape. Standing here between these columns, shamming, pretending casual conversation, I feel we must look more suspicious than ever; but who would ever guess what's happening? The people passing by are a thousand miles from thinking of such things, it's a beautiful day, all is calm.

When we leap, our daggers bared, there, on the usurper of republican freedoms, our actions must be quick as lightning, deft, yet furious too. But will we be up to it? Everything has moved so slowly recently, dragged out so long, vague and slack, the Senate surrendering its rights little by little day by day, Caesar always apparently on the point of putting the crown on his head, but in no hurry, the crucial hour always about to strike but always delayed, for another hope, another threat. Everybody's been bogged down in this sludge, ourselves included: why did we wait till the Ides to carry out our plan? Couldn't we have done it at the Calends of March? And now we're here, why not wait for the Calends of April? Oh, it wasn't this, it wasn't this we imagined when we dreamt of fighting tyranny, we young men educated in the republican virtues: I remember evenings when some of those here with me under this portico -- Trebonius, Ligarius, Decius -- were studying together, reading stories about the Greeks, picturing ourselves freeing our city from tyranny: we dreamed of dramatic tense days, under glaring skies, fervid tumults, mortal struggles, everybody on one side or the other, for freedom or for the tyrant; and we, the heroes, would have the people on our side, cheering us on, saluting our victory after the swiftest of battles. But there's none of that: perhaps future historians will tell, as always, of heaven knows what omens in stormy skies or the entrails of birds; but we know that it is a mild March, with the occasional shower of rain, yesterday evening a bit of wind that took the straw off a roof or two in the suburbs. Who would guess that we were going to kill Caesar this morning (or Caesar us, may the gods forbid)? Who would think that Rome's history was about to change (for better or worse the dagger will decide) on a lazy day like this?

What frightens me is that, daggers pointed at Caesar's breast, we too will begin to procrastinate, to weigh up the pros and the cons, to wait to hear what he has to say, to decide what to answer him, and meanwhile the dagger blades will begin to dangle slack as dogs' tongues, will melt like so much butter against Caesar's conceited breast.

But why do even we end up finding it so strange that we are here now to do our duty? All our lives haven't we been hearing people insist that the republic's freedoms are the most sacred thing there is? Wasn't the whole purpose of our civic life to guard against whoever tried to usurp the powers of the Senate and the consuls? Yet now that it has come to this, everybody has begun to equivocate -- the senators, the tribunes, even Pompey's friends, even the learned men we most admired, Marcus Tullius himself for example -- to say that, yes, Caesar is violating republican statutes, is gaining strength from the veterans' bullying, is blathering on about the divine honours he supposedly deserves, yet all the same he is a man with a glorious past, a man with more authority than anyone else to negotiate a peace with the barbarians, the only one who can steer the republic through this crisis, and, in short, that amidst a sea of evils, Caesar is the lesser. Then, what do you expect, as far as the people are concerned Caesar is just fine, or rather they don't care, after all it's the first holiday with spring weather fine enough to bring the Roman families out into the meadows with their picnic baskets, the air is mild. Perhaps we missed our moment, we friends of Cassius and Brutus; we thought we would go down in history as the heroes of freedom, we imagined ourselves with arms raised in statuesque gestures, when in fact no gestures are possible now, our arms will freeze, hands opening in mid-air in defensive, diplomatic poses. Everything's taking longer than it should: even Caesar is late, no one wants to do anything this morning, that's the truth. The sky is so delicately veined with gossamery ribbons of cloud, and the first swallows are darting about the pines. From the narrow streets comes the clatter of wheels bouncing on the cobbles and screeching at the bends.

But what's happening at that door there? Who are those people? There, I was daydreaming and Caesar is here! There's Cimber grabbing at his toga, and Casca, Casca's already pulling out a dagger red with blood, everybody's on him, and oh, here's Brutus, he'd been standing to the side as if lost in thought, but now he's rushing forward too, and now it seems everyone's tumbling down the steps, Caesar's down that's for sure, the surge pushes me on top of him, and now I get my dagger out too, I strike, and below I can see Rome's red walls opening out in the March sun, the trees, the carts hurrying unknowingly by, there's a woman's voice singing at a window, a notice announcing a circus, and withdrawing my dagger I'm overcome by a sort of vertigo, a feeling of emptiness, of being alone, not here in Rome, today, but alone forever after, in the centuries to come, the fear that people won't understand what we did here today, that they won't be able to do it again, that they will remain distant and indifferent as this beautiful calm morning in March.