Disclaimer: As Brutus and Cassius appear here, they belong as much to history as they do to Shakespeare's play. I do not know, however, whether or not they could have known one another as children: this is, after all, historical fiction.
Note on Ancestral Masks: In Ancient Rome, the career of a successful aristocratic politician was capped off with a wax mask made of his face upon death, to be displayed in the hall of his family as a testament to its prestige and glory.
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How often had he caught him lingering there - that peculiar, somber child - alone in the hall of his household, paying silent tribute to those dead whose honor and whose glory had outlasted their mortal vessels in the form of wax preservations upon the wall. True, most children of his class were directed towards such reverence, but with him it was not merely the veneer of education and tradition, shuffled off at a moment's notice for more immediate childish cares, that inclined him towards this admiration. It was impossible to watch him and not see that these images inhabited the very heart of his imagination, as if they were indeed all his past and all his foresight. Young Brutus could not lie to save his life - it was well known (well abused) - and as such, much that would have seemed pretentious in another child appeared in him as a natural and unquestionable truth. It was due to this transparency that Caius always felt himself to be intruding upon a very private communion when he stumbled on him thus and, indulging a mildly voyeuristic whim, held his silence in the shadows of the entryway for a minute or so before announcing his presence or continuing on his way. As he watched, unbeknownst to Brutus, an unfathomable respect began to forge itself between them, a regard which - despite their many disagreements throughout the years of their adult friendship - would never leave them, would forever lend each a mysterious hold over the other, binding the courses of their lives together quite permanently - quite inextricably - up to the last.
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Brutus, who prided himself on comprehensive philosophy, could never satisfactorily explain the gist and reason of his particular relation to Cassius. At times this aggravated him, especially when it seemed that so many others might have been more worthy of that high place which Cassius occupied in his personal regard. Yet somehow it seemed ridiculous to imagine any situation to the contrary - any world in which there was not such a Cassius - or seek any explanation beyond the obvious: they could simply not not know one another as they did . . . . It dated back even to the lank, acrid youth who had somehow been the first to intrude upon the magic circle of his childhood thought - the first to find the door and announce his presence with a slight cough and a sardonic, fleeting smile. He had approached him quietly, then, and for some time they had stood together in mutual contemplation of the mask at present suspended before the child's uncannily solemn gaze.
Caius eventually broke the silence by remarking that it was a good thing young Brutus had inherited only his ancestor's dignity, and not his nose.
Marcus blinked, not quite catching the joke, and turned his head slowly to scrutinize the living being beside him with the same impenetrable intent which he had hitherto bestowed upon the mask. At length he asked the newcomer, with somewhat precocious eloquence, if it would please him to hear the words and deeds of his ancestors, those whose faces now hung upon these walls.
Caius was evidently hard pressed to re-direct the guffaw which seized him at those words, and merely raised his eyebrows, convulsing slightly. Only then did it occur to Marcus - not entirely unperceptivefor his innocence - how absurd his speech must sound to this older boy, and he hesitated there, on the brink of removal, still not taking his eyes from the discomforting posture of the other before him. He repeated the question and, this time, Caius did laugh - a sound strangely misplaced and acute (though not unkind) - after which the sharp and unaccustomed features joined for a moment into sympathy with one another and revealed - or rather carelessly let drop - an expression of passing sincerity, an assent which was all the more honest for being ironic and ill-fitting on an immature form. It was like no face, no gesture Marcus had ever seen before . . . he trusted it intuitively, and from that moment on never questioned their mutuality, his unrivaled right to this compatriot's ear. Quickly back in his element, he was soon leading Caius by the hand from mask to mask as if he had never been disturbed, narrating his family's history in imitation of an orator.