Caesar had always said I was dangerous.
By the gods of Olympus, he was right.
You called me hungry, beloved Caesar. You called me lean and ravenous. For what, do you think? Wealth? Power?
No, only for your blood.
How you stuck your nose up at me, humble Caesar! You saw me as a mortal man. You saw yourself a god, greater than Jupiter himself. Well, I may be lean and hungry wolf, but I am not a glutenous old bear, sniffing out for his next meal. That role is reserved for you.
Three times you were offered that crown, selfless Caesar. Three times you denied it, each with more hesitance than the last. Did you honestly think I would allow you a fourth chance? For what? For you to hold it for just that one moment, caressing it with your fingers—feeling it's smooth features, it's sturdiness, it's aura of power. I was not going to watch you place it on your head just for the feeling. You forget so easily how that little taste of Ambrosia can make you mad with desire.
But I gave you a chance, omnipotent Caesar. We all did. I was on my knees. Was I begging for Publius Cimber? No, Caesar, I was begging for you. Why couldn't you let yourself fall from your throne just a little? Why couldn't you swallow that pride that Narcissus himself would gawk at? I know why. Because the Great Northern Star could not slip. Not now. Not ever.
But I believe I saw your star fall, eternal Caesar.
Casca was the first. Brutus was the last. All of us got a chance to make a god bleed. Immortal Caesar, we lusted for it like our wives—your blood. We bathed in it. We cherished it. Because it was not only your blood, but tyranny's blood that we drained out. Pride. Arrogance. Conceit. Your divine ego.
Then fall, Caesar.
I saw your face as you said those final words of yours. "Et tu, Brute?" You were not looking at him. You were staring straight at me.
You think I used him, don't you? You believe I manipulated him for my own gain. That I spoke softly clean words and swayed him from your favor. Well, I did. I used my words to make his head spin around and around between love and duty. But hear me, Caesar. Marcus Brutus is no man's puppet. I see that now. He is not your Mark Antony.
Oh, Mark Antony. You hid from us like a child afraid to be chastised. Stunned, we said. More like frightened. I suppose I cannot blame you for that. Your deed is much darker than a slight bit of trembling.
You had your servant kneel before us. You had your servant ask for the promise of safety. We were never the danger. You were, Antony. You always were. Our own little Caesar in training.
No, not even that. You will always be second rate to a Caesar. You will always be a cur to me.
You took each of our hands. You lingered on the blood on our fingers. Trebonius was last, of course. How could I have missed that you were staining his hands, also?
But Brutus loved you. He loved Caesar. He wanted you both to have honor. He gave you the opportunity I would not. And what did you do with it? You spat at him on his knees.
You scoff at me, just Caesar, for my puppetry. Yet look at your Antony! Look unto him and be blind no longer. He has bloodstains on his palms, too. His go far deeper than the skin.
They killed him, Caesar. The crowd came and ripped apart Cinna the poet at the funeral with Antony's blessing. Why? Because the poet had our names. And Antony calls us traitors.
You must be so proud.
Oh, beautiful Portia, how long did you wait for your love, Brutus, to return home? How sick did the interim make you? Did it breach physical pain itself? Forgive me, lovely, I thought you weak. I found your death pitiful and selfish. How could you do that to yourself? To Brutus?
But I see now. I understand what the idea of losing someone close can make you do. I see it and I feel it the same as you.
Brutus, I'm so sorry. Would she be alive now, had I not meddled? Would she be in your arms now? What have I done to you, Brutus?
You are no puppet, but you are not inhuman either. Stoicism can only go so far. We feel whether we want to or not, and I made you feel more than I should have. I bent your honor in the shape of my ambition and thought nothing of the consequences.
I gave you the mirror, yet I failed to look into one of my own reflection.
Am I no better than Caesar?
I suppose it is like you said, noble Brutus, isn't it?
"It is not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more."
Well, it's not that I loved Brutus less, but that I loved Rome more.
Or did I love myself more?
Brutus, I beg for your forgiveness.
And, oh, Titinius, you most of all! I hadn't meant to send you down there had I known of the enemy's location. Did I just point the way to your destruction? Forgive me, I am a coward. I cannot watch you die. I can't carry any more guilt.
Oh, mighty Caesar! Your spirit is here, I can feel it.
You are here with a sword of your own to impale us as we did you.
A dead man has placed a mark on our backs.
How did this happen? Someone answer me! Our cause was noble! Our actions true. Where did we go wrong? Where did we act unjust to deserve this?
Someone answer me!
It is time. I almost laugh in spite of myself. I had said once that a man who dies twenty years early only loses twenty years of the fear of death. How easily I had spoken with the knife turned the other way. Now this same knife is pointed back at me, and I am afraid.
Yet, I will not falter. Today Cassius was born. Today still Cassius will die.
Noble Brutus, I am sorry for you.
Raging Antony, I curse you.
Sweet Portia, I forgive you.
Dear Caesar, I avenge you.
Then fall, Cassius.