Such Men Are Dangerous
The night air is sharp and wet against my face. I wear no cloak, and for a moment it seems to me that cloth and skin have vanished and the hot blood beneath has escaped its prison to mingle with the rain. My sandals slap against the slick stones, as I think again of the raging Tiber, of Caesar, and of Brutus. It is fitting that now I face another icy torrent, so like the Tiber on that stormy afternoon.
Ahead I see the temple where I expect to find Casca. He has always been superstitious, and there is little doubt that this storm will send him flying to appease Jupiter. As I wait, I cannot keep myself from thinking of the past once again. I think of the clever speeches I gave as a youth studying in Rhodes, so like the words that I will speak to Casca when he arrives. I have thought more than once that my life is a circle, the same images whirling past again and again, becoming darker with each turning.
In Rhodes, tyranny and justice were mere words. As I practiced rhetoric, my tongue artfully caressed their syllables. Now, the words feel sharp and brittle in my mouth. My chest constricts when I try to speak them, and I cannot speak of honor at all.
It is dusk, and Brutus and I walk through the familiar streets of Rhodes.
"My friend, you are far too fond of sophistry." Brutus looks at me with a frown.
"Perhaps, brother. I do not deny that I am fond of speaking, but why do we have voices, if not to speak?"
"Even now, you are playing a sophist's game with me, Cassius." His frown deepens
"Surely not. Think on this, Brutus. Anyone who speaks is a sophist. Some men are simply honest enough to admit it. We speak our own thoughts; we do not speak the truth. Not one of us knows the truth, not even Plato. For all of his complaining of sophistry—
Brutus attempts to interject, but I shake my head sharply and continue.
"If I try to persuade you of my thoughts, I am hiding a different side of the truth from you. It does not matter whether I would have it otherwise, so why pretend that that is not the case? You will be far more persuasive in your rhetoric if you admit that to yourself."
"Oh, Cassius. In two year's time, when I am as old and as tired of the world as you are now, will I think as little of honor as you do?" Brutus smiles.
My foot snags on a stone, and I stumble. Brutus grabs my shoulder, and suddenly our faces are inches apart. Without thinking, I lean forward slightly, and our lips brush gently against each other.
"So…that is what honor tastes like," I say softly.
But honor is a sun so bright it washes the color from the world and makes falsehood look as beautiful as truth. Brutus sees nothing, nothing but his own honor. He does not see what Caesar has done, does not see that with his promises of the Praetorship and countless other subtle tricks, he has raised Brutus up, brought Cassius down, and planted resentment in the place of love. And he certainly does not see me as I truly am. Sometimes, though, I think that that has served me well.
I will see my friend's hands stained with Caesar's blood. And then…then I do not know. I have never had much of an imagination.
I arrive at my home sodden and tired. Morning has come and the storm has quieted, leaving the air of Rome thick and heavy and the ground strewn with rubble. The other conspirators have gone to coax Caesar to the Capitol, to lead him to his death with honeyed words. I have no words left; I am exhausted and filled with apprehension. I think of Antony. Brutus sees nothing to admire in Antony, yet still he believes we must not have him killed. I cannot pretend that I share Brutus' opinions of the man. If I did not love Brutus so deeply, I would insist that Antony die with Caesar. But if I did not love Brutus…so much might be different.
I remember my first meeting with Antony, just two years earlier. The civil war had all but ended, and I had abandoned Cato and the last tired scraps of the Republicans to their fate. Antony had squandered his political capital recklessly, disgracing himself, angering Caesar, and plunging Rome into a brief bout of senseless violence. It was not my finest hour, but it was certainly not Antony's either.
"Ah, Cassius, we meet at last. I have heard that as a general, you are an asset to any man." Antony's voice is just rough enough to make the meaning behind his words clear.
"Why, Antony, the honor is surely mine, as a man who enjoys the same opinion among his enemies and allies is rare indeed." I make my voice soft, but I do not keep the hardness from my eyes.
We stand in the midst of the Forum, considering one another intently, oblivious to the chaos surrounding us. Antony suddenly offers his hand. "It truly is a pleasure, Caius Cassius." I hesitate a moment in surprise, then clasp it firmly. Antony's grin is brilliant. My mouth quirks into a crooked smile. And with that, we part.
I remove my soaked tunic and dress for the Senate meeting. My hands are cold. Junia Tertia lies curled beneath the blankets, her small form peaceful and still. Junia is Brutus' half sister, and she is only sixteen, while I am past forty. Sometimes I feel as though my young wife is not real: a shadow, or a painted doll. Sometimes I wonder if she can tell that I feel this way. If the conspiracy fails, she will lose her husband, but not her life. Perhaps it will be to her benefit. She is respected in Rome, and our marriage will soon be forgotten. I run a hand through my graying curls, still wet from the storm.
My thoughts return to Antony. Antony can see through pretense and pierce a man's character with a glance, and I am certain that he would grind Rome to dust and ash, grinning all the while, if he thought he acted for the sake of love. A man like Antony is too dangerous to live, I have no doubt. After all, I know the sort of acts such men are driven to commit. In spite of everything, the thought nearly makes me smile.