Fic: Simulacra (Rome), 5/10
Title: Simulacra (5/10)
Fandom: Rome (HBO)
Rating: R
Notes/disclaimer: HERE.
Additional notes for this chapter:
1] olibanum is another name for frankincense.
2] Pacorus I ruled Parthia until 38BC. Interesting but irrelevant fact: in 51BC he invaded Syria, but was driven out by Cassius, then governor of the Province.
Chapter 4
Liberatores
Brutus Cicero S.D.
I hope my letter finds you well. The weeks since we last spoke seem to have passed in a haze of diplomacy and endless travelling; I wonder how long we shall be forced to stay here, wandering back and forth in the desert in search of troops.
If I had thought the journey through Attica depressing, then our travels since then have hardly been more edifying. It barely rains in the East, and the interminable heat and the proliferation of dust and sand are quite oppressive to the spirits. Nostalgia has never affected me before, when I have known that I may return home whenever I please.
No doubt you have heard that the Athenians have put up statues of us beside those of the Tyrannicides; you can imagine how that pleases Cassius. I confess I find it difficult to consider myself a second Aristogeiton, when even signing my own name has caused me some difficulties of conscience of late.
Whatever news you can give us of Rome, I will be glad to receive it. We have any number of friends sending us dispatches, as I’m sure you’re aware, but your judgement is always valuable.
In hope of hearing from you soon, I beg you to forego your usual particularity in style and composition and simply write to me more quickly!
Antiochia ad Orontem, Iun. 44.
*
My dear Brutus,
Forgive the brevity of this meagre communication; I am about to begin the journey back to Rome, having spent the time since we last met engaged in a rural legal case. It is because of this latter concern that I have had little time of late to attend to my correspondence. It is convenient, you will say, that I should be called away from Rome and kept away throughout these troubled months and you are right: it has served my purpose to maintain my absence from the city. I have received near-constant reports from the Senate, and from my other friends who have wished to keep me apprised of the situation, and it is apparent that Antony is living up to all our expectations. I feel able to tell you that your own departure was regrettable, but perhaps not entirely unwise.
In my more desolate moments I have often wished to be able to return to the peaceful days we spent as guests of Atticus, in friendly disagreement over Plato, Epicurus, and your estimable Stoics. I even put out in a ship for Greece, to meet with you at Athens, but the winds were unfavourable and we were beaten back to port. Since then I have found my resolve and am determined to return to Rome. Your company, your counsel, or even some further scribbled words would be a great comfort to me as I journey south, but alas Tiro and I must content ourselves with reading the news of Antony’s latest outrages and consider out next moves with care.
With that in mind, it occurs to me that once I return to Rome, it may be unwise to continue our correspondence as often as I should prefer. I confess I am succumbing to paranoia, and that I am beginning, in my wilder moments, to suspect every messenger in my employ of carrying my letters to the Caesarians. I shall, however, be at Velia for some weeks in the meantime, and it might be to both our advantages if you were to visit me there to discuss our plans. It ought not to require explicit reiteration, but I have not seen you since you called on me on the evening of the Ides of March, and I would value your company not just as a confederate, but also as a friend.
Tusculum, Quint. 44.
*
a.d. ii Non. Sext. 44
Brutus had ridden away from Rome without once looking back, irritated by Cassius’ continual twisting around in the saddle to cast a final glance on the Capitoline Hill and gaze with heavy longing at the Servian Wall as it disappeared into the distance with every new mile they travelled along the Via Flaminia. He supposed, though, that leaving the city went easier with him than with Cassius because Cassius had already known the pain of exile, and went towards it a second time with a much heavier heart.
They went first to Crete, to Kommos to stay with Creticus and discuss plans. Brutus had no intention of taking the post of Grain Monitor and ignored Antony’s only missive ordering him to do so - it was clear it was a token gesture merely to enable Antony to condemn him the more for outright insubordination. Then, in the beginning of the summer they sailed for Greece, rode through Attica to the Euboean coast, and went from there to the east, where Brutus had felt his absence from Italy like a palpable wound.
“Cicero will be at Velia next month,” he reported when Cassius enquired as to the latest letter’s contents. “He asks if I will meet him, to discuss our strategy.”
Cassius snorted, “‘Our’ strategy, is it, now he sees fit to return from his sojourn in the country?”
“There was a legal case - he took it as a favour to a family friend.”
Cassius remained unimpressed. “You’ve explained his reasoning to me a thousand times; it doesn’t change the fact of the man’s cowardice.”
“We are run-aways too, remember,” Brutus argued, though he knew it was not the case that they could return voluntarily, with Anthony unopposed by the Senate. “This exile of ours is self-imposed.”
Cassius frowned, and remained uncharacteristically silent. He resented any attempt to make comparisons between himself and Cicero, as he saw himself as a creature of entirely different nature and motivations; Brutus was loath to disenchant him simply because he did not like to provoke an argument. Sometimes, however, Cassius made it very difficult for him to keep his tongue.
“I will sail for Italy in three weeks’ time,” he said, hoping in vain that Cassius would not try further to dissuade him.
“There is no need for you to go to Italy, when Cicero could just as easily declare for us and come to Greece.”
“And what good would that do?”
“With the Senate’s explicit support, we would be in a position to crush Antony - ”
“If Cicero came to Greece, he would come alone, without the Senate and without any legions.”
“I am well aware of that,” Cassius sighed.
“Then I’ll meet with Cicero, and we can discuss the best course of action.”
“Very well, yes - but consider: by going to Italy you’ll be putting yourself in danger.”
Brutus considered this, and nodded; it was true, if his ship were to be intercepted, he might very well find his head on a spike in the forum before the month was out. “Isn’t it worth the risk?”
“To consult with Cicero? Dis only knows why! Knowing what we know of Cicero’s character, do you not think it might be prudent to at least consider his motivations?”
Brutus was shaken by the question. It had not occurred to him to consider the possibility of Cicero having secretly given his allegiance to the Caesarians. His personal dislike of Antony alone was enough to make the notion ridiculous.
“Cicero has never been any friend of yours, Cassius, but he is mine. If you’d known him as well as I have, you’d have no reason to doubt his sincerity.”
“To Hades with friendship where Antony is concerned - I’d not risk your life by asking you to make the journey, and I can’t believe that Cicero would, if he’s such a friend as you imagine.”
“I’m bound to you now, Cassius,” Brutus reminded him gently, “for better or for worse, but you can’t pretend that anything we’ve done has been to the benefit of my health.”
It was a long moment before Cassius smiled at him, fond and wistful. “You’re right. We’re bound by our actions, though I. cannot regret them. I can’t think of anyone with whom I’d rather share my exile.”
“Stop it, Cassius, I’m immune to your flattery by now.”
“I know, I know,” Cassius said, throwing up his hands in resignation. “You’ll go to Velia, and I will simply have to dislike it intensely and wait for your return.”
He laid his hand briefly on Brutus’ shoulder before leaving him to his letter writing, a small gesture of truce to reassure Brutus that all was still well between them, at least for the moment.
*
The journey to Velia was long but thankfully blessed by good weather, and so within five days of departure Brutus found himself on deck while the ship docked at the town’s harbour. Vennius, the centurion Cassius had detailed, along with ten of his men, to form a personal guard, stood at Brutus’ side and scanned the approaching quayside. He had been a welcome companion to Brutus over the course of the voyage, having quite an astonishing knowledge of natural history and thus being able to name all the seabirds and varieties of fish they had encountered along the way, even regaling his commander with tales of his childhood in the hills of Latium and speaking with great affection of the proud little city of Velia, which was nestled on the Tyrrhenian coast some two hundred miles from Rome.
“It might be best, sir,” Vennius said as they neared the shore, “if we were to sail again on the evening tide.”
Brutus nodded, regretting the impossibility of spending a night as Cicero’s guest. “Yes, of course. Cassius would be very pleased with such prudence.”
Vennius smiled. “My men and I will accompany you to the house, if that seems... prudent.”
“I’m making no attempt to be inconspicuous, so it won’t matter if we cause a stir,” Brutus agreed. “Tell me again, are the men of Velia known to have political allegiances?”
“They love the Republic, sir, as my family do.”
“They’ve no great love of Caesar, then?”
Vennius hesitated to reply, but only to consider his answer more fully. “Velia’s no town of veterans, sir. They’ve no loyalty to generals or legions - the republic gave them their citizenship, so that’s what they stand by. They’re steadfast people, sir. Trustworthy.”
The ship docked easily and Brutus and Vennius’s men disembarked while the crew rushed to secure the ship at the moorings. On the wharf stood Tiro, smiling and looking tired but otherwise in good health. He hurried to greet them.
“You’ve brought half a legion with you,” he joked, eyeing Vennius and his men. “Cicero will be pleased.”
Brutus smiled. He had always liked Tiro - it was no secret, at least among Cicero’s closest friends, that he and his former slave had once been very intimate with one another indeed, but it was impossible to feel bitterness or resentment towards such a genial and efficient master of all of Cicero’s affairs. He took Tiro’s arm and grasped it, grateful to see him again.
“Some notion of Cassius’ that I would need protection,” he said, with a glance at Vennius. “From the looks of it, though, the stories about Velian unruliness seem to be insubstantiated.”
The harbour was deserted, apart from three toothless fishermen mending their nets in the shade of a shrine to the Venti, the five Winds. Vennius coughed to mask a smile at Tiro’s obvious confusion, and Brutus was amused to catch his eye as they were led away from the wharf and into the town.
“I’d better take you to him directly,” Tiro said to Brutus as they passed under the monumental sandstone gateway built centuries before by the Greeks, which still served as the main entrance to the town. “He’s been pacing the floor since dawn for news of your arrival.”
Brutus felt pleasant anticipation curl in the pit of his stomach, and quickened his pace.
The legionaries drew something of a crowd on their way through the streets towards the larger houses at the edge of the town, though the majority of the townspeople seemed unaware of Brutus’ identity. When they reached the marketplace, however, one man’s voice lifted above the hubbub to cry ‘Glorious liberator!’ at which point Tiro began to hurry for fear they be overcome by the sudden throng of well-wishers.
“You weren’t wrong about your Velians’ sympathies, Vennius,” Brutus commented once they reached the courtyard of the house in which Cicero was currently taking residence.
“No, sir,” Vennius replied, smiling proudly. “Shall my men and I remain outside?”
“I don’t think there’s any need for that. A guard at the door, perhaps, in case word reaches Cassius that I’m becoming careless.”
“Very good, sir.”
Tiro led the way into the atrium and while Brutus’s eyes adjusted to ducking out of the midday sunlight he saw that Tiro had been entirely truthful in describing Cicero’s agitation. Cicero paused, mid-way through striding from one side of the room to the other, and broke into a wide, relieved smile. Brutus felt his heart lift with a bewildering swell of familiarity and affection, overwhelmed by a sudden rush of homesickness.
“My dear, dear Brutus,” Cicero said, hurrying to embrace him. He took Brutus’ hands between his own and kissed them.
“Cicero, it’s a relief to see you.”
“I have missed you a great deal,” Cicero murmured, patting him fondly on the arm and stepping back as to take in the sight of him in his entirety.
“We both know you’ve been too busy for that.”
“Indeed, I certainly have been busy. There was a time I’d have enjoyed a return to the crucible of power, but these days I fear it’s a case of necessity rather than pleasure. Come: I have had a meal prepared.”
Cicero led the way into the triclinium, where there lay already the beginnings of a modest afternoon spread. Brutus gratefully took one of the couches and allowed a slave to remove his cloak and vambraces.
“I couldn’t sympathise more,” he confessed. “I’d often thought about returning to the east, but now there’s no prospect of returning home I’m beginning to find it very dull indeed.”
More food was brought, and wine, though Brutus wished to keep a clear head and so accepted only a little, very well-watered.
“Tiro will take notes,” Cicero said, once they had eaten a little and exchanged pleasantries. “Unless you’ve anything exceptionally dangerous to tell me, in which case it shall have to be committed to memory, rather than papyrus.”
“Of course.”
“First you must tell me of your progress in the east - we hear enough about Dolabella’s antics to make me heartily sorry of ever having placed any trust in him.”
Brutus shrugged. “Cassius has always detested Dolabella; I think he’s grateful of the opportunity to antagonise him.”
Cicero nodded. “What news from Greece? I’m grateful for all your correspondence, but I’ve been longing to question you about your travels myself. Will you return to Athens once matters have been better settled?”
“Cassius has looked to his prospects in Syria - now we intend to make for Smyrna, and then back towards Lycia.”
Tiro took note of these plans assiduously; it occurred to Brutus that Cassius would have balked at allowing a freed man in Cicero’s employ to document their planned movements. But it was usual for Tiro to sit in on even the most sensitive of meetings in Cicero’s house, and Cicero guarded his private papers with such ferocity that Brutus was sure even Ulysses would have been hard-pressed to steal them from him.
“And then?” Cicero prompted.
“And then, Cassius tells me, we’ll have raised legions enough to march on Italy.”
“And on to Rome?”
Brutus hesitated. “No. I won’t bring an army to Rome, Cicero.”
Cicero nodded. “I’m glad to hear you say so. By that point, in any case, you may find there is no longer any Rome left to which to return: the senate are in disarray, and Antony and Caesar’s boy will no doubt soon be at each other’s throats.”
“Surely that can only work to our advantage.”
“Your advantage is not quite yet the same thing as the advantage of Rome, I think. Esteemed senators are scrabbling like dogs for scraps and allowing themselves to be cowed into compliance by Antony and his band of malcontents.”
“I’m sorry to have left you in such a situation,” Brutus said, looking glum.
“It’s no matter to me; I flatter myself that my attempts to bring some semblance of control to the senate won’t be entirely in vain. In the meantime, I’m afraid you and Cassius must look entirely to the east for your legions, after all - Antony is Dictator in all but name, and he would never allow a quorum to vote you legions from the senate. If it were ever raised, he would have the proponent murdered and employ someone to talk the matter to death. I have written up a report of the situation, which you might wish to convey to Cassius.”
Brutus nodded. It was nothing he had not expected, and Cassius’ warnings about this being a wasted trip began to seem depressingly prescient.
“If I might change the subject, Cicero, I’d appreciate any news of my mother and my sisters - I’ve had a few letters from Porcia, but they’re made terribly bland by her fear of their interception by Antony’s men.”
“All letters leaving Rome lately have been notably pre-occupied with the weather and the state of dear old cousins’ health,” Cicero agreed, with a wry twist of his lips. “You may go, if you wish, Tiro - I fear this news will be far too trivial to be of any worth noting down.”
Tiro nodded and took his leave, bidding farewell to Brutus and wishing him good fortune for his return journey to the east.
“Well,” Cicero said when he had gone, “I suppose you know all about your mother’s refusal to submit to Antony’s intimidation.”
“I had guessed at it.”
“She strides about the city as though she herself were its master, even though the world knows she is still Antony’s prisoner. Even the plebs have begun to have some sympathy for her. She feels your absence keenly.”
“It’s not the first time she’s done without me through exile.”
“Yes, but after Pharsalus she’d no particular wish to have you back.” Cicero caught the look on Brutus’ face and relented, patting him gently on the hand. “Forgive me, it was cruel to bring up the past - I merely wish I did not have to impress upon you how bleak I believe the situation could become. You must have heard that your houses at Caere and Tarentum have been sacked.”
“I know, I know. Cassius nearly refused to let me sail when I proposed meeting you here.”
Cicero smiled. “Then I’m glad you defied him.”
“So am I; it makes me happier than I can say to spend even a few short hours with you, Cicero. Well worth the journey.”
Cicero tried in vain to hide his pleasure at Brutus’ words. Flattery had always been his greatest weakness, and had often landed him with obligations he found it hard to fulfil.
Brutus cleared his throat. “Actually, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve a small favour to ask you.”
Cicero raised an eyebrow, amused.
“You needn’t worry - it’s nothing arduous. I’ve simply brought you something to safeguard; my private papers, letters and verses and so forth. I took it all with me to Crete, and then to Greece, but in case the worst should happen, I would hate to see any of it fall into our enemies’ hands. The thought of Antony’s agents pawing at my adolescent poetry is enough to make me hot with embarrassment. Not to mention a number of sensitive documents I’ve received from friends over recent years. As a matter of fact, there are more than a few letters from you in there, Cicero, and I feel it only fair that you should take custody of them, lest they be used to implicate you in any of this business.”
Cicero appeared to consider the matter for a moment, but then nodded and let his hand rest fleetingly once again atop Brutus’ in reasurrance. “Of course. I’ll have Tiro squirrel your papers away amongst my own; his administrative system is incomprehensible, I don’t believe even I could steal secrets from myself, if I were so inclined.”
“Vennius’ men have brought the box from the ship - I’ll have him entrust it to Tiro before we leave. Thank you, Cicero.”
“Think nothing of it.”
Cicero called for more wine, and it was brought by a slave with a great deal more alacrity than Brutus had come to expect from Cicero’s slaves at home in Rome. Conversation lay at an easy lull for a few good moments while Cicero studied his wine cup and appeared to be silently mulling over something of great importance. Eventually, he cleared his throat and took a swift sip of wine before placing the cup rather heavily on the table before him.
“I wonder, Brutus, if in the spirit of our conversation I might be allowed to entrust you with something of mine - a secret I must share before we’re parted again.”
“It seems a fitting time for confessions, I suppose.”
“I speak, of course, as a man, and not as a politician, a difference I hope you, of all people, will appreciate.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then, I must confess - I feel compelled to admit - that I have not always thought of you, my dear Brutus, exactly as a friend should.”
Brutus was unsurprised. He had always been aware of the fondness with which Cicero regarded him, and had admired Cicero for so long that it would be impossible to deny that the attraction was mutual. After Pharsalus, for some months before Cicero began sending him lengthy discourses on rhetoric and Platonism and Atticus, with suspicious timing, first invited him to dinner, he had already been indulging a secret habit of appreciating Cicero’s form, the deft movement of his hands and the melodious cadence of his tone, when he stood in the Senate to speak. Since then he had come to know Cicero as a man, and concluded that he had a good deal more nobility about him than Cicero the politician, who was eternally exasperating, irritating, cowardly, often falling over himself in his eagerness to sail in the direction of the prevailing wind. As a friend, Cicero had always been unfailingly honest; even surprisingly so.
He shook his head for fear that Cicero might, in an unaccustomed fit of just such honesty, say something to spoil the precarious equilibrium of their relationship over recent months. “Cicero, there’s no need for this now -”
Cicero held up a hand to quell Brutus’ protests. “No, no, no. Let me finish, for fear I may not have another opportunity: I have not always thought of you entirely as a friend, not because of any lack of feeling, but rather because of an excess of it, and because of my longstanding admiration for you.”
“You know I’ve always understood your respect for me to be entirely undeserved.”
“I am unaccustomed - that is, I have many friends, countless acquaintances, and a good number of hangers-on and relations. Of all of them, it is your opinion I invariably seek first, on matters of philosophy, on my literary exploits; it is - it is, frankly, extremely tiresome.”
Brutus set down his wine cup, his frown rising into an expression of fond exasperation. “Ah, I see. You’re attempting flattery.”
“The wine has robbed me of something of my customary eloquence,” Cicero admitted ruefully. It did not suit him to stumble for words. “I mean to tell you, you understand, that you have been to me, since we shared those months in Greece with Pompey, dearer to me than any friend.”
“You are dear to me, too, Cicero - believe me. Can this sudden outpouring of sentiment really do us any good, now, of all times?”
“What other time is there?” Cicero sighed. He cast around with his eyes, as though looking for some object or prop to aid his confession. “Venus will have to forgive me for such an adolescent declaration, I’m afraid. I am shamefully devoted to you, in every private and personal sense.”
He sighed heavily and bowed his head, fingers tracing the silver satyrs dancing around the rim of the cup. “You can’t have been ignorant of it all these years. I doubt anyone’s good opinion would matter to me quite so much as yours, so you may as well continue to forgive my indiscretion and let me live my life as though I were mercifully unafflicted. I would be eternally grateful if you would refrain from mentioning this... lack of prudence of mine to anyone, other than Tiro, of course, if you must. I’d much prefer that posterity not record me as a… a…”
“Cicero,” Brutus said, alarmed by the bitter self-deprecation behind Cicero’s words. “Why should you give two figs for posterity?”
“History has made your ancestor a hero, as it will you,” Cicero said, frowning. “I doubt it will be so kind to me.”
For a long moment, Brutus was silent, and Cicero’s head remained bowed. He very nearly recoiled when Brutus laid a careful hand upon his shoulder and spoke to him kindly, in a tone of quiet, careful regret.
“Why have we never spoken about this before? You’ve no need to worry about my good opinion; it is yours, as you’ve always known it has been.”
“I am not a lover of men by preference, any more than you are currently at the mercy of Antony’s whims through choice. I can think of no excuse for all this, except that I am suddenly feeling dissatisfied with a policy of prudence and good judgement. There is a certain immediacy to this situation in which we now find ourselves.”
Brutus laughed. “Do you think Antony would be amused to realise he’s the cause of your sudden declaration?”
Cicero looked up sharply, but found that Brutus was only attempting to tease him, a smile playing over his long face. Brutus reached out a hand to still his movement as he turned away. “I didn’t mean to mock you. Come on, Cicero; don’t let’s spoil a perfectly pleasant day with all this talk of miseries and confessions. Let us part as friends.”
“Yes,” Cicero replied with difficulty. “You are quite right. That is what we are and must remain.”
Brutus held Cicero’s hand in his, marvelling at the warmth of Cicero’s skin, the rapidity of the pulse beneath his fingertips. Cicero’s thumb twitched against his wrist and caressed the skin there with the briefest of touches.
“There are worse things,” Cicero began, in a tone of utmost shame, and then hesitated. He licked at the corner of his lips before pressing on. “There might be a thousand crimes greater than accepting companionship where it is offered. I regret with damning regularity having refused you so rashly when you offered me the same.”
There were two high spots of red on Cicero’s cheeks, and Brutus realised his own breathing was hot and heavy, deafening to his own ears in the sudden silence of the triclinium. A small part of him felt inexplicably saddened but unsurprised that it was finally Cicero and not Cassius who had reached out and touched the solitude which had been grinding away at the pit of his soul those past few months. He raised his hand to curl around the back of Cicero’s neck, his thumb falling into the hollow above his collarbone, where it lay prone until he laid the pad there and stroked the delicate point of the pulse. Cicero’s eyes widened and he made a ragged sound, as though all the air had left his lungs at once.
“I cannot -” he began, his voice tight and low.
“Cicero,” Brutus interrupted. “I’d be glad if we were to be lovers, but I’d prefer it to be an act of honesty, not one of desperation.” He felt warm skin and the thud of a racing pulse beneath his fingers.
“You’re in danger of dishonouring us both with promises we might not be able to keep,” Cicero said hoarsely. “These days so much that ought to go unsaid does not; perhaps this ought to be the exception to that rule.”
At that moment Tiro appeared at the door to the cubiculum. As though released from an enchantment Brutus became composed once more, his hand removed and replaced at his side, the distance between them once again formal and unremarkable.
“I’m sorry,” Tiro said, glancing at Cicero apologetically. “Vennius sends word the ship is ready to sail. He is anxious not to miss the slackwater tide.”
Brutus nodded. “Tell him to expect me.”
Duly dismissed, Tiro retreated to the atrium and instructed the slave to fetch Brutus’ cloak.
Cicero nodded absently, acknowledging that whatever opportunity had briefly presented itself, it was now past.
“I believe that’s what our old friend Gallus might have called a timely reprieve.”
“I’ll say goodbye, then, Cicero.”
Cicero extended his arm for Brutus to grasp in a firm handshake. “Good health and the gods go with you.”
Brutus hesitated, then nodded, and turned to pick up the missive to Cassius on his way out of the door. Cicero watched him go with the same dreadful sense of destiny he had suffered on the night of the Ides of March, reminded again of Calpurnia and her inauspicious dreams. His misery was only momentarily abated when Brutus turned in the doorway, a small smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
“When I return, I wonder if I might accept that long-ago invitation to visit your farm?”
“Of course,” Cicero replied. “Rome will look forward to your return, and so will I.”
Brutus lingered only for a second and then turned on his heel and departed. Cicero watched him go, before calling for Tiro and requesting him to bring the box left by Vennius’ men to the tablinium. When it was brought, he took his customary seat at the table and opened the lid, revealing the chest to be crammed with papyrus, all of it covered with lines of Brutus’ familiar scrawl.
He pulled out one scrap, followed by another, then scroll after ragged scroll, and read all of them, every word. After he had finished he took the box and its contents and carefully and grimly fed each piece of papyrus into the kitchen fire.
*
Non. Sept. 44
Weeks passed, and Cicero tried in vain to put thoughts of Brutus out of his mind in favour of returning to Rome. Atticus was in residence on the Quirinal, though convinced of the prudence of returning to Buthrotum as soon as it could be arranged. He tried to persuade Cicero that it would do him good too to leave the city, playing in turns upon Cicero’s pessimism and his pride by imploring him to retire from politics with some vestige of his former glory remaining intact. To remove himself from Italy then would, Cicero was well aware, mean there would be no prospect of return. Ugly memories of his previous time in exile prevented him from agreeing either to go with Atticus to Buthrotum or to follow Brutus and Cassius to the east.
News of Antony and Octavian’s disagreement and the boy’s departure from the city spread nearly as quickly as the newsreader’s announcement of Octavian’s intention to honour Caesar’s promise of denarii to the people, and Cicero heard it gladly, not least because leading the Senate would prove so much easier with Antony a wounded bear, blundering about and making enemies of his own accord.
Servilia sent a dinner invitation almost immediately. Antony, of course, knew that Cicero visited her, and allowed it, which in some ways made him more nervous than if Antony had prevented it, for Antony did nothing without some malevolent sort of purpose. For now, it made sense to remain on friendly terms with Servilia, so Cicero cast off his doubts and duly replied that he would be delighted to attend. Nevertheless, when he and Tiro left the house on the Argiletum, they kept their faces concealed beneath heavy cowls, and hurried the whole way in case they were being watched.
“Have you heard the good news?” Servilia demanded on their arrival.
She had cast off the sombre, downcast aspect of recent weeks and seemed like a girl again, animated and beautiful once more. She clutched Cicero’s arm and took him further into the house, pressing close, solicitous.
“I have,” he replied.
“This is the beginning of the end for them!”
Cicero nodded and smiled cautiously. “From your lips to the ears of the Gods.”
“A fool like Antony was sure to blunder. They’ll fight among themselves and they’ll destroy each other.”
“I doubt the boy will be more than a nuisance to Antony; he cannot hope to rival him.”
“Caesar did not choose the boy on a whim. He’ll surprise you, I think.”
“We can hope.”
Servilia took Cicero’s hands between her own. “The senate should ask my son to return - the time is ripe.”
“Brutus,” Cicero said, and paused to consider it.
Privately, he quivered to hear it suggested, remembering heated words and things almost promised in the triclinium at Velia, but with the better part of common sense he knew that such promises were foolish at times like these. It would be unwise in the extreme to invite Brutus and Cassius and whatever they had collected of the eastern legions to return to the gates of Rome. He had lived through two civil wars already, and had no desire to ignite a third just yet, inevitable though it may eventually turn out to be. “Return? No, not yet. Not quite yet, I think.”
“When?”
“We must wait and see how things develop.”
“Wait and see?” Servilia’s smile became cold and cynical. “A noble strategy.”
“Not noble, perhaps, but sensible. In any case, tell your son that I - ” Cicero paused and closed his eyes, loathe to betray himself too readily. “No, not I - his friends in Rome look forward to seeing him again at some point in the near future.”
Servilia was regarding him with new understanding, sadly, and as though she regretted her willingness to believe he might help her to bring Brutus home. “I will tell him.”
They sat down to a most subdued dinner.
*
a.d. v Kal. Oct. 44
Brutus and Cassius had travelled far and wide throughout the eastern Provinces by the time the summer turned balmy and began to drift into autumn. Cities along the Ionian coast submitted one by one, with few exceptions. On reaching Lycia, where the coast turned at a right angle towards the Syrian east, they sent word ahead to the Lycian capital to receive them within the week.
The city of Patara lay in the verdant cradle of a fertile valley between the Anatolian mountains, bordered on three sides by vertiginous mountain slopes and on the fourth by the sea. A wide, flat beach stretched the length of the bay, providing sweeping views of the sparkling horizon, the sand shelving gently away and allowing only small boats to land their cargoes. For this reason, the nearby harbour was used as the city’s port, allowing for the disembarkation of passengers and the unloading of goods. Cassius had in mind, however, to make an impressive and symbolic arrival at the city, and so instructed their fleet to moor in the bay, employing a small flotilla of barges to ferry he and Brutus, along with their personal guard, to the beach.
They were met by a delegation from the city’s governing council, headed by the man elected as its leader. The Lyciarch was an imposing figure of a man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a mane of dark, curling hair and a handsome, weathered face. He took Cassius’ arm in a firm handshake.
“Patara welcomes you as liberators of Rome,” he said, in heavily accented Greek. “As Lyciarch, I offer you friendship on behalf of the cities of the Lycian League.”
“We are glad indeed to accept it,” Cassius replied, grasping his arm in greeting. “Our reputation, as always, precedes us. Gaius Cassius Longinus, Pro-consul of Rome, Governor of Syria; and Marcus Junius Brutus, Praetor of Rome.”
“Proitos of Xanthos,” the Lyciarch introduced himself, with a dry glance in Brutus’ direction. “You have recently sacked the city of my birth for refusing to capitulate to your demands for their allegiance. I regret that word of the League’s desire to make allies of you had not reached them in time.”
“We are gratified to be received by you so graciously, given the circumstances,” Cassius conceded, with a subtle bow.
Proitos smiled, and Brutus was struck by the easy confidence in his manner and the sense that he was somehow mocking them. “The cities of Lycia have ever been keen proponents of democracy. Come, let me escort you into the city; I trust it will be acceptable to you to take residence at my home for the duration of your stay?”
Cassius gave his assent and the party made their way up the beach. Brutus was already beginning to regret Cassius’ notion of a grand and impressive entrance to the city, if for nothing more than the discomfort of sand chafing between the thongs of his damp sandals. Litters were offered for the short journey to the city gate, and although Brutus understood the sense in refusing such a display in favour of entering this proud, democratic city on foot, he sorely regretted it. As they passed through the city’s monumental gateway, crowds thronged and craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the famous Tyrannicides. Brutus set his mouth in a hard, thin line and wished even more fervently for the luxury of the litter, so that he might pull the curtains tightly closed.
Patara was known best in Rome for its agricultural productivity, and Brutus had on previous visits been taken to view vast groves of olives, fields of spelt wheat, and row upon row of pomegranate trees heavy with fruit. In the town there was, however, a smell in the air of spices, fish and effluent, the familiar odour of any coastal city. It overpowered the delicate scent of the nearby countryside and put Brutus in mind of the great, heaving harbours of the Piraeus at Athens, where sailors of every race drank and gambled and swore, and humanity had never seemed so far removed from the great achievements of the Athenians in the time of Plato.
Tavernas and workshops ceased their activity to watch the procession wend its way past, and soon the column of soldiers had its own advance guard of children, who laughed and play-acted soldiery, announcing their arrival with whoops and shrieks of laughter. Brutus took note that the majority of buildings on either side of the wide streets were of Hellenistic design, and remembered his history and the story of the capitulation of Lycia to Alexander three centuries earlier. He wondered whether Alexander’s men had also been heralded into the city as heroes, with he and Hephaestion garlanded and paraded side-by-side through the streets. Cassius, he knew, would have his mind firmly on the matter at hand, and would not be amused.
Brutus found it impossible to summon enthusiasm for the hours of meetings and diplomacy which lay ahead, though courtesy demanded that he and Cassius present themselves together at the Bouleuterion, to face the emissaries of the cities of the Lycian League. The meeting, thankfully, was swift; Cassius intended to discuss troop numbers and his beloved supply lines with members of the council the following day and saw no reason to prolong the preliminary negotiations. Instead, he and Brutus were led once again through the streets to the city’s theatre, where they were promised a play written in their honour by Lycia’s most celebrated dramatist. Brutus had never heard of the man, but when he murmured as much to Cassius as they climbed the theatre’s steep steps, Cassius pretended not to have heard him.
“We have arranged an evening’s entertainment in honour of our distinguished guests,” announced Proitos, extending his hand towards the two of them in a gesture of benevolent hospitality. “The city of Patara wishes to honour its patrons.”
Cassius nodded gracefully and Brutus looked on with resignation, unable to think of any manner in which he would less like to spend the evening.
The city’s theatre was modest - it seated greater numbers than theatres to be found in most provincial towns in southern Italy, but far fewer than Pompey’s great theatre in Rome. It had been constructed in the Greek tradition - the view of the countryside from the auditorium was uninterrupted, as at Epidavros, which Brutus had visited as a boy - and as yet no skene had been constructed behind the orchestra. A solitary line of olive trees hid the rest of the city from view to pleasant effect, and Brutus found, grudgingly, that to be seated thus was a more relaxing prospect than he had expected.
They had been settled at the centre of the top row of the first tier of seats, in the middle of a small group of Lycian dignitaries. Six thousand of the city’s inhabitants had filled the theatre to capacity and greeted their arrival with a great racket of cheering and applause. Now, as the prologue of the play unfolded before them on the stage and the chorus took up places in the orchestra, people in the lower rows craned their necks to catch a glimpse of Brutus and Cassius, seated far above them and obscured from view by a row of Lycian guards.
The play itself was familiar in theme, the same story having been recited or performed at nearly every city on their tour of the Greek east. It was the story of the deliverance of Athens from tyranny in the days before its democratic reforms. The story was as familiar to most Romans as that of Romulus and Remus and the she-wolf, and anyone who had spent time in Athens had seen the great statues of the Tyrannicides set up in the Agora as a symbol of the city’s reverence for democracy; for this occasion the story had been expunged of its usual themes of pederasty and homoerotic jealousy, and instead made the dishonouring of Harmodius’ virgin sister the catalyst for the dramatic events.
The prologue was set at the funeral oration of Pisistratus, Athens’ benevolent tyrant, and detailed his many great acts, from the beginning of the construction of the great temple to Zeus Olympieios to the tapping of the Nine Springs, and recalled his namesake who accompanied Telemachus on the search for his father in the Odyssey. Next, the malevolent Hippias and Hyparchus, Pisistratus’ ill-favoured sons, made their appearance and declared themselves kings; they were dressed in purple togas with wreaths of laurel on their heads and may as well have worn placards bearing Caesar’s name. The first act culminated in the Kings’ contrivance to invite Harmodius’ sister to lead the sacred Panathenaic procession before refuting her virginity and driving her to suicide.
By this point the audience below were howling and whistling in their hatred for the tyrants. When Harmodius and Aristogeiton - the heroes - made their appearances, they were dressed in an approximation of the toga virilis and carried themselves with such an exaggerated air of wounded dignity that Brutus snorted with laughter, only to earn himself a glare from Cassius and a pointed glance at his much-refilled wine cup. The heroes debated the indignity of Hippias’ tyranny and his treatment of Harmodius’ virtuous sister, and fixed upon the plan to commit his murder, which honour and the gods demanded.
Filled with a sudden, rising sense of distaste, Brutus cast about distractedly for any sign of the boy bearing the wine, and alighted on a tall, slim figure standing in the shadow of the honour guard. He raised his cup and beckoned and the boy came nearer, cradling a krater of wine in long, slim, feminine hands. It was his eyes which drew Brutus’ attention; they were the shape of almonds and painted in dark kohl, framed by long lashes which swept down in a false display of modesty as he approached and bowed. He leaned closer to fill Brutus’ cup and Brutus smelled olibanum and heavily perfumed beeswax upon the boy’s skin, which was bronzed and far darker than that of the native Lycians, and swelled ripely over the curve of the boy’s arse. The boy had softly bowed full lips, which parted to display a flash of his tongue as he wetted them, and he glanced up at Brutus coyly from beneath the dark sweep of his lashes.
“My boy from Parthia,” Proitos, seated on Brutus’ left, leaned over to murmur. Brutus glanced at him, surprised, and found that Proitos was regarding him with amusement. “He’s a eunuch. I brought him from Pacorus’ court on my last visit to Ecbatana, and he tells me his people are descended from the great Xerxes; it amused me to conquer him. I find he is pleasant company, and he takes as much pride as I do in offering our guests every hospitality.”
The boy finished pouring and shot Brutus another beguiling look before making his way back to his place beside the guards. There was no way of telling how old he was, from his slim hips and the dark hair cropped short above his pierced ears. Brutus shifted on his cushion and turned his attention back to the performance.
On the stage the conspirators stood concealed while Hippias taunted the Chorus with his disregard for the gods, mocking Harmodius’ sister’s shame at her tainted honour. As his speech reached its climax, the conspirators leapt into view and raised daggers to the heavens, crying out in unison that their actions would bring about an end to insidious tyranny. Hippias fell to the ground under the force of their blows while the audience howled and applauded, until a hush fell and Harmodius delivered one final, fatal blow. Brutus cast a glance at Cassius and saw that he held a hand to his mouth, as though nauseated.
While the conspirators were crowned with laurel wreaths and taken from the stage on thrones borne by the Chorus, Proitos turned to his guests with pride and announced that there would now be a dinner in their honour at his own house. Cassius, ever the statesman, recovered enough to smile with graceful ease and engage Proitos in conversation as the party left the theatre, and Brutus could do nothing but follow in their wake.
*
The next morning, Brutus woke in an unfamiliar bed, uncomfortably warm and with damp silk sheets twisted around his hips. With his head buried in the pillow he turned just enough to see that it was daylight, and to regret the vivid, pounding pain behind his eyes. The room was thankfully gloomy, but it smelt of sweat and sex; a heavy, sordid base-note to the cloying scent of olibanum and beeswax.
“Brutus.”
Holding a hand to his head, he raised himself enough to see that Cassius was standing beside the bed with an expression of something akin to abject unhappiness upon his face. He met Brutus’ eyes and frowned, schooling his features into a familiar, withering look of disappointment.
“Word from Decimus,” he said quietly, steadfastly averting his eyes from the lithe body entangled beside Brutus in the bedsheets. “Dolabella has acted rashly and seems to be in need of subtle persuasion to relinquish his claim on Syria. We should leave for Antiochia at once.”
Brutus nodded blearily, too tired and with his head swimming too vigorously to protest. “Yes.”
Cassius’ eyes at last flickered sideways and for a second an ugly grimace settled across his face. “There is time before we leave for you to recover at least some of your senses.”
Brutus nodded, feeling ashamed, and waited for Cassius to leave before he stumbled out of bed and summoned one of Proitos’ slaves to help him dress. The eunuch courteously continued to feign sleep and Brutus gratefully slipped out of the room without a word.
Cassius remained distant for the rest of the day, and Brutus had neither the will nor the energy to coax him into conversation. They rode at opposite ends of the marching column until sunset, at which point Cassius departed for a tour of the camp in the company of the centurion of one of the Syrian legions and Brutus was left to eat his evening meal alone.
***
Continue: Chapter 5
Fandom: Rome (HBO)
Rating: R
Notes/disclaimer: HERE.
Additional notes for this chapter:
1] olibanum is another name for frankincense.
2] Pacorus I ruled Parthia until 38BC. Interesting but irrelevant fact: in 51BC he invaded Syria, but was driven out by Cassius, then governor of the Province.
Chapter 4
Liberatores
Brutus Cicero S.D.
I hope my letter finds you well. The weeks since we last spoke seem to have passed in a haze of diplomacy and endless travelling; I wonder how long we shall be forced to stay here, wandering back and forth in the desert in search of troops.
If I had thought the journey through Attica depressing, then our travels since then have hardly been more edifying. It barely rains in the East, and the interminable heat and the proliferation of dust and sand are quite oppressive to the spirits. Nostalgia has never affected me before, when I have known that I may return home whenever I please.
No doubt you have heard that the Athenians have put up statues of us beside those of the Tyrannicides; you can imagine how that pleases Cassius. I confess I find it difficult to consider myself a second Aristogeiton, when even signing my own name has caused me some difficulties of conscience of late.
Whatever news you can give us of Rome, I will be glad to receive it. We have any number of friends sending us dispatches, as I’m sure you’re aware, but your judgement is always valuable.
In hope of hearing from you soon, I beg you to forego your usual particularity in style and composition and simply write to me more quickly!
Antiochia ad Orontem, Iun. 44.
*
My dear Brutus,
Forgive the brevity of this meagre communication; I am about to begin the journey back to Rome, having spent the time since we last met engaged in a rural legal case. It is because of this latter concern that I have had little time of late to attend to my correspondence. It is convenient, you will say, that I should be called away from Rome and kept away throughout these troubled months and you are right: it has served my purpose to maintain my absence from the city. I have received near-constant reports from the Senate, and from my other friends who have wished to keep me apprised of the situation, and it is apparent that Antony is living up to all our expectations. I feel able to tell you that your own departure was regrettable, but perhaps not entirely unwise.
In my more desolate moments I have often wished to be able to return to the peaceful days we spent as guests of Atticus, in friendly disagreement over Plato, Epicurus, and your estimable Stoics. I even put out in a ship for Greece, to meet with you at Athens, but the winds were unfavourable and we were beaten back to port. Since then I have found my resolve and am determined to return to Rome. Your company, your counsel, or even some further scribbled words would be a great comfort to me as I journey south, but alas Tiro and I must content ourselves with reading the news of Antony’s latest outrages and consider out next moves with care.
With that in mind, it occurs to me that once I return to Rome, it may be unwise to continue our correspondence as often as I should prefer. I confess I am succumbing to paranoia, and that I am beginning, in my wilder moments, to suspect every messenger in my employ of carrying my letters to the Caesarians. I shall, however, be at Velia for some weeks in the meantime, and it might be to both our advantages if you were to visit me there to discuss our plans. It ought not to require explicit reiteration, but I have not seen you since you called on me on the evening of the Ides of March, and I would value your company not just as a confederate, but also as a friend.
Tusculum, Quint. 44.
*
a.d. ii Non. Sext. 44
Brutus had ridden away from Rome without once looking back, irritated by Cassius’ continual twisting around in the saddle to cast a final glance on the Capitoline Hill and gaze with heavy longing at the Servian Wall as it disappeared into the distance with every new mile they travelled along the Via Flaminia. He supposed, though, that leaving the city went easier with him than with Cassius because Cassius had already known the pain of exile, and went towards it a second time with a much heavier heart.
They went first to Crete, to Kommos to stay with Creticus and discuss plans. Brutus had no intention of taking the post of Grain Monitor and ignored Antony’s only missive ordering him to do so - it was clear it was a token gesture merely to enable Antony to condemn him the more for outright insubordination. Then, in the beginning of the summer they sailed for Greece, rode through Attica to the Euboean coast, and went from there to the east, where Brutus had felt his absence from Italy like a palpable wound.
“Cicero will be at Velia next month,” he reported when Cassius enquired as to the latest letter’s contents. “He asks if I will meet him, to discuss our strategy.”
Cassius snorted, “‘Our’ strategy, is it, now he sees fit to return from his sojourn in the country?”
“There was a legal case - he took it as a favour to a family friend.”
Cassius remained unimpressed. “You’ve explained his reasoning to me a thousand times; it doesn’t change the fact of the man’s cowardice.”
“We are run-aways too, remember,” Brutus argued, though he knew it was not the case that they could return voluntarily, with Anthony unopposed by the Senate. “This exile of ours is self-imposed.”
Cassius frowned, and remained uncharacteristically silent. He resented any attempt to make comparisons between himself and Cicero, as he saw himself as a creature of entirely different nature and motivations; Brutus was loath to disenchant him simply because he did not like to provoke an argument. Sometimes, however, Cassius made it very difficult for him to keep his tongue.
“I will sail for Italy in three weeks’ time,” he said, hoping in vain that Cassius would not try further to dissuade him.
“There is no need for you to go to Italy, when Cicero could just as easily declare for us and come to Greece.”
“And what good would that do?”
“With the Senate’s explicit support, we would be in a position to crush Antony - ”
“If Cicero came to Greece, he would come alone, without the Senate and without any legions.”
“I am well aware of that,” Cassius sighed.
“Then I’ll meet with Cicero, and we can discuss the best course of action.”
“Very well, yes - but consider: by going to Italy you’ll be putting yourself in danger.”
Brutus considered this, and nodded; it was true, if his ship were to be intercepted, he might very well find his head on a spike in the forum before the month was out. “Isn’t it worth the risk?”
“To consult with Cicero? Dis only knows why! Knowing what we know of Cicero’s character, do you not think it might be prudent to at least consider his motivations?”
Brutus was shaken by the question. It had not occurred to him to consider the possibility of Cicero having secretly given his allegiance to the Caesarians. His personal dislike of Antony alone was enough to make the notion ridiculous.
“Cicero has never been any friend of yours, Cassius, but he is mine. If you’d known him as well as I have, you’d have no reason to doubt his sincerity.”
“To Hades with friendship where Antony is concerned - I’d not risk your life by asking you to make the journey, and I can’t believe that Cicero would, if he’s such a friend as you imagine.”
“I’m bound to you now, Cassius,” Brutus reminded him gently, “for better or for worse, but you can’t pretend that anything we’ve done has been to the benefit of my health.”
It was a long moment before Cassius smiled at him, fond and wistful. “You’re right. We’re bound by our actions, though I. cannot regret them. I can’t think of anyone with whom I’d rather share my exile.”
“Stop it, Cassius, I’m immune to your flattery by now.”
“I know, I know,” Cassius said, throwing up his hands in resignation. “You’ll go to Velia, and I will simply have to dislike it intensely and wait for your return.”
He laid his hand briefly on Brutus’ shoulder before leaving him to his letter writing, a small gesture of truce to reassure Brutus that all was still well between them, at least for the moment.
*
The journey to Velia was long but thankfully blessed by good weather, and so within five days of departure Brutus found himself on deck while the ship docked at the town’s harbour. Vennius, the centurion Cassius had detailed, along with ten of his men, to form a personal guard, stood at Brutus’ side and scanned the approaching quayside. He had been a welcome companion to Brutus over the course of the voyage, having quite an astonishing knowledge of natural history and thus being able to name all the seabirds and varieties of fish they had encountered along the way, even regaling his commander with tales of his childhood in the hills of Latium and speaking with great affection of the proud little city of Velia, which was nestled on the Tyrrhenian coast some two hundred miles from Rome.
“It might be best, sir,” Vennius said as they neared the shore, “if we were to sail again on the evening tide.”
Brutus nodded, regretting the impossibility of spending a night as Cicero’s guest. “Yes, of course. Cassius would be very pleased with such prudence.”
Vennius smiled. “My men and I will accompany you to the house, if that seems... prudent.”
“I’m making no attempt to be inconspicuous, so it won’t matter if we cause a stir,” Brutus agreed. “Tell me again, are the men of Velia known to have political allegiances?”
“They love the Republic, sir, as my family do.”
“They’ve no great love of Caesar, then?”
Vennius hesitated to reply, but only to consider his answer more fully. “Velia’s no town of veterans, sir. They’ve no loyalty to generals or legions - the republic gave them their citizenship, so that’s what they stand by. They’re steadfast people, sir. Trustworthy.”
The ship docked easily and Brutus and Vennius’s men disembarked while the crew rushed to secure the ship at the moorings. On the wharf stood Tiro, smiling and looking tired but otherwise in good health. He hurried to greet them.
“You’ve brought half a legion with you,” he joked, eyeing Vennius and his men. “Cicero will be pleased.”
Brutus smiled. He had always liked Tiro - it was no secret, at least among Cicero’s closest friends, that he and his former slave had once been very intimate with one another indeed, but it was impossible to feel bitterness or resentment towards such a genial and efficient master of all of Cicero’s affairs. He took Tiro’s arm and grasped it, grateful to see him again.
“Some notion of Cassius’ that I would need protection,” he said, with a glance at Vennius. “From the looks of it, though, the stories about Velian unruliness seem to be insubstantiated.”
The harbour was deserted, apart from three toothless fishermen mending their nets in the shade of a shrine to the Venti, the five Winds. Vennius coughed to mask a smile at Tiro’s obvious confusion, and Brutus was amused to catch his eye as they were led away from the wharf and into the town.
“I’d better take you to him directly,” Tiro said to Brutus as they passed under the monumental sandstone gateway built centuries before by the Greeks, which still served as the main entrance to the town. “He’s been pacing the floor since dawn for news of your arrival.”
Brutus felt pleasant anticipation curl in the pit of his stomach, and quickened his pace.
The legionaries drew something of a crowd on their way through the streets towards the larger houses at the edge of the town, though the majority of the townspeople seemed unaware of Brutus’ identity. When they reached the marketplace, however, one man’s voice lifted above the hubbub to cry ‘Glorious liberator!’ at which point Tiro began to hurry for fear they be overcome by the sudden throng of well-wishers.
“You weren’t wrong about your Velians’ sympathies, Vennius,” Brutus commented once they reached the courtyard of the house in which Cicero was currently taking residence.
“No, sir,” Vennius replied, smiling proudly. “Shall my men and I remain outside?”
“I don’t think there’s any need for that. A guard at the door, perhaps, in case word reaches Cassius that I’m becoming careless.”
“Very good, sir.”
Tiro led the way into the atrium and while Brutus’s eyes adjusted to ducking out of the midday sunlight he saw that Tiro had been entirely truthful in describing Cicero’s agitation. Cicero paused, mid-way through striding from one side of the room to the other, and broke into a wide, relieved smile. Brutus felt his heart lift with a bewildering swell of familiarity and affection, overwhelmed by a sudden rush of homesickness.
“My dear, dear Brutus,” Cicero said, hurrying to embrace him. He took Brutus’ hands between his own and kissed them.
“Cicero, it’s a relief to see you.”
“I have missed you a great deal,” Cicero murmured, patting him fondly on the arm and stepping back as to take in the sight of him in his entirety.
“We both know you’ve been too busy for that.”
“Indeed, I certainly have been busy. There was a time I’d have enjoyed a return to the crucible of power, but these days I fear it’s a case of necessity rather than pleasure. Come: I have had a meal prepared.”
Cicero led the way into the triclinium, where there lay already the beginnings of a modest afternoon spread. Brutus gratefully took one of the couches and allowed a slave to remove his cloak and vambraces.
“I couldn’t sympathise more,” he confessed. “I’d often thought about returning to the east, but now there’s no prospect of returning home I’m beginning to find it very dull indeed.”
More food was brought, and wine, though Brutus wished to keep a clear head and so accepted only a little, very well-watered.
“Tiro will take notes,” Cicero said, once they had eaten a little and exchanged pleasantries. “Unless you’ve anything exceptionally dangerous to tell me, in which case it shall have to be committed to memory, rather than papyrus.”
“Of course.”
“First you must tell me of your progress in the east - we hear enough about Dolabella’s antics to make me heartily sorry of ever having placed any trust in him.”
Brutus shrugged. “Cassius has always detested Dolabella; I think he’s grateful of the opportunity to antagonise him.”
Cicero nodded. “What news from Greece? I’m grateful for all your correspondence, but I’ve been longing to question you about your travels myself. Will you return to Athens once matters have been better settled?”
“Cassius has looked to his prospects in Syria - now we intend to make for Smyrna, and then back towards Lycia.”
Tiro took note of these plans assiduously; it occurred to Brutus that Cassius would have balked at allowing a freed man in Cicero’s employ to document their planned movements. But it was usual for Tiro to sit in on even the most sensitive of meetings in Cicero’s house, and Cicero guarded his private papers with such ferocity that Brutus was sure even Ulysses would have been hard-pressed to steal them from him.
“And then?” Cicero prompted.
“And then, Cassius tells me, we’ll have raised legions enough to march on Italy.”
“And on to Rome?”
Brutus hesitated. “No. I won’t bring an army to Rome, Cicero.”
Cicero nodded. “I’m glad to hear you say so. By that point, in any case, you may find there is no longer any Rome left to which to return: the senate are in disarray, and Antony and Caesar’s boy will no doubt soon be at each other’s throats.”
“Surely that can only work to our advantage.”
“Your advantage is not quite yet the same thing as the advantage of Rome, I think. Esteemed senators are scrabbling like dogs for scraps and allowing themselves to be cowed into compliance by Antony and his band of malcontents.”
“I’m sorry to have left you in such a situation,” Brutus said, looking glum.
“It’s no matter to me; I flatter myself that my attempts to bring some semblance of control to the senate won’t be entirely in vain. In the meantime, I’m afraid you and Cassius must look entirely to the east for your legions, after all - Antony is Dictator in all but name, and he would never allow a quorum to vote you legions from the senate. If it were ever raised, he would have the proponent murdered and employ someone to talk the matter to death. I have written up a report of the situation, which you might wish to convey to Cassius.”
Brutus nodded. It was nothing he had not expected, and Cassius’ warnings about this being a wasted trip began to seem depressingly prescient.
“If I might change the subject, Cicero, I’d appreciate any news of my mother and my sisters - I’ve had a few letters from Porcia, but they’re made terribly bland by her fear of their interception by Antony’s men.”
“All letters leaving Rome lately have been notably pre-occupied with the weather and the state of dear old cousins’ health,” Cicero agreed, with a wry twist of his lips. “You may go, if you wish, Tiro - I fear this news will be far too trivial to be of any worth noting down.”
Tiro nodded and took his leave, bidding farewell to Brutus and wishing him good fortune for his return journey to the east.
“Well,” Cicero said when he had gone, “I suppose you know all about your mother’s refusal to submit to Antony’s intimidation.”
“I had guessed at it.”
“She strides about the city as though she herself were its master, even though the world knows she is still Antony’s prisoner. Even the plebs have begun to have some sympathy for her. She feels your absence keenly.”
“It’s not the first time she’s done without me through exile.”
“Yes, but after Pharsalus she’d no particular wish to have you back.” Cicero caught the look on Brutus’ face and relented, patting him gently on the hand. “Forgive me, it was cruel to bring up the past - I merely wish I did not have to impress upon you how bleak I believe the situation could become. You must have heard that your houses at Caere and Tarentum have been sacked.”
“I know, I know. Cassius nearly refused to let me sail when I proposed meeting you here.”
Cicero smiled. “Then I’m glad you defied him.”
“So am I; it makes me happier than I can say to spend even a few short hours with you, Cicero. Well worth the journey.”
Cicero tried in vain to hide his pleasure at Brutus’ words. Flattery had always been his greatest weakness, and had often landed him with obligations he found it hard to fulfil.
Brutus cleared his throat. “Actually, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve a small favour to ask you.”
Cicero raised an eyebrow, amused.
“You needn’t worry - it’s nothing arduous. I’ve simply brought you something to safeguard; my private papers, letters and verses and so forth. I took it all with me to Crete, and then to Greece, but in case the worst should happen, I would hate to see any of it fall into our enemies’ hands. The thought of Antony’s agents pawing at my adolescent poetry is enough to make me hot with embarrassment. Not to mention a number of sensitive documents I’ve received from friends over recent years. As a matter of fact, there are more than a few letters from you in there, Cicero, and I feel it only fair that you should take custody of them, lest they be used to implicate you in any of this business.”
Cicero appeared to consider the matter for a moment, but then nodded and let his hand rest fleetingly once again atop Brutus’ in reasurrance. “Of course. I’ll have Tiro squirrel your papers away amongst my own; his administrative system is incomprehensible, I don’t believe even I could steal secrets from myself, if I were so inclined.”
“Vennius’ men have brought the box from the ship - I’ll have him entrust it to Tiro before we leave. Thank you, Cicero.”
“Think nothing of it.”
Cicero called for more wine, and it was brought by a slave with a great deal more alacrity than Brutus had come to expect from Cicero’s slaves at home in Rome. Conversation lay at an easy lull for a few good moments while Cicero studied his wine cup and appeared to be silently mulling over something of great importance. Eventually, he cleared his throat and took a swift sip of wine before placing the cup rather heavily on the table before him.
“I wonder, Brutus, if in the spirit of our conversation I might be allowed to entrust you with something of mine - a secret I must share before we’re parted again.”
“It seems a fitting time for confessions, I suppose.”
“I speak, of course, as a man, and not as a politician, a difference I hope you, of all people, will appreciate.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then, I must confess - I feel compelled to admit - that I have not always thought of you, my dear Brutus, exactly as a friend should.”
Brutus was unsurprised. He had always been aware of the fondness with which Cicero regarded him, and had admired Cicero for so long that it would be impossible to deny that the attraction was mutual. After Pharsalus, for some months before Cicero began sending him lengthy discourses on rhetoric and Platonism and Atticus, with suspicious timing, first invited him to dinner, he had already been indulging a secret habit of appreciating Cicero’s form, the deft movement of his hands and the melodious cadence of his tone, when he stood in the Senate to speak. Since then he had come to know Cicero as a man, and concluded that he had a good deal more nobility about him than Cicero the politician, who was eternally exasperating, irritating, cowardly, often falling over himself in his eagerness to sail in the direction of the prevailing wind. As a friend, Cicero had always been unfailingly honest; even surprisingly so.
He shook his head for fear that Cicero might, in an unaccustomed fit of just such honesty, say something to spoil the precarious equilibrium of their relationship over recent months. “Cicero, there’s no need for this now -”
Cicero held up a hand to quell Brutus’ protests. “No, no, no. Let me finish, for fear I may not have another opportunity: I have not always thought of you entirely as a friend, not because of any lack of feeling, but rather because of an excess of it, and because of my longstanding admiration for you.”
“You know I’ve always understood your respect for me to be entirely undeserved.”
“I am unaccustomed - that is, I have many friends, countless acquaintances, and a good number of hangers-on and relations. Of all of them, it is your opinion I invariably seek first, on matters of philosophy, on my literary exploits; it is - it is, frankly, extremely tiresome.”
Brutus set down his wine cup, his frown rising into an expression of fond exasperation. “Ah, I see. You’re attempting flattery.”
“The wine has robbed me of something of my customary eloquence,” Cicero admitted ruefully. It did not suit him to stumble for words. “I mean to tell you, you understand, that you have been to me, since we shared those months in Greece with Pompey, dearer to me than any friend.”
“You are dear to me, too, Cicero - believe me. Can this sudden outpouring of sentiment really do us any good, now, of all times?”
“What other time is there?” Cicero sighed. He cast around with his eyes, as though looking for some object or prop to aid his confession. “Venus will have to forgive me for such an adolescent declaration, I’m afraid. I am shamefully devoted to you, in every private and personal sense.”
He sighed heavily and bowed his head, fingers tracing the silver satyrs dancing around the rim of the cup. “You can’t have been ignorant of it all these years. I doubt anyone’s good opinion would matter to me quite so much as yours, so you may as well continue to forgive my indiscretion and let me live my life as though I were mercifully unafflicted. I would be eternally grateful if you would refrain from mentioning this... lack of prudence of mine to anyone, other than Tiro, of course, if you must. I’d much prefer that posterity not record me as a… a…”
“Cicero,” Brutus said, alarmed by the bitter self-deprecation behind Cicero’s words. “Why should you give two figs for posterity?”
“History has made your ancestor a hero, as it will you,” Cicero said, frowning. “I doubt it will be so kind to me.”
For a long moment, Brutus was silent, and Cicero’s head remained bowed. He very nearly recoiled when Brutus laid a careful hand upon his shoulder and spoke to him kindly, in a tone of quiet, careful regret.
“Why have we never spoken about this before? You’ve no need to worry about my good opinion; it is yours, as you’ve always known it has been.”
“I am not a lover of men by preference, any more than you are currently at the mercy of Antony’s whims through choice. I can think of no excuse for all this, except that I am suddenly feeling dissatisfied with a policy of prudence and good judgement. There is a certain immediacy to this situation in which we now find ourselves.”
Brutus laughed. “Do you think Antony would be amused to realise he’s the cause of your sudden declaration?”
Cicero looked up sharply, but found that Brutus was only attempting to tease him, a smile playing over his long face. Brutus reached out a hand to still his movement as he turned away. “I didn’t mean to mock you. Come on, Cicero; don’t let’s spoil a perfectly pleasant day with all this talk of miseries and confessions. Let us part as friends.”
“Yes,” Cicero replied with difficulty. “You are quite right. That is what we are and must remain.”
Brutus held Cicero’s hand in his, marvelling at the warmth of Cicero’s skin, the rapidity of the pulse beneath his fingertips. Cicero’s thumb twitched against his wrist and caressed the skin there with the briefest of touches.
“There are worse things,” Cicero began, in a tone of utmost shame, and then hesitated. He licked at the corner of his lips before pressing on. “There might be a thousand crimes greater than accepting companionship where it is offered. I regret with damning regularity having refused you so rashly when you offered me the same.”
There were two high spots of red on Cicero’s cheeks, and Brutus realised his own breathing was hot and heavy, deafening to his own ears in the sudden silence of the triclinium. A small part of him felt inexplicably saddened but unsurprised that it was finally Cicero and not Cassius who had reached out and touched the solitude which had been grinding away at the pit of his soul those past few months. He raised his hand to curl around the back of Cicero’s neck, his thumb falling into the hollow above his collarbone, where it lay prone until he laid the pad there and stroked the delicate point of the pulse. Cicero’s eyes widened and he made a ragged sound, as though all the air had left his lungs at once.
“I cannot -” he began, his voice tight and low.
“Cicero,” Brutus interrupted. “I’d be glad if we were to be lovers, but I’d prefer it to be an act of honesty, not one of desperation.” He felt warm skin and the thud of a racing pulse beneath his fingers.
“You’re in danger of dishonouring us both with promises we might not be able to keep,” Cicero said hoarsely. “These days so much that ought to go unsaid does not; perhaps this ought to be the exception to that rule.”
At that moment Tiro appeared at the door to the cubiculum. As though released from an enchantment Brutus became composed once more, his hand removed and replaced at his side, the distance between them once again formal and unremarkable.
“I’m sorry,” Tiro said, glancing at Cicero apologetically. “Vennius sends word the ship is ready to sail. He is anxious not to miss the slackwater tide.”
Brutus nodded. “Tell him to expect me.”
Duly dismissed, Tiro retreated to the atrium and instructed the slave to fetch Brutus’ cloak.
Cicero nodded absently, acknowledging that whatever opportunity had briefly presented itself, it was now past.
“I believe that’s what our old friend Gallus might have called a timely reprieve.”
“I’ll say goodbye, then, Cicero.”
Cicero extended his arm for Brutus to grasp in a firm handshake. “Good health and the gods go with you.”
Brutus hesitated, then nodded, and turned to pick up the missive to Cassius on his way out of the door. Cicero watched him go with the same dreadful sense of destiny he had suffered on the night of the Ides of March, reminded again of Calpurnia and her inauspicious dreams. His misery was only momentarily abated when Brutus turned in the doorway, a small smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
“When I return, I wonder if I might accept that long-ago invitation to visit your farm?”
“Of course,” Cicero replied. “Rome will look forward to your return, and so will I.”
Brutus lingered only for a second and then turned on his heel and departed. Cicero watched him go, before calling for Tiro and requesting him to bring the box left by Vennius’ men to the tablinium. When it was brought, he took his customary seat at the table and opened the lid, revealing the chest to be crammed with papyrus, all of it covered with lines of Brutus’ familiar scrawl.
He pulled out one scrap, followed by another, then scroll after ragged scroll, and read all of them, every word. After he had finished he took the box and its contents and carefully and grimly fed each piece of papyrus into the kitchen fire.
*
Non. Sept. 44
Weeks passed, and Cicero tried in vain to put thoughts of Brutus out of his mind in favour of returning to Rome. Atticus was in residence on the Quirinal, though convinced of the prudence of returning to Buthrotum as soon as it could be arranged. He tried to persuade Cicero that it would do him good too to leave the city, playing in turns upon Cicero’s pessimism and his pride by imploring him to retire from politics with some vestige of his former glory remaining intact. To remove himself from Italy then would, Cicero was well aware, mean there would be no prospect of return. Ugly memories of his previous time in exile prevented him from agreeing either to go with Atticus to Buthrotum or to follow Brutus and Cassius to the east.
News of Antony and Octavian’s disagreement and the boy’s departure from the city spread nearly as quickly as the newsreader’s announcement of Octavian’s intention to honour Caesar’s promise of denarii to the people, and Cicero heard it gladly, not least because leading the Senate would prove so much easier with Antony a wounded bear, blundering about and making enemies of his own accord.
Servilia sent a dinner invitation almost immediately. Antony, of course, knew that Cicero visited her, and allowed it, which in some ways made him more nervous than if Antony had prevented it, for Antony did nothing without some malevolent sort of purpose. For now, it made sense to remain on friendly terms with Servilia, so Cicero cast off his doubts and duly replied that he would be delighted to attend. Nevertheless, when he and Tiro left the house on the Argiletum, they kept their faces concealed beneath heavy cowls, and hurried the whole way in case they were being watched.
“Have you heard the good news?” Servilia demanded on their arrival.
She had cast off the sombre, downcast aspect of recent weeks and seemed like a girl again, animated and beautiful once more. She clutched Cicero’s arm and took him further into the house, pressing close, solicitous.
“I have,” he replied.
“This is the beginning of the end for them!”
Cicero nodded and smiled cautiously. “From your lips to the ears of the Gods.”
“A fool like Antony was sure to blunder. They’ll fight among themselves and they’ll destroy each other.”
“I doubt the boy will be more than a nuisance to Antony; he cannot hope to rival him.”
“Caesar did not choose the boy on a whim. He’ll surprise you, I think.”
“We can hope.”
Servilia took Cicero’s hands between her own. “The senate should ask my son to return - the time is ripe.”
“Brutus,” Cicero said, and paused to consider it.
Privately, he quivered to hear it suggested, remembering heated words and things almost promised in the triclinium at Velia, but with the better part of common sense he knew that such promises were foolish at times like these. It would be unwise in the extreme to invite Brutus and Cassius and whatever they had collected of the eastern legions to return to the gates of Rome. He had lived through two civil wars already, and had no desire to ignite a third just yet, inevitable though it may eventually turn out to be. “Return? No, not yet. Not quite yet, I think.”
“When?”
“We must wait and see how things develop.”
“Wait and see?” Servilia’s smile became cold and cynical. “A noble strategy.”
“Not noble, perhaps, but sensible. In any case, tell your son that I - ” Cicero paused and closed his eyes, loathe to betray himself too readily. “No, not I - his friends in Rome look forward to seeing him again at some point in the near future.”
Servilia was regarding him with new understanding, sadly, and as though she regretted her willingness to believe he might help her to bring Brutus home. “I will tell him.”
They sat down to a most subdued dinner.
*
a.d. v Kal. Oct. 44
Brutus and Cassius had travelled far and wide throughout the eastern Provinces by the time the summer turned balmy and began to drift into autumn. Cities along the Ionian coast submitted one by one, with few exceptions. On reaching Lycia, where the coast turned at a right angle towards the Syrian east, they sent word ahead to the Lycian capital to receive them within the week.
The city of Patara lay in the verdant cradle of a fertile valley between the Anatolian mountains, bordered on three sides by vertiginous mountain slopes and on the fourth by the sea. A wide, flat beach stretched the length of the bay, providing sweeping views of the sparkling horizon, the sand shelving gently away and allowing only small boats to land their cargoes. For this reason, the nearby harbour was used as the city’s port, allowing for the disembarkation of passengers and the unloading of goods. Cassius had in mind, however, to make an impressive and symbolic arrival at the city, and so instructed their fleet to moor in the bay, employing a small flotilla of barges to ferry he and Brutus, along with their personal guard, to the beach.
They were met by a delegation from the city’s governing council, headed by the man elected as its leader. The Lyciarch was an imposing figure of a man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a mane of dark, curling hair and a handsome, weathered face. He took Cassius’ arm in a firm handshake.
“Patara welcomes you as liberators of Rome,” he said, in heavily accented Greek. “As Lyciarch, I offer you friendship on behalf of the cities of the Lycian League.”
“We are glad indeed to accept it,” Cassius replied, grasping his arm in greeting. “Our reputation, as always, precedes us. Gaius Cassius Longinus, Pro-consul of Rome, Governor of Syria; and Marcus Junius Brutus, Praetor of Rome.”
“Proitos of Xanthos,” the Lyciarch introduced himself, with a dry glance in Brutus’ direction. “You have recently sacked the city of my birth for refusing to capitulate to your demands for their allegiance. I regret that word of the League’s desire to make allies of you had not reached them in time.”
“We are gratified to be received by you so graciously, given the circumstances,” Cassius conceded, with a subtle bow.
Proitos smiled, and Brutus was struck by the easy confidence in his manner and the sense that he was somehow mocking them. “The cities of Lycia have ever been keen proponents of democracy. Come, let me escort you into the city; I trust it will be acceptable to you to take residence at my home for the duration of your stay?”
Cassius gave his assent and the party made their way up the beach. Brutus was already beginning to regret Cassius’ notion of a grand and impressive entrance to the city, if for nothing more than the discomfort of sand chafing between the thongs of his damp sandals. Litters were offered for the short journey to the city gate, and although Brutus understood the sense in refusing such a display in favour of entering this proud, democratic city on foot, he sorely regretted it. As they passed through the city’s monumental gateway, crowds thronged and craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the famous Tyrannicides. Brutus set his mouth in a hard, thin line and wished even more fervently for the luxury of the litter, so that he might pull the curtains tightly closed.
Patara was known best in Rome for its agricultural productivity, and Brutus had on previous visits been taken to view vast groves of olives, fields of spelt wheat, and row upon row of pomegranate trees heavy with fruit. In the town there was, however, a smell in the air of spices, fish and effluent, the familiar odour of any coastal city. It overpowered the delicate scent of the nearby countryside and put Brutus in mind of the great, heaving harbours of the Piraeus at Athens, where sailors of every race drank and gambled and swore, and humanity had never seemed so far removed from the great achievements of the Athenians in the time of Plato.
Tavernas and workshops ceased their activity to watch the procession wend its way past, and soon the column of soldiers had its own advance guard of children, who laughed and play-acted soldiery, announcing their arrival with whoops and shrieks of laughter. Brutus took note that the majority of buildings on either side of the wide streets were of Hellenistic design, and remembered his history and the story of the capitulation of Lycia to Alexander three centuries earlier. He wondered whether Alexander’s men had also been heralded into the city as heroes, with he and Hephaestion garlanded and paraded side-by-side through the streets. Cassius, he knew, would have his mind firmly on the matter at hand, and would not be amused.
Brutus found it impossible to summon enthusiasm for the hours of meetings and diplomacy which lay ahead, though courtesy demanded that he and Cassius present themselves together at the Bouleuterion, to face the emissaries of the cities of the Lycian League. The meeting, thankfully, was swift; Cassius intended to discuss troop numbers and his beloved supply lines with members of the council the following day and saw no reason to prolong the preliminary negotiations. Instead, he and Brutus were led once again through the streets to the city’s theatre, where they were promised a play written in their honour by Lycia’s most celebrated dramatist. Brutus had never heard of the man, but when he murmured as much to Cassius as they climbed the theatre’s steep steps, Cassius pretended not to have heard him.
“We have arranged an evening’s entertainment in honour of our distinguished guests,” announced Proitos, extending his hand towards the two of them in a gesture of benevolent hospitality. “The city of Patara wishes to honour its patrons.”
Cassius nodded gracefully and Brutus looked on with resignation, unable to think of any manner in which he would less like to spend the evening.
The city’s theatre was modest - it seated greater numbers than theatres to be found in most provincial towns in southern Italy, but far fewer than Pompey’s great theatre in Rome. It had been constructed in the Greek tradition - the view of the countryside from the auditorium was uninterrupted, as at Epidavros, which Brutus had visited as a boy - and as yet no skene had been constructed behind the orchestra. A solitary line of olive trees hid the rest of the city from view to pleasant effect, and Brutus found, grudgingly, that to be seated thus was a more relaxing prospect than he had expected.
They had been settled at the centre of the top row of the first tier of seats, in the middle of a small group of Lycian dignitaries. Six thousand of the city’s inhabitants had filled the theatre to capacity and greeted their arrival with a great racket of cheering and applause. Now, as the prologue of the play unfolded before them on the stage and the chorus took up places in the orchestra, people in the lower rows craned their necks to catch a glimpse of Brutus and Cassius, seated far above them and obscured from view by a row of Lycian guards.
The play itself was familiar in theme, the same story having been recited or performed at nearly every city on their tour of the Greek east. It was the story of the deliverance of Athens from tyranny in the days before its democratic reforms. The story was as familiar to most Romans as that of Romulus and Remus and the she-wolf, and anyone who had spent time in Athens had seen the great statues of the Tyrannicides set up in the Agora as a symbol of the city’s reverence for democracy; for this occasion the story had been expunged of its usual themes of pederasty and homoerotic jealousy, and instead made the dishonouring of Harmodius’ virgin sister the catalyst for the dramatic events.
The prologue was set at the funeral oration of Pisistratus, Athens’ benevolent tyrant, and detailed his many great acts, from the beginning of the construction of the great temple to Zeus Olympieios to the tapping of the Nine Springs, and recalled his namesake who accompanied Telemachus on the search for his father in the Odyssey. Next, the malevolent Hippias and Hyparchus, Pisistratus’ ill-favoured sons, made their appearance and declared themselves kings; they were dressed in purple togas with wreaths of laurel on their heads and may as well have worn placards bearing Caesar’s name. The first act culminated in the Kings’ contrivance to invite Harmodius’ sister to lead the sacred Panathenaic procession before refuting her virginity and driving her to suicide.
By this point the audience below were howling and whistling in their hatred for the tyrants. When Harmodius and Aristogeiton - the heroes - made their appearances, they were dressed in an approximation of the toga virilis and carried themselves with such an exaggerated air of wounded dignity that Brutus snorted with laughter, only to earn himself a glare from Cassius and a pointed glance at his much-refilled wine cup. The heroes debated the indignity of Hippias’ tyranny and his treatment of Harmodius’ virtuous sister, and fixed upon the plan to commit his murder, which honour and the gods demanded.
Filled with a sudden, rising sense of distaste, Brutus cast about distractedly for any sign of the boy bearing the wine, and alighted on a tall, slim figure standing in the shadow of the honour guard. He raised his cup and beckoned and the boy came nearer, cradling a krater of wine in long, slim, feminine hands. It was his eyes which drew Brutus’ attention; they were the shape of almonds and painted in dark kohl, framed by long lashes which swept down in a false display of modesty as he approached and bowed. He leaned closer to fill Brutus’ cup and Brutus smelled olibanum and heavily perfumed beeswax upon the boy’s skin, which was bronzed and far darker than that of the native Lycians, and swelled ripely over the curve of the boy’s arse. The boy had softly bowed full lips, which parted to display a flash of his tongue as he wetted them, and he glanced up at Brutus coyly from beneath the dark sweep of his lashes.
“My boy from Parthia,” Proitos, seated on Brutus’ left, leaned over to murmur. Brutus glanced at him, surprised, and found that Proitos was regarding him with amusement. “He’s a eunuch. I brought him from Pacorus’ court on my last visit to Ecbatana, and he tells me his people are descended from the great Xerxes; it amused me to conquer him. I find he is pleasant company, and he takes as much pride as I do in offering our guests every hospitality.”
The boy finished pouring and shot Brutus another beguiling look before making his way back to his place beside the guards. There was no way of telling how old he was, from his slim hips and the dark hair cropped short above his pierced ears. Brutus shifted on his cushion and turned his attention back to the performance.
On the stage the conspirators stood concealed while Hippias taunted the Chorus with his disregard for the gods, mocking Harmodius’ sister’s shame at her tainted honour. As his speech reached its climax, the conspirators leapt into view and raised daggers to the heavens, crying out in unison that their actions would bring about an end to insidious tyranny. Hippias fell to the ground under the force of their blows while the audience howled and applauded, until a hush fell and Harmodius delivered one final, fatal blow. Brutus cast a glance at Cassius and saw that he held a hand to his mouth, as though nauseated.
While the conspirators were crowned with laurel wreaths and taken from the stage on thrones borne by the Chorus, Proitos turned to his guests with pride and announced that there would now be a dinner in their honour at his own house. Cassius, ever the statesman, recovered enough to smile with graceful ease and engage Proitos in conversation as the party left the theatre, and Brutus could do nothing but follow in their wake.
*
The next morning, Brutus woke in an unfamiliar bed, uncomfortably warm and with damp silk sheets twisted around his hips. With his head buried in the pillow he turned just enough to see that it was daylight, and to regret the vivid, pounding pain behind his eyes. The room was thankfully gloomy, but it smelt of sweat and sex; a heavy, sordid base-note to the cloying scent of olibanum and beeswax.
“Brutus.”
Holding a hand to his head, he raised himself enough to see that Cassius was standing beside the bed with an expression of something akin to abject unhappiness upon his face. He met Brutus’ eyes and frowned, schooling his features into a familiar, withering look of disappointment.
“Word from Decimus,” he said quietly, steadfastly averting his eyes from the lithe body entangled beside Brutus in the bedsheets. “Dolabella has acted rashly and seems to be in need of subtle persuasion to relinquish his claim on Syria. We should leave for Antiochia at once.”
Brutus nodded blearily, too tired and with his head swimming too vigorously to protest. “Yes.”
Cassius’ eyes at last flickered sideways and for a second an ugly grimace settled across his face. “There is time before we leave for you to recover at least some of your senses.”
Brutus nodded, feeling ashamed, and waited for Cassius to leave before he stumbled out of bed and summoned one of Proitos’ slaves to help him dress. The eunuch courteously continued to feign sleep and Brutus gratefully slipped out of the room without a word.
Cassius remained distant for the rest of the day, and Brutus had neither the will nor the energy to coax him into conversation. They rode at opposite ends of the marching column until sunset, at which point Cassius departed for a tour of the camp in the company of the centurion of one of the Syrian legions and Brutus was left to eat his evening meal alone.
***
Continue: Chapter 5