Eighteen

“But Flavius doesn’t only want to cast the citizens of Rome out of the streets. He also wants to know why he’s doing it. To this end, he asks one of the craftsmen: ‘Speak, what trade art thou?’ ‘Why, sir, a carpenter,’ the man answers. Marullus, the other tribune, a bit more limited than Flavius, joins in on the harassment. ‘Where is thy leather apron and thy rule?’ he chides the carpenter. He turns to someone else: ‘You, sir, what trade are you?’ But this time it’s not so simple. This second citizen responds evasively. He doesn’t quite specify his occupation. He gives the tribune to understand that he repairs things, that he’s a repairer. He does throw in a few key words, like mender of bad soles. But Marullus doesn’t seem to want to get it; he refuses. He’s not one for hermeneutics, not even the simplest kind. He gets angry and demands the man speak clearly. This man will not be intimidated, though. He takes it all with a grain of salt, with humour, even: he tells the tribune not to be out of sorts on his account, although, he says, if he does get bent out of shape, then he can surely fix him.

“There is a psychic distance then (upset versus cheerfulness) that threatens to deteriorate into linguistic rift (literality versus playful popular obliteration). But in that moment the State finds the way: Flavius, your Flavius, our Flavius. More phlegmatic, less aggressive, our tribune understands everything: ‘Thou art a cobbler, art thou?’ he asks. Exactly, complete decryption. So he moves on. ‘But wherefore art not in thy shop today? Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?’ he asks. ‘Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work,’ responds the cobbler. Yet again he privileges business, profitability. Citizens mutate into merchants in pursuit of economic gains. For a moment, Flavius’ attitude grows benign, and the road to open conversation appears to be clear.

“But it’s only a flicker, an almost imperceptible relaxation of the muscles of his forehead. Because immediately the cobbler confesses: ‘But indeed, sir, we make holiday to see Caesar and to rejoice in his triumph.’ The people will celebrate their Caesar. The tribunes will not. The tribunes hold this Caesar in contempt. They venerate Pompey yet: their assassinated leader. More distance now. ‘And do you now strew flowers in his way that comes in triumph over Pompey’s blood?’ asks Marullus, reproaching the citizens their latest loyalty.

“Up until this point, everything is going as we might expect. But suddenly, implausibly, Marullus and Flavius convince the craftsmen to return to their homes, to apologise to the gods, to shed tears in the Tiber for Pompey and to abjure the cause of Julius. And they (‘See whe’er their basest mettle be not moved,’ as Flavius puts it) all exit. They empty the streets.”