The streets of Rome were filled once more with restless crowds, although perhaps mobs would be a better word. Until Antony’s funeral speech, the people had been frightened by what had happened, uncertain what to believe or who to support. But Antony had made things easy. Now they were sure Caesar had been a hero, and that the plotters should pay dearly for what they’d done.
The mobs knew where Brutus and Cassius and the others lived, and by the evening their houses were burning, the flames lighting the sky over the city. Most of the plotters managed to escape, fleeing with little more than the clothes they wore, but some were caught and torn limb from limb. One man – the poet Cinna – was unlucky enough to die because he had the same name as a plotter.
Mark Antony stood at the window of his grand villa watching the blood-red sky. Lying on couches behind him were Octavius and Lepidus, a man older than the other two, and much richer as well. Lepidus wore a toga, but Antony had changed into his military uniform, his breastplate reflecting the distant fires, his short sword – the gladius of the legions – in a scabbard at his side. Octavius was in uniform, too, but he was still covered in the dust and dirt of his journey.
Antony turned and walked over to a low table. A heap of papyrus rolls stood on it, each one covered with a long list of names. None of the three men had enough supporters to claim power alone now Caesar was gone, so they had decided to join forces. They had begun by working out who they could count on and, more importantly, who would be against them. ‘These then shall die,’ said Antony, picking up one of the rolls. ‘Their names are all marked.’
‘Your brother, too, Lepidus,’ said Octavius. Caesar’s heir was very young, barely a grown man, and quite slender. But he had a strong face with a faint resemblance to Caesar, and an air of certainty about him. ‘Do you agree?’
Lepidus shrugged. ‘So long as Antony’s nephew Publius dies, too.’
‘That’s all right by me,’ said Antony. ‘Look, I’ve damned him with a cross against his name. Listen, Lepidus, I think you should go to Caesar’s house and dig out a copy of his will. We need to look at it and make sure we don’t give away too much of his fortune in legacies, whatever he might have wanted…’
Octavius smiled to himself. He knew Mark Antony had made a great show of telling the people at Caesar’s funeral how generous Caesar had been in his will, and that many would benefit from it. But that had just been to keep the fools in the streets on their side. He and Antony weren’t stupid enough to give away Caesar’s money when they needed all they could get to pay for the coming war.
‘Er, good idea!’ said Lepidus, hurrying off.
Antony scowled after him. ‘The man’s a moron, only fit to be sent on errands,’ he muttered. ‘It seems madness to divide up the world and give someone like him a third of it!’
‘If that’s what you think, why did you let him add names to the lists of who should die?’ Octavius said. His voice was soft, but his eyes were hard.
‘Trust me on this, Octavius,’ said Antony. ‘I’m older than you, so I know what I’m doing. We’ll use Lepidus to do our dirty work for the time being, and then as soon as he’s no longer useful, we’ll cut him loose. But we have more important things to discuss. Brutus and Cassius are putting together an army – we need to do the same as soon as possible, and to make some plans.’
‘Quite right,’ said Octavius, jumping to his feet. ‘This is a dangerous time, and we have many enemies. Even some of our allies might be false friends.’
Things moved quickly over the next few weeks. Brutus and Cassius had crossed the Adriatic Sea to Illyria, and most of the legions in the eastern part of the Empire joined them. But Mark Antony and Octavius raised an army from Caesar’s old legions in Italy and the other western provinces. And soon both armies were marching down the long, straight Roman roads, seeking out each other like two red-crested, many-legged monsters of sharp steel and soft flesh.
Brutus and Cassius split up at one point, Cassius going off to recruit more troops, Brutus setting up a fortified camp near the coast. As was their habit, the legionaries dug a deep ditch around the camp and used the soil to build a square rampart, adding a wall of sharpened stakes on top. Then they put up their tents in straight rows, with a large tent for Brutus and his officers in the centre.
It was a warm summer’s day when Cassius returned, his new recruits behind him on the road. A messenger rode ahead to let Brutus know Cassius was coming, a certain Lucilius, a man who had served Brutus for many years.
‘Well then, Lucilius,’ said Brutus, emerging from his tent. The two soldiers guarding it, one on either side of the flap, snapped to attention. Brutus was in full armour, sunshine glinting off his breastplate. ‘Is Cassius near at last?’
‘He is, and sends you his greetings,’ said Lucilius, jumping off his horse.
‘A word with you, Lucilius,’ Brutus said quietly, drawing the messenger away from the guards. ‘Now tell me honestly, how did Cassius treat you?’
‘Well enough,’ said Lucilius. ‘But he wasn’t as friendly as he used to be.’
‘Ah, I thought so,’ said Brutus. ‘His feelings towards me are cooling.’
Just then they heard the sound of horses and men marching, their armour and weapons chinking. Cassius rode up and dismounted, his recruits behind him.
‘I bid you welcome, Cassius!’ said Brutus, raising a hand in greeting.
‘Most noble brother, you have done me wrong!’ Cassius shouted. He stamped right up to Brutus and stood before him, a scowl on his beaky Roman face.
‘But I don’t understand…’ murmured Brutus, confused. Cassius opened his mouth to say something else, but Brutus stopped him before he could get going. ‘Keep your voice down,’ he whispered. ‘We really shouldn’t argue in front of the men. Come into my tent and tell me what’s upset you so much.’
Cassius agreed to do as Brutus asked, but it was clear he was very angry. The tent was plainly furnished – it contained a couch for Brutus to sleep on, a chest for his clothes, a stand for his armour, a table covered in lists and maps. The two men stood facing each other. ‘You condemned one of my men, Lucius Pella, for supposedly taking bribes,’ Cassius snarled. ‘And then you simply chose to ignore my letter to you saying that you should let him off.’
‘You should never have written it,’ snapped Brutus. ‘He was guilty and that’s all there is to it. But then it seems you’ve been taking a few bribes yourself.’
‘How … how dare you!’ spluttered Cassius, his face red. ‘If anyone else had accused me of such a thing, those would be the last words they ever spoke!’
‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ said Brutus. ‘Don’t you remember why we acted as we did on the Ides of March? We killed Caesar for the sake of a just cause, for the good of Rome. Are we going to contaminate ourselves now with bribes? I’d rather be a dog and howl at the moon than be a wretch like that.’
‘Take care, Brutus!’ Cassius yelled in the other man’s face, spit flying from his lips. ‘You don’t want to make me do something I’ll regret, do you?’
‘You’ve already done things you should be sorry for, Cassius,’ hissed Brutus, not giving any ground. ‘And you don’t frighten me, however much you yell. It’s all a lot of hot air. And what about that gold I asked you for? Unlike you, I’m not willing to extract money from the local peasants by force, but I still have to pay my legions. I wrote to you for help, and you turned me down!’
They wrangled on, shouting and yelling, giving vent to their frustration and worries, until finally Cassius sank onto the couch in despair. ‘I wish Antony and Octavius were here to take their revenge on me now,’ he moaned, holding his head in his hands. ‘I’m tired of this world, of being told what to do and having my faults thrown in my face.’ He pulled a dagger from a scabbard on his belt and held the hilt out to Brutus. ‘Kill me as you did Caesar,’ he moaned. ‘For even when you hated him, you loved him better than you have loved me…’
‘Put your dagger away, Cassius,’ said Brutus, shaking his head and sighing. ‘Your anger always goes as quickly as it comes. I was wrong to argue, too.’
Cassius stood up and they hugged, slapping each other’s backs. One of the guards looked in through the flap and nervously asked if they were all right.
‘We’re fine,’ Brutus said. ‘Have some wine brought in, and ask Messala to come and see us, will you?’ The guard nodded and let the tent flap fall again. But now it was Brutus’ turn to sit on the couch, his head in his hands. ‘Oh, Cassius, I am sick with grief,’ he murmured. ‘My wife Portia is dead.’
‘I’m sorry to hear such bad news,’ said Cassius. ‘Had she been ill?’
‘No, I left her alone in Rome, and the growing power of Octavius and Mark Antony frightened her,’ said Brutus. ‘She lost her mind … and killed herself.’
Cassius put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, and just then Brutus’ servant Lucius came in with a jug of wine, and Messala behind him. Messala was a grizzled old soldier, and chief of staff to the army of the plotters. Lucius poured wine into cups for the three men, then Brutus asked the servant to leave them.
‘Our intelligence reports tell me our enemies are making for the town of Philippi, Messala,’ said Brutus. ‘Is that right? It isn’t very far from here.’
‘That seems to be their plan,’ growled Messala. ‘We’ve also heard that Octavius and Antony have had a hundred senators put to death in Rome.’
‘As many as that?’ said Brutus. ‘I’d heard it was only seventy, including Cicero… Anyway, I think we should march on Philippi and confront them.’
‘Oh no, I don’t agree,’ said Cassius, horrified. ‘We should let our enemies tire themselves out trying to find us, while we keep rested and stay nimble.’
Brutus shook his head once more, over-ruling him. ‘Their army is still growing, and ours won’t get any bigger. Besides, we’re ready to fight now. If you leap into the flood when the tide is going your way, it will take you to glory. But if you miss that moment, all that happens is you drown.’
As usual, Cassius gave in, defeated by Brutus’ firmness and eloquence, and it was decided that the army should set off at first light. Night had already fallen, and now Cassius and Messala shook hands with Brutus and left. Brutus made ready to sleep, asking Lucius to sing him a song to calm his racing mind.
Lucius sat at the end of the couch, playing his lyre and singing in a quiet voice. But he fell asleep first. Brutus smiled, then picked up a roll of papyrus and started reading. After a while, he looked up – and his blood ran cold.
The ghost of Caesar was standing over him, its bloody wounds gaping.
‘Why … why have you come?’ whispered Brutus, his heart thumping.
‘To tell you that you’ll see me at Philippi,’ the ghost murmured, its face unforgiving. Brutus opened his mouth to say something else, but it was too late. The ghost vanished, the tent flapping wildly as if there were a storm outside.
Brutus shook his head, trying to get the image out of his mind.