Julius Caesar

Calphurnia!

Quiet! Caesar’s talking.

Calphurnia!

I’m here, my lord.

Stand right in Antonius’ path when he runs the race. Antonius!

Yes, Caesar?

Antonius, after you take off, don’t forget to touch Calphurnia, because our wise elders say that if you touch an infertile woman during this holy race, she’ll be freed from the curse of sterility.

I’ll remember. When Caesar says “do this,” it is done.

Continue, then, and don’t forget to perform all of the rituals.

Caesar!

Who’s calling me?

Quiet, everyone! Quiet!

Who in the crowd is calling me? I hear a voice more piercing than the music of these trumpets calling “Caesar!” Speak. Caesar is listening.

Beware of March 15th.

Who’s that?

A soothsayer tells you to beware of March 15th.

Bring him in front of me. Let me see his face.

You, fellow, step out of the crowd. This is Caesar you’re looking at.

What do you have to say to me now? Speak once again.

Beware of March 15th.

He’s insane. Let’s leave him. Let’s move.

Are you going to watch the race?

Not me.

Please, come.

I don’t like sports. I’m not competitive like Antony. But don’t let me keep you from going, Cassius. I’ll go my own way.

Brutus, I’ve been watching you lately. You seem less good-natured and affectionate toward me than usual. You’ve been stubborn and unfamiliar with me, your friend who loves you.

Cassius, don’t take it badly. If I seem guarded, it’s only because I’m uneasy with myself. Lately I’ve been overwhelmed with private thoughts and inner conflicts, which have affected my behavior. But this shouldn’t trouble my good friends—and I consider you a good friend, Cassius. Don’t think anything more about my distraction than that poor Brutus, who is at war with himself, forgets to show affection to others.

Brutus, I misunderstood your feelings, and therefore kept to myself certain thoughts I might have shared. Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face?

No, Cassius. The eye can’t see itself, except by reflection in other surfaces.

That’s true. And it’s too bad, Brutus, that you don’t have any mirrors that could display your hidden excellence to yourself. I’ve heard many of the noblest Romans—next to immortal Caesar—speaking of you, complaining of the tyranny of today’s government, and wishing that your eyes were working better.

What dangers are you trying to lead me into, Cassius, that you want me to look inside myself for something that’s not there?

I’ll tell you, good Brutus. And since you know you can see yourself best by reflection, I’ll be your mirror and show you, without exaggeration, things inside you that you can’t see. And don’t be suspicious of me, noble Brutus. If I were your average fool, or if I made my feelings for you worthless by making the same promises of friendship to everybody, or if you’d seen me first flattering men, hugging them tightly, and later slandering them behind their backs, or if you hear that I drunkenly declare friendship at banquets with all the rabble, only then, of course, go ahead and assume I’m dangerous.

Why are they shouting? I’m afraid the people have made Caesar their king.

Really, are you afraid of that? Then I have to assume you don’t want him to be king.

I don’t, Cassius, though I love Caesar very much. But why do you keep me here so long? What do you want to tell me? If it’s for the good of all Romans, I’d do it even if it meant my death. Let the gods give me good luck only as long as I love honor more than I fear death.

I know this quality in you, Brutus—it’s as familiar to me as your face. Indeed, honor is what I want to talk to you about. I don’t know what you and other men think of this life, but as for me, I’d rather not live at all than live to worship a man as ordinary as myself. I was born as free as Caesar. So were you. We both have eaten as well, and we can both endure the cold winter as well as he. Once, on a cold and windy day, when the river Tiber was crashing against its banks, Caesar said to me, “Cassius, I dare you to jump into this rough water with me and swim to that point there.” As soon as he spoke, though I was fully dressed, I plunged in and called for him to follow. And he did. The water roared, and we fought against it with vigorous arms. And, thanks to our fierce competitiveness, we made progress. But before we reached the end point, Caesar cried, “Help me, Cassius, or I will sink!” And just as Aeneas, the hero who founded Rome, emerged from the fires of Troy with his elderly father Anchises on his shoulder, so I emerged from the Tiber carrying the tired Caesar. And this is the man who has now become a god, and I’m a wretched creature who must bow down if Caesar so much as carelessly nods my way. In Spain, Caesar had a fever, and it made him shake. It’s true, this so-called “god”—he shook. His cowardly lips turned white, and the same eye whose gaze terrifies the world lost its gleam. I heard him groan—yes, I did—and the same tongue that ordered the Romans to obey him and transcribe his speeches in their books cried, “Give me some water, Titinius,” like a sick girl. It astounds me that such a weak man could beat the whole world and carry the trophy of victory alone.

More shouting! I think this applause is for some new honors awarded to Caesar.

Why, Caesar straddles the narrow world like a giant, and we petty men walk under his huge legs and look forward only to dying dishonorably, as slaves. Men can be masters of their fate. It is not destiny’s fault, but our own faults, that we’re slaves. “Brutus” and “Caesar.” What’s so special about “Caesar”? Why should that name be proclaimed more than yours? Write them together—yours is just as good a name. Pronounce them—it is just as nice to say. Weigh them—it’s just as heavy. Cast spells with them, and “Brutus” will call up a ghost as well as “Caesar.” Now, in the name of all the gods, I ask you what food does Caesar eat that has made him grow so great? Our era should be ashamed! Rome has lost the ability to raise noble men! When was there ever an age, since the beginning of time, that didn’t feature more than one famous man? Until now, no one could say that only one man mattered in all of vast Rome. Now, though, in all of Rome, there’s room for only one man. You and I have heard our fathers talk of another Brutus—your ancestor—who would’ve let the devil himself reign in his Roman Republic before he let a king rule.

I have no doubt that you love me. I’m beginning to understand what you want me to do. What I think about this, and about what’s happening here in Rome, I’ll tell you later. For now, don’t try to persuade me anymore—I ask you as a friend. I’ll think over what you’ve said, I’ll listen patiently to whatever else you have to say, and I’ll find a good time for us to discuss further such weighty matters. Until then, my noble friend, think about this: I’d rather be a poor villager than call myself a citizen of Rome under the hard conditions that this time is likely to put us through.

I’m glad that my weak words have provoked even this small show of protest from you.

The games are done and Caesar is returning.

As they pass by, grab Casca by the sleeve, and he’ll tell you if anything important happened today—in his usual sour way.

I’ll do so. But look, Cassius, Caesar looks angry and everyone else looks as if they’ve been scolded. Calphurnia’s face is pale, and Cicero’s eyes are as red and fiery as they get when senators are arguing with him at the Capitol.

Casca will tell us what’s the matter.

Antonio!

Caesar?

(speaking so that only ANTONY can hear) I want the men around me to be fat, healthy-looking men who sleep at night. That Cassius over there has a lean and hungry look. He thinks too much. Men like him are dangerous.

(speaking so that only CAESAR can hear) Don’t be afraid of him, Caesar. He isn’t dangerous. He’s a noble Roman with a good disposition.

(speaking so that only ANTONY can hear) I wish he were fatter! But I’m not afraid of him. And yet, if I were capable of fearing anyone, Cassius would be the first man I’d avoid. He reads a lot, he’s a keen observer, and he sees the hidden motives in what men do. He doesn’t like plays the way you do, Antony. He doesn’t listen to music. He rarely smiles, and when he does smile, he does so in a self-mocking way, as if he scorns himself for smiling at all. Men like him will never be comfortable while someone ranks higher than themselves, and therefore they’re very dangerous. I’m telling you what should be feared, not what I fear—because after all, I am Caesar. Come over to my right side, because this ear is deaf, and tell me what you really think of Cassius.

(to BRUTUS) You tugged on my cloak. Do you want to speak with me?

Yes, Casca. Tell us what happened today that put Caesar in such a serious mood.

But you were with him, weren’t you?

If I were, I wouldn’t need to ask you what happened.

A crown was offered to him, and he pushed it away with the back of his hand, like this—and then the people started shouting.

What was the second noise for?

The same thing.

They shouted three times. What was the last cry for?

For the same thing.

The crown was offered to him three times?

Yes, indeed, it was, and he pushed it away three times, each time more gently than the last; and at each refusal my countrymen shouted.

Who offered him the crown?

Antony.

Tell us how it happened, noble Casca.

I can’t explain it. It was all silly and so I paid no attention. I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown—though it wasn’t a real crown, just a small circlet—and, as I told you, he refused it once—though in my opinion he would’ve liked to have it. Then Antony offered it to him again, and he refused it again (though, in my opinion, he was reluctant to take his hand off it). Then Antony offered it the third time. He refused it the third time, and as he refused it the commoners hooted and clapped their chapped hands, and threw up their sweaty hats, and let loose such a great deal of stinking breath because Caesar refused the crown that it nearly choked Caesar, because he fainted and fell down. As for myself, I didn’t dare laugh, for fear of opening my lips and inhaling the stinking air.

But wait a minute, please. Did you say Caesar fainted?

He fell down in the marketplace and foamed at the mouth and was speechless.

That’s very likely. He has epilepsy, a disease where you fall down.

No, Caesar doesn’t have epilepsy. You and I, and honest Casca, we have epilepsy—we’ve fallen.

I don’t know what you mean by that, but I’m sure Caesar fell down. The rabble applauded and hissed him according to whether he pleased them or displeased them, just like they do to actors in the theater. If they didn’t, I’m a liar.

What did he say when he regained consciousness?

Indeed, before he fell down, when he realized the commoners were glad he refused the crown, he pulled open his robe and offered them his throat to cut. If I’d been a common laborer and hadn’t taken him up on his offer, to hell with me. And so he fainted. When he regained consciousness again, he said that if he’d done or said anything wrong, he wanted them to know that it was all because of his sickness. Three or four women near me cried, “Alas, good soul!” and forgave him with all their hearts. But never mind them—if Caesar had stabbed their mothers, they would’ve forgiven him.

And after that he came back here looking so serious?

Yes.

Did Cicero say anything?

Yes, he said something in Greek.

What did he say?

If I told you I understood Greek, I’d be lying. But those who understood him smiled at one another and shook their heads. As for myself, it was Greek to me. I have more news too. Murellus and Flavius have been punished for pulling scarves off statues of Caesar. There you go. There was even more foolishness, if I could only remember it.

Will you have dinner with me tonight, Casca?

No, I have a commitment.

Will you dine with me tomorrow?

Yes, if I’m still alive, and you’re still sane, and your dinner is worth eating.

Good. I’ll expect you.

Do so. Farewell to you both.

What a stupid man he’s become! He was so sharp when he was in school.

He’s still sharp when it comes to carrying out a bold or noble enterprise, though he puts on this show of stupidity. He speaks roughly, but what he says is smart, and his roughness makes other people enjoy listening to him.

You’re right, that’s how it is. I’ll leave you for now. If you’d like to talk tomorrow, I’ll come to your home. Or, if you don’t mind, come to my home, and I’ll wait for you.

I’ll do so. Until then, think about the well-being of Rome.

Well, Brutus, you’re noble. Yet I see that your honorable character can be bent from its usual shape, which proves that good men should stick only to the company of other good men, because who is so firm that he can’t be seduced? Caesar resents me, but he loves Brutus. If I were Brutus now and Brutus were me, I wouldn’t have let him influence me. Tonight I’ll throw through his window a few letters in different handwriting—as if they came from several citizens—all testifying to the great respect Romans have for Brutus, and all alluding to Caesar’s unseemly ambition. And after this, let Caesar brace himself, for we’ll either dethrone him or suffer even worse than now.