Julius Caesar

Lucius, are you there? I can’t tell by the position of the stars how near it is to daybreak—Lucius, are you there? I wish I had that weakness, to sleep too soundly. Come on, Lucius! Wake up, I say! Lucius!

Did you call me, my lord?

Put a candle in my study, Lucius. Call me when it’s lit.

I will, my lord.

The only way is to kill Caesar. I have no personal reason to strike at him—only the best interest of the people. He wants to be crowned. The question is, how would being king change him? Evil can come from good, just as poisonous snakes tend to come out into the open on bright sunny days—which means we have to walk carefully. If we crown him, I have to admit we’d be giving him the power to do damage. Rulers abuse their power when they separate it from compassion. To be honest, I’ve never known Caesar to let his emotions get the better of his reason. But everyone knows that an ambitious young man uses humility to advance himself, but when he reaches the top, he turns his back on his supporters and reaches for the skies while scorning those who helped him get where he is. Caesar might act like that. Therefore, in case he does, we must hold him back. And since our quarrel is with his future behavior, not what he does now, I must frame the argument like this: if his position is furthered, his character will fulfill these predictions. And therefore we should liken him to a serpent’s egg—once it has hatched, it becomes dangerous, like all serpents. Thus we must kill him while he’s still in the shell.

The candle is burning in your study, sir. While I was looking for a flint to light it, I found this paper on the window, sealed up like this, and I’m sure it wasn’t there when I went to bed. (he gives BRUTUS the letter)

Go back to bed. It isn’t daybreak yet. Is tomorrow the 15th of March, boy?

I don’t know, sir.

Check the calendar and come tell me.

I will, sir.

The meteors whizzing in the sky are so bright that I can read by them. (he opens the letter and reads) “Brutus, you’re sleeping. Wake up and look at yourself. Is Rome going to … etc. Speak, strike, fix the wrongs!” “Brutus, you’re sleeping. Wake up.” I’ve noticed many such calls to action left where I would find them. “Is Rome going to … etc.” What does this mean? Will Rome submit to one man’s power? My ancestors drove Tarquin from the streets of Rome when he was pronounced a king. “Speak, strike, fix it!” Is this asking me to speak and strike? Oh, Rome, I promise you, if you’re meant to receive justice, you’ll receive it by my hand!

Sir, fifteen days of March have gone by.

Good. Go to the gate. Somebody’s knocking.

I haven’t slept since Cassius first began to turn me against Caesar. From the time when you decide to do something terrible to the moment you do it, everything feels unreal, like a horrible dream. The unconscious and the body work together and rebel against the conscious mind.

Sir, it’s your brother-in-law Cassius at the door. He wants to see you.

Is he alone?

No, sir. There are others with him.

Do you know them?

No, sir, their hats are pulled down over their ears and their faces are half buried under their cloaks, so there’s no way to tell who they are.

Let them in.

It’s the faction that wants to kill Caesar. Oh, conspiracy, are you ashamed to show your face even at night, when evil things are most free? If so, when it’s day, where are you going to find a cave dark enough to hide your monstrous face? No, don’t bother to find a cave, conspiracy. Instead, hide your true face behind smiles and friendliness. If you went ahead and exposed your true face, Hell itself wouldn’t be dark enough to keep you from being found and stopped.

I’m afraid we’re intruding too boldly on your sleep time. Good morning, Brutus. Are we bothering you?

I was awake. I’ve been up all night. Do I know these men who are with you?

Yes, every one of them. There isn’t one of them who doesn’t admire you, and each one of them wishes you had as high an opinion of yourself as every noble Roman has of you. This is Trebonius.

He’s welcome here.

This is Decius Brutus.

He’s welcome too.

This is Casca. This is Cinna. And this is Metellus Cimber.

They’re all welcome. What worries have kept you awake tonight?

Can I have a word with you?

Here’s the east. Won’t the dawn come from here?

No.

Excuse me, sir, it will. These gray lines that lace the clouds are the beginnings of the dawn.

You’re both wrong. (pointing his sword) Here, where I point my sword, the sun rises. It’s quite near the south, since it’s still winter. About two months from now, the dawn will break further toward the north, and due east is where the Capitol stands, here.

(coming forward with CASSIUS) Give me your hands, all of you, one by one. (he shakes their hands)

And let us swear to our resolution.

No, let’s not swear an oath. If the sad faces of our fellow men, the suffering of our own souls, and the corruption of the present time aren’t enough to motivate us, let’s break it off now and each of us go back to bed. Then we can let this ambitious tyrant continue unchallenged until each of us is killed at his whim. But if we have reasons that are strong enough to ignite cowards into action and to make weak women brave—and I think we do—then, countrymen, what else could we possibly need to spur us to action? What bond do we need other than that of discreet Romans who have said what they’re going to do and won’t back down? And what oath do we need other than that we honest men have told each other that this will happen or we will die trying? Swearing is for priests, cowards, overly cautious men, feeble old people, and those long-suffering weaklings who welcome abuse. Only men whom you wouldn’t trust anyway would swear oaths, and for the worst reasons. Don’t spoil the justness and virtue of our endeavor nor weaken our own irrepressible spirits by thinking that we need a binding oath, when the blood that every noble Roman contains within him would be proven bastard’s blood if he broke the smallest part of any promise he had made.

But what about Cicero? Should we see what he thinks? I think he will stand strong with us.

Let’s not leave him out.

No, by no means.

Yes, we should get his support, for his mature presence will make others think well of us and speak out in support of our actions. They’ll assume that Cicero, with his sound judgment, ordered the actions. His dignified maturity will distract attention from our youth and wildness.

No, don’t even mention him. We shouldn’t tell him about our plans. He’ll never follow anything that other men have started.

Then leave him out.

Indeed, he’s not right for this.

But should we only go after Caesar? No one else?

Good point, Decius. I don’t think it would be wise to let Mark Antony, whom Caesar is so fond of, outlive Caesar. We’d find that he was a dangerous plotter. And as you know, his connections, if he put them to good use, might be enough to hurt us all. To prevent this, Mark Antony should die along with Caesar.

Our action will seem too bloody if we cut off Caesar’s head and then hack at his arms and legs too, Caius Cassius—because Mark Antony is merely one of Caesar’s arms. It’ll look like we killed Caesar out of anger and Mark Antony out of envy. Let’s be sacrificers but not butchers, Caius. We’re all against what Caesar stands for, and there’s no blood in that. Oh, how I wish we could oppose Caesar’s spirit—his overblown ambition—and not hack up Caesar himself! But, unfortunately, Caesar has to bleed if we’re going to stop him. Noble friends, let’s kill him boldly but not with anger. Let’s carve him up like a dish fit for the gods, not chop him up like a carcass fit for dogs. Let’s be angry only long enough to do the deed, and then let’s act like we’re disgusted by what we had to do. This will make our actions seem practical and not vengeful. If we appear calm to the people, they’ll call us surgeons rather than murderers. As for Mark Antony—forget him. He’ll be as useless as Caesar’s arm after Caesar’s head is cut off.

But I’m still afraid of him, because the deep-rooted love he has for Caesar—

Alas, good Cassius, don’t think about him. If he loves Caesar, then he can only hurt himself—by grieving and dying for Caesar. And I’d be surprised if he even did that, for he prefers sports, fun, and friends.

There’s nothing to fear in him. Let’s not kill him. He’ll live and laugh at this afterward.

Quiet! Count how many times the clock chimes.

The clock struck three.

It’s time to leave.

But we still don’t know whether Caesar will go out in public today or not, because he’s become superstitious lately, a complete turnaround from when he used to have such a bad opinion of fortune-tellers, dream interpreters, and ritual mumbo-jumbo. It might happen that these strange signs, the unusual terror of this night, and the urgings of his fortune-tellers will keep him away from the Capitol today.

Don’t worry about that. If he’s reluctant, I can convince him. He loves to hear me tell him how men can be snared by flatterers, just like unicorns can be captured in trees, elephants in holes, and lions with nets. When I tell him he hates flatterers, he agrees, just at the moment when I’m flattering him the most. Let me work on him. I can put him in the right mood, and I’ll bring him to the Capitol.

No, we’ll all go there to bring him.

By eight o’clock. Is that the latest we can do it?

Let’s make that the latest, but be sure to get there before then.

Caius Ligarius doesn’t like Caesar, who berated him for speaking well of Pompey. I wonder that none of you thought about getting his support.

Good Metellus, go to him now. He likes me, and I’ve given him good reason to. Just send him here, and I’ll persuade him.

The morning is approaching. We’ll leave, Brutus. Friends, go your separate ways. But all of you, remember what you’ve said and prove yourselves true Romans.

Good gentlemen, look like you’re rested and happy. Don’t let our faces betray our plans. Instead, carry yourselves like Roman actors, with cheerful spirits and well-composed faces. And so, good morning to all of you.

Boy! Lucius! Fast asleep? Well, enjoy the sweetness of deep sleep. Your brain isn’t stuffed with the strange shapes and fantasies that come to men who are overwhelmed by worries. That’s why you sleep so soundly.

Brutus, my lord.

Portia, what are you doing awake? It isn’t good for your health to expose your weak body to the raw, cold morning.

It’s not good for your health, either. You rudely snuck out of bed. And last night at dinner, you got up abruptly and paced back and forth with your arms crossed, brooding and sighing, and when I asked you what was the matter, you gave me a dirty look. I asked you again, and you scratched your head and stamped your foot impatiently. I still insisted on knowing what the matter was, but you wouldn’t answer me, instead giving me an angry wave of your hand and telling me to leave you alone. So I left, afraid of further provoking anger that was already inflamed but still hoping this was merely moodiness, which everyone is affected by once in awhile. Your strange mood won’t let you eat or talk or sleep. If it had changed your outward appearance as much as it has affected you on the inside, I wouldn’t even be able to recognize you, Brutus. My dear lord, tell me what’s bothering you.

I’m not feeling well—that’s all.

You’re smart, though, and if you were sick, you’d take what you needed to get better.

I’m doing so. Good Portia, go to bed.

Are you sick? And is it healthy to walk uncovered and breathe in the dampness of the morning? You’re sick, yet you sneak out of your warm bed and let the humid and disease-infested air make you sicker? No, my Brutus, you have some sickness within your mind, which by virtue of my position I deserve to know about. (she kneels) And on my knees, I urge you, by my once-praised beauty, by all your vows of love and that great vow of marriage which made the two of us one person, that you should reveal to me, who is one half of yourself, why you’re troubled and what men have visited you tonight. For there were six or seven men here, who hid their faces even in the darkness.

Don’t kneel, noble Portia.

(getting up) I wouldn’t need to if you were acting nobly. Tell me, Brutus, as your wife, aren’t I supposed to be told the secrets that concern you? Am I part of you only in a limited sense—I get to have dinner with you, sleep with you, and talk to you sometimes? Is my place only on the outskirts of your happiness? If it’s nothing more than that, then I’m your whore, not your wife.

You’re my true and honorable wife, as dear to me as the blood that runs through my sad heart.

If that were true, then I’d know your secret. I admit I’m only a woman, but nevertheless I’m the woman Lord Brutus took for his wife. I admit I’m only a woman, but I’m still a woman from a noble family—I’m Cato’s daughter. Do you really think I’m no stronger than the rest of my sex, with such a father and such a husband? Tell me your secrets. I won’t betray them. I’ve proved my trustworthiness by giving myself a voluntary wound here in my thigh. If I can bear that pain, then I can bear my husband’s secrets.

Oh, gods, make me worthy of this noble wife!

Listen! Someone knocks. Portia, go inside awhile, and soon enough you’ll share the secrets of my heart. I’ll explain all that I have committed to do and all the reasons for my sad face. Leave me quickly.

Lucius, who’s that knocking?

Here’s a sick man who wants to speak with you.

It’s Caius Ligarius, whom Metellus spoke of. Boy, stand aside. Caius Ligarius! How are you?

Please accept my feeble “good morning.”

Oh, what a time you’ve chosen to be sick, brave Caius! How I wish you felt better!

I’m not sick if you’ve prepared some honorable exploit for me.

Indeed, I would have such an exploit for you, Ligarius, if you were healthy enough to hear it.

(takes off his head covering) By all the gods that Romans worship, I hereby throw off my sickness! Soul of Rome! Brave son of honorable ancestors! You’ve conjured up my deadened spirit like an exorcist. Now say the word, and I will tackle all kinds of impossible things, and succeed too. What is there to do?

A deed that will make sick men healthy.

But aren’t there some healthy men whom we have to make sick?

That too. My dear Caius, I’ll explain the task at hand to you as we walk toward the man we must do it to.

Start walking, and with an energized heart, I’ll follow you—to what, I don’t know, but I’m satisfied, simply knowing that Brutus leads me.

Follow me, then.