Julius Caesar

My evidence that you have wronged me is that you condemned and disgraced Lucius Pella for taking bribes here from the Sardinians, and you ignored my letters, where I argued that he was innocent; I know the man.

You wronged yourself to write on behalf of such a man.

In a time like this, it doesn’t make sense to criticize every offense.

I’ll tell you, Cassius, you yourself have been called greedy and been accused of giving your positions to undeserving men in exchange for gold.

Me, “greedy”! You know, if you were anyone other than Brutus, that speech would be your last.

The name of Cassius gives credit to these corrupt actions, and so they go unpunished.

Unpunished!

Remember March, March 15th. Didn’t great Caesar bleed for the sake of justice? Who among us stabbed him for any cause but justice? What—did one of us strike down the most powerful man in the world in order to support robbers? Should we now dirty our fingers with lowly bribes and sell the mighty offices that we hold for whatever money we can get our hands on? I’d rather be a dog and howl at the moon than be that kind of Roman.

Brutus, do not provoke me. I will not take it. You’re forgetting yourself when you back me into a corner. I’m a soldier, more experienced than you, and better able to give orders.

Get lost! You are not, Cassius.

I am.

I say you’re not.

Don’t provoke me any further or I’ll forget to restrain myself. If you care about your health, you won’t push me any further.

Leave, you little man.

Is this possible?

Listen to me, for I have something to tell you. Am I required to indulge your rash anger? Does a madman scare me when he stares at me?

Oh gods, oh gods! Must I endure all this?

“All this”? Yes, and more. Go ahead—rage till your proud heart breaks. Show your slaves how mad you are, and make your servants tremble. But me—am I going to cower at you and your irritable moods? You’ll have to swallow your own poison till it makes you burst before I’m going to respond; from now on, I’ll make you the butt of my jokes whenever you get sharp with me.

Has it come to this?

You say you’re a better soldier. Show it! Make your boasts come true, and I’ll be thrilled. I’m always happy to hear about brave men.

You wrong me in every way. You wrong me, Brutus. I said an older soldier, not a better one. Did I say “better”?

If you did, I don’t care.

When Caesar was alive, even he wouldn’t dare anger me like this.

Oh, be quiet. You wouldn’t have dared to tempt him so.

I wouldn’t have dared!

No.

What? Not dared to tempt him?

You wouldn’t have dared, out of fear for your life.

Don’t take my love for granted. I might do something I’ll be sorry for.

You’ve already done something you should be sorry for. Your threats don’t scare me, Cassius, because I’m so secure in my honesty and integrity that they pass me by like a weak breeze. I asked you for a certain amount of gold, which you wouldn’t give me. I myself can’t raise money by unethical means. I’d rather turn my heart into money and my drops of blood into coins than use crooked tactics to wring petty cash from the hardworking hands of peasants. I asked you for gold to pay my soldiers, and you wouldn’t give it to me. Was that the Caius Cassius that I knew? And would I have ever done that to you? If I ever get so greedy that I hoard such petty cash from my friends, may the gods dash me to pieces with their thunderbolts!

I didn’t refuse you.

You did.

I didn’t. The man who brought my answer to you was a fool. You have broken my heart. A friend should put up with his friend’s weaknesses, but you exaggerate mine.

I don’t until you practice them on me.

You don’t love me.

I don’t like your faults.

A friend would never see those faults.

No, a flatterer wouldn’t, even if the faults were as huge as Mount Olympus.

Come, Antony and young Octavius! Get your revenge on Cassius, because Cassius has grown tired of the world. He’s hated by someone he loves, defied by his brother, rebuked like a servant, all his faults observed, catalogued in a notebook, read, and committed to memory so they can be thrown in his face. Oh, I could weep my soul right out of myself! There’s my dagger (he offers BRUTUS his unsheathed dagger), and here’s my bare chest. Inside it is a heart more valuable than Pluto’s silver mine and richer than gold. If you’re a Roman, take my heart out. I, who denied you gold, will give you my heart. Strike as you did at Caesar, for I know even when you hated him the most, you still loved him better than you ever loved me.

Put away your dagger. Be angry whenever you like, it’s all right with me. Do whatever you want, and I’ll say your insults are just a bad mood. Oh, Cassius, you’re partners with a quiet lamb. My anger is like a flint striking—a brief spark, and then I’m cold again.

Have I lived this long only to be the butt of a joke whenever you’re angry or frustrated?

When I said that, I was angry too.

You admit it, then? Give me your hand.

And my heart too.

Oh, Brutus!

What’s the matter?

Do you have enough love for me to be patient when my bad temper, which I inherited from my mother, makes me forget how I should behave?

Yes, Cassius. And from now on, when you get hot with me, I’ll assume it’s your mother speaking and leave it at that.

(offstage) Let me in to see the generals. There’s a grudge between them, and it isn’t a good idea for them to be alone.

(offstage) You can’t see them.

(offstage) You’d have to kill me to stop me.

What’s this! What’s the matter?

You should be ashamed, generals! What do you think you’re doing?

Love each other and be friends, like two such men should be.

Listen to me, because I’m older than you, surely.

Ha ha! This man’s rhymes are terrible!

(to POET) Get out of here, you! Get away, you rude fellow!

Be patient with him, Brutus. That’s just how he is.

I’ll humor him when he learns how to behave. What should we do with all these rhyming fools that follow us from post to post? Get out of here, my friend.

Away, away, be gone.

Lucillius and Titinius, order the commanders to have the men camp for the night.

And return to us immediately, bringing Messala with you.

(calling offstage) Lucius, bring a bowl of wine.

I didn’t think you could even be so angry.

Oh Cassius, I’m tired out by many sorrows.

You’re forgetting your Stoic philosophy if you allow chance misfortunes to upset you.

No one bears sorrow better than me. Portia is dead.

Portia!

She is dead.

How did you manage not to kill me when we argued just now? What an irreplaceable and grievous loss! What sickness did she die of?

She was worried about my absence, and about the fact that young Octavius and Mark Antony have grown so strong—which I found out at the same time as the news of her death. She became full of despair and, when her attendants were away, swallowed burning coals.

And that’s how she died?

Yes, like that.

Oh, immortal gods!

Don’t talk about her anymore. Give me a bowl of wine. With this toast I bury all bad feelings between us, Cassius. (he drinks)

My heart is thirsty for that noble promise. Fill my cup, Lucius, until the wine overflows it. I cannot drink too much of Brutus’ love. (he drinks)

Come in, Titinius! Welcome, good Messala. Now let’s sit closely around this candle and discuss our needs.

Portia, are you really gone?

No more about that, please. Messala, I have received these letters explaining that young Octavius and Mark Antony are rushing toward Philippi and bearing down upon us with a mighty power.

I have received letters that say the same.

And anything else?

That with a series of legal writs, Octavius, Antony, and Lepidus have put a hundred senators to death.

On that point, our letters don’t agree. My letters say only seventy senators were killed, one being Cicero.

Cicero too?

Cicero is dead, by their decree. (toBRUTUS) Have you received letters from your wife, my lord?

No, Messala.

And you haven’t heard any news about her in your letters?

Nothing, Messala.

I think that’s strange.

Why do you ask? Have you heard something of her in your letters?

No, my lord.

Now, as you’re a Roman, tell me the truth.

Then you must take the truth I have to tell like a Roman. It’s certain that she is dead, and she died in a strange way.

Well, good-bye, Portia. We all must die, Messala. Having already thought about the fact that she would have to die sometime, I can endure her death now.

That’s the way great men ought to endure great losses.

I’ve practiced Stoicism with as much devotion as you, but I still couldn’t bear this news like you do.

Well, let’s move on to our work with the living. What do you think of marching to Philippi immediately?

I don’t think it’s a good idea.

Why not?

Here’s why: it’d be better for the enemy to come after us. That way, he’ll waste his provisions and tire out his soldiers, weakening his own capacities, while we, lying still, are rested, energetic, and nimble.

Your reasons are good, but I have better reasons for doing the opposite. The people who live between here and Philippi are loyal to us only because we force them to be. We made them contribute to our efforts against their will. The enemy, marching past them, will add them to its numbers, then come at us refreshed, newly reinforced, and full of courage. Thus we must cut him off from this advantage. If we meet him at Philippi, these people will be at our backs.

Listen to me, good brother.

Begging your pardon, I’ll continue what I was saying. You must also take into account that we’ve gotten as much from our friends as they can give. Our regiments are full to the brim; our cause is ready.

The enemy gets larger each day. We, now at our largest, can only decrease. There’s a tidal movement in men’s affairs. Seizing the highest tide leads on to fortune. If high tide is let to pass, all the rest of the voyage of their lives will be marked by difficulty and misery. It’s on such a high tide that we’re now floating, and we must take the current when it is offered, or lose our campaign.

If that’s what you want, all right. We’ll go forward with you and meet them at Philippi.

It’s now late at night, and actions must accommodate bodily needs, which we’ll satisfy with only a short rest. That’s all there is to say.

There’s nothing else. Good night. We’ll rise and leave early tomorrow.

Lucius!

My nightgown.

Farewell, good Messala. Good night, Titinius. Noble, noble Cassius, good night and sleep well.

Oh my dear brother! This was a bad start to the night. Let’s pray that we never come into conflict like that again. Let’s not, Brutus.

Everything’s fine.

Good night, my lord.

Good night, good brother.

Good night, Lord Brutus.

Farewell, everyone.

Give me the gown. Where’s your lute?

Here in the tent.

What, are you sleepy? Poor boy, I don’t blame you; you’ve stayed awake too long. Call Claudio and some of my other men. I’ll have them sleep on cushions in my tent.

Varrus and Claudio!

Did you call, my lord?

Sirs, I ask you to sleep in my tent. I might wake you up in a while to send you on an errand to my brother Cassius.

If you like, we’ll stand by and wait to do whatever you need.

No, please, lie down, good sirs, because I might change my mind. Look, Lucius, here’s the book I was searching for. I put it in the pocket of my nightgown.

I was sure that you hadn’t given it to me.

Bear with me, good boy. I’ve become very forgetful. Can you stay awake a bit longer and play a few tunes on your lute?

Yes, my lord, if you would like.

I would, my boy. I ask too much of you, but you’re always willing.

It’s my duty, sir.

I shouldn’t make you do more than you’re able. I know that young men look forward to their rest.

I’ve already slept, my lord.

That was good planning, and you’ll sleep some more. I won’t keep you very long. If I live through this, I’ll be good to you.

This is a sleepy tune. Oh, deadening sleep, have you taken over my boy who plays music for you? Gentle boy, good night. I won’t trouble you so much as to wake you. If you were to droop down, you’d break your instrument, and so I’ll take it from you. Good night, good boy. Let me see, let me see. Didn’t I turn down the page where I left off reading? Here it is, I think. This candle doesn’t give much light.

What! Who goes there? I think it’s my bad eyesight that’s making me see this horrible vision. It’s coming toward me. Are you real? Are you a god, an angel, or a devil, that you make my blood turn cold and my hair stand up? Tell me what you are.

I’m your evil spirit, Brutus.

Why do you come here?

To tell you that you’ll see me at Philippi.

Then I’ll see you again?

Yes, at Philippi.

Alright, then I’ll see you at Philippi.

Just as you go, I find the courage to talk to you. Evil spirit, I want to talk some more. Boy, Lucius! Varrus! Claudio! Sirs, awake! Claudio!

My lord, the strings are out of tune.

He thinks he’s still playing his instrument. Lucius, wake up!

My lord?

Were you dreaming, Lucius? Is that why you cried out?

My lord, I don’t think I cried out.

Yes, you did. Did you see anything?

Nothing, my lord.

Go back to sleep, Lucius. Claudio! (toVARRUS) You there, wake up!

My lord?

My lord?

Why did you cry out in your sleep?

Did we, my lord?

Yes. Did you see anything?

No, my lord, I didn’t see anything.

Me neither, my lord.

Go to my brother Cassius. Order him to advance his forces first thing, and we’ll follow.

Yes, my lord.