and given a power that it does not own in itself.’
He paused to let them think and was rewarded with a surge of movement in the crowd, a sign of hearts beating faster, of blood rushing from the outer limbs. He had them all waiting for his words. Another centurion glared up in silent warning, trying to catch his eye. Mark Antony ignored him.
‘In your name, our august Senate has granted amnesty to those who call themselves “Liberatores”. In your name, a vote, a law held good by your honour. That too is sacrosanct, inviolate.’
The crowd made a sound like a low growl and Mark Antony hesitated. He was as exposed as the soldiers around the platform. If he drove them too far in guilt and anger, he could be swallowed up in the mob. He rode a knife edge, having seen before what the people of Rome could do in rage. Once again, he looked to the senators and saw their number had dwindled as they read the crowd; as they read the wind. He smiled wearily, gathering his courage and knowing what Julius would want him to do. Mark Antony had known from the moment he saw Cassius and his conspirators enter the chamber, holding their hands high to show the blood of a tyrant. He would make the people of Rome understand what had been done. He would make them see.
Mark Antony bent down to the line of polished centurions, lowering his voice to speak to the closest man.
‘You. Come up here. Stand with me,’ he said.
The centurion was the image of martial perfection for such a post, his armour gleaming in the sun and his plume trimmed to a perfect uniform length. Veteran that he undoubtedly was, he responded with the utmost reluctance. Every instinct told him to keep his eyes on the crowd pressing close all around them.
‘Consul, my post is here …’ the man began.
Mark Antony dropped to one knee, his voice low and angry.
‘As you say, I am a consul of Rome. Is the Republic now such a broken thing that even a Roman officer will not follow orders?’
The centurion dipped his plumed head in shame as he flushed. Without another word, he clambered up onto the platform and the silent rank of his companions shuffled to close the gap he left behind.
Mark Antony rose to his full height, so that his eyes were at the level of the man’s plume. He looked down sternly.
‘There is an effigy in wax below the body, Centurion. Take hold of it for me. Raise it up so that they can see.’
The man’s jaw dropped in shock and he was shaking his head even before he replied.
‘What? What game is this? Consul, please. Finish the oration and let me get you safely away.’
‘What is your name?’ Mark Antony asked.
The centurion hesitated. He had been anonymous before, hidden in a line of similar men. In an instant, he had been singled out for no good reason. He swallowed bitterly, thanking his personal gods for giving him such a run of bad luck.
‘Centurion Oppius, Consul.’
‘I see. I am going to speak slowly and clearly to you, Oppius. Obey my lawful orders. Uphold your oath to the Republic, or remove that plume and report to your legion tribune with my request that you be shown the Roman discipline you seem to have forgotten.’
The centurion’s mouth tightened into a pale line. His eyes glittered in anger, but he nodded sharply. Such a ‘request’ would see him flogged to ribbons under a weighted lash, perhaps even executed as an example. He turned stiffly, looking down at the body of Caesar for a moment.
‘He would not mind, Oppius,’ Mark Antony went on, his voice suddenly gentle. ‘He was my friend.’
‘I don’t know what you are doing, Consul, but if they rush us, I will see you again in hell,’ Oppius growled.
Mark Antony clenched his fist, perhaps to strike a blow, but the centurion bent low and jerked back the gold cloth. Below the body of Caesar lay a full-sized model of a man in white wax, dressed in a purple toga with gold trim. Oppius hesitated, repelled. Its features had been modelled after Caesar’s own. To his disgust, he saw that it too wore a band of fresh laurel leaves.
‘What is this … thing?’ he muttered.
Mark Antony only gestured and Oppius lifted it out. It was surprisingly heavy and he staggered slightly as he came upright.
The crowd had been murmuring, unable to understand the furious conversation on the platform. They gasped and cried out as they saw the effigy with its blind, white eyes.
‘Consul!’ another centurion shouted back over the noise. ‘You must stop whatever you are doing. Step down, Oppius. They won’t stand for this.’
‘Be silent!’ Mark Antony bellowed, losing his patience with the fools around him.
The crowd grew still in horror, their gazes riveted on the mockery of a man which stood before them, supported by Oppius.
‘Let me show you, citizens of Rome. Let me show you what your word is worth!’
Mark Antony stepped forward and drew a grey iron blade from his sash. He wrenched the purple robe that clothed the mannequin, baring the chest and the line of the throat. The crowd gasped, unable to look away. Many of them made the horn sign of protection with their shaking hands.
‘Tillius Cimber held Caesar, while Suetonius Prandus struck the first blow … here!’ Mark Antony said.
He pressed his left hand against the shoulder of the effigy and shoved his knife into the wax under the moulded collarbone, so that even old soldiers in the crowd winced. The senators on the steps stood rooted and Suetonius himself was there, his mouth sagging open.
‘Publius Servilius Casca sliced this wound across the first,’ Mark Antony went on. With a savage movement, he sawed at cloth and wax with his blade. He was already panting, his voice a bass roar that echoed from the buildings all around. ‘His brother, Gaius Casca, stepped in then as Caesar fought! He thrust his dagger … here.’
Over by the senate house, the Casca brothers looked at each other in horror. Without a word, both men turned away, hurrying to get out of the forum.
Sweating, Mark Antony pulled back the sleeves of the toga, so that the mannequin’s right arm was revealed. ‘Lucius Pella made a cut here, a long gash.’ With a jerk of his blade, Mark Antony sliced the wax and the crowd moaned. ‘Caesar still fought! He was left-handed, and he raised his bloody right arm to hold them off. Decimus Junius slashed at him then, cutting the muscle so that the arm fell limp. Caesar called for help on the stone benches of Pompey’s theatre. He called for vengeance, but he was alone with these men … and they would not stop.’
The crowd surged forward, driven almost to madness by what they were seeing. There was no logic in it, simply a growing, seething mass of rage. Just a few senators still stood by the senate house and Mark Antony saw Cassius turn to go.
‘Gaius Cassius Longinus stabbed the Father of Rome then, shoving his thin arms into a gap between the others.’ With a grunt, Mark Antony punched the blade into the wax side through the toga, leaving the cloth torn as the knife came out. ‘The blood poured, drenching Caesar’s toga, but still he fought! He was a soldier of Rome and his spirit was strong as they struck and struck at him!’ He
