Three Dead Slaves - Prologue, Part 5 (conclusion)
I stare off at the sunlight glinting on the porphyry tiles of Cleopatra's Palace as The Death of Caesar comes to its stirring conclusion. The complex is currently the residence of Aelius Gallus, the Roman Prefect, a sour-faced by-the-numbers general who is even now descending to the street, as if the play is over. He knows that everyone is watching him, but he keeps his head up and his eyes front and only glances around at the audience to put them in their place as lesser beings who are too stupid to walk out of a play once the main character dies. That's the kind of officer that Rome wants -- someone who knows enough to leave a lyric tragedy before the rest of the audience, so he can relieve himself in a privy and fortify himself with some liquid refreshment before the start of the next play in my son's trilogy. A man who knows that the truth is what he sees with his own two eyes, and since he has just seen Brutus and Cassius conspire to kill Caesar, for him the story of Caesar’s death is obvious -- Brutus was a patriot; Cassius was bitter and jealous; Caesar was a tyrant. Descriptions which, like military orders, will be repeated endlessly down the chain of command until everyone marches to the same monotonous rhythm, and the truth is crushed by an army of lies, and all that remains is the marching order that has become the official history of that dubious and chaotic time.
But then all histories are official, are they not? Uplifting fairy tales created specifically for the children of the world's survivors, and crafted to bequeath to them the valuable lessons and moral precepts which garnered their forefathers greatness and success. And the most important lesson is that, when you win, you not only get to play the hero, but you also get to declare that the loser was a villain, and proclaim that the gods were always on your side. Which is how the race of mortals has decided the issue of History ever since man first learned that language could be used to lie.
It is as if History is a single roll of papyrus. You open it up, and what you see is a story entitled “The Death of Caesar.” Here is Brutus; here is Cassius; here is the record of Caesar’s last hours. A quick glance tells you all you need to know about the facts. But when you look closely at the words, here and there you see something that looks like a smudge or a faint shadow, and you begin to realize that this roll of papyrus once contained a totally different story, a story that was erased to make room for the one that everyone now reads. And as you study the manuscript, you realize that “The Death of Caesar” as it has come down to us has been written over the half-erased story of how and why three slaves were murdered, of what their deaths meant to Brutus and Cassius, and how their deaths led to the final hours of Caesar.
Three dead slaves.
In my mind, they all lie together on a hot and dusty road, barren of everything except the smell of decay. And then, like a wild rose, the death of Caesar sprouts up from their bodies, and what was once thought to be lifeless is revealed to be an evil garden.
Three dead slaves.
Everyone has forgotten those dead slaves. Everyone except me. I remember their names. I remember their faces. I remember how Rome was shaken when their bodies were discovered. From the Tarpeian Rock of hindsight, it is easy to see how they heralded the earthquake of the Ides of War as surely as if they had been a series of preliminary tremors. But at the time, they were earthquakes in their own right. Now, they are as inconsequential as the initial sacrifices at a great man's funeral. If it had been any other man's funeral, those sacrifices might still be remembered. But this was mighty Caesar's pyre -- the blaze that burned away his earthly shell from its bald head to its fallen arches, leaving behind the immortal spirit which now presides over the imperial future of Rome as its newest god, presumably with younger feet and a full head of hair.
And History? History is like Medusa. She turns living, breathing human beings into statues, and then she arranges them in an orderly tableau of frozen poses that represent courage and honor, betrayal and love, victory and defeat. If an event cannot be summed up in a simple thought or a single word, she does not make a statue of it. But Caesar’s death? Look –- there is a statue of Marcus Brutus with a knife raised high. Cassius stands behind him; the dead body of Caesar lies in front of him. As far as the Medusa History is concerned, that is all you need to know about the death of Julius Caesar. The whole story told in one image. What could be simpler?
That is how History works. It winnows. It simplifies. History loves simplicity. History adores simplicity. Given the choice between a complicated truth and a simple lie, History will choose simplicity every time. Simplicity is a clever and a powerful magician -- clever enough to supply an illusion so vivid that it makes a liar out a man’s better judgment, and powerful enough to make a man reciting the facts sound like a self-serving liar. And when the facts behind the deaths of those three slaves are told? Caesar’s death is anything but simple.
Three dead slaves.
I take a deep breath. I stare straight ahead. The actor playing Brutus is raising a bloody sword. He calls the murder a sacrifice, an offering to the gods. He asks for the blessing of History and the support of the righteous, not knowing that History will brand him as a villain and the righteous will shun him like a leper. And as he proclaims a new era of freedom for Rome, I think back to the days of the old era, and how it really ended.
Previous excerpts:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
copyright 2009 Matthew J Wells
Showing posts with label Three Dead Slaves. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Three Dead Slaves. Show all posts
Friday, March 13, 2009
Three Dead Slaves - Prologue, Part 4
Three Dead Slaves - Prologue, Part 4
There is sudden silence on the stage. None of the performers are moving; they stand as if trapped in the charged silence that always occurs before a battle is joined -- the moment when everyone on both sides holds their breath, the moment beyond which there is no retreat, only advance and charge.
The chorus of Senators begins to sing a high, piercing note. A dog howls in the little market behind the theatre. Brutus raises his sword high. Like everyone else in the audience, I expect him to make a beautifully-phrased speech about tyranny and freedom. Like everyone else in the audience, I watch open-mouthed as Brutus reaches back and hurls his bright sword like a javelin. We all gasp at the same time -- it is like no other sound I have ever heard in my life, the noise of a thousand people choking at once. The sword seems to hang in the air for an instant between Caesar and Brutus, and then it arrows into the Dictator's chest with a great thwack and an even greater gout of blood, driving him back against the throne.
I find that I am half out of my seat in astonishment, gasping for breath like the rest of the audience. My pulse is racing; my heart is hammering against my chest. Part of me is convinced that I have just seen a man die, even though another part of me knows that I am watching a play, that the actor playing Caesar is still alive, that the blood is pig’s blood concealed in a bladder beneath his toga, and that the piercing blow is just another illusion. But what a powerful illusion -- powerful enough to make a liar out of my better judgment.
Brutus turns to us and clutches his toga with his left hand while his right arm points to the sky. "Sic semper tyrannus!" he cries, and the audience bursts into spontaneous applause. I confess that I am clapping wildly with the rest of them, shaking my head all the while. Everyone in the theater is cheering. The din is tremendous.
I glance down at my son, to see that he is closely studying my expression. For a brief moment it is like the clashing of two swords -- he tries to draw blood; I try to defend myself -- and then I lower my guard. "Amazing," I declare. "You must remind me to compliment the author."
Ptolemy Alexandros has the decency to blush. I reach down and ruffle his hair, the way I used to when he was a boy, and I think of my father. My father never ruffled my hair. He only touched me twice in his entire life. So naturally I have grown into an old man who believes that the one thing a son needs from his father is a lot of hair-ruffling. Not surprisingly, my son regards it as a deliberate reminder that in his father's eyes, he will never be more than a child. And when he has a son, he will barely touch him. And the next cycle of well-meant misunderstanding will begin.
Mindful of my son's displeasure, I do nothing until the noise has died down and everyone has returned to their seats. I wait until the final scene has begun, and Brutus and the Chorus share a brief and ironic dialogue about the future of Rome. According to them, because of this day's work, a new Rome will rise like a phoenix from Caesar's funeral pyre -- a very un-Roman image which points forward to the next play in my son's trilogy, The Revenge of Caesar, in which Antonius and Octavianus pledge to avenge the Dictator by killing his assassins. A new Rome rose up, all right; but it was not a phoenix. It was a ravening wolf.
I glance at Ptolemy Alexandros. Because he is my son, I nod my head and say: "Well done. Well done." And because I am his father, I bite my tongue and stifle the overwhelming urge to add: "But you forgot the three dead slaves."
Thankfully, I catch myself in time, and the words die in my throat. The last thing I need to see right now is my son's crestfallen face as I express my paternal admiration by saying in effect: "You may be able to create, but you don't know all the boring facts, like I do. Facts like, for instance, those three dead slaves."
[ -- to be concluded]
Previous excerpts:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
copyright 2009 Matthew J Wells
There is sudden silence on the stage. None of the performers are moving; they stand as if trapped in the charged silence that always occurs before a battle is joined -- the moment when everyone on both sides holds their breath, the moment beyond which there is no retreat, only advance and charge.
The chorus of Senators begins to sing a high, piercing note. A dog howls in the little market behind the theatre. Brutus raises his sword high. Like everyone else in the audience, I expect him to make a beautifully-phrased speech about tyranny and freedom. Like everyone else in the audience, I watch open-mouthed as Brutus reaches back and hurls his bright sword like a javelin. We all gasp at the same time -- it is like no other sound I have ever heard in my life, the noise of a thousand people choking at once. The sword seems to hang in the air for an instant between Caesar and Brutus, and then it arrows into the Dictator's chest with a great thwack and an even greater gout of blood, driving him back against the throne.
I find that I am half out of my seat in astonishment, gasping for breath like the rest of the audience. My pulse is racing; my heart is hammering against my chest. Part of me is convinced that I have just seen a man die, even though another part of me knows that I am watching a play, that the actor playing Caesar is still alive, that the blood is pig’s blood concealed in a bladder beneath his toga, and that the piercing blow is just another illusion. But what a powerful illusion -- powerful enough to make a liar out of my better judgment.
Brutus turns to us and clutches his toga with his left hand while his right arm points to the sky. "Sic semper tyrannus!" he cries, and the audience bursts into spontaneous applause. I confess that I am clapping wildly with the rest of them, shaking my head all the while. Everyone in the theater is cheering. The din is tremendous.
I glance down at my son, to see that he is closely studying my expression. For a brief moment it is like the clashing of two swords -- he tries to draw blood; I try to defend myself -- and then I lower my guard. "Amazing," I declare. "You must remind me to compliment the author."
Ptolemy Alexandros has the decency to blush. I reach down and ruffle his hair, the way I used to when he was a boy, and I think of my father. My father never ruffled my hair. He only touched me twice in his entire life. So naturally I have grown into an old man who believes that the one thing a son needs from his father is a lot of hair-ruffling. Not surprisingly, my son regards it as a deliberate reminder that in his father's eyes, he will never be more than a child. And when he has a son, he will barely touch him. And the next cycle of well-meant misunderstanding will begin.
Mindful of my son's displeasure, I do nothing until the noise has died down and everyone has returned to their seats. I wait until the final scene has begun, and Brutus and the Chorus share a brief and ironic dialogue about the future of Rome. According to them, because of this day's work, a new Rome will rise like a phoenix from Caesar's funeral pyre -- a very un-Roman image which points forward to the next play in my son's trilogy, The Revenge of Caesar, in which Antonius and Octavianus pledge to avenge the Dictator by killing his assassins. A new Rome rose up, all right; but it was not a phoenix. It was a ravening wolf.
I glance at Ptolemy Alexandros. Because he is my son, I nod my head and say: "Well done. Well done." And because I am his father, I bite my tongue and stifle the overwhelming urge to add: "But you forgot the three dead slaves."
Thankfully, I catch myself in time, and the words die in my throat. The last thing I need to see right now is my son's crestfallen face as I express my paternal admiration by saying in effect: "You may be able to create, but you don't know all the boring facts, like I do. Facts like, for instance, those three dead slaves."
[ -- to be concluded]
Previous excerpts:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
copyright 2009 Matthew J Wells
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Three Dead Slaves - Prologue, Part 3
Three Dead Slaves - Prologue, Part 3
As I watch, Cassius steps forward to strike next. This, at least, is historically accurate. Cassius was indeed the first man to attack the Dictator head on, but only because he could not see two feet in front of his nose with any clarity. Beyond that, his world was a misty fog of hazy figures, any one of whom could be the Dictator. As Albinus remarked, when he discovered that Cassius was angry at him over some petty slight: "Cassius isn't angry with me -- he's angry at life, because it refuses to get close enough for him to see it." (Poor Albinus -- besides being the only Conspirator with military experience, he was also the only one with a sense of humor.)
At any rate, there was neither laughter nor argument among the conspirators when Cassius, giving lip service to his deeply-felt belief in the restoration of the Res Publica, demanded pride of place in the assassination line. Everyone understood that Cassius' motives were as blurry as his eyesight; his rabid denunciations of the Dictatorship had nothing to do with the office and everything to do with the man. To Cassius, politics was the bow he used to fire a volley of poisoned arrows at Caesar. The Conspirators understood this; and since Cassius was as purblind as a mole, the general consensus was that a clear field and an uninterrupted charge would be the only way to prevent Cassius from stabbing either himself or somebody else in his splenetic attempts to eviscerate the Dictator. So, as soon as Casca's knife came down, Cassius was given a healthy push in the right direction by Albinus and Titinius, and everyone else within reach scurried as far away as possible as Brutus' roaring brother-in-law slammed into the Dictator head on and, as Albinus remarked later, "viciously stabbed to death a perfectly innocent toga." Some say that the Dictator actually laughed at the missed blow; others report that he cried: "You stab like a girl, Cassius!" But all agree that Caesar spat in Cassius' face, after which Cassius roared again and swung his knife like a scythe, carving the empty air as the other conspirators shoved him away and descended on Caesar in a spume of blades and blood.
But there is no spitting as this Cassius strikes his blow against tyranny; and as for confusion, it is nowhere to be seen. Everything is orderly and polite as the music swells and swords flash up and strike down in wave after perfectly-choreographed wave, like a tide of silver. Meanwhile the chorus of Senators has broken into two groups on either side of the slaughter. The group on the right is singing a passage in Greek from the Agamemnon of Aeschylus, specifically Agamemnon's cry of despair as Clytemnestra kills him offstage. This is either the writer's idea of a joke or an astute observation on the reading habits of the Roman upper class. The Senators on the left are singing: "The gods have decided the issue! The gods are defending the right! The gods are speaking now!" They repeat this over and over again, first in Latin, then in Greek, then in six-part harmony, while the Senators with the swords perform a stately, ritualistic dance in front of the Dictator. It resembles a receiving line -- one by one they each shuffle up to their victim and strike him with a sword, while the entire group sings in Latin:
Stirring stuff. Would that the real assassination had been so well directed; instead, it was a chaotic butchery. Of the one hundred and sixteen separate injuries that were inflicted during the minute and a half it took the Conspirators to change the history of Rome forever, only twenty-three wounds were found in Caesar's body. And only two of those were lethal. All the other blows -- ninety-three of them -- were struck in a storm of slices and stabs that rained down on anyone unlucky enough to venture within arm's distance of the victim. Not a few of these ninety-three were struck by the Dictator himself, who used a stylus to slash at his attackers as they forced him back against Pompey's statue. Proving that the pen draws more blood than the sword -- as long as the pen is in the hand of a writer like Caesar.
The music suddenly resolves itself into a deep drumbeat, and the chorus of Senators has become a double line stretching from Caesar to a single man standing at the far end of the stage -- Brutus, the only conspirator who has yet to strike a blow. One line of Senators is chanting "Death! Death! Death!" while the other line is chanting "Rome! Rome! Rome!" Both lines are stomping their feet.
The Dictator, whose toga is awash with blood, is leaning heavily against his throne. He pushes himself upright and staggers forward so that he is standing in the center of the aisle of Senators, about fifteen feet away from Brutus. He clutches at his bleeding stomach with one hand; with the other he points at Brutus. "My son, my son,” he says in Greek.
Brutus replies in Latin. “I am not the man you think I am.”
“Nice touch,” I whisper. My son elbows me, but there is a smile on his face.
And now Caesar is extending both hands towards Brutus, and proclaiming his famous final words. “Kai su, teknon?” he says, his voice quavering. You too, my son?
"Well at least that's authentic," I mutter.
My son elbows me again as Brutus cries out: "No son of yours, but a true son of Rome!"
There is a burst of applause from audience right, where about a dozen Roman soldiers are pretending to watch the play while they drink and eat and talk amongst themselves. I can’t decide whether they are cheering because they side with Brutus against Caesar (a dangerous position now that the Empire is being run by his adopted son) or because, like all foreigners, they cannot resist the urge to cheer whenever someone mentions their home city in public.
[ -- to be continued]
Previous excerpts:
Part 1
Part 2
copyright 2009 Matthew J Wells
As I watch, Cassius steps forward to strike next. This, at least, is historically accurate. Cassius was indeed the first man to attack the Dictator head on, but only because he could not see two feet in front of his nose with any clarity. Beyond that, his world was a misty fog of hazy figures, any one of whom could be the Dictator. As Albinus remarked, when he discovered that Cassius was angry at him over some petty slight: "Cassius isn't angry with me -- he's angry at life, because it refuses to get close enough for him to see it." (Poor Albinus -- besides being the only Conspirator with military experience, he was also the only one with a sense of humor.)
At any rate, there was neither laughter nor argument among the conspirators when Cassius, giving lip service to his deeply-felt belief in the restoration of the Res Publica, demanded pride of place in the assassination line. Everyone understood that Cassius' motives were as blurry as his eyesight; his rabid denunciations of the Dictatorship had nothing to do with the office and everything to do with the man. To Cassius, politics was the bow he used to fire a volley of poisoned arrows at Caesar. The Conspirators understood this; and since Cassius was as purblind as a mole, the general consensus was that a clear field and an uninterrupted charge would be the only way to prevent Cassius from stabbing either himself or somebody else in his splenetic attempts to eviscerate the Dictator. So, as soon as Casca's knife came down, Cassius was given a healthy push in the right direction by Albinus and Titinius, and everyone else within reach scurried as far away as possible as Brutus' roaring brother-in-law slammed into the Dictator head on and, as Albinus remarked later, "viciously stabbed to death a perfectly innocent toga." Some say that the Dictator actually laughed at the missed blow; others report that he cried: "You stab like a girl, Cassius!" But all agree that Caesar spat in Cassius' face, after which Cassius roared again and swung his knife like a scythe, carving the empty air as the other conspirators shoved him away and descended on Caesar in a spume of blades and blood.
But there is no spitting as this Cassius strikes his blow against tyranny; and as for confusion, it is nowhere to be seen. Everything is orderly and polite as the music swells and swords flash up and strike down in wave after perfectly-choreographed wave, like a tide of silver. Meanwhile the chorus of Senators has broken into two groups on either side of the slaughter. The group on the right is singing a passage in Greek from the Agamemnon of Aeschylus, specifically Agamemnon's cry of despair as Clytemnestra kills him offstage. This is either the writer's idea of a joke or an astute observation on the reading habits of the Roman upper class. The Senators on the left are singing: "The gods have decided the issue! The gods are defending the right! The gods are speaking now!" They repeat this over and over again, first in Latin, then in Greek, then in six-part harmony, while the Senators with the swords perform a stately, ritualistic dance in front of the Dictator. It resembles a receiving line -- one by one they each shuffle up to their victim and strike him with a sword, while the entire group sings in Latin:
Here is the crown of a Roman king --
Here is his coronation.
Here is the throne that he deserves --
The throne of death and damnation.
Here is the throne that he deserves --
The throne of death and damnation.
Stirring stuff. Would that the real assassination had been so well directed; instead, it was a chaotic butchery. Of the one hundred and sixteen separate injuries that were inflicted during the minute and a half it took the Conspirators to change the history of Rome forever, only twenty-three wounds were found in Caesar's body. And only two of those were lethal. All the other blows -- ninety-three of them -- were struck in a storm of slices and stabs that rained down on anyone unlucky enough to venture within arm's distance of the victim. Not a few of these ninety-three were struck by the Dictator himself, who used a stylus to slash at his attackers as they forced him back against Pompey's statue. Proving that the pen draws more blood than the sword -- as long as the pen is in the hand of a writer like Caesar.
The music suddenly resolves itself into a deep drumbeat, and the chorus of Senators has become a double line stretching from Caesar to a single man standing at the far end of the stage -- Brutus, the only conspirator who has yet to strike a blow. One line of Senators is chanting "Death! Death! Death!" while the other line is chanting "Rome! Rome! Rome!" Both lines are stomping their feet.
The Dictator, whose toga is awash with blood, is leaning heavily against his throne. He pushes himself upright and staggers forward so that he is standing in the center of the aisle of Senators, about fifteen feet away from Brutus. He clutches at his bleeding stomach with one hand; with the other he points at Brutus. "My son, my son,” he says in Greek.
Brutus replies in Latin. “I am not the man you think I am.”
“Nice touch,” I whisper. My son elbows me, but there is a smile on his face.
And now Caesar is extending both hands towards Brutus, and proclaiming his famous final words. “Kai su, teknon?” he says, his voice quavering. You too, my son?
"Well at least that's authentic," I mutter.
My son elbows me again as Brutus cries out: "No son of yours, but a true son of Rome!"
There is a burst of applause from audience right, where about a dozen Roman soldiers are pretending to watch the play while they drink and eat and talk amongst themselves. I can’t decide whether they are cheering because they side with Brutus against Caesar (a dangerous position now that the Empire is being run by his adopted son) or because, like all foreigners, they cannot resist the urge to cheer whenever someone mentions their home city in public.
[ -- to be continued]
Previous excerpts:
Part 1
Part 2
copyright 2009 Matthew J Wells
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Three Dead Slaves - Prologue, Part 2
Three Dead Slaves - Prologue - Part 2
Caesar and Cicero were as different as arrows and antelopes. Of the two men, Cicero was the one whose face was readable by anyone with eyes. It was Caesar whose features were frozen into a supple mask of distant deference -- you would never be able to look at him and expect to read his inner thoughts, and you would certainly never see him express the flaming vanity that lights up this actor's soul like the Pharos lights the harbor of Alexandria. I suppose that this is what my son refers to when he uses the words "good acting."
It is certainly not the kind of acting that I am used to seeing. I was brought up in Rome, where actors wear masks designed to disguise their features and amplify their voices. Here in Alexandria the current fashion is for the actors to wear vivid makeup and project their voices to the upper benches of the theatre without the aid of artfully-hidden megaphones. Perhaps I am a purist, but seeing the facial expressions of an actor is distracting and annoying because it takes my attention away from the verse. And seeing these strange men pretending to be Caesar and Brutus and Cassius is an even greater threat to my powers of attention. They look nothing like the Caesar and Brutus and Cassius that I remember, and whenever they speak or frown or glare, I cannot help but remember, and compare them unfavorably to, the Caesar and Brutus and Cassius I knew.
Take Casca, for instance. He stands behind the acting Dictator, and because he is being portrayed by one of the local darlings, a charioteer who races for the Greens, he is wearing a tunic that displays the oiled splendor of his naked legs. If the real Casca had ever displayed his naked legs in public, everyone within a hundred yards would have been struck blind, so this is a distinct improvement on history. Which is, I suppose, the definition of good drama. And this towering young Casca is looking very dramatic. From all appearances he is perched on a low platform of white marble. He is raising a sword high over his head with his right hand -- blade up, like a captain about to order a charge.
"Casca carried a knife, not a sword," I say.
Those three heads in the next row turn around again. Judging from their expressions, I have insulted not only their wives but their daughters.
Beside me, my son shushes me with a harsh gesture. Then he whispers that it is obvious to anyone with eyes why Casca is brandishing a sword instead of a knife -- why, indeed, all the conspirators are carrying barely-concealed swords in their togas. "So everyone can see them," he explains.
I nod my head like an idiot, and refrain from observing that a senator, clumsily trying to conceal a two-foot gladius in the folds of his toga, would never have been allowed within striking distance of the Dictator.
Caesar, seemingly oblivious to the man with the raised sword who is standing behind him, takes a firm step to his right. He is now directly in front of Casca. It is my son's turn to play the expert; he leans in to me and whispers: "In the theatre, this is called corrective staging."
"Let the gods defend the right!" Caesar cries, this time throwing his head back and raising both his arms to the sky. Four appeals to heaven in less than a minute -- this is definitely not a Caesar with whom I am familiar.
"Let the gods speak now," announces the gorgeous gladiator who is playing Brutus, and Casca reaches up with his left hand, reverses the blade, and drives the sword two-handed into Caesar's back.
There is a look of satisfaction on Casca's face. He is visibly proud to be the first man to strike a blow against tyranny. He is reveling in the distinction. He is heroic in his anger. He is nothing at all like the real Casca, who was a political backstabber with a loud voice and a weak pair of legs. The kind of blowhard who brags and makes promises and then, when the time comes to act, is usually three streets away drinking wine in the back of a tavern. The only reason that Casca was given the dubious honor of initiating Caesar's assassination in the first place was because everyone knew that if Casca did not strike first, he would have chickened out at the last minute and turned everyone else in for treason.
"Nobody raises a hand until Casca strikes the first blow." That was the only plan the Conspirators had, and to all appearances Casca eagerly embraced it. "Where do I strike him first?" he asked. "In the heart? In the belly?" Cassius smiled and said: "In the back. So that everyone can see you." Men whispered later that you could actually watch the life drain out of Casca's eyes as those words descended from his ears to his heart. He knew then what his fellow conspirators really thought of him -- and knew, too, that there was no way he could get out of performing this particular role without being killed on the spot. The Dictator knew, as well. His actual words, upon feeling the slice of that first knife-blow against his spine, were: "Casca, you coward!" He didn't even have to turn around to see who it was. Not that he could have, with his stiff neck that day.
But here, Caesar's words are: "Casca, you dog!" (in Greek, which is a nice touch), and then he staggers forward, seriously wounded by the blow of Casca's sword. In actual fact, Casca’s great blow for freedom barely pricked Caesar's skin. Because he was so nervous, and because he drove the knife down so hard and at such a wide angle, Casca wound up stabbing himself in the thigh and letting loose the kind of blood-curdling scream that you always hear when a pig is slaughtered in the marketplace. Which is the origin of the rhyme that Aligerius made at the Dictator's funeral:
Albinus did the planning, Cassius did the scheming,
Brutus did the killing, and Casca did the screaming.
[ -- to be continued]
Previous excerpts:
Part 1
copyright 2009 Matthew J Wells
Caesar and Cicero were as different as arrows and antelopes. Of the two men, Cicero was the one whose face was readable by anyone with eyes. It was Caesar whose features were frozen into a supple mask of distant deference -- you would never be able to look at him and expect to read his inner thoughts, and you would certainly never see him express the flaming vanity that lights up this actor's soul like the Pharos lights the harbor of Alexandria. I suppose that this is what my son refers to when he uses the words "good acting."
It is certainly not the kind of acting that I am used to seeing. I was brought up in Rome, where actors wear masks designed to disguise their features and amplify their voices. Here in Alexandria the current fashion is for the actors to wear vivid makeup and project their voices to the upper benches of the theatre without the aid of artfully-hidden megaphones. Perhaps I am a purist, but seeing the facial expressions of an actor is distracting and annoying because it takes my attention away from the verse. And seeing these strange men pretending to be Caesar and Brutus and Cassius is an even greater threat to my powers of attention. They look nothing like the Caesar and Brutus and Cassius that I remember, and whenever they speak or frown or glare, I cannot help but remember, and compare them unfavorably to, the Caesar and Brutus and Cassius I knew.
Take Casca, for instance. He stands behind the acting Dictator, and because he is being portrayed by one of the local darlings, a charioteer who races for the Greens, he is wearing a tunic that displays the oiled splendor of his naked legs. If the real Casca had ever displayed his naked legs in public, everyone within a hundred yards would have been struck blind, so this is a distinct improvement on history. Which is, I suppose, the definition of good drama. And this towering young Casca is looking very dramatic. From all appearances he is perched on a low platform of white marble. He is raising a sword high over his head with his right hand -- blade up, like a captain about to order a charge.
"Casca carried a knife, not a sword," I say.
Those three heads in the next row turn around again. Judging from their expressions, I have insulted not only their wives but their daughters.
Beside me, my son shushes me with a harsh gesture. Then he whispers that it is obvious to anyone with eyes why Casca is brandishing a sword instead of a knife -- why, indeed, all the conspirators are carrying barely-concealed swords in their togas. "So everyone can see them," he explains.
I nod my head like an idiot, and refrain from observing that a senator, clumsily trying to conceal a two-foot gladius in the folds of his toga, would never have been allowed within striking distance of the Dictator.
Caesar, seemingly oblivious to the man with the raised sword who is standing behind him, takes a firm step to his right. He is now directly in front of Casca. It is my son's turn to play the expert; he leans in to me and whispers: "In the theatre, this is called corrective staging."
"Let the gods defend the right!" Caesar cries, this time throwing his head back and raising both his arms to the sky. Four appeals to heaven in less than a minute -- this is definitely not a Caesar with whom I am familiar.
"Let the gods speak now," announces the gorgeous gladiator who is playing Brutus, and Casca reaches up with his left hand, reverses the blade, and drives the sword two-handed into Caesar's back.
There is a look of satisfaction on Casca's face. He is visibly proud to be the first man to strike a blow against tyranny. He is reveling in the distinction. He is heroic in his anger. He is nothing at all like the real Casca, who was a political backstabber with a loud voice and a weak pair of legs. The kind of blowhard who brags and makes promises and then, when the time comes to act, is usually three streets away drinking wine in the back of a tavern. The only reason that Casca was given the dubious honor of initiating Caesar's assassination in the first place was because everyone knew that if Casca did not strike first, he would have chickened out at the last minute and turned everyone else in for treason.
"Nobody raises a hand until Casca strikes the first blow." That was the only plan the Conspirators had, and to all appearances Casca eagerly embraced it. "Where do I strike him first?" he asked. "In the heart? In the belly?" Cassius smiled and said: "In the back. So that everyone can see you." Men whispered later that you could actually watch the life drain out of Casca's eyes as those words descended from his ears to his heart. He knew then what his fellow conspirators really thought of him -- and knew, too, that there was no way he could get out of performing this particular role without being killed on the spot. The Dictator knew, as well. His actual words, upon feeling the slice of that first knife-blow against his spine, were: "Casca, you coward!" He didn't even have to turn around to see who it was. Not that he could have, with his stiff neck that day.
But here, Caesar's words are: "Casca, you dog!" (in Greek, which is a nice touch), and then he staggers forward, seriously wounded by the blow of Casca's sword. In actual fact, Casca’s great blow for freedom barely pricked Caesar's skin. Because he was so nervous, and because he drove the knife down so hard and at such a wide angle, Casca wound up stabbing himself in the thigh and letting loose the kind of blood-curdling scream that you always hear when a pig is slaughtered in the marketplace. Which is the origin of the rhyme that Aligerius made at the Dictator's funeral:
Albinus did the planning, Cassius did the scheming,
Brutus did the killing, and Casca did the screaming.
[ -- to be continued]
Previous excerpts:
Part 1
copyright 2009 Matthew J Wells
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Three Dead Slaves - Prologue, Part 1
One of the many projects which is currently staring at me with passive-aggressive glee is what I usually refer to as The Roman Murder Mystery. Back in '07 and early '08, I churned out 300 pages for it, or about a third of the final project. I've recently pulled it out again, because it's spring, and because it's March 15th this weekend, which is a significant date when you're writing a mystery novel about the real people behind the death of Julius Caesar. So to get back into the groove, I'm breaking the novel's prologue into 5 pieces and posting them all this week. Here's the first part:
Three Dead Slaves
Prologue: Part 1
Alexandria, 730 A.U.C.
His cheeks are red, his thin-lipped mouth is twisted into a frown, and his eyes, lined with kohl like those of an Egyptian harlot, glow with the inner flame of an oncoming fever. There is a thick vein throbbing at the center of his forehead, just below the laurel wreath which he wears to conceal his baldness. The veins in his neck stand out like pillars supporting a temple. He is leaning forward like a spear at the ready, the long fingers of his feminine hands clutching the arms of a marble throne with all the ferocity of a man strangling a pair of snakes, a feat they say that Hercules performed once in his cradle.
But this tetchy, epileptic old ranter is not Hercules. He is Gaius Julius Caesar, Dictator of Rome, and he is facing a semi-circle of white-robed Senators, only two of whom (in a nice touch of sartorial irony) wear the purple. One of these two is young and tall and blessed with the body of a gladiator; the other is fat and bald and hunched like a spider bracing itself against a stomping foot. Guess which one is supposed to be Brutus. Both these men have their right hands in their togas; whatever they are hiding cannot be seen by the man in the laurel wreath from where he sits upon his burnished throne, but as they briefly turn their backs to him and nod at each other, those of us in the audience who are lucky enough to be looking at them can see the gleam of the afternoon sun as it flashes off their polished blades.
The actor playing Caesar raises his right hand. "Let the gods decide the issue!" he cries, and it is all I can do not to laugh out loud. Gaius Julius Caesar never once put his trust in heaven without first hedging his bets. This is, after all, a man who did not say "Let the gods decide the issue!" when he crossed the Rubicon; he said, "Let the dice fly!" The Butcher of Gaul was never one to petition heaven whenever he marched up to a crossroads. He had only one definition of piety -- bribing (or better yet, blackmailing) a priest into delivering omens that promised the success of whatever Caesar wanted, and the failure of everything else. I speak from personal experience –- I was in charge of delivering a wagonload of gold to the priests of Osiris in Egypt, when Caesar bribed them to approve his liaison with Cleopatra -- an incident which has yet to find a home in any of the official histories of our history-mad empire.
"I give this judgment to the hands of Jove!" this Caesar cries. "Trouble the gods, and trouble me no more!" And as the words leave his lips, he leaps to his feet in a movement that is swift, violent, and awkward, as if the golden throne beneath his bony buttocks has suddenly flamed up like a red-hot griddle. There is a look of fierce indignation in his bloodshot eyes, a look that is meant to inspire obedience and servility, a look that fairly screams "How dare you question me?" And that certainly fits the real Caesar's mood on the day of his death. On that fateful Ides of War, Caesar was not himself -- between the violent thunderstorms which turned the Forum into a wading pool and the feverish nightmares of his latest wife Calphurnia, the last living descendant of the goddess Venus had slept no more than two hours in his last twenty-four. As a result, he was uncharacteristically tetchy and irritable, his stomach was queasy, and according to Albinus, who heard him complaining about it as they walked to the Senate, the Dictator had pulled a muscle in his neck, which meant that he had to swivel his upper body around whenever he wanted to turn his head.
This particular actor's posture is nothing like that. It is not even an approximation of Caesar's deliberately deferential slouch -- the submissive posture which the Dictator adopted for all his dealings with the Senate. Instead, this actor is standing with his head held high, his shoulders squared as if for mortal combat, and his feet firmly planted upon the floor of the Senate chamber. With his right hand the actor points to the heavens; with his left hand he clutches at his toga like a drowning man clawing for air. It is a famous pose. The only problem is that it is not Caesar's famous pose.
"Gods above, he looks just like Cicero!" I announce.
Three men in the row in front of me turn their heads and glare at me as if I have just insulted their wives. Beside me, my son sticks an elbow in my ribs.
"Well he does," I whisper. "Cicero practiced that pose whenever he noticed anything that reflected his appearance, from a mirror to a puddle of dirty rainwater. He thought it looked Roman, and Cicero was obsessed with being Roman."
My son is not listening. Instead, he is rolling his eyeballs. In the eloquent language of youth, this is like a loud voice crying: "Once again you have discovered a new way to embarrass me."
I reply with a grunt which, in the universally recognized language of old age, announces that youth is wasted on the young. Especially snot-nosed whelps like my son Ptolemy Alexandros, who doesn't know the difference between Caesar and Cicero.
[ -- to be continued]
copyright 2009 Matthew J Wells
Three Dead Slaves
Prologue: Part 1
Alexandria, 730 A.U.C.
His cheeks are red, his thin-lipped mouth is twisted into a frown, and his eyes, lined with kohl like those of an Egyptian harlot, glow with the inner flame of an oncoming fever. There is a thick vein throbbing at the center of his forehead, just below the laurel wreath which he wears to conceal his baldness. The veins in his neck stand out like pillars supporting a temple. He is leaning forward like a spear at the ready, the long fingers of his feminine hands clutching the arms of a marble throne with all the ferocity of a man strangling a pair of snakes, a feat they say that Hercules performed once in his cradle.
But this tetchy, epileptic old ranter is not Hercules. He is Gaius Julius Caesar, Dictator of Rome, and he is facing a semi-circle of white-robed Senators, only two of whom (in a nice touch of sartorial irony) wear the purple. One of these two is young and tall and blessed with the body of a gladiator; the other is fat and bald and hunched like a spider bracing itself against a stomping foot. Guess which one is supposed to be Brutus. Both these men have their right hands in their togas; whatever they are hiding cannot be seen by the man in the laurel wreath from where he sits upon his burnished throne, but as they briefly turn their backs to him and nod at each other, those of us in the audience who are lucky enough to be looking at them can see the gleam of the afternoon sun as it flashes off their polished blades.
The actor playing Caesar raises his right hand. "Let the gods decide the issue!" he cries, and it is all I can do not to laugh out loud. Gaius Julius Caesar never once put his trust in heaven without first hedging his bets. This is, after all, a man who did not say "Let the gods decide the issue!" when he crossed the Rubicon; he said, "Let the dice fly!" The Butcher of Gaul was never one to petition heaven whenever he marched up to a crossroads. He had only one definition of piety -- bribing (or better yet, blackmailing) a priest into delivering omens that promised the success of whatever Caesar wanted, and the failure of everything else. I speak from personal experience –- I was in charge of delivering a wagonload of gold to the priests of Osiris in Egypt, when Caesar bribed them to approve his liaison with Cleopatra -- an incident which has yet to find a home in any of the official histories of our history-mad empire.
"I give this judgment to the hands of Jove!" this Caesar cries. "Trouble the gods, and trouble me no more!" And as the words leave his lips, he leaps to his feet in a movement that is swift, violent, and awkward, as if the golden throne beneath his bony buttocks has suddenly flamed up like a red-hot griddle. There is a look of fierce indignation in his bloodshot eyes, a look that is meant to inspire obedience and servility, a look that fairly screams "How dare you question me?" And that certainly fits the real Caesar's mood on the day of his death. On that fateful Ides of War, Caesar was not himself -- between the violent thunderstorms which turned the Forum into a wading pool and the feverish nightmares of his latest wife Calphurnia, the last living descendant of the goddess Venus had slept no more than two hours in his last twenty-four. As a result, he was uncharacteristically tetchy and irritable, his stomach was queasy, and according to Albinus, who heard him complaining about it as they walked to the Senate, the Dictator had pulled a muscle in his neck, which meant that he had to swivel his upper body around whenever he wanted to turn his head.
This particular actor's posture is nothing like that. It is not even an approximation of Caesar's deliberately deferential slouch -- the submissive posture which the Dictator adopted for all his dealings with the Senate. Instead, this actor is standing with his head held high, his shoulders squared as if for mortal combat, and his feet firmly planted upon the floor of the Senate chamber. With his right hand the actor points to the heavens; with his left hand he clutches at his toga like a drowning man clawing for air. It is a famous pose. The only problem is that it is not Caesar's famous pose.
"Gods above, he looks just like Cicero!" I announce.
Three men in the row in front of me turn their heads and glare at me as if I have just insulted their wives. Beside me, my son sticks an elbow in my ribs.
"Well he does," I whisper. "Cicero practiced that pose whenever he noticed anything that reflected his appearance, from a mirror to a puddle of dirty rainwater. He thought it looked Roman, and Cicero was obsessed with being Roman."
My son is not listening. Instead, he is rolling his eyeballs. In the eloquent language of youth, this is like a loud voice crying: "Once again you have discovered a new way to embarrass me."
I reply with a grunt which, in the universally recognized language of old age, announces that youth is wasted on the young. Especially snot-nosed whelps like my son Ptolemy Alexandros, who doesn't know the difference between Caesar and Cicero.
[ -- to be continued]
copyright 2009 Matthew J Wells
Monday, November 19, 2007
Weekend Update
Ancient Rome. I gave my friend DJ a December 3 deadline for the second section of the Roman novel, so this weekend was spent walking up and down the Palatine Hill, examining a dead body in front of the Temple of Janus, and listening to Cassius make sarcastic comments under his breath while Brutus states the obvious. I have two chapters to go, one of which I have to write from scratch, so if you see me making notes on Thanksgiving, that's probably what I'm doing.
The other thing I'll be doing. Starting this weekend I began a notebook for a Christmas novel which will take place during this coming season, and under the Fair Game Rule, I am going to be setting some (if not all) of the scenes at events and places where I will be between now and New Year's. Don't worry, I'll fictionalize all of you, but I'll be creative about it. For instance, the Matthew avatar in this piece will be female and a lot more successful than I am. Which corrects at least one of life's little mistakes . . .
I am SF Old. My niece turned 21 on Saturday. She is now two chronological years older than I am in my head.
.JPG)
Ellis Paul at Joe's Pub. I'll post a review later, if my Crazy Monday allows me the time to transcribe notes and load them up; if not, it'll be tomorrow. Bottom line (boy do I miss that place): great show.
The other thing I'll be doing. Starting this weekend I began a notebook for a Christmas novel which will take place during this coming season, and under the Fair Game Rule, I am going to be setting some (if not all) of the scenes at events and places where I will be between now and New Year's. Don't worry, I'll fictionalize all of you, but I'll be creative about it. For instance, the Matthew avatar in this piece will be female and a lot more successful than I am. Which corrects at least one of life's little mistakes . . .
I am SF Old. My niece turned 21 on Saturday. She is now two chronological years older than I am in my head.
.JPG)
Ellis Paul at Joe's Pub. I'll post a review later, if my Crazy Monday allows me the time to transcribe notes and load them up; if not, it'll be tomorrow. Bottom line (boy do I miss that place): great show.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
If you write a play and nobody does it, are you still a playwright?
My head cold has now become my head-and-chest cold; my sleep bursts are briefer than microprocessor functions, my dreams all have fever logic and dwell on me being trapped in my day job, and the proposed five-part novel has a pretty complete first part done. So naturally I'm thinking about starting something else, and getting frantic about dumping the novel to write a play that I can send out to all the year-end reading/competition/workshop places because, y'know, it ain't February unless I get a dozen rejection letters in the space of five days. And it ain't March, April, May or June unless I'm in a total funk because of February's rejection letters.
What I'll probably end up doing is sending out Monkey's Uncle to about half a dozen things in the next week or two. But only if I can do it and not care what happens. Y'know, like investing in the stock market. If I'm going to be checking the mail every day like an investor checking a stock price, and freaking out every time it goes down a penny, then forget it. I have to send the play out like it's found money.
This has been a weird year for me. I have not written a single play this year, which hasn't happened in a long time. I've made notes for the one I was working on last year this time, but the spark's not there (or maybe the deadline's not there--I work so much better with a deadline). And what's taken the spark's place is a mix of frustration, desperation, and a hefty chip on my shoulder. Stuff I need to clean out of my system because it usually makes me say things like "Oh yeah? I'll give you something to reject!" and then do something really stupid and self-destructive. And do I know self-destructive.
So I took the year off. Have I cleaned myself out? Yes and no. The "I'll show you!" voice is still there, but I'm not listening to it as much. The "you'll never get another play produced ever" voice is there too, and getting louder. But there's a new voice which keeps saying "You're stuck in a rut and you need to change some things," and that's the one I'm trying to talk with more and more. If I can just shut up those other guys. And not do something stupid.
I am thinking of writing a Christmas play, though. The only hitch is, I have to do it while I'm working on the next seven chapters of Three Dead Slaves.
Oh yeah. And not do something stupid.
What I'll probably end up doing is sending out Monkey's Uncle to about half a dozen things in the next week or two. But only if I can do it and not care what happens. Y'know, like investing in the stock market. If I'm going to be checking the mail every day like an investor checking a stock price, and freaking out every time it goes down a penny, then forget it. I have to send the play out like it's found money.
This has been a weird year for me. I have not written a single play this year, which hasn't happened in a long time. I've made notes for the one I was working on last year this time, but the spark's not there (or maybe the deadline's not there--I work so much better with a deadline). And what's taken the spark's place is a mix of frustration, desperation, and a hefty chip on my shoulder. Stuff I need to clean out of my system because it usually makes me say things like "Oh yeah? I'll give you something to reject!" and then do something really stupid and self-destructive. And do I know self-destructive.
So I took the year off. Have I cleaned myself out? Yes and no. The "I'll show you!" voice is still there, but I'm not listening to it as much. The "you'll never get another play produced ever" voice is there too, and getting louder. But there's a new voice which keeps saying "You're stuck in a rut and you need to change some things," and that's the one I'm trying to talk with more and more. If I can just shut up those other guys. And not do something stupid.
I am thinking of writing a Christmas play, though. The only hitch is, I have to do it while I'm working on the next seven chapters of Three Dead Slaves.
Oh yeah. And not do something stupid.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Weekend Update
Honey I Shrunk the Grey Lady. You know how your grandmother seems to get about an inch shorter with every passing year? Well, the New York Times is doing it all at once: less than a month after increasing its price, the Times reduces its size, resulting in “somewhat fewer words per page.” In a related story, as of Monday the New York Times website will only open in a minimized window.
Finally, a third movie in a trilogy that’s worth seeing. I caught the 10 AM Saturday morning show of Bourne Ultimatum at the AMC Lincoln Square and it was so good I didn’t even mind the fact that Julia Stiles was in it. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more crowded theatre for a 10 AM show. (That includes the opening Saturday 9:30 AM Harry Potter show in the same theatre.)
Take that, stupid Roman mystery novel. I spent most of the last two weeks rewriting the second chapter of Three Dead Slaves, until finally on Friday night I took all the printouts of all the various drafts and tore them up into tiny confetti-like pieces. Then I started writing Chapter 3 as if it was Chapter 2, which went like a dream. The new Chapter 3 still needs a little work, Chapter 4 is pretty much done, and if I can finish a draft of Chapter 5 this week, then Book One will pretty much be complete.
Plays too smart for Broadway. I’m slowly working on getting my MySpace page up and running; when I do, I’m going to investigate ways of linking to scripts and such. Look for a link on the blog (and vice versa).
Finally, a third movie in a trilogy that’s worth seeing. I caught the 10 AM Saturday morning show of Bourne Ultimatum at the AMC Lincoln Square and it was so good I didn’t even mind the fact that Julia Stiles was in it. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more crowded theatre for a 10 AM show. (That includes the opening Saturday 9:30 AM Harry Potter show in the same theatre.)
Take that, stupid Roman mystery novel. I spent most of the last two weeks rewriting the second chapter of Three Dead Slaves, until finally on Friday night I took all the printouts of all the various drafts and tore them up into tiny confetti-like pieces. Then I started writing Chapter 3 as if it was Chapter 2, which went like a dream. The new Chapter 3 still needs a little work, Chapter 4 is pretty much done, and if I can finish a draft of Chapter 5 this week, then Book One will pretty much be complete.
Plays too smart for Broadway. I’m slowly working on getting my MySpace page up and running; when I do, I’m going to investigate ways of linking to scripts and such. Look for a link on the blog (and vice versa).
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