Brigit's Flame -- "Caesar"
Prompt: "Caesar"
Word Count: 1,054
Warnings: guns and war, a bit of language
Author’s Note: Two years ago I was in a performance of Julius Caesar staged as a post-modern political drama -- which was fantastic, and which is the basic premise of this piece.
"CAESAR"
Rutilus shifts, breathes, and settles again, looking through the crosshairs. Caesar’s gestures are grandiose, and he panders to the cameras as if he was born to it.
Or, Rutilus thinks, as if he didn’t slay angels to get here.
Rutilus reads the papers, takes the pamphlets-the televised news wriggles under Caesar’s thumb, but you still hear things if you know where to listen. Publius Cimber can’t catch a break, and Caesar is unmoved. Caesar is unshaken. Caesar’s word is law.
As significant as the shifting politics surely are, they’re not the reason Rutilus lies on this flat rooftop, keeping Caesar’s forehead in his sights.
The reason Rutilus is here, the reason he’s in Rome at all, the reason he cradles the trigger in a hooked forefinger and knows that he won’t miss, is because Pompey is dead, and Caesar has won.
Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus was not a perfect man, but there are no perfect men, and Rutilus would have followed this one to the ends of the Earth.
Anything a soldier can believe in is a blessing, and Rutilus believed in Pompey-in his mercy, in his might; in his orders and his explanations of them. His only mistake was believing that Pompey was infallible.
There are no perfect men.
Rutilus made it through Dyrrhachium, and even if he did think they should have tracked the fleeing bastards down and killed every one-Pompey predicted a trap, and Rutilus believed.
One month later, they were the ones running, limping for their lives, shattered and wrecked by Caesar’s stratagems. Pharsalus was the end of a long fall, and the crushing impact came when at last they hit the ground.
In the past, Rutilus hadn’t given much thought to Hell-but as the tents burned, coughing sick black smoke into the sky; as bullets rained on the stained, muddy ground; as the straggling remnants of their fine army petered out into nothing but torn uniforms and hollow regret… he knew it firsthand.
It was only in Egypt, with nowhere left to run, that Pompey had been stabbed thinking he’d found sanctuary-but it was Caesar who’d killed him, in all the ways that counted. Rutilus harbored no doubt of that.
He doesn’t doubt it now as he applies slow pressure to the trigger under his first finger, trying not to tremble in anticipation.
And then Calpurnia steps into the way.
Hastily Rutilus raises the gun, pointing it heavenward. The woman’s only crime is that she married the murderer.
Caesar ducks beneath the awnings for another photo opportunity after that. Rutilus grits his teeth, but there will be other days-other chances-other wide-open windows for revenge.
-
He plans his next move as he lies that night on his creaky cot. Caesar is due at the Senate the day after tomorrow; he’ll be surrounded, but he’ll want to give the cameras a good look at him standing tall and alone. There are scaffolds all around the square, part of some reconstruction project Caesar has pushed through the vote, where Rutilus can hide for the ideal angle.
It’s just a matter of lasting until then. The hours will pass.
Twenty-four of them slip easily away.
That’s when the screaming begins.
Rutilus starts out of a halfhearted doze and runs to the window.
There’s a man in the street below-a man walking slowly with his arm raised, his hand flaming like a torch. The fire doesn’t seem to harm him, and he simply staggers by, staring at it in disbelief.
Rutilus is doing likewise.
He takes the fire escape down, drawn moth-like to the impossibilities spreading through the whole of the city, sickened and intrigued, absurdities multiplying like a plague of insects.
Or frogs-frogs of all sizes flood from the drains, hopping in the gutters, a crescendo of croaks rising as the stream of them parts around Rutilus’s heels.
They disappear as rapidly as they’ve come, hind legs akimbo, webbed toes waving-and Rutilus turns the corner to find himself face to snout with a lion, which shakes its mane and scrutinizes him with glowing golden eyes. He stumbles back, hearing his breath hitch, his heart in his ears and his throat at once, and scrambles away. A glance over his shoulder confirms that the beast hasn’t moved-but it’s still watching.
His bewildered jog takes him down a block, where he skids to a stop as blue-white auras rise from the very cobblestones, twirling, writhing, coalescing with a sound like the shriek when steel and iron meet. Gaping, he watches them soar upwards and sees that the whole sky burns red.
Judiciously, he elects to spend the rest of the night barricaded in his bedroom, armed with a crowbar, sleepless and shaking.
-
He arrives well before Caesar will and chooses a place among the scoured wood and half-finished drywall, a frayed tarp fluttering in the spring breeze. He rests the barrel of the gun on the bar just before him, his knees beginning to cramp unpleasantly as he waits.
Caesar brings with him an ostentatious procession of senators, their laughter too loud, their smiles too bright. Something is amiss, but Caesar shows no fear-he smoothes his tailored suit and offers the cameras a martyr’s grin, bearing the strain of politics for the people.
It isn’t the wind or the static among the trailing tarps that makes the hairs at the back of Rutilus’s neck bristle.
Genially Caesar beckons to the cameras to accompany him as he strides through the double doors, and they hover about him like flies, swarming Brutus, who follows, and Decius swaggering after.
Rutilus has missed his shot.
He doesn’t have time to mourn its loss before Cassius and Cinna, left alone, share a grim look, and each places a hand over the outline of the knife hidden beneath his ceremonial sash.
Dazedly Rutilus sits back, reeling, taking his rifle into his arms as if it were a child.
Somehow, his will is done-his revenge exacted by statesmen, nobles all.
Rutilus clambers back down from the half-constructed building’s shell and slinks away, back to his rooms, back to his television to see the tales the cameras will tell.
There’s no sleep for him this night, either, as red-handed noblemen rally the public, and a thunderous Marc Antony bellows for war.
Word Count: 1,054
Warnings: guns and war, a bit of language
Author’s Note: Two years ago I was in a performance of Julius Caesar staged as a post-modern political drama -- which was fantastic, and which is the basic premise of this piece.
"CAESAR"
Rutilus shifts, breathes, and settles again, looking through the crosshairs. Caesar’s gestures are grandiose, and he panders to the cameras as if he was born to it.
Or, Rutilus thinks, as if he didn’t slay angels to get here.
Rutilus reads the papers, takes the pamphlets-the televised news wriggles under Caesar’s thumb, but you still hear things if you know where to listen. Publius Cimber can’t catch a break, and Caesar is unmoved. Caesar is unshaken. Caesar’s word is law.
As significant as the shifting politics surely are, they’re not the reason Rutilus lies on this flat rooftop, keeping Caesar’s forehead in his sights.
The reason Rutilus is here, the reason he’s in Rome at all, the reason he cradles the trigger in a hooked forefinger and knows that he won’t miss, is because Pompey is dead, and Caesar has won.
Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus was not a perfect man, but there are no perfect men, and Rutilus would have followed this one to the ends of the Earth.
Anything a soldier can believe in is a blessing, and Rutilus believed in Pompey-in his mercy, in his might; in his orders and his explanations of them. His only mistake was believing that Pompey was infallible.
There are no perfect men.
Rutilus made it through Dyrrhachium, and even if he did think they should have tracked the fleeing bastards down and killed every one-Pompey predicted a trap, and Rutilus believed.
One month later, they were the ones running, limping for their lives, shattered and wrecked by Caesar’s stratagems. Pharsalus was the end of a long fall, and the crushing impact came when at last they hit the ground.
In the past, Rutilus hadn’t given much thought to Hell-but as the tents burned, coughing sick black smoke into the sky; as bullets rained on the stained, muddy ground; as the straggling remnants of their fine army petered out into nothing but torn uniforms and hollow regret… he knew it firsthand.
It was only in Egypt, with nowhere left to run, that Pompey had been stabbed thinking he’d found sanctuary-but it was Caesar who’d killed him, in all the ways that counted. Rutilus harbored no doubt of that.
He doesn’t doubt it now as he applies slow pressure to the trigger under his first finger, trying not to tremble in anticipation.
And then Calpurnia steps into the way.
Hastily Rutilus raises the gun, pointing it heavenward. The woman’s only crime is that she married the murderer.
Caesar ducks beneath the awnings for another photo opportunity after that. Rutilus grits his teeth, but there will be other days-other chances-other wide-open windows for revenge.
-
He plans his next move as he lies that night on his creaky cot. Caesar is due at the Senate the day after tomorrow; he’ll be surrounded, but he’ll want to give the cameras a good look at him standing tall and alone. There are scaffolds all around the square, part of some reconstruction project Caesar has pushed through the vote, where Rutilus can hide for the ideal angle.
It’s just a matter of lasting until then. The hours will pass.
Twenty-four of them slip easily away.
That’s when the screaming begins.
Rutilus starts out of a halfhearted doze and runs to the window.
There’s a man in the street below-a man walking slowly with his arm raised, his hand flaming like a torch. The fire doesn’t seem to harm him, and he simply staggers by, staring at it in disbelief.
Rutilus is doing likewise.
He takes the fire escape down, drawn moth-like to the impossibilities spreading through the whole of the city, sickened and intrigued, absurdities multiplying like a plague of insects.
Or frogs-frogs of all sizes flood from the drains, hopping in the gutters, a crescendo of croaks rising as the stream of them parts around Rutilus’s heels.
They disappear as rapidly as they’ve come, hind legs akimbo, webbed toes waving-and Rutilus turns the corner to find himself face to snout with a lion, which shakes its mane and scrutinizes him with glowing golden eyes. He stumbles back, hearing his breath hitch, his heart in his ears and his throat at once, and scrambles away. A glance over his shoulder confirms that the beast hasn’t moved-but it’s still watching.
His bewildered jog takes him down a block, where he skids to a stop as blue-white auras rise from the very cobblestones, twirling, writhing, coalescing with a sound like the shriek when steel and iron meet. Gaping, he watches them soar upwards and sees that the whole sky burns red.
Judiciously, he elects to spend the rest of the night barricaded in his bedroom, armed with a crowbar, sleepless and shaking.
-
He arrives well before Caesar will and chooses a place among the scoured wood and half-finished drywall, a frayed tarp fluttering in the spring breeze. He rests the barrel of the gun on the bar just before him, his knees beginning to cramp unpleasantly as he waits.
Caesar brings with him an ostentatious procession of senators, their laughter too loud, their smiles too bright. Something is amiss, but Caesar shows no fear-he smoothes his tailored suit and offers the cameras a martyr’s grin, bearing the strain of politics for the people.
It isn’t the wind or the static among the trailing tarps that makes the hairs at the back of Rutilus’s neck bristle.
Genially Caesar beckons to the cameras to accompany him as he strides through the double doors, and they hover about him like flies, swarming Brutus, who follows, and Decius swaggering after.
Rutilus has missed his shot.
He doesn’t have time to mourn its loss before Cassius and Cinna, left alone, share a grim look, and each places a hand over the outline of the knife hidden beneath his ceremonial sash.
Dazedly Rutilus sits back, reeling, taking his rifle into his arms as if it were a child.
Somehow, his will is done-his revenge exacted by statesmen, nobles all.
Rutilus clambers back down from the half-constructed building’s shell and slinks away, back to his rooms, back to his television to see the tales the cameras will tell.
There’s no sleep for him this night, either, as red-handed noblemen rally the public, and a thunderous Marc Antony bellows for war.