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Brutus remembers running around the vineyards as a boy with Caesar chasing him. His mother’s handsome lover. Not his father, but playful as one. He remembers drinking watered wine at dinner while his mother laughed in Caesar’s embrace and feeling like a man grown in this sophisticated company.
He remembers seeing Caesar retiring with his mother to her chamber.
He would hear his mother crying out in the night. Caesar grunting. He’d thought she was in pain, but he knew better now. He has made Porcia scream so, curled between her thighs like a conch shell.
***
Cassius visits Brutus. They walk in the gardens of the villa in the soft light of evening. The air smells of flowers and spices.
“There are many who love Caesar,” Cassius says. “But it must be done.”
Cassius is pretty when he tells Brutus how desperate he is to rid Rome of Caesar, passion lights his cheeks.
It seems unthinkable. Winter is already fading. Another year turns, another dusty summer comes in Rome Eternal. And Rome is Caesar. Caesar is Rome. Sometimes it seems like Caesar is more than Rome itself. Is time itself. Caesar Eternal.
When Brutus says removing Caesar is impossible, Cassius smiles.
“I have a plan to ensure our victory, simply killing him would not be enough,” Cassius whispers in the garden, a hand warm on Brutus’s hip.”Trust me, brother.”
***
One night when Brutus had been unable to sleep he had risen from his bed and walked around the upper floors of the villa and he had come upon Caesar sitting on the balcony, looking out over the dark streets.
“Ah Brutus, come here, child.”
Caesar is naked. His cock is covered by a small piece of linen like something you would use to wash yourself. The night is warm. Brutus can see sweat on Caesar’s hairy limbs. The man that is Caesar, the boy that is Brutus.
He walks towards Caesar. On a small table Caesar has a clay jug of wine. It smells like vinegar. He has a cup in his hand that he holds out to Brutus.
It tastes like vinegar too.
“You should come visit me. Come to my villa. We must talk of things. You have a grand future. A young man like you could do anything, be anything.”
Brutus looks at Caesar’s bare legs, the muscles in his thighs. He swallows. “It would be an honour,” he says, drinking more wine.
***
When Brutus thinks of Caesar there are too many feelings, twisted together like a thick rope.
And for all that Caesar is a danger to Rome, a threat that they have only one small chance to quell, Brutus could not truly say he did not love him. That his heart did not beat hard in his breast at the thought of him.
When Cassius tells him the plan, Brutus’s face burns. Even the thought of inflicting such a shame on a man like Caesar makes him feel as if he is inflicting that shame on himself
Brutus says, “We cannot, not that.”
“If we do not, there will be war. There will be men who will speak against us. Anthony will speak against us.The only way to stop that is to ensure Caesar is never seen as a man again in Rome.”
Brutus thinks of it. Caesar, on the steps outside the senate. Blood staining his body. Seed on his face, and limbs. Toga shredded. His cries. His sobs.
“Must we all do it?’
“We must. It must be clear. King Caesar will not stand. Ponifex Maximus is an insult to all Rome is founded upon.”
“But to violate him as if he were a boy? A slave? Used before all Rome.”
“It is the only way. We must be sure he cannot return,” Cassius says, and he turns, and he kisses Brutus softly on the mouth. The night is too warm.
***
It is decided. Days pass and more are drawn to their cause. One morning Porcia demands he tell her what he is planning.
He says he is planning nothing and he knows she does not believe him.
She touches his face. “My love, I would do anything for you, but please do not lie to me.” It makes him feel sick.
He had hoped there would be another way, that this day would not come, But the day has come and the plan is set.
***
There are a score of them, but Cassius is sure even more will join when they begin. He has told Brutus in excited, breathless detail how many he has brought to their cause. He says it that way. “Their cause.” Brutus does not know when Cassius’s plan became theirs.
It will hurt Caesar more to see him, Brutus, involved. Cassius wants that, Brutus thinks. Cassius is driven by something Brutus barely understands, but for all of that, Brutus believes Cassius is right, that his cause is just.
Brutus walks to the Theatre of Pompey under a burning sky, a bright blue morning. Rome is a great city, a jewel of the world. All men should be united under the single cause of the glorification of Rome, not the glorification of one man. But Brutus’s heart is a leaden weight with what must be done, with how it shall be done.
He wears his blade on his belt every day, but today it seems to draw his attention. The simple weight of it. It feels as if it already drips Caesar’s blood onto the street as he walks. He thinks of the blood that morning, dripping from Porcia’s wound on her sliced foot. His cock also draws his attention, aching beneath his clothing. He should not feel so aware of it, but all he can think of is what he must do with it this day.
He carries on his body the tools that will ruin Caesar. Cassius suggested to him that if the plan went awry he ought to turn the blade on himself. There is part of Brutus that longs for that outcome over the one where they are successful. He knows that no matter how many men Cassius recruits, it will be his blade, his cock, his violations of Caesar’s body that will strike Caesar deepest.
The first part of the Senate meeting passes in a blur of dread. He sees the elements of the plan slot together, small obstacles easily overcome. As if the Gods want them to succeed, smile upon them, and he takes bitter comfort in that.
At first, when Caesar doesn’t appear and whispers begin that he has heard something, a rumour, a bad omen, it is simply dealt with by some persuasion from Decimus. Trebonius draws Anthony away with some conversation to ensure he will not intervene. Lucius presents his petition, standing close to Caesar’s chair. Others draw near as if to support Lucius’s plea.
Caesar’s hands are grabbed as if to entreat, someone leans in to kiss his face. It happens moment to moment, simple politicking becomes more frantic. Cimbar lunges forward and rips Caesar’s toga, baring his chest.
Brutus stands. He crosses the circle halfway, drawing nearer, as Casca raises his blade and stabs Caesar in the shoulder. Caesar roars in pain and shock. He throws Casca off, blood on his chest.
He tries to stand but hands are on him and he is forced back. He is dragged from his chair onto the floor at the feet of the statue of Pompey the Great, like an offering. Perhaps, Brutus thinks, Pompey would be pleased to see this.
In shockingly fast moments, Caesar’s toga is torn away. He is naked, face down. He has been stabbed with more blades, mostly on his limbs. A wound on the back of his thigh bleeds the most heavily, red running down between Caesar's legs as they are pressed together and Gaius inserts himself between them, blood slicking his way.
Brutus sees Caesar freeze. He did not know, until now, Brutus thinks, that he would suffer this too. Caesar cries out in rage. He tries to throw Gaius off, but too many hands are on him, he is overwhelmed. He struggles hopelessly as Gaius fucks between Caesar’s hard thighs until he spends and the scent of seed fills the air.
Caesar bellows out his horror and the crowd of men roar with approval. Another is standing over the violation, stroking himself, by Caesar’s head. He completes. More seed, this time spattering down onto Caesar’s face as he looks up. He splutters and writhes. He is pulled up, back arching. Hands force his mouth open, wrenching his jaw. Fingers push seed into his mouth. Someone spits. Someone kneels and shoves a blood-hard cock into Caesar’s noble mouth, the shining wet head moving on Caesar’s pink tongue.
With this terrible action, the scene becomes something like a nightmare. Brutus watches, as frozen as a statue, as Caesar’s mouth is fucked until the man using it spills seed messily over Caesar’s lips and chin. And now, more men have moved behind Caesar hauling his ass up so he’s on all fours, posed like a dog.
No, not like a dog, Brutus thinks, like a bitch.
As he thinks this, Lucius and Pacuvius move behind Caesar, Lucius probes Caesar’s bared hole with a finger while Pacuvius uses a blade to make shallow cuts on Caesar’s ass.
Caesar cries out around the cock in his mouth.
More men move closer to watch, brandishing both blades and cocks to thrust into Caesar, spilling blood and spilling seed. Caesar is buried beneath it all. Cassius was right. No man could survive this and still be a man.
As he thinks this, Brutus realises Cassius is behind him, watching him, watching this. One of Cassius’s arms slides around Brutus’s waist. Cassius’s lips are at his ear, whispers, “Let us drag him onto the street like this, brother. Make this public. Show all Rome.”
Brutus shudders, horrified. “Cassius no.”
Cassius pulls him closer, holds him tighter. Brutus is shaking. Cassius kisses his temple. “Then you must take your turn,” he says softly. “He must know you are here.” His breath smells like mustacei cake, sweet aniseed.
Brutus turns in Cassius’s arms to look at Caesar, bloody and shaking on the ground, stained with shame. Ruined. Not a king. Not an Emperor. Barely even a man.
“Why must I?” Brutus says. “Surely your plan has succeeded?” And it has, Caesar will not survive this whether he lives or dies.
But when he looks at Cassius then he understands. For Cassius, ending Caesar is not enough. He needs more savagery. He wants to drag this onto the streets of Rome. He wants Caesar to see Brutus is here, that Brutus is part of this betrayal.
So Brutus looks at Cassius and nods. He steps away from Cassius and the scent of aniseed. He steps closer to Caesar. The men surrounding him seem to melt away. The sounds of jeers and cries and grunts and slapping flesh recede.
How long have they been doing this? Only moments really, but it feels like hours and hours.
Caesar looks up as Brutus steps closer. His face is bruised and bloody. He has a wound on his cheek, a slash. Blood from bloody hands is smeared on his face. There’s blood in his eyelashes.
He stares at Brutus, his expression wounded shock as he sees who is before him “Child?” he says, as if he sees not Brutus a man of forty years but the boy he knew. Brutus nods, “Caesar,” he says, as if he is greeting him in the street. He kneels down beside him, hauls him over onto his back and crawls to position himself between Caesar’s legs. He places his hands on Caesar’s thighs, pushing them wide.
Caesar’s hole is a mess of blood and seed. A great ruination. But as Brutus takes his cock in his hand, Caesar nods, as if he understands. He knows what Brutus must do now. He accepts it.
Perhaps Brutus imagines it, but he nods back. He slides into Caesar, fucks into him slowly. Caesar on his back beneath him. He forgets the men that surround him, the blood on Caesar’s face and body. He feels the heat of being inside Caesar, of breaking this man, this Emperor, to nothing but a hole.
He knows what he must do. He reaches out and curls his fingers around Caesar’s cock and Caesar gasps, head shaking as Brutus’s fingers slip, slick with blood, rousing him hard as Brutus thrusts deep into Caesar's broken hole. There are tears in Caesar’s eyes. He's a ruined mess.
Caesar chokes with horror as he spends in Brutus’s hand, face twisting with pleasure and dread. He knows it now. He knows what has been done, what Brutus has done.
And Brutus too.