Composed of men
whose fortunes he had made, the senate was not only shocked, its
education in ingratitude was complete. Already there had been
murmurs. Not content with disarranging the calendar, outlining an
empire, drafting a code while planning fresh beauties, new
theatres, bilingual libraries, larger temples, grander gods,
Caesar was at work in the markets, in the kitchens of the
gourmets, in the jewel-boxes of the virgins. Liberty, visibly, was
taking flight. Besides, the power concentrated in him might be so
pleasantly distributed. It was decided that Caesar was in the way.
To put him out of it a pretext was necessary.
One day the senate assembled at his command. They were to sign a
decree creating him king. In order not to, Suetonius says, they
killed him, wounding each other in the effort, for Caesar fought
like the demon that he was, desisting only when he recognized
Brutus, to whom, in Greek, he muttered a reproach, and, draping
his toga that he might fall with decency, sank backward, his head
covered, a few feet from the bronze wolf that stood, its ears
pointed at the letters S. P. Q. R. which decorated a frieze of the
Curia.
Brutus turned to harangue the senate; it had fled. He went to the
Forum to address the people; there was no one. Rome was strangely
empty. Doors were barricaded, windows closed. Through the silent
streets gladiators prowled. Night came, and with it whispering
groups.
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