Killing Jesus: A History (6 page)

Nor, for that matter, will there be a Cleopatra.

*   *   *

The “friend” who has stepped forward to engage Julius Caesar in conversation as he climbs down from his litter and enters the Senate chamber is Popilius Laenas, a man descended from a centuries-long line of landowning Roman noblemen known for their cruelty and treachery. So, as the conspirators look on from a distance, unable to hear what Popilius is saying, they are justifiably worried. Only moments before, Popilius had wished Marcus Brutus good luck in the conspiracy, but perhaps that was all a ruse. The Liberators can see that his conversation with Caesar is earnest and friendly. Their stomachs churn with fear that Popilius is informing Caesar of their plot. “Not being able to hear what he said, but guessing by what themselves were conscious of … and, looking upon one another, agreed from each other’s countenances that they should not stay to be taken, but should all kill themselves [instead of Caesar],” the historian Plutarch will write of this moment.

Popilius ends his conversation by kissing the hands of Divus Julius and walking away from the Theater of Pompey. Caesar does not seem to be agitated. Relieved, they settle back into their seats to await his arrival.

The great statue of Pompey glowers down on Caesar as he glides into the Senate. Cassius, who, along with Brutus, is the lead assassin, turns to the statue of Pompey and prays, hoping to invoke courage from Caesar’s former enemy.

The entire Senate rises as Caesar enters the chamber. They have been conducting state business all morning and now watch as he takes his seat in a gilded throne. Almost immediately, a large group of them walk toward Caesar, led by Lucius Tillius Cimber. There is nothing ominous in their behavior, for it is common for senators to approach Caesar with personal petitions—and, indeed, Caesar can clearly see the scroll Tillius holds in one hand, but not the dagger he clutches in the other.

It is easy enough for Caesar to guess what Tillius wants. The brother of the veteran senator has been sent into exile, and the petition is most likely a request for a pardon.

The group of senators mill around Caesar’s chair, their numbers growing by the second, until he is ringed by a small mob. They lean down to offer kisses of respect on his head and chest, which has the effect of pressing the dictator even farther down into his seat.

Caesar grows furious at their aggressive behavior and rises violently to his feet.

The murder of Julius Caesar

This is the moment the assassins have been waiting for. Tillius grabs the top of Caesar’s robe and wrenches it down past his shoulders, pinning the dictator’s arms to his sides. At the same time, the Liberator named Publius Servilius Casca Longus— “Casca”—plunges his dagger into Caesar’s shoulder. The thrust is feeble, and the wound draws little blood, but the sudden flash of pain as he is stabbed makes Caesar cry out. “Villain Casca,” Caesar says in Latin while firmly grabbing the handle of Casca’s dagger, “what do you do?”

As he turns to face his attacker, Caesar sees not one knife, but sixty. He feels not one stab wound, but dozens. Each of the senators has pulled a
pugio
from beneath his toga. Caesar sees the faces of enemies, but even more faces are those of friends, including Decimus Brutus and that of another Brutus—Marcus, the arrogant forty-one-year-old Stoic who is also rumored to be Caesar’s son. The conspirators thrust their sharpened blades into the defenseless Caesar, hacking at him again and again. Such is the depth of their frenzy that many of the senators mistakenly stab one another, and all are soon covered in blood.

Meanwhile, Caesar attempts to fight back.

But then Marcus Brutus delivers the killing blow. Instead of aiming for the heart or the great artery of the neck, the bastard son Marcus thrusts his blade deep into Caesar’s groin. It is an act of murder, but also an act of emasculation, meant to humiliate the man who would not claim Marcus as his own. Blood drenches Caesar’s tunic, flowing down the pale skin of his bare legs as he collapses back onto the throne.

“You, too, my boy?” Caesar says despairingly, staring at Marcus.

Not wanting anyone to see the death mask that will soon cross his face, Caesar pulls the fringe of his toga up over his head. A great pool of blood oozes across the marble floor as Caesar’s limp body slides from his throne and comes to rest at the foot of Pompey’s statue.

Head covered, death arrives. Only after he dies does Julius Caesar achieve the ultimate power he so desired, when the Roman Senate posthumously deifies him as Divus Julius.

Julius the God is quite mortal, as his murder clearly shows.

CHAPTER THREE

PHILIPPI, NORTHERN GREECE
OCTOBER 23, 42 B.C.
MORNING

The son of god thinks himself immortal.
¹
He is also fighting a very bad cold.

Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus, or Octavian, as he is also known, has been sick for what seems like forever. The fact that his army is camped next to an enormous swamp certainly hasn’t helped matters. This young man who has affected the title Divi Filius (“son of god”) now pulls his cloak tightly around his shoulders and intently studies the cloudless blue sky, hoping for some good news to offset the misery of his illness. Above him, two golden eagles fly in tight circles with talons extended, engaged in midair combat. The eagle is the symbol of the Roman legion, and to witness these great predators dueling on the eve of his own battle is surely an omen.

But an omen for whom: Octavian or the Liberators who killed his uncle?

Their two powerful armies, consisting of more than three dozen legions and two hundred thousand men combined, face each other across this flat Balkan plain. It is a broad expanse, anchored by low mountains on one side and the vast swamp behind Octavian on the other—a terrain best suited for either farming wheat or waging war. The smoke from a thousand cooking fires curls into the sky as both sides undertake last-minute preparations for the battle that will avenge the death of Julius Caesar, some eight hundred miles distant and two years past in Rome.

The scrape of steel blades on sharpening stones rings through the air. The legionaries set aside javelins and arrows as they choose their weapons for today. The fighting promises to be hand to hand and personal. So instead of spears, which are less useful in close quarters, the legionaries slip daggers and swords into sheaths. Hundreds of thousands of hardened legionaries on both sides of the lines gird their loins by tucking the hems of their cloaks into their belts, so that they won’t trip while racing into combat. Cavalry horses stand patiently while saddles are thrown across their bare backs, knowing all too well what is about to transpire: mayhem.

Octavian’s ally, the hard-drinking general, pedophile, and statesman Marc Antony, oversees the preparations, looking every bit the warrior: barrel-chested, gallant in appearance, and blessed with the thick, muscular thighs that are his one source of vanity. Unlike Octavian, who will remain behind in camp during the fight, Marc Antony relishes the prospect of entering the battlefield and engaging the enemy with the same ferocity as his legions.

Caesar Augustus, first ruler of the Roman Empire

Octavian, on the other hand, is a sickly and pompous twenty-year-old with a large nose, a weak chin, and high, wide-set cheekbones framed by a mop of short hair and bangs that he compulsively brushes to one side. The adopted son of Caesar does not even command his own men. He has handed off that responsibility to another man his own age, a burly intellectual with an unlikely passion for geography named Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa.

Yet what Octavian lacks in physical strength he more than makes up for in cunning and audacity. Since learning that Julius Caesar’s will named him the dictator’s legal heir, Octavian has misappropriated vast public sums of money for his personal use, raised taxes, and decreed himself to be Divi Filius. He has ensured that the Liberators Marcus Brutus and Cassius, whose legions stand waiting on the other side of the battlefield, were declared enemies of the state. Their property was confiscated, and they fled Rome for their lives and raised an army in the hope of returning to Rome in triumph. Octavian and Marc Antony gave chase with their own legions, meeting up with the Liberators on this plain five long months ago. Both armies camped here throughout the summer, building palisades and other fortifications as they stared across at one another, waiting for this day. It was a miserable time for Octavian, who nursed one illness after another during those long, cold months.

Cassius was the first casualty, three weeks ago in the initial battle between the two forces. Fearing the campaign lost, he committed suicide rather than subject himself to the horrors of being taken prisoner. The cautionary tale of Marcus Licinius Crassus, a former general serving alongside Julius Caesar, would have made any man think twice about surrender. It was Crassus who, after being defeated by the Parthians at the Battle of Carrhae in 53
B.C.
, was killed by having molten gold poured down his throat.
²

So Cassius fell upon his sword, thinking all was lost. But the Liberator was wrong. Shortly after he committed suicide, his legions reversed the flow of the battle and won the day.

Octavian also nearly died that afternoon. His lines were overrun during Cassius’s counterattack, and the young leader escaped only by hiding in a swamp while Cassius’s legionaries plundered Octavian’s camp before returning to their lines. Disgraced by his cowardice and that he had allowed more than fifteen thousand of his men to be slain, Octavian remained hidden for three days before sneaking back to his tent.

Now, three weeks later, the unmistakable blasts of brass
tubae
(trumpets) echo from one side of the plain to the other, a sound that makes the heart of every Roman legionary beat faster, for this is the call to battle.

On this morning, the coward will have his revenge. Octavian knows this because the fight between the two eagles has just been decided. The two majestic birds were not part of an orchestrated ritual and fought over the battlefield only by pure chance. But the eagle that approached from Marcus Brutus’s side of the lines is now plummeting to earth, killed by the majestic bird of prey that flew into combat from Octavian’s side.

It is an omen—a good one. And like his dead uncle Julius, the Divi Filius is a firm believer in omens.

*   *   *

Even two years after the fact, the death of Julius Caesar still affects almost every part of the world. It can be felt in Rome, where chaos continues to reign, and in Egypt, where Cleopatra has ruthlessly scrambled to maintain her toehold on power by murdering her own brothers. The shock waves are slow to reach Judea, but they will soon be keenly felt in the province of Galilee, in the village of Nazareth, where a builder named Jacob is raising a son called Joseph.

Jacob is a direct descendant of Abraham, the patriarch of the Jewish faith, and of David, the greatest king Judea has ever known. Twenty-six generations separate Jacob from Abraham, and at least fourteen separate him from David. But while Abraham was extremely wealthy, and David and his son Solomon even more so, their lineage has fallen on hard times. The quiet and humble backdrop of Nazareth is a far cry from the great kingdoms enjoyed by those prior generations. It is a village of fewer than four hundred residents and three dozen homes, situated in a hollow formed by the rolling hills of southern Galilee. The tiny houses
³
are built from the soft limestone and other stone that litters the hills. As a builder, Jacob works with both foundation stone and oak from nearby forests to construct roofs and furniture. When work is scarce in Nazareth, there are always jobs to be found in the cosmopolitan city of Sepphoris, just an hour’s walk away.