Benjamin, Jeju, 2023
Caesar lay in bed, trying not to move so he would not wake his wife. She whimpered in her sleep, as if having a nightmare. Caesar held her trembling hand until it stilled, and her breathing calmed again. His limbs were tired, but his mind would not allow him to sleep —he was badly ill.
“Probably a cold,” he had told his physician. “Not a big deal.”
But he knew it was not a cold; it was not a disease at all. It was an emotion that he had never
felt before, one that took him a while to recognise. Fear. Caesar forced his eyes shut. Tomorrow would be his last day, and he wanted to make the most of it.
He dreamt the same dream he had been having for weeks now. He was an eagle, soaring against the crisp breeze of dying winter as spring began to take its place. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dense black cloud of birds rapidly approaching him. A razor-sharp talon raked across his shoulder, and he killed the vulture with a single blow. A second clawed at his wings. His flight faltered, and he took the bird’s neck in his beak and strangled it. Yet before it died, a third latched onto his underside and dug its beak and talons into his bowels. He plummeted downwards and still the vultures persisted. A fourth attacked him, a fifth, a sixth. The skin on his back was torn away, and his wing feathers broke and fell off. Seven, eight. He was blinded by his own blood. Nine. Ten. Caesar hit the ground with a thud that shattered every bone in his body into a thousand pieces. Vultures covered his defenceless body, ripping, tearing, raking, clawing at him until there was not a scrap of flesh left. The vultures flew away as insects congregated and dug into the marrows of his bone. He lay on the ground, his shape barely recognisable. He did not have a physical form; he could not feel any pain. Yet this was the worst part of the dream. He could withstand the pain of sharp talons digging through his skin, of his flesh being clawed off, of his bones shattering into a thousand pieces. But he could not bear lying on the bare earth, naked, stripped of all dignity and pride, defeated.
Suddenly, he realised that he was seeing his corpse from above. He looked around, bewildered, and realised that he had gained a new, translucent, spiritual body. He beat his mighty wings once more, and he took off into the sky. He flew in circles, and glided through the air, then soared upwards, straight towards the sun. Its rays did not blind him, nor did the heat burn him.
Caesar woke with a gasp. Daylight trickled through a crack in the window. His wife was gone. Caesar pulled himself into a sitting position. Immediately, a slave appeared through the door with a cup of water. Caesar refused, and the slave obediently disappeared. He walked out of his bedroom and opened a window wide open. From there, he could look down at the city of Rome. His city. Caesar’s thoughts started wandering. He ended up thinking about the soothsayer.
“Beware the Ides of March!” he had cried.
Caesar had never believed in soothsayers before, yet this one knew, somehow, of the Senators’ plan. He had been sure that he was the only one who had known. Caesar had tried to laugh him off, hoping he would stop talking. Yet the soothsayer persisted. This would be a problem — if the senators found out about him, they would suspect that Caesar believed in him and would change their plan into something less dramatic. He recalled the comments he had made to the poor old man - he had to insult him to the point where he stopped talking.
He realised that it was almost time to start his journey to the Senate house. He paused in front of the gates, knowing that outside there would be a crowd of people that would unknowingly lead him to his death.
“Memento mori.”
“Memento mori, memento mori, memento mori.”
He found himself several years back — after his first victory, in the middle of a parade. The slave behind Caesar in the parade had whispered, holding the silver ring above his head, almost like a halo. His face was painted scarlet, and his cape shone a brilliant purple. His gold-plated armour shone in the sun. He was more than a human.
“Memento mori.”
Remember you are human. Remember you are mortal. Remember you will die.
Caesar dropped out of his trance. As he walked past the crowd of his own supporters to the senate house, he felt the same surge of pride he had felt that day, many years ago. The slave had been wrong. He was a god. Amongst the people, he saw the soothsayer. He forced himself to smile and waved at him playfully.
“Salve, amice!” he said, with as much cheer as he could manage. “How are you doing?”
“I am very well, sir,” the old man replied. He looked up with his pale white eyes. “Are you?”
“Well, I’m still alive, aren’t I? And it’s the Ides of March.” Caesar replied, opening his arms
wide to indicate himself.
“Yes, sir.” the old man said. “You are still alive.” His parched, grey face twisted itself into a
light smile. “And it’s still the Ides of March.”
His words gave Caesar a sinking feeling. The courage that the cheering people had given him evaporated and his smile faltered. Once again, dread engulfed him. Caesar directed his thoughts back to his victory parade. Caesar had had countless victories and parades, most of which were of a far larger scale than his first one. Yet for some reason, his first one was different from the others. It had a meaning that the others did not have. It was the moment when he had truly become a god. It had been the moment when he realised that he could be more than what he was if he could convince the people. And now, he was the much-loved dictator of Rome.
He was nearing the House. Caesar’s heartbeat quickened. Inside, the senators would be waiting for him, hiding blades in their sleeves. He approached the door.
Achilles had been given two choices - to live a happy, normal life or to live a tragedy and be remembered for the rest of history. He had chosen the latter. So would Caesar. Caesar knew that his reign would not last long. If he chose to escape the senate’s assassination, he would be dethroned anyway but perhaps without being killed. He would then become just another one of the countless roman praetors — one of the dull men who abided by whatever their predecessors had told them. He would be forgotten. Caesar considered his own life to be a successful one; he had had more victories than any other praetor in history. He was proud of his life, of himself. Now he wanted it to be remembered.
He opened the door.
A room full of senators greeted him. Caesar’s heart was pounding. But he strode proudly forward and sat on his chair. One of the senators jumped from his seat and tore his cape away. Caesar seized his arm. A second senator drew his knife and made as if to stab him — he got close to nicking his hand. Before Caesar knew it, he was surrounded by a mob of shouting senators, each with a sharp knife. A scarlet flower bloomed on his thigh. Caesar struck the offender with all his might, only to feel another blade pierce his back. One of the senators grabbed his toga and held it back tightly, restraining his arms. Blades rained down on him, dyeing his bright white toga dark red. He broke free of his restraints and, in a blind attempt to escape, he burst out of the building, and tumbled down the staircase. The senators followed.
The crowd, which had not yet gone, stared at him in bewilderment. The senators poured out of the building, covering his body, stabbing randomly until they were sure he had died. Caesar lay, unable to move on the ground. His face was painted scarlet. The cold, early spring sun reflected off his toga, which shone a brilliant dark red. Behind him, he could hear the slave again.
“Memento mori,” he said.
“Memento mori. Memento mori. Memento mori.”
“No,” Caesar replied. “Now, I can live forever.”
He rose above his own body. He was no longer bound by his physical form. He soared, high above the ground, into the sky. Straight towards the Sun.
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