Julius Caesar’s tragedy is so closely bound up with that of his friend-turned-assassin Brutus that perhaps William Shakespeare should have titled this play Caesar and Brutus. His 1599 play’s title, The Tragedy of Julius Caesar, draws the reader's or playgoer's focus to one of history’s truly seminal moments: Caesar’s assassination on March 15 (“the Ides of March”) in the year 44 B.C. Yet for all the title’s focus on Caesar alone, Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar is very much a twinned tragedy, with not one but two tragic heroes following the Aristotelian cycle of hubris (fatal character flaw), hamartia (fatal decision), and anagnorisis (the hero's after-the-fall recognition of their place in the cosmos). And it is a play that gains further resonance from considering the English historical context within which Shakespeare lived and wrote.
Virtually all the members of Shakespeare’s audience, whether educated or not, would know that Julius Caesar was a famous Roman general and politician who was assassinated. Accordingly, the play abounds with situational irony from its very beginnings, when a soothsayer tells Caesar, “Beware the Ides of March.” Caesar dismisses the soothsayer’s warnings – “He is a dreamer. Peace; let us leave him” – and 400 years’ worth of audiences have been shaking their heads ever since, as they witness Caesar’s refusal to listen to the soothsayer’s warnings.
Yet Caesar’s impending demise is not strictly a matter of one’s fate being set like stone and visible in the stars. Human action and choice have much to do with it as well. The Roman senator Gaius Cassius Longinus (hereafter simply “Cassius”), a leader of the nascent conspiracy against Caesar, seeks to persuade his brother-in-law and fellow senator Marcus Junius Brutus (hereafter simply “Brutus”) to join the conspiracy. As Brutus has an established reputation for honourable behaviour, Cassius knows that Brutus would be a most helpful addition to the conspiracy.
In his blandishments toward Brutus, Cassius sarcastically compares Caesar with the Colossus of Rhodes – “he doth bestride the narrow world/Like a Colossus” – and asks, “Upon what meat does this our Caesar feed/That he is grown so great?” For Cassius, the failure of Romans to rise up against Caesar's kingly pretension is a sign that the republic's old virtues are dying out: “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,/But in ourselves, that we are underlings.” One senses at once that Cassius’ motives for wanting to assassinate Caesar are, at least in part, personal rather than “patriotic.”
It is a tense time in Rome; strange phenomena manifest themselves in the streets. Acclaimed by the people after all his military victories, Caesar seems poised to become king of a Roman Republic where “king” has been a dirty word ever since Tarquin the Proud, the last king of Rome, was deposed in 509 B.C. (and by an ancestor of Brutus at that). Caesar makes a show of refusing the crown, but not a very convincing one. In this menacing setting, wise people keep their own counsel. The great orator Cicero, whom the conspirators vainly hope to lure into their ranks, slyly dismisses both Caesar's denying-the-crown charade and the conspirators’ blandishments by speaking in Greek; and future conspirator Casca, evidently a unilingual Roman, can only say that "it was Greek to me."
Julius Caesar himself harbours some feelings of distrust toward Cassius, saying to his loyal lieutenant Mark Antony early in the play that “Yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look” and adding, “Let me have men about me that are fat”. Yet he does not act on those feelings of distrust; rather, he spends much of the play concerned with living up to his public image for matchless courage. When he dismisses any talk of danger against himself by saying things like “Danger knows full well/That Caesar is more dangerous than he./We are two lions littered in one day,/And I the elder and more terrible”, or “Cowards die many times before their deaths;/The valiant never taste of death but once”, he may be saying what he thinks – or he could be acting in accordance with his public persona, saying what he knows he is expected to say. Roman society did not differentiate between the public and the private person, and Caesar seems only too aware that he must look, act, and sound like a Caesar at all times. His need to live up to his public persona eventually leads to his demise.
Similarly, Brutus puts his public self before his private self; he talks himself into becoming an assassin by persuading himself that he can do so in a manner that will be congruent with his well-known reputation for honourable behaviour. Reminding himself that “I know no personal cause to spurn at [Caesar]”, Brutus states that saving the Roman Republic "must be by [Caesar’s] death." Considering (as Cassius has taken pains to remind him) that his ancestor, another Brutus, dethroned the last king of Rome 500 years before, Brutus succumbs to his own form of hubris or fatal pride that leads him to a moment of fatal decision or hamartia. Once he joins with the conspirators, he has set himself in a path that will lead him to destruction.
On the same sort of path to self-destruction walks Julius Caesar, who turns down repeated chances to avoid his premature demise. A soothsayer tells Caesar, not once but twice, “Beware the Ides of March.” Caesar disregards him; like Cassandra at Troy, and Teiresias with Oedipus and Creon in Sophocles’ plays, the soothsayer’s fate is to know the sad future and not really be able to do anything about it. Calpurnia, kneeling before Caesar, relates to him her dreams of a statue of Caesar bleeding from a hundred wounds; but when one of the assassination plotters suggests that Caesar’s failure to appear before the Senate will make Caesar seem afraid, Calpurnia’s pleas are in vain. And then there is Artemidorus of Cnidos, a Greek rhetorician, who knows of the plot and desperately tries to give a letter of warning to Caesar before Caesar enters the Forum;, Caesar refuses the letter, and walks on toward his bloody fate.
The conspirators lay hands upon Caesar in front of the Capitol, begging pardon for an exiled Roman nobleman. Caesar refuses their pleas, speaking of himself in the third person (as is his wont): “Know: Caesar doth not wrong, nor without cause/Will he be satisfied.” On that note, the assassins draw their weapons. Shakespeare’s dying Caesar looks to Brutus and says, “Et tu, Brutè? [You, too, Brutus?] – Then fall Caesar!” In fact, Shakespeare’s education in Stratford-upon-Avon involved Latin translations of Greek texts. What Caesar actually said was, “καὶ σὺ, τέκνον;” – "Kai su, teknon?" or “Even you, my son?” in Greek, the language of court and diplomacy and educated people. No matter. It is still one of the most moving death scenes in literature.
With Caesar dead, the true moral nature of this act of assassination begins to reveal itself. The popular Roman philosophical schools of the time, like Epicurian and Stoic philosophy, all emphasized balance; and the way in which the conspirators have lost their moral balance shows through clearly when Brutus urges his fellow assassins to join him in bathing their arms, up to the elbows, in the blood of the murdered Caesar – in order to show the Roman people that everything’s fine and this was a perfectly reasonable thing to do! Really? Really?
As the conspirators do Caesar’s bidding, bathing their hands and swords in Caesar’s blood, Cassius muses: “How many ages hence/Shall this our lofty scene be acted over/In states unborn and accents yet unknown!” Brutus agrees – “How many times shall Caesar bleed in sport”. Imagining themselves as the stars of a play, Brutus and Cassius have clearly lost all sense of balance and proportion – even if they are correct that Caesar’s death shall “be acted over” many times – including in cinema, with actors like Charlton Heston, James Mason, Marlon Brando, John Gielgud, Greer Garson, Deborah Kerr, Jason Robards, Robert Vaughn, Richard Chamberlain, Diana Rigg, and Christopher Lee (who makes an impressive Artemidorus).
When Mark Antony finds the conspirators with the body of Caesar, he is filled with outrage at the murder of his friend. Yet he is surrounded by armed conspirators, and he knows that if he is to outlive the Ides of March, he must play his cards carefully. He expresses a certain measure of astonishment that Caesar can lie dead like other men – “O mighty Caesar, dost thou lie so low?/Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils/Shrunk to this little measure?”
Antony’s affection for his dead friend and mentor comes through clearly as he addresses the corpse of Caesar, saying, “Thou art the ruins of the noblest man/That ever lived in the tide of times.” Yet he persuades the assassins that he recognizes the necessity of what they have done; and only when he is alone does he make clear that he wants to see the assassins punished, imagining that the spirit of the murdered Caesar will “Cry ‘Havoc!’ and let slip the dogs of war”. To cry “Havoc,” in those times, meant a declaration of no quarter, of war to the knife. It is a grim prophecy of the bloody events that will soon unfold.
The conspirators hope to bring about a peaceful transition of power. Brutus addresses the distressed plebeians of Rome, speaking to the crowd in accordance with his public image as a man of principle, whose commitment to the ideals of republican government is genuine led him to the act of assassination. “Romans, countrymen, and lovers,” he begins, “hear me for my cause.” He assures his listeners that he acted strictly out of principle; it was “Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more.”
So far, from the conspirators’ point of view, so good; but then Mark Antony flips the script. Antony, Caesar’s loyal lieutenant, has so successfully concealed his true emotions at Caesar’s death that Brutus unwisely allows him to address the crowd of plebeians. Once again, fatal pride on Brutus’ part – assuming that he can read Antony’s character – leads toward a fatal decision that will contribute toward his downfall.
“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears”, Antony says to the crowd. I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him./The evil that men do lives after them;/The good is oft interred with their bones.” Yet praise Caesar is exactly what Antony does. In response to the charges that Caesar was acting out of an ambition to be a king of Rome, Antony points out Caesar’s repeated acts of generosity toward the Roman people, and suggests that “Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.” He weeps as he declares that if any Roman fails to mourn for Caesar, then “O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,/And men have lost their reason.” The crowd starts to turn away from Brutus’ point of view, and toward Antony’s.
Having shifted the tactical balance of power in terms of popularity before the Roman people, Antony then, rhetorically speaking, goes in for the kill. He holds up Caesar’s bloodied robes, pointing out where each conspirator’s blade pierced Caesar’s body, and particularly where Brutus struck Caesar with “the most unkindest cut of all.” Sarcastically, Antony reminds the crowd over and over again that if Brutus sanctioned this act of assassination, it must somehow be okay, because “Brutus is an honourable man.” It is an inspired bit of demagoguery, and it works; by the time Antony is done, the crowd of plebeians who had been acclaiming the conspirators are instead calling for their heads.
From that point, it is a short journey toward yet another Roman civil war – Brutus and Cassius lead one side; Antony, the future emperor Octavian, and Lepidus lead the other. In a classic Shakespearean pattern, violence with a target leads to untargeted violence in which innocents die. The conspirators are divided by their own differences, and their side lurches toward defeat. Brutus can declare that “There is a tide in the affairs of men/Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune”; but it is clear enough that the tides of fortune have turned against Brutus’ and Cassius’ side – even before the ghost of Caesar appears to Brutus, identifies himself as “Thy evil spirit, Brutus”, and assures Brutus that “thou shalt see me at Philippi.”
At the end, Brutus knows that his dream of restoring the republic through violence has failed. Hearing of the suicide of a fellow leader of his own side, he reflects that “O Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet;/Thy spirit walks abroad and turns our swords/In our own proper entrails.” His beloved wife Portia – who, earlier in the play, knelt before Brutus as Calpurnia knelt before Caesar, in another linkage between the characters of Caesar and Brutus – has taken her own life, and in a particularly horrifying way.
For Brutus, there is only the cold comfort of recalling the loyalty of fallen allies, along with the expression of a hope that “I shall have glory by this losing day/More than Octavius and Mark Antony/By this vile conquest shall attain unto.” Running himself upon his own sword, Brutus dies with the words, “Caesar, now be still./I killed not thee with half so good a will.”
And once Brutus has taken his own life, it is left to Antony, his erstwhile adversary, to speak generously of Brutus in death: “This was the noblest Roman of them all…/His life was gentle, and the elements/So mixed in him that nature might stand up/And say to all the world, ‘This was a man.’”
These are fine words, to be sure; but the thoughtful reader of Julius Caesar is more likely to be troubled than assured by the play’s resolution. For one thing, the reader remembers the insults that Antony and Brutus hurled at one another before the battle of Philippi – a recollection that makes Antony’s noble words of tribute seem more calculated than spontaneous. One also recalls seeing Antony with his fellow triumvirs, Octavian and Lepidus, making up death lists for after their victory, even throwing their own relatives under the proverbial chariot wheels if another triumvir wants it. And of course, one knows that within twelve years after their shared victory at Philippi, Antony and Octavian will be enemies in a civil war of their own, and Antony will follow Brutus’ path toward defeat and suicide – a tale told on the stage by Shakespeare, in his later play Antony and Cleopatra. Beyond the resolution of the troubles chronicled in this play, there are only more troubles ahead.
How did the English audiences of Shakespeare’s time respond to Julius Caesar? They did not worry about having a republic, of course; England was (and is) a monarchy, and proud of it. But they would have had decided feelings about assassination plots hatched by self-appointed avengers. English history was full of such game-of-thrones stratagems, as Shakespeare had dramatized in ten history plays – and all of those plots had brought with them some degree of death and destruction, and had destabilized the realm.
When Elizabeth Tudor succeeded to the English throne, she did so through the established, peaceful process - not through conspiracy, and not by spilling the blood of her predecessors. Once she had become Queen of England, she ruled for 45 years with wisdom and justice, ushering in what is still known as England’s “Golden Age” – and she did so while surviving four assassination plots and three assassination attempts. Shakespeare’s English audience would no doubt have seen the assassination plotters of Julius Caesar as a group of self-deluded fools, arrogantly moving their country toward anarchy and tyranny.
And how does one read Julius Caesar nowadays, here in the United States of America – or Civitates Foederatae Americae, as the Romans would have called it? After all, we are one of those “states unborn”, with “accents yet unknown”, that Cassius speaks of after the assassination. As with the Roman Republic that ended not long after the murder of Caesar, the U.S.A. is a republic whose people are proud of having retained a republican form of government for a period of centuries.
And our republic has its own sad history of assassination – of 46 U.S. presidents, four have died at the hands of assassins, two others have been wounded in assassination attempts, and thirteen others have been the subject of assassination plots that fortunately never came to fruition. Americans know only too well the fear and instability that attend the violent death of a head of state – something that makes Julius Caesar all too contemporary. It brings history and tragedy together like no other Shakespeare play.