Plutarch’s Makers of Rome is a biographical account of nine lives: Coriolanus, Fabius Maximus, Marcellus, Cato the Elder, Tiberius Gracchus, Gaius Gracchus, Sertorius, Brutus, and Mark Antony. In contrast to the other major Roman historical text I’ve read – Suetonius’ The Twelve Caesars – I found Plutarch to be a more accessible read.
The chapters on Fabius Maximus and Marcellus focused heavily on the Second Punic War against Hannibal; an interesting juxtaposition in terms of how the former waged a long and exhausting war of attrition on the Carthaginians, and the latter employed a more brutal and direct onslaught against the enemy.
The Brutus chapter was compelling and elucidating, particularly regarding the circumstances and motivations behind the assassination of Julius Caesar. I was not aware that he had granted himself the title of “perpetual dictator,” which in effect made him tantamount to a king – despite making ostentatious displays of refusing the crown that Mark Antony tried to place upon his head at the Lupercalia festival.
The tension conveyed in the final moments of Brutus’ plot is gripping. A senator whispers something in Caesar’s ear, and the conspirators fear they have been discovered – it turns out to be nothing more than an innocuous exchange. In the aftermath of the gratuitous violence, Caesar’s blood-soaked tunic is strewn ironically underneath the statue of Pompey. Then all hell breaks loose on the political front. Brutus’ overwrought wife goes from self-harming due to the secrecy to ending her life by consuming burning coals, rather than endure the consequences that were to follow.
Plutarch is a skilled raconteur; he balances the requisite details of his biographical accounts with richly conceived, colourful narratives. It is easy to see how such works ignited Shakespeare’s imagination and compelled him to transpose such material into his plays, further augmenting the drama with beautiful verse.
The final biography of Mark Antony was preeminent to all other chapters that preceded it. Notwithstanding the decades of debauchery and wanton extravagance that had typified his lifestyle, Plutarch reveals a multifaceted character in Antony: not merely a larger-than-life profligate reveller, but a competent, well-respected military commander—at times self-effacing and affable, winning the devotion of his soldiers. He becomes a vigilant tactician and survivalist when half-starved to death on campaign with his legions; prudently navigating dangerous terrains, he proves himself to be a tenacious and judicious leader, subsisting on roots and wild plants when necessity dictates.
Antony’s Achilles’ heel is the original femme fatale (at least that’s how Plutarch depicts her), Cleopatra, to whom he is morbidly obsessed from beginning to end. The stories of their shared Bacchanalian indulgences are beautifully told; I particularly liked the image of the two dressed as Dionysus and Aphrodite, parading through Ephesus in their litter—boys dressed as satyrs playing pipes, exotic incense billowing out, and women dressed as nymphs singing enchanting melodies.
You almost feel pity for Antony as his luck dissipates and he ignominiously flees during the Battle of Actium to foolishly follow his seductress Cleopatra, who has perfidiously scarpered without warning. I had hitherto believed (erroneously, as I came to discover) that the couple took their own lives almost immediately after the battle: not so. It was a more gradual demise, with Octavius inflicting severe psychological despair upon the lovers by refusing their entreaties and pleas for clemency (particularly regarding their children). Octavius, ever the politician, equivocated with Cleopatra, offering tenuous assurances while he continued to close in on them slowly and inexorably.
Antony plunges into a state of despair and sequesters himself away on an island residence in Pharos, emulating the misanthropic Timon of Greece. Meanwhile, Cleopatra invests all her energy into researching what poison could kill her as quickly and painlessly as possible—she tested the effects of several concoctions on her prisoners. Antony then fails to go out in a blaze of glory after taking a last stand on the battlefield, and witnesses the majority of his troops and navy defect to Octavius. He retreats to his quarters and stabs himself in the abdomen. Unfortunately, the blow fails to end his life quickly and instead ensures a prolonged and agonising death. Bleeding profusely, he is spirited away to Cleopatra by some servants who hear his wild screams. He is then dragged up to the upper floors of her chambers by a pulley mechanism, only to die in her arms soon after. In a state of frenzied lament, Cleopatra smears her face with Antony’s blood.
She finds herself besieged with nowhere to hide and soon becomes Caesar’s captive in her own residence. He has her under close guard and on suicide watch. Octavius wants her alive, seemingly to parade her as a most prized trophy of war back in Rome. The eventual confrontation between the two is the epitome of high drama. According to Plutarch, Cleopatra employs all her artifice and cunning to appeal to Caesar’s emotions—revealing the marks of her self-imposed lacerations over Antony’s death, then crying over the fate of her children, then producing letters of affection from Julius Caesar for Octavius to read in the hope that she might inspire pity. Unfortunately, Octavius’ indifference to such histrionics borders on the psychopathic—he could not be more cold-blooded. But Cleopatra was no fool either, and it seems her theatrics were merely a subterfuge to buy her the time she needed in order to obtain her desired poison and go out quietly, which she did. Whether this was via the venom of an asp, who knows—but it makes for a remarkable and truly unforgettable tale nonetheless.