Numbers in the Dark and Other Stories - Italo Calvino [55]
There, down there, at the edge of the heath, I can see them, torches gathering. Our guards have seen them too: I can hear the whistle sounding the alarm from the top of the tower. How will the battle go? All of us perhaps are about to pay for our sins: we didn't have the courage to be ourselves. The truth is that amongst all these Presbyterians Episcopalians Methodists there's not one in this part of Scodand who believes in God: not one I say, whether noble or cleric, tenant or serf, who truly believes in that God whose name is forever on his lips. There, the clouds are paling to the east. Come on, everybody, awake! Quick, saddle me my horse!
A Beautiful March Day
The thing that most disturbs me as we wait - and we're all here now, under the Senate portico, each in his place, Metellus Cimber with the petition he has to present, Casca behind him who is to strike the first blow, Brutus down there under the statue of Pom-pey, and it's almost the fifth hour, he shouldn't be long now — the thing that most disturbs me is not this cold dagger hidden under my toga here, nor any tension as to how it will go, the possibility that something unforeseen could thwart our plans, it isn't the fear that someone has betrayed us, nor uncertainty as to what will happen afterwards: it's just seeing that it's a beautiful March day, a holiday like so many others, and that people are going around enjoying themselves, not giving a damn about the Republic and Caesar's powers, families heading for the country, young folks going to the chariot races, the girls wearing a kind of tunic that falls straight down, a new more cunning way of having you guess their shape. Standing here between these columns, shamming, pretending casual conversation, I feel we must look more suspicious than ever; but who would ever guess what's happening? The people passing by are a thousand miles from thinking of such things, it's a beautiful day, all is calm.
When we leap, our daggers bared, there, on the usurper of republican freedoms, our actions must be quick as lightning, deft, yet furious too. But will we be up to it? Everything has moved so slowly recendy, dragged out so long, vague and slack, the Senate surrendering its rights little by litde day by day, Caesar always apparently on the point of putting the crown on his head, but in no hurry, the crucial hour always about to strike but always delayed, for another hope, another threat. Everybody's been bogged down in this sludge, ourselves included: why did we wait till the Ides to carry out our plan? Couldn't we have done it at the Calends of March? And now we're here, why not wait for the Calends of April? Oh, it wasn't this, it wasn't this we imagined when we dreamt of fighting tyranny, we young men educated in the republican virtues: I remember evenings when some of those here with me under this portico - Trebonius, Ligarius, Decius -were studying together, reading stories about the Greeks, picturing ourselves freeing our city from tyranny: we dreamed of dramatic tense days, under glaring skies, fervid tumults, mortal struggles, everybody on one side or the other, for freedom or for the tyrant; and we, the heroes, would have the people on our side, cheering us on, saluting our victory after the swiftest of battles. But there's none of that: perhaps future historians will tell, as always, of heaven knows what omens in stormy skies or the entrails of birds; but we know that it is a mild March, with the occasional shower of rain, yesterday evening a bit of wind that took the straw off a roof or two in the suburbs. Who would guess that we were going to kill Caesar this morning (or Caesar us, may the gods forbid)? Who would think that Rome's history was about to change (for better or worse the dagger will decide) on a lazy day like this?
What frightens me is that, daggers pointed at Caesar's breast, we too will begin