It
was a glorious year; Caesar had crossed the Rubieon a few years earlier. Now he
was Emperor. It was the glorious Rome of polished marble and studied discourse.
It was also the Rome of the optimates, the ruling elite, and the populares, the
have-nots. Have-not is a relative term, to be a populare in Rome was to have
wealth beyond imagining in the rest of the world. To be there, to watch
unimportant and unobserved was to see the great drama of life. To be great, in
the grand years of the empire was to miss much of the true nature of events. To
be a small person in a great world is to see it all, and no one is as mobile
and ignored as a musician is in the halls of the great. In the great halls, a
musician sees everything. As the power of the Emperor Caesar grows, the
optimates become more and more fearful and discontent. The people, the
populares love their Caesar. Not so the elite, long accustomed to power they do
not want to hand it over to the Emperor so they plot against him. They lie to
each other. Secretive glances and gestures pass between them as the
conspirators plot the end of the Emperor they do not know whom to trust as
arguments against the assassination ebb and flow. No one speaks loudly, yet the
halls are humming with whispers. A musician does not have this problem; he is
important enough to be a part of the conspiracy. He is not even important
enough to be noticed. His music is heard, so no one imagines the musician is
listening as well, but to listen is half the job, telling the story is the other,
from the first murmur fo discontent to the final words, “ET tu Brute?”
