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Rome
Rome is the most lush, vibrant, and enveloping experience on television. Equal parts love, betrayal, lust, and battle, the hit HBO series tells of the eternal quest for power, from Caesar crossing the Rubicon to his assassination to Cleopatra's arrival in Rome. Packed with more than 100 full-color images, commentary from the cast and creators, and a comprehensive episode guide, this stunningly beautiful book reveals the incredible, panoramic scope of Rome's vision and explores its interplay between history and an imagined world.
137 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2007
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August 16, 2020
Roma Aeterna
__________
—Think you they will still shout Caesar's name when he runs out of Gallic trinkets to throw to them?
—Think you I care what name they shout in the streets?
—Nothing is more important . . .
Fortune pisses on me . . .
—What a lovely party.
—Not as lovely as you look in that dress . . .
—The man has tears in his eyes. Tears . . .
—He loves me . . .
—A womanish husband is no use to anyone . . .
—British women, now that’s savage cunny. You have to hunt them down like deer. Mind, once you get them under you, slack as your best Narbo scortum.
—Do you care for nothing but women?
—What else is there . . . Food, I suppose . . .
Priests? Crooks, many of them; I just talk direct to whatever god I'm doing business with, bugger the priests . . . hahaha!
— . . .
—Say again?
—I did not speak.
She’s not simple is she?
—Where are you going?
—I have business . . .
—Business? What business?
—I understand that you’re upset, but I will ask you, do not question me in that tone.
—Tone . . . my father’s cock! Hows that for tone!?
This is a dark day, and I stand at a fork in the road. I can abide the law and surrender my arms to the senate, and watch the republic fall to tyranny and chaos. Or I can can go home with my sword in my hand, and run those maniacs to the tarpeian rock!
—What makes your man Vorenus so morose?
—He’s a stonewall Catonian, he think’s we’ve committed a terrible crime, a mighty sacrilige, we shall be severely punished by the gods . . .
—Do you think we can trust him?
—Who?
—Lucius Vorenus.
—Oh, deep thirteenth him. He’d follow the eagle up Pluto's arse.
—You . . . you often say that you’re adept with women . . .
—No idle boast neither; there are girls from Narbo to Thebes that scream my name by night—
—I have no need of your coital expertise, my question more concerns their . . .affections.
—I’m your man for that to boot.
—My wife she . . . you heard what you said, she hates me.
—What’s your question?
—How do I stop her from hating me, obviously!
—It’s not obvious! I thought you were making her hate you with a purpose.
—That was not my intent at all, why would I do that?
—Well I don’t know! You’re the clever one you, there might have been a thousand reasons.
—I love her. I require that she love me also else I am merely her slave and I cannot tolerate that . . .
—I’m planning on having a small party this evening and I'll need you to—are you wearing perfume?
—Just a dab . . .
—Its horrid. Horseshit suits you much better
Think, think, think; that’s all you do you silly boy!
—Of course, your best method for pleasing a woman, is the warm beating heart of an enemy. I mean women will say they don’t like it but they do; makes them wet as October.
—All that doesn’t answer . . .
—Well failing that, talk to her.
—Talk? But of what?
—That doesn’t matter; its all abut the tone of the voice. Pretend you're putting a saddle on a skittish horse: “there honey, shh, come now,” you know, that sort of thing.
—And that’s all?
—What else? Oh, tell her she’s beautiful, all the time; tell her she’s beautiful every time you see her, even when she’s not.
—And what else?
—Oh aye, also, very important: when you couple with her, there’s this spot, just above her cunny, it's like a little button. Now, attend to that button, and she will open up like a flower.
—How do you know this of her?
—All women have them! Ask anyone!
—What are they . . . stars?
—Stars? Holes in the celestial spheres. Holes through which the light of the heavens shine.
—How big are these holes?
—They’re big. They only seem small to us because they’re hundreds of miles away.
—Big enough for a man to climb through?
—I suppose. But man would never be able to get up there in the first place.
—I don’t see why not.
—How?
—He could hold on to a giant bird.
—It doesn’t work like that . . .
—Why not?
—It’s philosophy . . . it’s hard to explain . . .
—It makes no sense. We should have been stopped by now; why is Rome not defended?
—Our boys scared them off eh?
—Soldiers of the Republic do not run so it must be a stratagem, a trick . . .
—It’s a good trick.
—Unless the gods have abandoned Rome . . . If Mars were watching he would not allow such a disgrace.
—Well maybe he was having a crap and missed it.
—It’s that sort of disrespect that has lead us to this sad pass. If the Gods are not respected, then why should they help us?
. . .
—The city’s unguarded; it’s true then, the Republic has fallen.
—And yet the sky is still above us and earth still below. Strange.
—The Gods are in no hurry they’ll take their time in tormenting us . . .
—Since the founding of Rome—
—Oh, please, spare me the founding, Vorenus. Things change. Life is water, not stone.
—Then I suppose I will drown . . .
I chose this path . . . I will follow where it leads . . .
—Octavian, don’t sit there like a prole; say something witty
—I have nothing such to say. You know I cannot talk small, mother.
—You then, some poetry nay? She can rattle off pages of the stuff . . .
—I’m afraid my wife is a woman of expensive tastes.
—The best women often are.
—She would dress her slaves in silk if I would let her. She eats oysters for breakfast . . daily.
—She should be most careful: people often choke on oysters . . .
—I can’t just leave her
—You think with your penis
—It’s not like that. I've not touched her.
—Then what purpose does she serve?
—I just like to look at her, it makes me calm . . .
—Your tutor has arrived and awaits in the rear yeard
—Tutor? What tutor?
—It’s high time you learned the masculine arts. How to fight, and copulate, and skin animals, and so forth . . .
—There’s plenty of time yet for all that . . .
—There’s plenty of time for you to bury yourself in worthless scribbles. You may read those old Greek fools until blood runs from your eyes; you’ll be none the wiser.
—I cannot agree, the greek philosophers have much to teach us . . .
Facts are necessary. Without facts you must remain silent . . .
—If you do not go then I cannot go I suppose. It would look cowardly
—What matter? You would know it were not so . . .
—Oh I would know, certainly. But I do not have a grand, shiny, old name like you. I must keep my name well polished, else it looks very dull.
This boy’s clever, like you don’t know what.
—He negotiates with a whore and a dwarf by his side, do you think Cincinattus, Marius, or even the Gracchi would demean themselves so?
—Who?
—The people love you.
—Only because they don’t know me . . .
A large penis is always welcome.
—It doesn’t matter. Everything will be fine.
—This is where we die . . .
—Look at that.
—What?
—That corpse; see how high it rides in the water? The platonic ether inflates it . . .
. . . put the whole damned army to flight. And here I am. That’s how Pompey Magnus was defeated. Thats how the Republic died . . .
—Why then, be that so, did you not apprehend him?
—I thought it would be wrong to do so
—Explain yourself
—His hands trembled, sir. His clothes were dirty, there was water in his eyes: he is broken. I saw no need to apprehend him.
—You saw no need. Do you not see that Pompey may be broken like a Dacian catamite, and still be dangerous?
—I do not like to disagree with you but you are being far too lenient with him. Het let Pompey go and you let him live? The man should be made an example of.
—Any other man? Certainly. But those two . . . they found my stolen standard, now they survive a wreck that drowned an army, and find Pompey Magnus on a beach. They have powerful gods on their side, and I will not kill any man with friends of that sort . . .
Blood and fire. It’s as hot as Vulcan’s dick . . .
—Slap me
—(Slap)
—Night or day?
—That Gyppo Princess: now that’s good cunny.
—Her father's people rode with Alexander, you cannot speak of her like that.
—She is though . . . and she wants me, badly.
—(laughs)
—Should've seen her when I done that Nubian; wet as October . . .
—Are you well?
—Well enough, though I do not sleep. I write very bad poetry through the night, and in the morning, I give it to the cook to stoke the kitchen fire; it’s a form of magic: my ill-conscience is transformed into roast birds and pastries.
—You should have no ill conscience. We only did what we had to do.
—No doubt Saturn said something of the sort after eating his children . . .
Everyone’s entitled to a few mistakes. Gods know, I’ve made one or two myself . . .
—Cheer up. We live.
—We do. We live.
—Where there’s life, there’s hope.
—I'm afraid, if we've done anything old friend, we’ve disproved that proverb.
—I kiss your hand uncle, but, truly I would make an ill pontiff . . . I had rather thought to concentrate on my poetry for a while . . .
—Poetry can wait.
—It should not wait too long. Poetry is a young man’s calling, don’t you think.
—What are you reading?
—A guide to the interpretation of prodigies.
—Is it good?
—It's dull beyond conception. But if I'm to become a prefect I must be familiar with their ludicrous jargon.
—Good bread this.
—I bought the better kind.
—Pretend
—I have no skill at pretending . . .
I didn’t realise until now how much I missed your gloomy presence around the place.
—Do you see?
—Not clearly.
—I'm not sure I can explain it in simpler terms . . .
Look, I’ve been feeling strange, and low, and empty these past few months. Anyway I've puzzled it out, and I've realised what it was . . .
Everyone is reading it! I saw some temple prostitutes with a copy . . .
—Is this too much?
—Just enough, I’d say.
—I don’t know. I think it’s too purple. I want to suggest purple without wearing it.
—It will look less loud in direct light . . .
—What do you think?
—Jupiter in life. Resemblance is uncanny . . .
—What do you find amusing?
—It’s absurd isn’t it? Dressing up, playing at being god . . .
—Playing? I’m not playing. This is not a game.
—As you wish. It is not a game . . .
—My niece is holding a symposium next market day and I should like you and your wife to come as my guests.
—We are honoured, sir.
—You look troubled?
—My wife and I are simple people, sir.
—No matter; you shall get used to good society.
—Take me boss: top lawyer, top lawyer . . .
—You’re good are you?
—Good? I could have Medea acquitted.
—You know I've always looked on you as my son.
—Oh dear, one of those conversations?
—You look far away. Somewhere pleasant I hope.
—It’s all one.
—So they tell me. I need your help. Your mother is a vicious and heartless creature, but I find I am wretched without her. I've done my best to sway her but still she shuns me; like a leper. Refuses even to speak to me. Will you talk to her for me? Let her know how pitiful I have become.
—There's no need. Her disdain for you is an act. She is entirely infatuated with you . . .
Do not fret so Casca. We timid subjects of King Caesar must learn to be tolerant . . . I believe I shall go home and stupefy myself with wine. Good day to you all.
Juno’s cunt, must I slap you!?
—Then what?
—I shall serve out the rest of my term as consul, and then retire quietly to the provinces where I will plow my fields and fuck my slaves. Just like old Cincinnatus. And the republic shall roll on without me . . .
—I am not rising from this bed, until I've fucked someone.
—Fine, fine, Merula: fetch that German slut from the kitchen
—Are you jealous, flower?
—Of course. I don’t mind your whores, but I don’t want you making love to her sort.
—Meaning younger women of higher rank than you?
—That’s a good general rule.
—I shall remember it.
—Would you like a chance to redeem yourself centurion?
—There's no redemption.
—No man is beyond redemption, Lucius. Not even you.
Oh, Juno's CUNT!
—You came in very late last night
—Business.
—Business involving wine, vomit, and sex?
—I'm sorry, did I disturb you?
—No not at all . . .
Not everybody looks like what they are.
—So you’re Servilia then are you? Choice, vey choice . . .
—Address me by my name again, and I'll have you tongue nailed to a wagon wheel.
—Forgive me, I've not spoken to nobility before . . .
—Filthy climate, vile food, beastly people.
—Perhaps you didn’t mix in quite the best society . . .
—Oh no, papa is hideously rich. But there’s no society to be found. The men are overly fond of fucking they sheep. And when you see the women you can hardly blame them. It truly is the end of the world!
—There are Roman women who are fucked by baboons.
—Excuse me?
—I’ve heard there are shows where such things can be seen.
—Ah, well they’re not so much shows really, they’re more a punishment.
—I should like to see that. We do not have such in Bithynia.
—I should imagine it’s simply a matter of training the baboons.
—We do not have baboons here. No apes of any kind.
—Oh, I . . . I wasn’t aware of that . . . So as I say, those who help us now—
—Yes. You want my money to raise an army. I want to see a Roman woman fucked by baboons.
—Perhaps arrangements can be made . . .
Divine Janus: as this day follows the night, let me start my life anew. As the shore is scoured by the tide, let me be cleansed. As the seed becomes the flower, let me be born again.
Look at yourself. Look at what you have become . . .
You speak so much and know so little . . .
—You look magnificent. You should have your portrait done.
—No, no time for such vanity . . .
—So you can still talk, I thought you’d forgotten how.
—I talk when I need to, there's nothing to say.
—I am just a messenger. I’m sure when he arrives, Caesar will be happy to tell you.
—Caesar he calls himself; another Caesar . . . just what we need.
—He calls himself Caesar because that is his name, by right.
—Yes! Yes! No doubt! Gods, I’m so tired of young men and their ambitions. So tired . . .
—I assure you, he has only the interests of The Republic at heart.
—I’m sure he believes that. I thought the same, when I was a young man. But it is all vanity you know. All . . . Vanity . . .
—They’re dead.
—May the gods feed them honey . . .
—Look up, Cassius. Look around. Is it not wonderful?
—I see only a hundred thousand mouths to feed.
—You have no poetry in you, Cassius. We ride with these men to save The Republic . . .
No more running. We will meet them here tomorrow. If we win, all the more glory for us. And if we are to die, this is as good a place as any. ’Tis in the hands of the Gods now . . .
Watch closely . . . this is how History is made . . .
You are joking?
I cannot remember the last time I made a joke.
__________
—Think you they will still shout Caesar's name when he runs out of Gallic trinkets to throw to them?
—Think you I care what name they shout in the streets?
—Nothing is more important . . .
Fortune pisses on me . . .
—What a lovely party.
—Not as lovely as you look in that dress . . .
—The man has tears in his eyes. Tears . . .
—He loves me . . .
—A womanish husband is no use to anyone . . .
—British women, now that’s savage cunny. You have to hunt them down like deer. Mind, once you get them under you, slack as your best Narbo scortum.
—Do you care for nothing but women?
—What else is there . . . Food, I suppose . . .
Priests? Crooks, many of them; I just talk direct to whatever god I'm doing business with, bugger the priests . . . hahaha!
— . . .
—Say again?
—I did not speak.
She’s not simple is she?
—Where are you going?
—I have business . . .
—Business? What business?
—I understand that you’re upset, but I will ask you, do not question me in that tone.
—Tone . . . my father’s cock! Hows that for tone!?
This is a dark day, and I stand at a fork in the road. I can abide the law and surrender my arms to the senate, and watch the republic fall to tyranny and chaos. Or I can can go home with my sword in my hand, and run those maniacs to the tarpeian rock!
—What makes your man Vorenus so morose?
—He’s a stonewall Catonian, he think’s we’ve committed a terrible crime, a mighty sacrilige, we shall be severely punished by the gods . . .
—Do you think we can trust him?
—Who?
—Lucius Vorenus.
—Oh, deep thirteenth him. He’d follow the eagle up Pluto's arse.
—You . . . you often say that you’re adept with women . . .
—No idle boast neither; there are girls from Narbo to Thebes that scream my name by night—
—I have no need of your coital expertise, my question more concerns their . . .affections.
—I’m your man for that to boot.
—My wife she . . . you heard what you said, she hates me.
—What’s your question?
—How do I stop her from hating me, obviously!
—It’s not obvious! I thought you were making her hate you with a purpose.
—That was not my intent at all, why would I do that?
—Well I don’t know! You’re the clever one you, there might have been a thousand reasons.
—I love her. I require that she love me also else I am merely her slave and I cannot tolerate that . . .
—I’m planning on having a small party this evening and I'll need you to—are you wearing perfume?
—Just a dab . . .
—Its horrid. Horseshit suits you much better
Think, think, think; that’s all you do you silly boy!
—Of course, your best method for pleasing a woman, is the warm beating heart of an enemy. I mean women will say they don’t like it but they do; makes them wet as October.
—All that doesn’t answer . . .
—Well failing that, talk to her.
—Talk? But of what?
—That doesn’t matter; its all abut the tone of the voice. Pretend you're putting a saddle on a skittish horse: “there honey, shh, come now,” you know, that sort of thing.
—And that’s all?
—What else? Oh, tell her she’s beautiful, all the time; tell her she’s beautiful every time you see her, even when she’s not.
—And what else?
—Oh aye, also, very important: when you couple with her, there’s this spot, just above her cunny, it's like a little button. Now, attend to that button, and she will open up like a flower.
—How do you know this of her?
—All women have them! Ask anyone!
—What are they . . . stars?
—Stars? Holes in the celestial spheres. Holes through which the light of the heavens shine.
—How big are these holes?
—They’re big. They only seem small to us because they’re hundreds of miles away.
—Big enough for a man to climb through?
—I suppose. But man would never be able to get up there in the first place.
—I don’t see why not.
—How?
—He could hold on to a giant bird.
—It doesn’t work like that . . .
—Why not?
—It’s philosophy . . . it’s hard to explain . . .
—It makes no sense. We should have been stopped by now; why is Rome not defended?
—Our boys scared them off eh?
—Soldiers of the Republic do not run so it must be a stratagem, a trick . . .
—It’s a good trick.
—Unless the gods have abandoned Rome . . . If Mars were watching he would not allow such a disgrace.
—Well maybe he was having a crap and missed it.
—It’s that sort of disrespect that has lead us to this sad pass. If the Gods are not respected, then why should they help us?
. . .
—The city’s unguarded; it’s true then, the Republic has fallen.
—And yet the sky is still above us and earth still below. Strange.
—The Gods are in no hurry they’ll take their time in tormenting us . . .
—Since the founding of Rome—
—Oh, please, spare me the founding, Vorenus. Things change. Life is water, not stone.
—Then I suppose I will drown . . .
I chose this path . . . I will follow where it leads . . .
—Octavian, don’t sit there like a prole; say something witty
—I have nothing such to say. You know I cannot talk small, mother.
—You then, some poetry nay? She can rattle off pages of the stuff . . .
—I’m afraid my wife is a woman of expensive tastes.
—The best women often are.
—She would dress her slaves in silk if I would let her. She eats oysters for breakfast . . daily.
—She should be most careful: people often choke on oysters . . .
—I can’t just leave her
—You think with your penis
—It’s not like that. I've not touched her.
—Then what purpose does she serve?
—I just like to look at her, it makes me calm . . .
—Your tutor has arrived and awaits in the rear yeard
—Tutor? What tutor?
—It’s high time you learned the masculine arts. How to fight, and copulate, and skin animals, and so forth . . .
—There’s plenty of time yet for all that . . .
—There’s plenty of time for you to bury yourself in worthless scribbles. You may read those old Greek fools until blood runs from your eyes; you’ll be none the wiser.
—I cannot agree, the greek philosophers have much to teach us . . .
Facts are necessary. Without facts you must remain silent . . .
—If you do not go then I cannot go I suppose. It would look cowardly
—What matter? You would know it were not so . . .
—Oh I would know, certainly. But I do not have a grand, shiny, old name like you. I must keep my name well polished, else it looks very dull.
This boy’s clever, like you don’t know what.
—He negotiates with a whore and a dwarf by his side, do you think Cincinattus, Marius, or even the Gracchi would demean themselves so?
—Who?
—The people love you.
—Only because they don’t know me . . .
A large penis is always welcome.
—It doesn’t matter. Everything will be fine.
—This is where we die . . .
—Look at that.
—What?
—That corpse; see how high it rides in the water? The platonic ether inflates it . . .
. . . put the whole damned army to flight. And here I am. That’s how Pompey Magnus was defeated. Thats how the Republic died . . .
—Why then, be that so, did you not apprehend him?
—I thought it would be wrong to do so
—Explain yourself
—His hands trembled, sir. His clothes were dirty, there was water in his eyes: he is broken. I saw no need to apprehend him.
—You saw no need. Do you not see that Pompey may be broken like a Dacian catamite, and still be dangerous?
—I do not like to disagree with you but you are being far too lenient with him. Het let Pompey go and you let him live? The man should be made an example of.
—Any other man? Certainly. But those two . . . they found my stolen standard, now they survive a wreck that drowned an army, and find Pompey Magnus on a beach. They have powerful gods on their side, and I will not kill any man with friends of that sort . . .
Blood and fire. It’s as hot as Vulcan’s dick . . .
—Slap me
—(Slap)
—Night or day?
—That Gyppo Princess: now that’s good cunny.
—Her father's people rode with Alexander, you cannot speak of her like that.
—She is though . . . and she wants me, badly.
—(laughs)
—Should've seen her when I done that Nubian; wet as October . . .
—Are you well?
—Well enough, though I do not sleep. I write very bad poetry through the night, and in the morning, I give it to the cook to stoke the kitchen fire; it’s a form of magic: my ill-conscience is transformed into roast birds and pastries.
—You should have no ill conscience. We only did what we had to do.
—No doubt Saturn said something of the sort after eating his children . . .
Everyone’s entitled to a few mistakes. Gods know, I’ve made one or two myself . . .
—Cheer up. We live.
—We do. We live.
—Where there’s life, there’s hope.
—I'm afraid, if we've done anything old friend, we’ve disproved that proverb.
—I kiss your hand uncle, but, truly I would make an ill pontiff . . . I had rather thought to concentrate on my poetry for a while . . .
—Poetry can wait.
—It should not wait too long. Poetry is a young man’s calling, don’t you think.
—What are you reading?
—A guide to the interpretation of prodigies.
—Is it good?
—It's dull beyond conception. But if I'm to become a prefect I must be familiar with their ludicrous jargon.
—Good bread this.
—I bought the better kind.
—Pretend
—I have no skill at pretending . . .
I didn’t realise until now how much I missed your gloomy presence around the place.
—Do you see?
—Not clearly.
—I'm not sure I can explain it in simpler terms . . .
Look, I’ve been feeling strange, and low, and empty these past few months. Anyway I've puzzled it out, and I've realised what it was . . .
Everyone is reading it! I saw some temple prostitutes with a copy . . .
—Is this too much?
—Just enough, I’d say.
—I don’t know. I think it’s too purple. I want to suggest purple without wearing it.
—It will look less loud in direct light . . .
—What do you think?
—Jupiter in life. Resemblance is uncanny . . .
—What do you find amusing?
—It’s absurd isn’t it? Dressing up, playing at being god . . .
—Playing? I’m not playing. This is not a game.
—As you wish. It is not a game . . .
—My niece is holding a symposium next market day and I should like you and your wife to come as my guests.
—We are honoured, sir.
—You look troubled?
—My wife and I are simple people, sir.
—No matter; you shall get used to good society.
—Take me boss: top lawyer, top lawyer . . .
—You’re good are you?
—Good? I could have Medea acquitted.
—You know I've always looked on you as my son.
—Oh dear, one of those conversations?
—You look far away. Somewhere pleasant I hope.
—It’s all one.
—So they tell me. I need your help. Your mother is a vicious and heartless creature, but I find I am wretched without her. I've done my best to sway her but still she shuns me; like a leper. Refuses even to speak to me. Will you talk to her for me? Let her know how pitiful I have become.
—There's no need. Her disdain for you is an act. She is entirely infatuated with you . . .
Do not fret so Casca. We timid subjects of King Caesar must learn to be tolerant . . . I believe I shall go home and stupefy myself with wine. Good day to you all.
Juno’s cunt, must I slap you!?
—Then what?
—I shall serve out the rest of my term as consul, and then retire quietly to the provinces where I will plow my fields and fuck my slaves. Just like old Cincinnatus. And the republic shall roll on without me . . .
—I am not rising from this bed, until I've fucked someone.
—Fine, fine, Merula: fetch that German slut from the kitchen
—Are you jealous, flower?
—Of course. I don’t mind your whores, but I don’t want you making love to her sort.
—Meaning younger women of higher rank than you?
—That’s a good general rule.
—I shall remember it.
—Would you like a chance to redeem yourself centurion?
—There's no redemption.
—No man is beyond redemption, Lucius. Not even you.
Oh, Juno's CUNT!
—You came in very late last night
—Business.
—Business involving wine, vomit, and sex?
—I'm sorry, did I disturb you?
—No not at all . . .
Not everybody looks like what they are.
—So you’re Servilia then are you? Choice, vey choice . . .
—Address me by my name again, and I'll have you tongue nailed to a wagon wheel.
—Forgive me, I've not spoken to nobility before . . .
—Filthy climate, vile food, beastly people.
—Perhaps you didn’t mix in quite the best society . . .
—Oh no, papa is hideously rich. But there’s no society to be found. The men are overly fond of fucking they sheep. And when you see the women you can hardly blame them. It truly is the end of the world!
—There are Roman women who are fucked by baboons.
—Excuse me?
—I’ve heard there are shows where such things can be seen.
—Ah, well they’re not so much shows really, they’re more a punishment.
—I should like to see that. We do not have such in Bithynia.
—I should imagine it’s simply a matter of training the baboons.
—We do not have baboons here. No apes of any kind.
—Oh, I . . . I wasn’t aware of that . . . So as I say, those who help us now—
—Yes. You want my money to raise an army. I want to see a Roman woman fucked by baboons.
—Perhaps arrangements can be made . . .
Divine Janus: as this day follows the night, let me start my life anew. As the shore is scoured by the tide, let me be cleansed. As the seed becomes the flower, let me be born again.
Look at yourself. Look at what you have become . . .
You speak so much and know so little . . .
—You look magnificent. You should have your portrait done.
—No, no time for such vanity . . .
—So you can still talk, I thought you’d forgotten how.
—I talk when I need to, there's nothing to say.
—I am just a messenger. I’m sure when he arrives, Caesar will be happy to tell you.
—Caesar he calls himself; another Caesar . . . just what we need.
—He calls himself Caesar because that is his name, by right.
—Yes! Yes! No doubt! Gods, I’m so tired of young men and their ambitions. So tired . . .
—I assure you, he has only the interests of The Republic at heart.
—I’m sure he believes that. I thought the same, when I was a young man. But it is all vanity you know. All . . . Vanity . . .
—They’re dead.
—May the gods feed them honey . . .
—Look up, Cassius. Look around. Is it not wonderful?
—I see only a hundred thousand mouths to feed.
—You have no poetry in you, Cassius. We ride with these men to save The Republic . . .
No more running. We will meet them here tomorrow. If we win, all the more glory for us. And if we are to die, this is as good a place as any. ’Tis in the hands of the Gods now . . .
Watch closely . . . this is how History is made . . .
You are joking?
I cannot remember the last time I made a joke.
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