POMPEY                                 To you all three,

The senators alone of this great world,

Chief factors for the gods: I do not know

Wherefore my father should revengers want,

Having a son and friends, since Julius Caesar,

Who at Philippi the good Brutus ghosted,

There saw you labouring for him. What was’t

That moved pale Cassius to conspire? And what

Made the all-honoured, honest Roman Brutus,

With the armed rest, courtiers of beauteous freedom,

To drench the Capitol but that they would

Have one man but a man? And that is it

Hath made me rig my navy, at whose burden

The angered ocean foams; with which I meant

To scourge th’ingratitude that despiteful Rome

Cast on my noble father.

CAESAR                                  Take your time.         (2.6.8-23)

 

A knotty bit. Pompey pushes back, more than matching Caesar’s eloquence. You want words, you want to talk? I’ll give you some words. He begins formally, but surely with irony and an underlying agenda: to you all three, the senators alone of this great world, chief factors for the gods. You’re it, the three of you (well, not Lepidus, not really), you’re the acknowledged leaders of the empire, which means, in effect the world (or all the bits of it that matter). You are the chief factors for the gods, their agents, their representatives on earth. (The subtext, already: you say that you’re the representatives of the people, but are you really? Aren’t you really dictators? Can you remember what happens to dictators?) Here’s the thing. I do not know wherefore my father should revengers want—I can’t see why my father, Pompey the great, should lack people to avenge the wrongs done to him, given that he has a son—me—and friends, lots of supporters; after all, Julius Caesar (who appeared as a ghost to Brutus, although to a modern ear ghosted sounds as if Caesar and Brutus have had an unsuccessful foray into online dating) had all of you to avenge his assassination; you laboured on his behalf at the battle of Philippi.

But why did pale Cassius (the epithet is applied to Cassius elsewhere; it perhaps suggests that he’s bloodless, dispassionate, chilly, calculating) conspire against Caesar? what made Brutus, the byword for honour and honesty, the noblest Roman of them all (Shakespeare is looking back here to his own Julius Caesar, which Pompey clearly knows well: he’s more or less quoting Antony’s words back at him)—why did virtuous, honourable Brutus, with the armed rest, all of those conspirators (armed is a reminder of the violence of the act, all those knives), those courtiers of beauteous freedom (Pompey isn’t bothering to disguise his sarcasm and his moral outrage any longer: beauteous freedom, that act of butchery, courted by those murderers as they would a lover?) who drenched the Capitol, saturated it in Caesar’s blood, desecrated the heart of Roman order and government (a reminder of the extreme bloodiness of the act in Shakespeare’s play, the murder and its aftermath, when the conspirators bathe their hands in Caesar’s blood)—and why did they do it? Becausethey would have one man but a man. They feared Caesar was becoming a dictator, a tyrant, that he would accept or claim the title of king or emperor. Those bloody murderers thought their cause was just, oh yes, they’d rationalised it.

So, my cause is analogous; I am pursuing a similarly honourable cause of vengeance, on my father’s behalf. That is it hath made me rig my navy, that’s why I’ve taken to the sea, gathered ships and men to me, so many that at the burden of them the angered ocean foams. A touch of pathetic fallacy there: does the ocean foam with anger because of the weight of Pompey’s naval power, or in sympathy with his campaign? I meant to scourge the ingratitude that despiteful Rome cast on my noble father. I want to clear his name, to pay Rome back for the shameful way he was treated.

 

Take your time, says Caesar. It can get a laugh, it’s wonderfully passive aggressive, responding as if Pompey is stumbling over his words and making his case inadequately, rather than pleading his cause with power and passion, if not necessarily with complete logic. It interrupts him in full flow, too. There’s a touch of calm down, dear, and also an injection of realpolitik: yes, this passion, this honour is all very well, this desire for vengeance and the settling of old scores. And yes, we’re all dressed up and prepared for a battle. But really, we’re politicians. You’ve said your piece, and actually, wouldn’t it be better if we just negotiated our way out of this?