Cato

SHOULD CATO FALL ON HIS SWORD? Last night, Caesar came to Cato in a dream. Standing over him, his armor gleaming and his head adorned with a crown of fresh bay leaves, the general began to speak. “Come, Cato, you have lost. Mine is the Republic, mine the fasces and the lictors. But the end of the Republic need not mean the end of life for you. I have pardoned many others already; you must needs only kneel, and my compassion will be yours as well.” As he spoke, Cato noticed an Eastern cobra sliding slowly up his arm. Its double tongue flicked cursorily between the fangs as venom dripped onto his cold defenseless flesh. The yellow poison sizzled when it landed. Cato remained prostrate, unable to move or even speak. “Think of Marcia, Cato,” Caesar wheedled. “Think of your son. Will you really deprive them of a husband and a father? Would your grandfather have wanted you to leave them to the mercy of my men?” The serpent let out a low, unhurried hiss and draped its body heavily across Cato’s shoulder blades. Slowly, slowly it curved its head back upwards until its face was inches from Cato’s own. And it, too, began to speak. “Cato,” it said, “Cato – why have you forsaken me?” And now Cato could move again. As he opened his mouth to explain himself, the snake reared its hood and lunged at his forehead.

Cato awoke with a shout. When his manservant rushed in to discover the cause of the trouble, he found Cato sitting up in bed. Blood was just dribbling out through two small cuts on his forehead. “Servius,” he said, “please bring me the Phaedo.”