In sum he was _Pater Patriae_.
And this your father, your Pontifex, this hero, whose person was declared
inviolable, lies dead--dead, not by disease or age, not by war or
visitation of God, but here at home, by conspiracy within your own walls,
slain in the Senate-house, the warrior unarmed, the peacemaker naked to
his foes, the righteous judge in the seat of judgment. He whom no foreign
enemy could hurt has been killed by his fellow-countrymen--he, who had so
often shown mercy, by those whom he had spared. Where, Caesar, is your
love for mankind? Where is the sacredness of your life? Where are your
laws? Here you lie murdered--here in the Forum, through which so often you
marched in triumph wreathed with garlands; here upon the Rostra from which
you were wont to address your people. Alas for your gray hairs dabbled in
blood! alas for this lacerated robe in which you were dressed for the
sacrifice!"[4]
Antony's words, as he well knew, were a declaration of irreconcilable war
against the murderers and their friends. As his impassioned language did
its work the multitude rose into fury. They cursed the conspirators. They
cursed the Senate who had sate by while the deed was being done. They had
been moved to fury by the murder of Clodius. Ten thousand Clodiuses, had
he been all which their imagination painted him, could not equal one
Caesar.
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