[1] As the night advanced, Brutus turned, just as he sat, towards his servant Cleitus, and talked with him. And when Cleitus wept and made no answer, Brutus next drew Dardanus his shield-bearer aside and had some private conversation with him.
[2] Finally, he spoke to Volumnius himself in Greek, reminding him of their student life, and begged him to grasp his sword with him and help him drive home the blow.
[3] And when Volumnius refused, and the rest likewise, and some one said they must not tarry but fly, Brutus rose and said:
By all means must we fly; not with our feet, however, but with our hands.
[4] Then, after clasping each by the hand, with a very cheerful countenance he said he rejoiced with exceeding joy that not one of his friends had proved false to him, and as for Fortune, he blamed her only for his country’s sake;
[5] himself he regarded as more to be envied than his conquerors, not yesterday and the day before merely, but even now, since he was leaving behind him a reputation for virtue, which those who surpassed in arms or wealth would not do; since the world would believe that base and unjust men who put to death the good and just were unfit to rule.
[6] Then, after earnestly entreating them to save themselves, he withdrew a little way in the company of two or three friends, among whom was Strato, who had been his intimate since they studied rhetoric together.
[7] This man he placed nearest to himself, and then, grasping with both hands the hilt of his naked sword, he fell upon it and died.
[8] Some, however, say that it was not Brutus himself, but Strato, who at his very urgent request, and with averted eyes, held the sword in front of him, upon which he fell with such force that it passed quite through his breast and brought him instant death.
1
Brutus. Plutarch. Cambridge, MA. 1918.
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