The Counterfeit Crank

Chapter One

‘What ails you?’ asked Nicholas Bracewell, peering at his friend with concern.

‘Nothing,’ said Edmund Hoode. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘Your face is pale and drawn.’

‘I am well, I do assure you.’

‘Your eyes are bloodshot.’

‘Pay no heed to that, Nick.’

‘Are you in pain?’

Hoode shook his head. ‘No, no.’

‘Yet I saw you wince even now.’

‘Only because of the mistakes I made in that last scene.’

‘That, too, was unlike the Edmund Hoode I know. You so rarely make mistakes.’

‘Even the best horse stumbles.’

Hoode smiled bravely but Nicholas was not fooled. The company’s book holder had worked so closely with his friend over the years that he could always tell what the latter was thinking and feeling. Something was amiss. Hoode, the resident playwright with Westfield’s Men, was also a gifted actor and he was rehearsing a role for the first performance of Caesar’s Fall, a play by a new dramatist. Known for his reliability, he was uncharacteristically hesitant that morning, forgetting lines, inventing moves that had not been specified and, at one point, clumsily knocking over a piece of scenery in the Forum. They were in the yard of the Queen’s Head, the London inn where the company was based, and where they had to compete with the pandemonium of the market outside in Gracechurch Street. The sky was overcast. A cool breeze was blowing yet Nicholas thought he saw beads of sweat on Hoode’s brow.

‘Do you feel hot, Edmund?’ he said.

‘No more than usual.’

‘Not troubled by a fever, I hope?’

‘All that troubles me is this damnable memory of mine. It keeps failing me, Nick, and I’ll not abide that. I must serve the playwright much better than this.’ Hoode turned away. ‘Forgive me while I con my lines.’

Though he unrolled some parchment to check his speeches for the next scene, he really wanted to escape Nicholas’s scrutiny. Edmund Hoode felt distinctly unwell, but, not wishing to let the actors or the playwright down, he was being stoical, forcing himself to go on and trying to ignore the growing queasiness in his stomach. His head was pounding and sweat was starting to trickle down his face. He wiped it off with a sleeve.

Nicholas was not the only person to be worried about him during the break in rehearsal. Michael Grammaticus, author of Caesar’s Fall, looked even more anxious. He came across to the book holder.

‘What is wrong with Edmund this morning?’ he wondered.

‘I wish I knew, Michael.’

‘Does he always stumble so badly through a part?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘It’s a matter of pride with him to learn his lines. Edmund has great faith in your play. He strives to do his utmost on your behalf.’

‘He has been my greatest ally.’

‘How so?’

‘Without his help, Caesar’s Fall would never have reached the stage.’

‘You wrote it, Michael,’ Nicholas reminded him.

‘Yes,’ agreed the other, ‘but Edmund Hoode inspired it. Do you know how often I sat up there in the gallery, watching a performance of one of his plays and marvelling at its quality? It was he who first fired my ambition. Edmund was my teacher and the Queen’s Head, my school. I dreamt of the day when I would emulate him as an author.’

‘That day is at hand. Your play is set fair for success.’

‘Not if someone blunders through the role of Casca like that.’

Michael Grammaticus shot an anxious glance in the direction of Hoode. Caesar’s Fall was his first venture into the world of theatre and he had set great store by it. Having been taken up by the finest troupe in London, he wanted to forge a partnership with them that would go well beyond the tragedy they were about to perform. Grammaticus was a tall, spare, phlegmatic man in his late twenties with a scholarly stoop and a habit of squinting. A graduate of Cambridge, he was steeped in learning, highly conscientious and — on the evidence of Caesar’s Fall — a talented playwright.

Nicholas understood why the man was so tense and nervous. The performance of a new play was always fraught with difficulty because the actors were translating it into live performance for the first time without having any idea how it would be received. On their makeshift stage in the inn yard, Westfield’s Men had launched many new works and not all had found favour. Some had simply bored the spectators, others had aroused them to such a pitch of anger that they had yelled abuse, hurled food and other missiles at the cast or just walked out in disgust. On such occasions, the first performance had also been the last. Grammaticus did not wish his play to meet that fate.

‘What is your opinion, Nick?’ he asked. ‘Does the piece work?’

‘It works very well, Michael. You could not have a more commanding Caesar than Lawrence Firethorn and he is ably supported by all the company. Have no fears,’ said Nicholas, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘I sense that we may have a triumph on our hands. The story may be old but you have given it new life and direction. I have no qualms about what will happen when we present it before an audience.’

Grammaticus was relieved. ‘That contents me more than I can say.’

Nicholas Bracewell was the book holder and, as such, only a hired man with no financial stake in the company, but the newcomer had soon discovered how central a figure he was. Lawrence Firethorn, the actor-manager, might dazzle on stage along with the other sharers but it was Nicholas who controlled things behind the scenes and who helped to keep the troupe at the forefront of their profession. He was the solid foundation on which everything else rested and Grammaticus had especial reason to be grateful to him. Before buying a new play, Firethorn always sought Nicholas’s advice and the book holder had given his unequivocal approval to Caesar’s Fall. He had also devised some of its most dramatic effects on stage, enhancing its impact in the process.

‘Is Edmund ill, do you think?’ asked Grammaticus.

‘He denies it, Michael.’

‘What else could make him so disordered?’

Nicholas heaved a sigh. ‘There is one explanation.’

‘Pray, tell me what it is.’

‘Edmund is in love. He is ever inclined to wear his heart on his sleeve and there are times when it is too heavy to carry. Edmund gets distracted. But he will do his duty when the play is staged,’ Nicholas assured him. ‘Put him in front of an audience and a hundred unrequited loves would not divert him.’

‘I hope that it is so,’ said Grammaticus, screwing up his eyelids. ‘Casca is not a large role but it is an important one.’

Nicholas gave a nod of agreement then picked up a signal from Lawrence Firethorn. It was time to resume. The book holder checked that the correct scenery had been set up on the stage then he called the cast to order. After reading his lines for the last time, Hoode thrust the scroll inside his doublet. He looked paler than ever and seemed to be in some distress, but he was determined to soldier on. They were about to rehearse the assassination of Julius Caesar. Before they did so, Firethorn issued a stern warning.

‘Strike as if you mean to kill,’ he ordered, ‘but be sure to move away once you have used your daggers. Above all else, I must be seen. Do not dare to cheat the audience by blocking their view, or you’ll answer to me. A mighty emperor deserves a memorable end. That is what they will get.’

‘Do not linger in the throes of death,’ said Barnaby Gill, waspishly. ‘You took so long to expire in Antonio’s Revenge that we could have played the entire piece through again before you hit the ground.’

Firethorn stood on his dignity. ‘I am famed for my death scenes.’

‘Only because they outlast anyone else’s.’

‘Be silent, Barnaby. Curb your jealousy of a superior actor.’

Gill smirked. ‘I’ve yet to meet one — alive or dead.’

‘I bestride the boards like a giant.’

‘That explains why you lumber so and get in everyone’s way.’

Nicholas clapped his hands to interrupt them before another row was sparked. Barnaby Gill was the established clown in the company, second only to Firethorn in terms of talent and able to control an audience with equal skill. Though they worked together superbly on stage, the two men were sworn enemies once they stepped off it, forever indulging in verbal duels as each tried to seize the advantage. Edmund Hoode was the usual peacemaker between them but he was not even aware of their heated exchange this time. It was the book holder who turned their minds to the rehearsal.

The scene began with the entry of the conspirators. Brutus and Cassius instructed the others and reminded them of the magnitude of Caesar’s faults. Their manner changed when the remaining members of the Senate came in, and they gave no hint of their murderous intent. Mark Anthony had a brief conversation with Casca, and Nicholas was pleased with the way that Hoode declaimed his lines. He appeared to have shaken off his earlier problems and spoke with confidence. Wearing a toga over his doublet and hose, Julius Caesar then entered like a conquering hero, treating the senators with weary condescension as they tried to press him with individual petitions.

Even in rehearsal, Firethorn was supreme, moving with imperious strides, using peremptory gestures to keep the senators in their place and investing his voice with an authority that reverberated around the inn yard. While the arrogant Caesar praised himself extravagantly for having done so much for Rome, the conspirators moved into position. One moment, Firethorn was the head of a vast empire, the next, he was the victim of a brutal attack as no less than eight senators produced daggers from their robes in order to stab him. Casca was the first to strike, then, in quick succession, came the flashing blades of Cassius, Trebonius, Decius Brutus, Metellus Cimber, Cinna, Caius Ligarius and, finally — to Caesar’s utter dismay — the trusted Brutus. As the conspirators drew back to allow Firethorn to play his death scene, however, they revealed that one body had already fallen to the floor.

In the hurly-burly of the assassination, Casca had collapsed. Edmund Hoode was no longer playing a part. Sensing that he was seriously ill, most of the actors abandoned their roles to crowd around the prone figure and Julius Caesar became aware that the agonising death he was undergoing with such ear-splitting groans had no audience at all. Instead, everyone was looking at Hoode. Enraged that his thunder had been stolen, Firethorn tore off his toga, flung it to the floor, and turned to confront the other actors.

‘God’s tits!’ he howled. ‘This tragedy is called Caesar’s Fall and not The Death of Casca. Remember, if you will, that I have the title role here and I’ll not be eclipsed by anyone else in the play.’ He glared at the Roman senators. ‘Which one of you blind and brainless idiots stabbed the wrong man?’

But nobody was listening. They were too alarmed by Hoode’s sudden collapse. Nicholas dashed across the stage and knelt beside his friend, easing him gently on to his back and placing a hand on his fevered brow. Hoode was completely unconscious. His breathing was uneven and there was a strange smell on his breath. Michael Grammaticus clambered on to the stage. His face was a study in apprehension.

‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘Is he unwell?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, solemnly. ‘He needs a doctor.’

‘I’ll fetch one with all haste.’

Grammaticus rushed off at once and left them to make Hoode as comfortable as they could. Fury now spent, Firethorn was as sympathetic as anyone, bending solicitously over his friend and imploring him to say something. Edmund Hoode, however, was beyond the reach of words. Retrieving the discarded toga, Nicholas rolled it up to make a cushion for the patient’s head, then urged everyone to stand back in order to give him plenty of air.

The rehearsal was over.

Alexander Marwood was trapped. The landlord of the Queen’s Head had long ago discovered that he was in the wrong occupation and the wrong marriage. Small, skinny, ugly, misshapen and balding dramatically, he had the face of a diseased ferret, but it was his nature that was unsuited to life in a boisterous tavern. He abhorred crowds and despised drunkenness yet he was at the mercy of both on a daily basis. If he had been happy in his private life, he might have borne it with resignation but he was locked in a joyless union with his wife, Sybil, a stone-faced harridan who was skilled in the black arts of marital persecution. Marwood’s soul had shrivelled inside him.

‘I should never have taken this hellish place on,’ he confessed.

‘But it’s a fine inn, Alexander, with a good reputation and regular custom.’

‘I always wanted a quiet life.’

‘Ah, well,’ said Adam Crowmere with a chuckle, ‘you should not have come near London if you sought tranquillity. Here’s life, here’s bustle, here’s the biggest and most exciting city in the whole of Europe. Would you really choose to waste away in some dull country backwater? Come, Alexander, tell the truth. Being here in the capital has many consolations. Think how blessed you have been in your chosen bride, for instance. Sybil must bring great comfort to you.’

Squirming inwardly at the mention of his wife, Marwood did not trust himself to reply but his face was eloquent. Three separate nervous twitches broke out to animate his features, each moving rapidly and indiscriminately from nose to cheek, from chin to ear, from eyebrow to forehead, from lip to lip, until all three coalesced on his pate and made it ripple. Marwood smacked his head with an irritable hand but it only made the waves roll more swiftly across his skull.

‘I’ll wager this,’ said Crowmere, patting him familiarly on the back. ‘You and Sybil will miss the Queen’s Head. No sooner will you reach Dunstable than you’ll wish that you were back here again.’

‘I doubt that,’ replied Marwood, testily. ‘I’ll be too busy breathing fresh air again and enjoying a life where I am not at the beck and call of every fool, knave and drunkard who walks through my door. Be warned, Adam. The Queen’s Head is no Garden of Eden. The sweepings of London come into this tavern.’

‘As long as they can pay for their ale, they’ll be more than welcome.’

Crowmere was a fleshy man of medium height with a geniality that shone out like a beacon. Still in his thirties, he was an experienced innkeeper with a knack of increasing the profits in every establishment that he managed. Given the opportunity, he had been more than ready to desert his own tavern in Rochester for a short while in order to take charge of the Queen’s Head. Adam Crowmere felt that he would be in his element. The two men were standing in a private room at the inn while they discussed the terms of their agreement. Marwood could not believe that anyone would undertake the task with such patent enthusiasm.

There was a tap on the door. The landlord opened it to admit Nicholas Bracewell.

‘Ah,’ said Marwood. ‘Come in, sir. Your name was on my lips even now.’

‘Master Firethorn has sent me to pay the rent,’ explained Nicholas, handing over a purse. ‘I would have come earlier but one of our fellows was taken sick and we had to carry him back to his lodging.’

Marwood was bitter. ‘Only one of you? If prayer had any value, the whole company would be struck down. This is the bane of my life, Adam,’ he went on, turning to his companion. ‘As I told you, I am condemned, for my sins, to have this accursed theatre company clinging to my back like a ravenous ape that feeds off my flesh.’

‘Westfield’s Men are not accursed,’ said Crowmere, beaming at Nicholas. ‘They are the jewels of their profession. I saw them once at Rochester and they played such a sprightly comedy that I laughed for a week.’ He offered his hand. ‘I am Adam Crowmere and I’m happy to meet any member of so illustrious a troupe.’

Marwood introduced the two men properly, then stunned Nicholas with the news that he and his wife were quitting London for what might be a matter of some weeks. The landlord’s elder brother was desperately ill in Dunstable and they were rushing to be at his bedside. While they were away, the affable Crowmere, a cousin of Sybil Marwood’s, would look after the Queen’s Head. Nicholas concealed his delight behind a frown.

‘I am sad to hear that your brother is not well,’ he observed.

‘Reuben is at death’s door,’ declared Marwood with a notable lack of anything resembling brotherly affection. ‘but it may take a while before it creaks open to let him through. It falls to me to keep a vigil.’ He weighed the purse in his hand. ‘I must go and enter this into my accounts. I’ll leave you to become more closely acquainted.’

‘Thank you,’ said Nicholas. He waited until the landlord had gone. ‘I own that I expected more grief from the brother of a dying man.’

Crowmere smiled. ‘All that grieves Alexander is the fact that he and Reuben fell out with each other many years ago. He’s hurrying to Dunstable to repair the rift so that his brother will remember him in his will. Reuben Marwood is a wealthy man.’

‘How long will our landlord be away?’

‘Long enough for me to make my mark at the Queen’s Head.’

‘I am glad to hear that you take a more kindly view of our presence here. Where our landlord is concerned,’ said Nicholas, tactfully, ‘I fear that it has never been a true meeting of minds.’

‘Alexander hates you,’ said Crowmere, frankly. ‘Before you came in, he was telling me that Westfield’s Men were detestable vermin, but that a certain Nicholas Bracewell was the least detestable of them.’ He gave a ripe chuckle. ‘Coming from him, that’s praise indeed.’ His face clouded. ‘But you say that one of your fellows has been stricken. Not the great Lawrence Firethorn, I hope?’

‘No, no, he has the constitution of an ox.’

‘Nor that clown of yours either, I trust? Barnaby Gill made me laugh until I felt I was about to burst. I’d hate to think that he has been carried off to his bed.’

‘Master Gill is not the invalid,’ said Nicholas. ‘If either he or Master Firethorn had been taken ill, our chances of staging a new play tomorrow would disappear. Nobody could replace them in time. Casca, a much smaller role, can be substituted and he will need to be for Edmund Hoode is far too sick to perform.’

‘What’s the nature of his sickness?’

Nicholas gave a shrug. ‘That’s what troubles us. We do not rightly know. The doctor, too, is mystified. All that he can do is to ease Edmund’s pain with medicine.’

‘I hope that he soon recovers,’ said Crowmere with obvious sincerity. ‘But I’m delighted to hear that you will be staging a new play here tomorrow. That will bring the crowds flocking to the Queen’s Head.’

‘We never lack for spectators.’

‘I wonder that Alexander does not treasure Westfield’s Men for increasing his takings every time they perform at the inn.’ He raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘How will his departure be greeted?’

‘With some relief,’ admitted Nicholas.

Crowmere laughed. ‘And no small amount of celebration, I think.’

‘I’ll not pretend that our absent landlord will be mourned.’

‘Would that my arrival will also be a cause for joy! I’m no enemy to your endeavours, Nicholas, be certain of that. Look to me for any help that you need. Where you once found coldness, you’ll now meet nothing but encouragement.’ ‘That’s good news indeed.’

‘Then here’s better to take back to your fellows,’ said Crowmere, hands on hips. ‘When Alexander is safely on the road, I plan to treat you in the way that you deserve, and to that end, I’ll invite the whole company — nay, and your patron as well — to a feast under this roof at my expense.’ He grinned amiably. ‘Will this content you, my friend?’

‘Very much,’ said Nicholas, unable to believe what he had heard. ‘I see that I was mistaken in you, sir. You are no new landlord — you are a gift from God.’

Superstition ruled the lives of the actors. They were always looking for signs, portents, tokens, auguries, and anything else that might be construed as a harbinger of good or ill fortune. Edmund Hoode’s mysterious illness was seen by most of them as an evil omen, a clear warning of imminent disaster. Caesar’s Fall, they believed, was doomed and they were helpless to avert that doom. Even though the final rehearsal went exceptionally well, voices were still raised in consternation.

‘Trouble lies ahead,’ warned Barnaby Gill. ‘I feel it in my water.’

‘I see it in the stars,’ said James Ingram. ‘They foretell catastrophe.’

‘Caesar’s Fall will be our collapse as well,’ decided a mournful Frank Quilter. ‘There is something about the piece that presages danger.’

‘Yes,’ said Owen Elias, scornfully. ‘It is because you three merchants of misery are in the cast. Hell’s fire! Why talk yourselves into defeat when we have such a strong chance of victory? If we had to rely on Barnaby’s piss, James’s stargazing and Frank’s instincts, we’d never stage any play with success. Weak minds are prey to foolish fears.’

‘Do you call Edmund’s illness a foolish fear?’ asked Gill.

‘No,’ replied the Welshman. ‘It was a blow to us but we’ve endured far worse.’

‘Can you not see any significance in what happened?’ said Quilter. ‘Edmund was struck down during the play. That means this tragedy is tainted.’

‘This tragedy will end in tragedy,’ moaned Ingram.

‘Not if we bend our back and give of our best,’ argued Elias, bunching a fist. ‘Everyone knows that I do not care for Michael Grammaticus — he is too much the university man for me — but I think he has written a wonderful play that deserves to be played to the hilt. Put aside your worries. Dear God! You sound like three old ladies, too frightened to step out into the street in case it rains.’

‘And that’s the other thing, Owen,’ said Gill, wagging a finger at him. ‘Have you seen the clouds? The sky will open this afternoon and we’ll all be drowned by the rain.’

Elias was sarcastic. ‘Do you feel water in your water as well, Barnaby?’

‘Look to the heavens, man.’

‘I prefer to look to our reputation and it will be sorely damaged if you step out on to that stage like three virgins tiptoeing into a bawdy house. Think of the good tidings we have had. Our melancholy landlord has left the city. We can revel in his absence.’

But even that reminder did not cheer his fellows. They were in the room that they used as their tiring-house, putting on their costumes for the afternoon performance of the new play. Acutely aware of the growing audience in the yard outside, Gill, Ingram and Quilter were not pleased to hear the buzz of expectation from the spectators because they had genuine doubts about Caesar’s Fall. Like others in the company, they felt that ruination lay in ambush. If the play were not washed off the stage by a torrential downpour, it would, they felt, surely be bedevilled by some other means. Owen Elias, the ebullient Welshman, clicked his tongue as he surveyed the other sharers.

‘I am disappointed in you, James,’ he said to Ingram, ‘and in you as well, Frank. I expected Barnaby to be full of woe because it is his natural condition. Every time he empties his bladder, he foresees the end of the world. You two should know better.’

James Ingram and Frank Quilter, the two youngest and most handsome sharers, had the grace to look shamefaced. In listening to Gill, they had allowed themselves to be drawn into a bleak pessimism. Elias had tried to lift them out of it and, though they still had lingering anxieties, they were grateful to him. The Welshman was not merely a fine actor, he had a spirit and determination that burnt inside him like a flame. Ingram and Quilter were reassured by his confidence. Gill remained dejected.

‘Caesar’s Fall has already caused Edmund’s fall. We are next to drop.’

Elias was defiant. ‘Not while I have breath in my body.’

‘Nor me,’ said Lawrence Firethorn, coming to stand beside him, ‘My back is broad. If I have to, I’ll carry this entire play on my own. Listen to me,’ he went on, raising his voice so that it reached everyone in the room. ‘This is no time for doubt and hesitation. Forget this talk of ill omens. We owe it to our playwright to breathe life into his work so that it bewitches all who see it. Yes,’ he conceded, ‘we have lost dear Edmund but what would he think of us if we let a fellow author down? He sends love and best wishes to us in this venture. He looks to receive glad tidings from us.’

‘Then he looks in vain,’ said Gill. ‘This play is tarnished with bad luck.’

‘That can be ascribed to your presence,’ said Firethorn, sharply. ‘Bad luck, thy name is Barnaby Gill. You’d poison any enterprise, were it not for the fact that we have acted with you so often that we know how to subdue your malign influence. Let’s have no more carping from you, Barnaby. We go forth to certain triumph.’ He indicated the book holder. ‘Nick craves a word with you.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, stepping into the middle of the room. ‘Two things will give you heart. As you know, I was a sailor for three long years and learnt to read the skies like a book. The day is cloudy, I grant you, and rain looks certain but I give you my word that it will not fall during the play. Shake that fear from your mind.’

There was a collective sigh of relief. Nicholas’s ability to forecast the weather was almost uncanny. It came from having sailed with Drake on the circumnavigation of the earth, an experience that left its scars on Nicholas but which also taught him so much about the vagaries of wind and rain. The second piece of information he was about to impart had already been confided to Firethorn, who had agreed with the book holder that it should be deliberately kept from the others until just before the performance. Aware that their fellows would be shackled by superstition, Nicholas hoped to liberate them with his announcement.

‘Our choleric landlord has departed,’ he said, drawing a ragged cheer from the actors, ‘and a more worthy host has taken his place. I can now tell you that Adam Crowmere has promised to honour us with a feast as a gesture of good will.’ There was general jubilation. ‘One condition only is attached to the invitation,’ Nicholas continued, looking round the smiling faces. ‘Our new and hospitable landlord insists that Caesar’s Fall — the very first play to be staged here under his aegis — be yet another success for Westfield’s Men so that we have something to celebrate.’

With Firethorn’s connivance, Nicholas had invented the condition in order to spur the actors on and the device had worked. Instead of the pervading gloom, a buoyant optimism now filled the tiring house. Firethorn traded a knowing glance with his book holder. Nicholas had made the actors forget all about their trepidation. They were now positively straining on the leash to get out on stage.

They did not have long to wait. At a signal from Nicholas, the musicians began to play and Owen Elias stepped out in a black cloak to deliver the Prologue. Though his voice was appropriately firm, his mind was on the promised feast and he could almost smell the roast pig upon the spit. He raised a hand to silence the murmurs in the crowd.

‘Good friends, all you that now are gathered here,

Behold a tale of villainy and fear

In which a mighty conqueror is killed

By those with spite and naked envy filled

Until it drives them on to heinous crime

And offers us a lesson for all time.

For, mark this well, all subtle minds that can,

This Caesar’s Fall is like the Fall of Man.’

And on he went. The rhyming couplets were deceptively simple at first but they had grown more intricate by the time the Prologue ended. Acknowledging a round of applause with a bow, Elias withdrew from the stage until it was time for him to re-enter in the guise of Brutus. The play, meanwhile, opened with a lively scene between a group of gullible citizens and a comical soothsayer. No sooner did Barnaby Gill skip on to the boards in the latter roll than the laughter started. The recognised clown was there to make sure that tragedy was shot through with a dark and ironic humour and, whatever his earlier reservations about the performance, Gill acted as if his life depended on it. His energy and commitment set the tone for the rest of the play.

The story of Julius Caesar was a familiar one and other dramatists had explored it in various ways. What set this new version apart from other plays on the same subject was the emphasis placed on Caesar’s earlier career, showing him as a fearless soldier and a brilliant administrator. It was only later that the martial hero was corrupted by over-ambition. To maintain sympathy for a man with such a glaring flaw in his character, the play offered insights into Caesar’s domestic life and — in one of the most vivid scenes in the play — it anticipated the assassination with a fall of another kind.

Until that point, Firethorn had given a stirring account of Caesar, brave, proud, intelligent, adventurous and endlessly resourceful. By the sheer force of his acting, he had transformed Julius Caesar into a demi-god. Then, at the height of his power, when the audience believed they were looking at an indestructible human being, Firethorn suffered from an attack of falling sickness, dropping to the ground without warning and having such a frenzied epileptic fit that everyone in the yard thought that it was real. It was Brutus, later to conspire against Caesar, who came to his friend’s aid by inserting the handle of a dagger into his mouth to keep his teeth apart in order to prevent him from biting off his tongue. The same dagger would later help to bring about his ultimate fall.

Seated in the lower gallery, Michael Grammaticus watched with teeth clenched and hands clasped tightly together. Though the spectators were engaged from the start, he could not relax, fearing that the piece would lose its grip on the audience or that rain would come to dampen their ardour. His admiration for Westfield’s Men increased with every scene. The problems that had dogged them during rehearsals had miraculously disappeared. Led by Firethorn, the whole company was in tremendous form. Grammaticus was also impressed by the way that the loss of Edmund Hoode was covered. At the suggestion of Nicholas Bracewell, the part of Trebonius was cut out altogether and James Ingram, who had taken the role, instead became Casca. Nobody missed a lesser conspirator.

Enlivened by the antics of Barnaby Gill throughout, the play mixed tragedy and comedy in judicious proportions, moving towards its climax with gathering speed. When the assassination came, it was so vicious and dramatic that there were cries of horror from all corners of the yard. Julius Caesar then gave them all a death scene to remember, staggering around the stage with bloodied hands trying to stem the flow from his various wounds and reviling his enemies in a speech of defiance that showed his true nobility. While his corpse was finally borne away to solemn music, the audience was in a state of profound shock. They had witnessed a sublime tragedy.

As the emperor reappeared to lead his company on to the stage, dark clouds parted and a shaft of sunlight peeped through. It was like a heavenly benediction. Applause was slow at first but it quickly built to a crescendo. Those in the pit stamped and cheered, those in the balconies were on their feet to acknowledge a magnificent performance by Lawrence Firethorn and his company. The ovation seemed to go on forever. Nobody clapped louder than Michael Grammaticus. Released at last from the tension that had made the afternoon something of an ordeal, he was overcome with joy at having fulfilled his ambition. A play with his name on it had taken the stage by storm. A whole new life had suddenly opened out before him.