It was all very well for Cæsar to pretend that his friends had mistaken who he was, but rumours were soon rife in the city—that Cæsar really wished the title, and had not been well pleased at the evident dislike of the people to hear him saluted as Rex.
And so gradually his words and movements came to be watched by his enemies and by the people too, always with this thought of kingship in their minds.
When, on his return from Spain, the consuls and senators went to tell Cæsar of the new honours that had been heaped upon him, he did not, as was his custom, rise to receive them, but remained sitting.
Not only the Senate, but the people, were indignant at such haughty behaviour, and Cæsar himself was quick to see that he had made a mistake.
He tried to excuse himself, saying that his health was not good, but few believed that that accounted for his action.
It is said that he really was going to rise as usual, had not one of his flatterers pulled him to his seat, saying, ‘Will you not remember you are Cæsar, and claim the honour which is your due?’
Soon after this, in February 45 B.C., an ancient festival called the Lupercalia was celebrated on the Palatine.
Cæsar sat, clad in a triumphal robe, in a golden chair to watch the games.
Mark Antony was taking part in the festival, and as he ran hither and thither amid the merrymakers, he reached the Forum and saw Cæsar seated on the chair of gold as on a throne. He stepped before him and held out a crown wreathed with laurel.
A few persons had been placed near Cæsar, with orders to applaud when Antony proffered the crown to the Dictator, and so some feeble cheers rose on the air, while the crowd looked on coldly and in silence.