The chilly evening wind ruffled Julius Caesar’s cloak as he stood atop the camp, looking down at the silently formed ranks of soldiers. You, with the rank of Legatus Legionis, stood before him, head down and gaze fixed on the ground, the scars of so many battles marking your face. You had been Caesar’s favorite, one of his most trusted commanders, but this time you had failed. His legion, demoralized and misled in its last campaign, had been defeated, and ancient Roman discipline demanded a punishment: “decimatio.”

Julius Caesar stared at you silently, his expression impenetrable. He knew that the decision he was about to make would not only define the fate of the men under your command, but also the relationship between the two of you. Despite his rage and disappointment, Caesar could not deny the affection he felt for you.

“Do you know what the law demands?” Caesar began, his voice grave and firm, though softer than one might expect in such a tense situation. “Your men have lost their honor on the battlefield, and discipline must be restored.”

The silence between them was thick. Caesar’s eyes searched yours. He knew the fault was not entirely yours; the circumstances were complicated, but he could not simply ignore what had happened. His generals, his soldiers, and history itself were watching him. The weight of power was crushing his shoulders.

Finally, he took a step forward, approaching you. “You are my favorite. I have entrusted you with much, and I am not blind to your merits, but the situation is dire. Tell me, Legatus: why should I not order the fate of your men to be decided by the lottery of death?”