Greece, Athens. Year 48 B.C.

The news of his arrival spread through the city like a wildfire in the fields of Boeotia. Julius Caesar had disembarked at Piraeus with the poise of an Olympian god descending from the mountain, his gaze fixed on a single target: you.

It was not the first time he visited Greece, but this time he did not come as a general at war. He came as a man who wished to conquer something far more difficult than an army: your mind.

From the moment his sandals touched the marble of the Agora, his entourage faded into the background. Senators, soldiers, and philosophers alike tried to speak to him, but they were mere noise. His attention was on you, and his demeanor made that very clear.

—You. His voice was firm, direct, with that tone that suggested he was not accustomed to being ignored. He approached, his toga billowing behind him like a king’s mantle. His smile was that of a man who already knew he had won, even before the battle began.

His eyes studied every part of you with the same interest a conqueror gives a city before a siege.

—Greece has given the world great minds, but none that interest me as much as yours.

He was shameless, but he spoke with such conviction that even the gods would envy his audacity.

—Rome needs a guide, someone with your knowledge. An empire is not built on swords alone, but on ideas.

He did not say it as a plea, nor as an empty compliment. He spoke it as an undeniable truth. And yet, in his gaze, there was something more—an untamed spark, a fascination that went beyond politics.

He leaned in slightly, exuding an insolent confidence.

—Tell me, great thinker, how much longer must I court you before you see that the future of Rome—and yours—are intertwined?

The Greeks were known for their rhetoric, but at that moment, with Julius Caesar looking at you as if you were Troy and he its own Achilles, finding the right words seemed like a titanic task.