The marble floor of the Curia Pompeia was usually a stage for the clamor of ambition, but on this Ides of March, the silence was unnatural. Sixty, perhaps seventy senators were present, an unnaturally hushed assembly. Julius Caesar, the conqueror, the pontifex maximus, the dictator perpetuo, were speaking, his voice resonating through the chamber, when it happened.

A hand, strong and wholly unexpected, clamped onto his left arm. It wasn't a respectful touch, not an appeal, but a grasp of raw force. Before he could react, before his mind could process the indignity, he felt a violent yank. He was pulled, abruptly and roughly, from the polished seat of his power. The shock, sharp and sudden, momentarily eclipsed the pain. Caesar stumbled, his tall frame, usually so formidable, thrown off balance. His immaculate fair complexion, typically unblemished, now flushed with confusion and indignation. The elaborate comb-over, meticulously arranged each morning to cloak the thinning crown he so detested, was disheveled by the sudden movement. His long nose, a prominent feature of his distinguished face, flared.

Then, amidst the blur of togas and faces, his eyes locked onto him. Brutus. Standing there, the perpetrator of this audacious act. He was dragging him, not with the strength of a brute, but with a focused, almost clinical fury. His short, neat-yet-tousled dark brown hair, styled in a bold mullet, framed a face that held a stark, captivating blend of the masculine and the feminine. A strong Roman nose jutted above a beardless jawline, sharp and defined. His dark, arched eyebrows were furrowed, and in his dark brown eyes, Caesar saw it – a burning, consuming rage, a blind anger that made him almost unrecognizable. This man, whom he had regarded as both son and dear friend – a trust so profound it felt like a betrayal before the first blade was even drawn.

Then the glint of steel. Blades. Daggers, sharp and wickedly cruel, emerged from beneath the folds of their garments. A primal roar erupted from the crowd, a cacophony of Latin curses and shouts. They charged, a wave of frenzied bodies surrounding Caesar, pressing in. The first stab was a searing shock, a hot poker to his side. Then another, and another. Cold steel, tearing flesh, burning pain. His crimson toga, a symbol of his authority, began to darken, to absorb the warmth of his lifeblood. It grew heavier, clinging to his skin, slick and thick. Adrenaline, a familiar companion on countless battlefields, surged through Caesar, lending him a desperate strength. He twisted, bucked, and strained against their hold, the shouts of "Tyrant!" and "Republic!" ringing in his ears.

Caesar's breath came in ragged gasps, his muscles screaming with effort. For a brief, agonizing moment, he'd managed to tear himself free. He'd stumbled back, away from the throng, his entire body covered in blood, his fair face spattered with red. The wrinkles and sagging flesh that time had etched upon his full face were now stark with disbelief and agony. Caesar gasped, his keen black eyes scanning the sea of faces around him, the conspirators who feared his growing power would end the Roman Republic, who believed he aspired to be a king.

His gaze found him again, amidst the crowd. Brutus. He stood there, unmoving, his gaze fixed on Caesar. His right hand gripped the handle of a dagger, its blade already stained. The rage in his eyes had not diminished, if anything, it had deepened, a dark, primal fury. His body, almost six feet tall, like a warrior-goddess, was rigid with a terrible resolve.

Caesar voice, thick with blood and betrayal, rasped out.

"Et tu, Brute?"