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Warm sunlight streamed through the elaborately designed windows, their journey uninhibited by the silk curtains Caesar had graciously awarded him as tribute for his lasting service as a comrade. Comrades, what a false term for such a dishonest man. Marcus Brutus had stood alongside Pompey the Great, had been a traitor to his country once Julius Caesar ascended the role of dictator, and had been granted amnesty out of the generosity in Caesar’s heart. Yet here he was again, plotting against the man who had saved him from the gallows, from public execution, and most of all, the man he pledged his undying love for.

The silver dagger on his dresser gleamed menacingly in the cool light of the dawn. It wouldn’t be long before the senators called him down, beckoning him to coerce Caesar into following him into the meeting room. He would have to, for Caesar’s imperialistic campaign was against every last fiber in his democratic soul. Nevertheless, the very thought of murdering the man who had protected him, loved him, even, brought Marcus an intangible void that settled at the base of his stomach.

An hour passed, then two, of gentle musing, before the clock struck ten, and the senators beckoned. Marcus gathered himself, masking his melancholy in a shroud of nonchalance, and made the short trek to Caesar’s bed chambers. It was a journey he had made numerous times in the past, though not in broad daylight. Before he even had to knock, Caesar greeted him, a smile fit for the gods spreading across his Roman features. He was always happy to see Marcus, whether it be in a private or professional setting.

Julius swept the younger man into an embrace, away from the prying eyes of his servants, should any come. The silver dagger gleamed menacingly as it was hidden in Marcus’ sleeves, but he returned the embrace regardless. It would be the last time he would hold the dictator while he was still alive, and he would revel in it for as long as he could.

Marcus could sense the senators behind him, all holding identical daggers, waiting for him to make the first incision. He raised the blade before stabbing Julius Caesar, first of the Triumvirate, but more importantly his beloved, in the heart.

The silver dagger gleamed menacingly with the blood of the dictator.