The Immortal Gazette: The Fall of Julius Caesar|The Man Who Would Be King
The Gazette’s grand hall was quiet tonight, the usual mischief subdued by the weight of history itself. Loki leaned back in his chair, flipping a dagger between his fingers. Alice traced patterns in the condensation of her wine goblet, while Rumplestiltskin, ever the collector of tragic tales, leaned forward with a gleam in his eye.
“Well, dear mortals,” he began, “tonight we tell the story of a man who reached too high, grasped for a crown that should never have been his, and paid the price in blood.”
Alice smirked. “Ah. Julius Caesar. The man who thought he could be a king in a republic.”
Loki let out a low whistle. “Spoiler alert—Rome had thoughts about that.”
Julius Caesar: The Death of a Would-Be King
Julius Caesar was many things—a brilliant general, a shrewd politician, a man who turned every misfortune into an advantage. He had conquered Gaul, defied the Senate, and crossed the Rubicon with an army at his back, knowing full well it meant civil war.
And he won.
Rome was his. He was Dictator for Life, the most powerful man in the Republic. But that, dear readers, was not enough.
The Lupercalia Incident: A Crown Denied
On February 15th, 44 BCE, Rome was in the midst of the Lupercalia festival—a time of wild revelry, fertility rites, and, apparently, political theater.
Mark Antony, Caesar’s right-hand man, approached him in the public square, holding something few Romans ever thought they’d see—a king’s crown.
Antony lifted it high and offered it to Caesar.
The crowd held its breath.
And Caesar?
He refused.
Not once. Not twice. But three times.
Or so he claimed.
Alice arched a brow. “Ah, yes. The old ‘I don’t want it—unless you really want me to have it’ routine.”
Rumplestiltskin grinned. “Exactly. It was a performance, you see. He wanted the people to demand he take it. He wanted to be seen as a reluctant king.”
Loki snorted. “Spoiler: Nobody bought it.”
The people of Rome were suspicious. The Senate was enraged. Julius Caesar had already amassed god-like power—now he wanted the title of king, a title Rome had despised ever since it cast out its last one, Tarquin the Proud.
And so, a group of senators decided it was time for Caesar to go.
The Ides of March: A Throne Paid in Blood
March 15th, 44 BCE.
The omens were dark.
His wife, Calpurnia, had nightmares of his death. A soothsayer warned him to beware the Ides of March. Even a petition handed to him on the way to the Senate held a warning—one he never read.
But Caesar? He ignored them all.
He entered the Senate, head high, robed in his finest toga, unaware that it would be stained red before the hour was done.
The attack came suddenly.
The first dagger struck his back.
Then another.
And another.
The great Julius Caesar, conqueror of Gaul, master of Rome, found himself surrounded—not by soldiers, but by his own senators, each one driving a blade into his flesh.
Twenty-three times they struck.
And then came the moment that turned a murder into a tragedy—
Brutus, his beloved friend, his possible illegitimate son, stepped forward.
Alice exhaled. “And the world got the most famous last words in history.”
Et tu, Brute?
And with that, Caesar fell. The man who had dreamed of a crown lay lifeless on the cold Senate floor, his blood pooling around him, his body abandoned by those who had once worshipped him.
Rome would never be the same.
The Lesson of Caesar’s Fall
Rumplestiltskin leaned back, fingers drumming against the table. “And so, dear mortals, let this be a lesson—power is never truly given. It is taken. And when you take too much?”
Loki smirked. “The daggers come out.”
Alice raised her glass in mock salute. “To Julius Caesar—the man who reached for a throne and found a grave instead.”
Loki grinned. “And to Brutus—proving that in politics, your worst enemy is often your closest friend.”
Rumplestiltskin chuckled. “Now that is a tragedy worthy of the gods and why you should always listen to ominous prophecies, your wife’s bad dreams, and avoid any "friendly meetings" with a group of jealous senators.”
So, dear readers—if given the chance, would you reach for a crown, knowing it could cost you everything?
Caesar did.
And the Ides of March remembered.
The Ides of March—March 15th—became more than just a date; it became a warning. A whispered curse in history. The moment Julius Caesar fell, the Ides became eternal, an omen carried through time.
It wasn’t just Caesar who remembered that day. The world did. The Senate did. Rome did. And so, every time March 15th rolls around, the shadow of betrayal lingers.
Because power never dies quietly. And history? It never forgets.
🖋️✨📜🖤
