The Nightmare of Calpurnia
Caesar's private bedchamber at dawn, shadows flickering on marble walls.
The Chronicler
Rome wakes to the Ides of March. In the house of the Dictator, the air is thick with the scent of unlit oil lamps and the echoes of a woman’s scream. Calpurnia clings to her husband, her voice a jagged blade of panic.
Calpurnia
Caesar... do not go! I saw the pediment of our house collapse—I held your body, and it flowed with blood like a fountain in the Forum!
The Chronicler
Caesar pulls away, his face a mask of weary irritation. He looks at his wife as if she were a child.
Julius Caesar
Calpurnia, a man of my standing does not hide in the dark because of a woman's dream. The gods send many signs; they do not all require us to cower.
The Chronicler
She falls to her knees, her fingers catching the hem of his purple toga.
Calpurnia
I beg you, Gaius... for the love of the hearth. If not for the omens, then for me. Stay. Send word you are ill!
The Silver Tongue
The atrium of Caesar's house, filled with morning light and the bustle of servants.
The Chronicler
The sun rises higher. Caesar wavers, nearly swayed by his wife’s terror. But then, the door opens. Decimus Brutus enters—not with a dagger, but with a smile.
Decimus Brutus
What is this? Shall the great Caesar tell the Senate he will not come because his wife had a bad dream? They will say the Dictator has become a prisoner of the nursery.
The Chronicler
Caesar’s pride flares like a torch. He turns his back on Calpurnia.
Julius Caesar
Enough! Decimus, you speak the truth. It is unworthy of me. Prepare my litter. I will go to the Theater of Pompey.
The Chronicler
Decimus bows, his eyes meeting Caesar's with a deceptive warmth.
Decimus Brutus
A wise choice, Caesar. The Republic awaits its father.
The Procession of Shadows
The crowded streets of Rome leading toward the Theater of Pompey.
The Chronicler
The streets are a maelstrom of humanity. To the people, Caesar is a god in the flesh. To the men walking beside him, he is a sacrificial bull being led to the altar.
Marcus Junius Brutus
Caesar... the crowd is dense today. We should move quickly to the Senate doors.
The Chronicler
Caesar stops. He spots a familiar face in the throng—a soothsayer he had mocked before.
Julius Caesar
Look here, old man! The Ides of March have come!
The Chronicler
The narrator's voice drops as the crowd goes silent. The soothsayer answers with a chill that stops the heart.
Marcus Junius Brutus
Aye, Caesar... they have come. But they are not yet gone.
The Gathering Storm
The entrance hall of the Theater of Pompey, under the massive statue of Caesar's old rival.
The Chronicler
Inside the hall, the atmosphere is electric. Sixty senators wait, their hands hidden in the deep folds of their togas. Among them, Marcus Brutus feels the cold weight of the iron against his thigh.
Marcus Junius Brutus
Gods... let our hands be steady. For Rome. Only for Rome.
The Chronicler
Caesar enters. He takes his seat on the golden throne. Tillius Cimber steps forward, clutching Caesar's robe as if in a desperate plea.
Julius Caesar
What is this insolence, Cimber? Unhand me! Your brother's exile is a settled matter!
Twenty-Three Blows
The center of the Senate floor, blood spraying across white marble.
The Chronicler
It begins. Cimber rips the toga from Caesar's shoulders. The first blade flashes—Casca strikes from behind, grazing the neck. Caesar roars like a wounded lion.
Julius Caesar
Casca! You villain! What do you do?
The Chronicler
Then, the storm breaks. Daggers rise and fall in a frantic, messy rhythm. Caesar fights, stabbing at them with his writing stylus, until he sees a face he cannot strike.
Marcus Junius Brutus
Caesar... it must be so.
The Chronicler
The narrator's voice is hushed as Caesar stops resisting. He looks at Brutus, his protégé, his friend.
Julius Caesar
Et tu... Brute? Then fall, Caesar.
The Silence of the Dead
The empty Senate floor after the assassins have fled to the streets.
The Chronicler
The Liberators run into the sun, shouting of freedom, but behind them, the hall is silent. Caesar lies at the base of Pompey’s statue, his face covered by his own tattered, blood-soaked robe.
Marcus Junius Brutus
We have done it. The Republic is reborn. Why... why is no one cheering?
The Chronicler
The Republic was not reborn. It died with the man on the floor. In the distance, the first fires of a new civil war begin to smoke.
The Voices
The Chronicler
narrator
Julius Caesar
primary
Talk
Marcus Junius Brutus
primary
Talk
Calpurnia
secondary
Talk
Decimus Brutus
secondary
Talk