Sinking into the mist, his distancing silhouette manifested like an afterimage in my mind.

I know of him not by sight, but by ambiguous metaphors, wisps of rumors, and the dull pain in my chest whenever his name was mentioned.

Despite the many times I have looked upon his face, I could not recall a clear image. But I knew a lot. And through these fragmented statements, I was able to piece together a rough shape of what he is.

I know how the senators preyed upon him like wolves, how his voice resounded through the Curia like a sanguine seduction, tempting them to tear him apart like the Bacchanals. I know his name was volatile like the spices of the East, brushing upon everyone’s lips, jesting with scorns and mingling with praise. I know how the chisels imprison these pursed lips and furrowed brows upon lofty statues so that when he falls to the Senate floor, he shall fall to their feet like the marble scraps that the artisans chipped away.

That his voice which once commanded the world shall be dumbed. That the clanking tools of the sculptor shall speak for him.

That we, long after them, may live, and look upon him, with reverence or contempt. And some may call him a god, and some, a tyrant.

*This is a random passage I wrote in the past, but it’s March 15th and I wanted to post something for Caesar’s Assassination- so here it is.