March 15, 44 B.C., the so-called Ides of March according to the Romans.

That morning, Rome seemed crushed under a heavy leaden weight. A mist rose from the Tiber, turning the marble columns of the Forum and the statues of the gods into ghostly, shadowy figures. A dark, inevitable sense of foreboding hung over the city.

A few days earlier, a haruspex had whispered into Julius Caesar’s ear: “Beware the Ides of March.”

Caesar had smiled. He had won the civil war, forgiven his enemies, and was now “dictator for life.” He felt invincible, untouchable.

That morning, he prepared at home under the anxious gaze of his wife, Calpurnia, who had dreamed terrible dreams during the night: collapsing roofs, desperate screams, statues drenched in blood, lions giving birth in the streets, tombs opening, armies clashing in the sky. It was as if the collective unconscious of Rome whispered of its doom.

“Don’t go,” Calpurnia implored. Caesar hesitated for a moment, but a dictator could not succumb to fear. Moreover, his friend Decimus Brutus interpreted the dream as a favourable sign: “Rome feeds on your power, not your blood.” Caesar decided to leave.

When he had crossed the Rubicon in 49 B.C., the Republic was already on an irreversible path. In 48 B.C., he defeated Pompey at Pharsalus. Then, Egypt, Cleopatra, and an alliance that went beyond politics. The presence of a “foreign queen” unnerved the Roman aristocracy. At the beginning of 44 B.C., Caesar was named dictator perpetuo. To the Republicans, it was effectively a monarchy. Caesar refused the title of king, but ruled alone.

Yet he did not want to appear kingly. He avoided constant armed guards, attended the Senate unprotected, and disbanded his personal guard from Hispania. He tried to maintain a Republican façade, but the aristocrats’ fear did not wane. The conspirators, calling themselves Liberatores, included figures such as Marcus Junius Brutus, Gaius Cassius Longinus, and Decimus Brutus.

That day, the session took place in the Curia of Pompey, ironically connected to the theatre of his old rival. Security was minimal. No checks. Around eleven, Caesar appeared: wearing a purple toga with yellow trim, long red boots, a tall, fair-skinned, broad-pointed face, dark eyes, the 56 years of his life visible in the wrinkles and the fatigue of campaigns. Proud of his appearance, he carefully groomed his thinning hair and shaved his beard.

The senators approached, whispering. Artemidorus handed him a letter: “Read this immediately.” It likely warned of the conspiracy. Caesar did not read it. Most senators sat down; some stood around his gilded ceremonial chair. Cicero held a place of honour in the front row. Outside, sacrifices continued, omens still bad. Caesar looked westward, where a priest had warned him of danger. Jokingly, he said, “Where are the prophecies now? The feared day has come, and I am still alive.” “Yes,” the man replied, “but it is not over yet.”

Beneath his toga, short Roman daggers—the pugio—were hidden.

When the officials announced that the Senate was ready, Caesar was about to cancel the session. A servant took him by the hand and led him into the Senate. Everyone rose. But suddenly, a senator named Tillius Cimber grabbed his toga under the pretence of requesting clemency for his exiled brother. Pulling it from Caesar’s shoulders, he shouted, “Friends, what are you waiting for?” It was the signal.

Caesar stood, surprised and angry. “Why this aggression?” he shouted.

Casca struck toward his neck, but Caesar reacted instantly, freeing himself and deflecting the blow. He lunged at Casca, driving a pen into his arm. The senators in the room were stunned. A few tried to intervene but were pushed back. Caesar resisted, fending off some attackers, but he was surrounded. According to Suetonius, the first blow was superficial, but then he saw Brutus and realised the horror: “Kai su, teknon?”—“You too, my child?”

Cicero watched in astonishment. Marcus Brutus, once his ally, is now among the conspirators. Gaius Cassius Longinus was also in the fray. Caesar screamed like a wild beast, turning from one assailant to another, his face and one side of his body deeply wounded. Brutus struck him in the groin. He wrapped his toga around his body, pulling it over his head, the lower part covering his legs, a gesture of dignity in the face of death. The conspirators surrounded him; there was no escape.

Twenty-three strikes.

Caesar fell at the foot of Pompey’s statue. The man who had once defeated him in civil war now lay dead in the shadow of marble. Blood spread across the floor. The event lasted less than two minutes. What began as a controlled execution turned into chaotic collective violence. The conspirators raised their daggers and shouted, “Libertas!”

The expected did not happen. The people did not rise. The Republic did not return. Rome was plunged into chaos. Caesar’s death sparked a new civil war. In the end, Augustus (Octavian), his adopted son, eliminated rivals and became Rome’s first emperor. The conspirators believed they had ended tyranny, but in truth, they had closed an era, not a regime.

March 15, 44 B.C., is not just the date of an assassination. That day, Rome did not merely lose blood; it died.