Tilius crouched at his side, holding out his petition, impatiently Caesar waved it away,

and then quite unexpectedly, Tilius grabbed hold of the dictator's purple-line toga and

yanked it down.

Utter bewilderment flashed across Julius Caesar's face.

This is violence, he shouted.

Something darted towards his neck, a blinding pain, a smear of red, half-turning he saw blood

dripping from a dagger.

There were people crowding around him now, familiar faces, friends, men he had trusted

for years.

They all held knives.

Their eyes were hard.

More steel flashed towards him.

His head was whirling, he raised his hands to shield himself and saw the blood running

down his arms.

Now he was twisting, cornered, a wild beast at bay.

He could hear somebody bellowing, a monstrous roar, a fear and panic, and he recognized his

own voice.

He was trapped.

He couldn't get up, there was blood everywhere, the faces were coming closer, the knives rose

and fell.

And then to his relief he saw Brutus, good old Brutus.

The Brutus's eyes were hollow, and in his hand was another knife.

...