Ides of March

On the Ides of March, the Empire rose from the ashes of the tyrant to be, only to be replaced by his adopted son. The republican assassins tried to salvage what they could of the ancient virtu, that manly desire to take Fortuna from behind--yet only ashes and rapine appeared now to remain of the ancient traditions. The state's gods made for the exits with the blood of innocents and incipient civil war on their cynical lips.

So I thought, at least, when the message arrived. I put the pigeon away into its roost with its friends and unrolled the scrap of paper that I'd taken from the small capsule attached to the bird's leg.

"Ides of March," the message read.

I knew what it meant. I'd been expecting something like this for some time, yet even now the thoughts that its letters brought to mind evoked a sense of anticipation, perhaps some foreboding.

"Finally," I said to myself, "the brothers and sisters have decided."

...