Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

Ah princeling, rising through the ranks, a soldier born to war. Ah pauper, doomed to poverty, to service evermore. Ah mystery, ever-wondering which is which. Will pauper rise, a valiant man, a Caesar, almost king? Will princeling serve or plan a vicious coup, a conquering? Et tu? Beware the Ides.

The sun was bright, the season light, the people filled with joy. Wars had been fought and won—a new age begun. So now the government strolled the streets to the place where governments meet. Now they’d discuss how the needs of the poor could be fit to more important wants and desires. Politics. Politics. War’s easier, he thought, but when you’re a Caesar you do what a Caesar must do. Then others seized his robe and tore him down. They thrust him through with swords till he lay bleeding. One last friend—et tu Brute—cast the last blow.

“Will you march with me?” Caesar asked. Brutus stepped to his side. “The rabble,” said Caesar, looking round at the crowds that followed. “See how they run, in need a guide.” “The pomp and circumstance.” He observed the marbled senate hall, the waiting senator’s flocked “Like a bride for her groom.” “How true,” said Brutus, hand on his old friend’s arm, guiding his path. “How true.” They laughed at an old man’s wrath, and feeble woman’s angry prophesy. The black widow spider skittered away to the shadows where night-webs grew. She knew and waited, like a bride for her groom.