The Mediterranean wind couldn't cool Julius Caesar's fever. Standing in the Roman Forum, surrounded by senators who once cheered his name, he felt their stares like daggers. Twenty-three wounds would soon pierce his flesh, but the fatal cut had already been made. By his own hand. By his own blindness.

Julius Caesar could command a hundred thousand men across frozen rivers and hostile territories. He could calculate supply lines, outmaneuver enemies, inspire loyalty in soldiers who would die for his vision. But he couldn't see himself as others saw him.

The man who conquered had been conquered by something far more dangerous than any barbarian army. His own ambition had grown monstrous, insatiable, beyond all proportion. When the Senate offered him honors, he demanded more. When they granted him power, he seized greater authority. When they made him dictator, he accepted the title for life.

Each victory fed the hunger. Each triumph demanded another.