Two thousand and fifty-one years ago they stabbed him until the blood pooled bright red – almost a neon orange – on the senate chamber floor. They were small of stature and small in number. Outside the spring sun shone done on a younger Rome, and we hear birds chirping, and in the voices of children yelling at each other in Latin.

And here the bravest man lies bleeding, the horror passing through the crowd of men who’ve killed their dictator, and this simple act was not captured on a video phone for us to watch. But people heard about it. In the ensuing power struggle between his nephew and his lieutenant, the story would become known. How he looked at Brutus and asked, ‘you too?’