Casca had been pacing the colonades of Pompey's Theatre since shortly after dawn, the normal time for the Senate's meeting. Caesar was now at least two hours overdue. What could it mean, but that someone had betrayed them? Out of the corner of his eye he had seen Brutus and Cassius, calmly conducting their business as praetors; yet something about their frozen calm made him think that they, too, were frightened. Caesar was never late.

It had been decided last night, the cue for the murder, the moment to strike, and it was Casca who had to strike first. His action would be a signal for all the others. He visualized himself grabbing Caesar and stabbing him, and his guts quailed. Caesar was incredibly strong, everyone knew that - how to do it without getting himself killed?

He told himself that, at the slightest hint that the plot was known, he would turn his dagger on himself. He couldn't bear to think what would happen to him, if he fell into Caesar's custody.