People always assume I was lucky. They say, “You dodged death!” They mean it like a compliment. Like surviving meant I won. But the truth? I’d rather have died that day too.

My name’s Silvan. I was twenty-nine when I became the food taster for Gaius Julius Caesar. A ridiculous title for what was mostly paranoia on his part. I tasted olives, grapes, roasted birds, and imported fish before it touched his plate. Day in, day out. If I didn’t drop dead, he’d eat. Caesar used to joke, “If Silvan ever looks pale, I’ll start praying.”

I liked him more than I should’ve. He was sharp. Charming. Generous in ways most Roman men weren’t. He learned my name the first week and remembered my sister’s when she visited once. He’d toss me the first piece of roasted lamb as a reward for showing up early. I felt… seen.

But on the morning of March 15th, I was late. Not a little late. Hours late. My youngest brother had broken his arm falling from a fig tree, and I rushed him to the healers at the Temple of Aesculapius. I didn’t even tell the palace I’d be gone. I figured Caesar wouldn’t eat until the Senate meeting anyway.

When I arrived, the villa was quiet. Too quiet. A servant girl, Lucina, was sitting on the floor, shaking. When she looked up, her face was streaked with tears. I didn’t even need to ask. “It happened at the Curia,” she whispered.

By the time I reached the Senate house, the body had already been taken away. But the blood was still there. So much of it. They said it was Brutus. Cassius. A whole group. They stabbed him twenty-three times.

But here’s the part no one ever talks about: Caesar didn’t eat that day. He didn’t need a food taster. He died on an empty stomach. Which means the poison rumors? Lies. There was no foul fish or bitter wine. Just blades. From people he trusted.

I stood there, staring at that dark puddle drying on the marble floor, and all I could think was—if I’d been on time, would anything have changed? Probably not. But I would’ve been standing behind him. Maybe said something. Maybe stopped just one knife. Maybe taken one. Instead, I walked home. Quiet. Ashamed. Alone. People call me lucky. I call it surviving the wrong day.

And that’s where most people think the story ends. But the part after? That’s where everything got complicated.

For three days after his death, Rome felt hollow. People whispered in alleyways. Soldiers looked over their shoulders as if danger could appear from any shadow. Vendors barely raised their voices in the market. Even the stray dogs were quiet.

I stayed home, sitting with my mother and brothers, pretending we were safe. But I knew better. Anyone associated with Caesar—even someone as insignificant as the man who tasted his figs—was suddenly a question mark. People didn’t know whether to trust me, fear me, or blame me.

On the fourth day, a knock sounded at my mother’s door. Not a friendly knock. A deliberate one. The kind backed by authority.

My mother looked at me with wide eyes. “Silvan…?”

“I’ll get it,” I said, even though my stomach twisted.

When I opened the door, three men stood outside wearing dark cloaks, the edges pinned with bronze brooches I recognized from Caesar’s personal guard.

The tallest one, a man named Caeso, nodded at me. “Come with us. Quietly.”

My heart pounded, but I didn’t argue. My mother wanted to stop me, but Caeso lifted a hand gently.

“He isn’t in trouble,” he said. “He’s needed.”

I wasn’t sure that meant anything good.

They walked me through back roads, avoiding crowded streets. When we reached the Forum, they took a sharp turn toward the private wing of the palace. Inside, everything felt the same yet completely different. The walls still held paintings of victories. Statues still lined the halls. But the air felt colder. Like something sacred had been ripped out and replaced with a draft.

Then we reached a room I had only been in once before—Caesar’s private study.

And standing inside was someone I had not expected at all.

Not Brutus. Not Cassius.

It was Marcian Norbanus, Caesar’s personal archivist. A man who watched more than he spoke. Thin, sharp features. Eyes that seemed to calculate everything.

He dismissed the guards with a wave, then gestured for me to sit.

I stayed standing.

“You were off duty the morning Caesar died,” he said, voice quiet and clipped.

“Yes,” I answered.

“You didn’t inform anyone?”

“No.”

“And you expect me to believe that was coincidence?”

I swallowed. “My brother fell.”

He watched me closely. “Convenient.”

“I didn’t know,” I said. “If I had—”

“You couldn’t have stopped it,” he said. “No one could. That’s not why you’re here.”

I frowned. “Then… why am I?”

He walked to Caesar’s desk and opened a drawer. From it, he took a small clay jar with a wax seal. He handed it to me.

Inside were dried berries. I recognized them immediately. They looked harmless. But my chest tightened.

“These are corvus berries,” I said.

“Poisons,” he replied. “Slow-acting. Taste hidden easily by wine.”

I stiffened. “Caesar never ate anything containing these.”

Marcian nodded. “Because someone intercepted the attempt. Someone who replaced a poisoned bowl of berries with fresh ones.”

I blinked. “You’re thinking I did that?”

He shook his head. “You misunderstand. Someone saved Caesar weeks before the assassination. Someone who never stepped forward.”

My pulse raced. “Why me?”

“Because the bowl was found in your tasting chamber,” he said. “Hidden beneath a pile of linens. Someone used your station to cover their tracks.”

I stared at him. “I didn’t do that.”

“I know,” he said calmly. “You’re not subtle enough.”

I wasn’t sure if that was an insult or a weird compliment.

Marcian stepped closer. “What I want to know is who would risk using your workspace. And why.”

I thought hard. Too hard. The past weeks rushed through my head. Busy days. Crowded kitchens. People coming and going. And then… something clicked.

“Lucina,” I whispered.

The servant girl from the hallway on the day he died.

Marcian’s eyes narrowed. “Why her?”

“She always lingered around the tasting room,” I said. “Said she liked the smell of roasted meats. But she wasn’t assigned there. She had no reason to be.”

Marcian folded his arms. “Do you know where she is now?”

I shook my head. “I haven’t seen her since that morning.”

He paced once. Twice. Then stopped with his back to me.

“Silvan… what I’m about to say doesn’t leave this room.” His tone was steady, but there was a warning underneath it. “Caesar suspected betrayal from inside the palace weeks before the Senate attack. He didn’t know by whom, but he feared it wasn’t among the senators.”

“You think Lucina was involved?”

“I think she was working for someone,” he said. “Someone who used servants as messengers. Someone who wanted Caesar weak before the final blow.”

I felt sick. “So what do we do?”

Marcian turned. “You’re going to help me find her.”

“Me?”

“You’re the only one she trusted,” he said. “And the only one she would approach without suspicion.”

It was ridiculous. I was a food taster, not a spy. But part of me knew I owed Caesar something. Especially after being off duty the day he died.

So I agreed.

Marcian gave me a simple plan. A lie, really. I was to spread word around the servants’ quarters that I was returning to work and needed help reorganizing the pantry. Lucina always volunteered. Always eager. Always watching.

Within two days, she appeared.

She entered the pantry quietly, hands folded, eyes down. “You needed help?” she asked softly.

“Yes,” I said. “Thank you for coming.”

She moved closer. Too cautiously. Like she expected something. Or was hiding something.

I pretended to sort jars. She pretended to assist. But I watched every move she made. Her hands trembled once. And when she reached for a jar of honey, she froze.

The jar next to it contained dried berries. Corvus berries.

Too close for coincidence.

“Lucina,” I said gently. “Why were you at the Curia so early that day?”

She stiffened. “I… I was delivering something.”

“No deliveries were scheduled.”

She said nothing.

“And why were you around the tasting chamber so often?”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Please don’t ask me this.”

“I have to.”

She shook her head. “If they find out—”

“Who?” I pressed.

She let out a trembling breath. “One of the senators. They said I owed them a favor. Said they’d hurt my family if I didn’t cooperate.”

My heart dropped. “Which senator?”

She hesitated. Then whispered, “Decimus.”

A name I hadn’t expected.

Decimus Junius Brutus. One of Caesar’s closest allies. A man Caesar trusted enough to name as a commander in Gaul.

A man who had eaten at the same table as I had many times.

Lucina sobbed. “I didn’t want to help him. I only switched the bowls because he ordered me to. I thought it was just to test security. I didn’t know the berries were real. I swear to the gods, I didn’t know.”

I believed her. She was too scared to lie.

“What do we do now?” I asked.

Lucina wiped her face. “You should tell the Senate.”

“No,” I said. “They’re the ones who killed him.”

She trembled again. “Then we do nothing.”

I thought about that. About Caesar. About being late. About the guilt gnawing at me since that day.

No. Doing nothing was not an option.

I reported everything to Marcian. And he didn’t look surprised.

“You knew?” I asked.

“I suspected,” he said. “But I needed proof.”

“So what now?”

He glanced toward the window, where soldiers were drilling. “Now we let Rome decide the rest. Evidence has a way of choosing its own path.”

And it did.

Within weeks, whispers spread. Evidence surfaced in ways I still don’t fully understand. Letters. Missing records. Testimony from servants who had been afraid to speak. It all pointed to Decimus. To a plot within a plot. Layers of betrayal.

In the end, Decimus didn’t survive long enough to defend himself. Antony’s forces caught him during the civil chaos. They executed him before he could explain anything.

Lucina was spared. Marcian made sure of it. She left Rome with her family quietly, heading to a small village along the coast. I never saw her again.

As for me?

I thought my life would return to normal. But Rome after Caesar didn’t have a place for a “food taster.” There was no emperor. No single man to protect. No meals to test. I was a tool without a purpose.

But Marcian found me again months later. He told me the archives needed someone who understood the inner workings of the palace. Someone who saw details others ignored. Someone loyal.

I took the job.

And slowly, I learned something important.

I couldn’t have changed Caesar’s fate. History was already moving like a river. But I could influence what happened after. I could tell the truth. Preserve the real story. Make sure people knew Caesar wasn’t killed because of arrogance or greed—but because fear makes even trusted men dangerous.

And in the quiet hours of the archive, I realized something else too.

Surviving wasn’t a curse.

It was a chance.

To live differently. To forgive myself. To find purpose in a world that had lost its greatest leader.

Caesar once told me, “A man’s worth isn’t in how he dies. It’s in how he leaves others living.”

For a long time, I didn’t understand it.

Now I do.

My life didn’t end the day he died.

It began.