It was a dewy morning, the air damp but holding that sharp quality that promises a day of new possibilities. It was January 12th, 49 BCE.

Caesar looked south across the pathetic little stream Rubico, and pondered his actions. The army had crossed, but so far, he had not. No law lay broken at his feet thus far.

He spurred his horse. The soft thud of hooves on the thick grass set beat for his heart to follow. The horse made his way up the rickety plank bridge that the army had used the night before to cross. Now the time kept by the horse's feet sounded hollow and wooden. Caesar whispered to himself, "Alea iacta est," and chuckled to thoughts of Menander.