The Ides of April
Benicio Carpenter sat hunched over his antique oak desk. He had spent his life revolving around the meticulous study of the past. He knew plenty of history, even the history of his magnificent desk, but he was always hungry for more. A cluttered pile of books and papers were placed on every corner, threatening to engulf him.
A ping interrupted his careful reading. It was an email with a jarring subject line: "Revolutionary Breakthrough in Temporal Mechanics."
His eyes narrowed. Temporal Mechanics? He knew that Laila Nadir, the dean of the mechanical engineering department, had been working on some outlandish project.
He snorted, a puff of air escaping his nostrils like a dragon. Engineers. Always tinkering, always experimenting with crazed ideas that don't pan out. Why couldn't they know that boundaries should be left alone? What did they know about the delicate tapestry of history, the intricate blending of cause and effect?
He hovered his cursor over the email, a flicker of curiosity almost getting the better of him. But with a defiant click, he sent the message to the trash folder. Some things were best left undisturbed.
Instead, he composed a new email.
"To my esteemed colleagues in the History Department," he typed. "A friendly reminder that the Ides of March are upon us. May your daggers remain sheathed and your togas unstained."
He hit send with a wry smile. It was a small act of rebellion against the encroaching tide of technology that threatened to wash away the traditions of the world he knew and loved.
Before he could return to his book, a reply pinged his inbox. Each one was a ripple of confusion that threatened to drown his carefully constructed understanding of reality.
"Ides of March?" Professor Winiata, a specialist in Roman agriculture, questioned. Attached was a scholarly article on the significance of April in Roman religious festivals.
"Are you feeling alright, Benicio?" asked Dr. Lee in a second reply. She was the new energetic historian of the Byzantine Empire. "Perhaps you've been doing too much late-night research?"
Even his esteemed mentor Professor Tanaka, a titan in the field of medieval history, chimed in with a bemused reply. "Always the contrarian, eh Benicio? Trying to start a new trend?"
Benicio stared at the messages as his mind spun with confusion. Ides of March? Was he mistaken? Had he somehow... misremembered? He frantically opened up his meticulous organized filing cabinets. He pulled out dog-eared copies of Roman calendars, cross-referencing with his own published papers on the famed assassination. Everywhere he looked, the evidence was clear: it was the Ides of April, the 15th of April, that was the infamous historical date. Even his colleagues, experts in their own right, seemed utterly convinced that it was the Ides of April.
A cold dread crept over him. This wasn't a simple mistake. Something was deeply, profoundly wrong.
He burst into Professor Winiata’s office with a nervous energy. His usually meticulous attire was askew.
"Winiata, you received my email," he exclaimed. "About the Ides... the Ides..."
His voice faltered, his carefully constructed world tilting precariously.
Winiata raised an eyebrow, a man whose calm demeanor was as steadfast as the ancient agricultural practices he studied.
"Of course, Benicio. Quite the odd joke, though. Trying to confuse us with the Ides of March? You know as well as I do that it was on the Ides of April that Pompey met his unfortunate end."
A sudden wave of nausea caused Benicio to clutch the edge of Winiata’s desk for support.
"Pompey?! Pompey was assassinated? But... but Caesar..."
Winiata chuckled.
"Caesar? Are you feeling alright? You're suggesting Caesar? The bumbling general who couldn't even conquer Gaul? He was no emperor. Pompey was a leader. Strong, decisive, and brought stability to the Republic. His reign was a golden age, until it was cut tragically short of course."
Benicio steadied himself into a chair, his mind a maelstrom of conflicting information. He had vaguely recalled hearing about Pompey in the early years of his study, as nothing more than a footnote in the grand narrative of Rome. But Caesar... the Gallic Wars, the crossing of the Rubicon, the rise to power, the assassination... These were cornerstones of his historical knowledge, the very bedrock of historical knowledge. Yet, now Winiata spoke of a completely different reality where Pompey was the supreme ruler and Caesar was a mere footnote.
The room felt like it was spinning. The familiar shelves lined with books on Roman agriculture blurred into an indistinguishable mass.
"You look unwell. Your face is turning pale."
"It feels like the world is slipping away."
"Come on, you need to get something to eat."
The faculty dining lounge felt like a battleground that day, a far cry from the safe haven of intellectual discourse. The clatter of cutlery, the murmur of conversations, and the clinking of glasses all conspired to amplify the disquiet within him.
He forced a smile, nodding along as Dr. Lee enthusiastically recountered her latest research on Byzantine silk trade routes.
"Benicio, happy Ides," she teased. "What are you having? The special?"
He glanced at the menu board and felt his heart seize in his chest. There, in bold letters, was the day's special: Pompey Salad.
"Pompey? Salad?" he croaked, the words catching in his throat.
"Yes," Dr. Lee replied, confused by his reaction. "It's quite good, though I find it's a bit tangy with those marinated artichoke hearts. I don't know why they called it that, but I think he was an emperor in the Roman times?"
Benicio's throat was dry. He couldn't answer. He mumbled an excuse about a sudden headache and rushed out, leaving his untouched tray and a bewildered Dr. Lee behind.
Every statue, every inscription, every building seemed to whisper a different version of history. He felt a desperate urge to scream, to shake his colleagues, to force them to see the glaring inconsistencies. The past was being rewritten. But what good would it do? He was the only one who knew the truth. He was alone in his memories, a lone man adrift in a sea of altered timelines.
Benicio stumbled through the large cedar doors of the library. Even now, the scent of aged paper and leather provided a sense of calm in him. He raced through the towering stacks. His fingers trailed along the spines of countless history books, each one a potential anchor in a reality that seemed determined to slip away. He reached his favorite alcove, a secluded corner dedicated to Roman history.
He frantically began pulling volunes off the shelves. Livy, Tactius, Plutarch... he flipped through the pages, looking for familiar passages. But everywhere he looked, the text swam before his eyes, the words rearranging themselves into a grotesque parody of history. Dates were skewed. Names were misplaced. Entire events were nowhere to be found. He dropped one book onto the ground in a fit of rage, causing the sound to break through the library's silence.
"Dr. Carpenter? Are you alright?"
A soft voice startled him.
He turned to see Tomita Konami, a bright young engineering student he vaguely recognized from a gen-ed Intro to History course.
"I don't understand..." he stammered, gesturing to the scattered mess of books at his feet. "It's all wrong. History... it's wrong."
Tomita frowned. "Wrong? How do you mean?"
He grabbed a volume, thrusting it towards her.
"Look! The Ides of April, the assassination of Pompey... it's all changing..." he trailed off, unable to articulate the sheer terror of watching his life's work crumble before his eyes.
Tomita took the book and read the page. A flicker of understanding crossed her face. Then there was a look of dawning horror.
"Oh," she whispered. "Oh no."
She reached into her bag and pulled out a small, intricately designed device that hummed with a faint energy.
"Professor Nadir... she didn't... she couldn't have..."
Benicio stared at the device and felt a chill rush down his spine. That was it. The key to the unraveling of history, the source of his torment. He lunged at it and his fingers brushed against the smooth metal casing.
A blinding flash of light erupted from the device, engulfing them both. The library, the books, and the world as he knew it dissolved into a swirling vortex of time and space. And as Benicio plunged into the unknown, a single, terrifying thought echoed in his head: what have they done?