“Et tu Brute?”

The words echoed loudly around the room as Brutus thrust his dagger into Caesars Chest and watched silently as the dictators body, now devoid of any life, fell to the floor.  The lights came down and the crowd went wild.

Duke Vessèy had done it again, as the lights came back on and the crowd shouted “Bravo!”, he stepped forward still holding the knife and bowed to the audience who continued to shower him with praise.

He only put on one play a year and it was normally of a historical context and strictly for one night only. The audience were invited personally by the Duke himself and he carefully selected people he believed to be of a certain bel espirit.  There were many who had tried and failed miserably to obtain an invitation by bribery, for his plays were the talk of legend in European aristocracy.

The plays were written by the Duke himself who was fluent in Ancient Greek, Latin and French and even if the time period was not classical or part of French history, he would normally assimilate the play into one of those languages.  The preparation work that went into them was staggering and he would spend all of the 364 days between them as a recluse, meticulously planning, writing and organising the next one.

He paid the patronage of several artists at the Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture in Paris and  in return, they provided set designs and backdrops, which were masterpieces in their own right . Three years ago the play had been about the Rape of the Sabine women the main backdrop of a burning city was so atmospheric that the audience swore that somehow the Duke had made the flames move. One scene in this year’s play had featured Caesar giving a speech in the city of Rome and the perspective was so perfect and the illusion set, that the audience started looking around the room trying to trace the continuation of imaginary walls.

The Duke had set up a palazzo in Florence for the sole purpose of making the costumes each year and they were made of the finest silks and materials money could buy. Cleopatra’s robes had taken over  two thousand man hours and was sewn with real gold thread. The costumes from previous years’ plays were proudly displayed in the great hall at his Château which his guests would walk past on their way to the theatre he had set up in the East wing – perfect for getting his audience in the mood.

No expense was spared on props either: last years play had been based on the story of Ivan the Terrible and the Tsar’s staff had been decorated by no less than fourteen of the finest goldsmiths of  London. This year twelve  armourers were employed and installed on the grounds to produce the Armour for the large battle scene depicting Caesar conquering the Gauls.

The effects were also perfectly executed: the audience dived to the floor as a volley of arrows flew past their heads into the Gauls on stage. Huge gas lamps high above the audience made them sweat as the action moved to ancient Egypt, but it was the blood they loved most. The front row was sprayed as a Centurion brought his sword across a barbarian’s neck, to which they responded with a cheer. When King Ptolemy brought the freshly decapitated head of the General Pompey through the audience, splattering them in blood and entrails, they let up a large roar of approval.

The crowd rose to their feet as the house lights came up, and the Duke continued to bathe in the ovation. He stood there for a good five minutes before bringing his fingers to his lips and requesting his guests to join him out on the patio – he would of course get changed first so as not to shatter the illusion of the world he had just created.

As the guests piled out, no one had noticed that Caesar hadn’t moved.