In 63 BC, Rome is knee-deep in conspiracy.
A man named Catiline (Catilinus) has gathered a coalition of ne’er-do-wells: debtors, disaffected veterans, and the kind of men who are one bad season away from betting everything on violence. His plan is simple: seize power by force.
And what makes it worse is that Rome has already seen this happen.
This is post–Marius and Sulla, and it’s happening during the long, messy ramp-up to Caesar’s domination of the Republic. The precedent has been set: if you have the nerve, the muscle, and the right political moment, marching on Rome isn’t unthinkable.
This is also the year Cicero is consul. He moves against the conspiracy, and the immediate crisis gets handled—but now the Senate is stuck in that Roman purgatory: what do we do with the conspirators?
You can feel the cultural paranoia in the air. A political “purge” mood. The general vibe is:
find the traitors, dig them out, execute the rot before it spreads.
Cato vs. Caesar
On one side you’ve got a faction led by Cato the Younger—a moral hardliner, a throwback, a man who imagines himself the last living guardian of the “real” Republic. In modern terms, he reads like a kind of relentless ideological purist: law-and-order, tradition, virtue, the whole package—except in Rome, virtue also has sharp edges.
Cato’s camp wants Cicero to exercise emergency power and execute the conspirators without trial.
And—this matters—Rome has legal norms about how citizens are treated. Executing citizens without trial is the sort of thing that can turn into a precedent, and precedents are how republics die. I’m not a historian, I’m an author, but the basic point stands: Rome is arguing about whether the Republic’s rules still apply when everyone is scared.
Then one man stands and says:
No. Don’t do this. Give them a fair trial.
That man is Julius Caesar.
Now, before you think this episode is going to be a dry lecture about the fall of the Republic—nope. Because the fall of the Republic is just the backdrop.
This is a romantic tale.
The letter in the Senate
In the middle of the Senate debate, a letter is passed to Caesar.
Cato sees it and instantly assumes the worst. He’s already suspicious of Caesar, and the political climate is perfect for paranoia. Caesar has enemies. Catiline has allies. Everyone is looking for a reason to point and shout.
So Cato springs up and basically says:
If you’re innocent, prove it. Read it out loud. Right now.
And Caesar—stone-faced, confident, and completely willing to twist the knife—calls his bluff. He reads the letter. And it turns out it’s not a secret message between conspirators at all.
It’s a raunchy love letter from Servilia—Cato’s sister—and one of Caesar’s most famous lovers.
Just imagine being Cato in that moment.
All that righteous indignation. All that performative moral authority.
And then Rome’s most powerful room hears your sister’s dirty letter… read aloud by the man you’re trying to destroy.
It’s one of my favorite Caesar stories. True or not, it captures something real about Rome: politics and sex aren’t separate arenas—they’re the same battlefield.
Caesar: romance, strategy, and the long game
One thing I’ve always found fascinating about Caesar is his reputation for affairs and romances—not as tabloid gossip, but as a window into how power actually worked.
Early on, Caesar marries Cornelia, the daughter of Cinna (a major populist figure). It’s a dangerous time: Sulla is running Rome and writing proscription lists—a legalized hit list. If your name is on it, anyone can kill you for a reward, and the state seizes your property.
Sulla orders Caesar to divorce Cornelia.
Caesar refuses.
So Caesar gets forced into exile. At this point he’s also part of Rome’s priesthood—political and religious power tangled together, with weird rules and restrictions. The point is: keeping Cornelia costs him dearly.
Sulla dies. The political climate shifts. Caesar returns. He’s relieved of the priesthood, which ironically opens doors: now he can pursue the military and political ladder more freely and begin the climb toward greatness.
When Cornelia later dies, Caesar honors her publicly with a grand funeral and a speech—unusual, and still risky given her family’s political associations.
Then—here’s the wild pivot—he marries Pompeia, who is connected to Sulla’s line (often described as Sulla’s granddaughter). What a switch.
And Pompeia becomes tied up in one of Rome’s most notorious scandals.
The Bona Dea scandal and “above suspicion”
Caesar is now Pontifex Maximus—top priest, and yes, a political office in every way that matters.
A women-only rite is held at his house. Men are barred.
Enter Publius Clodius Pulcher (Clodius), a handsome aristocrat who later rebrands himself like he’s adopting a “rap name” for political street cred. He disguises himself as a woman and sneaks into Caesar’s house, allegedly trying to get close to Pompeia.
He gets caught. The scandal erupts so loudly it ends up being talked about in the Senate.
There’s no clear evidence Pompeia actually did anything, but Caesar divorces her anyway, and gives the line that history never lets go:
“Caesar’s wife must be above suspicion.”
In other words: the optics matter more than the truth.
Calpurnia and Cleopatra
A few years later Caesar marries Calpurnia, who stays with him for the rest of his life—she’s the wife who famously dreams of disaster before his assassination.
And during his marriage to Calpurnia comes the affair with Cleopatra—queen, political force, legend. Cleopatra’s entrance into Caesar’s life is one of the most cinematic moves in ancient history: smuggled in to meet him—famously rolled up in a carpet and delivered like a gift, then revealed.
It works. Caesar is impressed. The affair becomes history. A son follows: Caesarion.
Why I’m thinking about romances right now
I’ve been deep in revisions for The Heart of the Wasteland this week, and the plotline I worked on has the shape of a romantic tragedy. When you’re writing that kind of emotional arc, you start noticing it everywhere—in myth, in history, in the way power twists intimacy into leverage.
Rome is a perfect case study: a small number of families, interconnected networks, marriages for alliances, affairs as political statements, and reputations that can end careers.
Writing Updates
-
The Heart of the Wasteland: revisions are the main focus right now.
I finished one major plotline; I’ve got seven more to go. I expect to be done in 2–3 weeks, which points to mid-to-late March. -
Wyrm Rider: finished.
It will be released free to the mailing list (and to Patrons). It’s the prequel to Dragon Riders of Zerath. It doesn’t follow the trilogy’s main protagonist, but it follows a character who matters a lot in Book 1. -
Next drafting project after Wasteland revisions: Storm Rider (Dragon Riders of Zerath Book 1).
Free Fantasy & Sci-Fi Reads (BookFunnel)
Still running February promos. Just click the banner below.
Or go here anytime: dwhawkins.com/promos
~100 free reads—everything from romantasy to space marines.
That’s it for this week.
— D.W. Hawkins