The dawn of October 28 rose crimson over the flat north bank of the Tiber, painting the world in the blood-red color of omen and consequence. A mist crept low among the ranks, coiling around bronze greaves and nervy horses. Even the birds held back, as if unwilling to break the hush. Rome itself seemed to exhale, then wait, as though the city knew its fate teetered on the edge of steel.