Here, on March 15.
Beware of the Ides of March, O Caesar.
Glorious, powerful, invincible Achilles Maravain comes to the amphitheatre. Nowadays with the details and obscurities of the episode in history shuffled into relative inconspicuity, one doesn't know precisely how the cards fell or get the subtleties of the deal. Did any soothsayers annoy our equivalent of Caesar on his route; did his nonexistent Calpurnia dream gorily the night before; did lionesses whelp in the streets, or did fierce, fiery warriors fight upon the clouds "which drizzled blood upon the capital"? Gangway for Homer, or even Shakespeare. Either of these two could have done justice to our play.
In any case, Achilles ignored whatever omens there might have been and came to the amphitheatre on March 15.
Cecile met him at the great, modern-looking portal and led him in, introducing him to her benefactress, the First Lady, who, in turn consummated the formalities with the President himself. Achilles was very well-behaved throughout these presentations, conducting himself with decorum and consideration for all the people who eyed his much-publicized armor with especial dubiety. He was very pleased with himself about the whole thing. All these key figures, these obstructions to his philosophy, this destructible humanity, ponderous, ripe so to speak for explosions and force walls—and he showing such admirable restraint about it all. Indeed, he felt content. Restraint, control, self-discipline—these his watch-words.
She introduced him to the First Lady.
The President didn't take him by the hand, the force wall preventing—but he did the next best thing. He preceded him to the raised dais in the centre of the amphitheatre and, from the spot, delivered a fetching little introduction about which no more severe a criticism can be applied than "superfluous." After this, Achilles began his talk.