Though you’re well rested, it’s not the rest that lightens you, but the lifting of that crushing dejection that consumed you. Your goal may be a mere illusion, so now you must read the signs around you to glimpse what destiny truly holds in store.
As you approach the main square, a commotion rises around you:
— Theodore is dead! Theodore is dead! — you hear, again and again.
You know who they are speaking of. Theodore, the insurgent against Emperor Claudius.
— How did he die? — you ask one of the people roaming near the city gate:
— Betrayed by his own. — he answers, voice sharp:
— We’ve discovered the culprits! Wolves among us! Two traders. They spied on Theodore and betrayed his location to the emperor! — He spits on the ground. — Scoundrels! They sold their souls for gold, and they died a suitable death for treacherous knaves. For that, they’ll burn in hell.
— Fire can only burn flesh, — you reply calmly.
— Then, I’m sure their bodies will remain intact till they reach hell itself! — he retorts, furious at your nonchalance. — Who are you? What side are you on?
— My own side, mostly, but if you mean this particular case: the side of justice.
— Justice has been delivered. They’ve died like dogs in the desert. Their bodies were found by a troop of shepherds. — he scowls.
— Divine justice, then…
— I suspect human intervention. Those two were seasoned traders. Such sand beetles wouldn’t have been so easily claimed by the desert. Anyway, they got what they deserved. The desert granted them a merciful death—far kinder than what human executioners would’ve offered.
— If that’s what you’ve convinced yourself of.
He glares at you like a mad dog:
— Listen, foreigner, you don’t know the customs of this place. Keep your morals well tucked in, lest they be severed otherwise.
You ignore his vain threats. A barking dog doesn’t bite, after all.
— Who are these traders? — you ask, your voice tinged with apprehension.
— New arrivals to the city, — comes the answer. — They traveled with a great caravan, laden with the spoils of their treason.
You gulp in anguish. You had seen the caravan of the good Samaritans who saved your life—laden with golden and silvery treasures. Never before had you witnessed so much noble metal in one place. Yet now, you’re certain those men carried blood on their conscience.
— Where are their bodies? — you ask.
— They’ve been laid out in the main square, for all to see and remember the faces of treachery. The show has just begun. You’re right on time for the spectacle. — He sneers, then turns and walks away.
So it was true? Those men had traded that man’s life for coin?
Was it his blood that paved the way for your survival—his sacrifice that granted you the safety and transport to chase a goal that might vanish in thin air the moment you reach it?
You start feeling dejected again. Now you see the price the world pays for your ambition. How cruel fate is—to force you to choose between fulfilling your destiny with a conscience sullied by the blood of a good man, or giving it all up on moral grounds. That man’s life was likely worth a thousand of yours, but he is dead now. There’s nothing you can do about it.
Avenge him? For what purpose? Refuse the gifts the desert bestowed on you? Would that undo the wrong done to the world?
You’re apolitical—at times, eclectic, even—but you know tyranny when you see it, and you know it’s wrong. You don’t care much for the fate of these foreigners, but if pressed, you’d side with freedom. You’d choose liberty over submission to the whims of a capricious emperor.
Too late to act on decisions you didn’t take. You’re off to a new city and, soon, to a new country, over which Emperor Claudius holds no dominion. How ludicrous power is—expanding only up to imaginary lines drawn by whimsical people. Just as the sun’s power over the desert fades at a certain hour, so too does an emperor’s sovereignty end at a certain distance. Yet time and distance are fundamentally entwined.
You have no intention of seeing the bodies of the two men who had, in essence, saved your life. And yet, moments like these are rare. You feel compelled to verify whether what that man told you is entirely true. If it is, a revolution has just died—and you are, for some reason, entangled in these events. The weight of a decision presses down on you.
You leave the city behind. You’ve wasted enough time.
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