Equinox

 

You keep on driving your 1992 Voyager up towards Manchester. Fall ends early in Vermont, which means you’re disappointed. You wanted to see the foliage in all its glory when you jumped off the mountain. You felt the colors would have added beauty to the entire endeavor. Now there will probably be a frost when you leap.

No matter.

The Master – or rather the Interpreters – have made it clear that the only way to re-enter the Prism is to jump from a great height. You’re driven to follow their suggestion.

“Driven.”

Indeed that’s the word that best describes your Journey as a Cyclical Pioneer. After first learning about The Master on the band’s website that night after the concert, you purchased his book, “Time Delay,” and subsequently read of his education.

And you were enchanted.

The entire narrative of the Master’s autobiography – from the campus of Yale, to the desolate Rhode Island beach where he met The Educator, to his final understanding of the Cyclical Prism – engrossed you. The central message of the work – as you understood it – was that you, yes you, could achieve what the Master eventually did.

Indeed, you could physically journey up through the Aurora Borealis or down to the bottom of the Mariana Trench. You could interactively communicate with animals and distant life forms, as well as with your own reflection, which could converse with you on its own. The power to actually see, hear, and engage in strange matters could be yours – with the right guidance.

“But that’s what this guy’s teachings are all about,” your cousin, a student at the Rabbinical Seminary of America, told you. “Power. Not the love of God or man, but the love of power.”

You argued furiously that The Master’s message was completely positive, the culmination of all previous faiths and forms of learning. For its foundation rested not in the love of power, but in the knowledge and development of the self. 

“There’s that word again,” your cousin interrupted.

“What word?”

“Self,” he smiled wryly. “All your master’s teachings are about the self.”

By that point, however, you weren’t about to be convinced by anyone who spoke against the Master. For, after contacting one of the Interpreters via Twitter, you went to several of the Master’s workshops and then – unbelievably – were invited to learn at the Master’s own compound.

What memorable days those were. The Master would sometimes leave the security of his private room to float in and out of the many other rooms in the enormous home. Sometimes he would speak to you directly – even on occasion asking a small favor; to pick up juice or water from the store, perhaps. Yet it was like he was the one doing a favor for you, so great was the honor of his request.

As time went on, of course, you broke entirely with your family – something the Master himself said all Cyclical Pioneers must eventually do. It was hard, yet not as hard as you had feared it would be.

For you now lived in the Master’s House, studied the Master’s Teachings, and had sex with the Master’s Interpreters (former doctoral candidates, all - beautiful, statuesque, and filled with knowledge, both of physical pleasure and of the Teachings).  In short, you had your own family unit now - you were a part of the Prism.

As the Master himself told you after you had hung up on your weeping mother, you had learned to put on the emotional armor that all Pioneers needed for their journey.

********************

“Space.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s where the Master says I’m from…space.”

You rolled over onto you side. She was lying on her back, naked and only half covered by the thin bed sheet.

“Where in space?”

She waited a long time before answering.

“I forget. He told me exactly where once, but I forget.”

“Don’t you believe what he’s told you?”

Another long pause.

“I don’t know.”

A chill slowly worked its way up your spine. Ethereal was an Interpreter. According to her birth certificate she was twenty-six, but the Master had informed all of you in the compound that she was ageless.

And now here she was talking to you. Like this.

“Sometimes the Master dismisses certain Pioneers,” Ethereal said, “just like that…just to keep the rest of us on our toes.”

You rolled over and asked her to share the bed sheet with you.

********************

Driving through the trendy and quaint New England wealth of Manchester, you tighten your grip on the wheel of the Voyager. Passing the Equinox Resort you realize you’ll be at the mountain it’s named for within minutes. Now is the time to let your learning, your experience and your training as a Cyclical Pioneer be your compass.

“Once you jump,” Eminence, the oldest and most informed of the Interpreters told you earlier this morning, “your own will shall pull you towards the prism rather than towards the earth.”

“But I was told the prism is here with all of you.”

“And so it is,” she replied. “Yet because of your waywardness, you must now prove your obedience.”

“And those are the thoughts of the Master?” you asked.

********************

Pulling into the toll house on Skyline Drive, you breathe in deeply. The trail is closed for the season, so you will have to do a bit of walking. No matter. You know full well that you won’t have to climb to the top of Equinox in order to get high enough to make your leap.

You get out of the Voyager with the engine still running. There is no more need for you to carry out ridiculous tasks such as removing keys from ignitions and closing vehicle doors. You are now on a mission of far greater importance than the petty missions the Mundanes find themselves trapped in daily.

********************

“You’ve broken away from the cycle,” Ethereal told you over the phone just yesterday. “Yet the Master has found a door through which you can re-enter the Prism.”

“And that door is beyond the edge of a cliff.”

“Don’t you trust the Master?”

“You didn’t seem too trusting of him that night in bed.”

A long pause.

“I was mistaken, that night. Adrift. I was jealous of Eminence…of her knowledge and the favor the Master shows her.”

“Did you have to jump off a cliff to return?”

Another long pause.

“We each must find our own entrance,” she said, finally. “The Master’s told you as much himself.”

“The Master told me a lot of things. Then he told me completely different things. The Master says a lot.”

“We’re all you have,” she responded sweetly. “All that’s left for you is the Prism.”

You didn’t respond – but you knew she was right. Family. Career. Future plans. Personal identity. All were gone.

“Come to the compound at sunrise,” she continued. “Eminence will provide you with final instructions.”

“Not the Master?”

“You’re not worthy enough to remake his acquaintance yet.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be waiting…after you return to the Prism.”

“But not before I make the jump.”

A final long pause.

“Remember the Teachings,” she said. “You have so much left to learn. Perhaps you’ll find that, like me, you’re actually from some place far from here.”

Like the song of a siren, her words had already begun to draw you back in.

********************

You push yourself up the slick, damp path. You will soon be with the others once again. Each long step gets you closer to obedience, closer to where the Master wants you to be. By taking away all you had the Master allowed you see that the Prism was all you ever needed. You understand that now. Indeed, you feel like all your doubt, all that poison the Mundanes refer to as “common sense,” has been shed.

You pause to catch your breath. Looking to your right you see that you are quite high up. What’s more, there’s a rocky drop no more than a few yards away, one which goes straight down about two hundred feet.

Here, you decide, is where you’ll make your leap.

Checking to make sure the drop is steep enough to kill a mere Mundane, you step back in order to give yourself a running start. You think of what you will eventually learn after you make the jump.

Perhaps you will learn to travel into the past or future, just like the Master does. Or perhaps, like Ethereal, you will learn that you’re a timeless being from beyond the petty sight and knowledge of man.

You race forward.

Then you slip on wet leaves and slide over the edge of the cliff, a good ten feet away from where you intended to make the jump.

Before you even realize what has happened, you find your entire body dangling over the steep drop. Yet it isn’t your will that’s keeping you from crashing to earth – it’s your fingers, which; in a subconscious desire for survival, have grabbed onto a large, jutting stone.

You don’t think of letting go. Not now.

Without even realizing it, you reach for a crevice higher up the cliff with your free hand.

You find another crevice after that. Then another. Then another.

Pulling yourself back onto the damp earth, you roll onto your back. Looking up at the late afternoon sky, you see the moon is already starting to form – as are several stars.

After a moment, you get to your feet and begin making your way back down the mountain. It’s night when you finally (and with great difficulty) get to the bottom. The Voyager is still there with the driver’s side door open, its engine humming in the darkness.

A Free Chapter Of "Lexington"

    One of the things I'm pleased with about my novel "Lexington" is the fact it gives attention to both sides of the American Revolution. One of the novel's two main characters is sympathetic to those in and around 1775 Boston who oppose the King of England, while the other is loyal to the English government. Neither character is a "bad person," if I do say so myself. It's been my experience that very rarely are conflicts as black and white as they seem. People generally have their reasons for thinking and behaving as they do. It's often only when one's sincere beliefs become warped into an excuse for cruelty that acts of evil truly begin to occur. 

    The following chapter from the novel shows just how individuals can tarnish a legitimate cause through acts of terror and aggression. Here William, a man loyal to the English government but previously empathetic to those opposed to it, has his life altered in the most horrifying of manners by an unruly Boston mob. 

“They’re Coming To Hurt You Very Badly”

            Had he full control of his faculties, William might ask himself at this moment what is it about terror that takes away one’s identity, that sends one on a rapid journey from a mature adult to what is essentially a shrieking infant in the dark.  He has no time to ponder such things now, for a citizen has come to his property on School Street with news that a mob is now heading towards his home. When thanking the lad, William noticed he could barely slip the Good Samaritan some money, as his hand was shaking so badly.

            “They’re coming to hurt you,” the young man, who appeared to be a laborer of some kind, had said to him. “They’re coming to hurt you very badly.”

            Terror. It is the state which defines William right now. Terror which he has never known, terror which can paralyze and debilitate if not dealt with, terror that brings with it physical symptoms like no other - a weakening of the insides, as if the innards have transformed into something unnatural, terror which removes all dignity, all critical thought, all self-reliance, terror which overwhelms all hope of self-defense, terror which removes his humanity and brings him to the level of a hotly pursued animal. He races into his room, where Sarah, combing her hair, is startled by his demeanor.

            “We must leave this place.” Words he is barely able to utter. “Immediately.”

            They gather the servants and his mother and race as quickly as possible out the house, into the garden and onto the property of Benjamin Mason and his wife, Eleanor, an aging couple who live nearby. He can hear the crowd approaching down the street. He almost finds himself racing past the pregnant Sarah and is able to keep from doing so only through the utmost self-restraint. By the time they reach the Mason’s – no easy task when trying to avoid the road with a party that includes several elderly individuals - William cannot bring himself to engage in adult formality. In truth, it’s all he can do at the moment to keep from crying while trying to hide behind Eleanor Mason’s frail frame.

            “You must hide us!” he declares.

            As they stand in the darkness of the Mason’s ballroom half an hour later, they can catch sight of the screaming crowd though the large window. The mob is breaking into the house, throwing rocks at the windows, looting the valuables, and throwing items into the street. Before he even realizes it, William’s terror is being pushed aside by a profound rage. In the rapid passing of less than a moment, something inside him has altered.  

            “That is not theirs to do with what they want,” he hisses. “WE are not theirs to do with what they want.”

            Had he brought a weapon with him, he might well use it now, he thinks. He then realizes he could borrow one from old Mason himself. Upon consideration, however, William decides that he’s already demanded enough of the poor man. It’s not Mason’s fault he was too wild with fear to remember to pick up a weapon. He looks through the window, hoping to catch sight of actual faces. Sadly, he can’t see any in the dark. I should have been prepared for this when I refused to go to the Liberty Tree this morning, he thinks, but the fact that the afternoon came and went gave me a feeling of false safety.

            “Naturally,” he says aloud, “they waited for night to cloak their identities. Were these truly Patriots, as they call themselves, they’d have confronted me in the daytime.”

            “Do you think they’ll search for us?” asks Sarah.

            “It wouldn’t be a wise idea at this point.”

            “But what could you do?”

            “All I’d need to do is grab the throat of one,” he says. “I’d then make sure there was one less of them.”

            Looking about, William sees that his talk is coming across as vapid. After all, he was the one leading everyone through an unlit property in a state of utter terror less than an hour ago. Still, William thinks, what I say is true. I honestly could strangle one of them to death at the moment.

            “And to think I pitied these bastards,” he says to the others. “Father was right.”

            “About what?” Sarah asks.

            “About the natural order,” he says. “Someone now has to maintain it.”

            “Perhaps we’ll all have to do our part,” she tells him.

            William breathes in deeply.

            “Some of us,” he says, “may have to play a bigger part than others.”

* To purchase a copy of Lexington, simply click on the link below:

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I Didn't Intend For My Historical Novel To Reflect Today's Society - But It Did Anyway

I remember being told by a film director out in California that movies based on historical events have to somehow reflect the here and now. I didn't buy it then...and, honestly, I don't but it today when it comes to my writing. Good creative work is good creative work, after all, and that's basically all there is to it. Besides, I write with pretty much two simple goals in mind - to express my own thoughts and experiences through historical fiction, and try to make my work as artful as possible.  Still, now that my new novel, Lexington, is published and out in the world, I can't help but realize how much of the work reflects today's society, even though I hadn't intended for it to do so.

Lexington, as you might have guessed, deals with the dawn of the American Revolution. The book tackles such issues as class differences, personal guilt, relationship challenges, faith, personal expectations, and, ultimately, bloody combat. While such themes could apply to millions throughout the world and throughout history, I realize that Lexington relates directly to America in 2022 - to the here and now. This might not come as a surprise, as we are a very divided nation at the moment. Still, I didn't realize how uncomfortably,  profoundly divided we actually are.

First things first, though - America in 2022 is in nowhere near the state it was in 1775. That's a good thing. We may be divided, but by and large we're not blasting away at each other. That's the good news. The bad news is that now, just as in 1775, one group of Americans views the world in an entirely different light than the rest. And that's alarming. Reflecting on those loyal to the King of England during the time of my novel, I find they would  have much in common with a large percentage of Americans today. King George III of Britain, after all, was seen - or was at least presented - as a benevolent leader, one kindly put in place to protect the people he ruled over. 

The word "ruled" is important here. For George III's 18th century American fanbase embraced him as a ruler rather than as a leader. That's a fine distinction. A ruler is to ultimately be imagined as a the loving parent who figurately tucks you in and keeps you safe at night. A leader, on the other hand, is seen as first among equals, someone who controls people by their consent rather than by decree. Those Americans who rose up against England during the Revolutionary War went on to have a leader, rather than a ruler, after the break from Britain was complete. Ultimately it all came down to trust. Those loyal to the King trusted that he and his government were the right people for the job. The individuals known as the Patriots on the other hand, had by that point no trust whatsoever in the English monarchy.

Sounds familiar, doesn't it? Some in today's America want a government to protect them, to act as the nation's moral arbiter, to - in effect - tuck everyone in at night, while many others don't think it's the government's place to play such a role. Yet those who trust in government would prefer to have things like the internet and media  judged for content by authorities. I would argue most of us don't want our government to play the role of warm blanket. Many do, however, perhaps more than at any other time since the late 1700s. And that's something worth pondering. 

Two small matters:

First, King George III appears to have been a genuinely decent if misguided man.

Also, it's said George Washington, America's first President, could have become the United States' first king had he so chosen to do so.

Etta Place

You stare closely at her face on this night, just as you do every night. Funny how it’s her and not Longabaugh who you find yourself observing. You vaguely remember reading somewhere that the woman in the picture wasn’t even her, but someone else. You don’t know where you read that, though.

Besides, it only makes sense that this is the exact person the Pinkertons claimed was Longabaugh’s companion. They used this very picture on their WANTED signs, after all. Strange how they completely lost interest in her after reports of Longabaugh’s demise surfaced. You could never imagine something like that happening today.

Or could you? You look at the clock and see it’s almost one thirty. In less than seven hours you’ll be at work, taking phone calls and telling patients to sit and relax, that the doctor will be with them in just a few minutes.

You go back to the picture.

What’s so striking is how attractive she was. Women back then weren’t supposed to be as well kept up as that. At least women who hung around men like Parker and Longabaugh weren’t. Who was she, really? Part of you thinks she was simply a figment of some Pinkerton man’s imagination, a composite of various women who ran in Longabaugh’s circle.

Yet if that were the case the picture would surely lose some of its allure. For the person in the photo would then just be a forgotten and largely unrecognized woman, and not the historical enigma whose been keeping you, another forgotten and largely unrecognized woman, up at night.  

Besides, the Pinkerton’s clearly kept quite an eye on her (no pun intended). They may not have known her actual name, where she was from or even what she did before meeting her criminal beau, but they knew what she looked like and where she went. In other words, they knew she was an individual, not a composite. They didn’t get paid to track composites.

They documented her movements with Longabaugh, after all. New York. South America. The Saint Louis World’s Fair and back to South America again before that final trip to San Francisco. It was there that she reportedly parted ways with her famous bad boy forever. He returned south to come to his bloody end while she disappeared into the proverbial ether.   

Who was she, though?

You wonder if you’re insane to continue this ritual night after night, this repeated viewing of a century old photograph, coupled with a compulsive Google search for someone who, no matter which way you look at it, died in obscurity long ago.

Perhaps you really are insane. Or perhaps everyone deserves to be identified, be they divorced receptionists, or the mysterious girlfriends of famous unsavory figures.

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*To purchase my latest novel, "American Socialite," simply click on the link below:

https://www.amazon.com/American-Socialite-Sean-Crose/dp/B08C8RW7N4/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=    

Ipatiev House

 

The fact those Latvians want no part of any of it troubles you. Surely they are as solidly grounded in the Revolution as you are. Why, then, does their refusal to involve themselves disturb you so deeply?

Perhaps it's because you've recently caught sight of the Tsar and his family in the garden, easily interacting with one another. Strangely enough, they've reminded you of your own family just outside the city.

Now, though, the royal family is not in the garden. It’s being led into the small room, behind the closed double doors, where the rest of you stand waiting. You can hear them speaking in there. The Tsarina asks for chairs for she and her husband to sit on. You're surprised she didn't ask for one for the boy, who is clearly sick.

Yurovsky enters the room a moment later and tells you all to be ready. You feel the Belgian revolver you’ve been given weigh heavily in your hand. You can still hear the royal family talking. They are unarmed.

You stare at Yurovsky for a moment. He's a man who has truly struggled for the Revolution, a man who has literally sacrificed his freedom for it on numerous occasions. If such a man feels it is just to kill the royal family, then who is someone like you, a lowly soldier from Yekaterinburg, to question it?

Then again, those Latvians certainly struck you as dedicated to the Revolution – and they stepped away. You're uncertain. The Tsar's supporters are said to be closing in. If any member of the family should be rescued, even one of the daughters, the enemies of the Revolution might remain inspired. 

And then what might happen?

Yurovsky opens the double doors and leads all of you out. You find the family, along with their remaining staff, bunched before a wall. The Tsar and Tsarina are seated. The young boy sits on the Tsar's lap. The daughters are gathered among the others.

You wonder what reason there is for the staff members to die. You also note the princesses look about the same age as your own daughters.

The order is given.

“What?” asks the Tsar, clearly stunned.

You wonder whether or not to fire along with the others.

The Tsarina and one of the girls attempt to bless themselves.

The room erupts in thunder.

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*To purchase my latest novel, "American Socialite," simply click on the link below:

https://www.amazon.com/American-Socialite-Sean-Crose/dp/B08C8RW7N4/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=    

Pioneers

Is it the past I miss, or is it some dreamlike perception of the past that I feed on? This is a question I ask myself a bit now that I’m older. At the age of seventy I find myself staying up late, watching old shows on YouTube, shows from my era, or rather, from the era of my prime. 

The other night for instance I watched a made for television movie from the early 70s called “Hijack.” It starred David Jansen and Kennan Wynn and was pretty much a chase flick. It wasn’t “Duel”, but I liked it. Or rather, I liked the images and feelings it conjured up within me. For the era brought back memories of my life during that time.

The vehicles, the hairstyles, the worldviews, it was all very much of the past, a past I myself reveled in. How could I not have? I was on a hit show myself back in the 70s, albeit for only one episode and in brief flashes, at that. Still, if you look carefully at the specific episode in question, you can actually spot me standing near the stern shirtless. You can also see me underwater, though I’m armored up in scuba gear.

Indeed, the times have changed. Cousteau isn’t seen as the hero he was back then. Truth be told, I didn’t speak to him much during that filmed exploration. He was a legend. That red hat atop his head said it all. Now, though, he’s remembered, if he’s remembered, as a phony, a racist, and as someone who may have been as cold as the bottomless depths he explored (whether he was any of these things I can neither confirm nor deny). Even more than all that, however, he’s known as a philanderer, a cheat (a fact no one can argue against).

I only met his original wife, Simone, once or twice. She was an impressive person, though. Lissy and I were engaged at the time and she was completely won over by Simone’s acumen and ability. Sure enough, Lissy got irked upon learning of Cousteau’s secret family years later. She got even more irked when she found out Cousteau had granted the keys to the kingdom to his lover-turned-second wife, Francine, after his death.

“Disgusting,” she snapped. “What about his son…the one he had while he was married?”

I can’t lie. I was a bit put off by the whole thing, too. Here’s this famous, esteemed guy who whores around on his wife, then leaves his legacy in the hands of the woman he carried on a long time affair with. “Distasteful” was the word that came to mind and for years I used it frequently whenever I was asked about Cousteau in conversation.

That being said, I haven’t talked a whole lot about Cousteau in some time. The seasons change, after all, and people end up forgetting about even the most relevant of individuals. Besides, there was more to my life than a single expedition aboard the Calypso.

For instance, aside of my work at the university there was the exploration of submarine canyons, a full two years spent with the Foundation, a search for living stromatolites in the western Atlantic, underwater mapping off the California coast for the oil companies, and a variety of other adventures that have compiled what I like to think of as a blessed and full life.

Still, people forget. And that’s troublesome. It shouldn’t be troublesome, but it is. Everyone knows the wheel but no one knows who first created it, what that inventor’s name was or whether or not that particular pioneer was of good character. There was no such thing as television when the wheel was invented, after all, and no such thing as YouTube to keep an old man up all night.

Indeed I didn’t get to bed until after three a.m. one day last week. For, after years of successfully battling the temptation, I finally buckled and decided to once again watch that episode which I was somewhat a part of (one can only relate to old made for T.V. movies up to a certain point, after all). Needless to say, watching the episode again was a jarring experience. Then again, it’s always unsettling to see a far younger version of yourself behaving with the passion of youth.

Still, I was intrigued. I was able to catch a clear shot of my young face as I stood next to Jean Paul on board the Calypso. Then, after another quick flash of my profile as Dr. Bob gave instructions, the camera followed all of us as we entered the eighty two degree water in our shorts and yellow and black scuba suits.

I felt a shiver of excitement as we were shown going down to one hundred and twenty feet. I remembered how it was eerie down there, really eerie. Aside from the sharks, we were inundated with pieces of debris which fell down from the reef up above. What’s more, the arches of the caves looked almost manmade. I even remembered the thrill I felt when I suddenly realized the structures hadn’t always been under water, but that the ice age was responsible for their current condition (a discovery I was later to write about at length for the Foundation).

It was hard distinguishing myself from the other divers, but I was still engrossed as the camera followed us under endless hanging, phallic shaped reefs, our bubbles of exhaled carbon dioxide bright to the point of blinding. We were shown taking small samples, measuring stalactites, even exploring the lifeless bottom.

Before making our way back up to the boat, the camera captured us connecting an enormous piece of broken stalactite to a cable. Up and up we went with our treasure, the camera catching it all: the lines, we shadowy divers, the climbing ladder, the rippling waves upon the surface and light, high up above it all, shining down atop the Calypso and diving into the water itself, illuminating all that it encountered until the darkness finally became too strong to penetrate.

The Pharisee

 

It’s said the man is not as popular or powerful among his peers as those individuals named James and Peter are. He is, however, a citizen of Rome, born in the province of Cilicia. He is also Jewish, a Pharisee, no less, which means it should be a surprise to no one he’s become a member of an upstart Jewish sect. The problem, of course, lies within the fact this citizen of Rome, this Pharisee called Paul, now stands accused of evangelizing outside accepted law. That sort of development is problematic for Rome, if not outright dangerous.

What's more, although Paul’s sect is frankly less menacing than other sects within Judaism, much less the Empire as a whole, its adherents now appear determined to grow their numbers beyond what Rome would deem its natural boundaries. These particular Jews, it seems, wish to spread their teachings well past the area in and around Judea. Again, such things are problematic. Their original leader, a messianic Nazarene, was executed by order of the Empire. Rome raises an eyebrow when an execution is unable to stop a potentially disruptive movement. 

And so you, Porcius Festus, are left to deal with this Paul now that your predecessor, Antonius Felix, has been recalled to Rome. Becoming Judea’s procurator is not an enviable task to begin with. Resentment for the Empire is starting to rise above a slow burn among the Jews, plus Agrippa and the priests are at odds with one another. Now you have the matter of this Paul before you. Wiping some sweat off the back of your neck – and you thought Rome could be sweltering – you stare out the window out at the clear blue water of the Mediterranean.

A merchant vessel is struggling to sail out of the elaborate port Herod had built several years ago. The wind is pushing its vast, square shaped mast into an extraordinary curve. You turn back around to the sound of voices coming from somewhere nearby inside the palace. This Paul, you realize, is being led your way. You nervously fidget with the gold ring on your finger, then polish the amethyst it holds with your robe. The formality of the imminent hearing aside, your orders are simple – convince Paul to quietly go to Jerusalem in order to stand trial. Do not, under any circumstances, encourage him to appeal to Caesar himself, which is his right to do as a citizen of the Empire.

You take a deep, nervous breath, then glance once more out the window. The sailors down in the port beyond the palace are leaving the merchant vessel. They will try another day – when the wind is more favorable. The ship is no doubt filled with goods. The sailors know cargo can’t be kept here in Judea indefinitely. There are simply things that need to get to Rome. Such, you conclude, is the way of things.