Memoria: Pro

"Don't you forget about dying," the slave whispered, his voice a dry rasp that cut through the thunder of the crowd. "Don't you forget about your friend death."

The Emperor rode his golden chariot through the gates of Rome, the air thick with the scent of crushed laurel and the roar of a thousand cheering voices. He stood tall, invincible, his armor gleaming like a second sun. Pro Memoria

But tucked in the shadow behind him stood a slave, small and unremarkable, clutching the rim of the chariot. As the Emperor waved to the masses, the slave leaned forward, his breath cold against the ruler’s ear. "Don't you forget about dying," the slave whispered,