Along the ancient Flaminian stones,
A tradesman drags his weary bones,
With kin in tow, their steps a plea,
From Rome’s fierce grasp they strive to flee.
Though not a Christian, he's assumed,
By minds that are easily consumed.
His Jewish faith, a humble trade,
In Nero's Rome, a fearsome blade.
The whispers of the crowd take flight,
Accusing those who shun the light.
“Magician! Sorcerer! Christian’s kin,”
They fail to see the truth within.
His heart is heavy, soul grown cold,
With nowhere known to be his goal.
Perhaps to Scythia's distant plains,
Or Germany's bleak, unknown terrains.
Then in the distance, footsteps pound,
A legionnaire with face unbound.
Returning to his Roman pride,
From family left in countryside.
Their eyes do meet, moments shared,
In silence both their souls are bared.
The soldier, driven by duty's call,
Cares not for faith, nor heeds their fall.
The tradesman fears the Roman's might,
While fleeing from the crowd's cruel spite.
The soldier's gaze, a steely stare,
The family's fear, a silent prayer.
In that fleeting glance, tension unfolds,
Each with their fate, their story told.
One marches forth, to Rome returns,
One flees the fate that cruelly burns.
The legionnaire, with gaze so stern,
Sees but a man whose heart does yearn.
And in that silent, somber pause,
A brief reprieve from Nero’s laws.
But duty calls, and he moves on,
The tradesman's family quickly gone.
With doubled pace, they flee the dread,
Of Rome's fierce grasp that they have fled.
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