Much in this manner, our day passes in its regular fashion.
Visitors pour in and out of the complex in a never-ending stream, slaves perform their dire work in their everyday way and Gladiators soak the sand on which they fight with the red essence of their life. As our eyes graze over the crowds, taking in the colorful multitude of people and catching glimpses of the diverse ways which the slave’s labor goes in, we observe the manifold separate and yet indivisible happenings. A dancer in pied clothing drops a cup on her customer who angrily lashes out at her. Father and son gamble their way to poverty in a run-down shack. Two performers hastily rehearse their piece before stepping out onto the platform. Swollen up, fat nobles lounge in the spacious lower floor of the coliseum. The crowd on the streets moves along, moves like there is no tomorrow. And as we see this happen, something else stirs our attention. Within the sea of people, there shifts something that does not seem to belong. One with the herd and yet separated from it, we see a cloak flapping and a catch few glimpses of a dark hood. As quickly as it appears, as quietly it is gone again. People would look up for a moment and wonder to see doors opened they were sure to have closed only moments before. Heads would turn ever so slightly, bewildered if there was something just now or if it had been but their imagination. And guards protecting things that were not to leave their place would wake up and ask themselves why they had fallen asleep in the first place. As the shadows grow longer and the light grows dimmer, the compound grows from a steaming crowd to a benign set of few people. The large gates never close, for the reputation of the complex is a never sleeping, never resting one. Nonetheless, calm settles over the golden buildings as the last rays of sunlight bath them in their light once more, before finally laying this place to rest.
Retiring from their day, the six slaves which we have followed in their course of this day retreat from their daily tasks each in their very own way.
Yet as normal as this day was, something is amiss. No sound, no trace was left behind, all the same there is something mismatched.
Her tears but locked inside of her, the mistress bathed in moonlight, longing for the outside world would catch a glimpse of parchment lying on her bed, seemingly out of place.
Returning to his chambers, the scholar would retire from performing his fair work and find on his desk a small folded piece of paper that had not been there before.
Training himself for a yet unforeseen future, the gladiator with a dream would notice in his pocket a rustling that hinted at something being put there without him ever noticing.
Longing for freedom, unconsciously sensing the shifting and changing in the construct of the world, the butler bemoaning his fate would open his eyes from sleep to find a scratch of parchment lying in his lap.
Guided by strange fate, these four individuals would open the small rolled up slip note almost at the same moment in time, and read the winding words engraved in black ink.
“If you wish to escape, come to the feet of the clock tower by midnight”
Deep in the dungeons beneath the arena, the beast with the heart of silver would curiously find its chains opened and the door unlocked. Flickering in front of it, a small blue spark dancing in the air, akin to a firefly, would attract its naturally curious nature and, if followed, lead it towards its destined place. For the savage beast with the gentle soul does not know writing, another way was found to guide its way out.