Comaetho reaches Rome’s city gates alone beneath fading lamps. Behind him, the neglected garden and Vibia remain in silence; ahead, the guards’ watchfires glow against the paling sky.
The gray-bearded gate guard straightens at his post, recognizing the towering foreigner from the earlier passage into Rome. Beside him, a younger guard lowers his gaze to Comaetho’s empty hands and immaculate black clothing.
The Gray-Bearded Gate Guard
You entered through this gate before, foreigner. Are you departing Rome, or seeking entry again?
The Younger Gate Guard
Your hands are empty, and you carry no visible burden. State your business, if you have one.
Neither guard reaches for a weapon. The gray-bearded man keeps one hand resting near his spear, while the younger guard studies Comaetho’s face, clothing, and impossible height with disciplined caution.
The Gray-Bearded Gate Guard
There is no accusation in the question. Rome merely records who passes beneath its gates, especially those a man remembers.
The gate stands open behind them, and the road beyond leads into the waking city. The guards wait formally, leaving Comaetho free to answer, remain silent, or turn back.