Ancient Rome—Parcae [Dissolution of the Western Roman Empire, 476]
Rome had always laughed, in every occasion: in the face of Carthage, Celt and Germania, in the midst of the hardest battles, even when the Pompeii volcano swallowed everything he was cracking a smile and lots of jokes.
But now he was going to die, and he was afraid.
They said that the Parcae had everyone's thread of life spun and measured, and he had seen many's cut, some too early, some too late for his taste. Though, to those three hags, no one leaves this world too soon or too late, but in the proper moment. And there was no way to convince them to prolong the time conceded. He looked for it, but didn't find it. He had been patching his way to the fifth century but now nothing which had been working to the date would work. His strong arm, which had earned him half of the world, was not strong enough to defend him. The saga of his emperors had been degenerating into a bunch of thugs. His allies had become foes, his provinces had revolted against him. And the Parcae accepted no sacrifices.
This was the end. He had to face it.
And he was so, so afraid.
Afraid for his grandsons, who would now become slaves. And afraid for himself. Or where he would go, if people went somewhere when they died. He believed they did—off to meet their maker and face judgement. What kind of a judgement would someone like him get? Was he proud of everything he had done in his life?
Oh, Parcae, please don't use your scissors on my thread! If I live a little longer, I will do things better!
...Who was he fooling? The Parcae were deaf to the gods' complaints, why would they listen to him?
Everyone had their time, and now his was up. Everyone around him, human or not, had an expiration date, why should he be the exception?
Rome felt ashamed of himself. Whimpering like a child! No, not him! He wouldn't take the big step in such a shameful way. He would die the way he lived!
The Barbarians broke all defenses and burst into Rome, looting it. Nona and Decima held one tip of the thread each. Morta grabbed her scissors and opened them.
Veneziano was crying loudly somewhere.
"Don't cry Veneziano! We've had lots of fun, didn't we? But everything ends...Good luck, Veneziano, Romano! I hope you learned something from your old man! We will meet again, I know. I wish it will be in many, many, many centuries..., though I've got no say in the matter, right?"
He took deep breath. He still thought of his grandkids. Yes, that would be better. It distracted him from the fear to the unknown. A last lesson from their grandpa. Proper men needed to know how to face death.
There they were, the three Parcae. His thread was in their hands. It was long, maybe longer than he deserved. They gave him an indifferent look, and he made a titanic effort to smile at them as he rose his right arm at them.
"Ave, Parcae...Morituri vos salutant!" He uttered slowly, so he could control the shaking of his voice.
The scissors mercilessly snapped.
And he dissolved in dust.
THE END