James fell to his knees. “Then there is no escape from the cycle? We are all condemned to kill our kings, our scapegoats, our gods?”
James woke with a gasp, the morning sun burning his eyes. Lake Nemi was still. The grove was quiet. He looked down at his hands, which had been scribbling all night. Before him lay a pile of papers. At the top, he had written a single sentence: rezumat creanga de aur
“This is the shadow of the golden bough,” whispered a voice—the voice of the old king of Nemi, now a ghost. “We kill the king to save the world. Then we invent a scapegoat to save the king. Then we sacrifice a god to save the scapegoat. The bough is the permission to kill, and the promise of renewal.” James fell to his knees
The Roman soldiers below laughed. “He saved others,” one mocked. “Let him save himself.” Lake Nemi was still
That night, a fever dream took him. He found himself walking not on the shores of modern Italy, but on the edge of time itself. He was no longer a scholar; he was a witness.