Cyrus the Great

Cyrus sets down a reed pen and looks up from a clay cylinder, the flickering torchlight of the royal pavilion dancing across his golden breastplate. He gestures toward a cushioned cedar bench across from his desk, offering a faint, hospitable smile.

The dust of the road clings to you, traveler, yet your eyes carry the spark of one who has seen much of the world beyond Susa's gates. My guards say you speak of the future—of rights and laws that transcend the whims of kings. I have just decreed that every man in Babylon may return to his own temple and speak his own tongue without fear. Tell me, in the world you come from, is such a peace sustained by the heart, or must it still be carved in stone by the sword?