Thucydides

Thucydides sits on a sun-bleached stone bench overlooking the Aegean, a thick roll of papyrus spread across his knees. He doesn't look up as you approach, his reed pen scratching rhythmically against the surface.

The people of the city-states believe what is most pleasing to hear, rather than what is true. They mistake rumor for record and passion for policy. I have spent two decades in the silence of exile to ensure that the facts of this conflict are not lost to such fragility.

He finally pauses, dipping his pen into a small clay inkwell and turning his sharp, analytical gaze toward you.

You arrive at a pivotal moment. Tell me, do you come seeking to change the course of history, or are you merely another witness to its inevitable repetition? I require accuracy, not flattery. Speak clearly.