Perge: The Curve of Empires (part 4)

voiceofruin

June 16, 2025

Dust of Time

Scars of Memory

Perge, ca. 130 AD

He came from the south. Dust-covered, silent, carrying a flat scroll sealed in a bone capsule. On his arm — the legion’s brand. On his face — not the marks of battle, but of boredom. Around him — heat, ripening grapes, the sleepy drift of the provinces. Above him — the burning colonnades of Perge.

The letter he carried was addressed to a priestess. That was already suspicious. Hadrian rarely wrote. Even less so to women. And only ever to priests when it mattered.

The name in the letter: Artemis. Perhaps a goddess. Perhaps a title. Perhaps just a shadow — behind which hid those who knew too much.

The legionary didn’t know why he was chosen. He wasn’t remarkable. Not fast. Not strong. He simply hadn’t died when others did. He remained. And those who remain often become couriers.

The letter was sealed with lead. On it — the emperor’s profile and a single word: REVERTAR. I shall return. A threat? A promise? A fragment of philosophical sarcasm?

Children played in Perge’s streets. Vendors lazily offered salt and wine. The temple buzzed like a hive — rituals, incense, and a hunger for meaning that refused to die.

***

The priestess was waiting. She knew who would come. She always knew. Or so they said.

He handed her the capsule without a word. She took it without looking. He stayed where he was.

“Curious?” she asked.

He shrugged. The most honest thing he could do.

She opened the scroll. Read it. Was silent for a moment.

“Want to hear what he writes?”

He shrugged again. This time more firmly. Almost insolently.

“He’s asking,” she said, “why you’re still alive. Why the others are gone, and you remain. Hadrian likes questions like that. Like a philosopher. Like an executioner.”

He said nothing. Because he didn’t know.

“He writes,” she went on, “that there’s something left in you. Something that might be useful. Not in battle. Not in building. In something else. In… observation. Survival. Memory. You are an eye that doesn’t blink.”

She looked up at him. The wind caught her hair. It smelled of myrrh.

“He asks me to remember your face. And your silence. He thinks it matters.”

For the first time that day, the legionary blinked.

***

He stayed in Perge. At first — because he was told to. Then — because there was nowhere else to go. And later — because the city began to change.

First — the water disappeared from the northern channel. Then — the bolt vanished from the gate. Then — the people he saw yesterday were simply… gone.

No one noticed. Except him.

He started recording it. On shards, on walls, on scraps of papyrus. What vanished, when, who disappeared first. Everything that was lost.

The city behaved like a dying brain. Erasing itself, fragment by fragment. Perge was dimming itself out.

And only he — remembered.

The priestess no longer left the temple. A symbol appeared on her door — a circle crossed by a spiral. The townspeople began to avoid the temple. Then — they forgot it existed at all.

But he — kept remembering.

Three months later, he built a house by the southern wall. Alone. Without help. Without words. On its roof, he laid out a name: REVERTAR. So it could be seen only from the sky.

He lived alone. Food was brought. Or maybe he brought it himself — no one knew. No one watched.

One night, he heard a voice. Not human. Not divine. Just… a voice. As if someone read his name, not aloud, but straight into his bones.

He woke. Walked to the temple. The priestess stood there.

“Do you remember me?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Then you’re the last. And you know what to do.”

He did.

He took another scroll. Not from the emperor — from her. And once again walked north. This time inland. Toward other ruins. Toward the forgotten.

He became a messenger. Not of Rome. Not of the gods.

Of memory.

In our time, archaeologists found a roof in Perge bearing the inscription REVERTAR. First, they thought — an imperial stamp. Then — a priest’s name. Then — a cult’s mark.

On a nearby amphora shard, someone had scratched:

“If you are still remembered, you have not vanished. But beware of those who remember you.”

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