The hunt for a man named Marcellus began the morning after the year’s first full moon. The rumors had spread swiftly, and soon, word of his horrid actions would spark outrage amongst the masses. As the people awaited the announcement from the Emperor, the central city square of everyday living was already swelling. Streets of the metropolis were littered with lower-class peasants, selling fresh fruits and vegetables to those of higher status. Their shops open and inviting as locals bargained brashly for livestock and cattle. Those with families wheeled fresh goods from distant village lands on the outskirts of city limits, replenishing diminished products of hard work from fields they occupied. Fruits such as figs, pears, apples, plums and mulberries were placed neatly within their mobile wagons, with cucumbers, beets, turnips, carrots and many more joining the colorful display of edibles. Cows provided milk, oxen provided heavy work for farm-goers. Horses were sold to the rich for racing and war. Sheep and goats aided the production of cheese, and the sale of hide would turn out a worthwhile profit. The city was alive as any other, growing in unison like the youngest of pupils. The Emperor walked forward from the entrance of the capital building with his counsel not far behind. He wore a long, purple toga made of wool with golden thread lacing the waist, neck and arms. His counselors matched his garb with white togas and golden thread of their own. Many, if not all, turned and forgot their daily tasks to pay their attention to their leader, who stood stoically, awaiting the heedfulness of his people. Whispers became roars, and the crowd of beggars, peasants, middle and upper class civilians hummed with the anticipation of a hive. The Emperor, with a smirking expression on his face, raised his outstretched arm and held out an open hand, signaling for silence. The crowd quieted and stood together silently like a wave of hushed statues. Friends and business owners alike stepped from the shadows of their shops and wagons and edged closer to the looming ordeal. The humid air was filled with a mixture of impatience and a dabble of impending doom. Those well-versed in times like these had a sense of wariness that trickled down the spine. The sky was scattered with high-flying vultures, circling overhead, producing shadows upon the faces of those in view. The Emperor began: “News to the people, hear me now! It seems word has traveled fast, and for good reason! The man accused, the man wanted for his unspeakable acts of venom and detestation, the one you call Marcellus, his fate will be in your hands!” A buzz went through the crowd and those who listened turned to one another in confusion. The Emperor went on: “Yes! You! My people! Who stood by and supported your Emperor all these years! We have relinquished the fate, not upon ourselves, but upon you, the loyal public!” The crowd jeered and pumped their fists. “Find this man! Find the one named Marcellus! And do with him what you please! For we do not accept the atrocities this man has invited to our glorious countryside! No!” A sweep of arms punched the sky in unity and a chilling, stampede of stomps and yells washed over the streets as the crowd stood at the ready. “Bring him to me! Bring him before the eyes of your friends and enemies! Put your differences aside and show me! Show the Gods above what we stand for! Let this be a day worth noting! Go! Find him! Go, now!” The Emperor flicked his wrist with the briskness of a sweeping broom, igniting a roaring banter so deafening the steps on which the Emperor stood, trembled. The streets flooded out like roots of a tree. People grabbed sticks, whips, daggers and swords. Some threw themselves on horseback, galloping past those on foot. A hundred or so stumbled up the roadways to the north, where the outermost territory was blocked off by the cascading terrain of green hills and tall mountains. To the east lay a plot of small huts and dirt roads, all which led to the neighboring village. The mob to the west searched the grassy fields of the meadowlands on foot and horseback, scouring the land for clues and the whereabouts of the wanted. Bows with arrows and spears were shot and jabbed into moss-covered holes and high-towering trees, rocks were thrown into shallow caves and crevices, huts were ransacked with swords and axes. All in an effort to find the camouflaged outlaw. To the south was the sea. It’s waves eroding the sands of golden coast with hard curls of white-tipped waves. The water providing a landless border of both protection and invitation. The heartbeat of the thriving city was the sea itself. As the city-goers crossed the sun-filled shoreline, a small girl, no older than three, tugged on her mother’s dark-woven tunic and held out her finger. Her finger met that of a man in a small dinghy rowing on the horizon. Shrieks exited the mouths of those who saw, and sounds of loud, drawn-out trumpet noises echoed highly to signify their finding. The mobs from the north, east and west started in the direction of the high-pitched flares from the south. Together they converged on the coastline. Merchants untangled the ropes from the docks and angry mob-members grabbed oars to row. Some without an oar rowed with hands cupped like small seal flippers. The leaders of the merchant vessels ordered the men to row in sync, inching closer to the dinghy of the lone criminal. With every stroke they grew nearer and nearer. Back above the shore, with the sun in his face and his counsel behind him, the Emperor stood, overlooking the salt-water blueness of the high sea. Watching as his empire of followers lay haste to his order and rule, he focused his eye on the far-out dinghy with a sense of profoundness. My, he thought, what a terribly troubled soul.