The Logos: The Meletic Testament (Chapter 6 The Return)

📜 Chapter 6: The Return

1. I had long stopped counting the days for his return, believing the city’s silence had buried his name too deep for any decree to unearth. Every day, I had walked to the grove wondering, if I would find him there anew. When I didn't, I returned home accustomed to not seeing him.
2. But one morning, as the sun spilt gold across my table, a messenger arrived with a scroll bearing the seal of the new magistrate that had replaced the previous one.
3. I broke the wax with trembling fingers and read the words twice before I dared believe them: The exile of Asterion is lifted. I had longed for this revelation, since I was tired of hopeless tidings.
4. No apology, no ceremony—just a quiet reversal, as if Athens wished to erase its unbearable shame without admitting it had ever felt it in the first place. I had forgiven this injustice but not forgotten it.
5. I sat for a long while, staring at the parchment, wondering whether the man who had been cast out would even want to return to a place that condemned and exiled him.
6. I wrote to him that same day once I had received the scroll, my hand unsteady with hope and fear not knowing what to expect. I told Asterion that I would be waiting for him to welcome him, along with the others who were his students.
7. Athens calls you home, even though it does not yet know what home means in its request.
8. I sealed the letter and sent it with a merchant caravan bound for Smyrna, where I believed he still taught in the shade of foreign trees. This was the last place that I was told he was visiting.
9. Weeks passed, and I heard nothing in the form of actual tidings. This I thought was somewhat strange, but I kept hope within me, until he finally read my letter.
10. I imagined him reading my words in silence, folding the parchment slowly, and staring into the distance with that gaze that always saw more than the rest of us.
11. Then one morning, a traveller from Corinth brought news: Asterion was walking—walking, not riding, not sailing—towards Athens. At first, I was amazed, then I rejoiced in the thought that he would be returning, at last.
12. I knew then that his return would not be an ordinary homecoming, but a reckoning that would evoke his wisdom. I was anxious to know about his health and his journey.
13. He had been gone for years, and the city of Athens had changed in ways both subtle and profound. He left a poor man, and he would return still a man of poverty.
14. The pillars still stood from which he taught, but its determination had dimmed; the agora still bustled, but the voices of philosophers had grown faint by the months that passed.
15. I began preparing—not the halls or the scrolls, but myself—for the moment when thought would return in the shape of a man who I knew as my mentor and teacher. I saw him aloof.
16. Thus, I met him at the gates of the city, beneath the arch where I had once stood before him, as a student who was eager to know more about the man who was Asterion.
17. He looked older, yes, but not totally diminished—his eyes held storms and stillness, and his presence felt like the return of something ancient in its essence.
18. You have returned—I said, unsure whether to rejoice or weep, as I could not believe that I was seeing him anew, after the years that had elapsed during his exile.
19. He placed a hand on my shoulder and replied—Then let us begin again. Let us not retrieve the years lost, but gain the time that we have left.
20. We walked together through streets that had once condemned him, now watching in silence, unsure whether to welcome or retreat amidst his presence.
21. The olive tree near the courtyard still stood, its visible branches reaching skywards like questions. It was difficult to fathom that he had committed any serious offence towards Rome.
22. Asterion paused beneath it, closed his eyes, and whispered something I could not hear, at first. For a moment, I thought that he was fatigued from his travel.
23. The students gathered slowly, drawn not by curiosity alone, but by admiration for him. They too were joyous to see him return to Athens. They were waiting for him to address them.
24. He did not demand a podium, nor did he seek any form of applause—he simply sat beneath the tree and began to speak. There was a certain temperance reflected in his eyes.
25. He told them exile is not a punishment—it is a purification of the soul, a stripping away of sheer illusion and the guise of reality. He had learnt the meaning of exile.
26. His voice was calm, but it carried great weight, like a stone dropped into still water. He shared his experience whilst he was away, and one could tell that he was truthful in the manner in which he spoke.
27. The students leaned in, not with reverence, but with hunger to know more about his exile and journey. After all, it had been several years since he departed the city.
28. I watched their faces change as his words unfolded—some with awe, some with discomfort, all with unique attention. It was as if, an emperor was speaking.
29. Asterion spoke not of what had been done to him unjustly, but of what he had learnt in silence and awareness, during his time in exile. He did not mention the magistrate who had exiled him. Instead, he preferred to speak about his experience.
30. To be cast out is to be forced to meet oneself without distraction. It is like meeting a stranger, but discovering that the stranger all along was you—he said.
31. The new magistrate who had lifted the decree sent word of welcome, but Asterion did not reply. Much to my surprise, he was not vindictive towards the magistrate.
32. He did not need permission, only space to speak. He had so much to reveal in the way of stories to tell, but he did not need to stand inside a building to speak his peace.
33. And speak he did—on street corners, in gardens, courtyards, groves and other places where wine flowed and minds wandered, as he spoke with effortless grace.
34. He asked numerous questions that unsettled the comfortable students and comforted the unsettled students, who sought his wisdom. He was never reserved, when it came to discuss his philosophy or how it differed with others.
35. What is justice, if not the courage to be fair when it is inconvenient to one?—He asked.
36. The city began to shift suddenly—not through laws or proclamations made, but through conversation or dialogue that had been stirred by philosophy.
37. Merchants debated ethics between transactions; children asked riddles in the marketplace, as if they were games to play.
38. I overheard a potter say to his obedient apprentice—Shape the clay as Asterion shapes thought—with patience and fire.
39. His presence was not loud or commanding, but it was everywhere throughout the city of Athens. This I had begun to witness with my own eyes.
40. Athens, once afraid of his voice being heard, now leaned in to hear it echo his philosophy again to the people that gathered, wherever he presented himself.
41. He never reclaimed his old home of his youth—it had been taken by a Roman family, with many children and bright curtains manifold years ago, before his days as a philosophers.
42. Asterion smiled at the children in the streets and said to them—Have you missed me, or was it only the voice that you heard that you missed the most?
43. He took residence above a potter’s shop, surrounded by clay and flame. He remained a man of modesty. Several of the students had offered to take him in at their homes, but in every occasion, he kindly refused.
44. This is fitting I think, for thought must be shaped, and reshaped with ideas in mind—he said.
45. I brought him ink, parchment, and silence to ponder his thoughts and consider his philosophy, as he prepared his days for the discussions that would have with others.
46. He began writing again—not for posterity alone, but for those individuals who sought to be taught and learn. They were the inspiration for him to continue with Meleticisim.
47. His new dialogues were sharper, more daring, filled with intellectual questions that refused easy answers. Asterion was not only a wise man. He was too, an intelligent man.
48. What is freedom, if not the courage to be misunderstood?—He would ask his students who had gathered.
49. I transcribed each word with care and precision, knowing they were not teachings—they were instead invitations to wrestle with the unknown. He was grateful for my diligence.
50. And wrestle in our thoughts we did in the streets, the agora, the courtyards, or even in the presence of his naysayers who were surprised that he had returned.
51. The students who gathered around him were not the same as before—they were younger, bolder, less bound by ancient tradition or gods. Asterion could sense this change.
52. They challenged him, and he welcomed it with a comforting smile and acknowledgement. Asterion was never a man, who would discredit a person because of his age.
53. Do not seek to agree with me, seek to understand what it means to disagree well—he told them.
54. The places where he taught the most began to change—not in structure, but in its students who were eager to listen to him speak. They had heard so much said about him.
55. The grove became a genuine place where thought was not solely preserved, but evoked and shared amongst his students gathered. They had been told of his return.
56. One evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills, we sat by the river Ilissos, watching the water carry away the day’s dust. I had noticed that he wanted to share his exile to me. I was the only one that he confided in to reveal his personal journey.
57. Asterion spoke softly, about the years he had spent in exile away from us, his inquisitive students. I could sense the sincerity in his tone of expression.
58. I learnt more from silence than from speech, and more from solitude than from mere applause—he told me.
59. I wrote those words slowly and with appreciation, knowing they would echo long after we were gone. I would not forget this day so easily; for I knew that he wanted to divulge to me his journey.
60. For his wisdom was not in his conclusions, but in his willingness to remain unfinished in his desire to teach. The world to him was still a vast place to be uncovered.
61. People invited him to speak at the Pnyx, and to my surprise, Asterion accepted without any formal or informal demands. He was completely at ease before the presence of these individuals, who had never heard him speak.
62. He stood before the assembly—not as a petitioner, but as a mirror that reflected their truth. He was not a man of revenge; nor did he seek to confront the members of the assembly with rage.
63. You exiled me, not because I was dangerous, but because I was inconvenient—he said calmly.
64. The crowd shifted uneasily, but no one interrupted his words, as he continued to speak his mind. The crowd was curious to know what the old man who was Asterion would say.
65. I did not return to accuse, but to ask whether we are ready to be honest with each other—he said.
66. He spoke of mortal fear, of absolute power and of the fragile nature of the truth, when it threatens one's comfort or livelihood. He was not impressed by the appearance of the assembly.
67. And he paused, as if to notice the attentive look in the face of the students who had accompanied him, letting the silence settle like the dust on marble.
68. If I am still dangerous, then let me be dangerous in the service of thought. I have no inclination to desire power for my self or on my behalf—he professed.
69. The people stood, nodded once, and sat down again to listen. They were swayed by his words. I who was nearby, was as swayed too as the members of the assembly.
70. That night, the city felt different—not safer, but braver. There was something inexplicable about this sensation. It was as if Asterion had never left in exile.
71. Asterion would not speak much about the years lost, or the moments of suffering he dealt with in his time of exile afterwards. In time, he accepted what had occurred to him.
72. He spoke only of what had been found along his journey, and what had shaped him as a man. Eventually, this is what interested him the most about his exile.
73. Exile taught him to see, and his return taught him to speak for himself. There were manifold people in this city who wished to silence him, but he told all present that not to fear him, for he was no threat to anyone. He was only a lone philosopher.
74. The students began calling him ‘the philosopher of silence’, even though he never embraced the title for himself. Asterion wanted no name to be given to him unnecessarily
75. I am not a sage to praise, I am more a question that refuses to die in riddles—he told them.
76. One morning, he stood before the olive tree where he had once been condemned, staring at the sun beyond the horizon. Instead of complaining about the place, he evoked its beauty in nature.
77. He placed his hand on its bark and then proceeded to close his eyes, as if to reminisce the past. It was a moment of intimate thought for him, and one that was fulfilling as well.
78. You have fully grown, and so have I. We have many memories shared between us that cannot be so easily forgotten—he whispered to me.
79. I stood behind him, unsure whether to speak or to listen, as I overheard his certain whispers. I was eager to know what he wanted to convey to me at the moment in time.
80. But he turned and said—Write this down: the tree did not forget—it endured all these years of my absence.
81. After that morning beneath the olive tree, I noticed how the city began to move differently—not faster, not louder, but with a kind of thoughtful hesitation, as if each step now asked itself why it was taken.
82. Asterion’s presence had become a quiet force, not commanding, but compelling; even those people who once feared him now found themselves quoting him without realising that.
83. A baker told me, whilst kneading dough—He speaks like someone who’s already died once and come back wiser.
84. I smiled, knowing that in many ways, he had. Perhaps, it was because I knew he would return. This was more of my belief than knowing that it was going to occur when it did.
85. The exile had stripped him of pride, but left him with something far more enduring—clarity that was more enduring then his scars or pain that he had suffered in his exile. When I asked him about the scars or pain, he told me that suffering was like the morning dawn that comes and go.
86. He began a new series of dialogues, which he titled 'The Return', although he insisted the name was not about himself.
87. It is not I who return, but the possibility of thought in a city that once rejected it—he said.
88. These writings were different—less structured, more fluid, like rivers that refused to be mapped. I could tell that his time away from Athens had enlightened him more.
89. He wrote about such things as forgiveness, not as a virtue, but as a discipline to be applied in daily life. Virtues were always significant to his teachings.
90. To forgive is to refuse to let the past dictate the shape of our soul. We must never forget that. This was something that was constant in his conviction.
91. I copied each dialogue with care, knowing they were not meant to be final truths, but a part of his philosophical testament. His emphasis on virtues was evident in his lectures.
92. He encouraged the students to challenge him, and they did—with boldness, with wit, and with the kind of courage that only comes from being truly heard.
93. He told me that they are not here to follow him, they are here to continue his message. Not as an idol to worship, but as a man to learn from.
94. That phrase stayed with me, echoing in my thoughts long after the lectures ended and the applause also.
95. For Asterion had never wanted disciples of his own—he wanted successors of his philosophy, who would teach others the knowledge that he passed unto his students that included me.
96. The new magistrate visited him, without guards, and sat quietly at the edge of the gathering.
97. Asterion acknowledged him with a nod and a smile, but did not alter his tone or soften his questions. Instead, he was determined to make us realise that he did not treat others with indifference.
98. Power must learn to listen with attentive ears, especially when it is no longer afraid—he said to him.
99. The magistrate did not speak, but I saw something shift in his eyes—a kind of humility that had not been there before. Asterion was convinced that his words had reached the magistrate.
100. And in that moment, I believed the city had begun to heal gradually. The naysayers did not go away, but they did not pursue him all the time as they had done previously.
101. Asterion walked the streets without fear, greeting strangers as equals, pausing to speak with children who asked him why the sky changed colours in the day.
102. He answered them not with facts that would puzzle their understanding, but with wonder, knowing that they were the future of Athens.
103. He would say—The sky changes, because it refuses to be one thing for too long. This is the natural order of the Logos. He pointed to the sky and told them that is where the mysteries of the Logos begin.
104. I watched their eyes suddenly widen, and I knew they would carry that thought into adulthood. After all, they were the future of philosophy in Athens.
105. He planted useful seeds, not useless arguments. He offered his wisdom, not the imposition of an emperor, but the wisdom of a man who had seen much in his life.
106. One afternoon, we visited the courtyard where he last spoke to his students, before his exile. I was not certain how he would react. Much to my surprise, he was fond of the place, despite his sentence.
107. He stood beneath the olive tree and said—This tree did not ask for justice—it simply kept growing.
108. I wrote those poetic words down with reverence, knowing they would outlive both of us. My hope was that someone else would know of the importance of the tree.
109. The students gathered around, not to mourn the past, but to witness its transformation. They were anxious to hear Asterion speak. They knew of his eloquence.
110. Asterion did not speak of bitterness nor displayed it to me or the others. Instead, he spoke only of his becoming in life, and how it changed him then.
111. He began hosting open dialogues in the agora, where anyone could speak, question, or challenge his philosophy. He was not frightened by his detractors.
112. A fishmonger once asked him—What good is philosophy if it cannot feed a family, who starve?
113. Asterion replied—It feeds the part of you that decides how to feed your family, which is your mind.
114. The crowd murmured, and the fishmonger nodded slowly, realising that there was indeed truth in Asterion's words. They had heard his wisdom for the first time.
115. These were not heated debates with winner and losers—they were awakenings of the soul. Asterion spoke to the people with a great measure of wisdom.
116. The city changed shape—not only physically, but philosophically, with the return of Asterion. There was this sense that it was awakened anew by his presence.
117. Everywhere where Asterion spoke, it became a place where no question was too small, and no answer was too difficult to be tested. He embraced the curiosity of others.
118. Asterion taught that the truth was not a physical destination to search for, but a companion in life that reveals itself when man is prepared to understand it.
119. Walk with it, but do not try to carry it—it is heavier than you think—he acknowledged.
120. I saw students leave his lectures with furrowed brows and shining eyes of amazement, as they reacted to him. They were enlightened by his wisdom.
121. He refused all honours that were bestowed upon him, all titles, all attempts to elevate him above others. He had no need for such senseless praise.
122. He told them that he was not a monument to be idolised, he was instead, a movement that must remain in motion to be heard, if his philosophy was to be comprehended.
123. The city offered him a marble bust; he declined, saying that he was not a god or demigod. This had happened to him on several occasions from unknown benefactors that were inspired by his teachings.
124. Instead of a bust, he did ask for one thing, which were benches to be placed beneath trees, so people could sit and speak freely. Not only for philosophers, but for the common people also.
125. That he said was the only tribute worth making in his honour. It was his only request; for he cared little about his repute. I found this to be admirable of his character.
126. His health began to fade more, even though he never spoke of it in public. Saying that he was irrelevant compared to his philosophy. He knew that he was mortal not immortal.
127. I noticed the way he paused more often, the way his voice grew softer, but his words sharper. This was a clear indication that his reflections were much more focused.
128. Even thought must rest, but only briefly, like the body—he told me one evening.
129. He continued teaching, even as his body weakened with the pain he was suffering that was noticeable. I often thought that one day, he would eventually tell me that he could no longer philosophise.
130. His determination, however, grew stronger with each passing day. It was something that I admired of him. I could not foresee myself doing what he was capable of doing daily, which was to continue to speak with people.
131. One morning, he asked me to walk with him to the edge of the city, where the hills met the sky. I never truly questioned the places that I accompanied him.
132. We sat in silence for a long time without speaking, watching the light shift across the rooftops. I did not count the minutes that had elapsed, because I did not care.
133. Then he said—I did not return to be remembered—I returned to remind people of what they should value than dismiss.
134. I asked him curiously as I heard him express these words of his—Remind us of what?
135. He smiled faintly and replied—That thought is the only home worth defending in life.
136. That specific night, he wrote his greatest dialogue, a short piece titled 'The Listening City'.
137. In it, he described a place where questions were welcomed like guests, and answers were offered like a morsel of bread. I was impressed by how his mind functioned.
138. A city that truly listens is a city that truly lives to be heard not to be ignored—he wrote.
139. I copied the dialogue meticulously, knowing that it could have been his last one shared with his students. Each moment and word of Asterion was important.
140. He handed me the parchment and said—Let this be my echo, so that the masses can hear it resonate freely.
141. Each morning, I watched him rise before the sun, stepping into the quiet streets as if greeting the city itself with genuine thought rather than words expressed.
142. He walked slowly, not from weariness, but from intention—pausing to observe, to listen, to let the world speak before he would. As he aged, so did his reflections.
143. He told me that the city is not a place—it is a conversation, and he had to learn its language again. I pondered what he said and realised that his words spoke the truth.
144. And so he did, not by commanding attention, but by earning it through presence and patience. He knew that he was not guaranteed a greater audience each time he spoke in public.
145. Even those people who once feared him, then nodded with quiet respect as he spoke. He began to speak to them about death, and about the acceptance of our ultimate fate.
146. He began holding more dialogues in unexpected places—beside fountains, in crowded markets, beneath the shade of fig trees in the countryside.
147. He said—Thought must not be confined to marble halls—it must live whithersoever life happens.
148. I watched as bakers, sailors, and scribes gathered around him, drawn not by fame, but by the freedom to ask. Asterion was never blest with divinity. Instead, he was endowed with wisdom.
149. He never lectured them—he invited, evoked and listened to their questions asked. He was attentive and meticulous, knowing that he could learn something from them. Asterion was never vain in his wisdom. He always told me that even the common man could teach him something that he did not know.
150. And in that listening, the city began to remember how to think and how to remember as well. What Asterion offered to the people was genuine and humble in its message. He taught people to recognise their souls.
151. The academies which were then fewer in Athens, once stiff with tradition, grew vibrant again—not because of new doctrines, but because of new questions.
152. Asterion encouraged students to challenge him, to challenge each other, to challenge even the foundations of their own beliefs. This was his mission in the final years of his life.
153. He believed that if our ideas cannot survive disagreement, they were never truly alive in the first place. If we ceased to explore our ideas, then how could philosophy expand itself?
154. I saw young minds sharpen like blades—not to wound, but to carve paths through confusion. The youth to Asterion were the ones who would forge a lasting foundation with the elder sages.
155. The new magistrate along with some of Asterion's student had built a modest academy for him. It was not comparable to those academies of Plato or Aristotle, but it became a genuine place, and Asterion was its quiet fire that was lit by his passion.
156. At first, Asterion was reluctant to accept this academy, but he acquiesced in the end, realising that if he could speak to his students in a more secure place that was not interrupted by naysayers, then he would understand the purpose of the academy. He had always been more accustomed to speak in the grove, the agora, or in the courtyard.
157. The new magistrate, who had lifted the exile, came often to listen—not as a ruler, but as a student. He sat at the edge of gatherings, asking questions with the humility of one who had once silenced answers.
158. Asterion treated him no differently than the rest, because to Asterion, men were equal in learning. Who was he to reject a man only because of his status?
159. Power must learn to kneel before thought, or it will never rise with wisdom. It will remain in the ego—he said.
160. And the magistrate to his credit, nodded without defence or any display of vanity. He was not drawn to the power of Asterion, because he was not a man of power. Instead, to the powerful words he expressed.
161. Asterion’s influence spread beyond Athens—not through conquest, but through every day conversation. Asterion was a modest man who lived by donations and the care of others. He was poor compared to others, but humble in his mien.
162. Traders carried his dialogues to distant cities, where they were read aloud in taverns and temples alike. He reminded people of Socrates, or of a man who resembled them, who was a mortal and not divine in nature.
163. In Alexandria, a group of scholars and Christians debated his ideas on To Ena and a god. They were eager to decipher the mysteries behind the One of Meleticism.
164. In Antioch, a carpenter wrote to me, saying—His questions have changed the way I see myself now in life.
165. I realised then that Asterion had become more than a philosopher—he had become a mirror for the world. Not as a living messiah, but as a living teacher.
166. He refused all honours, all statues, all attempts to immortalise him in stone. He sought no fame of his own that would exalt him. He cared more about the lives of others than his own.
167. Let my words live in the minds of people, not in the monuments that men glorify; for stone forgets, but thought remembers—he told the people.
168. The city offered him once more a marble bust in his dedication; he declined the offer, citing that he was not divine or from a supernatural realm.
169. Instead, he spoke of feeding the poor, and about being humble in life and not greedy and vain. Greed and vanity to him were what causes a man to go astray.
170. That he said was the only concern that he had that could be achieved by those persons in power. His reputation was not something he thought much of, since it was not of grandeur.
171. I often walked with him through the city at dusk, when the light softened and the noise faded. I was amazed by his ability to speak of nature with such a calm reflection.
172. He would point to buildings, to statues, to people, and ask—What do they believe they are?
173. I never had an answer, but I always left with a better question to ask him the next time. I never tried to outsmart him. Instead, I allowed myself to be imbued with his wisdom.
174. That was his unique gift in life—not certainty, but the courage to continue to seek beyond his wisdom. Most philosophers would have never admitted to being less wiser than other philosophers.
175. And Athens, slowly began to seek again the nature of philosophy and its teachings. For a brief time, philosophers were not mocked nor attacked for their beliefs.
176. Children followed Asterion, asking why birds flew in certain patterns? Why flowers blossom in different seasons?
177. He answered them with stories, with riddles, with questions of his own that they could ponder and return the next time with better questions to ask him.
178. The sky changes, because it refuses to be one thing for too long, and the flowers blossom, because they must display their beauty—he told the children who were listening.
179. I watched their eyes widen, and I knew they would carry that thought into adulthood. The youth would be Asterion's hope for a future that was much more brighter in knowledge than the one he grew up with.
180. He planted seeds to be grown afterwards, not conclusions to be imposed upon people. His philosophy was more about its message than its messenger.
181. The olive tree had grown taller since his exile, its branches now casting shade over more students than ever, but he did not allow this to affect his teachings.
182. Asterion often sat beneath it, not to teach, but to listen, as he would usually do in his habit. To him there was not a better place to reflect than beneath the olive tree.
183. He said—This tree did not ask for justice—it simply kept growing, even though I was absent.
184. I remembered those emphatic words of his, knowing they would outlive both of us, and serve as an aspiration for others. Each moment with him was an inspiration.
185. The students gathered there daily, not to worship, but to wonder the beauty of nature unfold, as they were told by Asterion to do. He taught them well.
186. I compiled more of his dialogues into a codex, bound in leather and the humility he demonstrated. There were few men in my encounters that had his humble nature, even as an old man.
187. It was my duty to honour him, although I knew it was not about him alone. It was more about his philosophy he told me than about him. Other men would have exploited the minds of the crowd who gathered to hear him speak.
188. It was about all of us too—those students who had exiled thought, and those who had welcomed it back. Most students would have had a difficult time reconciling exiling a thought and then restoring it.
189. I wrote in the preface—He did not return to be honoured—he returned to honour the act of thinking.
190. And that I believe is the truest legacy of his to be revealed to the world. Whilst other men sought fame, he sought remembrance—not in the form of vainglory.
191. Years have passed, and I still walk the streets where he once questioned the world that stood before us. I can feel his presence nigh, as I continue to walk ahead.
192. I hear certain echoes of his voice in the laughter of students, in the murmurs of people that knew him, in the arguments of merchants, and in particular, in the quietude of the grove.
193. His words have become evident part of the city’s breath that is lasting. They have reached every corner and street, as if they remained as a vestige of his presence.
194. Not sacred as in religion, but living in the knowledge that became his remarkable wisdom. He was indeed a man, who spoke what he understood about life.
195. His words were not final in their authority, but ongoing in presence and the teachings of his philosophy, where they blossomed into the minds of people.
196. I often sit beneath the olive tree, now older myself, its roots deeper and its branches visibly wider, as I wonder about the life that Asterion had lived and experienced.
197. I read his dialogues aloud to no one in particular, trusting that the wind will carry them where they were needed. I found solace in the wind, sensing that it would guard his dialogues in his absence.
198. Sometimes, a curious child would ask me what I was reading, or who was the author? At first, I was surprised, but then I would answer.
199. I would tell the child—I’m reading the thoughts of a man who taught the city how to listen. And in listening, the city would awaken to the way of the truth.
200. And they would always ask—Can I listen too?’ I would tell them too, about the return of a great sage—not a prophet, but a philosopher with a message that would endure the passing of centuries.
201. One who was once exiled but who had returned. Not as a glorious man to be praised, but as a man of greater wisdom who gave his life for the betterment of society.
202. That was worthier than any triumphant return of an emperor. Asterion was a man who had tamed the Romans with his wisdom, even if it was for a while. Not with force, but with the ingenuity of his philosophy.

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