Conversation at the edge of the fountain

Rome greeted him with the drunken whisper of fountains. Vladimir, a man with a face that looked like it had been cut out of the evening news, sat at Trevi's, drinking espresso that cost as much as a barista's daily salary.

He's tired. Not from cameras or microphones, but from himself - from the voice that had flowed out of him for years like water from a rusty tap. “Truth”, “justice”, “greatness” - words that became coins thrown into dark water.

An old man in a beige cloak sat down next to him, smelling of incense and library dust. His eyes flickered like old TV screens.

“You know,” the old man began without preamble, “I once sentenced five people to death without trial.” In the name of the Republic, of course. Then he wrote treatises on legality. Funny, right?

Vladimir shuddered. The stranger's voice sounded as if it appeared inside the skull, bypassing the ears.

- Cicero? - he breathed out, not believing himself.

- No, the ghost of a boot that has been trampling human faces throughout history. But you can call me Mark. You and I belong to the same guild, colleague. You're selling wars under the guise of peace, aren't you? I once sold dictatorship under the guise of freedom.

The fountain suddenly fell silent. The water froze, turning into glass daggers.

- Why are you here? - Vladimir asked, feeling that reality was cracking at the seams, like ice under the April sun.

- Atonement? Joke! I'm here because hell is an endless talk show. You speak, millions listen to you, but the real you is only here, in the silence between the words. Just like I did then, that night when I signed Catiline’s death warrant. Do you remember how you justified the bombings? We both know: truth is not what is, but what is needed.

The old man took out from the folds of his cloak a scroll covered with letters that moved like cockroaches in the light of a lantern.

- Do you see? This is a list. Everyone like us wore masks of virtue. There's your name in there, between Nero and a televangelist from Alabama. You all think you invented the wheel, but it's just the same circle repainted in the colors of the flag.

Suddenly laughter erupted from the fountain—thousands of voices merging into a dissonant chorus. The water came to life, turning into hands grasping the air.

“It’s them,” Cicero nodded.

- Those whom we killed with words. They are always here. Can you hear? They sing our anthem: “We were right, we were right, we were...”

Vladimir jumped up, knocking over his chair. The cafe, the fountain, the tourists - everything disappeared.

He stood in the middle of an empty square, where the wind blew shreds of newspapers with his own quotes across the paving stones. In the distance loomed a shadow in a cloak, dissolving into the dawn.

- Wait! - he shouted. - What should I do? Echo answered him in a voice similar to the creak of a pen on parchment: “Speak further, colleague.” As long as the words flow, we are alive. And when you shut up... Well, you yourself know what will happen.

A week later, Vladimir returned to the studio. The camera flashed a red eye. He smiled at the camera, feeling in his pocket for a tiny marble plaque that read “Caveant consules.”

- “Consuls, be vigilant.” Souvenir from Rome. Or a pass to the next round