When I was a young boy, my father took me into the city to see a marching band.
They began from the city gates of Caesarea, bellowing a loud trumpet that signaled their entrance. It heralded a legion of soldiers carrying a bright red banner that bore the insignia of Rome.
I remember the empty, monotonous footsteps of their sandals. I remember how the dust began rising in the air as they stomped their Imperial march. I remember how the by-standing poor—the fisherman, the carpenter, and the farmer—all had to cover their eyes from the dust that arose.
Following the soldiers' marching sandals, there came the horses' heavy hooves. Four mighty stallions came in, their hair were strong, long, and shiny. Their grand, mighty bodies pulled in a grand, golden chariot, and riding it was the grand, divine Caesar, Master of the Jews, Emperor of Rome, Son of God.
He was wearing the shiniest breastplate I've ever seen, adorned with the most golden jewelries I've ever seen. He was so radiant and so magnificent that he sparkled under the Sun, as he basked in its glorious morning glow.
But what really caught my eye was the red cape he was wearing; it reminded me of the blood flowing from the mouth of the wolf who ate our poor lamb—the one I failed to save.
I continued to stare at him. Until, my eyes got pricked by the bright glare from one of his jewelry. At once, I looked away. But when I looked away, dust entered my left eye. Itching, I began rubbing it. In that temporary blindness, I suddenly felt my father's calloused hand, the hand of a carpenter, caressing my face.
"What's wrong, son?"
"My eyes... they hurt."
"From the shine or from the dust?" He asked and I could hear him smiling.
"From both." I said.
"You don't like it here?" He asked.
Still rubbing my eyes, I nod my head to answer.
"I don't like it here, too." he said, "Let's get you home."
At his utterance of 'home,' an image of my mother Mary kneading dough to make bread, flashed in my head. He then grabbed me by my right hand.
Still rubbing my eyes, we passed through the crowd of the onlooking poor, still starstruck at the sight of the Emperor and the Imperial splendor of the marching band.
When we were finally out of that crammed multitude, we walked towards one of the alleys.
When we reached its corner, we saw a crippled beggar, lying on a mat, lifting his hand for alms. Father let go of my hand for a moment, grabbed something from his knapsack, and gave it to the beggar. Afterwards, he grabbed my right hand again, led me deeper to the alley, and we continued walking.
When we reached another corner, we passed by a house cordoned off by Roman soldiers escorting a tax collector with a thick money-bag. The poor tenants, a family of four, were kicked out because they couldn't pay their taxes. The father was kneeling before the collector. The children were weeping, scared. The mother was gathering what was left of their belongings as the soldiers threw it all on the ground. Father let go of my hand for a moment, rushed to the crouched mother, and helped her pick up their belongings lying about. Afterwards, he grabbed my right hand again, led me deeper to the alley, and we continued walking.
When we reached another corner, we passed by a thief sneaking out from a rich man's house. He was carrying a sack on his back. Judging from the redness of his face, he was in the middle of a burglary; the sack was filled with his loot. He met my father's eyes, worried because he's caught. Father then let go of my hand for a moment, put an index finger over his mouth, signaling the thief that we won't tell anyone. The thief nodded his thanks and ran away. Afterwards, he grabbed my right hand again, led me deeper to the alley, and we continued walking.
