The Decree

The commander’s face was grim. How long would this war drag on? He, his father, his grandfather, his great-grandfather—wars had continued for a thousand years. And yet the enemies of the State had never been annihilated. Now, with barely one hundred and fifty soldiers, he had to fight against two hundred and fifty thousand rebels. Such was the wretched state of the royal treasury. The rebels lurked all around his camp, waiting to strike at any moment.

Fear. Nothing but fear. It was by wielding this fear that he must win now—else the fall of the State was inevitable. Monarchy itself would collapse into ashes. All those centuries of history, those lessons, those loyalties to the throne, those devotions to the State—lost in smoke. The very thought sent a shiver crawling down his spine. The entire land was watching him tonight. In such misery, only two things could be trusted: power, and the display of terror.
 
Sleep abandoned him. In the darkness of night, he paced the camp with a solemn face, standing at the crossroads of history. Then suddenly, an idea flashed. Had it not been said that man fears the pen more than the sword? Taking up the pen, he scratched out a poem upon a white sheet of paper. Then he tied that fragment of writing to the leg of a pigeon and let it fly. The commander’s slip of paper, carried by the bird, reached the rebel camp.
 
For twenty-one days the rebels read and re-read those words. And on the twenty-second day, the commander heard news: the rebels had come to surrender. He counted their numbers carefully. One hundred and fifty thousand.

The commander’s face grew still more grave. His brows furrowed. This was not at all the outcome he had envisioned. Rage swelled within him. For seven days he locked his chamber doors and would not emerge. Soldiers thought perhaps the truce had been declared. But on the eighth day, the commander stepped out of his chamber, holding a sheet of paper. Upon it was written a short story. Once again, a pigeon bore the message into the rebels’ hands.
 
For fifteen days the commander paced restlessly. On the sixteenth day, a messenger arrived: ninety thousand rebels were advancing to surrender. Only ten thousand remained. The army cried out in triumph. Trumpets sounded, war-cries soared. Yet the commander shrieked like a hawk: “We had a pact—that every last one would crawl beneath my feet to save their lives. Ten thousand still defy me. Ten thousand do not fear me!” His roar of wrath shook the camp. For ten more days he remained hidden in his tent.
 
The rebels were but ten thousand now. Yet the commander’s fury would not abate. Where others expected a festival of victory, he brooded as if monarchy itself stood at the edge of ruin. Then came his third writing. This time, a long piece. His soldiers thought the rebels would need at least six months to read it. Yet astonishingly, within just seven days, nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine rebels surrendered at his camp. Only one remained. Now it seemed the victory of the throne was inevitable, a matter of time.
 
Soldiers prepared for the victory celebrations. But that very night the commander raged like a madman. Sweat poured from his brow, and at times he trembled violently. His soldiers watched in terror, unable to understand why a lone surviving rebel should provoke such horror in him.
 
This time no one saw the commander in public for an entire month. People whispered he had buried himself at his desk, writing page after page without pause. A colossal novel was born under his pen. At last, after choosing an auspicious day, he tied the manuscript to the feet of a hundred pigeons and sent them flying—toward the single rebel. His soldiers thought surely now the kingdom would rise, cleansed of its last foe. Yet never had anyone seen the commander so tormented, so fearful, so convulsed.
 
And then, at dawn the next day, that lone rebel returned. Not to surrender. Instead he entered the commander’s camp, struck off his head, and in blood wrote upon the ground: “In this world, dissent cannot be extinguished completely—so long as even a single rebel breathes.”