The old Romans all wished to have a king over them because they

Host: The night air carried the scent of wet stone and ancient rain. The city square — empty now, save for the two of them — glowed under the amber wash of streetlights, their reflections shimmering like liquid history across the pavement.

Behind them, the museum steps rose like an altar to time itself, flanked by marble columns that seemed to remember more than they revealed. The statue of a long-dead emperor loomed above, arm extended, forever frozen in the gesture of command.

Jack sat on the steps, his coat damp, his hands clasped, a flicker of cigarette smoke spiraling upward toward indifferent stars.
Jeeny stood nearby, her umbrella closed, raindrops trembling on her hair like the last remnants of a forgotten empire.

Host: It was one of those nights when the past and the present breathe the same air — when the world feels older than you, yet somehow still watching.

Jeeny: “You brought me here on purpose, didn’t you?”

Jack: “To a museum after dark?”

Jeeny: “To Rome without the plane ticket.”

Jack: “Maybe.”

Jeeny: “You think standing under a statue of Caesar helps you think clearer?”

Jack: “It helps me remember what we traded for order.”

Jeeny: “Ah. You’re quoting again.”

Jack: “Livy. ‘The old Romans all wished to have a king over them because they had not yet tasted the sweetness of freedom.’ The man saw through empire before it saw itself.”

Jeeny: “And you agree?”

Jack: “Completely. People don’t actually want freedom. They want comfort wrapped in authority.”

Host: The rain began again — soft, steady, deliberate — each drop a small confession against the marble.

Jeeny: “That’s bleak.”

Jack: “It’s human.”

Jeeny: “You think freedom’s bitter?”

Jack: “At first, yes. Because it asks you to grow up. To think for yourself. That’s harder than obeying.”

Jeeny: “So you think Livy was right — the Romans wanted a king because they didn’t know what freedom tasted like?”

Jack: “Exactly. Freedom’s an acquired taste. It’s sharp, unsweetened, and unforgiving.”

Jeeny: “But once you’ve had it?”

Jack: “You can’t stomach tyranny again. That’s why democracies suffer — they’re built by people addicted to choice and exhausted by consequence.”

Host: Her eyes narrowed — not in disagreement, but in recognition.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s tasted too much of it.”

Jack: “Maybe I have.”

Jeeny: “Freedom or bitterness?”

Jack: “Same thing, on bad days.”

Jeeny: “You think we’re any different from those Romans?”

Jack: “No. We’ve just replaced kings with convenience. Algorithms tell us what to buy, who to love, what to fear. We call it autonomy.”

Jeeny: “That’s not freedom; that’s dependence disguised as choice.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the sweetness of freedom isn’t freedom itself — it’s awareness.”

Jack: “Awareness of what?”

Jeeny: “Of your own mind. Of the moment you stop letting someone else rent space inside it.”

Host: The streetlight flickered, a pulse of gold and shadow, painting their faces in half-truths.

Jack: “You think freedom’s a feeling?”

Jeeny: “No. A discipline. A habit of saying, ‘No, thank you,’ to comfort when it costs your conscience.”

Jack: “Then freedom’s not for everyone.”

Jeeny: “It never was. That’s why people begged for kings. Responsibility terrifies.”

Jack: “So we choose chains that shine.”

Jeeny: “Because they look like crowns.”

Host: A gust of wind blew through, scattering leaves across the steps, the sound like whispers of ancient citizens — still arguing, still unsure what they wanted more: order or liberty.

Jack: “You ever wonder what it must’ve felt like? The moment Rome crowned its first ruler — the weight of it?”

Jeeny: “Relief, maybe. To have someone else decide.”

Jack: “And that relief is the root of every empire. A single mind claiming to make life simpler for everyone else.”

Jeeny: “Until that mind wants more.”

Jack: “Always.”

Jeeny: “Maybe freedom doesn’t die with conquest. Maybe it dies with convenience.”

Jack: “Explain.”

Jeeny: “When people stop fighting for the right to question. When they prefer comfort to curiosity.”

Jack: “So freedom isn’t a system. It’s an appetite.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And most of us have gone numb to hunger.”

Host: The rain eased, leaving only puddles that reflected the statue’s shadow — a ghostly double of power, immortal yet hollow.

Jack: “You know, Livy’s quote wasn’t just about Rome. It was about us. We still build altars to authority — we just call them brands, leaders, trends.”

Jeeny: “And freedom?”

Jack: “Freedom’s what we whisper about when we think no one’s listening.”

Jeeny: “So whisper louder.”

Jack: “And wake whom? The comfortable?”

Jeeny: “The curious.”

Host: She sat beside him, their shoulders brushing, two silhouettes against an empire of stone.

Jeeny: “You ever think maybe freedom isn’t the end goal?”

Jack: “Then what is?”

Jeeny: “Responsibility. Freedom without purpose becomes indulgence.”

Jack: “That’s philosophy with a dress code.”

Jeeny: “No — that’s survival. The Romans fell because they mistook pleasure for progress. Every civilization does.”

Jack: “So what keeps it alive?”

Jeeny: “The willingness to question even the things we built to protect us.”

Jack: “You mean the gods?”

Jeeny: “The governments. The markets. The myths we keep remaking.”

Host: The sky cleared, the moon emerging, full and unsympathetic — the same moon Livy saw, centuries ago, when he wrote about men who mistook safety for salvation.

Jack: “You know, maybe freedom’s not sweet after all.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s not sweet. It’s clean. Like rain washing away dust.”

Jack: “And yet, we keep crawling back to the dust.”

Jeeny: “Because freedom asks for work. And kings — old or new — ask only for loyalty.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why we worship success the way Rome worshiped power. We still crave someone to follow.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the revolution is learning to lead yourself.”

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s daily rebellion.”

Host: The bell of a church in the distance struck midnight, each note echoing like a heartbeat from another century.

Jack: “You think Livy would laugh at us?”

Jeeny: “No. He’d recognize us. Different tunics, same temptations.”

Jack: “And if he asked what we’d learned?”

Jeeny: “I’d tell him this: the sweetness of freedom isn’t in being free — it’s in choosing it, over and over.”

Jack: “Even when it hurts?”

Jeeny: “Especially when it hurts.”

Host: The rain stopped completely, the statue gleaming now beneath the streetlight, its outstretched hand catching a bead of water — frozen, eternal, beautiful, and bound.

They both stood, their reflections merging in the puddle at their feet — two figures in a world still learning how to walk without kings.

Jeeny: “You know what’s ironic?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “Every empire begins with obedience. Every freedom begins with a question.”

Host: She smiled faintly, the kind of smile that holds both hope and warning.

Jack: “Then maybe the future belongs to the questioners.”

Jeeny: “It always has.”

Host: And as they walked away, their footsteps fading beneath the moonlit marble, the statue behind them remained —
a reminder of power,
a relic of longing,
and the eternal truth that Livy whispered through time:

Freedom is not granted by kings — it is discovered by those brave enough to taste it.