Faith spread faster than armies. It moved through fishermen, wanderers, and women who carried hope like fire hidden in their palms. The emperors of the world, draped in crimson and gold, watched with suspicion as the faith of the lowly defied their decrees. Rome became the new Babylon — mighty, cruel, yet destined to be conquered not by sword, but by spirit.
I saw believers thrown to beasts, burned in gardens, crucified as their Lord had been. Yet the more they suffered, the more the Word multiplied. The blood of martyrs became the seed of kingdoms unseen. What began in secret grew to fill the empire itself. The cross, once a symbol of death, rose upon banners of power.
But with triumph came corruption. Faith, once pure and free, hardened into doctrine. The throne and altar intertwined once again. Bishops wore crowns, popes commanded armies, and the echo of divinity was muffled beneath rituals built to maintain control. I walked through cathedrals of marble and gold, hearing prayers drowned by politics. The empire of faith had conquered the world, yet lost its innocence.
Still, among the ruins of ambition, there were always few who remembered the true light — hermits in the desert, monks in the mountains, poets who whispered truth through art. The Word could never be fully caged. It simply changed its form, waiting for hearts ready to listen again.