The sun was too bright that day and it was upsetting my goats. Some of them took to charging the children playing in the outskirts of the crowd. Kids just rolling in the dirt, not really seeing the parade or knowing what it was. I don’t know if they called it a parade. Anyway, my goats were knocking kids over, making them cry. I had to whistle a certain note and they rammed each other’s heads instead. Sometimes you have to do that with goats. We had traveled many miles and we had many more to go, to a new home, perhaps, with more water. One of them, I called him Blek, he wandered away and walked right up to the man carrying the cross. Before I could do anything, little black Blek, who I liked particularly for his joyful bleating, he licked the dirty and bloody knees of the man walking up the hill. The man yelled at Blek to beat it but Blek doesn’t listen all the time. The man then took his hand away from the cross to swat at Blek but the weight of all that wood was too much and the man collapsed, cross shoving his face into the dirt. I laughed. I don’t care for any man who raises his hand against my goats. I thought it was justice, like a universal justice that just takes care of things. I don’t know. Some people heard my laughing and glared at me like I’d pushed him down. I shrugged. A Roman soldier approached the man and my goat. He kicked the man’s ribs, told him to get up. Then he kicked my goat, who had moved on to licking the man’s feet. I had a dagger on my hip and I gripped it. Of course, I didn’t use it. I know what happened to men who raise goats when they try to take on the Romans. I’m not stupid. And as the river of my thoughts has grown longer and wider as I’ve grow more tired, I believe that life, all life, is sacred, no matter my opinions. I knew Blek would understand. He ran through the crowd and joined his goat brothers and sisters.