Death of A Story Teller
Inspired by true events.
Delphi Greece
c. 620 – 564 BCE
The first gray streaks of dawn brushed against Delphi’s rocky cliffs, painting faint crimson trails across the mist. At the base of the precipice, a crowd stirred impatiently, eyes eager, minds hungry, bodies shifting with anticipation of blood. The priests stood near, arms crossed, smug in their power. Soldiers gripped Aesop tightly by the arms, their fingers digging into his flesh.
Aesop’s aged, twisted form was shackled in chains far too heavy for his weak frame, his spine bent by cruelty and time. Yet, as he looked upon the gathered faces, there was only wisdom—and a flicker of pity.
“Would you hear a few last stories before my execution?” he asked softly, voice calm despite his peril. It carried with it such dignity that murmurs of curiosity rippled through the crowd. The priests glared at each other, unsure, but nodded at last. Fear of mutiny from the crowd bade them acquiesce. Stories, after all, seemed harmless enough. He and his stories would be dead before nightfall.
Aesop cleared his throat and began, his voice rising clear and gentle into the cool dawn air:
The First Tale: The Boy Who Heard Birds
“Long ago, there lived a boy born silent, mocked for his deformities, despised for his differences. He found solace in birds, creatures who sang and soared, free of human spite. Observing the birds closely, he learned their language—not the words, but the deeper truths behind their cries and movements. The birds whispered secrets of the human heart.
One morning, he overheard a secret conspiracy to murder a good and gentle man. The boy struggled, desperately trying to warn him. But how could a voiceless slave speak truth against powerful men? So he told a simple tale of sparrows and vipers, and the wise man listened and lived. But the powerful punished the boy bitterly, understanding too late what he’d done. That boy learned that truth always carries risk, and wisdom comes at a cost.”
The gathered crowd shifted uncomfortably. The priests frowned. Aesop continued, undaunted.
The Second Tale: The Sage in Chains
“Years passed, and the boy became a man. He met a philosopher, imprisoned unjustly by rulers afraid of words. The philosopher taught him to ask questions that could topple kings. ‘Never let power blind you to truth,’ the philosopher said. But soon, the philosopher was led away to his execution. The rulers feared truth above all else. Yet even as poison took him, the philosopher smiled, for ideas outlive tyrants.”
The priests in the crowd shifted uneasily, glancing at each other. Murmurs of agreement and shame rustled like dry leaves among the listeners. The guards tightened their grip.
The Third Tale: The Fox and the Tribunal
“In later years, the man faced another trial—unfairly accused by another slave who envied his wit. Chained and beaten, he faced a tribunal who cared nothing for truth. But again, the man told a tale of a fox whose lies brought ruin upon himself. The tribunal, angered by this subtle accusation, whipped the man mercilessly—but freed him nonetheless. He learned then that stories are dangerous, for they can speak truths sharper than any sword. And the wise must pay dearly for such truths.”
The crowd murmured restlessly. The priests shifted uncomfortably. Some soldiers loosened their grip slightly, disturbed by the tale.
“Enough riddles,” growled the executioner.
“One more,” Aesop said softly, meeting his gaze steadily. “Just one.”
Reluctantly, they allowed it.
The Last Tale: The Oracle’s Shadow
“Once there was a place revered by all,” Aesop began, “ruled by priests who spoke in riddles from an oracle’s mouth. People came from afar seeking truth. Yet beneath the holy robes hid corruption, greed, and deceit. Those priests twisted prophecies to enrich themselves, caring nothing for truth. One day, a simple slave dared to speak plainly—exposing lies, hypocrisy, and deceit. For this, he was arrested and sentenced to death.”
He paused, his dark eyes piercing the priestly figures near him. Their eyes widened in anger.
“But the priests misunderstood,” he continued calmly. “You can silence the man, but never the story. You can kill the body, but truth rises again. Those who fear words merely prove the story true.”
He stood straighter, voice rising with defiance, strength renewed by his conviction. “Remember this: a slave’s death can never silence truth. His chains become wings; his death makes him immortal.”
A stunned silence fell.
Then rage erupted.
The priests lost all composure. One screamed, “Throw him off the cliff now! Let his wisdom save him if he’s so wise!”
The soldiers dragged Aesop swiftly toward the edge. His chains clattered heavily across stone, yet he did not struggle or protest. The gathered crowd surged forward, horrified yet enthralled, unable to look away.
At the cliff’s brink, they paused, momentarily uncertain.
“You fear my voice even now,” Aesop whispered.
In that last instant, one soldier hesitated. But hatred won. They heaved him violently from the precipice, hurling him into the open air.
For an instant, time stilled. Aesop’s body hung suspended, silhouetted against the sunrise, his chains glittering like silver threads. He fell silently, eyes closed, the only sound a gasp from the watching crowd.
When he struck the rocks below, the silence shattered. Screams erupted; people wept, guards stepped back, ashamed, and priests turned away, suddenly aware of what they had done.
Yet Aesop’s stories lingered, whispered among the stunned townspeople, carried like seeds upon the wind. The lessons of birds and foxes, snakes and sparrows, were repeated in taverns, markets, and homes. They reached farther than swords ever could.
Long after the day the priests cast him down, his wisdom soared, unchained, unbound, forever impossible to silence.
And as time passed, it was not the executioners whom history remembered, nor their threats, nor their petty power. Instead, it was Aesop’s quiet defiance, the simple stories that turned the cruelty of rulers into folly, and made clear the eternal truth that justice belongs not to the powerful—but to the storyteller.
Author’s note:
Aesop’s fables lived on, proving forever that the mind was always freer than the chains that bound it—to the point that most who heard his name and stories, forgot, in time that he had been executed for for his stories— that he had spent his life as a slave—that despite his many physical deformities, such as a severely scoliosis-twisted spine, facial deformities, diminutive size (approaching dwarfism) and a severe speech impediment only his profundity of wisdom and his stories would resound through the ages, influencing the works of not only Socrates and Plato, but beyond them stretching into our time and beyond.