SCENE SEVEN — THE DECREE & THE PASSING OF THE TORCH The terrifying blue of the fall fades to a crisp, bright morning white. The shattered palace is gone — a vast, open, blank-canvas stage, a new world. A heavy Persian banner hangs in the distance. The EXILES gather in stunned silence, no longer in shadow, blinking in the new light. SABA ELAN sits on a low crate, staring at his weathered hands. MIRYAM rests against a pile of wrapped linens, visibly frail, her breathing shallow. AVIVA enters, still in her torn palace silk, the rescued golden cup secure in her pack — and in her arms, wrapped in cloth, her family's old harp. A PERSIAN HERALD enters with a silver trumpet and blows a clear, soaring fanfare — the opposite of Babylon's heavy drums. PERSIAN HERALD. By the decree of Cyrus, King of Kings, Sovereign of Persia! The Lord God of Heaven has charged him to build Him a house in Jerusalem, which is in Judah. Whosoever is among you of all His people — his God be with him, and let him go up! The gates are open. The road is yours. You are free. The HERALD exits. A breathless silence. And then — not the explosion of joy one might expect, but a low, troubled murmuring. Hesitation. The younger exiles look at one another, uncertain. The hesitation hardens into two camps. YOUNG EXILE 1. (quietly) Go up... to what? Jerusalem's been a heap of ash for seventy years. YOUNG EXILE 2. My shop is here. By the canal. My children were born here, and their children. We have houses here. Roots. A life. (almost pleading) Why would we trade all of it for three months in the desert and a pile of rubble at the end? AVIVA steps into the center, the wrapped harp in her arms, and the division becomes a song
