She drops the coin onto his open palm, surely her last. On its obverse is etched what might be the face of the Holy Roman Emperor. But isn’t.
Rather the visage of the empress of too many worries, too few regrets appears there, HER countenance stamped in perfect profile.
And then he is kneeling on the purple carpet before her throne. She hoists a sword, a huge, double edged blade hovers above his shoulder, an inch, no more from his left ear. Though whether to knight him or lop his head off in one fell stroke, he’s unsure.
Frozen in that moment between punishment and reward, he’s afraid to cast the goldpiece heads over tails through the cooling evening air for fear of what he’ll find on the flip side.
