Canto 5: The Fields of Scales

Marcus resurrected in an environment where green rolling hills stretched all directions.

It was an incredible scene, made more so in contrast to the dark labyrinth, that would have felt out of place in Hell if not for hundreds of gigantic weighing scales scattered on the hillsides. Each scale leaned fully to its heftier of two semi-transparent bowls which were stacked with luxury objects including mansions, boats, and bronze statues. Marcus made out a woman in an exotic gala dress trapped beneath a nearby bowl, squirming for freedom. This time, however, he felt unmoved by the torture.

“I’m done,” Marcus said. “I can’t take another execution, Dante. Just snap me out of existence and be done with it.”

“Oh Marcus, one little beheading and you’re calling quits?” Noticing the seriousness in Marcus’s expression, Dante changed tones. “Let me ask you something, did you go anywhere in the moments between your deaths and my resurrecting you?” Marcus thought about it and shook his head. “That’s because there’s nowhere to go, this is the only afterlife—the last thing between you and eternal nothing. Now, I can end it all if you wish. Or you can get back on those feet and trudge through whatever perils come to earn eternity with your beloved wife.”

This place reminded him of the one from his memory, he could almost feel Barbara dancing in his arms. But it wasn’t enough this time, he had encountered too much.

“Go ahead then, Dante, I’m staying here.”

Dante sighed and sat beside him. “I wouldn’t be much of a guide if I left you behind.” He watched Marcus admire the surrounding scene. “Any guesses on this one?”

Marcus nodded. “Overtly wealthy aristocrats who spoiled themselves while poverty raged outside their windows. Now they suffer eternity crushed under their worldly possessions.”

Dante sighed. “Yeah, a bit on the nose, isn’t it?” He eyed a nearby bowl containing a yacht and four-story home. It pinned a middle-aged man under his ribcage. He tried to scream, but nothing came out. “Or a bit on the diaphragm, I should say.”

Marcus wasn’t amused. “There’s something I’m struggling with. We’re at five cantos now and haven’t seen a single terrorist or murderer. Are they at a deeper level?”

“Oh, Marcus, those are petty crimes compared to those you’ve witnessed. Think about it, even the best serial killers only manage a few dozen victims in their lifetimes. Meanwhile, the combined indifference of these celebrities alone killed millions! You must remember, space in Hell is reserved for the worst of humanity, and non-action in times of desperate need is perhaps the greatest sin of all. But there were a few elites who tried to make a difference. Take Paradiso’s founder for example, after the World Revolution he donated generous sums to families of victims and even adopted a child of revolutionaries who died.”

Dante’s words sparked a memory in Marcus. Within it he read a book on brain anatomy to a smiling boy nestled in his lap on their leather couch. The boy was captivated by the book’s illustrations, pointing and asking questions of which Marcus proudly answered.

“A son,” Marcus said, returning. “I have a son!”

“Indeed, a prodigy of neuroscience like his father.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you knew!”

“When he…passes, will he be let into Heaven?”

“I’m afraid automatic admittance extends only to spouses. But at the rate your son’s going it would be no surprise if he earns his own spot.”

“Alright then,” Marcus rose, newly motivated. “Let’s keep going.”

#

At the edge of a tall hill they reached the last scale. It contained fifteen autonomous sportscars topped by a personal jet. The bowl rested on a middle-aged man with spiked hair whose eyes widened upon seeing Marcus but, try as he might, he could not get words out.

Far below the hill was a steep valley whose passage was cut off by a cylindrical stone structure with four ring-shaped tiers. High stone walls extended horizontally from it, blocking all means of traversing around.

“I know that place,” Marcus said, as if waking in a dream. Slowly the words came to him. “Colosseum…the Roman Colosseum!”

“Indeed, a near-perfect reconstruction of its glory days. Our architects are very proud…”

He was interrupted by a rumbling in the earth.

The contents of the scales bounced around like bursting popcorn kernels.

“No!” Marcus yelled. He made a break for the Colosseum.

The nearest scale collapsed his direction and launched its jet. To Marcus’s dismay, its engine started and the jet lifted into the air. In a panic, he tripped into a somersault down the hill. The jet caught up and sucked Marcus into its propeller with a swooping motion, turning him into a cloud of red mist before proceeding seamlessly into the blue sky.