In this chapter titled A Ballad of Footmen, a somber meditation unfolds through poetic cadence and biting irony, pulling readers into the absurdity of war waged at the expense of reason and compassion. Rather than drums and marching orders, the tale begins with an old man clinging to the scent of roses as his city falls—a symbol of peace clashing against the thunder of conquest. The soldiers are not painted as heroes but as men swept into violence by the shallow promises of power and patriotic thrill. These footmen, often young and unaware, find themselves enlisted not for love of cause, but for spectacle, order, and the hollow noise of commanded duty. Through this lens, the narrative strips away grandeur, revealing war as machinery moved by vanity and compliance more than justice or necessity.

A Ballad of Footmen draws its strength from contrast—between marching boots and blooming petals, orders barked and silence in grief. Fifteen million men, armed with little more than false valor and ceremonial weaponry, are pushed into a field of death where the stakes remain unclear and the commands blur into abstraction. They do not die for ideals but for disagreements inflated by political theater. Meanwhile, the cost echoes beyond the battlefield: women in nine nations choke on sorrow, their grief stifled by rituals and red tape. Bureaucracy becomes a grotesque costume, hiding the human wreckage beneath uniforms and military ranks. The poem dares to mock the sacred symbols of war—gold braid, postures of command, and medals that disguise fear and folly. In doing so, it exposes a system designed to silence hesitation and reward unquestioned obedience.

The poem envisions an alternative, one not of heroism but of refusal. What if the footmen simply chose not to march? If, instead of charging at whistles, they dropped their bayonets and turned away—not in fear but in defiance of the absurdity placed upon their shoulders? The emperor, now furious and alone, would be rendered powerless, stripped of his might without those willing to carry it out. No decree, no title, no lash of rank can forge war without followers. The simplicity of this vision makes it all the more radical: peace not as policy, but as an act of collective will, quiet yet seismic. This imagined revolt, though never realized, stands as a question to every reader—what if obedience was the only chain holding war in place?

The tone is not merely critical but mournful, steeped in the memory of what war erases—sons, homes, the right to grow old without killing. There is rage too, but it burns under the surface, channeled into rhythm and repetition that build toward truth rather than spectacle. This is not a poem for generals or strategists. It speaks to the footmen themselves—the overlooked, the expendable, the ones who bleed while empires boast. And it speaks to their mothers, wives, and sisters, whose suffering rarely makes it into the scrolls of national pride. In doing so, the chapter refuses to romanticize sacrifice when it is extracted under false pretenses.

In its deeper layers, the ballad offers commentary on modern systems that reward compliance over conscience. The footmen are not evil; they are tired, indoctrinated, or hopeful, clinging to any meaning offered to them by their commanders. But beneath their uniforms are men who might, given the chance, choose life over commands. This idea—simple yet subversive—questions the very logic of mass conflict: without agreement, war cannot proceed. The ballad becomes both elegy and resistance, drawing its emotional power from what could be rather than what is.

By the chapter’s end, the roses from the opening scene take on deeper meaning. They are not just symbols of peace, but of things that grow quietly, offer beauty, and harm no one. They do not march. They do not carry orders. They endure. A Ballad of Footmen ultimately leaves the reader not with answers, but with a challenge—to remember the cost of obedience, the weight of silence, and the fragile, enduring power of simply saying no.