The Last Stoic

by Morgan Wade

  THE LAST STOIC

  Morgan Wade

  First Edition

  Copyright © 2009 Morgan Wade

  No part of this book may be reproduced except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopied, recorded or otherwise stored in a retrieval system without prior written consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are employed fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Editor – Helen Humphreys

  Typeset in Garamond

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  ISBN - 978-1-897475-63-8

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you,

  to Tai of Hidden Brook Press for publishing this book;

  to Claudia and Terry Wade, for all of their love and support, and for fostering a love of reading;

  to David Anderson for fostering a love of learning and, especially, writing;

  to Frank Streicher, Bruce Geddes, Sudipta Sinha, and Adrienne Barrett Hofman for taking the time to be early readers, providing kind words and honest opinions;

  to Professor James Fraser (Edinburgh University), for ferreting out historical inaccuracies -- all remaining errors are my own;

  to Mark Uygur and David Seymour, for their encouragement and interest, for keeping the faith, and for the impromptu late-night, long-distance readings;

  to Michael Helm for unstinting criticism and insistence on good craft, for making me a better writer and The Last Stoic a better book;

  to Helen Humphreys for her generosity, her expert guidance, and the inspiring example of her writing. The Last Stoic would not have made it this far without her;

  to my grandfathers Murray and Norman were often in my thoughts during the writing of this novel;

  to Nancy, my first and last reader, thanks and love for her boundless patience, encouragement, and sound advice.

  Foreword

  It has been a real pleasure to have worked with Morgan Wade on The Last Stoic. Morgan has written a book that is highly original and beautifully executed. The balance between the Roman world and the modern world is maintained with skill and adroitness, and the narrative is deftly woven through both of these time periods, never faltering or losing momentum.

  The Last Stoic is a fascinating, parallel look at two societies who are not, as it turns out, as different or distinct as one might think.

  - Helen Humphreys

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY ONE

  TWENTY TWO

  TWENTY THREE

  TWENTY FOUR

  TWENTY FIVE

  TWENTY SIX

  TWENTY SEVEN

  TWENTY EIGHT

  TWENTY NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY ONE

  THIRTY TWO

  THIRTY THREE

  THIRTY FOUR

  THIRTY FIVE

  THIRTY SIX

  The hour of your departure draws near; if you will but forget all else and pay sole regard to the helmsman of your soul and the divine spark within you – if you will but exchange your fear of having to end your life some day for a fear of failing even to begin it … you can yet become a man …

  …try to see, before it is too late, that you have within you something higher and more godlike than mere instincts which move your emotions and twitch you like a puppet. Which of these is it, then, that is clouding my understanding at this moment? Fear, jealousy, lust, or some other?

  - Marcus Aurelius, Roman Emperor, from his Meditations, Book XII

  Show your confidence. Show you're not afraid. Go to restaurants. Go shopping.

  - Rudolph Giuliani, former mayor of New York and presidential hopeful, from a September 12, 2001 news conference

  PROLOGUE

  Commodus did not notice the dusky figure lingering at the foot of the vast, marble bath, just beyond the candle glow. He was preoccupied with the parchment that Galen had presented to him earlier that evening; he spooled and unspooled it, glancing idly at the mass of script. Actually reading his late father’s journal, at this hour and in his condition, would take an effort he had no intention of summoning. He’d read as far as the second line…

  Existimatione et recordatione genitoris mei ad verecundiam et animum viro dignum excitari debeo.

  From the reputation and remembrance of my father, modesty and a manly character.

  …and then was content to toy with it between his meaty fingers.

  A scuffing of sandal leather against stone echoed through the caldarium. Commodus hoisted his body from one side of the pool to the other, scanning the shadows, choking back the familiar reflux. The cylinder of goatskin buckled under his tightened grip. Tepid water, viscous with a dozen oils and perfumes, slopped unctuously between his thighs and under his buttocks as he rolled over, exacerbating the churn of his stomach. He propped himself up on the side of the bath and squinted through the wine-coloured mist filming his eyes.

  “Who’s that? Identify yourself!”

  The man padded forward. Candle-light flickered across his features, accentuating the lines of sinew and ridges of muscle. He gazed toward the emperor, handsome and haughty.

  “Oh! It’s you,” sighed Commodus. Narcissus, the Nubian slave who called himself Khaleme, the emperor’s wrestling partner. He also provided massages, strigilings, spongings, and other bathing services. Marcia, his concubine, sent him up as yet another exotic dish, a dessert. He imagined how he would punish her for such presumptuousness and it caused a stir in his groin that was both faint and fleeting.

  Commodus was in no mood for extras on this night. Earlier, he had forced down more bloody portions of that very rare roast beef than he was otherwise inclined, prodded by Marcia’s urging. It increases a man’s sexual vigour, she had effused. And then there was the array of smelly cheeses from Belgica, olives from Apulia, the hen, quail, pigeon, peacock, and ostrich eggs, sea urchins from Misenum, mussels and clams from Ostia, potted hare and venison from the forests of Germania, pickled tuna and grilled mullet from the Hispanic coast, trout and pheasant from Britannia, broiled Egyptian flamingo stuffed with figs, roast side of Umbrian boar, sow’s udder, antelope tongue, sheep stomach, calf brains. The five cups of undiluted Falernian wine that sluiced down dinner were just enough to numb his gouty toes, but they constituted no more than an average evening’s drinking. Although he had vomited twice since dinner, once more than was typical, there was none of the customary reinvigoration. At his age, stomach ache so regularly accompanied suppertime it hardly merited a mention. But this indigestion brought with it an uncommon sharpness.

  The emperor made a sound like air escaping slowly from a bladder.

  “Not tonight Narcissus.”

  The slave did not withdraw.

  “Not tonight! I’m not well!”

  Narcissus moved forward noiselessly and with purpose, like a leopard. Commodus watched, his burly jaw-hinge slackened, muted by the unprecedented insubordination. Narcissus moved behind the emperor and he began to massage his thickly kn
otted shoulders. The emperor’s shock waned as waves of pleasure rolled up his neck and down his back, tension melting under the forceful manipulations. For a moment, the warm sensation spreading out from the kneading fingers held at bay the discomfort threatening from his abdomen. But within minutes the nausea swelled again and Commodus was reminded of his slave’s appalling disobedience.

  “Narcissus!”

  Quick fingers clenched around the emperor’s windpipe, treating him to the second great shock of the evening.

  Commodus dropped the roll of parchment to the edge of the bath and clutched at the black, straining fingers pressing into his neck. He was larger and heavier than his assailant, but in his weakened state he was unable to resist. This was one wrestling match that the Nubian would not artfully lose.

  The smile on the emperor’s face looked more like a grimace. He knew now why Marcia had been shoveling plate after heaping plate at him. At the time, it had seemed peculiar how no-one else had partaken of the roast beef. Now it was obvious. Poison. The extra regurgitation earlier had saved his life, temporarily. Frustrated, Marcia had sent Narcissus to finish the job. Commodus ground his teeth imagining her clandestine collaborations with the magnificent athlete, rutting with him like a bitch, by way of concluding the deal. Again, most inappropriately, he was aroused.

  Narcissus, disgusted, poured every ounce of reserved strength into his constricting fingers. There was a loud pop of cracking vertebrae and tearing ligaments. As the oxygen dissipated from the emperor’s body, his resistance abated and he began to revert to a foetal position, crunching himself into a ball. From the emperor’s core a final chasm of fear yawned and caused an utter evacuation of his bowels. The cooling water of the bath, originally sweet with aromatics, now darkened and muddied into a foul broth. Through his diminishing consciousness, Commodus could see his father, standing on a distant hill, clad in gold armour, bathed in the warmth of a Mediterranean sun reflected and redoubled in its brilliance. The emperor began to cry the pure, unrestrained tears of a baby. In his fading reverie he called out to his father, but the distance was too great, and his words were carried away by the wind.

  “Father,” Commodus mouthed, “forgive me.”

  The emperor’s eyes closed and he was limp. Narcissus, having completed his task, relaxed his grip, his fingers aching with the strain of their work. He stood, bent to retrieve the crumpled parchment from the stone floor, and turned to rejoin the shadows. The mass of the emperor’s body began to sink into the thick water until, with a soft burble, he submerged.

  ONE

  The antique volume waits for a reader, type set outmoded, stiff pages mottled, dust jacket rumpled. Unopened. Jettisoned.

  One hundred and twenty miles into upstate New York, rolling south on Interstate 81, lulled by the unrelenting sameness of the forested edge of the Adirondacks blurring by the windscreen, Mark replayed his departure that morning. He recalled his mother’s rigid smile. And then the memory of the forgotten hardcover left on the night stand, the book that his grandfather had made a show of presenting.

  Road signs rushed past.

  Exit to Cicero. Syracuse 12 miles straight ahead. Off-ramps to Cato, Conquest, and Brutus to the east. Utica and Rome to the west.

  Unusual names. Different from the blandly British names found north of the border, in the countryside that Mark had spent his childhood: Kingston, Brockville, Harrowsmith, Sydenham, Westbrook, Picton, Wellington. Conservative. Ordinary. Thoroughly Anglo-Saxon.

  These names were exotic and evocative of far-off places. They promised adventure. They were freighted with an unmistakable yet indiscernible significance. Mark imagined taking one of these exits, to Rome, and arriving at a bright amusement park, centurions taking his parking money, galley slaves serving him fries and soda, pimpled and toga-clad teenagers taking his tickets for the chariot rides, and a gaudy Emperor presiding over enactments of gladiator games every hour between ten and four. Six Flags Ancient Rome.

  He navigated the car, a 1979 Pontiac Phoenix that Mark’s younger brother Andy had busted out of the junkyard and had resuscitated with the help of his friend Budge, through the environs of Syracuse and wound his way out the other side to rejoin the interstate.

  Pompey, Virgil, Ithaca, and Cincinnatus ahead.

  Camillus, Marcellus, and Aurelius to the west…

  Aurelius? Mark looked again. The sign read Aurelius. What are the odds? The name of the writer of that book that Vincent, his grandfather, had given him. Marcus Aurelius. My Observations? The Initiations?

  Meditations. The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius.

  A vivid memory of the awkward exchange that morning with Vincent flooded back. Mark flushed slightly as he remembered his behaviour. He hadn’t intended to be dismissive; especially not when presented with a gift that his grandfather prized so greatly.

  It’s for his sake that I’m leaving, he thought, not mine.

  The Phoenix hummed steadily along the I-81 towards New York City. Andy had handed the keys over just that morning.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  “Look what else Budge and I got you,” Andy said as he waved an 8 inch hunting knife, sunlight flickering along its serrated edge. “A parting gift for the intrepid traveller. Budge said you should bring it with you and keep it nearby for when you sleep in the car. Just in case. Look, we had your name engraved on it.”

  His name was etched in the blade on one side with “Safe Travels” and the date inscribed on the other. Mark glanced at his mother to gauge her reaction.

  “Sleeping in the car?”

  Andy continued, sensing the awkwardness, “Budge said a gun wouldn’t be a bad idea either. He said you can get them from pawnshops. Or from Walmart. Budge says it’s real easy…”

  He stopped before mentioning the nine millimetre Glock 17.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Andy had the best intentions when he had stowed the gun under the driver’s seat, wrapped in an old towel, behind the lever that adjusts the seat. Fortunately, Mark had not been one of those selected for a search at U.S. customs and he thought he was telling the truth when he answered No to the question, Are you bringing any firearms into the country? The gun remained inert and undiscovered, inches from his right knee.

  Billboards rushed by: Denny’s, Subway, Dunkin Donuts.

  There was a red light flashing from the dashboard, just above the odometer, that hadn’t been there an hour earlier. Mark tapped the cracked plastic over the temperature indicator with his forefinger. A short or something. Andy had said the car might do that on occasion, nothing serious. Mark knocked it with the back of his hand. The flashing stopped.

  I wish I’d remembered the damn book, he thought.

  TWO

  Marcus marveled at the roads. Britannia could boast a number of thoroughfares and some of them were quite fine, including the Iter III, on which he had first struck out from Verulamium to Londinium and on toward the southern edge of the province at Portus Dubris. The genius of Roman engineering had extended its influence in all directions.

  But those Roman-inspired provincial roads were just the tapered ends of something much greater and Marcus imagined he was following strand ends to their manifold and robust source. He had started at a remote capillary tip, one of millions across the body politic where the vigorous interchange between cultures transpires, and had flowed southward through the contiguous vessels, from side-roads and concessions, to highways and byways, finally to the veins and arteries and their inevitable starting point.

  Marcus recalled his grandfather describing how Augustus, Rome’s first emperor, consolidated the empire’s radiation of roadways into its most efficient war machine. When not marching his army along the viae with ruthless speed to crush uprisings in the frontiers of Spain, Gaul, or along the Danube, he set them to work building, expanding, and maintaining these same routes. Vincentius loved to tell the tale of how he had, as a young man, witnessed the march of several legions on their way to pacify rebels in Pannonia.
He had to move to the side of the road and stand in the ditch to let them pass. For five hours he waited and watched as a dusty, miles-long procession of soldiers, pack animals, and war machines thundered, squealed and clattered by, as though on parade just for him. The noise had echoed in his ears for many hours after they had passed.

  As Marcus progressed through valley and over rise, one after another for mile after mile, he marveled at the power that could so unequivocally impose its stamp upon the countryside with such single-minded purpose and homogenous effect, never faltering in its execution, never wavering in its commitment to the central design. He wondered at the human sweat that must have been poured into the excavation of those broad ditches and the expansive re-distribution of rock and rubble into the composition of the surface. He admired the meticulousness that produced the pavimentum tamped and smooth, with unfailing consistency over thousands of miles. And the ubiquitous concrete. Flesh of the empire. Ribbons of stone would bind the landscape for yet another thousand years. And soon he would be an apprentice to this grand endeavour.

  At sunset Marcus noticed that Phoenix was flagging. The old chestnut mare his brother Annaeus had rescued from the slaughter-house and nursed back to health was showing unmistakable signs of distress. Marcus could see that she no longer twitched under the persistent attack of the flies around her eyes and nose, her ears were beginning to fold back flat, and her drooping lips had turned pale, the spittle forming a paste at the corners of her mouth. She hardly bothered to stoop for a drink when they stopped at a stream.

  He recalled the milestone they had just passed: CXV. There might be a caupona ahead.

  The sun’s leading edge dipped behind the low hills ahead and shadows distorted the landscape. Marcus refastened the broach of his tunic against the cooling air. The monotony of the journey had inflamed his imagination and he was aware for the first time of his remoteness from home. A misshapen shrub around the bend resembled, for a moment, a prowling animal. Rustling in the long grasses betrayed sneaking highwaymen.