by Morgan Wade
He crested a slope. Every three hundred feet or so, on either side of the road for as far as he could see, stood crucifixes, one after another, silhouetted black and looming against the reddening sky, with a slumping figure fastened to each one.
“Jupiter,” Marcus whispered.
The crucified were in various states of decay. The first were long-time residents; their frames had been picked clean with scraps of clothing hanging from ankles and wrists. The tableau was made absurd by the broad, bony grins spread across the skulls of each of the condemned. Their incongruous smiles were made comically emphatic by the shadow of the sun’s deteriorating light, as though they’d all shared a macabre but hilarious joke just before he had arrived. Looking into the skeletal faces he imagined what they had looked like in the flesh, twisting in agony on their cruel platforms.
Marcus spied the caupona from the next rise and was relieved that the rows of crucifixes ended well before it. He secured Phoenix to a nearby fence post and entered through the front gate, across the square courtyard, past the heaps of rubbish, half-empty, half-rotted sacks, the crumbling statue, the patchy rooster lurching at the clouding gnats, and he stepped through the open door.
“Hello?”
A sooty oil lamp flickering from a side table did little to illuminate the room.
“Come over here, and bring that lamp.”
The man was wedged behind a chunky, rough-hewn oak table and he completely filled the broad rectangle of space between it and the wall. In the mitt of his right hand he gripped an oily joint of meat. Held aloft in his left hand was a soiled handkerchief as big as a tablecloth. His torso was terraced. The forward arc of his belly enveloped the edge of the table and three additional layers of body mass, contoured as distinct mounds, stacked up to the level of his sagging chest. His face was pallid and larval. It was as if he’d been born in this little alcove, had been fattened in it, and now was too large to leave.
“What can I do for you boy?”
“I’m looking for a place to stay the night. I’m on the road.”
“Not possible tonight, I’m afraid.”
Marcus shuddered, picturing himself outside again with the moon-lit silhouettes of the crucified.
“Amanda and Priscilla are in tonight, working.” The caupo’s laugh sounded like a sneeze. “We only have the two rooms and both will be occupied.”
“Do you suppose I could feed and water my horse?”
“Of course. Provided you’ve got the denarii.”
Marcus nodded that he did.
“Excellent.” The caupo put the drumstick he’d been holding down on the handkerchief, shifted on his seat and lifted himself, placing both beefy arms on the table top for support. “Come and I’ll show you the stables. Let’s see your coin first.”
Marcus dug into his purse and paid him the amount requested. With greasy hands, the man pocketed the coins and took the lamp from Marcus.
“Might I also get some food for myself?”
“Certainly. That’s extra.”
Marcus dropped several more coins into his outstretched hand.
“Follow me.”
“Those crucifixes on the highway. What happened?”
The caupo stopped in the middle of the hallway. Beads of sweat formed across his forehead.
“Maleficî! Stupid peasants! Got exactly what they deserved.”
“But what did they do?”
“They were harbouring a fugitive,” the man shouted over his shoulder, “Sextus Condianus himself if you can believe it. Peasants don’t know what’s good for them.”
“Sextus who?”
Again the caupo stopped.
“You aren’t from around here are you?” He gurgled and shook his head. “Sextus who. Buy me a goblet of wine and I’ll tell you all about him.”
Without waiting for an answer he continued down the corridor and together they entered the old villa’s atrium. The air was thick with the odour of grilling meat. Across the dusty courtyard, under a couple of hanging lanterns, an old woman rotated the carcass of a young goat over a fire. Fats from the animal dripped steadily onto the bed of coals, hissing and billowing acrid smoke up into the cool evening air. A young man, pale and gaunt, sat at a table nearer the cooking area, picking at a plate of food. He watched as Marcus and the innkeeper entered.
“Here,” the caupo gestured toward the fire pit, “just tell cŏqua what you want. Bring your grub back over here to this bench.”
The cŏqua, a diminished Pict whose scarified skin was indigo-coloured, doled grilled goat meat, flatbread, crumbly cheese, pale beans drenched in garlic and oil, and a gritty porridge onto a platter and handed it to Marcus.
“Come! We’ll sit over here and I’ll tell you about Sextus Condianus, provided you have some more coin for the wine.”
Marcus hesitated. He weighed the caupo’s moist enunciations against an image of the crucified on the via. His coin purse was thin, but his instinct was not to offend. He offered the caupo two more coppers.
“Excellent,” the caupo beamed as he led him to a table next to the fire. “Sit here. I’ll get the wine.”
The caupo poured two goblets of wine from the ewer he’d brought and he pushed one toward Marcus.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Patricius Constantius the Younger sat at a nearby bench. He did not look up from his circle of flatbread and nugget of hard cheese, but he listened hard. He knew of the reward offered for the successful capture of the traitor Sextus Condianus. The man who delivered up Sextus would not only receive bags full of silver, he’d be a hero. They’d make me a quaestor. And what would the Elder have to say about that? A thin smile broke through Patricius’ chewing. For once, he’d be speechless.
Patricius had left his father’s domus early that morning and he had not planned beyond the initial escape. He’d thought that opportunities would present themselves along the way. Now, at day’s end, having skulked around the sparse caupona for two hours, his initial exhilaration had worn off. His funds were slight and he had nowhere to go; many miles from home, many miles from Rome.
He tore at the disc of flatbread from the side of his mouth. I won’t go home, he thought. He pictured his father, Patricius Constantius the Elder, head thrown back, clutching the crest of his potbelly, loud with laughter as his son shuffled back through the front gate a day later, with head bowed.
I’d rather starve. Or hang.
Patricius studied Marcus as he listened to the caupo.
About my age. Has his own mount. Never heard of Sextus Condianus. Not from here. Not too bright. A well-stocked coin purse, judging from the outlay. A foreigner. From Britannia? Squalid land of squat, fat-nosed folk in fur jackets who sleep with their sheep. Tin piss pots and… more tin piss pots. Caesar should never have demeaned the glory of Rome by even pointing his imperial toe toward the clammy place. Listen to the caupo, lardy oaf, with his Belgic wife, and his pruney Pictish servant-woman, carrying on like they’re kin. All that ancestral bloodshed, conquering, domesticating. Now the donkeys hold the reins.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Well, I shouldn’t even be telling you this,” the caupo said to Marcus, in a quieter tone, “they say the emperor’s spies still patrol these parts. Pluto’s ass, maybe you’re a spy.”
Patricius reddened and turned back to his meal.
“I’ve never even heard of this man until just now,” Marcus said.
“Naw, you’re a Belgic from Verulamium no? A good old boy, it’s ok, I trust you. Do you remember Commodus?”
“A little. My grandfather spoke of him.”
“Vae, you’re greener than a grasshopper’s ass!”
The innkeeper paused to drain his goblet. He picked up the ewer and raised it over the empty vessel. Looking across at Marcus with eyebrows raised, he sucked on the sausage of his index finger. Marcus stared back, not understanding at first. Then, slowly, he pulled another copper coin from his pouch and laid it on the table. The caupo poured and, with a wet g
rin, continued his tale.
When Commodus took to the throne, he explained, his advisors terrified him with talk of assassination and revolt. The emperor instructed his henchmen to murder hundreds of the leading citzens of Rome at the time, including the Quintilii brothers, Condianus and Maximus, scions of one of the oldest and most respected families in Rome. Commodus also ordered the killing of Sextus Condianus, Maximus’ son. Despite his youth, Sextus was the greatest of all the Quintilii, as smart and as skilled a horseman as his father and uncle combined. Sextus was living in Syria when he learned that he was next on the execution list. One morning he drank a full cup of rabbit blood and went out for his morning ride. He rode past the local garrison and fell from his horse, vomiting up the blood. His friends rushed him back to his room where he died. A funeral was held and a coffin was burned on a pyre. The Syrian praefect reported back to Commodus that Sextus Condianus had an accident, he’d died and been cremated. No need to round him up for execution.
What was one of Rome’s best horsemen doing falling from his horse? It was rumoured that it was a ram’s body that was placed in the coffin and not the body of Sextus Condianus. People said he was wandering the empire, continually changing his appearance, whipping up rebellion, terrifying Commodus.
“Eventually,” the caupo said, pausing for breath, “Commodus was murdered by his whores. But they never did find Sextus. They say he’s still out there, playing hide and seek, and now Caracallus is hunting him. If he survived all these years he’d have to be fifty or sixty by now, pretty old for scurrying across the empire like a greasy rat. If you ask me, he never made it out of Syria.”
The caupo tipped back his third cup. He peered at Marcus, as if to dare him to dispute his story. The two men stared at each other.
“Well, that’s very interesting,” Marcus said, finally, “But I’m still unsure of what it has to do with those folks on the crosses out there.”
“Rustici stultum! To them this Sextus Condianus is some sort of saviour. A rumour started that Sextus was hiding out here, sheltered by the peasants and slaves. There was nearly a riot. The soldiers couldn’t find him, so they nailed up fifty or so.”
The caupo’s eyelids wavered heavily from their brows as he awaited an agreeable response. Marcus had mostly cleared his plate.
“Well, thank you very much, it’s fascinating. I really should be tending to my horse. She needs some good hay and water, maybe some oats?”
“Oh. Hay. Yes, of course.” He pushed the copper coins back at Marcus. “Don’t worry about it. A good old boy from Verulamium? It’s on the house.”
The two exited the caupona and around to the south side where a low-pitched roof, supported by stout, roughly hewn timbers, extended from the walls of the building. Patricius followed, from a discreet distance.
“The well is just over there,” the caupo said, pointing behind the building. “You can fill the trough with the bucket. There’s more than enough hay. Sorry, no oats.”
“Do you mind if I camp out here in the stable with my horse?”
“Suit yourself, you wouldn’t be the first.”
Marcus unfastened Phoenix from the fencepost and brought her back to the trough under the low-pitched roof. He unrolled his blanket on the mounds of hay, balled up some extra clothing, and attempted to get comfortable.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Patricius decided he would wait patiently in the shadows until the Briton fell asleep. When the moon was at its full height and the snoring was at its loudest, he would pad over, free the purse from the traveler’s tunic, and lead away his nag. With a horse and some silver, he could begin his pursuit of Sextus Condianus. And, most importantly, he wouldn’t have to return home.
THREE
Mark had camped down at a rest-stop along a stretch of the freeway where the Interstate became the New Jersey turnpike, just past the many rows of hulking 18-wheeler rigs, orange and red running lights like patio lanterns strung along the perimeters of their cargo, idling diesel engines emitting an endless hushed rattle, drivers catatonic in the fold-out bunks of their compact cabs. A quarter mile away the turnpike roared with a host of travelers finding their way through the darkness. The windscreen glowed softly with the unremitting white lights of the distant sixteen pump service station. Inside the car, dashboard instruments cast a low, blue phosphorescence. He sipped from a can of frigid, metallic-tasting Budweiser. For a moment, he felt intrepid. A stranger amongst strangers. Unburdened.
Nearby, in the parking lot, the activity showed no signs of slowing. A black Lincoln Navigator and a silver Lexus pulled up two spots over. A woman emerged from the sedan and stepped into the SUV, which commenced to lurch and quake moments later. The shimmying subsided after some time and the woman stepped from the SUV and disappeared back into the sedan. The Navigator backed out with a squeal and charged toward the freeway. It was soon replaced by a dark blue minivan. Once again, the woman hopped from her car to the van and the van began to rock. An Expedition and an Escalade parked three spots to the right of the Phoenix and played the same game. And so it went, every half hour or so, for the rest of the night.
The tawdry parade began to depress him and his earlier élan subsided. He hadn’t been gone twenty four hours and now he wondered: what am I doing here?
“Change is the only constant,” that’s what Mark’s grandfather, so fond of aphorisms, always said. It was the consolation Vincent had offered when one of the chickens that followed six-year-old Mark around the farmyard all summer, the one Mark had named Gordon, was slaughtered and roasted for dinner.
He’s the reason I’m here. To be an engineer. To be like him.
“I don’t really want to go.” Mark caught his breath at the stark truth and futility of it, spoken out loud for the first time. He wandered back into the truck stop to the pay phone next to the restrooms. Though it was late, he couldn’t resist.
“Will you accept a long-distance call from Mark?”
“Yes.”
“Ok, please go ahead.”
“Hello Mark?”
“Mom?”
“My beautiful heron.”
Mark had always recalled to her the elegant creature. His slow, deliberate movements were at the same time ungainly and full of grace. There was the abrupt tuft of hair that forever lifted up from the crown of his narrow, protracted head, despite the endless patting and combing. Even at an early age he could stand perfectly still, to inspect and study whatever had captured his interest, as he had that one early morning at the beaver dam, when he was six, and Paulina had thrilled to see an actual great blue heron stalking breakfast just a few yards away.
“Where are you?”
“New Jersey I think.”
“How are you doing? Is everything ok?”
“Yes Mom, fine. I’m fine.”
“I’m glad you called. It’s good to hear your voice.”
“Oh Mom, it hasn’t even been twenty four hours.”
“I know, but we miss you already. Are you staying the night there? Is it a nice place?”
Mark paused. He looked around at the mostly empty truck stop and the rows of semis beyond.
“It will do.”
“When is your meeting? Are you excited?”
“4:00 PM. I’m a little nervous.”
“You’ll do fine, I’m sure you will.”
They were both quiet. Mark half hoped that Paulina would implore him to come home and tell him that it wasn’t all that important to Vincent after all that he intern at the old firm. Paulina half hoped that Mark would say he no longer wanted to go, that he really wanted to come home.
“Well, I’d better go. Just wanted to let you know everything was ok,” Mark said, finally.
“Ok, please call when you get settled in the city. Let us know how the meeting goes and where you are staying.”
“I will.”
“And tell us as soon as you get an address. You left behind your grandfather’s gift. The book.”
“Yes, I k
now.”
“I’ll send it down as soon as you get settled.”
“Thanks. I love you.”
“I love you too. Be careful kiddo.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Patrick Jr. continued to loiter in the deserted truck stop, with no-one to call. No-one he wanted to call. He was satisfied to slouch over a soda in his booth. It beat the alternative.
Just about now, he predicted, Patrick Sr. will have finished his sixth rye and ginger and would soon be cooking up a rage. It might be because the Steelers lost. It might be because the house is a mess. It might be because the anxious terrier next door won’t stop barking.
But it won’t be because my music is too loud or because I’ve been smoking his cigarettes or because I’m fighting with Michelle again. It won’t be any of those things because I’m long gone. Out of New Ravenna. Finally. He’ll have to find someone else he can smack with his cane. It will be the potted palm that he flattens, or he’ll give Jock a kick in the ribs, or he’ll backhand Tammy. I wonder if they even realize I’m gone.
Patrick didn’t linger on the question long. Solitude and fatigue inflamed his imagination. He had his eye on the curious, artless foreigner. Who is he talking to on that pay phone right now, so seriously? What is he doing alone in that old, beat-up car out there among the rigs? Patrick crossed the diner to a window booth to watch Mark hang up the pay phone and return to the car.
He’s up to something and I’m going to find out what it is.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shortly after dawn, following a cup of scalding, flavourless coffee, Mark wheeled the car back on to the busy New Jersey turnpike bound for New York. In fifteen minutes it became all too clear that the Phoenix had not recovered. He pulled over. A knocking came from her engine block and curls of hot, white vapour poured from her grille. Water dribbled from spots of green on the radiator.
The appointment in New York was that afternoon. Mark gathered his belongings into his knapsack, triaging the items he least needed, slung it over his shoulder, and started walking. Five hundred yards later he was at the next exit. The vapour that had initially gushed from the grille had narrowed to a thin strand. Mark sighed and left the freeway. It took about an hour and a half at the nearest crossroads to hitch a ride to the Newark bus station. Once at the station, he realized he had left the keys in the ignition.