The Last Stoic

by Morgan Wade

  “Hup!” he barked as Marcus sat beside him. Eight of the men languidly picked themselves up and took their positions on the rails, two each at either corner. With a collective grunt they hoisted the litter. Gus issued his command and they were underway.

  They advanced along a ridge, past the barricades and the soldiers posted every few paces. Behind the fencing, expressionless men and women, some shouldering packs, some clutching limp bundles to their chests, shuffled single file toward a squat gate in the border wall, out into the unexplored hinterland beyond. Their village of mud huts and primitive shacks was already forgotten, flattened and ploughed under by the cascade of silt and rock; leavings from the highway construction. The seasonal pastureland in the hills and the thin strip of fertile earth of the valley had been washed into the river. It looked as though a titan had stood up on that ridge and had dumped an immense pail of water, sticks and stones down the valley slope, with the bulk of it collecting in a mess at the riverbank.

  “They’d have to leave eventually,” Gus said, “this whole area is going to be converted into olive groves. For oil.”

  There was one tree, a cedar, partially denuded, standing erect in the middle of the flood plain, surrounded by the clutter of the landslide. Marcus was reminded of the ancient yew that stood at the edge of the family farm, where the forest met the field, standing as a sentry before the mystery and allure of the woods. Anyone surveying the land for the first time would have had their eyes automatically drawn to its distinguished presence. His grandfather and the yew would forever be conjoined in his mind.

  Marcus could easily picture and locate in his mind’s eye the dozens of knurls and scars that decorated the tree’s stout trunk. Each blemish and protrusion had significance as a foothold, or a marker, or a symbol of something else. Each feature of the trunk’s topography had a history. As youngsters he and his friends spent long summer hours clambering amongst its broad, sturdy boughs, chasing each other around its perimeter, or else lounging in mild repose under the generous canopy of shade. In the service of youthful imagination, the tree had seen duty variously as a pirate ship, a Celtic fortress, a siege engine, or one of the Emperor’s expansive villas. When seen from a distance, its weathered and scaling bark had a slight tanned, reddish colour and it resembled the well-worn leather one might find covering a saddle. Unlike any other tree in the forest, the yew’s broad lower branches had returned inexorably back to earth, giving rise to a new generation.

  As a boy, Marcus had assumed that the tree had existed, exactly in its present form, ancient and unchanging, since the beginning of time and that it would continue to stand resolutely at the edge of the forest until history drew to a close. Vincentius estimated that it might already be one or two thousand years old and had been rooted to that spot long before their people had arrived from across the sea. And he predicted that it would stand for thousands more, a notion that filled Marcus with wonder. The tree inhabited a time scale that was not easily comprehended. What would it be like two thousand years hence? Would there still be a farm? Would there still be people? What would they look like? Would they remember earlier generations? Would they see Marcus etched primitively into the tree’s bark and be filled with a similar wonderment, looking back through the millenia? Such a distant future was unfathomable. And yet, the yew lived on, unperturbed by the many minor dramas that would unfold within sight of its leafy crown.

  Not so the cedar of the valley below. A work crew descended the valley slope with a pair of two-man saws and set about felling the final straggler.

  The road ended abruptly amid heaps of rubble. Scores of men laboured at the road’s end clawing at the earth with spades and picks while others hauled away cartloads of the resulting dirt and debris. Another large group of men directed by the deafening and relentless exhortations of a legionary brandishing a whip were straining at a system of thick ropes, levers and a series of rolling logs as they struggled to shift a cow-sized rock out of the path. Standing some distance back from the activity, Marcus’ new boss, Paulus Cornelius, stood with Xander, the old Greek, consulting a parchment and surveying the scene.

  “Halt!” Gus shouted and the litter stopped. “Here we are.”

  Gus stepped down, surveyed the worksite with an expansive wave of his hand. He explained that the firm was under contract to extend the road ten more miles to the south. Caracallus wished to be able to march his legions into the vicinity with greater haste, a desire made more urgent by a series of uprisings in the area. In addition, a local landowner was sponsoring the work in exchange for a few coveted olive groves.

  “But without a guarantee that he can safely and easily transport the olives north,” Gus said, “they’re not worth a copper token. Pluto’s hat! I know little of how the road goes in. And I don’t much care. Collar a team of slaves to dig a ditch, fill it in, pave it over. That’s your responsibility. I just need to keep the Emperor’s generals smiling. One visits at calends. I promised them two miles finished by the next full moon. Paulus protests of course. Whatever we promise, he says it will take double. That sort of talk won’t win a contract. It would go to Terentius Agricola and his band of jackals. Paulus understands the viae, but he has no ability for business. And, by Hades, we’re not keeping to schedule. Paulus!”

  Gus re-entered the litter and Paulus joined him. Together they were carried off toward the encampments. Marcus watched them go and he turned back toward the clamour and activity of the nearby excavation to get his orders from Xander.

  SEVEN

  Alex, a rotund, ruddy faced man with white hair, wore a blue golfing shirt, a crisp pair of jeans, and a pair of alligator skin western boots. He looked over his shoulder and waved his hand.

  “Follow me.”

  Mark stepped into a cold, glass-walled room bathed in the sterile light of dozens of fluorescent tubes, and lined with dozens of banks of modular shelving units seven feet high. Thick bundles of cords spilled out of the backs of the stacked machines like tangles of overgrown vines. Each machine emitted a persistent electric buzz that pervaded the space and its cumulative effect made it necessary to raise one’s voice when speaking. There was a vibrating, pulsating hum that made Mark feel like he had entered the body of a living being.

  Alex extended his hand.

  “Welcome! It’s good to have you on board.”

  “Thank you very much. It’s good to be here. I was told I should come down and speak to you about getting a username and password for the network?”

  “You bet. I can help you out.”

  Alex walked to a keyboard and console and started typing in commands.

  “So, what do you think so far?”

  “It’s quite impressive.”

  “Yep. All brand new. We’ve got three redundant fibre optic connections coming in and T3 connections direct to all of the servers we host. It’s not unusual for some of them to get 50 megabytes a second.”

  Alex paused to judge Mark’s reaction.

  “That’s some bandwidth!” Mark said, hoping he’d hit the right tone.

  “Damn straight. Check this out.”

  Alex led Mark to a smaller back room of the main server area and pointed to a collection of six foot high grey metal boxes with steel pipes extending from the top.

  “That’s a Liebert double conversion UPS that can kick out five hundred KVa. When we get an outage, which happens down here more often than you’d expect, it switches to a seven hundred and fifty Kilowatt Kohler generator that has a two thousand gallon Super Vault fuel tank. We could be without power for a week and you wouldn’t even notice.”

  “Nice.”

  Alex walked back into the server room and picked up a piece of paper from a printer tray. Mark followed and as they made their way back through the rows of server racks, Alex pointed out the machines of notable customers.

  “There’s the Ride Market servers. You know them right? Big used car portal with vehicle history look-ups and stuff. And there’s Late Bloomers…they specialize
in just-in-time delivery of flowers and bouquets, you know for forgetful husbands, bosses for their secretaries etc. This server is tracking coffee prices in the Andes. This one is a charity casino. The company is in Buenos Aires or Rio or somewhere, but they host their site here. This one here is a mirror of Doppel Gangs; an online shooter game based in Germany. Lots of fun. And this rack is where the new servers will go for the refinery.”

  Mark nodded. It was fascinating to think that all of those far off places were linked to this little room. That thousands, perhaps millions, of people scattered across the globe were evaluating and purchasing cars, ordering and delivering flowers, trading coffee beans, bluffing and wagering, robbing and killing, all through the countless circuits and cables of these hundreds of machines that make up a virtual marketplace, an increasingly complex weaving of electronic pathways and crossroads. Listening to the wavering whirr reverberating through the server room, Mark could imagine hearing the accumulation of a million different conversations.

  “Oh, and this little server,” Alex said pointing to a computer the size and shape of a pizza box, “is Gus’ favourite. Ever heard of Priapus Entertainment?”

  Alex laughed when Mark shook his head.

  “Spicy stuff. Purely 18 years and older if you know what I mean. I think Gus owns shares or something. He’s always getting me to give him special access. I don’t know what all is on there and I’m not sure I want to.”

  Alex handed Mark the piece of paper in his hands.

  “Here you go, here’s your username and password that you can use for your email and to access the network.”

  “Thanks, that’s great.”

  “No problem. Y’all let me know if you need anything else ok?”

  “Will do, thanks.”

  Mark left the server room to tour the rest of the office and to await Gus’ return.

  EIGHT

  Marcus watched as scores of men bent themselves against a series of pulleys and levers, struggling to hoist a stubborn boulder up out of the earth and onto a massive sledge so they could haul it away. Their effort was orchestrated by the three Baeticans, who had finished their luncheon and now showed no hint of their earlier playfulness. They applied themselves and their wit to the task with uncompromising focus.

  The scale of the endeavour was impressive. Here was a relatively minor road construction project, undertaken by a regional division of the Frontinus firm, at the outermost southern margins of the empire. And yet, already it was bigger than the sum of its parts. Marcus marveled at how this collection of seemingly disparate men, from all corners of the world, could come together as one body to achieve something none of them could dream of doing on their own.

  The Roman road would yield to nothing, least of all to the whims of nature. It would continue its progress, digit by digit, palm by palm, and pace by pace, straighter than a hypotenuse drafted by Euclid himself, extending Rome’s reach indefinitely into the hinterland with irresistible momentum. Before long, borne on wagons, or on the backs of beasts and men, the arid region’s fruit, olives and figs would begin to flow, draining northward, first at a trickle and then at a torrent, to be laid out on the countless mensae of the Roman empire. This relatively short stretch of road was just an insignificant capillary at the outer edge of the system, but it was connected to the vast network that spread in every direction from the empire’s heart. And the system had its own powerful logic, its own peculiar propulsion, a resolve which would be forever mysterious to the people who tended it.

  Just beyond the group extricating the rock, hundreds of other men clawed at the crust of the baked soil, digging as far down as the bedrock with their picks. For every man that broke the earth, another shoveled the rubble into a barrow and carted it off. The grunts of the excavators, the squeal of cart wheels, and the clanging of iron tools made an uncomfortable din. Conducting the company were at least a score of burly legionaries armed with bull whips, keeping rhythm with their stentorian commands.

  Marcus wandered closer and sought a vantage point under the shade of a mastic tree. Though it was already well past mid-afternoon the sun still simmered, radiating thick waves of heat. Marcus welcomed the cover provided by the stubby tree, scant though it was, and his relief heightened the appreciation he had for the figures along the road absorbing the full brunt of the sun’s broil. It was a mass of knotting muscle and contracting sinew below. Unforgiving shackles chafed at ankles and faces were papered with resignation. The colours of the unfortunates ranged from rich, chestnut brown to shiny obsidian to raw, sunburnt red. Like me, Marcus reflected, all of these men come from far away.

  The nearest legionary stood about fifteen paces away. He gave Marcus a perfunctory, knowing nod and Marcus returned the gesture. So, he thought, I’m already known here. He thrilled at the thought of his newfound importance.

  I’m an architect. An architect’s apprentice, at least. I carry some weight.

  His eyes glazed as they rested on the backs of the men. He imagined himself one day running a multi-million sesterces engineering firm, lunching with the Emperor and his family, and perhaps marrying the daughter of a senator, enjoying a life of sumptuous oiled baths, perfumed gardens, and luxurious multi-course meals. He fancied himself on a dais, presented with awards for service and accepted into the same equestrian order his grandfather joined decades ago. He dreamed of the great tome he’d one day produce, a work worthy of the venerable Frontinus himself, a book that would immortalize his name. Students would pore over his work for centuries to come. Finally, he exulted, I am somewhere where I will be admired for my talents, no longer mocked and abused. He thought back to his early reticence to leave the house of his mother and father and chided himself. This is where I belong.

  His eyes had alighted on the beetle-black back of the man closest to him. Every fibre of the man’s body stretched at the pick. Drops of sweat emerged and took shape from the man’s back, neck and head, as though they bubbled up from a squeezed sponge. What day-dreams cloud his imagination, Marcus wondered casually. Tantalizing memories of home? Lazy afternoons in the pasture, swimming in the river, snoozing in the shade?

  The legionary raised the whip well behind his head and brought it forward sharply, snapping it back on itself with vicious force. The tiny shards of iron at its terminus bit into the back of the slave Marcus had just been looking upon, shredding an area of flesh the size of a denarius. Marcus started, shivering, his damp skin grown suddenly clammy, despite the heat.

  “Look lively!” the soldier bellowed.

  A stream of thick red blood trailing down the man’s shoulder blade blended with the layer of perspiration. Immediately after the lash, he quickened his pace and maintained it for a number of swings.

  Marcus’ reveries evaporated. At first, despite himself, he was glad of the strike and the show of force exhilarated him. He had the same kind of excited sensation when he had helped his grandfather break a spirited mustang. He had the notion that the collective vigour on display before him must continue to be marshaled, that the forward momentum of the system must be preserved. If a little blood is shed, he thought, then so be it. The legionary turned again and nodded, as if he had been reading Marcus’ thoughts and wanted to show his agreement. Again, Marcus replied in kind.

  A palpable heaviness hung in the humid atmosphere, a weight of expectation. Now, with the initial dissipation of adrenaline, a sense of unease seeped into Marcus. As far as he could tell, the victim of the whip had been working as hard as he was capable and certainly as hard as those around him. It occurred to him that the legionary had targeted the exact man Marcus had been absently gazing at. Could that have been coincidence? And then there was that second nod.

  “Liveliness is what I want! Pick up your pace!”

  Once more, the whip with its awful prongs sliced through the thick air and tore into the slave’s back. Once more, the man howled in agony and surprise.

  “Dung eater! This is not a feast day. This is not the beach. We’re buildin
g a road here, by Mars!”

  The whip bore down again. This time the ditch digger slowed noticeably. None of his co-workers dared look up. The legionary turned to Marcus with another show of acknowledgement. And was that the beginning of a smile forming at the corner of his mouth? Marcus was now convinced that the display was for his benefit. But what can be done? Discipline has to be upheld. Isn’t that right? I’m the new man. I can’t step in. The whip continued to crackle and pop like fat on a bed of coals. The toned black back with its fine silvery sheen of sweat was becoming a pulpy mass of blood and tissue and Marcus was sickened. Is this usual? Is this for me? Why won’t he stop?

  He was transported back to the Verulamium of his youth, on an August day as oppressively hot, to an empty pasture and adjoining woodland where the village children would play hide and seek or harpastum small ball. On this day, they had played Romans and Britons.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Laurentius and Sylvanus, two of the older boys who always organized the games, assigned Marcus to the Britons, laughing at the protest of the others. Marcus ignored the rejection of his tribe; he was well used to it. And anyway, he loved to play Romans and Britons.

  At first it was worth bearing this latest indignation; all the other Britons had been captured, they’d been caught and imprisoned or conscripted into the larger Roman host. He alone had eluded the patrols through his superior cunning. Marcus was never more proud of himself as he lay in a culvert, obscured by ferns, panting and sweating, the only surviving Briton. With every reserve of patience, lying perfectly motionless despite the ants tickling his legs and the gnats clogging his nose, he waited and waited, letting the calling die down until he knew for certain they had given up.

  He emerged from his clever hiding place and strode back into the field, his long, stick legs propelling him triumphantly forward. The full length of his neck flushed pink as he anticipated the admiration of his peers for such a masterful performance. But no-one was there. The pasture was empty and the voices had faded into silence. He hadn’t been found because no-one had looked for him.