The Last Stoic

by Morgan Wade

  “Something left? Why didn’t you see him first?”

  “I’m sorry, these people have nothing.”

  “What does he have?! No pride! No dignity! No legs!”

  The old man had now taken notice of the ruckus. He was looking over from his place on the other curb, shaking his head and waving his hand, as if to say, “don’t worry, don’t make a fuss on my account.”

  “Well, he has a disability pension from VA, and a subsidized apartment. These folks don’t have even that.”

  “He’s out here begging, it’s a disgrace!”

  “It’s terrible, I know. I wish we could get everyone shelter and food, but we do what we can.”

  The man went back to attending to the beggars on the pavement. Patrick was unable to sustain his rage. He looked down at the pair sitting unobtrusively at his feet. They were dark, clad in rags, and they looked miserable.

  “What’s their story then,” he said eventually.

  “They’re refugees. The Farshids. They escaped death squads, with nothing but the clothes on their backs.”

  Patrick looked them over. The pair stared back with half-lidded filmy eyes. Arab-looking. The blood rushed to his head until he thought it would explode. Isn’t that typical. Here we have an honourable American who went overseas to fight these bastards, got his legs blown off, and now here they are taking the very food out of his mouth. Patrick shoved his right hand into the pocket of his jacket and was surprised to find there the pistol he had lifted from Mark’s abandoned car. For the moment he had forgotten he had it. Now, his finger caressed the trigger.

  “And what about you?” the young man had asked suddenly, standing up.

  “Pardon?”

  “What about you? Do you need a place to stay tonight? Do you need a warm meal? I could probably find you an open cot, if you need one.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, don’t be too proud to take me up on my offer. It can get pretty chilly around here at night, this time of year.”

  Patrick looked at himself and the half empty bottle of bourbon still in its paper bag, gripped in his left hand.

  “I’m not homeless!”

  “Oh, no?”

  “No, of course not!”

  “Oh, sorry my mistake then.”

  “Fuck off! I don’t need your fucking charity!”

  Patrick was now backing away, moving further up the street, putting distance between him and the young man, the street people, and the disabled vet.

  “I’m very sorry, I meant no offence.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Patrick muttered as he turned.

  He walked for several blocks, chewing the interchange over in his mind, nurturing his resentment. He walked until he was too tired to go any further. Finding a shopping mall Patrick parked himself in a molded, plastic chair in the food court and for twenty minutes he sat and watched. He avoided eye contact with the kid shuffling out from behind the New York Fries counter who took the net from his head to let the hanks of black hair fall over dark eyes and sallow cheeks. That would be me in New Ravenna, Patrick thought, as he watched the boy poke a cigarette into the corner of his mouth and exit from a side door. He looked past the grey hairs, in their pastel coloured blouses and crisp, rayon slacks, gossiping over coffee and cards, to the girl serving up platters at Souvlaki Hut. The petite, dyed-blonde wearing a tight fitting, bright blue t-shirt with “This is your Souvlucky Day!” printed on it, took the customer’s money, put it in the till, handed back the change, and passed across the counter a Number One with extra Greek salad, without once looking up. One of the sales associates from Cellular One, a slim fellow in khaki trousers, embroidered tan golf shirt, and cream highlights in his spiky hair arrived at her register and ordered nothing at all, content just to lean in from the corner and chat. Patrick wondered what he was saying that was making the girl laugh so readily.

  The effects of the whisky were transforming in Patrick from painlessness and lucidity to a dull headache and a gathering fog. His stomach rumbled as it occurred to him that he was hungry, but he had no money left with which to buy a meal. A woman at the adjacent table attempted to gather the half dozen shopping bags arrayed around her, each threatening to spill its contents as she pulled the handles up from the floor. She paused a moment to yell at her eldest.

  “Evan! I’m serious. This is the last time, I guarantee you. No more Playland. No more Burger King. I’ll leave you at grandma’s.”

  Evan heard nothing. He was too focused on chasing his younger, screeching sisters through the race course of diners and empty chairs. His battery-powered sneakers flickered and flashed as he darted like a water bug in the sun. The mother, her bottom lip trembling, blew the wisps of hair from her reddened face and, as Evan rushed by on one of his circuits, she caught him roughly by the neck with her forearm, clutched his sweatshirt and yanked him back toward their table and its gooey mess. Alarmed by his mother’s violence, Evan ceased his running and became momentarily subdued. Using her captive son as bait, she was able to corral the other two, hoist her purchases, and point all three in the direction of the exit to the parking lot. There, Patrick imagined, they would pile into a minivan and head home.

  What am I doing here? Should I go home? Can I?

  He stood up, crossed the food court and put the phone card into a pay phone. He dialed the number complete with New Ravenna area code.

  “Yeah?”

  Patrick lowered his voice and muffled it a little by putting part of his sleeve over the receiver. It was Patrick Sr.. From the shortness of his replies and the huskiness of his voice, Patrick judged him to be on his third rye and ginger. He could hear his step-mother caterwaul in the background, “who is it?”

  “Uh hi. Is Patrick there?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “A friend of his.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “No.”

  “Any idea when he’ll be back.”

  “No.”

  A long pause. Don’t you wonder where I am?

  “He’s not here,” Patrick Sr. said again.

  “I guess I’ll call back another time.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Click.

  That’s it, Patrick thought to himself. I’m homeless.

  TEN

  "Ubicumque homo est, ibi benefici locus est.”

  Marcus swiveled.

  “Wherever there is a human being, there is the opportunity for a kindness. Seneca the Younger – De Vita Beata. The Happy Life.”

  Half in and half out of the dusky shadows at the mouth of an alleyway stood a slender, young man beaming like a child. He was dressed simply in a tunic made of sackcloth-like material fastened with a rough hemp rope tied at his waist. An iron broach in the crude form of a fish held together the fabric at his chest. A pair of worn, hide sandals clung to his long, bony feet. The man’s complexion was very fine, with a marble-like translucence, and his thick, black hair fell in lazy waves and curls from the peak of his head.

  “It was a letter to his brother.”

  “Sorry?”

  “To Gallio. Seneca wrote to his older brother explaining his view of attaining true happiness.”

  The stranger’s demeanour was anything but threatening, but still Marcus was wary. He’d heard much from his colleagues at the worksite about what can happen wandering down the wrong alley in the city after dark.

  “There’s a lot of wisdom in that letter, in my estimation. I’m sorry,” the man laughed. “I took you by surprise didn’t I? Sebastianus.”

  The man extended his hand and Marcus shook it.

  “Marcus.”

  “Please pardon my intrusion. I noticed that you had been watching the Parthians for several minutes.”

  “The who?”

  “The Parthians. Nasir and his sister Sura. The beggars.”

  “Oh. Yes. They’re from Parthia? I’ve noticed them before.”

  Marcus had passed the pai
r on his way home from work nearly every day since he’d arrived. He’d usually cross the street and look the other way when he passed. Or, he’d take another route entirely. He was made uncomfortable by their squalor. Their obvious foreignness, dark olive skin, black wiry hair, impenetrable accents, made them easy targets for abuse. Marcus had never seen anyone actually give the pair anything beyond a wave of a hand, a derisive laugh, an insult, a wad of spit.

  On one occasion, he had encountered the brother face to face.

  “A sestertius for a loaf of bread, pilgrim!” the man had said. “My sister hasn’t eaten all week! Would you see her starve to death?”

  The man had thrust his glowering face in toward Marcus as a challenge.

  “Nothing for a young, dying girl? An innocent? A casualty of war?”

  He had pursued Marcus until he was nearly at a run.

  The beggar’s hungry gaze haunted Marcus. He was sympathetic, but he was terrified of contracting their taint, the contagion of defeat. Their existence in his neighbourhood was an affront to his newfound success.

  “Yes, refugees I’m afraid. And poor dear Sura maimed. Such a lovely young woman,” Sebastianus continued. “My brothers and I walk these streets regularly, tending the old, feeding the hungry… when our resources allow, washing the feet of the poor, and anointing the sick with oil, to cleanse away their sins and invite God’s forgiveness that they may regain their health. Unfortunately, we see Nasir and Sura quite often. They have been on these streets for several months now and they are having a hard time of it.”

  “Yes, I can see that.”

  “Do you live around here?”

  “I do. Just a couple of streets over,” Marcus replied and instantly regretted his honesty.

  “It’s a pleasant part of town, by and large. Come. Let me introduce you to your neighbours.”

  “Oh…, I don’t know…, that’s fine. I should be getting home.”

  “Just a quick hello?”

  Marcus cast about for an acceptable excuse. A sick friend at home? Late for an important business meeting? The truth? He was on his leisurely way to the caupona for drinks with his colleagues. Sebastianus gazed at him pacifically. Marcus realized that there was no excuse that he would be able to offer with any measure of conviction. He conceded.

  Together they crossed the cobblestone street toward the pair sitting on a pile of filthy blankets. As he saw them approach, Nasir jumped up to meet them.

  “Good evening Nasir!”

  “Good evening my lord.”

  “Please, call me Sebastianus. How are you faring?”

  “Not so well. Very little today. And yesterday. I fear for my sister’s health.”

  Marcus studied the Parthian. He did indeed look a little leaner and more threadbare since their last encounter. His cheeks were slightly more withdrawn, his skin a shade more sallow, his beard more matted. But his impenetrably black eyes had not lost any of their intensity.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I pray that tomorrow will be a better day, God willing.”

  “Yes. God willing.”

  “Nasir, this is Marcus, a fellow traveler.”

  Nasir looked at Marcus and bowed slightly as he scrutinized his features. Marcus hoped he would not recognize him from their first, awkward encounter.

  “Let’s go and greet your poor sister,” Sebastianus said.

  The three men walked in from the street and under the overhanging eaves of the building on the corner.

  Sura sat quietly and motionless on a collection of tattered blankets spread along the edge of the cobbles. Until this moment, Marcus never had a close look at Sura. Whenever he had passed, including the day he was harassed by Nasir, she was looking away or had her face covered by a thick cowl. Nasir could have propped up a sack of corn under those black robes and passed it off as his ailing sister and Marcus would not have known otherwise. But here she was in flesh and blood and he found himself attracted to her by the same measure he was repulsed by her brother.

  It wasn’t the same sort of attraction Marcus had for other women his own age, like the young woman he met at the oasis. Like her brother, Sura had thick eyebrows that nearly knit together in the middle, an aspect that did little to flatter her face. She was slender, with fine features and a slight frame. Marcus had the sense that a simple embrace might crush her.

  Still, he was taken by her. There was something regal about her bearing, as though she was actually a Parthian princess wearing a disguise. Marcus envisioned her surrounded by luxurious rugs and silken cushions instead of filthy mats, on a throne sheathed in ornate brocade rather than grimy cobblestones, perfumed with exotic oils, incense and myrrh instead of the eye-watering stench of garbage and urine.

  “Saluto Sura!”

  “Greetings Sebastianus. It’s good to see you again.”

  Her accent was rich and textured.

  “I’d like to introduce to you Marcus, a new friend.”

  “Pleased to meet you Marcus,” Sura said. Marcus felt like he was the beggar and that Sura, the woman at his feet, was granting him a rare honour. He smiled and bowed.

  “And you,” he said.

  “Nasir was telling us that these past few days have been a little trying.”

  “Oh, my dear brother. He inherited my father’s pessimism. We’re managing just fine. We take the bad with the good.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear you’re keeping your spirits up. I continue to look for some lodging for you both, but I’m sad to report I have found nothing yet and we are still full up at the temple.”

  “As ever, we appreciate all of your efforts. I’m not sure where we would be without your kindnesses.”

  “I wish it wasn’t so meagre. I have brought you a small portion of bread and cheese.”

  Sebastianus pulled a circular flatbread about the size of a saucer from a leather pouch at his waist, broke it down the middle and gave sister and brother half each. Then he handed a sliver of hard cheese and a pear to Sura. She accepted the gifts and thanked him.

  Marcus found himself fishing around in the pouch of his tunic looking for something he could contribute. He didn’t want to give up the one denarius in his pocket. That was for beer down at the caupona. Much to his relief, he found and extricated several smaller copper coins, enough to buy a couple of loaves of bread.

  “I also have something for you,” he said to Sura. Nasir intercepted him.

  “We thank you very much. You are most kind.”

  Marcus dropped the coin into Nasir’s outstretched hand. The Parthian counted them and plunged them deep into the recesses of his filthy tunic.

  “May I play you a tune?” Sura asked.

  “That would be lovely.” Sebastianus replied.

  Sura produced a small nai flute from the folds of her robe and held it against her right knee. She extended her left arm from the sleeve of her robe. It was missing a hand. She stretched it across to brace the flute with the bony end of her stump, a mass of dark pink and purple splotches rising up the length of her forearm and under her sleeve. Sura paused and blushed.

  “Sura, I’m afraid, is another of the emperor’s innocent victims.” Sebastianus said. “One of many injustices he will answer for. One day.”

  Marcus looked over his shoulder across the street.

  “Be careful,” he said, in a low tone, turning back to Sebastianus. “That is dangerous talk. I’m not sure you know what you are saying. Our firm does work for the emperor, important work …”

  “There is a higher authority than the emperor’s court, Marcus.”

  Marcus recalled the incident at the Baths of Caracallus and how he’d almost been hauled away for sedition. He thought about the reverence his grandfather had for the emperor Marcus Aurelius and how pleased the old man was that his grandson was following the path he had blazed.

  “I shouldn’t even be standing here talking to you like this.”

  Marcus turned to leave but Sebastianus caught him by the elbow and gestured toward th
e Parthian woman.

  “The surgeon said my hand was too badly burned and had to be removed, to save the arm,” Sura said, “my left foot too. Nevertheless. We survived. And I can still play the nai, though not every song as well as I would like.”

  She tapped her fingers of her right hand along the holes of the nai to show that one hole was left uncovered. “I suppose we should be thankful for any music at all.”

  She began to play. Her slender fingers fluttered over the holes of the hollow reed, her face contorted as she forced breath into the mouthpiece in carefully measured amounts. The flute lilted, it trilled, diving playfully and climbing again, in a series of slow, lazy circles, emitting a tune of melancholy joy. Marcus found himself transported, back to his childhood home at the edge of town, in bed on warm summer evenings, listening to the chorus of nightingales and owls calling from the woods beyond. He could hear the distant voices of his parents, and his grandfather, and a pang of homesickness infected his mood. He recalled his grandfather’s face the day he’d left for Rome; the look of expectation. And the book. He had been in the city for six months already and he still had not bothered to send for it.

  Sura’s performance was over.

  “You play very well,” Marcus said.

  “Thank you. Please come by any time and I will play for you.”

  “You are most kind, I will.” Marcus decided he would visit the two Parthian beggars whenever he could on his way home from work and ensure that he had several bronze coins, if not a few sestercii, in his pocket for them.

  Marcus and Sebastianus said their goodbyes to the Parthians, to each other, and they departed.

  Fifteen minutes later Marcus arrived, finally, at the caupona.

  “You’re late.” Gus said.

  “On the way over I bumped into this odd fellow in sackcloth who introduced me to a couple of beggars.”

  Gus stared.

  “I don’t know,” Marcus continued. “This man, Sebastianus, ambushed me and I ended up listening to a poor woman with only one hand play a flute. It was quite strange.”

  “Two Parthian beggars?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d give them a wide berth. Especially the brother.”