The Last Stoic

by Morgan Wade

“The sun rises. We need to go!”

  The film over his eyes thinned. Two women coalesced before him. Maria and Theophania. The pair with whom he’d intertwined not long ago.

  “Salve.” Marcus smiled weakly. “It’s early, no?”

  “Don’t go back to sleep.”

  “Our money!”

  “Your what?”

  “Our fees. Payment! The coin you owe us.”

  “Coin?”

  “Yes, we need it now. We have to go.”

  “Money? What for?”

  Stony silence. Pretty faces contorted with contempt.

  “You mean…for that?”

  Maria nodded disdainfully.

  “You’re…”

  “We’re dancers,” Theophania interjected. “Gus hired us.”

  “But I didn’t see you dance.”

  “Extra services cost extra.”

  “Did we actually…?”

  Marcus turned to avoid the withering looks and his cheeks coloured. The evening’s excess scorched up from his sour gut and was barely turned back. He clutched at the tunic which was still down around his knees, genitals in full view splayed against his thigh. As Maria and Theophania stood by, arms folded and fingers tapping, he adjusted his clothing and located the coin purse sewn inside. Rifling through it he pulled out several coins and offered them up. His creditors were unmoved. He reached back and gathered up all the remaining coins.

  “I’m sorry. This is all I have. Take it. Please.”

  Theophania peered down at him. She grabbed his hand, tipped it over into hers and plunged the coins into a fold of her toga. Judging his obligations met, Marcus leapt from the lectus in search of the toilet. Laughter singed his ears as he scampered away. Arched over the toilet hole, Marcus expunged the greater portion of the night’s consumption. From the nearby wash bucket, Marcus cleaned himself and he staggered back toward the atrium, ready for home. He was intercepted at the doorway.

  “Marcus! Canis filius! Feeling poorly?”

  Gus clapped Marcus’ back. Marcus turned and looked into wide, unblinking eyes, the pupils heavily dilated, the irises glowing bright.

  “I had a bit too much.” Marcus replied.

  “Of what?”

  “Everything.”

  “Feel better?”

  “A bit.”

  “Good,” Gus said, producing a flask of wine, “you can start again!”

  Marcus raised his hands and recoiled.

  “Jupiter, no,” he said, “I need to go home.”

  “Suit yourself.” Gus laughed. “More for the rest of us.” He was gone, en route to his next entertainment, not waiting for thanks or a farewell.

  Stepping gingerly through the atrium, side-stepping single unconscious bodies and still-copulating pairs, Marcus made his way through the fauces and vestibulum, until he was discharged into the deserted street. He walked ten paces along the slick cobbles and stopped, leaning against the plaster wall fronting the senator’s villa. Dawn was still an hour away and the sky was a deep, bruised indigo. A light fog had descended on the city. The breeze that funneled down the narrow thoroughfare was mercifully cool and damp on his face. Marcus held his head in his hands and sighed deeply. He recalled the stories Primus, Secundus and Tertius told, down at the caupona, about what happened to the unsuspecting who found themselves alone, at night, on certain city streets.

  A voice emanated from the shadows.

  “You! What business?”

  A pair of city guardsmen with their distinctive helmets. Marcus could not discern their faces.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, I don’t recognize you. You’re not from this neighbourhood.”

  “I was …, at a friend’s house.”

  “Oh yes? Then what are you doing there?”

  “Just resting a minute.”

  “You can’t loiter here. This is the senator’s residence.”

  “Yes I know, I was just headed home.”

  “Move along then.”

  He pulled himself from the wall and shuffled down the laneway, headed in the general direction of his apartment. The streets were deserted. Mostly.

  As Marcus navigated uncertainly through the murk, he took some comfort from the ongoing Ludi Plebei celebrations pouring from the domus doorways. Belligerence and drunkenness, shouting and laughing, slurs and tears. More than once there was the heave and patter of an intemperate reveller vomiting in the gutter. At least I’m not alone, he consoled himself. They’re just having fun. They have no quarrel with me. Now the houses were shabbier, the streets narrower and darker, the odours more pungent. Before long, Marcus heard nothing except the scrape of his leather soles on the cobbles and the throbbing in his head.

  He stopped and listened hard. Footsteps? Just the blood rushing in his ears. He waited. Still nothing.

  He exhaled in a rush and chuckled. Steady, there’s nothing to worry about. Continuing, he quickened his pace. After only a dozen strides he paused once more, ears cocked. Boots! Those were boots. Despite the cool early morning air, beads had begun to form on his forehead. His breathing shortened.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Patricius Constantius the Younger also stumbled through the shadows and fog of those same dark and narrow laneways. He hadn’t left the streets since arriving. After selling Marcus’ old nag, Phoenix, to a tanner in the city outskirts, he’d spent the entire scant proceeds on a single, succulent roast duck with all the trimmings. Since then he hadn’t enjoyed a dry bed or a hot meal. Pride prevented him from accepting charity, from begging, or asking the Christian for help. I’ll die like a gutter-mongrel, he swore, before I take one sestercius from the cultist. Now, ravenous and desperate, he was close to keeping his promise.

  He didn’t know anyone, he’d made no acquaintances. After holding a Ludi Plebei celebration of his own, draining the last of his wine, Patricius set to trolling the market alleys with a vague notion of intercepting a drunken merchant, relieving him of his coin-pouch. A Syrian spice trader or a Greek slave dealer, he thought, a fat, greasy son of a bitch a long way from home. A goat-fucker who really has it coming to him. Pluto’s prick, even a soused Gaulish grunter would do.

  Now there was someone in the murk ahead, just a few paces. A potential target. Not too heavy, not too big, judging from the foot fall. Patricius stopped when Marcus stopped. He too listened carefully. He assessed the noises ahead. The hand that held the large hunting knife, the knife he had scavenged from Marcus’ abandoned gear, trembled and sweated. Only the faintest silhouette was visible through the gloaming. So often he had fantasized of sticking one of those barbaric bastards who had betrayed Rome. He had one here. He was certain of it.

  Marcus set out again, at a trot.

  “What’s the hurry?” Patricius hated how his voice had wavered as he spoke.

  Marcus halted again, breathless.

  “What are you doing prowling around in this district, at this hour, like a spirit, like Sextus Condianus?”

  Marcus didn’t respond. Droplets collected at his brow as he took careful steps away from the voice.

  “Maybe I could turn you in. Claim the reward. Get a medal from the Emperor.” Patricius’ laugh was fractured by his own uneven breathing.

  An arm went around Marcus’ neck. There was a prod of cold iron at his throat. A hand wrenched his right arm roughly behind his back.

  “I’m not Condianus!” he said.

  “I don’t suppose you are.”

  “What do you want?”

  “What have you got?”

  “I haven’t got any coin, I spent it all.”

  “Fraudator! We’ll see.”

  The knife remained lodged next to Marcus’ trachea, as his captor loosened his grip and began patting down his tunic, looking for a purse.

  “Keep your arm where it is,” Patricius said.

  Marcus could feel hot breath coating the back of his neck. Patricius held Marcus close as he rifled through his tunic. He found the pouch and confirmed it was empty
.

  “No coin.” Patricius felt his adrenaline drain away.

  “I don’t have anything I can give you.”

  “No bracelet? No brooch?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “Minerva’s marble ass! You must have something!”

  Patricius ground his teeth. Fortuna spurns once more. His earlier fervor faded into simple sadness. He continued to hold Marcus close to him, his chest against his back. The grip of his left hand intensified on Marcus’ wrist. He could smell him, he could feel his warmth. The promise of the robbery had dissolved. He clung to what was left. For several moments they stood like that, motionless and quiet in the middle of the via. The right hand continued its investigation. It resumed its patting, down from the empty purse over Marcus’ heart, over his tensed stomach, under the leather belt at his waist.

  What had been sapped from Patricius now surged through Marcus. Like a wild-eyed stag, he bounded away and slammed into the wall directly in front of him, shouting with pain and surprise. He turned, and leapt again, this time clattering heavily into Patricius, his knee striking him in the thigh and his forehead smashing his nose. They stood motionless face to face only twelve inches separating them. There was a moment of awful recognition, Marcus remembering the quiet, gloomy young man from the roadside caupona, Patricius discovering the nefarious Briton, his lost prey, the quarry that had brought him to his current state of ruin.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Marcus propelled himself forward, barely eluding Patricius’ grasp. His sandals lightly grazed the street cobbles as he sprinted away without regard for direction or obstacles. Blindly, he dodged a hay cart, prominent curbs and gutter spouts, a comatose drunk, a weaver’s signpost, and a stack of empty barrels.

  He’d run fifty paces when the laneway jogged to the right and he rattled heavily into the stone wall of a bakery. His leg struck first, then his hand, and then his head. He lost consciousness and dropped to the street. Waking seconds later, Marcus didn’t pause to check for damage. He continued running, ignoring the pangs coming from his foot and wrist, the throbbing in his temple, and the burning at his throat, gashed by Patricius’ dagger at the moment of escape. After a half dozen blocks he slowed. After a half dozen more he stopped. He listened. Nothing. It was quiet, except for his panting, which also gradually diminished. Marcus crept into a damp alleyway and slumped against the wall. His tunic was heavy with perspiration. The crispness in the air that had once refreshed now penetrated his skin and chilled his bones. He hugged his knees to his chest for warmth and composure but nothing could calm his shivering. As the adrenaline dissipated, his heart rate slowed, fatigue overtook him and he fell asleep.

  Someone was touching him, on his face, on his thigh. He shouted something unintelligible, something guttural.

  “Shhh!” A gentle, female voice.

  Marcus peered through unfocussed eyes. A diminutive young woman bent over him, dabbing a sponge at his forehead. A larger figure stood a few steps behind her.

  “It’s ok. It’s ok. You’ll be fine, just a couple of scrapes.”

  The warm voice enveloped him, a thick, down blanket.

  “You can rest now. You’re safe.”

  It didn’t matter if it was just a dream. Sleep descended again.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Patricius could not believe that he had once more lost his mark. He trailed him for several blocks, but eventually the boot steps faded. All he had, wandering the district, searching and hoping, was a headache and a bloodied nose. An hour later he stumbled into the same street where he had confronted the Christian and the Parthian beggars, shortly after his arrival in the city. Patricius crossed to the corner looking for the wild-haired refugee and his crippled sister, recalling the humiliation and impotence of that earlier meeting. He clapped the blade of the knife into his free hand.

  The refugees were camped out in the mouth of an alleyway. The cripple lay sleeping on a mound of blankets. The snoring brother leant against the wall of the adjoining domus. There was a third, snoozing beneath a black cowl. Patricius peered through the lifting gloom. The Briton! Marcus was wrapped in the woolen garment, his untroubled face gleaming through the murk. With the Parthians. Patricius hooted. For a breath catching moment he imagined dispatching the beggars while they slept.

  Nasir woke. He grabbed at the old, discarded axe handle near his head and clambered to his feet.

  “Who?!”

  Patricius retreated. The Parthian awake, crazed, brandishing a club changed everything. Patricius decamped down the street, far enough to placate Nasir, near enough to monitor the alleyway. He would wait, he decided, until morning, follow Marcus when he left, find out where he lived, report his activities to the town guard, and collect his reward. He retreated, Nasir calmed and returned to his restless sleep against the wall. Patricius found shelter in the next alleyway, five shops down. He settled in. Within another hour, he too was asleep.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  The noon day sun poured undiluted into the alleyway and baked Marcus in his cowl like a sausage in pastry. Sweat streamed from his face. His mouth was pasted together and his head pounded. There was a makeshift bandage on above his brow and one on his neck. He threw off the cowl and sat up. The alleyway was deserted. The connecting street bustled, with its adjoining shops and market square. Above the cacophony of the street traffic, he heard music. Bright, fluttering notes. A flute. Marcus poked his head around the corner. People crowded the street, standing and chatting, haggling and arguing, hurrying along. At the corner of the street sat Nasir and Sura. Marcus recognized them from the night he met them on his way home from the caupona. Sura was playing her flute for passersby while Nasir solicited alms. Sura had tended to him earlier that morning. It was her face that had hovered over his. It was Nasir’s cowl that had covered him. Marcus flushed as he realized what a shameful picture he must have presented, inebriated and incoherent, bleeding and broken. He patted his coin purse with his fingers and realized again that all of his money was spent. He collared a boy from the street and asked him to take the cowl to them. From a hidden distance he watched to make sure they received it. They looked around, wondering where he’d gone.

  Marcus turned for home. As he rushed past he failed to notice Patricius curled up asleep in the mouth of the next alley.

  THIRTEEN

  In the days following the Super Bowl, Mark recalled the scornful expressions on the faces of the hookers. He remembered Chantelle’s angry words. She was someone he was interested in knowing. She had brought him a book. Not just any book. The Meditations. He still didn’t have his copy. But he guessed he wouldn’t be seeing her again.

  He kept busy. Most weeks he worked overtime, sixty to seventy hours, meeting and exceeding the project manager’s arbitrary deliverable targets. He kept pace with his colleagues, all of whom regularly clocked twelve hour days. At every Monday morning meeting, Gus would re-roast the chestnut, “we work hard, but we play even harder.” All would wink and laugh. For Mark, playing usually meant heading to the bar in the evenings with his workmates for jugs of beer, all you can eat chicken wings on Mondays, all you can eat fajitas on Tuesdays, or all you can eat pork ribs on Wednesdays. There might be a few rounds of pool, video trivia, or football on the big screen. Most Thursday nights Gus would form a posse and they would descend upon the city’s strip clubs. On weekends Mark did his errands, his laundry, and his shopping. There were parties at Paul’s villa on the water, lots of water-skiing, swimming and hot-tubbing, beer and tequila, coke, dope, sundry depressants and stimulants, lots of barbecuing, and plenty of nakedness. Sometimes Mark would be invited and sometimes he would go. Often he found himself unaccountably uninterested.

  Often, even months after the incident, he replayed his unsettling encounter with the peculiar kid from the highway rest stop. The mugger. He always dismissed it as one of those odd coincidences that sometimes happen. An unexpected intrusion of chaos and malevolence into an otherwise ordered life. The kid had
moved on, he told himself. Surely.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Patrick had not moved on. He had nowhere to go and no means to get there. The morning after the Super Bowl, Patrick awoke around noon from his spot at the end of the second laneway. He knew upon waking that he had let Mark escape again. The beggars were at their customary corner soliciting alms; Mark was gone. He sat at the end of the lane for hours. His stomach was as empty as the alley and his head throbbed from thirst.

  Robbery or beggary. That was all that was left.

  “What’s a good American boy such as yourself doing loitering around the streets?”

  A man with a round, fleshy head hovered over him. His sky coloured tie was pinned with a chunky gold cross, close enough to Patrick’s face that he could pluck it, if he dared. The man leant in and smiled. The noon day sun created a nimbus around his globular head. Patrick could see himself, distorted and doubled in the man’s mirrored sunglasses.

  “Had some bad luck, have we?”

  “You could say that.”

  “A bad decision or two?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “No matter. You’re still an innocent child in the eyes of the Lord.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  The man laughed and his jowls wobbled. “We all are, son, we all are.”

  “I need a drink.”

  “This is your lucky day. You may drink from the Lord’s cup. Jesus will fill you up!”

  Patrick stared.

  “Are you going to give me something to eat?”

  “Gather him up boys,” the man said to the four lean, young men flanking him, “we’ll take him with us.”

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  After work one Friday, months later, sitting at the bar behind a third round of oversized martinis, Gus extended to Mark an exclusive invitation. A meeting for prospective members, initiates to be introduced and presented by their sponsors to the elders for preliminary consideration. It would take place the following Sunday, after the company outing to the Pizza Emperor Five Hundred, the season’s only NASCAR event at the city’s speedway. A secret society. Odd Fellows? Knights of Columbus? Freemasons? Rosicrucians? He wasn’t sure. Gus was speaking in hushed tones and Mark was distracted by a pretty woman in a low cut blouse who had just come up to the bar. He accepted.