The Last Stoic

by Morgan Wade

  “Please bring Victorius forward,” called the Pater.

  A young man stepped up.

  “Victorius, you have been nominated for promotion to the third degree: Miles. You have been through the devotions, you have completed the rigours. You have but one task left to perform, to attain this most prestigious promotion. We have here a non-believer.”

  The men grumbled.

  “A Sarmatian. A Christian!”

  Their baying thundered through the grotto. Marcus could feel the familiar turmoil that accompanied any witnessing of cruelty, usually as the recipient, rising up from his stomach. He looked for the exit. The closeness and warm, thickness of the air made his head heavy. There didn’t seem to be enough air for everyone to breathe.

  “A false prophet who disseminates lies and wickedness throughout our community. A common criminal, a stealer of livestock and a defrauder of old women. A masturbator! An adulterer! A sheep fornicator!”

  The Pater handed Victorius a ceremonial dagger and brought him around to the Sarmatian, who knelt toward the warm, shuddering body of the bull. The Pater took the man’s hand, now holding the dagger, and moved it until the blade of the dagger was at the man’s neck.

  “Do the work of Mithras and eradicate the evil from our midst, annihilate this wickedness in human form, and cleanse us from sin.”

  Victorius, grabbed the man by the hair, paused, and pulled the knife quickly across his neck. Marcus felt a pain in his lip and realized that he had bitten through it. He put a hand to his mouth and saw blood. His own blood. He was backing out of the altar room.

  “There!” the Pater cried, pushing the executed man to the floor, “you have done it!” He rolled the victim over. Blood streaked down his neck and chest.

  Marcus was stopped by a couple of lictors who grabbed him by the arms.

  “Where are you going?”

  “What’s going on?” Gus stepped up.

  “This fellow was trying to leave.”

  Gus laughed. “You can’t leave now. You’ve seen too much.”

  “What do you mean?” Marcus asked, his breathing fragmented.

  “You need to be blindfolded again,” Gus pulled the scarf from Marcus’ face and shoulders, “before you can leave here, and you need to be escorted.”

  Marcus turned to meet the many eyes on him. He saw Patricius amongst them, recognition on his face.

  “What’s the problem?” Gus asked. “You don’t think that was a real execution.”

  The answer was on Marcus’ face.

  “It’s just part of the ceremony. Look!”

  Gus pointed back from the entrance of the main hall and Marcus saw the Sarmatian leave the altar room for an adjoining room to change and wash.

  “It was a blade-less knife. That’s bull’s blood. You don’t think we actually perform human sacrifice do you?”

  Those nearby laughed. Patricius did not.

  “That man,” he cried, “that man is a criminal. A traitor!”

  The congregants turned to Patricius.

  “I’ve seen him. A foreigner, traveling alone, asking questions, causing trouble. He asks about Sextus Condianus. About the emperor. Hangs around cauponas. He consorts with Parthian low-lifes. Rebels. He incited a riot at the inauguration of the Thermae Antoninianae! He shouted anti-imperial slogans!”

  The altar room buzzed.

  “He is here to assassinate the emperor, I’m sure of it,” Patricius said, coming to this conclusion as the words formed in his mouth.

  The crowd surged and the lictors intensified their grip. Marcus awaited the sharp point of a Praetorian’s gladius. It did not come.

  “Those are very serious charges novice,” the Pater said.

  “Yes Pater. I can give you proof.”

  “Nonsense!” Gus said, recovering from his surprise. “This fellow may be a lot of things. A naïve whelp. A timid fool. A rube from the wilds of Britannia. But he is no assassin. Indeed, for all that, he is a talented architect, he is a valued member of the Frontinus firm, and we will not stand here and have him accused by a…, by a simpleton!”

  The Pater, studying Marcus, recognized him from the streets. He remembered him standing with Sebastianus, the Christian, the day of the purge. He wondered if there might be something to the accusation.

  Paulus Cornelius had pushed to the front.

  “I know his family, they are well respected in Rome, my father and his grandfather are very good friends. His grandfather, Vincentius, is an eques. These charges must be false.”

  The assembly, including the Pater, listened respectfully when Paulus spoke.

  “Brother Paulus do you vouch for you colleague here?”

  “Yes Pater, I do.”

  “Then my assistant must be in error. He will be punished for his groundless accusations. I apologize for this unfortunate situation. Please! Let’s try to forget this unpleasantness! Begin the feast!”

  The group roared and slaves brought out the first course. The Pater ushered Patricius from the assembly hall. Marcus forced a laugh, lampooned himself, and hoped that Gus, Paulus and the others would not detect his fear. There were six more ritual meals to undergo.

  SEVENTEEN

  Reverend Reid directed a pair of his lieutenants to beat Patrick. Lightly. His new recruit had been loyal and useful these past months and he wondered if there wasn’t some truth to his allegation. They used baseballs in socks, one restraining, the other slinging. There was bruising, but Patrick had endured worse. After a week of latrine duty, loss of TV and games room privileges, and curfew, he was back in the Reverend’s office.

  “Lesson?”

  “To keep my mouth shut.”

  Patrick’s suspicions had not been beaten from him. “In public,” he added.

  “The city’s elite all together. The world’s most powerful man. A good time to speak of assassinations?”

  “I wasn’t thinking Reverend. That was my mistake.”

  “You’ve learned humility. And discretion. But you had to be punished. A mule cannot be trained with carrots alone.”

  “Yes Reverend. I accept all that I deserve.”

  Reid smiled.

  “Here at Super Shepherd Ministries we are all about forgiveness. Your penance will not last. I have high hopes for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Tell me all about the fellow who was at our meeting last week. What do you know about him?”

  Patrick related all he knew. The pastor remained silent, thinking.

  “Delinquents were picked up from the streets yesterday,” he said finally, “including Sebastian of Caritas, the anarchist. He’s been organizing the illegal aliens camped in the ghettos. There is evidence of a sleeper cell. I shouldn’t be telling you this, I’ve been told in strictest secrecy…”

  Patrick suppressed the smile that threatened. Vindication.

  “The next phase of Operation Sweep for Jesus starts tomorrow. We’ll be touring the east side. You have familiarity of those streets, yes? Perhaps we could use your expertise?”

  “Yes, Reverend.”

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Across town, Gus poked his compact head into Mark’s cubicle and grinned at him.

  “I didn’t see you yesterday afternoon,” he said.

  Mark was startled. “Yesterday?”

  “Tell me you were banging some college girl all afternoon. That’s the only excuse. Not only tolerated, but encouraged.”

  Gus spoke quickly, with no inflection, smiling mirthlessly. His manner had changed since the secret society meeting.

  “Actually, I had a dentist appointment yesterday afternoon,” Mark lied, “and then didn’t feel so well afterwards, so I just went home for the day.”

  He’d shared lunch with Nasir and Sura and had stayed later than usual. They were very worried, not having seen Sebastian in many days.

  “No kidding? I’m sorry to hear that. Feeling better?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “Good. We’re going t
o need a little extra out of everyone these next few weeks. I don’t need to tell you how important this contract is. We need everyone pulling in the same direction. Alright?”

  “Sure, I can work late tonight.”

  “You know we hate to ask for overtime, but it’s a critical juncture for the firm.”

  “Of course.”

  “Can I help? Do you need anything? Some amphetamines? They work for me when I need to pull an all-nighter.”

  Mark declined.

  “Look, in future, please make sure you let the team know if you’re going to be out during normal work hours. Sign the ‘Out’ sheet and let Brenda know.”

  Gus disappeared. His head thrust back into the cubicle seconds later.

  “We’re getting together at my place tonight at around 11PM, for margaritas and a tour of the rippers.”

  “Thanks, not tonight,” Mark pointed at his computer, “pretty busy.”

  Gus lingered, his eyes roving Mark’s, one to the other. Mark was first to flinch, turning back to his monitor, and Gus departed.

  Mark was in the server room until evening, re-configuring the database server for the oil refinery intranet project. He’d made little progress.

  “Nearly finished?”

  Alex, the network administrator, stood over his shoulder. It was eight PM and the office was empty. Mark shook his head.

  “Can it wait? I’m seeing double. I need to get home.”

  “I’d really like to figure it out tonight. I was out yesterday afternoon and this piece is already behind schedule. Could I close up shop tonight?”

  “Make sure you lock all the workstations before you leave and make sure you lock the server room. It will be my ass if we get hacked.”

  It was almost midnight before Mark had the database communicating efficiently with the remote client machines that would access it. He looked around, straightening his back. He was alone in the buzzing, humming, vibrating server room, in the middle of a darkened, empty office. The space was somehow less sterile with the lights dimmed, devoid of people. Mark recalled something his colleagues said one night at the bar. They claimed that Gus had revealing photos of the boss’ wife Emily archived on the Priapus server, the one that hosted an adult-only website. Mark remembered the effect of seeing her fully clothed at the Super Bowl party. Priapus was only twenty feet away.

  He wheeled the portable monitor, keyboard and mouse to Priapus, connected the peripherals, and logged in using the credentials Alex had left him. He searched the file system, scanning through hundreds of folders and files, audio and video, images and text. It contained all manner of nakedness; of pretty poses, of seductive scenes, of wild carnality. Still he could not find a trace of the coveted Emily.

  Just before giving up he came across a folder labeled “Juvenilia”.

  He clicked. It was revolting.

  There wasn’t time to verify what his bleary eyes reported. Noise was coming from the hallway outside the server room. Mark scrambled to close the image viewer and disconnect the portable monitor. The door to the server room slammed open.

  “Mark! You in here?”

  Mark shunted the monitor, keyboard and mouse platform on its caster wheels down the aisle of server racks, in front of another server.

  “Down here,” he said, voice quavering, “just finishing up.”

  Gus clambered into the aisle and peered down, his hands clutching the frame of the racks on either side, blocking the entrance. He looked at Mark and then at the servers.

  “I thought you were working on the intranet project tonight?”

  “I was. I did. The database is configured properly now.”

  “Working on the…” Gus peered at the servers, “Ride Market server now?”

  Mark paused and stared at the flashing bank. “Alex asked me to check the performance logs before I left, he noticed some sluggishness.”

  The seconds of silence felt like hours before Gus finally smiled.

  “I see. Good man. We appreciate your dedication.”

  “No problem.”

  “I thought we would swing back by the office to see if you had finished and wanted to join us. The guys are waiting in the car downstairs.”

  Mark stretched and forced a yawn.

  “I appreciate it, but I’m beat. I need to get home.”

  “Go ahead,” Gus said, surveying the racks again, “I’ll lock up.”

  Mark stood from the portable monitor and squeezed past into the main area of the server room. It required all the restraint he could muster not to break into a run. He was almost out the door when Gus called him back.

  “Have you given any more thought to whether you would like apply for membership in our organization?”

  “Still not sure. I’m worried I just may not have the time,” Mark said. “Can I think it over a bit longer?”

  “Of course.”

  Mark returned to his cubicle, closed down his workstation and left the building through the front door.

  He berated himself. Did I really see what I thought I saw? Should I report it? Should I resign?

  He didn’t see Patrick standing patiently in the shadows as he exited the office building following him step for step all the way home.

  EIGHTEEN

  Marcus rushed through the narrow streets and alleyways of the city’s poorer neighbourhoods, many blocks from his own comfortable second-floor uptown insula. Memories returned of the drunken, late-night flight months earlier through these same streets, after the Ludi celebrations. It was often said that the empire would never be the same after the attacks on Rome, but Marcus had always dismissed such talk. Today he was inclined to agree. Something had changed.

  The Parthian beggars were nowhere to be found.

  As he had often done, Marcus left the worksite at midday and wandered downtown to meet Nasir and Sura. In his rucksack he carried a circle of flatbread and a ripe wedge of cheese, enough to share. They weren’t on their usual street corner. Or the next. They weren’t anywhere within a five block perimeter. He quizzed people living on the street. No-one had seen them.

  Marcus stopped his rushing and clapped a hand to his head. The answer had come to him. Sebastianus must have found them permanent lodging. Finally, after months of promising. He imagined Nasir and Sura in a humble one-room apartment, with a couple of rumpled, straw mattresses, a makeshift wooden table and candle, and perhaps a stool or two for sitting. Nasir could now find work. Good old Sebastianus!

  Shifting the rucksack he carried from one shoulder to the other, Marcus caught a whiff of the pungent cheese it contained. He remembered his intended picnic and his pace slowed to a shuffle.

  Across the street Marcus noticed the dry goods shop in which he had waited with Nasir, Sura and Sebastianus on the day that the Mithraite priest had swept down the street with his acolytes and press gang, recruiting young men on the annona as foot soldiers in the Emperor’s legions. The merchant seemed to know Sebastianus that day. He might know his whereabouts now. Standing on the threshold, Primus and Secundus brushed past as they emerged from the shop’s porta.

  The Baeticans were never in this part of town. Marcus had never seen one without the other two.

  “Primus! Secundus! Salvete?”

  His colleagues seemed not to have noticed him. They passed and left the portico. Marcus grabbed Primus at the elbow.

  “Primus! What’s wrong?”

  “Marcus. I see it’s you. Greetings.”

  “What is the matter with you two? You look terrible. Where’s Tertius?”

  “They got him.”

  “They took him away.”

  “Who? Who took him away?”

  “The soldiers.”

  “The guardsmen.”

  “Why?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “You must have some idea.”

  Secundus raised his eyes from the ground, looked at his compatriot and shrugged sadly.

  “Someone at the caupo said someone else overheard Tertius mo
cking the emperor.”

  “They turned him in.”

  “But we mock the emperor every day.”

  “Things have changed.”

  “There are delators everywhere.”

  “Delators?”

  “Yes, of course. Informants.”

  “Where did they take him?”

  “We don’t know.”

  Marcus wanted to take Primus by the shoulders and shake him, his manner was so laconic.

  “How long did they say they would hold him?”

  “They didn’t.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Go home. Return to Baetica.”

  “Without Tertius?”

  “Gus told us, there’s nothing that can be done.”

  “Could you not hire a lawyer. Plead his case? If it’s a big mistake, it should be easy to free him.”

  “Where have you been? Things have changed. You heard Papinian was executed last week.”

  “By the Praetorian Guard, right in front of the emperor.”

  “Rome’s most eminent jurist. Dead.”

  “What good is some pie-eyed, provincial lawyer from the hinterlands going to do us in Rome, if Papinian is mutilated and bloodied and dragged around the streets of Rome?”

  Primus groaned and turned away, “We shouldn’t even be talking like this. Not here. If we stick around, they’ll scoop us up too.”

  “You should watch yourself, Marcus. You could be in danger too.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, of course. The road is almost complete. We won’t be needed around here much longer.”

  “They want our labour, our expertise, and our money. But not our strange names and funny accents.”

  “Farewell, Marcus. Take care of yourself.”

  “If you’re ever in Irni, make sure to visit.”

  The Baeticans hiked away, burlap sacks on their backs, bulging with supplies for the long trip home. Marcus looked after them until they disappeared and he entered the shop. Behind the counter was the same shopkeeper that had greeted them the day they eluded the Mithraite priest.