The Last Stoic

by Morgan Wade

  TWENTY FIVE

  Patrick sat in an arm chair in Mark’s apartment, contemplating the phone. He wore the same old combat pants and hooded sweatshirt that he had salvaged two years earlier from Mark’s abandoned car. Before him was a piece of paper scrawled with a number. He twirled the phone cord absently around his finger and then poured himself another rye and ginger. Taking a long draught from the glass he sat down again, picked up the receiver, dialed, and hung up immediately.

  He recounted how it had all unfolded. He had achieved the goal he had set himself on that drizzly day in New York, the day after he had run away from home, the day he had encountered Mark with the Goths, shouting down the president. He’d been vindicated. Despite the ridicule and chastisement, he didn’t concede, he exposed Mark for the traitorous terrorist sympathizer he had always suspected him to be. At the VIP Club, Gus delivered to him another bundle of cash, more money than he had ever seen in one place. Gus said he would speak to the Reverend and recommend that Patrick be promoted within the Ministry.

  But it wasn’t enough. Gus had warned him that his work would be undercover. He’d agreed and never gave it another thought, until now, as he skulked around Mark’s flat.

  As he lounged, and sipped from the tumbler, he daydreamed about the recognition he craved. “Are you really the great grandson of Cormac Constantine, the great railroad magnate, great grand-nephew of Seamus Constantine the Union war hero,” the talk show hosts would ask. “Yes, that’s true, Matt,” or Dave, or Ellen, or Oprah, Patrick heard himself responding, smiling and nodding, “I come from a long line of patriots.” He entertained himself with visions of star appearances at shopping centres and ground-breaking ceremonies. A Presidential Medal of Freedom. He imagined how his family would react if they were to hear the news, that their boy was a hero after all, that he had single-handedly restored the lustre to the Constantine name.

  Gus would have none of that.

  “Paul Cornelius and the firm need to be insulated and I’m the firewall,” he explained over the thud of the heavy bass rumbling out of the strip club’s sound system. “Paul doesn’t need to know fuck all. No-one needs to know fuck all. As far as we’re concerned, the disappearance of one of our employees is a damned, puzzling mystery. No-one knows where he’s gone. We’ve heard rumours. We’ve heard he hangs with an unsavoury crowd. We hope he’s ok. We hope he comes back soon.”

  Patrick had nodded his understanding.

  “Look kid, keep your mouth shut.” Gus continued. “You can look forward to another payment, delivered in a year, if you hold your tongue. If not, one of the lodge brothers will rip the fucker out.”

  “Mum’s the word.” Patrick smiled wanly.

  “What about the girl,” he asked, referring to Sura, “what are you going to do with her?”

  “That’s none of your fucking business,” Gus said as he stood up, extending his hand, “Well, thanks again, maybe I’ll see you at the next club meeting.”

  The exhilaration of success dissipated soon after the packet of money was dropped into Patrick’s outstretched hands. He wandered around downtown for an hour, thinking he should treat himself to something. After buying an Xbox, and a copy of Grand Theft Auto, Patrick found himself drawn back uptown, to Mark’s apartment building. When he tried the door he was surprised to find it unlocked. Counter-terrorism agents had searched the condo immediately after Mark’s arrest, but had neglected to lock the door, either out of haste or indifference. To Patrick it was an invitation; he walked right in. And now he found himself alone, sitting in Mark’s condo, staring at the phone, and questioning himself.

  He had no one to tell. There were acquaintances at the Ministry, but no one he would call up. And then there was that bargain with Gus. He had come to the end of a road that had once seemed endless.

  Patrick laughed out loud. He realized that he already missed Mark and he hadn’t been gone two days. As he sat in Mark’s chair, wearing his discarded clothes, drinking his liquor, he fantasized about assuming Mark’s place in the world, merging into what he imagined to be a big, supportive and loving family with lots of friends, powerful connections, and abundant romantic interests. Let Patrick Constantine Jr. fade away.

  Patrick picked up the phone receiver. He dialed the number and this time he let it ring.

  “Hello?”

  It was a woman’s voice. It was Paulina, Mark’s mother. Patrick was silent for a moment.

  “Hello?” he echoed, finally.

  “Hello?” Paulina said again, confused by the response.

  Patrick paused again.

  “Mom?” he said, tentatively.

  “Mark? Is that you? You sound funny. Is everything ok?”

  “Mom,” Patrick said again, “it’s me.”

  Pause.

  “I’ve done a terrible thing Mom.”

  “Mark, what is it? What’s going on? You sound strange.”

  “I’m in trouble. I’ve made a big mistake.”

  “What is it? Just tell me, I’m sure it is nothing that can’t be worked out, nothing we can’t fix.”

  “They’ve taken me away.”

  “Taken you away? Who has? Taken you away where? Mark!”

  “Far away. I’ve done a bad thing.”

  “Where are you?! What has happened to you, why do you sound so different?”

  “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

  “Mark!”

  “I miss you,” Patrick whispered, his chin trembling. And with Paulina pleading frantically on the other end, he replaced the receiver.

  TWENTY SIX

  The sun was now in its downward descent. Sebastianus was quiet, curled up in the corner of his pen, half-asleep, murmuring to himself. The dogs across the yard were also silent, panting and drowsing, yielding to the heat. Marcus stretched into the more substantial shadow thrown across the enclosure’s structure. It had been a full day since liquid of any kind had passed his lips.

  He saw a clay ewer, slick with condensation from the cool water inside. A comely, smiling woman held the pitcher, offering it to him as she emerged from the shimmering depths of a frigidarium, droplets of water like sparkling glass beads sliding from her goose-pimpled flesh. She vanished. Marcus knocked his head against the iron bars. More visions. Fording the trickling streams and bathing in the bracing lakes of his lush, northern home. He smelled the fat, red apples, and swollen, yellow pears, pregnant with sweet, intoxicating juice, ready to explode. Reclining under broad leafy trees he felt the moist lakeshore breeze. Tears leaked from his sore eyes.

  The guards reappeared and Marcus hoped again.

  “Water.”

  His voice was cracked and dry.

  “I must have water.”

  They’d come for Sebastianus.

  “On your feet Christian. Your prayers have been answered.”

  Sebastianus swiveled and looked up, his eyes wild and joyous.

  “You know why we’re here?”

  “Yes, the Lord be praised!”

  “Well, get up then,” the guard continued, shaking his head. He opened the thick padlock on the gate of the cage. “Crazy as a flea.”

  “Water.”

  The two men ignored Marcus. Sebastianus was on his knees, arms outstretched. They each grabbed an elbow and hoisted him roughly to his feet.

  “But go to it, my good magistrates!” he cried, grinning. “The populace will count you a great deal better if you sacrifice the Christians to them!”

  “That’s enough now.”

  Sebastianus had just begun.

  “Torture us, rack us, condemn us, crush us; your cruelty only proves our innocence. That is why God suffers us to suffer all this!”

  He was dragged from his cage and was marched along the corridor separating the two rows of enclosures. The small camp was alive with the sounds of agitated men and irritated dogs. Sebastianus was in no hurry. The three men made slow, unsteady progress to the main building.

  “Water!”

  Marcus winced
. The dryness of his throat made shouting painful.

  “I need water! I’m dying!”

  “Silence Briton! You’ll get your water soon enough.”

  The guard pulled a three-tailed whip from his leather belt, turned again to his prisoner, brought the iron stars down onto his back.

  Sebastianus stood erect. Shocked silent and still. His face reddened. Pearls of sweat emerged from his hair line. Marcus pressed himself into the corner of his cage and brought his knees up to his chin, cinching his arms around them.

  “Not me not me not me not me…”

  An image of his first day on the Frontinus work site returned to him. He remembered how the whip felt when he delivered that last, crackling strike. There had been the same wet thud of its absorption into flesh. He could again see the dilated eyes of the flogged ditch digger, frantic for flight. Sebastianus had a similar primal, animal expression, nostrils stretched, lips curled, eyes reeled back. There were no sounds except the concussive barking of the dogs. Sebastianus turned to face his attacker. He took in a long, wavering breath.

  “But nothing whatever is accomplished by your cruelties,” Sebastianus continued, unevenly at first, “each more exquisite than the last.” Then louder. “It is the bait that wins men for our school!”

  Hooting in the yard began again as the prisoners realized the zealot wasn’t finished. Sebastianus pivoted and resumed his march.

  “Silence scum! Or I’ll cut out your tongue!”

  The whip struck again. Sebastianus was sent to his knees. He teetered, barely righting himself with a hand pitched into the dust. There he remained for several long seconds, bunched tight. When the pain finally crested he laughed. A jagged, hysterical giggle.

  “We multiply whenever we are mown down by you. The blood of Christians is seed!”

  The second guard raised Sebastianus up from his knees and began leading him again to the main building. With every step, his partner launched the flail’s metal shards into the compliant back of the Christian. Marcus, his eyelids pressed tight and hands squeezing his ears, forgot his thirst. He fought the acid flux threatening to sear up from a clenched stomach.

  Still Sebastianus called out.

  “That very obstinacy with which you taunt us is your teacher.”

  Another lash tore into the skin, thin like an onion and rapidly losing its integrity, dispersing blood and flesh.

  “For who beholds it and is not stirred to inquire what lies indeed within it?”

  And another.

  “Who, on inquiry, does not join us, and joining us, does not wish to suffer,”

  And another.

  “That he may purchase for himself the whole grace of God."

  Only the jailors heard these final, whispered words. They dragged the body of the Christian through the portico and out of the yard. The din in the prison yard dissipated, with dogs and men once more succumbing to the heat. Marcus too uncoiled himself. He returned to his delirium. The tranquility was broken only once, late in the afternoon, again by Nasir and his strange melancholy caterwauling.

  Finally, an hour before sunset, the guards returned.

  “The magistrate will see you now.”

  “Water. I must have water.”

  “Yes.”

  Marcus was pulled from his cage and hoisted up between the two men, his legs buckling. He was led through the portico and into a large atrium where his ankles were shackled and a hood was pulled tightly over his head, tied at the neck. He could see nothing. His breathing was laboured. Droplets collected in his eyebrows and tickled at his neck.

  “Good evening.”

  A baton struck Marcus across the back of the knee, hard enough to crumple his leg.

  “Answer the magistrate!”

  “Good evening.”

  “Do you know why you here?”

  “No sir.”

  “This is a military tribunal. You are to be tried for sedition.”

  “But what have I done?”

  Marcus struggled to contain the emotion rising in his voice. He was struck again on the side of the knee, harder this time, and he cried out.

  “The magistrate speaks. Do not speak unless asked a question.”

  Marcus was yanked to his feet.

  “Do you love the emperor?” the voice asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Speak up!”

  “Yes! I love the emperor!”

  “Unreservedly?”

  “Without measure!”

  “Good! This is easy, no?”

  “Yes.”

  “If your love of the emperor is without measure, why were you seen at the rally, shouting traitorous slogans, associating with known rebels?”

  “I wasn’t! I didn’t say anything. Please. You must believe me.”

  “You were seen. There were witnesses.”

  “I was there yes. But I said nothing, I did nothing.”

  “You were with the Parthian.”

  Silence.

  “The one that calls himself Nasir.”

  He waited too long. The baton was again at the back of his leg and he fell to his knees.

  The magistrate spoke to someone else.

  Marcus started.

  “Ok, ok, yes I was there with a Parthian. No! A Parthian woman. She may be Parthian. Wait. Please! Sura is her name. She’s harmless. What has she done? What have I done? She’s just a friend, someone I know. I don’t really know her. I was just standing next to her at the rally…”

  It was too late. Marcus was walked a few paces and laid out on his back, on an angle, head down. His head was strapped tight, thick leather belts were fixed around his waist, arms, and feet. Overheated blood heaved through his veins and collected in his head, causing him briefly to lose consciousness. He hyperventilated.

  Now he felt himself heaved upward, careening through the air. A catapult? He saw himself broken and bleeding at the bottom of a precipice. But there was no impact.

  He was under water. Plunged head-first, submerged from his knees. Water seeped in through the sackcloth of his hood, into his mouth and nose. And there he stayed.

  Pressure strained against his lungs and trachea as he fought the intensifying urge to open his mouth and breathe. Through the water he could hear the pounding in his temples. He thrashed his arms and legs against their bonds. Let me out. I’m dying. His lips parted; the water trickled in. I’m drowning! I don’t want to die. Not here. Not alone.

  The wooden frame lurched upward, raising him inverted from the trough. Water poured from his body, up and over the hood, and he spluttered, barely able to breathe. He was lowered roughly to the ground. The coughing abated, his pulse slowed, the panic subsided a little. He became aware of the dripping from the hood. Water! Exquisitely wet, engulfing and amorphous. It had been his mortal enemy. Now he sucked it greedily from the material of the hood like a calf at a teat.

  “Thirsty? Here’s a whole vat. You can drink as much as you like. We have all evening.”

  The magistrate was close to his ear, whispering severely.

  “I’d like nothing more than to kill you. Slit your throat and scald your carcass like a butcher would. Or stake you to the ground, next to the Christian. Let the scorpions and wild dogs do the job. But we can’t rush this. We must wring the truth from you first.”

  Marcus could smell the breath, acrid with garum, through the material of the hood.

  “You see, I’m not a butcher. I’m a miller. I’m going to crush you like an olive in a press. If you yield, if you show remorse, you might be spared. If you’re stingy, if you’re dry, you’re no use to us. We’ll discard you. You must be fruitful. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know the Christian, don’t you? You were seen talking with him, discussing, plotting. Were you part of his syndicate, his plan to assassinate the emperor?”

  Under the sackcloth, Marcus bit hard on his lip.

  “Nothing to say?”

  “I know him!” Marcus struggled through the soppin
g material. “I bumped into him several times on the street, near where I lived. He came around my neighbourhood. But I don’t really know him, just enough to greet him in the street.”

  “Oh yes? And what about the assassination plot?”

  “I don’t know anything about that. He never mentioned anything like that to me. I barely knew him. I didn’t know of any of his friends. But I don’t think the Christians advocate assassination.”

  “Oh yes? Is that what you think? Is that your considered opinion?”

  The magistrate was yelling.

  “Are you mocking me? Again!”

  The wooden frame creaked into the air and swung laterally.

  “No!” Marcus cried, “Not mocking, telling you what I know!”

  Again, it was too late. Marcus was plunged into the water headfirst up to his knees and was held there struggling and gurgling until just before drowning. He was certain the magistrate would miscalculate, that he would be left submerged in the soupy trough a few seconds too long and the ordeal would be over.

  It continued. Each baptism was followed by an inquisition. Marcus was frantic to give the magistrate the right answer, about Sebastianus, about Nasir, about Sura, about the Frontinus firm and Paulus Cornelius, Gus, the Hispanics, the rest of his colleagues. His replies always ignited the magistrate’s wrath.

  Dunked a seventh time, the terror of the moment outweighed his impulse to survive. No more. Leave me.

  After the tenth, the magistrate tired of the interrogation.

  Marcus was marched back out of the yard, into the main building, through the atrium, out of the portico and back to his cage at the end of the row of enclosures. The hood and the shackles were removed. In the time he’d spent with the magistrate, the sun had finally dipped down below the jagged horizon. Darkness descended on their isolated settlement, bringing with it cooler air. He was grateful for the tin cup of warm, grey water and clay bowl containing a puddle of thin, gelatinous porridge left for him. The quiet squalor of the kennel was unexpectedly welcome. Resting his back against the iron bars of his cage, he inhaled deeply and gazed out, struggling to contain the fear, loneliness, and the tight roiling in his stomach.