The Last Stoic

by Morgan Wade

  Sebastianus had already been replaced. There was an old man in the next cage. White hair floated like cloud fragments around his head and more coalesced below his chin. Weathered skin hung loosely from his lean, angular frame, pockets drooped under his eyes, from the sharp points of his cheeks, along his chest and collarbones. There was no fat, no flesh, just sinew, tendon and bone, like he’d been embalmed. The man sat quietly in his cell, erect and motionless, his head bowed. His hands, a pair of big, bony clubs, held a small cylindrical object.

  A book.

  Marcus looked again. Sure enough, the prisoner cradled a small roll of parchment, no bigger than an average sized belt buckle, in the cup of his palms, and he was reading it intently.

  A book? In here? He must have smuggled it in.

  “Excuse me,” Marcus whispered, “hello.”

  The man, engrossed in his book, did not answer.

  “Excuse me,” Marcus said, more loudly. “Hello, my name is Marcus. Who are you?”

  “Hello Marcus,” the man finally answered without looking up from his book. His voice was surprisingly strong. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Sextus Condianus.”

  Sextus Condianus? The Sextus Condianus? Fugitive from the emperor Commodus, and every emperor after? Number one enemy of the empire? This artifact? Surely not. Surely he’s dead. Or disappeared. Or just a legend. Or most likely, Marcus concluded, this fellow here is demented. Another madman.

  Several cages away Nasir launched his ghostly wailing into the canopy of stars for the fifth time that day.

  TWENTY SEVEN

  Mark awoke to Nasir’s wailing. And the shouting that followed. But the sounds were distant and mute. He pinched his eyes and squeezed his head. He was no longer in the cage. Roused in the middle of the night, he had been frog-marched across the prison yard to a single pen, a miniature stockade comprised of rough-hewn planks of wood formed into a stout box, wedged into the dusty, scrabbled ground.

  “That’s the smoker,” the warder said, “that’s where we barbecue the pork.”

  At first, the squat enclosure was a respite. Built into the earth, it was cooler. Mark found comfort in the solid, wooden walls, nurturing the fantasy that the barrier was impenetrable. When Mark was in the cage, a soldier came by every couple of hours to prod him, douse him, or yell him awake. Now they beat on the outside of his box with their batons and deep, restful sleep was a dream. On this sunrise, when Nasir began the first of his five daily exhortations, Mark had been dozing for thirty delirious minutes. He kicked at the walls of his box and cursed the Parthian for doing the interrogator’s work.

  A seagull coasted lazily overhead. For a moment Mark spied himself from the gull’s perspective, helpless and pathetic in a tiny wooden booth, exiled on a forgotten spit of land, in a forsaken prison settlement, a thousand of miles from home. Even in the detention camp he was segregated, half-interred a hundred yards away from anything. The loneliness grew. Nasir’s regular lamentations became less and less annoying. Mark began to anticipate them with a certain satisfaction. They marked out the periods of the day. They linked him to something.

  By mid-morning Mark understood why it was called the smoker. The equatorial sun continued its sizzling ascent. What he gained in shade from the continuous wooden walls he lost in the absence of a breeze. Hot, parched air collected in the confines of the box like it was a convection oven. He imagined himself a loaf of bread. A suckling pig. Soldiers brought him a ladle full of water three times before noon. He begged for more.

  Thirst. Heat. Loneliness. By mid-afternoon Mark was scanning the interior of the cell for objects with which he could take his life. Not with any serious intent, but to be prepared, as a thought experiment, a diversion. Having the means will help me endure. Self-starving would take too long. Quick and painless is what I need.

  Mark started talking to himself, inventing the society he craved. He voiced random thoughts as they occurred. A disparate collection of thoughts and questions formed a tiny cyclone in his mind, rushing at his consciousness, sweeping it away, only to return several moments later.

  “What am I doing here?” Mark asked out loud, startled at the ragged sound of his voice.

  They think I’ve plotted. They suspect me of treason.

  “It’s not true!” Mark shouted skyward. “Where am I? Will I die here?”

  He digressed.

  I love milkshakes. God, I love milkshakes. I would fucking kill for a milkshake right now.

  He slammed one of his fists into the timbers, repeatedly, until it bled.

  Does anyone know I’m here? Mom? Dad? Grandfather?

  Trembling, he rocked gently back and forth. Poor Mom, I miss her so much. He would have been horrified to see how his behaviour had begun to mirror Sebastian’s.

  Gus knows I’m here. He and Paul will get me out. They’ll get word to my folks.

  Sura! Where is she now? Mark shied from wondering further.

  He smiled. He pictured a cold beer in a mug dripping with condensation, a messy hamburger next to a jumble of fries, pungent with hot fat, the latest James Bond movie on TV, and a comfy couch. Again he pummeled his fists against the enclosure.

  “Remember that place we used to go as kids?” he asked himself aloud.

  He conjured the memory, of his mother and father, the aunts and uncles, and all the cousins. The great midway on the beach, and the penny arcade, and the rides, and the fun house, and the mini-golf, and jumping into the big waves of the lake, and diving in the swimming pool, and the showing-off for the grown-ups, and the shuffleboard, and the Frisbee, and the sand castles, and the cards after dinner, and the friendly, cousinly competitions, over anything, and the endless hours spent reading comics, and the lemonade, and the lime soda, and the root beer, and the chips, and the dry roasted peanuts, and the candy bars, and the smell of rum and cola, and beer, and cigarette smoke, and marijuana smoke, and the heavy oil from the diners, hamburger joints, and chip wagons, and the sweet fatty smell of waffle cones and of the colourful, dripping, sticky ice creams, and the ringing bell of the bicycle with the cooler in front, the kid hauling a bright trove of popsicles, called ‘Rockets’ and ‘Firecrackers’, and the guitar hooks, the pounding drums, the thumping bass, coming from the roller rink, and the bowling alley, and the pool hall, and the bars, and the head shops, mysterious and exciting, like something, anything could happen, and the sun, and the breeze, and the pines, and the dunes.

  The cyclone, plumbing the depths of his memory, regressing and starting from earliest remembrances, moved forward and now presented Maria and Tiffany, the girls from the Superbowl party. Vivid images of their coupling in the living room rained down on Mark’s overheated brain. He imagined what it would be like to be in their arms again, caressing cool, smooth skin, pliant bodies responding eagerly to his touch. Moist lips. Urgent limbs. Hands unclasping, unfolding, releasing, exploring and testing.

  A soldier came by and hammered at the walls with a baton.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  A thousand miles away Patrick’s own reverie was disturbed.

  He remained in Mark’s apartment overnight. When the rapping on the door started he was still dressed in Mark’s old clothes, sitting in his armchair, eating his cereal. CNN blared. He reminded himself twenty times that he should leave. But he was too busy. He ate Subway sandwiches, drank rye and ginger, watched Apocalypse Now, and listened to Coldplay.

  He dozed. He worried.

  It occurred to him that Nasir and Mark might have accomplices. They might be looking for revenge. Gus could double cross him. Eliminate him. To ensure that Mark’s disappearance remained a missing person case. Or maybe it was Patrick Constantine Sr. at the door. Come down from New Ravenna to march him into the Army.

  Three movies and a half bottle of rye led to boozy early morning nightmares. He was lost behind enemy lines in a nameless no-man’s land. He slept little, a restless half hour here and there, straying from the armchair only for the toilet and another drink. The hand gun he ha
d salvaged from Mark’s car lay balanced on his lap, loaded with the safety released. He no longer had the inscribed knife, of course; that was now in the hands of the authorities. But the Glock would do fine. He made himself a promise. He wouldn’t go quietly. Now, at nine a.m., he was scrambled.

  The knocking at the door continued. Patrick didn’t move.

  A voice called out from the other side of the door.

  “Mark? Mark?”

  Patrick twitched. I’m here.

  The door knob rattled. Patrick slid the pistol into the large pocket next to his thigh.

  “It’s open,” the voice said, surprised.

  Paulina had called Mark’s apartment, his workplace, the newspapers, major hospitals, and the police. She’d registered a missing person report with the city police detachment. They warned that it was not a crime for an adult to disappear. Gus and Paul said it was not like Mark to take time off work without first requesting it. They were stumped. All inquiries had led to nothing.

  Patrick had neglected to re-lock the door. The door creaked open. Vincent and Paulina entered the apartment and stopped. They were startled to find a stranger where they hoped to find their boy.

  “Who are you? Where is Mark?”

  “Be calm Paulina,” Vincent said as he touched her shoulder.

  “I’m here. I’m right here,” Patrick said, in a low tone.

  “Perhaps you should wait outside,” Vincent said, now turned to Paulina, “back at the hotel.”

  Paulina clenched her fists at her sides and squeezed her feet together.

  “I want to know who this man is and why he’s in Mark’s apartment,” she said. “We should call the police.”

  “That’s ok,” Vincent said, raising his bony fingers in a wide span to show Patrick they meant him no harm. “I’m sure there is a simple explanation.”

  Vincent studied Patrick for a moment, penetrating his hazy scowl, saying nothing. Patrick shifted.

  “We’re looking for Mark,” Vincent said finally, “my grandson. He’s not much older than you, about your size. Have you seen him?”

  “Oh! Mark!” Patrick returned to himself. “Yeah, I’ve been looking for him too.”

  “So you know him?”

  “Oh yeah, sure. I haven’t seen him in days.” Patrick got up from the armchair and walked toward them. Vincent and Paulina stepped aside and backwards as he neared them and the doorway.

  “I just came by myself to see if he was back,” he continued. “I wanted to borrow one of his…DVDs. He wasn’t here, obviously. But the door was unlocked. Funny hey? I just let myself in.”

  Patrick was now in the doorway, about to leave.

  “And did you get it?” Vincent asked.

  “Did I get what?”

  “The DVD.”

  “Oh! No! He didn’t have the one I wanted. Oh well. Please tell him I was by. I’m sure he’ll be back soon, probably just out fishing.”

  “We certainly will. And your name?”

  “Patrick.”

  “Patrick…”

  “Patrick Constantine…Junior.”

  “Very good. We’ll let him know.”

  “Great, thanks.”

  Patrick took a step down the stairs. Vincent followed.

  “Which one did you want?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Which DVD were you after?”

  “Oh. DVD! Right.” Patrick paused. “A Bridge Over the River Kwai”.

  “I’m certain that Mark has that, it’s one of his favourite movies.”

  “No kidding?” Patrick was surprised. It was one of his favourite movies.

  “I’m sure it’s here somewhere. We could bring it to you when we find it or when Mark returns. Where can we contact you?”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary, please…”

  “No, I insist,” Vincent said, “we’re happy to help out a friend of Mark’s.”

  Patrick met Vincent’s gaze and could not look away.

  “Ok. I appreciate it. You can find me at the Super Shepherd Ministries, room 142 in Dormitory A.”

  “Excellent,” Vincent smiled. “Have a good afternoon Patrick. We’ll meet again soon, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, you too. Thanks.”

  Patrick turned, descended the stairs, exited the building and returned to the Ministry, puzzling over the odd exchange.

  “Were those Mark’s trousers he was wearing?” Paulina asked, after he had left.

  TWENTY EIGHT

  They rattled the box at night. During the day it was too hot to sleep. The isolation was complete except for the silent delivery of thin porridge and grey water. No quantity of begging, no measure of berating, would provoke the soldiers to respond. Not for more water, not to let him out, not for a meeting with the magistrate. With a simple explanation all would be resolved, Marcus was sure of it.

  On the sixth morning Nasir was silent. His chanting did not come at dawn, as it usually did. Nor did it come just before noon or mid-afternoon. Only crickets could be heard at dusk.

  “He’s taken a fall,” was all the soldier would say as he slid the tin cup and wooden bowl through the slat at the bottom of the box. Marcus flipped the bowl and cup against the wall of the smoker.

  He stopped eating. On the eighth day they let him out.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  His voice staggered out, weak with disuse. The soldiers each took an arm and raised his frame from the ground.

  “Back to your cage.”

  The men struggled to keep him upright, to get his legs moving.

  “What do I have to do to get out of here?” Marcus asked when the bright flashes cleared from behind his eyes.

  “Tell the magistrate what he wants to hear.”

  “I’ve tried!”

  Marcus stopped, closed his eyes tight, and slackened. The shouting had caused a sharp pain in the centre of his head. The prison yard was noticeably quiet.

  “What happened to the noisy fellow?” Marcus whispered.

  “Your accomplice? The Parthian?”

  “He’s joined the Christian.”

  “What does that mean?”

  One of the soldiers struck hard at the side of Marcus’ knee with his baton, crumpling him back to the ground.

  “No questions. We’ve mentioned that before. You’re lucky I’m not the magistrate. He wouldn’t put up with it. Would he?”

  His partner shook his head.

  They were at the door of Marcus’ old cage, the one at the end of the row. It occurred to him how satisfying it had been to walk.

  “Please. May I walk the yard?”

  They looked at him like he’d told an unfunny joke. The cage door was opened. Marcus ducked his head and folded himself in. He sat on the sparse pile of straw and sawdust and held his head in his hands. A cockroach scampered over his bare foot and up his calf until he swatted it away and into the debris, where it remained, teetering on the enameled hemisphere of its shell, upside down, the filaments of its half dozen legs cycling frantically.

  “Chin up.”

  It was a wheezy, anemic voice. Marcus raised an eye through splayed fingers. The ancient prisoner with the nimbus of white hair, the one who replaced Sebastianus, was still there. He looked back from the adjacent cage with a toothless smile.

  “Having a hard time of it?”

  Marcus buried his head further into his hands.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Britannia,” Marcus mumbled into his knees.

  “A ha! Which town?”

  “Verulamium.”

  “A delightful place!”

  Marcus lifted his head slightly. “You know it?”

  “I’ve been there several times. Do they still put on shows at that wonderful theatre?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I remember it well,” said the old man, the equatorial sun glinting off his weepy eyes. “It’s unique you know, the only theatre in Britannia, perhaps in all of Gaul, with a prominent stage for drama.”


  “People come from miles around just for the theatre.”

  “And who could blame them? I remember an excellent performance of Seneca’s Hercules Furens one season, very edifying. The lead actor did an admirable job, a Celtic lad if I remember correctly, as strong as an ox. Fortuitous casting. I also saw the same troupe put on Plautus’ The Asses, but I remember less about the play and more about the drunken riot started in the auditorium during the second act. Appalling. Terence is more my taste really.”

  “My grandfather used to take me to see the wrestling competitions and the archery exhibitions.”

  “Ah yes!”

  “And once my whole family went to see The Knights...”

  “Euripides…”

  “Right, Euripides.”

  “A fine play for the family, plenty of amusement.”

  “I laughed so hard my face hurt.”

  The old man clapped his hands together. They fell quiet again. Only the muted whir of insects coming from distant thickets could be heard.

  “Thinking of them?”

  Marcus stared at his feet.

  “Don’t worry son, I suspect you will see them again, soon.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Originally?”

  Marcus nodded.

  “Rome.”

  “How long have you been here.”

  “I’m not sure. Two years, perhaps.”

  Marcus blanched.

  “Before that, they had me at a camp in Pannonia. For five years or so.”

  “Vae! Five years! How have you survived?”

  “I haven’t sought out death.”

  “Yes, but why haven’t they executed you. Like the others.”

  “I suppose they think I still have something to offer, some information, some secret that makes them afraid.”

  Marcus took a moment to study the man again, to reappraise. He sat motionless in the adjacent cage with a gummy, generous smile on his weathered face, thin enough to be translucent. He looked like he might expire at any moment. But here he was in one of the cramped cages, cross-legged and calm, stewing as they all were in the relentless heat, amid the filth, the roaches, and the dung. He appears, Marcus thought, to be happy.