The Last Stoic (10 page)

“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.

"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 pair 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 the 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.”

“He’s an angry man.”

“You’d be best to keep your
distance.”  Gus took a draught from his goblet.  “Are you coming to my Ludi
Plebei feast?”

“I suppose.”

“It will be fun.  Besides, I have
a surprise for you.”

Marcus frowned. 

“Surprise?”

“You’ll see.  At the Ludi
Plebei.”