The Last Stoic (17 page)

The Parthian was by himself, rummaging through the debris at the curb.  He muttered and kicked at the refuse, striking his palm
with his fist, butting his head against the stone of the nearby wall.

Patricius watched the man’s
torment from a safe distance, marveling at his madness.  A thrilling new course
of action presented itself, revealing how he could achieve what Gus had
requested and all of the accolades and rewards that would entail.  Cautiously,
he moved forward toward Nasir, raising the collar of his cloak up around his
cheeks, partially obscuring his face.

“Comrade!” he shouted, from
several paces away. 

Nasir stopped, swiveled and
stared at Patricius with wild eyes.

“Do you remember me?” Patricius
asked, hopefully.

Nasir continued to stare.  He
found the man hailing him vaguely familiar, but could not place him.  Patricius
gambled that he would not be recognized from the street or his participation in
the purges instigated by the Pater.

“It’s me comrade, your friend.”

Nasir seemed neither to accept
nor deny him, so Patricius pressed on.

“What afflicts you comrade?  Why
do you rave?  What troubles you?”

Nasir emitted a terrible groan.

“All is lost,” he wailed, “my
sister is gone, my family is gone, I am dead.”

“Your sister?”

“Yes, Sura, poor sainted Sura.  I
hid her in the Judaean quarter, but she is no longer there.  I’ve searched for
her everywhere.  She’s gone.  Gone!  Mithras strike me down, I have failed
her.”

“You follow Mithras, bringer of
light?”

Nasir paused again to face Patricius.

“I’m a Mithraist too comrade,”
Patricius continued, “we worship the same god!”

Nasir scrutinized Patricius.  His
face was partially obscured and the dusk made his features indistinct.  He’s
familiar.  But he doesn’t look Parthian.

“I’ve seen your sister, Sura.”

Nasir grabbed Patricius by his
tunic with such force that for a moment Patricius thought of giving up the
charade and running.  But he was exhilarated by his scheme and did not want to
abandon it.  If there was one thing Patricius knew, it was rage, and he stoked
it now in Nasir like a blacksmith at the bellows.

“Comrade,” he said quietly and
conspiratorially, “She’s been captured by the guardsmen when they were clearing
the streets.”

Nasir cried out, making Patricius
nervous he would bring the city guard down upon them. 

“It cannot be true!”

“Quiet, quiet,” Patricius
whispered, “there’s nothing that can be done.”

“How could you know it is Sura?”

“A slight girl?  A crippled right
leg?  A flute?”

Nasir howled.

“What did they do to her?  Where did
they take her?”

“Comrade, please, calm down.  You
must think of yourself.  You mustn’t think of her anymore, put her out of your
mind.  You will likely never see her again.”

“She’s my only family.  I’m the
last one.  I swore on the graves of my mother and father that I would protect
her until the end of time.  I have failed.  I deserve to die.” 

Nasir pounded his head against
the wall, drawing blood from his temple.

“Comrade, please!”  Patricius
grabbed him by the shoulder.  “You are still alive.  You aren’t finished.  You
can still do the right thing, for your sister, your mother and father, your
ancestors.”

“How?  I have nothing.  I am
nothing.”

“You have your pride.  You have
your anger.  That is everything.”

“What can I do?”

“Make them pay.  Avenge your
sister and the rest of your family.  Restore your honour.”

“I would do anything to make it
so.  But how?”

“The emperor gives a public
address tomorrow on the commons.  It is his last farewell before returning to
Parthia, to finally put his boot on the necks of our countrymen.  If he could
be stopped…” 

Patricius paused and allowed
Nasir to finish the thought. 

“But what can I do, strangle him
with my bare hands?  He’ll be surrounded by guardsmen and soldiers.  I won’t be
able to get within fifty paces.”

“You are good with a knife, no? 
All Parthian men are knife throwers and archers are they not?”

“Unrivalled, of course.  But I
have no knife!”

“You can take this one.  Keep it,
I don’t want it back.”

Patricius pulled from the belt at
his tunic, the sharp, hunting knife he had scavenged from the gear Marcus had
left at the roadside with Phoenix, his abandoned horse.  He flipped it and
presented it shaft first to Nasir.  Surprised, Nasir carefully wrapped his
fingers around the hilt of the knife and appraised it, twisting it and turning
it, examining the straightness and smoothness of the blade, weighing it and
balancing it. 

“What’s this?” he asked, pointing
at the script along the spine of the knife.

“Nothing.  Celtic scribblings.  I
have no idea.  I traded for it from a Gaulish merchant at the market.”

Nasir judged the knife to be a
good one. 

“Thank you, you are a true
friend.  You’ve done me a great favour.  May Mithras bless you always.  I
promise you here, on my life, I will secure this vengeance and return honour to
my family and our people.”

Nasir embraced Patricius and
hurried away into the shadows.

Patricius laughed.  It occurred
to him that when he first set out to foil Marcus it was because he suspected
the Briton of treason.  He was convinced that Marcus intended to assassinate
the emperor.  Now, like an Olympian god, he had directed his pawn toward the
same result.

I don’t love the emperor, he
shrugged, why should I?  Caracallus hasn’t done me any favours.  I don’t much
care whether he lives or dies.  I want Rome for Romans.  An attempt on the
emperor’s life would rally the patriots, would return Rome to its former,
purer, glory. 

Patricius turned and headed for
the Mithraist temple. 

Besides, it is just an attempt. 
The Parthian won’t hit his mark.  In his state?  He’s sure to be a good knife
thrower.  He’s Parthian.  But he won’t get close enough.  Too many people.  It
will be impossibly far. 
Won’t it?
 

There was only the erratic blue emanating from the
television.

Mark slumped uncomfortably on the
couch, his feet on the coffee table still in their shoes, his back curved
awkwardly against the L of the cushions.  Sura dozed fitfully in the next room,
in Mark’s bed.  It was the first time she’d slept in a proper bed - not
cardboard, not blankets, not a cot - in at least three years.  She had
refused.  Mark had insisted. 

Mark could not sleep.  He opened
another beer and returned to the screen and the newsreader.

“Tanks continued to roll into the
city centre today, flushing out the remnants of opposition forces, encountering
only isolated and sporadic fighting.  Commanders in the field have been
surprised by the low level of resistance they have encountered, concluding that
most enemy combatants have simply abandoned their posts and melted into the
countryside.”

Mark’s eyelids drooped.

“Elsewhere in the city, rioting
and looting continued to make conditions difficult.  Many significant
government buildings have been ransacked, including City Hall, the courthouse,
and the National Archives.  Looters are making off with just about everything
they can carry:  computers, appliances and furniture, and even bathroom
fixtures.”

“Sadly,” the news-anchor chirped,
“the city’s National Museum, with its estimated one hundred seventy thousand
items of cultural and historical importance, has not been spared from the pillaging.  Curators, historians, and antiquarians around the world are condemning the ransacking
and are demanding that coalition forces protect what they feel is a priceless
resource.  But with the army stretched, securing the oil-fields, power
generating stations, airfields and other transportation routes, it appears that
the museum will be left unprotected.”

His head nodded and snapped back.

“Pictured here are some of the
treasures known to have been housed at the National Museum, at least until
today.  There’s the famous Warka Vase, dating from around three thousand B.C.,
and the Warka Head, from about the same time period, thought to be the oldest
existing representation of a human face.  Both are from the cradle of
civilization, from the Uruk empire.  There are also later objects, from the
Assyrian and Akkadian societies, and also from Parthia.  There is a well
preserved Parthian flute, called a nai.  There are some prized statues from the
Roman periods between 200 and 300 AD, including a vandalized bust of the
emperor Caracalla.  And from the same time period, what you are looking at now,
is an extremely rare, early copy of
The Meditations
by Marcus Aurelius. 
It is perhaps one of the first copies of those personal writings of the
legendary emperor, the so-called philosopher king.  The museum was said to have
been in negotiations with the National Museum of Rome about the possibility of
repatriating that piece.  To discuss the scroll and all of the museum’s
holdings we have Dr. Selim Al-Rahdi, a professor of antiquities, on a satellite
feed from Damascus.  Good evening professor, or perhaps I should say good
morning….”

Mark was asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Outside, Patrick was wide awake. 

He sipped from a soda, sitting on
a berm in the front yard of a low rise apartment three doors down from Mark’s
own apartment building, concealing himself in the dusk between streetlights. 
He waited and watched.  When the light in Mark’s apartment finally went out,
Patrick entered the apartment building, scaled the flight of stairs quietly,
and located Mark’s front door.  He slipped a note under it that read:

I’ve received word that Nasir
will be at the rally tomorrow.

Please be there early and talk
some sense into him.  I think he plans to do something rash.

Your friend,

Sebastian

Patrick hurried away to phone
Gus, to let him know what he predicted would occur at the rally the next day.

“The friends of our enemies are also our enemies.”

Caracallus, bedecked in full
military gear sat atop a magnificent bay Arabian horse as he addressed the
assembled crowd.  His conspicuous Gallic cloak, signifying his direct
connection to the boisterous, rustic spirit of the ale-swilling common man was
flung rakishly over his left shoulder.  He spoke with a practiced, countrified
twang.

“Either you stand with Rome or
you stand alone!”

Hundreds of soldiers and
officials of the empire flanked Caracallus, including Macrinus, the Prefect of
the Guard, the Primus Pilus, the Praefectus Castrorum, dozens of centurions,
and many more lower-level officers and soldiers of the most distinguished
cohort of the most legendary legion.  Thousands of soldiers making up the
several legions of the expeditionary force bivouacked at a camp a few miles
outside of the city.  Citizens crammed themselves in to the central commons,
taking a break from their daily routines to catch a glimpse of the emperor and
his splendid army, the world’s most advanced and most feared. 

“We will turn every rock, search
every cave, bring civilization to every dark corner.”

Nasir tightened his cowl.  He
brought the collar up to his nose and thrust his right hand into the folds of
his robe, nudging spectators out of the way with his left hand, snaking toward
the emperor and his entourage, still one hundred paces away.    

Marcus and Sura stood wedged
between a tree and a clutch of rowdy students. 

“We shouldn’t be here Sura.  We
should go.” 

Marcus recalled the first time he
heard Caracallus speak, years ago on Rome’s Via Ardeatina, in the company of
the boisterous Germans. 

“Sebastianus has been a good and
kind man since we’ve known him, since we’ve arrived.  It’s only right that we
trust him now.”

“Yes, but where is he?”

“I’m sure we’ll find him soon. 
Or, he’ll find us.”

Marcus rubbed the back of his
neck.  Where has Sebastianus been?  Why did he leave a note?  Why didn’t he
just knock? 

The emperor’s oration continued.

“In five days I will lead an
expedition east.  We will venture deep into darkest Parthia and we’ll once
again make our borders safe, even at the furthest reaches of the Empire.  We’ll
defeat the Parthians abroad before they attack us at Rome!”

Nasir marched on, squeezing past
onlookers, compressing and darkening, like an ancient star. 

“And, my fellow Romans, we will
not fail. We will persevere, and defeat this enemy, and hold this hard-won
ground for the realm of the empire.”

After each pause, the soldiers
stamped their feet and hammered their shields.  Caracallus waited, grinning.

“How can we fail, with the
greatest army the world has ever seen, and ever will see?”

Marcus scanned the crowd in all
directions, watching for Sebastianus.  Instead he saw Nasir, muttering, pacing
back and forth, plunging his hand in and out of his tunic.

“Jupiter.”

“What?  What is it, Marcus?” Sura
asked.

“Nasir.  I see him.” 

“Where?”

“He doesn’t look well.”

“Call him to us.”

“He’s too far away.”

Nasir could move no further
forward.  He worried that the emperor neared the end of his speech and would
soon ride away.  The crush was dense and guardsmen were near.  He was at about
twenty paces.  In his youth, he’d hit targets at thirty.  He could see the
emperor’s head and neck, nothing else.  That was enough.  Nasir kissed his
fingers.  He prayed to his ancestors for blessings of a steady hand and true
sight.  With thin fingers, no longer shaking, he gripped the knife tip.

Caracallus continued.

“Before we depart I want to pay a
special honour to the soldiers for their service, their courage and their
sacrifice. I thank their families, who support them in their vital work. The
centurions have contributed mightily to our efforts to secure our borders.”

Nasir pulled the knife and hurled
it.  It sliced through the air above the crowd, hilt over blade.

“Rome is grateful, and so is your
emperor.”

The spinning knife stopped
suddenly and brutally, absorbed by the neck of a minor official, a tax
administrator, standing on the rostrum seven dignitaries away from the
emperor.  Another thunderous roar erupted from the ranks of the cheering
soldiers.  Only those standing next to the bureaucrat noticed he had crumpled
to the floor with blood pooling around his head. 

Nasir saw the taxman disappear
into the crowd and he heard the oration continue.  

“Our work in these distant lands
will be hard.  The job of civilizing is hard.  Our soldiers will face changing
conditions of war, and we will require of them perseverance, sacrifice, and an
ability to adapt.”

Staggering back from the rostrum,
Nasir dug his nails hard into his arm, breaking the skin.  I am cursed.  One
chance.  Missed.  Every halting cadence of the emperor’s speech stabbed at him,
underscoring his failure.  He wished he still held the knife so he could jam it
into his own neck. 

“For their continued sterling
service Rome will provide an extra twenty-five thousand sesterces to the
Praetorian Guard and to the rest of the soldiers another twenty thousand.  May
it always be said of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus that he supports the troops.”

Marcus saw Nasir throw the
knife.  He saw him backing away, back toward where they stood.  Praetorian
Guardsmen had descended from the rostrum now and were pushing their way through
the knot of people gathered there. 

“Please,” Marcus begged, “we must
leave.”

“Why?  What is going on?  Call
him to us.  You see him?  Nasir!  Nasir!”  Sura cried.

“My fellow countrymen, just as
the great Alexander, liberator of civilized men, marched east over five hundred
years ago to vanquish a Persian tyrant and brought with him principles of
freedom and justice to an oppressed people, we will cross those same Tigris and
Euphrates rivers and free the Parthians from the Arabian lions that torment
them!”

Nasir heard his sister’s voice through
the emperor’s bellow.  He looked up the hill and saw Marcus and Sura standing
by the tree.

“And, like Alexander, history
will forever record that Marcus Aurelius Antoninus is a war emperor!”

“Nasir!  It is you!” Sura said
when she finally caught sight of him. 

“Dulce bellum inexpertis.”

“Nasir?”

Nasir embraced Sura, kissed her
on each cheek, and said, “I have failed you Sura.  And mother and father.  I’ve
disgraced our whole family.  I’m eternally sorry.  Goodbye.” 

He clambered up the trunk of the
tree.

“What in Hades are you doing?”
Marcus cried.

 Nasir turned back and looked
down at Marcus, Sura and the rest of the crowd.

“Marcus, are you familiar with
Galgacus?”

Every child growing up in
Verulamium heard the stories of the famous Briton general. 

“When I was young and we were
awaiting the legions we used to recite his speech.  I still remember it.”

The guardsmen pursuing Nasir now
heard and saw him. 

“Robbers of the world, having by
their universal plunder exhausted the land, they rifle the deep. If the enemy
be rich, they are rapacious; if he be poor, they lust for dominion; neither the
east nor the west has been able to satisfy them.”

“Come Sura, we must leave.”
Marcus begged. 

“We can’t leave him!”

“We must.  There is nothing we
can do now.”

Marcus hoisted Sura and handed
her the crutch, supporting her from the other side and they hobbled away.

“Do you suppose that the Romans
will be as brave in war as they are licentious in peace?”  Nasir continued.

The Guardsmen arrived and
commenced to hurl pieces of cinder into the branches, one of them striking
Nasir on the side of his head.  He fell heavily from the tree.  Two soldiers
bound Nasir.  The others interrogated onlookers. 

Marcus recognized one of those
interviewed:  Patricius.  He was pointing up the hill, toward the edge of the
park, where Marcus and Sura stood. 

“Come Sura, we must run!”

“I can’t.” Sura wept.

Marcus thrust his arm around her
waist, gripped the belt of her tunic, and led them from the park’s edge and
into the thinly treed woods.  Sura skipped along painfully, flopping like a rag
doll against Marcus’ hip.  Two soldiers appeared ahead.  Marcus looked behind. 
Two others entered the woods behind them, Nasir’s bloodied and broken body
suspended between them.  Marcus and Sura were surrounded.

“That’s him.  That’s your man. 
He’s the mastermind.”

Patricius stood next to the
guardsmen holding Nasir. 

“Mastermind?”  Marcus’ voice was
shrill.

“They all know each other.  They
were in the plot together.”

“What plot?”

Nasir had revived.  His arm hung
awkwardly from his shoulder.  Blood streamed from the gash in the side of his
head and spidered across his face. 

“Marcus,” he mouthed, “don’t let
them take Sura.  Look after her.”

A third soldier crunched the
heavy bronze umbo of his shield against Nasir’s temple, silencing him.

“So you do in fact know each
other?” asked the decanus.  “What’s your name?”

“Marcus of Verulamium. I’m an
architect with the Frontinus firm.  I came only to hear the emperor’s speech.”

“We have no evidence to the
contrary,” one of the soldiers said to the decanus.

“There is proof,” Patricius said,
“you mustn’t release the mastermind or it could happen again.”

“What proof?”

“Bring the knife that killed the
tax collector.”

The decanus studied Patricius,
then Marcus, and finally his subordinates.  He motioned to one of them to
retrieve the weapon. 

As the soldier departed, Gus came
into the clearing, from the direction of the crowds in the park.

“Gus!” Marcus exclaimed.  “Thank
Jupiter!  You must tell these men, they’ve made a mistake.  We’ve done
nothing.”

“All right!  Keep it quiet!”

“Gus.”

“I’m sorry Marcus,” Gus said, his
hands outstretched, palms up. “I’m not sure what can be done.”

The soldier returned and handed
the bloodied knife to the decanus. 

“Read the inscription,” Patricius
said, rocking lightly, left to right.

The decanus scooped a handful of
leaves from the ground and wiped blood from the knife.  He examined the
engraving below the blade’s spine.

“I don’t recognize these words.”

“It’s in the British language,”
Patricius said, “I can read it for you.”

“Can anyone read British?” the
decanus asked his men, ignoring Patricius.  A man with an enormous moustache
stepped forward and took the knife.

“Lugurix, of course.  Go ahead.”

“Safe travels, Fortuna bless
you.” the soldier said aloud.

“The other side,” Patricius said.

Lugurix flipped the knife and saw
Marcus’ full name along the length of the other side, just below the spine,
which he also read aloud.

The decanus turned to Marcus.  

“Is that your knife?”

Lugurix took the weapon to Marcus
and held it before him.  Marcus stammered as he tried to understand how that
knife, given to him in Verulamium by his brother Annaeus, a going away gift,
his for less than week, left at the roadside with Phoenix, had found its way
into Nasir’s hands and into the taxman’s neck.  He searched for an explanation.

“Seize him.”

Soldiers wrenched Marcus’ arms
behind his back.  Sura lay jumbled at his feet, looking up with terror.

“Please,” Marcus said, “Gus, you
must look after Sura.  She has no one.  Promise me you’ll do that.”