The Last Stoic (18 page)

Mark regained consciousness and gasped.
  He was fully enveloped in
canvas. 

“This one’s awake.” 

“Is he?”

“Looks it.”

Mark yelled when a heavy boot
crunched into his thigh.

“Yes, he is.”

“Stay calm.  There are air
holes.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Shut it.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

The steel-toe boot thudded again
into Mark’s midsection, bouncing off his ribs, leaving him momentarily
breathless with pain.  He writhed, and cried out, wanting to crumple himself
into a protective ball. 

When the pain had subsided he
remained quiet.  He listened.  He heard engine noise.  Helicopter rotors.  His
ears began to pop. 

“We’ve changed our minds.”

“You’re of no use to us.”

“We need information.”

“You’re useless until you talk.”

“You haven’t asked me anything
yet.”  

  “Quiet.”

“But you just said…”

“Quiet!”

“It’s too late.  You’re of no
use.”

Mark heard the clang of metal and
inrushing air.  He dug his feet into the floor, shifted his buttocks, and
hoisted himself backward, trying in vain to move from the sounds.  The canvas
impeded him and he had nowhere to go.  The helicopter’s bulkhead was at the
back of his neck. 

There was commotion.  There was
shouting.  A man protesting.  Then quiet again except for the whirring.  It was
louder now. 

The material of Mark’s shroud was
yanked upwards and he was hoisted unsteadily to his feet.

“You’re next.”

He was dragged several feet across
the swaying floor of the helicopter.  The rotors roared.  The wind buffeted his
canvas covering. 

“Please!  I’ll tell you
anything.  I don’t want to die.”

“You should have thought of that
earlier.”

“You didn’t give me a chance.”

Mark experienced a feeling of
weightlessness as he dropped through the air.  His heart stopped.  His lungs
collapsed.  His brain seized.  His bladder emptied.  All before he hit the
ground.

He felt the landing and it
hurt.   The pain intensified.  His knee was bruised and his wrist sprained. 
Pain?
 
Mark worked his wrist back and forth. 
Do the dead feel pain?

The front of his fabric prison
was unzipped.  He looked up to see the looming helicopter, khaki and brown like
a drab dragonfly.  It hovered just five feet from the ground.  Two uniformed
men pulled him to his feet and led him onto the tarmac of the landing pad. 
Looking back he saw that he’d stepped out of a body bag.  Another, still
occupied, lay just a couple of feet from his own.  Was it Nasir?  Was he dead? 

The helicopter climbed back into
the sky.

“That’s a preview.  You are
preserved as long as you are useful.  Follow the rules.  Speak only when you’re
spoken to.  Tell us what we want to know.  You’ll live.”

One of the soldiers pointed at
Mark’s trousers.  There was a large dark patch where he had wet himself.  Mark
looked down stupidly.  Humiliation blended with the rich cocktail of adrenaline
and endorphins and he retched. 

“Get him cleaned up and report
him to the corporal.”

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

Mark sat at a hard, steel chair
directly in front of an immaculate metal desk.  Soldiers stood on either side
of him. 

“Head straight!  No movement!”

The door behind him opened and
the corporal marched heavily into the room.  He was accompanied by another man
who restrained an eager black and tan dog.  The corporal stepped behind the
desk and with an economical, fluid motion sat down. 

“That’s fine.”

The two soldiers snapped their
boot heels, saluted, and exited. 

“Name.”

The interrogator sifted through
the papers in front of him.  He asked Mark his name, age, place of birth and
other personal questions, occasionally flicking sheets of paper with his pen,
before shouting into the intercom.

“Bring in the first one.”

A tall man in a faded jumpsuit
was brought in.  His cheeks were two divots in a worn, weary face and his
drooping eyes were devoid of expression.  A carpet of coal black stubble
covered his head, emphasizing the sallowness of his skin.  He looked familiar.

“Do you know this man?” the
corporal asked.

Mark shook his head.

“Speak please!”

“No.”

The corporal frowned and scanned
his papers again.   Mark looked again at the prisoner, sitting on the chair
across from him, whose head now drooped to his chest and rolled to the side in
profile.  There were holes in his ears and lips.  Mark pictured him now with
long thick strands of black hair.  He envisioned three large, metal rings in
the pale, bloodless lips and a metal rod puncturing the septum of the nose.  He
imagined an array of silver ringing the conspicuous ears and streaks of thick
black lining the eyes.  I do know him, he thought.  Rudy.  The Goth.  The one
who nearly got me arrested in New York.

The corporal found what he was
looking for in his briefings and returned to his interrogation.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.  I don’t know him.” 

Mark smiled.  Involuntarily.  He
blinked.  The corporal stared at him dispassionately, saying nothing.

“Take him away,” he said,
finally, “bring in the next one.”

Nasir was dragged into the
interrogation room.  He had a badly blackened eye, his arm was in a sling, and
a long string of saliva drooled from his slack bottom lip.

“How about this man?  Do you know
him?”

Mark scrutinized Nasir’s
slouching, lethargic form like a doctor examining a patient, hoping he would
appear helpful yet stumped.  He could not stop clearing his throat.

“Are you aware that he has been
linked to Al-Qaeda and other terrorist organizations?  That we suspect he is
part of sleeper cell?”

Mark laughed.  Nasir the beggar. 
Completely harmless. 

“Funny?” asked the corporal. 

Mark always assumed that Nasir
didn’t do much beyond soliciting passersby for alms.  What else did he do?

“Do you know this man or not?!”

“No.” 

Mark cleared his throat again, as
though he were regurgitating, as though he had just snapped at poison bait.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes sir.  I saw him for the
first time at the rally.  He was talking gibberish.  Everyone noticed him.  I
tried to get as far away from him as I could.  I wanted to hear the President’s
speech.”

He was talking too much. 

“That’s what happened.”

“You’re sure.”

Mark nodded.

The corporal snapped the folder
containing his briefings together sharply.

“Ok.  That’s all for now.  Take
them back to detainment.  Separate cells.”  

Abwûn d'bwaschmâja

Nethkâdasch schmach

Têtê malkuthach.

Nehwê tzevjânach aikâna
d'bwaschmâja af b'arha.

Hawvlân lachma d'sûnkanân
jaomâna.

Waschboklân chaubên wachtahên
aikâna daf chnân schwoken l'chaijabên.

Wela tachlân l'nesjuna

ela patzân min bischa.

Metol dilachie malkutha wahaila
wateschbuchta l'ahlâm almîn.

Amên.
[1]

The emaciated, cross-legged man rocking back and forth
in a cage repeated these words,
in a low, trance-like voice, over and over.  They were the only words he’d
spoken since Marcus had been deposited in the adjacent cage thirty minutes
earlier. 

After the brief interrogation by
the Tesserarius, Marcus had been led outside to a series of enclosures attached
to the main building, a long, wooden post and beam structure, against which at
least a dozen cages abutted, in two rows, with the cages facing each other. 
Most of the pens contained men.  Several contained dogs.

“Kennels,” one of the guards
said. 

Marcus was placed in the final
pen, the one furthest away from the main building.  The morning sun, already
very warm, poured through the iron bars and continued to heat the still, sticky
air.  It reeked of parched vegetation, sweaty, fermenting bodies, and effluent.

There was nothing in the three
foot by three foot space except for a layer of sawdust, a mound of straw, and
endless cockroaches.  The clumsy giants, with their rigid, vestigial wings shut
firmly against the black sheathings of their bodies, weaved in and out of the
debris in the corner of the cage.  Each displayed the image of a crimson skull
on its back.  Marcus closed his eyes tight.  He flicked out his lower leg to
remove one from his sandaled foot and he shook his tunic out too.

“Where are we?” he hissed through
the iron bars of his cage.

His neighbour took no notice,
continuing to rock back and forth, arms extended, chanting his verse.  He was a
crude scarecrow, a slender stick of a body lashed to the crossbeam of his
lanky, outstretched arms, with a rotting mass of tattered rags draped over. 
Stringy whiskers hung from his chin.  Oily, matted hair fell from his head. 
His ribcage, shoulders, jawbone, shins, all were perfectly articulated through
the thin covering of his skin.  It was like there was no intervening
musculature, like his skin would slide and puddle around his ankles if he were
to stand. 

Marcus re-examined the
cockroaches. 
Is
that really a death’s head?  It can’t be.  Only
thirty minutes in the carcer and I’m seeing things.
  Marcus glanced across
to his neighbour. 
How long before I’m like him?

Marcus turned back to the baked
landscapes beyond the cages.  The soil, yellow and brittle, was covered with a
fine layer of dust, as if fired in a kiln.  Here and there anaemic weeds pushed
through cracks in the ground.  Beyond the immediate vicinity of the cages, the
land became hilly, punctuated with sharp outcroppings of rock.  Along a ridge
sixty yards away there was a corridor of scrubby vegetation:  squat, ugly
trees, pugnacious-looking bushes, and low-lying succulents with thick skins and
gelatinous insides.  A trio of scavengers cruised high in the sun-seared sky,
dark silhouettes undertaking broad, leisurely circles aloft the plentiful
thermal updrafts. 

The other prisoner had finally
ceased his chanting.  His head began a slow descent to his chest, the top of
his forehead resting against the bars of his cell.  His body seemed to fold in
on itself, to compress, until he was caved in and motionless.

“What’s wrong?” Marcus asked. 
“Are you alright?”

No response.

Marcus surveyed what he could see
of the other pens in his vicinity.  Nothing stirred, not even the dogs in the
facing cages.  All was quiet and unmoving under the intensifying sun. 

“Excuse me, hello?  Can you tell
me… where are we?”

Marcus saw a tremor along the
sharply ridged back.  The prisoner unfolded himself, emerging like a wood
louse, the kind that Marcus used to torment as a child, poking with a stick or
finger so that it curled into a tight, armoured ball.  The man snatched a
cockroach from the filth on the ground and brought it sharply to his mouth, bit
it in two, and chewed.  Still hunched over, he hopped across his pen.  He
pressed his face against the bars dividing the two cages, popped the other half
of the roach into his mouth, and crunched. 

Only half a dozen palms separated
their faces.  I know this man too, Marcus thought, but from where? 

“It’s not too late,” the man
croaked, speaking for the first time.

“Sorry?”

“It’s not too late.  For you. 
You can save yourself.  Put your faith in Jesus Christ, King of kings, Lord of
lords, and the Kingdom of Heaven will be your reward.”

Marcus stared back open-mouthed. 
It was Sebastianus, the Christian. 

“Jesus tells us that God shall
wipe away all tears from our eyes,” Sebastianus said, “and there shall be no more
death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain.”  

Sebastianus pressed his face
further into Marcus’ cage, his eyes wide and unblinking, showing no signs of
recognition. 

“And neither shall there be any
more pain,” he said, emphasizing each word. 

“Sebastianus!  It’s me Marcus!” 

“For the former things are passed
away.” 

“Sebastianus!  It’s me.  What are
you saying?  Why don’t you recognize me?  It’s Marcus!  How long have you been
here?”

“Those who are beheaded for the
witness of Jesus,” Sebastianus continued, “and for the word of God, and who
have not worshipped the beast…”

“Nasir is here too,” Marcus tried
again, now in a low whisper. “We were at the Emperor’s speech.  I didn’t do
anything.  Nasir…”

 “…neither his image, neither had
received his mark upon their foreheads, or in their hands…”

“…he started yelling and shouting
nonsense.  The soldiers arrested us.  They didn’t take Sura.  Jupiter knows
where she is.”

“… and they lived and reigned
with Christ a thousand years.”

“Where
are
we
Sebastianus?” Marcus asked a third time.  “Where are we?!”

“You don’t need to know that.” 

Marcus turned.  He looked up to
see the two guards who had brought him in. 

“You don’t
want
to know,”
the guard added, looking around. “Exile.”

“There’s no point in talking to
him,” said his partner, nodding towards Sebastianus.

“Troublemaker.  Zealot.  Refuses
to make a sacrifice.  Refuses to renounce the dead Jew.  Refuses to profess
love for the Emperor.”

“Madman.  He refuses food.”

“These fanatics are all the
same.  Superstitious like women, stubborn like mules.”

“It’s perverse, like he wants to
die.”

One of the guards shook the cage.

“Cannibals!  They don’t like our
food.  They want the flesh and blood of their own kind.” 

Sebastianus retreated from the
bars of his cage and huddled in the corner, saying nothing.

“Mark this Christian,” the guard
said to Marcus.  “Do not what he does.  Spare yourself.  Minimize the pain. 
You’ll survive.”

His partner kicked dust into the
pen.

“But learn quickly.  He doesn’t
have long.”

Marcus clutched at his
mid-section as the bile rocketed up his esophagus and burned the back of his
throat.  His eyes watered.  He clenched his teeth.  A misunderstanding, he
thought, a mistake.  I just need to explain.  Make them understand.  His
breathing was ragged.

“I’m a Roman citizen!  I’m a free
man!  You can’t torture me!”

The guard gestured to the
inhospitable surroundings, the scorched, yellow ground, the stunted vegetation,
and the crumbling buildings.

“Do you see any baths?  Temples?
Amphitheatres? Romans?”

“This is a military tribunal.  A
maiestas trial, perduellio.  On trial for sedition.  All of you are.”

“Vae, that’s enough,” the guard
said, “he doesn’t need to know any of that.”

“Sedition?  What sedition?”

“I’ve said enough.”

“But there is some terrible
mistake!  I’m not a traitor, I’ve done nothing, said nothing.”

“That will be up to the magistrate.”

“Give the magistrate what he
wants, and you might survive.”

“I must talk to the magistrate.  Whoever is in charge.  I work for Paulus Cornelius.  I’m an architect.  I’ve never
said a bad word against the Emperor.”

“That’s a good start.  Save it
for the magistrate.”

“I’m not even from Rome. I don’t
belong here. I’m from Britannia.”

“I’d keep that to yourself.”

The guards moved on.

Sweat streamed from Marcus’
hairline.  The sun was now at full strength and was beating down into his
cage.  He scraped his tongue against the paste coating his palate.

“Water.” 

Now he screamed.

“Some water, please!  I’m
thirsty!”

The guards were out of earshot. 
He’d have no water.  He looked back at the cadaverous Christian, Sebastianus,
who’d returned to his shell and was again rocking and murmuring his prayers. 
He’d be no comfort.  Marcus pressed himself into the sliver of shade thrown by
the wooden beams, trying to avoid the sun’s direct path.   

A series of piercing ululations
came from several pens toward the main building.  The call was so sharp and
loud that even Sebastian paused from his meditations to listen.  Marcus recognized
the voice; it was Nasir. 
What is he doing?  Is he being tortured?
  He
was howling out something specific in his native Parthian, but it was
indecipherable.  And then just as quickly as it started, it stopped.  At that
moment Marcus, roasting in his cage, brushing roaches from his feet, blood
bubbling in his veins, hated Nasir like he’d never hated anyone before.