The Last Stoic (5 page)

“On that we agree, at least.”

“…but he often stumbles upon a
happy phrase.”

“You peacock!” Rauthwulfs
hollered.  “It was built with the blood and muscle of Germans and Hispanics,
Gauls and Numidians!”

His companions laughed and joined
in with the heckling. 

“Stultus!”

“Mentula!”

“Pathicus!”

Some in the crowd turned to look
at the unruly Germans.  Some laughed.  Others glared. 

Marcus regretted mightily his
decision to accompany Rauthwulfs and the others into Rome.  The hot, malicious
stares coming from those nearby made him flush and sweat.  He’d seen those
expressions before, in Verulamium, usually just prior to an unprovoked assault
or public humiliation, suffered at the hands of the bigger boys. Shuffling
backwards, Marcus attempted to hide his long, thin frame behind his new
acquaintances. 

Still, he was noticed. 

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

Patricius Constantius the Younger
was one of those who glowered at the scruffy Marcomanni.  He too had breached
the Servian Wall to take in the unveiling of the thermae, not wanting to miss
the show.  He spied Marcus standing at the centre of the disturbance,
conferring with the ringleader.  I was right about the Briton, he thrilled,
he’s a rebel, plotting against the empire. 

Patricius the Elder had served
Caracallus’ father, Septimius Severus, as a soldier in the Sixth Legion,
campaigning in far-off Parthia.  It was there that he’d had his skull cracked
and had lost an eye and a foot. 

“Caracallus, the son, is a
traitorous, dung-brained, half-Syrian camel fucker who’s pissing away the
empire,” the Elder had said.

Patricius the Younger loved his
father no more than he loved the emperor, but as far as the Younger was
concerned, the Elder was right in this regard.  He shared his father’s disdain
for the emperor with the oriental features and the Gallic cloak.  Like his
father, he hated him for extending Roman citizenship to every free male in the
empire.  Like his father, he could not forgive him for inviting a plague of
filthy foreigners to enter Rome, diluting the purity of the Roman race, of
which their family, Constantius, was a once-proud bloodline. 

“He is under the sway of some
Egyptian witch or Parthian whore,” the Elder would say. 

Still, Caracallus was emperor. 
He represented the greatness of Rome.  In some bent, perverted way he
represented the old glory of the republic, a thread of continuity back through
the centuries to the senate, and the great old families, the Cornelii, the
Claudii, the Julii, the Aemilii and the rest.  Patricius the Elder would
include the Constantii in that illustrious list, even though it had been many
generations since their particular branch of the family had held any positions
of power or prestige.  This being his first trip out of the marshy confines of
little Ravenna, Patricius the Younger wanted to see some of the vestiges of
that glory.  He desperately wanted to drink in the pageantry of a better past
with the hope of forgetting, for awhile, his unfortunate present. 

He also wanted to do something
about the noisy Marcomanni and the crafty Briton, loathsome foreigners. 
Caracallus offered large rewards to the delators, the professional informers,
who brought public accusations of sedition and saw them successfully
prosecuted.  Patricius had heard of men making small fortunes by exposing
traitors.  The accuser could be granted up to a quarter of the guilty man’s
estate
.  Just the capital I need to get started on my own
.   While
trying to blend himself further into the crowd, he edged toward Marcus. 

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

Back in the arena, Caracallus had
heard nothing of the hectoring and he continued his speech.

“And yet!  And yet, despite
Rome’s magnanimity, despite her might, despite her generosity, despite being a
beacon of light and justice throughout the world, we still have many enemies. 
Enemies of our way of life.  These barbarians would like nothing more than to
see the Empire crumble.”

Rauthwulfs protested loudly.

“Irrumator!”

“Scelus!”

The Germans were enjoying
themselves, hurling their abuse across the expanse of the crowd, dancing,
stomping, and laughing. 

“Did you know that our Caracallus
here is the first emperor in over one hundred years, besides his hero Commodus
of course, to be born into the purple?”

Marcus shook his head.

“Rauthwulfs, is it wise to be
shouting such things?  People are looking.  They don’t look pleased.”

Rauthwulfs snorted and continued.

“Oh yes.  There once was a
tradition of adopting a man who’d shown himself to be worthy.  Nowadays, the
emperors are either born into the purple or they purchase it.” 

“Yes, but Rauthwulfs, this hardly
seems like the time or the place…”

Loyalist members of the crowd
were approaching Marcus, Rauthwulfs and the rest of the Germans.  Patricius was
among them, not wanting to lose sight of Marcus.  The spectators were so close
together and the crowd so tight that he couldn’t make up any distance between
himself and Marcus.  Jeering from the vigilantes formed a counterpoint to
Rauthwulfs and the chorus of obscenities coming from his comrades and allies. 
The disturbance the Marcomanni had hoped for was coming to life, largely
through their own efforts. 

Caracallus was now aware of the commotion
taking place up on the Via Ardeatina, but seeing a number of Praetorians on
their way to deal with the matter, he continued. 

“The greatness and the glory of
Rome aren’t fed by the hot air of the Senate!  Jupiter no!  It’s won on the
bloody battlefields of Gallia, Hispania, Africa, and Asia.”

Caracallus gestured dramatically
to the immense baths standing behind him and to the city extending past them. 

“You, the soldiers, are the ones
who help accomplish all this. Our freedom and our way of life are in your hands
-- and they're in the best of hands. I want to thank you for your service in
the cause of Roman values. I want to thank you for wearing the tunica and for
carrying the scutum.  I am one of you, and it is because of you alone that
I care to live,
in order that I may confer upon you
many favours; for all the treasuries are yours.” 

“Do you know what his old man’s
advice was on his death bed?”

“Rauthwulfs please!  You’re
making them angry. Cease your shouting.”

Marcus looked over his shoulder
to see spectators advancing toward their little group.  Everyone seemed to be
yelling at everyone else.  He realized that he should have bolted earlier, but
now there wasn’t anywhere he could go.  They were hemmed in.  If Rauthwulfs
could sense his discomfort, he made no sign of it. 

“’Pay off the soldiers; and
disregard everyone else.’  I’d say if nothing else, he’s an obedient son.  He
buys them off with our money.  That’s how he got away with murdering his
brother.”

“Rauthwulfs, you must stop. 
There’s going to be trouble.” 

“Remember your Seneca!  Iniqua
nunquam regna perpetuo manent!  Unjust rulers do not reign for a long time!”

Marcus began to edge his way up
and away from the Via Ardeatina.  The emperor’s speech continued.

“The summus pontifex has examined
the entrails of the white bull and the portents are very good.  May Sol
Invictus continue to bless Rome.”

“Caco!”

“Fraudator!”

A barking, red-faced man reached
around to grip the collar of Marcus’ tunic, spun him around and held him fast. 
Familiar feelings of panic and nausea were washing over him, triggered by the
imminent brutality.  The Praetorians were now almost on top of the twisting,
bristling mob.  Patricius the Younger shouted and waved his hands at the nearest
guardsman, beckoning him over.  He told him everything he knew, and everything
he suspected, about the stranger from Britannia.

Caracallus strode back to the
slain lion, put his heavy caligus boot on the beast’s dusty, blood-caked head
and extricated his pilum with a yank.  Upon seeing the arrival of the Guard he
relaxed and smiled. 

“Remember!  Here in Rome everyone
should do their part.  Our enemies walk among us!  I encourage you to be
vigilant.  Report anything unusual to your local authorities.  Keep Rome safe,
free and strong!”

“Sed quis custodiet ipsos
custodes?  Who will keep watch over the guardians?”

The final outraged taunt was
barely out of Rauthwulfs’s mouth before two guardsmen reached him, one wrapping
his thick forearm around the German’s neck and the other grabbing his arms and
wrenching them behind his back. 

“Today is a day of celebration. 
Before we begin the hard work of next week, we will relax and repose.  And now,
I invite fifteen hundred of the empire’s leading citizens to join me in
inaugurating these baths.  Sol Invictus bless you!” 

Caracallus waved, the crowd
surrounding the arena and the baths cheered, and he ducked quickly into the
confines of the imposing caldarium, as officials began ushering in his guests.

Marcus heard the thump of the
club on Rauthwulfs’s head.  The rest of the Germans scattered and escaped into
the crowd.  Marcus pulled free, turned, and pressed up the Via Ardeatina toward
the Porto Capena gate, back into the heart of Rome. 

“Halt!”

Marcus stopped and turned
slowly.  Two Praetorians circled.  In spite of himself, he found himself
grinning absurdly.

“It’s amusing?”

“No.  I think you’re…” Marcus
started.

“Stultus!  Shut your mouth or
I’ll carve it off your fool face!”

“Come with us.”

Marcus imagined returning home to
Verulamium after incarceration, to face his grandfather, unemployed and
dishonoured.  He imagined going to prison.  He vomited.

“This is all a misunderstanding! 
I’m innocent!” he cried, wiping his face with the back of his hand. 

“So?  We’ll be the judge.”       

“But I’ve done nothing!”

“Don’t insult us.  Inciting a
riot.  Causing a civil disturbance.”

“Inciting a riot?  I didn’t!”

“Don’t bother.  Eyewitnesses. 
You’ve been publicly accused.” 

The guardsman pointed across the
dissipating throng of spectators.  He saw a man acknowledge the guard’s gesture
with a quick nod.  Patricius the Younger turned and dissolved back into the
crowd.  

“But I was just watching, I
wasn’t involved.  It was the Germans!”

“Don’t worry, we’ll take care of
them.”

“They’re strangers to me.”

“Our man says different.”

“How does he know?”

“He saw the whole thing.  You and
the mouthy one directed it all, he says.”

“It’s not true!  I just met
them!”

The guardsmen grabbed Marcus
roughly by the arms. 

“Where are you taking me?  I’m
not a Marcomanni, I had nothing to do with anything!”

He was frog-marched toward the
Porto Capena gate.

“Please.  I have to meet my
employer’s agent in under an hour.  If I miss this meeting my life will be
ruined!”

“Terribly sad.  Tragic.  Should have been considered earlier, eh?  And what employment?  Shit shoveller, first
class?”

The other soldier guffawed.

“No.” Marcus said.  “Engineering
apprentice for the Frontinus firm.”

The guards slowed their march.

“Frontinus?”

“Yes, Frontinus.  I’m here from
Verulamium to work for Frontinus.”

“Where?”

“Verulamium.  In Britannia.”

They stopped.

“So you’re not a German?”

“No.  Do I look like a German?”

The guardsmen scrutinized Marcus
and then looked at each other.

“You don’t sound like a German
either.”

“I’m not a German!”

It was then that Marcus
remembered his grandfather’s letter of introduction.  On the same morning
Vincentius had pointed out the Baths of Caracallus on the map he’d told Marcus
how he’d got his name.  He had described how the welcome news arrived from Rome
that the emperor Commodus had died, on the very same night, at the very same
hour of his birth and how he’d convinced his parents to name him Marcus, in
honour of the last great and noble father of the empire.   

I want you to know how proud I am
of you, how proud we all are.  And that you carry into the world with you a
name of distinction, a name with weight and bearing.  And that behind this name
is a long and distinguished history.  I urge you to use that history as your
teacher and guide.

It was then that Vincentius had
given him a heavy, folded parchment sealed with a circle of dark red wax.

“A letter!” Marcus cried now, to
the soldiers, “I have a letter!  It proves who I am.”