The Last Stoic (14 page)

“More attacks may be imminent,
here or in Rome.  Today’s races are postponed indefinitely.  We ask that you go
home, peacefully and in an orderly manner.  Messengers in the city squares will
keep you apprised of the situation and give you further instruction.”

All wore the same, blank, stunned
look.  No-one knew how to respond to such an unexpected intrusion into race
day.  Lacking any other course of action, the crowd obediently queued up for
the exits from the circus.  As he stood, digesting the announcement, Marcus was
surprised to find himself thinking on Aurelius’ journal again. 

“Xander, do you have a copy of
the Emperor’s journal?” he whispered up to the old Greek, who was just ahead of
him in line.

Xander laughed. 

“Jupiter no!  There are maybe
five or six copies in the whole world.”

“Then, how do you know so much
about it.”

“I studied a copy when I was in
Alexandria for a spell.  The library had a copy, not sure if they still do.  It
may have been destroyed in the purge.”

“What purge?”

“Vae!  The massacre at
Alexandria.  You’ve not heard of it?”

“No, sorry, news doesn’t travel
quickly to Verulamium.”

“Ah, yes of course, no matter.”

Xander, pleased to find a willing
listener, went on to share everything he knew about what happened at
Alexandria.  He explained that Caracallus was furious with the scholars of
Alexandria that they should question his authority.  The Alexandrians had
satirized the emperor for how he took to the throne, by murdering his brother. 
He’d already gone so far as to burn the books of the Aristotelians studying in
that city, due to his conviction that Aristotle was responsible for the death
of Alexander.  He paid the city an imperial visit, proclaiming to be the
reincarnation of the great Macedonian, declaring his intention to bestow many
honours on the city.  A delegation of the best and brightest Alexandrians, many
of whom Xander claimed as old friends and colleagues, met the emperor at the
city’s outskirts and he had them all slaughtered.  Then he had the city looted
and burned. 

“Whether that particular copy of
the emperor’s journal survived or not is anybody’s guess.”

The herald had raised the brass
cone to his mouth again.

“That is all.  Please leave the circus
immediately.  Thank you.”

Sebastian was breathless when he arrived at the street
corner
, pushing
damp hanks of hair from his face.  Mark, Nasir and Sura looked up from their
lunches of spicy Thai noodles in Styrofoam bowls, the takeout that Mark had
brought.  He’d become so familiar with the Parthians that he now spent an
occasional lunch hour with them, bringing along a picnic.

“We must leave,” Sebastian said
to them, “please follow me.”

Nasir and Sura put aside their
meals and began to pack up their belongings, bundling clothing and keepsakes
into their blankets.  Mark still had chopsticks at his lips, watching in
amazement.  He turned to Sebastian.

“You might as well come too,” he
said.

Mark got to his feet leisurely,
slurping more noodles into his mouth, watching him from the corner of his eye. 
Sebastian threw one of Sura’s half-finished bundles to the ground.  He propped
a crutch roughly under her arm and prodded her forward. 

“Leave it!  There isn’t time!”

“She’s not a mule!”  Mark tugged
at Sebastian’s shirt.  The young activist halted.  His thin, contorted face
relaxed.

“I’m sorry, you’re right.  But we
must hurry.  Mark could you please help Sura?  I’ll pick up this extra bag. 
Leave everything else.  Come.  I know a place we can go.”

Mark gave Sura his arm, Nasir
hoisted their bundles and Sebastian led them away.  They reached Corner
Convenience at the next intersection and he ushered them through the heavy
glass doors.  The man at the counter, his hair shiny black and neatly parted,
lowered his newspaper.  He took a pen from the collection in the breast pocket
of his striped, button-down shirt, yellowed at the armpits, and used it to
smooth the thin, dark moustache tracing his upper lip.  Glancing at the group
over his reading glasses he gave Sebastian a quick, non-committal nod and
raised his paper.

Sebastian shepherded them through
the shop to the magazine section. 

“This will be fine.  Pick a
magazine.  Peruse.”

Mark stifled a laugh seeing Sura
pick up
Maximum Fitness
.  Nasir held
Martha Stewart Living
.

Sebastian helped Sura onto the
cracked cushion of a steel, vinyl backed chair. 

“Put your blanket at your knees,”
he continued, placing and draping the blanket himself, to obscure her stump,
“try to look natural.”

“What’s going on Sebastian?”

Sebastian took Mark to the front
counter and scanned the street from the large, plate glass window.

“Rick Reid.”

“Who?”

“The Reverend Rick Reid.  Senior
pastor of Super Shepherd Ministries and newest congressional candidate for this
district.”

“The man from the giant church?” 

Mark recalled an article from the
paper titled
Place of Worshopping
about a local pastor and his cathedral
that occupied one hundred and fifty suburban acres.

“Yes, the billionaire Baptist. 
Ever since he decided to run for congress he’s been making noise about cleaning
up the streets in his district.  These streets.  He’s on the radio or on TV
every week, calling out the mayor, calling out the police, demanding something
be done to make this neighbourhood safer, more Christian.  The drug addicts,
the prostitutes, the small time crooks, the mentally ill, the homeless, they
all need to be swept from downtown.”

Mark glanced back at the refugees,
magazines in their laps.

“He’s demanded that the city cut
funding to
Caritas
.  Handmaidens of sin he called us.  Now it’s
Operation
Sweep for Jesus
.  He’s here today, with his youth pastors and a TV crew. 
They’ve already rounded up a dozen.”

Mark lowered his voice, “What
could happen?”

“Deportation.”

Sura dropped her magazine.  “I’ve
forgotten my flute!”

“It will probably still be
there,” Sebastian said without any real conviction, as he and Mark rejoined the
pair.  “Anyway, we can always get you another, if that one should happen to go
missing.”

“No.  It’s special,” she
continued, struggling to control her tone.  “It’s been in the family a long
time.  It has a history.”

“I’ll go.” Mark said. 

Sebastian put his hand roughly
through his hair and inhaled, but didn’t object.  Mark exited the shop and
jogged back.  Onlookers lined the streets.  He heard Rick Reid before he saw
him.  A squashed, adenoidal voice intoned from around the corner, “…and I’d
like to introduce some friends of mine!”

His voice bounced off the walls
of the buildings along the street, warped, amplified, and echoing.

“Mr. and Mrs Gerald Henderson. 
Of three hundred and five Pennington Road, four blocks from here.  I met them
just last week, in fact.  Good, decent, god-fearing folk.  Like you and me.”

Mark sprinted back to the street
corner.

“They came to the Ministry. 
They’ve been through an awful ordeal.  They…, oh dear.”  Reid paused.  “The
memories are still fresh.  It’s okay Mrs. Henderson, here’s a handkerchief. 
Please.  Don’t be afraid, you’re safe now.”

As Mark reached the mouldering
heap left by Nasir and Sura, Rick Reid hove into view, making a slow and steady
progress down the adjacent street, on the licorice-red back seat of a giant,
white Cadillac convertible.  Mrs. Henderson, a nervous, bird-like woman, sat on
his left with her beak nose in a handkerchief.  Her husband, a slight,
mirror-image of his wife, sat on Reid’s right.  Reid was at the centre of a
motorcade, with several police motorcycles ahead, one cruiser and a paddy wagon
behind, a television crew with their van sprouting dishes and antennae, the
KROS 12-20 Christian radio Good News HumVee, and the 24-Hour talk radio Jeep,
with “Kommunity Kruiser” emblazoned on its garish sides.  Supporters and
interested onlookers on foot accompanied the motorcade on all sides.

“Poor Mr. and Mrs. Gerald
Henderson suffered a violent assault last week!  The sanctity of their home was
broken!”

Mark rifled through the blankets
and cardboard at the corner, searching for Sura’s flute.

“Crack addicts, crazed from
withdrawal, broke into their home on Pennington, while they were still in it! 
One addict threatened them with a baseball bat, and another with an HIV
infected needle, while the others ransacked the house.  There, there, Mrs.
Henderson, this must be very difficult for you.”

As Reid’s Cadillac arrived at the
corner, Mark found the flute and snatched it from the debris.  He turned to
face the pastor.  With his large, globe of a head, pink and fleshy, with wisps
of fine, sandy hair combed over from left to right, his soft, pudgy features,
his light-coloured eyes and the complete absence of stubble on his jawbone,
Mark thought he resembled a puffed up infant, clutching a giant rattle of a
megaphone.  The pastor noticed Mark staring up at him and he halted his oration,
switching off the megaphone.

“Check him out,” Reid said to one
of his associates.

Two young men walking alongside
the car strode toward Mark.

“He’s not homeless, Reid!  And
he’s not an addict.”

Sebastian was on the sidewalk, a
dozen feet from the start of the motorcade.  The stringy activist, with his
head of overgrown, dreadlocked hair, disintegrating sandals, and tattoos, might
have been a street person himself.  The pastor smoothed his sky blue tie,
brushing sausage fingers over the chunky, gold cross pinning it.  He motioned
to his driver and the car inched forward, until they were face to face.

“One misstep and I’ll have you
arrested.”

Sebastian showed no emotion.

"If your enemy is hungry,
feed him. If he is thirsty, give him a drink."

“That’s very good, a fine
sentiment, did you learn that in Sunday school?  Do we not also have a duty to
keep our citizens safe?  He who does not prevent a crime when he can,
encourages it.”

“Don’t be overcome by evil, but
overcome evil with good.”

“Enough.  Everything changed last
week.  People are afraid.” Reid waved vaguely at the squalor in the street,
“We’re cleaning up.”

The motorcade moved forward. 
Reid forgot about Mark. 

Marcus was led blindfolded down a flight of stairs.
  The sultry midsummer air gave
way to a cool, damp stillness.  He heard reverberations; boot-steps, distant
laughter, his own heavy breathing.  He regretted that he had agreed to Gus’
invitation.

When they stopped, the thick
scarf was removed from his face and his eyes adjusted to the light.  Looking
up, Marcus thought they were still outside, under the night sky.  Stars shone
overhead and he could identify dozens of constellations.  Behind him, a shaft
of light dappled the stone stairs leading up the tunnel he’d just descended. 
Wavering candles and oil lamps produced a glimmering effect.

“An illusion.  Gregorios of Melos
painted it fifty years ago.”  Gus was at his shoulder.

“I’ve heard of him.  There’s a
statue by Gregorios in the square near my insula.”

“A Greek, but still.  He made
Perses, fifth degree.  Come, I’ll show you the rest of temple hall.”

At one end of the rectangular
cavern, along the wall opposite the entryway, there was a bas-relief that
covered its entire length, from floor to ceiling.  A muscular youth grappled a
bull under the shade of a sprawling fig tree, his lance piercing the beast’s
flank.  A mastiff clamped on the bull’s neck and a scorpion pincered his
genitals while a viper sucked at the blood.  Above right, a raven soared across
a fanciful representation of the sun. 

“That’s even older.  It’s been
here since the founding.  Another Greek, Andronikos of Crete.  Not a fellow,
just a hired artisan.”

Marcus recognized the sculpted
tableau of the slaughtered bull.  It was a tauroctony; centerpiece of the
Mithraic temple. The demi-god Mithras slays the bull whose sacrificial blood
gives rise to all life on earth.  In front of the wall sculpture there were two
elaborate altars, one on the left featuring a prominent depiction of the sun in
bronze.  The one on the right depicted the moon in silver surmounted with a
human skull.  Long, continuous concrete benches extended back from the altars. 
Statuary adorned each of the side walls including a dominating figure of the
emperor Commodus.

“Our most famous brother,” Gus
said.

“Hail Marcus, our newest Corax
prospect!”

Marcus pivoted to see his boss,
the cherubic Paulus Cornelius, in robes of saffron, a gold chain around his
neck and thick daubs of kohl at the corners of his eyes.

“Have you ever attended a
Mithraist ceremony before?”

“No sir.”

“Paulus is a fourth degree Leo,”
Gus said.

“You’ve got good timing Marcus,
we have a very special guest in attendance tonight.”

“He arrived?” asked Gus.

“Yes.”

“You’d better take your seats
we’ll be starting soon.”

Marcus followed Gus and they sat
near the back, with the princepales, the low ranking soldiers, and the
merchantmen.  He watched as Paulus crossed the room and greeted the city’s
chief magistrate and the praetor of the court.  The legatus of the tenth
legion, stationed nearby, joined them to share a joke.  A dozen military
tribunes and a score of lictors stood along the walls, alert and watchful. 
Paulus moved on to chat with the landowner who was financing their work.  A
rotund man, with bright blue eyes and a baby face stepped up to the dais. 
There was a tall, conical hat of bright scarlet atop his hairless head and long
flowing robes below, festooned with the sun, moon, and other celestial bodies. 

“Welcome brothers!”  The assembly
quieted.

“That’s the Pater,” Gus said in a
low voice.

“Jupiter Optimus Maximus,” Marcus
cursed at a whisper, staring at the dais, in particular at the young adept
standing next to the Pater.

It was Patricius Constantius,
assisting the Pater with his preparations, arranging the ceremonial
accoutrements.  He was clad in a hooded tunic with an iron chain and amulet
around his neck.  Marcus recognized him immediately despite the kohl at his eyes,
the cross branded into his forehead, and the hood partially obscuring his
face.  The man with the knife from the night of the Ludi Plebei.  A memory
returned of the altercation at the Via Flamina in Rome, at the inauguration of
the emperor’s baths. 
He was there too.  He accused me publicly.
  Marcus
raised the scarf up over his mouth and nose.

“What is it?” Gus asked, also
whispering.

“Nothing.  Someone I thought I
knew.”

“Who is it?”

“No-one, I was mistaken.”

Marcus shrank back on the bench. 
The Pater continued.

“It is, as you know, a special
night.  We have our confirmations.  Brother Julianus is becoming a Leo…,”

Cheers.

“…Brother Victorius attempts
promotion to Miles…”

Cheers.

“…and Sylvanus Avitus may become
our newest Corax initiate, if he completes the rites.”

Loud sustained cheers.  Marcus
was relieved that his name had not come up as part of the evening’s business.

“We have a special guest taking
part in this evening’s communion.”

The assembly murmured its
approval. 

“Let’s bow our heads and fall on
our knees in worship to our saviour, Sol Invictus, the great god of the sun!”

The congregation knelt forward
from the benches, conveniently constructed at such an angle that supplication
came naturally, and the Pater began his prayers.

“We beseech you, O Mithras, sun
god, bringer of light, bringer of warmth, enemy of darkness, annihilator of
evil, champion of the legions, friend and protector of man, our advocate in
heaven, you who were of divine birth, without mother or father, a gift to
mortals from the almighty, found naked and shivering among the rocks, under the
mighty fig tree, by shepherds who witnessed the miracle and who adored you and
the magi who journeyed from afar to lavish you with gifts, you who vanquished
the sacred bull of Ormazd, dragging the magnificent beast into a cavern, just
such as this, spilling its blood so that all of the animals of the world could
have life.  Through you we can attain salvation, you who will guide worthy
mortals to heaven and deliver us from evil, when drought besieged our land you
drew water from a rock, when the deluge threatened you provided boats to our
ancestors and saved them, it is you who will lead the faithful from their
graves before the conflagration of the final judgment…”

And so the liturgy went. 
Congregants rocked back and forth solemnly, kissing amulets, sprinkling
themselves with holy water, making intricate signs with their fingers.  An
initiate near the statue of Commodus stripped to the waist flogged himself
earnestly with an iron-tipped flail.  Marcus began devising tactful ways he
would be able to tell Gus and Paulus that Mithraism was not for him. 

“Hail, O Lord, Great Power, Great
Might, King, Greatest of gods, Helios,” the Pater continued, “first origin of
my origin, aeeioyo, first beginning of my beginning, the Lord of heaven and
earth, God of gods: mighty is your breath; mighty is your strength, O Lord. If
it be your will, announce me to the supreme god, the one who has begotten and
made you: that a man who was born from the mortal womb and from the fluid of
semen, and who, since he has been born again from you today, has become
immortal out of so many myriads in this hour according to the wish of god the
exceedingly good resolves to worship you.”

The Pater spoke in tongues. 
Adepts around him, including Patricius, were breathing loudly and rhythmically,
hyperventilating.

“Give ear to me, hearken to me, O
Lord, you who have bound together with your breath the fiery bars of the
fourfold root, O Fire-Walker, Pentiteroyni, Light-Maker, Semesilam,
Fire-Breather, Psyrinphey, Fire-Feeler, Iao, Light-Breather, Oai,
Fire-Delighter, Eloyre, Beautiful Light, Azai, Aion, Achba, Light-Master,
Pepper Prepempipi, Fire-Body, Phnoyenioch, Light-Giver, Fire-Sower, Arei
Eikita, Fire-Driver, Gallabalba, Light-Forcer, Aio, Fire-Whirler,
Pyrichibooseia, Light-Mover, Sancherob, Thunder-Shaker, Ie Oe Ioeio,
Glory-Light, Beegenetee Light-Increaser, Soysinephien, Fire-Light-Maintainer,
Soysinephi Arenbarazei Marmarentey, Star-Tamer: open for us…,”

The grotto was now alive with
moaning and chanting.  Marcus looked over at Gus.  He looked amused.

“Proprophegge Emetheire
Moriomotyrephilba, because, on account of the pressing and bitter and
inexorable necessity, I invoke the immortal names, living and honored, which
never pass into mortal nature and are not declared in articulate speech by
human tongue or mortal speech or mortal sound…”

The assembly erupted into a
chorus of cacophonic gibberish and nonsense.

“eeo oeeo ioo oe eeo eeo oe eo
ioo oeee oee ooe ie eo oo oe ieo oe ooe ieo oe ieeo ee io oe ioe oeo eoe oeo
oie oie eo oi iii eoe oye eooee eo eia aea eea eeee eee eee ieo eeo oeeeoe eeo
eyo oe eio eo oe oe ee ooo yioe…"

The Pater collapsed upon the
dais.  Two adepts rushed in from either side and helped him to regain his
feet.  He straightened the cone of his hat, unruffled his robes, and composed
himself.

“Amen,” he said.

“Amen,” replied the congregation.

The legatus of the legion walked
across from the mithraeum exit and stepped up to the dais to whisper in the
Pater’s ear.  The Pater nodded sagely and the legatus withdrew.

“Brothers!  Our special visitor
is here!  It is my great honour to introduce to you, visiting from Rome, our
most illustrious brother, our glorious emperor, Lucius Septimius Bassianus!”

All rose to their feet, stamping
boots and clapping hands.  A figure emerged from the tunnel, cloaked and
hooded, flanked on either side by a dozen Praetorian Guard.  The figure pulled
the hood back to expose his shaved head and shaved eyebrows marked heavily with
black kohl.  There was no mistaking Caracallus.  No customary full-length
Gallic cape, but the face was thoroughly familiar, from the coins Marcus used
every day, to the busts he saw at the courthouse and the forum and in the city
square, to the day he saw him slay the lion at the baths.  He had the same
stern, savage expression, the same thin-lipped smile. 

The emperor took to the dais.

“Good evening to you brothers. 
Fate has brought me to your fine and humble temple, as we prepare to invade
Parthia, ancestral home of Mithras, now overcome with barbaric and evil
people.  Like Alexander, I will march into this distant, ancient, eastern land
and civilize it for the glory of the sun god.  Mithras has spoken to me
directly.  He has bid me to rid the land of his birth from this scourge of
darkness.  I’ve been thrice visited by a raven, which cried seven times.  We
cannot fail, anointed as we are by divine providence.”

The emperor paused after each
sentence and the congregation filled each pause with the sound of their
approval.

  “I have come tonight to share
communion with you and to receive the benefit of Mithras’ good grace through
your prayers.”

Caracallus knelt before the
altar.  The Pater turned to a baptismal font and dabbed at the emperor’s
forehead with his wet fingers. 

“May Mithras bless you in your
endeavour and may you bring the glory of Rome to the holy land.  And now we
shall have communion.”

The emperor left the dais and
returned to a place of honour at the head of the first bench, along with his
advisors and guardsmen.  Acolytes dispersed through the temple to distribute
the bread and wine of communion.  Marcus inched his scarf further up his face
and prayed.  He gave thanks to Fortuna when Patricius started at the opposite
end of the auditorium.  A novice stood before Marcus, a crude cross branded
into his forehead, passing him a small circle of bread and a goblet of wine. 
Marcus sipped from the goblet as he had seen the others do and took and ate the
circle of bread, which was also marked with a cross.  When all had partaken in
the communion the Pater spoke again.

“In honour of our great emperor
and the divine quest he has taken on, we shall be performing the ultimate
sacrifice as part of our ceremony tonight.  Please let us adjourn to the
altar.”

The assembly stood and squeezed
into an adjoining room with a lower ceiling and a floor that sloped toward a
centre grate.  Inside, a white brahma bull snorted, his great, horned head
shackled to the floor by a nose-ring attached with heavy chain to an iron
grommet in the ceiling.  The animal frothed and bucked, seeking deliverance.  The
Pater recited an incantation.  A man with a sledgehammer stepped forward,
pulled it behind his back, and landed it between the bull’s bulging eyes.

“Emperor?  Would you like the
honour?”

“With pleasure.”

Caracallus received an ornate
sword from the Pater.  A pair of acolytes pulled on the chain attached to the
ring in the bull’s nose, lifting his insensate head to expose his neck. 

“In the name of Mithras,” the
emperor intoned, “I water the earth with the blood of the sacred bull.”

He drove the sword deeply into
the neck of the animal and wrenched it until the blood geysered out.  A portion
of the blood was captured in a large chalice and it was passed around the
assembly.  Each brother took a sip of the thick, salty liquid, still warm. 
When the chalice arrived at Marcus, passed to him by Gus, he hesitated.  He
considered passing the cup on.  Instead, he turned, lowered the scarf and held
the chalice to his mouth, brought the chalice down and passed it on, discreetly
wiping his upper lip.