The Last Stoic (19 page)

Patrick sat in an arm chair in Mark’s apartment,
contemplating the phone.
  He wore the same old combat pants and hooded sweatshirt that he had
salvaged two years earlier from Mark’s abandoned car.  Before him was a piece
of paper scrawled with a number.  He twirled the phone cord absently around his
finger and then poured himself another rye and ginger.  Taking a long draught
from the glass he sat down again, picked up the receiver, dialed, and hung up
immediately. 

He recounted how it had all
unfolded.  He had achieved the goal he had set himself on that drizzly day in
New York, the day after he had run away from home, the day he had encountered
Mark with the Goths, shouting down the president.  He’d been vindicated. 
Despite the ridicule and chastisement, he didn’t concede, he exposed Mark for
the traitorous terrorist sympathizer he had always suspected him to be.  At the
VIP Club, Gus delivered to him another bundle of cash, more money than he had
ever seen in one place.  Gus said he would speak to the Reverend and recommend
that Patrick be promoted within the Ministry.       

But it wasn’t enough.  Gus had
warned him that his work would be undercover.  He’d agreed and never gave it
another thought, until now, as he skulked around Mark’s flat. 

As he lounged, and sipped from
the tumbler, he daydreamed about the recognition he craved.  “Are you really
the great grandson of Cormac Constantine, the great railroad magnate, great
grand-nephew of Seamus Constantine the Union war hero,” the talk show hosts
would ask.  “Yes, that’s true, Matt,” or Dave, or Ellen, or Oprah, Patrick
heard himself responding, smiling and nodding, “I come from a long line of
patriots.”  He entertained himself with visions of star appearances at shopping
centres and ground-breaking ceremonies.  A Presidential Medal of Freedom.  He
imagined how his family would react if they were to hear the news, that their
boy was a hero after all, that he had single-handedly restored the lustre to
the Constantine name.

Gus would have none of that.

“Paul Cornelius and the firm need
to be insulated and I’m the firewall,” he explained over the thud of the heavy
bass rumbling out of the strip club’s sound system.  “Paul doesn’t need to know
fuck all.  No-one needs to know fuck all.  As far as we’re concerned, the
disappearance of one of our employees is a damned, puzzling mystery.  No-one
knows where he’s gone.  We’ve heard rumours.  We’ve heard he hangs with an
unsavoury crowd.  We hope he’s ok.  We hope he comes back soon.”

Patrick had nodded his
understanding.

“Look kid, keep your mouth shut.”
Gus continued.  “You can look forward to another payment, delivered in a year,
if you hold your tongue.  If not, one of the lodge brothers will rip the fucker
out.” 

“Mum’s the word.”  Patrick smiled
wanly. 

“What about the girl,” he asked,
referring to Sura, “what are you going to do with her?”

“That’s none of your fucking
business,” Gus said as he stood up, extending his hand, “Well, thanks again,
maybe I’ll see you at the next club meeting.”

The exhilaration of success
dissipated soon after the packet of money was dropped into Patrick’s
outstretched hands.  He wandered around downtown for an hour, thinking he
should treat himself to something.  After buying an Xbox, and a copy of Grand
Theft Auto, Patrick found himself drawn back uptown, to Mark’s apartment
building.  When he tried the door he was surprised to find it unlocked. 
Counter-terrorism agents had searched the condo immediately after Mark’s
arrest, but had neglected to lock the door, either out of haste or
indifference.  To Patrick it was an invitation; he walked right in.  And now he
found himself alone, sitting in Mark’s condo, staring at the phone, and
questioning himself.

He had no one to tell.  There
were acquaintances at the Ministry, but no one he would call up.  And then
there was that bargain with Gus.  He had come to the end of a road that had
once seemed endless. 

Patrick laughed out loud.  He
realized that he already missed Mark and he hadn’t been gone two days.  As he
sat in Mark’s chair, wearing his discarded clothes, drinking his liquor, he
fantasized about assuming Mark’s place in the world, merging into what he imagined to be a big, supportive and loving family with lots of friends, powerful connections, and
abundant romantic interests.  Let Patrick Constantine Jr. fade away. 

Patrick picked up the phone
receiver.  He dialed the number and this time he let it ring. 

“Hello?”

It was a woman’s voice.  It was
Paulina, Mark’s mother.  Patrick was silent for a moment.

“Hello?” he echoed, finally.

“Hello?” Paulina said again,
confused by the response.

Patrick paused again.

“Mom?” he said, tentatively.

“Mark?  Is that you?  You sound
funny.  Is everything ok?”

“Mom,” Patrick said again, “it’s
me.”

Pause.

“I’ve done a terrible thing Mom.”

“Mark, what is it?  What’s going
on?  You sound strange.”

“I’m in trouble.  I’ve made a big
mistake.”

“What is it?  Just tell me, I’m
sure it is nothing that can’t be worked out, nothing we can’t fix.”

“They’ve taken me away.”

“Taken you away?  Who has? Taken
you away where? Mark!”

“Far away.  I’ve done a bad
thing.”

“Where are you?!  What has
happened to you, why do you sound so different?”

“I’m sorry.  Please forgive me.”

“Mark!”

“I miss you,” Patrick whispered,
his chin trembling.  And with Paulina pleading frantically on the other end, he
replaced the receiver. 

The sun was now in its downward descent
.  Sebastianus was quiet, curled
up in the corner of his pen, half-asleep, murmuring to himself.  The dogs
across the yard were also silent, panting and drowsing, yielding to the heat. 
Marcus stretched into the more substantial shadow thrown across the enclosure’s
structure.  It had been a full day since liquid of any kind had passed his
lips. 

He saw a clay ewer, slick with
condensation from the cool water inside.  A comely, smiling woman held the
pitcher, offering it to him as she emerged from the shimmering depths of a
frigidarium, droplets of water like sparkling glass beads sliding from her
goose-pimpled flesh.  She vanished.  Marcus knocked his head against the iron
bars.  More visions.  Fording the trickling streams and bathing in the bracing
lakes of his lush, northern home.  He smelled the fat, red apples, and swollen,
yellow pears, pregnant with sweet, intoxicating juice, ready to explode. 
Reclining under broad leafy trees he felt the moist lakeshore breeze.  Tears
leaked from his sore eyes. 

The guards reappeared and Marcus
hoped again.

“Water.”

His voice was cracked and dry.

“I must have water.”

They’d come for Sebastianus.

“On your feet Christian.  Your
prayers have been answered.”

Sebastianus swiveled and looked
up, his eyes wild and joyous. 

“You know why we’re here?”

“Yes, the Lord be praised!”

“Well, get up then,” the guard
continued, shaking his head.  He opened the thick padlock on the gate of the
cage.  “Crazy as a flea.”

“Water.”

The two men ignored Marcus. 
Sebastianus was on his knees, arms outstretched.  They each grabbed an elbow
and hoisted him roughly to his feet. 

“But go to it, my good magistrates!” he cried, grinning.  “The populace will count you a great deal better if you
sacrifice the Christians to them!”

“That’s enough now.”

Sebastianus had just begun.

“Torture us, rack us, condemn us,
crush us; your cruelty only proves our innocence. That is why God suffers us to
suffer all this!”

He was dragged from his cage and
was marched along the corridor separating the two rows of enclosures.  The
small camp was alive with the sounds of agitated men and irritated dogs. 
Sebastianus was in no hurry.  The three men made slow, unsteady progress to the
main building. 

“Water!” 

Marcus winced.  The dryness of
his throat made shouting painful.

“I need water!  I’m dying!”

“Silence Briton!  You’ll get your
water soon enough.” 

The guard pulled a three-tailed
whip from his leather belt, turned again to his prisoner, brought the iron
stars down onto his back.

Sebastianus stood erect.  Shocked
silent and still.  His face reddened.  Pearls of sweat emerged from his hair
line.  Marcus pressed himself into the corner of his cage and brought his knees
up to his chin, cinching his arms around them. 

“Not me not me not me not me…”

An image of his first day on the
Frontinus work site returned to him.  He remembered how the whip felt when he
delivered that last, crackling strike.  There had been the same wet thud of its
absorption into flesh.  He could again see the dilated eyes of the flogged
ditch digger, frantic for flight.  Sebastianus had a similar primal, animal
expression, nostrils stretched, lips curled, eyes reeled back.  There were no
sounds except the concussive barking of the dogs.   Sebastianus turned to face
his attacker.  He took in a long, wavering breath. 

“But nothing whatever is
accomplished by your
cruelties
,” Sebastianus continued, unevenly at
first, “each more exquisite than the last.”  Then louder. “It is the bait that
wins men for our school!”

Hooting in the yard began again
as the prisoners realized the zealot wasn’t finished.  Sebastianus pivoted and
resumed his march. 

“Silence scum!  Or I’ll cut out
your tongue!” 

The whip struck again. 
Sebastianus was sent to his knees.  He teetered, barely righting himself with a
hand pitched into the dust.  There he remained for several long seconds,
bunched tight.  When the pain finally crested he laughed.  A jagged, hysterical
giggle.

“We multiply whenever we are mown
down by you.  The blood of Christians is seed!”

The second guard raised
Sebastianus up from his knees and began leading him again to the main
building.  With every step, his partner launched the flail’s metal shards into
the compliant back of the Christian.  Marcus, his eyelids pressed tight and
hands squeezing his ears, forgot his thirst.  He fought the acid flux
threatening to sear up from a clenched stomach.

Still Sebastianus called out.

“That very obstinacy with which
you taunt us is your teacher.”

Another lash tore into the skin,
thin like an onion and rapidly losing its integrity, dispersing blood and
flesh. 

“For who beholds it and is not
stirred to inquire what lies indeed within it?”

And another.

“Who, on inquiry, does not join
us, and joining us, does not wish to suffer,”

And another.

“That he may purchase for himself
the whole grace of God."

Only the jailors heard these
final, whispered words.  They dragged the body of the Christian through the
portico and out of the yard.  The din in the prison yard dissipated, with dogs
and men once more succumbing to the heat.  Marcus too uncoiled himself.  He
returned to his delirium.  The tranquility was broken only once, late in the
afternoon, again by Nasir and his strange melancholy caterwauling. 

Finally, an hour before sunset,
the guards returned.

“The magistrate will see you
now.”  

“Water.  I must have water.”

“Yes.”

Marcus was pulled from his cage
and hoisted up between the two men, his legs buckling.  He was led through the
portico and into a large atrium where his ankles were shackled and a hood was
pulled tightly over his head, tied at the neck.  He could see nothing.  His
breathing was laboured.  Droplets collected in his eyebrows and tickled at his
neck.

“Good evening.”

A baton struck Marcus across the
back of the knee, hard enough to crumple his leg.

“Answer the magistrate!”

“Good evening.”

“Do you know why you here?”

“No sir.”

“This is a military tribunal. 
You are to be tried for sedition.”

“But what have I done?”

Marcus struggled to contain the
emotion rising in his voice.  He was struck again on the side of the knee,
harder this time, and he cried out.

“The magistrate speaks.  Do not
speak unless asked a question.”

Marcus was yanked to his feet.

“Do you love the emperor?” the
voice asked.

“Yes.”

“Speak up!”

“Yes!  I love the emperor!”

“Unreservedly?”

“Without measure!”

“Good!  This is easy, no?”

“Yes.”

“If your love of the emperor is
without measure, why were you seen at the rally, shouting traitorous slogans,
associating with known rebels?”

“I wasn’t!  I didn’t say
anything.  Please.  You must believe me.”

“You were seen.  There were
witnesses.”

“I was there yes.  But I said
nothing, I did nothing.”

“You were with the Parthian.”

Silence.

“The one that calls himself
Nasir.”

He waited too long.  The baton
was again at the back of his leg and he fell to his knees.

The magistrate spoke to someone
else. 

Marcus started.

“Ok, ok, yes I was there with a
Parthian.  No!  A Parthian woman.  She may be Parthian.  Wait.  Please!  Sura
is her name.  She’s harmless.  What has she done?  What have I done?  She’s
just a friend, someone I know.  I don’t really know her.  I was just standing
next to her at the rally…”

It was too late.  Marcus was
walked a few paces and laid out on his back, on an angle, head down.  His head
was strapped tight, thick leather belts were fixed around his waist, arms, and
feet.  Overheated blood heaved through his veins and collected in his head,
causing him briefly to lose consciousness.  He hyperventilated. 

Now he felt himself heaved
upward, careening through the air.  A catapult?  He saw himself broken and
bleeding at the bottom of a precipice.  But there was no impact. 

He was under water.  Plunged head-first,
submerged from his knees.  Water seeped in through the sackcloth of his hood,
into his mouth and nose.  And there he stayed.

Pressure strained against his
lungs and trachea as he fought the intensifying urge to open his mouth and
breathe.  Through the water he could hear the pounding in his temples.  He
thrashed his arms and legs against their bonds. 
Let me out.  I’m dying.
 
His lips parted; the water trickled in. 
I’m drowning!  I don’t want to
die.  Not here.  Not alone.

The wooden frame lurched upward,
raising him inverted from the trough.  Water poured from his body, up and over
the hood, and he spluttered, barely able to breathe.  He was lowered roughly to
the ground.  The coughing abated, his pulse slowed, the panic subsided a
little.  He became aware of the dripping from the hood.  Water!  Exquisitely
wet, engulfing and amorphous.  It had been his mortal enemy.  Now he sucked it
greedily from the material of the hood like a calf at a teat.

“Thirsty?  Here’s a whole vat. 
You can drink as much as you like.  We have all evening.”

The magistrate was close to his
ear, whispering severely.

“I’d like nothing more than to
kill you.  Slit your throat and scald your carcass like a butcher would.  Or
stake you to the ground, next to the Christian.  Let the scorpions and wild
dogs do the job.  But we can’t rush this.  We must wring the truth from you
first.”

Marcus could smell the breath,
acrid with garum, through the material of the hood.

“You see, I’m not a butcher.  I’m
a miller.  I’m going to crush you like an olive in a press.  If you yield, if
you show remorse, you might be spared.  If you’re stingy, if you’re dry, you’re
no use to us.  We’ll discard you.  You must be fruitful.  Understand?”

“Yes.”

“You know the Christian, don’t
you?  You were seen talking with him, discussing, plotting.  Were you part of
his syndicate, his plan to assassinate the emperor?”

Under the sackcloth, Marcus bit
hard on his lip.

“Nothing to say?”

“I know him!” Marcus struggled
through the sopping material.  “I bumped into him several times on the street,
near where I lived.  He came around my neighbourhood.  But I don’t really know
him, just enough to greet him in the street.”

“Oh yes?  And what about the
assassination plot?”

“I don’t know anything about
that.  He never mentioned anything like that to me.  I barely knew him.  I
didn’t know of any of his friends.  But I don’t think the Christians advocate
assassination.”

“Oh yes?  Is that what you
think?  Is that your considered opinion?”

The magistrate was yelling.

“Are you mocking me?  Again!”

The wooden frame creaked into the
air and swung laterally.

“No!” Marcus cried, “Not mocking,
telling you what I know!”

Again, it was too late.  Marcus
was plunged into the water headfirst up to his knees and was held there
struggling and gurgling until just before drowning.  He was certain the magistrate would miscalculate, that he would be left submerged in the soupy trough a few seconds
too long and the ordeal would be over. 

It continued.  Each baptism was
followed by an inquisition.  Marcus was frantic to give the magistrate the right answer, about Sebastianus, about Nasir, about Sura, about the Frontinus firm
and Paulus Cornelius, Gus, the Hispanics, the rest of his colleagues.  His
replies always ignited the magistrate’s wrath. 

Dunked a seventh time, the terror
of the moment outweighed his impulse to survive. 
No more.  Leave me.

After the tenth, the magistrate tired of the interrogation. 

Marcus was marched back out of
the yard, into the main building, through the atrium, out of the portico and
back to his cage at the end of the row of enclosures.  The hood and the
shackles were removed.  In the time he’d spent with the magistrate, the sun had
finally dipped down below the jagged horizon.  Darkness descended on their
isolated settlement, bringing with it cooler air.  He was grateful for the tin
cup of warm, grey water and clay bowl containing a puddle of thin, gelatinous
porridge left for him.  The quiet squalor of the kennel was unexpectedly
welcome.  Resting his back against the iron bars of his cage, he inhaled deeply
and gazed out, struggling to contain the fear, loneliness, and the tight
roiling in his stomach.