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Authors: Morgan Wade

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BOOK: The Last Stoic
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“Fish it out.”

Marcus tore into his rucksack and
extricated the letter. One of the guards snatched the letter from him and began
to read. 

“Appears to be true.”

At that moment, more shouting was
heard back toward the baths.  The guards swiveled to see two of their
colleagues struggling with one of the Goths.

“Avoid trouble.  Fortuna may
frown next time.”

“Be on your way.”

The guardsmen handed the unfolded
letter back to Marcus and they departed.  Marcus placed his letter carefully
back into the sack, turned to re-enter the Porto Capena gate, and rushed to
find his arranged meeting place with the Frontinus agent, recalling the last of
what his grandfather had said that morning.

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

“I have one more thing for you. 
A book I’ve kept with me since I was your age,” Vincentius said, pulling a roll
of parchment from his cloak and passing it to Marcus, “it has given me many
happy and fruitful hours.  I thought you might find it a welcome companion on
the long and lonely road.  Remember Cicero.  Numquam se minus solum quam cum
solus esset. You are never so little alone as when you are alone.”

Marcus took the scroll and
uncoiled it. 

“Open it up!  Look.  It is signed
by Aurelius himself.”  Vincentius leaned over to point out the faded signature.

Marcus looked absently at the
first few lines. 

MEDITATIONS

Marcus
Aurelius

LIBER
I.

1.
    
Avi
Veri exemplo operam me dare oportet, ut suavibus sim moribus neque irae
indulgeam.

1. From my grandfather Verus I
learned good morals and the government of my temper.

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

Patricius lingered further down
the Via Ardeatina, where crowds continued to mill about, but where he could
still monitor Marcus’ arrest.  He had already been counting the dozens of
denarii that were surely to be part of the reward.  Then he watched as the trio
conversed. 
What can they possibly be discussing?
  He was appalled to
see Marcus released.  Crestfallen, Patricius followed doggedly from a careful
distance.  His public accusation was worthless now. 

The Briton has friends in high
places.  He’s well-connected.  If he’s from a rich and noble family, exposing
him as a traitor would likely lead to a much larger reward.
 
I will track the Briton
until I am able to collect

FIVE

 

 

Patrick Constantine Jr. followed Mark several blocks
across Manhattan
and watched him enter one of the glass towers casting its hulking shadows over
mid-town.  He waited for him to emerge and then followed him back downtown to
the bus station and watched him buy a one way ticket.  Patrick noted his
destination, returned to the Phoenix, fired her up, and spent the next
thirty-six hours coaxing her south down the interstate.  Though he was careful
not to tax the car, plying her with the Bar’s Leaks and keeping a careful watch
on the temperature gauge, he still managed to beat Mark’s Greyhound bus by four
hours.  Enough time for some food and a short nap. 

Patrick knew what he was doing
was crazy.  But he told himself that it was his patriotic duty, trailing a
suspected enemy, a threat to the nation’s security, and that he would be a
hero, fame and fortune would be his, if he could take part in the capture.  It
was a mantra he repeated to himself, alone on the road, hoping to drown out the
quiet but persistent voice that reminded him of the truth: he had nowhere else
to be and nothing better to do.

It had been a chilly night at a
rest stop along Interstate 81 near the border between Virginia and Tennessee. 
Patrick didn’t want to pull over, but his eyes grated in their sockets. The
Phoenix also needed rest.  He parked the car, reclined his seat, and tried,
with difficulty, to snooze. 

Cold damp air seeped in through
the doors and chilled him.  Patrick scanned the car’s interior.  On the back
seat was his backpack and next to it Mark’s old sweatshirt and army surplus
combat pants.  He remembered the sleeping bag in the trunk.  After donning
Mark’s sweat shirt and sliding the baggy trousers over his own, Patrick fetched
the musty sleeping bag, opened it up, stuffed his backpack against the left
rear door, and created a makeshift pillow.  As he slipped away into a restless
slumber, he imagined what it would be like to be someone else, to be someone
from a different country, with a different family, and a different path in
life.  In the morning, when he arrived at the bus station, he was still wearing
Mark’s old clothes.    

A man met Mark at the station and
whisked him away.  Patrick followed, urging the Phoenix after the SUV, as it
barreled through the mid-afternoon traffic.  But he eventually lost sight of
them and, cursing, he eased the lurching car off the freeway. 

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

After the near disaster of the
protest, Mark had just barely managed to keep his appointment with the human
resources director.  She explained that Mark wasn’t needed with the New York or
Washington operations and that he was to proceed to one of the firm’s southern
regional offices.  He was exchanging one hinterland for another.  The bus had
rolled in at one.  Gus, regional vice-president of the firm, was there to pick
him up. 

“Ok, that was Paul.” Gus said as
he replaced the cell phone in its cradle.  “He says he can meet us at the
Oasis.”

“Shouldn’t we stop in at the
office?” Mark asked.

“We work hard and we play hard,”
was the reply.

The Oasis looked remarkably like
an oasis.  The highway they followed from the bus station cut through many
miles of parched, ochre fields and the occasional bristled tree.  Now there
were lush, low hanging boughs heavy with foliage, palms and ferns, and a broad
waterway coursing its way unhurriedly through the middle.  Dozens of boutiques,
upscale book stores, cafes and bars crowded the river banks.  The shops
surrounded a courtyard consisting of a multi-level, common outdoor seating area
that extended out over the river, the sections connected by arched, wooden
bridges with heavy rope railings.  Towering leisure cruisers and sleek
speedboats bobbed in their nearby slips.  The aromas of ground coffee beans,
baking pastries, rich French cigarettes, and Cuban cigars, competed with each
other in the heavy, humid air.  Mark followed Gus as he sought out his usual,
favourite table on one of the higher platforms. 

“This is the best table because
of the vantage point.  It’s my office away from the office.”  Gus winked. 
“It’s always crammed with students here.  Lots of beautiful, young women.”

Gus was compact.  He stood at a
modest five foot six, his body trim and his muscles taut.  His hair consisted
of a closely cropped carpet of tight curls with a hairline cleanly delineated
around the entire circumference of his head.  His mostly flat nose tapered into
a tight cylinder and he talked out the side of his mouth.  Even his eyes, a restrained
grey-green, were on the small side, coolly scanning the clientele. 

Mark was alarmed when Gus’ face
suddenly contorted and he winced dramatically, as though he’d been shot. 

“Oh fuck.” Gus whispered.

“What is it?”

“Look!”

Mark followed Gus’ pointing
eyebrows down from their platform across two tables at a young brunette who had
just sat down with a coffee, a bagel and a book.

“Oh yeah.  Very pretty.” Mark
agreed. 

Gus ignored him and continued to
study the undergraduate. 

“Wait here.” 

Gus was up from their table in a
quick fluid motion.  Mark watched as he approached the table at which the woman
was seated.  The woman passed a hand casually through her shoulder length
auburn hair.  She tilted her head coyly to the side and smiled.  Mark tensed as
he saw her stand and follow Gus back to their table.  I could never do that, he
thought.  I would never do that. 

“Mark, Chantelle.”

“Hi there.”

“Hello.”

Mark stood up from his seat and
shook the young woman’s cool, moist hand, which folded limply into his like
layers of smoked salmon.  Chantelle took a seat, placing her coffee and her
plate on the table top with the other cups and saucers.  Mark and Gus again
took their seats and Gus placed her book, which he had gallantly carried, next
to her cup.

 “So, as I was saying, this young
fellow is just down from Canada…”

Mark interrupted.

“I don’t believe it!” he said. 
He had just seen the cover of Chantelle’s book.

The Meditations of Marcus
Aurelius
.

“What a coincidence!”

“What?”

“That’s the book!”

Chantelle crooked an eyebrow at
Gus.

“I’m sorry.  My grandfather gave
me a special copy of
The Meditations
to take with me.  It’s like a bible
to him.  But I left it behind.”

“That’s a shame.” Chantelle said,
smiling.  “But you can’t have my copy.”

Mark blushed.  He would never
have dreamed of speaking to a girl like Chantelle back home.  There, his die
had been cast.  His spindled, graceless limbs, his narrow eyes and beaked nose,
his stilted use of the youthful vernacular; all gave him away instantly.  He
was never able to crawl out from under that first judgment and the long shadow
of his reputation.  Michelle Bradford was the first and last local girl he had
spoken to non-trivially, asking her in his halting way whether she might like
to see the Stirling engine he’d built with his grandfather, using paraffin
lamps, bicycle spokes, and empty juice cans.  “Your
what
engine,” she
had answered, wrinkling her nose, “you’re kidding right?”  She had laughed as
she walked away.  Mark suffered enough from unsolicited humiliation; he had no
interest in inviting more. 

But Chantelle didn’t laugh, she
smiled.  And she looked him in the eye.  I’m thousands of miles from home, Mark
remembered. 
I’m unknown.  The old shadow doesn’t extend this far.
   

 “That’s ok,” he said, lifting
his long face and raising his eyes, “I’m sure I can get another copy. 
Actually, once I get an address, I plan to have it mailed down.  I think it’s
an amazing coincidence.  The first book I lay eyes on since leaving is
The
Meditations
.  Funny, eh?”

“Yeah, funny.”  Gus said.

“Do you mind if I take a look?”
Mark asked. 

Chantelle shrugged, shook her
head and pushed the book across the table to him. 

“We’re studying it this term at
school, in my Western Foundations class.  It’s actually pretty interesting.”

“What is it,” Gus asked,
“philosophy?”

“Yeah.  Stoics.”

Mark scanned the text.

“So read some.” Gus said.

Mark flipped through the pages
randomly and opened the book around the middle.


Quidquid quacunque tandem
ratione pulcrum est
…”

“There is an English translation
on the facing page.”

“Ok.  I see. 
Anything in any
way beautiful derives its beauty from itself, and asks nothing beyond itself. 
Praise is no part of it, for nothing is made better or worse by praise.  This
applies even to the more mundane forms of beauty:  natural objects, for
example, or works of art.  What need has true beauty of anything further?
” 

Mark did not look up from the
pages.  He felt the length of his neck flushing.

“That’s lovely,” Chantelle said. 
“I don’t think we’ve read that far yet, I don’t remember it.  My favourite line
is here.” 

She grabbed the book back, found
a passage that was highlighted on a page with a folded-over corner and read out
loud.  Mark watched her as she read.


Allow your mind freedom from
all other considerations.  This you can do, if you will approach each action as
though it were your last.
”  She handed the book back to Mark open to the
page she’d read from.

“Nice,” said Gus.  “Meaning?”

Chantelle beamed.  “Live life to
the fullest.  Live every minute like it’s your last.” 

Mark continued reading, silently,
the paragraph surrounding the highlighted section. 

Hour by hour resolve firmly, like
a Roman and a man, to do what comes to hand with correct and natural dignity,
and with humanity, independence, and justice…

“I’m a Buddhist myself.”  Gus
said.

Mark glanced up and tried to
reconcile Buddhism with the bawdy stories he had heard Gus telling in the car
on the way over.  He continued to read, listening with one ear.

…dismissing the wayward thought,
the emotional recoil from the commands of reason, the desire to create an
impression, the admiration of self, the discontent with your lot.

“I once spent a month at a
Buddhist retreat near Taos, New Mexico.  I was living at a resort in Colorado
at the time, working as a ski instructor, and one day I just snapped.”

…See how little a man needs to
master, for his days to flow on in quietness and piety….

   “I just burned out.  It’s a
real lifestyle.  Parties every night, lots of booze, wicked weed, babes, and
lots of other stuff.  I mean, it was fucking fantastic in the beginning.  But
it can wear on you.” 

…Are you distracted by outward
cares?  Then allow yourself a space of quiet, wherein you can add to your
knowledge of the good and learn to curb your restlessness… 

“Anyway, I just up and left one
day, grabbed my stuff and pffft!”  Gus shot his hand straight out in front of
him and away, to indicate how quickly and completely he had vacated the
resort.  “I didn’t tell anyone I was leaving, not my pals or my girlfriend or
my boss, and I just drifted down the highway for a few days until I got to
Taos.”

…Guard also against another kind
of error:  the follow of those who weary their days in much business, but lack
any aim on which their whole effort, nay, their whole thought, is focused…

“I was really fucked up.  I
camped out in a city park in Taos for a few days, not knowing where else to
go.  I’d sit there on a park bench just crying for hours on end.  It was
pathetic.”

…Were you to live three thousand
years, or even thirty thousand, remember that the sole life which a man can
lose is that which he is living at the moment…

“On the third night, I was out of
my mind.  I was so stoned that, I was later told, I passed out under the statue
of Kit Carson.”

And furthermore, that he can have
no other life except the one he loses.  This means that the longest life and
the shortest amount to the same thing…

 “Imagine my surprise when I woke
up in a Buddhist fucking monastery!  These guys had heard about me, found me,
and brought me back to their hideout.”

…For the passing minute is every
man’s equal possession, but what has once gone by is not ours.  Our loss,
therefore, is limited to that one fleeting instant, since no one can lose what
is already past, nor yet what is still to come…

“So, for the first two weeks, I
lived in a hut on this hill, all by myself, I didn’t talk to anyone.  Not a
soul.  I didn’t know where I was, I didn’t know how to leave.”

Mark looked up again from the
book. 

“The monks wouldn’t talk to me
and when I talked to them, they just acted like they weren’t hearing anything. 
They brought me food and drink every morning and every evening.  That’s it. 
All I did was stroll in the woods and sleep.  I was a bit nervous, but I didn’t
have anywhere else to be, so I sat tight.”

BOOK: The Last Stoic
10.53Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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