The Last Stoic (8 page)

Alex, a rotund, ruddy faced man with white hair
, wore a blue golfing shirt, a
crisp pair of jeans, and a pair of alligator skin western boots. He looked over
his shoulder and waved his hand.

“Follow me.”

Mark stepped into a cold,
glass-walled room bathed in the sterile light of dozens of fluorescent tubes,
and lined with dozens of banks of modular shelving units seven feet high. 
Thick bundles of cords spilled out of the backs of the stacked machines like
tangles of overgrown vines.  Each machine emitted a persistent electric buzz
that pervaded the space and its cumulative effect made it necessary to raise
one’s voice when speaking.  There was a vibrating, pulsating hum that made Mark
feel like he had entered the body of a living being.

Alex extended his hand.

“Welcome!  It’s good to have you
on board.”

“Thank you very much.  It’s good
to be here.  I was told I should come down and speak to you about getting a
username and password for the network?”

“You bet.  I can help you out.”

Alex walked to a keyboard and
console and started typing in commands. 

“So, what do you think so far?”

“It’s quite impressive.”

“Yep.  All brand new.  We’ve got
three redundant fibre optic connections coming in and T3 connections direct to
all of the servers we host.  It’s not unusual for some of them to get 50
megabytes a second.”

Alex paused to judge Mark’s
reaction.

“That’s some bandwidth!” Mark
said, hoping he’d hit the right tone.

“Damn straight.  Check this out.”

Alex led Mark to a smaller back
room of the main server area and pointed to a collection of six foot high grey
metal boxes with steel pipes extending from the top.

“That’s a Liebert double
conversion UPS that can kick out five hundred KVa.  When we get an outage,
which happens down here more often than you’d expect, it switches to a seven
hundred and fifty Kilowatt Kohler generator that has a two thousand gallon
Super Vault fuel tank.  We could be without power for a week and you wouldn’t
even notice.”

“Nice.”

Alex walked back into the server
room and picked up a piece of paper from a printer tray.  Mark followed and as
they made their way back through the rows of server racks, Alex pointed out the
machines of notable customers.

“There’s the Ride Market
servers.  You know them right?  Big used car portal with vehicle history
look-ups and stuff.  And there’s Late Bloomers…they specialize in just-in-time
delivery of flowers and bouquets, you know for forgetful husbands, bosses for
their secretaries etc.  This server is tracking coffee prices in the Andes. 
This one is a charity casino.  The company is in Buenos Aires or Rio or
somewhere, but they host their site here.  This one here is a mirror of Doppel
Gangs; an online shooter game based in Germany.  Lots of fun.  And this rack is
where the new servers will go for the refinery.”     

Mark nodded.  It was fascinating
to think that all of those far off places were linked to this little room. 
That thousands, perhaps millions, of people scattered across the globe were
evaluating and purchasing cars, ordering and delivering flowers, trading coffee
beans, bluffing and wagering, robbing and killing, all through the countless
circuits and cables of these hundreds of machines that make up a virtual
marketplace, an increasingly complex weaving of electronic pathways and
crossroads.  Listening to the wavering whirr reverberating through the server
room, Mark could imagine hearing the accumulation of a million different
conversations.  

“Oh, and this little server,”
Alex said pointing to a computer the size and shape of a pizza box, “is Gus’
favourite.  Ever heard of Priapus Entertainment?”

Alex laughed when Mark shook his
head.

“Spicy stuff.  Purely 18 years
and older if you know what I mean.  I think Gus owns shares or something.  He’s
always getting me to give him special access.  I don’t know what all is on
there and I’m not sure I want to.”

Alex handed Mark the piece of
paper in his hands.

“Here you go, here’s your
username and password that you can use for your email and to access the
network.”

“Thanks, that’s great.” 

“No problem.  Y’all let me know
if you need anything else ok?”

“Will do, thanks.”

Mark left the server room to tour
the rest of the office and to await Gus’ return.

Marcus watched as scores of men bent themselves
against a series of pulleys and
levers, struggling to hoist a stubborn boulder up out of the earth and onto a
massive sledge so they could haul it away.  Their effort was orchestrated by
the three Baeticans, who had finished their luncheon and now showed no hint of
their earlier playfulness.  They applied themselves and their wit to the task
with uncompromising focus. 

The scale of the endeavour was
impressive.  Here was a relatively minor road construction project, undertaken
by a regional division of the Frontinus firm, at the outermost southern margins
of the empire.  And yet, already it was bigger than the sum of its parts. 
Marcus marveled at how this collection of seemingly disparate men, from all
corners of the world, could come together as one body to achieve something none
of them could dream of doing on their own.   

The Roman road would yield to
nothing, least of all to the whims of nature.  It would continue its progress,
digit by digit, palm by palm, and pace by pace, straighter than a hypotenuse
drafted by Euclid himself, extending Rome’s reach indefinitely into the
hinterland with irresistible momentum.  Before long, borne on wagons, or on the
backs of beasts and men, the arid region’s fruit, olives and figs would begin
to flow, draining northward, first at a trickle and then at a torrent, to be
laid out on the countless mensae of the Roman empire.  This relatively short
stretch of road was just an insignificant capillary at the outer edge of the
system, but it was connected to the vast network that spread in every direction
from the empire’s heart.  And the system had its own powerful logic, its own
peculiar propulsion, a resolve which would be forever mysterious to the people
who tended it.

Just beyond the group extricating
the rock, hundreds of other men clawed at the crust of the baked soil, digging
as far down as the bedrock with their picks.  For every man that broke the
earth, another shoveled the rubble into a barrow and carted it off.  The grunts
of the excavators, the squeal of cart wheels, and the clanging of iron tools
made an uncomfortable din.  Conducting the company were at least a score of
burly legionaries armed with bull whips, keeping rhythm with their stentorian
commands. 

Marcus wandered closer and sought
a vantage point under the shade of a mastic tree.  Though it was already well
past mid-afternoon the sun still simmered, radiating thick waves of heat. 
Marcus welcomed the cover provided by the stubby tree, scant though it was, and
his relief heightened the appreciation he had for the figures along the road
absorbing the full brunt of the sun’s broil.  It was a mass of knotting muscle
and contracting sinew below.  Unforgiving shackles chafed at ankles and faces
were papered with resignation.  The colours of the unfortunates ranged from
rich, chestnut brown to shiny obsidian to raw, sunburnt red.  Like me, Marcus
reflected, all of these men come from far away. 

The nearest legionary stood about
fifteen paces away.  He gave Marcus a perfunctory, knowing nod and Marcus
returned the gesture.  So, he thought, I’m already known here.  He thrilled at
the thought of his newfound importance. 

I’m an architect.  An architect’s
apprentice, at least.  I carry some weight.

His eyes glazed as they rested on
the backs of the men.  He imagined himself one day running a multi-million
sesterces engineering firm, lunching with the Emperor and his family, and
perhaps marrying the daughter of a senator, enjoying a life of sumptuous oiled
baths, perfumed gardens, and luxurious multi-course meals.  He fancied himself
on a dais, presented with awards for service and accepted into the same
equestrian order his grandfather joined decades ago.  He dreamed of the great
tome he’d one day produce, a work worthy of the venerable Frontinus himself, a
book that would immortalize his name.  Students would pore over his work for
centuries to come. Finally, he exulted, I am somewhere where I will be admired
for my talents, no longer mocked and abused.  He thought back to his early
reticence to leave the house of his mother and father and chided himself. 
This
is where I belong
. 

His eyes had alighted on the
beetle-black back of the man closest to him.  Every fibre of the man’s body
stretched at the pick.  Drops of sweat emerged and took shape from the man’s
back, neck and head, as though they bubbled up from a squeezed sponge.  What
day-dreams cloud
his
imagination, Marcus wondered casually.  Tantalizing
memories of home?  Lazy afternoons in the pasture, swimming in the river,
snoozing in the shade? 

The legionary raised the whip
well behind his head and brought it forward sharply, snapping it back on itself
with vicious force.  The tiny shards of iron at its terminus bit into the back
of the slave Marcus had just been looking upon, shredding an area of flesh the
size of a denarius.  Marcus started, shivering, his damp skin grown suddenly
clammy, despite the heat.

“Look lively!” the soldier
bellowed. 

A stream of thick red blood
trailing down the man’s shoulder blade blended with the layer of perspiration. 
Immediately after the lash, he quickened his pace and maintained it for a
number of swings. 

Marcus’ reveries evaporated.  At
first, despite himself, he was glad of the strike and the show of force
exhilarated him.  He had the same kind of excited sensation when he had helped
his grandfather break a spirited mustang.  He had the notion that the
collective vigour on display before him must continue to be marshaled, that the
forward momentum of the system must be preserved.  If a little blood is shed,
he thought, then so be it.  The legionary turned again and nodded, as if he had
been reading Marcus’ thoughts and wanted to show his agreement.  Again, Marcus
replied in kind.    

A palpable heaviness hung in the
humid atmosphere, a weight of expectation. Now, with the initial dissipation of
adrenaline, a sense of unease seeped into Marcus.  As far as he could tell, the
victim of the whip had been working as hard as he was capable and certainly as
hard as those around him. It occurred to him that the legionary had targeted
the exact man Marcus had been absently gazing at. Could that have been
coincidence?  And then there was that second nod. 

“Liveliness is what I want!  Pick
up your pace!”

Once more, the whip with its
awful prongs sliced through the thick air and tore into the slave’s back.  Once
more, the man howled in agony and surprise. 

“Dung eater!  This is not a feast
day.  This is not the beach.  We’re building a road here, by Mars!”

The whip bore down again.  This
time the ditch digger slowed noticeably.  None of his co-workers dared look
up.  The legionary turned to Marcus with another show of acknowledgement.  And
was that the beginning of a smile forming at the corner of his mouth?  Marcus
was now convinced that the display was for his benefit.  But what can be done? 
Discipline has to be upheld.  Isn’t that right? 
I’m the new man. I can’t
step in.
  The whip continued to crackle and pop like fat on a bed of
coals.  The toned black back with its fine silvery sheen of sweat was becoming
a pulpy mass of blood and tissue and Marcus was sickened. 
Is this usual? 
Is this for me?  Why won’t he stop?

He was transported back to the
Verulamium of his youth, on an August day as oppressively hot, to an empty
pasture and adjoining woodland where the village children would play hide and
seek or harpastum small ball. On this day, they had played Romans and Britons. 

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

Laurentius and Sylvanus, two of
the older boys who always organized the games, assigned Marcus to the Britons,
laughing at the protest of the others.  Marcus ignored the rejection of his
tribe; he was well used to it.  And anyway, he loved to play Romans and
Britons.

 At first it was worth bearing
this latest indignation; all the other Britons had been captured, they’d been
caught and imprisoned or conscripted into the larger Roman host.  He alone had
eluded the patrols through his superior cunning.  Marcus was never more proud
of himself as he lay in a culvert, obscured by ferns, panting and sweating, the
only surviving Briton.  With every reserve of patience, lying perfectly
motionless despite the ants tickling his legs and the gnats clogging his nose,
he waited and waited, letting the calling die down until he knew for certain
they had given up. 

He emerged from his clever hiding
place and strode back into the field, his long, stick legs propelling him
triumphantly forward.  The full length of his neck flushed pink as he
anticipated the admiration of his peers for such a masterful performance.  But
no-one was there.  The pasture was empty and the voices had faded into
silence.  He hadn’t been found because no-one had looked for him.

This fresh insult brought tears
to the rims of his narrow eyes as he sat down, tucked his limbs under his body
and moaned.  More than anything he wished to be back in his leafy cocoon,
hidden, a crafty Briton, made euphoric by the ingenuity of his own escape. 
Sadness soon became mouth-drying fear, as Laurentius and Sylvanus returned,
with a group of children following close behind.

“We’ve got you now Marcus,” they
said.

“But I was the last to be
caught.  I win.”

Laurentius caught him roughly by
the elbow, wrenched it behind his bony back and hoisted him up.

“Oh yes,” he said, “you win.
You’re king of the Britons!”

“And you know what Romans do with
the king of the Britons?”

Marcus didn’t answer.  His
baleful eyes scanned the other kids, searching for a possible ally.  Those who
weren’t encouraging the bigger boys, who weren’t fetching them switches from
the nearby thicket, the silent ones, they wore expressions of curiosity.  “What
happens next?” they asked with their wide, unblinking eyes, as though it was a
staged tragedy they were watching, not the real assault of a boy they actually
knew.  They would remain spectators. 

One face was apologetic. 
Annaeus, Marcus’ brother.  He, too, had been there.  Not to join in the
beating, but also not to stop it.  Sorry, his trembling lips seemed to say,
what can I do?  There are two of them, both bigger than I.  Later, it would be
Annaeus who applied the cool, damp moss to the lash marks.  Marcus’ would lean
on Annaeus as he hobbled tearfully home.     

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

With the fifth strike from the
soldier’s bullwhip the man in the ditch began to stagger and sway.  With the
seventh blow, the pick fell from his hands and he did not try to retrieve it. 
With the eleventh blow he dropped to his knees.  The legionary had his whip
raised for the twelfth when Marcus finally dared to intervene.

“Stop!” he cried, his voice sounding
far more childish than he had intended, “Stop it!”

The legionary paused.  He looked
back at Marcus, now with a look of confusion on his face.
I thought we had
an understanding
, he seemed to say.

Marcus stared back utterly unsure
of his next move.  He was relieved that the flogging had ceased, at least
temporarily, but the following uncertainty was excruciating.  The digger was
still on his hands and knees, whimpering.  Many of the others around the prone
man had stopped their own activity, to assess the new situation, this new man,
a stranger who had enough clout to command a legionary.  They looked up from
the ditch in wonderment.  The legionary scrutinized Marcus’ face, trying to
read his intentions, to ascertain his standing, to determine whether he should
be obeyed, challenged or dismissed.  All eyes were now on Marcus, waiting for
what was to come.  Marcus dreaded that his insecurity was displayed for all to
see in the interminably long time it was taking him to say or do something
else.  And he thought he could detect the look in the legionary’s eyes change
from confusion, to annoyance, to defiance.  The soldier was straightening up
and looked like he was about to make a move.  Marcus knew he had to act fast,
to head off the coming insubordination.  He opened his mouth to speak.

“Pluto’s ass!  What in Hades is
going on here!”

Gus had returned. 

Marcus, with three long,
deliberate strides drew up to the soldier and before the man could protest he
twisted the whip from his grasp.  Not yet acknowledging Gus’ presence, he
cocked his head and trained one narrow eye downward at the shorter, stouter
man.  With a trembling hand he hoisted the whip, never taking his eye from the
soldier.  He brought the whip down with as much power as he could muster from his
extended, slender arm, just as he had when he helped his grandfather to break
the most savage, feral horse.  The iron teeth of the lash end chewed deeply
into the digger’s matted back.  The wretch thumped to the dusty ground.  Marcus
handed the whip back to the surprised soldier. 

“That,” he said, nearly
screaming, “is how it’s done.”

Marcus stepped backward, pivoted,
and faced Gus.  For a moment, all was quiet.

“What is all this standing
around!”  Spittle launched from Gus’ lips when he spoke.  “Who said you could
stop?  If we don’t have two more miles by the calends, you’ll be digging us a
mass grave.  The emperor is not a patient man!”