Free The Last Stoic by Morgan Wade

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