Authors: Mark Henrikson
“A lot of things had to go just right to pull that off,” Jeffrey finally said on his way to pick up his pencil from the floor. “Gallono had to become an invincible gladiator, Tomal had to be an incompetent leader and tick off the masses. The people actually had to rebel, and Caesar actually had to return to Rome in order for you to isolate and kill him. Did I get that about right?”
“There is just no substitute for well laid plans,” Hastelloy mused.
“People doing what you instruct them to do is executing a plan. What you just described is a series of actions carried out by individuals with free will,” Dr. Holmes protested. “How can you possibly view that as executing a plan?”
Hastelloy didn’t bat an eye at the challenge. “By understanding those individuals and what motivated them, I was able to orchestrate their rather predictable reactions to certain situations.”
“No way, it’s too perfect,” Jeffrey countered. “The flawless construct of these events is so outlandish that it can only be your subconscious bringing attention to the impossibility of something so complex coming perfectly together in the end.”
“Perfect,” Hastelloy repeated. “My dear Dr. Holmes, the events that unfolded back in Rome were anything but perfect.”
Tonwen and Isa
entered the town of Ginae and only drew the attention of a few random street vendors offering to purchase the camel they carried in tow for an obscenely low price. The offers were politely rejected on their way to the town’s temple.
The steps of the modest structure, made of clay bricks rather than proper stone, were littered with the sickly and poor. They all were there begging any who would listen for an act of generosity or kindness. As it happened, Tonwen and Isa were full of both.
Isa took a clay jar full of white cream off the camel’s back and headed for the grotesquely afflicted lepers while Tonwen dispensed food to the hungry. It was not long before a sizeable crowd of curious onlookers gathered. The stage was set, and Tonwen stepped to the forefront while Isa slathered the rotting flesh of the lepers with his mysterious ointment.
“To be a righteous man, one must be a generous man,” Tonwen began with a monotone voice completely devoid of inspiration. “Follow our example and tend to those less fortunate than yourself.”
Yawns and blank stares from the crowd let Tonwen know that his lackluster words were having no effect. He didn’t truly believe the message and as a result it came off as flat and uninspired.
How was he supposed to enlist followers of a new faith to eventually overthrow the people’s obedience to the Alpha; masquerading as the Roman gods? He couldn’t even hold the attention of a single person in the crowd, let alone the millions it would require to accomplish the mission Hastelloy set him upon over thirty years ago.
Tonwen knew he commanded no attention from the crowd, but Isa was another matter entirely. Every man, woman, and child in the crowd marveled at what they saw. The first leper Isa treated, a man hopelessly lost to the rot of his disease, rose to stand upon his once withered legs and brushed away the mangled scales from his arms and face. The renewed man was in complete awe at the sight of his arms, the flesh so clean and new it rivaled a new born infant. He darted off into the crowd and found a woman burdened with a full pale of water. The man gazed upon his reflection on the water’s surface, cried out in delight and then ran down the street dancing and singing for joy about his new lease on life.
This same scenario repeated itself over and over as the lepers, once condemned to a painful and disfigured existence, one by one walked away anew. The commotion caused by the crowd steadily grew until every street and hall was abuzz with stories of the miracles taking place at the temple by a gifted visitor.
The high priest of the town burst forth from the temple doors with determined hatred in his every move. The priest’s flamboyant purple robes billowed behind him as he rushed over to Isa applying his mystical ointment. The priest snatched Isa by the arm and flung him down the steps to the sandy ground below. The priest then struck a menacing pose on the steps and pointed an accusing index finger at Isa as he struggled back to his feet.
“You have no right offering healing to these unholy creatures,” the priest challenged. “God afflicted them with the unclean disease as penance for their life of sin. You have no right to interfere with this example of God’s wrath.”
One measured step at a time, Isa ascended the temple stairs to square off against his accuser. He flung his arm to the side as though he were shooing away a bug and pointed off into the distance. “Be gone Satan! The examples these people need are those of a kind, generous god who bestows healing, not sickness upon his people.”
“Those decaying creatures were not god’s people. They weren’t even Hebrews,” the priest barked back. “They’re Samaritans; foreigners. God punished them for their lack of faith and adherence to his laws.”
“They are fellow human beings equal to all others in God’s eye,” Isa countered and then turned to face the crowd with open arms. “Take the healing of these men as proof, proof that God loves all those who believe in his salvation, not just a chosen few held to obey their priestly masters with fear and superstition.”
The priest grabbed Isa by the arm and spun him back around and delivered an ear piercing slap to his right cheek. The blow sent Isa’s head crashing into his left shoulder.
“Behold,” Isa shouted as he slowly rotated his head to present the left side of his face to the priest. “I meet his violent blow to my right cheek by turning to offer the left. His blow was struck using the left hand, a dirty appendage whose mere touch is an insult. Now if he chooses to strike again this man of elevated status must use his right hand, the hand of dignity and honor. The touch of this hand from such an elevated man is a profound honor. It raises me to his level.”
Isa stared up at the priest in amusement. “Will you strike me again as an equal, or let me be?”
“Bah, let a plague descend upon you,” the priest hissed and then retreated back into the temple without another word or blow struck.
“I trust God to heal any plague I encounter,” Isa responded to the priest’s back and then faced the crowd once more. “Bring me your sick and injured, so I may impart God’s blessings upon them.”
Immediately dozens of town’s people rushed forward with their ailments. Those suffering minor cuts, bruises, and even skin cancer were easily healed by applying the appropriate ointment. Isa spoke to the people and espoused God’s blessings upon them while Tonwen busied himself running back and forth to his camel for the necessary cure.
Two of the town’s people suffered from severe medical issues which required far more than a topical cream to cure. The first man’s right hand was horribly disfigured from a farming accident with fingers and wrist bones jutting out in all directions. The second individual appeared to have an internal cancer devouring him from within. If the man’s skeletal figure was any indication, he was not long in this world without divine intervention. As instructed, the two waited at the base of the temple steps while the minor miracles were dispensed.
Isa applied ointment to the last patient’s skin and instantly saw the two inch diameter skin cancer lesion fade away from a dark, dried scab to new flesh with a pinkish hue. After the final patient expressed her profound gratitude, Isa moved toward the pair sitting on the steps but was stopped by Tonwen’s grasp under his arm.
Tonwen turned his friend around and pulled his ear in close for a discrete word. “Do not ask questions, just do as I say. Hold your right hand over the man’s broken hand until I give you the signal to move on to the next, where you will hold your hand over his head until he is healed.”
“I don’t understand,” Isa protested in dismay.
“Nor should you,” Tonwen said as he hastily took Isa’s right hand and slipped a leather strap with a small metallic device in the palm over his hand. He then wrapped the hand in
a burlap covering to conceal the futuristic device.
Tonwen depressed a button on the side of the device and then said to his friend with the utmost confidence. “Great things are at hand; now do as I have asked.”
Isa slowly stepped down to the pair sitting on the bottom step of the temple. His confident demeanor now replaced by an apprehensive man who looked like he had an arrow pointed at his head. Isa eventually extended a trembling hand out toward the mangled limb of the first patient and held it over the appendage.
Meanwhile, Tonwen slinked away around the corner to stand alone in a shadowy alley between the temple and an adjacent inn. Tonwen blinked his eyes to allow the medical read
-out from the implant in his eye to display as a virtual image right in front of him. The device Isa held over the patient performed a scan that generated a three dimensional image of the man’s twisted hand: bones, joints, tendons, and muscles were all clearly visible.
One of the misplaced bones was glowing bright red. Rotated ninety degrees from its current location was a neon green outline of the bone indicating where it actually belonged. Tonwen reached up and moved the bone into place and then another bone turned red, requiring relocation. One by one, all twenty seven bones and numerous joints and tendons were relocated and reattached until the appendage was good as new.
Considering the surgery successful, Tonwen blinked hard to turn off the virtual display mode and then glanced around the corner to view the actual results. The man was holding his reformed hand high over his head and singing the praises of the man who healed him. Tonwen did not envy the man for the pain he would endure in a few hours once the anesthetic wore off, but he would have a new hand to show for his suffering at the end of it all.
Isa turned his head to look about the crowd and fina
lly noticed Tonwen peeking around the corner. With a nod from his friend, Isa moved his hand to rest over the man dying of cancer. Tonwen blinked through the treatment options and initiated the cure that dissolved the numerous tumors until nothing remained of the disease.
The patient had been doubled over in agony, but when Isa removed his healing hand, the man sprung to his feet and danced about like a child high on honey wine. It took no time at all for the man’s exuberance to infect the entire town, except a certain priest who remained brooding inside the temple walls.
Tables and chairs were moved into the streets. Any townsperson owning a musical instrument and the slightest ability to use it played in the crowded streets as the rest of the town sang, danced, and prepared a feast to commemorate the miracles they witnessed.
Isa looked uncomfortable with the praises heaped upon them. The young man even went so far as to suggest Tonwen and Isa should slip away from the town amid the commotion, but Tonwen would have none of it.
“We will leave in the morning,” Tonwen said. “Healing these people is only the first step in your ministry. Now that you have their attention it is time to deliver the message of inclusion and salvation.”
“But it wasn’t me,” Isa protested. “It was your elixirs and creams that healed them, and I can’t even begin to explain what happened to that man’s hand. You should be the one they praise.”
“No,” Tonwen insisted. “You saw me with the crowd earlier. I do not have a charismatic bone in my body. You on the other hand radiate charm and have a rarely matched way with words. You must carry the message for us.”
Isa still looked unconvinced, so Tonwen cracked a wry smile and put his arm around his friend
’s shoulder as he escorted them into the middle of the festivities. “Seeing is believing. You touched those people and they were healed. It is a miracle and we shall leave it at that.”
Tomal stood quietly
atop the grand marble stairs leading to the senate house from the open grounds of the forum. Joining him on high were friends and foes of Caesar coexisting side by side. Senators, military generals, and the wealthy elite who pulled political strings behind the scenes represented a display of unity at the top and provided some measure of assurance to the citizens below that everything was under control.
Tomal looked out across the forum and failed to find a single square foot of open space for another person to stand. Every corner, tree, statue base, and rooftop was saturated with the subdued and dejected citizenry of Rome.
People spoke only in whispers. Their adored ruler had just been murdered by those standing on high in front of them. No one felt safe and the air all around the forum dripped with fear and uncertainty. It was oppressive and stifling, and not at all unwarranted given the presence of soldiers around the perimeter of the forum. The question on everyone’s mind seemed to be whether the army was there to maintain order, or something more sinister.
Content that the forum wouldn’t hold another soul without dislodging a structure from its foundation, Tomal signaled his men to bring out Caesar’s body. The elite of Roman society slowly parted left and right like a curtain opening for the first act of a play. Through the opening marched ten soldiers, five to a side, glistening with gold breast plates and flowing crimson capes. Between them lay Caesar’s body carried on f
our shields held between the men of the honor guard.
In stark contrast to the sparkling uniforms of the soldiers, Caesar’s body still donned the blood stained toga he wore the day of the attack. On Tomal’s order, the body remained untouched on the senate floor until the soldiers carried him out to present Caesar’s remains to the people.
A collective gasp emanated from the throngs below. Those still clinging to any thought that Caesar’s death was just a rumor moaned as their hopes were conclusively dashed. Others were taken aback by the severity of the assault as they saw with their own eyes the pure white fabric Caesar wore now turned crimson; dyed through and through by his own blood. Silence settled over the crowd once more as disbelief and suppressed rage found its way into their hearts.
The soldiers placed Caesar’s body on a ceremonial slab half way down the senate house steps. Then the ten men of the honor guard continued down the steps and joined the rest of their cohort standing watch to keep everyone off the steps during the ceremony.
Tomal looked on with pity as Hastelloy slowly stepped forward and down the steps to stand over Caesar’s fallen form. The crowd was seething with hatred and a need for vengeance. Tomal could not, for the life of him, envision how Hastelloy would talk them down from rushing the steps and tearing every man upon them to pieces.
An uneasy silence hung over the crowd, which reminded Tomal of the soundless void that filled a battl
efield before the two sides began having at each other. Every angry eye focused on Hastelloy to hear his words and decide their next course of action. The very fate of the Republic hung in the balance as Hastelloy began speaking.
“Romans,” Hastelloy shouted with enough volume to fill the ears of every individual present in the forum grounds. “Countrymen, hear my words, every last one, while I tell the sad story about the death of a king.”
Hastelloy paused to allow the last word to ricochet between the buildings for a moment. “I had the privilege to count Caesar as a friend. He rose from a station of common birth to the highest office in the land, and I respected him for that. He fought valiantly for the glory of Rome in the Gallic wars, and I admired him for that. When I sided with Pompey, and Caesar emerged the victor, he forgave me. He welcomed me back to Rome with gracious arms, and I truly loved him for that.”
Many among the crowd voiced agreement with the praise of Caesar. Their shouts lacked a certain enthusiasm, however, as everyone could feel the inevitable ‘but’ that was sure to follow. Hastelloy obviously sensed the same vibe and adjusted form accordingly.
“I hear among you a collective question. If Brutus loved Caesar so, why did he raise a violent hand against him? What wrong did Caesar perpetrate to warrant such response? My reply . . .?”
“Caesar committed no wrong to the honor of noble Brutus.” As he spoke, Hastelloy stepped around Caesar’s body to stand between it and the citizens below and raised his hands out wide in a grand gesture.
“The wrong perpetrated was against you the people. During the course of Rome’s noble history many great men have assumed ultimate power over the Republic to deal with emergencies; honorable statesmen the likes of Scipio, Sulla, and Pompey.
“Eve
ry time. Every single time,” Hastelloy repeated, “The power those great men assumed was returned to the place it belonged - the senate. A body elected of the people, by the people, and for you the people of Rome. This was not the case with Caesar.”
Hastelloy took a few steps down the stairs shaking his head as it hung low into his chest. “I served Caesar honorably, and I would serve him still had he but chosen to serve Rome and not himself.”
Hastelloy snapped his head up for effect as he continued. “He served us all once. Caesar did Rome great service, but in the end his greatness turned to ambition.
“Caesar’s final act in life was a proposition to dissolve the senate in favor of his sole leadership. His ambitious words were spoken while his soldiers stood behind the backs o
f your noble senators with swords drawn.”
A ruckus rose up from the crowd. Their anger was no longer directed at Hastelloy, but rather the dead man lying behind him. Hastelloy paused to let the uproar of the crowd die down before continuing.
“Caesar sought to usurp the power of the people and wield it in his greedy hands. The freedoms we all enjoy as citizens of this great Republic would be gone forever, replaced by the tyrannical rule of a king. A great man to be sure, but a single man who could bend the will of every free man in the Republic to serve him. Caesar wanted to be the king of Rome.”
Again, the crowd raised their collective voice to praise Hastelloy for his actions. “Death to the tyrant. Gods bless noble Brutus, defender of the people,” they all shouted.
Hastelloy raised his hands to induce silence once more. “Though I loved Caesar, I could not stand for the people of Rome to be made his slaves. So I struck him down.”
For effect Hastelloy let his voice trail off as he visibly struggled to speak further, but finally he pressed through the grief. “His end was tragic. He was my friend. I slew my friend Caesar because I am a noble Roman first and a friend second.
“I stand here now, looking upon a mob on the verge of tearing this city, this government, this Republic down to the very ground we stand upon until anger and rage are satisfied.”
Hastelloy reached into the folds of his toga and produced the bloody blade of a dagger which he thrust high above his head. “This is the weapon I used to strike Caesar down. I stand ready to turn it upon myself if the death of Caesar’s killer will alleviate your rage. I will fall on my blade if it will serve the greater good of the Republic by saving it from rebellion. Would you have my life ended?” Hastelloy asked of the crowd.
“No!,” the citizens bellowed in unison. Their conversion to Hastelloy’s side was complete. Tomal could only stand and marvel at the accomplishment.
“Then when any man, woman, or child absent from the forum this day asks you why noble Brutus lives while great Caesar lies interred in the ground you shall have an answer to give. Noble Brutus did not love Caesar less, but rather he loved Rome more. So much in fact that he slew his beloved friend to save the Republic from turning into Caesar’s kingdom.”
Once more the crowd shouted their approval and promised to spread the word far and wide to any ear that would hear the tale.
“In life, Caesar’s ambition could not be forgiven, in death I think it can. To honor the life Caesar lived and the grand service he gave, I invite Mark Antony to speak words of praise on his behalf.”
Resounding applause rose from the crowd with cries of, “Gods bless you Brutus,” mixed in. Hastelloy turned and ascended a few steps until he stood over Caesar’s body. As the cheers from the crowd continued, Hastelloy hunched over the body. He set his bloody dagger next to Caesar and then lay his hand upon the great man’s dead shoulder. He paid his final respects and then made his way back up the steps.
Tomal felt a nervous knot tie itself around his stomach and give it a good squeeze. He looked over the immense crowd once more before willing his feet forward and down the steps. He had no particular fear of public speaking, but the volume of the crowd present was mind boggling. He also knew full well his words would reverberate throughout the Republic and very likely forward in time for all eternity
on this planet.
At that moment he did not see his audience as the mere 200,000 citizens before him. Instead he envisioned every person that would ever live on the
planet from that day forward. The knot tightened its grip on his digestive track to the point he nearly keeled over, but pride and force of will won out. He would not be publically embarrassed, especially not in front of Hastelloy.
As Tomal passed Hastelloy on the steps, he noticed a faint glint in the Captain’s left hand. It was gone in a flash as Hastelloy passed on Tomal’s right side. He pushed the observation to the back of his mind as he refocused his thoughts on the moment.
Hastelloy had performed the impossible. He began his speech facing a raging mob that stood ready to disembowel him. Now Hastelloy paced back to his position on top of the senate house steps to the sound of that very same crowd chanting his name and honoring him as their savior.
Tomal knew his task was a comparatively simple one. Tomal merely needed to pay Caesar appropriate lip service. Then he would read Caesar’s will and secure an immense personal fortune along with his place as ruler of the Republic. Tomal forced his anxiety to the side as he pictured 200,000 people wearing only loin cloths. The mental exercise worked wonders for his confidence as Tomal cleared his throat to address the crowd that now fell silent to hear his words.
“Dear friends,” Tomal began. “Every man among us is on his own journey through life. Today, by happenstance, we find ourselves standing at the same fork in the road of that journey.”
Tomal turned and gestured up the stairs toward Hastelloy as he continued. “All of us are free men thanks to noble Brutus and his selfless act to slay the ambitious man who would be king. Owing to his noble act, we are all free to look upon Caesar in one of two ways: remembering the honorable man we loved, or resenting the thought of the ambitious tyrant he apparently aspired to be.”
Tomal dropped his arm to his side and faced the crowd once more. “I am forced to remember the honorable man I loved since I am unable to give evidence to Caesar’s ambition.
“Caesar accomplished great deeds in his short life, and I had the privilege
of being present for most of them. Together we fought for the glory and honor of Rome against her enemies. We stained fields, too numerous to count, red with blood. Owing to Caesar’s greatness as a general, the dye used on those fields flowed from the veins of our enemies and not our fellow countrymen.
“The plunder, slaves and ransoms raised from his campaigns were sent home to Rome. The proceeds refilled the empty coffers of the people’s treasury. Not a single sesterce graced his personal accounts; none whatsoever.
“I speak the truth do I not?” Tomal asked rhetorically. “Profound was his love of country and fellow man.”
Tomal paused to listen to the crowd as a low murmur hovered about the forum. He couldn’t make out the words, but most present slowly nodded their heads as they recalled the great deeds of Caesar that won their allegiance in the first place.
Capitalizing on the crowd’s favorable disposition, Tomal gestured for the Vestalis Maxima to bring him the will Caesar filed in their trusted vault.
In her shimmering white gown and headdress, the Vestalis Maxima proceeded down a dozen steps to reach Tomal where he stood over Caesar’s body. She lowered herself to one knee and presented the will with both hands above her head to Tomal. He took it from the old woman and gestured for her to move away as he circled around in front of Caesar’s body.
“The noble vestals have entrusted Caesar’s final will and testament into my hands.” Tomal thrust the document over his head for all to bear witness that the thick red wax seal was still intact. “I shall not fill your ears with my words attesting to Caesar’s great love of country. Instead I will testify for Caesar using words written by his own hand.”
Tomal pulled his own dagger, pristine and free of any crimson, from his toga. Using the innocent blade, he cut through the wax seal as the citizens below looked on with baited breath. Slowly he unfurled the parchment and cleared his throat to read the document aloud.
“To the people of Rome I bequeath my private arboretum and the newly planted orchards this side of the Tiber River. Let the fruits of these fertile lands be enjoyed by my fellow citizens as part of their Roman birthright.”
The crowd interrupted Tomal’s recitation with cheers and applause for the generous gift. Tomal gestured with his open arms for the rejoicing citizens to quiet once more before continuing. “That is not the only gift Caesar has left for all of you. I read further from Caesar’s own words.”