FICTION
Three Hundred Stones
by Ann Walters
Marcus stood on the shore and weighed the stone in his hand. It felt right; neither too heavy nor too light, perfectly balanced from end to end. He rubbed his thumb over the smooth, flat surface and nestled the edge against his curved forefinger. Satisfied with his grip, he studied the stone's grey veins crawling through glossy black, and imagined his life in those lines. All things in the universe were of a single substance, connected by their very existence in an inextricable and ever-changing web. He was as much mineral as man. With the swift slide of his arm and the snap of his wrist, Marcus sent the stone skipping over the restless sea.
The rising sun cast patterns of light and shadow on the water, making it hard to see, but he followed the stone until it sank before reaching for the next. This one was a little larger. It would be for lust, Faustina's power of arousal and pleasure. She was beautiful, lively, and intelligent, his wife. Only she could excite passion in his well-trained Stoic's heart. Wisdom was his defense against such failings, and the foundation of his faith. Through it, he maintained virtue by letting go of vice. With the stone's release from his fingers, Marcus felt the equilibrium shift.
The next five stones were small, well-suited to the grief of children lost in infancy. They skidded fast and far in brief flights of glory, the weight of remembrance lessening with each. Then a green one caught his eye, the only one of its kind in the pile of grey and black beside him. Lifting it, he found it was awkward; long and rectangular, thickened at one end. It would be hard to skip. This was Commodus, his heir and successor. Marcus didn't understand his son, but he loved him. Bitterness was knowing that Commodus cared for neither love nor knowledge. Marcus cast the feeling aside clumsily, the green stone skipping only twice before plopping beneath the waves.
He plucked another, this time for fear — of armies massing on northern borders, and imminent war and sent it singing out of sight. More followed. One for pride, two for wealth and prestige, and a heavy round stone as large as his palm for self-conceit. With each toss, the universe shifted, moving closer to the proper alignment, bringing Marcus back into balance with nature. Behind him, at the edge of the beach, slaves waited with missives from the provinces, stacks of petitions, and a line of senators vying for his attention. They would continue to wait. The Emperor had 287 more stones to throw.
Ann Walters is a writer, mother of two, and physical anthropologist. Her work has appeared in Bonfire, SmokeLong Quarterly, NOÖ Journal, Gator Springs Gazette, and others.