Author: Thomas Greanias
Date: 2012-09-17 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Historical; Thriller; Mystery
Description: TREMBLE BEFORE THE SEAT OF ROMAN POWER AND PARANOIA -- OR RESIST From the New York Times bestselling author of Raising Atlantis, Thomas Greanias, comes an epic adventure of ancient Rome that illuminates the gathering darkness of the 21st century. The assassination of Caesar's chief astrologer explodes into revelations of a secret order known as "Rule of God." The order has penetrated the highest echelons of the empire. Its to fulfill a decades-old prophecy predicting the exact day and hour that Caesar will die. Desperate to prove the oracles wrong, an increasingly erratic Caesar kills all susp
Publisher: Atlantis Ink

THE CHIRON CONFESSION

BOOK ONE OF THE DOMINIUM DEI TRILOGY

Also by Thomas Greanias

Rule of God

Wrath of Rome

The 34th Degree

The Promised War

The Atlantis Revelation

The Atlantis Prophecy

Raising Atlantis

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 by Thomas Greanias

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address @lantis Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 701 5th Avenue, 42nd Floor, Seattle, WA 98104.

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Soli Deo gloria

This world is fading away, along with everything it craves.

But if you do the will of God, you will live forever.

—John the Last Apostle (c.6-100 A.D.)

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X

PROLOGUE

Few remember the past, and the future will be forgotten by those who follow it. Even so I am writing this confession down on parchment in the hope that you might escape my fate.

I have come to the end of my life, but I have failed to finish my race. I have fought the wrong fight. I have used up my strength and have nothing to show for it. I have done more evil in the name of good than I ever imagined in my former life as Athanasius of Athens, a hedonist and playwright above all others in Rome when cruel Domitian was Caesar.

If I had my choice, I would have picked a different world stage for the performance of my life. But we do not choose the dates of our birth or death. Not even Caesar. On the day Domitian was born, the stars proclaimed the exact date of his death: September 18 of this year, the 96th since the advent of Christ.

Rightly assuming his astrological birth chart itself was an invitation to his enemies to fulfill the prophecy, Domitian devoted himself from childhood to executing any and all his paranoid mind suspected of less than absolute loyalty. He probably murdered his father, Vespasian, and later his brother, Titus, in his ascension to the throne. Not content with being emperor of the Roman Empire, he proclaimed himself dominus et deus, “Lord and God,” ruler of the universe. As if that were not enough, he also assumed the official mantle of pontifex maximus, merging the rule of Rome with the religion of her gods into a terrible theocracy with a single test: those who bowed before him and proclaimed him Lord and God lived, those who refused died. It was said of Christians, in particular, that they could not or would not bow. This is why they were branded “atheists” and executed.

All but one, it seemed, by the time I arrived on the scene.

The last living apostle of Christ, John, was still rotting away in his island prison of Patmos. But his apocalyptic Book of Revelation had fanned a firestorm of fear across the empire with its horrific visions of the end of the world.

Domitian thought better than to make a martyr of the old man. Instead he saw a historic opportunity to let John die of natural causes—and with him the Church’s superstition and vain hope in a glorious Second Coming of Christ. Outlasting both September 18 and the apostle would be Domitian’s ultimate triumph.

Unfortunately, neither Domitian nor John had foreseen the rise of the supersecret organization that mocked Caesar with its name Dominium Dei, or “Rule of God.” It was said to have started with a small band of disciples inside Nero’s palace, left behind decades ago by the Apostle Paul before he was beheaded. Now it was out in the open, claiming to have infiltrated all levels of Roman government, ready to take over once Domitian was gone and establish a thousand-year “Reign of Christ.” The Dei’s assassination of Domitian’s officials only made the threat more worldly and concrete. Of course, it wasn’t the so-called Dei that the empire feared, nor any return of Christ, so much as Domitian’s response to it and anyone he suspected of being part of it. And the fledgling Christian church, despite the Apostle John’s denunciation of Dominium Dei, bore the brunt of Domitian’s wrath.

Two kingdoms—one in heaven, one on earth—each vying for a single throne in the heart of man. And one day, out of nowhere, I found myself caught in the middle of these two great wheels of history: religion and politics, grinding against each other and turning to dust the lives of innocents unfortunate enough to get in the way.

To all who have ears to hear and eyes to see, this is my apology for the murderous events into which I was swept and later instigated as the steward of the world’s most terrible secret, which I now share with you in the only way I know how.

I

They had finished their business with the priestess whores at the Temple of Artemis and were about to call it a night when Caelus suggested they try out one of the new secret clubs called Urania.

Virtus held up his hand. “No more, sir, please.”

The bodyguard believed in beating one’s body into submission. He loathed having to keep company with this Roman official and his insatiable wants. At some point there had to be a limit. Furthermore, this was their last night in Ephesus before sailing back to Rome. Why tempt the Fates?

But Caelus insisted. “Next stop, Urania.”

Virtus sighed. How His Fatness had wormed his way into Caesar’s court was a mystery to him. Yet it would be his own head if anything should happen to Rome’s chief astrologer. So he wrapped his white toga over his shoulder’s scorpion-and-stars tattoo—that of the Third Cohort of the imperial Praetorian Guard—and slid his dagger into its secret fold.

The moment they stepped outside under the stars Virtus knew this was a mistake. The latest performance of Oedipus Sex had let out of the amphitheater, and the streets of this port city, Rome’s exotic “gateway to the East,” teemed with 30,000 revelers of every age, race and sexual orientation. Singing, laughing and snorting in every tongue, they made their way to the closest tavern, brothel and public toilet in sight. Some couldn’t wait and took to urinating at the curbs. A few squatters, Virtus noticed with dismay, magically grew tails.

“The mob is too much, sir. I cannot guarantee your safety. We should skip the club, head straight to the ship and call your visit to Ephesus a great success.”

“Urania,” said Caelus, wading into the throngs before Virtus could stop him.

Virtus quickly caught up and stuck to Caelus’s side. To most observers they looked like any other typical Roman homosexual couple in the crowd, an older man and his younger love, which was their cover. Praetorian protocol was to dress in civilian togas when accompanying important personages outside Rome. It drew less attention and allowed Virtus to scan the masses for any threat.

A street prophet wearing a placard emblazoned with the date September 18 immediately caught his eye. That was the date the stars predicted Caesar would die. Indeed, the official purpose of Caelus’s visit was to meet with oracles and rogue astrologers in the eastern half of the empire. Whatever they privately believed about the star alignments, their job was to align their public forecasts with Caelus’s, which was that Domitian was destined to reign for decades more.

Virtus gently steered Caelus clear of the street prophet. He decided the man was a harmless if stark reminder that dangerous elements of the underground had begun to come out of the woodwork six months before Doomsday. Local informants said the anti-Roman death cult Dominium Dei was active in Ephesus, and their members didn’t wear placards to announce themselves.

The Dei had a penchant for abducting local magistrates and sending pieces of them back to their superiors bit by bit—a hand here or an eyeball there, often accompanied by a taunting note. Their only sign of existence, beyond the headless corpses of those Roman officials they left behind, was a black tattoo of the letter Chi under their left armpit. It was a twist on the death cross and a symbol of the astrological ellipses of the earth. Very clever, and as good as invisible to the naked eye. Even that scrap of intelligence had taken months to discover from the sole Dei spy Rome had ever captured—from Caesar’s own Praetorian Guards, no less—and it came only after the guard had killed himself by sucking poison hidden in his signet ring.

Anyone could be a member of the Dei: your best friend since childhood, even your brother or mother. It was this ruthless reality that kept the empire on edge. His first-hand knowledge that the Dei counted their lives for nothing next to their cause only further unnerved Virtus as he and Caelus merged with the cross-traffic of Crooked Street.

Vendors clapped cymbals and called out to the crowd as it snaked along the thoroughfare under the strung-up torches.

“New versions of Oedipus and the Oracle! Ceramic, bronze and silver!”

A young boy from a nearby stand shoved a figurine into Virtus’s hand and stretched out his own for payment. “Oedipus!”

Virtus looked at the souvenir idol. The face was cut to resemble the late emperor Nero, just like the colossus near the Flavian Amphitheater back in Rome. The Oedipus “comedy” tonight was a fiendishly clever, thinly disguised retelling of Nero sleeping with his own mother. It was a staple of the Greek playwright Athanasius of Athens to take the classic tragedies and twist them into humorous, subversive commentary about contemporary Roman virtue in high places, or lack thereof.

“Did you see this, Virtus?” demanded Caelus, showing him the figurine of the Oracle from the play. Actually, it looked more like an orb than a figurine. “Did you see this?!”

Virtus gave the marble orb a closer look and with a start realized it was cut to look like Caelus.

Caelus waved his arms hysterically. “How does that Greek get away with it?”

Virtus had no idea. But he didn’t like standing in the open with Caelus, flesh pressing against them on all sides. A blade could shoot out from the crowd and withdraw, leaving him to stand over the crumpled corpse of portly Caelus. A bad omen for Caesar, for sure, and for his own future.

“Entertainment is our religion, and religion is our entertainment,” Virtus said, handing the figurines back to the disappointed boy. “The rules of mortal men don’t apply to the gods of the cosmic theater.”

Caelus, who clearly considered himself one of the gods, nodded as Virtus moved them along. “Well said, Virtus. You are wiser than you look.”

Having cleared the river of revelers on Crooked Street, they turned north into the quieter, darker streets of Ephesus. It was a better, wealthier part of town, and they were free of the anonymous masses.

“See, Virtus, I told you we’d make it. The stars said so because I say so. Wait until you see the delights in store for us!”

Up ahead was a villa perched on a hill. It overlooked the sparkling lights of the great theater, library and harbor beyond. The entrance was a nondescript bolted door. One could have easily missed it save for the bronze celestial globe on a stone pillar in front, and the two guards posted on either side under torches, so frozen in bearing they could have been statues.

Ex-legionnaires, Virtus guessed, who either weren’t satisfied with their pensions or enjoyed certain side benefits from their new profession in retirement. As for the celestial globe, it was often depicted in art with Urania, the muse of astronomy.

Ergo, they had found Club Urania.

Virtus didn’t like the looks of the thick smoke that hung in the air above the courtyard wall, nor the loud and slurred sounds of men and women high on wine and aphrodisiacs wafting over as well. Rome pretended that the empire was one great banner cut from a single cloth. But establishments like Urania revealed its underside as a patchwork of both silk and sackcloth, its seams stretched to the point of tearing apart. That the only thing holding this world together was so thin a thread as this fat pretender Caelus, who existed solely to prove the prophecies about Domitian wrong, only heightened Virtus’s unease.

Caelus, however, looked delighted. “The priestess back at the temple said you must speak into the globe. There must be a pipe inside that snakes into the villa.”

Ignoring the guards, Caelus walked up to the globe in front of the bolted door. “Muse of heaven,” he commanded, his voice winded from the short but steep climb to the villa. “Open the sky.”

The door seemed to open by itself, inviting them inside.

Poor Virtus didn’t know what he was missing, thought Caelus, resplendent after an arousing ritual of mineral baths in progressive tubs of hot and cold water. The stoic simpleton could have joined him on Caesar’s denarius but had chosen to stand outside in the courtyard with the chariot drivers and bodyguards of other dignitaries. He didn’t understand that the spirit was freed from the body by indulging the senses, not restraining them. Life would pass the fool by and he’d mourn these missed opportunities to taste the nectar of the gods and feel like one himself.

Now Caelus lay naked on a gigantic divan in a circular chamber as two exotic muses imported from beyond the corners of the empire worked special oils into every crevice of his body, under every flab, even into parts unknown to him. Caelus could only stare up at the domed ceiling painted black with white points of light arranged like constellations of the zodiac and thank the gods for his good fortune.

The haze of the opium above the flicking candles was already taking effect. The mosaics of the nine muses on the walls seemed to dance like shadows, and the constellations drifted across the painted heavens above him. The muse working on his face cupped her hands over his nose and mouth so he could inhale some exotic extract, while the muse working his legs began to massage his loins.

And then they came, one by one: seven more naked muses with foreign tongues to take their turns on him, giggling as his blob of a body writhed and wriggled uncontrollably. Together they took him to a higher plane of pleasure beyond the bounds of any he thought this earth could offer.

Truly, I have been born again, he thought when it was all over and he was alone in the chamber, the muses magically gone.

His body still vibrating with a new energy and lightness of being, Caelus slid off the divan and walked under an archway to the adjoining bathroom, which was even larger than the chamber he had just left. It was arranged like a public toilet with a fountain in the center and around it a long marble bench in the shape of a horseshoe with neatly spaced holes. A small water trough like a stream ran along the base of the bench to wash patrons’ feet as they sat down.

He noticed a small fish symbol scratched into the mosaic floor. It was the sign of those blood-drinking, flesh-eating Christians. They had usurped the new Age of Pisces in the stars as their self-fulfilling sign of ascendancy. He resented anyone who dared muscle in on his heavens, most of all these superstitious amateurs.

“I piss on Christ!” he proclaimed and painted the fish graffiti with his urine. “Swim in this!”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw something move in the water below the toilet bench. He leaned over the dark hole to have a closer look.

Was it a shadow? No.

A face!

All of a sudden the floor gave way beneath him. His head banged on the trapdoor paver, and he felt himself begin to slide. Then two sets of hairy arms reached up out of the darkness and dragged him down to Hades.

•    •    •

Caelus awoke in a dank, underground cell. Dazed, he squinted his eyes in the dim light. Next to him lay the bruised and bloody corpse of Virtus. Rats had begun to nip on his bodyguard’s flesh.

What foul fate is this? Caelus wondered as panic seized him. He was on his knees now.

Virtus had lectured Caelus for his own safety about the so-called Ephesian Underworld—the network of mysterious tunnels that lay beneath the streets of the old city. The tunnels connected the cellars of certain downtown inns and taverns to the great harbor. Originally built to move goods from storage to the ships and avoid the cart and foot traffic on the streets, they were also used to abduct unwary visitors and sell them as galley slaves. Caelus had assumed this type of passage was reserved for prostitutes and female slaves, and that Virtus had only been trying to scare him.

Two looming figures emerged from the darkness, dressed in the armor and black robes of the Vigiles Urbani—local police known as Watchmen.

“This is a grave mistake!” Caelus screamed, the echoes of his cry bouncing off the rock walls and fading into the black void. “Do you know who I am?”

“The great Caelus, chief astrologer to Caesar.”

Jupiter! They know who I am. This was not a mistake!

“Yes, I am. I am counselor to Caesar. And he will have your heads for this!”

Unfazed, the big Watchman pressed down on him and pinned his arm to his side while the smaller one, who was not small at all, produced a large sword. It hovered over his forearm for a moment like a snake.

“He’s the one you want!” Caelus cried out, nodding to Virtus. “He’s young, strong, perfect for hard labor. Let me go! My hands are of no use to you!”

“God has a purpose for everyone.”

Caelus looked up in horror as the hulking figure above him raised his blade to reveal a black Chi tattoo under his arm.

“If your right hand causes you to sin….”

The blade came down, and Caelus wailed in unbearable pain.

The Watchman held up a finger in the dim light.

Caelus could see it clearly enough through the blur of his tears. It was his finger! His own finger and signet ring! The rest of his hand lay on the floor like a piece of red, bloody meat.

They’ve cut off my hand!

“Don’t kill me!” he moaned, suddenly aware that he could see only one Watchman.

He heard a whoosh from behind and felt something strike him in the back of the head. He fell flat on his face into the earthen floor, then rolled over to see a headless corpse, blood spurting up from the neck.

They had beheaded Virtus!

He tried to scream but heard only a whistle passing through his slack jaw. Then he recognized the medallion on the chest of the collapsing corpse and realized it was he himself who had been beheaded.

They’ve cut off my head! My head!

He felt the breath of life escaping him as this last, grotesque visage before his eyes began to fade.

Thus Spurius Balbinus, the spindly son of gypsies who had risen to become Caelus of Rome, Chief Astrologer to Caesar, passed from this world to the next.

And he never saw it coming.

II

The small, ornate box took three weeks to arrive in Rome. It was delivered to Caesar in his private box at the great coliseum known as the Flavian Amphitheater during the afternoon gladiator contests. As Titus Flavius Domitianus, the 11th emperor of the Roman empire, read the attached note, his fingers trembled: Due to unforeseen circumstances, Caelus has retired forever. Soon you will join him. The next government of Rome will be ruled by reason, not by dark arts. It was stamped with the Chi-Ro symbol of Chiron, the pseudonym of the mastermind behind the militant Christian group Dominium Dei.

Domitian opened the box and saw the severed finger and signet ring of his chief astrologer. Shaking with rage, the 44-year-old emperor rose to his feet on buckling knees and wordlessly exited the stadium through the Passaggio di Commodo, a newly constructed private tunnel that led back to the palace on Palatine Hill. Close behind him were three key amici from his inner circle: Titus Petronius Secundus, prefect of the Praetorian Guard; Titus Flavius Clemens, consul and his cousin; and Lucius Licinius Ludlumus, a scion of Rome’s wealthiest family and the Master of the Games.

Only when they were a good distance into the tunnel, where he was sure they could not be overheard, did Domitian unleash his fury and scream, “Will it take the death of Caesar for anyone to believe the conspiracy is real?”

Dressed in royal purple and embroidered gold, the balding, pot-bellied Domitian was in the 15th year of his reign, longer than any Caesar before him since Tiberius. He was also the first to demand to be officially addressed as dominus et deus, or “Lord and God.” But this humiliating assassination of his chief astrologer by Dominium Dei or “Rule of God”—itself a mockery of his own divinity—only made him more paranoid than usual. He was terrified that he would not live to see a day beyond September 18, the day the stars said he would die. Worst of all, the only credible source in his eyes to give him hope otherwise—Caelus—was gone, having failed to foresee even his own death.

“And you, my chief protector!” Domitian glared at Secundus. “Your Praetorian in plain toga couldn’t even protect Caelus. How am I to believe you can protect me?”

Secundus, realizing his own fate was on the line, spoke in a brave voice. “My man in Ephesus was but one in a city of villainy. Here in Rome, however, Your Highness has thousands of Praetorian surrounding you.”

“Surrounding me! Who will protect me from your men? You all want me dead!”

They continued to walk on in silence, only their steps echoing ominously like the inevitable march of doom. The tunnel was brilliantly lit by rows of torches on either side to ensure that no shadow could hide a would-be assassin. So great was Domitian’s fear.

As usual, it was left to Ludlumus, a former actor and failed playwright, to break the silence with his gravelly yet soothing deep voice. “No doubt this lapse of security is unacceptable. Nor any doubt now that Caelus was a fraud. But neither tragedy should cast doubt upon your own destiny. If anything, your continued survival is proof yet again that the gods protect you, that you indeed are one of them. You cannot kill a god, despite what second-rate playwrights might like to believe.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” Domitian murmured, annoyed that Ludlumus would use this moment to take yet another swipe at his former rival in the arts, Athanasius of Athens. “But Rome must make retribution for this public act against Caesar. We must therefore produce Chiron and execute him in public.”

Domitian often spoke of himself in the third person when he felt threatened. This usually foreshadowed an order of execution of some kind, the object of which was any unfortunate fellow in his sight. In the last few years alone Domitian had executed a dozen prominent senators and countless noblemen in his Reign of Terror, if only to confiscate their fortunes to feed Rome’s swelling public debt. This was on top of the usual allotment of Jews and Christians. But the rise of this Dei insurgency was a new phenomenon altogether, and the shocking, public nature of Chiron’s recent assassinations had unhinged the emperor.

“To be sure, it is time for Chiron to die,” Ludlumus said, halting for a moment, and then stated the obvious for Domitian’s own understanding. “But to kill Chiron, we must first produce him.”

Domitian addressed his cousin the consul. “Clemens, what do we know about these butchers who call themselves Dominium Dei?”

“Not much, Your Humanitas.”

Clemens often addressed Domitian as the Merciful One, mostly in hopes of eliciting mercy on the Christians, of which his wife Domitilla was one and himself an inquirer at the least and sympathizer at worst in Domitian’s eyes.

“No? Do they not receive secret instructions from the apostle John from his prison on Patmos?”

“John is the last of the Jewish apostles, Your Highness. His influence is contained to Asia Minor. The Dei are non-Jews in make-up, the spiritual progeny of those Christian converts that the apostle Paul left behind before his beheading by Nero. For decades these followers, both slave and freedman, have kept their faith secret even as they have faithfully served the governments of successive Caesars. These recent public executions are a radical departure from their reputation.”

“And you would know that because you are one of them?” Domitian suddenly offered, catching his cousin off guard.

“What?” asked Clemens. “No!”

“Everybody knows that your wife Domitilla—my niece—is one. Some even believe that you are this ‘Theophilus’ to whom the apostle Luke addressed his account of the life of Jesus.”

“Caesar knows much,” Clemens said, neither confirming nor denying the rumors. “But the Christians here in Rome consider themselves successors not of the apostle Paul but of the apostle Peter. They are not infiltrators. They seek no influence over the affairs of state. They seek only to live quiet, peaceful lives. To render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s.”

“Caesar is God,” Domitian insisted. “On this matter there can be no confusion.”

“You know they pay their taxes and pray for you and all in authority, Your Highness,” Clemens insisted. “They publicly denounce the Dei and all violence.”

“Violence!” Domitian erupted. “And what is this Book of Revelation they all heed if not violence of the most extreme kind to Caesar, Rome and the empire? The end of this world! A New Jerusalem! And heaven and earth! You don’t think this superstition inspires animals like the Dei to take up the sword in the name of Jesus? Or embolden my enemies in the Senate? Perhaps even members of my own family?” He glared at Clemens. “My family!”

“Surely you don’t suspect Domitia?” Clemens replied, diverting attention to Domitian’s wife.

A startled Domitian glanced at Ludlumus and Secundus, both looking quite impressed by the feeble Clemens’ unusually clever recovery.

“Nonsense,” Domitian said. “After all I’ve done for her? I can’t imagine why she would want me dead.”

Domitian had pursued his second wife Domitia from the beginning years ago. She was married at the time, so he forced her husband to divorce her so he could marry her. Later on, she ran off with the actor Paris, and he had to have the thespian killed. Still, after some time, she came back to him of her own accord.

Clemens said nothing and could only genuflect before his Caesar. But was he bowing before his Lord and God as well? Domitian wasn’t sure anymore.

“Clemens,” he barked. “I want you to find this mysterious mastermind of all that troubles the empire. I want you to find Chiron.”

“Find Chiron?” Clemens gasped. “How am I supposed to do that? Nobody knows who he is!”

“Surely one of your devious little Jewish and Christian friends will know his true identity.” Domitian could see the pain in his cousin’s face. “Yes, Clemens. You will give Secundus names, and my Praetorian Guards will beat these fanatics and kill them one by one until they give up the most dangerous man in the world.”

They had arrived at the palace, entering the lower level in back. Here the offices of Caesar were filled with hundreds of slaves and magistrates who kept Rome’s trade routes clear—the roads clean of dung for its armies and seas clear of pirates for its navies. As Domitian passed by, the business of Rome suddenly seemed to pick up, with much scurrying and paper shuffling, until Caesar and his amici went up a short flight of stairs to the private residence.

Domitian stopped outside his bedchamber and glared at his amici.

“Clemens, you will find Chiron for me. And you, Secundus, will bring him to me. Those are my orders. Now carry them out.”

The consul and prefect glanced at each other, said nothing, and went their separate ways, leaving Caesar alone with his Master of the Games.

Ludlumus said, “You know the consul is never going to find Chiron, Your Highness. Even if he did, he would never willingly give him up.”

“Somebody has to die for this. Somebody big,” Domitian insisted. “We must have retribution. And it must be public, as a warning to others. Once we produce Chiron, his execution must be public, humiliating and painful.”

“I’ll conjure up something nice for 80,000 spectators.”

“See that you do, Ludlumus. And find out how Epaphroditus allowed that finger to ever reach me that my eyes should see it.”

Ludlumus paused. “Your Highness had his primary secretary executed last year. Something about his assisting Nero’s suicide 28 years ago.”

“Exactly. That’s what I meant. Epaphroditus would never have allowed this misfortune to disturb me. Now leave us.”

By “us” Domitian meant himself, of course, and Ludlumus left and closed the door behind him, leaving Domitian to himself.

Domitian, Rome’s Lord and God, removed his short-cropped wig and looked in the mirror of polished brass. He was painfully self-conscious about his baldness and had hoped the publication of his popular book on the subject of hair care would make him less so. But it hadn’t. The fleshy face and protruding stomach didn’t boost his spirits either these days. They made him feel weak.

Domitian looked around his bedchamber, dominated by his bed, couch and statue of his favorite goddess Minerva with her sacred owl. His chamberlain Parthenius had laid out a lavish spread of sweets for him on the table by the couch. But Domitian wasn’t hungry, the vision of Caelus’s finger filling his head. Who knew what his enemies would do to him?

And who were his enemies?

Everyone.

He knew he paled in comparison to his beloved father, Vespasian, the first Flavian to be Caesar. His brother, Titus, was also beloved by Rome’s aristocrats, thanks to his military success in the Judean War. Titus’s untimely death two years into his reign as Caesar only swelled public affection for Domitian’s brother—and cast suspicion that he, Domitian, was behind it. True enough, perhaps, but not enough to explain the pure hatred he endured from the noble class.

No, Domitian concluded, the noble class of Rome hated him because he refused to promote lazy and entitled family, friends and political supporters to run the offices of government simply because they were his family, friends or political supporters. His administration was a meritocracy, and it was effective only because he installed the best people into the best positions to build up the empire with great public works, like the new Circus Maximus under construction down the hill, and the network of new highways being laid in the empire’s eastern half of Asia Minor.

For this he was hated, because these useless aristocrats were worthless and had nothing to contribute to the world other than their money, which is why he was so often forced to relieve them of it along with their lives. Now they drooled over his prophesied demise and were attempting to sway those closest to him in his personal staff, and even his family: Domitian’s second wife, Domitia, was in a league of her own concerning suspicion, closer to him than anybody else.

He walked to his bed and lifted his pillow to make sure the knife he kept was still there. It was.

Good.

He moved to the couch on which he liked to take his rest during the day, and removed from beneath it a two-leaved tablet of linden-wood. On the wood he had scratched his list of those he suspected were conspiring against him.

Domitia’s name was at the top, followed by his two Praetorian prefects: Petronius Secundus and his colleague Norbanus. An emperor could never trust his own Praetorian Guards, who as Caesar’s “protectors” had a long history of deciding in advance who should become emperor and then, once in office, how long that emperor should live.

Then there was his cousin Flavius Clemens, of course, and his wife, Domitilla, who was Domitian’s own niece. Domitian had already proclaimed their two sons his successors since he and Domitia had none of their own. So clearly they were the most obvious beneficiaries of his demise, although Domitilla was the strong one in that marriage. Clemens was too weak and ineffectual to be any kind of threat. Only his able administration of the countless papers the government required to handle the Jews kept him employed, so long as he made sure the Jews paid their extra taxes for being, well, Jews.

Finally, there was Ludlumus, his Master of the Games. It was hard for Domitian to believe that Ludlumus could possibly think any successor would be as good to him. Nevertheless, although he trusted the ghoul, Domitian at bottom didn’t like him, so his name was on the list.

These top names were on the left eave of his wooden tablet.

On the right eave he kept the names of those who had no reason to wish his demise but were close enough to him on a daily basis to inflict bodily harm: Parthenius, his chamberlain, whom he had honored by being the only servant allowed to wear a sword in his company; Sigerus, another chamberlain; and Entellus, who was allowed to enter his chambers with petitions requiring his attention.

He clapped the eaves shut like a book and slipped the tablet under his pillow on the couch. Then he set his throbbing head on his pillow and, afraid to even shut his eyes for a moment, stared at his statue of the goddess Minerva and prayed for her protection. She was the only one he could trust now. Soon his eyelids began to flutter, and he was drifting off to sleep, dreaming of the day he would kill them all.

III

It was a glorious day for an execution.

Less than a week after the unfortunate incident with the finger of Caesar’s astrologer, Ludlumus paused at the private entrance to the Hypogeum beneath the Coliseum. He drew out an Etruscan dagger from a fold in his fashionable robe and ran his finger along the fine blade. He felt no prick, only the cool trickle of blood. Very nice, he thought, as trumpets announced that the execution was about to begin. He sucked his finger dry, slid the dagger back into its hidden sheath and walked inside.

The Hypogeum was a vast, two-level subterranean network of tunnels, animal pens, prisoner cells, shafts and trap doors that powered the scenery changes and special effects of the Games. Beastmasters, sword handlers and stage hands stood at attention as he walked past the sophisticated systems of ramps, winches, capstans and hoists—modern technology that could launch animals, prisoners and gladiators up into the arena.

It was dark but beastly hot down here. With so little natural light, the torches burned all hours of the day and night. It was the very pit of hell, and he reveled in it, his home as master of the underworld.

He proceeded past a series of chambers that rattled violently from the force of their snarling occupants: lions, tigers, leopards, bulls and buffalo. Then there was the smell of excrement, blood and death.

Glorious.

The holding cell at the end of the corridor was guarded by two Praetorians. Gazing out from beneath their shiny bronze helmets with hinged cheek-pieces were alert eyes, sweeping back and forth, looking for trouble. The Praetorians were dressed in full armor and carried side arms—a sword and dagger—and each held a javelin upright in front of him, spearheads gleaming.

The guards recognized him on sight as he approached. “Sir,” they said in unison, smacking their boots together.

“At ease, fools,” he told them, stopping in front of the cell door. “I bear no military rank.”

Their faces were glazed over with perspiration from the heat. His own face was cool and dry.

Ludlumus said, “Caesar insists I spend a few moments with the prisoner before his execution.”

The first Praetorian opened his mouth to protest but wisely said nothing. He instead motioned his fellow legionary to unlock the cell door.

“I’ll need a recorder,” Ludlumus demanded, and the first Praetorian followed him into the cell.

The prisoner was clad in leg irons and propped up in chains against the far wall, his head hanging down. Too weary and battered from torture, he was already half-dead and seemed resigned to die. But when he looked up and saw the tall Roman, he came to life as his former self: Titus Flavius Clemens—soldier, millionaire, consul of Rome and now accused Christian.

“Ludlumus!” gasped Clemens. “Domitian must be stopped! For the sake of Rome! He’ll kill the entire Senate!”

“Speak for yourself,” Ludlumus said. “The emperor wants me to record your confession before you die. He’s especially interested in the names of any friends of yours we might have missed.”

Clemens’ face turned bitter. “Our self-proclaimed ‘Lord and God’ Domitian killed them all.”

“Not all of them,” Ludlumus said. “Your wife Domitilla has been banished to the island of Pontia.”

“And my boys?”

“Young Vespasian and Domitian will live in the palace under the care of Caesar as his designated successors. Caesar has brought in the grammarian Quintilian to tutor them. His will purge them of any superstitions they have been exposed to by you and your wife.”

“Rome will not steal their souls, Ludlumus.”

“That remains to be seen. But for the sake of their lives, Clemens, tell me, who is Chiron?”

“I told you, I don’t know! Nobody does!”

Clemens looked confused and scared. His eyes darted back and forth between the guard and Ludlumus.

“I didn’t hear you, Clemens,” Ludlumus pressed. “Who is Chiron?”

Clemens looked flabbergasted, as if he could not believe Ludlumus would do this to him. “How long have we served my cousin together, Ludlumus? You know there is no evidence linking me to the Dei. Killing me does nothing to hurt them.”

“God has a purpose for everyone, Clemens. Isn’t that what you believe?”

Ludlumus shook his head and removed the torch from the cell wall. He then moved closer to Clemens, lowering the torch.

“Guard,” he ordered, “remove the prisoner’s loin cloth.”

The guard, stunned by the request, hesitated.

Ludlumus snapped, “Do it!”

Reluctantly the guard put down his tablet, walked over to Clemens and began to strip him of his only remaining dignity. “I’m sorry, Consul,” the guard mumbled, shame-faced.

“Ex-consul now,” Ludlumus rebuked the guard. “Now stand back.”

Ludlumus stepped forward and stuck the burning torch between the prisoner’s legs, scorching his genitals until the consul of Rome screamed like a wretched animal. Only then did Ludlumus pull the torch back. “What is the true identity of Chiron?”

“Acilius Glabrio,” Clemens said, barely loud enough for the guard to hear him. “Acilius Glabrio was Chiron.”

“Nice try,” Ludlumus replied. “But I already had a word with the former consul before his death. I assure you, he’s not Chiron. Try again.”

Clemens refused to talk, and Ludlumus applied the fire.

“My God!” screamed Clemens, writhing in agony, his chains clanging. “You’re the devil!”

“Save your breath and tell me what I want to know.” Ludlumus applied the fire yet again, this time for a long minute, until the sweet odor of burnt flesh filled the cell. Clemens was crying now, weeping with inhuman suffering. Ludlumus noticed the Praetorian staring at him in horrific disbelief. “What are you looking at?”

The guard said nothing.

Ludlumus produced a wax tablet and shoved it into the guard’s face. “Sign this.”

The guard took it and read the writing. “What is this?”

“The prisoner’s confession.”

The guard looked puzzled. “But he hasn’t confessed anything.”

“You do make things difficult, don’t you?” said Ludlumus as he pulled out the dagger and whipped it across the young soldier’s throat, catching him just beneath the chin strap of his helmet. The guard opened his mouth but produced only a gurgling sound as he collapsed to the floor.

Clemens stared at the fallen legionary and then at Ludlumus. He lifted his gaze to the ceiling, screaming all the louder. “God in Heaven! Have mercy on me!”

Ludlumus, meanwhile, calmly took the slain Praetorian’s hand, pressed the ring finger to the wax to get the impression from the insignia and slipped the tablet inside his toga. He then unhooked the keys from the guard’s belt and unlocked Clemens. The consul fell to his knees, too weak to stand.

“It’s a good thing the guard got your confession down before you killed him, Clemens,” said Ludlumus, tossing the knife his way. “And I’m lucky I called his friend from outside to come in, or else you would have killed me.” With that Ludlumus called out, “Guard, help me! The prisoner is loose!”

There was a rattling of a key in the lock, the door swung open and the other guard rushed in to see Ludlumus stagger to his feet.

“The prisoner killed him and almost took me too!” Ludlumus cried out.

The guard ran to his fallen colleague, saw the knife and then kicked the defenseless Clemens until he was flat against the wall. He turned to Ludlumus.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“I’m fine,” Ludlumus replied. “Just make sure the prisoner’s on in five minutes.”

Ludlumus left the cell and emerged a few minutes later inside Gate XXXIV of the Coliseum. More than 80,000 fans had packed the stands today. Ludlumus was pleased with the turnout as he walked past the Doric columns to his section. The arena was surrounded by a metal grating, twelve cubits in front of the first tier of seats, which protected the public from the wild beasts. On the first tier ranged the marble seats of the privileged. Above those were the second and third tiers for the ordinary public. Even the plebes in the top gallery would be able to follow the drama that was about to unfold below them.

The imperial box for the Emperor, his family and invited guests was the easiest place to pick out because it had the best seats in the stadium, on the first tier on the northern side of the arena, and was protected by a bronze balustrade. The imperial bodyguard detail wordlessly allowed Ludlumus into the box. There he took his place at the right hand of Domitian.

Domitian said, “That didn’t take long.”

“Long enough. He killed one of your guards. With the very dagger you awarded him upon his consulship.”

“I never thought he had it in him,” Domitian said.

“The Dei will do that to a man, I suppose. But I did extract a confession.”

Ludlumus produced the wax tablet and handed it to Caesar.

Domitian looked at the confession, his face turning livid. “But I’m throwing a party for him tonight!”

“Mmm.” Ludlumus did his best to look devastated. “Although he’s a good decade younger than I am, I once considered myself his protégé in the theater.”

“Terrible. But you look like you are holding up well under the circumstances.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

Ludlumus noted with satisfaction that a low stone wall had already been set up by the propmasters. A fresh layer of white sand glistened in the sun, all the better to show off fresh blood. Now a warrior in armor walked into the arena to the frenzied applause of the crowd. “Romulus! Romulus! Romulus!” they all chanted.

Instantly Clemens was launched into the scene from a hidden elevator shaft.

The mob now chanted louder. “Remus! Remus! Remus!”

Ludlumus glanced at Domitian, who nodded approvingly at the send-off he had prepared for Clemens in this re-telling of the founding of Rome. Romulus and Remus were brothers. As legend had it, Remus mocked the little wall his brother Romulus had begun building for the new city, jumping over it and back to show just how puny it was. Romulus didn’t like that and killed Remus on the spot. For this re-enactment, Ludlumus had the propmasters dress “Romulus” in the royal purple and gold as a stand-in for Domitian, while Clemens, as close to a brother as Domitian had left in this world, stood in for himself.

Ludlumus was quite proud of his work here. Only a former thespian like himself would appreciate the scale with which his beastmasters cleared more than 5,000 wild beasts from the morning’s animal acts off the arena floor in order for the propmasters to erect the scene for today’s lunchtime execution and, when that was over, the afternoon’s gladiatorial contests.

Sadly, Clemens didn’t seem up to the demands of his role. Standing wobbly on the floor of the great stadium, he barely had time to brace himself before the first stab from the sword of Romulus struck him. The blade went clean through him and out his back. Slowly Romulus withdrew his blood-tipped blade. As it was the only thing keeping poor Clemens up, the late consul collapsed to the ground, dead.

Ludlumus held back a smile as he watched the arena attendants pick up what was left of Clemens. Their assistants carried the corpse off while they hastily turned over the blood-stained sand for the next act.

It was all over too soon, Ludlumus lamented.

Athanasius of Athens would not die so easily.

IV

The dreams were different, but the girl was always the same. Young, maybe 17, long black hair, dark eyes, and tears of blood trickling down her tragic face. Sometimes she was the harlot Rahab in ancient Jericho, and he was the enemy spy sent to bring down the walls. Other times she was a beauty named Aphrodite in a future Greece under the rule of Germania. This night she had no name, but he knew it was present day. She was in a cave somewhere, calling out to him in the darkness. She possessed the secret of the ages, a mystery he had to unravel, or his mission would fail and the world would be doomed. In the haze of dream, he stumbled down an endless cave, his hands feeling the walls as they narrowed, his feet tripping over jagged rocks. “I’ll find you! I’ll find you!” he cried out, and then slipped, tumbling over and over into space.

Athanasius of Athens awoke from his nightmare, gasping for breath, the sound of trumpets outside piercing the air. He sat up and let his eyes adjust. Shafts of sunlight streamed through the drapes and marble columns onto a vast mosaic floor. He looked over at Helena’s empty side of the bed and put his hand on it. It was cool to the touch.

What time was it?

He put on a robe and walked onto the balcony of his hillside villa, taking in the spectacular view of the city below. To the west were dazzling white terraces and marble columns cascading down the cypress-covered hills to the Circus Maximus and the winding Tiber beyond. To the east was the intersection of Rome’s two great boulevards, the Via Appia and the Via Sacra, and, in the middle, Rome’s great coliseum known as the Flavian Amphitheater. The roar of a crowd wafted up on the wings of the breeze. The lunchtime executions must have begun.

He frowned. It must be noon already.

On his better days the playwright Athanasius religiously followed a strict regimen. He would wake before dawn, leave Helena in their warm bed and put in a good hour or two writing his next play. Then he would leave their villa on Caelian Hill and head over to the Circus Maximus to run laps and maybe shoot some arrows—he was a marksman archer—before the heat of the day set in. He found his best ideas flowed while he ran, and it kept alive his fantasy that at age 25 he could still run the marathons he once did as a boy outside Corinth back in Greece. After lunch he would enjoy the baths, a relaxing massage, and perhaps take in an afternoon rest with Helena before answering letters, supervising rehearsals at the Theater of Pompey, or attending to the problems of everyday life, which he limited each day to the single turn of an hour-glass. Then he and Helena would enjoy dinner with friends in the city or stroll along the Tiber and watch the imperial barges delivering the world’s luxuries to Rome. They would cap off the evening by attending various parties and then retiring to bed with each other.

It was, in short, the perfect Epicurean life he had always imagined as a boy, filled with friends, food, freedom and sex. Lots of sex.

Those were the good days.

On his bad days, he slept until noon, hung over from a late party or a nightmare induced by his creativity-enhancing leaves. Having missed his peak writing time, and not feeling up to laps at the Circus Maximus, he’d still have lunch with friends, go to the baths, enjoy a massage and a nap, albeit alone because the ever-practical Helena would be upset with him for his lethargy. All the same, they’d go out to dinner and perhaps see one of his own productions, just so he could validate that he existed. Then on to the can’t-miss parties where the wine would loosen his lips and he’d talk about his writing and productions and delight the great of Rome with his humor and wit, praying to the Muses that he’d remember what he had said the next morning so he could write it down. He rarely did, of course, and too often the first time it all came back was while attending a rival’s production when he heard the actors utter his stolen lines.

This was one of the bad days. He could feel it.

It was noon already, after all.

•    •    •

Helena was in the courtyard, where she emerged dripping from a bathing pool. Behind her was a gigantic, half-finished sculpture of herself in the guise of the goddess of love. The sculptor Colonius had been taking his sweet time with the hammer and chisel, Athanasius thought, and was months behind. He could hardly blame him.

Helena caught sight of him and wrapped a clingy gown around her supple, golden body. Then she turned to face him with her two round breasts and a smile.

“The toast of Rome has awakened!” she announced.

A true Amazon in height, she stood almost a head taller than him in her bare feet, and he was by no means average. She was a sight to behold with her hair of gold, flawless features and eyes of sapphire blue that betrayed an intelligence her beauty often masked to mad distraction. He had fallen for her instantly. The miracle was that of all the senators, noblemen and charioteers to choose from, Helena, the glory of Rome herself, had chosen him.

“My Aphrodite,” he said.

“This year’s model.” She kissed him on the lips. “But I’ll always be your Helena.”

“You let me sleep in. Half the day is gone.”

“And half your delirium. You know how you get before an opening. I spared us both.”

She was right about that. Tonight was the premiere of Opus Gloria, his greatest and most controversial work yet, and he was a wreck. He needed it to be well-received, to secure his marriage to Helena. Her well-connected Roman family was quite wealthy at one time but had lost much of their fortune. If not for the modeling that her beauty brought her, and she had earned quite a bit from it, she would have been penniless by now, or married to a man she did not love. All the money in the world would never quench her fear of poverty, Athanasius knew, but they had agreed that the success of Opus Gloria would go a long way and be enough for them to marry. Next month would mark a full year living together, when Roman law regarded them as married. But she had planned a huge, multi-day wedding celebration, and he had planned to take her to Greece afterward to meet his mother and cousins, where there would be another wedding party.

So in truth the affections of Helena could not be bought, but they still had to be paid for. Thus the significance of Opus Gloria and his success in this Roman world, which would mean little to him without Helena by his side.

“I suppose you are right,” he told her and kissed her back.

She smiled. “Repeat that line over and over in your head tonight, and all will be well.”

He laughed. If only his father were still alive to meet Helena and see his success as a playwright. His father always told him to take pride in his heritage and “show the Romans what the Greeks are still made of.” His memory made Athanasius suddenly reconsider the staging of tonight’s performance.

Helena saw it in an instant. “Now what?”

“I still don’t know why we should have to go to the Palace of the Flavians tonight to see my own play,” he said. “Caesar and the rest should be coming to the Pompey to see it. That’s the proper venue. The stage has already lost its place to the Games of the Flavian Amphitheater. Soon it will drop behind the races of the Circus Maximus when its latest incarnation is completed. If it falls another notch, I might fall off with it.”

“Oh, Athanasius. Only you would find a way to diminish your achievement. You are bigger than the stage. What playwright wouldn’t give his right hand to enjoy a venue at the palace? Besides, you heard what Maximus said about the Pompey. It has too many sinister associations for Domitian. Why would he want to celebrate your opus at the very place where Julius Caesar was assassinated backstage? It might give people ideas.”

“Yes, well, we can’t have any of those running around on the loose.”

He thought of his father again, and then of dear old Senator Maximus, who had become something of a surrogate father to him. The senator was a Hellenophile and early fan of his plays, navigating them through the government censors and political traps of Roman high society. Even so, the roar of the mob in the wind was a grim reminder to Athanasius that the fading art of his scripted comedies was no match for the so-called “reality” of the Games. They were as bad as religion. Indeed, they were the new religion of Rome. But he dare not speak it aloud, for who knew who was listening? But he thought it. And Rome had not invented a way to read minds yet. There was still free thought, if not expression.

“You hear that?” he asked Helena, lifting a finger to the breeze as another cheer rang out in the distance. “You know what that is?”

She shrugged. “The last of Flavius Clemens, I suppose.”

“That’s right,” he lectured her. “First it was the Jews. Now it’s the Christians. Who’s next?”

Helena smiled brightly. “You?”

“Laugh all you want, Helena. You haven’t heard Juvenal’s jokes about Greeks in Rome.”

“He flatters you by imitation, Athanasius, and everybody knows he is not half the wit you are.” Helena ran her soft finger down his cheek and gazed at him lovingly.

“There is no pleasing you when you are in a mood, Athanasius, is there?”

“No.”

“Then relax yourself before tonight. Join your friends at Homer’s for lunch. Go to your favorite bath. Take a massage. Then enjoy the premiere of your greatest play ever.”

“And then?”

“Let your work do its work. Let your rival Ludlumus burn in jealousy at what you can do with words that he cannot do with a thousand Bengal tigers. Let Latinus and the rest of your actors take the credit. Let the world and even Caesar himself forget September 18th and the sword of Damocles that hangs over Rome. This is your night to be worshipped, to join the pantheon of the gods of art.”

“And then?”

“And then you get to go to bed tonight with the goddess of love and wake up tomorrow on top of the world.”

She was heaven for him, it was true. “Well, you do have that effect on a man.”

“A performance not to be missed,” she told him, and kissed him on the lips again, warm and wet, full of promise.

Helena looked on with great affection as Athanasius walked away, but she felt a dark cloud of fear forming over her head and frowned. This bothered her even more because she knew frowning was not good for her. She may be the face of Aphrodite, but she didn’t wake up that way. It took eight girls—now waiting for her in the bathhouse—to fix her hair, paint her lips and buff her nails for her to reach perfection for this evening. And this wasn’t ancient Greece. It was modern Rome. Sculptors like Colonius were no idealists. The first tiny crease around her eyes would become a giant crack in marble and spell the end of her reign and the start of another’s.

Not that Athanasius would care. He was the kind who, once smitten, would love her forever.

And that was the problem.

Athanasius seemed to think they had all the time in the world. Money and power meant nothing to him. Life was all about his works and the world’s recognition of his merit as a playwright. The fortunes that came his way passed through his hands like water from the aqueducts passed through the bathhouses and homes of Rome into the central sewer to the Tiber. And yet he’d be happy scribbling away on his plays from a cave, eating wild mushrooms and smoking his leaves for inspiration.

She, however, would not.

Her beloved was a proud man who so desperately wanted to win the acceptance and respect of a Rome that spurned him. But he never would, even with his marriage to her. She knew that the only thing that made him acceptable to Rome was the popularity of his comedies—and the money they brought the state in ticket sales and merchandising. It was the same with her beauty. But Athanasius simply could not accept the reality that the mobs who flocked to the Games of the Flavian by day were the same who filled the seats of his Pompey at night.

“Ludlumus and I are not in the same business,” he had once declared to her. “I am playing a different game, and those who see my plays are the better for it.”

All of which led him to push the bounds of acceptability in his plays, to point out Rome’s tragic flaws and weaknesses in hopes of strengthening society. This, in turn, only raised the ire of the pontiffs, augurs and astrologers he mocked along with the gods. For all its violence and lust, Rome was actually a conservative and religious society. It could only wink at its wits like Athanasius for so long before it lost its patience. It was time for him to pick a different theme for his productions.

Having waited until the servants confirmed to her that Athanasius had left and her attendants were waiting in the bathhouse, she turned in the opposite direction and walked past the great marble image of herself as goddess and under the peristyle into the villa.

Helena entered the library, which intimidated her with all its shelves of books and scrolls. Athanasius had one of the largest personal collections in Rome. It was a secret part of him she could never get her arms around.

She found a silver tray with a cup and pipe on her beloved’s desk. She picked them up, one at a time, and lifted each to her nose with a frown. He had been drinking kykeon and smoking blue lotus leaves again, no doubt to lift his senses and enhance his creative spirits while he wrote.

“Oh, Athanasius.”

Those creative spirits were going to ruin them. It was a miracle that Opus Gloria had even passed the censors, let alone get this kind of launch tonight at the palace. That scene of Zeus taking the form of a swan to rape Leda, or rather the other way around in this new telling was… so disturbing, to say the least, and certainly sacrilegious, worse even than the ridicule and death the gods had endured in his previous works. Only the intervention of his lead actor, Latinus, who reminded his friend Domitian that Athanasius took care to mock only the Greek gods, not their Roman successors, and the magistrate Pliny the Younger, who promised that the women of Rome would buy the uniquely shaped figurines of Zeus-the-Swan in droves, saved the production.

Helena felt the old confusion rise up inside her. She adored Athanasius. He was talented, athletic and compassionate. He was also incredibly handsome and a god in bed. Yet the very qualities she loved—like his dangerous curiosity and insatiable quest for truth—were what she most feared. Even his beloved mentor Maximus had once confided to her: “You just have to control him. Sexually, psychologically, financially. For his own sake. And you’ll get by.”

She glanced at the titles of his stacks of books and scrolls. There was Aristotle’s Poetics, along with the complete works of Euripedes. There were also the classic Greek comedies of Hermippus and Eupolis, and Athanasius’s favorites from Aristophanes, The Clouds and Lysistrata. There were others too: books about the arts, history. One was about the ancient Israelite invasion of what was now Judea, and another about Rome’s campaign in Germania.

So many old books and crazy ideas that filled his head.

The pile of scrolls collapsed from her touch to reveal a scroll hidden behind them all. This one was in common Aramaic, which she understood enough to read the title: The Revelation of Jesus Christ.

She went cold. Officially banned by the empire, this was the book about the end of the world written by that crazy old “last apostle” John imprisoned on the island of Patmos. No wonder poor Athanasius had been having nightmares. What was he thinking? She knew that, to the love of her life, pure and undefiled religion was attending the Olympics in his native Greece and smoking psychedelics. All other religion he pilloried in his plays. To him this was a harmless curiosity, of course, a chance to “break the code” that rumors suggested was bound in the sinister symbolism of this evil tract. Wasn’t the antichrist supposed to be Domitian, after all?

Everybody knew that Athanasius was a closet atheist who did not believe in the gods. Not all atheists were Christians, and certainly not Athanasius. But all Christians were atheists by Rome’s standards, because they rejected religion altogether in favor of a superstition that required neither sacrifices nor idols of any kind. These were the very things that greased the wheels of commerce—and made life for her and Athanasius possible. Yet all a disgruntled servant or paid informant had to do was tip the Praetorians, and they were finished. At the very least, their new hillside villa, one of only 2,000 single residences in a city of squalid apartment blocks, would be confiscated.

“You live in a fantasy world, my love,” she murmured to herself.

She produced her divination dice, which she used for every decision of her life. Each side had a sign of the zodiac. She would throw them to decide what to do with the scroll. Burn it now? Or ignore it and confront Athanasius tomorrow? Whatever the outcome, she knew she would have to avoid any row with him before the party tonight.

She pushed up her python lucky charm bracelets on each arm—double the charm to keep evil away—and rolled the dice in her hands. She looked up to heaven to utter a silent prayer and then said, “Fortuna!” as she cast them onto the desk.

A six.

She smiled with relief. She would burn the scroll, place the ashes with his lotus leaves on the silver tray, and let the servants carry them out. Perhaps Athanasius would never even notice. Perhaps a new idea would grab his attention, and these visions of the end of the world would disappear from his memory along with his nightmares.

A young voice from behind said, “Mistress Helena, your dress for the evening has arrived, and the girls wish me to tell you that they are ready for you now.”

She stiffened. It was the servant boy Cornelius. He was a holdover from Athanasius’s previous household staff and always seemed to regard her as an interloper. The boy fancied himself a protector of the great playwright’s papers. How long had he been standing there?

“I am not ready for them,” she said imperiously. She then rolled up the Book of Revelation, laid it aside on the desk and slowly turned. “I’m just tidying up for Athanasius. You know how he hates it if I throw papers out. Please take his tray back. Tell the girls I’ll be with them in a moment.”

“Yes, mistress.”

She watched him take the silver tray and walk away. Then she took the scroll and buried it in the pile behind the poetics. She would have to burn it tomorrow. Or not, she realized with pleasant relief. After tonight it wouldn’t matter.

V

In the days of the old Republic, perhaps he and Helena might have built their home here on Palatine Hill. Or so Athanasius fancied as their carriage curved past towering walls with cascading waterfalls toward the summit. The spectacularly lit Palace of the Flavians on top was the ultimate symbol of imperial excess in Rome, having literally taken over the entire hill and pushed out any and all private residences.

As they pulled up to the columned portico, Athanasius saw the Praetorian security detail in all their splendor: gleaming spears, dress parade black uniforms and capes with purple trim, and shiny sidearm swords. They were patting down guests for hidden weapons before entering. He also saw the black cutouts of snipers against the night sky—archers on the rooftops.

“You were right, Helena. The Pompey could never match the warmth of this reception for my audience.”

“Athanasius, please,” she said, smoothing the folds of her fashionable stola dress. “Remember our company tonight.”

There were indeed plenty of purple stripes on many of the fine togas in the line to get inside—senators and magistrates. Plenty of gold stripes, too, on the military officers, and a rainbow of tunics on proud display from the celebrated charioteers. Fashion-conscious women had their hair dyed honey gold and piled on top with ringlets like Helena’s. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was Helena’s hair on some of them; every time hers was cut it was sold for wigs and extensions. Diamond and sapphire brooches held up shimmering stolas, draped to emphasize heaving bosoms.

“I don’t see old Max yet,” he said, scanning the crowd. “Could he be inside already?”

“You know he hasn’t been well lately, Athanasius, especially after his last visit to the palace.”

“I forgot. But this is my night. He’ll be here. I know it.”

When their turn came, a footman announced their arrival while their names were checked off the guest list on a tablet. Once inside the expansive audience hall, however, the lack of any real reception for Athanasius hit him hard with the crushing reality that nobody was here to see his play. They were here to be seen. That included his lead actor, the comic Latinus, whom Athanasius was able to pick out through the towering Phrygian marble columns. He was standing under the extravagant frieze on the far wall, easy smiles as always, talking to their mutual lawyer, Pliny the Younger.

“Latinus should be backstage in the courtyard getting ready for his performance,” Athanasius complained to Helena.

“This is his real performance, Athanasius.” She sounded frustrated with him already, and the evening had barely begun. “And it’s yours too. We need to play to our audience before and after. Opus Gloria is simply the middle act. You must accept that and let your work speak for itself. Here’s your chance.”

Athanasius turned to see the Empress Domitia floating toward them in a splendid, bejeweled dress. “Our guest of honor has arrived!” Domitia said as she embraced him and then kissed Helena. “You are the image of perfection, Helena, as always.”

Domitia was flanked by two boys. She cheerfully introduced them as Vespasian and Domitian. With a start Athanasius realized that these were the sons of Flavius Clemens, the consul executed just that morning. They had a dazed look about them, understandably, and he could only imagine their terror now that they had to live under the same roof as the monster who had murdered their father.

“Helena, I have several very muscular gladiators and charioteers who wish to meet you in person,” Domitia said with a wink. “You don’t mind, Athanasius?”

“Not at all,” he said as the empress dragged a reluctant Helena off and he waved her away with a smile.

He grabbed a crystal glass of wine from a floating silver tray and headed straight toward Latinus and Pliny. By the time he arrived, however, Latinus had managed to escape before Athanasius could scold him.

“You needn’t worry, Athanasius,” Pliny assured him with a wry smile. “Latinus is already putting on his fake breasts, face paint and costume.”

Pliny was his friend and lawyer. But he was also a government magistrate and liaison for his public art with the Flavian administration. His job, everybody else had apparently agreed, was to even out Athanasius’s complaints with calm explanations and assurances, and make sure the money came in as fast as Athanasius could spend it on Helena.

“I only hope he didn’t have too much of this wine before the show.” Athanasius swirled his wine and noticed the seal of Caesar engraved into the crystal. You could buy or free a few good slaves for the price of a single silver utensil, porcelain plate or crystal wine glass from the official collection at the Palace of the Flavians. You could also get your hands cut off if you stole it. He took another sip. “It’s fabulous.”

Pliny nodded. “Domitian’s favorite. From some vineyard in Cappadocia, I think.”

“Where is the Emperor? I don’t see him.”

“State business. He’ll be down shortly and take his mark like Latinus. We’re all actors tonight at the palace.”

“My feelings exactly. Everybody would be in a better and more relaxed mood at the Pompey. Why the change in venue? You know we had to strip things out that would work on the stage at the Pompey but don’t work here.”

“The Pompey,” said a deep, gravelly voice from behind with disapproval. “The greatest line ever uttered on that stage was ‘Et tu, Brute?’ Nothing you could pen will ever rival that.”

Athanasius knew it was Ludlumus before he turned around to see his smirk.

The tall, silver-haired Ludlumus was a fixture in Rome, the son of prominent senator Lucius Licinius Sura, and a failed actor who had risen to run the Games.

“Pliny, why don’t you tell Athanasius the real reason we’re here instead of his precious, creaking, collapsing Pompey theater.”

Athanasius felt his stomach sink in anticipation of new insult. But the well-mannered Pliny couldn’t bring himself to deliver the bad news.

Ludlumus, on the other hand, was only too happy to be the bearer of bad tidings. “The reality, Athanasius, is that we make more money from tourists who come to see the Games in the summer by opening the Pompey to them at night. They pay to wander the empty stage and seats in hopes of seeing the ghost of Julius Caesar, not one of your ridiculous plays they could catch at any little provincial theater back home.”

Athanasius looked at Pliny, who seemed embarrassed for him, and rightly so. It was probably Pliny’s idea in the first place. He was fascinated with ghosts and always asked Athanasius to put one or two in his plays.

There was the sound of trumpets from the courtyard, informing guests that Caesar had arrived and that the play would begin shortly.

“Don’t worry, Athanasius,” Ludlumus said with a smile and wrapped a heavy arm around his shoulder. “You may be destined for insignificance, your name and plays forgotten, but tonight we honor your art, so-called. I am determined to finally make you interesting. Allow me to introduce you properly before the show.”

They walked outside into the open-air peristyle, joining Helena and Domitia and the rest of the guests under the stars. The darkened stage was set up in the middle of the lit waters of the enormous fountain like an island. Latinus was already on it with his mask. Athanasius could see his silhouette with long hair and comically large bosoms.

Still, no sign of Domitian. Athanasius suddenly wondered if Domitian wished to dishonor him publicly by his absence. Then another trumpet blasted with the tone that cued the arrival of the emperor, and Athanasius was relieved to see the imperial procession of the Praetorian Guard led by the prefect Secundus enter the peristyle.

“And now for the evening’s entertainment!” Ludlumus announced, and gestured to Athanasius as the Praetorian surrounded him. “I present to you Chiron, the mastermind of Dominium Dei!”

At first Athanasius wasn’t quite sure what to think. Did Ludlumus just accuse him of being the head of the supersecret Christian sect Dominium Dei? Was it a nasty joke to steal some thunder from his play? Athanasius had heard all about Domitian’s macabre party for the Senate the month before from old Maximus, who with the other senators was brought into a darkened hall filled with coffins, each engraved with a senator’s name. Suddenly men in black burst out with swords and torches to terrorize them before taking their leave.

Surely this was an encore performance of sorts, Athanasius thought, and began to play the good sport and laugh out loud. “It seems my play has competition for your amusement!” he said. “Me!”

This prompted other guests to join him, which helped him feel better.

“Poor Latinus worries I want to replace him!” he called out.

The laughs kept coming, but then so did the Praetorian Guard with chains and leg irons. And neither Ludlumus, nor a stricken Helena nor even Domitia were smiling.

Jupiter! Athanasius thought. They’re serious!

Domitia glared at Ludlumus. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Do something!” Helena ordered him.

“Out of my hands,” Ludlumus said in what sounded like an earnest tone. “Caesar’s orders. I only carry them out. I am truly sorry, Helena.”

Helena rushed to embrace Athanasius before being pulled away by the Praetorians, who proceeded to clap him in leg irons and chains. The laughter began to die down as the picture before the party took an ominous visual shape of the playwright in chains.

Athanasius could no longer deny the sinking reality that his life was on the line now, and that it would take every bit of wit left in him to save it, starting with a simple declaration to all in earshot.

“I am innocent!” he stated simply and confidently.

Pliny rushed over to him.

“Say nothing, Athanasius,” Pliny instructed as the Praetorians began to march him off toward the throne room inside. “Permit Domitian to be merciful to you. It’s not over for you yet.”

“Over?” Athanasius repeated, his voice rising. “I’m innocent. I’m not this villain Chiron. I’ve never killed a man, or torched a public building, or committed any crime of any kind!”

“I know, Athanasius. I’ll find you a good lawyer.”

“But you’re my lawyer!”

As he was dragged away, Athanasius looked back to see Helena collapse to her knees. She had to be held up by a stricken, disbelieving Latinus, his own lip paint smeared and fake bosoms all disheveled.

VI

The journey to the throne room was short and silent. The guards pushed Athanasius forward like a sheep to the slaughter. Dazed and humiliated, Athanasius caught curious glances from party guests, who whispered “conspirator” as they followed the procession.

How ironic, he thought as he looked around, that his arrest should have a more distinguished audience than any of his plays. If only Helena weren’t here to witness this piece of theater.

A trumpet blast directed all eyes to the throne, where a resplendent Domitian now sat down in full dress imperial attire. No longer the host of a social gathering, he was the Emperor of Rome and ruler of the world. He looked around sharply at his groveling subjects and raised his right hand solemnly. The murmurs fell, a deathly silence filled the great hall, and a shiver passed over Athanasius.

The imperial throne room was the grandest of the palace, perhaps the entire empire. At the end of it, seated on his golden throne of judgment, was Domitian. To his right in rapt attention stood his favorite Egyptian Pharaoh Hound Sirius. To his left stood Ludlumus, his Master of the Games. Off to the side, behind a long table, were Caesar’s notorious delatores, or informants, and the malicious accusatores, or prosecutors. They were mercenaries who papered over Domitian’s executions in the guise of legal proceedings. They cared nothing for justice but only for themselves. Their heartless cruelty greased the wheels of tyranny with the blood of others.

So the jackals had already assembled, Athanasius thought as the Praetorian Guards brought him before their Lord and God. He looked around the throne room he had heard so much about but had never seen before. There were few pillars, and the ceiling was so long and high that only some miracle of invisible engineering held it up. The effect, intentional no doubt, was to diminish the spirit of any mortal man who had the terrible misfortune to enter this chamber.

The murmuring voices of the party guests outside in the peristyle rose and fell like the chorus of a Greek tragedy, which Athanasius realized was clearly in the making should his wit fail him. He looked over his shoulder as the great bronze doors closed with a definitive finality, shutting out his view of an ashen Helena and Latinus.

“Athanasius, I will defend you,” whispered a voice, and Athanasius turned with relief to see Maximus at his side. “I am sorry I arrived late to your party, but hopefully I am in time for your trial.”

“Surely this is a joke, Maximus. Like that party with the coffins that Domitian engraved with the names of senators.”

“I’m afraid not, Athanasius,” Maximus said in a low voice. “I just found out from Pliny like you did. Now listen to me. This is no time to say something clever or treat this like a joke. Because I assure you that while this sham of a trial may seem pure fiction, a death sentence from Caesar is not. Just answer the questions directly, Athanasius. Or look to me, and I will answer for you. The gods be with us.”

Athanasius nodded and turned to face his accusers just as a gong sounded.

A curtain parted and out walked none other than the notorious prosecutor Aquilius Regulus. He was that rare senator who played to Domitian’s worst suspicions and prosecuted his own colleagues. Athanasius had thought the unsavory character had long ago retired from criminal prosecution, but apparently the trial against Chiron was too tempting for this political mercenary to resist.

“He’s the one who should be prosecuted,” Maximus whispered.

Regulus stood behind a table across from Athanasius. He slapped a thick stack of papyrus papers on the table.

They had been watching him for a long time, Athanasius realized with dread, and even Ludlumus seemed surprised and delighted at this turn of events, as if he couldn’t have planned it any better. Athanasius half-expected his rival to announce: “Behold, citizens of Rome, Regulus versus Maximus in the ultimate battle before Caesar for the life of Chiron!”

Instead, a solemn and suffocating silence filled the vast throne room. There was only the sound of Regulus shuffling through his voluminous papers, as if he were having trouble deciding where to even begin, the evidence being so overwhelming. At last he gathered himself, loosened his jaw like a would-be Cicero about to deliver an oration for the ages, then cleared his throat.

“You are the playwright Athanasius of Athens?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Or are you?”

“You just said so yourself.”

“No, I asked you.”

Athanasius sighed. Games. They were not limited to the arena. “And I answered yes.”

“Mmm…” Regulus murmured, like he was just warming up. “Are you a playwright, Athanasius? Or are you really an actor with two masks? In the mask of comedy, worn on the public stage of society, you are Athanasius of Athens, Greek playwright, citizen of Rome. In the other mask of tragedy, worn in the shadows of the underground, you are the notorious Chiron, general of Dominium Dei, the most wanted and dangerous man alive, perpetrator of murderous acts and conspiracy.”

“I am not!” Athanasius declared for the record, fearful that any attempt at cleverness in his reply at this absurdity might pass over the dim heads of those assembled.

Maximus said, “You’ve heard the accused’s plea, Regulus. Now where is your proof behind this baseless accusation?”

“Let us begin, as the playwrights are fond of saying, in medias res, in the middle of things.” Regulus held up with a flourish a singular document for all to see. “The confession of the late consul Flavius Clemens, who plainly identifies the accused as Chiron.”

There were several dramatic gasps from the other prosecutors for effect, as if they had not seen the confession before its introduction here at this mockery of a trial.

“I am not Chiron,” Athanasius repeated. “And I doubt that is the true confession of Flavius Clemens, even if it bears the stamp of his signet ring. How convenient he’s no longer here to be cross-examined by my counsel. Even so, your argument has no logic. I am not even a Christian. So how can I be Chiron?”

Athanasius glanced at Maximus, who nodded as if he had already prepared a line of defense for the charge of atheism.

“Lord and God Domitian and distinguished gentlemen,” said Maximus, addressing Domitian with all the authority of his status as an elder statesman of Rome. “There is a simple test called the tyche that the court of Caesar has devised to determine whether one is guilty of atheism like the Christians. And that is simply to allow the accused to bow before Caesar and address him as Lord and God. It is said and has held true now for some decades that the Christian believer will bow before no other god but Jesus.”

Domitian nodded his consent, and two Praetorian Guards brought out an altar and set it up.

Athanasius nodded eagerly, confident that he would be cleared. No tyche was going to keep him from Helena, and the public knew he was an atheist at heart. This memory would fade in time, and he would win them back.

Domitian led him in an invocation of the gods and the offering of some incense and wine to an image of himself. “Now the anathema.”

“I curse the name of the dead Jew known as Jesus the Christ!” Athanasius said loudly with a ringing voice, and then bowed low before Domitian. “There is only one Lord and God of the universe, and his name is Caesar.”

The echoes of his curse faded, and the entire throne room grew very quiet. However much the public at large despised Christians, they harbored little respect for hypocrites and turncoats. While he may not have been a Judas to the cause of Christ, everybody pretty much knew he had betrayed his atheism. The time to repair this damage to his reputation and his plays might take longer than he expected. But he had passed the test.

Then came the sound of clapping hands.

“Bravo, Athanasius!” said Regulus, who then picked up a scroll from the long table and pointed it at him like a priestly augur. “But if you are not a Christian, then how do you explain this?”

With a flourish Regulus unfurled the scroll to reveal the title letters of the Book of Revelation. More gasps at this seemingly incontrovertible proof that Athanasius had just lied to the face of Caesar.

Athanasius could only imagine the Praetorian had taken it from his study almost as soon as he and Helena had left the villa for this debacle of a premiere party. If so, all of this had been a set-up from the beginning. The ending, therefore, Athanasius was beginning to believe with a sinking feeling, was already written.

“And how do we know this evidence wasn’t planted?” Maximus asked, cutting off Athanasius before he could reply. It seemed Maximus would rather he explain nothing at all and instead cast doubt on his possession of the scroll altogether.

Regulus gestured to a side entrance and cried out, “The witness!”

The blood-red tapestries were pulled back and a stricken Helena was ushered into the hall. Her eyes were swollen from tears, but she held her head high and tried not to look at him.

In the name of all the bogus gods, Athanasius swore to himself. They were going to make her suffer and blame him for it.

“Helena of Rome needs no introduction, of course,” Regulus stated, and then addressed her like a physician at the deathbed of a child. “I am so sorry your betrothed has put you in this position. But could you clearly acknowledge for the court that you are indeed Helena of Rome and will testify truthfully?”

Her long and lovely throat contracted as she swallowed and said, “I am, and I will.”

“And have you ever seen this Book of Revelation in the villa you share with the accused?”

“No.”

Regulus didn’t like the answer and repeated the question. “I remind you that you are under oath before Caesar, beautiful Helena. Can you say without a shadow of a doubt that you have never seen this banned book of lies in your home?”

She feigned a careless shrug. “Do I look like much of a reader?”

Her response prompted some laughs among the magistrates and irritation on the part of Regulus.

Good girl, Athanasius thought.

“I’m disappointed, fair Helena,” Regulus said. “Next time take a keener interest in the secret affairs of your lover. That way you won’t repeat your mistake with Athanasius. Next witness!”

Out from the same side entrance came Athanasius’s faithful secretary, Cornelius, an orphan whom Athanasius bought and freed the same day. The boy couldn’t read, which was why Athanasius had him organize his papers. What could he possibly have to say?

“You are Cornelius, slave of Athanasius of Athens?” Regulus thundered, going in for the jugular.

“Secretary,” Cornelius replied proudly, upgrading his status for the court.

Regulus asked, “Have you seen this scroll before?”

“Yes,” Cornelius answered, to Athanasius’s shock.

“And where did you see this scroll?”

Cornelius pointed his finger at Helena. “In her hands today in my master’s library. She said she was tidying up. But I saw her hide it among his scrolls.”

“Enough!” Athanasius shouted. “The scroll is mine. If Helena found it in error and put it back among my many books, it is no fault of hers. She could not have known what it was. The fault is all mine. Please excuse her and my faithful secretary Cornelius.”

Regulus, smiling in triumph, dismissed Helena and the boy. The boy suddenly looked downcast and very sorry he had said anything at all. Helena, weeping again, couldn’t bear to even look over her bare shoulder at Athanasius on her way out of the throne room.

“Well, now,” Regulus said after they were gone, gathering steam. “Now that we’ve established that you do indeed have in your possession this banned Book of Revelation, could you please explain why?”

“I’m a playwright. There are a lot of revelations out there. I’m intellectually curious. That doesn’t make me a Christian.”

“Mmm. Tell us then, Athanasius, if you are not a Christian, what do you make of this so-called Book of Revelation?”

“Looks like a lot of third-act trouble to me,” he said, eliciting a couple of helpful snickers and a trace of a smile from Domitian. “Jesus has not returned as promised, the Christians are losing hope, and now the last living disciple who was with Jesus is old and about to die. It only makes sense to leave the faithful with this hope of a deus ex machina. It may be good superstition, but it’s terrible dramatic writing.”

Regulus, however, was not amused. “What about these mysterious symbols you have drawn in the margins?”

Regulus pushed the open scroll to his face, and Athanasius pulled his head back in annoyance. He looked down and saw that the annotation symbol was indeed his:

“There is no mystery here,” Athanasius answered. “It’s been a common mark for Greek scribes for several centuries now. It’s a Chi-Ro annotation, a combination of the Greek letters Chi and Ro. I use it to mark passages in my own works and those of others that I might want to review later.”

“Mmm.” Regulus made it sound sinister. “Has not the Dei adopted the Chi character as its symbol of the death cross? And is there not a little-known story somewhere in Greek mythology—in which you have inferred to us you are so deeply steeped—about the centaur Chiron who sacrifices himself to save others? Much like Jesus in the Christian superstition?”

“I vaguely recall something like that. There are so many versions and re-imaginations of classic myths, I’d be surprised if there wasn’t one. That doesn’t make me Chiron of the Dei.”

“No, of course not,” Regulus said. “You’ve already cursed the name of Christ and stated for the record that you are not a Christian. You are Athanasius of Athens.”

“That is correct.”

“Yet isn’t it true you are actually from Corinth?” He glanced down at a paper. “From a family of… potters.” He looked up. “Wait, that’s only half the story. Your mother’s side of the family are… tanners. They own a large tannery outside Corinth.”

“That’s right. So what?”

“So why lie?”

Athanasius refused to be humiliated before Roman high society for the proud work of his ancestors back in Greece, even if he had in fact hidden it from most when he went to university in Athens and then onto Rome as a playwright. Great playwrights came from Athens, according to Rome, not Corinth.

“I wanted to make good in Rome,” Athanasius said. “Is that a crime? So I became Athanasius of Athens. So what? End of story.”

“Or not,” Regulus accused. “Your family’s tannery turns sheepskin and hides into leather coats, boots, pouches and the like?”

“Yes.”

“Are the hides skinned from animals at the tannery?”

“Some. I don’t know the percentages. I was a child.”

“As a child, did you ever hunt down any of these animals? Say, with a bow and arrow? You are, I’m told, a champion archer. You’ve even hunted with Caesar at his Alban country estate?”

“Yes, and I let Caesar win. What is your point?”

“My point,” Regulus said loudly, as if drums were rolling in the background, “is that you’re not a playwright.” He paused for final effect. “You’re a butcher! A butcher like Chiron and the Dei who have been chopping up Roman officials like so much meat.”

“I am not!” Athanasius shouted, breaking character of the cool wit and lunging for the prosecutor in his chains. Maximus pulled him back.

Caesar looked down from his seat of judgment at Regulus, who wandered over to his voluminous stack of scrolls and tablets and removed the tiniest little sheet of paper. It was so slight he held it delicately like a feather, lest a sudden breeze should blow it away.

“Oh, really?” Regulus intoned. “Then how do you explain this?”

Regulus held up for all to see and said, “Behold the sign of Chiron! See it on his note to Caesar! The note that came with the severed finger of Caesar’s astrologer!”

At the bottom was a large Chi-Ro symbol as signature.

There were moans and murmurs as Regulus walked a circle to show the Chiron note in one hand and marked-up Book of Revelation in the other.

Maximus shrank back, as if this note were the final nail in a coffin for Athanasius of Athens, a coffin that had his name engraved on it long before this trial.

“We have the confession of Flavius Clemens,” Regulus reminded Domitian and all assembled, summing up the state’s case. “We have the testimony of the accused’s slave, the Book of Revelation in the accused’s possession, and the accused’s use of the symbol of Chiron. Above all, we have the confession of the accused that he is indeed not who he has pretended to be all these years—a playwright with hands free of callouses or any sign of a common laborer—but rather a butcher with blood-stained hands.”

More deadly silence, itself a verdict.

At that point, Maximus did the only thing possible.

“The state makes its case on two rather flimsy pieces of circumstantial evidence,” Maximus began, taking a last stab at casting doubt on the state’s case. “First, the so-called confession of Flavius Clemens could have been coerced while he was in custody, or the former consul may well have pointed the finger at Athanasius merely to divert Caesar’s attention from the real Chiron.”

Athanasius nodded. He liked this tactic.

“As for the second piece of evidence, mere possession of the Book of Revelation doesn’t make Athanasius a Christian any more than the chief prosecutor’s possession of Cicero’s book Consolation makes him an orator and philosopher.”

Even Domitian smiled at the dig, giving Athanasius a flicker of hope.

“So it is obvious the chief prosecutor knows his case has feet of clay, or he would not have attempted to bring the twin charges of atheism and conspiracy against the accused. If he were confident in one, he would not have brought the other. So he brought them both. But Regulus cannot prove the accused is a Christian after the accused dramatically testified publicly that he is not, surely obliterating any support from that underground if he ever had it. And he cannot prove the wild speculation that the accused is Chiron beyond the testimony of a dead man, which should not even be admissible. As it is, Regulus has neither leg to stand on. So we rest our defense before Your Humanitas and throw ourselves before the mercy of the judgment seat of Caesar.”

Domitian rose to his feet and stepped down from his throne to render his final judgment. Each footstep sounded more ominous the closer he came. As he stood before Athanasius, Domitian grasped his chains and looked at him as he would if forced to put down his hound Sirius. The balding head beneath the wig, the weak eyes, the cruel smile—he was a piece of human excrement and seemed to know it.

“Your final word, Athanasius?” Domitian asked. “What say you?”

“There are no gods in heaven—nor on earth,” Athanasius told Domitian for all to hear. “You are no god, and I am no Chiron. There are no well-devised conspiracies by masterminds on earth. There are only men, and most of them are fools.”

Athanasius could see the fury in Domitian’s eyes, mixed with fear.

“We despise those who despise our laws and religion,” Domitian announced. “But let us show mercy on the man Athanasius himself. Let us not fight the conspiracy of those cowards who hide in the shadows and carry out justice in the dark of night. Let us deal with this justly in the light of day.”

Athanasius braced himself. It was common knowledge that Domitian’s rehearsed preamble about mercy was an omen that foreshadowed his most ruthless sentences.

“Therefore, we will not allow this man to die by crucifixion or old-style execution upon the Gemonian Stairs.”

Athanasius breathed a momentary sigh of relief. In an old-style execution, the condemned man was stripped, his head fastened to a wooden fork and he was flogged to death. It was a long, drawn-out ordeal. Perhaps Domitian would only exile him. There would still be a chance for him and Helena. There would still be hope for his life.

“Rather,” Domitian continued, “allow him to die with dignity. Allow Athanasius to die in the arena. Allow him to die for our pleasure and as a warning to others who would defy our ways.”

Athanasius felt ill in the pit of his stomach. His head started spinning. “No, your excellency,” he said with shortness of breath. “No.”

“He shall die tomorrow morning,” Domitian announced. “After a night in the Tullianum prison.”

Well, that was that. Only those sent to die went to the Tullianum, and he had never heard of a last-minute reprieve.

“Furthermore,” Domitian said, raising his right hand in divine retribution. “Your Lord and God decrees that all inscriptions referring to Athanasius of Athens must be effaced, and productions of his work cease immediately from any public venue, and all copies of his plays be removed from every library throughout the empire and burned. May his memory be erased from our generation, and may the next never know the name of Athanasius of Athens.”

“No!” Maximus cried out and rushed to Domitian, falling to his knees. It was a spectacle that Athanasius knew only put the senator’s own life in jeopardy. “Mercy, Your Humanitas! Mercy!”

“Caesar shall show his mercy to the people of Rome by condemning to death the treacherous Chiron of Dominium Dei, who calls himself Athanasius of Athens.”

Athanasius glared at Domitian as the Praetorian moved in to take him away. If he was indeed lost, Athanasius decided to make the most of it while he still had a voice, a last chance to inspire the silent majority around him with a call to action.

“Let no one mourn for me!” Athanasius shouted, shocking the magistrates. “For surely you shall follow me, all of you, as long as this monster lives!”

He saw Ludlumus and the prefect Secundus exchange cool glances. Not that they or anyone else besides Helena and Maximus would dare intervene on his behalf.

Domitian himself looked bewildered at this public challenge, but glancing around seemed to realize he had already meted out his justice and there was nothing to be gained from arguing with a condemned man.

“The man who killed the gods in his plays can’t save himself!” Ludlumus announced to nervous laughter.

“Your gods won’t save you, Domitian!” Athanasius shouted to the back of Caesar as he was dragged out the side exit. “Neither will the stars! You mock those you will follow shortly, and we will be waiting for you!”

But the doors had closed, shutting him off from the ears of everyone forever. The last thing he saw was Ludlumus waving goodbye with an old hand signal from the theater:

Exit, stage left.

VII

The death march to the Tullianum prison ended in the Forum at the base of Capitoline Hill, where the ancients used to quarry. Indeed, the prison was really nothing but a hole in the ground to hold very important prisoners until their execution. Common-day criminals were usually marched up the hill’s adjoining Gemonian Stairs and beheaded, their skulls bouncing down the flight of stone steps like so many melons. So in some ways his stay at the Tullianum was an honor. He was about to join the ranks of foreign generals like Jugurtha and Vercingetorix, and domestic conspirators like Publius Cornelius Lentulus Sura and the apostles Peter and Paul.

The prison was underground with two levels. The guards were on the upper level, the prisoners kept in the lower level. The walls were made of blocks of volcanic tuff rock. To Athanasius, who was being processed on the upper level, the effect was that of standing in the bottom of a small pyramid with a flat top.

“Interesting accommodations,” Athanasius quipped to mask his horror. “Do you have any better?”

The warden, a surly old fart with a face that looked like a smashed melon, told the Praetorian escort that the prisoner’s armor had arrived. With a mixture of dread and curiosity, Athanasius suddenly wondered what cruel fate Ludlumus had devised for him in the arena tomorrow.

The guards unlocked his chains to strip him of his toga and tunic. Now he stood naked but for his loincloth. They slipped a red tunic over his head, and over that a centurion’s subarmalis or leather armor.

“Look at this, Chiron,” the warden said, reading from a note. “You get a ‘belt of truth’ and ‘breastplate of righteousness.’ Me thinks this is some of the ‘spiritual armor’ that one of our former inmates, Paul, used to instruct his followers in Ephesus to sport in spiritual battle. Too bad it couldn’t save his head from Nero’s ax man. But I’ll bet you make a fine spectacle in it tomorrow.”

They tied a legionary belt around his waist, then strapped him into a heavy lorica segmentata with polished armored plates. Athanasius knew the gleaming plates were for effect in the arena, to shine under the beating sun and highlight his own blood once the blade of a sword or spear had slipped through the plates.

Ludlumus was going to make him fight to the death. The depths of this impending public spectacle of his humiliation had now moved him beyond self-pity and a sense of loss to pure, unadulterated rage. He knew in his heart that this was the last moment before the arena that he would be free of chains, and despite the odds of one man against four guards—two Praetorian, two prison—and a warden, he would get no better.

The warden said, “You’ll get your ‘shield of faith’ and ‘sword of the spirit’ tomorrow, just before you’re launched into the arena. For now, take the ‘helmet of salvation.’”

Athanasius took the centurion’s helmet from the warden. It had brass accents and the infamous red plume. The plume, he knew, was less for décor than for the optical effect of making a centurion look taller.

“You know, I wore a helmet like this once to a costume party with my girlfriend, the model Helena,” he told the guards, and he could tell by their response that they all knew of Helena and had probably fantasized about her every time they passed a statue in her image. “Funny thing is, my eyes still only reached the tip of her nose, and I was staring at her nostrils the whole evening.”

They started laughing at the comic playwright, who was certainly different from the usual vermin. But as they laughed, Athanasius took the helmet and smashed the warden’s head. The warden cried out as his face split in a bloody gash.

“A considerable improvement,” Athanasius said, grabbing the sword from the warden’s side and spinning around in time to drive it into the gut of the oncoming Praetorian from behind. Athanasius put his foot to the stomach of the Praetorian and pushed him into the other one. They both fell back onto the stone floor.

The two remaining prison guards circled Athanasius with a long chain between them, lingering beyond the reach of his sword. They crisscrossed him with the chain, tightening it around him.

Athanasius rushed the closest guard while he could and tackled him to the ground. He ripped off the guard’s helmet and began to smash his head with it when he heard the clank of chains. He felt something heavy and blunt hit him in the head from behind, then he blacked out.

Athanasius awoke in the darkness of the dungeon below, chained to the wall in his heavy armor. At one time prisoners had to be lowered through the floor of the upper room. But he had a dim recollection of being dragged in his armor down a flight of stone steps to this dungeon, all to the murderous threats of the bellowing warden.

His head throbbed inside its “helmet of salvation,” and his shoulders drooped from the weight of his armor. His body felt dead to the world, his spirit crushed from the realization that he was about to depart this earth with so many unfinished dreams. The end always came more swiftly than the characters in his plays ever expected, and so it was with his own life.

In the silence he heard only the distant sound of running water somewhere, and then made out a small cistern drain in the dimness. It was probably connected to the Cloaca Maxima—Rome’s central sewer known as the Great Drain.

He ran his dry tongue over his teeth, touched his fingers together and squeezed his toes to confirm he still possessed these and other bodily appendages. The warden and guards would have killed him on the spot were he not already condemned to a public execution. To deny the mob its entertainment seemed a worse crime than murder in Rome.

Athanasius ruminated over his sorry twist of fate and what would become of Helena. I have become the very tragic hero that I mock in my comedies, he thought. Now only my ghost will haunt the Pompey like Julius Caesar—if Pliny can figure a way Rome can profit from it. Athanasius could already hear the tour operators: “He killed the gods in his plays only to be killed by their wrath. Hear ye and be warned, citizens of Rome!” That’s how he would play it, and raise the tour price. Two ghosts were better than one, and the new one should at least bring a sense of humor. Yes, Pliny would make sure of it.

But the thought passed as he realized the cold, cruel truth that while it might keep him alive to some, his body would decompose in the earth, or be fed to dogs, and the glory and immortality he sought as a playwright would die with him in the grave.

Surely, this cannot be the end. This was too rushed, his epic poem cut short. Now he would be the butt of jokes.

Could he hang himself in his chains? Get a guard to fetch him poison? Yes, Helena or Pliny might smuggle him some. That would be better than whatever sort of entertainment Ludlumus was planning to extinguish him in. The famous Death Relay, perhaps, to humiliate him by not singling him out for execution but by making him a bit player?

This was it, he feared—the greatest horror of the Games, to not even be the center of attention. He would not die an infamous death, but a relatively anonymous one. Surely the cruelest death of all.

It didn’t matter. Rome had won, because Rome had had the last word on him.

Or had it? Perhaps there was something he could say, or signal at his death, so that he got the last word in, somehow. Some small triumph, even if it was spelled out with his own blood on the white sand of the arena floor.

He thought of September 18, mere months away, and gnashed his teeth that he should perish so close to the prophesied end of Domitian, if only it were so.

He thought of Helena and his family in Corinth. The Romans always went after family. He was worried that he had not lived well, which was the most important thing to him in life. Socrates took the poison. He, on the other hand, bowed before Caesar to save himself, betraying himself and his ideals. He rationalized that it was for Helena. But if it was for Helena, then it was for himself.

He was tormented most of all by questions. Why him? What could he have written that was worthy of death? Why on earth the accusation of Chiron?

None of it made any sense.

It’s over. The show is over, like Ludlumus said.

There were plays I have yet to write, a life with Helena I have yet to live. What will happen to her? Who will provide for her? What will happen to my plays? My body of work? He knew he was spinning out of control.

Calm down, Athanasius. Perhaps there is still a way out of this. There must be a way. Even on the arena floor. Something to get the mob to move Caesar’s hand and make him an exception.

Oh, Jupiter, he prayed. Spare me, and I will serve you. I will never mock you again under any name. I will write plays for you, and mock those like me who mock you. People will buy your idols and make sacrifices to you.

He knew it was pure magic, the kind of pointless prayer that Helena made to gods who were not there but figments of imagination. But he took comfort in knowing she was praying for him too.

And then, as if by magic, he heard a noise outside the door. A key rattled in the lock.

A faint flicker of hope began to stir inside him. Perhaps Domitian wished to show himself generous and merciful! Perhaps Pliny and Maximus had bargained him a reprieve, an offer to write a glorious ode to Domitian in exchange for freedom! Or even just Helena to say her goodbye. To see her face one last time would be enough.

Yes, perhaps salvation had come.

The door swung open, the light of a torch splashing on the dirty floor, and in walked Ludlumus.

“Third-act trouble, Athanasius?”

Athanasius propped his tired back against the wet wall and sunk his head on his chest in despair.

Ludlumus shut the door and hung the oil lamp on an iron hook nailed to the ceiling. The effect cast light on him like an actor on the stage. He removed a clay tablet and stylus from the fold of his toga.

Athanasius spoke in a dry, cracked voice. “You’re the one who will pray for deus ex machina, Ludlumus. It’s only a matter of time before Domitian does to you what he’s done to me.”

“So that’s your confession, Athanasius? You are innocent and Caesar is guilty?”

“Yes.”

Athanasius could feel Ludlumus stare at him thoughtfully, and then watched him put away the tablet and stylus. Whatever was about to be said, he realized, was not going to be recorded.

“And how did you come to this conclusion?”

“Motive,” Athanasius said. “For all his so-called evidence, Regulus never established a believable motive for me to be Chiron. I, on the other hand, have found two personal motivations for Domitian to get rid of me.”

“Tell me.”

“Either Domitian wants to get his hands on Helena for himself, or he wants to keep me out of the hands of his wife Domitia.”

“I’m impressed, Athanasius. You figured this all out here in the dark?”

“So which is it?”

“It doesn’t matter, Athanasius. Did you really believe you could pen comedies about the rape and death of gods and get away with it? Domitian needs no personal motivation. Your own works are reason enough to execute you.”

“Then why bother accusing me of being this Christian terrorist Chiron? It makes no sense. Executing me doesn’t rid Rome of the real Chiron. Unless…”

“Unless what, Athanasius?”

Athanasius knew he had struck a nerve. “Unless, of course, you are Chiron.”

Ludlumus began to laugh at the joke, as if he wished he had come up with that one himself. “Not quite, Athanasius. But you are very close.”

“Then it’s Domitian.”

“Try again.”

Now Ludlumus was cruelly teasing him. Athanasius was out of suspects. Then it struck him, an idea so simple and horrific he wondered how he didn’t think of it first.

“There is no Chiron, is there, Ludlumus? You invented him.”

Ludlumus actually clapped his hands. “Bravo, Athanasius.”

Athanasius began to breathe faster, his mind racing. His hunch about Chiron was right, but it didn’t explain everything. “Why? How? You certainly didn’t invent Dominium Dei, did you? How could you? It’s been around for decades.”

“True, but instead of the Dei infiltrating Rome, Rome has infiltrated the Dei. Now Caesar can assassinate senators or other threats to the empire and pin the blame on Christians, whom we then feed to the Games. It’s all economical.”

“Economical?!” Athanasius exclaimed.

“All right then, let’s call it… poetic,” Ludlumus said. “Like the poetry of the Flavian Amphitheater itself. Rome’s temple of death was financed with the treasures that Vespasian looted from the Jews after Titus destroyed their great temple almost 30 years ago. Of course, the Judean War cost a million lives on both sides. So to pacify the mobs back home, the Flavians built their eponymous coliseum as a political weapon. By making the Games the center of our universe, they’ve practically been getting away with anything else ever since.”

“So the Dei is an imperial organization, not Christian,” Athanasius stated for his own understanding. “Only the Christians don’t know it, do they?”

“No. Too bad you won’t live to tell them.”

Something wasn’t right, Athanasius thought. But he couldn’t put his finger on it, and he couldn’t let Ludlumus go yet without learning of Helena.

“What is to happen to Helena? Tell me, Ludlumus. You owe me at least that much.”

“Why torture yourself even more, Athanasius?” Ludlumus asked, although he seemed quite pleased to go on. “If you must know, Domitian is confiscating her instead of the house on Caelian Hill. She will be allowed to keep it, but must remain on call for whenever her emperor requires her affection.”

“No!” Athanasius screamed until his throat went raw and twisted like a rag. And then the tears that he had been holding back for hours burst forth like a flood, and he sobbed.

“If it’s any consolation, Athanasius, I finally made you interesting. Helena and all Rome now think you are Chiron. As for the Christians, some might even mourn you as a hero.”

Athanasius lifted his head and through tears of rage looked at Ludlumus. “Caelus the astrologer.”

“What about him?”

“That business in Ephesus was something else. Something that went wrong. Domitian didn’t want him dead. Not his precious astrologer.”

Ludlumus paused, as if mulling over whether he would answer, then apparently decided that Athanasius was a dead man and it didn’t matter. “We control the Dei at the very top. But as you can imagine, there are far more dupes who have no idea who they are really working for. Some true believers took matters into their own hands with Caelus.”

“So that’s what rattled Domitian, and why you had to produce Chiron in public. You, Domitian’s little dog.”

“You have it all wrong, Athanasius. My stage is much bigger than the arena now. Your trial tonight should be proof enough for you. Think about it. Caesar says he is Lord and God. Yet the Games control his destiny; if he loses the mob, he loses Rome. I am the Master of the Games. Therefore, I control Caesar. And if I control Caesar, then I, Ludlumus, am the true god of this world and hold the keys to Hades.”

“Then I’ll go and prepare a special place for you down there.”

Ludlumus yawned at the empty threat, signaling that confession time was over.

“I had it in the back of my head to come and free you, Athanasius. To call it all a big mistake. To keep Chiron out there, and to make Domitian look merciful. If only for Helena’s sake. But once again you’ve proven that any thought that comes into your head must come out of your mouth. Now you have to die. You know too much. Far more than I would have given you credit for. Interrogator!”

The door opened to reveal several torches bobbing in the stairwell, and a decorated Praetorian saluted. “Sir!”

“Cut out his tongue and bring it outside,” Ludlumus instructed as he stepped out. “I’ll have a man from the palace kitchen waiting for you. Domitian would like to eat it with his favorite wine tomorrow evening to celebrate Chiron’s death. He will then enjoy the model Helena for dessert.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and no further questions for the prisoner—or you might as well cut out your own tongue.”

“Understood, sir.”

With that Athanasius watched Ludlumus turn his back on him forever and stride out while the Praetorian interrogator marched in, his black cape fluttering as he closed the door behind him. Slowly, carefully, he removed a short, rather sinister-looking blade and let it glint in the dim light.

“Trust me, Chiron,” he said. “This won’t take long.”

VIII

Athanasius watched the Praetorian interrogator place his torch in a metal holder on the wall and face him. There was something familiar about the man as he moved, but Athanasius wasn’t sure what it was exactly. He was one of those sinister political officers whose uniform and helmet signaled the high rank of tribune. But he was young, mid-20s like himself, which hinted at family connections. His rank did not represent the number of soldiers under his command, but rather the value of the information he handled on a daily basis for the empire, information extracted from very important prisoners like foreign generals or alleged domestic conspirators such as Chiron.

“My name is Quintus Marcus, and I will be your interrogator,” he said with a soothing voice, making his introduction.

Perhaps this interrogator was one of Rome’s professional maniacs who considered his particular line of work his “art.” Indeed, the manner in which the interrogator carried himself, the way he crouched down and slowly unrolled a leather wrap on the floor to reveal several additional knives to choose from, conveyed the distinct impression that he put exacting care into his work.

“Now pay attention, Chiron. This is important.”

Slowly Marcus rose holding the short, thick knife. So, Athanasius thought glumly, he was sticking with that one.

“The formal method of interrogation, recently amended by the palace, requires the interrogator to first cut off the prisoner’s genitalia and stuff them down his throat,” he explained as Athanasius couldn’t help but squeeze his legs together. “Once the prisoner has swallowed some of what he is choking on, and regurgitated the rest, he’ll usually be in a mood to talk. Then, and only after you are absolutely convinced that the prisoner has given up all the information he knows, you can cut out his tongue. Or, if ordered, slice his throat open to kill him. But you must be certain he has already swallowed everything or you might get some of it all over yourself.”

Athanasius had no doubts as to the sincerity of his words and felt bile rise in the back of his throat. He swallowed hard and clenched his jaw so tight he felt a tooth crack. The welcome pain diverted the terror that had seized his body. His hope was that the man was professional enough to make the actual cut clean and quick, once he stopped talking.

As if reading his mind, the interrogator produced a small brick that Athanasius, from his days in the family tannery, knew was a whetting stone.

“As I’m told you know, Chiron, a dull blade only makes your job more difficult. So it’s vital your blade be in peak condition.”

Marcus set his knife at an angle to the rough side of the stone.

“Now I run my knife across the stone at least seven times, sometimes a dozen if I must. Then I turn the knife over and sharpen the other side likewise.”

This Marcus did before flipping the stone to its finer side and repeating the process on both sides of the blade. Each slow, measured stroke was hypnotic in its horror.

“Not quite finished yet.” Marcus put away the whetting stone and produced a small iron rod. “After the stone sharpening, you must hone the knife by removing any burrs or rough edges. Only then is the job finished.”

He ran the knife along the sides of the sharpening iron until he was satisfied. Then he put the iron rod away and wiped the blade with his black cape.

“Here,” he said and held out the knife to Athanasius.

Athanasius stared at the glistening blade. “If you are suggesting that I should cut out my own tongue, my chains preclude such an act.”

“Then we shall have to remedy that,” Marcus said, and to Athanasius’s amazement began to unlock his chains.

Athanasius looked down as Marcus bent over to remove his leg irons and realized he could bring his hands down on the back of the tribune’s head or knee him in the face. But the act of being freed from his chains confused him.

“What are you doing?” Athanasius asked as Marcus stood up and the two looked each other in the eye. “What form of torture is this?”

“Take it,” Marcus told him, putting his knife in his hand. “See how it feels for you.”

Athanasius grasped the knife and felt its fine, balanced weight. “I don’t understand. I could kill you with this right now.”

“And go where?” Marcus asked him. “There are guards upstairs. Your only chance for escape is to walk out of here as me.”

“You?”

“Now strip. Hurry. We don’t have much time.”

Utterly astonished, Athanasius didn’t argue as he and Marcus quickly exchanged uniforms. Soon Athanasius was dressed as a tribune, and Marcus his interrogator stood clad in the mock Christian armor of a prisoner condemned to death.

“You’ll need this.” Marcus removed a key ring from his finger and handed it to Athanasius.

As Athanasius took it, it clicked open to reveal the seal of Chiron hidden beneath. “You? You’re Chiron?”

“I tried to be. But the Dei smashed everything. Clemens, you, and soon enough me. I cannot hide for long as a Christian in Caesar’s court. I know too much for them to let me live.”

“The Dei is imperial,” Athanasius stated, testing to see if Marcus possessed as much information in his position within the Praetorian.

Marcus nodded. “You know the Omega, but not the Alpha. But I have no time to explain if you are to escape. I’m already dead. You stay in here, you’re dead too.”

“Then tell me how I get out.”

“By drinking this.”

Marcus produced a small vial and handed it to a reluctant Athanasius.

“What is this?”

“Strength for your journey ahead. Go on. It will keep you awake.”

It would be a strange trap indeed for Marcus to free him only to poison him, Athanasius concluded, and drank the potion in one gulp. “Foul stuff,” he said, gagging. “Now what?”

“The Cloaca Maxima.”

Athanasius started. The Great Drain was Rome’s primary sewer and cesspool of all waste that flowed from the slums and latrines. Athanasius stared at the cistern in the floor, which was a very small hole. “I’m not crawling through that.”

“No,” Marcus said. “There’s only a small tributary under there, and you would drown.”

“Then how exactly am I supposed to escape?”

“You will leave this prison dressed as me and pray the guards don’t look beyond your uniform and rank,” Marcus told him. “You will cross the Forum to the Basilica Julia courthouse. Take cover under the building’s long portico along Sacred Way, and follow it all the way to the end of the block, then turn right. Under the courthouse steps, on the south side of the building, is a loose grating over a service entrance tunnel to the Cloaca Maxima. An agent called the Ferryman will be waiting for you in a small boat. He’ll take you down the tunnels and out to the Tiber. From there you’ll follow the river to the port at Ostia where a ship will be waiting for you. On board is a trunk with further instructions and everything you need. You will open it with the key ring on your finger. If you don’t run into trouble, you should make it in an hour.”

This was not at all what Athanasius had been praying for. At least in the arena he would die in public and perhaps find some way to make a final statement for his life. This plan risked him dying in a gutter. An ignoble end, if ever there was one. And yet it was still his only real chance of escaping death for the moment.

Athanasius said, “So come morning, I’ll be long gone by the time they come back down here. They’ll find you in the cell, and you explain how I overtook and chained you? Is that it?”

Marcus shook his head. “No. You will lock my chains now and cut out my tongue.”

“I will not!”

“Then we will both die for nothing,” Marcus said, his patience finally wearing thin. “Athanasius of Athens, Chiron, must die tomorrow. If they know you have escaped, if this secret gets out, then they will use the Dei to hunt you down, slaughter Clemens’ surviving children, and round up even more innocent Christians in reprisal. Is that what you want?”

Not really, thought Athanasius. But there was no guarantee that all Marcus described would come to pass anyway. “They will know that you are not me.”

“Only if they look hard enough. But they have no reason to suspect anything other than I am you—unless you fail to escape Rome without being caught or recognized. Even then, they’ll be too concerned with saving their own heads to report their suspicions.”

Suddenly, Athanasius knew why he’d felt strange with this tribune’s manner when he first saw him, and it had little to do with the man’s devotion to his craft or his superstition. Marcus looked more than a bit like him in build. Not quite exactly, but almost.

Athanasius stood flat-footed, unable to move. “Why, Marcus?”

“Because my Lord did the same for me. Now hurry or we both die, and my sacrifice is in vain. Now cut out my tongue. Before a guard comes down to find out what is taking so long.”

As much as he wanted to live, and as innocent as he knew he was, Athanasius hesitated with the knife. “This is insane,” he muttered. “There must be another way.”

“There is no other way.” Marcus was now barking orders to him. “You will cut out my tongue, per your orders from the Master of the Games and the Emperor Domitian. You will then use the hilt of your sword to beat my face black and blue to knock me out and dull the pain. Call it resistance. My face will swell under the helmet, and the disfigurement will complete my transformation. You will leave with my tongue and hand it to one of the kitchen staff from the palace waiting outside in the street. The emperor wants to feast on your tongue tomorrow evening to celebrate your demise.”

Athanasius felt his stomach swirl at the thought but nodded his agreement to the tribune.

“Fine,” Marcus said. “Now, cut my tongue off. I sharpened my knife well to make a clean, quick cut. I pray you really are a butcher.”

Athanasius drew out the knife and, trembling, put it up to Marcus’s mouth. Marcus stuck out his tongue. Athanasius pulled it out further with one hand, while his other hand held the knife just above the tongue midway. Athanasius stared into the serene eyes of Marcus, who blinked once, as if on cue to proceed.

Athanasius made the cut. It was a quick slice and went clean through the tongue until it hit a snag at the very end. Marcus’s eyes went wild, and he threw his head back against the wall in a cry of agony.

Athanasius quickly raised the butt of his sword and smashed it against Marcus’s helmet and face four times until he slid down the wall in his chains to the floor. Blood was everywhere. Athanasius leaned down to where the tongue dangled over the soldier’s chin strap, hanging by a thread, and cut it off.

He looked at it in his bloody hand and almost let it slip away. He grabbed a small cloth strip from the leather pouch and wrapped the tongue. Then he used the inside of his cape to wipe the blood off his hands and breastplate.

Athanasius stepped out of the lower dungeon and locked the door behind him, sealing off Marcus to his fate. He felt the weight of Marcus’s tongue, wrapped in the blood-soaked cloth in his hand, and walked up the narrow steps to the upper level. He kept his face down and held up the bloody wrap to draw the eyes of the guards. As he solemnly made for the exit to the street, it was all he could do to avoid glancing at the warden, whose bandaged face he was curious to see. He had almost reached the gate to the outside when the warden called out after him. “Tribune!”

Athanasius froze in the dim light and cocked his ear. He did not want to face the man.

The warden said, “You missed a spot.”

Athanasius looked down to see a drop of blood on his breastplate. Without turning around, he bobbed his helmet up and down and used his free hand to grasp his cape and wipe off the blood. Then he waved off the warden and walked outside into the night.

Only when Athanasius had gone a good ten paces down the street did he dare look back. There was nobody outside the prison entrance. The warden had gone back inside.

Heaving a heavy sigh of relief, he turned to make a run for it and suddenly stopped. Blocking his way in the middle of the street was none other than Domitian’s Pharaoh Hound, Sirius, who let out a slow, menacing growl and flashed his teeth, wet with hungry drool.

“Sirius! No growling!” came a muffled shout from out of the dark.

Athanasius turned to see a light in the public latrine near the Senate House across the street. It must be the kitchen staffer Marcus had said was coming for his tongue. He was apparently the royal dog-walker as well, and he was taking a dump on Caesar’s time.

Suddenly Sirius started barking all the louder at him, his black eyes fixed on the tongue in his hand, and Athanasius knew he had only seconds to make a decision.

IX

The public latrine near the Senate House was one of the most delightful in Rome. The lanky African palace slave named Julius wasn’t allowed to use it during the day when the senators conversed and conducted all manner of business. So he made it a habit to indulge himself at night when the Forum was mostly deserted. The marble seats had back support in the form of beautifully sculpted dolphins. Above the seats were decorated niches with statues of the gods and heroes. And a cheerful fountain tickled the ears. Best of all, the water that ran continuously below was so fast in this part of the city, there was hardly any odor.

Life really didn’t get much better, Julius thought.

He had been enjoying his nightly reprieve from walking Sirius when his de facto master interrupted him by barking loudly.

Julius cursed, stood up from his comfortable throne and washed his hands in a bowl filled with fresh water. He then removed his tunic from its hook on the wall, slipped it on and hurried outside to quiet Sirius before complaints were registered with the palace.

But when he stepped outside, there was no sign of the Pharaoh Hound, only a Praetorian tribune holding what must be the tongue of Chiron that Domitian had ordered be brought to the palace kitchen for preparation and proper seasoning.

“Per the emperor’s request, courtesy of the Tullianum prison.”

Julius took the tongue and looked around. “Where’s Sirius?”

“Who?”

“Caesar’s hound.”

“What hound?”

Julius looked at the impatient tribune and realized his place. “My apologizes, Tribune. He must be chasing something. I’ll be after him.”

The tribune nodded and headed north toward the prison at the base of Capitoline Hill.

Julius had no desire to follow in that direction, and instead turned south past the Senate and down the Street of Bankers, whistling here and there. “Sirius! Sirius!” A moment later, when he looked over his shoulder, the tribune had vanished into the night.

•    •    •

Athanasius walked quickly past the prison. Here the Street of Bankers sloped up into Banker Hill Road, and he followed it around Capitoline Hill toward the home of Senator Maximus.

He knew he was blowing his rendezvous with the Ferryman and ignoring the instructions of his savior Marcus. But there was still a chance to make things right, if only he could expose Domitian’s plot. Then he would not only save himself and get back his life with Helena, but also save Marcus from death in the morning, however unfortunate their business with the tongue.

He saw nobody at this hour on the street and trudged through the dark up a private drive off the road. He reached the gate of the estate, which was surrounded by a high wall.

He knocked on the heavy wooden door. There was no answer at first, and then a lamp went on somewhere inside the villa and the door opened to reveal a servant girl who obviously had been asleep. She didn’t seem to recognize him in his uniform.

Good.

“I am here on state business and must see Maximus immediately.”

He was led through a courtyard and stepped inside the front door of the villa without being invited in. The servant girl scurried away while he waited impatiently.

He looked around the reception hall and remembered his early visits to his patron Maximus when he had first come to Rome. He would arrive every morning to pay his respects to Maximus in the atrium and receive his day’s meal. Maximus would then take money from a trunk guarded by his big Syrian slave Dillian to hand him to pay actors or rent a small theater in the commercial strips of Mars Field. Athanasius had already squandered his own money in several expensive flops, and Maximus urged him to start small and build his audience slowly. Like other wealthy patrons, Maximus said he wanted to make Rome great. Most others did it by erecting temples or building parks. For Maximus it was the arts, and he seemed to believe that in Athanasius he had found someone whose works could speak more loudly than stone.

It was Maximus, Athanasius now recalled, who first arranged his introduction to Helena. He had been pining for her ever since he saw her cheering her then-boyfriend and his chariot at the old Circus Maximus. He remembered telling Maximus, “If I could have a woman like that, I would have everything, including the recognition of my arrival in Rome.” To which Maximus laughed and said, “On the contrary, having Helena at your side would render you invisible. I know you want to be the center of her universe, Athanasius, but don’t fool yourself: Helena is the center of her universe.”

All the same, they met, and Athanasius won her over with his force of personality and relentless charm. To many in Rome, she was undoubtedly his greatest achievement, more than his plays, because he had beat out a formidable field of muscle in the form of gladiators, racers and athletes, and money in the form of countless wealthy suitors.

Now he had lost her. He had lost everything. He desperately wanted to go to her now, but it would do him no good. They could not save themselves. They needed help, and Maximus was just the man.

A moment later Maximus’s chamberlain Dillian appeared. The look in the big Syrian’s eyes told Athanasius that he recognized him.

“This way,” Dillian said and led Athanasius to the bedrooms in the back.

Maximus was sitting on his bed. He was dressed in his night robe, white chest hairs poking out from his barrel chest, and looking years older and far more frail than his stage presence only hours earlier in the throne room at the palace. Athanasius worried he had assumed too much, that his mentor could be of help to him. Perhaps he had made a big mistake in not following the interrogator’s instructions.

“Is it really you, Athanasius?” Maximus marveled as Athanasius removed his helmet. “I can’t believe it. How?”

“Dominium Dei is an imperial organization, Maximus,” Athanasius said without preamble. “Domitian’s spies have infiltrated the underground Christian movement. He is fanning a war between the church and the state, playing both sides against each other in order to destroy his enemies in the Senate and amass ever more power for himself. We must inform the Senate and confront Domitian publicly.”

Maximus looked shocked, and yet slowly began to nod. “It makes a kind of wild sense. But we need proof, Athanasius, and the support of the Praetorian.”

“I have proof,” Athanasius said, thinking of Marcus in his cell. “But we have little time.”

“I suppose we don’t, Athanasius.” But Maximus sat there on his bed, tapping his foot against the brass frame and bed’s ivory feet. “But how do I know that Domitian hasn’t put you up to this, to save your own skin?”

“What?”

“Going against him as a group would only prove his contention that there is a massive conspiracy. He could wipe out the rest of his enemies in the Senate and the Praetorian Guard, all in one stroke—because you got us, the true conspirators, to expose ourselves.”

“A conspiracy of truth.”

“Of course, Athanasius, of course. But the end would be the same—you dead, me dead, all of us dead, and Domitian triumphant and living long past September 18.”

“But he is triumphant already. What other choice do we have?”

“Only one,” Maximus said. “Dillian!”

Athanasius heard a footstep behind and spun around. The slave Dillian was lunging at him with a sword. Athanasius grabbed his arms, his fists sliding down to his wrists, bending them back until the Syrian released his grip on the sword and it fell with a clank to the travertine floor.

The slave tried to grab it, and Athanasius countered with a knee to his face. He recoiled in pain, his hands reaching for his face, exposing himself. Athanasius whipped out his own sword, and as the Syrian straightened up, plunged his sword into the slave’s chest, driving him back against the wall. The light of life flickered in his dark eyes, and when Athanasius pulled the sword out, Dillian slid to the floor in a pool of blood, dead.

“Your first kill, Athanasius?” said Maximus from behind.

Athanasius felt something on his back and spun around to see old Maximus holding a tiny stick. His mentor had tried to prick him with it, but it had broken on an armor plate. Athanasius grabbed it from Maximus with one hand and shoved the old man back onto his bed with the other.

“Athanasius, please,” Maximus said, his lips bloodied by the blow.

Athanasius sniffed the tip of the broken stick.

Poison.

“Et tu, Maximus?” Athanasius said, dropping the stick to the floor and moving in with his sword.

Maximus smiled as he looked at the corpse of his servant Dillian. “You surprise us all, Athanasius. You really are a butcher, aren’t you?”

Athanasius put the tip of his sword to Maximus’s saggy neck. “And what are you, Maximus? Who are you, friend?”

Maximus nodded as if to say, “I’ll tell you,” and Athanasius pulled back the tip of his sword slightly. Then Maximus wiped his bloody lips with the back of his hand and coughed.

“The Dei are everywhere, Athanasius. They cannot be defeated. You cannot defeat them. In a few short years they will take over the world.”

“Names, Maximus. I want names.”

Suddenly Maximus gagged and went limp, collapsing to the floor.

Athanasius stared into his face. The old man’s eyes were wide—and dead.

Kneeling over the body of his dead mentor, Athanasius noticed the ring on Maximus’s gnarled forefinger. It reminded him of the one on his own hand, the one Marcus had given him.

The finger was already cold when Athanasius slipped the ring off and noticed the tiny hole. He sniffed.

Poison. Just like the stick.

Athanasius could hardly believe it. Maximus had sucked poison out of his ring rather than reveal anything more about Dominium Dei.

What more could there possibly be?

Athanasius then peeled away Maximus’s robe to examine his mentor’s barrel chest. Something had caught his eye during their struggle.

There it was, under the left armpit: a jagged death cross tattooed in black on the pasty white skin. It was a Chi symbol—the mark of an invisible army with legions around the world.

Dominium Dei.

They were indeed everywhere.

A piercing scream filled the air. Athanasius looked up at the slave girl standing in the doorway, peering in. “You killed the senator!”

He heard movement through the walls. The whole house was stirring. Athanasius picked up his helmet. He had to get out of there.

“Silence!” ordered Athanasius, releasing his grip on the robe and slipping Maximus’s ring on the opposite hand of the one with Marcus’s. “This is state business.”

“You are defiling him!” she screamed. Her piercing cry reverberated off the walls like an alarm, and suddenly the siren of a horn blasted outside, alerting the entire hillside.

Athanasius rushed past her as she flattened herself against the wall and ran down the hallway to the front door. Maximus’s carriage was at the gate, but it was too late to reach it now. Already a squad of Urban Cohorts, swords and spears out for attack, were running toward the villa, attracted by the sound of the horn.

Athanasius turned back and ran through the rooms of the house, waving his sword and knocking slaves over. When he reached the back balcony overlooking the old Republic Wall, he leaped off it, landing on the hillside behind the villa and sliding down the slope toward the grim apartment blocks in the vast slums below.

Arrows zoomed past his head as he ran toward the roof of a long apartment block built into the hill.

He was almost there when an arrow struck his helmet, sending him tumbling down and crashing onto the red clay tiles, terrorizing the screaming family in the room below. He rolled off into the rooftop courtyard, found the narrow stone steps and commanded his tired legs to race down six flights. A moment later he burst out of the stairwell and disappeared into the dark alleys of the city’s slums, cursing himself for missing his only escape out of Rome.

X

Athanasius ran on through the tangled streets in the dark, racing past the archways of the booths and shops boarded up and bolted shut for the night. The apartment slums above the tabernae on either side rose up six stories tall. He could easily lose himself in this jumbled maze of alleys until morning, blowing any hope of making his rendezvous with the Ferryman. Even if he reached the Cloaca Maxima beneath the Basilica Julia, he doubted the Ferryman would still be waiting for him. But if he didn’t try, he was dead already.

He looked up for breaks along the seemingly endless ridge of black rooftops for a clear line of sight to the Temple of Jupiter and the Arx atop Capitoline Hill to orient himself. He couldn’t go back the way he came, so he would have to circle around the northern base of the hill to reach the west side of the Forum—through these infernal alleys with their forgotten denizens, the hundreds of thousands of people who were born, lived and died in this cesspool of human misery.

And now he was one of them.

All of a sudden the blood-chilling blare of the First Spear horn thundered across the skies. It was the official signal from the Urban Cohorts headquarters to the roaming gangs of the district that there was a fugitive on the loose, and a reward for his capture, dead or alive. Even the official urbani patrols avoided this graveyard of danger at night.

Almost immediately shouts and torches burst forth from all directions. He heard the crash of pots and cursing and looked over his shoulder to see a gang of four shadowy figures floating toward him like malevolent spirits in their odd, mismatched pieces of old infantry armor. The gruesome sight made him recall one of Juvenal’s few good jokes about life in modern Rome: that only the careless dared venture out after supper without having first made their will.

I am not going to die in this piss pot tonight, Athanasius vowed to himself, breaking into a sprint. Better to go out in a blaze of faux glory in the arena than go face down here in some ditch.

The apartment slums on either side of him closed in like walls, the snaking alley narrowing into a dirt path. Now he was splashing through an open cess trench that reeked with the foul stench of human waste, dumped from the pots of the inhabitants in the insulae above him. The goo caked his aching calves, and it was all he could do to keep his heavy legs moving and not turn his face up toward the windows.

The muck had slowed the ill-clad gangs behind him, however, and he could no longer hear their shouts. But at the end of the alley was a veritable bonfire of thugs at an intersection waiting for him. He couldn’t go back, and he couldn’t move forward. He looked around frantically until he found an open laundry pit between two buildings. It was filled with sanitizing urine.

There was no way around it, he realized. This was his only exit.

He waded through the knee-deep pool, stopping only to untangle soaked garments that wrapped themselves around his legs, like the long tentacles of some sea creature sent to pull him under, and for a moment he entertained the vision of being found face down in the very piss pot he feared. But he made it out the far end of the pool and emerged atop a weed-infested ridge.

There below was Jugarius Street, and on the other side the warehouse district that linked the Forum to the Tiber. The boulevard was filled with carts and slaves of the night. No daytime traffic was allowed in Rome except pedestrians, horses, litters and carrying chairs. Nighttime was for transport carts of all sizes, loading and unloading goods from barges at the port on the Tiber. Like magic, all the stores, stands and markets of Rome would be filled with the treasures of the world by morning. And, with luck, he would be gone with all the garbage from the previous day.

Athanasius slid down the hill to the shoulder of Jugarius Street. He waited for a break in the traffic and then ran across the street and made an immediate left toward the Forum, slipping between two convoys of full wagons. He had just permitted himself to take a breath when the wagon in front of him slowed down and skirted to the right to reveal a line of two-dozen heavily armed urbani coming out through the Arch of Tiberius. They were marching straight toward him, their swords and spears at the ready.

Athanasius slowed down as the unit’s commanding officer, a centurion, saluted as he passed by. Athanasius nodded and looked back as the troops marched on toward the Tiber, no doubt to take up positions on the Sublicius Bridge and close off that exit.

Athanasius passed under the Arch of Tiberius into the Forum, turned right on Sacred Way and hurried along the portico of the Basilica Julia to the end. There, at the intersection at Titus Street, he heard the sound of running water and found the sewer grating at the base of the courthouse’s marble steps.

Quickly glancing both ways to make sure he hadn’t been seen, he pulled at the heavy grating. It lifted to reveal an iron ladder that led down to a lead door. The air was foul, ranker than the alleys of the slums. He lowered himself down a few steps, slid the grating back into place over his head, and then pushed the door open.

It was dark inside, the damp air wrapping around him like a wet blanket. He heard the lapping of water and took another step forward. Suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his chest as a voice said, “Hands up.”

Athanasius squinted in the dark, and a moment later his eyes had adjusted enough for him to barely make out a short but muscular young man in a tunic pointing a crossbow at him. Beyond him a small boat bobbed in the water against the stone ledge inside the great tunnel. “Ferryman, is that you?”

“Chiron?” The Ferryman lowered his crossbow.

Athanasius then saw the bodies of two auxiliary urbani on the stone ledge, both with arrows in their chests. “You know where we’re going?”

“Out the drain to the Tiber, then down to Ostia and your ship, the Pegasus. Pier 34.”

Athanasius nodded. This was more than Marcus had told him. “They’re locking down the city topside. Units are moving into position at the Sublicius, where the sewer lets out into the river.”

“Then we’ll have to beat them,” the Ferryman said as he launched them off down the tunnel.

The underground river of filth was a good fifteen feet across under the semicircular arch of the vaulted stone roof. And the current was faster than he expected, powered as it was by the confluence of the city’s eleven great aqueducts flowing into this section at once. It all came together here, this churning cesspool of waste being pushed out to the river.

“Hold on,” the Ferryman said as they picked up speed and shot through the dark.

The tunnel began dropping the closer they got to the outlet, the current churning with such force that they were careening into all kinds of debris and against the stone walls and had to use paddles as bumpers. Several stadia ahead Athanasius could see the half-dome light of the end of the tunnel, the moonlit Tiber beyond. They crashed through the open grating gates and were suddenly into the river, paddling frantically to avoid the wakes of the big barges passing under the towering arches of the Sublicius Bridge.

Athanasius looked back in time to see the Urban Cohort units come to a halt atop the bridge. Archers jumped out and began to take their positions, but by then they were long gone down the river and into the night fog.

“The Lord is with you, Athanasius,” said the Ferryman as he maneuvered into the downriver traffic of empty barges to Ostia, doing his best to keep their little boat from getting crushed between them in the dark.

Athanasius reached behind his back and felt for his knife. “So you know who I am?”

“My name is Stephanus. I’m the servant of Flavius Clemens, whose life was cut short by the antichrist Domitian who wants you dead too.”

Athanasius eyed him. “Then you must know I cannot be Chiron, and that Clemens could not possibly have named me in his confession.”

“I know that the Lord has plans for you, Athanasius. Plans for good and not for evil, to give you and all of us a future and a hope.”

Athanasius loosened his hold on his dagger and brought his empty hands forward. “I have no future, Stephanus. I have no hope.”

“You have stood up to the gods of Rome tonight, Athanasius. You are the one who will lead us to topple the empire and create a new Christian world.”

“I thought Jesus is supposed to do that,” Athanasius said.

“We must prepare the way.”

“Isn’t Jesus The Way?”

Stephanus nodded. “You are very clever, like Paul was. Jesus is indeed The Way, and He is not willing that any perish but all come to repentance.”

Athanasius felt a bump and looked into the waters to see the corpse of some slave who had likely fallen off a barge. “Too late for him, I suppose.”

“But not for the millions of souls under the boot of Rome.”

Athanasius could barely see straight in the fog, let alone think with all this madness. Didn’t Stephanus understand that he was leaving Rome, never to return because there was nothing for him left to return to? Domitian had stolen his future. “A million died in the Judean War, Stephanus, and a Christian war would cost tens of millions of lives.”

“It need only cost one,” Stephanus said with shining eyes. “September 18 is not so far away. Imagine Domitian gone and Young Vespasian succeeding him. We’d have a Christian emperor. A Christian Rome. A Christian world. No slave or free. Male or female. Jew or Gentile. All would be equal. There would be peace on earth. No more fears. No more tears.”

No more tears? What naïve nonsense, Athanasius thought. Surely Domitian would have something to say about that, and about September 18. And if not Domitian, he realized, then Dominium Dei. Athanasius had seen the reach of the organization tonight with Maximus. What good would it do the Christians to cut the head off a Hydra when another would simply take its place and make short order of any so-called Christian emperor, which itself was an oxymoron clearly beyond this simpleton’s grasp.

Domitian, and Rome with him, was simply too powerful to fight.

Athanasius saw no future hope in this river fog down the Tiber to Ostia, only a glimpse of the harbor’s great lighthouse at the end. The bonfire at the top of its towering edifice seemed to watch them like a great eye as they floated silently past the travertine piers toward the hulking Pegasus docked at Pier 34. Athanasius said goodbye to Stephanus, who prayed for his return to Rome and said that he and others would be awaiting his orders.

Athanasius wondered if he’d survive the night, let alone ever return to Rome. But at this point Stephanus was his only friend in Rome. So to amuse him he played the role of Chiron and said, “Tell your friends that Chiron lives and Domitian shall die.”

“Amen,” Stephanus said with gusto as Athanasius shoved him off.

•    •    •

As Athanasius crossed the rows of warehouses and winches to Pier 34, he took in the slaves and dockworkers loading and unloading the great ships. They were the true cogs of the Roman machine that worked around the clock to keep the empire going. Straight ahead of him a centurion stood at the gangway to the Pegasus. Athanasius realized he had no identification papers and tensed up as he approached. He had to instantly establish his identity before there could be any doubt.

“Centurion, is my trunk on board?” he said with a token salute that flashed his ring.

The centurion didn’t have to look, transfixed as he was on the ranking shoulder straps. “Tribune, we were beginning to wonder.”

“I’m here, let’s go,” Athanasius said gruffly.

Athanasius marched up the gangway to find a deck full of Roman soldiers waiting for him. He started, and then saw they were at attention, along with the ship’s captain, a Greek who introduced himself as Captain Andros.

“Tribune, we have 80 troops, and a crew of 180 oarsmen, sailors and marines at your command.”

Athanasius decided that in his present company the less he said the better. “Anchors away, Captain. I will retire to my quarters and will not be disturbed until morning.”

“At your orders, Tribune. Your belongings have already been stored on board. Galen here will show you to your quarters.”

Athanasius followed the wiry steward across the long deck, taking in the sea air, aware of the captain barking orders, of shouts returned, anchors pulled and the sudden quake of the wooden planks beneath his feet as two hundred oars hit the water. The Pegasus lurched forward.

His quarters were at the sterncastle, reached by two wooden steps and an outside door. There was a bed inside along with a built-in desk beneath a small window. On the desk was a tray with bread, cheese and a pitcher of wine. Beside it were shelves and a personal locker. The locker was open, and he could see a locked trunk. Athanasius looked up to see Galen staring at the ring on his finger.

“That will be all, Galen.”

Galen nodded and left, shutting the door behind him.

At last alone, Athanasius exhaled and immediately poured himself a cup of wine and gulped it down. Then he took two big bites of the bread, almost choking on the mouthful as he did, and looked out his little window. He could see several chariots and units converging on the shrinking docks. But they were too late. The anchors were up and the loaded ship was pulling away from the pier, already out by three lengths of the Circus Maximus, clearing the stone breakers and entering the Tyrrhenian Sea into the gathering fog of darkness.

Jupiter, he had made it, he thought, as he watched the nightmare of this tragic day fade like the lighthouse of Ostia in the fog. He felt his lips tremble. He wiped his mouth and saw blood, not wine. Then he stared into the wine cup and watched it fall as if in slow motion from his loosening hand and crash to the floor. And then he plunged into darkness.

TO BE CONTINUED…

From New York Times bestselling author

THOMAS GREANIAS

The Story Continues…

Book II

WRATH OF ROME

Read the entire Dominium Dei Trilogy now!

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THE CHIRON CONFESSION

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RULE OF GOD

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