Gods of Rome
Author: Thomas Greanias
Date: 2020-11-16 00:00:00+00:00
Description: DEATH IS GUARANTEED A skillful, exciting blend of history, action, and drama set in the ancient world. - Kirkus A wildly popular playwright in Ancient Rome, falsely condemned by jealous rivals, miraculously escapes certain death in the arena with a state secret that could bring down the empire and avenge the life and love he lost. Hold on tight to the reins of your runaway chariot as Gods of Rome sweeps you from the halls of power in Caesar's palace to the slums of the city, from rat-infested sewers to the high seas, from one end of a mighty empire to another and everywhere in between, where c
Publisher: Atlantis Ink

WRATH OF ROME

BOOK TWO OF THE DOMINIUM DEI TRILOGY

Also by Thomas Greanias

Rule of God

The Chiron Confession

The 34th Degree

The Promised War

The Atlantis Revelation

The Atlantis Prophecy

Raising Atlantis

A Division of @lantis Media Corp.

Columbia Center

701 5th Avenue, 42nd Floor

Seattle, WA 98104

www.Atlantis.mobi

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.

First @lantis Books eBook edition September 18, 2012.

@LANTIS is a registered trademark of @lantis Media Corp.

The @lantis Books Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event or radio or television show. For more information or to book an event with Thomas Greanias, contact the @lantis Books Speakers Bureau at 1-855-GOBOOKTOM or visit the author’s official website at www.ThomasGreanias.com.

eBook creation by Ted Risk, DellasterDesign.com.

Cover design by Erik Hollander, HollanderDesignLab.com.

Visit Atlantis.mobi

Soli Deo gloria

Table of Contents

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

I

Deep inside the cave a young woman cried out to him, “This way, Athanasius! Hurry!”

He tried to find her but stumbled in the darkness. The further he followed her down the endless tunnel, the further out of reach she seemed. I have to save her! At last he caught up to her in a dim shaft of light, grasping for her long, black hair. When she turned to look at him with her dark and haunting eyes, tears of blood trickled down her tragic face.

He stared back at her, suddenly aware they were not alone in the vast subterranean cavern. All around him were thousands of others like the young woman with bleeding eyes, their hands reaching out to him for help. He opened his mouth to scream, but the mountain above began to quake and the rock ceiling crashed down upon him.

Athanasius of Athens awoke from his nightmare, gasping for breath, aware of the smell of the salty sea and sound of scrolls shuffling. He blinked into the bright daylight inside his cabin aboard the Pegasus. He was lying on a cot, dressed in the uniform of a Roman tribune. Like a heavy stone fell the realization that the events of last night in the city of Rome were no nightmare and that his life as he knew it was over.

He looked over to see the back of the steward, Galen, hunched over the open Chiron box, going through its contents while he nibbled on fish and bread.

Athanasius quietly swallowed, careful not to make a sound, waiting for the proper moment to stir to life and kill the swine.

Was it only yesterday I woke up in my comfortable bed inside my comfortable villa in Rome as Athanasius of Athens, celebrated playwright and hedonist? Was it only yesterday I woke up to the woman of every Roman’s dream, Helena, and the premiere of my greatest production yet, Opus Gloria?

It was, he realized grimly. But then he had been arrested and sent to certain death in the arena. The absurd charge? That he was Chiron, the mastermind behind Dominium Dei, the mysterious and militant Christian conspiracy that had been blamed for the assassination of Emperor Domitian’s chief astrologer and other Roman officials. Now Caesar, Rome’s self-proclaimed Lord and God, had initiated a Reign of Terror, slaying any and all suspected enemies.

And by some cruel twist of fate, Athanasius had become one of them.

It was only by some miracle in the person of a Roman tribune and Christian named Marcus that Athanasius had escaped, alone with the secret that Dominium Dei was in fact an imperial organization created to infiltrate and destroy the fledgling underground Church.

The last thing he remembered was making it to the Pegasus before it set sail in the middle of the night from the port of Ostia. I was poisoned, he recalled. Galen the steward poisoned me. How did I survive? Then he remembered the elixir that Marcus had given him in the prison back in Rome. It must have been an antidote of some sort, something to coat his stomach in anticipation of exactly this kind of betrayal.

Galen sat up suddenly and glanced over his shoulder, sensing something. Athanasius froze, afraid he had made some movement that drew the Dei man’s attention. Through the slit of his eyelid, however, he saw that Galen was looking at the cabin door.

“Tribune?” asked a voice outside. It was the captain. He then seemed to address somebody else. “Isn’t this unusual?”

“No,” said a voice that Athanasius recognized as that of the centurion in charge of transporting the 80 troops on board to Ephesus. “I’ve found that imperial interrogators like to keep to themselves, have food brought in. Don’t like to mingle with the rank-and-file, even the officers like me. They are political officers more than military, and as likely to interrogate us as the enemy. They don’t want to make friends. I get nervous when they do want to join us in the galley. It usually means one of my men is under suspicion.”

“Well, Galen says he is taking his food. I’ll have him inform the tribune that we’ll enter the Gulf of Corinth by nightfall and make our way through the canal in the morning.”

The voices faded with footsteps, and then Athanasius heard the planks creak as Galen approached and stood over him. Athanasius could smell the wine on his breath. The man had poisoned him and was now eating his food, going through his papers.

Enough.

Galen said, “So you wouldn’t eat your fish with the rest of us, would you, dear, departed general of the Dei. Now you are food for fish when I chop you up with your own knife, stick you in your box and dump you overboard. If only I had kept you alive long enough to tell me the key to the coded texts. Now they remain a mystery, and all I have is your gold.”

Athanasius opened his eyes, shot up his hand and grabbed Galen by the throat. “Your prayer is answered, swine.”

Galen’s wide eyes seemed to pop out of his terrified face as he choked in Athanasius’s vise-like grip. Athanasius stood up and quietly pushed Galen against the wall, pinning him at the neck.

“Who are you people?” Athanasius demanded.

Galen struggled, gasping for breath, saying nothing.

Athanasius said, “Who do you take orders from?”

“You,” Galen said.

“Then why did you try to kill me?”

“That’s how we advance.”

“That doesn’t sound very Roman to me.”

“We are not Roman.”

Not Roman? Athanasius thought. The Dei was imperial. That was the big secret. “If you are not of Rome, and not of the Church, then of what?”

“Ourselves.”

“For what purpose?”

“Our own.”

Athanasius looked into the weasel’s eyes, saw the fear and felt he was telling the truth. “Why me?”

“I don’t know.”

“My family in Greece.”

“They will be slaughtered, if not already. As will you!”

Athanasius felt a prick at his shoulder and saw a thin stick in Galen’s hand. It had hit his leather strap and not his skin. Athanasius grabbed it with his free hand and waved it in front of Galen’s face.

“That’s twice you’ve missed, Galen,” he said and stuck it into Galen’s neck.

“No!” Galen moaned before blood began to trickle out of his nose and the corners of his mouth. His eyes rolled back, and Athanasius let go. The body crumpled to the floor with a thud.

Athanasius looked at Galen’s twisted face, worried that the crew on the deck below heard the fall. He knelt over the body of the dead steward. With his right hand, he ripped the tunic away, exposing white skin and a twisted cross of black. The mark of Rome’s mystical legion.

Dominium Dei.

Almost immediately there was a knock at the door, followed by a voice. “Tribune, are you alright?”

It was the centurion who had been with the captain.

Athanasius dragged Galen under his hammock. He looked in the brass mirror and ran his fingers through his unruly black hair. His face was pale, the blood drained, his eyes hollow and haunted. He was a mess.

He opened the door a crack to afford the centurion a peek at his desk but nothing more.

“Tribune, are you alright?”

“Never better, centurion. I just rolled out of the wrong side of the bed today. You know how it is.”

“Yes, Tribune.”

“But I’m still hungry. See if you can find my steward Galen for me. Oh, and tell the captain I’ll be joining you and the officers for dinner tonight in the officer’s galley.”

The centurion gulped and nodded. “Yes, Tribune.”

•    •    •

Athanasius removed the key ring from Galen’s stiff finger and slipped it on. It looked different than before. Now that its key had broken off, what remained was a form of the Chiron insignia—the Chi-Ro symbol. Only it was flanked by the Greek letters Alpha on the left and Omega on the right. It also had a tiny jewel inside the loop of the Ro. Possibly an amethyst, he thought, taking a closer look. He couldn’t be sure, and right now it didn’t matter.

He walked over to the open trunk and looked inside. There was money. Lots of it. Gold, silver and gems. There were also scrolls. The scriptures of the so-called New Testament between God and man, comprised of four accounts of the life of Jesus by the disciples Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, the letters of Paul to the churches he established, and several from John, including the Revelation. Athanasius saw little use for them, so he set them aside and focused on three letters quite different from the others.

The first was on a heavy parchment, clearly official and with an imperial stamp. Athanasius read:

You will regard the bearer of this letter, my imperial interrogator, as my right hand, the hand of Rome, and do anything he instructs you without question, even so far as to take your own life.

His Excellency Flavius Titus Domitian

With a start Athanasius recognized the seal of Caesar, the same seal he recalled seeing at the palace only the night before. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Surely this was the key to open doors that Marcus had told him about.

But there was another letter, one written with symbols, the letter Galen had been trying to crack. The first line alone was unintelligible.

•> D• ^^ •| V D• > |•

This must be Chiron’s letter with his “further instructions,” Athanasius thought. Perhaps the real key unlocked this code.

But where?

He looked at his pouch with his knife kit and the elixir. He emptied it. There was nothing else there. Then he saw the tiny holes in the bottom of the pouch that he had first noted curiously back in the prison.

He removed the drawstring and flattened out the pouch on the back of a wax tablet. They created an odd pattern, as indistinguishable as the symbols on the letter from Chiron.

He picked up one of those poisoned little sticks and began to poke it though the holes of the flattened leather into the wax tablet. Then he removed the leather skin and stared. The dots were definitely set apart in groups.

•    •

•    •

•                •

•       •

•    •       •    •

•    •

•       •

Staring at the pattern for a while, a pattern of space between the dots slowly began to appear. He drew a diagonal line between two groups, and then another intersecting line. The Chi symbol. But what of the grouping above? He drew the Ro and stared at the symbol of Chiron. The key.

Within an hour he was able to assign symbols to their counterparts in the Roman alphabet and translate the text. But upon reading it, he wished he hadn’t.

You are to direct the ship to make a stop on the island of Patmos. There you will present yourself with Caesar’s introduction to interrogate John the Apostle and then in private tell him what you know. He will then provide you with instructions and introduction to find sanctuary in the church of Asia Minor.

Athanasius was aghast. Go to Patmos? This was his mission? Escaping one prison in Rome only to march into the Roman garrison on the prison island of Patmos was not his idea of freedom.

Athanasius hoped Chiron’s last letter offered a better alternative. It was made of a flimsy papyrus and appeared to list several recipes and formulas. But they were not for food, Athanasius realized as he deciphered it, but for poisons and explosives.

Below are instructions on the poison and antidote favored by the Dei, assuming you have survived their first attempt on your life. Familiarize yourself with the smell, texture and even taste of these ingredients and compounds, if not for your own use then for your protection.

Athanasius felt light-headed. Surely this would not be his life.

One formula was for the Dei poison Galen had used on him, with various grades to delay the onset upon the victim by minutes or even hours. It appeared to be the standard formula found in Dei rings for suicide and on wooden sticks to quickly prick a target and kill him without a trace. The antidote, too, which Marcus had given him in advance, could be used as a prescription or remedy.

Most curious were the formulas for a flammable mud called maltha, which promised to stick to anything it touched, clinging to anyone who tried to flee, even to water, which merely made it burn more fiercely. Another compound, which combined quicklime, sulphur, naptha and saltpeter, promised to create a material capable of spontaneous combustion that could be thrown at enemies and explode on impact.

Athanasius put the last letter down and looked at the corpse of Galen on the floor and could picture his own face, his own end. He felt like falling to his knees and sobbing, but he was no longer prone to displays of emotion because he hardly had any left. The reality was that he had nothing more in life but these so-called presents from a dead tribune, given to advance him into a future of death. Yet they were all he had to work with, he knew. Somehow he had to put them to good use. Starting now, here on this ship bound for Ephesus.

Obviously, as Maximus and Galen had proven, he could trust no one in Rome or the Dei. If Ludlumus or Domitian figured out that he had in fact escaped and another man was executed in his place in the Coliseum, the Romans would surely go after his family in Corinth, if that order hadn’t been given already. He had to get to them first and warn them to flee.

Several hours later, just after midnight, Athanasius was pacing the deck under the stars and found Captain Andros talking to the helmsman in the tiller house, his face dark and brooding like the Ionian Sea upon which they were crossing.

“That was quite a show you put on for the officers at dinner, Tribune,” the captain said. “I didn’t know a knife could do so many things to a fish.”

Athanasius noticed the helmsman look away from him in fear and get back to his tiller. The Pegasus had a double-oar rudder system, with cables attached to the main tiller to allow the helmsman to turn both oars at the stern simultaneously. The system of levers and cables enabled him to control the Pegasus in strong currents and rough weather, although tonight it was smooth sailing.

Athanasius said, “I didn’t want the troops to think the emissary of Caesar stayed mostly to himself and took his meals in his cabin. And I wanted to get a good look at them all. Has Galen turned up yet?”

“No,” the captain said. “He must have grasped your suspicions and slipped overboard when we passed an island and swam for it.”

Athanasius shrugged. “Small fish,” he said. “I have bigger in Corinth. How much longer until we arrive?”

“Tomorrow morning we reach the Gulf of Corinth. But it will take another day to make our way through to the harbor,” the captain said. “Then it is a full day to cross the isthmus to the Saronic Gulf and begin the second leg of our journey to Ephesus. You will have only ten hours in Corinth if you plan on doing an interrogation.”

“A full day is more than enough time.”

“You know Corinth then?”

“No, not really,” said Athanasius quickly. He didn’t want to give the captain the impression he was overly familiar with his hometown. “Stopped over once before, like now. But the local garrison will have someone waiting to drive me where I need to go.”

“But, of course, Tribune,” the Greek said grimly before leaving him alone to his thoughts beneath the stars.

Athanasius waited until he was gone before heading back inside his cabin to drag out Galen’s corpse. He had wrapped him in a blanket and tied him to a two-handled amphora full of grain. He dropped him over the side, watching the Dei man quickly sink beneath the wake of the Pegasus to the bottom of the sea.

II

After her beloved’s execution at the Coliseum, Helena was summoned to supper at the Palace of the Flavians. She had no doubt what the performance of her duties to Domitian would entail. She was surprised, however, to find his wife Domitia joining them in Caesar’s private triclinium dining room. Now her agony was compounded; not only was Domitian taunting her, he was using her to taunt his wife, which explained the daggers in Domitia’s eyes as Helena washed her hands with a cloth from an attendant and reclined with them both.

“Welcome, Helena, you look lovely,” Domitian said as the staff began serving supper. “The chef has prepared a feast for us tonight. The first course features a delicately seasoned tongue paired with my favorite wine from Cappadocia.”

With horror Helena understood they were to eat the tongue of her beloved, and she immediately felt the acid of her stomach race up her throat. It was all she could do to not vomit, and she doubted she would be able to stop herself for long.

On cue two servants brought in a beautifully decorated amphora. It had an ornate black-and-red design and two handles. With great pomp and ceremony, the servants unsealed the top.

“My wine comes straight from the vine, untouched by human hands, the nectar of the gods,” Domitian told her, and then nodded to one of the servants.

The wine taster dipped a very small imperial cup that resembled a ladle into the amphora, sipped the wine and swallowed. Helena got the distinct impression that this display of approval was in fact intended to signal to Domitian that the amphora had not been tampered with in transit and that his wine was not poisoned.

“To a successful execution,” he toasted after their cups were filled. He greedily gulped down his cup, then held it out for more.

Presently the flaming tongue arrived, delivered by a servant from the private kitchen they called Julius, which was the kind of name rich Romans reserved for their pets. The African servant’s hands were trembling as he delivered the sizzling dish. The sound and smell were too much for Helena, and she quickly covered her mouth with a cloth and gave up her fig appetizer.

“I beg you pardon, Your Excellency.”

Domitian smiled. “Now you have more room for the tongue.”

Even Domitia could see beyond her own suffering to lay a soft hand on her back for comfort.

Domitian did the honors of slicing the tongue in half, one portion for himself and the other half to be divided equally between Domitia and Helena.

I cannot do this, Helena thought as she watched him spear a slice and shove it into his mouth, smacking his cruel lips in satisfaction. I cannot breathe. I must die.

“Really, you must try some,” he said, waving another piece of tongue before her face. “Or must I give your slice of heaven to Sirius?” He motioned to Julius, who looked visibly shaken, and said, “Bring me my Pharaoh Hound. I have a treat for him.”

Julius looked terrified and said nothing, only nodded and walked away.

A minute later it was the Praetorian prefect who returned with a grim expression.

“Wrong dog, Secundus,” Domitian told him. “Where is my Sirius?”

“We seem to have a problem, Your Excellency. It appears the imperial Pharaoh Hound was attacked by an animal of some sort, his body found by a drain this morning outside the Senate.”

Helena could see shock and sadness in Domitian’s eyes for a fleeting second, only to be quickly replaced by rage. “And where was his walker, Julius, when he was attacked?”

The Praetorian, Secundus, paused, glancing at Helena and Domitia. “Yes, perhaps I can explain in a private audience with His Excellency.”

“No,” said Domitian, swallowing another chunk of tongue. “You shall explain it to me right here, right now.”

“It appears there was a bit of a mix-up at the Coliseum today, Your Excellency. Even the Master of the Games was not aware of it. I only found out now, after piecing together several disparate reports.”

Domitian chased his chunk of tongue down with another sip of his Cappadocian wine. “What sort of mix-up?”

Secundus cranked his neck just a bit and said, “The propmasters decided to salvage some of the armor used for the production of Chiron’s execution, so they went into the Gate of Death and began to strip the corpse.”

Helena thought she was going to die. Please, Jupiter, make it end.

“Upon removal of the armor, one of the propmasters noticed a tattoo on the shoulder of the corpse.”

Helena stopped breathing. Athanasius had no tattoo that she knew of, unless they had cruelly branded him for show.

“This tattoo was of the third cohort of the Praetorian. One of our own, sir.”

Domitian’s eyes seemed to pop as the truth began to sink in. “What are you telling me, Secundus?”

“It appears that the man executed was not, in fact, Athanasius of Athens but the imperial interrogator sent to torture him in prison. Somehow the villain overcame him and cut out his tongue.”

Domitian stood up, shaking. “You mean to tell me that Chiron has escaped and I have been feasting on the tongue of one of my own officials?”

Helena was elated inside. Athanasius alive? Escaped?

“No, sir,” Secundus said quickly, and she became subdued again. “I am only the messenger here, Your Excellency, and would never even consider bringing what I am about to tell you unless I knew for certain other parties were aware and that it will not remain a secret for long.”

Domitian spoke in as low and cruel a voice now as Helena had ever heard him. “The Prefect of my Praetorian will tell me this secret immediately or die.”

“Caesar’s personal physicians, who know so clearly your love for the imperial Pharaoh Hound, examined him carefully in hopes of determining what sort of beast could kill such a divine animal, in order that Caesar could hunt the beast himself. It was my hope to have the beast ready for you before having to present this tragedy.” Secundus swallowed hard. “Upon close examination, Your Excellency, your physicians found a half-digested tongue inside the animal’s stomach, and its own cut off cleanly.”

Domitian looked confused. “You are telling me that the monster who cut off my hound’s tongue then forced him to eat it?”

“No, Your Excellency. Based on the eyewitness account of your servant Julius, your sharp-eyed Sirius spotted and detained a man dressed as a Tribune outside the Senate late last night. By the time Julius ran after him, chasing the yelps, he found only the Tribune, who said the dog had run off. In hindsight, it appears this Tribune was none other than Athanasius, and that he used the tongue of your interrogator to lure the dog and then kill him. He then passed along the dog’s tongue to your servant Julius as that of Athanasius’s, and the kitchen prepared it for you tonight.

Helena was in a daze. The Empress Domitia’s mouth was open, desperately trying to keep its corners from turning up in a smirk.

Domitian suddenly fell over and began to wretch on the floor, sinking to his knees in the puddle and crying out, “Sirius! My Sirius! What have they done to you! Minerva, save me!”

Helena quickly got up and hoped to excuse herself from this scene. But Caesar pointed an accusing finger at her that made her freeze in terror.

“You!” he screamed at her. “And you, Secundus! Rest assured that this clown Athanasius, this amusement, this half-wit who calls himself Chiron, will suffer more than he ever imagined. Secundus, I want you to fetch me the Master of the Games. Ludlumus will answer for this. And round up the generals. The armies of Rome will search the far corners of the empire to hunt down Athanasius and bring his head to me on a silver platter.”

“At your orders, Your Excellency,” said Secundus, who vanished quickly.

Slowly Domitian rose to his feet, the bottom of his toga stained with the bits of vomit and tongue, and walked over to her and looked her in the eye. “Your beloved Athanasius couldn’t die with honor in the arena, could he? Couldn’t take the status that Ludlumus gave him as Chiron—a far better station than any playwright deserved—and thank the gods for making him more immortal than his forgettable comedies? No, he had to poke us in the eye and shake a fist at the gods. He had to mock us with this travesty, and in so doing merely tell us he is still alive and that our retribution was not too harsh but too light. You and I, Helena, will have to remedy that. I will see you in my bedchamber shortly.”

With that Caesar turned his back on her and Domitia and stalked out to meet with his generals. Helena looked at the empress, whose expression of horror only further worried her as to what more divine misfortune could possibly befall her and Athanasius.

III

Much like Athanasius himself, his hometown of Corinth straddled two different worlds. The Greek city was built on the Isthmus of Corinth, that narrow stretch of land that joins the Peloponnesus to the mainland of Greece, about halfway between Athens and Sparta. The well-to-do city had two main ports, one on the Corinthian Gulf, which served the trade routes of the western empire, and one on the Saronic Gulf, serving the trade routes of the eastern empire. As such it was at the crossroads of trade, culture and religion.

The Pegasus had docked in the port city of Lechaion in the Corinthian Gulf. By nightfall it would be departing from the port city of Kenchreai on the Saronic Gulf on the other side of the isthmus. In between was the Diolkos, the overland stone ramp that connected the two ports after centuries of costly attempts to dig out a canal had failed. The Pegasus would be rolled across the isthmus on logs, as the ancient Egyptians had rolled blocks of granite to make their pyramids. The journey was a good 43 stadia and would take ten hours.

That’s how long Athanasius had to warn his family and escape before anybody knew the tribune interrogator was missing when he failed to show up in Kenchreai.

As he walked down the gangway and around the harbor crates and cranes, Athanasius knew he was defying Marcus’s instructions by visiting his family estate outside the city, just as he did when he went to Maximus. But a growing fear for the safety of his family had been gnawing him for days. He had to warn them, help them escape. There were thousands of islands in Greece, far away from the big ocean traffic, where he could lose himself, just like his forefather, the original Vasiliki, who had killed some ancient general who had taken his sister as a sex slave and then hid out in the Minoan city of Vasiliki in Crete. When he returned to public life, friends and strangers called him by his new name. He could do that, maybe someday get Helena to join him, after Domitian was finally dead.

He thought of his mother and two older sisters and two younger brothers and their families. More than two dozen nieces and nephews in all. How in the world could he protect them all or get them all out of Corinth? It seemed impossible. Whatever the case, he resolved to be steadfast and firm and demand the family flee. His plan was clear: to send them back to the islands from whence they came.

Even from the harbor he could see Corinth’s acropolis in the distance, where the great Temple of Aphrodite once stood before an earthquake leveled it. Now there were several smaller temples dedicated to the goddess in the city, each with statues boasting the face of Helena. The first one greeted him and all visitors to the harbor as he walked toward the taxi station. The sight aroused both pride and anguish. He had hoped to return in triumph with Helena and the success of Opus Gloria.

Athanasius hailed a cisium at the station, put his sack of belongings in the compartment under the seat and told the taxi driver to take him to town, where he would switch to another cab. The cisiarri yanked the reins on his two mules, and the open carriage with two wheels started down the limestone Lechaion Way south toward the town.

They drove along the colonnade of Corinthian columns and pulled up to the Roman arch near the Perine Fountain. He got out, paid the driver and walked through the agora of public buildings and shops, passing the tribunal bema from which Paul the Apostle spoke to his parents’ generation in Corinth some 20 years before he was born.

Athanasius headed straight toward his favorite temple of Aphrodite next to the city’s theater, which could seat 18,000 and where he used to spend so much of his youth and staged his first play. Almost a hundred years before he was born, the Greek geographer Strabo boasted that the city’s famous Temple of Aphrodite employed more than one thousand prostitutes. Athanasius recalled only about 300 growing up, less in number than the days of the year, which wreaked havoc with the math of a peculiar contest of religiosity among the local Greek boys that stirred quite the resentment among local Jewish and Christian girls.

He also recalled some tension with the Christian community in Corinth, mostly because the Apostle Paul had lived in the city for almost two years. Here he wrote his infamous Book of Romans, which was about as controversial as John’s Book of Revelation. All Athanasius remembered as a child were the jokes about the Corinthians simply being Corinthians in response to the apostle’s call for stricter sexual mores. His mother and father knew a couple who were Paul’s right-hand leaders, a woman named Priscilla and her husband Aquila. His father thought it blasphemous that the new superstition allowed such lofty status for a woman. His mother, meanwhile, never got over how swiftly the superstition could carry her friend off to the far corners of the earth with this crazy evangelist.

Athanasius listened carefully to the conversations in the air as he walked through the public squares. No news yet about his death except that it was anticipated. He stopped off at the theater with a statue of himself, the hometown boy. He had hoped to bring Helena here to meet his family and show her that she wasn’t the only one to get statues in her honor. He had also hoped to impress his cousins by presenting Aphrodite herself in the flesh.

Helena’s statue was in front of the Temple of Aphrodite. There she was, a fifteen-foot-tall Helena in stone representing the goddess Aphrodite. Athanasius stood before her, thinking about the model for the even larger version in the works back in Rome and if it would ever see the light of day now that she was linked to him, the notorious Chiron.

“Now there’s a handful,” said a voice, and he turned to see a stranger.

Athanasius looked him over, and then around, worried about spies and assassins waiting for him. It was possible that news of his escape from Rome had outraced the Pegasus to reach Domitian’s informants here in Corinth.

He decided it was best to simply get out of town, before some cousin or childhood friend recognized him. “Isn’t she?” he told the stranger and walked away.

He hailed another cab, driven by a young man with smooth, dark features and a fixed smile for tourists. “Where to, Tribune?”

“The Argos Farms,” he said, naming a neighboring farm past his family’s estate. He would double back on foot to reach his home, cut through the groves to the stables in back and avoid the front drive off the main road.

The driver nodded. “That’s a good twelve stadia outside town. It will take us an hour.”

“I’ll pay you for your way back too.”

“At your service, Tribune.”

Athanasius climbed in and off they went, leaving the statue of Helena and tourists behind. He was headed home.

•    •    •

Corinth and its outskirts had changed some since Athanasius last saw his hometown four years ago. The Romans were upgrading public buildings, and the roads were vastly improved. He doubted it would take even an hour to reach home, and he was right: Sooner than he expected they approached his family’s estate outside town.

As they drove past his childhood home, Athanasius did his best to avoid looking at the two Corinthian pillars that marked the entrance to the long, winding gravel path lined with cypress trees to the villa. But something caused the cab’s mules to skip a step, and Athanasius looked ahead to see traffic coming their way.

“We may have to pull over to let the caravan pass,” the driver told him. “Perhaps they come from the Argos Farms?”

Athanasius couldn’t afford to find out. Any member of the Argos family or their workers might recognize him, sitting in the open carriage in a tribune’s uniform no less.

“Cut down the path ahead,” Athanasius ordered.

“What path?”

“I’ll show you.” Athanasius decided to use the back road to the family tannery. The tannery road started at the northwest side of the property, a few minutes from the east gates. He would use it to quietly reach the estate. “Hurry!”

The mules kicked up and they went about half a stade before a narrow dirt path, barely visible, appeared between the trees. “Here?” the driver asked.

“Yes,” said Athanasius, and tried to will the mules to speed up.

They turned onto the path and slipped into the trees just as the first of the wagons from the caravan passed by on the road behind them, affording whoever was looking a view of the carriage’s backside.

They took a long path past the family’s fly-infested and odorous tannery, which was kept a good distance away not only from town but from the Vasiliki estate, and finally rounded a cool glade and entered the sunny grove behind the family villa. Athanasius could see the stables below, and for a moment he was a boy again. He could picture old Perseus the stable hand, showing him how to properly saddle a horse or milk a goat. Such a different life it was, his childhood. As was his life now. So different had it turned out than expected.

“Athanasius!” called a voice, startling him and perking the ears of the driver.

It was Demetrius, his old friend and son of Perseus, coming out of the stables and waving his hands wildly.

“Demetrius!” Athanasius shouted, and climbed down from the carriage to give big Demetrius a hug and stop him from talking too much until the driver left. “You’re even bigger than I remember. Where’s your father?”

Demetrius looked down. “He died not long after your father.” Then he looked at the driver who lifted the seat in the carriage to remove Athanasius’s pack. “Where is she?”

“Who?”

“Helena, your bride. The whole family is inside waiting for you. Your mother has prepared quite the feast. Everybody is coming over.”

“What are you talking about, Demetrius?”

“The message you sent your mother about your arrival today. What’s with the Roman get-up? Is this one of your jokes?”

“I sent no message,” Athanasius said, yanking his sword out of its hilt as he spun around and stabbed the driver in the stomach. The dagger in the driver’s hand, lifted in the air to stab Athanasius in the back, fell to the ground with the body.

Demetrius stared at the driver. “What are you doing?”

“We have to get to the house!” Athanasius yelled over his shoulder as he set off in a run. “The Romans are coming!”

He was halfway across the gardens when he saw the first flaming arrow arc high into the sky and crash through the red-tiled roof. “Jupiter, no!” he yelled as dozens more from all directions flew over him and hit the villa.

An explosion of screams followed by fire and smoke blew out every window. Then a great column of fire burst up out of the roof and into the sky.

A door opened and in the frame he saw his mother, bent over, staggering in the smoke, helped out by one of the cousins. Then an arrow hit her in the chest and she fell.

“Mother!” he screamed.

Dozens of heavily armored Roman legionnaires with javelins, swords and shields approached the house in a line, moving in methodically to block any escape. But one of his nieces, he could not recognize which, managed to crawl out a window and make a run for it.

A Roman butcher—the very one who had shot his mother—chased her down. His face was unforgettable, marked by a vertical gash from his forehead to his chin, as if an ax had once practically split his head in two. And his demented expression was like some malevolent god who took pleasure only by inflicting pain. When he caught up to his prey, he raised his javelin high and with two hands plunged it into her back, once and again.

“No! Oh, no! No!” Athanasius screamed and then felt something large tackle him to the ground.

It was Demetrius, sitting on him, pushing his face into the dirt to muffle his cries. “Too many spears, Athanasius. You cannot save them, only yourself.”

And then the words shattered through the shouts and screams as the villa came crumbling down. It was his mother, calling out to him.

“Athanasius!”

Athanasius couldn’t move, couldn’t even open his mouth, so great was the weight of big Demetrius upon him.

“You must run, Athanasius. Run away. As must I.”

With that the heaviness was gone, and so was Demetrius. Athanasius looked around at the smoldering ruins of his family’s villa, unable to comprehend the vision of tragedy before his eyes.

He tasted blood in his mouth where he had bitten his tongue and heard his hard breathing. Something inside him had crumbled to nothing, unleashing a fury that overwhelmed all his fears.

He quickly picked himself up, made his way back to the stables, pulled out a horse and rode away, allowing himself one last look at the destruction of everything left that he held dear in this life. He had thought he had lost everything before, but now the finality of yet another shock turned his grief into a wildfire of rage.

You’re going to die for this, Domitian, he vowed to himself. You and all that stinks of Rome.

The port of Kenchreai hummed at dusk as the dockworkers loaded the last stores onto the Pegasus. Captain Andros was going over the charts with the helmsman when he heard his name and looked up to see the centurion approach, shaking his head. “We’ve waited as long as we can, Captain. No sign of the tribune, and we have to arrive in Ephesus by the 14th of the month.”

The captain nodded and walked out on deck to give the order to lift the gangway. It was late indeed, and darkness had fallen across the harbor. He could hear the strands of music from the taverns welcoming sailors who had just arrived. Then he heard a shout. Coming up the gangway was the tribune.

“We thought you weren’t going to make it, Tribune,” the captain told him as the gangway came up.

The tribune, who looked unusually distressed, said, “Some interrogations take longer than others. I’ll be in my cabin for the night.”

“Of course, Tribune.”

“Oh, one more thing,” the tribune said, and Andros could feel another surprise coming in the pit of his stomach. “We will be making an unscheduled stop on the way to Ephesus. I have another interrogation to perform on Patmos.”

“Patmos?” the captain repeated, unable to contain his dismay.

“Don’t tell the crew until the last moment,” the tribune calmly replied. “They might worry they are the troop relief for the island instead of Ephesus. Even the commander of the garrison on Patmos is not expecting me. Caesar is worried about spies in his ranks. Let us not give him cause to suspect any of your crew.”

“Yes, Tribune,” Andros said and watched the tribune march up the two steps to his cabin door. Andros was as superstitious as old men of the sea came, and he could only shake his head. This doesn’t bode well, he thought as the tribune shut the door behind him. Not well at all.

IV

For the better part of two days Athanasius lay on his hammock staring at the ceiling, contemplating his situation and how he was utterly alone in this world. The sad fact was that he had nowhere to hide—not Rome, not home in Greece, and not even the Dei. At this point he had no choice but to use the cover he had as an interrogator to visit the last apostle John in his prison on the island of Patmos.

But he would not be asking the last apostle to help him find refuge within the underground Christian movement as Marcus had anticipated back in Rome. No, he would break the old man out under the guise of a prisoner transfer to Ephesus for a trial before the governor. He could think of nothing better to drive Domitian insane than to make John vanish from custody and magically appear in the streets of Ephesus, publicly discrediting the Dei. The truth would destroy Domitian’s lie to the Christians and expose the false accusations that Athanasius of Athens was Chiron.

Of course, the Romans could quickly kill him and John, but the damage would have been done. And if Athanasius could stay alive long enough—that is, outlive Domitian—there was yet hope he could one day return to Rome, reunite with Helena and wreak vengeance on his turncoat rival Ludlumus.

But what if John balked? There was always that remote possibility. In that case, Athanasius would have to persuade him in his own vernacular. To prepare for his visit with the last apostle, he decided it best to study what the apostle wrote.

So on his third day after fleeing Corinth, Athanasius dug out the scrolls of Christian scripture from Chiron’s trunk. For several days he sat at his cabin’s desk, studying the collected gospels, letters and Book of Revelation, pausing only to take meals at his desk, sleep in his hammock and relieve himself in the nearest latrine at the stern—an empty amphora, once filled with something else, that drained to the bilge at the bottom of the ship.

It didn’t take him long to see why The Way had so spooked Rome: According to the “good news,” the only sacrifice to God that the Christian superstition required had already been made in this man Jesus. And the only religious sacraments he could find—communion and baptism—were not requirements of the faith but symbols of remembrance. They were certainly a far cry from the urban legends in Rome of drinking blood and drowning people.

As for money, Jesus didn’t seem to bother with it, except to drive out moneychangers at the temple in Jerusalem who forced people to pay to pray. He also offended his rich followers by telling them their money would not get them into heaven and to give it away to the poor, not to the temple or even his organization. It was this kind of thinking that apparently so set off his treasurer Judas, who later betrayed him.

All this so they couldn’t boast of their charity to God.

Well, Athanasius concluded, without sacrifice or money involved, Christianity could not be defined as a religion at all. Indeed, it was antithetical to everything the gods of Rome demanded for survival.

Most galling of all, Jesus was quoted as saying that there would be surprises in heaven. Not everybody who used his name on earth would be granted admission. Meanwhile, he said that others who had never heard of him would be welcomed.

Athanasius now understood why so many disciples deserted Jesus toward the end of his life, and he could see why he would too. He especially took issue with the entire deus ex machina return of Jesus at the end of history.

Believing in Jesus, let alone waiting for him to come back, wasn’t going to get him out of his mess. Only action.

There was a knock at the door. “Enter.”

The steward who had replaced Galen in serving him walked in. He was the young, peppy anti-Galen. “Tribune,” he said brightly, even as his knees practically knocked together in terror. “The captain wanted you to know we’ve spotted Patmos.”

Athanasius went up to the deck to get a glimpse. It was just before sunrise, and the dark cliffs of the island rose from the horizon like a jagged rock jutting up from the sea. As they rounded a cape, Athanasius saw a small white harbor nestled at the foot of the gloomy mountain.

Somewhere in that mountain was a cave, he thought, and inside that cave a man who claimed to have seen the end of the world.

A voice beside him said, “Tribune, are you sure you don’t want to skip this excursion?”

This time it was the centurion who had come to converse in private with him.

“Now why would I want to do that, Centurion?”

“My men are anxious to get to Ephesus. And the oarsmen, sailors and marines aboard are anxious. They don’t like the thought of anchoring off an island prison.”

“Perhaps they’ve done something to merit such fears?”

“Nothing, Tribune. Nothing at all. But you know men of the sea. They are a superstitious lot. The end of the world was revealed on this island.”

“Only if you’re superstitious, Centurion. I am not. Tell the captain to take us in, or prepare to explain to Caesar why you chose to defy the will of Rome.”

“At your orders, Tribune,” he said and left quickly.

•    •    •

The Pegasus was too big a ship for the tiny harbor, so it had to anchor some ways off in deeper waters. The centurion and two officers took Athanasius in on a smaller boat. On the way in, Athanasius couldn’t help but notice another ship, rather sizable but small enough to anchor in the harbor. The name painted on the stern was Sea Nymph, and it flew an Egyptian flag. It had the forecastle and stern house for dignitaries, but only one row of oars to support the sails. Something about it seemed off.

The centurion must have seen him staring. “A floating opium den and whorehouse from Alexandria, here to entertain the garrison. Our timing was fortunate.”

Indeed, it was. Athanasius could use such a distraction with the garrison while he extricated John. The oarsmen of his little boat seemed to put their backs into it, eager to reach the island now that it offered more than prisoners and prophets of doom.

“Your men will have to wait until Ephesus, Centurion. I won’t be long. We have a prisoner to transfer.”

Athanasius could feel the wind taken out of his two rowers, their disappointment palpable. “Such is life,” he told them sternly, knowing it all too well.

The officers tied up in the harbor, and Athanasius and the centurion headed up the stone quay, passing the whitewashed barracks toward the square, where there was some commotion.

Athanasius reached the edge of the square and saw a prisoner tied to a post, surrounded by a small group of soldiers. The island’s commanding officer—and de facto prison warden—was dressed in full regalia, minus a helmet, perhaps to impress the whores watching from the deck of their ship.

The commander snapped a long whip on the prisoner’s battered back, leaving a deep red stripe among several others. The prisoner screamed in agony. The soldiers jeered. It appeared to Athanasius this was something of an entertainment between the rounds of real fun aboard the floating pleasure barge.

“Commander?” Athanasius asked aloud.

“Sextus Calpurnius Barbatio,” the commander said, irked by this break in his rhythm. Then seeing the tribune rankings, Barbatio snapped to attention. “Tribune, sir. To what do we owe this visit? Surely you must understand that my men get first priority with the Sea Nymph. Your men will have to wait their turn. I’m sure you’ll understand.”

Athanasius wordlessly handed over his imperial order with Caesar’s seal to the commander, who gave it a glance and then, apparently due to poor eyesight, handed it to his aide to read to him. The aide did so in a low voice as Barbatio listened with a stone face.

Barbatio said, “How can we assist the tribune?”

“I’m here to interrogate the last apostle John.”

There was silence in the square. Even the wailing prisoner stopped his cries.

“You will find the threat of physical torture and death useless on the old man,” Barbatio finally said. “Even my own psychological efforts have failed thus far.”

“And what are those?”

“We learned the whip does not work on the apostle, so we use it on the other prisoners every night before supper. Then I visit John to confess my evil and demand his forgiveness. I know he must, as many times as I ask. So I wait for the day he cannot bear the burden any longer and tells me what I want to hear.”

“What is that?”

“The meaning of the Book of Revelation.”

“Oh, you mean there is one?” Athanasius said, prompting some nervous laughter. Then he got tough. “Your failures are not my concern, Commander.” He glanced at the brothel boat in the harbor. “Nor your lack of discipline. I have my orders, and so do you.”

Barbatio, none too happy with the tribune’s tone, nodded. “Cornelius here will escort you to the cave. It’s a bit of a climb.”

A young officer stepped forward, and Athanasius followed him toward some stone steps out of the public square and up the hill. Behind him he heard the music of Patmos play again with the snap of a whip and the cries of the prisoner.

Athanasius went up the long, zigzagging path toward the cave. He was almost out of breath by the time they came to the iron gate at the entrance, which was flanked by two prison guards. The guards opened the gate at Cornelius’s orders.

“You’ll wait outside,” Athanasius said and stepped inside.

•    •    •

The cave was dark, illuminated only by a few flickering candles and a shaft of dim light from some crack in the ceiling. There was movement in the back. Athanasius waited for his eyes to adjust.

He could see the recess in the rock, close to the ground, where the apostle would lay his head when resting. But he was not there. There was another recess to the right a little higher up where the apostle would probably support his hands as he knelt to pray. But John was not there either. And there was a more or less level place in the rock that looked to be used as a desk. There were papers and writing instruments on it.

Perhaps another revelation? Athanasius wondered. One that could explain what had happened to the last apostle?

He took a step toward the desk when he saw a shadow move at the back of the cave. A flicker of light appeared. An old, bearded man with white hair emerged from an alcove holding a candle. He wore the simple tunic of a prisoner and broken sandals. He looked at Athanasius curiously.

“I haven’t seen your face before, Tribune.”

“No, but perhaps you’ve heard my name. Chiron.”

The last apostle screwed his eyes and paused before answering. “I doubt that. Who are you, really?”

Athanasius looked around the cave and back toward the opening. Satisfied they were far enough away from being overhead outside, he said, “My name is Athanasius of Athens. I’m here to free you.”

V

“I don’t want to be freed,” John the Last Apostle told Athanasius after listening to his sad story. They were sitting on the sleeping ledge of the cave. John had a gentle, soft demeanor, completely at odds with his character in the gospel accounts and the violence of Revelation. “I’m already free. You’re the one who needs to be free. Free from this hatred I see in your eyes.”

This was precisely what Athanasius feared might happen. “My hatred is reserved for Rome, old man, and for Dominium Dei. Not Jesus or The Way.”

“You must love others, Athanasius, and forgive your enemies.”

Athanasius resisted the insanity of John’s easy words. “You don’t know Caesar Domitian like I do, nor his vile master of the Games. They killed the consul, Flavius Clemens, your top Christian in Rome, I hear, along with many others. They will keep on killing. They want to destroy your Church.”

“It’s not my Church, Athanasius. Jesus is the head.”

“Then come with me to Ephesus and say as much publicly. Expose the Dei and Domitian. Leave the rest to us in Rome.”

“You will accomplish nothing by killing Caesar.”

Athanasius threw out the bait that Clemens’ servant Stephanus threw him: “Even if Young Vespasian becomes emperor and bows before Christ?”

“That’s his business,” John said, unimpressed with the vision of a Christian world. “But you are gravely mistaken if you believe that turning Christianity into the official religion of Rome will save anybody. Jesus said his kingdom is in heaven, not on earth. I see great evil in this thinking of yours.”

“And I see greater evil in an old man who would prefer to see his doomsday vision scorch the earth than lift a finger to help an innocent man.”

“From what you told me, Athanasius, you don’t seem so innocent. Senator Maximus’s slave, the steward on your ship, the driver in Corinth. You’ve been busy, and there’s blood on your hands. Why should I believe that you are not from the Dei? You could be a plant from Caesar to spy out the Church and destroy it.”

“I am not!” Athanasius shouted and stood up. “The senator, like you, betrayed me. His slave tried to kill me. The ship’s steward thought he had, and the driver in Corinth was about to, before his friends the Roman legions slaughtered my entire family and razed the house I grew up in! My actions are justified! You don’t tell me about calling down the fire! Because your good Jesus has already incinerated everything I held dear!”

His rant prompted the guards outside to open the iron gate at the mouth of the cave and walk in to see if everything was all right.

“Father John!” called Cornelius until Athanasius cut him short.

“Out!” Athanasius cried, brandishing his sword. “Or I interrogate you too, Brother Cornelius. Are you one of those secret acolytes among the guards here that I’ve heard about?”

“No, Tribune,” Cornelius said, backing off with his torch. “My apologies, sir. Hail, Caesar.”

Athanasius watched him retreat and turned to John, who was calm as ever.

John said, “Tell me about this girl in your dreams again, before your nightmare began. The only one I see in my nightmares is the Whore of Babylon.”

“I told you, old man. I, too, have had visions of the future, and the ancient past as well. Comes with being an imaginative playwright, I suppose. But while the dreams change, the girl is the same. Barely a young woman, with long black hair and big dark eyes that bleed tears of blood. I have always fallen into a bottomless cave, but she calls me out into the light with a voice that sounds like running water.” Athanasius sighed. “I don’t know what I’m saying. My life is all a bad dream now. Your God is an illusion.”

“No, Athanasius,” John told him. “God is reality. Everything else is illusion.”

He held his candle up to the crack in the roof of the cave, presumably produced in the rock by the exceptional physical and supernatural phenomena that accompanied the vision. This fissure extended across the upper part of the cave from east to west, dividing the rock into three parts and thus, Athanasius supposed, serving old John as a continual reminder of the trinitarian nature of God.

“Your coming to this holy place is not chance in your life, Athanasius. God, who wishes all men to be saved and to come to a knowledge of truth, who directs all things for man’s spiritual benefit, has guided you here for you to listen, deep within yourself, to the secret echo of the words that Jesus spoke to the seven churches of Asia.”

“Words that have been ignored.”

“Yes, the light has been extinguished because their faith in God grows cold. But I know that you have seen in your mind’s eye the heavenly vision revealed to me. I can see God’s sovereign work in your life even if you do not. And if what you say about the Dei is true, it must be exposed to the churches of Asia Minor.”

“So you will come with me?”

“No,” John said, shuffling to his desk of stone. “But I will write a letter for you to take to the church leaders in Ephesus. They can decide for themselves if they want to help you.”

This was not what he wanted, but it was clear he would get no better at this point. He had told John about the Dei, and the old man was writing in his own hand a letter acknowledging such for him to give to the leaders of The Way in Ephesus.

“And how can your disciples help me?”

“They can hide you in one of the churches in Asia, away from Rome’s legions.”

“You mean one of those seven problematic churches you address in your Book of Revelation? Some help.”

“I did not address them, my son. Jesus did. And there is an eighth church I have in mind.”

“An eighth church?” Athanasius repeated.

“Yes,” John said, finishing up and signing his papyrus, folding it and sealing it with wax and a symbol. He handed it over. “If you open it, you can see I used the Caesar’s own cipher. You know it?”

Athanasius knew it. The key was a square containing the 24 letters of the Roman alphabet across the top and 24 numbers down the side. Each numbered row or “shift” was its own alphabet, beginning with the next letter of the alphabet from the shift above. So alphabet 1 began with the B, which translated “A.” Alphabet 2 began with a C, which also translated to an “A.” And so on down the line for 24 alphabets.

“I know it,” he told John.

“Then you know that neither you nor the Romans nor the Dei can break it without knowing the secret keyword.” John handed him the letter.

Athanasius placed it in the pocket beneath his breastplate. “So what is the keyword?”

John smiled. The old man wasn’t going to tell him.

Athanasius sighed. “Then who is my contact in Ephesus, and where do I meet him?”

Again, John was indirect in his reply. “You’ll take the letter and go to the town library. There you will request the eleven-volume memoir titled Miracles in Asia Minor: My Life and Times. It is by Gaius Mucius Mucianus, who was once governor of Syria and traveled throughout Asia and wrote about it.”

Athanasius vaguely recalled the name Mucianus from his lawyer Pliny’s uncle, who apparently drew from this memoir in his own geographic text Natural History. “And then?”

“You will place the letter inside the eighth volume and return the collection. The following day you will return to the library and again check out the collection. Inside the same eighth volume you will find further instructions.”

Athanasius didn’t like it. John was proposing one of those drop-offs the spies used, and not direct contact. The old man really doesn’t trust me, Athanasius thought. “So I’m to fend for myself for a night in Ephesus? What if the Romans get me?”

John shrugged. “They haven’t yet. This is all in God’s hands.”

“And you’ve just washed your own hands clean like Pontius Pilate did with Jesus, is that it?”

John nodded. “You’ve been reading your Scriptures.”

Actually, he remembered that one from the imperial Roman accounts of the trial of Jesus that he had read long before this nightmare. “How do I know you aren’t instructing them to kill me or turn me in?”

“How do they know you aren’t an assassin of Rome or the Dei to kill them all? They may not even recognize my handwriting. My secretary Prochorus comes by day to write my letters.” John sighed. “I can’t make them do anything, and Jesus won’t make them do anything. This isn’t the Roman army or empire. Each can do as he likes, and as you’ve read with the seven churches, most do. I can remind them of the true gospel of Jesus, warn them of false gospels, tell them to love each other. But I cannot offer them worldly wealth or comfort. We’re all volunteers.”

“I was conscripted.”

“Yes, you were, weren’t you? I told you, I see hatred in your eyes, if not for the Lord then for Rome. That in itself is a danger to The Way.”

“Yes, quite,” said a voice, and out of the shadows emerged the commander Barbatio, sword at Athanasius’s throat. Somehow he had slipped in silently. He stared at Athanasius. “To think I can now have both the head of the church of Asia and the head of the church in Rome. I can only imagine Caesar’s gratitude for your capture. How is this for a proposal, Tribune: You stay here, and I get off this rock and return to Rome?”

Athanasius nodded. “There is only one problem with your proposal, Commander,” he said. “This little stick.”

Athanasius held up a wooden stick to Barbatio’s sword, and the commander laughed. “What do you think you are going to do with that?”

“This,” said Athanasius and thrust his hand forward, driving the poisoned tip of the stick into the soft flesh beneath Barbatio’s chin.

“Ah!” the commander gasped, clutching his throat.

Athanasius quickly grabbed him by the hair and threw him face down on the floor at John’s feet, where he writhed in agony.

The last apostle threw his hands to his head. “This is not the way of Jesus!”

“Nevertheless, you said I’m God’s servant,” he said. “And right now this is the only way I know how to get out of here. So say your prayers. Silently.”

He ran out of the cave at the same moment Cornelius and the two guards ran in with torches to see their commander face down on the cave floor with a halo of blood around his head.

Cornelius drew his sword and took a swing at Athanasius as he shouted to the others outside. But Athanasius blocked it with his own sword and smashed the hilt on the aide’s helmet, sending him to the ground. Then Athanasius ran out.

Already a unit of archers was rushing toward the cave, brought on by the shouts.

Athanasius dashed around the hill, racing through rocks at the back, jumping into a trench and down toward the quarries below.

Arrows began raining down as he wound this way and that, not knowing where he was going. Once again he had blown his way of escape, just like he had in Rome, only this time it was worse: Unlike the dark slums of Rome, he was out in the open with no cover and no ship to go back to, because surely more legions were now waiting at the Pegasus. He had met the last apostle and had gotten a letter of introduction of sorts to open doors in the church, much like the letter from Caesar opened doors in the empire. But he had failed to take John with him, had killed the garrison commander of the island prison, and thus sealed off any way of escape for himself.

I’m going to die here before the last apostle, he realized as he ran.

An arrow glanced his calf and he went down, tumbling over and over until he hit a fig tree. He jumped up and darted into a grove of trees. Suddenly he came upon a break in the grove, where a narrow road cut across. He slid down through the brush and started to cross to the other side when a golden litter carried by four dark slaves stopped in front of him.

The veil opened to reveal the spitting image of Cleopatra. It was the madame from the Sea Nymph, the queen of the whores. “Need a lift, Tribune? Or do you want to stay here and die? Get in!”

VI

As the litter moved off into the dusk, Athanasius and the woman dressed like Cleopatra sat cross-legged facing one another. “You’re dirtier than all the prisoners here, Tribune.”

The way she said “Tribune” told him she knew exactly who he was, or rather who he was not. “Why are you helping me, Cleopatra?” he asked her, using the same tone on her name that she had used with him.

“Call me Cleo, mistress of the Sea Nymph,” she told him. “And who says I am helping you? I am helping John. My pleasure barge pays regular visits to Patmos. My girls service the guards, well, most of them. Some of the guards come aboard and slip my girls secret letters that we take to other ports of call.”

“Like this one?” Athanasius showed her the letter that John had given him.

She looked it over and then nodded. “Exactly. I was waiting to receive something like this from Cornelius before you assassinated Barbatio.”

“It wasn’t an assassination,” he insisted. “It was more of an accident.”

“Too bad. He terribly mistreats my girls. I was going to have to do the honors of serving him tonight until you spared me.”

Athanasius studied her as he pondered this unusual arrangement she had with the last apostle and his key leaders in Ephesus. “If you’ll pardon my asking, Cleo, why would a man like the last apostle trust you?”

“A whore?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “For the same reason he probably trusts you. I tell him what his bishops and acolytes won’t: the truth. Now you’ll have to trust me too. Quick, crawl under my ass.”

Athanasius cocked his ear to make sure he had heard correctly, then pulled back the veil of the litter slightly to see that they were entering the harbor. Night had fallen, and the torches were lit. Cornelius, awake and alert now, barked orders for the ranks to form lines. The last of the garrison’s pleasure seekers were quickly disembarking the Sea Nymph and putting on their helmets.

He dropped the curtain and looked at Cleo. Her knees were drawn up to her heaving bosoms, and she had pulled back the cushion underneath to reveal a secret compartment. It was only a Roman foot or so deep but ran the length of the litter and was wide enough for him to crawl in and lie flat. She then rolled the cushion back and sat on him.

“Easy does it, my slaves,” he heard her call out.

The litter stopped. Then came the sound of approaching boots and a voice.

“Madame, you are safe,” said a loud voice, which he recognized as belonging to Cornelius. Perhaps he was playing to the troops. “There has been a tragedy. Commander Barbatio has been assassinated.”

“Have you found the assassin?”

“We are turning the island over now. We have a centurion from the assassin’s ship who can identify him. The captain refuses to help.”

“Have you searched my ship? My girls could be in danger. I won’t board until you’ve searched it from top to bottom.”

“Search the whore barge!” Cornelius shouted, and Athanasius heard the thunder of boots going up the gangway to the boat.

There were holes in the bottom of the litter, through which Athanasius could see the ground and breathe quietly, but not without some struggle. Cleo had made a good play. The troops were bound to search the ship at some point. Better now than after he was on board.

A short time later there was more thunder as the troops came back down the gangway, and a voice said, “I have searched the whore ship from top to bottom, sir. There is nobody but the whores and crew on board.”

“Very well,” said the voice of Cornelius, and as the sound of boots faded away he addressed Cleo. “Such a tragedy, Madame.”

“Yes, it is,” she said in a droll tone. “Barbatio hadn’t consummated our deal, and my girls only serviced the first round of the night. Barbatio had ordered five rounds. I expect to be paid in full. We made a special trip to Patmos. I have Nubian oarsmen, sailors and marines to pay, and girls to feed.”

The voice turned stern as it addressed Cleo, again, it sounded to Athanasius, for public consumption. “You will be content to leave with your lives and return at a later visit to finish our business and get paid. Now be gone, and take your whores with you.”

And with that Athanasius could see the stone of the quay give way to the wood of the gangway as the litter carrying him and Cleo was walked up to the deck. Minutes later he crawled out of his secret hold and stood at the rail of the Sea Nymph gazing back upon the dark waters. The black cutout of Patmos slowly began to fade into the night until it disappeared.

“Oooh, how it must hurt, Pharaoh.”

Seated on a small divan in Cleo’s private cabin aboard the Sea Nymph, Athanasius tried to relax as a girl named “Nefertiri” bathed his cuts in oils, dabbing them gently with a cloth. She seemed genuinely concerned for each and every scratch, blowing on and kissing them.

She offered him wine. “Medicine for your stomach, Great One, as we cruise the Nile on your royal barge?”

Athanasius, recalling his last experience with wine offered to him from Galen aboard the Pegasus, was inclined to decline, but took a small sip anyway, his bones and muscles feeling crushed and not wanting to spoil this little fantasy Nefertiri had created.

Then Cleo spoke from the door in Greek. “Phyllis, back to your quarters.”

Phyllis sheepishly scooped up her assorted comfort potions and tools, then bowed before him and Cleo. She smiled at Athanasius on her way out.

Cleo entered and poured herself a cup of the wine. “Cornelius will see to it that the logs on Patmos will show that the Sea Nymph is going to Alexandria. But first we’ll stop at Ephesus for you. We’ll anchor offshore, and you can go in by boat. You will have to watch yourself going in. I think your Pegasus will beat us with its two additional decks of oars. Consider your career as a tribune over for now. You will have to put away your costume.”

Athanasius nodded. He knew as much. “I don’t suppose you have any other disguises for a man in my position?”

“Wigs, beards and dyes for your hair, too,” she said as she drank her wine. “Everything you could want. We could even make you a woman, although I’m afraid you might draw even more unwanted attention from some men than you already have with the assassination of Barbatio. I can’t imagine old John is happy with you. You must be somebody special if he trusts you.”

“He doesn’t trust me,” Athanasius said. “He thinks I’m a spy from the Dei sent to destroy the Church.”

At the mention of the Dei the blood drained from Cleo’s face and her hand holding her cup froze in mid-air. For a wild moment Athanasius worried he had said the wrong thing and might not reach Ephesus after all. Women like Cleo could be quite cunning, and she did have a deck full of Nubian strongmen at her call. But instead she laughed and put the cup down, then lay on top of him on the bed.

“I can look into your eyes and tell that you are not one of them.”

“And how is that?” Athanasius asked, shifting beneath her.

“You don’t have the empty, dead eyes of the Dei that are devoid of any humanity.”

Athanasius could see that he didn’t have to worry about her killing him, although he did begin to worry about where this evening in bed was going. He could only think of Helena, and how important to his survival it was to hold onto his hatred of Domitian and Ludlumus. To let up for even a moment might deprive him of the full venom he needed. “So you know the Dei?”

Cleo nodded soberly. “Who do you think runs the church in Ephesus?”

Athanasius bolted upright in her bed. “You’re lying now.”

She sat back, startled. “I thought that is why John is sending a man like yourself, to do what his acolytes in the Church cannot and smoke out the Dei.”

“Who told you that the Dei was evil?” he pressed her. “I thought the Dei defended The Way and the helpless, and only attacked Roman power.”

She said, “The Dei preys on the weak and helpless, on the least of these, to make itself more powerful. And it has compromised the church in Ephesus.”

Athanasius said, “According to the Book of Revelation, Jesus lauds the church in Ephesus for its sound doctrine, for not falling into apostasy.”

“Its doctrine is fine,” Cleo told him. “In practice, however, it has been hopelessly compromised. John knows it. But Bishop Timothy, who is a disciple of Paul’s, and his second, Polycarp, who is a disciple of John’s, apparently don’t. I suspect John is sending you to Polycarp because he doesn’t trust Timothy’s disciples, who are thick with the Dei. I know these men, because they run me too.”

Athanasius looked her in the eye. “Tell me everything.”

For the first time since entering her cabin, Cleo smiled.

Over several hours Cleo explained to Athanasius what she knew about the Dei, working backward from her own experience aboard the Sea Nymph to the opium dens and whore houses the Dei operated in ports all around the Great Sea, to the flesh they shipped out of Ephesus—women to the temples, and men to feed the galleys, the mines and the Games in Rome.

“But where do these people come from?” Athanasius asked.

“There are caves in the hinterlands of Asia Minor,” she told him. “Vast, endless caves where the Christians hide in underground cities. Tens of thousands of them. Most live there because they have nowhere else to live, and they crawl out into the day to work as field laborers if they can find work. Many others have moved there for protection from Roman troops, who have better things to do than crawl into holes in the ground. And a vast majority are convinced the world is about to end and have shut themselves in with their families and food stores in preparation.”

Athanasius listened carefully. He had heard rumors of these underground cities, much like the urban legends of catacombs beneath Rome, where a growing army of Christians were breeding to one day surface and overwhelm the city like locusts. But he had chalked that up to Domitian’s propaganda machinery, which always seemed to go into full motion just before the start of the Games every summer.

“What do the caves have to do with the Dei, Cleo?”

“I told you, the caves are where the Dei gets its flesh to feed the Games,” she explained. “Masked men dressed like the Minotaur of Greek mythology make raids to grab young girls and men and terrify the population. The Christians think they are armed bands of local gypsies. But they are Dei. They drug the men and women with opium, and bring them to the port cities, the biggest of which is Ephesus. The women become whores, the men mostly slaves or gladiators, and are shipped out to the far corners of the empire, never to return.”

More myths and mysteries, he thought. Each seemed to reveal yet another when it came to Dominium Dei. He had been led to believe that the Dei was an imperial organization. But Cleo was describing something else, something more like a trade organization based on commerce, not politics. “So the Dei sells opium and flesh for money?”

“No, secrets. They use their sex clubs and ships like this: The Dei employ young boys and girls to have sex with customers and blackmail them. The Christians are the easiest marks and make no trouble. Bishops who come to Ephesus for church conferences, for example, are often lured into compromise and then, once under the control of the Dei, are sent back to their provincial churches.”

“None resist?” Athanasius asked.

“No,” she said. “I tell my own girls that God has given them free wills. The only opium they use is for the pleasure of their guests. The ones who are Christians, they are ashamed to go back to their hometowns and families. The few who have are shunned and come back to me. Only one girl, a very young girl who was terribly mistreated, went back to the caves to warn the others and never came back. I heard she was alive, but that was months ago. Today, God knows.”

“Why don’t you resist?”

“I do,” she said. “I stay employed by the Dei in order to help the real Church and men like John—and my girls. I cannot choose their life for them. But I can do my best to keep them safe as much as depends on me.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Two reasons,” she said. “The first is that you said something about the Dei being an imperial organization. Perhaps it is. But in Asia Minor it is very much associated with the Church.”

“Why don’t the bishops denounce it?”

“They do,” Cleo said. “That is, they denounce murderous acts like the slaying of the astrologer Caelus, despite their belief that astrology is of the devil. But they don’t know about everything else the Dei does. They don’t even know that their prime benefactors are members of the Dei, because their society in the Church goes by a different name than it does in public.”

“What name is that?”

“The Lord’s Vineyard. It’s a fellowship of tradesmen and commercial businessmen.”

“And the Lord’s Vineyard and the Dei are one and the same?”

“I think so.”

“You think?”

“I know that the owner of this ship is a member of the Dei by the code name Poseidon. He is the Dei chief in Ephesus. I also believe he is a member of the church there, and a representative of the Lord’s Vineyard. His daughter goes by the name Urania and runs a honey trap in Ephesus called the Club Urania, using her girls to nab men who go there. Her father then ships them off to Rome along with more girls and opium. If you find him, he might be able to lead you to the head of the Dei itself in Asia Minor.”

“What’s his real name?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “One of my girls claimed to have seen his face during a church communion. But before she could give us his name, she disappeared.”

Athanasius nodded. “What is the second reason you are telling me this?”

“I was not always this way, and neither were my girls,” she answered. “I want you to remember this, to remind the church leaders, if you live long enough to meet them. Now, rest up. You’ll need it.”

And with that warning, Cleo rose to her feet and left him alone in her cabin. As soon as the door shut behind her, Athanasius fell fast asleep.

VII

When Athanasius disembarked from his tether in the harbor of Ephesus, he looked like a new man. His hair had been soaked in brilliantine and carefully cropped like a Roman nobleman’s by Cleo’s girls back on the Sea Nymph, now on its way to Alexandria. The papers he had forged himself stated that his name was Clement. Amazing how different he looked with so little effort and free of the weight of a tribune’s armor. But then, as he discovered so often in the theater, a little was often all it took.

The first advertisement etched into the pavement that Athanasius saw upon his arrival was for the Club Urania that Cleo had warned him about. He read several more as he walked along, head down, unwilling to look up for fear of being recognized by any of the Roman troops on the docks who may have let off from the Pegasus anchored offshore. Captain Andros had beat the Sea Nymph to Ephesus, and Athanasius wanted no interruptions between the dock and the city’s library where he was to make the drop and connect with John’s man in Ephesus.

The bustling city of Ephesus was almost half as big as Rome—more than 500,000 citizens—and was traditionally Greek, feeling more like home to Athanasius than the exotic “gateway to the East” it was to Roman visitors. Many came to see the city’s famed Temple of Artemis, the largest building in the world and more than six hundred years old, and its many-breasted statue of the Lady of Ephesus that beckoned every sailor who stepped ashore.

Built on the slopes of Pion Hill, Ephesus served as the commercial capital of the Asian provinces. The roads were paved with marble and the colonnaded shopping streets with fine mosaics. Sloping up the hill to the grand villas overlooking the city was Curettes Way, named after the priests of the city who led the regular processions and festivals to honor Domitian. For a city dominated by Greek ethnicity, Ephesus took great pride as a steward of Roman religion and thus had a history of clubbing Christians, starting when the apostle Paul spoke in the theater decades ago.

Athanasius had been here several times before, mostly to launch various performances and sign off on the merchandise from the sleazy local idolmaker Supremus. He had also consulted on the design of the grand new library that had been proposed for the city by Julius Celsus Polemaenus, a local Greek who had become quite rich in Rome. The current library to which he was headed was small and only a single story. By financing a three-story edifice, Celsus was angling to win the governorship of Asia from Domitian in the near future. Athanasius had always considered the Celsus family sellouts for so easily embracing Rome and its religion and yet using their Greek heritage to win commercial and political advantage in their home province.

As he walked from the harbor up past the city’s great bathhouses, Athanasius realized he couldn’t fight the temptation to stop by the city’s other great attraction—its 44,000-seat amphitheater, the largest in the world—if only to see if his Oedipus Sex comedy was still playing. So he marched up Marble Street to find out, passing the library on the way—and spotting a wine shop and tavern across from the entrance that he would be sure to return to after dropping off the letter.

Up at the theater, there was a crowd milling about, as the stage served the public as a forum by day if there were no performances or rehearsals underway.

A bad omen for him, he thought.

He stopped a stranger who was walking away from a conversation to ask, “Anything playing tonight? I saw no signs at the entrance.”

“Nothing right now. Rome canceled Oedipus Sex along with its playwright Athanasius of Athens. It’s too bad. I really liked the Greek rascal.”

“So did I,” Athanasius replied, and turned away.

So word of my demise has reached Ephesus, he thought. Perhaps that was a good thing. The general population wouldn’t be apt to recognize him if they didn’t expect to see him, even if the Romans were looking for him. The mind was funny that way with the eyes. He would need that luck now at the library.

• • •

Retracing his steps down Marble Way, Athanasius approached the city library with caution. It was a small but deep single-story building squashed between two larger ones. It had seen better days, and Athanasius assumed few denarii were going toward its upkeep what with the grand new library being planned, complete with a two-tiered façade and three levels of niches. He walked up three short steps and passed between the pair of Ionic columns flanking the entrance.

Inside was a large rectangular hall that faced east toward the morning sun. There were windows just below the vaulted ceiling to allow natural light, along with the central square oculus in the flat ceiling. The central apse was framed by a large arch at the far wall, and inside the apse stood a statue of Athena, the goddess of truth. Along the other three sides were rectangular recesses that held shelves for the nearly 4,000 scrolls.

He was greeted by one of two unarmed guards who watched for theft from patrons on the way out and was directed toward the main marble counter by the statue of Athena.

Like other libraries around the empire, Athanasius knew that this one existed for the benefit of students and traveling Romans. As such they tended to house collections of local documents of interest. So his request to see the memoir of Mucianus and his travels throughout Asia shouldn’t raise any eyebrows.

He glanced around at various patrons as he walked toward the counter, curious to know if one of them was the man who would pick up his letter the moment he had returned the volume he was about to check out. Whoever it was would say a lot about Timothy and his selection of associates. If what Cleo said was true, then the spy would have to be somebody high enough in the church. John or Timothy would know his identity, no doubt. Athanasius had no clue, and yet he was about to reveal himself to this agent, and this made him most uncomfortable. For in so doing, he might be revealing himself to spies from Rome or the Dei or both, if they were watching John’s men.

At the counter was a civilized, older librarian whom Athanasius vaguely recognized. He prayed to Jupiter and Jesus both that the patrician didn’t recognize him, and thanked the gods that he hardly ever spent time in libraries while supervising his performances abroad.

“And how can I help you, sir?” the senior librarian asked in a professional but almost too loud voice that spoke volumes about the gravitas that the library sought to project about itself.

“I’m traveling through Anatolia and was told I should check out a memoir by a former governor if I want to do some sightseeing. It’s a travelogue by Gaius Mucius Mucianus.”

“Ah, yes. Miracles in Asia Minor. If you believe in that sort of thing.”

Athanasius said nothing about the editorial comment. “You have it then?”

“But, of course,” the librarian said, taking a small leather strip from his counter. “It’s in a private shelf in back only because we need to reserve as much space as possible on the public stacks for more popular works. Someday, when the new library goes up, we’ll have room to hold 12,000 scrolls. Even then we’d fit into the smallest corner of the Temple of Artemis. Excuse me.”

He disappeared for a moment, and Athanasius looked around, catching in just the twinkling of an eye the stare of a man at a table, who quickly buried himself back again in his scroll. Athanasius pretended not to notice.

Friend or foe? he wondered, and the librarian returned without the leather strip nor any volumes.

“Is there a problem?” Athanasius asked.

“Not at all,” the librarian said. “One of our staff is setting them out for you at that table over there. There are a good 12 volumes, you know.”

Athanasius looked over at the corner of the room nearest the statue of Athena, where a scrawny young man dropped each volume like a heavy brick, only drawing even more attention than Athanasius had already.

“Twelve volumes, you say?” Athanasius asked. John had said there were only eleven, Athanasius recalled. He supposed it didn’t matter, as he was only to concern himself with volume eight. “I might have to come back tomorrow and possibly the day after just to get through half of them.”

“That’s usually the case, sir,” the librarian said with a knowing look. “Please sit down and make yourself comfortable. Take all the time you need.”

“Certainly,” said Athanasius, and made his way over to the table in back by Athena, aware of curious glances. He sat down and cracked open the first volume.

The scrawny librarian worked silently nearby, rearranging stacks of scrolls and books. Every now and then he glanced over as Athanasius picked up one volume and then another, making notes on his own tablet like a traveler would to mark highlights for his journey. The volumes were arranged geographically, with sections inside further broken down to cities within the provinces that Mucianus detailed, each with a story of some miraculous spring, fish, fruit or even rock that was unnaturally large or boasted healing properties or some such.

When he came to the seventh volume, he actually picked up the eighth volume, looking through it like he did the others. This one had a section in back on Cappadocia and its underground cities. Interesting, he thought, and surreptitiously slipped his letter into the section and closed the volume.

He made quick work of two more volumes before leaving them all on the table and returning to the librarian at the counter.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” the librarian asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” Athanasius said. “There are so many volumes. As you suggested, I’ll probably have to come back tomorrow to finish the rest.”

“But, of course,” the librarian said. “I’ll have them put in back now, and when you return we’ll bring them out for you again.”

“Thank you,” said Athanasius.

On his way out he passed the man who had glanced at him and was still buried in the single scroll that had occupied him during Athanasius’s entire visit.

The Artemis Wine Bar was just across the street from the library. It was an open-fronted building with outdoor dining under its wide canopy. Athanasius sat down on a straw chair at one of the small, round tables, ordered a cup of the Cappadocian special, and watched the entrance of the library.

It was almost an hour of observing patrons enter and exit the library before Athanasius saw him: the man who had been glancing at him when he first went inside. Now he was walking quickly away with his hands stuffed in the folds of his tunic, his head looking this way and that. Then a hand came out of a fold for a moment, red with the dye that Cleo had given him to pen the bogus letter he left behind. Now he knew whom the local church leaders in Ephesus had sent for the pickup, and he could follow him to John’s man and avoid wasting time and risking detection at some inn overnight.

He left a tip on the table and quickly walked out of the bar onto the street and started to follow the man with the red hands. He looked like Jesus with the nail marks in his hands, Athanasius thought as he blinked in the harsh glare of the noonday sun. The light was bouncing off the whitewashed walls and surfaces of the streets. For a moment he feared he had lost the man but then saw him glancing back his way, spotting him, then starting to run.

Athanasius ran after him, trying not to cause any more of a scene, until he almost fell upon him at a corner, where the man suddenly stopped and turned.

“Relax,” Athanasius told him, grabbing him at the shoulders. “Let’s just walk along to whomever you are walking along to and everything will—”

Before Athanasius could finish his sentence, he heard a whoosh from overhead, and an arrow suddenly struck the man in the chest and he cried out. Athanasius let go, and the man fell to the street, dead.

Athanasius looked over his shoulder in time to see a Roman with a shield strapped to his back tackle him to the ground. A rain of arrows began to fall, bouncing off the shield—or the Roman.

“You follow me if you want to live, Chiron,” the Roman said gruffly, pulling him up to his feet.

Athanasius got up and over the Roman’s head saw the archers on the rooftops. He stared. There on the roof was none other than the monster who had murdered his mother and niece back in Corinth! The scar down his face was unmistakable, and so was the recognition in his eyes as he reloaded.

“Quick!” shouted the Roman who tackled him, and now Athanasius saw armored chariots barreling down the street from both directions. “We cut through to the alley!”

Athanasius felt the Roman shove him into a rug shop, pushing him past the various rolls and stacks of carpets. The rumble of boots and chariots stopped outside.

“This way,” he said, pushing Athanasius out back into the alley.

There was a grating in the pavement, garbage strewn everywhere. The Roman pulled up the grating and barked, “Jump!”

Athanasius peered into the dark. “How far down?”

“Far enough.”

Athanasius could hear the shouts, “The alley!”

They threw themselves into the open sewer and held onto the stone rim with their fingers. The Roman had just enough time to reach out with a free hand to pull the grating back over them before a legion of troops crashed out the back door of the rug shop into the alley and fanned out.

Hanging onto the grating by his fingertips, Athanasius looked over at the Roman and suddenly saw something between his breastplate and shoulder straps—the tattoo of the Dei stamped under his right arm.

“Who are you?” he said as the rumble of chariots came barreling down the alley above.

“My name is Virtus,” the Dei man said as his legs swung up and kicked Athanasius in the stomach, causing him to lose his grip and plunge into the darkness below until he hit the bottom and blacked out.

VIII

When Athanasius opened his eyes, he found himself lying in a dank cell. Hunched over him was the man who had knocked him out. He remembered the attack on the streets above: the confrontation with the man with the stained hands, the rain of arrows from Roman snipers on the rooftops, the escape with the help of this man into these tunnels, and the Dei tattoo under his arm.

“Where am I?” Athanasius asked, sitting up.

“Where I was only weeks ago, in the tunnels beneath Ephesus,” the man who called himself Virtus said.

“You,” Athanasius said, touching the lump on his head. “You’re Dei.”

“Maybe,” the man said.

“So Rome wants me dead, but the Dei wants me alive?” Athanasius said. “Why?”

“That is a mystery to me too. I simply follow orders, Athanasius.”

“So you know who I am?”

“I’ve seen your plays in Rome,” Virtus told him. “But I missed the one here before it was shut down after Caelus died.”

That’s right, Athanasius thought. In one way he had already arrived at the source of the recent troubles. “You know how he died exactly?”

“I killed him.”

“You?”

“Not exactly. I was his bodyguard, and I failed to protect him from the Dei.”

“I thought you were Dei.”

“Now I am. I wasn’t before. I was Praetorian. Third Cohort. Then Caelus and I were captured down here.”

“Why didn’t they kill you too?”

“I was of better use to them alive,” Virtus said. “They knew I was a dead man if I showed my face to Rome after losing Caesar’s chief astrologer. So they set me up here as a Watchman in the city. When the local governor and legions got secret communications that you had escaped Rome and killed the garrison commander on Patmos, they were ordered to drag you in, kill you without question and send your head to Caesar. Nobody was to know you were alive. The Dei intercepted the orders and sent me to protect you.”

“Protect me, Virtus?” Athanasius asked. “Or to intercept me before I made contact with local church authorities?”

Virtus’s face clouded. “What are you talking about? We are the local church authorities. The man who died, I knew him from The Way here. He was a good man. You should not have involved him.”

Athanasius was confused by what Virtus was saying, or rather by Virtus’s confusion. He actually still believed the Dei and the Church were on the same side against Rome.

“Me involve him?” Athanasius said. “Listen here, Dei Praetorian. I’m the one who never should have been involved. And from what you are telling me, neither should you.”

“Then why have you brought your troubles to Ephesus, Athanasius?”

“I have a vital revelation from Rome for the bishop Timothy here and all the churches in Asia Minor.”

“A revelation you say, Clement of Rome?” Virtus said in a mocking tone. He had read the name Athanasius was using in Ephesus from the papers in his pouch, which was in the corner with his belt and daggers. “And what revelation is that?”

Athanasius told him. “The Dei is an imperial organization, run by Domitian in order to play Rome and the Church against each other in a forever war while he eliminates enemies on both sides and consolidates power.”

“Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on us!” Virtus cried out, making some movements with his hand that looked like the cross sign of the letter Chi.

Perhaps that was a signal between the lower ranks of the Dei to each other, Athanasius thought, and he was stunned to see that Virtus had become a true believer and yet had failed to distinguish the Church from the Dei. If so, the Dei were more deeply intertwined with the churches of Asia Minor than even Cleo intimated.

“Well, at least you believe me. So you must have had your suspicions.”

“Perhaps, but I could never get over the death of Caelus and why Domitian would want his own astrologer dead.”

“He didn’t want Caelus dead, Virtus. That’s the problem. There is something else going on in the Dei. It seems to have a mind of its own. This is why Domitian is terrified and lashing out everywhere. You tell me you had orders to protect me from Rome. I can only assume such an order is counter to the will of Caesar. Who in the Dei gave you the order?”

“I don’t know,” Virtus said. “My orders are left to me every morning in a wooden cylinder that looks like a twig, behind the statue of Domitian at the new temple that Caesar erected for himself.”

“And that didn’t offer you a clue as to the Dei’s high command?”

Virtus seemed genuinely embarrassed. “I thought it was the Dei’s way of tweaking the nose of the empire by carrying out its business right under its nose.”

“And you never thought to lie in wait in advance and watch to see who it was who left your orders for you?”

Now Virtus got defensive. “You have a natural inclination to think like a spy, Athanasius. But I am a soldier by training. A soldier who follows orders and doesn’t question his commanders.”

“Well, now you know too much to do that anymore,” Athanasius said. “Were you going to take me somewhere, or was someone going to come by for me?”

Virtus nodded, seeming to sense whatever kind of existence he had managed to eke out down here had now turned upside down once again. “To a warehouse on the docks.”

“Which warehouse?” Athanasius asked, instantly sensing he might be getting closer to the man Cleo told him was called “Poseidon” by the Dei. “Whose warehouse?”

Virtus seemed reluctant to divulge the information. It was clearly the biggest secret he had been entrusted with by the local Dei.

“They wouldn’t happen to be associated with the Club Urania or brothel boats like the Sea Nymph, would they?”

Virtus’s eyes widened. “You know more than I do, Athanasius. Surely we are not long for this world.” He paused. “I was to take you to Celsus Shipping and leave you in their protection.”

Celsus! Athanasius felt like he had been struck by lightning.

Of course, he thought. The former consul and senator Julius Celsus Polemaenus, the local “Greek done good” here, was probably the key link between the Dei in Rome and Ephesus, the gateway to the churches in Asia. Now it all made sense: the opium, flesh and blood that trickled to Ephesus from the rest of Asia Minor was transported by Celsus Shipping to Rome to feed the insatiable Games. And Celsus, the once and future governor of the capital of Asia Minor, was going to honor himself with his own library here for his work!

“Who runs Celsus Shipping here for Senator Celsus, Virtus?” Athanasius demanded. “Is it his son Aquila?”

“No,” Virtus said. “His cousin Croesus from Sardis and his sons.”

Athanasius nodded. He knew that side of the Celsus clan. The original family name of Croesus was allegedly derived from the ancestors of the legendary King Croesus of Sardis, who like his modern progeny Celsus was famous for his wealth. “We have to let the leader Timothy know. You can set up a meeting for me?”

“Yes, but I’ll have to leave and come back. And you’ll have to be here when I get back.”

“So we trust each other.” Athanasius pulled out the letter from John. “Recognize the seal?”

Virtus looked at it. “I do. And I find it hard to believe the last apostle entrusted you with it.”

“Well, blessed are those who believe without seeing. You’ll take me to this person? You know who John’s man in Ephesus is?”

“I know. I’ll take it to him.”

“No, the letter and I are inseparable,” Athanasius insisted. “One thing we can both agree on is that the Dei did not want this letter to get to your friend. Will you take me to him?”

Virtus sighed. “I will leave and arrange a meeting at a safe house with the contact and come back for you.”

“Can I trust him?” Athanasius asked.

“Yes,” said Virtus. “But that’s exactly what he’s going to ask me about you, and I still don’t know what I’m going to say.”

Whatever Virtus said, it worked. The safe house was a villa beyond the town’s Magnesia Gate at the top of the hill, in that section of terraced houses where the richest citizens of Ephesus lived. Virtus told him the story after arranging the meeting and walking Athanasius up the hill. The villa had belonged to one of the local church’s most generous members and was his gift to the ministry of Bishop Timothy. It was a place where the church’s leaders could meet in safety away from the bustle of the town below.

The villa reminded Athanasius very much of the hillside home he and Helena shared—or once did—back in Rome, and this depressed him. It had running water, heating systems, private inner courtyards, and a rich décor of mosaics and frescoes. It represented all the refinements of his former life, symbols of what he most likely would never enjoy again.

They were greeted by young, well-groomed members of the church who lived in the house as staff, and ushered into the largest room, where another young man was waiting for them. He was certainly no Timothy, who may have been a young disciple of Paul’s when he had written his letters to the churches but was now about 70. This man was about his own age, Athanasius guessed, certainly no older than 30.

“My name is Polycarp,” the young man said. “I’m the apprentice bishop to Timothy here in Ephesus. Please, come in.”

They sat around a table with a burning candle in the center, Athanasius opposite Polycarp, Virtus standing by. “Polycarp, you say?”

Polycarp nodded without betraying any emotion. “I believe you have something you wanted to give me?”

“Yes,” said Athanasius, handing over John’s letter.

Polycarp opened it and began to read. Athanasius watched his eyes carefully, noting them darting back a couple of times to a particular line, working out the cipher in his head. He eyes grew wide in alarm the longer he scanned, despite no other change on his face. He swallowed, folded the letter and slipped it into his toga.

Athanasius could see the bishop trying to make sense of whatever it was John said, starting with whether or not to share it with him. What he said first he said to a servant. “Wine, please.”

The servant nodded and departed, and Polycarp cleared his throat. “So you are Athanasius of Athens, successor to Chiron. I never did believe that when I heard it. You say the Dei is an imperial organization, and John, the man who discipled me, is inclined to agree. He wants me to consider sending you on to meet Cerberus.”

“Cerberus?”

“Our most vital contact with the church in Cappadocia.”

“The ‘eighth church’ John told me about?”

Polycarp nodded. “His identity is a closely guarded secret. Even I don’t know who he is.”

“Well, where is he then? How soon can I meet him?”

Polycarp shook his head. “You don’t meet with Cerberus, Athanasius. He meets with you. And I’m not going to send you to him, because John cautions that you could yet be a spy from Rome sent to destroy the Church.”

Athanasius glanced at Virtus, who looked equally surprised. They said nothing as the servant returned with the wine Polycarp requested. Polycarp handed cups to him and Virtus, and took a sip of his own. Then another. He was obviously unnerved by what John had written.

Virtus said, “Bishop Polycarp, I think Athanasius’s theory about the source of the Dei being here in Asia Minor is correct. I’m not sure I grasp all of it. But I am certain that the Dei is not Christian.”

Polycarp looked aghast. “You think it is apart from both Rome and the Church?”

“It certainly operates in Rome and clearly here in Ephesus,” said Athanasius, trying his wine and finding it quite good. “But it’s not imperial, as I originally thought. And it’s not Christian, if we are referring to the apostles Peter, Paul and John. Its origins come from elsewhere. And I think our best lead to where is a local shipping operation.”

“Yes?” asked Polycarp, hanging on everything that Athanasius was saying.

Athanasius was about to continue, but as he tasted the full effect of his wine, he lost his train of thought. He took another sip, pausing, swirling it in his mouth, actually enjoying it. “This wine is excellent, Bishop Polycarp. Surely you don’t serve this during those mass communion services of yours?”

Perplexed at the sudden shift in the conversation, Polycarp shrugged. “I’m not an expert, really. It’s not the wine we serve for communion, but it’s from the same vineyard. There’s nothing special about it, really. I mean, of course it is special, as a symbol of our Lord’s blood spilled for the remission of our sins. But in itself I’m afraid it’s quite common.”

“There’s nothing common about this,” Athanasius said, putting down his cup. “I’ve tasted it before. In the Palace of the Flavians. This is Caesar Domitian’s favorite brand. Where did you get it?”

“Caesar’s wine!” Polycarp exclaimed. “I don’t believe it. The blood of Christ and the wine of Caesar are the same? This is a cruel thought even in jest, Athanasius.”

“I’m not jesting. Where does this wine come from? Somewhere in Cappadocia, yes?”

Athanasius saw Polycarp and Virtus stare at each other.

“Yes,” Polycarp said quietly. “From the Lord’s Vineyard.”

“The Lord’s Vineyard?”

“I mean the Dovilin Vineyards,” Polycarp said. “They sponsor a ministry they call the Lord’s Vineyard. It’s an organization of Christians who trade with each other, apart from the prying eyes of the empire.”

“And what does it take to join the Lord’s Vineyard?” Athanasius pressed.

“You must be invited into the fellowship by a member. Man to man. They keep no lists or membership rolls. It’s all very loose and not very sinister, if that is what you’re getting at.”

“Then why are you reluctant to talk about it?”

“I’m simply honoring the group’s request that members not speak about it or its activities.”

“So you are a member?”

“No, but some of my church members are,” Polycarp said, getting testy. “The Lord’s Vineyard operates under many guises in the empire. These groups are intended to draw attention away from the main organization, precisely because it has become a target of misunderstanding, even among Christians.”

“I understand perfectly, Polycarp. The Lord’s Vineyard is the primary front for the Dei within the churches in Asia Minor.”

“Preposterous!” Polycarp cried out, as if personally offended.

“How does your church get this wine, Polycarp?”

He paused. “The man who gave us this house is the distributor for Dovlin wines here in Ephesus. He is a pillar in the church.”

“Tell me about this pillar.”

“His family used to make idols in Sardis, but when they became Christians they gave up their trade and suffered much hardship. The Lord blessed them with new business here in Ephesus and a fleet of ships. They trade foodstuffs and wine with Rome and have bountifully blessed the church. We have all thanked God for the Croesus family.”

Athanasius dropped the cup and stood upright as three armed legionnaires burst into the room, followed by an older man in a fine toga with golden trim in the pattern of the Greek key.

“Well, Athanasius,” said Croesus. “My cousin the senator always believed Greeks should stick together, don’t you?”

IX

Croesus looked older than Athanasius had imagined, and more frail-looking. Hardly the swarthy pirate he had expected, and for a moment, just a moment, he thought he had made a mistake. The three legionnaires more than made up for it, however. One had his javelin to Virtus, another his sword to Athanasius’s back, and a third was relieving a stunned Polycarp of John’s letter.

“This is a private meeting,” Polycarp objected in a manner that in any other circumstance Athanasius would have found laughable.

“Nothing of yours is private, Bishop,” Croesus quipped. “Including your precious church.”

“Surely what this man has told me isn’t true, Croesus?” Polycarp pleaded. “The Lord’s Vineyard is not in league with the Dei. It grows grapes.”

“It grows assassins, you holy fool.” Croesus turned to Athanasius. “And you’ve become quite the new recruit from what I hear. Senator Maximus. Commander Barbatio on Patmos. You could learn from this one, Virtus.”

“Does the Dei want me dead or alive, Croesus?” Athanasius demanded. “Because right now I’m terribly confused.”

“Yes, you are,” said Croesus and looked over John’s letter and made a face at Polycarp. “This Caesar code is unreadable without the key word. What is it?”

“Poseidon,” Athanasius blurted out. “The key word is Poseidon. Ironic, yes? That is your code name in the Dei, is it not?”

Croesus wasn’t amused.

“Let me show you,” Athanasius said, and jumped forward to grab Croesus, spinning him round as a shield to face the point of the legionnaire’s sword that had been at his own back. He then pulled out his dagger and put it to Croesus’s throat. “Back away,” he told the legionnaires. “Back away or Poseidon is dead.”

“You really are a fool in the end, aren’t you?” said Croesus, raising his own hand to his lips to kiss his ring.

“No!” shouted Athanasius, trying to pry it out of Croesus’s mouth. “No poison to save you this time, old man.”

“Kill me, idiots!” shouted Croesus.

To Athanasius’s shock, the three legionnaires moved quickly across the rug to finish the job on Croesus themselves. Then Virtus, thinking quickly, pulled the rug out from under their feet, tripping them on their swords.

Athanasius hurled his dagger into the first legionnaire’s face, striking him in the eye, and he went down. Virtus picked up the javelin that the legionnaire had dropped in his fall, plunged it into another’s back, then broke it off and used the sharp end to stab the last legionnaire in the gut under his breastplate.

Polycarp, who proved cool under pressure, nevertheless looked bewildered as Athanasius tackled Croesus and struggled to keep the old man’s hand out of his mouth, but he was too late. Already the eyes were dimming.

“You’re going to talk, Croesus,” Athanasius growled. “You know you can’t escape. No poison to save you. What does the Dei want?”

“Everything.”

“By putting Rome at war with the Church?”

The old man looked at Athanasius, genuinely shocked. “You really don’t know, do you?” He began to laugh heinously, then coughed up blood.

Polycarp said, “He has a devil inside!”

“We are legion, Bishop,” Croesus hissed. “We will take over the world!”

He then began to choke, and his head fell to the side.

Polycarp was stunned. “You murdered him!”

“He killed himself, Bishop,” Athanasius said and held up Croesus’s dead hand with the ring. “Smell it, it’s poison.”

Polycarp sniffed and turned away, gagging.

Then Virtus turned the body over and ripped away the tunic to reveal the tattoo of the Dei to his bishop, who could only stare at the black Chi symbol.

“I don’t understand. He was a pillar of the church.”

“Yes,” Athanasius said dryly, “and pillars hold things up.”

Athanasius helped Virtus drag the body of Croesus to a corner and began to strip Poseidon of his effects, starting with his ring. It had the Chi-Ro emblem, but no Greek letters nor any jewels, which indicated a mid-level officer in the Dei, but clearly much higher than the lowly Chi ranks.

Polycarp, who looked to be in shock, stared at the corpse of his church’s key financial backer and fell to his knees in prayer, begging the Lord Jesus for forgiveness in associating with this man and his money, and vowing to renounce any hint of materialism the rest of his life as a minister of The Way.

“What are you going to do, Athanasius?” Polycarp asked weakly.

“I’m going to follow the wine to this Lord’s Vineyard in Cappadocia,” Athanasius announced, handing Croesus’s ring to Virtus. “And Virtus here is going to follow Croesus’s shipment to Rome.”

“It won’t work,” Virtus said as he took the ring. “As soon as Croesus fails to disembark in Ostia, the Dei will know he’s dead.”

“Which gives us three weeks from the time you land in Rome and he doesn’t,” Athanasius said. “And another two weeks before express couriers can send news of it back here. Add another five days to reach Cappadocia, and I have almost six weeks.”

“Six weeks to do what, my friend?” Virtus asked.

“To follow the wine.”

Polycarp, who Athanasius realized was more clever than he thought, said, “He is going to the source of Caesar’s wine to poison it.”

“That could work,” Virtus said, slowly nodding. “But for Caesar’s winetasters.”

Athanasius decided not to reveal any details about Galen’s potion, which would delay the effects on any winetaster long enough to ensure the wine made it to Domitian’s lips, down his throat and into his stomach. “Leave that to me. Let’s just say I am going to the source of the Reign of Terror to cut it off.”

“Assassinate Caesar!” Virtus said, sounding as if the very idea was beyond the realm of the possible to mortal men.

“That’s right,” Athanasius said. “With Domitian gone, his designated successor Vespasian the Younger becomes Caesar, and with his reputed faith the empire becomes Christian. We can stop this forever war between Rome and the Church.”

The look on Virtus’s face was really quite extraordinary, as if he himself had been in old John’s cave and seen the rocks split open to reveal a vision. He, too, sank to his knees in prayer. But unlike the horrified Polycarp, he sang praises at this possibility.

“Come, Lord, come!” the former Praetorian cried out to heaven, then turned to Athanasius. “But what if this plan doesn’t work?”

“You’ll meet up with a man in Rome named Stephanus, who will introduce you to other Christians within Domitian’s own circles, including perhaps your former superiors in the Praetorian who are sympathetic. They will ensure that even if I fail on my end that you will succeed on yours.”

His mission clear, Virtus came to life, and Athanasius recognized a true Praetorian.

Polycarp, however, would have none of it. “Say what you will about helping the Church, Athanasius, but you are pursuing your own personal vengeance. This plot is not inspired by the Spirit of God but by the bloodlust of your flesh. You want vengeance. You don’t care about the Church of Jesus.”

“Says the bishop who whores with the Dei,” Athanasius shot back.

Polycarp nodded. “You are right about that, Athanasius. I have been wrong. I confess my pride in my church’s standing before the eyes of Christ in the Revelation. But I see now that even an unadulterated message of faith in our Lord and his shed blood for our sins can become adulterated within the administration of our community of faith. For this I repent, and from now on, thanks to what I have seen here today, I will speak out against the corrupting influence of money in the church. But I cannot in good conscience condone what evil you harbor in your heart, Athanasius.”

“What you’ll do, Polycarp, is act as go-between here in Ephesus to oversee messages between me and Virtus, understand?”

Virtus nodded. Polycarp didn’t look too sure.

Athanasius said, “If you love all the churches of Asia Minor and not just your own, Polycarp, then you’ll help get me to the Dovilin Vineyards and connect me with this super apostle Cerberus in the underground church.”

Slowly Polycarp nodded in surrender. “I will help you, Athanasius, but only to expose the Dei to the churches of Asia Minor who have drunk from its poisoned cup. May your plans for evil turn out for good and the salvation of many. The Lord bless you. The Lord bless us all. For I myself see no blessing in this venture, only bloodshed and death.”

X

His name was Samuel Ben-Deker, a Jew from Spain by way of Malta who specialized in the design and manufacture of quality amphorae to transfer wine in bulk across the Great Sea. The letter of introduction from Croesus of Ephesus boasted that Samuel’s novel use of resin coating inside an amphora could improve and age wine to perfection based upon days of travel and the regional preferences of the destination. The Dovilin Vineyards could use a man like Samuel, in spite of him being yet another poor Jew. Perhaps the Lord’s Vineyard could use him as well.

That was the story Athanasius had come up with, and as Cappadocia’s capital city of Caesarea Mazaca shrank in the distance, he huddled in the back of the covered wagon he had chartered, part of a long freight convoy from Ephesus to Laodicea to Iconium, and examined the letter of introduction from Croesus that he had forged.

It looked authentic enough, he thought, comparing it to another letter in Croesus’s hand that he had lifted from the old man. And the paper stock was the same, as was the seal. Still, he worried there might be some sort of coda or sign that these Dei used, and he was wagering that Croesus would not use the Dei code. If Dovilin needed such assurance, Athanasius had a second letter in code that he could say he forgot about, which would not only confirm the first letter but say something about Dei business that Samuel was to deliver as well but not know about.

The cart hit a bump, and Athanasius bounced hard and cursed. He put the letters away and returned to the travel guide he had picked up in town. It was a copy of the same book in the library of Ephesus: Volume 8 of Miracles in Asia Minor by Gaius Mucius Mucianus. He wondered whatever happened to the former governor of Syria, who at one time was the right hand of Domitian’s father, Vespasian. Mucianus died or disappeared decades ago, leaving only his memoir as a primer for Athanasius as he entered this exotic land.

He looked out at the rocky plains and pointy hills that resembled chimney stacks. It was another world. Unlike Rome, Christians seemed to operate quite in the open out here. He saw fish signs proudly displayed outside inns, shops and restaurants. And the closer to Cappadocia he got, the more prominent the Dovilin name appeared on signs, stone pylons and buildings.

He fingered the Tear of Joy necklace that Polycarp had given him to wear as a sign to the mysterious Cerberus inside the underground “eighth” church of Asia Minor. It was a silver six-pointed Star of David with a sapphire shaped like a tear in the center. He was to wear it under his tunic and let it be visible only in situations and to persons where Cerberus might reveal himself to him.

He got off at the small town nearest to his destination and began to walk with his pack over his shoulder. The fresh and fragrant scents of plants and flowers were a definite improvement from the dungeons, ship bilges and sewers that had marked his journey thus far. Turning a gentle bend, at last he saw the green valley of the Dovilin Vineyards—6,000 hectares of lush paradise surrounded by sharp mountain peaks hiding secrets dark and deep.

Life in Rome had become somewhat tenuous, thought Ludlumus, as the Master of the Games sat with his sullen and simmering Caesar in Domitian’s private box at the Coliseum. That Athanasius had pulled off an incredible escape was humiliating enough, but to mock them both with the tongue of Domitian’s Pharaoh Hound Sirius was over the top. Late word about the slaying of the garrison commander on Patmos, compounded with this morning’s news that Athanasius was spotted in Ephesus and had eluded capture, had prompted Ludlumus to stage Caesar’s favorite orgy of death in hopes the emotional catharsis would defuse a sudden explosion of murderous fury.

The mass execution was called the Death Relay, and it slaughtered a number of poor souls at once. Here they laid a special track on the rim of the arena, the “runners” evenly spaced, each with a sword or ax in hand at the start. The trumpets would blast and off they would go in a single direction around the track. The object would be to catch up to the runner in front and hack him to pieces, thereby escaping the race and taking a place in the center of the arena. As the runners dropped out, either by being hacked to death or doing the hacking, there was a longer distance between them, until there were finally just two runners left, often on opposite sides of the track, each exhausted. Now it was a game of attrition, and the editor of the match would call out to them, taunting them, “Now it’s all about desire. Who wants to live more?” It was painful to watch them speed up and slow down, each on the verge of collapse, trading places so far as closing the gap, until one gave up and died in spirit before he died in the flesh. Sometimes, like today, to make things more interesting, Ludlumus would alternate spots at the beginning of the race between Amazonian women and male dwarves, to ensure the long strides of the Amazons would lead to quick dwarf deaths, and then leave the women to kill each other off until one was left to live another day, if only that.

As one dwarf after another fell and the Amazons began to hunt each other, Domitian quipped, “Those are dwarves down there, Ludlumus? You didn’t switch children for them or anything? There doesn’t seem to be a lot of fight in them.”

Ludlumus glumly said, “It’s all real, Your Excellency.”

“I was beginning to wonder if the race was fixed.” Domitian looked at him with deadly, faded eyes.

There was little Ludlumus could say except to point out the imperial bow and arrows beside Domitian’s chair. “You want to finish off a couple as is your custom?”

Domitian said nothing but picked up the bow and an arrow and took aim at the arena floor.

Ludlumus had made sure the bright yellow uniforms of the Amazons made them even bigger and clearer targets. Caesar hated to miss in front of an audience, and he wasn’t as good a shot as he imagined himself to be.

Domitian let the arrow fly to thunderous cheers, and the Amazon target looked over her shoulder and sprinted only to be hit squarely on the back and splatter on the track. That left three Amazons to chase each other, at greater distances apart, which would drag this out a bit more.

“Good shot, Your Excellency,” Ludlumus said as Domitian sat down, refreshed by his kill and thirsting for more blood.

“I want Athanasius dead, Ludlumus.”

“Orion spotted him in Ephesus. He’s our top assassin in Asia Minor. It’s only a matter of time.”

“Orion killed the wrong man, Ludlumus.”

“An unfortunate snag, Your Excellency. But with the help of local governors and legions on the lookout, Orion will quickly hunt him down and bring him to us in time for a spectacular end to the Games this summer.”

“No, Ludlumus,” Domitian cut him off sharply. “You had your chance. Your entertainment failed miserably. I want Orion to kill Athanasius on sight and ship his head back to me in a box. No fingers. No tortures. No public spectacles. I want his head for me to look upon with my own eyes. Only then will I know that this little Greek clown is dead, dead, dead.”

XI

It was late afternoon when Athanasius turned off the country road and onto a long private drive lined with stately cypresses. The end of the gravel drive opened like a dream to reveal the majestic Dovilin villa surrounded by its mystical vineyards.

The Dovilin family, from what local gossip Athanasius had procured from tradesmen on his way in, had made their fortune in land holdings and bought and built up their celebrated vineyards after the Judean War. Now the family, through hired management, had turned it into one of the empire’s most well-respected and lucrative wineries, an unspoiled paradise far from the cares of the outside world.

A big, beefy servant named Brutus welcomed him at the door with an instant expression of suspicion and disdain.

Athanasius stammered as if intimidated and in a shaky voice said only, “Do-Dovilin.”

Brutus grunted, and Athanasius looked past the circular sofa and carved wooden benches of the reception atrium while Britus began to sift through his pack without apology. Finding nothing—Athanasius had buried a smaller second pack with his Roman uniform, sword and interrogator’s knife kit, along with his Dei ring and money, under a boulder he had marked between the last town and the villa—the slave returned the sack, and a young woman emerged from under a large arch in an expensive stola and Egyptian sandals.

“Well, hello there,” she said as if he were some unexpected surprise.

Athanasius could smell her perfume even before she stood before him and looked him over with approval. She was attractive enough. Everything about her seemed to mimic Roman fashion but was overdone: the dress, the hair piled on top of her head and dyed honey gold, the bracelets and bejeweled pendant holding her outfit—and bosoms—together. Just who was her audience out here in the sticks? Surely not stragglers such as Samuel Ben-Deker.

“You are Dovilin’s wife?” he stammered, as if awed by her beauty.

She laughed. “His daughter-in-law. My name is Cota. My father-in-law is in the main courtyard. Is he expecting you?” She paused, as if asking for his name.

“Samuel, Mistress Cota. Samuel Ben-Deker.” He thrust his letter of introduction into her hand.

“Wait here, Samuel Ben-Deker,” she said with amusement and vanished with the letter.

The man who entered the atrium moments later was in his seventies with short-cropped, grey hair in the Roman style and a tanned face. He looked prosperous and confident in his light and tailored tunic. The oversized furniture, busts, urns and decorative amphorae among the marble columns and rippling white drapes framing endless vineyards only accentuated the wine merchant’s wealth.

So this was Dovilin, Athanasius thought. But was he also the leader of the Dei in Asia Minor? His ring certainly indicated so. It was almost exactly like Chiron’s, with the Chi-Ro symbol flanked by the Greek letters Alpha and Omega. All it lacked was the tiny amethyst inside the Ro loop at the top.

Dovilin gazed at his unexpected visitor, taking in the cheap tunic and sandals of a runaway slave or poor freedman. But his businesslike demeanor revealed this wasn’t the first time a man in rags had appeared at his doorstep. “Your name is Ben-Something?”

“Ben-Deker,” Athanasius stammered and acted shameful and overwhelmed in this display of wealth. “Samuel Ben-Deker.”

“Yes, another Jew. You are also a follower of Christ?”

Athanasius nodded. “I pray you may be able to spare me room and board.”

“Young man, surely you see the winery across the vineyard. Present yourself to the offices. My son runs the business and does the hiring and firing. But I’m afraid you picked the wrong time of season. We’re two months from harvest, which is when we do the bulk of our hiring for the fields.”

“It’s not work in the fields I seek, sir.”

“You don’t look skilled for anything more…”

“Amphorae,” he said, nodding to the letter of introduction from Croesus in Dovilin’s hand. “It is in the final vessel of its journey that the juice of a grape can ripen to perfection or turn to vinegar by the time it reaches the lips of an important customer.”

Dovilin paused, as if to consider whether or not to accommodate his friend Croesus, because he certainly didn’t seem to think much of Samuel Ben-Deker. “Come with me into the courtyard.”

Athanasius followed Dovilin through one grand atrium and hallway after another until they reached the large courtyard where a middle-aged man with a long beard was seated. Apparently Athanasius had interrupted a meeting Dovilin was engaged in.

“Bishop Paul, this is Samuel Ben-Deker. He comes by way of our friend Croesus in Ephesus.”

The bishop had an oily expression and examined him coolly. “You don’t seem like one of Croesus’ boys.”

Athanasius took a risk and made the sign of the cross with his hand, watching Bishop Paul exchange glances with Dovilin, who looked up from the letter of introduction.

“Croesus says you lived in Malta, Ben-Deker?”

“Yes, sir,” Athanasius said. “Several years, and before that Spain, working under the vine for General Trajan’s family in Hispania Baetica.”

“Then you’ll know his nephew and vineyard manager Marcus Ulpius Antonius?”

Athanasius stammered. “I am sorry, sir. I do not know him.”

“Good,” said Dovilin. “Because Trajan has no nephew by that name, and I don’t know who runs his vineyards. But whoever it is does a piss-poor job compared to ours.” He laughed with Bishop Paul, and Athanasius managed a weak smile. Then Dovilin stood up and said, “Ben-Deker, drop your tunic.”

Athanasius froze. “I’m sorry, sir?”

“You heard me, Jew, drop your tunic and loin cloth now.”

Athanasius heard a giggle in the distance and caught Dovilin’s daughter-in-law, Cota, watching from an arch, and now she had a dark-haired girlfriend with her, who also giggled. Feigning humiliation—it wasn’t difficult—Athanasius removed his tunic, stepped out of his loin cloth and stood naked before Dovilin, Bishop Paul and a duly impressed Cota.

Dovilin and the bishop, however, were not so impressed, even angry.

Dovilin said, “You call yourself a Jew and yet you are not circumcised?”

“My mother was a Spaniard, sir,” he said, quickly putting on his loin cloth and tunic, at which point Cota disappeared out her archway. “Aren’t we all free in Christ?”

Dovilin seemed to admit there was little argument to that, but Bishop Paul said sharply, “Don’t you dare quote Scripture to me, boy. Do you understand? Can you even read?”

“No, sir. But I hear, and faith comes from hearing the Word of God.”

“I told you to stop quoting Scripture, Ben-Deker,” the bishop said, emphasizing Samuel’s Jewish surname. “I have my own test for you.”

Athanasius feigned confusion. “I am being tested? I do not understand.”

“You don’t have to,” Dovilin said calmly. “Just answer the good bishop. He is the leader of the church here in Cappadocia and only wants to keep wolves away from the sheep.”

“Wolves?” Athanasius said in surprise.

“Yes, Ben-Deker,” said Bishop Paul. “Now answer me this: Who killed Jesus? The Jews or the Romans?”

Athanasius paused as the bishop gave a satisfied nod toward Dovilin, who was watching him closely. It was a cruel test, Athanasius realized, to put upon poor Samuel Ben-Deker. Obviously, as a nominal Jew, he had to say the Romans. But his understanding of the church in Cappadocia was that the Christians here blamed the Jews, or rather their religious leaders, and this was a source of division.

He was about to say, “Both,” when the impatient bishop started badgering him. “Come now, Ben-Deker, this isn’t a trick question,” he said. “Not for a real Christian.”

“Neither the Romans nor the Jews killed Jesus,” Athanasius said suddenly, a thought striking him from out of the blue.

“Neither?” the bishop replied and looked at Dovilin in amusement at this unusual response. “Then who did?”

“Jesus chose to lay down his life for us all.”

Dovilin looked genuinely surprised, the bishop outraged. He didn’t like the answer, but apparently couldn’t refute or berate him for it either.

“Who taught you this?” he asked.

Athanasius didn’t really know. He couldn’t remember the particular passage from the Christian scriptures he had poured over back on the Pegasus before meeting John. But he had definitely picked up the subtext, and he now recalled something about their God whispering timely answers to Christians when questioned by Roman officials.

“The Holy Spirit,” he began and was cut off.

“The Holy Spirit?” the bishop said, incensed. “You are an uneducated, unwashed Jew from Malta, a potter who works clay.”

Athanasius could restrain himself no longer. This bishop was an absolute fraud and knew it. No wonder he didn’t want Christians quoting Scripture—he considered it a weapon to be used, not a revelation of truth. Athanasius knew the type well—the Roman augurs and oracles were full of Bishop Paul’s kind. The only way to deal with self-appointed gatekeepers of truth was to stick them with their own Holy Writ in front of other believers.

“We are all earthen vessels,” he replied. “God is the potter, we are the clay.”

Dovilin started to laugh, delighted to see his red-faced bishop at a loss for words. “I see your proud attitude has gotten you into trouble before, Ben-Deker. You should watch that mouth of yours,” he said good-naturedly. “Let’s see what you can do with your hands. I’ll have Brutus take you out to the winery.”

Athanasius nodded, and Cota appeared again. “I’m going out there now, Father. I can take Samuel.”

“Well, do it now before the winery closes for the evening, and have Gabrielle put him up for the night and then put him to work in the morning.”

“You really want to hand him off to that little whore, Father?” Cota asked. “I thought we could put him up out back with the First Fruits.”

Athanasius’s curiosity was peaked by Cota’s references of this “whore” and these “First Fruits,” but he wasn’t surprised by Dovilin’s firm reply, directly addressed to him.

“You may have a sterling introduction by my good friend Croesus, Ben-Deker,” Dovilin said. “But we operate by biblical principle on my vineyards. Every man starts from the ground up like our grapes. You will reap what you sow with your work, and we’ll see what kind of seed you really are.”

“Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you,” Athanasius said with as much sincerity as he could fake. “I will not let your kindness and generosity down.”

“See that you don’t, Ben-Deker, because nothing goes to waste here. Even the bad grapes are used to fertilize our fields. Bad for the wasted skins, good for our soil.”

•    •    •

The winery itself was on the other side of the vineyard from the Dovilin villa, separated by six hectares of grapes. As he and his escort Cota walked the gravel path between the house and the winery, Athanasius saw the spectacular two-story façade cut right into the rocks of the mountains. The façade, with its arches and inset frames for statues, was positively scenographic, just like the stage buildings behind the orchestra for his productions in the theaters.

“That is the winery ahead?” he asked, dumbfounded and not feigning it.

“Yes,” Cota told him. “Behind it is our stone wine cave where we store our finished product before distribution. Upstairs is the office. Our vineyard manager oversees the harvest, fermentation and field workers. My husband, whom you’ll meet, oversees sales and distribution.”

“How much wine do you produce each year?” he asked, doing his best to get some information out of her during this opportunity.

“Almost ten thousand amphorae per year.”

“Ten thousand!” he exclaimed. This was multiple times anything even the Palace of the Flavians could serve up in a year. “Who drinks it?”

She laughed. “You and me, of course. The bulk of our shipments go to the churches of Asia Minor for communion worship. My husband knows all the numbers, but I doubt he’ll share the particulars with you.”

Cota herself didn’t seem to be in any hurry to introduce him to her husband, and she asked him if there was anything in particular he wanted to see.

“I find it best to simply follow the wine,” he told her.

“Then follow me, Samuel.”

She led him to a great gravel courtyard outside the winery, where men from the fields brought baskets of grapes into one of the two cavernous cave entrances and dumped them into stone treading lagars dug out from the floor of the cavern. Here women were treading the sweet grapes with their feet.

“We call this first or sweet press,” Cota explained.

“The good stuff,” Athanasius quipped.

He watched the juice run off down wide troughs into drains that went into special basins for fermentation deeper into the cave. After the free juice poured off, the women stepped out of the treading lagars, which were now filled with the waste of the grapes called the pomace.

“Mind if I look closer?” he asked Cota.

“Not at all, but do be careful,” she cautioned, although he couldn’t imagine why.

He looked into a lagar that had been filled with red grapes. The pomace was blackish-red grape skins, stems and seeds, which contained most of the tannins and alcohol. The juice from this pomace was the brand bound for Caesar’s palace, he concluded, and then examined a lagar for white wine production. Here the debris was a pale, greenish-brown color, which contained more residual sugars.

“You must save the green stuff for some special dessert wines,” he started to say when the entire tunnel began to shake.

“Step away, Samuel!” Cota shouted, and pulled him back by his tunic as the ceiling seemed to cave in.

For a moment Athanasius thought the whole mountain was collapsing upon them. The rumble was deafening. With amazement Athanasius watched large flat boulders as wide and long as the two main lagars descend from the cavern ceiling from large wooden capstans, pulleys and ropes. Then he saw how they defied gravity: teams of six men each were stationed at the spokes of two great horizontal turnstyles, pushing them in order to control the descent of the boulders until they pressed flat on the lagars. Suddenly a second burst of vast quantities of blood-red and pukish green pomace sprung forth from the lagars toward even larger fermentation pools beyond the first.

Cota laughed as Athanasius caught his breath. “We almost lost you, Samuel, and you haven’t even started yet!”

He nodded at the boulders. “You’ve got screw presses too. These are very rare.”

“So is that,” she said, and he realized she was looking at the Star of David with the Tear of Joy around his neck. She began to fondle it. It must have fallen out of his tunic when he had bent over the lagar. “Did a girl give you that?”

“It’s been in my family forever,” he replied and slipped it back under his tunic.

She looked relieved, then went on. “The cave provides the structure for the mechanisms. The free juice produces our highest-quality wine in the smallest quantities. But the screw press squeezes more juice and profits for good-quality wine in larger quantities. Now watch this, because this might be your job if my husband doesn’t like you.”

The boulders began to quake in the lagars again, and the men at the turnstyles were back at their positions, straining harder than ever to raise the stones like the mythological Sisyphus pushing his great boulder up the mountain only to see it roll back upon him. As soon as the boulders were back in place above the lagars, teams of scrawny young men, some mere boys, jumped into the lagars.

“Clear!” came the shout.

Supervisors pulled back planks that Athanasius hadn’t noticed before—they were stained by countless pomace grindings—to reveal holes at the bottom of the lagars. Then the scrawny sweepers began to push the remaining pomace down the holes.

Athanasius glanced at Cota and bent over the nearest lagar to look down one of the holes. Through it he saw the pomace dropping into vast pools of water in a cavern below.

“Fermentation pits for lora,” he said. “The bad stuff.”

“We make no bad wine, Samuel,” she sniffed. “We give the gift of wine to those who could otherwise not afford it.”

Athanasius now understood. Lora was an inferior wine that was normally given to slaves and common workers. It was simply a mix of leftover pomace and water. Disgusting stuff, recalling the one time he asked a servant to allow him a sip. It could hardly be called wine at all but some pretender that had no flavor.

“Let me guess,” Athanasius told Cota. “I’m looking at the Dovilin brand of communion wine down there. Water soaked in grape skins. That’s how you fill 10,000 amphorae.”

“I like it,” said a voice, and Athanasius turned to see big Brutus looking down at him with a frown.

Athanasius nodded. “My favorite,” he said, and winked at Cota. “I don’t know how the other half takes it so strong.”

“Mistress Cota,” Brutus said, “your father-in-law would like to see you later when you are finished with this one.”

“Well, I’m not,” she told him. “Not yet. But soon. I have to take him to Vibius. Go on.”

Athanasius watched the scowling slave leave and said, “I see Dovilin’s eyes are on everybody here.”

“This way,” she told him as another shift of men from the fields came in with fresh baskets for the presses and the entire process started over again. “One last stop at the Angel’s Vault.”

•    •    •

The Angel’s Vault turned out to be in the second of the two wine caves behind the winery’s façade in the cliffs, and Athanasius realized the two caves formed a V and connected at a guard station with three great vault doors and two armed guards. One door led back to the pits and presses from which they had come. The second door, according to Cota, would lead them to the Angel’s Vault and the commercial storefront of the winery.

“What about this one?” Athanasius asked her, pointing to the third door that opened into a particularly black, narrow and harrowing tunnel.

“That’s the hole to hell, Samuel. I do hope Vibius doesn’t send you down there.”

Athanasius followed Cota through the second tunnel that would lead them back outside through the main winery entrance. Here the walls were lined with amphorae, and Athanasius sensed immediately that this was what he was looking for in this entire mission to Cappadocia.

“They haven’t been sealed yet,” he observed.

“This is the final fermentation before we seal the wine,” she told him. “The freestanding amphorae you see are the reds, which we keep at higher temperatures in the cave. The amphorae that are half-buried are the whites, to keep them cooler.”

Athanasius immediately focused on the freestanding reds, scanning to see any markings or imperial insignias that would indicate they were bound for Caesar’s palace. “So decorative, with all kinds of marks and labels.”

“Master painters from the caves,” Cota told him, as if reciting a rehearsed line all the Dovilins were forced to repeat to buyers. “God speaks to many artisans down here.”

Athanasius nodded at the artwork that could be considered Christian to some, especially those involving fish and grain, shepherds and sheep. Then he caught a row of black vases in the Spartan style with red gladiators.

“These look imperial,” he said.

“They are,” she said, and looked this way and that quickly, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “They say the wine in these amphorae pass through the lips of Caesar himself.”

“Impressive,” Athanasius said. “But risky. What happens if he doesn’t like it, or even falls ill?”

“We make sure that can never happen. That’s why the angels take their sip first.”

Athanasius started. “Angels?”

Cota nodded, as if sharing the secret of the ages behind the great Dovilin wines. “Something about the air in the amphora,” she said. “Too much of it and the wine turns to vinegar. Not enough and the wine is too bitter. So for the final fermentation we leave the amphora open just enough for the proper amount of air to escape. We like to say it is for the angels to take their sip of the spirits, their ‘angel’s cut.’ Then we seal the amphora shut with a special piece of cork and ceramic capping.”

“Like this one?” Athanasius asked, picking up the cork capper from an amphora to Cota’s dismay and sniffing it. “I see you use resin as a sealant. Smart. The resin preserves the wine once sealed and flavors it with the proper fermenation, provided you know what you’re doing. What is this indent on top of the cork with the Dovilin emblem?”

Cota took the cork from Athanasius and quickly placed it lopsided atop its amphora. “There is something in the resin,” she said. “Once the cork is sealed, it cannot be tampered with in any way, or the cork discolors. If it is not discolored, the palace staff then use a thin iron hook to pierce it and pull it out, and the wine is ready for serving.”

“So who applies the proper mix of resin?” he asked.

“The whore of hell,” she sniffed. “I think I hear her now.”

They moved on, but Athanasius made sure to remember the pattern and décor of the amphorae bound for Rome. It was here in this chamber, before the amphorae were sealed, where he would poison Domitian’s wine.

He tried to keep up with Cota, who breezed through the main wine cave just behind the face of the winery without explanation. Their tour, it seemed, was over. Along the way he noted similar patterns on the amphorae here as in the Angel’s Vault, and they seemed to have more markings for weight, price, destination and such.

He realized he might have to use these sealed amphorae as his key to identify those bound for Domitian, then go back and poison an identical and open amphora in the Angel’s Vault, then switch them. Simple but not easy, he suspected.

They had arrived outside in the courtyard below the towering façade as the Dovilin winery was closing up for the day. He noted the servants moving in and out of the cave, as well as security: almost a dozen ex-legionnaire types doing nothing much but standing around and looking tough.

“This way,” she said, tugging his hand. “The office is upstairs.”

They climbed a short flight of stone steps to the second story of the façade, where an open arch led into an impressive office with a table and fine furniture, but no husband.

“Vibius?” she called out.

Athanasius heard muffled voices. They seemed to be coming from behind the wall of shelves with scrolls, which Athanasius assumed to be commercial contracts and delivery schedules, sales receipts and records.

Cota cocked her ear, and her eyes narrowed. Her lips formed a thin, grim line, and she marched to the wall and pushed something that opened it to reveal another room behind it.

Now the voices were loud and clear—a young woman’s and a man’s, presumably Cota’s husband. There was a definite slap, then the girl’s voice cried out: “Stop it, Vibius. You know I am only trying to help the vineyard.”

Vibius said, “I will help the vineyard, and you will do what I want.”

“I know what you want, Vibius, and you’ll never get it with me.”

“You little whore,” he said. “You’ve given yourself to every rat in the streets. Now you want to get holy with me? I think not.”

“Vibius!” Cota screamed, and Athanasius followed her inside to see her husband threatening this girl with long dark hair, her hand at her face where it had been struck.

Vibius turned and looked at his wife and the stranger with rage. “What do you want?”

“This is Samuel Ben-Deker. Your father wants you to put him to work.”

Athanasius could feel Vibius’s stare. “Are you sure you haven’t already, Cota?”

“Vibius!” she screamed again, so that all inside and outside the winery could hear.

But Vibius was unmoved. “Take this one to suitable quarters tonight and see if you have any use for him tomorrow,” he ordered the girl, who half-turned her face to reveal a ghastly split cheek that made Cota gasp.

“Yes, sir,” she said and in defiance gave Vibius a mock Roman salute.

He brought up his hand to strike her again but thought better of it when Cota sternly repeated to him, “Vibius, your father.”

“We’ll go out the back way,” said the badly beaten girl, and walked through an archway into the Angel’s Vault toward the secondary vault doors that led to the caves deep inside the mountain.

Athanasius turned to Cota. “I’m to follow her into that?”

“Where else for you, Ben-Deker?” Vibius said. “Now leave us.”

Feeling very strange, as if he had been to this place before, Athanasius followed the girl and her long, black hair into a stone cave that led only to darkness. The long shafts of light from the sunset that had streamed across the floors of the winery office began to disappear as the vault door closed behind him.

“The Dovilins order the wine vaults sealed off every night from the inside as well as the outside,” the girl explained and turned to face him. “Don’t worry about the dark. I know the way. By the way, Samuel Ben-Deker, my name is Gabrielle.”

Suddenly he stopped, watching the last shaft of light touch her bleeding face and illuminate it like a halo of light, before the vault door plunged them into darkness.

It was the girl from his dreams back in Rome.

That evening Dovilin thought he had better see how things went with the new Jew and sent Brutus to find Vibius. It was Cota who showed up in the courtyard.

“Where’s my son?” Dovilin asked her.

“You know you should be asking one of the Sweet Grapes girls if you want to know what my husband does at night, Father,” she replied flatly.

Dovilin had neither the energy nor time to reply. His son’s marriage was what it was. For himself, he would have gladly taken care of Cota’s needs were it not for his firm belief, more stoic than Christian, that feelings of eros were better channeled into business and accumulating wealth. It was a lesson he had somehow failed to pass on to his son, as Cota was quick to remind him all too often. “Just tell me about Ben-Deker. How did things go?”

“Fine,” she said, although Dovilin knew there was more that she was holding back. “Vibius didn’t like him, of course, but he didn’t stop your little whore from taking him to the caves for the night to sleep with all your other slaves.”

Dovilin thought he understood now. “I don’t like Gabrielle either, Cota. None of us do. But the vineyard needs her. The family can master the science of wine production, but the creation of great grapes is an art. She understands the soil, the sun, the wind and water like nobody else.”

“She has help with that, Father, you know it,” Cota said darkly. “Deep down in the caves.”

He nodded. “Perhaps. But it is her tongue that saves us in the Angel’s Vault, during the final fermentation. Hers is the last tongue to taste our wine before it is sealed and shipped and then opened before even Caesar. It’s never let us down.”

“Or never let you or Vibius down, Father?” Cota replied, insinuating rumors that Cota knew were utterly false but which Dovilin did not refute, if only to make Gabrielle an outcast not only among the employees of the Dovilin Winery but the Christians of the underground church in the caves.

Dovilin was ready to send her away. “Is there anything else you wish to tell me about Ben-Deker?”

“What makes you say that?”

“His Star of David is something a man like him would never wear for himself. It has one of those Tears of Joy inside.”

Dovilin stiffened. “Tear of Joy, you say?”

“It’s a crystal of some kind.”

“What color?” Dovilin pressed.

“I think it’s a sapphire. For a man like Samuel, it must be his most priceless possession. He’ll have to watch himself in the caves.”

“Yes, yes,” Dovilin said and waved her off. “You can go.”

He cursed, pulled a cord and waited impatiently for Brutus to appear. He felt a dribble on his forehead and wiped off a rare drop of perspiration. His slave appeared in the courtyard and said, “Master.”

“Brutus,” said Dovilin, scribbling a coded text on a small strip of papyrus, rolling it up and slipping it into the stylus with which it was penned. “I need a Mercury courier and horse immediately to deliver this message to Rome: We have Athanasius.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

From New York Times bestselling author

THOMAS GREANIAS

The Stunning Conclusion…

Book III

RULE OF GOD

Read the entire Dominium Dei Trilogy now!

Book I

THE CHIRON CONFESSION

Book II

WRATH OF ROME

PRAISE FOR THOMAS GREANIAS

“Thomas Greanias is the king of high-octane adventure!”

—Brad Thor

“Better than Dan Brown.”

—CBS News

“Irresistibly addicting!”

—San Francisco Chronicle

“Gripping.”

—Chicago Tribune

“A superb writer who knows how to tell a tale with style and substance.”

—Nelson DeMille

PRAISE FOR THE ATLANTIS TRILOGY

RAISING ATLANTIS

THE ATLANTIS PROPHECY

THE ATLANTIS REVELATION

“A thrill ride from start to finish!”

—Clive Cussler

“Lightning-paced, dagger-sharp and brilliantly executed.”

—James Rollins

“A roller coaster that will captivate readers of Dan Brown and Michael Crichton, penetrating one of the biggest mysteries of our time.”

—The Washington Post

“Extremely fast-paced. An exciting adventure.”

—Booklist

“A devilishly clever maelstrom of history, secrets and modern-day political intrigue. Relentlessly action-packed, with tantalizing twists and twirls on every page.

Pedal-to-the-metal thrills and throat-grabbing suspense.…

Marvelous!”

—Steve Berry

“Greanias keeps the pace breakneck… sweeping readers
right into Conrad’s struggle.”

—Publishers Weekly

“It’s rare to find a tale as well researched as it is entertaining, and this is it: a rollicking, globe-spanning thriller that pulled me in from the very first page. Best of all, it’s pure fun.”

—Christopher Reich

“Finally, a hero worthy of our admiration!”

—FreshFiction.com

“An enchanting story with an incredible pace.”

—The Boston Globe

“A top-flight thriller.”

—BlogCritics.org

PRAISE FOR THE PROMISED WAR

“This is great stuff and will keep you riveted to the pages.”

—ThrillerWriters.org

“A page-turner that portrays ancient Jericho as a city filled with airborne disease that would have killed the Israelites had they not killed the Canaanites.”

—World Magazine

“Thomas Greanias masterfully blends the best aspects of the modern thriller and historical fiction in The Promised War. The end result is his finest work to date. It is a pleasure to witness Thomas Greanias’s growth as a writer from book to book. Greanias keeps getting better.”

—Amazon.com/Megalith.com