Quite ingenious and outrageous.
They were literally selling the Christians back their own sweat. The tithes and offerings that went to churches to pay for the wine were going into the pockets of the very family exploiting them all. A family cited for their Christian faith and blessings. They were profiting off the church.
No wonder old John’s Book of Revelation had Jesus standing outside the Church, knocking on its door. The Church was probably the last place on earth anybody would find Him.
VII
Stephanus was shaking as the Praetorians marched him through the private residences of the Palace of the Flavians to Caesar’s bedchamber. Caesar had finished his midday bath and was freshly dressed in royal robes and enjoying his sweets when Stephanus was escorted inside.
“Ah, Stephanus, I haven’t seen you since you worked for my cousin the consul,” Domitian said, referring to Flavius Clemens whom he had executed. “You’ll have to see the boys while you are here.”
“If Caesar allows it,” Stephanus said humbly.
“So what’s this I hear that about my niece Domitilla persecuting the loyal servant of my late cousin for defrauding her?”
“I stole nothing, Your Excellency.”
“Of course you didn’t, Stephanus. Why would you? The Flavians have been kind to you, even the traitors like my cousin. Did she do that to you? You seem to be in some pain.”
Domitian was referring to the bandage wrapped around Stephanus’s left arm.
“An accident, sir. She meant no harm.”
“But, of course she did, Stephanus. On the other hand, I will offer you generosity and grace. You will continue to do the work of correspondence between Caesar and his niece Domitilla and her sons. Only now, like the boys, you will live here and not that island to which I exiled my niece.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency. Thank you,” Stephanus repeated when the prefect of the Praetorian, Secundus, marched inside the bedchambers without warning.
“Your Excellency, I am sorry to be so bold, but there is news out of Asia Minor.”
Stephanus drew back so as not to be in the way, nor give Caesar easy reason to dismiss him. Perhaps this was news that he too had to hear. News from Athanasius or about him.
“Your assassin Orion is dead.”
“Dead?” Domitian repeated. “He can’t die. He’s the one who does the killing.”
“It gets worse, sir,” Secundus went on. “The Dovilins are dead too.”
“The Dovilins!”
“Everybody’s dead.”
Stephanus wasn’t sure if that meant Athanasius too, but it looked like Domitian had trouble standing as he began to pace the room.
“So Athanasius is dead too.”
“We think so, Your Excellency. We don’t know.”
“Don’t know?” roared Domitian, and Stephanus drew back in genuine terror. “Don’t know!”
Secundus kept his ground. “It’s impossible to identify the remains of so many, Your Excellency,” he said. “But spies have disclosed to your legions the location of the so-called Angel’s Pass into the mountains of Cappadocia.”
Stephanus saw fire suddenly flare up in the emperor’s otherwise dull eyes. “Angel’s Pass! At last!” Then he paused to summon up royal authority. “Orders are given to XII Fulminate and XVI Flavia legions in Cappadocia to use the passage of the Angel’s Pass to commence full-scale invasion of the cave systems surrounding the former Dovilin Vineyards. They are to exterminate the Christians inside, every last man, woman and child, in reprisal for their attacks upon Rome and its representatives.”
“Hail, Caesar!” saluted Secundus and left, leaving Stephanus alone with his new employer.
Domitian continued to pace and spew words of wrath, as if he didn’t see him. Finally he spotted Stephanus and barked, “You! What are you still doing here? Leave me!”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” Stephanus said and scrambled out.
A few minutes later he passed Secundus near the offices behind the palace, and the prefect acknowledged him with a cool nod.
Virtus was right. He was in.
Aboard the Sea Nymph en route to Rome, Athanasius reviewed the encrypted message and map from Virtus that Polycarp had given him back in Ephesus. Using the Caesar shift code to decipher the message, Athanasius learned that the conspirators in Rome were clear about the general plan to assassinate Caesar. But they were confused about some of the particulars. This was fine with Athanasius, as he wanted to reveal the details in person and only at the last possible moment to avoid any betrayals from a Dei infiltrator.
The key information in the report was that Virtus had met with his former superior in the Praetorian, the prefect Secundus, and secured his word that while the Praetorian wouldn’t support the assassination of Domitian on September 18, they wouldn’t stop it either.
So Virtus would be free to enter the imperial bedchamber while Caesar was out and remove the dagger Domitian had hidden under his pillow. It was important for Caesar to be defenseless when Stephanus entered the bedchamber later in the day, claiming to have uncovered a conspiracy, and then stab him to death with his own dagger, thus avenging the death of Flavius Clemens.
The dagger would be hidden under the bandages around Stephanus’s left arm. His wound was a ruse to lower Domitian’s defenses for when the moment finally came.
Stephanus had visited Caesar often enough to draw a detailed map of the bedchambers, which Athanasius now studied.
The biggest doubts the conspirators in Rome had, according to Virtus, concerned the timing of the attack, and whether to do it while Domitian was in the bath at midday or later on at supper.
Athanasius planned to tell them upon his arrival that the attack would take place at precisely the prophetic hour of 9 o’clock that morning, but that Domitian should be informed beforehand that the hour had passed and it was 10 o’clock. That would let Caesar’s guard down even more, and in elation of having survived his doomsday hour be more vulnerable than ever to surprise.
The important thing at that point, Athanasius concluded, was to steer Domitian to the illusory safety of his bedchambers, get Stephanus in, then lock the doors from the outside, which Virtus said Secundus assured him could be done.
His hostess Cleo entered his cabin on the Sea Nymph. “All work and no play for the tribune has the girls worried you prefer the Nubian oarsmen.”
“You know I need to be focused,” he told her, turning back to the crude map of the palace around Domitian’s bedroom that Stephanus had drawn for Virtus.
But Cleo didn’t move. “Like your focus on Gabrielle?”
Athanasius pushed himself back from his scheme and looked at Cleo. He had told her what had happened. “Say what you have to say, Cleo.”
“I know her too, Athanasius. She would not have done all that she did for you if she didn’t love you, and you left her in the middle of all that?”
“All what, Cleo?”
“The ruins of the Dei and the underground church in Asia Minor,” she said. “You were a dead man when you crossed my litter on Patmos. I helped you get to Cappadocia as much as John and Polycarp did. All their fears and all your hopes have gone unrealized. And thousands of innocents are about to suffer because of your vendetta against Rome.”
“I have done great wrong, Cleo, I confess it now. I can no longer call myself an innocent man. But make no mistake, the underground Christians in Cappadocia were suffering long before I walked into their caves, and regardless of my own vendetta, Rome has had one from the start. I changed none of that. But that doesn’t mean I can’t change something. If all goes well, there will be a new Caesar.”
“And if you fail to kill Domitian?”
“You’ll stay anchored off Ostia, and I will escape with Helena.”
“What if she doesn’t want to escape with you?” Cleo asked. “We don’t really know how eager Helen of Troy was to return to Greece.”
“She’ll come with me,” Athanasius insisted. “She’l
l run with me.”
Cleo sighed. “I suppose I would if I were in her place,” she said. “But what if you kill Domitian and it still accomplishes nothing? You said you also have to kill whomever you believe to be the Dei successor to Mucianus.”
“And I will, as soon as I find him,” Athanasius said darkly, unrolling his collection of interrogation knives. “My old rival Ludlumus has no problem with self-expression, but I think he can be persuaded if needed to reveal everything he knows about the Dei.”
VIII
September 18
Domitian was rudely awakened in the dead of night by another nightmare of Minerva warning him that she could no longer protect him. He bolted upright in his bed, dagger clutched to his chest, which was covered in sweat. He felt a trickle down his cheek, gingerly touched it with his finger and saw blood. He jumped out of bed, ran to the brass mirror and in the candlelight saw the festering ulcer on his forehead that he had been scratching.
“Minerva!” he cried out, pleading before the statue of the goddess. “Would this be all to befall today!”
He stared at his fading reflection in the mirror. His prophesied hour of doom at 9 o’clock this day was all of nine hours away. How was he supposed to breathe in the meantime? If blood must be spilled on this day, the day that he had dreaded his whole life, Domitian concluded, then perhaps Jupiter would accept another sacrifice in his place. Perhaps an innocent prophet would do, as he had used up most of the vestal virgins.
Yes, it was his only hope now.
Domitian splashed water on his face, dabbed his forehead with a towel and then pulled a cord to summon his chamberlain. By the time he had picked up his dagger from the floor next to his bed and placed it safely back under his pillow, he heard a knock.
“Enter,” Domitian said as Parthenius walked in.
“Your Highness,” Parthenius said cheerfully, pretending as if this midnight rousing was common and that the day ahead would be like any other.
“I need that astrologer we arrested,” Domitian told him. “Not the one from Germania. The other one.”
“Which one, Your Highness? There are so many in custody.”
“The Armenian, I think,” Domitian said, irritated. “I want him to stand trial so I can pass an impartial and just sentence this morning. Prepare an executioner for 9 o’clock.”
“But, of course, Your Highness. I will have everyone assembled in the throne room.”
“No, the basilica. I will have Jupiter and Minerva at my back as I dispense divine justice.” He then handed his wooden tablet with a list of names to Parthenius. “And I want every name here rounded up so they can all be executed at the same time.”
He watched the door close behind Parthenius and then collapsed back on his bed, dagger clutched to his chest, lying very still until he could hear only his own uneven breath praying to Minerva.
It was well past midnight when Athanasius left the ship at the port of Ostia, made his way across the piers and found a taxi on the Appian Way. There was lightning across the sky, and Athanasius had heard there had been quite a lot of it lately in Rome, and that it had spooked Domitian and therefore all of Rome with him.
“The Apollo Inn,” he told the driver and settled back into his open-air carriage, trying to control his concern about Helena’s fate since he had been gone. The only message he received from Virtus in Ephesus was that everything was in motion here in Rome with regards to Domitian, and that was days old.
Nothing about Helena.
He wanted her out of Rome before everything went down and the decades-in-the-making business of September 18 would finally be over. She would be safely out of the picture so that Domitian or Ludlumus had no leverage over him before they were both killed.
His path was fixed. God forgive him, if that were possible at this point.
But he could not allow himself to consider life after Domitian, or contemplate the hope of his Christian allies of a Christian world — despite their savior’s own words that his kingdom was in heaven, not on this earth. Nor even his own hope of a life reunited with Helena, of the freedom to think his own thoughts, to write as he wished, to maybe settle down and have children in this seemingly God-forsaken world.
No, he could not allow such hopes to occupy his mind, any more than he could allow the fears if he failed.
He could only focus on the task at hand — exposing the Dei and assassinating Domitian in one fell swoop. Two birds with one stone cast at Rome.
And he was that stone.
He couldn’t feel. Couldn’t waver. Couldn’t look back.
Still, he wondered how Gabrielle and the others were doing.
No, he had to put thoughts of her and the poor souls in the caves away. He had to focus on Domitian as a lifeless corpse, a god fallen.
He had to focus on killing a god, and in so doing giving all Rome hope.
The taxi turned down a hill and then a wide, well-lit boulevard to reach the Apollo. It boasted a lively tavern on the street, and a courtyard leading to an entrance to the rooms above in the back.
“This is it,” he said to the driver, holding out payment, his hand trembling ever so slightly.
“Ask for Venus,” the driver said, motioning to the whorehouse next door. “You won’t regret it.”
Athanasius watched him move down the road and pick up some sailors who could barely hold themselves upright. The taxi then headed back to the piers.
Athanasius walked around the back through the gate into a courtyard with fountains and fire pits, and then inside the small room with a counter. He ignored it and headed up the stairs to room 34.
There was Virtus, looking distressed. Behind him was a woman, a nursemaid in a smock, covered with blood. And there was another woman in the bed, moaning, clutching her stomach. Blood was running across her body. Athanasius immediately ran to her bedside.
The woman’s face was contorted by pain, but it was clear that it was Helena.
Athanasius sank to the floor beside the bed.
Virtus closed the door behind him and spoke in a low but urgent tone. “She’s been stabbed.”
“I can see that!” Athanasius barked. “Helena! Helena!”
She opened her eyes. “Athanasius, it is you? You’re alive. You cannot see my shame.”
“Who did this to you, Helena? Tell me.”
“No, Athanasius, let me die. Leave me!” she wailed, while the nursemaid put a hand over her mouth to quiet her.
“How could you let this happen?” he growled at Virtus.
“She did it to herself, to kill the child.”
Athanasius stared at him. “What child?”
“The one growing inside her belly. Domitian’s child.”
Helena looked like she had died, and Athanasius tried to shake her when the nurse pulled him away. “She’s still breathing. She’ll survive. So will the child. She missed with the knife, but the cut is deep.”
Virtus said, “We can only pray for her now. There is much to discuss but so very little time. Everything is happening so fast.”
But Athanasius was furious. This was a disaster, and he hadn’t yet stepped foot in Rome. Helena was pregnant with Domitian’s child, and she had tried to take its life along her own. Now this nursemaid and others were involved, and what was supposed to be a quiet reunion had turned into an unfolding tragedy.
Athanasius could hardly speak. Still, Virtus was right. There was no time. The wheels of fate were in motion, and if he didn’t roll with them, he would be ground to dust. “Let her sleep. But if things go badly, she needs to be ready to leave with me on the Sea Nymph later today. Now let’s go find the identity of Mucianus’s successor in the Dei.”
Virtus paused. “You are chasing ghosts, Athanasius.”
“No, Virtus,” Athanasius told him, whipping out his sword. “I know where Ludlumus lives. We will take him and make him talk.”
“That’s the thing,” Virtus said, stammering, and Athanasius could feel the bad news coming. “Ludlumus
is dead.”
IX
Pliny the Younger liked to retire early and rise early. He was fast asleep when his bed shook and he opened his eyes to see a figure standing at the foot of his bed with a sword to his throat. “Boo!”
Pliny was about to cry out when he felt the point of the blade at his throat and saw the ghost put his finger to his lips. And then, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of his room, he recognized the figure and shook at the sight of the ghost, come to take him down to Hades with him.
“Athanasius!” he said in a low, horrified whisper. “They killed you, not I! It wasn’t my fault! I did my best to save you!”
“We’ll see about that,” Athanasius said. “Get dressed.”
* * *
The Tabularium was the national archives of the Roman Empire, housing its official records and the offices of many city officials. It was built into the front slope of Capitoline Hill, just below the Temple of Jupiter and next to the dreaded Tullianum prison from which Athanasius had escaped on a similar night like this not that long ago. Looking more like a fortress to hide Rome’s secrets than a basilica of information, Athanasius thought, the Tabularium’s imposing three-level façade was built from blocks of grey, volcanic peperino and travertine stone.
“He allegedly was torn apart by his own animals under the arena floor this morning,” Pliny was telling him about Ludlumus as they entered the empty Forum square. “An accident, they say, something about an unbolted gate in the tiger pens. I simply assumed Domitian was behind it. All sorts of crazy things have been happening lately, and now you show up, back from the dead, dressed up as a tribune.”
“Well, you are the ghost hunter.” Athanasius could see the single-door entrance at the bottom of the Tabularium’s tall, fortified base. At the top of the base were small windows cut out of the facade, and above them the Doric and Corinthian arcades.
“If there is any trace of the ghost of Mucianus, we’ll find him here,” Pliny told Athanasius. “I’m curious myself, especially with the demise of Ludlumus and your connection of his father to the Dei. You know, I’ve consulted with him in the past about ghosts. And now you show up with all these revelations. Maybe something really is going on today. It brings back all the chills of Pompeii.”
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