The Chiron Confession (Dominium Dei)

by Thomas Greanias

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

  Jupiter! Athanasius thought. They’re serious!

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

  “Do something!” Helena ordered him.

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

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

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

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

  Pliny rushed over to him.

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

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

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

  “But you’re my lawyer!”

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

  VI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “You are the playwright Athanasius of Athens?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Or are you?”

  “You just said so yourself.”

  “No, I asked you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Then came the sound of clapping hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “No.”

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

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

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

  Good girl, Athanasius thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “And where did you see this scroll?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “That is correct.”

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

  “That’s right. So what?”

  “So why lie?”

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

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

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

  “Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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