The Chiron Confession dd-1

by Thomas Greanias

  “And then?”

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

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

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

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

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

  And that was the problem.

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

  She, however, would not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Oh, Athanasius.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  A six.

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

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

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

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

  “Yes, mistress.”

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

  V

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Jupiter! Athanasius thought. They’re serious!

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

  “Do something!” Helena ordered him.

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

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

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