“So the Dei is an imperial organization, not Christian,” Athanasius stated for his own understanding. “Only the Christians don’t know it, do they?”
“No. Too bad you won’t live to tell them.”
Something wasn’t right, Athanasius thought. But he couldn’t put his finger on it, and he couldn’t let Ludlumus go yet without learning of Helena.
“What is to happen to Helena? Tell me, Ludlumus. You owe me at least that much.”
“Why torture yourself even more, Athanasius?” Ludlumus asked, although he seemed quite pleased to go on. “If you must know, Domitian is confiscating her instead of the house on Caelian Hill. She will be allowed to keep it, but must remain on call for whenever her emperor requires her affection.”
“No!” Athanasius screamed until his throat went raw and twisted like a rag. And then the tears that he had been holding back for hours burst forth like a flood, and he sobbed.
“If it’s any consolation, Athanasius, I finally made you interesting. Helena and all Rome now think you are Chiron. As for the Christians, some might even mourn you as a hero.”
Athanasius lifted his head and through tears of rage looked at Ludlumus. “Caelus the astrologer.”
“What about him?”
“That business in Ephesus was something else. Something that went wrong. Domitian didn’t want him dead. Not his precious astrologer.”
Ludlumus paused, as if mulling over whether he would answer, then apparently decided that Athanasius was a dead man and it didn’t matter. “We control the Dei at the very top. But as you can imagine, there are far more dupes who have no idea who they are really working for. Some true believers took matters into their own hands with Caelus.”
“So that’s what rattled Domitian, and why you had to produce Chiron in public. You, Domitian’s little dog.”
“You have it all wrong, Athanasius. My stage is much bigger than the arena now. Your trial tonight should be proof enough for you. Think about it. Caesar says he is Lord and God. Yet the Games control his destiny; if he loses the mob, he loses Rome. I am the Master of the Games. Therefore, I control Caesar. And if I control Caesar, then I, Ludlumus, am the true god of this world and hold the keys to Hades.”
“Then I’ll go and prepare a special place for you down there.”
Ludlumus yawned at the empty threat, signaling that confession time was over.
“I had it in the back of my head to come and free you, Athanasius. To call it all a big mistake. To keep Chiron out there, and to make Domitian look merciful. If only for Helena’s sake. But once again you’ve proven that any thought that comes into your head must come out of your mouth. Now you have to die. You know too much. Far more than I would have given you credit for. Interrogator!”
The door opened to reveal several torches bobbing in the stairwell, and a decorated Praetorian saluted. “Sir!”
“Cut out his tongue and bring it outside,” Ludlumus instructed as he stepped out. “I’ll have a man from the palace kitchen waiting for you. Domitian would like to eat it with his favorite wine tomorrow evening to celebrate Chiron’s death. He will then enjoy the model Helena for dessert.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and no further questions for the prisoner — or you might as well cut out your own tongue.”
“Understood, sir.”
With that Athanasius watched Ludlumus turn his back on him forever and stride out while the Praetorian interrogator marched in, his black cape fluttering as he closed the door behind him. Slowly, carefully, he removed a short, rather sinister-looking blade and let it glint in the dim light.
“Trust me, Chiron,” he said. “This won’t take long.”
VIII
Athanasius watched the Praetorian interrogator place his torch in a metal holder on the wall and face him. There was something familiar about the man as he moved, but Athanasius wasn’t sure what it was exactly. He was one of those sinister political officers whose uniform and helmet signaled the high rank of tribune. But he was young, mid-20s like himself, which hinted at family connections. His rank did not represent the number of soldiers under his command, but rather the value of the information he handled on a daily basis for the empire, information extracted from very important prisoners like foreign generals or alleged domestic conspirators such as Chiron.
“My name is Quintus Marcus, and I will be your interrogator,” he said with a soothing voice, making his introduction.
Perhaps this interrogator was one of Rome’s professional maniacs who considered his particular line of work his “art.” Indeed, the manner in which the interrogator carried himself, the way he crouched down and slowly unrolled a leather wrap on the floor to reveal several additional knives to choose from, conveyed the distinct impression that he put exacting care into his work.
“Now pay attention, Chiron. This is important.”
Slowly Marcus rose holding the short, thick knife. So, Athanasius thought glumly, he was sticking with that one.
“The formal method of interrogation, recently amended by the palace, requires the interrogator to first cut off the prisoner’s genitalia and stuff them down his throat,” he explained as Athanasius couldn’t help but squeeze his legs together. “Once the prisoner has swallowed some of what he is choking on, and regurgitated the rest, he’ll usually be in a mood to talk. Then, and only after you are absolutely convinced that the prisoner has given up all the information he knows, you can cut out his tongue. Or, if ordered, slice his throat open to kill him. But you must be certain he has already swallowed everything or you might get some of it all over yourself.”
Athanasius had no doubts as to the sincerity of his words and felt bile rise in the back of his throat. He swallowed hard and clenched his jaw so tight he felt a tooth crack. The welcome pain diverted the terror that had seized his body. His hope was that the man was professional enough to make the actual cut clean and quick, once he stopped talking.
As if reading his mind, the interrogator produced a small brick that Athanasius, from his days in the family tannery, knew was a whetting stone.
“As I’m told you know, Chiron, a dull blade only makes your job more difficult. So it’s vital your blade be in peak condition.”
Marcus set his knife at an angle to the rough side of the stone.
“Now I run my knife across the stone at least seven times, sometimes a dozen if I must. Then I turn the knife over and sharpen the other side likewise.”
This Marcus did before flipping the stone to its finer side and repeating the process on both sides of the blade. Each slow, measured stroke was hypnotic in its horror.
“Not quite finished yet.” Marcus put away the whetting stone and produced a small iron rod. “After the stone sharpening, you must hone the knife by removing any burrs or rough edges. Only then is the job finished.”
He ran the knife along the sides of the sharpening iron until he was satisfied. Then he put the iron rod away and wiped the blade with his black cape.
“Here,” he said and held out the knife to Athanasius.
Athanasius stared at the glistening blade. “If you are suggesting that I should cut out my own tongue, my chains preclude such an act.”
“Then we shall have to remedy that,” Marcus said, and to Athanasius’s amazement began to unlock his chains.
Athanasius looked down as Marcus bent over to remove his leg irons and realized he could bring his hands down on the back of the tribune’s head or knee him in the face. But the act of being freed from his chains confused him.
“What are you doing?” Athanasius asked as Marcus stood up and the two looked each other in the eye. “What form of torture is this?”
“Take it,” Marcus told him, putting his knife in his hand. “See how it feels for you.”
Athanasius grasped the knife and felt its fine, balanced weight. “I don’t understand. I could kill you with this right now.”
“And go where?” Marcus asked him. “There are guards upstairs. Your on
ly chance for escape is to walk out of here as me.”
“You?”
“Now strip. Hurry. We don’t have much time.”
Utterly astonished, Athanasius didn’t argue as he and Marcus quickly exchanged uniforms. Soon Athanasius was dressed as a tribune, and Marcus his interrogator stood clad in the mock Christian armor of a prisoner condemned to death.
“You’ll need this.” Marcus removed a key ring from his finger and handed it to Athanasius.
As Athanasius took it, it clicked open to reveal the seal of Chiron hidden beneath. “You? You’re Chiron?”
“I tried to be. But the Dei smashed everything. Clemens, you, and soon enough me. I cannot hide for long as a Christian in Caesar’s court. I know too much for them to let me live.”
“The Dei is imperial,” Athanasius stated, testing to see if Marcus possessed as much information in his position within the Praetorian.
Marcus nodded. “You know the Omega, but not the Alpha. But I have no time to explain if you are to escape. I’m already dead. You stay in here, you’re dead too.”
“Then tell me how I get out.”
“By drinking this.”
Marcus produced a small vial and handed it to a reluctant Athanasius.
“What is this?”
“Strength for your journey ahead. Go on. It will keep you awake.”
It would be a strange trap indeed for Marcus to free him only to poison him, Athanasius concluded, and drank the potion in one gulp. “Foul stuff,” he said, gagging. “Now what?”
“The Cloaca Maxima.”
Athanasius started. The Great Drain was Rome’s primary sewer and cesspool of all waste that flowed from the slums and latrines. Athanasius stared at the cistern in the floor, which was a very small hole. “I’m not crawling through that.”
“No,” Marcus said. “There’s only a small tributary under there, and you would drown.”
“Then how exactly am I supposed to escape?”
“You will leave this prison dressed as me and pray the guards don’t look beyond your uniform and rank,” Marcus told him. “You will cross the Forum to the Basilica Julia courthouse. Take cover under the building’s long portico along Sacred Way, and follow it all the way to the end of the block, then turn right. Under the courthouse steps, on the south side of the building, is a loose grating over a service entrance tunnel to the Cloaca Maxima. An agent called the Ferryman will be waiting for you in a small boat. He’ll take you down the tunnels and out to the Tiber. From there you’ll follow the river to the port at Ostia where a ship will be waiting for you. On board is a trunk with further instructions and everything you need. You will open it with the key ring on your finger. If you don’t run into trouble, you should make it in an hour.”
This was not at all what Athanasius had been praying for. At least in the arena he would die in public and perhaps find some way to make a final statement for his life. This plan risked him dying in a gutter. An ignoble end, if ever there was one. And yet it was still his only real chance of escaping death for the moment.
Athanasius said, “So come morning, I’ll be long gone by the time they come back down here. They’ll find you in the cell, and you explain how I overtook and chained you? Is that it?”
Marcus shook his head. “No. You will lock my chains now and cut out my tongue.”
“I will not!”
“Then we will both die for nothing,” Marcus said, his patience finally wearing thin. “Athanasius of Athens, Chiron, must die tomorrow. If they know you have escaped, if this secret gets out, then they will use the Dei to hunt you down, slaughter Clemens’ surviving children, and round up even more innocent Christians in reprisal. Is that what you want?”
Not really, thought Athanasius. But there was no guarantee that all Marcus described would come to pass anyway. “They will know that you are not me.”
“Only if they look hard enough. But they have no reason to suspect anything other than I am you — unless you fail to escape Rome without being caught or recognized. Even then, they’ll be too concerned with saving their own heads to report their suspicions.”
Suddenly, Athanasius knew why he’d felt strange with this tribune’s manner when he first saw him, and it had little to do with the man’s devotion to his craft or his superstition. Marcus looked more than a bit like him in build. Not quite exactly, but almost.
Athanasius stood flat-footed, unable to move. “Why, Marcus?”
“Because my Lord did the same for me. Now hurry or we both die, and my sacrifice is in vain. Now cut out my tongue. Before a guard comes down to find out what is taking so long.”
As much as he wanted to live, and as innocent as he knew he was, Athanasius hesitated with the knife. “This is insane,” he muttered. “There must be another way.”
“There is no other way.” Marcus was now barking orders to him. “You will cut out my tongue, per your orders from the Master of the Games and the Emperor Domitian. You will then use the hilt of your sword to beat my face black and blue to knock me out and dull the pain. Call it resistance. My face will swell under the helmet, and the disfigurement will complete my transformation. You will leave with my tongue and hand it to one of the kitchen staff from the palace waiting outside in the street. The emperor wants to feast on your tongue tomorrow evening to celebrate your demise.”
Athanasius felt his stomach swirl at the thought but nodded his agreement to the tribune.
“Fine,” Marcus said. “Now, cut my tongue off. I sharpened my knife well to make a clean, quick cut. I pray you really are a butcher.”
Athanasius drew out the knife and, trembling, put it up to Marcus’s mouth. Marcus stuck out his tongue. Athanasius pulled it out further with one hand, while his other hand held the knife just above the tongue midway. Athanasius stared into the serene eyes of Marcus, who blinked once, as if on cue to proceed.
Athanasius made the cut. It was a quick slice and went clean through the tongue until it hit a snag at the very end. Marcus’s eyes went wild, and he threw his head back against the wall in a cry of agony.
Athanasius quickly raised the butt of his sword and smashed it against Marcus’s helmet and face four times until he slid down the wall in his chains to the floor. Blood was everywhere. Athanasius leaned down to where the tongue dangled over the soldier’s chin strap, hanging by a thread, and cut it off.
He looked at it in his bloody hand and almost let it slip away. He grabbed a small cloth strip from the leather pouch and wrapped the tongue. Then he used the inside of his cape to wipe the blood off his hands and breastplate.
Athanasius stepped out of the lower dungeon and locked the door behind him, sealing off Marcus to his fate. He felt the weight of Marcus’s tongue, wrapped in the blood-soaked cloth in his hand, and walked up the narrow steps to the upper level. He kept his face down and held up the bloody wrap to draw the eyes of the guards. As he solemnly made for the exit to the street, it was all he could do to avoid glancing at the warden, whose bandaged face he was curious to see. He had almost reached the gate to the outside when the warden called out after him. “Tribune!”
Athanasius froze in the dim light and cocked his ear. He did not want to face the man.
The warden said, “You missed a spot.”
Athanasius looked down to see a drop of blood on his breastplate. Without turning around, he bobbed his helmet up and down and used his free hand to grasp his cape and wipe off the blood. Then he waved off the warden and walked outside into the night.
Only when Athanasius had gone a good ten paces down the street did he dare look back. There was nobody outside the prison entrance. The warden had gone back inside.
Heaving a heavy sigh of relief, he turned to make a run for it and suddenly stopped. Blocking his way in the middle of the street was none other than Domitian’s Pharaoh Hound, Sirius, who let out a slow, menacing growl and flashed his teeth, wet with hungry drool.
“Sirius! No growling!” came a muffled shout from out of the dark.
Athanasius turned to see a light in the public latrine near the Senate House across the street. It must be the kitchen staffer Marcus had said was coming for his tongue. He was apparently the royal dog-walker as well, and he was taking a dump on Caesar’s time.
Suddenly Sirius started barking all the louder at him, his black eyes fixed on the tongue in his hand, and Athanasius knew he had only seconds to make a decision.
IX
The public latrine near the Senate House was one of the most delightful in Rome. The lanky African palace slave named Julius wasn’t allowed to use it during the day when the senators conversed and conducted all manner of business. So he made it a habit to indulge himself at night when the Forum was mostly deserted. The marble seats had back support in the form of beautifully sculpted dolphins. Above the seats were decorated niches with statues of the gods and heroes. And a cheerful fountain tickled the ears. Best of all, the water that ran continuously below was so fast in this part of the city, there was hardly any odor.
Life really didn’t get much better, Julius thought.
He had been enjoying his nightly reprieve from walking Sirius when his de facto master interrupted him by barking loudly.
Julius cursed, stood up from his comfortable throne and washed his hands in a bowl filled with fresh water. He then removed his tunic from its hook on the wall, slipped it on and hurried outside to quiet Sirius before complaints were registered with the palace.
But when he stepped outside, there was no sign of the Pharaoh Hound, only a Praetorian tribune holding what must be the tongue of Chiron that Domitian had ordered be brought to the palace kitchen for preparation and proper seasoning.
“Per the emperor’s request, courtesy of the Tullianum prison.”
Julius took the tongue and looked around. “Where’s Sirius?”
“Who?”
“Caesar’s hound.”
“What hound?”
Julius looked at the impatient tribune and realized his place. “My apologizes, Tribune. He must be chasing something. I’ll be after him.”
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