He felt a stab at his neck and saw Stephanus reaching up to him, an eye hanging out of its socket, his mouth awash in blood. Domitian kicked him like a dog, grabbed the statue of Minerva and smashed it on his head.
“Die, you Christian scum! Like your master my cousin! Die, all of you!”
XI
Athanasius had returned to Rome with the express purpose of seeking vengeance on Ludlumus and Domitian, reuniting with Helena and getting their life back. Fulfilling his obligation to the Christians by assassinating Domitian and installing Young Vespasian was simply the cost of doing business and doing good for the people of Rome as well as the Church.
But that plan, he knew as he stood in the middle of the Coliseum facing Ludlumus, was blown.
Ludlumus had faked his death, Virtus had been caught, and Domitian still had a knife under his pillow to defend himself against Stephanus, assuming Stephanus hadn’t been captured and killed already. Instead of changing the government of Rome and installing a Christian emperor in Young Vespasian, Athanasius had only ensured an extension of Domitian’s Reign of Terror and retribution on the Christians he had sworn to help.
Still, there was no sight of Stephanus. If they had Virtus, why not show Stephanus too? Perhaps Stephanus was still at large, and a confrontation in Domitian’s chamber imminent. If so, he would have to entertain Ludlumus long enough for Stephanus to take his stab at Domitian. It might be an even fight now, if Domitian had his dagger, but at least it would be a fight.
Athanasius looked at Helena, who put on a brave face even as her body trembled. The best he could hope for now was to make the exchange — the adoption papers for Helena, maybe Virtus too — and escape Rome before the wrath of Domitian came down.
“Welcome back, Athanasius,” said Ludlumus. “Or should I call you Clement, Bishop of Rome? That is the name you took in Ephesus, isn’t it, before you killed our man Croesus?”
Athanasius noticed Virtus motioning with his eyes to the pit, where grains of sand continued to fall like water to the bottom where the lions roared. It might be worth a try to push Ludlumus over while Virtus broke free, but it was hard to believe Ludlumus had not anticipated such a move. He stepped forward in the sand, and, sure enough, an arrow suddenly landed in front of him as a warning. He glanced over his shoulder at the empty stands, wondering where the sharpshooters were hiding.
Athanasius pulled out the certificate of adoption and paused. “Your plan has failed, Ludlumus. Even if Domitian lives, he’ll know who you really are. You’re a dead man. You should leave Rome immediately.”
Ludlumus roared with laughter. “You don’t disappoint, Athanasius. But once again you’re gravely mistaken. The only surprise is going to be on your assassin Stephanus. I simply wanted the document to blackmail Nerva and ensure he sees to it that the senate confirms Vespasian the Younger as the new emperor. Now you’ve made even that a question mark.”
Ludlumus produced a dagger, and from the imperial insignia Athanasius knew it could only belong to Domitian. So Virtus had removed it from the emperor’s chamber after all.
“Yes, Athanasius, I wanted him dead too.”
Virtus, meanwhile, shifted in his chains, the gladiator behind him shifting with him but keeping the blade close to his throat.
Ludlumus said, “Of course, it will be a tragedy if Domitian survives now because of you. He’s going to slaughter Young Vespasian and name the baby in Helena’s womb his official heir, his true blood. She’ll be as safe as Venus, and you’ll be food for worms. You and your friends in Cappadocia. Oh, yes, thanks to you and that little whore of yours, we now know about the secret Angel’s Pass inside the mountains.”
“What game are you playing, Ludlumus?”
“The greatest game of all.” Ludlumus beamed in triumph. “Do you really think God spared your life in prison by having a Jesus-like figure Marcus take your place to die here in this arena? I sent Marcus through the Dei, threatening him with the lives of his wife and children. It was for them he died, Athanasius, not you.”
Athanasius felt an invisible hand shake him to the core like a leafless tree. “To what end, Ludlumus?”
“To get you to John on Patmos, and get him to implant you within the church in Cappadocia. He guessed it from the start, I suppose.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe it, Athanasius. The miracle is that it worked in spite of your schemes. First in your arrogance with Domitian’s dog, which told him you were alive. Then your handiwork in Corinth, and again in Patmos. Domitian’s legions would have killed you in Ephesus were it not for my intervention through the Dei.”
“Your intervention?”
“It was I who gave Croesus orders to send Virtus here to reach you before the Romans killed you at your drop-off outside the library. You returned the favor by killing Croesus, and setting your sights on the Dovilins, which was the same end I had for you: to use the Dei to compromise the church in Cappadocia, then go after Domitian and replace him with his nephew and establish a new Christian empire. So you see, dear Clement of Rome, Jesus was never the author and finisher of your faith. I am.”
The inflection on the divine “I am” sent a shudder down Athanasius’s spine. The overcast skies above seemed to roll back like a scroll to reveal nothing but a pitch blackness beyond, darker than anything he had ever imagined, as if all the stars had fallen away and with them any flicker of hope.
“And what did my so-called Lord and God Ludlumus intend for his servant Athanasius?”
“To bring you back here at the end of your quest to unmask Chiron. And I now present him to you. He is you, Athanasius. You are Chiron. You have always been.”
“I am not, Ludlumus. Your overestimate my influence — and yours — over hearts and minds.”
“Hardly. You saw the effects in Cappadocia of my epistle to the Thessalonians as Paul, the one that Bishop Paul read to the church that created such a stir.”
“You wrote that?”
“Yes, and you too might write something people might actually worship. Everything you ever imagined as a playwright — glory, immortality — I can give it to you.”
Athanasius looked at Helena’s hopeless expression, and then at Virtus, whose darting eyes indicated he was ready to make his move. “If you were behind that bogus letter, Ludlumus, it did nothing but inspire many of the Cappadocians to quit working the fields and hole up in their caves with their stockpiles of foodstuffs.”
“Exactly. How else were the Dovilins to control the masses except through fear? Fear kept the Christians in their caves. Fear works, Clement. All of our Roman religion depends on fear of the wrath of gods. From that fear of wrath come all our temples, sacrifices, feasts and commerce. Without fear of what is to come in the afterlife, Rome has only the blade to motivate people in this life. If Christianity is to become the state religion, we must take the fear of wrath from your John’s Book of Revelation and use it to fashion a true religion from the superstition of Jesus and the notion that his death and resurrection somehow appeased God’s wrath once and for all.”
“I thought Rome wanted to destroy the Church.”
“No, Athanasius. The superstition of men can’t be razed like the temple in Jerusalem. It is a fire. It can only be directed or corrupted.”
It was all becoming chillingly clear to Athanasius now. “So my plan to kill Domitian and replace him with Vespasian the Younger in order to create a Christian Rome is the plan of the Dei, and has been all along.”
Ludlumus nodded. “The Dei no longer wants to destroy the Church. It wants to corrupt the superstition, turn it into a real religion and merge it with Rome to last a thousand years. For that to happen, it must demand some sort of sacrifice to appease the wrath of God and his final judgment so eloquently depicted by your friend John. The sacraments, rituals and worship must be commercialized — wine, idols, temples and the like. Then they can be politicized and socialized as the official state religion of Rome. Loyalty will be one and the same to
Caesar and Jesus.”
“So you don’t intend to kill me.”
“Kill you? You’re far too valuable to Rome for that.”
“And what’s in the New Rome for you, Ludlumus?”
“Young Vespasian will be Caesar, and I will be Pontifex Maximus, the head of the Church. But I will rule the empire through the young emperor.”
“Like your father ruled through young Domitian before Vespasian arrived in Rome.”
“And betrayed my father for his loyalty by killing him,” Ludlumus hissed. “Now I will do likewise, and not just to Domitian. Your friend John likewise will never leave Patmos alive. He will expire on his own, leaving me and Young Vespasian as the titular religious and political figureheads of the Roman Christian Empire. And your friends in Cappadocia — they can’t hole up in the caves forever under siege by our legions. At some point they’ll run out of food, then the legions will enter through Angel’s Pass and pick them off. We are done with the last apostle. It’s time for the first apostate.”
“Meaning you,” said Athanasius.
Ludlumus smiled. “As Pontifex Maximus, I will merge the Church with Rome. The empire will render unto Caesar what is his, and unto me what is mine.”
“And if I refuse to bow to you?”
“Then you die right here, right now,” Ludlumus said. “Consider my offer, Athanasius. Rome could use a man like you. Come to think of it, it already has, Chiron.”
Something terrible stirred in Athanasius at the moment as Ludlumus’s taunting cut him to the heart. It wasn’t rage or hatred. It was a kind of sentence in his spirit that had been rendered, a realization that Ludlumus his enemy was absolutely correct: Athanasius had indeed discovered the final secret of the Dei: that his idea of a Christian Rome was Ludlumus’s and Rome’s all along — and certainly not Jesus’s, who plainly said his kingdom is in Heaven. If he was guilty of nothing else, it was his attempt to use the Church to his own ends as much as Ludlumus. If his enemy was certainly not the better man here, neither was he.
“Now!” came the shout, but it did not come from Athanasius but Virtus, still bound, who charged Ludlumus with his entire body, slamming Ludlumus over the edge of the pit and tumbling in after him.
Ludlumus’s screams rose from the pit.
Athanasius hurled a dagger at the Roman left exposed by Virtus, driving him into the pit. Then he rushed to the edge to see only the flashing coats of the lions fighting in an orgy of feeding in the darkness below. “Virtus!”
“I’m not long for this world, Athanasius!” came the shout. “But I will follow Ludlumus who has departed already! To God be the glory!”
Then his voice was cut off, suddenly, and the roars began to fade.
Helena crumbled like a pillar of salt in the middle of the arena, and Athanasius threw himself on her to shield her from a hail of arrows.
But the arrows never came.
Athanasius held her and looked out at the empty stands. If there were snipers still out there, they had decided to hold their fire.
“We must leave immediately, Helena. I have to get back to the palace.”
But she wouldn’t move. “Domitian forced himself on me. I had no choice. You were dead. You must forgive me.”
“I know, Helena. There’s nothing to forgive. I love you. Now we must go. I have to save Stephanus.”
“Save Stephnaus, Athanasius, or save her?”
“Her?”
“Ludlumus told me about your whore in Cappadocia. Gabrielle.”
“What are you saying? She was a girl I met who helped me.”
“Liar!” Helena screamed. “You’ve known her your whole life. Before you even came to Rome. I heard you call her name in the night while you dreamed in our own bed!”
She pushed him away and marched out toward the Gate of Death.
“Helena!” he called after her.
But she didn’t stop. Nor could the wheels he had set in motion. He knew he had to get to the palace, to finish what he had started. He knew the moment to choose was before him: his love of Helena or hatred of Domitian. But it was for the love of Helena he hated Domitian and had to see him dead.
XII
Athanasius raced through the long private tunnel from the emperor’s box at the Coliseum to the Palace of the Flavians. The Praetorian Guard at the other end didn’t stop him as he exited into the lower offices of the palace. Nobody did. It was as if they were mere observers and, however the drama ended, would carry on the affairs of state without pause.
He raced up the small, narrow staircase he had memorized from Stephanus’s map and could hear Stephanus’s cries even before he came upon the small group of palace staff and gladiators outside the locked bed chambers of Caesar.
There wasn’t a single Praetorian in sight save Clodianus, one of Virtus’s co-conspirators. Clodianus was closest to the door, sword out, as if he didn’t know whether he was supposed to keep Domitian from coming out, or his assassins from swooping in. Then there was Parthenius, who had led Domitian into the trap, along with his freedman Maximus. Saturius, Domitian’s principal chamberlain, stood apart, ashen and paralyzed. Most of all, there was the palpable fear in the air that Domitian would emerge and none would have the courage to cut him down.
Athanasius, hearing curses and threats from Domitian, knew he had to act fast. He was as guilty as any of these conspirators, more so even, regardless of who spilled Domitian’s blood. Striding up to Clodianus with authority, he took the sword from the guard’s hand and barked orders to Saturius.
“Unlock the doors!” he shouted. “Now!”
Saturius fumbled with the key. When he finally managed to slide it into the lock, Athanasius pushed him aside and burst into Domitian’s chambers.
Stephanus was lying on the floor, his eyes gauged out, choking on his own blood, gasping for breath. Standing over him was Domitian, bleeding from his stomach, dagger in hand. He barely had time to stagger back before Athanasius charged him straight on with Clodianus’s sword, angled down from his shoulder.
Domitian gasped as he stared. “Athanasius!”
“I told you I’d be back to kill the gods,” Athanasius said, plowing his sword through Domitian’s throat and pinning him to the wall. “You first.”
The jaw of Rome’s Lord and God dropped, his blood spraying over Athanasius, who didn’t withdraw his sword until he saw the light flicker out of the emperor’s eyes. He then removed it, and the lifeless body slid to the floor.
Silence descended on the bloody scene as Athanasius dropped to his knees next to Stephanus. It was clear he was dead. Athanasius gazed at the ghastly hollows where shining eyes had been, put his hand upon the cracked skull and honored him by committing his spirit to God the Father in the name of Jesus.
Then, as if the stillness was their cue, the crowd outside burst into the room, weapons at the ready. They all descended on Domitian’s corpse like vultures to each take their stabs, if only to satisfy their own fears that the despot was dead.
The blast of mournful horns and lowered flags announced the death of Caesar by the time a dazed Helena reached the Sublicius Bridge. It was now packed with people liberated from a suffocating cloud of uncertainty.
She, however, was now bound to the black abyss before her.
Domitian was dead, she knew, and so too was her future with Athanasius.
He had told her he could forgive her for her tryst with Caesar and the evil offspring growing in her belly, but she didn’t believe him. If his righteous hatred could drive him to kill the father, how could he not hate their child every time he looked at his face? How could he love her every time he looked into her eyes? How could he protect the child or its mother from the Flavians — Young Vespasian, his mother Domitilla, and Domitian’s widow Domitia?
Her foolish lover may have changed Rome’s religion, but he had only traded one Flavian Caesar for another, doing nothing to change their future.
Then there was the whore Ludlumus told her about. Gabrielle. Athanasius
had all but confirmed his affection for her in his eyes back in the arena. Even if she had not completely replaced her in the eyes of Athanasius, that he could find hope of love in any other woman was something wholly unimaginable before he left her. Wasn’t that truly, in the end, why he had raced back to confront Domitian? Not to ensure his death, nor even for this adoption certificate implicating Senator Nerva and Senator Lucindus, but this whore’s safety, as Ludlumus had predicted?
He had changed.
If he could turn on Maximus, the man who had brought them together, he would surely turn on the child, and on her.
She, on the other hand, had no one to turn to now. The protection of the palace upon her through Domitian was gone. So was Ludlumus. So was Maximus. Worst of all, so was her beauty, now that she bore the scar on her belly. It was worse than a line on her face. She could pose no longer for the great sculptors of the world. She was disfigured now, hopeless, alone.
She looked down at the rippling water of the Tiber from the stone wall of the bridge. A few boats passed through, but not as many as at night. She could hear the shuffling of feet behind her, mostly the Jews from District 14 feeling safe to cross over into District 8 and the Forum now that Caesar was dead. Would they feel so happy to learn Young Vespasian would make Christianity the official state religion?
She put her hand on her belly and stepped up onto the bridge ledge. She heard somebody shouting in Aramaic, probably to get the attention of the crossing guards at either end of the bridge. They began to run toward her, but she made sure they would not catch her. She looked up at the flock of birds in the sky for one last sign, and their formation flying south only confirmed everything she feared. She lifted up her arms, as if to fly away with them, and fell into space, the rush of wind swallowing her up in everlasting darkness.
The new Caesar, Nerva, was seated in the throne room when Athanasius was brought before him by Secundus. Somehow the adoption certificate of Ludlumus had made its way back into his hands, and Athanasius watched Nerva touch it to a fire. The papyrus burned up, along with any possibility that Young Vespasian would see the throne of Rome.
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