The Chiron Confession (Dominium Dei)

by Thomas Greanias

  THE CHIRON CONFESSION

  BOOK ONE OF THE DOMINIUM DEI TRILOGY

  Also by Thomas Greanias

  Rule of God

  Wrath of Rome

  The 34th Degree

  The Promised War

  The Atlantis Revelation

  The Atlantis Prophecy

  Raising Atlantis

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Thomas Greanias

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  Soli Deo gloria

  This world is fading away, along with everything it craves.

  But if you do the will of God, you will live forever.

  —John the Last Apostle (c.6-100 A.D.)

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  PROLOGUE

  Few remember the past, and the future will be forgotten by those who follow it. Even so I am writing this confession down on parchment in the hope that you might escape my fate.

  I have come to the end of my life, but I have failed to finish my race. I have fought the wrong fight. I have used up my strength and have nothing to show for it. I have done more evil in the name of good than I ever imagined in my former life as Athanasius of Athens, a hedonist and playwright above all others in Rome when cruel Domitian was Caesar.

  If I had my choice, I would have picked a different world stage for the performance of my life. But we do not choose the dates of our birth or death. Not even Caesar. On the day Domitian was born, the stars proclaimed the exact date of his death: September 18 of this year, the 96th since the advent of Christ.

  Rightly assuming his astrological birth chart itself was an invitation to his enemies to fulfill the prophecy, Domitian devoted himself from childhood to executing any and all his paranoid mind suspected of less than absolute loyalty. He probably murdered his father, Vespasian, and later his brother, Titus, in his ascension to the throne. Not content with being emperor of the Roman Empire, he proclaimed himself dominus et deus, “Lord and God,” ruler of the universe. As if that were not enough, he also assumed the official mantle of pontifex maximus, merging the rule of Rome with the religion of her gods into a terrible theocracy with a single test: those who bowed before him and proclaimed him Lord and God lived, those who refused died. It was said of Christians, in particular, that they could not or would not bow. This is why they were branded “atheists” and executed.

  All but one, it seemed, by the time I arrived on the scene.

  The last living apostle of Christ, John, was still rotting away in his island prison of Patmos. But his apocalyptic Book of Revelation had fanned a firestorm of fear across the empire with its horrific visions of the end of the world.

  Domitian thought better than to make a martyr of the old man. Instead he saw a historic opportunity to let John die of natural causes—and with him the Church’s superstition and vain hope in a glorious Second Coming of Christ. Outlasting both September 18 and the apostle would be Domitian’s ultimate triumph.

  Unfortunately, neither Domitian nor John had foreseen the rise of the supersecret organization that mocked Caesar with its name Dominium Dei, or “Rule of God.” It was said to have started with a small band of disciples inside Nero’s palace, left behind decades ago by the Apostle Paul before he was beheaded. Now it was out in the open, claiming to have infiltrated all levels of Roman government, ready to take over once Domitian was gone and establish a thousand-year “Reign of Christ.” The Dei’s assassination of Domitian’s officials only made the threat more worldly and concrete. Of course, it wasn’t the so-called Dei that the empire feared, nor any return of Christ, so much as Domitian’s response to it and anyone he suspected of being part of it. And the fledgling Christian church, despite the Apostle John’s denunciation of Dominium Dei, bore the brunt of Domitian’s wrath.

  Two kingdoms—one in heaven, one on earth—each vying for a single throne in the heart of man. And one day, out of nowhere, I found myself caught in the middle of these two great wheels of history: religion and politics, grinding against each other and turning to dust the lives of innocents unfortunate enough to get in the way.

  To all who have ears to hear and eyes to see, this is my apology for the murderous events into which I was swept and later instigated as the steward of the world’s most terrible secret, which I now share with you in the only way I know how.

  I

  They had finished their business with the priestess whores at the Temple of Artemis and were about to call it a night when Caelus suggested they try out one of the new secret clubs called Urania.

  Virtus held up his hand. “No more, sir, please.”

  The bodyguard believed in beating one’s body into submission. He loathed having to keep company with this Roman official and his insatiable wants. At some point there had to be a limit. Furthermore, this was their last night in Ephesus before sailing back to Rome. Why tempt the Fates?

  But Caelus insisted. “Next stop, Urania.”

  Virtus sighed. How His Fatness had wormed his way into Caesar’s court was a mystery to him. Yet it would be his own head if anything should happen to Rome’s chief astrologer. So he wrapped his white toga over his shoulder’s scorpion-and-stars tattoo—that of the Third Cohort of the imperial Praetorian Guard—and slid his dagger into its secret fold.

  The moment they stepped outside under the stars Virtus knew this was a mistake. The latest performance of Oedipus Sex had let out of the amphitheater, and the streets of this port city, Rome’s exotic “gateway to the East,” teemed with 30,000 revelers of every age, race and sexual orientation. Singing, laughing and snorting in every tongue, they made their way to the closest tavern, brothel and public toilet in sight. Some couldn’t wait and took to urinating at the curbs. A few squatters, Virtus noticed with dismay, magically grew tails.

  “The mob is too much, sir. I cannot guarantee your safety. We should skip the club, head straight to the ship and call your visit to Ephesus a great success.”

  “Urania,” said Caelus, wading into the throngs before Virtus could stop him.

  Virtus quickly caught up and stuck to Caelus’s side. To most observers they looked like any other typical Roman homosexual couple in the crowd, an older man and his younger love, which was their cover. Praetorian protocol was to dress in civilian togas when accom
panying important personages outside Rome. It drew less attention and allowed Virtus to scan the masses for any threat.

  A street prophet wearing a placard emblazoned with the date September 18 immediately caught his eye. That was the date the stars predicted Caesar would die. Indeed, the official purpose of Caelus’s visit was to meet with oracles and rogue astrologers in the eastern half of the empire. Whatever they privately believed about the star alignments, their job was to align their public forecasts with Caelus’s, which was that Domitian was destined to reign for decades more.

  Virtus gently steered Caelus clear of the street prophet. He decided the man was a harmless if stark reminder that dangerous elements of the underground had begun to come out of the woodwork six months before Doomsday. Local informants said the anti-Roman death cult Dominium Dei was active in Ephesus, and their members didn’t wear placards to announce themselves.

  The Dei had a penchant for abducting local magistrates and sending pieces of them back to their superiors bit by bit—a hand here or an eyeball there, often accompanied by a taunting note. Their only sign of existence, beyond the headless corpses of those Roman officials they left behind, was a black tattoo of the letter Chi under their left armpit. It was a twist on the death cross and a symbol of the astrological ellipses of the earth. Very clever, and as good as invisible to the naked eye. Even that scrap of intelligence had taken months to discover from the sole Dei spy Rome had ever captured—from Caesar’s own Praetorian Guards, no less—and it came only after the guard had killed himself by sucking poison hidden in his signet ring.

  Anyone could be a member of the Dei: your best friend since childhood, even your brother or mother. It was this ruthless reality that kept the empire on edge. His first-hand knowledge that the Dei counted their lives for nothing next to their cause only further unnerved Virtus as he and Caelus merged with the cross-traffic of Crooked Street.

  Vendors clapped cymbals and called out to the crowd as it snaked along the thoroughfare under the strung-up torches.

  “New versions of Oedipus and the Oracle! Ceramic, bronze and silver!”

  A young boy from a nearby stand shoved a figurine into Virtus’s hand and stretched out his own for payment. “Oedipus!”

  Virtus looked at the souvenir idol. The face was cut to resemble the late emperor Nero, just like the colossus near the Flavian Amphitheater back in Rome. The Oedipus “comedy” tonight was a fiendishly clever, thinly disguised retelling of Nero sleeping with his own mother. It was a staple of the Greek playwright Athanasius of Athens to take the classic tragedies and twist them into humorous, subversive commentary about contemporary Roman virtue in high places, or lack thereof.

  “Did you see this, Virtus?” demanded Caelus, showing him the figurine of the Oracle from the play. Actually, it looked more like an orb than a figurine. “Did you see this?!”

  Virtus gave the marble orb a closer look and with a start realized it was cut to look like Caelus.

  Caelus waved his arms hysterically. “How does that Greek get away with it?”

  Virtus had no idea. But he didn’t like standing in the open with Caelus, flesh pressing against them on all sides. A blade could shoot out from the crowd and withdraw, leaving him to stand over the crumpled corpse of portly Caelus. A bad omen for Caesar, for sure, and for his own future.

  “Entertainment is our religion, and religion is our entertainment,” Virtus said, handing the figurines back to the disappointed boy. “The rules of mortal men don’t apply to the gods of the cosmic theater.”

  Caelus, who clearly considered himself one of the gods, nodded as Virtus moved them along. “Well said, Virtus. You are wiser than you look.”

  Having cleared the river of revelers on Crooked Street, they turned north into the quieter, darker streets of Ephesus. It was a better, wealthier part of town, and they were free of the anonymous masses.

  “See, Virtus, I told you we’d make it. The stars said so because I say so. Wait until you see the delights in store for us!”

  Up ahead was a villa perched on a hill. It overlooked the sparkling lights of the great theater, library and harbor beyond. The entrance was a nondescript bolted door. One could have easily missed it save for the bronze celestial globe on a stone pillar in front, and the two guards posted on either side under torches, so frozen in bearing they could have been statues.

  Ex-legionnaires, Virtus guessed, who either weren’t satisfied with their pensions or enjoyed certain side benefits from their new profession in retirement. As for the celestial globe, it was often depicted in art with Urania, the muse of astronomy.

  Ergo, they had found Club Urania.

  Virtus didn’t like the looks of the thick smoke that hung in the air above the courtyard wall, nor the loud and slurred sounds of men and women high on wine and aphrodisiacs wafting over as well. Rome pretended that the empire was one great banner cut from a single cloth. But establishments like Urania revealed its underside as a patchwork of both silk and sackcloth, its seams stretched to the point of tearing apart. That the only thing holding this world together was so thin a thread as this fat pretender Caelus, who existed solely to prove the prophecies about Domitian wrong, only heightened Virtus’s unease.

  Caelus, however, looked delighted. “The priestess back at the temple said you must speak into the globe. There must be a pipe inside that snakes into the villa.”

  Ignoring the guards, Caelus walked up to the globe in front of the bolted door. “Muse of heaven,” he commanded, his voice winded from the short but steep climb to the villa. “Open the sky.”

  The door seemed to open by itself, inviting them inside.

  Poor Virtus didn’t know what he was missing, thought Caelus, resplendent after an arousing ritual of mineral baths in progressive tubs of hot and cold water. The stoic simpleton could have joined him on Caesar’s denarius but had chosen to stand outside in the courtyard with the chariot drivers and bodyguards of other dignitaries. He didn’t understand that the spirit was freed from the body by indulging the senses, not restraining them. Life would pass the fool by and he’d mourn these missed opportunities to taste the nectar of the gods and feel like one himself.

  Now Caelus lay naked on a gigantic divan in a circular chamber as two exotic muses imported from beyond the corners of the empire worked special oils into every crevice of his body, under every flab, even into parts unknown to him. Caelus could only stare up at the domed ceiling painted black with white points of light arranged like constellations of the zodiac and thank the gods for his good fortune.

  The haze of the opium above the flicking candles was already taking effect. The mosaics of the nine muses on the walls seemed to dance like shadows, and the constellations drifted across the painted heavens above him. The muse working on his face cupped her hands over his nose and mouth so he could inhale some exotic extract, while the muse working his legs began to massage his loins.

  And then they came, one by one: seven more naked muses with foreign tongues to take their turns on him, giggling as his blob of a body writhed and wriggled uncontrollably. Together they took him to a higher plane of pleasure beyond the bounds of any he thought this earth could offer.

  Truly, I have been born again, he thought when it was all over and he was alone in the chamber, the muses magically gone.

  His body still vibrating with a new energy and lightness of being, Caelus slid off the divan and walked under an archway to the adjoining bathroom, which was even larger than the chamber he had just left. It was arranged like a public toilet with a fountain in the center and around it a long marble bench in the shape of a horseshoe with neatly spaced holes. A small water trough like a stream ran along the base of the bench to wash patrons’ feet as they sat down.

  He noticed a small fish symbol scratched into the mosaic floor. It was the sign of those blood-drinking, flesh-eating Christians. They had usurped the new Age of Pisces in the stars as their self-fulfilling sign of ascendancy. He resented anyone who dared muscle in on his he
avens, most of all these superstitious amateurs.

  “I piss on Christ!” he proclaimed and painted the fish graffiti with his urine. “Swim in this!”

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw something move in the water below the toilet bench. He leaned over the dark hole to have a closer look.

  Was it a shadow? No.

  A face!

  All of a sudden the floor gave way beneath him. His head banged on the trapdoor paver, and he felt himself begin to slide. Then two sets of hairy arms reached up out of the darkness and dragged him down to Hades.

  • • •

  Caelus awoke in a dank, underground cell. Dazed, he squinted his eyes in the dim light. Next to him lay the bruised and bloody corpse of Virtus. Rats had begun to nip on his bodyguard’s flesh.

  What foul fate is this? Caelus wondered as panic seized him. He was on his knees now.

  Virtus had lectured Caelus for his own safety about the so-called Ephesian Underworld—the network of mysterious tunnels that lay beneath the streets of the old city. The tunnels connected the cellars of certain downtown inns and taverns to the great harbor. Originally built to move goods from storage to the ships and avoid the cart and foot traffic on the streets, they were also used to abduct unwary visitors and sell them as galley slaves. Caelus had assumed this type of passage was reserved for prostitutes and female slaves, and that Virtus had only been trying to scare him.

  Two looming figures emerged from the darkness, dressed in the armor and black robes of the Vigiles Urbani—local police known as Watchmen.

  “This is a grave mistake!” Caelus screamed, the echoes of his cry bouncing off the rock walls and fading into the black void. “Do you know who I am?”

  “The great Caelus, chief astrologer to Caesar.”

  Jupiter! They know who I am. This was not a mistake!