Demetrius stared at the driver. “What are you doing?”
“We have to get to the house!” Athanasius yelled over his shoulder as he set off in a run. “The Romans are coming!”
He was halfway across the gardens when he saw the first flaming arrow arc high into the sky and crash through the red-tiled roof. “Jupiter, no!” he yelled as dozens more from all directions flew over him and hit the villa.
An explosion of screams followed by fire and smoke blew out every window. Then a great column of fire burst up out of the roof and into the sky.
A door opened and in the frame he saw his mother, bent over, staggering in the smoke, helped out by one of the cousins. Then an arrow hit her in the chest and she fell.
“Mother!” he screamed.
Dozens of heavily armored Roman legionnaires with javelins, swords and shields approached the house in a line, moving in methodically to block any escape. But one of his nieces, he could not recognize which, managed to crawl out a window and make a run for it.
A Roman butcher—the very one who had shot his mother—chased her down. His face was unforgettable, marked by a vertical gash from his forehead to his chin, as if an ax had once practically split his head in two. And his demented expression was like some malevolent god who took pleasure only by inflicting pain. When he caught up to his prey, he raised his javelin high and with two hands plunged it into her back, once and again.
“No! Oh, no! No!” Athanasius screamed and then felt something large tackle him to the ground.
It was Demetrius, sitting on him, pushing his face into the dirt to muffle his cries. “Too many spears, Athanasius. You cannot save them, only yourself.”
And then the words shattered through the shouts and screams as the villa came crumbling down. It was his mother, calling out to him.
“Athanasius!”
Athanasius couldn’t move, couldn’t even open his mouth, so great was the weight of big Demetrius upon him.
“You must run, Athanasius. Run away. As must I.”
With that the heaviness was gone, and so was Demetrius. Athanasius looked around at the smoldering ruins of his family’s villa, unable to comprehend the vision of tragedy before his eyes.
He tasted blood in his mouth where he had bitten his tongue and heard his hard breathing. Something inside him had crumbled to nothing, unleashing a fury that overwhelmed all his fears.
He quickly picked himself up, made his way back to the stables, pulled out a horse and rode away, allowing himself one last look at the destruction of everything left that he held dear in this life. He had thought he had lost everything before, but now the finality of yet another shock turned his grief into a wildfire of rage.
You’re going to die for this, Domitian, he vowed to himself. You and all that stinks of Rome.
The port of Kenchreai hummed at dusk as the dockworkers loaded the last stores onto the Pegasus. Captain Andros was going over the charts with the helmsman when he heard his name and looked up to see the centurion approach, shaking his head. “We’ve waited as long as we can, Captain. No sign of the tribune, and we have to arrive in Ephesus by the 14th of the month.”
The captain nodded and walked out on deck to give the order to lift the gangway. It was late indeed, and darkness had fallen across the harbor. He could hear the strands of music from the taverns welcoming sailors who had just arrived. Then he heard a shout. Coming up the gangway was the tribune.
“We thought you weren’t going to make it, Tribune,” the captain told him as the gangway came up.
The tribune, who looked unusually distressed, said, “Some interrogations take longer than others. I’ll be in my cabin for the night.”
“Of course, Tribune.”
“Oh, one more thing,” the tribune said, and Andros could feel another surprise coming in the pit of his stomach. “We will be making an unscheduled stop on the way to Ephesus. I have another interrogation to perform on Patmos.”
“Patmos?” the captain repeated, unable to contain his dismay.
“Don’t tell the crew until the last moment,” the tribune calmly replied. “They might worry they are the troop relief for the island instead of Ephesus. Even the commander of the garrison on Patmos is not expecting me. Caesar is worried about spies in his ranks. Let us not give him cause to suspect any of your crew.”
“Yes, Tribune,” Andros said and watched the tribune march up the two steps to his cabin door. Andros was as superstitious as old men of the sea came, and he could only shake his head. This doesn’t bode well, he thought as the tribune shut the door behind him. Not well at all.
IV
For the better part of two days Athanasius lay on his hammock staring at the ceiling, contemplating his situation and how he was utterly alone in this world. The sad fact was that he had nowhere to hide—not Rome, not home in Greece, and not even the Dei. At this point he had no choice but to use the cover he had as an interrogator to visit the last apostle John in his prison on the island of Patmos.
But he would not be asking the last apostle to help him find refuge within the underground Christian movement as Marcus had anticipated back in Rome. No, he would break the old man out under the guise of a prisoner transfer to Ephesus for a trial before the governor. He could think of nothing better to drive Domitian insane than to make John vanish from custody and magically appear in the streets of Ephesus, publicly discrediting the Dei. The truth would destroy Domitian’s lie to the Christians and expose the false accusations that Athanasius of Athens was Chiron.
Of course, the Romans could quickly kill him and John, but the damage would have been done. And if Athanasius could stay alive long enough—that is, outlive Domitian—there was yet hope he could one day return to Rome, reunite with Helena and wreak vengeance on his turncoat rival Ludlumus.
But what if John balked? There was always that remote possibility. In that case, Athanasius would have to persuade him in his own vernacular. To prepare for his visit with the last apostle, he decided it best to study what the apostle wrote.
So on his third day after fleeing Corinth, Athanasius dug out the scrolls of Christian scripture from Chiron’s trunk. For several days he sat at his cabin’s desk, studying the collected gospels, letters and Book of Revelation, pausing only to take meals at his desk, sleep in his hammock and relieve himself in the nearest latrine at the stern—an empty amphora, once filled with something else, that drained to the bilge at the bottom of the ship.
It didn’t take him long to see why The Way had so spooked Rome: According to the “good news,” the only sacrifice to God that the Christian superstition required had already been made in this man Jesus. And the only religious sacraments he could find—communion and baptism—were not requirements of the faith but symbols of remembrance. They were certainly a far cry from the urban legends in Rome of drinking blood and drowning people.
As for money, Jesus didn’t seem to bother with it, except to drive out moneychangers at the temple in Jerusalem who forced people to pay to pray. He also offended his rich followers by telling them their money would not get them into heaven and to give it away to the poor, not to the temple or even his organization. It was this kind of thinking that apparently so set off his treasurer Judas, who later betrayed him.
All this so they couldn’t boast of their charity to God.
Well, Athanasius concluded, without sacrifice or money involved, Christianity could not be defined as a religion at all. Indeed, it was antithetical to everything the gods of Rome demanded for survival.
Most galling of all, Jesus was quoted as saying that there would be surprises in heaven. Not everybody who used his name on earth would be granted admission. Meanwhile, he said that others who had never heard of him would be welcomed.
Athanasius now understood why so many disciples deserted Jesus toward the end of his life, and he could see why he would too. He especially took issue with the entire deus ex machina return of Jesus at the end of history.
Believing in J
esus, let alone waiting for him to come back, wasn’t going to get him out of his mess. Only action.
There was a knock at the door. “Enter.”
The steward who had replaced Galen in serving him walked in. He was the young, peppy anti-Galen. “Tribune,” he said brightly, even as his knees practically knocked together in terror. “The captain wanted you to know we’ve spotted Patmos.”
Athanasius went up to the deck to get a glimpse. It was just before sunrise, and the dark cliffs of the island rose from the horizon like a jagged rock jutting up from the sea. As they rounded a cape, Athanasius saw a small white harbor nestled at the foot of the gloomy mountain.
Somewhere in that mountain was a cave, he thought, and inside that cave a man who claimed to have seen the end of the world.
A voice beside him said, “Tribune, are you sure you don’t want to skip this excursion?”
This time it was the centurion who had come to converse in private with him.
“Now why would I want to do that, Centurion?”
“My men are anxious to get to Ephesus. And the oarsmen, sailors and marines aboard are anxious. They don’t like the thought of anchoring off an island prison.”
“Perhaps they’ve done something to merit such fears?”
“Nothing, Tribune. Nothing at all. But you know men of the sea. They are a superstitious lot. The end of the world was revealed on this island.”
“Only if you’re superstitious, Centurion. I am not. Tell the captain to take us in, or prepare to explain to Caesar why you chose to defy the will of Rome.”
“At your orders, Tribune,” he said and left quickly.
• • •
The Pegasus was too big a ship for the tiny harbor, so it had to anchor some ways off in deeper waters. The centurion and two officers took Athanasius in on a smaller boat. On the way in, Athanasius couldn’t help but notice another ship, rather sizable but small enough to anchor in the harbor. The name painted on the stern was Sea Nymph, and it flew an Egyptian flag. It had the forecastle and stern house for dignitaries, but only one row of oars to support the sails. Something about it seemed off.
The centurion must have seen him staring. “A floating opium den and whorehouse from Alexandria, here to entertain the garrison. Our timing was fortunate.”
Indeed, it was. Athanasius could use such a distraction with the garrison while he extricated John. The oarsmen of his little boat seemed to put their backs into it, eager to reach the island now that it offered more than prisoners and prophets of doom.
“Your men will have to wait until Ephesus, Centurion. I won’t be long. We have a prisoner to transfer.”
Athanasius could feel the wind taken out of his two rowers, their disappointment palpable. “Such is life,” he told them sternly, knowing it all too well.
The officers tied up in the harbor, and Athanasius and the centurion headed up the stone quay, passing the whitewashed barracks toward the square, where there was some commotion.
Athanasius reached the edge of the square and saw a prisoner tied to a post, surrounded by a small group of soldiers. The island’s commanding officer—and de facto prison warden—was dressed in full regalia, minus a helmet, perhaps to impress the whores watching from the deck of their ship.
The commander snapped a long whip on the prisoner’s battered back, leaving a deep red stripe among several others. The prisoner screamed in agony. The soldiers jeered. It appeared to Athanasius this was something of an entertainment between the rounds of real fun aboard the floating pleasure barge.
“Commander?” Athanasius asked aloud.
“Sextus Calpurnius Barbatio,” the commander said, irked by this break in his rhythm. Then seeing the tribune rankings, Barbatio snapped to attention. “Tribune, sir. To what do we owe this visit? Surely you must understand that my men get first priority with the Sea Nymph. Your men will have to wait their turn. I’m sure you’ll understand.”
Athanasius wordlessly handed over his imperial order with Caesar’s seal to the commander, who gave it a glance and then, apparently due to poor eyesight, handed it to his aide to read to him. The aide did so in a low voice as Barbatio listened with a stone face.
Barbatio said, “How can we assist the tribune?”
“I’m here to interrogate the last apostle John.”
There was silence in the square. Even the wailing prisoner stopped his cries.
“You will find the threat of physical torture and death useless on the old man,” Barbatio finally said. “Even my own psychological efforts have failed thus far.”
“And what are those?”
“We learned the whip does not work on the apostle, so we use it on the other prisoners every night before supper. Then I visit John to confess my evil and demand his forgiveness. I know he must, as many times as I ask. So I wait for the day he cannot bear the burden any longer and tells me what I want to hear.”
“What is that?”
“The meaning of the Book of Revelation.”
“Oh, you mean there is one?” Athanasius said, prompting some nervous laughter. Then he got tough. “Your failures are not my concern, Commander.” He glanced at the brothel boat in the harbor. “Nor your lack of discipline. I have my orders, and so do you.”
Barbatio, none too happy with the tribune’s tone, nodded. “Cornelius here will escort you to the cave. It’s a bit of a climb.”
A young officer stepped forward, and Athanasius followed him toward some stone steps out of the public square and up the hill. Behind him he heard the music of Patmos play again with the snap of a whip and the cries of the prisoner.
Athanasius went up the long, zigzagging path toward the cave. He was almost out of breath by the time they came to the iron gate at the entrance, which was flanked by two prison guards. The guards opened the gate at Cornelius’s orders.
“You’ll wait outside,” Athanasius said and stepped inside.
• • •
The cave was dark, illuminated only by a few flickering candles and a shaft of dim light from some crack in the ceiling. There was movement in the back. Athanasius waited for his eyes to adjust.
He could see the recess in the rock, close to the ground, where the apostle would lay his head when resting. But he was not there. There was another recess to the right a little higher up where the apostle would probably support his hands as he knelt to pray. But John was not there either. And there was a more or less level place in the rock that looked to be used as a desk. There were papers and writing instruments on it.
Perhaps another revelation? Athanasius wondered. One that could explain what had happened to the last apostle?
He took a step toward the desk when he saw a shadow move at the back of the cave. A flicker of light appeared. An old, bearded man with white hair emerged from an alcove holding a candle. He wore the simple tunic of a prisoner and broken sandals. He looked at Athanasius curiously.
“I haven’t seen your face before, Tribune.”
“No, but perhaps you’ve heard my name. Chiron.”
The last apostle screwed his eyes and paused before answering. “I doubt that. Who are you, really?”
Athanasius looked around the cave and back toward the opening. Satisfied they were far enough away from being overhead outside, he said, “My name is Athanasius of Athens. I’m here to free you.”
V
“I don’t want to be freed,” John the Last Apostle told Athanasius after listening to his sad story. They were sitting on the sleeping ledge of the cave. John had a gentle, soft demeanor, completely at odds with his character in the gospel accounts and the violence of Revelation. “I’m already free. You’re the one who needs to be free. Free from this hatred I see in your eyes.”
This was precisely what Athanasius feared might happen. “My hatred is reserved for Rome, old man, and for Dominium Dei. Not Jesus or The Way.”
“You must love others, Athanasius, and forgive your enemies.”
Athanasius resisted the insanity of
John’s easy words. “You don’t know Caesar Domitian like I do, nor his vile master of the Games. They killed the consul, Flavius Clemens, your top Christian in Rome, I hear, along with many others. They will keep on killing. They want to destroy your Church.”
“It’s not my Church, Athanasius. Jesus is the head.”
“Then come with me to Ephesus and say as much publicly. Expose the Dei and Domitian. Leave the rest to us in Rome.”
“You will accomplish nothing by killing Caesar.”
Athanasius threw out the bait that Clemens’ servant Stephanus threw him: “Even if Young Vespasian becomes emperor and bows before Christ?”
“That’s his business,” John said, unimpressed with the vision of a Christian world. “But you are gravely mistaken if you believe that turning Christianity into the official religion of Rome will save anybody. Jesus said his kingdom is in heaven, not on earth. I see great evil in this thinking of yours.”
“And I see greater evil in an old man who would prefer to see his doomsday vision scorch the earth than lift a finger to help an innocent man.”
“From what you told me, Athanasius, you don’t seem so innocent. Senator Maximus’s slave, the steward on your ship, the driver in Corinth. You’ve been busy, and there’s blood on your hands. Why should I believe that you are not from the Dei? You could be a plant from Caesar to spy out the Church and destroy it.”
“I am not!” Athanasius shouted and stood up. “The senator, like you, betrayed me. His slave tried to kill me. The ship’s steward thought he had, and the driver in Corinth was about to, before his friends the Roman legions slaughtered my entire family and razed the house I grew up in! My actions are justified! You don’t tell me about calling down the fire! Because your good Jesus has already incinerated everything I held dear!”
His rant prompted the guards outside to open the iron gate at the mouth of the cave and walk in to see if everything was all right.
Wrath of Rome (Book Two of the Dominium Dei Trilogy) Page 3
