The Chiron Confession (Dominium Dei) (10 page)

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.

T
he 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.”

The tribune nodded and headed north toward the prison at the base of Capitoline Hill.

Julius had no desire to follow in that direction, and instead turned south past the Senate and down the Street of Bankers, whistling here and there. “Sirius! Sirius!” A moment later, when he looked over his shoulder, the tribune had vanished into the night.

•    •    •

Athanasius walked quickly past the prison. Here the Street of Bankers sloped up into Banker Hill Road, and he followed it around Capitoline Hill toward the home of Senator Maximus.

He knew he was blowing his rendezvous with the Ferryman and ignoring the instructions of his savior Marcus. But there was still a chance to make things right, if only he could expose Domitian’s plot. Then he would not only save himself and get back his life with Helena, but also save Marcus from death in the morning, however unfortunate their business with the tongue.

He saw nobody at this hour on the street and trudged through the dark up a private drive off the road. He reached the gate of the estate, which was surrounded by a high wall.

He knocked on the heavy wooden door. There was no answer at first, and then a lamp went on somewhere inside the villa and the door opened to reveal a servant girl who obviously had been asleep. She didn’t seem to recognize him in his uniform.

Good.

“I am here on state business and must see Maximus immediately.”

He was led through a courtyard and stepped inside the front door of the villa without being invited in. The servant girl scurried away while he waited impatiently.

He looked around the reception hall and remembered his early visits to his patron Maximus when he had first come to Rome. He would arrive every morning to pay his respects to Maximus in the atrium and receive his day’s meal. Maximus would then take money from a trunk guarded by his big Syrian slave Dillian to hand him to pay actors or rent a small theater in the commercial strips of Mars Field. Athanasius had already squandered his own money in several expensive flops, and Maximus urged him to start small and build his audience slowly. Like other wealthy patrons, Maximus said he wanted to make Rome great. Most others did it by erecting temples or building parks. For Maximus it was the arts, and he seemed to believe that in Athanasius he had found someone whose works could speak more loudly than stone.

It was Maximus, Athanasius now recalled, who first arranged his introduction to Helena. He had been pining for her ever since he saw her cheering her then-boyfriend and his chariot at the old Circus Maximus. He remembered telling Maximus, “If I could have a woman like that, I would have everything, including the recognition of my arrival in Rome.” To which Maximus laughed and said, “On the contrary, having Helena at your side would render you invisible. I know you want to be the center of her universe, Athanasius, but don’t fool yourself: Helena is the center of her universe.”

All the same, they met, and Athanasius won her over with his force of personality and relentless charm. To many in Rome, she was undoubtedly his greatest achievement, more than his plays, because he had beat out a formidable field of muscle in the form of gladiators, racers and athletes, and money in the form of countless wealthy suitors.

Now he had lost her. He had lost everything. He desperately wanted to go to her now, but it would do him no good. They could not save themselves. They needed help, and Maximus was just the man.

A moment later Maximus’s chamberlain Dillian appeared. The look in the big Syrian’s eyes told Athanasius that he recognized him.

“This way,” Dillian said and led Athanasius to the bedrooms in the back.

Maximus was sitting on his bed. He was dressed in his night robe, white chest hairs poking out from his barrel chest, and looking years older and far more frail than his stage presence only hours earlier in the throne room at the palace. Athanasius worried he had assumed too much, that his mentor could be of help to him. Perhaps he had made a big mistake in not following the interrogator’s instructions.

“Is it really you, Athanasius?” Maximus marveled as Athanasius removed his helmet. “I can’t believe it. How?”

“Dominium Dei is an imperial organization, Maximus,” Athanasius said without preamble. “Domitian’s spies have infiltrated the underground Christian movement. He is fanning a war between the church and the state, playing both sides against each other in order to destroy his enemies in the Senate and amass ever more power for himself. We must inform the Senate and confront Domitian publicly.”

Maximus looked shocked, and yet slowly began to nod. “It makes a kind of wild sense. But we need proof, Athanasius, and the support of the Praetorian.”

“I have proof,” Athanasius said, thinking of Marcus in his cell. “But we have little time.”

“I suppose we don’t, Athanasius.” But Maximus sat there on his bed, tapping his foot against the brass frame and bed’s ivory feet. “But how do I know that Domitian hasn’t put you up to this, to save your own skin?”

“What?”

“Going against him as a group would only prove his contention that there is a massive conspiracy. He could wipe out the rest of his enemies in the Senate and the Praetorian Guard, all in one stroke—because you got us, the true conspirators, to expose ourselves.”

“A conspiracy of truth.”

“Of course, Athanasius, of course. But the end would be the same—you dead, me dead, all of us dead, and Domitian triumphant and living long past September 18.”

“But he is triumphant already. What other choice do we have?”

“Only one,” Maximus said. “Dillian!”

Athanasius heard a footstep behind and spun around. The slave Dillian was lunging at him with a sword. Athanasius grabbed his arms, his fists sliding down to his wrists, bending them back until the Syrian released his grip on the sword and it fell with a clank to the travertine floor.

The slave tried to grab it, and Athanasius countered with a knee to his face. He recoiled in pain, his hands reaching for his face, exposing himself. Athanasius whipped out his own sword, and as the Syrian straightened up, plunged his sword into the slave’s chest, driving him back against the wall. The light of life flickered in his dark eyes, and when Athanasius pulled the sword out, Dillian slid to the floor in a pool of blood, dead.

“Your first kill, Athanasius?” said Maximus from behind.

Athanasius felt something on his back and spun around to see old Maximus holding a tiny stick. His mentor had tried to prick him with it, but it had broken on an armor plate. Athanasius grabbed it from Maximus with one hand and shoved the old man back onto his bed with the other.

“Athanasius, please,” Maximus said, his lips bloodied by the blow.

Athanasius sniffed the tip of the broken stick.

Poison.

“Et tu,
Maximus?” Athanasius said, dropping the stick to the floor and moving in with his sword.

Maximus smiled as he looked at the corpse of his servant Dillian. “You surprise us all, Athanasius. You really are a butcher, aren’t you?”

Athanasius put the tip of his sword to Maximus’s saggy neck. “And what are you, Maximus? Who are you, friend?”

Maximus nodded as if to say, “I’ll tell you,” and Athanasius pulled back the tip of his sword slightly. Then Maximus wiped his bloody lips with the back of his hand and coughed.

“The Dei are everywhere, Athanasius. They cannot be defeated. You cannot defeat them. In a few short years they will take over the world.”

“Names, Maximus. I want names.”

Suddenly Maximus gagged and went limp, collapsing to the floor.

Athanasius stared into his face. The old man’s eyes were wide—and dead.

Kneeling over the body of his dead mentor, Athanasius noticed the ring on Maximus’s gnarled forefinger. It reminded him of the one on his own hand, the one Marcus had given him.

The finger was already cold when Athanasius slipped the ring off and noticed the tiny hole. He sniffed.

Poison. Just like the stick.

Athanasius could hardly believe it. Maximus had sucked poison out of his ring rather than reveal anything more about Dominium Dei.

What more could there possibly be?

Athanasius then peeled away Maximus’s robe to examine his mentor’s barrel chest. Something had caught his eye during their struggle.

There it was, under the left armpit: a jagged death cross tattooed in black on the pasty white skin. It was a
Chi
symbol—the mark of an invisible army with legions around the world.

Dominium Dei.

They were indeed everywhere.

A piercing scream filled the air. Athanasius looked up at the slave girl standing in the doorway, peering in. “You killed the senator!”

He heard movement through the walls. The whole house was stirring. Athanasius picked up his helmet. He had to get out of there.

“Silence!” ordered Athanasius, releasing his grip on the robe and slipping Maximus’s ring on the opposite hand of the one with Marcus’s. “This is state business.”

“You are defiling him!” she screamed. Her piercing cry reverberated off the walls like an alarm, and suddenly the siren of a horn blasted outside, alerting the entire hillside.

Athanasius rushed past her as she flattened herself against the wall and ran down the hallway to the front door. Maximus’s carriage was at the gate, but it was too late to reach it now. Already a squad of Urban Cohorts, swords and spears out for attack, were running toward the villa, attracted by the sound of the horn.

Athanasius turned back and ran through the rooms of the house, waving his sword and knocking slaves over. When he reached the back balcony overlooking the old Republic Wall, he leaped off it, landing on the hillside behind the villa and sliding down the slope toward the grim apartment blocks in the vast slums below.