The Chiron Confession (Dominium Dei) (3 page)

“John is the last of the Jewish apostles, Your Highness. His influence is contained to Asia Minor. The Dei are non-Jews in make-up, the spiritual progeny of those Christian converts that the apostle Paul left behind before his beheading by Nero. For decades these followers, both slave and freedman, have kept their faith secret even as they have faithfully served the governments of successive Caesars. These recent public executions are a radical departure from their reputation.”

“And you would know that because you are one of them?” Domitian suddenly offered, catching his cousin off guard.

“What?” asked Clemens. “No!”

“Everybody knows that your wife Domitilla—my niece—is one. Some even believe that you are this ‘Theophilus’ to whom the apostle Luke addressed his account of the life of Jesus.”

“Caesar knows much,” Clemens said, neither confirming nor denying the rumors. “But the Christians here in Rome consider themselves successors not of the apostle Paul but of the apostle Peter. They are not infiltrators. They seek no influence over the affairs of state. They seek only to live quiet, peaceful lives. To render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s.”

“Caesar is God,” Domitian insisted. “On this matter there can be no confusion.”

“You know they pay their taxes and pray for you and all in authority, Your Highness,” Clemens insisted. “They publicly denounce the Dei and all violence.”

“Violence!” Domitian erupted. “And what is this Book of Revelation they all heed if not violence of the most extreme kind to Caesar, Rome and the empire? The end of this world! A New Jerusalem! And heaven and earth! You don’t think this superstition inspires animals like the Dei to take up the sword in the name of Jesus? Or embolden my enemies in the Senate? Perhaps even members of my own family?” He glared at Clemens. “My family!”

“Surely you don’t suspect Domitia?” Clemens replied, diverting attention to Domitian’s wife.

A startled Domitian glanced at Ludlumus and Secundus, both looking quite impressed by the feeble Clemens’ unusually clever recovery.

“Nonsense,” Domitian said. “After all I’ve done for her? I can’t imagine why she would want me dead.”

Domitian had pursued his second wife Domitia from the beginning years ago. She was married at the time, so he forced her husband to divorce her so he could marry her. Later on, she ran off with the actor Paris, and he had to have the thespian killed. Still, after some time, she came back to him of her own accord.

Clemens said nothing and could only genuflect before his Caesar. But was he bowing before his Lord and God as well? Domitian wasn’t sure anymore.

“Clemens,” he barked. “I want you to find this mysterious mastermind of all that troubles the empire. I want you to find Chiron.”

“Find Chiron?” Clemens gasped. “How am I supposed to do that? Nobody knows who he is!”

“Surely one of your devious little Jewish and Christian friends will know his true identity.” Domitian could see the pain in his cousin’s face. “Yes, Clemens. You will give Secundus names, and my Praetorian Guards will beat these fanatics and kill them one by one until they give up the most dangerous man in the world.”

They had arrived at the palace, entering the lower level in back. Here the offices of Caesar were filled with hundreds of slaves and magistrates who kept Rome’s trade routes clear—the roads clean of dung for its armies and seas clear of pirates for its navies. As Domitian passed by, the business of Rome suddenly seemed to pick up, with much scurrying and paper shuffling, until Caesar and his
amici
went up a short flight of stairs to the private residence.

Domitian stopped outside his bedchamber and glared at his
amici.

“Clemens, you will find Chiron for me. And you, Secundus, will bring him to me. Those are my orders. Now carry them out.”

The consul and prefect glanced at each other, said nothing, and went their separate ways, leaving Caesar alone with his Master of the Games.

Ludlumus said, “You know the consul is never going to find Chiron, Your Highness. Even if he did, he would never willingly give him up.”

“Somebody has to die for this. Somebody big,” Domitian insisted. “We must have retribution. And it must be public, as a warning to others. Once we produce Chiron, his execution must be public, humiliating and painful.”

“I’ll conjure up something nice for 80,000 spectators.”

“See that you do, Ludlumus. And find out how Epaphroditus allowed that finger to ever reach me that my eyes should see it.”

Ludlumus paused. “Your Highness had his primary secretary executed last year. Something about his assisting Nero’s suicide 28 years ago.”

“Exactly. That’s what I meant. Epaphroditus would never have allowed this misfortune to disturb me. Now leave us.”

By “us” Domitian meant himself, of course, and Ludlumus left and closed the door behind him, leaving Domitian to himself.

Domitian, Rome’s Lord and God, removed his short-cropped wig and looked in the mirror of polished brass. He was painfully self-conscious about his baldness and had hoped the publication of his popular book on the subject of hair care would make him less so. But it hadn’t. The fleshy face and protruding stomach didn’t boost his spirits either these days. They made him feel weak.

Domitian looked around his bedchamber, dominated by his bed, couch and statue of his favorite goddess Minerva with her sacred owl. His chamberlain Parthenius had laid out a lavish spread of sweets for him on the table by the couch. But Domitian wasn’t hungry, the vision of Caelus’s finger filling his head. Who knew what his enemies would do to him?

And who were his enemies?

Everyone.

He knew he paled in comparison to his beloved father, Vespasian, the first Flavian to be Caesar. His brother, Titus, was also beloved by Rome’s aristocrats, thanks to his military success in the Judean War. Titus’s untimely death two years into his reign as Caesar only swelled public affection for Domitian’s brother—and cast suspicion that he, Domitian, was behind it. True enough, perhaps, but not enough to explain the pure hatred he endured from the noble class.

No, Domitian concluded, the noble class of Rome hated him because he refused to promote lazy and entitled family, friends and political supporters to run the offices of government simply because they were his family, friends or political supporters. His administration was a meritocracy, and it was effective only because he installed the best people into the best positions to build up the empire with great public works, like the new Circus Maximus under construction down the hill, and the network of new highways being laid in the empire’s eastern half of Asia Minor.

For this he was hated, because these useless aristocrats were worthless and had nothing to contribute to the world other than their money, which is why he was so often forced to relieve them of it along with their lives. Now they drooled over his prophesied demise and were attempting to sway those closest to him in his personal staff, and even his family: Domitian’s second wife, Domitia, was in a league of her own concerning suspicion, closer to him than anybody else.

He walked to his bed and lifted his pillow to make sure the knife he kept was still there. It was.

Good.

He moved to the couch on which he liked to take his rest during the day, and removed from beneath it a two-leaved tablet of linden-wood. On the wood he had scratched his list of those he suspected were conspiring against him.

Domitia’s name was at the top, followed by his two Praetorian prefects: Petronius Secundus and his colleague Norbanus. An emperor could never trust his own Praetorian Guards, who as Caesar’s “protectors” had a long history of deciding in advance who should become emperor and then, once in office, how long that emperor should live.

Then there was his cousin Flavius Clemens, of course, and his wife, Domitilla, who was Domitian’s own niece. Domitian had already proclaimed their two sons his successors since he and Domitia had none of their own. So clearly they were the most obvious beneficiaries of his demise, although Domitilla was the strong one in that marriage. Clemens was too weak and ineffectual to be any kind of threat. Only his able administration of the countless papers the government required to handle the Jews kept him employed, so long as he made sure the Jews paid their extra taxes for being, well, Jews.

Finally, there was Ludlumus, his Master of the Games. It was hard for Domitian to believe that Ludlumus could possibly think any successor would be as good to him. Nevertheless, although he trusted the ghoul, Domitian at bottom didn’t like him, so his name was on the list.

These top names were on the left eave of his wooden tablet.

On the right eave he kept the names of those who had no reason to wish his demise but were close enough to him on a daily basis to inflict bodily harm: Parthenius, his chamberlain, whom he had honored by being the only servant allowed to wear a sword in his company; Sigerus, another chamberlain; and Entellus, who was allowed to enter his chambers with petitions requiring his attention.

He clapped the eaves shut like a book and slipped the tablet under his pillow on the couch. Then he set his throbbing head on his pillow and, afraid to even shut his eyes for a moment, stared at his statue of the goddess Minerva and prayed for her protection. She was the only one he could trust now. Soon his eyelids began to flutter, and he was drifting off to sleep, dreaming of the day he would kill them all.

I
t was a glorious day for an execution.

Less than a week after the unfortunate incident with the finger of Caesar’s astrologer, Ludlumus paused at the private entrance to the Hypogeum beneath the Coliseum. He drew out an Etruscan dagger from a fold in his fashionable robe and ran his finger along the fine blade. He felt no prick, only the cool trickle of blood. Very nice, he thought, as trumpets announced that the execution was about to begin. He sucked his finger dry, slid the dagger back into its hidden sheath and walked inside.

The Hypogeum was a vast, two-level subterranean network of tunnels, animal pens, prisoner cells, shafts and trap doors that powered the scenery changes and special effects of the Games. Beastmasters, sword handlers and stage hands stood at attention as he walked past the sophisticated systems of ramps, winches, capstans and hoists—modern technology that could launch animals, prisoners and gladiators up into the arena.

It was dark but beastly hot down here. With so little natural light, the torches burned all hours of the day and night. It was the very pit of hell, and he reveled in it, his home as master of the underworld.

He proceeded past a series of chambers that rattled violently from the force of their snarling occupants: lions, tigers, leopards, bulls and buffalo. Then there was the smell of excrement, blood and death.

Glorious.

The holding cell at the end of the corridor was guarded by two Praetorians. Gazing out from beneath their shiny bronze helmets with hinged cheek-pieces were alert eyes, sweeping back and forth, looking for trouble. The Praetorians were dressed in full armor and carried side arms—a sword and dagger—and each held a javelin upright in front of him, spearheads gleaming.

The guards recognized him on sight as he approached. “Sir,” they said in unison, smacking their boots together.

“At ease, fools,” he told them, stopping in front of the cell door. “I bear no military rank.”

Their faces were glazed over with perspiration from the heat. His own face was cool and dry.

Ludlumus said, “Caesar insists I spend a few moments with the prisoner before his execution.”

The first Praetorian opened his mouth to protest but wisely said nothing. He instead motioned his fellow legionary to unlock the cell door.

“I’ll need a recorder,” Ludlumus demanded, and the first Praetorian followed him into the cell.

The prisoner was clad in leg irons and propped up in chains against the far wall, his head hanging down. Too weary and battered from torture, he was already half-dead and seemed resigned to die. But when he looked up and saw the tall Roman, he came to life as his former self: Titus Flavius Clemens—soldier, millionaire, consul of Rome and now accused Christian.

“Ludlumus!” gasped Clemens. “Domitian must be stopped! For the sake of Rome! He’ll kill the entire Senate!”

“Speak for yourself,” Ludlumus said. “The emperor wants me to record your confession before you die. He’s especially interested in the names of any friends of yours we might have missed.”

Clemens’ face turned bitter. “Our self-proclaimed ‘Lord and God’ Domitian killed them all.”

“Not all of them,” Ludlumus said. “Your wife Domitilla has been banished to the island of Pontia.”

“And my boys?”

“Young Vespasian and Domitian will live in the palace under the care of Caesar as his designated successors. Caesar has brought in the grammarian Quintilian to tutor them. His will purge them of any superstitions they have been exposed to by you and your wife.”

“Rome will not steal their souls, Ludlumus.”

“That remains to be seen. But for the sake of their lives, Clemens, tell me, who is Chiron?”

“I told you, I don’t know! Nobody does!”

Clemens looked confused and scared. His eyes darted back and forth between the guard and Ludlumus.

“I didn’t hear you, Clemens,” Ludlumus pressed. “Who is Chiron?”

Clemens looked flabbergasted, as if he could not believe Ludlumus would do this to him. “How long have we served my cousin together, Ludlumus? You know there is no evidence linking me to the Dei. Killing me does nothing to hurt them.”

“God has a purpose for everyone, Clemens. Isn’t that what you believe?”

Ludlumus shook his head and removed the torch from the cell wall. He then moved closer to Clemens, lowering the torch.

“Guard,” he ordered, “remove the prisoner’s loin cloth.”

The guard, stunned by the request, hesitated.

Ludlumus snapped, “Do it!”

Reluctantly the guard put down his tablet, walked over to Clemens and began to strip him of his only remaining dignity. “I’m sorry, Consul,” the guard mumbled, shame-faced.