The Chiron Confession (Dominium Dei) (6 page)

“Helena, I have several very muscular gladiators and charioteers who wish to meet you in person,” Domitia said with a wink. “You don’t mind, Athanasius?”

“Not at all,” he said as the empress dragged a reluctant Helena off and he waved her away with a smile.

He grabbed a crystal glass of wine from a floating silver tray and headed straight toward Latinus and Pliny. By the time he arrived, however, Latinus had managed to escape before Athanasius could scold him.

“You needn’t worry, Athanasius,” Pliny assured him with a wry smile. “Latinus is already putting on his fake breasts, face paint and costume.”

Pliny was his friend and lawyer. But he was also a government magistrate and liaison for his public art with the Flavian administration. His job, everybody else had apparently agreed, was to even out Athanasius’s complaints with calm explanations and assurances, and make sure the money came in as fast as Athanasius could spend it on Helena.

“I only hope he didn’t have too much of this wine before the show.” Athanasius swirled his wine and noticed the seal of Caesar engraved into the crystal. You could buy or free a few good slaves for the price of a single silver utensil, porcelain plate or crystal wine glass from the official collection at the Palace of the Flavians. You could also get your hands cut off if you stole it. He took another sip. “It’s fabulous.”

Pliny nodded. “Domitian’s favorite. From some vineyard in Cappadocia, I think.”

“Where is the Emperor? I don’t see him.”

“State business. He’ll be down shortly and take his mark like Latinus. We’re all actors tonight at the palace.”

“My feelings exactly. Everybody would be in a better and more relaxed mood at the Pompey. Why the change in venue? You know we had to strip things out that would work on the stage at the Pompey but don’t work here.”

“The Pompey,” said a deep, gravelly voice from behind with disapproval. “The greatest line ever uttered on that stage was ‘Et tu, Brute?’ Nothing you could pen will ever rival that.”

Athanasius knew it was Ludlumus before he turned around to see his smirk.

The tall, silver-haired Ludlumus was a fixture in Rome, the son of prominent senator Lucius Licinius Sura, and a failed actor who had risen to run the Games.

“Pliny, why don’t you tell Athanasius the real reason we’re here instead of his precious, creaking, collapsing Pompey theater.”

Athanasius felt his stomach sink in anticipation of new insult. But the well-mannered Pliny couldn’t bring himself to deliver the bad news.

Ludlumus, on the other hand, was only too happy to be the bearer of bad tidings. “The reality, Athanasius, is that we make more money from tourists who come to see the Games in the summer by opening the Pompey to them at night. They pay to wander the empty stage and seats in hopes of seeing the ghost of Julius Caesar, not one of your ridiculous plays they could catch at any little provincial theater back home.”

Athanasius looked at Pliny, who seemed embarrassed for him, and rightly so. It was probably Pliny’s idea in the first place. He was fascinated with ghosts and always asked Athanasius to put one or two in his plays.

There was the sound of trumpets from the courtyard, informing guests that Caesar had arrived and that the play would begin shortly.

“Don’t worry, Athanasius,” Ludlumus said with a smile and wrapped a heavy arm around his shoulder. “You may be destined for insignificance, your name and plays forgotten, but tonight we honor your art, so-called. I am determined to finally make you interesting. Allow me to introduce you properly before the show.”

They walked outside into the open-air peristyle, joining Helena and Domitia and the rest of the guests under the stars. The darkened stage was set up in the middle of the lit waters of the enormous fountain like an island. Latinus was already on it with his mask. Athanasius could see his silhouette with long hair and comically large bosoms.

Still, no sign of Domitian. Athanasius suddenly wondered if Domitian wished to dishonor him publicly by his absence. Then another trumpet blasted with the tone that cued the arrival of the emperor, and Athanasius was relieved to see the imperial procession of the Praetorian Guard led by the prefect Secundus enter the peristyle.

“And now for the evening’s entertainment!” Ludlumus announced, and gestured to Athanasius as the Praetorian surrounded him. “I present to you Chiron, the mastermind of Dominium Dei!”

At first Athanasius wasn’t quite sure what to think. Did Ludlumus just accuse him of being the head of the supersecret Christian sect Dominium Dei? Was it a nasty joke to steal some thunder from his play? Athanasius had heard all about Domitian’s macabre party for the Senate the month before from old Maximus, who with the other senators was brought into a darkened hall filled with coffins, each engraved with a senator’s name. Suddenly men in black burst out with swords and torches to terrorize them before taking their leave.

Surely this was an encore performance of sorts, Athanasius thought, and began to play the good sport and laugh out loud. “It seems my play has competition for your amusement!” he said. “Me!”

This prompted other guests to join him, which helped him feel better.

“Poor Latinus worries I want to replace him!” he called out.

The laughs kept coming, but then so did the Praetorian Guard with chains and leg irons. And neither Ludlumus, nor a stricken Helena nor even Domitia were smiling.

Jupiter!
Athanasius thought.
They’re serious!

Domitia glared at Ludlumus. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Do something!” Helena ordered him.

“Out of my hands,” Ludlumus said in what sounded like an earnest tone. “Caesar’s orders. I only carry them out. I am truly sorry, Helena.”

Helena rushed to embrace Athanasius before being pulled away by the Praetorians, who proceeded to clap him in leg irons and chains. The laughter began to die down as the picture before the party took an ominous visual shape of the playwright in chains.

Athanasius could no longer deny the sinking reality that his life was on the line now, and that it would take every bit of wit left in him to save it, starting with a simple declaration to all in earshot.

“I am innocent!” he stated simply and confidently.

Pliny rushed over to him.

“Say nothing, Athanasius,” Pliny instructed as the Praetorians began to march him off toward the throne room inside. “Permit Domitian to be merciful to you. It’s not over for you yet.”

“Over?” Athanasius repeated, his voice rising. “I’m innocent. I’m not this villain Chiron. I’ve never killed a man, or torched a public building, or committed any crime of any kind!”

“I know, Athanasius. I’ll find you a good lawyer.”

“But you’re my lawyer!”

As he was dragged away, Athanasius looked back to see Helena collapse to her knees. She had to be held up by a stricken, disbelieving Latinus, his own lip paint smeared and fake bosoms all disheveled.

T
he journey to the throne room was short and silent. The guards pushed Athanasius forward like a sheep to the slaughter. Dazed and humiliated, Athanasius caught curious glances from party guests, who whispered “conspirator” as they followed the procession.

How ironic, he thought as he looked around, that his arrest should have a more distinguished audience than any of his plays. If only Helena weren’t here to witness this piece of theater.

A trumpet blast directed all eyes to the throne, where a resplendent Domitian now sat down in full dress imperial attire. No longer the host of a social gathering, he was the Emperor of Rome and ruler of the world. He looked around sharply at his groveling subjects and raised his right hand solemnly. The murmurs fell, a deathly silence filled the great hall, and a shiver passed over Athanasius.

The imperial throne room was the grandest of the palace, perhaps the entire empire. At the end of it, seated on his golden throne of judgment, was Domitian. To his right in rapt attention stood his favorite Egyptian Pharaoh Hound Sirius. To his left stood Ludlumus, his Master of the Games. Off to the side, behind a long table, were Caesar’s notorious
delatores
, or informants, and the malicious
accusatores,
or prosecutors. They were mercenaries who papered over Domitian’s executions in the guise of legal proceedings. They cared nothing for justice but only for themselves. Their heartless cruelty greased the wheels of tyranny with the blood of others.

So the jackals had already assembled, Athanasius thought as the Praetorian Guards brought him before their Lord and God. He looked around the throne room he had heard so much about but had never seen before. There were few pillars, and the ceiling was so long and high that only some miracle of invisible engineering held it up. The effect, intentional no doubt, was to diminish the spirit of any mortal man who had the terrible misfortune to enter this chamber.

The murmuring voices of the party guests outside in the peristyle rose and fell like the chorus of a Greek tragedy, which Athanasius realized was clearly in the making should his wit fail him. He looked over his shoulder as the great bronze doors closed with a definitive finality, shutting out his view of an ashen Helena and Latinus.

“Athanasius, I will defend you,” whispered a voice, and Athanasius turned with relief to see Maximus at his side. “I am sorry I arrived late to your party, but hopefully I am in time for your trial.”

“Surely this is a joke, Maximus. Like that party with the coffins that Domitian engraved with the names of senators.”

“I’m afraid not, Athanasius,” Maximus said in a low voice. “I just found out from Pliny like you did. Now listen to me. This is no time to say something clever or treat this like a joke. Because I assure you that while this sham of a trial may seem pure fiction, a death sentence from Caesar is not. Just answer the questions directly, Athanasius. Or look to me, and I will answer for you. The gods be with us.”

Athanasius nodded and turned to face his accusers just as a gong sounded.

A curtain parted and out walked none other than the notorious prosecutor Aquilius Regulus. He was that rare senator who played to Domitian’s worst suspicions and prosecuted his own colleagues. Athanasius had thought the unsavory character had long ago retired from criminal prosecution, but apparently the trial against Chiron was too tempting for this political mercenary to resist.

“He’s the one who should be prosecuted,” Maximus whispered.

Regulus stood behind a table across from Athanasius. He slapped a thick stack of papyrus papers on the table.

They had been watching him for a long time, Athanasius realized with dread, and even Ludlumus seemed surprised and delighted at this turn of events, as if he couldn’t have planned it any better. Athanasius half-expected his rival to announce: “Behold, citizens of Rome, Regulus versus Maximus in the ultimate battle before Caesar for the life of Chiron!”

Instead, a solemn and suffocating silence filled the vast throne room. There was only the sound of Regulus shuffling through his voluminous papers, as if he were having trouble deciding where to even begin, the evidence being so overwhelming. At last he gathered himself, loosened his jaw like a would-be Cicero about to deliver an oration for the ages, then cleared his throat.

“You are the playwright Athanasius of Athens?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Or are you?”

“You just said so yourself.”

“No, I asked you.”

Athanasius sighed. Games. They were not limited to the arena. “And I answered yes.”

“Mmm…” Regulus murmured, like he was just warming up. “Are you a playwright, Athanasius? Or are you really an actor with two masks? In the mask of comedy, worn on the public stage of society, you are Athanasius of Athens, Greek playwright, citizen of Rome. In the other mask of tragedy, worn in the shadows of the underground, you are the notorious Chiron, general of Dominium Dei, the most wanted and dangerous man alive, perpetrator of murderous acts and conspiracy.”

“I am not!” Athanasius declared for the record, fearful that any attempt at cleverness in his reply at this absurdity might pass over the dim heads of those assembled.

Maximus said, “You’ve heard the accused’s plea, Regulus. Now where is your proof behind this baseless accusation?”

“Let us begin, as the playwrights are fond of saying,
in medias res,
in the middle of things.” Regulus held up with a flourish a singular document for all to see. “The confession of the late consul Flavius Clemens, who plainly identifies the accused as Chiron.”

There were several dramatic gasps from the other prosecutors for effect, as if they had not seen the confession before its introduction here at this mockery of a trial.

“I am not Chiron,” Athanasius repeated. “And I doubt that is the true confession of Flavius Clemens, even if it bears the stamp of his signet ring. How convenient he’s no longer here to be cross-examined by my counsel. Even so, your argument has no logic. I am not even a Christian. So how can I be Chiron?”

Athanasius glanced at Maximus, who nodded as if he had already prepared a line of defense for the charge of atheism.

“Lord and God Domitian and distinguished gentlemen,” said Maximus, addressing Domitian with all the authority of his status as an elder statesman of Rome. “There is a simple test called the
tyche
that the court of Caesar has devised to determine whether one is guilty of atheism like the Christians. And that is simply to allow the accused to bow before Caesar and address him as Lord and God. It is said and has held true now for some decades that the Christian believer will bow before no other god but Jesus.”

Domitian nodded his consent, and two Praetorian Guards brought out an altar and set it up.

Athanasius nodded eagerly, confident that he would be cleared. No
tyche
was going to keep him from Helena, and the public knew he was an atheist at heart. This memory would fade in time, and he would win them back.

Domitian led him in an invocation of the gods and the offering of some incense and wine to an image of himself. “Now the anathema.”