The Chiron Confession Excerpt
III
It 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.
“Ex-consul now,” Ludlumus rebuked the guard. “Now stand back.”
Ludlumus stepped forward and stuck the burning torch between the prisoner’s legs, scorching his genitals until the consul of Rome screamed like a wretched animal. Only then did Ludlumus pull the torch back. “What is the true identity of Chiron?”
“Acilius Glabrio,” Clemens said, barely loud enough for the guard to hear him. “Acilius Glabrio was Chiron.”
“Nice try,” Ludlumus replied. “But I already had a word with the former consul before his death. I assure you, he’s not Chiron. Try again.”
Clemens refused to talk, and Ludlumus applied the fire.
“My God!” screamed Clemens, writhing in agony, his chains clanging. “You’re the devil!”
“Save your breath and tell me what I want to know.” Ludlumus applied the fire yet again, this time for a long minute, until the sweet odor of burnt flesh filled the cell. Clemens was crying now, weeping with inhuman suffering. Ludlumus noticed the Praetorian staring at him in horrific disbelief. “What are you looking at?”
The guard said nothing.
Ludlumus produced a wax tablet and shoved it into the guard’s face. “Sign this.”
The guard took it and read the writing. “What is this?”
“The prisoner’s confession.”
The guard looked puzzled. “But he hasn’t confessed anything.”
“You do make things difficult, don’t you?” said Ludlumus as he pulled out the dagger and whipped it across the young soldier’s throat, catching him just beneath the chin strap of his helmet. The guard opened his mouth but produced only a gurgling sound as he collapsed to the floor.
Clemens stared at the fallen legionary and then at Ludlumus. He lifted his gaze to the ceiling, screaming all the louder. “God in Heaven! Have mercy on me!”
Ludlumus, meanwhile, calmly took the slain Praetorian’s hand, pressed the ring finger to the wax to get the impression from the insignia and slipped the tablet inside his toga. He then unhooked the keys from the guard’s belt and unlocked Clemens. The consul fell to his knees, too weak to stand.
“It’s a good thing the guard got your confession down before you killed him, Clemens,” said Ludlumus, tossing the knife his way. “And I’m lucky I called his friend from outside to come in, or else you would have killed me.” With that Ludlumus called out, “Guard, help me! The prisoner is loose!”
There was a rattling of a key in the lock, the door swung open and the other guard rushed in to see Ludlumus stagger to his feet.
“The prisoner killed him and almost took me too!” Ludlumus cried out.
The guard ran to his fallen colleague, saw the knife and then kicked the defenseless Clemens until he was flat against the wall. He turned to Ludlumus.
“Are you all right, sir?”
“I’m fine,” Ludlumus replied. “Just make sure the prisoner’s on in five minutes.”
Ludlumus left the cell and emerged a few minutes later inside Gate XXXIV of the Coliseum. More than 80,000 fans had packed the stands today. Ludlumus was pleased with the turnout as he walked past the Doric columns to his section. The arena was surrounded by a metal grating, twelve cubits in front of the first tier of seats, which protected the public from the wild beasts. On the first tier ranged the marble seats of the privileged. Above those were the second and third tiers for the ordinary public. Even the plebes in the top gallery would be able to follow the drama that was about to unfold below them.
The imperial box for the Emperor, his family and invited guests was the easiest place to pick out because it had the best seats in the stadium, on the first tier on the northern side of the arena, and was protected by a bronze balustrade. The imperial bodyguard detail wordlessly allowed Ludlumus into the box. There he took his place at the right hand of Domitian.
Domitian said, “That didn’t take long.”
“Long enough. He killed one of your guards. With the very dagger you awarded him upon his consulship.”
“I never thought he had it in him,” Domitian said.
“The Dei will do that to a man, I suppose. But I did extract a confession.”
Ludlumus produced the wax tablet and handed it to Caesar.
Domitian looked at the confession, his face turning livid. “But I’m throwing a party for him tonight!”
“Mmm.” Ludlumus did his best to look devastated. “Although he’s a good decade younger than I am, I once considered myself his protégé in the theater.”
“Terrible. But you look like you are holding up well under the circumstances.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
Ludlumus noted with satisfaction that a low stone wall had already been set up by the propmasters. A fresh layer of white sand glistened in the sun, all the better to show off fresh blood. Now a warrior in armor walked into the arena to the frenzied applause of the crowd. “Romulus! Romulus! Romulus!” they all chanted.
Instantly Clemens was launched into the scene from a hidden elevator shaft.
The mob now chanted louder. “Remus! Remus! Remus!”
Ludlumus glanced at Domitian, who nodded approvingly at the send-off he had prepared for Clemens in this re-telling of the founding of Rome. Romulus and Remus were brothers. As legend had it, Remus mocked the little wall his brother Romulus had begun building for the new city, jumping over it and back to show just how puny it was. Romulus didn’t like that and killed Remus on the spot. For this re-enactment, Ludlumus had the propmasters dress “Romulus” in the royal purple and gold as a stand-in for Domitian, while Clemens, as close to a brother as Domitian had left in this world, stood in for himself.
Ludlumus was quite proud of his work here. Only a former thespian like himself would appreciate the scale with which his beastmasters cleared more than 5,000 wild beasts from the morning’s animal acts off the arena floor in order for the propmasters to erect the scene for today’s lunchtime execution and, when that was over, the afternoon’s gladiatorial contests.
Sadly, Clemens didn’t seem up to the demands of his role. Standing wobbly on the floor of the great stadium, he barely had time to brace himself before the first stab from the sword of Romulus struck him. The blade went clean through him and out his back. Slowly Romulus withdrew his blood-tipped blade. As it was the only thing keeping poor Clemens up, the late consul collapsed to the ground, dead.
Ludlumus held back a smile as he watched the arena attendants pick up what was left of Clemens. Their assistants carried the corpse off while they hastily turned over the blood-stained sand for the next act.
It was all over too soon, Ludlumus lamented.
Athanasius of Athens would not die so easily.
IV
The dreams were different, but the girl was always the same. Young, maybe 17, long black hair, dark eyes, and tears of blood trickling down her tragic face. Sometimes she was the harlot Rahab in ancient Jericho, and he was the enemy spy sent to bring down the walls. Other times she was a beauty named Aphrodite in a future Greece under the rule of Germania. This night she had no name, but he knew it was present day. She was in a cave somewhere, calling out to him in the darkness. She possessed the secret of the ages, a mystery he had to unravel, or his mission would fail and the world would be doomed. In the haze of dream, he stumbled down an endless cave, his hands feeling the walls as they narrowed, his feet tripping over jagged rocks. “I’ll find you! I’ll find you!” he cried out, and then slipped, tumbling over and over into space.
Athanasius of Athens awoke from his nightmare, gasping for breath, the sound of trumpets outside piercing the air. He sat up and let his eyes adjust. Shafts of sunlight streamed through the drapes and marble columns onto a vast mosaic floor. He looked over at Helena’s empty side of the bed and put his hand on it. It was cool to the touch.
What time was it?
He put on a robe and walked onto the balcony of his hillside villa, taking in the spectacular view of the city below. To the west were dazzling white terraces and marble columns cascading down the cypress-covered hills to the Circus Maximus and the winding Tiber beyond. To the east was the intersection of Rome’s two great boulevards, the Via Appia and the Via Sacra, and, in the middle, Rome’s great coliseum known as the Flavian Amphitheater. The roar of a crowd wafted up on the wings of the breeze. The lunchtime executions must have begun.
He frowned. It must be noon already.
On his better days the playwright Athanasius religiously followed a strict regimen. He would wake before dawn, leave Helena in their warm bed and put in a good hour or two writing his next play. Then he would leave their villa on Caelian Hill and head over to the Circus Maximus to run laps and maybe shoot some arrows—he was a marksman archer—before the heat of the day set in. He found his best ideas flowed while he ran, and it kept alive his fantasy that at age 25 he could still run the marathons he once did as a boy outside Corinth back in Greece. After lunch he would enjoy the baths, a relaxing massage, and perhaps take in an afternoon rest with Helena before answering letters, supervising rehearsals at the Theater of Pompey, or attending to the problems of everyday life, which he limited each day to the single turn of an hour-glass. Then he and Helena would enjoy dinner with friends in the city or stroll along the Tiber and watch the imperial barges delivering the world’s luxuries to Rome. They would cap off the evening by attending various parties and then retiring to bed with each other.
It was, in short, the perfect Epicurean life he had always imagined as a boy, filled with friends, food, freedom and sex. Lots of sex.
Those were the good days.
On his bad days, he slept until noon, hung over from a late party or a nightmare induced by his creativity-enhancing leaves. Having missed his peak writing time, and not feeling up to laps at the Circus Maximus, he’d still have lunch with friends, go to the baths, enjoy a massage and a nap, albeit alone because the ever-practical Helena would be upset with him for his lethargy. All the same, they’d go out to dinner and perhaps see one of his own productions, just so he could validate that he existed. Then on to the can’t-miss parties where the wine would loosen his lips and he’d talk about his writing and productions and delight the great of Rome with his humor and wit, praying to the Muses that he’d remember what he had said the next morning so he could write it down. He rarely did, of course, and too often the first time it all came back was while attending a rival’s production when he heard the actors utter his stolen lines.
This was one of the bad days. He could feel it.
It was noon already, after all.
- • •
Helena was in the courtyard, where she emerged dripping from a bathing pool. Behind her was a gigantic, half-finished sculpture of herself in the guise of the goddess of love. The sculptor Colonius had been taking his sweet time with the hammer and chisel, Athanasius thought, and was months behind. He could hardly blame him.
Helena caught sight of him and wrapped a clingy gown around her supple, golden body. Then she turned to face him with her two round breasts and a smile.
“The toast of Rome has awakened!” she announced.
A true Amazon in height, she stood almost a head taller than him in her bare feet, and he was by no means average. She was a sight to behold with her hair of gold, flawless features and eyes of sapphire blue that betrayed an intelligence her beauty often masked to mad distraction. He had fallen for her instantly. The miracle was that of all the senators, noblemen and charioteers to choose from, Helena, the glory of Rome herself, had chosen him.
“My Aphrodite,” he said.
“This year’s model.” She kissed him on the lips. “But I’ll always be your Helena.”
“You let me sleep in. Half the day is gone.”
“And half your delirium. You know how you get before an opening. I spared us both.”
She was right about that. Tonight was the premiere of Opus Gloria, his greatest and most controversial work yet, and he was a wreck. He needed it to be well-received, to secure his marriage to Helena. Her well-connected Roman family was quite wealthy at one time but had lost much of their fortune. If not for the modeling that her beauty brought her, and she had earned quite a bit from it, she would have been penniless by now, or married to a man she did not love. All the money in the world would never quench her fear of poverty, Athanasius knew, but they had agreed that the success of Opus Gloria would go a long way and be enough for them to marry. Next month would mark a full year living together, when Roman law regarded them as married. But she had planned a huge, multi-day wedding celebration, and he had planned to take her to Greece afterward to meet his mother and cousins, where there would be another wedding party.
So in truth the affections of Helena could not be bought, but they still had to be paid for. Thus the significance of Opus Gloria and his success in this Roman world, which would mean little to him without Helena by his side.
“I suppose you are right,” he told her and kissed her back.
She smiled. “Repeat that line over and over in your head tonight, and all will be well.”
He laughed. If only his father were still alive to meet Helena and see his success as a playwright. His father always told him to take pride in his heritage and “show the Romans what the Greeks are still made of.” His memory made Athanasius suddenly reconsider the staging of tonight’s performance.
Helena saw it in an instant. “Now what?”
“I still don’t know why we should have to go to the Palace of the Flavians tonight to see my own play,” he said. “Caesar and the rest should be coming to the Pompey to see it. That’s the proper venue. The stage has already lost its place to the Games of the Flavian Amphitheater. Soon it will drop behind the races of the Circus Maximus when its latest incarnation is completed. If it falls another notch, I might fall off with it.”
“Oh, Athanasius. Only you would find a way to diminish your achievement. You are bigger than the stage. What playwright wouldn’t give his right hand to enjoy a venue at the palace? Besides, you heard what Maximus said about the Pompey. It has too many sinister associations for Domitian. Why would he want to celebrate your opus at the very place where Julius Caesar was assassinated backstage? It might give people ideas.”
“Yes, well, we can’t have any of those running around on the loose.”
He thought of his father again, and then of dear old Senator Maximus, who had become something of a surrogate father to him. The senator was a Hellenophile and early fan of his plays, navigating them through the government censors and political traps of Roman high society. Even so, the roar of the mob in the wind was a grim reminder to Athanasius that the fading art of his scripted comedies was no match for the so-called “reality” of the Games. They were as bad as religion. Indeed, they were the new religion of Rome. But he dare not speak it aloud, for who knew who was listening? But he thought it. And Rome had not invented a way to read minds yet. There was still free thought, if not expression.
“You hear that?” he asked Helena, lifting a finger to the breeze as another cheer rang out in the distance. “You know what that is?”
She shrugged. “The last of Flavius Clemens, I suppose.”
“That’s right,” he lectured her. “First it was the Jews. Now it’s the Christians. Who’s next?”
Helena smiled brightly. “You?”
“Laugh all you want, Helena. You haven’t heard Juvenal’s jokes about Greeks in Rome.”
“He flatters you by imitation, Athanasius, and everybody knows he is not half the wit you are.” Helena ran her soft finger down his cheek and gazed at him lovingly.
“There is no pleasing you when you are in a mood, Athanasius, is there?”
“No.”
“Then relax yourself before tonight. Join your friends at Homer’s for lunch. Go to your favorite bath. Take a massage. Then enjoy the premiere of your greatest play ever.”
“And then?”
“Let your work do its work. Let your rival Ludlumus burn in jealousy at what you can do with words that he cannot do with a thousand Bengal tigers. Let Latinus and the rest of your actors take the credit. Let the world and even Caesar himself forget September 18th and the sword of Damocles that hangs over Rome. This is your night to be worshipped, to join the pantheon of the gods of art.”
“And then?”
“And then you get to go to bed tonight with the goddess of love and wake up tomorrow on top of the world.”
She was heaven for him, it was true. “Well, you do have that effect on a man.”
“A performance not to be missed,” she told him, and kissed him on the lips again, warm and wet, full of promise.
V
Helena looked on with great affection as Athanasius walked away, but she felt a dark cloud of fear forming over her head and frowned. This bothered her even more because she knew frowning was not good for her. She may be the face of Aphrodite, but she didn’t wake up that way. It took eight girls—now waiting for her in the bathhouse—to fix her hair, paint her lips and buff her nails for her to reach perfection for this evening. And this wasn’t ancient Greece. It was modern Rome. Sculptors like Colonius were no idealists. The first tiny crease around her eyes would become a giant crack in marble and spell the end of her reign and the start of another’s.
Not that Athanasius would care. He was the kind who, once smitten, would love her forever.
And that was the problem.
Athanasius seemed to think they had all the time in the world. Money and power meant nothing to him. Life was all about his works and the world’s recognition of his merit as a playwright. The fortunes that came his way passed through his hands like water from the aqueducts passed through the bathhouses and homes of Rome into the central sewer to the Tiber. And yet he’d be happy scribbling away on his plays from a cave, eating wild mushrooms and smoking his leaves for inspiration.
She, however, would not.
Her beloved was a proud man who so desperately wanted to win the acceptance and respect of a Rome that spurned him. But he never would, even with his marriage to her. She knew that the only thing that made him acceptable to Rome was the popularity of his comedies—and the money they brought the state in ticket sales and merchandising. It was the same with her beauty. But Athanasius simply could not accept the reality that the mobs who flocked to the Games of the Flavian by day were the same who filled the seats of his Pompey at night.
“Ludlumus and I are not in the same business,” he had once declared to her. “I am playing a different game, and those who see my plays are the better for it.”
All of which led him to push the bounds of acceptability in his plays, to point out Rome’s tragic flaws and weaknesses in hopes of strengthening society. This, in turn, only raised the ire of the pontiffs, augurs and astrologers he mocked along with the gods. For all its violence and lust, Rome was actually a conservative and religious society. It could only wink at its wits like Athanasius for so long before it lost its patience. It was time for him to pick a different theme for his productions.
Having waited until the servants confirmed to her that Athanasius had left and her attendants were waiting in the bathhouse, she turned in the opposite direction and walked past the great marble image of herself as goddess and under the peristyle into the villa.
Helena entered the library, which intimidated her with all its shelves of books and scrolls. Athanasius had one of the largest personal collections in Rome. It was a secret part of him she could never get her arms around.
She found a silver tray with a cup and pipe on her beloved’s desk. She picked them up, one at a time, and lifted each to her nose with a frown. He had been drinking kykeon and smoking blue lotus leaves again, no doubt to lift his senses and enhance his creative spirits while he wrote.
“Oh, Athanasius.”
Those creative spirits were going to ruin them. It was a miracle that Opus Gloria had even passed the censors, let alone get this kind of launch tonight at the palace. That scene of Zeus taking the form of a swan to rape Leda, or rather the other way around in this new telling was… so disturbing, to say the least, and certainly sacrilegious, worse even than the ridicule and death the gods had endured in his previous works. Only the intervention of his lead actor, Latinus, who reminded his friend Domitian that Athanasius took care to mock only the Greek gods, not their Roman successors, and the magistrate Pliny the Younger, who promised that the women of Rome would buy the uniquely shaped figurines of Zeus-the-Swan in droves, saved the production.
Helena felt the old confusion rise up inside her. She adored Athanasius. He was talented, athletic and compassionate. He was also incredibly handsome and a god in bed. Yet the very qualities she loved—like his dangerous curiosity and insatiable quest for truth—were what she most feared. Even his beloved mentor Maximus had once confided to her: “You just have to control him. Sexually, psychologically, financially. For his own sake. And you’ll get by.”
She glanced at the titles of his stacks of books and scrolls. There was Aristotle’s Poetics, along with the complete works of Euripedes. There were also the classic Greek comedies of Hermippus and Eupolis, and Athanasius’s favorites from Aristophanes, The Clouds and Lysistrata. There were others too: books about the arts, history. One was about the ancient Israelite invasion of what was now Judea, and another about Rome’s campaign in Germania.
So many old books and crazy ideas that filled his head.
The pile of scrolls collapsed from her touch to reveal a scroll hidden behind them all. This one was in common Aramaic, which she understood enough to read the title: The Revelation of Jesus Christ.
She went cold. Officially banned by the empire, this was the book about the end of the world written by that crazy old “last apostle” John imprisoned on the island of Patmos. No wonder poor Athanasius had been having nightmares. What was he thinking? She knew that, to the love of her life, pure and undefiled religion was attending the Olympics in his native Greece and smoking psychedelics. All other religion he pilloried in his plays. To him this was a harmless curiosity, of course, a chance to “break the code” that rumors suggested was bound in the sinister symbolism of this evil tract. Wasn’t the antichrist supposed to be Domitian, after all?
Everybody knew that Athanasius was a closet atheist who did not believe in the gods. Not all atheists were Christians, and certainly not Athanasius. But all Christians were atheists by Rome’s standards, because they rejected religion altogether in favor of a superstition that required neither sacrifices nor idols of any kind. These were the very things that greased the wheels of commerce—and made life for her and Athanasius possible. Yet all a disgruntled servant or paid informant had to do was tip the Praetorians, and they were finished. At the very least, their new hillside villa, one of only 2,000 single residences in a city of squalid apartment blocks, would be confiscated.
“You live in a fantasy world, my love,” she murmured to herself.
She produced her divination dice, which she used for every decision of her life. Each side had a sign of the zodiac. She would throw them to decide what to do with the scroll. Burn it now? Or ignore it and confront Athanasius tomorrow? Whatever the outcome, she knew she would have to avoid any row with him before the party tonight.
She pushed up her python lucky charm bracelets on each arm—double the charm to keep evil away—and rolled the dice in her hands. She looked up to heaven to utter a silent prayer and then said, “Fortuna!” as she cast them onto the desk.
A six.
She smiled with relief. She would burn the scroll, place the ashes with his lotus leaves on the silver tray, and let the servants carry them out. Perhaps Athanasius would never even notice. Perhaps a new idea would grab his attention, and these visions of the end of the world would disappear from his memory along with his nightmares.
A young voice from behind said, “Mistress Helena, your dress for the evening has arrived, and the girls wish me to tell you that they are ready for you now.”
She stiffened. It was the servant boy Cornelius. He was a holdover from Athanasius’s previous household staff and always seemed to regard her as an interloper. The boy fancied himself a protector of the great playwright’s papers. How long had he been standing there?
“I am not ready for them,” she said imperiously. She then rolled up the Book of Revelation, laid it aside on the desk and slowly turned. “I’m just tidying up for Athanasius. You know how he hates it if I throw papers out. Please take his tray back. Tell the girls I’ll be with them in a moment.”
“Yes, mistress.”
She watched him take the silver tray and walk away. Then she took the scroll and buried it in the pile behind the poetics. She would have to burn it tomorrow. Or not, she realized with pleasant relief. After tonight it wouldn’t matter.
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TREMBLE BEFORE THE SEAT OF POWER AND PARANOIA
— OR DARE TO RESIST
From New York Times bestselling author Thomas Greanias comes an epic of ancient Rome that illuminates the gathering darkness of our times.
The assassination of Caesar’s chief astrologer explodes into revelations of a secret Christian order known as “Rule of God.” The order has penetrated the highest echelons of the empire. Its mission: to fulfill a decades-old prophecy predicting the exact day and hour that Caesar will die. Desperate to prove the oracles wrong, an increasingly erratic Caesar kills all suspected enemies, even those who dare whisper about his hairpiece. No one from slave to senator can escape his reign of terror.
Enter the celebrated playwright Athanasius. Wrongly accused by jealous rivals of being Chiron, the elusive mastermind behind Rule of God, Athanasius is condemned to certain death in the reality show of the arena. It is only with the help of mysterious benefactors that he miraculously escapes, alone with a secret that could destroy the empire. Hunted by assassins across the Mediterranean, his last hope of refuge is inside the ranks of the very terrorist order he was accused of masterminding. But the only way up—or out—is to kill or be killed.
A meticulously researched and masterfully crafted conspiracy thriller inspired by real people and events, The Chiron Confession is the unforgettable story of one man against the world.
Reviews of Gods of Rome
Lightning-paced, dagger-sharp and brilliantly executed.
— James Rollins, Eye of God
A devilishly clever maelstrom of history, secrets and political intrigue. Relentlessly action-packed, with tantalizing twists and throat-grabbing suspense. Marvelous!
— Steve Berry, The Templar Legacy
Thomas Greanias is the KING of HIGH-OCTANE adventure.
— Brad Thor, Act of War
The Chiron Confession Excerpt
III
It 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.
“Ex-consul now,” Ludlumus rebuked the guard. “Now stand back.”
Ludlumus stepped forward and stuck the burning torch between the prisoner’s legs, scorching his genitals until the consul of Rome screamed like a wretched animal. Only then did Ludlumus pull the torch back. “What is the true identity of Chiron?”
“Acilius Glabrio,” Clemens said, barely loud enough for the guard to hear him. “Acilius Glabrio was Chiron.”
“Nice try,” Ludlumus replied. “But I already had a word with the former consul before his death. I assure you, he’s not Chiron. Try again.”
Clemens refused to talk, and Ludlumus applied the fire.
“My God!” screamed Clemens, writhing in agony, his chains clanging. “You’re the devil!”
“Save your breath and tell me what I want to know.” Ludlumus applied the fire yet again, this time for a long minute, until the sweet odor of burnt flesh filled the cell. Clemens was crying now, weeping with inhuman suffering. Ludlumus noticed the Praetorian staring at him in horrific disbelief. “What are you looking at?”
The guard said nothing.
Ludlumus produced a wax tablet and shoved it into the guard’s face. “Sign this.”
The guard took it and read the writing. “What is this?”
“The prisoner’s confession.”
The guard looked puzzled. “But he hasn’t confessed anything.”
“You do make things difficult, don’t you?” said Ludlumus as he pulled out the dagger and whipped it across the young soldier’s throat, catching him just beneath the chin strap of his helmet. The guard opened his mouth but produced only a gurgling sound as he collapsed to the floor.
Clemens stared at the fallen legionary and then at Ludlumus. He lifted his gaze to the ceiling, screaming all the louder. “God in Heaven! Have mercy on me!”
Ludlumus, meanwhile, calmly took the slain Praetorian’s hand, pressed the ring finger to the wax to get the impression from the insignia and slipped the tablet inside his toga. He then unhooked the keys from the guard’s belt and unlocked Clemens. The consul fell to his knees, too weak to stand.
“It’s a good thing the guard got your confession down before you killed him, Clemens,” said Ludlumus, tossing the knife his way. “And I’m lucky I called his friend from outside to come in, or else you would have killed me.” With that Ludlumus called out, “Guard, help me! The prisoner is loose!”
There was a rattling of a key in the lock, the door swung open and the other guard rushed in to see Ludlumus stagger to his feet.
“The prisoner killed him and almost took me too!” Ludlumus cried out.
The guard ran to his fallen colleague, saw the knife and then kicked the defenseless Clemens until he was flat against the wall. He turned to Ludlumus.
“Are you all right, sir?”
“I’m fine,” Ludlumus replied. “Just make sure the prisoner’s on in five minutes.”
Ludlumus left the cell and emerged a few minutes later inside Gate XXXIV of the Coliseum. More than 80,000 fans had packed the stands today. Ludlumus was pleased with the turnout as he walked past the Doric columns to his section. The arena was surrounded by a metal grating, twelve cubits in front of the first tier of seats, which protected the public from the wild beasts. On the first tier ranged the marble seats of the privileged. Above those were the second and third tiers for the ordinary public. Even the plebes in the top gallery would be able to follow the drama that was about to unfold below them.
The imperial box for the Emperor, his family and invited guests was the easiest place to pick out because it had the best seats in the stadium, on the first tier on the northern side of the arena, and was protected by a bronze balustrade. The imperial bodyguard detail wordlessly allowed Ludlumus into the box. There he took his place at the right hand of Domitian.
Domitian said, “That didn’t take long.”
“Long enough. He killed one of your guards. With the very dagger you awarded him upon his consulship.”
“I never thought he had it in him,” Domitian said.
“The Dei will do that to a man, I suppose. But I did extract a confession.”
Ludlumus produced the wax tablet and handed it to Caesar.
Domitian looked at the confession, his face turning livid. “But I’m throwing a party for him tonight!”
“Mmm.” Ludlumus did his best to look devastated. “Although he’s a good decade younger than I am, I once considered myself his protégé in the theater.”
“Terrible. But you look like you are holding up well under the circumstances.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
Ludlumus noted with satisfaction that a low stone wall had already been set up by the propmasters. A fresh layer of white sand glistened in the sun, all the better to show off fresh blood. Now a warrior in armor walked into the arena to the frenzied applause of the crowd. “Romulus! Romulus! Romulus!” they all chanted.
Instantly Clemens was launched into the scene from a hidden elevator shaft.
The mob now chanted louder. “Remus! Remus! Remus!”
Ludlumus glanced at Domitian, who nodded approvingly at the send-off he had prepared for Clemens in this re-telling of the founding of Rome. Romulus and Remus were brothers. As legend had it, Remus mocked the little wall his brother Romulus had begun building for the new city, jumping over it and back to show just how puny it was. Romulus didn’t like that and killed Remus on the spot. For this re-enactment, Ludlumus had the propmasters dress “Romulus” in the royal purple and gold as a stand-in for Domitian, while Clemens, as close to a brother as Domitian had left in this world, stood in for himself.
Ludlumus was quite proud of his work here. Only a former thespian like himself would appreciate the scale with which his beastmasters cleared more than 5,000 wild beasts from the morning’s animal acts off the arena floor in order for the propmasters to erect the scene for today’s lunchtime execution and, when that was over, the afternoon’s gladiatorial contests.
Sadly, Clemens didn’t seem up to the demands of his role. Standing wobbly on the floor of the great stadium, he barely had time to brace himself before the first stab from the sword of Romulus struck him. The blade went clean through him and out his back. Slowly Romulus withdrew his blood-tipped blade. As it was the only thing keeping poor Clemens up, the late consul collapsed to the ground, dead.
Ludlumus held back a smile as he watched the arena attendants pick up what was left of Clemens. Their assistants carried the corpse off while they hastily turned over the blood-stained sand for the next act.
It was all over too soon, Ludlumus lamented.
Athanasius of Athens would not die so easily.
IV
The dreams were different, but the girl was always the same. Young, maybe 17, long black hair, dark eyes, and tears of blood trickling down her tragic face. Sometimes she was the harlot Rahab in ancient Jericho, and he was the enemy spy sent to bring down the walls. Other times she was a beauty named Aphrodite in a future Greece under the rule of Germania. This night she had no name, but he knew it was present day. She was in a cave somewhere, calling out to him in the darkness. She possessed the secret of the ages, a mystery he had to unravel, or his mission would fail and the world would be doomed. In the haze of dream, he stumbled down an endless cave, his hands feeling the walls as they narrowed, his feet tripping over jagged rocks. “I’ll find you! I’ll find you!” he cried out, and then slipped, tumbling over and over into space.
Athanasius of Athens awoke from his nightmare, gasping for breath, the sound of trumpets outside piercing the air. He sat up and let his eyes adjust. Shafts of sunlight streamed through the drapes and marble columns onto a vast mosaic floor. He looked over at Helena’s empty side of the bed and put his hand on it. It was cool to the touch.
What time was it?
He put on a robe and walked onto the balcony of his hillside villa, taking in the spectacular view of the city below. To the west were dazzling white terraces and marble columns cascading down the cypress-covered hills to the Circus Maximus and the winding Tiber beyond. To the east was the intersection of Rome’s two great boulevards, the Via Appia and the Via Sacra, and, in the middle, Rome’s great coliseum known as the Flavian Amphitheater. The roar of a crowd wafted up on the wings of the breeze. The lunchtime executions must have begun.
He frowned. It must be noon already.
On his better days the playwright Athanasius religiously followed a strict regimen. He would wake before dawn, leave Helena in their warm bed and put in a good hour or two writing his next play. Then he would leave their villa on Caelian Hill and head over to the Circus Maximus to run laps and maybe shoot some arrows—he was a marksman archer—before the heat of the day set in. He found his best ideas flowed while he ran, and it kept alive his fantasy that at age 25 he could still run the marathons he once did as a boy outside Corinth back in Greece. After lunch he would enjoy the baths, a relaxing massage, and perhaps take in an afternoon rest with Helena before answering letters, supervising rehearsals at the Theater of Pompey, or attending to the problems of everyday life, which he limited each day to the single turn of an hour-glass. Then he and Helena would enjoy dinner with friends in the city or stroll along the Tiber and watch the imperial barges delivering the world’s luxuries to Rome. They would cap off the evening by attending various parties and then retiring to bed with each other.
It was, in short, the perfect Epicurean life he had always imagined as a boy, filled with friends, food, freedom and sex. Lots of sex.
Those were the good days.
On his bad days, he slept until noon, hung over from a late party or a nightmare induced by his creativity-enhancing leaves. Having missed his peak writing time, and not feeling up to laps at the Circus Maximus, he’d still have lunch with friends, go to the baths, enjoy a massage and a nap, albeit alone because the ever-practical Helena would be upset with him for his lethargy. All the same, they’d go out to dinner and perhaps see one of his own productions, just so he could validate that he existed. Then on to the can’t-miss parties where the wine would loosen his lips and he’d talk about his writing and productions and delight the great of Rome with his humor and wit, praying to the Muses that he’d remember what he had said the next morning so he could write it down. He rarely did, of course, and too often the first time it all came back was while attending a rival’s production when he heard the actors utter his stolen lines.
This was one of the bad days. He could feel it.
It was noon already, after all.
- • •
Helena was in the courtyard, where she emerged dripping from a bathing pool. Behind her was a gigantic, half-finished sculpture of herself in the guise of the goddess of love. The sculptor Colonius had been taking his sweet time with the hammer and chisel, Athanasius thought, and was months behind. He could hardly blame him.
Helena caught sight of him and wrapped a clingy gown around her supple, golden body. Then she turned to face him with her two round breasts and a smile.
“The toast of Rome has awakened!” she announced.
A true Amazon in height, she stood almost a head taller than him in her bare feet, and he was by no means average. She was a sight to behold with her hair of gold, flawless features and eyes of sapphire blue that betrayed an intelligence her beauty often masked to mad distraction. He had fallen for her instantly. The miracle was that of all the senators, noblemen and charioteers to choose from, Helena, the glory of Rome herself, had chosen him.
“My Aphrodite,” he said.
“This year’s model.” She kissed him on the lips. “But I’ll always be your Helena.”
“You let me sleep in. Half the day is gone.”
“And half your delirium. You know how you get before an opening. I spared us both.”
She was right about that. Tonight was the premiere of Opus Gloria, his greatest and most controversial work yet, and he was a wreck. He needed it to be well-received, to secure his marriage to Helena. Her well-connected Roman family was quite wealthy at one time but had lost much of their fortune. If not for the modeling that her beauty brought her, and she had earned quite a bit from it, she would have been penniless by now, or married to a man she did not love. All the money in the world would never quench her fear of poverty, Athanasius knew, but they had agreed that the success of Opus Gloria would go a long way and be enough for them to marry. Next month would mark a full year living together, when Roman law regarded them as married. But she had planned a huge, multi-day wedding celebration, and he had planned to take her to Greece afterward to meet his mother and cousins, where there would be another wedding party.
So in truth the affections of Helena could not be bought, but they still had to be paid for. Thus the significance of Opus Gloria and his success in this Roman world, which would mean little to him without Helena by his side.
“I suppose you are right,” he told her and kissed her back.
She smiled. “Repeat that line over and over in your head tonight, and all will be well.”
He laughed. If only his father were still alive to meet Helena and see his success as a playwright. His father always told him to take pride in his heritage and “show the Romans what the Greeks are still made of.” His memory made Athanasius suddenly reconsider the staging of tonight’s performance.
Helena saw it in an instant. “Now what?”
“I still don’t know why we should have to go to the Palace of the Flavians tonight to see my own play,” he said. “Caesar and the rest should be coming to the Pompey to see it. That’s the proper venue. The stage has already lost its place to the Games of the Flavian Amphitheater. Soon it will drop behind the races of the Circus Maximus when its latest incarnation is completed. If it falls another notch, I might fall off with it.”
“Oh, Athanasius. Only you would find a way to diminish your achievement. You are bigger than the stage. What playwright wouldn’t give his right hand to enjoy a venue at the palace? Besides, you heard what Maximus said about the Pompey. It has too many sinister associations for Domitian. Why would he want to celebrate your opus at the very place where Julius Caesar was assassinated backstage? It might give people ideas.”
“Yes, well, we can’t have any of those running around on the loose.”
He thought of his father again, and then of dear old Senator Maximus, who had become something of a surrogate father to him. The senator was a Hellenophile and early fan of his plays, navigating them through the government censors and political traps of Roman high society. Even so, the roar of the mob in the wind was a grim reminder to Athanasius that the fading art of his scripted comedies was no match for the so-called “reality” of the Games. They were as bad as religion. Indeed, they were the new religion of Rome. But he dare not speak it aloud, for who knew who was listening? But he thought it. And Rome had not invented a way to read minds yet. There was still free thought, if not expression.
“You hear that?” he asked Helena, lifting a finger to the breeze as another cheer rang out in the distance. “You know what that is?”
She shrugged. “The last of Flavius Clemens, I suppose.”
“That’s right,” he lectured her. “First it was the Jews. Now it’s the Christians. Who’s next?”
Helena smiled brightly. “You?”
“Laugh all you want, Helena. You haven’t heard Juvenal’s jokes about Greeks in Rome.”
“He flatters you by imitation, Athanasius, and everybody knows he is not half the wit you are.” Helena ran her soft finger down his cheek and gazed at him lovingly.
“There is no pleasing you when you are in a mood, Athanasius, is there?”
“No.”
“Then relax yourself before tonight. Join your friends at Homer’s for lunch. Go to your favorite bath. Take a massage. Then enjoy the premiere of your greatest play ever.”
“And then?”
“Let your work do its work. Let your rival Ludlumus burn in jealousy at what you can do with words that he cannot do with a thousand Bengal tigers. Let Latinus and the rest of your actors take the credit. Let the world and even Caesar himself forget September 18th and the sword of Damocles that hangs over Rome. This is your night to be worshipped, to join the pantheon of the gods of art.”
“And then?”
“And then you get to go to bed tonight with the goddess of love and wake up tomorrow on top of the world.”
She was heaven for him, it was true. “Well, you do have that effect on a man.”
“A performance not to be missed,” she told him, and kissed him on the lips again, warm and wet, full of promise.
V
Helena looked on with great affection as Athanasius walked away, but she felt a dark cloud of fear forming over her head and frowned. This bothered her even more because she knew frowning was not good for her. She may be the face of Aphrodite, but she didn’t wake up that way. It took eight girls—now waiting for her in the bathhouse—to fix her hair, paint her lips and buff her nails for her to reach perfection for this evening. And this wasn’t ancient Greece. It was modern Rome. Sculptors like Colonius were no idealists. The first tiny crease around her eyes would become a giant crack in marble and spell the end of her reign and the start of another’s.
Not that Athanasius would care. He was the kind who, once smitten, would love her forever.
And that was the problem.
Athanasius seemed to think they had all the time in the world. Money and power meant nothing to him. Life was all about his works and the world’s recognition of his merit as a playwright. The fortunes that came his way passed through his hands like water from the aqueducts passed through the bathhouses and homes of Rome into the central sewer to the Tiber. And yet he’d be happy scribbling away on his plays from a cave, eating wild mushrooms and smoking his leaves for inspiration.
She, however, would not.
Her beloved was a proud man who so desperately wanted to win the acceptance and respect of a Rome that spurned him. But he never would, even with his marriage to her. She knew that the only thing that made him acceptable to Rome was the popularity of his comedies—and the money they brought the state in ticket sales and merchandising. It was the same with her beauty. But Athanasius simply could not accept the reality that the mobs who flocked to the Games of the Flavian by day were the same who filled the seats of his Pompey at night.
“Ludlumus and I are not in the same business,” he had once declared to her. “I am playing a different game, and those who see my plays are the better for it.”
All of which led him to push the bounds of acceptability in his plays, to point out Rome’s tragic flaws and weaknesses in hopes of strengthening society. This, in turn, only raised the ire of the pontiffs, augurs and astrologers he mocked along with the gods. For all its violence and lust, Rome was actually a conservative and religious society. It could only wink at its wits like Athanasius for so long before it lost its patience. It was time for him to pick a different theme for his productions.
Having waited until the servants confirmed to her that Athanasius had left and her attendants were waiting in the bathhouse, she turned in the opposite direction and walked past the great marble image of herself as goddess and under the peristyle into the villa.
Helena entered the library, which intimidated her with all its shelves of books and scrolls. Athanasius had one of the largest personal collections in Rome. It was a secret part of him she could never get her arms around.
She found a silver tray with a cup and pipe on her beloved’s desk. She picked them up, one at a time, and lifted each to her nose with a frown. He had been drinking kykeon and smoking blue lotus leaves again, no doubt to lift his senses and enhance his creative spirits while he wrote.
“Oh, Athanasius.”
Those creative spirits were going to ruin them. It was a miracle that Opus Gloria had even passed the censors, let alone get this kind of launch tonight at the palace. That scene of Zeus taking the form of a swan to rape Leda, or rather the other way around in this new telling was… so disturbing, to say the least, and certainly sacrilegious, worse even than the ridicule and death the gods had endured in his previous works. Only the intervention of his lead actor, Latinus, who reminded his friend Domitian that Athanasius took care to mock only the Greek gods, not their Roman successors, and the magistrate Pliny the Younger, who promised that the women of Rome would buy the uniquely shaped figurines of Zeus-the-Swan in droves, saved the production.
Helena felt the old confusion rise up inside her. She adored Athanasius. He was talented, athletic and compassionate. He was also incredibly handsome and a god in bed. Yet the very qualities she loved—like his dangerous curiosity and insatiable quest for truth—were what she most feared. Even his beloved mentor Maximus had once confided to her: “You just have to control him. Sexually, psychologically, financially. For his own sake. And you’ll get by.”
She glanced at the titles of his stacks of books and scrolls. There was Aristotle’s Poetics, along with the complete works of Euripedes. There were also the classic Greek comedies of Hermippus and Eupolis, and Athanasius’s favorites from Aristophanes, The Clouds and Lysistrata. There were others too: books about the arts, history. One was about the ancient Israelite invasion of what was now Judea, and another about Rome’s campaign in Germania.
So many old books and crazy ideas that filled his head.
The pile of scrolls collapsed from her touch to reveal a scroll hidden behind them all. This one was in common Aramaic, which she understood enough to read the title: The Revelation of Jesus Christ.
She went cold. Officially banned by the empire, this was the book about the end of the world written by that crazy old “last apostle” John imprisoned on the island of Patmos. No wonder poor Athanasius had been having nightmares. What was he thinking? She knew that, to the love of her life, pure and undefiled religion was attending the Olympics in his native Greece and smoking psychedelics. All other religion he pilloried in his plays. To him this was a harmless curiosity, of course, a chance to “break the code” that rumors suggested was bound in the sinister symbolism of this evil tract. Wasn’t the antichrist supposed to be Domitian, after all?
Everybody knew that Athanasius was a closet atheist who did not believe in the gods. Not all atheists were Christians, and certainly not Athanasius. But all Christians were atheists by Rome’s standards, because they rejected religion altogether in favor of a superstition that required neither sacrifices nor idols of any kind. These were the very things that greased the wheels of commerce—and made life for her and Athanasius possible. Yet all a disgruntled servant or paid informant had to do was tip the Praetorians, and they were finished. At the very least, their new hillside villa, one of only 2,000 single residences in a city of squalid apartment blocks, would be confiscated.
“You live in a fantasy world, my love,” she murmured to herself.
She produced her divination dice, which she used for every decision of her life. Each side had a sign of the zodiac. She would throw them to decide what to do with the scroll. Burn it now? Or ignore it and confront Athanasius tomorrow? Whatever the outcome, she knew she would have to avoid any row with him before the party tonight.
She pushed up her python lucky charm bracelets on each arm—double the charm to keep evil away—and rolled the dice in her hands. She looked up to heaven to utter a silent prayer and then said, “Fortuna!” as she cast them onto the desk.
A six.
She smiled with relief. She would burn the scroll, place the ashes with his lotus leaves on the silver tray, and let the servants carry them out. Perhaps Athanasius would never even notice. Perhaps a new idea would grab his attention, and these visions of the end of the world would disappear from his memory along with his nightmares.
A young voice from behind said, “Mistress Helena, your dress for the evening has arrived, and the girls wish me to tell you that they are ready for you now.”
She stiffened. It was the servant boy Cornelius. He was a holdover from Athanasius’s previous household staff and always seemed to regard her as an interloper. The boy fancied himself a protector of the great playwright’s papers. How long had he been standing there?
“I am not ready for them,” she said imperiously. She then rolled up the Book of Revelation, laid it aside on the desk and slowly turned. “I’m just tidying up for Athanasius. You know how he hates it if I throw papers out. Please take his tray back. Tell the girls I’ll be with them in a moment.”
“Yes, mistress.”
She watched him take the silver tray and walk away. Then she took the scroll and buried it in the pile behind the poetics. She would have to burn it tomorrow. Or not, she realized with pleasant relief. After tonight it wouldn’t matter.
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Thomas Greanias is a New York Times bestselling novelist and one of the world’s leading authors of adventure. His books in print have been translated into multiple languages and sold in 200 nations around the globe. A former journalist and on-air correspondent for NBC, Greanias infuses his international thrillers with provocative issues ripped from tomorrow’s headlines. Follow Thomas Greanias on Facebook, Google+ and Twitter. Subscribe to his official newsletter to go behind the scenes and get the latest on his next blockbuster.
