With that, smiles and tears broke out all around along with another round of music, food and wine. Athanasius glanced about and then saw none other than that scoundrel of an idolmaker from Ephesus, Supremus, waddling over to him. Surely he was not the link to Senator Celsus’s interests with the Dei in Rome.
Supremus didn’t recognize Athanasius until it was too late and Athanasius had jammed the point of his dagger in the fat man’s stomach.
Athanasius whispered, “Quiet, Supremus, or I’ll gut you like a fish here and now.”
Supremus nodded slowly.
“Now let’s walk over to a more quiet atrium, talking like two old friends, which of course we are, aren’t we?”
Supremus nodded again as Athanasius put his arm holding his wine cup around the idolmaker’s shoulder, while his other hand with the dagger sank deep into the folds of the Dei rep’s tunic. Athanasius led them in a friendly stroll to an empty atrium off the main courtyard that was dimly lit by only a few flickering candles.
“Athanasius!” Supremus exclaimed, suddenly lowering his voice when Athanasius put the blade of his dagger to his throat. “You’re alive!”
“I’ve come to claim my royalties for my merchandise, Supremus. I’ve come to claim my money. Where is it? Perhaps in the pockets of Senator Celsus and the Dei?” Athanasius dug the blade deeper into the idolmaker’s flabby throat.
“Please, Athanasius. You know I am nothing. I do as I am told.”
Athanasius was worried the man in his panic might raise his voice, so he pushed him against the heavy drapes in the back. If he had to, he would muffle the idolmaker’s cries, wrap him in the drape and drive his dagger through to kill him.
“Then tell me what you have been told, Supremus, and who has been doing the telling, and I may yet have mercy on your miserable soul and let you live.”
Supremus nodded. “I will show you. I must reach for my pouch.”
“Slowly,” said Athanasius, pushing the dagger further into the fat as Supremus’s chubby arm reached into the folds of his tunic and produced two figurines, one thin and one round.
“See?”
Athanasius glanced at them but held the blade firmly. “I see them. Oedipus and the Oracle. What I don’t see is your connection to the Dei.”
“No, no, Athanasius. You do not see. Look closer.”
Athanasius kept his dagger to the throat and with his other hand picked up the round figurine and looked at the carving on the orb. The oracle was supposed to be cut to look like Caelus, before he was slain. But this oracle looked different. “Who is this?”
“That is Peter the apostle,” Supremus said. “The tall, thin one is Jesus.”
“Jesus?” Athanasius said, and looked at what should have been Oedipus and saw the head cut to show the long hair of a Nazarene. “If there’s a new comedy to skewer the Christians, I want to know who wrote it.”
“No comedy, Athanasius. These are not for the theaters. These are for the churches.”
“The churches?” Athanasius repeated, and Athanasius immediately thought of old John the last apostle, young Polycarp and Gabrielle. “The Dei is more stupid than I thought. The churches will never accept idols.”
Supremus shrugged. “You know I only make what is ordered from Rome.”
“And who is doing the ordering, Supremus? Tell me now. Is it Senator Celsus?”
Supremus shook his head. “No, Celsus takes his orders from Senator Sura.”
Athanasius stopped. “Lucius Licinius Sura?”
Supremus nodded, beads of sweat rolling down his jowls.
“Sura, the father of Lucius Licinius Ludlumus, the master of the Games?” he pressed, staring at Supremus’s frozen face, watching the light go out from his eyes and blood dribble from his mouth.
Supremus began to lean into him, and Athanasius caught him right below the dagger protruding from his back.
No!
Athanasius lowered the heavy corpse to the floor and burst between the drapes in time to see a figure flee through an archway and disappear.
How much had he heard? Athanasius decided it didn’t matter. He had no choice but to go for Dovilin right now before it was too late.
Dovilin was seeing off a diplomat from Spain when a servant handed him a note that bore the seal of Caesar himself. “Who gave you this?” he demanded.
The servant shook his head. “One of the guests gave it to me and said the man wants to meet you in the bathhouse out back.”
Dovilin didn’t like it. But there was no mistaking the authority of the letter. “Get Brutus,” he told the servant, and by the time he reached the back of the villa near the outdoor kitchen, Brutus was waiting, all battered and bruised from the events of the week. Dovilin had to keep him out of sight, or he’d scare the guests.
“Go look into the bathhouse and see who is there,” Dovilin ordered.
Brutus nodded and disappeared. A moment later he reappeared to report the bathhouse was empty.
Dovilin frowned. “Then I will go inside and wait, in case anybody is watching us. But you will keep watch out here and intercept anybody who attempts to enter the bathhouse. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” said Brutus.
Dovilin glanced about and could see nothing beyond the bathhouse but the dark rows of his vineyard rolling beneath the stars to the brightly lit winery on the other side, where crews were loading amphorae onto the supply wagons of his guests. The lights and shouts gave him some comfort as he entered the bathhouse.
It was empty, just as Brutus reported, with a couple of stands holding a dozen candles whose light bounced off the bathwater and threw wicked shadows. Dovilin would wait here only a few minutes, enough for whomever hoped to trap him to come to him, then go outside once Brutus had him.
Dovilin looked up in time to see a shadow fall from the ceiling, sending him to the floor and banging his skull against the mosaic tiles. Dovilin tried to shout, but a hand covered his mouth and he felt the sharp point of a cold blade to his throat.
The shadow above him put a finger to his lips.
Dovilin made out the uniform of a Roman tribune and a shiny face in the flickering light that he recognized as Samuel Ben-Deker, or rather Athanasius of Athens. “You!” he said and stopped as the dagger dug deeper into his throat.
“Tell me!” Dovilin felt the ring on Athanasius’s fist dig into his face. “Who is the son or successor to Mucianus in Rome? What connection does the Licinius family have to Mucianus and to you?”
“Brutus!” Dovilin screamed before his head was slammed into the floor again.
Hurt and dizzy, Dovilin heard a shout outside and saw Athanasius jump to his feet as Brutus burst in with a crossbow. Athanasius backed off, hands up.
“Now, Brutus, before it’s too late!” he screamed, and gave the code word. “Melt!”
Brutus nodded, lowered his crossbow and shot him in the chest.
Dovilin felt the arrow pierce his flesh and opened his mouth to smile at the confused Athanasius. “You showed us Cerberus,” he hissed, and began choking on his own blood. “You showed us Angel’s Pass. Romans… will kill them all… because of you.”
Then, like a scarf, he felt his spirit escape into a dark tunnel that ended in a black abyss.
Athanasius looked down in shock at the corpse of old Dovilin and then up at Brutus, who had just used up his one shot and knew it. Athanasius hurled his knife at the slave, but Brutus was out the door, shouting warnings. By the time Athanasius rushed outside the bathhouse, he heard screams from the girls at the outdoor kitchen and more coming from inside the villa. He took a step forward when the ground shook from a tremendous explosion, and he fell into the gravel as a burst of light filled the sky.