Nothing about Helena.
He wanted her out of Rome before everything went down and the decades-in-the-making business of September 18 would finally be over. She would be safely out of the picture so that Domitian or Ludlumus had no leverage over him before they were both killed.
His path was fixed. God forgive him, if that were possible at this point.
But he could not allow himself to consider life after Domitian, or contemplate the hope of his Christian allies of a Christian world — despite their savior’s own words that his kingdom was in heaven, not on this earth. Nor even his own hope of a life reunited with Helena, of the freedom to think his own thoughts, to write as he wished, to maybe settle down and have children in this seemingly God-forsaken world.
No, he could not allow such hopes to occupy his mind, any more than he could allow the fears if he failed.
He could only focus on the task at hand — exposing the Dei and assassinating Domitian in one fell swoop. Two birds with one stone cast at Rome.
And he was that stone.
He couldn’t feel. Couldn’t waver. Couldn’t look back.
Still, he wondered how Gabrielle and the others were doing.
No, he had to put thoughts of her and the poor souls in the caves away. He had to focus on Domitian as a lifeless corpse, a god fallen.
He had to focus on killing a god, and in so doing giving all Rome hope.
The taxi turned down a hill and then a wide, well-lit boulevard to reach the Apollo. It boasted a lively tavern on the street, and a courtyard leading to an entrance to the rooms above in the back.
“This is it,” he said to the driver, holding out payment, his hand trembling ever so slightly.
“Ask for Venus,” the driver said, motioning to the whorehouse next door. “You won’t regret it.”
Athanasius watched him move down the road and pick up some sailors who could barely hold themselves upright. The taxi then headed back to the piers.
Athanasius walked around the back through the gate into a courtyard with fountains and fire pits, and then inside the small room with a counter. He ignored it and headed up the stairs to room 34.
There was Virtus, looking distressed. Behind him was a woman, a nursemaid in a smock, covered with blood. And there was another woman in the bed, moaning, clutching her stomach. Blood was running across her body. Athanasius immediately ran to her bedside.
The woman’s face was contorted by pain, but it was clear that it was Helena.
Athanasius sank to the floor beside the bed.
Virtus closed the door behind him and spoke in a low but urgent tone. “She’s been stabbed.”
“I can see that!” Athanasius barked. “Helena! Helena!”
She opened her eyes. “Athanasius, it is you? You’re alive. You cannot see my shame.”
“Who did this to you, Helena? Tell me.”
“No, Athanasius, let me die. Leave me!” she wailed, while the nursemaid put a hand over her mouth to quiet her.
“How could you let this happen?” he growled at Virtus.
“She did it to herself, to kill the child.”
Athanasius stared at him. “What child?”
“The one growing inside her belly. Domitian’s child.”
Helena looked like she had died, and Athanasius tried to shake her when the nurse pulled him away. “She’s still breathing. She’ll survive. So will the child. She missed with the knife, but the cut is deep.”
Virtus said, “We can only pray for her now. There is much to discuss but so very little time. Everything is happening so fast.”
But Athanasius was furious. This was a disaster, and he hadn’t yet stepped foot in Rome. Helena was pregnant with Domitian’s child, and she had tried to take its life along her own. Now this nursemaid and others were involved, and what was supposed to be a quiet reunion had turned into an unfolding tragedy.
Athanasius could hardly speak. Still, Virtus was right. There was no time. The wheels of fate were in motion, and if he didn’t roll with them, he would be ground to dust. “Let her sleep. But if things go badly, she needs to be ready to leave with me on the Sea Nymph later today. Now let’s go find the identity of Mucianus’s successor in the Dei.”
Virtus paused. “You are chasing ghosts, Athanasius.”
“No, Virtus,” Athanasius told him, whipping out his sword. “I know where Ludlumus lives. We will take him and make him talk.”
“That’s the thing,” Virtus said, stammering, and Athanasius could feel the bad news coming. “Ludlumus is dead.”
IX
Pliny the Younger liked to retire early and rise early. He was fast asleep when his bed shook and he opened his eyes to see a figure standing at the foot of his bed with a sword to his throat. “Boo!”
Pliny was about to cry out when he felt the point of the blade at his throat and saw the ghost put his finger to his lips. And then, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of his room, he recognized the figure and shook at the sight of the ghost, come to take him down to Hades with him.
“Athanasius!” he said in a low, horrified whisper. “They killed you, not I! It wasn’t my fault! I did my best to save you!”
“We’ll see about that,” Athanasius said. “Get dressed.”
The Tabularium was the national archives of the Roman Empire, housing its official records and the offices of many city officials. It was built into the front slope of Capitoline Hill, just below the Temple of Jupiter and next to the dreaded Tullianum prison from which Athanasius had escaped on a similar night like this not that long ago. Looking more like a fortress to hide Rome’s secrets than a basilica of information, Athanasius thought, the Tabularium’s imposing three-level façade was built from blocks of grey, volcanic peperino and travertine stone.
“He allegedly was torn apart by his own animals under the arena floor this morning,” Pliny was telling him about Ludlumus as they entered the empty Forum square. “An accident, they say, something about an unbolted gate in the tiger pens. I simply assumed Domitian was behind it. All sorts of crazy things have been happening lately, and now you show up, back from the dead, dressed up as a tribune.”
“Well, you are the ghost hunter.” Athanasius could see the single-door entrance at the bottom of the Tabularium’s tall, fortified base. At the top of the base were small windows cut out of the facade, and above them the Doric and Corinthian arcades.
“If there is any trace of the ghost of Mucianus, we’ll find him here,” Pliny told Athanasius. “I’m curious myself, especially with the demise of Ludlumus and your connection of his father to the Dei. You know, I’ve consulted with him in the past about ghosts. And now you show up with all these revelations. Maybe something really is going on today. It brings back all the chills of Pompeii.”
But Athanasius was still looking at the squat Tullianum prison next door, wondering whatever happened to old smashface the warden, before turning his attention to the two guards outside the entrance to the Tabularium.
The guards recognized Pliny on sight and allowed them inside without trouble. As they passed through the interlocking interior vaults of concrete, Athanasius felt his pulse quicken at the thought that he was on the verge of discovering the secret fate of Mucianus while bracing himself for the probability that all tracks of the Dei ghost had been erased and that he, Virtus and Stephanus were running blind into what promised to be an epic, historic morning, however Rome stood at the end of the day.
“Over here is where the deeds, records and laws are housed,” Pliny said as he followed a particularly austere corridor to a large vault, where they found a skeleton of a clerk with hollow cheeks. “Hello, Hortus.”