Athanasius looked at Helena’s hopeless expression, and then at Virtus, whose darting eyes indicated he was ready to make his move. “If you were behind that bogus letter, Ludlumus, it did nothing but inspire many of the Cappadocians to quit working the fields and hole up in their caves with their stockpiles of foodstuffs.”
“Exactly. How else were the Dovilins to control the masses except through fear? Fear kept the Christians in their caves. Fear works, Clement. All of our Roman religion depends on fear of the wrath of gods. From that fear of wrath come all our temples, sacrifices, feasts and commerce. Without fear of what is to come in the afterlife, Rome has only the blade to motivate people in this life. If Christianity is to become the state religion, we must take the fear of wrath from your John’s Book of Revelation and use it to fashion a true religion from the superstition of Jesus and the notion that his death and resurrection somehow appeased God’s wrath once and for all.”
“I thought Rome wanted to destroy the Church.”
“No, Athanasius. The superstition of men can’t be razed like the temple in Jerusalem. It is a fire. It can only be directed or corrupted.”
It was all becoming chillingly clear to Athanasius now. “So my plan to kill Domitian and replace him with Vespasian the Younger in order to create a Christian Rome is the plan of the Dei, and has been all along.”
Ludlumus nodded. “The Dei no longer wants to destroy the Church. It wants to corrupt the superstition, turn it into a real religion and merge it with Rome to last a thousand years. For that to happen, it must demand some sort of sacrifice to appease the wrath of God and his final judgment so eloquently depicted by your friend John. The sacraments, rituals and worship must be commercialized — wine, idols, temples and the like. Then they can be politicized and socialized as the official state religion of Rome. Loyalty will be one and the same to Caesar and Jesus.”
“So you don’t intend to kill me.”
“Kill you? You’re far too valuable to Rome for that.”
“And what’s in the New Rome for you, Ludlumus?”
“Young Vespasian will be Caesar, and I will be Pontifex Maximus, the head of the Church. But I will rule the empire through the young emperor.”
“Like your father ruled through young Domitian before Vespasian arrived in Rome.”
“And betrayed my father for his loyalty by killing him,” Ludlumus hissed. “Now I will do likewise, and not just to Domitian. Your friend John likewise will never leave Patmos alive. He will expire on his own, leaving me and Young Vespasian as the titular religious and political figureheads of the Roman Christian Empire. And your friends in Cappadocia — they can’t hole up in the caves forever under siege by our legions. At some point they’ll run out of food, then the legions will enter through Angel’s Pass and pick them off. We are done with the last apostle. It’s time for the first apostate.”
“Meaning you,” said Athanasius.
Ludlumus smiled. “As Pontifex Maximus, I will merge the Church with Rome. The empire will render unto Caesar what is his, and unto me what is mine.”
“And if I refuse to bow to you?”
“Then you die right here, right now,” Ludlumus said. “Consider my offer, Athanasius. Rome could use a man like you. Come to think of it, it already has, Chiron.”
Something terrible stirred in Athanasius at the moment as Ludlumus’s taunting cut him to the heart. It wasn’t rage or hatred. It was a kind of sentence in his spirit that had been rendered, a realization that Ludlumus his enemy was absolutely correct: Athanasius had indeed discovered the final secret of the Dei: that his idea of a Christian Rome was Ludlumus’s and Rome’s all along — and certainly not Jesus’s, who plainly said his kingdom is in Heaven. If he was guilty of nothing else, it was his attempt to use the Church to his own ends as much as Ludlumus. If his enemy was certainly not the better man here, neither was he.
“Now!” came the shout, but it did not come from Athanasius but Virtus, still bound, who charged Ludlumus with his entire body, slamming Ludlumus over the edge of the pit and tumbling in after him.
Ludlumus’s screams rose from the pit.
Athanasius hurled a dagger at the Roman left exposed by Virtus, driving him into the pit. Then he rushed to the edge to see only the flashing coats of the lions fighting in an orgy of feeding in the darkness below. “Virtus!”
“I’m not long for this world, Athanasius!” came the shout. “But I will follow Ludlumus who has departed already! To God be the glory!”
Then his voice was cut off, suddenly, and the roars began to fade.
Helena crumbled like a pillar of salt in the middle of the arena, and Athanasius threw himself on her to shield her from a hail of arrows.
But the arrows never came.
Athanasius held her and looked out at the empty stands. If there were snipers still out there, they had decided to hold their fire.
“We must leave immediately, Helena. I have to get back to the palace.”
But she wouldn’t move. “Domitian forced himself on me. I had no choice. You were dead. You must forgive me.”
“I know, Helena. There’s nothing to forgive. I love you. Now we must go. I have to save Stephanus.”
“Save Stephnaus, Athanasius, or save her?”
“Her?”
“Ludlumus told me about your whore in Cappadocia. Gabrielle.”
“What are you saying? She was a girl I met who helped me.”
“Liar!” Helena screamed. “You’ve known her your whole life. Before you even came to Rome. I heard you call her name in the night while you dreamed in our own bed!”
She pushed him away and marched out toward the Gate of Death.
“Helena!” he called after her.
But she didn’t stop. Nor could the wheels he had set in motion. He knew he had to get to the palace, to finish what he had started. He knew the moment to choose was before him: his love of Helena or hatred of Domitian. But it was for the love of Helena he hated Domitian and had to see him dead.
XII
Athanasius raced through the long private tunnel from the emperor’s box at the Coliseum to the Palace of the Flavians. The Praetorian Guard at the other end didn’t stop him as he exited into the lower offices of the palace. Nobody did. It was as if they were mere observers and, however the drama ended, would carry on the affairs of state without pause.
He raced up the small, narrow staircase he had memorized from Stephanus’s map and could hear Stephanus’s cries even before he came upon the small group of palace staff and gladiators outside the locked bed chambers of Caesar.
There wasn’t a single Praetorian in sight save Clodianus, one of Virtus’s co-conspirators. Clodianus was closest to the door, sword out, as if he didn’t know whether he was supposed to keep Domitian from coming out, or his assassins from swooping in. Then there was Parthenius, who had led Domitian into the trap, along with his freedman Maximus. Saturius, Domitian’s principal chamberlain, stood apart, ashen and paralyzed. Most of all, there was the palpable fear in the air that Domitian would emerge and none would have the courage to cut him down.
Athanasius, hearing curses and threats from Domitian, knew he had to act fast. He was as guilty as any of these conspirators, more so even, regardless of who spilled Domitian’s blood. Striding up to Clodianus with authority, he took the sword from the guard’s hand and barked orders to Saturius.
“Unlock the doors!” he shouted. “Now!”
Saturius fumbled with the key. When he finally managed to slide it into the lock, Athanasius pushed him aside and burst into Domitian’s chambers.
Stephanus was lying on the floor, his eyes gauged out, choking on his own blood, gasping for breath. Standing over him was Domitian, bleeding from his stomach, dagger in hand. He barely had time to stagger back before Athanasius charged him straight on with Clodianus’s sword, angled down from his shoulder.