“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.
VI
The 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.”