“I am not!” Athanasius declared for the record, fearful that any attempt at cleverness in his reply at this absurdity might pass over the dim heads of those assembled.
Maximus said, “You’ve heard the accused’s plea, Regulus. Now where is your proof behind this baseless accusation?”
“Let us begin, as the playwrights are fond of saying, in medias res, in the middle of things.” Regulus held up with a flourish a singular document for all to see. “The confession of the late consul Flavius Clemens, who plainly identifies the accused as Chiron.”
There were several dramatic gasps from the other prosecutors for effect, as if they had not seen the confession before its introduction here at this mockery of a trial.
“I am not Chiron,” Athanasius repeated. “And I doubt that is the true confession of Flavius Clemens, even if it bears the stamp of his signet ring. How convenient he’s no longer here to be cross-examined by my counsel. Even so, your argument has no logic. I am not even a Christian. So how can I be Chiron?”
Athanasius glanced at Maximus, who nodded as if he had already prepared a line of defense for the charge of atheism.
“Lord and God Domitian and distinguished gentlemen,” said Maximus, addressing Domitian with all the authority of his status as an elder statesman of Rome. “There is a simple test called the tyche that the court of Caesar has devised to determine whether one is guilty of atheism like the Christians. And that is simply to allow the accused to bow before Caesar and address him as Lord and God. It is said and has held true now for some decades that the Christian believer will bow before no other god but Jesus.”
Domitian nodded his consent, and two Praetorian Guards brought out an altar and set it up.
Athanasius nodded eagerly, confident that he would be cleared. No tyche was going to keep him from Helena, and the public knew he was an atheist at heart. This memory would fade in time, and he would win them back.
Domitian led him in an invocation of the gods and the offering of some incense and wine to an image of himself. “Now the anathema.”
“I curse the name of the dead Jew known as Jesus the Christ!” Athanasius said loudly with a ringing voice, and then bowed low before Domitian. “There is only one Lord and God of the universe, and his name is Caesar.”
The echoes of his curse faded, and the entire throne room grew very quiet. However much the public at large despised Christians, they harbored little respect for hypocrites and turncoats. While he may not have been a Judas to the cause of Christ, everybody pretty much knew he had betrayed his atheism. The time to repair this damage to his reputation and his plays might take longer than he expected. But he had passed the test.
Then came the sound of clapping hands.
“Bravo, Athanasius!” said Regulus, who then picked up a scroll from the long table and pointed it at him like a priestly augur. “But if you are not a Christian, then how do you explain this?”
With a flourish Regulus unfurled the scroll to reveal the title letters of the Book of Revelation. More gasps at this seemingly incontrovertible proof that Athanasius had just lied to the face of Caesar.
Athanasius could only imagine the Praetorian had taken it from his study almost as soon as he and Helena had left the villa for this debacle of a premiere party. If so, all of this had been a set-up from the beginning. The ending, therefore, Athanasius was beginning to believe with a sinking feeling, was already written.
“And how do we know this evidence wasn’t planted?” Maximus asked, cutting off Athanasius before he could reply. It seemed Maximus would rather he explain nothing at all and instead cast doubt on his possession of the scroll altogether.
Regulus gestured to a side entrance and cried out, “The witness!”
The blood-red tapestries were pulled back and a stricken Helena was ushered into the hall. Her eyes were swollen from tears, but she held her head high and tried not to look at him.
In the name of all the bogus gods, Athanasius swore to himself. They were going to make her suffer and blame him for it.
“Helena of Rome needs no introduction, of course,” Regulus stated, and then addressed her like a physician at the deathbed of a child. “I am so sorry your betrothed has put you in this position. But could you clearly acknowledge for the court that you are indeed Helena of Rome and will testify truthfully?”
Her long and lovely throat contracted as she swallowed and said, “I am, and I will.”
“And have you ever seen this Book of Revelation in the villa you share with the accused?”
“No.”
Regulus didn’t like the answer and repeated the question. “I remind you that you are under oath before Caesar, beautiful Helena. Can you say without a shadow of a doubt that you have never seen this banned book of lies in your home?”
She feigned a careless shrug. “Do I look like much of a reader?”
Her response prompted some laughs among the magistrates and irritation on the part of Regulus.
Good girl, Athanasius thought.
“I’m disappointed, fair Helena,” Regulus said. “Next time take a keener interest in the secret affairs of your lover. That way you won’t repeat your mistake with Athanasius. Next witness!”
Out from the same side entrance came Athanasius’s faithful secretary, Cornelius, an orphan whom Athanasius bought and freed the same day. The boy couldn’t read, which was why Athanasius had him organize his papers. What could he possibly have to say?
“You are Cornelius, slave of Athanasius of Athens?” Regulus thundered, going in for the jugular.
“Secretary,” Cornelius replied proudly, upgrading his status for the court.
Regulus asked, “Have you seen this scroll before?”
“Yes,” Cornelius answered, to Athanasius’s shock.
“And where did you see this scroll?”
Cornelius pointed his finger at Helena. “In her hands today in my master’s library. She said she was tidying up. But I saw her hide it among his scrolls.”
“Enough!” Athanasius shouted. “The scroll is mine. If Helena found it in error and put it back among my many books, it is no fault of hers. She could not have known what it was. The fault is all mine. Please excuse her and my faithful secretary Cornelius.”
Regulus, smiling in triumph, dismissed Helena and the boy. The boy suddenly looked downcast and very sorry he had said anything at all. Helena, weeping again, couldn’t bear to even look over her bare shoulder at Athanasius on her way out of the throne room.
“Well, now,” Regulus said after they were gone, gathering steam. “Now that we’ve established that you do indeed have in your possession this banned Book of Revelation, could you please explain why?”
“I’m a playwright. There are a lot of revelations out there. I’m intellectually curious. That doesn’t make me a Christian.”
“Mmm. Tell us then, Athanasius, if you are not a Christian, what do you make of this so-called Book of Revelation?”
“Looks like a lot of third-act trouble to me,” he said, eliciting a couple of helpful snickers and a trace of a smile from Domitian. “Jesus has not returned as promised, the Christians are losing hope, and now the last living disciple who was with Jesus is old and about to die. It only makes sense to leave the faithful with this hope of a deus ex machina. It may be good superstition, but it’s terrible dramatic writing.”