Regulus, however, was not amused. “What about these mysterious symbols you have drawn in the margins?”
Regulus pushed the open scroll to his face, and Athanasius pulled his head back in annoyance. He looked down and saw that the annotation symbol was indeed his:
“There is no mystery here,” Athanasius answered. “It’s been a common mark for Greek scribes for several centuries now. It’s a Chi-Ro annotation, a combination of the Greek letters Chi and Ro. I use it to mark passages in my own works and those of others that I might want to review later.”
“Mmm.” Regulus made it sound sinister. “Has not the Dei adopted the Chi character as its symbol of the death cross? And is there not a little-known story somewhere in Greek mythology — in which you have inferred to us you are so deeply steeped — about the centaur Chiron who sacrifices himself to save others? Much like Jesus in the Christian superstition?”
“I vaguely recall something like that. There are so many versions and re-imaginations of classic myths, I’d be surprised if there wasn’t one. That doesn’t make me Chiron of the Dei.”
“No, of course not,” Regulus said. “You’ve already cursed the name of Christ and stated for the record that you are not a Christian. You are Athanasius of Athens.”
“That is correct.”
“Yet isn’t it true you are actually from Corinth?” He glanced down at a paper. “From a family of… potters.” He looked up. “Wait, that’s only half the story. Your mother’s side of the family are… tanners. They own a large tannery outside Corinth.”
“That’s right. So what?”
“So why lie?”
Athanasius refused to be humiliated before Roman high society for the proud work of his ancestors back in Greece, even if he had in fact hidden it from most when he went to university in Athens and then onto Rome as a playwright. Great playwrights came from Athens, according to Rome, not Corinth.
“I wanted to make good in Rome,” Athanasius said. “Is that a crime? So I became Athanasius of Athens. So what? End of story.”
“Or not,” Regulus accused. “Your family’s tannery turns sheepskin and hides into leather coats, boots, pouches and the like?”
“Yes.”
“Are the hides skinned from animals at the tannery?”
“Some. I don’t know the percentages. I was a child.”
“As a child, did you ever hunt down any of these animals? Say, with a bow and arrow? You are, I’m told, a champion archer. You’ve even hunted with Caesar at his Alban country estate?”
“Yes, and I let Caesar win. What is your point?”
“My point,” Regulus said loudly, as if drums were rolling in the background, “is that you’re not a playwright.” He paused for final effect. “You’re a butcher! A butcher like Chiron and the Dei who have been chopping up Roman officials like so much meat.”
“I am not!” Athanasius shouted, breaking character of the cool wit and lunging for the prosecutor in his chains. Maximus pulled him back.
Caesar looked down from his seat of judgment at Regulus, who wandered over to his voluminous stack of scrolls and tablets and removed the tiniest little sheet of paper. It was so slight he held it delicately like a feather, lest a sudden breeze should blow it away.
“Oh, really?” Regulus intoned. “Then how do you explain this?”
Regulus held up for all to see and said, “Behold the sign of Chiron! See it on his note to Caesar! The note that came with the severed finger of Caesar’s astrologer!”
At the bottom was a large Chi-Ro symbol as signature.
There were moans and murmurs as Regulus walked a circle to show the Chiron note in one hand and marked-up Book of Revelation in the other.
Maximus shrank back, as if this note were the final nail in a coffin for Athanasius of Athens, a coffin that had his name engraved on it long before this trial.
“We have the confession of Flavius Clemens,” Regulus reminded Domitian and all assembled, summing up the state’s case. “We have the testimony of the accused’s slave, the Book of Revelation in the accused’s possession, and the accused’s use of the symbol of Chiron. Above all, we have the confession of the accused that he is indeed not who he has pretended to be all these years — a playwright with hands free of callouses or any sign of a common laborer — but rather a butcher with blood-stained hands.”
More deadly silence, itself a verdict.
At that point, Maximus did the only thing possible.
“The state makes its case on two rather flimsy pieces of circumstantial evidence,” Maximus began, taking a last stab at casting doubt on the state’s case. “First, the so-called confession of Flavius Clemens could have been coerced while he was in custody, or the former consul may well have pointed the finger at Athanasius merely to divert Caesar’s attention from the real Chiron.”
Athanasius nodded. He liked this tactic.
“As for the second piece of evidence, mere possession of the Book of Revelation doesn’t make Athanasius a Christian any more than the chief prosecutor’s possession of Cicero’s book Consolation makes him an orator and philosopher.”
Even Domitian smiled at the dig, giving Athanasius a flicker of hope.
“So it is obvious the chief prosecutor knows his case has feet of clay, or he would not have attempted to bring the twin charges of atheism and conspiracy against the accused. If he were confident in one, he would not have brought the other. So he brought them both. But Regulus cannot prove the accused is a Christian after the accused dramatically testified publicly that he is not, surely obliterating any support from that underground if he ever had it. And he cannot prove the wild speculation that the accused is Chiron beyond the testimony of a dead man, which should not even be admissible. As it is, Regulus has neither leg to stand on. So we rest our defense before Your Humanitas and throw ourselves before the mercy of the judgment seat of Caesar.”
Domitian rose to his feet and stepped down from his throne to render his final judgment. Each footstep sounded more ominous the closer he came. As he stood before Athanasius, Domitian grasped his chains and looked at him as he would if forced to put down his hound Sirius. The balding head beneath the wig, the weak eyes, the cruel smile — he was a piece of human excrement and seemed to know it.
“Your final word, Athanasius?” Domitian asked. “What say you?”
“There are no gods in heaven — nor on earth,” Athanasius told Domitian for all to hear. “You are no god, and I am no Chiron. There are no well-devised conspiracies by masterminds on earth. There are only men, and most of them are fools.”
Athanasius could see the fury in Domitian’s eyes, mixed with fear.
“We despise those who despise our laws and religion,” Domitian announced. “But let us show mercy on the man Athanasius himself. Let us not fight the conspiracy of those cowards who hide in the shadows and carry out justice in the dark of night. Let us deal with this justly in the light of day.”
Athanasius braced himself. It was common knowledge that Domitian’s rehearsed preamble about mercy was an omen that foreshadowed his most ruthless sentences.
“Therefore, we will not allow this man to die by crucifixion or old-style execution upon the Gemonian Stairs.”
Athanasius breathed a momentary sigh of relief. In an old-style execution, the condemned man was stripped, his head fastened to a wooden fork and he was flogged to death. It was a long, drawn-out ordeal. Perhaps Domitian would only exile him. There would still be a chance for him and Helena. There would still be hope for his life.
“Rather,” Domitian continued, “allow him to die with dignity. Allow Athanasius to die in the arena. Allow him to die for our pleasure and as a warning to others who would defy our ways.”