Heaving a heavy sigh of relief, he turned to make a run for it and suddenly stopped. Blocking his way in the middle of the street was none other than Domitian’s Pharaoh Hound, Sirius, who let out a slow, menacing growl and flashed his teeth, wet with hungry drool.
“Sirius! No growling!” came a muffled shout from out of the dark.
Athanasius turned to see a light in the public latrine near the Senate House across the street. It must be the kitchen staffer Marcus had said was coming for his tongue. He was apparently the royal dog-walker as well, and he was taking a dump on Caesar’s time.
Suddenly Sirius started barking all the louder at him, his black eyes fixed on the tongue in his hand, and Athanasius knew he had only seconds to make a decision.
IX
The public latrine near the Senate House was one of the most delightful in Rome. The lanky African palace slave named Julius wasn’t allowed to use it during the day when the senators conversed and conducted all manner of business. So he made it a habit to indulge himself at night when the Forum was mostly deserted. The marble seats had back support in the form of beautifully sculpted dolphins. Above the seats were decorated niches with statues of the gods and heroes. And a cheerful fountain tickled the ears. Best of all, the water that ran continuously below was so fast in this part of the city, there was hardly any odor.
Life really didn’t get much better, Julius thought.
He had been enjoying his nightly reprieve from walking Sirius when his de facto master interrupted him by barking loudly.
Julius cursed, stood up from his comfortable throne and washed his hands in a bowl filled with fresh water. He then removed his tunic from its hook on the wall, slipped it on and hurried outside to quiet Sirius before complaints were registered with the palace.
But when he stepped outside, there was no sign of the Pharaoh Hound, only a Praetorian tribune holding what must be the tongue of Chiron that Domitian had ordered be brought to the palace kitchen for preparation and proper seasoning.
“Per the emperor’s request, courtesy of the Tullianum prison.”
Julius took the tongue and looked around. “Where’s Sirius?”
“Who?”
“Caesar’s hound.”
“What hound?”
Julius looked at the impatient tribune and realized his place. “My apologizes, Tribune. He must be chasing something. I’ll be after him.”
The tribune nodded and headed north toward the prison at the base of Capitoline Hill.
Julius had no desire to follow in that direction, and instead turned south past the Senate and down the Street of Bankers, whistling here and there. “Sirius! Sirius!” A moment later, when he looked over his shoulder, the tribune had vanished into the night.
Athanasius walked quickly past the prison. Here the Street of Bankers sloped up into Banker Hill Road, and he followed it around Capitoline Hill toward the home of Senator Maximus.
He knew he was blowing his rendezvous with the Ferryman and ignoring the instructions of his savior Marcus. But there was still a chance to make things right, if only he could expose Domitian’s plot. Then he would not only save himself and get back his life with Helena, but also save Marcus from death in the morning, however unfortunate their business with the tongue.
He saw nobody at this hour on the street and trudged through the dark up a private drive off the road. He reached the gate of the estate, which was surrounded by a high wall.
He knocked on the heavy wooden door. There was no answer at first, and then a lamp went on somewhere inside the villa and the door opened to reveal a servant girl who obviously had been asleep. She didn’t seem to recognize him in his uniform.
Good.
“I am here on state business and must see Maximus immediately.”
He was led through a courtyard and stepped inside the front door of the villa without being invited in. The servant girl scurried away while he waited impatiently.
He looked around the reception hall and remembered his early visits to his patron Maximus when he had first come to Rome. He would arrive every morning to pay his respects to Maximus in the atrium and receive his day’s meal. Maximus would then take money from a trunk guarded by his big Syrian slave Dillian to hand him to pay actors or rent a small theater in the commercial strips of Mars Field. Athanasius had already squandered his own money in several expensive flops, and Maximus urged him to start small and build his audience slowly. Like other wealthy patrons, Maximus said he wanted to make Rome great. Most others did it by erecting temples or building parks. For Maximus it was the arts, and he seemed to believe that in Athanasius he had found someone whose works could speak more loudly than stone.
It was Maximus, Athanasius now recalled, who first arranged his introduction to Helena. He had been pining for her ever since he saw her cheering her then-boyfriend and his chariot at the old Circus Maximus. He remembered telling Maximus, “If I could have a woman like that, I would have everything, including the recognition of my arrival in Rome.” To which Maximus laughed and said, “On the contrary, having Helena at your side would render you invisible. I know you want to be the center of her universe, Athanasius, but don’t fool yourself: Helena is the center of her universe.”
All the same, they met, and Athanasius won her over with his force of personality and relentless charm. To many in Rome, she was undoubtedly his greatest achievement, more than his plays, because he had beat out a formidable field of muscle in the form of gladiators, racers and athletes, and money in the form of countless wealthy suitors.
Now he had lost her. He had lost everything. He desperately wanted to go to her now, but it would do him no good. They could not save themselves. They needed help, and Maximus was just the man.
A moment later Maximus’s chamberlain Dillian appeared. The look in the big Syrian’s eyes told Athanasius that he recognized him.
“This way,” Dillian said and led Athanasius to the bedrooms in the back.
Maximus was sitting on his bed. He was dressed in his night robe, white chest hairs poking out from his barrel chest, and looking years older and far more frail than his stage presence only hours earlier in the throne room at the palace. Athanasius worried he had assumed too much, that his mentor could be of help to him. Perhaps he had made a big mistake in not following the interrogator’s instructions.
“Is it really you, Athanasius?” Maximus marveled as Athanasius removed his helmet. “I can’t believe it. How?”
“Dominium Dei is an imperial organization, Maximus,” Athanasius said without preamble. “Domitian’s spies have infiltrated the underground Christian movement. He is fanning a war between the church and the state, playing both sides against each other in order to destroy his enemies in the Senate and amass ever more power for himself. We must inform the Senate and confront Domitian publicly.”
Maximus looked shocked, and yet slowly began to nod. “It makes a kind of wild sense. But we need proof, Athanasius, and the support of the Praetorian.”
“I have proof,” Athanasius said, thinking of Marcus in his cell. “But we have little time.”
“I suppose we don’t, Athanasius.” But Maximus sat there on his bed, tapping his foot against the brass frame and bed’s ivory feet. “But how do I know that Domitian hasn’t put you up to this, to save your own skin?”
“What?”
“Going against him as a group would only prove his contention that there is a massive conspiracy. He could wipe out the rest of his enemies in the Senate and the Praetorian Guard, all in one stroke — because you got us, the true conspirators, to expose ourselves.”