Finally, there was Ludlumus, his Master of the Games. It was hard for Domitian to believe that Ludlumus could possibly think any successor would be as good to him. Nevertheless, although he trusted the ghoul, Domitian at bottom didn’t like him, so his name was on the list.
These top names were on the left eave of his wooden tablet.
On the right eave he kept the names of those who had no reason to wish his demise but were close enough to him on a daily basis to inflict bodily harm: Parthenius, his chamberlain, whom he had honored by being the only servant allowed to wear a sword in his company; Sigerus, another chamberlain; and Entellus, who was allowed to enter his chambers with petitions requiring his attention.
He clapped the eaves shut like a book and slipped the tablet under his pillow on the couch. Then he set his throbbing head on his pillow and, afraid to even shut his eyes for a moment, stared at his statue of the goddess Minerva and prayed for her protection. She was the only one he could trust now. Soon his eyelids began to flutter, and he was drifting off to sleep, dreaming of the day he would kill them all.
III
It was a glorious day for an execution.
Less than a week after the unfortunate incident with the finger of Caesar’s astrologer, Ludlumus paused at the private entrance to the Hypogeum beneath the Coliseum. He drew out an Etruscan dagger from a fold in his fashionable robe and ran his finger along the fine blade. He felt no prick, only the cool trickle of blood. Very nice, he thought, as trumpets announced that the execution was about to begin. He sucked his finger dry, slid the dagger back into its hidden sheath and walked inside.
The Hypogeum was a vast, two-level subterranean network of tunnels, animal pens, prisoner cells, shafts and trap doors that powered the scenery changes and special effects of the Games. Beastmasters, sword handlers and stage hands stood at attention as he walked past the sophisticated systems of ramps, winches, capstans and hoists — modern technology that could launch animals, prisoners and gladiators up into the arena.
It was dark but beastly hot down here. With so little natural light, the torches burned all hours of the day and night. It was the very pit of hell, and he reveled in it, his home as master of the underworld.
He proceeded past a series of chambers that rattled violently from the force of their snarling occupants: lions, tigers, leopards, bulls and buffalo. Then there was the smell of excrement, blood and death.
Glorious.
The holding cell at the end of the corridor was guarded by two Praetorians. Gazing out from beneath their shiny bronze helmets with hinged cheek-pieces were alert eyes, sweeping back and forth, looking for trouble. The Praetorians were dressed in full armor and carried side arms — a sword and dagger — and each held a javelin upright in front of him, spearheads gleaming.
The guards recognized him on sight as he approached. “Sir,” they said in unison, smacking their boots together.
“At ease, fools,” he told them, stopping in front of the cell door. “I bear no military rank.”
Their faces were glazed over with perspiration from the heat. His own face was cool and dry.
Ludlumus said, “Caesar insists I spend a few moments with the prisoner before his execution.”
The first Praetorian opened his mouth to protest but wisely said nothing. He instead motioned his fellow legionary to unlock the cell door.
“I’ll need a recorder,” Ludlumus demanded, and the first Praetorian followed him into the cell.
The prisoner was clad in leg irons and propped up in chains against the far wall, his head hanging down. Too weary and battered from torture, he was already half-dead and seemed resigned to die. But when he looked up and saw the tall Roman, he came to life as his former self: Titus Flavius Clemens — soldier, millionaire, consul of Rome and now accused Christian.
“Ludlumus!” gasped Clemens. “Domitian must be stopped! For the sake of Rome! He’ll kill the entire Senate!”
“Speak for yourself,” Ludlumus said. “The emperor wants me to record your confession before you die. He’s especially interested in the names of any friends of yours we might have missed.”
Clemens’ face turned bitter. “Our self-proclaimed ‘Lord and God’ Domitian killed them all.”
“Not all of them,” Ludlumus said. “Your wife Domitilla has been banished to the island of Pontia.”
“And my boys?”
“Young Vespasian and Domitian will live in the palace under the care of Caesar as his designated successors. Caesar has brought in the grammarian Quintilian to tutor them. His will purge them of any superstitions they have been exposed to by you and your wife.”
“Rome will not steal their souls, Ludlumus.”
“That remains to be seen. But for the sake of their lives, Clemens, tell me, who is Chiron?”
“I told you, I don’t know! Nobody does!”
Clemens looked confused and scared. His eyes darted back and forth between the guard and Ludlumus.
“I didn’t hear you, Clemens,” Ludlumus pressed. “Who is Chiron?”
Clemens looked flabbergasted, as if he could not believe Ludlumus would do this to him. “How long have we served my cousin together, Ludlumus? You know there is no evidence linking me to the Dei. Killing me does nothing to hurt them.”
“God has a purpose for everyone, Clemens. Isn’t that what you believe?”
Ludlumus shook his head and removed the torch from the cell wall. He then moved closer to Clemens, lowering the torch.
“Guard,” he ordered, “remove the prisoner’s loin cloth.”
The guard, stunned by the request, hesitated.
Ludlumus snapped, “Do it!”
Reluctantly the guard put down his tablet, walked over to Clemens and began to strip him of his only remaining dignity. “I’m sorry, Consul,” the guard mumbled, shame-faced.
“Ex-consul now,” Ludlumus rebuked the guard. “Now stand back.”
Ludlumus stepped forward and stuck the burning torch between the prisoner’s legs, scorching his genitals until the consul of Rome screamed like a wretched animal. Only then did Ludlumus pull the torch back. “What is the true identity of Chiron?”
“Acilius Glabrio,” Clemens said, barely loud enough for the guard to hear him. “Acilius Glabrio was Chiron.”
“Nice try,” Ludlumus replied. “But I already had a word with the former consul before his death. I assure you, he’s not Chiron. Try again.”
Clemens refused to talk, and Ludlumus applied the fire.
“My God!” screamed Clemens, writhing in agony, his chains clanging. “You’re the devil!”
“Save your breath and tell me what I want to know.” Ludlumus applied the fire yet again, this time for a long minute, until the sweet odor of burnt flesh filled the cell. Clemens was crying now, weeping with inhuman suffering. Ludlumus noticed the Praetorian staring at him in horrific disbelief. “What are you looking at?”
The guard said nothing.
Ludlumus produced a wax tablet and shoved it into the guard’s face. “Sign this.”
The guard took it and read the writing. “What is this?”
“The prisoner’s confession.”
The guard looked puzzled. “But he hasn’t confessed anything.”
“You do make things difficult, don’t you?” said Ludlumus as he pulled out the dagger and whipped it across the young soldier’s throat, catching him just beneath the chin strap of his helmet. The guard opened his mouth but produced only a gurgling sound as he collapsed to the floor.