Life in Rome had become somewhat tenuous, thought Ludlumus, as the Master of the Games sat with his sullen and simmering Caesar in Domitian’s private box at the Coliseum. That Athanasius had pulled off an incredible escape was humiliating enough, but to mock them both with the tongue of Domitian’s Pharaoh Hound Sirius was over the top. Late word about the slaying of the garrison commander on Patmos, compounded with this morning’s news that Athanasius was spotted in Ephesus and had eluded capture, had prompted Ludlumus to stage Caesar’s favorite orgy of death in hopes the emotional catharsis would defuse a sudden explosion of murderous fury.
The mass execution was called the Death Relay, and it slaughtered a number of poor souls at once. Here they laid a special track on the rim of the arena, the “runners” evenly spaced, each with a sword or ax in hand at the start. The trumpets would blast and off they would go in a single direction around the track. The object would be to catch up to the runner in front and hack him to pieces, thereby escaping the race and taking a place in the center of the arena. As the runners dropped out, either by being hacked to death or doing the hacking, there was a longer distance between them, until there were finally just two runners left, often on opposite sides of the track, each exhausted. Now it was a game of attrition, and the editor of the match would call out to them, taunting them, “Now it’s all about desire. Who wants to live more?” It was painful to watch them speed up and slow down, each on the verge of collapse, trading places so far as closing the gap, until one gave up and died in spirit before he died in the flesh. Sometimes, like today, to make things more interesting, Ludlumus would alternate spots at the beginning of the race between Amazonian women and male dwarves, to ensure the long strides of the Amazons would lead to quick dwarf deaths, and then leave the women to kill each other off until one was left to live another day, if only that.
As one dwarf after another fell and the Amazons began to hunt each other, Domitian quipped, “Those are dwarves down there, Ludlumus? You didn’t switch children for them or anything? There doesn’t seem to be a lot of fight in them.”
Ludlumus glumly said, “It’s all real, Your Excellency.”
“I was beginning to wonder if the race was fixed.” Domitian looked at him with deadly, faded eyes.
There was little Ludlumus could say except to point out the imperial bow and arrows beside Domitian’s chair. “You want to finish off a couple as is your custom?”
Domitian said nothing but picked up the bow and an arrow and took aim at the arena floor.
Ludlumus had made sure the bright yellow uniforms of the Amazons made them even bigger and clearer targets. Caesar hated to miss in front of an audience, and he wasn’t as good a shot as he imagined himself to be.
Domitian let the arrow fly to thunderous cheers, and the Amazon target looked over her shoulder and sprinted only to be hit squarely on the back and splatter on the track. That left three Amazons to chase each other, at greater distances apart, which would drag this out a bit more.
“Good shot, Your Excellency,” Ludlumus said as Domitian sat down, refreshed by his kill and thirsting for more blood.
“I want Athanasius dead, Ludlumus.”
“Orion spotted him in Ephesus. He’s our top assassin in Asia Minor. It’s only a matter of time.”
“Orion killed the wrong man, Ludlumus.”
“An unfortunate snag, Your Excellency. But with the help of local governors and legions on the lookout, Orion will quickly hunt him down and bring him to us in time for a spectacular end to the Games this summer.”
“No, Ludlumus,” Domitian cut him off sharply. “You had your chance. Your entertainment failed miserably. I want Orion to kill Athanasius on sight and ship his head back to me in a box. No fingers. No tortures. No public spectacles. I want his head for me to look upon with my own eyes. Only then will I know that this little Greek clown is dead, dead, dead.”
XI
It was late afternoon when Athanasius turned off the country road and onto a long private drive lined with stately cypresses. The end of the gravel drive opened like a dream to reveal the majestic Dovilin villa surrounded by its mystical vineyards.
The Dovilin family, from what local gossip Athanasius had procured from tradesmen on his way in, had made their fortune in land holdings and bought and built up their celebrated vineyards after the Judean War. Now the family, through hired management, had turned it into one of the empire’s most well-respected and lucrative wineries, an unspoiled paradise far from the cares of the outside world.
A big, beefy servant named Brutus welcomed him at the door with an instant expression of suspicion and disdain.
Athanasius stammered as if intimidated and in a shaky voice said only, “Do-Dovilin.”
Brutus grunted, and Athanasius looked past the circular sofa and carved wooden benches of the reception atrium while Britus began to sift through his pack without apology. Finding nothing—Athanasius had buried a smaller second pack with his Roman uniform, sword and interrogator’s knife kit, along with his Dei ring and money, under a boulder he had marked between the last town and the villa—the slave returned the sack, and a young woman emerged from under a large arch in an expensive stola and Egyptian sandals.
“Well, hello there,” she said as if he were some unexpected surprise.
Athanasius could smell her perfume even before she stood before him and looked him over with approval. She was attractive enough. Everything about her seemed to mimic Roman fashion but was overdone: the dress, the hair piled on top of her head and dyed honey gold, the bracelets and bejeweled pendant holding her outfit—and bosoms—together. Just who was her audience out here in the sticks? Surely not stragglers such as Samuel Ben-Deker.
“You are Dovilin’s wife?” he stammered, as if awed by her beauty.
She laughed. “His daughter-in-law. My name is Cota. My father-in-law is in the main courtyard. Is he expecting you?” She paused, as if asking for his name.
“Samuel, Mistress Cota. Samuel Ben-Deker.” He thrust his letter of introduction into her hand.
“Wait here, Samuel Ben-Deker,” she said with amusement and vanished with the letter.
The man who entered the atrium moments later was in his seventies with short-cropped, grey hair in the Roman style and a tanned face. He looked prosperous and confident in his light and tailored tunic. The oversized furniture, busts, urns and decorative amphorae among the marble columns and rippling white drapes framing endless vineyards only accentuated the wine merchant’s wealth.
So this was Dovilin, Athanasius thought. But was he also the leader of the Dei in Asia Minor? His ring certainly indicated so. It was almost exactly like Chiron’s, with the Chi-Ro symbol flanked by the Greek letters Alpha and Omega. All it lacked was the tiny amethyst inside the Ro loop at the top.
Dovilin gazed at his unexpected visitor, taking in the cheap tunic and sandals of a runaway slave or poor freedman. But his businesslike demeanor revealed this wasn’t the first time a man in rags had appeared at his doorstep. “Your name is Ben-Something?”
“Ben-Deker,” Athanasius stammered and acted shameful and overwhelmed in this display of wealth. “Samuel Ben-Deker.”
“Yes, another Jew. You are also a follower of Christ?”
Athanasius nodded. “I pray you may be able to spare me room and board.”