Corinth and its outskirts had changed some since Athanasius last saw his hometown four years ago. The Romans were upgrading public buildings, and the roads were vastly improved. He doubted it would take even an hour to reach home, and he was right: Sooner than he expected they approached his family’s estate outside town.
As they drove past his childhood home, Athanasius did his best to avoid looking at the two Corinthian pillars that marked the entrance to the long, winding gravel path lined with cypress trees to the villa. But something caused the cab’s mules to skip a step, and Athanasius looked ahead to see traffic coming their way.
“We may have to pull over to let the caravan pass,” the driver told him. “Perhaps they come from the Argos Farms?”
Athanasius couldn’t afford to find out. Any member of the Argos family or their workers might recognize him, sitting in the open carriage in a tribune’s uniform no less.
“Cut down the path ahead,” Athanasius ordered.
“What path?”
“I’ll show you.” Athanasius decided to use the back road to the family tannery. The tannery road started at the northwest side of the property, a few minutes from the east gates. He would use it to quietly reach the estate. “Hurry!”
The mules kicked up and they went about half a stade before a narrow dirt path, barely visible, appeared between the trees. “Here?” the driver asked.
“Yes,” said Athanasius, and tried to will the mules to speed up.
They turned onto the path and slipped into the trees just as the first of the wagons from the caravan passed by on the road behind them, affording whoever was looking a view of the carriage’s backside.
They took a long path past the family’s fly-infested and odorous tannery, which was kept a good distance away not only from town but from the Vasiliki estate, and finally rounded a cool glade and entered the sunny grove behind the family villa. Athanasius could see the stables below, and for a moment he was a boy again. He could picture old Perseus the stable hand, showing him how to properly saddle a horse or milk a goat. Such a different life it was, his childhood. As was his life now. So different had it turned out than expected.
“Athanasius!” called a voice, startling him and perking the ears of the driver.
It was Demetrius, his old friend and son of Perseus, coming out of the stables and waving his hands wildly.
“Demetrius!” Athanasius shouted, and climbed down from the carriage to give big Demetrius a hug and stop him from talking too much until the driver left. “You’re even bigger than I remember. Where’s your father?”
Demetrius looked down. “He died not long after your father.” Then he looked at the driver who lifted the seat in the carriage to remove Athanasius’s pack. “Where is she?”
“Who?”
“Helena, your bride. The whole family is inside waiting for you. Your mother has prepared quite the feast. Everybody is coming over.”
“What are you talking about, Demetrius?”
“The message you sent your mother about your arrival today. What’s with the Roman get-up? Is this one of your jokes?”
“I sent no message,” Athanasius said, yanking his sword out of its hilt as he spun around and stabbed the driver in the stomach. The dagger in the driver’s hand, lifted in the air to stab Athanasius in the back, fell to the ground with the body.
Demetrius stared at the driver. “What are you doing?”
“We have to get to the house!” Athanasius yelled over his shoulder as he set off in a run. “The Romans are coming!”
He was halfway across the gardens when he saw the first flaming arrow arc high into the sky and crash through the red-tiled roof. “Jupiter, no!” he yelled as dozens more from all directions flew over him and hit the villa.
An explosion of screams followed by fire and smoke blew out every window. Then a great column of fire burst up out of the roof and into the sky.
A door opened and in the frame he saw his mother, bent over, staggering in the smoke, helped out by one of the cousins. Then an arrow hit her in the chest and she fell.
“Mother!” he screamed.
Dozens of heavily armored Roman legionnaires with javelins, swords and shields approached the house in a line, moving in methodically to block any escape. But one of his nieces, he could not recognize which, managed to crawl out a window and make a run for it.
A Roman butcher—the very one who had shot his mother—chased her down. His face was unforgettable, marked by a vertical gash from his forehead to his chin, as if an ax had once practically split his head in two. And his demented expression was like some malevolent god who took pleasure only by inflicting pain. When he caught up to his prey, he raised his javelin high and with two hands plunged it into her back, once and again.
“No! Oh, no! No!” Athanasius screamed and then felt something large tackle him to the ground.
It was Demetrius, sitting on him, pushing his face into the dirt to muffle his cries. “Too many spears, Athanasius. You cannot save them, only yourself.”
And then the words shattered through the shouts and screams as the villa came crumbling down. It was his mother, calling out to him.
“Athanasius!”
Athanasius couldn’t move, couldn’t even open his mouth, so great was the weight of big Demetrius upon him.
“You must run, Athanasius. Run away. As must I.”
With that the heaviness was gone, and so was Demetrius. Athanasius looked around at the smoldering ruins of his family’s villa, unable to comprehend the vision of tragedy before his eyes.
He tasted blood in his mouth where he had bitten his tongue and heard his hard breathing. Something inside him had crumbled to nothing, unleashing a fury that overwhelmed all his fears.
He quickly picked himself up, made his way back to the stables, pulled out a horse and rode away, allowing himself one last look at the destruction of everything left that he held dear in this life. He had thought he had lost everything before, but now the finality of yet another shock turned his grief into a wildfire of rage.
You’re going to die for this, Domitian, he vowed to himself. You and all that stinks of Rome.
The port of Kenchreai hummed at dusk as the dockworkers loaded the last stores onto the Pegasus. Captain Andros was going over the charts with the helmsman when he heard his name and looked up to see the centurion approach, shaking his head. “We’ve waited as long as we can, Captain. No sign of the tribune, and we have to arrive in Ephesus by the 14th of the month.”
The captain nodded and walked out on deck to give the order to lift the gangway. It was late indeed, and darkness had fallen across the harbor. He could hear the strands of music from the taverns welcoming sailors who had just arrived. Then he heard a shout. Coming up the gangway was the tribune.
“We thought you weren’t going to make it, Tribune,” the captain told him as the gangway came up.
The tribune, who looked unusually distressed, said, “Some interrogations take longer than others. I’ll be in my cabin for the night.”
“Of course, Tribune.”
“Oh, one more thing,” the tribune said, and Andros could feel another surprise coming in the pit of his stomach. “We will be making an unscheduled stop on the way to Ephesus. I have another interrogation to perform on Patmos.”
“Patmos?” the captain repeated, unable to contain his dismay.
“Don’t tell the crew until the last moment,” the tribune calmly replied. “They might worry they are the troop relief for the island instead of Ephesus. Even the commander of the garrison on Patmos is not expecting me. Caesar is worried about spies in his ranks. Let us not give him cause to suspect any of your crew.”