Wrath of Rome (Book Two of the Dominium Dei Trilogy) (7 page)

Up at the theater, there was a crowd milling about, as the stage served the public as a forum by day if there were no performances or rehearsals underway.

A bad omen for him, he thought.

He stopped a stranger who was walking away from a conversation to ask, “Anything playing tonight? I saw no signs at the entrance.”

“Nothing right now. Rome canceled Oedipus Sex along with its playwright Athanasius of Athens. It’s too bad. I really liked the Greek rascal.”

“So did I,” Athanasius replied, and turned away.

So word of my demise has reached Ephesus, he thought. Perhaps that was a good thing. The general population wouldn’t be apt to recognize him if they didn’t expect to see him, even if the Romans were looking for him. The mind was funny that way with the eyes. He would need that luck now at the library.

• • •

Retracing his steps down Marble Way, Athanasius approached the city library with caution. It was a small but deep single-story building squashed between two larger ones. It had seen better days, and Athanasius assumed few denarii were going toward its upkeep what with the grand new library being planned, complete with a two-tiered façade and three levels of niches. He walked up three short steps and passed between the pair of Ionic columns flanking the entrance.

Inside was a large rectangular hall that faced east toward the morning sun. There were windows just below the vaulted ceiling to allow natural light, along with the central square oculus in the flat ceiling. The central apse was framed by a large arch at the far wall, and inside the apse stood a statue of Athena, the goddess of truth. Along the other three sides were rectangular recesses that held shelves for the nearly 4,000 scrolls.

He was greeted by one of two unarmed guards who watched for theft from patrons on the way out and was directed toward the main marble counter by the statue of Athena.

Like other libraries around the empire, Athanasius knew that this one existed for the benefit of students and traveling Romans. As such they tended to house collections of local documents of interest. So his request to see the memoir of Mucianus and his travels throughout Asia shouldn’t raise any eyebrows.

He glanced around at various patrons as he walked toward the counter, curious to know if one of them was the man who would pick up his letter the moment he had returned the volume he was about to check out. Whoever it was would say a lot about Timothy and his selection of associates. If what Cleo said was true, then the spy would have to be somebody high enough in the church. John or Timothy would know his identity, no doubt. Athanasius had no clue, and yet he was about to reveal himself to this agent, and this made him most uncomfortable. For in so doing, he might be revealing himself to spies from Rome or the Dei or both, if they were watching John’s men.

At the counter was a civilized, older librarian whom Athanasius vaguely recognized. He prayed to Jupiter and Jesus both that the patrician didn’t recognize him, and thanked the gods that he hardly ever spent time in libraries while supervising his performances abroad.

“And how can I help you, sir?” the senior librarian asked in a professional but almost too loud voice that spoke volumes about the
gravitas
that the library sought to project about itself.

“I’m traveling through Anatolia and was told I should check out a memoir by a former governor if I want to do some sightseeing. It’s a travelogue by Gaius Mucius Mucianus.”

“Ah, yes. Miracles in Asia Minor. If you believe in that sort of thing.”

Athanasius said nothing about the editorial comment. “You have it then?”

“But, of course,” the librarian said, taking a small leather strip from his counter. “It’s in a private shelf in back only because we need to reserve as much space as possible on the public stacks for more popular works. Someday, when the new library goes up, we’ll have room to hold 12,000 scrolls. Even then we’d fit into the smallest corner of the Temple of Artemis. Excuse me.”

He disappeared for a moment, and Athanasius looked around, catching in just the twinkling of an eye the stare of a man at a table, who quickly buried himself back again in his scroll. Athanasius pretended not to notice.

Friend or foe? he wondered, and the librarian returned without the leather strip nor any volumes.

“Is there a problem?” Athanasius asked.

“Not at all,” the librarian said. “One of our staff is setting them out for you at that table over there. There are a good 12 volumes, you know.”

Athanasius looked over at the corner of the room nearest the statue of Athena, where a scrawny young man dropped each volume like a heavy brick, only drawing even more attention than Athanasius had already.

“Twelve volumes, you say?” Athanasius asked. John had said there were only eleven, Athanasius recalled. He supposed it didn’t matter, as he was only to concern himself with volume eight. “I might have to come back tomorrow and possibly the day after just to get through half of them.”

“That’s usually the case, sir,” the librarian said with a knowing look. “Please sit down and make yourself comfortable. Take all the time you need.”

“Certainly,” said Athanasius, and made his way over to the table in back by Athena, aware of curious glances. He sat down and cracked open the first volume.

The scrawny librarian worked silently nearby, rearranging stacks of scrolls and books. Every now and then he glanced over as Athanasius picked up one volume and then another, making notes on his own tablet like a traveler would to mark highlights for his journey. The volumes were arranged geographically, with sections inside further broken down to cities within the provinces that Mucianus detailed, each with a story of some miraculous spring, fish, fruit or even rock that was unnaturally large or boasted healing properties or some such.

When he came to the seventh volume, he actually picked up the eighth volume, looking through it like he did the others. This one had a section in back on Cappadocia and its underground cities. Interesting, he thought, and surreptitiously slipped his letter into the section and closed the volume.

He made quick work of two more volumes before leaving them all on the table and returning to the librarian at the counter.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” the librarian asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” Athanasius said. “There are so many volumes. As you suggested, I’ll probably have to come back tomorrow to finish the rest.”

“But, of course,” the librarian said. “I’ll have them put in back now, and when you return we’ll bring them out for you again.”

“Thank you,” said Athanasius.

On his way out he passed the man who had glanced at him and was still buried in the single scroll that had occupied him during Athanasius’s entire visit.

The Artemis Wine Bar was just across the street from the library. It was an open-fronted building with outdoor dining under its wide canopy. Athanasius sat down on a straw chair at one of the small, round tables, ordered a cup of the Cappadocian special, and watched the entrance of the library.

It was almost an hour of observing patrons enter and exit the library before Athanasius saw him: the man who had been glancing at him when he first went inside. Now he was walking quickly away with his hands stuffed in the folds of his tunic, his head looking this way and that. Then a hand came out of a fold for a moment, red with the dye that Cleo had given him to pen the bogus letter he left behind. Now he knew whom the local church leaders in Ephesus had sent for the pickup, and he could follow him to John’s man and avoid wasting time and risking detection at some inn overnight.

He left a tip on the table and quickly walked out of the bar onto the street and started to follow the man with the red hands. He looked like Jesus with the nail marks in his hands, Athanasius thought as he blinked in the harsh glare of the noonday sun. The light was bouncing off the whitewashed walls and surfaces of the streets. For a moment he feared he had lost the man but then saw him glancing back his way, spotting him, then starting to run.

Athanasius ran after him, trying not to cause any more of a scene, until he almost fell upon him at a corner, where the man suddenly stopped and turned.

“Relax,” Athanasius told him, grabbing him at the shoulders. “Let’s just walk along to whomever you are walking along to and everything will—”

Before Athanasius could finish his sentence, he heard a whoosh from overhead, and an arrow suddenly struck the man in the chest and he cried out. Athanasius let go, and the man fell to the street, dead.

Athanasius looked over his shoulder in time to see a Roman with a shield strapped to his back tackle him to the ground. A rain of arrows began to fall, bouncing off the shield—or the Roman.

“You follow me if you want to live, Chiron,” the Roman said gruffly, pulling him up to his feet.

Athanasius got up and over the Roman’s head saw the archers on the rooftops. He stared. There on the roof was none other than the monster who had murdered his mother and niece back in Corinth! The scar down his face was unmistakable, and so was the recognition in his eyes as he reloaded.

“Quick!” shouted the Roman who tackled him, and now Athanasius saw armored chariots barreling down the street from both directions. “We cut through to the alley!”

Athanasius felt the Roman shove him into a rug shop, pushing him past the various rolls and stacks of carpets. The rumble of boots and chariots stopped outside.

“This way,” he said, pushing Athanasius out back into the alley.

There was a grating in the pavement, garbage strewn everywhere. The Roman pulled up the grating and barked, “Jump!”

Athanasius peered into the dark. “How far down?”

“Far enough.”

Athanasius could hear the shouts, “The alley!”

They threw themselves into the open sewer and held onto the stone rim with their fingers. The Roman had just enough time to reach out with a free hand to pull the grating back over them before a legion of troops crashed out the back door of the rug shop into the alley and fanned out.

Hanging onto the grating by his fingertips, Athanasius looked over at the Roman and suddenly saw something between his breastplate and shoulder straps—the tattoo of the Dei stamped under his right arm.

“Who are you?” he said as the rumble of chariots came barreling down the alley above.

“My name is Virtus,” the Dei man said as his legs swung up and kicked Athanasius in the stomach, causing him to lose his grip and plunge into the darkness below until he hit the bottom and blacked out.

W
hen Athanasius opened his eyes, he found himself lying in a dank cell. Hunched over him was the man who had knocked him out. He remembered the attack on the streets above: the confrontation with the man with the stained hands, the rain of arrows from Roman snipers on the rooftops, the escape with the help of this man into these tunnels, and the Dei tattoo under his arm.

“Where am I?” Athanasius asked, sitting up.

“Where I was only weeks ago, in the tunnels beneath Ephesus,” the man who called himself Virtus said.

“You,” Athanasius said, touching the lump on his head. “You’re Dei.”

“Maybe,” the man said.

“So Rome wants me dead, but the Dei wants me alive?” Athanasius said. “Why?”

“That is a mystery to me too. I simply follow orders, Athanasius.”

“So you know who I am?”

“I’ve seen your plays in Rome,” Virtus told him. “But I missed the one here before it was shut down after Caelus died.”

That’s right, Athanasius thought. In one way he had already arrived at the source of the recent troubles. “You know how he died exactly?”

“I killed him.”

“You?”

“Not exactly. I was his bodyguard, and I failed to protect him from the Dei.”

“I thought you were Dei.”

“Now I am. I wasn’t before. I was Praetorian. Third Cohort. Then Caelus and I were captured down here.”

“Why didn’t they kill you too?”

“I was of better use to them alive,” Virtus said. “They knew I was a dead man if I showed my face to Rome after losing Caesar’s chief astrologer. So they set me up here as a Watchman in the city. When the local governor and legions got secret communications that you had escaped Rome and killed the garrison commander on Patmos, they were ordered to drag you in, kill you without question and send your head to Caesar. Nobody was to know you were alive. The Dei intercepted the orders and sent me to protect you.”

“Protect me, Virtus?” Athanasius asked. “Or to intercept me before I made contact with local church authorities?”

Virtus’s face clouded. “What are you talking about? We are the local church authorities. The man who died, I knew him from The Way here. He was a good man. You should not have involved him.”

Athanasius was confused by what Virtus was saying, or rather by Virtus’s confusion. He actually still believed the Dei and the Church were on the same side against Rome.

“Me involve him?” Athanasius said. “Listen here, Dei Praetorian. I’m the one who never should have been involved. And from what you are telling me, neither should you.”

“Then why have you brought your troubles to Ephesus, Athanasius?”

“I have a vital revelation from Rome for the bishop Timothy here and all the churches in Asia Minor.”

“A revelation you say, Clement of Rome?” Virtus said in a mocking tone. He had read the name Athanasius was using in Ephesus from the papers in his pouch, which was in the corner with his belt and daggers. “And what revelation is that?”

Athanasius told him. “The Dei is an imperial organization, run by Domitian in order to play Rome and the Church against each other in a forever war while he eliminates enemies on both sides and consolidates power.”

“Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on us!” Virtus cried out, making some movements with his hand that looked like the cross sign of the letter
Chi.

Perhaps that was a signal between the lower ranks of the Dei to each other, Athanasius thought, and he was stunned to see that Virtus had become a true believer and yet had failed to distinguish the Church from the Dei. If so, the Dei were more deeply intertwined with the churches of Asia Minor than even Cleo intimated.