Wrath of Rome (Book Two of the Dominium Dei Trilogy) (9 page)

“Everything.”

“By putting Rome at war with the Church?”

The old man looked at Athanasius, genuinely shocked. “You really don’t know, do you?” He began to laugh heinously, then coughed up blood.

Polycarp said, “He has a devil inside!”

“We are legion, Bishop,” Croesus hissed. “We will take over the world!”

He then began to choke, and his head fell to the side.

Polycarp was stunned. “You murdered him!”

“He killed himself, Bishop,” Athanasius said and held up Croesus’s dead hand with the ring. “Smell it, it’s poison.”

Polycarp sniffed and turned away, gagging.

Then Virtus turned the body over and ripped away the tunic to reveal the tattoo of the Dei to his bishop, who could only stare at the black
Chi
symbol.

“I don’t understand. He was a pillar of the church.”

“Yes,” Athanasius said dryly, “and pillars hold things up.”

Athanasius helped Virtus drag the body of Croesus to a corner and began to strip Poseidon of his effects, starting with his ring. It had the
Chi-Ro
emblem, but no Greek letters nor any jewels, which indicated a mid-level officer in the Dei, but clearly much higher than the lowly
Chi
ranks.

Polycarp, who looked to be in shock, stared at the corpse of his church’s key financial backer and fell to his knees in prayer, begging the Lord Jesus for forgiveness in associating with this man and his money, and vowing to renounce any hint of materialism the rest of his life as a minister of The Way.

“What are you going to do, Athanasius?” Polycarp asked weakly.

“I’m going to follow the wine to this Lord’s Vineyard in Cappadocia,” Athanasius announced, handing Croesus’s ring to Virtus. “And Virtus here is going to follow Croesus’s shipment to Rome.”

“It won’t work,” Virtus said as he took the ring. “As soon as Croesus fails to disembark in Ostia, the Dei will know he’s dead.”

“Which gives us three weeks from the time you land in Rome and he doesn’t,” Athanasius said. “And another two weeks before express couriers can send news of it back here. Add another five days to reach Cappadocia, and I have almost six weeks.”

“Six weeks to do what, my friend?” Virtus asked.

“To follow the wine.”

Polycarp, who Athanasius realized was more clever than he thought, said, “He is going to the source of Caesar’s wine to poison it.”

“That could work,” Virtus said, slowly nodding. “But for Caesar’s winetasters.”

Athanasius decided not to reveal any details about Galen’s potion, which would delay the effects on any winetaster long enough to ensure the wine made it to Domitian’s lips, down his throat and into his stomach. “Leave that to me. Let’s just say I am going to the source of the Reign of Terror to cut it off.”

“Assassinate Caesar!” Virtus said, sounding as if the very idea was beyond the realm of the possible to mortal men.

“That’s right,” Athanasius said. “With Domitian gone, his designated successor Vespasian the Younger becomes Caesar, and with his reputed faith the empire becomes Christian. We can stop this forever war between Rome and the Church.”

The look on Virtus’s face was really quite extraordinary, as if he himself had been in old John’s cave and seen the rocks split open to reveal a vision. He, too, sank to his knees in prayer. But unlike the horrified Polycarp, he sang praises at this possibility.

“Come, Lord, come!” the former Praetorian cried out to heaven, then turned to Athanasius. “But what if this plan doesn’t work?”

“You’ll meet up with a man in Rome named Stephanus, who will introduce you to other Christians within Domitian’s own circles, including perhaps your former superiors in the Praetorian who are sympathetic. They will ensure that even if I fail on my end that you will succeed on yours.”

His mission clear, Virtus came to life, and Athanasius recognized a true Praetorian.

Polycarp, however, would have none of it. “Say what you will about helping the Church, Athanasius, but you are pursuing your own personal vengeance. This plot is not inspired by the Spirit of God but by the bloodlust of your flesh. You want vengeance. You don’t care about the Church of Jesus.”

“Says the bishop who whores with the Dei,” Athanasius shot back.

Polycarp nodded. “You are right about that, Athanasius. I have been wrong. I confess my pride in my church’s standing before the eyes of Christ in the Revelation. But I see now that even an unadulterated message of faith in our Lord and his shed blood for our sins can become adulterated within the administration of our community of faith. For this I repent, and from now on, thanks to what I have seen here today, I will speak out against the corrupting influence of money in the church. But I cannot in good conscience condone what evil you harbor in your heart, Athanasius.”

“What you’ll do, Polycarp, is act as go-between here in Ephesus to oversee messages between me and Virtus, understand?”

Virtus nodded. Polycarp didn’t look too sure.

Athanasius said, “If you love all the churches of Asia Minor and not just your own, Polycarp, then you’ll help get me to the Dovilin Vineyards and connect me with this super apostle Cerberus in the underground church.”

Slowly Polycarp nodded in surrender. “I will help you, Athanasius, but only to expose the Dei to the churches of Asia Minor who have drunk from its poisoned cup. May your plans for evil turn out for good and the salvation of many. The Lord bless you. The Lord bless us all. For I myself see no blessing in this venture, only bloodshed and death.”

H
is name was Samuel Ben-Deker, a Jew from Spain by way of Malta who specialized in the design and manufacture of quality amphorae to transfer wine in bulk across the Great Sea. The letter of introduction from Croesus of Ephesus boasted that Samuel’s novel use of resin coating inside an amphora could improve and age wine to perfection based upon days of travel and the regional preferences of the destination. The Dovilin Vineyards could use a man like Samuel, in spite of him being yet another poor Jew. Perhaps the Lord’s Vineyard could use him as well.

That was the story Athanasius had come up with, and as Cappadocia’s capital city of Caesarea Mazaca shrank in the distance, he huddled in the back of the covered wagon he had chartered, part of a long freight convoy from Ephesus to Laodicea to Iconium, and examined the letter of introduction from Croesus that he had forged.

It looked authentic enough, he thought, comparing it to another letter in Croesus’s hand that he had lifted from the old man. And the paper stock was the same, as was the seal. Still, he worried there might be some sort of coda or sign that these Dei used, and he was wagering that Croesus would not use the Dei code. If Dovilin needed such assurance, Athanasius had a second letter in code that he could say he forgot about, which would not only confirm the first letter but say something about Dei business that Samuel was to deliver as well but not know about.

The cart hit a bump, and Athanasius bounced hard and cursed. He put the letters away and returned to the travel guide he had picked up in town. It was a copy of the same book in the library of Ephesus: Volume 8 of
Miracles in Asia Minor
by Gaius Mucius Mucianus. He wondered whatever happened to the former governor of Syria, who at one time was the right hand of Domitian’s father, Vespasian. Mucianus died or disappeared decades ago, leaving only his memoir as a primer for Athanasius as he entered this exotic land.

He looked out at the rocky plains and pointy hills that resembled chimney stacks. It was another world. Unlike Rome, Christians seemed to operate quite in the open out here. He saw fish signs proudly displayed outside inns, shops and restaurants. And the closer to Cappadocia he got, the more prominent the Dovilin name appeared on signs, stone pylons and buildings.

He fingered the Tear of Joy necklace that Polycarp had given him to wear as a sign to the mysterious Cerberus inside the underground “eighth” church of Asia Minor. It was a silver six-pointed Star of David with a sapphire shaped like a tear in the center. He was to wear it under his tunic and let it be visible only in situations and to persons where Cerberus might reveal himself to him.

He got off at the small town nearest to his destination and began to walk with his pack over his shoulder. The fresh and fragrant scents of plants and flowers were a definite improvement from the dungeons, ship bilges and sewers that had marked his journey thus far. Turning a gentle bend, at last he saw the green valley of the Dovilin Vineyards—6,000 hectares of lush paradise surrounded by sharp mountain peaks hiding secrets dark and deep.

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.”

I
t 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.