The Chiron Confession (Dominium Dei) Read online

  “Yes, I am. I am counselor to Caesar. And he will have your heads for this!”

  Unfazed, the big Watchman pressed down on him and pinned his arm to his side while the smaller one, who was not small at all, produced a large sword. It hovered over his forearm for a moment like a snake.

  “He’s the one you want!” Caelus cried out, nodding to Virtus. “He’s young, strong, perfect for hard labor. Let me go! My hands are of no use to you!”

  “God has a purpose for everyone.”

  Caelus looked up in horror as the hulking figure above him raised his blade to reveal a black Chi tattoo under his arm.

  “If your right hand causes you to sin….”

  The blade came down, and Caelus wailed in unbearable pain.

  The Watchman held up a finger in the dim light.

  Caelus could see it clearly enough through the blur of his tears. It was his finger! His own finger and signet ring! The rest of his hand lay on the floor like a piece of red, bloody meat.

  They’ve cut off my hand!

  “Don’t kill me!” he moaned, suddenly aware that he could see only one Watchman.

  He heard a whoosh from behind and felt something strike him in the back of the head. He fell flat on his face into the earthen floor, then rolled over to see a headless corpse, blood spurting up from the neck.

  They had beheaded Virtus!

  He tried to scream but heard only a whistle passing through his slack jaw. Then he recognized the medallion on the chest of the collapsing corpse and realized it was he himself who had been beheaded.

  They’ve cut off my head! My head!

  He felt the breath of life escaping him as this last, grotesque visage before his eyes began to fade.

  Thus Spurius Balbinus, the spindly son of gypsies who had risen to become Caelus of Rome, Chief Astrologer to Caesar, passed from this world to the next.

  And he never saw it coming.

  II

  The small, ornate box took three weeks to arrive in Rome. It was delivered to Caesar in his private box at the great coliseum known as the Flavian Amphitheater during the afternoon gladiator contests. As Titus Flavius Domitianus, the 11th emperor of the Roman empire, read the attached note, his fingers trembled: Due to unforeseen circumstances, Caelus has retired forever. Soon you will join him. The next government of Rome will be ruled by reason, not by dark arts. It was stamped with the Chi-Ro symbol of Chiron, the pseudonym of the mastermind behind the militant Christian group Dominium Dei.

  Domitian opened the box and saw the severed finger and signet ring of his chief astrologer. Shaking with rage, the 44-year-old emperor rose to his feet on buckling knees and wordlessly exited the stadium through the Passaggio di Commodo, a newly constructed private tunnel that led back to the palace on Palatine Hill. Close behind him were three key amici from his inner circle: Titus Petronius Secundus, prefect of the Praetorian Guard; Titus Flavius Clemens, consul and his cousin; and Lucius Licinius Ludlumus, a scion of Rome’s wealthiest family and the Master of the Games.

  Only when they were a good distance into the tunnel, where he was sure they could not be overheard, did Domitian unleash his fury and scream, “Will it take the death of Caesar for anyone to believe the conspiracy is real?”

  Dressed in royal purple and embroidered gold, the balding, pot-bellied Domitian was in the 15th year of his reign, longer than any Caesar before him since Tiberius. He was also the first to demand to be officially addressed as dominus et deus, or “Lord and God.” But this humiliating assassination of his chief astrologer by Dominium Dei or “Rule of God”—itself a mockery of his own divinity—only made him more paranoid than usual. He was terrified that he would not live to see a day beyond September 18, the day the stars said he would die. Worst of all, the only credible source in his eyes to give him hope otherwise—Caelus—was gone, having failed to foresee even his own death.

  “And you, my chief protector!” Domitian glared at Secundus. “Your Praetorian in plain toga couldn’t even protect Caelus. How am I to believe you can protect me?”

  Secundus, realizing his own fate was on the line, spoke in a brave voice. “My man in Ephesus was but one in a city of villainy. Here in Rome, however, Your Highness has thousands of Praetorian surrounding you.”

  “Surrounding me! Who will protect me from your men? You all want me dead!”

  They continued to walk on in silence, only their steps echoing ominously like the inevitable march of doom. The tunnel was brilliantly lit by rows of torches on either side to ensure that no shadow could hide a would-be assassin. So great was Domitian’s fear.

  As usual, it was left to Ludlumus, a former actor and failed playwright, to break the silence with his gravelly yet soothing deep voice. “No doubt this lapse of security is unacceptable. Nor any doubt now that Caelus was a fraud. But neither tragedy should cast doubt upon your own destiny. If anything, your continued survival is proof yet again that the gods protect you, that you indeed are one of them. You cannot kill a god, despite what second-rate playwrights might like to believe.”

  “No doubt, no doubt,” Domitian murmured, annoyed that Ludlumus would use this moment to take yet another swipe at his former rival in the arts, Athanasius of Athens. “But Rome must make retribution for this public act against Caesar. We must therefore produce Chiron and execute him in public.”

  Domitian often spoke of himself in the third person when he felt threatened. This usually foreshadowed an order of execution of some kind, the object of which was any unfortunate fellow in his sight. In the last few years alone Domitian had executed a dozen prominent senators and countless noblemen in his Reign of Terror, if only to confiscate their fortunes to feed Rome’s swelling public debt. This was on top of the usual allotment of Jews and Christians. But the rise of this Dei insurgency was a new phenomenon altogether, and the shocking, public nature of Chiron’s recent assassinations had unhinged the emperor.

  “To be sure, it is time for Chiron to die,” Ludlumus said, halting for a moment, and then stated the obvious for Domitian’s own understanding. “But to kill Chiron, we must first produce him.”

  Domitian addressed his cousin the consul. “Clemens, what do we know about these butchers who call themselves Dominium Dei?”

  “Not much, Your Humanitas.”

  Clemens often addressed Domitian as the Merciful One, mostly in hopes of eliciting mercy on the Christians, of which his wife Domitilla was one and himself an inquirer at the least and sympathizer at worst in Domitian’s eyes.

  “No? Do they not receive secret instructions from the apostle John from his prison on Patmos?”

  “John is the last of the Jewish apostles, Your Highness. His influence is contained to Asia Minor. The Dei are non-Jews in make-up, the spiritual progeny of those Christian converts that the apostle Paul left behind before his beheading by Nero. For decades these followers, both slave and freedman, have kept their faith secret even as they have faithfully served the governments of successive Caesars. These recent public executions are a radical departure from their reputation.”

  “And you would know that because you are one of them?” Domitian suddenly offered, catching his cousin off guard.

  “What?” asked Clemens. “No!”

  “Everybody knows that your wife Domitilla—my niece—is one. Some even believe that you are this ‘Theophilus’ to whom the apostle Luke addressed his account of the life of Jesus.”

  “Caesar knows much,” Clemens said, neither confirming nor denying the rumors. “But the Christians here in Rome consider themselves successors not of the apostle Paul but of the apostle Peter. They are not infiltrators. They seek no influence over the affairs of state. They seek only to live quiet, peaceful lives. To render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s.”

  “Caesar is God,” Domitian insisted. “On this matter there can be no confusion.”

  “You know they pay their taxes and pray for you and all in authority, Your Highness,” Clemens insisted. “They p
ublicly denounce the Dei and all violence.”

  “Violence!” Domitian erupted. “And what is this Book of Revelation they all heed if not violence of the most extreme kind to Caesar, Rome and the empire? The end of this world! A New Jerusalem! And heaven and earth! You don’t think this superstition inspires animals like the Dei to take up the sword in the name of Jesus? Or embolden my enemies in the Senate? Perhaps even members of my own family?” He glared at Clemens. “My family!”

  “Surely you don’t suspect Domitia?” Clemens replied, diverting attention to Domitian’s wife.

  A startled Domitian glanced at Ludlumus and Secundus, both looking quite impressed by the feeble Clemens’ unusually clever recovery.

  “Nonsense,” Domitian said. “After all I’ve done for her? I can’t imagine why she would want me dead.”

  Domitian had pursued his second wife Domitia from the beginning years ago. She was married at the time, so he forced her husband to divorce her so he could marry her. Later on, she ran off with the actor Paris, and he had to have the thespian killed. Still, after some time, she came back to him of her own accord.

  Clemens said nothing and could only genuflect before his Caesar. But was he bowing before his Lord and God as well? Domitian wasn’t sure anymore.

  “Clemens,” he barked. “I want you to find this mysterious mastermind of all that troubles the empire. I want you to find Chiron.”

  “Find Chiron?” Clemens gasped. “How am I supposed to do that? Nobody knows who he is!”

  “Surely one of your devious little Jewish and Christian friends will know his true identity.” Domitian could see the pain in his cousin’s face. “Yes, Clemens. You will give Secundus names, and my Praetorian Guards will beat these fanatics and kill them one by one until they give up the most dangerous man in the world.”

  They had arrived at the palace, entering the lower level in back. Here the offices of Caesar were filled with hundreds of slaves and magistrates who kept Rome’s trade routes clear—the roads clean of dung for its armies and seas clear of pirates for its navies. As Domitian passed by, the business of Rome suddenly seemed to pick up, with much scurrying and paper shuffling, until Caesar and his amici went up a short flight of stairs to the private residence.

  Domitian stopped outside his bedchamber and glared at his amici.

  “Clemens, you will find Chiron for me. And you, Secundus, will bring him to me. Those are my orders. Now carry them out.”

  The consul and prefect glanced at each other, said nothing, and went their separate ways, leaving Caesar alone with his Master of the Games.

  Ludlumus said, “You know the consul is never going to find Chiron, Your Highness. Even if he did, he would never willingly give him up.”

  “Somebody has to die for this. Somebody big,” Domitian insisted. “We must have retribution. And it must be public, as a warning to others. Once we produce Chiron, his execution must be public, humiliating and painful.”

  “I’ll conjure up something nice for 80,000 spectators.”

  “See that you do, Ludlumus. And find out how Epaphroditus allowed that finger to ever reach me that my eyes should see it.”

  Ludlumus paused. “Your Highness had his primary secretary executed last year. Something about his assisting Nero’s suicide 28 years ago.”

  “Exactly. That’s what I meant. Epaphroditus would never have allowed this misfortune to disturb me. Now leave us.”

  By “us” Domitian meant himself, of course, and Ludlumus left and closed the door behind him, leaving Domitian to himself.

  Domitian, Rome’s Lord and God, removed his short-cropped wig and looked in the mirror of polished brass. He was painfully self-conscious about his baldness and had hoped the publication of his popular book on the subject of hair care would make him less so. But it hadn’t. The fleshy face and protruding stomach didn’t boost his spirits either these days. They made him feel weak.

  Domitian looked around his bedchamber, dominated by his bed, couch and statue of his favorite goddess Minerva with her sacred owl. His chamberlain Parthenius had laid out a lavish spread of sweets for him on the table by the couch. But Domitian wasn’t hungry, the vision of Caelus’s finger filling his head. Who knew what his enemies would do to him?

  And who were his enemies?

  Everyone.

  He knew he paled in comparison to his beloved father, Vespasian, the first Flavian to be Caesar. His brother, Titus, was also beloved by Rome’s aristocrats, thanks to his military success in the Judean War. Titus’s untimely death two years into his reign as Caesar only swelled public affection for Domitian’s brother—and cast suspicion that he, Domitian, was behind it. True enough, perhaps, but not enough to explain the pure hatred he endured from the noble class.

  No, Domitian concluded, the noble class of Rome hated him because he refused to promote lazy and entitled family, friends and political supporters to run the offices of government simply because they were his family, friends or political supporters. His administration was a meritocracy, and it was effective only because he installed the best people into the best positions to build up the empire with great public works, like the new Circus Maximus under construction down the hill, and the network of new highways being laid in the empire’s eastern half of Asia Minor.

  For this he was hated, because these useless aristocrats were worthless and had nothing to contribute to the world other than their money, which is why he was so often forced to relieve them of it along with their lives. Now they drooled over his prophesied demise and were attempting to sway those closest to him in his personal staff, and even his family: Domitian’s second wife, Domitia, was in a league of her own concerning suspicion, closer to him than anybody else.

  He walked to his bed and lifted his pillow to make sure the knife he kept was still there. It was.

  Good.

  He moved to the couch on which he liked to take his rest during the day, and removed from beneath it a two-leaved tablet of linden-wood. On the wood he had scratched his list of those he suspected were conspiring against him.

  Domitia’s name was at the top, followed by his two Praetorian prefects: Petronius Secundus and his colleague Norbanus. An emperor could never trust his own Praetorian Guards, who as Caesar’s “protectors” had a long history of deciding in advance who should become emperor and then, once in office, how long that emperor should live.

  Then there was his cousin Flavius Clemens, of course, and his wife, Domitilla, who was Domitian’s own niece. Domitian had already proclaimed their two sons his successors since he and Domitia had none of their own. So clearly they were the most obvious beneficiaries of his demise, although Domitilla was the strong one in that marriage. Clemens was too weak and ineffectual to be any kind of threat. Only his able administration of the countless papers the government required to handle the Jews kept him employed, so long as he made sure the Jews paid their extra taxes for being, well, Jews.

  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 ki
ll 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.