Rule of God (Book Three of the Dominium Dei Trilogy) Page 5

  A dread now replaced the explosion of joy she had experienced only a moment ago. Even if Athanasius were still alive, she thought, and even if he were to return triumphant to Rome by some miracle, how can I ever face him in my condition?

  A storm of anguish and grief churned inside her as the belief sank in that no matter what her beloved’s fate, her own hopes for a brighter future were nothing now but an illusion.

  Several times she poured the cool, clean water over her face, and then looked up into the brass mirror to see the distorted reflection of Ludlumus and froze.

  “So the goddess is with child,” he told her in the mirror. “It’s Domitian’s, isn’t it?”

  She said nothing.

  “Poor Athanasius really did leave nothing behind, did he?”

  “Stop it, Ludlumus,” she said and turned to face him, still feeling flush. “I know he’s still alive. If he were dead, Domitian would have shown me his head. He’s alive.”

  “And so is Domitian’s heir in your belly, Helena. I’d keep that to yourself for as long as you can.”

  “I’m planning to,” she said, then paused. “Why should you care?”

  “I’d hate to see you come to any harm at the hands of the empress Domitia or the widow of Flavius Clemens. After all, if you bear Domitian’s heir, he hardly needs the spare. Young Vespasian and Young Domitian are as good as dead. I should think their mother would do all she could to prevent that, use whatever means at her disposal to save her children.”

  Helena said nothing, only watched his long face as he studied her.

  “But would you do likewise, I wonder? After all, if your beloved Athanasius ever did show up, would he even want you now? Regardless of whatever happened after September 18, to ask a man to stare at the little face of his enemy the rest of his life is probably asking more than any man could give. Then again, you are the great Helena. For you, Athanasius might do anything.”

  She felt her throat tighten and turned to vomit into the bowl of water. Gagging, she looked up into the brass mirror. Ludlumus was gone.

  VI

  No one arriving at the Dovilin villa that night for the Harvest Banquet would have guessed from all the festive lights and music that the host’s only son had just died, thought Athanasius as he emerged from the cover of the grapevines. His face was shaved clean and he was back in his polished tribune’s uniform, with a swagger to match. None of the staff gave him a second look as he rounded the bathhouse and passed by the outdoor kitchen to enter the back of the villa. There he quickly picked up a cup of Dovilin wine from a floating tray and joined the guests swirling about the courtyards, fountains, flautists and harpists.

  It was as if Vibius, scion of the great Dei co-founder Dovilin, never existed. Athanasius wondered what that would mean for Cota now, and could only hope he wouldn’t see her this evening, or rather be seen by her. No doubt Dovilin already sent her away or banished her from public display.

  Everywhere he looked there were oversized amphorae, some open and some sealed, lined up for effect before they departed with the guests back to wherever they all came from. He was scanning the main courtyard to see if there were any faces from Rome he might recognize when he heard a voice from behind him say, “Tribune!”

  Athanasius turned to see the very legate he had served at the dinner only days before in this very house. His uniform, too, bore the rank of tribune. “Tribune,” Athanasius reciprocated with a mild salute of his cup before he drank.

  “Do I know you?” the legate asked. “You look familiar.”

  Athanasius shrugged. “I first joined up during the Dacian War and served with the Praetorian in Rome, Third Cohort. How about you?”

  “I’m with the XVI Flavia legion now. So you served under the Prefect Aeolus with the Praetorian?”

  “No,” Athanasius replied as calmly as he could, and quickly decided to lift Virtus’s background. “Third Cohort under the Prefect Secundus.”

  The legate, who introduced himself as Gracchus, seemed satisfied enough. “I thought I knew everybody from the Roman faction here tonight,” he said. “What brings you to the Lord’s Vineyard?”

  “This,” said Athanasius and held up his wine in such a way as to display his Dei ring.

  Gracchus’s look was priceless. “General, sir. I am sorry.”

  “No apologies necessary, Gracchus. We need to be vigilant. You asked me why I’m here. I’m here to observe. I’m here to observe you, Gracchus. I’m here to observe the work of the Lord’s Vineyard. I’m here to observe everything. I miss nothing. Neither should you. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. If there is anything out of the ordinary, report it to me immediately.”

  “Yes, General.”

  “Now go see if Senator Celsus or his representative from Rome is here. Tell him only that this tribune would like a word with him by that bust of Dovilin over there near the harpist.”

  It was all the man could do to keep from saluting as he disappeared.

  Athanasius swallowed hard and walked over toward the bust of Dovilin, as if to admire the craggy face, warts and all. He took another sip of wine and casually glanced around in time to see old Dovilin himself take a position before a large tapestry draped dramatically over the columns of the peristyle on the other side of the courtyard. The tapestry displayed a map of the empire, but it was divided along lines Athanasius had never seen before.

  There was a gong and the music stopped, as did all the clinking of cups and trays shortly thereafter. All eyes focused on Dovilin as he cleared his throat.

  “Welcome to the Harvest!” he announced. “Tonight we celebrate our wines and the work of the Lord’s Vineyard. Of the hundreds of Christian leaders we have discovered throughout the Roman empire in the past 30 years, only a few of you have been invited here tonight. You are the successful, experienced and high-placed believers in trade, the military and government. We are an invisible world army led by Christ, and tonight our ranks grow yet again.”

  Several dozen young men and women were brought forward for debut, a fresh crop of new recruits for the Lord’s Vineyard. Athanasius could only wonder how many of them, if any, understood they were enlisting in Dominium Dei, let alone in what capacities.

  “These young men and women will be joining you on your journeys back to your God-given stations in Roman society. God does as he wishes with the armies of heaven and the peoples of the earth. We are the new chosen. God has chosen us to do His will on earth as it is in heaven. As above, so below.”

  “As above, so below,” the guests responded in unison.

  Dovilin said, “Now come lay hands on your new soldiers and pray for them as they help us build Christ’s kingdom.”

  Athanasius watched as the guests stepped forward to join their intended foot soldiers for Jesus and place their hands on the young heads and shoulders. As they closed their eyes, Dovilin led the prayer, and Athanasius realized with some satisfaction that the local Bishop Paul, being but a bit player, was nowhere to be found among the august ranks of these super-Christians.

  “Lord Jesus Christ, son of God,” Dovilin prayed. “Thy kingdom come and Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Bless your servants gathered here tonight. Protect them in the presence of their enemies. For theirs is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever. Amen.”

  With that, smiles and tears broke out all around along with another round of music, food and wine. Athanasius glanced about and then saw none other than that scoundrel of an idolmaker from Ephesus, Supremus, waddling over to him. Surely he was not the link to Senator Celsus’s interests with the Dei in Rome.

  Supremus didn’t recognize Athanasius until it was too late and Athanasius had jammed the point of his dagger in the fat man’s stomach.

  Athanasius whispered, “Quiet, Supremus, or I’ll gut you like a fish here and now.”

  Supremus nodded slowly.

  “Now let’s walk over to a more quiet atrium, talking like two old friends, which of course we are, aren’t
we?”

  Supremus nodded again as Athanasius put his arm holding his wine cup around the idolmaker’s shoulder, while his other hand with the dagger sank deep into the folds of the Dei rep’s tunic. Athanasius led them in a friendly stroll to an empty atrium off the main courtyard that was dimly lit by only a few flickering candles.

  “Athanasius!” Supremus exclaimed, suddenly lowering his voice when Athanasius put the blade of his dagger to his throat. “You’re alive!”

  “I’ve come to claim my royalties for my merchandise, Supremus. I’ve come to claim my money. Where is it? Perhaps in the pockets of Senator Celsus and the Dei?” Athanasius dug the blade deeper into the idolmaker’s flabby throat.

  “Please, Athanasius. You know I am nothing. I do as I am told.”

  Athanasius was worried the man in his panic might raise his voice, so he pushed him against the heavy drapes in the back. If he had to, he would muffle the idolmaker’s cries, wrap him in the drape and drive his dagger through to kill him.

  “Then tell me what you have been told, Supremus, and who has been doing the telling, and I may yet have mercy on your miserable soul and let you live.”

  Supremus nodded. “I will show you. I must reach for my pouch.”

  “Slowly,” said Athanasius, pushing the dagger further into the fat as Supremus’s chubby arm reached into the folds of his tunic and produced two figurines, one thin and one round.

  “See?”

  Athanasius glanced at them but held the blade firmly. “I see them. Oedipus and the Oracle. What I don’t see is your connection to the Dei.”

  “No, no, Athanasius. You do not see. Look closer.”

  Athanasius kept his dagger to the throat and with his other hand picked up the round figurine and looked at the carving on the orb. The oracle was supposed to be cut to look like Caelus, before he was slain. But this oracle looked different. “Who is this?”

  “That is Peter the apostle,” Supremus said. “The tall, thin one is Jesus.”

  “Jesus?” Athanasius said, and looked at what should have been Oedipus and saw the head cut to show the long hair of a Nazarene. “If there’s a new comedy to skewer the Christians, I want to know who wrote it.”

  “No comedy, Athanasius. These are not for the theaters. These are for the churches.”

  “The churches?” Athanasius repeated, and Athanasius immediately thought of old John the last apostle, young Polycarp and Gabrielle. “The Dei is more stupid than I thought. The churches will never accept idols.”

  Supremus shrugged. “You know I only make what is ordered from Rome.”

  “And who is doing the ordering, Supremus? Tell me now. Is it Senator Celsus?”

  Supremus shook his head. “No, Celsus takes his orders from Senator Sura.”

  Athanasius stopped. “Lucius Licinius Sura?”

  Supremus nodded, beads of sweat rolling down his jowls.

  “Sura, the father of Lucius Licinius Ludlumus, the master of the Games?” he pressed, staring at Supremus’s frozen face, watching the light go out from his eyes and blood dribble from his mouth.

  Supremus began to lean into him, and Athanasius caught him right below the dagger protruding from his back.

  No!

  Athanasius lowered the heavy corpse to the floor and burst between the drapes in time to see a figure flee through an archway and disappear.

  How much had he heard? Athanasius decided it didn’t matter. He had no choice but to go for Dovilin right now before it was too late.

  Dovilin was seeing off a diplomat from Spain when a servant handed him a note that bore the seal of Caesar himself. “Who gave you this?” he demanded.

  The servant shook his head. “One of the guests gave it to me and said the man wants to meet you in the bathhouse out back.”

  Dovilin didn’t like it. But there was no mistaking the authority of the letter. “Get Brutus,” he told the servant, and by the time he reached the back of the villa near the outdoor kitchen, Brutus was waiting, all battered and bruised from the events of the week. Dovilin had to keep him out of sight, or he’d scare the guests.

  “Go look into the bathhouse and see who is there,” Dovilin ordered.

  Brutus nodded and disappeared. A moment later he reappeared to report the bathhouse was empty.

  Dovilin frowned. “Then I will go inside and wait, in case anybody is watching us. But you will keep watch out here and intercept anybody who attempts to enter the bathhouse. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Brutus.

  Dovilin glanced about and could see nothing beyond the bathhouse but the dark rows of his vineyard rolling beneath the stars to the brightly lit winery on the other side, where crews were loading amphorae onto the supply wagons of his guests. The lights and shouts gave him some comfort as he entered the bathhouse.

  It was empty, just as Brutus reported, with a couple of stands holding a dozen candles whose light bounced off the bathwater and threw wicked shadows. Dovilin would wait here only a few minutes, enough for whomever hoped to trap him to come to him, then go outside once Brutus had him.

  Dovilin looked up in time to see a shadow fall from the ceiling, sending him to the floor and banging his skull against the mosaic tiles. Dovilin tried to shout, but a hand covered his mouth and he felt the sharp point of a cold blade to his throat.

  The shadow above him put a finger to his lips.

  Dovilin made out the uniform of a Roman tribune and a shiny face in the flickering light that he recognized as Samuel Ben-Deker, or rather Athanasius of Athens. “You!” he said and stopped as the dagger dug deeper into his throat.

  “Tell me!” Dovilin felt the ring on Athanasius’s fist dig into his face. “Who is the son or successor to Mucianus in Rome? What connection does the Licinius family have to Mucianus and to you?”

  “Brutus!” Dovilin screamed before his head was slammed into the floor again.

  Hurt and dizzy, Dovilin heard a shout outside and saw Athanasius jump to his feet as Brutus burst in with a crossbow. Athanasius backed off, hands up.

  “Now, Brutus, before it’s too late!” he screamed, and gave the code word. “Melt!”

  Brutus nodded, lowered his crossbow and shot him in the chest.

  Dovilin felt the arrow pierce his flesh and opened his mouth to smile at the confused Athanasius. “You showed us Cerberus,” he hissed, and began choking on his own blood. “You showed us Angel’s Pass. Romans… will kill them all… because of you.”

  Then, like a scarf, he felt his spirit escape into a dark tunnel that ended in a black abyss.

  Athanasius looked down in shock at the corpse of old Dovilin and then up at Brutus, who had just used up his one shot and knew it. Athanasius hurled his knife at the slave, but Brutus was out the door, shouting warnings. By the time Athanasius rushed outside the bathhouse, he heard screams from the girls at the outdoor kitchen and more coming from inside the villa. He took a step forward when the ground shook from a tremendous explosion, and he fell into the gravel as a burst of light filled the sky.

  The winery had exploded in flames.

  Athanasius got to his feet and looked across the vineyard at the billows of flames and smoke shooting out of the façade from the cave in the cliffs.

  They’ve blown the winery! On purpose!

  Suddenly a streak of flames shot across the vineyard over his head to the red-clay tiles on the roof of the villa.

  Melt! That was what Dovilin screamed. It must have been some kind of pre-determined order to self-destruct. The guests and slaves!

  He ran into the villa and found chaos everywhere, as smoke and flames from exploding amphorae formed curtains of heated confusion. He heard coughing and saw Cota crawling on her knees beneath the smoke, trying to find a way out, then seeing him with fear and confusion on her face as he took her hand.

  “Out the back!” he told her, and began to drag her to her feet.

  Athanasius pushed Cota out toward the kitchen and stables and looked back to see the entire villa i
n flames on a scale that dwarfed the tragedy of his own family’s villa back in Corinth. And this time it wasn’t the Romans who ordered the destruction; it was Dovilin himself.

  Dovilin would rather kill himself and everybody with him than name the third member of the Dei trinity, Athanasius realized with a shock. This is going to be much harder than I imagined, maybe impossible.

  A distressed and incensed Gabrielle was waiting for him back in the vineyard as he brought out Cota and a stallion that he had grabbed from the barn before it went up in flames. Gabrielle immediately attended to Cota, taking moments to glare at him and the scene of destruction behind him. “Congratulations, Athanasius. Now that we have no one to lead the church of Asia, it’s yours for the taking.”

  “This was Dovilin’s doing. How is she?”

  “She’ll live. That’s more than I can say for the innocents in that inferno!”

  “You know that wasn’t my intention. Look, Brutus is gone, the word is out. Someone must have seen us escape through the Angel’s Pass, Gabrielle. Rome’s legions now have the key to enter the caves that they’ve been looking for, and I’ve given it to them.”

  He looked at her helplessly, and knew there was nothing he could say or do at this point to comfort her. She was completely beyond the reach of his power of words, and right now he was at a loss for them.

  “I’m sorry, Gabrielle,” he told her.

  She said nothing, only looked at him with horror, like he was one of those masked Minotaurs that they had escaped in the caves.

  “You know what to do, Gabrielle,” he told her as he mounted the stallion. “You know the caverns and all the traps. You know how to collapse the tunnels. You have to block the Romans if they try to invade the underground cities.”

  “You can’t leave us now!” she screamed.

  “I have to get to Rome and make this right.”

  “Make this right?” She was crying tears of rage now. “We need you here now, more than ever!”