The Chiron Confession (Dominium Dei)

BOOK ONE OF THE DOMINIUM DEI TRILOGY

Rule of God

Wrath of Rome

The 34
^th
Degree

The Promised War

The Atlantis Revelation

The Atlantis Prophecy

Raising Atlantis

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 by Thomas Greanias

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Soli Deo gloria

This world is fading away, along with everything it craves.

But if you do the will of God, you will live forever.

—John the Last Apostle (c.6-100 A.D.)

F
ew remember the past, and the future will be forgotten by those who follow it. Even so I am writing this confession down on parchment in the hope that you might escape my fate.

I have come to the end of my life, but I have failed to finish my race. I have fought the wrong fight. I have used up my strength and have nothing to show for it. I have done more evil in the name of good than I ever imagined in my former life as Athanasius of Athens, a hedonist and playwright above all others in Rome when cruel Domitian was Caesar.

If I had my choice, I would have picked a different world stage for the performance of my life. But we do not choose the dates of our birth or death. Not even Caesar. On the day Domitian was born, the stars proclaimed the exact date of his death: September 18 of this year, the 96
^th
since the advent of Christ.

Rightly assuming his astrological birth chart itself was an invitation to his enemies to fulfill the prophecy, Domitian devoted himself from childhood to executing any and all his paranoid mind suspected of less than absolute loyalty. He probably murdered his father, Vespasian, and later his brother, Titus, in his ascension to the throne. Not content with being emperor of the Roman Empire, he proclaimed himself
dominus et deus,
“Lord and God,” ruler of the universe. As if that were not enough, he also assumed the official mantle of
pontifex maximus
, merging the rule of Rome with the religion of her gods into a terrible theocracy with a single test: those who bowed before him and proclaimed him Lord and God lived, those who refused died. It was said of Christians, in particular, that they could not or would not bow. This is why they were branded “atheists” and executed.

All but one, it seemed, by the time I arrived on the scene.

The last living apostle of Christ, John, was still rotting away in his island prison of Patmos. But his apocalyptic Book of Revelation had fanned a firestorm of fear across the empire with its horrific visions of the end of the world.

Domitian thought better than to make a martyr of the old man. Instead he saw a historic opportunity to let John die of natural causes—and with him the Church’s superstition and vain hope in a glorious Second Coming of Christ. Outlasting both September 18 and the apostle would be Domitian’s ultimate triumph.

Unfortunately, neither Domitian nor John had foreseen the rise of the supersecret organization that mocked Caesar with its name Dominium Dei, or “Rule of God.” It was said to have started with a small band of disciples inside Nero’s palace, left behind decades ago by the Apostle Paul before he was beheaded. Now it was out in the open, claiming to have infiltrated all levels of Roman government, ready to take over once Domitian was gone and establish a thousand-year “Reign of Christ.” The Dei’s assassination of Domitian’s officials only made the threat more worldly and concrete. Of course, it wasn’t the so-called Dei that the empire feared, nor any return of Christ, so much as Domitian’s response to it and anyone he suspected of being part of it. And the fledgling Christian church, despite the Apostle John’s denunciation of Dominium Dei, bore the brunt of Domitian’s wrath.

Two kingdoms—one in heaven, one on earth—each vying for a single throne in the heart of man. And one day, out of nowhere, I found myself caught in the middle of these two great wheels of history: religion and politics, grinding against each other and turning to dust the lives of innocents unfortunate enough to get in the way.

To all who have ears to hear and eyes to see, this is my apology for the murderous events into which I was swept and later instigated as the steward of the world’s most terrible secret, which I now share with you in the only way I know how.

T
hey had finished their business with the priestess whores at the Temple of Artemis and were about to call it a night when Caelus suggested they try out one of the new secret clubs called Urania.

Virtus held up his hand. “No more, sir, please.”

The bodyguard believed in beating one’s body into submission. He loathed having to keep company with this Roman official and his insatiable wants. At some point there had to be a limit. Furthermore, this was their last night in Ephesus before sailing back to Rome. Why tempt the Fates?

But Caelus insisted. “Next stop, Urania.”

Virtus sighed. How His Fatness had wormed his way into Caesar’s court was a mystery to him. Yet it would be his own head if anything should happen to Rome’s chief astrologer. So he wrapped his white toga over his shoulder’s scorpion-and-stars tattoo—that of the Third Cohort of the imperial Praetorian Guard—and slid his dagger into its secret fold.

The moment they stepped outside under the stars Virtus knew this was a mistake. The latest performance of
Oedipus Sex
had let out of the amphitheater, and the streets of this port city, Rome’s exotic “gateway to the East,” teemed with 30,000 revelers of every age, race and sexual orientation. Singing, laughing and snorting in every tongue, they made their way to the closest tavern, brothel and public toilet in sight. Some couldn’t wait and took to urinating at the curbs. A few squatters, Virtus noticed with dismay, magically grew tails.

“The mob is too much, sir. I cannot guarantee your safety. We should skip the club, head straight to the ship and call your visit to Ephesus a great success.”

“Urania,” said Caelus, wading into the throngs before Virtus could stop him.

Virtus quickly caught up and stuck to Caelus’s side. To most observers they looked like any other typical Roman homosexual couple in the crowd, an older man and his younger love, which was their cover. Praetorian protocol was to dress in civilian togas when accompanying important personages outside Rome. It drew less attention and allowed Virtus to scan the masses for any threat.

A street prophet wearing a placard emblazoned with the date September 18 immediately caught his eye. That was the date the stars predicted Caesar would die. Indeed, the official purpose of Caelus’s visit was to meet with oracles and rogue astrologers in the eastern half of the empire. Whatever they privately believed about the star alignments, their job was to align their public forecasts with Caelus’s, which was that Domitian was destined to reign for decades more.

Virtus gently steered Caelus clear of the street prophet. He decided the man was a harmless if stark reminder that dangerous elements of the underground had begun to come out of the woodwork six months before Doomsday. Local informants said the anti-Roman death cult Dominium Dei was active in Ephesus, and their members didn’t wear placards to announce themselves.

The Dei had a penchant for abducting local magistrates and sending pieces of them back to their superiors bit by bit—a hand here or an eyeball there, often accompanied by a taunting note. Their only sign of existence, beyond the headless corpses of those Roman officials they left behind, was a black tattoo of the letter
Chi
under their left armpit. It was a twist on the death cross and a symbol of the astrological ellipses of the earth. Very clever, and as good as invisible to the naked eye. Even that scrap of intelligence had taken months to discover from the sole Dei spy Rome had ever captured—from Caesar’s own Praetorian Guards, no less—and it came only after the guard had killed himself by sucking poison hidden in his signet ring.

Anyone could be a member of the Dei: your best friend since childhood, even your brother or mother. It was this ruthless reality that kept the empire on edge. His first-hand knowledge that the Dei counted their lives for nothing next to their cause only further unnerved Virtus as he and Caelus merged with the cross-traffic of Crooked Street.

Vendors clapped cymbals and called out to the crowd as it snaked along the thoroughfare under the strung-up torches.

“New versions of Oedipus and the Oracle! Ceramic, bronze and silver!”

A young boy from a nearby stand shoved a figurine into Virtus’s hand and stretched out his own for payment. “Oedipus!”

Virtus looked at the souvenir idol. The face was cut to resemble the late emperor Nero, just like the colossus near the Flavian Amphitheater back in Rome. The Oedipus “comedy” tonight was a fiendishly clever, thinly disguised retelling of Nero sleeping with his own mother. It was a staple of the Greek playwright Athanasius of Athens to take the classic tragedies and twist them into humorous, subversive commentary about contemporary Roman virtue in high places, or lack thereof.