The Chiron Confession (Dominium Dei) (7 page)

“I curse the name of the dead Jew known as Jesus the Christ!” Athanasius said loudly with a ringing voice, and then bowed low before Domitian. “There is only one Lord and God of the universe, and his name is Caesar.”

The echoes of his curse faded, and the entire throne room grew very quiet. However much the public at large despised Christians, they harbored little respect for hypocrites and turncoats. While he may not have been a Judas to the cause of Christ, everybody pretty much knew he had betrayed his atheism. The time to repair this damage to his reputation and his plays might take longer than he expected. But he had passed the test.

Then came the sound of clapping hands.

“Bravo, Athanasius!” said Regulus, who then picked up a scroll from the long table and pointed it at him like a priestly augur. “But if you are not a Christian, then how do you explain this?”

With a flourish Regulus unfurled the scroll to reveal the title letters of the Book of Revelation. More gasps at this seemingly incontrovertible proof that Athanasius had just lied to the face of Caesar.

Athanasius could only imagine the Praetorian had taken it from his study almost as soon as he and Helena had left the villa for this debacle of a premiere party. If so, all of this had been a set-up from the beginning. The ending, therefore, Athanasius was beginning to believe with a sinking feeling, was already written.

“And how do we know this evidence wasn’t planted?” Maximus asked, cutting off Athanasius before he could reply. It seemed Maximus would rather he explain nothing at all and instead cast doubt on his possession of the scroll altogether.

Regulus gestured to a side entrance and cried out, “The witness!”

The blood-red tapestries were pulled back and a stricken Helena was ushered into the hall. Her eyes were swollen from tears, but she held her head high and tried not to look at him.

In the name of all the bogus gods, Athanasius swore to himself. They were going to make her suffer and blame him for it.

“Helena of Rome needs no introduction, of course,” Regulus stated, and then addressed her like a physician at the deathbed of a child. “I am so sorry your betrothed has put you in this position. But could you clearly acknowledge for the court that you are indeed Helena of Rome and will testify truthfully?”

Her long and lovely throat contracted as she swallowed and said, “I am, and I will.”

“And have you ever seen this Book of Revelation in the villa you share with the accused?”

“No.”

Regulus didn’t like the answer and repeated the question. “I remind you that you are under oath before Caesar, beautiful Helena. Can you say without a shadow of a doubt that you have never seen this banned book of lies in your home?”

She feigned a careless shrug. “Do I look like much of a reader?”

Her response prompted some laughs among the magistrates and irritation on the part of Regulus.

Good girl, Athanasius thought.

“I’m disappointed, fair Helena,” Regulus said. “Next time take a keener interest in the secret affairs of your lover. That way you won’t repeat your mistake with Athanasius. Next witness!”

Out from the same side entrance came Athanasius’s faithful secretary, Cornelius, an orphan whom Athanasius bought and freed the same day. The boy couldn’t read, which was why Athanasius had him organize his papers. What could he possibly have to say?

“You are Cornelius, slave of Athanasius of Athens?” Regulus thundered, going in for the jugular.

“Secretary,” Cornelius replied proudly, upgrading his status for the court.

Regulus asked, “Have you seen this scroll before?”

“Yes,” Cornelius answered, to Athanasius’s shock.

“And where did you see this scroll?”

Cornelius pointed his finger at Helena. “In her hands today in my master’s library. She said she was tidying up. But I saw her hide it among his scrolls.”

“Enough!” Athanasius shouted. “The scroll is mine. If Helena found it in error and put it back among my many books, it is no fault of hers. She could not have known what it was. The fault is all mine. Please excuse her and my faithful secretary Cornelius.”

Regulus, smiling in triumph, dismissed Helena and the boy. The boy suddenly looked downcast and very sorry he had said anything at all. Helena, weeping again, couldn’t bear to even look over her bare shoulder at Athanasius on her way out of the throne room.

“Well, now,” Regulus said after they were gone, gathering steam. “Now that we’ve established that you do indeed have in your possession this banned Book of Revelation, could you please explain why?”

“I’m a playwright. There are a lot of revelations out there. I’m intellectually curious. That doesn’t make me a Christian.”

“Mmm. Tell us then, Athanasius, if you are not a Christian, what do you make of this so-called Book of Revelation?”

“Looks like a lot of third-act trouble to me,” he said, eliciting a couple of helpful snickers and a trace of a smile from Domitian. “Jesus has not returned as promised, the Christians are losing hope, and now the last living disciple who was with Jesus is old and about to die. It only makes sense to leave the faithful with this hope of a
deus ex machina.
It may be good superstition, but it’s terrible dramatic writing.”

Regulus, however, was not amused. “What about these mysterious symbols you have drawn in the margins?”

Regulus pushed the open scroll to his face, and Athanasius pulled his head back in annoyance. He looked down and saw that the annotation symbol was indeed his:

“There is no mystery here,” Athanasius answered. “It’s been a common mark for Greek scribes for several centuries now. It’s a
Chi-Ro
annotation, a combination of the Greek letters
Chi
and
Ro
. I use it to mark passages in my own works and those of others that I might want to review later.”

“Mmm.” Regulus made it sound sinister. “Has not the Dei adopted the
Chi
character as its symbol of the death cross? And is there not a little-known story somewhere in Greek mythology—in which you have inferred to us you are so deeply steeped—about the centaur Chiron who sacrifices himself to save others? Much like Jesus in the Christian superstition?”

“I vaguely recall something like that. There are so many versions and re-imaginations of classic myths, I’d be surprised if there wasn’t one. That doesn’t make me Chiron of the Dei.”

“No, of course not,” Regulus said. “You’ve already cursed the name of Christ and stated for the record that you are not a Christian. You are Athanasius of Athens.”

“That is correct.”

“Yet isn’t it true you are actually from Corinth?” He glanced down at a paper. “From a family of… potters.” He looked up. “Wait, that’s only half the story. Your mother’s side of the family are… tanners. They own a large tannery outside Corinth.”

“That’s right. So what?”

“So why lie?”

Athanasius refused to be humiliated before Roman high society for the proud work of his ancestors back in Greece, even if he had in fact hidden it from most when he went to university in Athens and then onto Rome as a playwright. Great playwrights came from Athens, according to Rome, not Corinth.

“I wanted to make good in Rome,” Athanasius said. “Is that a crime? So I became Athanasius of Athens. So what? End of story.”

“Or not,” Regulus accused. “Your family’s tannery turns sheepskin and hides into leather coats, boots, pouches and the like?”

“Yes.”

“Are the hides skinned from animals at the tannery?”

“Some. I don’t know the percentages. I was a child.”

“As a child, did you ever hunt down any of these animals? Say, with a bow and arrow? You are, I’m told, a champion archer. You’ve even hunted with Caesar at his Alban country estate?”

“Yes, and I let Caesar win. What is your point?”

“My point,” Regulus said loudly, as if drums were rolling in the background, “is that you’re not a playwright.” He paused for final effect. “You’re a butcher! A butcher like Chiron and the Dei who have been chopping up Roman officials like so much meat.”

“I am not!” Athanasius shouted, breaking character of the cool wit and lunging for the prosecutor in his chains. Maximus pulled him back.

Caesar looked down from his seat of judgment at Regulus, who wandered over to his voluminous stack of scrolls and tablets and removed the tiniest little sheet of paper. It was so slight he held it delicately like a feather, lest a sudden breeze should blow it away.

“Oh, really?” Regulus intoned. “Then how do you explain this?”

Regulus held up for all to see and said, “Behold the sign of Chiron! See it on his note to Caesar! The note that came with the severed finger of Caesar’s astrologer!”

At the bottom was a large
Chi-Ro
symbol as signature.

There were moans and murmurs as Regulus walked a circle to show the Chiron note in one hand and marked-up Book of Revelation in the other.

Maximus shrank back, as if this note were the final nail in a coffin for Athanasius of Athens, a coffin that had his name engraved on it long before this trial.

“We have the confession of Flavius Clemens,” Regulus reminded Domitian and all assembled, summing up the state’s case. “We have the testimony of the accused’s slave, the Book of Revelation in the accused’s possession, and the accused’s use of the symbol of Chiron. Above all, we have the confession of the accused that he is indeed not who he has pretended to be all these years—a playwright with hands free of callouses or any sign of a common laborer—but rather a butcher with blood-stained hands.”

More deadly silence, itself a verdict.

At that point, Maximus did the only thing possible.

“The state makes its case on two rather flimsy pieces of circumstantial evidence,” Maximus began, taking a last stab at casting doubt on the state’s case. “First, the so-called confession of Flavius Clemens could have been coerced while he was in custody, or the former consul may well have pointed the finger at Athanasius merely to divert Caesar’s attention from the real Chiron.”

Athanasius nodded. He liked this tactic.

“As for the second piece of evidence, mere possession of the Book of Revelation doesn’t make Athanasius a Christian any more than the chief prosecutor’s possession of Cicero’s book
Consolation
makes him an orator and philosopher.”

Even Domitian smiled at the dig, giving Athanasius a flicker of hope.

“So it is obvious the chief prosecutor knows his case has feet of clay, or he would not have attempted to bring the twin charges of atheism and conspiracy against the accused. If he were confident in one, he would not have brought the other. So he brought them both. But Regulus cannot prove the accused is a Christian after the accused dramatically testified publicly that he is not, surely obliterating any support from that underground if he ever had it. And he cannot prove the wild speculation that the accused is Chiron beyond the testimony of a dead man, which should not even be admissible. As it is, Regulus has neither leg to stand on. So we rest our defense before Your Humanitas and throw ourselves before the mercy of the judgment seat of Caesar.”

Domitian rose to his feet and stepped down from his throne to render his final judgment. Each footstep sounded more ominous the closer he came. As he stood before Athanasius, Domitian grasped his chains and looked at him as he would if forced to put down his hound Sirius. The balding head beneath the wig, the weak eyes, the cruel smile—he was a piece of human excrement and seemed to know it.

“Your final word, Athanasius?” Domitian asked. “What say you?”

“There are no gods in heaven—nor on earth,” Athanasius told Domitian for all to hear. “You are no god, and I am no Chiron. There are no well-devised conspiracies by masterminds on earth. There are only men, and most of them are fools.”

Athanasius could see the fury in Domitian’s eyes, mixed with fear.

“We despise those who despise our laws and religion,” Domitian announced. “But let us show mercy on the man Athanasius himself. Let us not fight the conspiracy of those cowards who hide in the shadows and carry out justice in the dark of night. Let us deal with this justly in the light of day.”

Athanasius braced himself. It was common knowledge that Domitian’s rehearsed preamble about mercy was an omen that foreshadowed his most ruthless sentences.

“Therefore, we will not allow this man to die by crucifixion or old-style execution upon the Gemonian Stairs.”

Athanasius breathed a momentary sigh of relief. In an old-style execution, the condemned man was stripped, his head fastened to a wooden fork and he was flogged to death. It was a long, drawn-out ordeal. Perhaps Domitian would only exile him. There would still be a chance for him and Helena. There would still be hope for his life.

“Rather,” Domitian continued, “allow him to die with dignity. Allow Athanasius to die in the arena. Allow him to die for our pleasure and as a warning to others who would defy our ways.”

Athanasius felt ill in the pit of his stomach. His head started spinning. “No, your excellency,” he said with shortness of breath. “No.”

“He shall die tomorrow morning,” Domitian announced. “After a night in the Tullianum prison.”