Rule of God

XII

Athanasius raced through the long private tunnel from the emperor’s box at the Coliseum to the Palace of the Flavians. The Praetorian Guard at the other end didn’t stop him as he exited into the lower offices of the palace. Nobody did. It was as if they were mere observers and, however the drama ended, would carry on the affairs of state without pause.

He raced up the small, narrow staircase he had memorized from Stephanus’s map and could hear Stephanus’s cries even before he came upon the small group of palace staff and gladiators outside the locked bed chambers of Caesar.

There wasn’t a single Praetorian in sight save Clodianus, one of Virtus’s co-conspirators. Clodianus was closest to the door, sword out, as if he didn’t know whether he was supposed to keep Domitian from coming out, or his assassins from swooping in. Then there was Parthenius, who had led Domitian into the trap, along with his freedman Maximus. Saturius, Domitian’s principal chamberlain, stood apart, ashen and paralyzed. Most of all, there was the palpable fear in the air that Domitian would emerge and none would have the courage to cut him down.

Athanasius, hearing curses and threats from Domitian, knew he had to act fast. He was as guilty as any of these conspirators, more so even, regardless of who spilled Domitian’s blood. Striding up to Clodianus with authority, he took the sword from the guard’s hand and barked orders to Saturius.

“Unlock the doors!” he shouted. “Now!”

Saturius fumbled with the key. When he finally managed to slide it into the lock, Athanasius pushed him aside and burst into Domitian’s chambers.

Stephanus was lying on the floor, his eyes gauged out, choking on his own blood, gasping for breath. Standing over him was Domitian, bleeding from his stomach, dagger in hand. He barely had time to stagger back before Athanasius charged him straight on with Clodianus’s sword, angled down from his shoulder.

Domitian gasped as he stared. “Athanasius!”

“I told you I’d be back to kill the gods,” Athanasius said, plowing his sword through Domitian’s throat and pinning him to the wall. “You first.”

The jaw of Rome’s Lord and God dropped, his blood spraying over Athanasius, who didn’t withdraw his sword until he saw the light flicker out of the emperor’s eyes. He then removed it, and the lifeless body slid to the floor.

Silence descended on the bloody scene as Athanasius dropped to his knees next to Stephanus. It was clear he was dead. Athanasius gazed at the ghastly hollows where shining eyes had been, put his hand upon the cracked skull and honored him by committing his spirit to God the Father in the name of Jesus.

Then, as if the stillness was their cue, the crowd outside burst into the room, weapons at the ready. They all descended on Domitian’s corpse like vultures to each take their stabs, if only to satisfy their own fears that the despot was dead.

The blast of mournful horns and lowered flags announced the death of Caesar by the time a dazed Helena reached the Sublicius Bridge. It was now packed with people liberated from a suffocating cloud of uncertainty.

She, however, was now bound to the black abyss before her.

Domitian was dead, she knew, and so too was her future with Athanasius.

He had told her he could forgive her for her tryst with Caesar and the evil offspring growing in her belly, but she didn’t believe him. If his righteous hatred could drive him to kill the father, how could he not hate their child every time he looked at his face? How could he love her every time he looked into her eyes? How could he protect the child or its mother from the Flavians — Young Vespasian, his mother Domitilla, and Domitian’s widow Domitia?

Her foolish lover may have changed Rome’s religion, but he had only traded one Flavian Caesar for another, doing nothing to change their future.

Then there was the whore Ludlumus told her about. Gabrielle. Athanasius had all but confirmed his affection for her in his eyes back in the arena. Even if she had not completely replaced her in the eyes of Athanasius, that he could find hope of love in any other woman was something wholly unimaginable before he left her. Wasn’t that truly, in the end, why he had raced back to confront Domitian? Not to ensure his death, nor even for this adoption certificate implicating Senator Nerva and Senator Lucindus, but this whore’s safety, as Ludlumus had predicted?

He had changed.

If he could turn on Maximus, the man who had brought them together, he would surely turn on the child, and on her.

She, on the other hand, had no one to turn to now. The protection of the palace upon her through Domitian was gone. So was Ludlumus. So was Maximus. Worst of all, so was her beauty, now that she bore the scar on her belly. It was worse than a line on her face. She could pose no longer for the great sculptors of the world. She was disfigured now, hopeless, alone.

She looked down at the rippling water of the Tiber from the stone wall of the bridge. A few boats passed through, but not as many as at night. She could hear the shuffling of feet behind her, mostly the Jews from District 14 feeling safe to cross over into District 8 and the Forum now that Caesar was dead. Would they feel so happy to learn Young Vespasian would make Christianity the official state religion?

She put her hand on her belly and stepped up onto the bridge ledge. She heard somebody shouting in Aramaic, probably to get the attention of the crossing guards at either end of the bridge. They began to run toward her, but she made sure they would not catch her. She looked up at the flock of birds in the sky for one last sign, and their formation flying south only confirmed everything she feared. She lifted up her arms, as if to fly away with them, and fell into space, the rush of wind swallowing her up in everlasting darkness.

The new Caesar, Nerva, was seated in the throne room when Athanasius was brought before him by Secundus. Somehow the adoption certificate of Ludlumus had made its way back into his hands, and Athanasius watched Nerva touch it to a fire. The papyrus burned up, along with any possibility that Young Vespasian would see the throne of Rome.

“Bravo, Athanasius. You have indeed killed a god. The Senate has approved of your actions by eternally condemning Domitian. There will never be a temple, altar, monument or so much as an inscription erected in his honor. Those that exist will be erased.”

“Along with your involvement with the Dei, Senator.”

“Contrary to what you believe, I did not engineer all this. You did. The Senate wants Rome rid of the Flavians forever, which unfortunately includes Young Vespasian, however worthy he might or might not be.”

“Domitian was no god, Nerva. Neither are you.”

“No, I suppose not. But then I never pretended to be, and nobody has mistaken me for one, least of all my peers in the Senate. Why do you think they made me Caesar, and I accepted? You think it was some machination of the Dei? No, Athanasius. I am an old man, a caretaker of this office at best for no more than a few years. And I have no heirs, no ambitions to further my family politically or financially. I believe there can be good emperors as well as bad. Don’t you?”

“So you are a good Caesar?”

Nerva smiled at the intended sarcasm. “You think that’s an oxymoron? That no such thing can exist?”

“I think the intentions can exist, but that the power corrupts.”

“Ah, yes. Socrates said only those who are willing to lay down their power are fit to have it. Like Jesus of Nazareth, I suppose. But then the Jews nailed him to a cross. Or do you think we did it?”

“I did,” Athanasius answered him. “We all did.”

Nerva nodded. “Your new faith has sharpened your wit. Do you wish to convert us all now?”

“That I cannot do. I cannot change myself, I cannot change the world.”

Nerva stepped down from his throne and put an arm around him. “Let’s talk about that, Athanasius.”

They walked to the basilica together, as if they were partners, not Caesar and the assassin of his predecessor, and no Praetorian or any other followed them. Inside the basilica were additional statues and idols, but these in the form of Jesus and the disciples. One was of John, as if Ludlumus wished to use the last apostle after death. Then Mary the mother of Jesus, holding a baby. It was Helena, and the baby looked like a smaller version of Helena.

Nerva gestured toward the statues. “We picked up some things here from Ludlumus’s doma that might interest you.”

“Religion doesn’t interest me,” Athanasius said flatly. “It won’t interest the Christians.”

“We can make something of this tragedy,” Nerva said. “The timing may be off, but Christianity will become the official state religion of the empire and extend the rule of Rome another thousand years. You can be part of this Roman Church for the ages, Athanasius. I won’t even make you renounce Jesus. Simply bow to Jesus and to Rome, and you won’t have to die.”

Athanasius said nothing.

“Come now, Athanasius,” Nerva said angrily. “I was there that night in this very palace when you kissed the feet of Rome and cursed the name of Jesus. You did it then, and I know you can do it now.”

He had done that. Nerva was right, Athanasius thought, and he himself so wrong about everything else. And yet, as he searched his soul, or whatever the hole in his heart was called, he realized for the first time and to his utter astonishment that this he could not do.

“My citizenship,” he told Caesar, “is in heaven.”