Rule of God

IX

Pliny the Younger liked to retire early and rise early. He was fast asleep when his bed shook and he opened his eyes to see a figure standing at the foot of his bed with a sword to his throat. “Boo!”

Pliny was about to cry out when he felt the point of the blade at his throat and saw the ghost put his finger to his lips. And then, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of his room, he recognized the figure and shook at the sight of the ghost, come to take him down to Hades with him.

“Athanasius!” he said in a low, horrified whisper. “They killed you, not I! It wasn’t my fault! I did my best to save you!”

“We’ll see about that,” Athanasius said. “Get dressed.”

The Tabularium was the national archives of the Roman Empire, housing its official records and the offices of many city officials. It was built into the front slope of Capitoline Hill, just below the Temple of Jupiter and next to the dreaded Tullianum prison from which Athanasius had escaped on a similar night like this not that long ago. Looking more like a fortress to hide Rome’s secrets than a basilica of information, Athanasius thought, the Tabularium’s imposing three-level façade was built from blocks of grey, volcanic peperino and travertine stone.

“He allegedly was torn apart by his own animals under the arena floor this morning,” Pliny was telling him about Ludlumus as they entered the empty Forum square. “An accident, they say, something about an unbolted gate in the tiger pens. I simply assumed Domitian was behind it. All sorts of crazy things have been happening lately, and now you show up, back from the dead, dressed up as a tribune.”

“Well, you are the ghost hunter.” Athanasius could see the single-door entrance at the bottom of the Tabularium’s tall, fortified base. At the top of the base were small windows cut out of the facade, and above them the Doric and Corinthian arcades.

“If there is any trace of the ghost of Mucianus, we’ll find him here,” Pliny told Athanasius. “I’m curious myself, especially with the demise of Ludlumus and your connection of his father to the Dei. You know, I’ve consulted with him in the past about ghosts. And now you show up with all these revelations. Maybe something really is going on today. It brings back all the chills of Pompeii.”

But Athanasius was still looking at the squat Tullianum prison next door, wondering whatever happened to old smashface the warden, before turning his attention to the two guards outside the entrance to the Tabularium.

The guards recognized Pliny on sight and allowed them inside without trouble. As they passed through the interlocking interior vaults of concrete, Athanasius felt his pulse quicken at the thought that he was on the verge of discovering the secret fate of Mucianus while bracing himself for the probability that all tracks of the Dei ghost had been erased and that he, Virtus and Stephanus were running blind into what promised to be an epic, historic morning, however Rome stood at the end of the day.

“Over here is where the deeds, records and laws are housed,” Pliny said as he followed a particularly austere corridor to a large vault, where they found a skeleton of a clerk with hollow cheeks. “Hello, Hortus.”

Hortus didn’t appear surprised to see them here at this hour, and Athanasius suspected that most senators did their archive skullduggery themselves at night rather than send their staff by day.

“I need some old documents for Senator Sura in order to update them and submit them for approval to the senate. I need everything for these seven years.”

Athanasius watched Pliny sign a wax tablet and list the band of years starting with the Year of Four Emperors.

The clerk looked at the tablet, back to Pliny and then to him, the mysterious tribune who said nothing. Hortus seemed surprised by the wide band of years. “This will take some time,” he said, “and higher-level authority.”

“I have my supervisor’s authority, Senator Nerva,” Pliny said and presented an identification token.

Hortus nodded.

Athanasius watched the ghoul disappear to the back and asked Pliny, “You trust old Nerva?”

“Yes, and you’re going to have to, because if you do kill Domitian today, you’ll need Nerva’s help to confirm the succession of Young Vespasian. He’s old, has no heirs and is trusted by competing factions to do the right thing in line with the law during times of crisis.”

“Maybe,” Athanasius said. “What are you hoping the clerk turns up?”

“If Senator Sura, Ludlumus or any member of the Licinius family had any official business with the Mucianus family, the papers would have been filed here,” Pliny told him.

“And if their business wasn’t official?”

“Regardless of the true nature of their arrangement, to conduct any trade in the empire would require paperwork, Athanasius. We can infer quite a bit from it. We’re not an entirely criminal government, you know. There are good men in Rome.”

Hortus apparently was one of them, returning with a thick stack of documents, which Pliny took to a small table for review.

“Official state business,” Athanasius authoritatively told the clerk, who had probably seen quite a bit of “state business” in this dungeon and slowly nodded.

“Thank you, Hortus,” said Pliny, returning the material all too quickly. “We have what we need. Goodbye.”

Athanasius followed him out of the vault and back down the long tunnel. “What did you find?”

“Nothing,” Pliny said. “That’s the problem. The business records have been sanitized. But I have another idea.”

They descended a flight of gloomy stairs into the bowels of the Tabularium, and then yet another flight even further below until they reached a vast suite of interlocking vaults.

“Birth and death certificates,” Pliny explained. “These are usually missed when commercial records are altered, and we may find something about either the Mucius or Licinius families that will tell us something about what happened to Mucianus.”

Athanasius, now thinking about Helena alone and bleeding back at the inn in Ostia, said, “Time is running short.”

“Then we split the work and double our time,” Pliny said before they presented themselves before another pinch-mouthed clerk, who if possible looked to have even less flesh on his bones than the one upstairs.

They worked through two stacks while the clerk kept a beady eye on them. By the time word of this research reached Domitian or the Dei, it would be too late: Domitian would be dead and Nerva would rally the senate to bless the succession of Young Vespasian to the throne.

“Jupiter!” remarked Pliny, and then covered his mouth.

Athanasius leaned over to look at what Pliny had discovered. But it didn’t look like any birth or death certificate Athanasius had ever seen before, although he hadn’t seen many.

“These are adoption papers,” Pliny whispered. “Adoption papers between the Mucius and Licinius families. It changes the name of Gaius Mucius Mucianus’s son from Lucius Mucius Ludlumus to Lucius Licinius Ludlumus.”

Athanasius stared. “Ludlumus was Mucianus’s son! But now he’s dead. Who did it, and who might have taken his place?”

Now it was Pliny who looked like a ghost himself, white as a sheet. He gulped and said, “I’m afraid it could be the lawyer who handled the adoption.”

Athanasius looked at the signature and seal at the bottom of the certificate. It read Marcus Cocceius Nerva.

Senator Nerva!

Athanasius grabbed the official adoption certificate, slipped it under his breastplate, and said, “We’ve got to get out of here.”

Pliny was only too quick to agree, leaving the papers behind them for the clerk as they rushed out of the Tabularium.

Athanasius raced back to Ostia on one of Pliny’s horses as the first hint of sunrise began to break across the horizon, his mind racing faster than the horse as he pondered the significance of what he had discovered at the Tabularium. Ludlumus was the son of Mucianus, whose fate was still unclear at this point. Perhaps he had died long ago at the hands of Ludlumus, much like Domitian killed his own father.

The death of Ludlumus, however, was more problematic. Was it at the hands of Domitian, in which case everything should proceed according to plan? Or was it at the hands of Senator Nerva, who could rally the senate to install not Young Vespasian but the Dei’s designated successor in the wake of Domitian’s demise? In the first case, Nerva was simply a lawyer who knew how to keep state secrets, however terrible. In the second case, he was Chiron and the true leader of the Dei all along.

Whatever the case, thanks to the adoption certificate of Ludlumus in his possession and Pliny’s help on the senate floor, the Church could connect Senator Nerva to the Dei, along with Senator Sura, Senator Celsus and others, exposing them all and securing the succession of Young Vespasian.

Meanwhile, he and Helena would be long gone from Rome.

Upon reaching the inn at Ostia, Athanasius raced up the stairs behind the courtyard and down the hallway to the room with Helena. But when he burst inside, she was gone, the bed and furniture turned upside down.

He scanned the debris looking for clues and then saw it — a note pinned to the wall by a dagger. He ripped the note off and read it:

We meet in the arena at 9 o’clock and trade

the document you stole from me for Helena.

It was signed Chiron.