The Chiron Confession

III

It was a glorious day for an execution.

Less than a week after the unfortunate incident with the finger of Caesar’s astrologer, Ludlumus paused at the private entrance to the Hypogeum beneath the Coliseum. He drew out an Etruscan dagger from a fold in his fashionable robe and ran his finger along the fine blade. He felt no prick, only the cool trickle of blood. Very nice, he thought, as trumpets announced that the execution was about to begin. He sucked his finger dry, slid the dagger back into its hidden sheath and walked inside.

The Hypogeum was a vast, two-level subterranean network of tunnels, animal pens, prisoner cells, shafts and trap doors that powered the scenery changes and special effects of the Games. Beastmasters, sword handlers and stage hands stood at attention as he walked past the sophisticated systems of ramps, winches, capstans and hoists — modern technology that could launch animals, prisoners and gladiators up into the arena.

It was dark but beastly hot down here. With so little natural light, the torches burned all hours of the day and night. It was the very pit of hell, and he reveled in it, his home as master of the underworld.

He proceeded past a series of chambers that rattled violently from the force of their snarling occupants: lions, tigers, leopards, bulls and buffalo. Then there was the smell of excrement, blood and death.

Glorious.

The holding cell at the end of the corridor was guarded by two Praetorians. Gazing out from beneath their shiny bronze helmets with hinged cheek-pieces were alert eyes, sweeping back and forth, looking for trouble. The Praetorians were dressed in full armor and carried side arms — a sword and dagger — and each held a javelin upright in front of him, spearheads gleaming.

The guards recognized him on sight as he approached. “Sir,” they said in unison, smacking their boots together.

“At ease, fools,” he told them, stopping in front of the cell door. “I bear no military rank.”

Their faces were glazed over with perspiration from the heat. His own face was cool and dry.

Ludlumus said, “Caesar insists I spend a few moments with the prisoner before his execution.”

The first Praetorian opened his mouth to protest but wisely said nothing. He instead motioned his fellow legionary to unlock the cell door.

“I’ll need a recorder,” Ludlumus demanded, and the first Praetorian followed him into the cell.

The prisoner was clad in leg irons and propped up in chains against the far wall, his head hanging down. Too weary and battered from torture, he was already half-dead and seemed resigned to die. But when he looked up and saw the tall Roman, he came to life as his former self: Titus Flavius Clemens — soldier, millionaire, consul of Rome and now accused Christian.

“Ludlumus!” gasped Clemens. “Domitian must be stopped! For the sake of Rome! He’ll kill the entire Senate!”

“Speak for yourself,” Ludlumus said. “The emperor wants me to record your confession before you die. He’s especially interested in the names of any friends of yours we might have missed.”

Clemens’ face turned bitter. “Our self-proclaimed ‘Lord and God’ Domitian killed them all.”

“Not all of them,” Ludlumus said. “Your wife Domitilla has been banished to the island of Pontia.”

“And my boys?”

“Young Vespasian and Domitian will live in the palace under the care of Caesar as his designated successors. Caesar has brought in the grammarian Quintilian to tutor them. His will purge them of any superstitions they have been exposed to by you and your wife.”

“Rome will not steal their souls, Ludlumus.”

“That remains to be seen. But for the sake of their lives, Clemens, tell me, who is Chiron?”

“I told you, I don’t know! Nobody does!”

Clemens looked confused and scared. His eyes darted back and forth between the guard and Ludlumus.

“I didn’t hear you, Clemens,” Ludlumus pressed. “Who is Chiron?”

Clemens looked flabbergasted, as if he could not believe Ludlumus would do this to him. “How long have we served my cousin together, Ludlumus? You know there is no evidence linking me to the Dei. Killing me does nothing to hurt them.”

“God has a purpose for everyone, Clemens. Isn’t that what you believe?”

Ludlumus shook his head and removed the torch from the cell wall. He then moved closer to Clemens, lowering the torch.

“Guard,” he ordered, “remove the prisoner’s loin cloth.”

The guard, stunned by the request, hesitated.

Ludlumus snapped, “Do it!”

Reluctantly the guard put down his tablet, walked over to Clemens and began to strip him of his only remaining dignity. “I’m sorry, Consul,” the guard mumbled, shame-faced.

“Ex-consul now,” Ludlumus rebuked the guard. “Now stand back.”

Ludlumus stepped forward and stuck the burning torch between the prisoner’s legs, scorching his genitals until the consul of Rome screamed like a wretched animal. Only then did Ludlumus pull the torch back. “What is the true identity of Chiron?”

“Acilius Glabrio,” Clemens said, barely loud enough for the guard to hear him. “Acilius Glabrio was Chiron.”

“Nice try,” Ludlumus replied. “But I already had a word with the former consul before his death. I assure you, he’s not Chiron. Try again.”

Clemens refused to talk, and Ludlumus applied the fire.

“My God!” screamed Clemens, writhing in agony, his chains clanging. “You’re the devil!”

“Save your breath and tell me what I want to know.” Ludlumus applied the fire yet again, this time for a long minute, until the sweet odor of burnt flesh filled the cell. Clemens was crying now, weeping with inhuman suffering. Ludlumus noticed the Praetorian staring at him in horrific disbelief. “What are you looking at?”

The guard said nothing.

Ludlumus produced a wax tablet and shoved it into the guard’s face. “Sign this.”

The guard took it and read the writing. “What is this?”

“The prisoner’s confession.”

The guard looked puzzled. “But he hasn’t confessed anything.”

“You do make things difficult, don’t you?” said Ludlumus as he pulled out the dagger and whipped it across the young soldier’s throat, catching him just beneath the chin strap of his helmet. The guard opened his mouth but produced only a gurgling sound as he collapsed to the floor.

Clemens stared at the fallen legionary and then at Ludlumus. He lifted his gaze to the ceiling, screaming all the louder. “God in Heaven! Have mercy on me!”

Ludlumus, meanwhile, calmly took the slain Praetorian’s hand, pressed the ring finger to the wax to get the impression from the insignia and slipped the tablet inside his toga. He then unhooked the keys from the guard’s belt and unlocked Clemens. The consul fell to his knees, too weak to stand.

“It’s a good thing the guard got your confession down before you killed him, Clemens,” said Ludlumus, tossing the knife his way. “And I’m lucky I called his friend from outside to come in, or else you would have killed me.” With that Ludlumus called out, “Guard, help me! The prisoner is loose!”

There was a rattling of a key in the lock, the door swung open and the other guard rushed in to see Ludlumus stagger to his feet.

“The prisoner killed him and almost took me too!” Ludlumus cried out.

The guard ran to his fallen colleague, saw the knife and then kicked the defenseless Clemens until he was flat against the wall. He turned to Ludlumus.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“I’m fine,” Ludlumus replied. “Just make sure the prisoner’s on in five minutes.”

Ludlumus left the cell and emerged a few minutes later inside Gate XXXIV of the Coliseum. More than 80,000 fans had packed the stands today. Ludlumus was pleased with the turnout as he walked past the Doric columns to his section. The arena was surrounded by a metal grating, twelve cubits in front of the first tier of seats, which protected the public from the wild beasts. On the first tier ranged the marble seats of the privileged. Above those were the second and third tiers for the ordinary public. Even the plebes in the top gallery would be able to follow the drama that was about to unfold below them.

The imperial box for the Emperor, his family and invited guests was the easiest place to pick out because it had the best seats in the stadium, on the first tier on the northern side of the arena, and was protected by a bronze balustrade. The imperial bodyguard detail wordlessly allowed Ludlumus into the box. There he took his place at the right hand of Domitian.

Domitian said, “That didn’t take long.”

“Long enough. He killed one of your guards. With the very dagger you awarded him upon his consulship.”

“I never thought he had it in him,” Domitian said.

“The Dei will do that to a man, I suppose. But I did extract a confession.”

Ludlumus produced the wax tablet and handed it to Caesar.

Domitian looked at the confession, his face turning livid. “But I’m throwing a party for him tonight!”

“Mmm.” Ludlumus did his best to look devastated. “Although he’s a good decade younger than I am, I once considered myself his protégé in the theater.”

“Terrible. But you look like you are holding up well under the circumstances.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

Ludlumus noted with satisfaction that a low stone wall had already been set up by the propmasters. A fresh layer of white sand glistened in the sun, all the better to show off fresh blood. Now a warrior in armor walked into the arena to the frenzied applause of the crowd. “Romulus! Romulus! Romulus!” they all chanted.

Instantly Clemens was launched into the scene from a hidden elevator shaft.

The mob now chanted louder. “Remus! Remus! Remus!”

Ludlumus glanced at Domitian, who nodded approvingly at the send-off he had prepared for Clemens in this re-telling of the founding of Rome. Romulus and Remus were brothers. As legend had it, Remus mocked the little wall his brother Romulus had begun building for the new city, jumping over it and back to show just how puny it was. Romulus didn’t like that and killed Remus on the spot. For this re-enactment, Ludlumus had the propmasters dress “Romulus” in the royal purple and gold as a stand-in for Domitian, while Clemens, as close to a brother as Domitian had left in this world, stood in for himself.

Ludlumus was quite proud of his work here. Only a former thespian like himself would appreciate the scale with which his beastmasters cleared more than 5,000 wild beasts from the morning’s animal acts off the arena floor in order for the propmasters to erect the scene for today’s lunchtime execution and, when that was over, the afternoon’s gladiatorial contests.

Sadly, Clemens didn’t seem up to the demands of his role. Standing wobbly on the floor of the great stadium, he barely had time to brace himself before the first stab from the sword of Romulus struck him. The blade went clean through him and out his back. Slowly Romulus withdrew his blood-tipped blade. As it was the only thing keeping poor Clemens up, the late consul collapsed to the ground, dead.

Ludlumus held back a smile as he watched the arena attendants pick up what was left of Clemens. Their assistants carried the corpse off while they hastily turned over the blood-stained sand for the next act.

It was all over too soon, Ludlumus lamented.

Athanasius of Athens would not die so easily.