Wrath of Rome

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His name was Samuel Ben-Deker, a Jew from Spain by way of Malta who specialized in the design and manufacture of quality amphorae to transfer wine in bulk across the Great Sea. The letter of introduction from Croesus of Ephesus boasted that Samuel’s novel use of resin coating inside an amphora could improve and age wine to perfection based upon days of travel and the regional preferences of the destination. The Dovilin Vineyards could use a man like Samuel, in spite of him being yet another poor Jew. Perhaps the Lord’s Vineyard could use him as well.

That was the story Athanasius had come up with, and as Cappadocia’s capital city of Caesarea Mazaca shrank in the distance, he huddled in the back of the covered wagon he had chartered, part of a long freight convoy from Ephesus to Laodicea to Iconium, and examined the letter of introduction from Croesus that he had forged.

It looked authentic enough, he thought, comparing it to another letter in Croesus’s hand that he had lifted from the old man. And the paper stock was the same, as was the seal. Still, he worried there might be some sort of coda or sign that these Dei used, and he was wagering that Croesus would not use the Dei code. If Dovilin needed such assurance, Athanasius had a second letter in code that he could say he forgot about, which would not only confirm the first letter but say something about Dei business that Samuel was to deliver as well but not know about.

The cart hit a bump, and Athanasius bounced hard and cursed. He put the letters away and returned to the travel guide he had picked up in town. It was a copy of the same book in the library of Ephesus: Volume 8 of Miracles in Asia Minor by Gaius Mucius Mucianus. He wondered whatever happened to the former governor of Syria, who at one time was the right hand of Domitian’s father, Vespasian. Mucianus died or disappeared decades ago, leaving only his memoir as a primer for Athanasius as he entered this exotic land.

He looked out at the rocky plains and pointy hills that resembled chimney stacks. It was another world. Unlike Rome, Christians seemed to operate quite in the open out here. He saw fish signs proudly displayed outside inns, shops and restaurants. And the closer to Cappadocia he got, the more prominent the Dovilin name appeared on signs, stone pylons and buildings.

He fingered the Tear of Joy necklace that Polycarp had given him to wear as a sign to the mysterious Cerberus inside the underground “eighth” church of Asia Minor. It was a silver six-pointed Star of David with a sapphire shaped like a tear in the center. He was to wear it under his tunic and let it be visible only in situations and to persons where Cerberus might reveal himself to him.

He got off at the small town nearest to his destination and began to walk with his pack over his shoulder. The fresh and fragrant scents of plants and flowers were a definite improvement from the dungeons, ship bilges and sewers that had marked his journey thus far. Turning a gentle bend, at last he saw the green valley of the Dovilin Vineyards—6,000 hectares of lush paradise surrounded by sharp mountain peaks hiding secrets dark and deep.

Life in Rome had become somewhat tenuous, thought Ludlumus, as the Master of the Games sat with his sullen and simmering Caesar in Domitian’s private box at the Coliseum. That Athanasius had pulled off an incredible escape was humiliating enough, but to mock them both with the tongue of Domitian’s Pharaoh Hound Sirius was over the top. Late word about the slaying of the garrison commander on Patmos, compounded with this morning’s news that Athanasius was spotted in Ephesus and had eluded capture, had prompted Ludlumus to stage Caesar’s favorite orgy of death in hopes the emotional catharsis would defuse a sudden explosion of murderous fury.

The mass execution was called the Death Relay, and it slaughtered a number of poor souls at once. Here they laid a special track on the rim of the arena, the “runners” evenly spaced, each with a sword or ax in hand at the start. The trumpets would blast and off they would go in a single direction around the track. The object would be to catch up to the runner in front and hack him to pieces, thereby escaping the race and taking a place in the center of the arena. As the runners dropped out, either by being hacked to death or doing the hacking, there was a longer distance between them, until there were finally just two runners left, often on opposite sides of the track, each exhausted. Now it was a game of attrition, and the editor of the match would call out to them, taunting them, “Now it’s all about desire. Who wants to live more?” It was painful to watch them speed up and slow down, each on the verge of collapse, trading places so far as closing the gap, until one gave up and died in spirit before he died in the flesh. Sometimes, like today, to make things more interesting, Ludlumus would alternate spots at the beginning of the race between Amazonian women and male dwarves, to ensure the long strides of the Amazons would lead to quick dwarf deaths, and then leave the women to kill each other off until one was left to live another day, if only that.

As one dwarf after another fell and the Amazons began to hunt each other, Domitian quipped, “Those are dwarves down there, Ludlumus? You didn’t switch children for them or anything? There doesn’t seem to be a lot of fight in them.”

Ludlumus glumly said, “It’s all real, Your Excellency.”

“I was beginning to wonder if the race was fixed.” Domitian looked at him with deadly, faded eyes.

There was little Ludlumus could say except to point out the imperial bow and arrows beside Domitian’s chair. “You want to finish off a couple as is your custom?”

Domitian said nothing but picked up the bow and an arrow and took aim at the arena floor.

Ludlumus had made sure the bright yellow uniforms of the Amazons made them even bigger and clearer targets. Caesar hated to miss in front of an audience, and he wasn’t as good a shot as he imagined himself to be.

Domitian let the arrow fly to thunderous cheers, and the Amazon target looked over her shoulder and sprinted only to be hit squarely on the back and splatter on the track. That left three Amazons to chase each other, at greater distances apart, which would drag this out a bit more.

“Good shot, Your Excellency,” Ludlumus said as Domitian sat down, refreshed by his kill and thirsting for more blood.

“I want Athanasius dead, Ludlumus.”

“Orion spotted him in Ephesus. He’s our top assassin in Asia Minor. It’s only a matter of time.”

“Orion killed the wrong man, Ludlumus.”

“An unfortunate snag, Your Excellency. But with the help of local governors and legions on the lookout, Orion will quickly hunt him down and bring him to us in time for a spectacular end to the Games this summer.”

“No, Ludlumus,” Domitian cut him off sharply. “You had your chance. Your entertainment failed miserably. I want Orion to kill Athanasius on sight and ship his head back to me in a box. No fingers. No tortures. No public spectacles. I want his head for me to look upon with my own eyes. Only then will I know that this little Greek clown is dead, dead, dead.”