“Now let Cassiopia help bathe you, and Brutus can massage those hard, tired muscles.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary, Mistress Cota,” he said shyly. “But a bath would be nice.”
And it was, regardless of the limited affections of Cassiopia, clearly under orders from Cota. The heated water and oils soaked into his skin that had been caked with dust and dirt over the weeks, and he realized how much hot water was the very definition of civilization. Then he thought of Gabrielle working his relief in the fields, answering to Vibius at the winery and Bishop Paul in the caves. When he stepped out and into his new wardrobe and sandals, he felt so clean on the outside and yet still so filthy inside. In short, he felt very Roman, and thus, he supposed, better prepared to meet Dovilin’s guests.
They worked in threes, these First Fruits, so that night Athanasius set the triclinium while Brutus and a young man named Claudius poured the wine for Dovilin and his two guests, the well-connected legates from the XII Fulminate and XVI Flavia legions in Cappadocia. A third guest, who apparently accompanied one of the legates, stood at attention in a corner, staring at Athanasius.
It was the Roman assassin from Ephesus, the one with the gash down his face from forehead to chin. The one who earlier in Corinth killed his mother and his niece.
From the moment their eyes first locked, Athanasius thought he was dead. But the man said nothing, simply stood at attention in the opposite corner of the room, staring at Athanasius and making it clear that he knew exactly who he was staring at.
“You have to learn to rule the world,” Dovilin was telling his guests.
The two Romans looked at each other, mystified.
“We already do, Dovilin,” said the legate from XVI Flavia. “The Roman empire and its influence stretch across the entire earth.”
Athanasius caught a glance from Dovilin, and now had to assume that the old man knew everything: that Croesus, Samuel Ben-Deker’s sponsor, was dead, that Samuel Ben-Deker wasn’t who he claimed to be but somebody else entirely, and that this assassin standing in the corner had already informed him that he was Athanasius of Athens.
“Your fortresses, roads, ships and government, yes, of course,” Dovilin went on with the Romans. “But it’s the hearts of men I’m talking about.”
“I think I know what you mean, Dovilin,” Legate XII theorized as Brutus and Claudius poured rivers of endless Dovilin wine into their bottomless cups. “Vesapsian’s genius was in improving the provincial infrastructure here in Asia Minor and thus facilitating our defense of the eastern frontier, all without firing an arrow.”
Legate XVI echoed his agreement. “We must always be ready for war with the Parthians over Armenia. But Domitian is too preoccupied with the Christians.”
“Maybe,” said Dovilin with a worldly, patrician air that promised the perspective of the bigger picture. “But he has carried on his father’s plans for the construction of road networks in Asia Minor for troop movements, and the increased settlements associated with your expanded military bases have done more to open up commerce than anything else, enriching us all.”
That was the magic word, Athanasius thought. Commerce. This was the true work of the Lord’s Vineyard.
“All of you are more than military men. Your families are wealthy, beyond the equestrian ranks. Like General Trajan, your wealth and power here can grow far beyond your service to Rome.”
Now the two legates were extremely interested, hanging on every parsed and patiently strung word coming from Dovilin’s lips.
“Your families have olives, oil and grains. Mine has wine.”
“I see how you can sell much Dovilin wine through us to our legions and the local governors of Asia Minor,” said Legate XVI. “But I fail to see how much you and your household staff could purchase from us.”
“You forget the Christians in the caves all over Cappadocia, gentlemen. Hundreds of thousands. Individually, they have little in possessions or money. But as a whole they are a market bigger than any single capital in Asia Minor. Who best to serve them than your family businesses? We all benefit, and Caesar will reward you like he has others who do business with me.”
“This is true,” said Legate XII. “The Flavians know the East, and three governors so far in Asia Minor have been drawn from our ranks.”
Throughout this exchange, the assassin from Ephesus hadn’t blinked once, Athanasius thought, his eyes still fixed on him as one of the servant girls brought in some sweets for dessert and slipped Athanasius a note.
The assassin saw Athanasius palm it.
“Then here is to all of you and your promotions,” said Dovilin, holding up his cup. “And to your XII Fulminate and XVI Flavia legions.”
To which they all cheered each other and drank.
Athanasius quickly glanced down at the note. It was from Cota and it simply read:
media noctis inclinatio
So Cota wanted a midnight rendezvous at the Angel’s Vault, Athanasius noted. When he looked up again, the assassin in the corner was gone.
It was past midnight when Athanasius hurried outside the villa toward the stables, long after the legates had left with plenty of amphorae of wine, but presumably leaving behind the assassin to make short work of him. How? Was his long presence at the meeting and sudden disappearance meant to torture him? Whatever Dovilin’s intentions, it was certain he was not meant to survive this night.
Athanasius calmly walked into the bunkhouse, bracing himself to meet his assassin, but found nobody waiting for him. He grabbed his sack and poked his head out.
He could hear the girls washing the ceramics and utensils of the supper and chatting with each other at the kitchen, and he could see Brutus off by himself smoking some kind of rolled-up leaf and looking at the sky.
He quietly worked his way around the bunkhouse to the back and merged with the shadows between the vineyard rows. Once he was a safe distance away, he broke into a run. In the morning the Dovilins would know he was gone for good. None of that mattered anymore, though, because if he survived what he had to do, he was never coming back to this place.
As Athanasius was fleeing the estate, the assassin Orion took his seat with Dovilin in the villa’s courtyard. He real name was Patraeus, and he was upset that Dovilin had not allowed him to kill Athanasius on sight. Now his target was out of sight, and Dovilin not only seemed unconcerned but intent on wasting even more time by pouring them both some more wine.
Dovilin said, “I thought Athanasius was killed as Chiron in Rome a month ago.”
“No, sir. He escaped somehow and killed the garrison commander on Patmos and then made it to Ephesus and again evaded capture.”
Dovilin sipped his cup thoughtfully. “That doesn’t sound terribly efficient of our organization, does it?”
“He clearly had help from the inside, sir,” Patraeus said, and finally took a sip of his cup. He preferred to avoid any wine while on a hunt, and the Dovilin brand was reputed to be more powerful than most, but it appeared he would insult his host otherwise.
“Inside where, Patraeus?” Dovilin demanded. “Inside the Dei? Inside Rome? Inside the Church?”
“Very hard to tell which is which these days, sir.”
“Isn’t it?” Dovilin agreed, seeming to relax. “I knew it was Athanasius the moment I saw him on my doorstep.”
Patraeus sincerely doubted that. “Then why didn’t you kill him?”
“I will,” he said. “As soon as he leads us to the true identity of Cerberus.”
“Look, sir. I was supposed to kill him on sight, send his head back to Rome in a box.”
“You’ll get your head to send to Domitian in the morning, Patraeus, and I’ll get Cerberus.”