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.
IV
The dreams were different, but the girl was always the same. Young, maybe 17, long black hair, dark eyes, and tears of blood trickling down her tragic face. Sometimes she was the harlot Rahab in ancient Jericho, and he was the enemy spy sent to bring down the walls. Other times she was a beauty named Aphrodite in a future Greece under the rule of Germania. This night she had no name, but he knew it was present day. She was in a cave somewhere, calling out to him in the darkness. She possessed the secret of the ages, a mystery he had to unravel, or his mission would fail and the world would be doomed. In the haze of dream, he stumbled down an endless cave, his hands feeling the walls as they narrowed, his feet tripping over jagged rocks. “I’ll find you! I’ll find you!” he cried out, and then slipped, tumbling over and over into space.
Athanasius of Athens awoke from his nightmare, gasping for breath, the sound of trumpets outside piercing the air. He sat up and let his eyes adjust. Shafts of sunlight streamed through the drapes and marble columns onto a vast mosaic floor. He looked over at Helena’s empty side of the bed and put his hand on it. It was cool to the touch.
What time was it?
He put on a robe and walked onto the balcony of his hillside villa, taking in the spectacular view of the city below. To the west were dazzling white terraces and marble columns cascading down the cypress-covered hills to the Circus Maximus and the winding Tiber beyond. To the east was the intersection of Rome’s two great boulevards, the Via Appia and the Via Sacra, and, in the middle, Rome’s great coliseum known as the Flavian Amphitheater. The roar of a crowd wafted up on the wings of the breeze. The lunchtime executions must have begun.
He frowned. It must be noon already.
On his better days the playwright Athanasius religiously followed a strict regimen. He would wake before dawn, leave Helena in their warm bed and put in a good hour or two writing his next play. Then he would leave their villa on Caelian Hill and head over to the Circus Maximus to run laps and maybe shoot some arrows — he was a marksman archer — before the heat of the day set in. He found his best ideas flowed while he ran, and it kept alive his fantasy that at age 25 he could still run the marathons he once did as a boy outside Corinth back in Greece. After lunch he would enjoy the baths, a relaxing massage, and perhaps take in an afternoon rest with Helena before answering letters, supervising rehearsals at the Theater of Pompey, or attending to the problems of everyday life, which he limited each day to the single turn of an hour-glass. Then he and Helena would enjoy dinner with friends in the city or stroll along the Tiber and watch the imperial barges delivering the world’s luxuries to Rome. They would cap off the evening by attending various parties and then retiring to bed with each other.