Barbatio said, “How can we assist the tribune?”
“I’m here to interrogate the last apostle John.”
There was silence in the square. Even the wailing prisoner stopped his cries.
“You will find the threat of physical torture and death useless on the old man,” Barbatio finally said. “Even my own psychological efforts have failed thus far.”
“And what are those?”
“We learned the whip does not work on the apostle, so we use it on the other prisoners every night before supper. Then I visit John to confess my evil and demand his forgiveness. I know he must, as many times as I ask. So I wait for the day he cannot bear the burden any longer and tells me what I want to hear.”
“What is that?”
“The meaning of the Book of Revelation.”
“Oh, you mean there is one?” Athanasius said, prompting some nervous laughter. Then he got tough. “Your failures are not my concern, Commander.” He glanced at the brothel boat in the harbor. “Nor your lack of discipline. I have my orders, and so do you.”
Barbatio, none too happy with the tribune’s tone, nodded. “Cornelius here will escort you to the cave. It’s a bit of a climb.”
A young officer stepped forward, and Athanasius followed him toward some stone steps out of the public square and up the hill. Behind him he heard the music of Patmos play again with the snap of a whip and the cries of the prisoner.
Athanasius went up the long, zigzagging path toward the cave. He was almost out of breath by the time they came to the iron gate at the entrance, which was flanked by two prison guards. The guards opened the gate at Cornelius’s orders.
“You’ll wait outside,” Athanasius said and stepped inside.
The cave was dark, illuminated only by a few flickering candles and a shaft of dim light from some crack in the ceiling. There was movement in the back. Athanasius waited for his eyes to adjust.
He could see the recess in the rock, close to the ground, where the apostle would lay his head when resting. But he was not there. There was another recess to the right a little higher up where the apostle would probably support his hands as he knelt to pray. But John was not there either. And there was a more or less level place in the rock that looked to be used as a desk. There were papers and writing instruments on it.
Perhaps another revelation? Athanasius wondered. One that could explain what had happened to the last apostle?
He took a step toward the desk when he saw a shadow move at the back of the cave. A flicker of light appeared. An old, bearded man with white hair emerged from an alcove holding a candle. He wore the simple tunic of a prisoner and broken sandals. He looked at Athanasius curiously.
“I haven’t seen your face before, Tribune.”
“No, but perhaps you’ve heard my name. Chiron.”
The last apostle screwed his eyes and paused before answering. “I doubt that. Who are you, really?”
Athanasius looked around the cave and back toward the opening. Satisfied they were far enough away from being overhead outside, he said, “My name is Athanasius of Athens. I’m here to free you.”
V
“I don’t want to be freed,” John the Last Apostle told Athanasius after listening to his sad story. They were sitting on the sleeping ledge of the cave. John had a gentle, soft demeanor, completely at odds with his character in the gospel accounts and the violence of Revelation. “I’m already free. You’re the one who needs to be free. Free from this hatred I see in your eyes.”
This was precisely what Athanasius feared might happen. “My hatred is reserved for Rome, old man, and for Dominium Dei. Not Jesus or The Way.”
“You must love others, Athanasius, and forgive your enemies.”
Athanasius resisted the insanity of John’s easy words. “You don’t know Caesar Domitian like I do, nor his vile master of the Games. They killed the consul, Flavius Clemens, your top Christian in Rome, I hear, along with many others. They will keep on killing. They want to destroy your Church.”
“It’s not my Church, Athanasius. Jesus is the head.”
“Then come with me to Ephesus and say as much publicly. Expose the Dei and Domitian. Leave the rest to us in Rome.”
“You will accomplish nothing by killing Caesar.”
Athanasius threw out the bait that Clemens’ servant Stephanus threw him: “Even if Young Vespasian becomes emperor and bows before Christ?”
“That’s his business,” John said, unimpressed with the vision of a Christian world. “But you are gravely mistaken if you believe that turning Christianity into the official religion of Rome will save anybody. Jesus said his kingdom is in heaven, not on earth. I see great evil in this thinking of yours.”
“And I see greater evil in an old man who would prefer to see his doomsday vision scorch the earth than lift a finger to help an innocent man.”
“From what you told me, Athanasius, you don’t seem so innocent. Senator Maximus’s slave, the steward on your ship, the driver in Corinth. You’ve been busy, and there’s blood on your hands. Why should I believe that you are not from the Dei? You could be a plant from Caesar to spy out the Church and destroy it.”
“I am not!” Athanasius shouted and stood up. “The senator, like you, betrayed me. His slave tried to kill me. The ship’s steward thought he had, and the driver in Corinth was about to, before his friends the Roman legions slaughtered my entire family and razed the house I grew up in! My actions are justified! You don’t tell me about calling down the fire! Because your good Jesus has already incinerated everything I held dear!”
His rant prompted the guards outside to open the iron gate at the mouth of the cave and walk in to see if everything was all right.
“Father John!” called Cornelius until Athanasius cut him short.
“Out!” Athanasius cried, brandishing his sword. “Or I interrogate you too, Brother Cornelius. Are you one of those secret acolytes among the guards here that I’ve heard about?”
“No, Tribune,” Cornelius said, backing off with his torch. “My apologies, sir. Hail, Caesar.”
Athanasius watched him retreat and turned to John, who was calm as ever.
John said, “Tell me about this girl in your dreams again, before your nightmare began. The only one I see in my nightmares is the Whore of Babylon.”
“I told you, old man. I, too, have had visions of the future, and the ancient past as well. Comes with being an imaginative playwright, I suppose. But while the dreams change, the girl is the same. Barely a young woman, with long black hair and big dark eyes that bleed tears of blood. I have always fallen into a bottomless cave, but she calls me out into the light with a voice that sounds like running water.” Athanasius sighed. “I don’t know what I’m saying. My life is all a bad dream now. Your God is an illusion.”
“No, Athanasius,” John told him. “God is reality. Everything else is illusion.”
He held his candle up to the crack in the roof of the cave, presumably produced in the rock by the exceptional physical and supernatural phenomena that accompanied the vision. This fissure extended across the upper part of the cave from east to west, dividing the rock into three parts and thus, Athanasius supposed, serving old John as a continual reminder of the trinitarian nature of God.
“Your coming to this holy place is not chance in your life, Athanasius. God, who wishes all men to be saved and to come to a knowledge of truth, who directs all things for man’s spiritual benefit, has guided you here for you to listen, deep within yourself, to the secret echo of the words that Jesus spoke to the seven churches of Asia.”