Free The Chiron Confession (Dominium Dei) by Thomas Greanias Page A

poison? Yes, Helena or Pliny might smuggle him some. That would be better than whatever sort of entertainment Ludlumus was planning to extinguish him in. The famous Death Relay, perhaps, to humiliate him by not singling him out for execution but by making him a bit player?
    This was it, he feared—the greatest horror of the Games, to not even be the center of attention. He would not die an infamous death, but a relatively anonymous one. Surely the cruelest death of all.
    It didn’t matter. Rome had won, because Rome had had the last word on him.
    Or had it? Perhaps there was something he could say, or signal at his death, so that he got the last word in, somehow. Some small triumph, even if it was spelled out with his own blood on the white sand of the arena floor.
    He thought of September 18, mere months away, and gnashed his teeth that he should perish so close to the prophesied end of Domitian, if only it were so.
    He thought of Helena and his family in Corinth. The Romans always went after family. He was worried that he had not lived well, which was the most important thing to him in life. Socrates took the poison. He, on the other hand, bowed before Caesar to save himself, betraying himself and his ideals. He rationalized that it was for Helena. But if it was for Helena, then it was for himself.
    He was tormented most of all by questions. Why him? What could he have written that was worthy of death? Why on earth the accusation of Chiron?
    None of it made any sense.
    It’s over. The show is over, like Ludlumus said.
    There were plays I have yet to write, a life with Helena I have yet to live. What will happen to her? Who will provide for her? What will happen to my plays? My body of work? He knew he was spinning out of control.
    Calm down, Athanasius. Perhaps there is still a way out of this. There must be a way. Even on the arena floor. Something to get the mob to move Caesar’s hand and make him an exception.
    Oh, Jupiter, he prayed. Spare me, and I will serve you. I will never mock you again under any name. I will write plays for you, and mock those like me who mock you. People will buy your idols and make sacrifices to you.
    He knew it was pure magic, the kind of pointless prayer that Helena made to gods who were not there but figments of imagination. But he took comfort in knowing she was praying for him too.
    And then, as if by magic, he heard a noise outside the door. A key rattled in the lock.
    A faint flicker of hope began to stir inside him. Perhaps Domitian wished to show himself generous and merciful! Perhaps Pliny and Maximus had bargained him a reprieve, an offer to write a glorious ode to Domitian in exchange for freedom! Or even just Helena to say her goodbye. To see her face one last time would be enough.
    Yes, perhaps salvation had come.
    The door swung open, the light of a torch splashing on the dirty floor, and in walked Ludlumus.
    “Third-act trouble, Athanasius?”
    Athanasius propped his tired back against the wet wall and sunk his head on his chest in despair.
    Ludlumus shut the door and hung the oil lamp on an iron hook nailed to the ceiling. The effect cast light on him like an actor on the stage. He removed a clay tablet and stylus from the fold of his toga.
    Athanasius spoke in a dry, cracked voice. “You’re the one who will pray for
deus ex machina,
Ludlumus. It’s only a matter of time before Domitian does to you what he’s done to me.”
    “So that’s your confession, Athanasius? You are innocent and Caesar is guilty?”
    “Yes.”
    Athanasius could feel Ludlumus stare at him thoughtfully, and then watched him put away the tablet and stylus. Whatever was about to be said, he realized, was not going to be recorded.
    “And how did you come to this conclusion?”
    “Motive,” Athanasius said. “For all his so-called evidence, Regulus never established a believable motive for me to be Chiron. I, on the other hand, have found two personal motivations for Domitian to get rid of