Wrath of Rome (Book Two of the Dominium Dei Trilogy) by Thomas Greanias Page A
Authors: Thomas Greanias
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embracing Rome and its religion and yet using their Greek heritage to win commercial and political advantage in their home province.
As he walked from the harbor up past the city’s great bathhouses, Athanasius realized he couldn’t fight the temptation to stop by the city’s other great attraction—its 44,000-seat amphitheater, the largest in the world—if only to see if his
Oedipus Sex
comedy was still playing. So he marched up Marble Street to find out, passing the library on the way—and spotting a wine shop and tavern across from the entrance that he would be sure to return to after dropping off the letter.
Up at the theater, there was a crowd milling about, as the stage served the public as a forum by day if there were no performances or rehearsals underway.
A bad omen for him, he thought.
He stopped a stranger who was walking away from a conversation to ask, “Anything playing tonight? I saw no signs at the entrance.”
“Nothing right now. Rome canceled Oedipus Sex along with its playwright Athanasius of Athens. It’s too bad. I really liked the Greek rascal.”
“So did I,” Athanasius replied, and turned away.
So word of my demise has reached Ephesus, he thought. Perhaps that was a good thing. The general population wouldn’t be apt to recognize him if they didn’t expect to see him, even if the Romans were looking for him. The mind was funny that way with the eyes. He would need that luck now at the library.
• • •
Retracing his steps down Marble Way, Athanasius approached the city library with caution. It was a small but deep single-story building squashed between two larger ones. It had seen better days, and Athanasius assumed few denarii were going toward its upkeep what with the grand new library being planned, complete with a two-tiered façade and three levels of niches. He walked up three short steps and passed between the pair of Ionic columns flanking the entrance.
Inside was a large rectangular hall that faced east toward the morning sun. There were windows just below the vaulted ceiling to allow natural light, along with the central square oculus in the flat ceiling. The central apse was framed by a large arch at the far wall, and inside the apse stood a statue of Athena, the goddess of truth. Along the other three sides were rectangular recesses that held shelves for the nearly 4,000 scrolls.
He was greeted by one of two unarmed guards who watched for theft from patrons on the way out and was directed toward the main marble counter by the statue of Athena.
Like other libraries around the empire, Athanasius knew that this one existed for the benefit of students and traveling Romans. As such they tended to house collections of local documents of interest. So his request to see the memoir of Mucianus and his travels throughout Asia shouldn’t raise any eyebrows.
He glanced around at various patrons as he walked toward the counter, curious to know if one of them was the man who would pick up his letter the moment he had returned the volume he was about to check out. Whoever it was would say a lot about Timothy and his selection of associates. If what Cleo said was true, then the spy would have to be somebody high enough in the church. John or Timothy would know his identity, no doubt. Athanasius had no clue, and yet he was about to reveal himself to this agent, and this made him most uncomfortable. For in so doing, he might be revealing himself to spies from Rome or the Dei or both, if they were watching John’s men.
At the counter was a civilized, older librarian whom Athanasius vaguely recognized. He prayed to Jupiter and Jesus both that the patrician didn’t recognize him, and thanked the gods that he hardly ever spent time in libraries while supervising his performances abroad.
“And how can I help you, sir?” the senior librarian asked in a professional but almost too loud voice that spoke volumes about the
gravitas
that the library sought to project about
As he walked from the harbor up past the city’s great bathhouses, Athanasius realized he couldn’t fight the temptation to stop by the city’s other great attraction—its 44,000-seat amphitheater, the largest in the world—if only to see if his
Oedipus Sex
comedy was still playing. So he marched up Marble Street to find out, passing the library on the way—and spotting a wine shop and tavern across from the entrance that he would be sure to return to after dropping off the letter.
Up at the theater, there was a crowd milling about, as the stage served the public as a forum by day if there were no performances or rehearsals underway.
A bad omen for him, he thought.
He stopped a stranger who was walking away from a conversation to ask, “Anything playing tonight? I saw no signs at the entrance.”
“Nothing right now. Rome canceled Oedipus Sex along with its playwright Athanasius of Athens. It’s too bad. I really liked the Greek rascal.”
“So did I,” Athanasius replied, and turned away.
So word of my demise has reached Ephesus, he thought. Perhaps that was a good thing. The general population wouldn’t be apt to recognize him if they didn’t expect to see him, even if the Romans were looking for him. The mind was funny that way with the eyes. He would need that luck now at the library.
• • •
Retracing his steps down Marble Way, Athanasius approached the city library with caution. It was a small but deep single-story building squashed between two larger ones. It had seen better days, and Athanasius assumed few denarii were going toward its upkeep what with the grand new library being planned, complete with a two-tiered façade and three levels of niches. He walked up three short steps and passed between the pair of Ionic columns flanking the entrance.
Inside was a large rectangular hall that faced east toward the morning sun. There were windows just below the vaulted ceiling to allow natural light, along with the central square oculus in the flat ceiling. The central apse was framed by a large arch at the far wall, and inside the apse stood a statue of Athena, the goddess of truth. Along the other three sides were rectangular recesses that held shelves for the nearly 4,000 scrolls.
He was greeted by one of two unarmed guards who watched for theft from patrons on the way out and was directed toward the main marble counter by the statue of Athena.
Like other libraries around the empire, Athanasius knew that this one existed for the benefit of students and traveling Romans. As such they tended to house collections of local documents of interest. So his request to see the memoir of Mucianus and his travels throughout Asia shouldn’t raise any eyebrows.
He glanced around at various patrons as he walked toward the counter, curious to know if one of them was the man who would pick up his letter the moment he had returned the volume he was about to check out. Whoever it was would say a lot about Timothy and his selection of associates. If what Cleo said was true, then the spy would have to be somebody high enough in the church. John or Timothy would know his identity, no doubt. Athanasius had no clue, and yet he was about to reveal himself to this agent, and this made him most uncomfortable. For in so doing, he might be revealing himself to spies from Rome or the Dei or both, if they were watching John’s men.
At the counter was a civilized, older librarian whom Athanasius vaguely recognized. He prayed to Jupiter and Jesus both that the patrician didn’t recognize him, and thanked the gods that he hardly ever spent time in libraries while supervising his performances abroad.
“And how can I help you, sir?” the senior librarian asked in a professional but almost too loud voice that spoke volumes about the
gravitas
that the library sought to project about
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