Caesar's Lord, page 20
Rex was reading the psalm for the day when he heard a distant commotion outside. Since all cities had disturbances from time to time, he wasn’t particularly concerned. Yet he also knew that no one in the Church of Theonas had the ability to fend off an angry mob if things took a bad turn. Rex was the only person among the hundred or so assembled today who had that sort of training.
He broke off from his reading—ironically, it was “he trains my hands for battle”—and hurried to the church’s only entrance. A gang of inflamed herdsmen was marching down Canopus Avenue. Rex heard enough theological jargon in their howling to realize that his church was the object of their wrath. One of the men spotted him and shouted a curse. Then they all broke into a run.
Rex dashed to the altar and seized a bronze candlestick that stood beside it. Returning to the door, he found four husky men with clubs about to rush inside. Though Rex’s combat training kicked in, he refrained from the use of deadly force. A few head shots with the heavy candlestick could have easily killed the four unskilled ruffians. Instead, using the bronze rod like a quarterstaff, he broke a few ribs and left the attackers writhing on the church’s porch. But the rest of the mob was close behind. Rex slammed the door and barred it with the candlestick instead of its normal wooden slat.
Turning back to the congregation, he saw a frightened look in their eyes. Only Flavia looked unafraid. She came forward with Athanasius, who was in charge of the service today because the bishop was visiting the monks of the desert. Although Athanasius was a bold and courageous churchman, he was also a short fellow with a slender frame. “What should we do now?” he asked.
Before Rex could answer, a fireball came sailing through a high window in the clerestory. Since the Alexandrians didn’t use windowpanes because there was rarely any cold or rain, the burning object was able to sail right through. The people shrieked and dodged out of its way as it landed on the floor in a shower of sparks. It was a pitch-soaked bundle of rags that had been tied into a wad and set aflame. Clearly, the mob outside intended to burn down the church.
Someone pounded on the front door. “Open it!” the rough voice demanded. “Or we’ll burn you inside if we have to!”
“We should go out,” Athanasius said. “It’s better to take our chances in the public streets than die in a—”
The little deacon broke off his words as a second fireball hurtled down from the windows, followed immediately by a third. Black smoke billowed among the rafters, while dark tendrils trickled from under the front door. It would only be a short time before the air in the church was unbreathable. Already, many of the congregants were coughing, and the elderly were leaning on others for support.
“Rex, if we go out that door, blood will be shed,” Flavia said. “Some of our people will surely be killed.”
“But we’ll all die if we stay in here,” Athanasius countered. “We have to open the door.”
Now everyone looked to Rex to make a decision. Instantly his mind grasped the situation and he assessed each possibility. Other exits? None. Windows? Too high. Smother the fires? Too many. Out the door? People will die. What’s left?
Down!
Rex knew that the Church of Theonas was built over the former site of a Mithraeum. The followers of Mithras were often mistaken for Christians because they also worshiped a savior deity who descended into the underworld and returned. Mithraeums, where those worshipers ate a sacred meal, were built to look like caves. Rex turned to Athanasius and asked him exactly where the Mithraic shrine was located beneath the church’s floor plan. “Not far from the street,” was his reply.
Near the front door of the church was a flagstone whose mortar had grown crumbly. Rex returned to the altar and grabbed the second candlestick on the other side. After yanking the candle off the pricket, he inserted the sharp spike into the groove around the stone. Using the rod as a pry bar, he lifted the stone until some other Christian men could pull it out. Rex scooped away some dirt to reveal the top of a brick vault in the hole. “Stand back,” he said to the people standing nearby—then smashed the butt end of the candlestick against the brick.
After four hard strikes, the vaulted ceiling broke away. Rex knocked off some remaining pieces of brickwork with a couple more jabs until the opening was big enough for him to fit through. He knelt and peered into the hole. In the gloom below, he saw the marble face of Mithras staring back at him with wild, ecstatic eyes.
Dropping into the opening, Rex used the statue of Mithras slaying a bull as a stepping-stone to reach the ground. The Mithraeum was dank and musty, not having been open to fresh air for more than a hundred years. It had benches along both sides. Unfortunately, its staircase that once exited onto the street was now completely blocked.
Frustrated at being thwarted, Rex glanced around for another way out. The smoke was thick in the church above, and many of the Christians were coughing and hacking. The danger to them was growing with each passing moment. And then Rex’s eyes fell on the solution he was looking for. He spotted a hand pump on the wall.
Unbeknownst to the citizens of Alexandria, the ground beneath their feet was honeycombed by a vast, subterranean city that only the watermen ever saw. The whole urban landscape was superimposed upon a series of interconnected cisterns that filled up every year when the Nilus River flooded. Rex knew that if there was a pump in the Mithraeum for sacred washings, it had to be drawing from a cistern on the other side.
“Flavia!” he shouted through the hole he had made. “Hand me the candlestick, then start bringing everyone down!”
She grabbed the bronze pole and passed it to Rex. While she clambered down into the Mithraeum and began to help the others descend, Rex knelt beside the pump and passed his hand back and forth across the wall. Soon he found what he was looking for. A tiny hole was admitting a flow of air, which meant there had to be a cavity on the other side that was connected to the surface.
Bracing his feet securely, Rex held the candlestick in two hands and smashed its sturdy base against the weak point where the hole was. This time, multiple strikes weren’t required. The fragile old wall broke under the powerful impact. Rex kicked away more stones from the hole, then squatted and looked inside. The cistern’s water level wasn’t far below. Though the water was murky, Rex was gratified to see a little light glinting on its surface. That meant there was an exit nearby.
After sticking his feet through the opening he had just made, Rex jumped in. His feet touched bottom with the water up to his chest. Splashing across the cistern to its far wall, he peered into the conduit that brought in the water. Not far down the line, a shaft of sunlight shone into it from above. Rex pulled himself out of the water and wriggled into the conduit. The pipe was big enough for him to crawl ahead. When he was under the access hole for the watermen, he stood up, pushed the iron grate out of the way, and peeked out at street level. The place was a deserted alley around the corner from the Church of Theonas.
After crawling back to the cistern, Rex found that Flavia had already entered the water and waded across to meet him. He helped her clamber into the conduit. Behind her, the escaping Christians followed her lead. One by one, they entered the conduit and crawled down its length to the access shaft. Rex and Flavia climbed out and began to help the people get up. Once everyone had emerged from underground, Rex sent them to their homes through a lane that went in the opposite direction from the riot at the church.
Only Athanasius remained behind with Rex and Flavia. All three were sopping wet and cold, yet that was a small price to pay for escaping the wrath of the Arian radicals.
“Bishop Alexander will be furious when he hears about this attack!” the little deacon exclaimed.
“Constantine will be even angrier,” Rex said. “Burning down the other side’s church wasn’t what he had in mind when he told the two factions to make peace.”
Flavia sighed and shook her head. “We’ve reached a new low. I don’t see how a resolution can be found. The Alexandrian church is split in two. We need help from outside.”
“That’s right, Flavia,” Athanasius agreed. “We need wisdom from the rest of Christ’s body. We must try something that has never before been done in the history of our faith.”
Rex was intrigued by the deacon’s words, and he could see Flavia was too. “What is it?” he asked.
Athanasius gazed at the heavens for a moment, then returned his eyes to his friends. “In the providence of God,” he declared, “the time has come for a worldwide council of the whole Christian church.”
6
DECEMBER 324
Though the wintry Sun Day was bright and beautiful, Flavia couldn’t get her heart settled on worship. She felt frustrated that she couldn’t be in her own church today. The rampage at the basilica the previous Sun Day had destroyed the beautiful door and left smoke marks everywhere. The carpenters who inspected the roof found many charred spots where sparks had lodged in the rafters. Flavia thanked God that his divine hand extinguished those flames before they could bring down the building. Though it was a close call, the Church of Theonas would survive. Yet its repairs meant Flavia had to worship in a different neighborhood today, a former house church in the city center.
After the service, Flavia spent some time with Athanasius in confession and spiritual devotions. Her season of marital abstinence still continued, not only out of choice but because Rex had once again departed the city. Bishop Ossius had left Alexandria immediately to take news of the Arian assault to Constantine. The imperial mission to achieve peace had failed, and now the goal was to summon a worldwide council with the emperor’s permission and funding. Rex was asked to accompany the bishop because the riot had proved that tensions were running high. Violence and bloodshed were no longer out of the question.
Flavia understood why Rex was asked to go along. Yet she had been surprised—and pleased, actually—to learn that her mother had also been invited to assist Ossius. Sophronia’s relationship with the Spanish bishop, while entirely chaste, was nevertheless one of genuine affection. Their cooperation resulted in mutual blessing. Flavia was glad those two could gain from each other the warm companionship both of them needed.
“Your mind seems to be wandering today, my friend,” Athanasius said with humor, yet also with a hint of reproof. He was sitting with Flavia in the rear courtyard of the urban domus that now served as a full-time church.
“I’m sorry! I think the riot has thrown me off-balance. I keep thinking about it, then I lose my focus and my mind drifts to other things.”
“It was a scary experience.”
“It’s not even the scariness that bothers me. I’ve been through much worse. It’s just the outrage of it all. For so-called Christians to attack another church—and during the Eucharist! Who would do such a thing?”
“Now we know, don’t we?”
Flavia glanced over at Athanasius, a man five years younger than she yet already endowed with the spiritual power of an ancient saint. Athanasius had been saying that he sensed Flavia’s life was turning, that it was time for her to become active again in larger affairs. Now an idea occurred to her that fit his description. It was the sort of audacious deed that had marked Flavia’s life before she settled in Alexandria. “Would you be interested in some sleuthing?” she asked her friend.
The young deacon’s face was noncommittal. “What do you have in mind?”
“The city magistrates are dragging their feet in prosecuting the rioters. They say they have no reason to believe the mob got its start at Arius’s church. If we could find some evidence there—torches or pitch or something like that—we could make sure those criminals are brought to justice.”
“Did you notice the patch that some of those men had sewn on their tunics?”
“Yes! The eye inside the triangle. What is it?”
“I believe the Arians consider it a symbol for their view of God. But it’s really just the Eye of Horus, a god whom many conflate with Jesus. If we found garments with this insignia at the Martyrium of Saint Mark, it would prove that the arsonists were sent from there.”
Flavia shuddered as she recalled seeing the infant Horus in the lap of Isis at the temple. Instead of dwelling on that painful memory, she said, “Shall we go out to Boukolia and see what we can find?”
“Lead the way, Flavia,” Athanasius replied. So she did.
The two sleuths headed down Canopus Avenue and exited through the Sun Gate. They arrived at the Martyrium—so-called Martyrium, Flavia reminded herself, because the relics of Mark weren’t actually there—after the service when everyone had already gone home. The church was still open, so they went inside, hoping they’d be seen as worshipers seeking a quiet place for prayer.
The building was simple, and it didn’t take long to determine they would find nothing of interest there. The empty hall was demarcated into three parallel sections by two rows of columns. At the far end was the altar and a preacher’s chair like every other church. A door led to a private room for Arius, but it was locked. A quick scan outside revealed that the room’s windows were shuttered tight.
Athanasius looked at Flavia and shrugged. “Should we head back?”
“Not yet.” Though she wasn’t a trained speculator like Rex, Flavia had picked up a lot of his spycraft in their adventures over the years. “Some of those rioters were herdsmen, right?”
“Yes. The men of Boukolia keep animals here because of all the grass. They’re a rough lot. Robbers, many of them. Even some murderers.”
“Did you notice the ones who fought Rex on the porch? They had the eye insignia sewn on their tunics. And they weren’t herders. They had a different occupation.”
Athanasius looked perplexed. “Really? How do you know?”
“Their tools!” Flavia said triumphantly. “There were carrying tools to damage our church. When Rex hit them with the candlestick, they dropped them on the porch.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“I did. Hammers and chisels. Those men were stonecutters.”
Now Athanasius’s eyes widened as the significance dawned on him. “Fossors!” he exclaimed, then pointed over his shoulder. “From the necropolis!”
The Martyrium of Saint Mark was located near many Christian and Jewish graves. The area between the chapel and the coastline was filled with ancient tombs. Many of them were aboveground, forming little houses for shrouded corpses or their cremated ashes in urns. The outskirts of Alexandria even had some underground catacombs, though not many, since the local bedrock was harder to cut than the soft tuff around Rome. Though Flavia didn’t think the day’s spying would require a subterranean visit, the contents of the gravediggers’ headquarters might be interesting—if they could find a way to get inside.
Flavia and Athanasius approached the city of the dead with the hoods of their cloaks pulled over their heads. A few people were visiting the tombs of their family members, but for the most part the place was deserted. A little wandering brought the two sleuths to the hall where the fossors gathered for the meetings of their college. A man was inside, snoozing on a stool with his feet propped up.
“Ah! We can’t get in,” Athanasius said. “We were so close! But they have a guard.”
Flavia glanced sideways at her friend, her eyebrows arched. “Are you kidding me? We’re going right in. Here’s our plan.”
After Flavia explained her strategy, Athanasius hurried over to a donkey hitched to a two-wheeled cart. The young deacon unlooped its reins from a post. Once seated in the cart, he snapped the reins hard enough to elicit a bray from the startled beast. As it started to gallop toward the distant seashore with Athanasius jostling behind, the sleepy gravedigger emerged from his office. “Someone stop that man!” he shouted, then took off running after the supposed thief.
Now Flavia had the fossors’ headquarters to herself. Since tradesmen’s guilds typically offered meals for their members, the place had a small dining room. Though it was empty, when Flavia peeked into the kitchen, she spotted a storeroom on the far wall.
The storeroom shelves were filled with various foodstuffs but no torches or pitch-soaked rags. Nor were there any weapons. Yet a basket on a top shelf looked intriguing. Flavia took it down. Inside she found needles, thread, and a wooden box. She opened it. The Eye of Horus! Flavia reached into the box and plucked out a patch like the ones sewn on the garments of the men who attacked the church. Here was the evidence she needed to tie the crime of arson to the gravediggers of Arius. She was about to go when a man grabbed her by the shoulders.
“Caught ya, thief!” he cried.
Flavia’s captor was a big brute with pimple-covered cheeks. She protested and tried to wriggle away, but the man was too strong. “You’re comin’ with me,” he snarled as he dragged her out to the main room.
Another man was there, a more intelligent fellow who identified himself as the chief fossor for the cemetery. While the pimply thug held Flavia in place, the man in charge began to ask her a series of questions. “Why did you come here with Deacon Athanasius?”
“Prob’ly sinnin’ in the bushes!” exclaimed the brute.
Flavia ignored the crude remark and tried to fib about a dead relative needing burial. But the chief fossor wasn’t buying it. “I know you’re married to that tall German who works for Alexander,” he accused. “You’re working against the true faith! Tell me where Bishop Ossius went or things are going to go real bad for you.”
“I don’t know anything about Ossius. He’s here in the city somewhere.”
“She’s lyin’, boss! Put the fire to her arm. Then she’ll sing!”
“We can leave no marks,” the chief fossor said, “but I think this lady could use a good baptism.”
With a wicked cackle, the pimply brute forced Flavia to her knees. A mop bucket filled to its brim with filthy water was scooted under her face. Before Flavia could snatch a breath, her face was forced into the slop. She struggled, but the fingers on the back of her neck were like an eagle’s talons. Even when her air started to run out, her tormentor didn’t let her up. Flavia’s lungs were in agony, and the urge to breathe was more than she could stand. God help me! These men are going to drown me!
