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by the empire, this was the book about the end of the world written by that crazy old “last apostle” John imprisoned on the island of Patmos. No wonder poor Athanasius had been having nightmares. What was he thinking? She knew that, to the love of her life, pure and undefiled religion was attending the Olympics in his native Greece and smoking psychedelics. All other religion he pilloried in his plays. To him this was a harmless curiosity, of course, a chance to “break the code” that rumors suggested was bound in the sinister symbolism of this evil tract. Wasn’t the antichrist supposed to be Domitian, after all?
    Everybody knew that Athanasius was a closet atheist who did not believe in the gods. Not all atheists were Christians, and certainly not Athanasius. But all Christians were atheists by Rome’s standards, because they rejected religion altogether in favor of a superstition that required neither sacrifices nor idols of any kind. These were the very things that greased the wheels of commerce—and made life for her and Athanasius possible. Yet all a disgruntled servant or paid informant had to do was tip the Praetorians, and they were finished. At the very least, their new hillside villa, one of only 2,000 single residences in a city of squalid apartment blocks, would be confiscated.
    “You live in a fantasy world, my love,” she murmured to herself.
    She produced her divination dice, which she used for every decision of her life. Each side had a sign of the zodiac. She would throw them to decide what to do with the scroll. Burn it now? Or ignore it and confront Athanasius tomorrow? Whatever the outcome, she knew she would have to avoid any row with him before the party tonight.
    She pushed up her python lucky charm bracelets on each arm—double the charm to keep evil away—and rolled the dice in her hands. She looked up to heaven to utter a silent prayer and then said, “Fortuna!” as she cast them onto the desk.
    A six.
    She smiled with relief. She would burn the scroll, place the ashes with his lotus leaves on the silver tray, and let the servants carry them out. Perhaps Athanasius would never even notice. Perhaps a new idea would grab his attention, and these visions of the end of the world would disappear from his memory along with his nightmares.
    A young voice from behind said, “Mistress Helena, your dress for the evening has arrived, and the girls wish me to tell you that they are ready for you now.”
    She stiffened. It was the servant boy Cornelius. He was a holdover from Athanasius’s previous household staff and always seemed to regard her as an interloper. The boy fancied himself a protector of the great playwright’s papers. How long had he been standing there?
    “I am not ready for them,” she said imperiously. She then rolled up the Book of Revelation, laid it aside on the desk and slowly turned. “I’m just tidying up for Athanasius. You know how he hates it if I throw papers out. Please take his tray back. Tell the girls I’ll be with them in a moment.”
    “Yes, mistress.”
    She watched him take the silver tray and walk away. Then she took the scroll and buried it in the pile behind the poetics. She would have to burn it tomorrow. Or not, she realized with pleasant relief. After tonight it wouldn’t matter.

V
    I n the days of the old Republic, perhaps he and Helena might have built their home here on Palatine Hill. Or so Athanasius fancied as their carriage curved past towering walls with cascading waterfalls toward the summit. The spectacularly lit Palace of the Flavians on top was the ultimate symbol of imperial excess in Rome, having literally taken over the entire hill and pushed out any and all private residences.
    As they pulled up to the columned portico, Athanasius saw the Praetorian security detail in all their splendor: gleaming spears, dress parade black uniforms and capes with purple trim, and shiny sidearm swords. They were patting down guests for hidden