“Then you shall leave this room knowing more than when you entered.”
“But the magister says that augury is sufficient for all divinations.”
“I suspect the magister is a bit envious of the increasing popularity of astrology. I myself see no conflict between the principles of augury and the study of astral science. Any thoughtful person must perceive that heavenly bodies exert an influence on objects both animate and inanimate.
Certain effects of the sun and moon are obvious: they cause vegetation to grow, determine when animals sleep and rut, and control the tides. Likewise, the stars control storms and floods, which can be observed to come and go according to the rise and fall of certain constellations. This influence is invisible, as is the influence of a magnet. Considering the all-pervasive nature of this invisible influence, it would be irrational to presume that it does not exert an effect on human beings.
“It was the Babylonians who first charted the movements of the stars and created a vocabulary to describe their influence on humankind. After Alexander the Great conquered Persia, the study of astrology spread to Greece and Egypt. It was the Babylonian priest Berossus who moved to Cos, founded the first astrological school in Greece, and translated The Eye of Bel into Greek. It was Bolus of Egypt who wrote Sympathies and Antipathies, which remains the standard textbook. I’ve almost worn my copy out.”
Lucius stared at the horoscope, puzzling over the mathematical calculations and the notations about houses, signs, and planets. “Do you really think the solution to the lightning omen lies in the emperor’s horoscope?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if it has some role to play in our research. But I think we should begin by consulting my Etruscan dictionaries, to see if I’m right about this word aesar…”
All night the storm continued, rattling the shutters, pelting the roof with rain, and shaking the ground with thunder, while Lucius and Claudius pored over various texts. From time to time, slaves brought them food and drink and replenished the lamps when the oil ran low. Lucius was not aware that dawn had broken until he heard a cock crow. Claudius opened the shutters. The storm had passed. The sky was clear. But the pale morning sunshine could not dispel the grim mood in the room. They had succeeded in interpreting the omen.
“Perhaps we could tell him that the omen defeated us, that we discovered nothing,” said Lucius.
Claudius shook his head. “He won’t accept that. He’d be able to tell at once that we were hiding something.”
“Then perhaps he’ll simply dismiss our interpretation. Why should he believe the two youngest augurs in Roma?”
“Because our interpretation is correct, as he will see for himself. Great-Uncle has a deep and abiding faith in omens. The outcome of every one of his b-b-battles was foretold by an omen which he himself divined – the eagle that drove away two ravens at Bononia, which foretold his eventual triumph over his fellow triumvirs; the shade of Caesar that appeared before Philippi; the driver and ass he met on the road before the battle of Actium, one named Eutychus and the other Nicon – Greek for ‘prosper’ and victory.’”
“And now, this omen.”
“Which we have no choice but to d-d-deliver.”
Euphranor accompanied them up several flights of steps to the high, many-windowed chamber where the emperor awaited them. This was the room, as Claudius informed Lucius in a whisper, that Augustus called his Little Syracuse, because the great Syracusan inventor Archimedes had had such a room in his house, isolated from the rest of the building.
Augustus’s secluded retreat was cluttered with mementos. There were architect’s models of various of his buildings, including a miniature Temple of Apollo in ivory. There were war trophies, including a captured ship’s beak from the battle of Actium, where the naval skills of Agrippa had soundly defeated Antonius and Cleopatra. There were exotic Egyptian treasures brought back from Alexandria, where Antonius and Cleopatra had escaped capture only by committing suicide. Draped upon a statue of the Divine Julius was a red cape, a bit faded and moth-eaten, that had been worn by the great man himself at his last great battle, at Munda in Spain.
There were also more personal mementos, including toy ships and catapults that had belonged to the emperor’s deceased grandsons. When Lucius and Claudius entered, Augustus was fiddling with a pair of baby shoes.
“Such tiny feet he has, little Gaius! These just arrived from the German frontier, Claudius, with a note from your brother. Your little nephew has just outgrown these, so Germanicus sends them to me as a keepsake. Charming, aren’t they? I suppose Germanicus and Agrippina think they can induce me to name their two-year-old as my heir. Well, your older brother isn’t a bad sort, and Agrippina is the only one of my grandchildren who turned out to be not completely useless. Little Gaius is my great-grandchild, and they say the boy is healthy, so perhaps there is some hope for the future, after all…”
His voice trailed away. He stared at the tiny shoes for a long time before he finally put them down among the cast-off toys.
The emperor appeared to have suffered as sleepless a night as had the two younger men, and he looked much worse for it. He had changed from his trabea into a tunic so drab and worn that Lucius would not have been surprised to see a slave wearing it. The emperor’s voice was hoarse and there was a rattle in his throat.
“So? What have you discovered?”
Claudius stepped forward, but when he opened his mouth to speak, nothing came out. For a moment he was as stiff and silent as a statue, then suddenly he began to twitch and stammer, jerking this way and that and making incoherent noises. Lucius gripped his shoulder to steady him, but the twitching only grew worse. He had never seen Claudius so severely afflicted by his infirmities.
Augustus grunted and rolled his eyes. “Jupiter help me! You, then. Yes, you, Lucius Pinarius! Speak!”
Lucius’s heart pounded and he felt something thick pressing inside his throat. For a moment he feared that he was about to have a fit, like Claudius. Then he managed to take a breath and the words tumbled out.
“We believe – that is, Claudius and I – that our examination of the literature and our study of certain precedents – precedents pertaining specifically to lightning and to – to statues – and the Etruscan language – which we found in the literature-”
“By Hercules, you’re as useless as my nephew! Say what you have to say.”
Lucius felt light-headed and dazed from lack of sleep, but he pressed on. “For example, in the days of Tarquin, the last king, one of his statues was struck by lightning, which did damage only to the inscription, which was written in both Latin and Etruscan; well, you can see how the precedent applies here. In that instance, the numeral X was defaced in four places, as were the Etruscan words tinia, meaning days, and huznatre, meaning a group of young men. No one could interpret the omen, but its meaning became clear when, forty days later, a company of forty young warriors literally ran Tarquin and his sons from the city, ending the monarchy and establishing the Republic. It became clear then that the four Xs defaced by lightning meant forty, and referred to both the days remaining in Tarquin’s reign and the number of warriors who would drive him out. And there is a further example-”
“Enough of this antiquarian drivel! You try my patience, Lucius Pinarius. Deliver the omen clearly, at once.”
Lucius took a deep breath. “As Claudius thought, aesar is an old Etruscan word. It means a deity or divine spirit. And of course C – the letter that was melted away by the lightning – is also the symbol for one hundred. The presence of the dead slave was an indication of mortality, a small death foreshadowing a great one. When these facts are assembled, and the relevant precedents considered – the details of which you would have me omit – then we must conclude that the omen of the two lightning strikes indicates this: that in one hundred days, the person portrayed by the statue will leave the world of mortals and join the gods.”
The colour abruptly drained from the emperor’s face, like wine from a cup. His expression became so strange and his voice so thin that Lucius almost believed the shadow before him was the lemur of a man already dead. “What are you saying, young man? Are you telling me that I have only one hundred days to live?”
“N-n-ninety-nine, actually,” said Claudius, suddenly able to speak, but keeping his head down and his eyes averted. “The omen occurred yesterday, so we m-m-must subtract…” He abruptly looked up, as if surprised to hear his own voice, and fell silent.
Augustus was quiet for a long moment. “Will it be an easy death?”
“The omen gives no indication regarding the manner of death,” said Lucius.
Augustus nodded slowly. “I’ve always envied those who died easily. The Greeks have a word for it:
