In each of the dining areas a couch was set aside for the host, who moved across the garden from room to room, allowing all the guests the honour of his presence. To Lucius, it seemed that the emperor was more an observer than a participant in the festivities, saying little and eating nothing. The old man appeared restless and distracted, giving a start whenever there was a peal of thunder. Light rain occasionally swept across the garden, and gusts of wind fanned the braziers that were lit as darkness fell. Hardly an hour after sundown, with several courses yet to be served, Augustus strode to the center of the garden, where all the guests could see him, bade his fellow augurs good night, and excused himself.
With the host gone, the atmosphere became noticeably more relaxed. A few guests dared to drink their wine without water, but no one got drunk. After a final course of carrots in a thick garum sauce, the guests begins to disperse, paying their respects to the new inductees before departing. Lucius’s father was the last to leave.
“You’re not coming with me, son?”
“Claudius has invited me to take a stroll to the Temple of Apollo.”
“In this weather?”
“The temple is only a few steps away. And it’s not raining now.”
“The sky could open at any moment.”
“If the storm grows worse, Lucius c-c-can spend the night here in my quarters,” offered Claudius.
“I suppose I can hardly object,” said the elder Pinarius, looking at once pleased and anxious that his son should become a welcome guest in the house of Augustus.
The Temple of Apollo was surrounded by an ornate colonnade directly adjoining the imperial residence, perched on the crest of the Palatine Hill, directly above the Circus Maximus. Of all Augustus’s new constructions, the Temple of Apollo was the most magnificent. Lit by flickering braziers from the surrounding colonnade, with a light mist descending, the temple appeared even more spectacular by night. The glistening walls were made of solid blocks of white Luna marble, and the gilded chariot of the sun atop the roof seemed to be made of flame. Dominating the square in front of the entrance, a marble statue of Apollo loomed above an altar flanked by four bronze oxen. In the flickering light, the oxen seemed almost to be alive. When Lucius said so to Claudius, his friend explained that they were hundreds of years old, the creations of the great Myron, famed for his much-copied statue of the Discus Thrower.
At the top of the steps, past the towering columns, they came to two massive doors, each decorated with reliefs in ivory. By flashes of lightning, Lucius gazed at a fabulously detailed panel, a riot of figures in violent motion – young men and women running this way and that in a great panic, some pierced by arrows, and in the sky above them, each wielding a bow, the divine siblings Apollo and Artemis.
“The slaying of the Niobids of Thebes,” Claudius explained. “When their mother Niobe boasted of having more offspring than Leto, the goddess’s children took offense and slew them, every one. Apollo shot the sons; Artemis shot the daughters. Niobe committed hubris – overweening mortal pride – and her children paid the price for it. The d-d-descendants of powerful mortals often seem to pay a price, simply for existing.” Claudius looked thoughtful, then turned and pointed with his lituus to the rectangle of sky framed by the nearest columns. “The lightning seems to be drawing closer. Look at that thunderbolt! Have you ever seen one like that? The magister says that every possible manifestation of lightning has been catalogued and categorized over the years, but that implies that lightning repeats itself, as letters and words in a language repeat; but I sometimes wonder if every thunderbolt is not unique to itself. Of course, if that were so, there could be no meaning in lightning at all, or none that men could make sense of.”
A great blackness, darker than all the rest of the sky and filled with flashes of lightning, was sweeping toward them from the south-west. It was over the Tiber now, its fury reflected on the water’s turbulent face.
Lucius felt steeped in privilege, to be standing with his friend, a member of the imperial household, on the threshold of the emperor’s greatest temple; but at the same time he felt a slight thrill of fear, for the approaching storm promised to be violent, and the horrific images of the slaughtered Niobids disturbed him. He was here to pay homage to Apollo, but Apollo could be a vengeful god.
Claudius did not appear to share his anxiety. “Did you know, years ago, this very spot was the site of the imperial residence? Then one day it was blasted by lightning and burned to the ground. Augustus declared that the g-g-gods had marked this as a sacred site, suitable only for a temple, and got the Senate to dedicate the funds to build not just the temple but the new imperial residence next to it. The temple is magnificent, as you can see, and everyone thought Great-Uncle would build himself an equally magnificent palace, but instead he made the new house exactly like the old one, only a little bigger and with annexes to accommodate his growing staff.” Claudius chuckled.
“Was Augustus in the house when it was struck by lightning?”
“Yes, he was. And that wasn’t Great-Uncle’s first encounter with lightning. He was very nearly k-k-killed by a thunderbolt during a night march in the Cantabarian campaign, after my grandfather Antonius was vanquished; a flash of lightning grazed Great-Uncle’s litter and struck dead the slave who was carrying a torch before him. After that narrow escape, he dedicated a shrine to Jupiter the Thunderer – there, if you squint you can see it over on the Capitoline, looking very impressive when the lightning illuminates it. Ever since, Great-Uncle’s had a morbid fear of lightning. How he hates a thunderstorm! I’m sure that’s why he left the b-banquet early, to take shelter under ground. The man fears nothing and no one here on earth, but he thinks that d-d-death from the sky might still claim him, as it did King Romulus. That’s why he was wearing that amulet tonight. He always wears it in stormy weather.”
“An amulet?”
“Did you not notice, Lucius? He was wearing an amulet made of sealskin, for protection, the way others carry a sprig of laurel.”
“Sealskin?”
“Just as the laurel is never struck by lightning, neither is the sea calf. It’s a scientific fact, confirmed by all reliable authorities. I myself prefer laurel.” He produced a sprig from inside his trabea.
“I suppose I should have taken a sprig,” said Lucius. The lightning and thunder were coming closer. The storm was almost upon them.
“Stay close to me; perhaps my sprig will protect you. There’s an interesting story about those laurel trees at the entrance to the imperial house. Not long after Livia was first betrothed to Augustus, she was riding in a carriage on a country road and a perfectly white hen dropped from the sky into her lap – with a sprig of laurel in its beak! Livia bred the hen to use its offspring in auguries, and planted the laurel, from which a sacred grove sprang up on the imperial estate along the Tiber, as well as the two specimens that flank the doorway of the imperial house. Augustus wore wreaths from those laurel trees in his triumphal pro cessions. Ah, but I digress…”
“You sometimes do.” Lucius smiled, then gave a start at a loud boom of thunder. He heard the hissing of the rain as it swept towards them over the Aventine.
“Well, you did ask about the sealskin amulet. And speaking of amulets, I’ve been th-th-thinking about the one you wear. I believe I may have an idea of what it is-”
He was interrupted by a flash of blinding light, followed at once by a tremendous thundercrack. Lightning had struck the Palatine, somewhere very close to them.
“Do you think it struck the imperial house?” said Lucius. They ran to the end of the porch and peered towards the residence. There was no sign of fire. Then a sudden downpour obscured everything beyond the temple steps. Wind blew rain onto the porch; the pediment gave no protection. Claudius opened one of the tall doors. They slipped inside the temple and closed the door behind them.
The air smelled of incense. A giant statue of Apollo dominated the sanctuary, lit by flickering lamps mounted on the walls. On this stormy night, it seemed to Lucius that the place had an eerie magic. The air itself carried a charge of excitement. Gazing up at the god, Lucius felt hackles rise on the back of his neck. With an uncanny certainty he knew that something very important was going to happen that night.
He looked behind him. Claudius was sitting on a marble bench against one wall, already nodding, his jaw hanging open and a bit of drool suspended from his lower lip. Truly, anyone who saw him at that moment would have assumed he was an idiot. Poor Claudius!
The uncanny sensation subsided. Lucius sat beside Claudius, listening to him softly snore, and waited for the raging storm to subside.
When the massive door began to swing inwards, he gave a start. Had he been dozing, and for how long? A man entered the temple, dressed in the tunic of an imperial servant and carrying a torch.
“Claudius? Are you here, Claudius?”
Claudius woke. He clutched Lucius’s arm and wiped a bit of drool from his chin. “What? Who’s there?”
“Euphranor.” It was one of the emperor’s most trusted freedmen. His hair was black but his beard was almost entirely white. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” He approached and handed Claudius a wax tablet of the sort that could be written on, rubbed flat, and written over.
By the light of the torch Claudius peered at the tablet. In a crabbed, elderly hand was written the quaint phrase “Come, quick as asparagus,” with the word asparagus marked through and the word lightning scrawled above.
“A message written in Great-Uncle’s own hand!” declared Claudius, obviously surprised. “The man has an army of scribes to take his dictation at any moment of the day or night. Why in his own hand? What can he want so urgently? And why ‘quick as lightning ’?”
Lucius suddenly felt out of place. “I suppose I should go home now-”
“While the storm still rages? No, no! You’ll come with me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Great-Uncle didn’t say for you not to come. Follow me, cousin – quick as asparagus! Euphranor, lead the way.”
Pelted by rain, they followed Euphranor back to the house, past the dining rooms and the garden, where rain descended in a torrent, and then through a series of doors and a maze of hallways. At last they came to a narrow doorway that opened onto a flight of stairs leading down.
“I’ll stay here,” said Euphranor. “You’ll find him at the bottom of the steps.”
Claudius descended the long, steep, winding flight of stairs with Lucius following. At last they arrived in a lamp-lit, subterranean room. Lucius saw at once that the ceiling and the walls were decorated with mosaics; the thousands of tiny tiles glinted and shimmered. Among the dazzling images he recognized King Romulus with his long beard and iron crown. Another image could only be the infant twins, Romulus and his brother Remus, adrift on the Tiber in a basket. Another image showed Romulus being carried up to the heavens on a ray of light sent by Jupiter. There were many more images, all illustrating stories from the life of the Founder.
“What is he doing here?”
Lucius turned to see Augustus, standing closer than Lucius had ever seen the man before. What terrible teeth the emperor had, all yellow and decayed, and how short he was, wearing slippers instead of the thick-soled shoes that usually made him taller. Lucius told himself he should be at least a little awed, but the presence of the emperor was underwhelming. In his younger days, the fair-haired Octavius was said to have been the best-looking boy in Roma, so pretty that his uncle Julius Caesar took him for a lover (so went the whispered rumour), and in later days, the boy Octavius who became the man Augustus had commanded sufficient authority to bend whole nations to his will. But at that moment Lucius saw only a little old man with rotten teeth, unkempt straw-coloured hair, tufts of hair in his nostrils, and bushy eyebrows that met above his nose.
Eye to eye with the ruler of the world, Lucius was buoyed by a curious sense of confidence, remembering the premonition he had experienced in the Temple of Apollo that something very important was about to happen.
“Shall I send him away, Great-Uncle?” said Claudius.
Augustus stared at Lucius, so long and hard that Lucius’s confidence began to waver. The old man finally spoke.
“No. Young Lucius Pinarius may stay. He is an augur now, is he not? And his ancestors were among the very first augurs in Roma. A Pinarius accompanied Romulus when he took the auspices, and before that the Pinarii were keepers of the people’s first shrine, the Great Altar of Hercules. The state assumed that duty over 300 years ago; perhaps I should return the Great Altar to the hereditary keeping of the Pinarii. Reviving ancient traditions is pleasing to the gods. And he is a blood relation, for what ever that’s worth. Perhaps, Lucius Pinarius, the gods themselves delivered you here to me tonight.”
Lucius averted his eyes, humbled by the emperor’s scrutiny. He stared at the mosaics above them.
“Images from the life of Romulus, as you no doubt perceive,” explained Augustus. “The chamber in which we stand is the Lupercale, the sacred cave where the foundling twins Romulus and Remus were suckled by the she-wolf. I myself discovered the cave when the foundations for this house were being laid, and under my directions it’s been decorated as a sacred shrine.”
“The mosaics are exquisite,” said Lucius.
“Yes. There you see the twins suckled by the she-wolf, and there, the rescue of Remus by his brother, the slaying of King Amulius and the taking of his iron crown. There, the sighting of the vultures, and Romulus plowing a furrow to mark the city boundaries. There, the first triumphal procession, and the king’s ascent to the heavens during a thunderstorm.”
Lucius nodded. He recalled something Claudius had told him, that the emperor had considered taking the name Romulus as a title, rather than Augustus, but ultimately rejected the name as unlucky; Romulus murdered his brother, after all, and though legend said that Romulus was taken alive by the gods to Olympus, some historians believed he was murdered by conspiring senators.
“Of course, one cannot take the legends too literally,” Claudius noted, pointing to the image of the suckling she-wolf. “My tutor Titus Livius says that our ancestors used the same word, lupa, to mean either a she-wolf or a whore. Livius suggests that the twins may have been raised not by a wild beast but by a common prostitute.”
“Don’t be impious, nephew!” snapped Augustus, and seemed about to say more when a crack of thunder shook the room. The emperor frantically reached for the sealskin amulet he wore on a chain around his neck. “Even here, so deep under ground, the earth shakes!” he whispered. “Is it possible the house has been struck by lightning two times in one night?” His rheumy eyes flashed with something Lucius could only interpret as fear.
“Why did you s-s-summon us, Great-Uncle?” asked Claudius quietly.
“I’ll show you now – though to do so, we’ll have to leave the safety of the Lupercale.” Augustus frowned, then braced himself and led the way up the stairs, taking them slowly. Euphranor was waiting for them at the top of the steps. At Augustus’s order, the freedman brought each of them a torch to carry.
“When you see the omen, Claudius, you’ll understand why no one else must know of this. No one!” Augustus turned to Lucius. “Do you understand as well, young man? Any omen that regards my person is a state secret and must never be divulged. There’s no telling how it might be used by those who wish me harm. To divulge such a secret is a crime punishable by death.”