He led them to a courtyard. The neatly trimmed hedges and paving stones glistened. The rain had relented; only a light mist descended on them. The courtyard was dominated by a bronze statue of the emperor himself, painted in lifelike colors. Did he ever look like that? wondered Lucius, for the statue of the serenely self-assured, handsome young warrior scarcely resembled the shaken old man standing beside him.
As they stepped closer to the statue, Lucius’s torch illuminated something on the ground, on the far side of the pedestal. It was the dead body of a young man, dressed in the charred remains of what once had been the tunic of an imperial slave.
“Look there!” cried Augustus. “Wisps of smoke still rise from the corpse. He burns from the inside, like a coal in a brazier.”
Claudius pursed his lips. “This slave – he was k-k-killed by the first lightning bolt, the one that struck while Lucius and I were in the Temple of Apollo?”
“Yes. Lightning struck the statue. The slave must have been standing too close. See the damage to the statue – the places where the paint has been scorched, the way the ivory inlays for the whites of the eyes have turned black!” Augustus sucked in his breath. “By Hercules, the statue has been struck again, by that second lightning bolt, the one we felt down in the Lupercale! It’s incredible…”
“Impossible!” protested Claudius. “All authorities agree, lightning n-n-never strikes the same spot twice. Such a thing is unheard of.”
“And yet, it’s true. The bronze plaque on the pedestal wasn’t damaged before, I swear to Jupiter it wasn’t – but now, see how the letter C is missing, blasted into nothing.” Augustus swallowed hard. His face was ashen.
Looking closer, Lucius saw that the damage was just as the emperor had described. On the bronze plaque with an embossed inscription, the first letter of CAESAR had been melted away, leaving almost no trace.
“What does it mean, Claudius?” asked Augustus. “Such freaks of nature are always signs from the gods. Useless as you are for most things, skulking in that library of yours, you do know everything there is to know about omens.”
Claudius touched his fingertips to the scorched bronze plaque, then quickly drew them back. “Too hot to touch!” he gasped, then stared at the plaque and whispered, “Aesar. ”
“What’s that you say?”
Claudius shrugged. “I was simply reading the word that remains, without the letter C. ”
“But aesar is not a word.”
“I think it might be, in Etruscan. I’m not sure.”
“Then find out!”
“T-t-time, Great-Uncle. It will take time to properly interpret such an omen. Do you not agree, Lucius? We must know to the minute the time of the two lightning strikes. We must know the name of the dead slave. Even the name of the sculptor who made this statue might be significant. I must retire to my library to look through the literature, to c-c-consult my Etruscan dictionaries, to study previous omens derived from lightning.”
“How long will this take?”
Claudius furrowed his brow, then brightened. “Lucius will help me. As you yourself noted, Great-Uncle, it’s no accident that Lucius was with me when you sent that summons. Together, I promise you, Lucius and I will determine the meaning of this omen.”
“Do it quickly!”
“Qu-quick as asparagus, Great-Uncle!” Claudius smiled crookedly and wiped a bit of drool from the corner of his mouth.
“Perhaps our fortunes are about to improve, Lucius,” said Claudius. “We’ve just been given a very important task by the emperor himself. That makes us important men. We’d better get started.”
They were in Claudius’s library. The room was brightly lit by many lamps. Lucius had never seen so many scrolls and scraps of parchment in one place, all neatly, even obsessively, filed and sorted. There were histories, maps, calendars, and genealogies. There were detailed lists of every magistrate who had ever served the Roman state. There were numerous dictionaries, not just of Latin but of Greek, Egyptian, Parthian, the Punic tongue that had died with Carthage, the virtually defunct Etruscan language, and even languages Lucius had never heard of. There were sketches of historic sites Claudius has visited, together with his personal notes and copies of inscriptions taken from statues and other monuments.
Searching among the documents, Claudius found a scroll of heavy parchment, unrolled it on a small table, and placed weights to hold down the corners. A large circle drawn on the parchment was divided into quarters by a vertical line and a horizontal line and surrounded by notations. Though he knew little about astrology, Lucius recognized it as a horoscope.
“And not just any horoscope, but that of the emperor himself,” said Claudius. “This is an exact copy of the very horoscope that was cast for the young Octavius by the astrologer Theogenes of Apollonia. Surely you know the story? No? Ah, well, then…” Claudius cleared his throat.
“This was back in the days when the Divine Julius was still on earth, though very near the end of his life. He decided to send his nephew to be educated at Apollonia, on the west coast of Greece. For a companion, Octavius took along his dear friend Marcus Agrippa. The boys decided to have their horoscopes cast by the famous Theogenes. Agrippa went first, telling the astrologer the exact time and place of his birth. Theogenes disappeared into his study while the boys waited. The horoscope that resulted was so f-f-favourable – Theogenes swore he had never seen one to match it – that Octavius decided not to have his done after all, for fear that it would pale beside that of his friend. But Agrippa pressed him – teased him mercilessly, I should imagine – until Octavius relented and gave the astrologer the information he needed. Again the boys waited. When Theogenes finally emerged from his study, he fell to his knees before Octavius in awe, and declared that Octavius would become the master of the world. They say – though I have never been able to verify this for certain – that the horoscope was delivered to Octavius at the very moment that his uncle was murdered back in Roma.
“Ever since that day, the emperor has been so sure of his d-d-destiny that he’s made no secret of the hour of his birth. He even puts his sign, Capricornus, on his c-coinage. If anything merits classification as a state secret, you’d think it’s the emperor’s horoscope! Yet here it is, for you and me to study, just as Theogenes cast it. And since we have access to the information, we might as well use it.”
“But, Claudius, I know nothing about astrology.”
“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: euthanasia, ‘good death.’ That is all I hope for: euthanasia. I accept that I cannot control the time and place; that will be chosen by others. But I wish to go as quietly and as painlessly as possible, with my dignity intact.” He turned away from them, drew himself upright, and composed himself. “You understand that you must repeat this to no one. Now go. You are both dismissed.”