“Don’t look so glum, Hilarion. It’s only when the Praetorians come inside the house that we should worry. This visit was not unexpected.” Lucius looked at Flavia and raised an eyebrow.
“I should conceal myself,” she said.
Lucius nodded to Hilarion, who stepped to one of the bookcases that appeared to be built into the wall, took hold of a scroll that was not a scroll but a lever, and pulled it. The bookcase opened like a door. Hilarion ushered Flavia into the hidden compartment, then shut the bookcase behind her. Lucius sighed. In such a world, it was a foolish man who did not have at least one concealed room in his house.
For his visit to the palace, he dressed in his finest toga. The rain had abated for a while. A shaft of bright sunlight, unseen for days, broke through the clouds and caused the wet paving stones and puddles to glisten.
He was conducted to a part of the palace he had never seen before. The narrowness of the passages, the small size of the rooms, and the less formal demeanour of the courtiers seemed to indicate that this was a more private, less public area of the imperial complex. At various points he was searched for weapons, not once but three times. At last, after waiting alone for an hour in a small chamber off a small garden, he was joined by Catullus.
“Greetings, Pinarius,” said Catullus, in a flat tone of voice that acknowledged nothing of the history between them.
“Greetings, Catullus.” Lucius strove to keep his voice steady, though the very sight of the man made his heart beat faster. His palms began to sweat, so profusely that he had to wipe them on his toga. Fortunately, the blind courtier could not see his distress.
“For a man who professes to have no interest in public affairs, your visits to these premises are surprisingly frequent,” remarked Catullus. He smiled. Perhaps he was making a joke to set Lucius at ease. Or was he toying with him?
“I came because I was summoned. What is it you want from me?”
Catullus began to pace. He knew the room well. Without hesitation, and apparently without thinking, he could pace from end to end, turning just before he reached a wall.
“What I’m about to tell you, you must never reveal to anyone. Do you understand, Pinarius?”
“Yes.”
“On penalty of death.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? In the past, Caesar has been extraordinarily merciful to you; unduly so, in my opinion. But if you should ever reveal what I’m about to tell you, I shall see to it myself that you’re put to death.”
“You make yourself clear, Catullus.”
“Good. Foul weather we’ve been having, don’t you think?”
“Surely you didn’t summon me here to discuss the weather.”
“As a matter of fact, I did.” Catullus ceased pacing. “You are aware that there have been a great many lightning strikes in the city during recent months?”
“I’m aware of this, yes.”
“Regarding these numerous lightning strikes, Caesar is not happy. To be candid, Caesar is in some distress.”
“Every man fears lightning.”
“It’s not the lightning itself that Caesar fears, but what it may portend. I will explain. Many years ago, when Caesar was only a boy, an astrologer predicted the day of his death – indeed, the very hour. The astrologer also predicted the manner of Caesar’s death: by a blade. At the time, the date foretold must have seemed very distant. But time passes. The day is swiftly approaching. And for a boy, ‘death by blade’ meant death in battle, as a brave warrior; but now when he imagines death by a blade, Caesar thinks of treachery and assassination.”
“Does Caesar believe this prediction made so long ago?”
“Whether he takes it seriously or not, a man never forgets such a prediction. Once, Caesar’s father made a joke of it. The Divine Vespasian was dining with his two sons; the young Domitian was suspicious of a mushroom he had been served and refused to eat it. The Divine Vespasian laughed. ‘Even if that mushroom is of a poisonous variety, you must be immune to it, my son, for we know the day of your death is a long way off, and it isn’t mushrooms that will do you in!’”
Lucius shrugged. “Perhaps, if the day predicted draws close, Caesar should summon this astrologer and order him to cast his horoscope again.”
“The astrologer is long dead.”
“So the man can neither be punished if his prediction proves false, nor rewarded if his prediction proves correct.”
Catullus grunted. “You twist words like Apollonius of Tyana!”
“You flatter me, Catullus. But surely there are other astrologers whom Caesar can consult.”
“He did so. Ascletarion, whom Caesar had never consulted before, cast Caesar’s horoscope afresh. The astrologer made no specific predictions, but what he had to say was unsettling nonetheless. Because of a conjunction of the stars, the beneficent influence of Minerva, the goddess whom Caesar most venerates, is waning. According to Ascletarion, Minerva’s protection will be weakest on the very day that was predicted for his death. Naturally, Caesar was alarmed. To relieve his anxiety, he decided to test the man’s skill. He asked if Ascletarion could predict the manner of his own end, to which the astrologer replied, ‘Yes, Dominus; I will be torn apart by dogs.’”
Lucius almost laughed aloud. “Could it be that Ascletarion feared the ill-tempered emperor was inclined to throw him to the dogs in the arena, and thought to save himself by predicting that very thing, knowing Caesar would then not dare to do so?”
Catullus grimaced. “If the astrologer outwitted anyone, it was himself. Caesar ordered the astrologer to be strangled to death, then and there. I watched him die a most unpleasant death, and thought: so much for his powers of prediction. Caesar ordered me to arrange the man’s funeral rites that very afternoon, so that his body might be disposed of quickly. But, though the day had been clear, a storm blew up. A deluge extinguished the flames before the body was consumed. A pack of wild dogs appeared. Before anyone could stop them, they bolted onto the pyre and tore the corpse to pieces.”
Lucius shook his head. “So Ascletarion’s prediction was correct. For their sake, I hope Caesar has sought the advice of no more astrologers.”
“His attention is currently fixed upon a soothsayer from one of the Germanic tribes, a man named Eberwig. Caesar summoned him all the way from Colonia Agrippina on the strength of the man’s reputed knowledge of lightning. As the art of lightning reading has declined among the Romans, it seems to have been taken up by the Germans. Even now the man is making a thorough study of all the lightning strikes that have taken place in recent months, charting their location and frequency. Eberwig will deliver his report to Caesar today.”
“This is all very fascinating,” said Lucius. “But what has any of this to do with me? Why am I here?”
“When he cannot sleep at night, Caesar reads; and of late, Caesar hardly sleeps at all, which means he reads a great deal. His current fascination is the reign of Tiberius, whose career he finds of great interest. Far into the night Caesar pores over documents from the reign of his predecessor. Secretaries are sent to fetch this document or that. Among Tiberius’s private journals, Caesar has come across a mention of your grandfather, who was also named Lucius Pinarius. You are aware that he was an augur?”
“As was my father.”
“Yes. Your father performed auguries for both the Divine Claudius and for Nero. But before that, your grandfather was known to Tiberius, and to Claudius, and even to the Divine Augustus.”
Lucius’s father had spoken little of his own father, whose exile to Alexandria he considered a chapter of the family’s history better forgotten. “I know that my grandfather was a friend of his cousin Claudius. And I know he ran afoul of Tiberius, who banished him from Roma. But that had nothing to do with augury, or with lightning. It’s my understanding that my grandfather’s troubles stemmed from dabbling in astrology at a time when Tiberius was banning all astrologers.”