Empire (7 page)

“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 color 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.”

As he was leaving the room, Lucius looked back to see the emperor pick up the baby shoes of his great-grandson and stare at them, ashen-faced and with tears in his eyes.

Euphranor was nowhere to be seen. They found their own way down the steps.

“It’s almost as if he was expecting it,” said Lucius. He felt utterly drained.

“Perhaps he
was
expecting it. P-p-perhaps it was what he
wanted
to hear.”

“What do you mean, Claudius? Do you think your great-uncle is contemplating suicide? Or that he fears being murdered? What did Augustus mean, about not being able to control the time and place of his death? ‘That will be chosen by others,’ he said. What others? The gods?”

Claudius shrugged. “He’s an old m-m-man, Lucius. You and I can’t begin to imagine all the terrible things he’s seen, all the terrible things he’s done. Life has brought him a great deal of disappointment, especially in the last few years. So many d-deaths in the family, so much strife.” He drew a sharp breath. “Speaking of which . . .”

Coming toward them down the hallway, imposing despite her advanced age and the unassuming nature of her dress, was Claudius’s grandmother. The wife of Augustus did nothing to color her hair or mask her wrinkles, and wore a stola simple enough to please even her luxury-hating husband, yet Livia projected an undeniable aura of privilege and power. Walking beside her, in an equally simple tunic, was her son, Claudius’s uncle, Tiberius, a robustly built man of middle age with a dour expression. By all accounts, Augustus intended to make Tiberius his heir, despite the fact that his stepson was not a blood relation.

Claudius and Lucius stepped to one side, but, instead of passing by, Livia and her son came to a stop before them. Claudius swallowed hard, then began to introduce Lucius, but he stuttered so badly that Livia cut him short with a wave of her hand.

“Never mind, grandson, I know who this is: young Lucius Pinarius.” She looked them up and down and raised an eyebrow. “Curious, that the two of you should still be wearing your trabeas from yesterday. Off to take the auspices, at this early hour? Or did you never go to bed? Yes, from the look of you, I think you’ve been up all night. But doing what? I wonder. Not celebrating, or else you’d smell of wine.”

She stared at Lucius, who was at a loss for an answer. The emperor had explicitly ordered them to speak of the omen to no one.

Livia seemed amused by his discomfort. “Can’t you see that I’m teasing you, young man? Nothing that happens in this house is a secret to me. I’m perfectly aware that lightning struck my husband’s statue last night, not once, but twice. While I’m amazed that he would entrust the interpretation of such an omen to the likes of you two, I’d be curious to know what you came up with. No answer? Ah, well, I shall simply ask him myself.”

Lucius glanced at Claudius. It was obvious that he lived in fear of his grandmother. Tiberius apparently did not frighten him as much, for Claudius dared to reach out and tap the sprig of laurel pinned to the man’s tunic.

“From last n-n-night, uncle? The storm is over and you need the laurel’s protection no longer. But I should think an atheist like yourself had no f-f-fear of lightning.” Claudius turned to Lucius. “Uncle Tiberius has no faith in the gods, and thus no belief in d-divination. If there are no gods, there is no point in trying to discern their will. Uncle Tiberius spurns augury. He puts his faith entirely in astrology.”

Tiberius looked at Claudius glumly. “That is correct, nephew. The stars decide when a man is born and when he dies, and the stars determine the course of his life. The logic is undeniable. Some mechanism unimaginably huge must control the movements of the stars, which in turn control our tiny lives. We mortals are many times removed from whatever primal force animates the cosmos.”

“Then the stars control humanity rather as the m-m-mechanism of a ballista controls the trajectory of its missile,” suggested Claudius, “or the cogs and gears of a water wheel control the m-m-movements of a leaf caught in the channel? Is that all we are, Uncle Tiberius, missiles hurtling through space, or leaves on a torrent?”

“Not bad metaphors, Claudius, especially for someone who believes lightning is an omen.” Tiberius sniggered and shook his head. “Only a fool or a child could believe that lightning is a weapon thrown down by some malicious giant in the clouds. Lightning is a natural phenomenon which occurs according to very precise, if very complicated, rules, just like the movement of the stars. I believe in science, Claudius, not superstition.”

Livia sighed, bored by the turn of the conversation. She took her son’s arm and indicated her desire to move on.

Claudius watched until they disappeared around a corner, gnashing his teeth. “There goes the next emperor.”

“Is it certain he’ll succeed Augustus?”

“There’s always a chance the old man will ch-ch-change his mind about Agrippa. He’s Augustus’s only surviving grandson, after all. And only two years older than you and me—young enough to enjoy a long reign. Agrippa’s banishment was Livia’s doing, I suspect: people who stand in her way have a habit of either dying or disappearing. Uncle Tiberius is the last man standing, so Tiberius is the heir apparent. It’s probably for the best. The bleeding wound of the German frontier is the biggest problem facing the empire right now, and Tiberius is a c-competent general, even if he is an atheist. I fear, Lucius, that our aptitude for divination will not serve us as well under the next emperor as it has under our present one.”

“Served us well? I don’t see how I’ve been well served by any of this!” Lucius snapped, suddenly feeling completely undone by lack of sleep and the strain of meeting the emperor’s demands. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “What if our prediction becomes known, and the emperor
doesn’t
die in a hundred days? I shall look like a fool!”

“N-n-ninety-nine days, actually—”

“And if he
does
die—”

“Then you shall look like a young fellow wise beyond his years.”

“Or will people hold us responsible for his death? What’s that old Etruscan saying? ‘Men blame the soothsayer.’ ”

“Oh, no, Lucius, if the emperor dies, it’s not you and me whom people will suspect.” Claudius glanced toward the spot where they had last seen Livia and Tiberius. “You might do well to take up a new study, Lucius. How much astrology do you think you can learn in n-ninety-nine days?”