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.”
“Yes, that’s correct. But before that, when the Divine Augustus was still alive, he called upon your father to interpret a lightning strike which occurred in the old imperial palace. Did your grandfather never tell you the story?”
“I never knew my grandfather, and my father never mentioned such a story.”
“Amazing, how families fail to pass on the most interesting tales about themselves! Yet I assure you, in his private journal, Tiberius gives all the pertinent details. There was a lighting strike. Augustus called upon your grandfather to interpret the omen. Your grandfather told Augustus that the strike meant he had exactly one hundred days to live. And when the hundredth day arrived, Augustus died.”
“This has the ring of a legend.”
“Tiberius recounts it as a fact, and Domitian accepts it as such.”
“Again I ask, what has this to do with me?”
“Just as the Divine Augustus was convinced, correctly, that your father was the man to interpret that lightning strike, so our Caesar has become convinced that you, the grandson of Lucius Pinarius, are the man who can determine the significance of this current plague of lightning. Why else have the gods inspired Caesar to spare your life when he had every reason to snuff it out, not once but twice? Caesar now sees that you were fated for this task.”
Lucius was about to dismiss the idea as nonsense, then realized that Flavia must have known that this was the reason Domitian was summoning him to the palace. Catullus was offering Lucius a means to enter the emperor’s presence and perhaps even to gain his confidence. How could such a charade lead to the result that he and Flavia mutually desired? That he could not foresee, but he knew that Flavia would want him to cooperate with Catullus.
“You realize that I’m not an augur, like my father and grandfather?” he said.
“Yes. But your father actively practised the science for Nero while you were growing up. You must have learned something about it simply from observing him.”
Just enough, Lucius thought, to perform a mock augury himself, if he had to, without looking completely foolish. “Yes, I saw the ritual performed many times. I know how it’s done.”
“And your father must have confided certain secrets of the science to you – the tricks of his trade?”
“As a matter of fact, he did. He liked talking about augury. I suppose he had hopes that I would follow his example one day and become an augur myself.” Lucius recalled the last time he had seen his father. On the day Titus Pinarius left the house to join Nero on his final flight, he took his second-best lituus with him, and left the family heirloom, the beautiful old ivory lituus of their ancestors, for Lucius, who had hardly looked at it since that day and had done nothing to pursue the study of augury. The old lituus was still in his possession, kept in a chest of keepsakes in the vestibule of his house, just under the niche that held the wax mask of his father.
“Caesar wishes you to take the auspices,” said Catullus. “He wants you to observe the skies for lightning and to give him your interpretation, not as a member of the college of augurs but as the grandson and namesake of Lucius Pinarius.”
“Here? Now?”
“Why not? The day is stormy, with no lack of lightning.”
“This seems most irregular. Isn’t Caesar’s German soothsayer already at work to interpret the lightning?”
“Caesar will listen to both of you, and compare your findings. Will you do this or not?”
“What if I refuse?”
“That is not the answer I’m looking for.”
Lucius took a deep breath. “I’ll do what Caesar asks.”
Without an assistant to guide him, using only his staff, the blind man led Lucius across the small, sodden garden and then through a series of hallways. Their destination was a gravel courtyard surrounded by a low portico. Lucius recognized the Auguratorium; he had seen his father take the auspices in this place, which had once been situated outside the imperial palace but was now completely enclosed within the House of the Flavians.