“I know it to be so,” Cicero continued, “from many visits. And I thought I would put ashore near my home, to greet hospes and dignitaries, drop in on old acquaintances and dispatch letters for the east, rather than take them to Rome, only to send them back again.”
“Very wise, I am sure.”
“And so I stepped ashore, much as you see me now. Sure that the people of Italia would flock to hear my tales of foreign postings and administrative adventure.”
“And did they?”
“Flock they did, demanding to know what news I brought from Rome.”
“But you had not been to Rome!”
“Quite so! All roads lead to Rome, it seems, and all news must similarly issue from there. I protested I had been away in foreign climes, attending to the demanding affairs of the Republic, and some… fool chimes in with: ‘Oh yes, you have been in Africa, have you not?’”
“Africa!”
“Africa! So I reply that I have been in Sicilia, and some other slow-witted fool interrupts and says: ‘Of course, how is Syracuse?’”
“You were not in Syracuse?”
“Sicilia is more than just Syracuse! So I renounced effort. I nodded and declared my time in parts beyond Italia both useful and productive, and feigned thereafter that I was merely another of the Roman herd, taking myself to Puteoli for the baths and relaxation. A valuable lesson learned.”
“Puteoli is full of fools?”
“Romans are deaf to facts and correction. My origin mattered not, concern was only for my arrival. And so I made sure I was seen. Seen in the right circles, seen at the baths, seen to be at home to callers, whensoever they called.”
“To what do we owe gratitude for the honor of your presence here?” Batiatus said, barging into the conversation, fortified with wine.
The assembled Romans visibly winced as the lanista tactlessly broached the subject that propriety dare not raise.
“A… matter religious,” Cicero said, carefully.
“Your meaning, exactly?” Batiatus persisted. He was unaware that Verres was backing away from them, carefully separating himself from the conversation lest he be tainted by its collapse. Even so, he lurked, close at hand, pretending to watch the arena even as he listened on the balcony.
“You are refreshingly direct, Batiatus,” Cicero laughed. “I am sent from Rome for the investigation of a possible prophecy.”
“A foretelling of a foretelling?” Batiatus said frowning.
“Indeed!”
Ilithyia and Verres stood next to each other both tense, their eyes staring, unblinking, at the burned flesh and writhing flames of the executions, their lips parted in unified anticipation.
“Does not Rome already have prophecy enough, with the Sibylline Books?” Batiatus asked bluntly.
“The Sibylline Books are in a state of… renewal.” Cicero said, sucking in air through his teeth. “The priests of the Capitoline ready to consider any additions.”
“Add more to them, as water to jug or wine to cup!” Batiatus chuckled at his conversational gambit, and took the opportunity to refill both their goblets.
“It is not so tawdry,” Cicero observed. “Rather it is the serious business of the Republic, an effort to shore up our access to numinous portent. The collection of prophecies from all over the known world.”
“So it is like a visit to the fortune teller?” Batiatus laughed.
“It is most certainly not!”
Verres and Ilithyia exchanged a nervous glance as Batiatus dug himself deeper. Verres suppressed a smile, as did the Roman lady. Ilithyia stroked her neck with a finger, giving the universal gesture of a slit throat. Verres nodded with a grin, and clinked his goblet against hers as they both stifled their laughter.
“You resemble a giddy maiden,” Batiatus went on, “who wants hands held and stories of future husband told. There is an Egyptian down at the docks who will read the lines in the palm of your hand, relating how many children you will have, and how many lovers-”
“The Sibylline Books are not the work of Egyptian fortune tellers!” Cicero said, his voice raised in protest.
“Are you so sure? You said yourself these oracles find source all over the world. Must these soothsayers pass examination before their work is handed over? Or can anyone take part?”
“Clues of particular note mark out the true soothsayers from mere conjurors and charlatans.”
“Of what clues do you speak?”
“I believe that the main clues are linguistic. Oracles jabber away in all sorts of nonsense languages. But if a dizzy, drunken priestess in, say, Bithynia, stumbling and coughing under the influence of some Asian incense, should suddenly spout prophecy in the ancient language of Italia, then one can assume with good reason that a message from the Sibyl is being received.”
“And that is the business bringing you to Neapolis?”
“Something of that nature. Say that… say that a Syrian girl, blind since birth and permanently addled on the strange, dream-inducing spices of the orient, began to speak in Greek verse about matters particular to southern Italia. A place which she had never been, or even heard tell of. Would that be strange enough for you?”
“You would find me not surprised?” Batiatus laughed loudly at his own joke, smiling at his fellow dignitaries, not noticing their frozen expressions.
“The order of the prophecies is unclear,” Cicero explained patiently, as if talking to a child. “Their relevance is not immediately apparent. Where we use everyday names, they supply poetic allusion. Reference to forgotten gods or strange phenomena. There was, assuredly, material in the Sibylline Books that told us how to fight off Hannibal and his elephants, but, tell me, what is the likelihood that your forefathers would have believed a direct reference to African monsters walking over the mountains to the north?”
“Do you seek to tell me that the Sibylline prophecies tell of futures, but can only be understood after events have occurred?”
“The books do not fail, only our ability to interpret them.”
“So of what use are they?”
“They offer guidance. When an event unfolds as described in the books, it gives us a brief purchase on the text around it. It allows us, for a moment, to see what is happening in the line after that, and then we can see what is to come.”
“But if everything is pre-ordained, what matters it if we can see the future or not? The future will come to us anyway.”
“Imagine Rome as a ship. A vessel with a divinely mandated destination, sailing through unfamiliar seas.”
Batiatus thought for a moment.
“And the Sibylline Books as chart? A map through time?” he said.
“If it aids understanding to look upon things in that way, yes.”
Gaius Verres shook his head in disbelief and winked at Ilithyia. She smiled in return and they sipped from their goblets. Watching them, Lucretia realized that they were savoring not the wine but the idiocy of her own husband.
“And you are here with promise of chart?” Batiatus continued.
“Not chart, but seer,” Cicero said. “I had word from the late Marcus Pelorus that within his walls there was an oracle of the distant Getae.”
Nearby, Gaius Verres suddenly went into a coughing fit, spluttering red wine all over Ilithyia, who scolded him for damage to her silks, and patted his back in accentuated sympathy.
“A slave of Pelorus?” Batiatus asked with a glance at the choking Verres.
“A recent acquisition from Syrian slavers. A savage, untamed priestess who could be persuaded to speak telling portents with the right inducement.”
Timarchides frowned and looked from his wax tablet to the holding pen, and back again. He peered into the gloom at the two gladiators.
“Spartacus and Varro?” he asked.