Sebastianus watched in fascination as saliva and spittle flowed from his astrologer's mouth, while those fingertips manipulated and probed until, after an agonizing moment, the girl said, "You may spit the lemon out."
Timonides did not need further encouragement. He spat saliva and lemon pulp into the girl's hand.
"Here was the cause of your distress," she said, showing him the speck in her palm. "A tiny calculus had formed in your salivary gland, and it needed the flow of saliva to flush it out."
"Great Zeus," Timonides murmured as he rubbed his jaw.
"You will have a little tenderness for a while," Ulrika said as she gracefully rose from the chair, "but it will go away and you will have no more distress." She delicately wiped her hand on the hem of her dress.
"What form of payment do you desire?" Sebastianus asked, amazed at what he had just witnessed. How had she known to do that?
"No payment," she said. "Just introduce me to an honest trader who will take me to Colonia as quickly as possible."
Sebastianus picked up her packs and bundles and said, "I know just the man." He paused to say to Timonides, "I assume you are now able to cast an accurate reading?"
"That I am, master, just as soon as I get some sustenance into my stomach!"
Sebastianus nodded curtly and led the way through the noisy throng, with Timonides watching his master and the strange girl vanish into the crowd.
AN IRON STEWPOT BUBBLED over a fire between two tents in the Gallus compound. Next to it, an oven made of portable stones gave off the aroma of baking bread. Upon the hot stones, fresh eggs sizzled in olive oil.
A large man in a gray, stained tunic stirred the pot with a wooden spoon. He had a round, flat face with slanting eyes and a baby's smile. When he saw Timonides approach, his smile brightened.
"Great news, my boy!" Timonides boomed. "I am cured! By the gods, I can eat again. Dish me up that stew, boy, I am ravenous."
Nestor was the chief cook for the Gallus caravan, preparing food for Sebastianus and his inner circle, which included a bookkeeper, a personal valet, a secretary, two assistants to help run the caravan, and Timonides the astrologer. Nestor had never learned to read, being simple-minded, and so he had never read a recipe. But he had a natural talent for concocting meals by instinct, knowing just which spice to add and how much. "Yes, Papa," he said with a giggle. Nestor was thirty years old and Timonides's only child.
As the old Greek sat down to the savory meal, looking forward with relish to every bite, he rubbed his jaw where there was no longer any pain, and he thought of the girl with the clever fingers, how quickly and easily she had rescued him from the worst hell imaginable. A hell that he prayed he would never visit again—
He froze. With bread in hand, ready to scoop up the pork and mushroom stew, Timonides squinted through the crowd of traders and workers, merchants and travelers, and a terrible thought sprang into his mind.
Timonides the astrologer held his office very seriously. Before casting a horoscope, he always bathed, meditated, changed into clean robes, purified himself physically and spiritually. He believed most deeply that the casting of horoscopes was as sacred and solemn as any temple ritual, that astrologers were as holy and reverent as any temple priest. The gods used the stars to send messages to mortals, and the interpretation of those messages was a serious and lofty affair.
Unlike with many seers and augurs, it never entered his mind to use his talents to his own benefit. Timonides was given food and lodging, and a secure place in the Gallus household, and he was content with that, knowing he was going about holy business. The world was full of soothsayers who used their art to make a profit, and some lived very well by telling lies. But those charlatans, he was certain, were going to burn in the fires of Hell for eternity. Not Timonides the astrologer, who held a close and secret wish in his heart.
And herein lay the tragic irony of Timonides the star-reader. Destined forever to read the stars for other people, the astrologer himself would never have his own horoscope cast. Timonides did not know the date of his birth, or where he was born, or who his parents were. He had been found on one of Rome's many trash heaps where unwanted infants were left exposed to die. Sometimes they were claimed for slavery, or by a barren woman desperate for a child. Mostly they perished, as people assumed such unwanted babies were defective or cursed. But a widow in Rome's Greek quarter had found the mewling infant lying among rotting meat and horse dung and, out of compassion, brought it home.
And so the astrologer grew up not knowing his own sign, his own planets and houses, where his moon and sun were supposed to be. Therefore it was his lifelong wish and most cherished prayer that someday, somehow, the gods would reveal to their humble servant the stars of his birth. To this end Timonides had kept his astrological practice pure. He had never cast an inaccurate horoscope, had never twisted the meaning in the stars to suit a more favorable reading.
Until now.
Because, the terrible thought that had suddenly entered his mind was: What if the stone comes back?
And he felt a blow to his chest as if a mule had kicked him. Was it possible his salivary gland would produce another calculus? Was the pain going to return?
Am I going to be kept from my precious food again?
And then he thought: I must keep the girl with me.
Timonides the honest and pure astrologer was instantly filled with terror.
Great Zeus, he thought, his mind racing along a track laid with blasphemy and sacrilege. He had to make sure the girl traveled with them. But he knew there would be no persuading his master to bring a lone female along on a caravan consisting of men and no other women. There was only one solution: Timonides the sacred astrologer must falsify Sebastianus's horoscope.
As it was never a good idea to make decisions on an empty stomach, he scooped some chunks of pork and gravy onto his bread, hefted it into his mouth, and munched with heavenly delight. As more and more of the stew went through his lips and down his throat, his every taste bud waking up to garlic and onion, reminding him of what it had been like to be unable to eat, filling him with dread that such deprivation would visit him again, Timonides the astrologer thought: But it would be just a small untruth. Not really a lie, more like a fiction. And I won't exactly say it is what the stars said, I will merely hint and let my master draw the vital conclusions.
Timonides washed the stew down with beer that had been kept cool in wet straw, and as he smacked his lips and signaled to Nestor for a second bowl, he told himself that what he was about to do was a small favor to ask of the gods. In all his years of serving the heavens and the stars, he had never asked for anything in return, had never once used astrology to his own gain. Surely they would not mind one tiny self-serving transgression from an old man who had been staunchly faithful.
As more greasy pork and piquant onions awoke his palate, reminding him of culinary pleasures to come, Timonides the astrologer started to feel good about what he had to do.