Empire

AD 96

The weather was unusually stormy all through the summer months and into September – or Germanicus, as the month had been renamed by Domitian. As one violent tempest followed another, even casual observers noted the unprecedented occurrence of lightning. Lightning struck the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline. Lightning struck the Temple of the Flavians, causing damage to the statue of Vespasian in the sanctuary. Lightning struck the imperial palace on several occasions, including, it was said, a strike that caused a small fire in the emperor’s bedchamber. There was widespread speculation on what so many omens from the sky could mean.

Wrapped in a woolen cloak, Lucius sat on a stone bench in his sodden garden under the threatening morning sky. A bolt of lightning flashed above his head, casting a weird light on the glistening greenery around him, followed a heartbeat later by a thunderclap that caused the leaves to tremble. If there were omens to be perceived in all the lightning, Lucius was oblivious to them. He was again at a low ebb in his life, the lowest he had experienced since the death of Cornelia. How he missed her still, especially at a time like this!

He also missed Apollonius. Since his disappearance from Roma, the Teacher had been constantly on the move, travelling from city to city in the Eastern provinces, staying just ahead of Domitian’s agents. For a long time, Lucius had no news of him at all, but eventually the senator Nerva paid Lucius a visit and revealed that he was in contact with Apollonius. Nerva even offered to send messages between the two of them, sharing with Lucius a cipher with which he could encode his letters.

Apollonius’s letters to Lucius were encouraging, but brief to the point of being perfunctory. A typical letter, after being decoded, read: “I am in a coastal town which must not be named, among good people. I told them the tale of my friend in Roma who lay beside a lion in the arena. How I wish I had been there to see it. Your courage gives courage to others. Farewell.”

When Lucius wrote to Apollonius, he said little about himself – there was little to report about his secluded existence – so he mentioned events in Roma that he thought might be of interest to the Teacher, though he suspected that Nerva already kept Apollonius well informed on that count.

These infrequent exchanges were no substitute for the personal contact Lucius once had enjoyed with the Teacher. With Apollonius no longer present to set a daily example for him, Lucius often felt confused and lost. He still adhered to the Teacher’s tenets, abstaining from wine, meat, and sex, but the sense of balance and well-being he had felt at the side of Apollonius often eluded him.

More lightning flashed across the sky, followed by a long rumble of thunder.

Despite the Teacher’s belief that one should not dwell on sadness, Lucius found himself brooding over the loss of all the people who had mattered most to him. The suicide of his father had been a terrible blow, and even after all these years, the death of Sporus still haunted him. His mother had died from the plague that followed the fall of ash on Roma after Vesuvius erupted; without her presence to unite the family, he had drifted further and further from his three sisters, and his appearance in the arena, a mark of shame despite his pardon, had completed the estrangement. He had grieved when Domitian banished Dio of Prusa; now the emperor had seen fit to banish Epictetus as well, along with virtually every other philosopher in Roma. And while once Lucius had taken enjoyment from Martial and his wit, the poet’s sycophantic loyalty to Domitian had alienated Lucius long ago; to him, Martial might as well have been dead. With Apollonius gone and likely never to return to Roma, Lucius felt forlorn and isolated, the lone survivor of the ongoing catastrophe that was his life.

These morbid thoughts had been set off by the terrible news Lucius had received the day before: Epaphroditus was dead.

No man had ever been a better friend to him. Epaphroditus had kept Lucius safe through the treacherous months that followed the death of Nero, had welcomed Lucius into his circle of learned friends, had been the only person in whom Lucius confided about his love for Cornelia. The intimacy of their friendship had eventually lessened, but only because Lucius’s melancholy had driven him to seek inspiration outside Epaphroditus’s circle.

Epaphroditus’s reappearance in his life, at the trial of Apollonius, had been as brief as it was unexpected. After being spared by Domitian, Lucius arrived home from the arena to find a letter from Epaphroditus, delivered not by imperial courier but by a private messenger. The letter expressed joy at Lucius’s good fortune, but also made it clear there could be no further contact between them: “My return to imperial service and your singular history with the emperor make it impossible that we should be as close as we once were. You are a dangerous man to know. So am I. Let us keep a distance between us, for both our sakes. But know, Lucius, that I am forever fond of you, and I wish you well. I trust you will destroy this message after you have read it.”

In the years since, Lucius had not seen or communicated with his old friend and mentor. And now Epaphroditus was dead.

Hilarion, gleaning information in the Forum the preceding day, had brought Lucius the news. Hilarion had not been able to discover the cause or the exact circumstances of Epaphroditus’s death. Lucius hoped to learn more from the visitor he expected to arrive at any moment.

The cloudy morning sky turned as dark as night. A heavy rain began to fall. Shivering in his woolen cloak, Lucius retreated from the garden to his library, where Hilarion was stoking the fire in the brazier. Above the pelting of rain against the roof and the peals of thunder, Lucius did not hear the knock at the front door, but Hilarion did. The freedman showed the visitor to the library, then discreetly vanished.

Her long, voluminous cloak concealed her gender. The hood concealed her face. Did she wear the cloak to protect herself from the inclement weather, or because it allowed her to traverse the Palatine without being recognized? She stood before the brazier and warmed her hands for a moment, then pushed back the hood and shook her head, freeing tresses of lustrous black hair in which there were a few strands of grey.

Flavia Domitilla was the emperor’s niece, the daughter of his sister, Domitilla, but she did not share his typical Flavian features. Her cheekbones were high, her nose was small, her forehead broad. She had dark, flashing eyes and a sensual mouth. The outlines of her cloak hinted at a voluptuous figure giving way to stoutness. Though Flavia’s life scarcely resembled that of a Vestal – she had borne seven children – something about her reminded Lucius of Cornelia. Perhaps it was her willfulness and her spirit. Or perhaps it was simply that Flavia was the first woman since Cornelia who had inspired in Lucius a faint stirring of lust. But it was not to woo him, or even to seek his friendship, that she had come.

“Greetings, Flavia,” he said.

“Greetings, Lucius.”

“What can you tell me about the death of Epaphroditus?” he said.

She sighed. “I gather the two of you were close friends, back in the days of my grandfather?”

“Yes. I never ceased calling Epaphroditus my friend, though I hadn’t seen him in quite some time.”

“What have you heard?”

“Only what my freedman was able to pick up from the gossips in the Forum, which wasn’t much. It’s true that he’s dead, then?”

“Yes.”

“How did it happen?”

“Domitian condemned him. He took his own life.”

“But why? What was the charge?”

“The same charge my uncle always brings against his enemies, whether real or imagined. He was accused of conspiring against Caesar.”

“And was he?”

Flavia gazed at the fire. “You’re assuming that I would know such a thing – that I know who wants to see the emperor dead.”

“I should think that many men desire his death. But only a few would risk everything to make it happen. Was Epaphroditus one of them?”

Flavia pursed her lips. The firelight glinted in her eyes. Lucius found her beauty distracting. What would Apollonius say about her presence in Lucius’s house? Certainly, the Teacher would disdain the physical attraction Lucius felt towards her, but Flavia was not here because of that. She was here because they both desired the death of Domitian. What would Apollonius think of that? Would the Teacher ever approve of murder, even the murder of a tyrant?

Flavia shook her head. “I used to see Epaphroditus in the imperial court. His manner was so cowed and timid, I thought to myself: that fellow would make an ideal agent. Who would ever suspect him? So I approached Epaphroditus – cautiously, discreetly. And he rebuffed me. He told me he had seen enough chaos after the death of Nero, and could never be part of any plan that might lead to such chaos again, however well intentioned. His timidity was not an affectation, it was genuine. He wanted no more trouble in his life. Poor thing! Uncle should have left him where he was instead of dragging him out of retirement. His return to court was Epaphroditus’s undoing.”

“What made Domitian suspect him?”

She sighed. “The story is so pathetic, it pains me to tell it. Domitian heard a rumour that when Nero tried to kill himself, he failed, and it was Epaphroditus who finished the task for him. Out of loyalty and mercy, of course; nonetheless, it was the hand of Epaphroditus that dealt the final blow. Domitian called Epaphroditus before him and demanded that he tell him the truth. Epaphroditus was too frightened to lie. He admitted that he dealt the final blow to Nero. After that, Domitian became obsessed with the story. He made Epaphroditus tell it to him again and again, sometimes in the middle of the night, as if he were trying to trick the man into confessing a crime, letting slip some previously hidden detail. Eventually, Domitian got it into his head that Epaphroditus had murdered Nero. ‘And if so, was that such a bad thing?’ his courtiers would say. After all, without Nero dead, my grandfather would never have become emperor. But Uncle became convinced that Epaphroditus was a threat to him. ‘Once a man dares to kill an emperor, he’ll do it again,’ he said. Epaphroditus wasn’t involved in any conspiracy against Uncle. But he was the man who killed Nero, so he had to die.”

“That was almost thirty years ago. It’s absurd.”

“It’s mad. Uncle is mad. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I need your help.”

Her first visit had been a month earlier, and she had come to him twice since then, approaching Lucius as cautiously as she had approached Epaphroditus. Unlike Epaphroditus, Lucius had been receptive to her subtle overtures. Now she was back.

“I can also tell you that Epaphroditus left a will,” she said. “It was fetched from the keeping of the Vestals and read this morning. You were named.”

“Was I?”

“Yes. Of course, Uncle will probably invalidate the will and claim the estate for himself, since Epaphroditus was condemned as an enemy of the state.”

Did she think to incite him against Domitian by telling him that the emperor meant to cheat him out of an inheritance? If so, Lucius was offended. Greed was not his motivation. But what she said next made him realize that he had misjudged her.

“The will didn’t leave you much. Almost everything was left to a freedman of his, a philosopher called Epictetus, who’s been banished from Italy, with the stipulation that the proceeds should be used to set up a school. ‘Let my fortune, such as it is, foster the learning of philosophy.’ But to you he left a statue.”

“A statue?”

“It’s in his garden, apparently. A statue of an athlete, if I recall correctly.”

“The boxer Melancomas,” whispered Lucius, remembering the first time he had seen the statue, on the day the ash of Vesuvius fell on Roma.

“Yes, that’s the one.”

Epaphroditus had once remarked, “Melancomas will be here long after the rest of us are gone.” The statue had survived its owner.

Lucius stood across the brazier from her, looking at her through the flames. He tried to see her not as a beautiful woman or a grieving widow, nor as the niece of the emperor, but as a potential partner in a very dangerous enterprise. Could she be trusted to keep silent when she needed to? Was she clever enough to hatch a successful plot against a man as suspicious as her uncle, and would she have the courage to see it through?

Her reasons for hating and fearing her uncle were obvious enough. Married to a Flavian cousin and the mother of seven children, she had long been a member of Domitian’s inner circle. After the death of the emperor’s son, and the subsequent failure of his wife to produce another heir, Domitian had placed two of Flavia’s young sons in the line of succession. Her future and that of her family had looked very bright.

Lucius recalled an ancient Etruscan proverb: “Sit too near the flame and your cloak will catch fire.” In one of his frequent fits of suspicion, Domitian had turned against Flavia. His pretext was that she and her husband had secretly converted to the religion of the Jews, or else had become Christians; it hardly mattered which, since both cults promoted atheism and a disrespect for the gods, which could not be tolerated within the imperial family. Were the charges true? Lucius had never asked Flavia, nor had she told him.

Whatever the truth, Flavia’s husband had been executed, and she and her children had been exiled to the island of Pandateria, off the western coast of Italy. Eventually, Domitian had allowed Flavia to return to Roma – indeed, had compelled her to do so – while her children remained on the island to ensure their mother’s loyalty.

Flavia was bitter and desperate. She was motivated by revenge, but also by the desire to see her progeny survive. Every day Domitian lived, she and her children were in danger. A botched attempt to kill him would certainly mean death for them all. Even a successful assassination might lead to their destruction, but it might also free them from fear and allow them to be reunited.

Looking at her across the flames, Lucius made up his mind to trust her.

“You know why I’m here,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Will you help us?”

He thought of Cornelia. He thought of Epaphroditus. He also thought of Apollonius, but in the present circumstance he could find no inspiration in the precepts of the Teacher. Lucius himself was not truly a philosopher, only a sincere but oft-thwarted seeker. Nor was he a man of action – but he might yet become one. “Yes. I’ll help you. But what can I do?”

She flashed a smile of triumph. It marred her beauty. He suddenly saw her as the niece of her uncle, more like him than not – rapacious, unstoppable, murderous. She had made no mention of the danger he would surely face. Probably she did not care whether Lucius survived or not; he was simply a tool to be used. Her questionable motives, the likelihood that he would be killed, the risk of failure – none of these mattered to Lucius. He was determined to cast his lot with hers.

“Uncle will send for you very soon,” she said. “Today, perhaps. Perhaps within the hour.”

His heart sank. “By all the gods, what have I done to attract his attention this time?”

“It’s not what you’ve done, but who you are. You’ll understand when he tells you. He will ask a favor of you.”

“What favour?”

She shook her head. “It’s better if you know as little as possible. Agree to help him. Do as he asks. Observe and listen. Through you, an opportunity may arise that will lead us to success.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to, not yet. Just go to him when he summons you.”

“That’s all you can tell me?”

“One more thing. Within the House of the Flavians, there is one person whom you can trust absolutely. If he should tell you to say or do something, do as he says. I speak of an imperial steward named Stephanus. He’s a brave man, and not squeamish. When the moment finally comes, he’s the man we’re all counting on.”

Hilarion appeared in the doorway, looking shaken. “Forgive me for interrupting-”

“What is it, Hilarion?”

“There’s a visitor in the vestibule. A courtier from the palace. He says he’s come to take you there. Praetorians came with him. They’re waiting for him in the street.”

“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.”

“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.

Under a nearby portico, shielded from the drizzling rain and surrounded by courtiers, sat Domitian, who looked up at their arrival. Lucius suddenly felt unsure of himself. To perform a religious travesty for a man he wanted dead, Lucius could hardly look to the Teacher for inspiration.

To stall for time, he told Catullus that he would need the lituus of his ancestors.

“Surely any lituus will do,” said Catullus.

“No, it must be the ivory lituus I keep with my father’s things. I’ll have to go home and get it.”

“No, you’ll stay right here. Someone will fetch it for you.”

A nearby courtier, overhearing, stepped forward. He was a middle-aged man with bristling eyebrows and a neatly trimmed beard. “I’ll go for it,” the man said.

“Very well, Stephanus,” said Catullus. Lucius’s ears pricked up at the name. “Pinarius will tell you where to find it while I explain the delay to Caesar.”

As soon Catullus was out of earshot, Lucius whispered, “I heard your name spoken earlier today, before I came here.”

Stephanus nodded. “Ten days hence,” he said quietly, barely moving his lips.

Lucius wrinkled his brow. What was the man talking about?

“Ten days hence,” Stephanus repeated. “Fourteen days before the Kalends of Domitianus, at the fifth hour of the day. Can you remember that?”

Lucius stared at him blankly for a moment, then nodded. “Yes,” he said, in a normal tone of voice. “I keep it in an antique chest in the vestibule, just under the wax mask of my father. You can’t mistake it – a beautiful old thing, made of solid ivory. My freedman Hilarion will help you find it.”

“Then I’m off,” said Stephanus. “I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”

Domitian was not pleased by the delay. He strummed his fingers against the arms of his chair. He tapped his foot nervously. He glared at Lucius. He muttered something to Catullus.

Catullus shook his head. “Dominus, surely it would be better to wait until after-”

“Fetch him now!” said Domitian. “And take Pinarius elsewhere, until he’s ready for the augury.”

As Lucius was led away, he passed a man wearing such an outlandish costume that he looked like a parody of a German, with a huge mane of red hair and a bristling red beard, fur boots on his feet, tanned leggings, and a tightly laced leather vest that left bare much of his broad, hairy chest. His bare arms were decorated with bracelets that were fashioned as coiling dragons and covered with runes.

Lucius was shown to a small waiting room and left alone. He spied a grated window high in one wall. He stood on a chair. If he peered to one side, looking down the length of the portico, he could see most of the imperial party, including Domitian, and he could hear everything that was said.

Catullus spoke to a translator. “You will tell Eberwig that Caesar is ready for him to deliver his report.”

The translator spoke to Eberwig. The German replied to the translator at length.

Domitian leaned forward impatiently. “What is he saying?”

The translator looked uneasy. “He says, if he should deliver news to Caesar which displeases Caesar, what will become of him?”

“Tell him to speak,” said Domitian. “As long as he tells the truth, he’ll receive his reward and remain unharmed. But if he doesn’t speak at once, I’ll have him strangled.”

The translator and Eberwig conferred at length. At last the translator addressed Domitian in a quavering voice. “Dominus, the soothsayer declares that he has examined all the evidence of the lightning strikes most scrupulously and he is convinced that he has reached a correct interpretation. He says that the frequency and location of the strikes foretell an imminent change at the very highest level of power. He says that this can only mean… yourself.”

“Speak clearly.”

“He says that very soon there will be a new emperor in Roma.”

Domitian sat back, nervous ly picking at something on his forehead. “When?”

“He cannot say exactly. But very soon.”

“A matter of months?”

The translator questioned Eberwig. “Not months, Dominus. Days.”

There was a flash of lightning, followed by thunder.

“Take him away,” said Domitian.

Eberwig protested. The translator cleared his throat. “He says, what of his reward?”

“If his prophecy comes true, let him seek his payment from my successor!” snapped Domitian. “Now take him away and keep him under close guard.”

An uneasy silence followed. Eventually Stephanus appeared, slightly out of breath from running. Lucius was brought back to the courtyard. Stephanus stepped forward and handed him the lituus.

There could be no more delaying. Lucius took a deep breath. He looked at the lituus in his hands. He had not touched it in many years. What a lovely thing it was, with all its intricate carvings of birds and beasts!

As he had seen his father do many times when he was a boy, Lucius gazed up at the skies and marked out a zone for his augury. The sky was cooperative: almost at once a flash of lightning rent the dark clouds to the north, and then another. Lucius waited awhile longer and was rewarded by a third flash of lightning, so close that it illuminated the whole courtyard with a spectral blue light. It was followed by a tremendous clap of thunder that made everyone jump except Lucius, whose thoughts were focused entirely on what he was about to say.

He turned and faced Domitian. “The augury is done, Dominus.”

“So quickly?”

“The signs are unmistakable.”

“And?”

“There is to be a great change. A change so great it will affect the whole world. The change will be sudden, not gradual. It will happen in a single moment – like a thunderclap.”

“When?”

“The signs are very clear about that – unusually so. By counting the branches of all three strikes and observing their relationship to the main trunks of lightning, an exact number of days and hours from this moment can be calculated. The event will take place-”

“Not out loud, you fool!” snapped Domitian. “Whisper it in my ear.”

Lucius approached the emperor. He had never been so close to the man before. He was close enough to smell his breath, and to know that he had eaten onions recently. He was close enough to see a black hair that grew out of one nostril, and a wart on the man’s forehead. He was close enough to kill him, if he’d had a weapon. He fought back the revulsion he felt and spoke in Domitian’s ear.

“Exactly ten days hence, during the fifth hour of the day.”

Domitian calculated the date. “Fourteen days before the Kalends, in the hour before noon. You’re certain?”

“Absolutely.”

Domitian gripped Lucius’s wrist, squeezing it painfully hard. “You will return here on that day, Lucius Pinarius. You will be with me during that hour. If your prediction is false – if you’re playing some trick on me – I’ll see you strangled at my feet. Do you understand?”

“I understand, Dominus.”

“You will speak of this to no one.”

“As you wish, Dominus.”

Domitian released him. The emperor sat back, nervously picking at the wart on his forehead with one hand and making a curt gesture of dismissal with the other. Guards escorted Lucius from the courtyard, through the palace, and all the way back to his house. One of the guards, he noticed, took up a post across the street from his door. His comings and goings were to be carefully watched, and no one could call on him without being observed. He could expect no further visits from Flavia Domitilla.

That night he wrote a coded letter to Apollonius, telling him of the day’s events – his summons to the palace, the nervous demeanour of Domitian, and the sham augury, which he described in detail. Where was Apollonius now? Nerva would know. When he was done, Lucius would dispatch Hilarion to take the letter to an intermediary who would take it to Nerva. They never communicated directly.

Lucius finished the letter with the customary closing of “Farewell,” and felt a chill as he wrote the word.

On the morning of the fourteenth day before the Kalends of Domitianus, the month previously known as October, Praetorian Guards arrived at the house of Lucius Pinarius.

Lucius was ready for them, dressed in his best toga. He had slept surprisingly well the night before. He rose at daybreak and wrote farewell letters to his old friends Dio and Epictetus, and even an affectionate message to Martial. Hilarion stood by, unsuspecting. Lucius had told him nothing about his visit to the palace; the less Hilarion knew, the better for him. What a dreary morning this would have been, had Hilarion suspected that Lucius would be dead before midday. Instead, Hilarion was in a cheerful mood, and kept exhorting him to eat something, unable to understand why Lucius had no appetite.

Lucius took a stroll through his garden. The sky was overcast but not stormy. The garden was usually dull and dreary at this time of year, but all the recent rain had kept everything quite green. At the centre of the garden stood the statue of Melancomas he had inherited from Epaphroditus. It had arrived just the day before, and Lucius had insisted that the workmen install it at once. Like Epaphroditus, he chose to display the statue not on a pedestal but at ground level. It was a pity, Lucius thought, that he would have so little time to enjoy it.

When the Praetorians arrived, Hilarion was quite flustered. Lucius assured him that all would be well, and Hilarion seemed to believe him, until Lucius told him about the letters in his study, to be delivered in the event that he failed to return. Hilarion began to weep. Lucius embraced him, then left with the Praetorians.

He was led farther into the palace than he had ever been led before. The reception room where Domitian awaited him appeared to be attached to the emperor’s private bed chamber, for through an open door Lucius glimpsed an unmade bed piled with richly embroidered pillows and coverlets. On this morning, the emperor was not stirring far from the place where he felt most secure.

At the far end of the small reception room was a dais where Domitian sat on a chair, attended only by Catullus and the small-headed creature. There was also a water clock on the dais, a beautifully made device that used a dial to indicate the hours of the day. The dial was very nearly touching the numeral for the fifth hour of the day.

A balcony to one side admitted weak daylight from the overcast sky. Lucius instinctively took a closer look at the balcony, wondering if it might provide a means of escape, but the room was located on one of the palace’s uppermost floors. The balcony looked down on a garden several stories below.

“Take off your clothes,” said Domitian.

Lucius sighed. “Dominus, I‘ve already been searched for weapons. Your guards did a thorough job.”

“I didn’t ask if you’d been searched. I told you to take off your clothes. All of them!”

Lucius did as he had been ordered. He felt no embarrassment. Instead, he felt a kind of freedom, as he had felt when he stood naked before the emperor and all of Roma in the amphitheatre.

Domitian sent the small-headed creature to look through Lucius’s discarded toga and undergarments to make sure they contained no weapons, then sucked in a sharp breath when he noticed the fascinum on the chain around Lucius’s neck. “That amulet! You always wear it, don’t you? And no harm ever befalls you.”

“That is not true, Dominus. I’ve suffered harm. Those closest to me are all dead or banished, because of you.”

“But you still live. Is it because of the amulet? Give it to me!” Domitian’s wide eyes were bloodshot and his face was haggard. He looked as if he had not slept for days.

Lucius lifted the chain over his neck. The small-headed creature snatched it from him and scurried to the dais. Domitian put the chain over his head and touched the fascinum, which nestled amid the folds of his purple robes. “Yes,” he whispered, “I can feel its power. Let it protect me today, blessed Minerva! And let this man’s presence protect me.

“My presence, Dominus?”

“Are you not a magician, Lucius Pinarius, like that accursed teacher of yours? There can be no doubt that some protective magic clings to you. That sort of thing rubs off on others. Today, I intend to keep you close at hand, until the fatal hour passes.”

Lucius smiled at the idea that he himself might be a sort of lucky charm. He was also struck by the curious reversal of their roles. Once he had stood before the emperor, a condemned man; now the emperor sat before him, convinced that he was the one facing death. Lucius had found peace when he confronted almost certain destruction, but Domitian was growing more agitated by the moment.

The small-headed creature gave a shriek and pointed to the water clock. The dial had touched the numeral V.

“Make sure the door is locked!” shouted Domitian. Catullus, who could move about the familiar room like a sighted man, stepped from the dais, strode past Lucius, and tested the door.

“Might I put on my clothes, Dominus?” said Lucius. “There’s a draft from the balcony.”

Domitian grunted and waved his hand.

Time passed with excruciating slowness. Lucius did not know what he had expected, but it was not this endless tedium. Was there not to be an attempt on the emperor’s life? What part was Lucius expected to play? Or was he simply to wait here until Domitian did or did not die, and then to die himself? It took all his presence of mind simply to stand in the middle of the room and show no emotion, as the time slowly passed.

Domitian fidgeted and sighed. His stomach growled. “Did you hear that, Lucius Pinarius? I’ve eaten nothing since yesterday morning.”

“Do you fear poison, Dominus?”

“It’s not poison that will kill me. I fear some drug that might render me unconscious and vulnerable. I’m hungry!”

“My stomach, too, is empty, Dominus.”

“Is it? I set aside some apples I was given yesterday, for my midday meal today – if I should live until then. They’re in the bowl on the table by my bed. Fetch one, Catullus, and give it to Lucius Pinarius. We’ll see if it makes him sick.”

Catullus brought him an apple. Lucius bit into the crisp flesh. Domitian watched him eat and began to salivate, so copiously that he had to wipe the drool from his lips. When Lucius was done, Domitian told him to get rid of the core by tossing it to the garden below. Lucius stepped onto the balcony. He dropped the apple core and watched it fall a great distance. Looking down made Lucius dizzy. The apple core struck and bounced off a large sundial in the garden below. The dial was an iron triangle set in a round stone pedestal. The day was too overcast for the dial to cast a shadow.

Lucius turned and looked at the water clock on the dais. The hour was almost done.

Domitian continued to fidget. He tugged at his chin and cracked his knuckles. He picked at the wart on his forehead. Suddenly, blood appeared on fingers. He gave a cry of alarm, then realized that it came from the wart. “Minerva, let this be the only blood I spill today!”

His cry brought a knock at the door. “Dominus, is something wrong?”

“Never mind, Parthenius,” called Domitian. “All’s well. But look, the clock has reached the sixth hour! It’s done! The hour has passed, and no harm came to me. Unlock the door and let him in, Catullus.”

The chamberlain Parthenius entered the room. Behind him, in chains and flanked by guards, was the German soothsayer, Eberwig.

“What do you say now, soothsayer?” demanded Domitian.

Eberwig muttered something, but there was no one present to translate. The guards pulled him to his knees.

“Strangle the fool,” said Domitian.

One of the guards wrapped a chain around the man’s neck and twisted it. Eberwig turned a dark shade of crimson. His eyes bulged and his tongue protruded. Domitian sat back in his chair, smiling. He appeared to take great pleasure from watching the man die.

The guards dragged the corpse from the room. Parthenius followed them. Lucius stayed where he was, on the balcony. By a great application of will, he had managed to remain calm for the last hour. Now his body began to exhibit signs of panic. His heart raced. His palms turned clammy. Sweat erupted on his forehead.

Did Domitian intend to kill him, as he had killed the German soothsayer? For the moment, the emperor was distracted. He told Catullus to bring him the bowl of apples from the bedroom. As the blind courtier walked by the balcony, Lucius held his breath, fearful of drawing the man’s attention. Catullus returned with the apples and Domitian began to eat ravenously, consuming one after another.

Parthenius reappeared. “The steward Stephanus wishes to see you, Dominus.”

“I’ll see no one,” said Domitian. “As soon as I finish these apples, I’ll retire to my private bath.”

“Stephanus is most insistent. He says it’s very important, Dominus. He says he has urgent information about a plot against you.”

“A failed plot, you mean! I’m still alive!” Domitian laughed. “But show him in. Perhaps he has names for me. Wait! Has he been searched for weapons?”

“Of course, Dominus. No one comes before you without being thoroughly searched.”

“Go ahead then, show him in.”

Lucius’s heart sank. The hour predicted for Domitian’s death had come and gone, and now he knew why: Stephanus had betrayed them. Poor Flavia; this would be the end of her. Would Domitian allow her children to live? Probably not. Lucius gazed over the parapet of the balcony, wondering if death by falling would be preferable to strangulation. He felt a sudden urge to flee, but the balcony was much too high. If only he could disappear, like Apollonius, in a puff of smoke!

The clouds had begun to break. A warm shaft of sunlight touched his face. The sky itself seemed to be smiling on the emperor’s deliverance.

Stephanus entered the room. Before he could speak, Domitian waved him aside. He called to Catullus and pulled him close.

“I’d almost forgotten about Pinarius,” Lucius heard the emperor say in a low voice. “What shall I do with him?”

“Whatever pleases you, Dominus,” Catullus said.

While waiting to be called on, Stephanus joined Lucius on the balcony. In his right hand he clutched a rolled document. Was this the incriminating list, and was Lucius’s name on it? Lucius noticed that the man’s left forearm was wrapped in bandages.

“A boar’s tusk can inflict a very nasty wound,” Stephanus explained, keeping his voice low. “It happened when I was out hunting a few days ago. Would you believe the guards made me unwrap the whole thing the first day I came here wearing it? Once they saw the blood and the oozing gash, they were satisfied. I think it made them a bit queasy. Since then, whenever I come, they search me like everyone else – but they never make me take off the bandages.”

Domitian finished his conversation with Catullus and called to Stephanus. The steward hurried to the dais, while Catullus backed away.

“Dominus,” said Stephanus, “the moment this document entered my hands, I headed directly here.”

“What is it?”

“A list of names, Dominus. When you see them, I think you’ll be shocked.”

Catullus stepped towards the balcony. Lucius moved as far from the man as he could. Again he gazed over the parapet. A shaft of sunlight stuck the sundial far below. Something was not right. Lucius squinted and peered more closely at the sundial. The shadow cast by the dial indicated not the sixth hour of the day – shadowless noon – but the fifth hour.

Lucius looked at the water clock. Without a doubt, the clock indicated the sixth hour. The water clock was in error. Someone had changed its settings.

Stephanus extended the document to Domitian, who unrolled it and stared at it. He scowled. “What is this? All I see is a list of provincial magistrates. What has this to do-”

Quickly, deftly, Stephanus loosened the bandages around his left forearm and reached inside. He pulled out a dagger and lunged for the emperor. Because of Domitian’s elevated position on the dais, Stephanus fell short of stabbing the man’s heart. His blade struck Domitian’s groin.

Domitian bellowed in pain. He struck Stephanus across the face. The steward staggered back, clutching the bloody dagger. Domitian bolted forward. The throne tumbled backwards. The small-headed creature shrieked and scrambled out of the way. Domitian grappled with Stephanus.

“My knife!” Domitian cried. “The one I keep beneath my pillow – bring it to me!”

The creature scurried past Catullus, striking him with his elbow and knocking him farther onto the balcony, where he almost collided with Lucius before grabbing the parapet to steady himself. The creature ran into the bed chamber and a moment later emerged with a stricken look on his face. He held a scabbard in one hand and in the other a hilt that had no blade. Someone had substituted a false dagger for the one Domitian kept under his pillow.

Other courtiers entered the room. They swarmed over Domitian, who roared and put up a tremendous struggle, like a lion attacked by dogs.

“What’s happening?” cried Catullus. “Dominus, how can I help you?”

Suddenly, the blind man realized that Lucius was next to him. He snarled like an animal and lunged for him. The accuracy of the man’s aim and the ferocity of his attack took Lucius by surprise. While Domitian struggled with the courtiers, Lucius and Catullus wrestled on the balcony.

Catullus used his sharp fingernails to gouge at Lucius’s eyes and nose, and sank his teeth into Lucius’s arm. Lucius seized the man’s wrists and tried to immobilize him, but Catullus was too strong. The best Lucius could manage was to push the man to one side, towards the parapet. Almost before Lucius knew what was happening, Catullus went tumbling over. With a bloodcurdling scream, Catullus plummeted to the garden below.

Lucius heard a sickening sound of impact and looked over the parapet. Face-up, with his limbs outstretched, Catullus was impaled on the metal blade of the sundial. His body was broken nearly in two. His mouth gaped open and his eyes glittered. His limbs flailed horribly for a moment, then fell limp.

Lucius realized that the room behind him had fallen silent, except for the sound of men gasping for breath. The struggle was over. Stephanus stepped beside him, throwing back his head to exult in the sunshine on his face. His hair was dishevelled and his torn clothes were covered with blood.

The tattered remains of the bandage hung from his left forearm. The gash looked very real. Stephanus saw Lucius looking at it and grinned. “I inflicted the wound myself, using a boar’s tusk. There’s no substitute for authenticity.”

What had Flavia said about Stephanus? He’s a brave man, and not squeamish.

Blinking and bleary-eyed, Lucius looked over his shoulder. A bloody heap draped in imperial purple lay in the centre of the room. Courtiers with knives stood in a circle, gasping for breath and gazing numbly at their handiwork. Blood and gore were smeared all over the floor.

“Is he really…?”

“The tyrant is dead,” said Stephanus. He proudly held up the dagger in his right hand. Sunlight glinted on the blood. Then he showed Lucius his left hand, in which he clutched a chain with an amulet. “I think this belongs to you, Lucius Pinarius.”

Lucius took back the fascinum, covered with blood.