Текст книги "Empire"

Автор книги: Steven Saylor

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Claudius suddenly jerked his head from side to side. Lucius barely glimpsed the movement from the corner of his eye, but it must have been quite obvious to the crowd before them. Was this spasm such an accident as the magister had just mentioned, a sign from the gods? Lucius thought not; everyone knew that Claudius had been prone to such twitches from childhood. Sometimes a twitch was merely a twitch. Still, there were uneasy murmurs from the crowd.

The magister pretended to take no notice. “Lucius Pinarius, what form of augury will you demonstrate for us today, to determine whether the gods favour your admission into the college?”

Given that the day was stormy, the answer was obvious. “The first form,” said Lucius.

The others stepped back, leaving Lucius alone in the centre of the Auguratorium. He slowly turned about in a circle, surveying the sky. The storm clouds were concentrated most thickly to the south-west. He raised his lituus and pointed in that direction. The augurs gathered behind him. With his lituus he drew an invisible square upon the sky. From left to right the square included everything from the top of the Temple of Diana on the Aventine to the top of the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline; from bottom to top it included everything from the horizon to the zenith. Having delineated a segment of sky, Lucius lowered his lituus and proceeded to watch and wait.

Lucius was patient at first, keeping his eyes open, trying not to blink; then he began to grow a bit nervous. The gods, including Jupiter, did not always send signs. What if no lightning appeared? The absence of a sign, in such a circumstance, would be taken as an unfavourable auspice. Behind him Lucius thought he heard the sound of murmurs and shuffling feet, as if the augurs were growing as restless as he was. How long was long enough to await a sign? Only the most senior augur present, in this case the emperor, could determine that. They might stand there for hours, until night fell, awaiting the appearance of a lightning bolt – or Augustus might decide to end the examination the next moment.

Lucius’s heart pounded in his chest. The wait was maddening! If no sign appeared, what would become of him? What would his father say? He realized that he was clutching his lituus with white knuckles. He took a deep breath and relaxed his grip. He slipped the fingers of his other hand inside his trabea and touched the gold amulet he wore around his neck.

He saw a flash. An instant later, he heard the gasps of the others behind him, and then, a few heartbeats later, he heard the thunder. The distant flash was to the left, just above the Temple of Diana but still within the delineated area. Lightning to the left was favourable, and the more to the left, the more favourable. The auspice was good! Jupiter was clearly pleased. And then, as if to quell any doubt about his approval, several blinding flashes of jagged lightning appeared in the same spot, one after another, followed by rolling peals of thunder. To Lucius, it sounded as if the god were laughing with delight.

“The auspice is favourable!” shouted the magister. “Is there any augur present who disagrees?”

Lucius turned around and sought his father’s face amid the crowd. His father was smiling, as were those around him.

Augustus, too, seemed to smile, though Lucius found it hard to read the old man’s expression. His eyes looked weary, not joyful, and the baring of his yellow teeth resembled a grimace more than a grin. “I think we are all agreed that the auspice is favourable, are we not?” said the emperor.

There were nods and utterances of agreement from the crowd.

The magister placed his hands on Lucius’s shoulder. “Congratulations, Lucius Pinarius. On this day, you have become an augur. May you always use your skills and the power of your priestly office wisely, for the benefit of Roma and with the greatest respect for the gods.”

The magister turned to Claudius. “And now you, Tiberius Claudius Nero Germanicus. What form of augury will you demonstrate for us today, to determine whether the gods favor your admission into the college?”

Claudius stepped forward. “I choose to watch for…” He came to a complete stop, as he sometimes did when speaking; his stutter was making it difficult for him to say the next word. At last, pressing his lips tightly together, he blurted out, “B-B-birds!”

There were murmurs from the crowd, most of whom, including Lucius, were surprised by the decision. On such a day, with so much lightning about, surely all the birds were in their nests, hiding from the wind and the rain.

Nonetheless, Claudius seemed sure of himself. After carefully scanning the sky, he faced north-east, directly opposite the direction Lucius had chosen. He used his lituus to delineate a segment of sky above the Forum and the Esquiline Hill beyond.

Just as he was finishing the delineation, Claudius dropped his lituus. Lucius groaned, as did several others. Claudius’s clumsiness was one thing, but to drop his lituus was surely a bad omen.

If Augustus was embarrassed, he did not show it. “Pick up that lituus,” he said, “and let’s get to the business at hand, young man, quick as boiled asparagus!”

The tension in the crowd was relieved with laughter. The emperor was known for such homespun metaphors, which from any other speaker would have sounded oafish.

Augustus cleared his throat and spoke. “Back when I first took the auspices, I also chose to watch for birds. I spotted twelve vultures – yes, twelve! The very number Romulus saw when he founded the city. Let us see how Jupiter’s feathered emissaries will augur for my nephew today.” The old man flashed a smile, or a grimace, Lucius could not tell which.

While they watched and waited for a sign, Lucius considered the daunting complexities of avian augury. To take the auspice, one had to consider not only the types of birds that appeared but how many, and whether they flew in a single direction or doubled back, and whether they called or were silent. Every sound and motion of each bird had a different meaning, according to different circumstances and the time of the year when it was observed. An avian augury was far more likely than a lightning augury to yield an auspice susceptible to differing interpretations – if indeed on such a day any bird would appear.

They waited. Lucius began to grow uneasy, feeling almost as anxious for Claudius as he had felt for himself. It had seemed unthinkable that Lucius might disappoint and embarrass his father. How much greater must be the pressure felt by Claudius with the emperor looming behind him?

Just when Lucius could stand the suspense no longer, Claudius raised his lituus and pointed. “Th-th-there!” he cried. “Two vultures above the Esquiline Gate, flying this way!”

To be sure, two flitting specks had appeared, but they were so distant that Lucius, who had excellent eyesight, was not sure what sort of birds they might be. Apparently Claudius’s eyes were even keener than his, for as the birds drew nearer there was general agreement among the squinting augurs that the birds were indeed vultures. The birds wheeled back towards the Esquiline Gate and began to circle above it.

Two more vultures appeared from the same spot, and then two more, and then another, until seven vultures were circling about the Esquiline Gate. Beyond the gate, outside the walls, was the necropolis, the city of the dead, where slaves were buried and the carcasses of executed criminals were left to the birds. It was not surprising that vultures had appeared in that region, but it was surely fortuitous that so many had appeared at once, during Claudius’s augury, and on such an inclement day. The pattern of their flight, first towards the Auguratorium and then away, was a favourable auspice as well.

Augustus declared the augury completed. The magister was impressed.

“Seven vultures! To be sure, considerably fewer than the record set by Romulus – and matched by our emperor – but one more than Remus saw! Does anyone here doubt that the auspice is favorable? No? Very well, then, I declare that on this day, Tiberius Claudius Nero Germanicus has shown himself to be a true augur, accepted by his colleagues and, more importantly, by Jupiter himself. May you always use your skills and the power of your priestly office wisely, young man, for the benefit of Roma and with the greatest respect for the gods.”

The ceremony was concluded. Lucius and Claudius received the congratulations of their fellow augurs, and then the members began to head to the imperial residence. The banquet following the induction of new augurs was usually held in a private home, but on this occasion Augustus was playing host. He had certainly made a point of reminding everyone of his kinship to Claudius. The fact that Lucius Pinarius was a cousin had not even been mentioned.

During the short walk, which took them past some of the finest houses in the city, Lucius walked beside Claudius and told him how impressed he was by the vulture sightings. “That was very bold of you. I would never have dared to choose an avian augury. I did the safe thing and went with lightning. The smart thing as well, or so I thought, since lightning auguries are usually more highly respected. But you outshone me today, Claudius!”

Claudius pursed his lips, nodded, and hummed thoughtfully. His head twitched to one side. “Yes, well, I suppose I did, even though, as you say, lightning augury is the most highly esteemed of all forms. Why do you suppose that is?” With the examination behind them, his stutter had momentarily abated.

“As the magister taught us, lightning and thunder come directly from Jupiter,” said Lucius.

“Ah, but birds are the messengers of Jupiter, so why should avian augury not be as prized? No, I think lightning augury is more impressive because a flash of lightning cannot possibly be fabricated by mortal men, while anyone might arrange to release certain birds from a certain area at a certain time.”

Lucius frowned. “Are you saying those vultures were deliberately released?”

“Oh, not for Romulus, surely, and certainly not for Great-Uncle. But for me – who knows?” Claudius shrugged. “Thanks to my obvious shortcomings, Great-Uncle can foresee no higher station in life for me than to be an augur. I twitch too much to find glory as a warrior. You saw me drop my lituus today; imagine me dropping a sword on the battlefield! I st-stutter too much to make impressive sp-sp-speeches in the Senate.” He flashed a sardonic smile; was he stuttering on purpose? “Since this is as far as I shall go, Great-Uncle is determined that everyone should acknowledge my competence at augury, if at nothing else. Three vultures would have sufficed, don’t you think? Great-Uncle always overdoes these things! When the two vacancies opened in the college, why do you suppose he chose to allow you to enlist, Lucius?”

“I know my father did everything he could to promote me and to win the emperor’s favour. He was surprised he succeeded, considering my youth-”

“Ha! Great-Uncle approved of your admission to the college for only one reason: he wanted to make me an augur, and so be done with me, and he wanted another candidate my age to enter alongside me, so that I shouldn’t stand out so much. You weren’t made an augur despite your age, Lucius, but because of it! But the important thing, cousin Lucius, is that our examinations are over, and now we are augurs. Augurs for life! But what is that you’re wearing?”

Claudius referred to the amulet on Lucius’s necklace. It had slipped outside his trabea and the gold shone brightly against the purple wool.

“It’s a family talisman.”

“Where did it come from? What does it symbolize?”

“I don’t really know,” Lucius confessed, with some chagrin. Claudius was such a scholar and so steeped in his own family’s history that he was never at a loss to explain even the most arcane bits of ancestral lore.

Claudius came to a halt, reached for the amulet, and studied it closely. Lucius had seen such a spark in his friend’s eyes before, during their studies together – the excitement of the devoted antiquarian in the presence of an intriguing puzzle. “I think, Lucius – yes, I th-th-think I may have s-some idea of what this is. I’ll have to do a bit of research…”

“Come along, my fellow augurs,” said Lucius’s father, catching up with them. “We’re almost there.” Like Lucius, he had never been inside the imperial residence, and he was flushed with excitement.

They entered a courtyard first, no grander than that of any house of moderate wealth, except for the trophies on prominent display in the center of the yard. On a wooden stand was displayed the emperor’s personal armour, including his sword, ax, helmet, and shield.

“See how they gleam,” whispered Lucius, “as if they’ve just been freshly burnished!”

“Yes, I believe there is a slave who performs that duty daily,” said Claudius.

As the augurs filled the courtyard, waiting for the massive bronze entry doors to open, Lucius looked up at the giant laurel crown carved into the marble lintel above the doors.

“The laurel crown is traditionally awarded to a soldier who saves a comrade’s life in battle,” noted Claudius, following his gaze. “Can you guess why the Senate voted to award that stupendous image of a laurel crown to my uncle?”

“I suspect you can tell me.”

“It was awarded to him in honour of his victory over Cleopatra and my grandfather Marcus Antonius – whom I never knew, of course, since he died by his own sword twenty years before I was b-b-born. By winning that war, you see, Augustus saved us all from being enslaved by the Egyptian queen, the entire citizenry of Roma and all the generations to come – and thus he deserved a laurel crown of suitable splendor.”

The booming noise of a thrown bolt resounded from within the house, and then the great bronze doors began to slowly open inwards.

Flanking the doorway, Lucius noticed, were two flourishing laurel trees. As lightning flashed over their heads and a peal of thunder shook the courtyard, he saw several of the augurs break sprigs from the trees and slip them into their trabeas. It was a well-known fact that the laurel tree was lightning-proof, of all trees the only one never struck. Would carrying a sprig of laurel protect a man from lightning? Many people thought so.

Rather than being opulent or ostentatious, the interior of the imperial house was decorated with great simplicity. The columns were of travertine, not marble. The floors were paved with black-and-white tiles in simple geometric patterns, not decorated with colourful mosaics. The walls were painted in solid colors, not with the amazingly realistic landscapes Lucius had occasionally seen in the houses of his wealthier acquaintances, such as the Acilii. The several dining rooms that opened onto the central garden were spacious enough to accommodate a great many guests, but the dining couches themselves were as humble as those in Lucius’s house.

The meal was simple, as well. When asparagus was served as the first course, dipped in boiling water for just a moment so that it was cooked but still crisp, Claudius, reclining next to Lucius, snapped a stalk in two and quipped, “‘Quick as boiled asparagus’ – just the way Great-Uncle likes it!”

Lucius had never seen his friend in such high spirits. “I’m a little surprised at how simply the imperial residence is furnished,” he said. “Even the house of Acilia’s father is more opulent. Are the private quarters equally austere?”

“More so! Great-Uncle sleeps on a bed of straw and will have only backless chairs in the house. ‘A Roman’s spine should be sufficiently stiff to hold him upright,’ he says. He believes in setting an example by practising old-fashioned virtues of decorum and restraint. He expects his family to do the same. When Julilla, his granddaughter, built a mansion for herself on too grand a scale, Great-Uncle had the whole thing d-dd-demolished. I can’t remember, was that before or after he banished poor Julilla to that island for committing adultery? And then, when she b-b-bore her lover’s child, Great-Uncle ordered that the baby be abandoned on a mountainside to die.” Claudius bit a stalk of asparagus, chewed loudly, and swallowed. “He’s banished Julilla’s mother as well, his own daughter, likewise for scandalous conduct. And his only surviving grandson, Agrippa – he, too, failed to meet Great-Uncle’s standards and so ended up on an island somewhere. So you see, these Spartan surroundings are not a pretense. They are a genuine reflection of my uncle’s temperament.”

In each of the dining areas a couch was set aside for the host, who moved across the garden from room to room, allowing all the guests the honour of his presence. To Lucius, it seemed that the emperor was more an observer than a participant in the festivities, saying little and eating nothing. The old man appeared restless and distracted, giving a start whenever there was a peal of thunder. Light rain occasionally swept across the garden, and gusts of wind fanned the braziers that were lit as darkness fell. Hardly an hour after sundown, with several courses yet to be served, Augustus strode to the center of the garden, where all the guests could see him, bade his fellow augurs good night, and excused himself.

With the host gone, the atmosphere became noticeably more relaxed. A few guests dared to drink their wine without water, but no one got drunk. After a final course of carrots in a thick garum sauce, the guests begins to disperse, paying their respects to the new inductees before departing. Lucius’s father was the last to leave.

“You’re not coming with me, son?”

“Claudius has invited me to take a stroll to the Temple of Apollo.”

“In this weather?”

“The temple is only a few steps away. And it’s not raining now.”

“The sky could open at any moment.”

“If the storm grows worse, Lucius c-c-can spend the night here in my quarters,” offered Claudius.

“I suppose I can hardly object,” said the elder Pinarius, looking at once pleased and anxious that his son should become a welcome guest in the house of Augustus.

The Temple of Apollo was surrounded by an ornate colonnade directly adjoining the imperial residence, perched on the crest of the Palatine Hill, directly above the Circus Maximus. Of all Augustus’s new constructions, the Temple of Apollo was the most magnificent. Lit by flickering braziers from the surrounding colonnade, with a light mist descending, the temple appeared even more spectacular by night. The glistening walls were made of solid blocks of white Luna marble, and the gilded chariot of the sun atop the roof seemed to be made of flame. Dominating the square in front of the entrance, a marble statue of Apollo loomed above an altar flanked by four bronze oxen. In the flickering light, the oxen seemed almost to be alive. When Lucius said so to Claudius, his friend explained that they were hundreds of years old, the creations of the great Myron, famed for his much-copied statue of the Discus Thrower.

At the top of the steps, past the towering columns, they came to two massive doors, each decorated with reliefs in ivory. By flashes of lightning, Lucius gazed at a fabulously detailed panel, a riot of figures in violent motion – young men and women running this way and that in a great panic, some pierced by arrows, and in the sky above them, each wielding a bow, the divine siblings Apollo and Artemis.

“The slaying of the Niobids of Thebes,” Claudius explained. “When their mother Niobe boasted of having more offspring than Leto, the goddess’s children took offense and slew them, every one. Apollo shot the sons; Artemis shot the daughters. Niobe committed hubris – overweening mortal pride – and her children paid the price for it. The d-d-descendants of powerful mortals often seem to pay a price, simply for existing.” Claudius looked thoughtful, then turned and pointed with his lituus to the rectangle of sky framed by the nearest columns. “The lightning seems to be drawing closer. Look at that thunderbolt! Have you ever seen one like that? The magister says that every possible manifestation of lightning has been catalogued and categorized over the years, but that implies that lightning repeats itself, as letters and words in a language repeat; but I sometimes wonder if every thunderbolt is not unique to itself. Of course, if that were so, there could be no meaning in lightning at all, or none that men could make sense of.”

A great blackness, darker than all the rest of the sky and filled with flashes of lightning, was sweeping toward them from the south-west. It was over the Tiber now, its fury reflected on the water’s turbulent face.

Lucius felt steeped in privilege, to be standing with his friend, a member of the imperial household, on the threshold of the emperor’s greatest temple; but at the same time he felt a slight thrill of fear, for the approaching storm promised to be violent, and the horrific images of the slaughtered Niobids disturbed him. He was here to pay homage to Apollo, but Apollo could be a vengeful god.

Claudius did not appear to share his anxiety. “Did you know, years ago, this very spot was the site of the imperial residence? Then one day it was blasted by lightning and burned to the ground. Augustus declared that the g-g-gods had marked this as a sacred site, suitable only for a temple, and got the Senate to dedicate the funds to build not just the temple but the new imperial residence next to it. The temple is magnificent, as you can see, and everyone thought Great-Uncle would build himself an equally magnificent palace, but instead he made the new house exactly like the old one, only a little bigger and with annexes to accommodate his growing staff.” Claudius chuckled.

“Was Augustus in the house when it was struck by lightning?”

“Yes, he was. And that wasn’t Great-Uncle’s first encounter with lightning. He was very nearly k-k-killed by a thunderbolt during a night march in the Cantabarian campaign, after my grandfather Antonius was vanquished; a flash of lightning grazed Great-Uncle’s litter and struck dead the slave who was carrying a torch before him. After that narrow escape, he dedicated a shrine to Jupiter the Thunderer – there, if you squint you can see it over on the Capitoline, looking very impressive when the lightning illuminates it. Ever since, Great-Uncle’s had a morbid fear of lightning. How he hates a thunderstorm! I’m sure that’s why he left the b-banquet early, to take shelter under ground. The man fears nothing and no one here on earth, but he thinks that d-d-death from the sky might still claim him, as it did King Romulus. That’s why he was wearing that amulet tonight. He always wears it in stormy weather.”

“An amulet?”

“Did you not notice, Lucius? He was wearing an amulet made of sealskin, for protection, the way others carry a sprig of laurel.”

“Sealskin?”

“Just as the laurel is never struck by lightning, neither is the sea calf. It’s a scientific fact, confirmed by all reliable authorities. I myself prefer laurel.” He produced a sprig from inside his trabea.

“I suppose I should have taken a sprig,” said Lucius. The lightning and thunder were coming closer. The storm was almost upon them.

“Stay close to me; perhaps my sprig will protect you. There’s an interesting story about those laurel trees at the entrance to the imperial house. Not long after Livia was first betrothed to Augustus, she was riding in a carriage on a country road and a perfectly white hen dropped from the sky into her lap – with a sprig of laurel in its beak! Livia bred the hen to use its offspring in auguries, and planted the laurel, from which a sacred grove sprang up on the imperial estate along the Tiber, as well as the two specimens that flank the doorway of the imperial house. Augustus wore wreaths from those laurel trees in his triumphal pro cessions. Ah, but I digress…”

“You sometimes do.” Lucius smiled, then gave a start at a loud boom of thunder. He heard the hissing of the rain as it swept towards them over the Aventine.

“Well, you did ask about the sealskin amulet. And speaking of amulets, I’ve been th-th-thinking about the one you wear. I believe I may have an idea of what it is-”

He was interrupted by a flash of blinding light, followed at once by a tremendous thundercrack. Lightning had struck the Palatine, somewhere very close to them.

“Do you think it struck the imperial house?” said Lucius. They ran to the end of the porch and peered towards the residence. There was no sign of fire. Then a sudden downpour obscured everything beyond the temple steps. Wind blew rain onto the porch; the pediment gave no protection. Claudius opened one of the tall doors. They slipped inside the temple and closed the door behind them.

The air smelled of incense. A giant statue of Apollo dominated the sanctuary, lit by flickering lamps mounted on the walls. On this stormy night, it seemed to Lucius that the place had an eerie magic. The air itself carried a charge of excitement. Gazing up at the god, Lucius felt hackles rise on the back of his neck. With an uncanny certainty he knew that something very important was going to happen that night.

He looked behind him. Claudius was sitting on a marble bench against one wall, already nodding, his jaw hanging open and a bit of drool suspended from his lower lip. Truly, anyone who saw him at that moment would have assumed he was an idiot. Poor Claudius!

The uncanny sensation subsided. Lucius sat beside Claudius, listening to him softly snore, and waited for the raging storm to subside.

When the massive door began to swing inwards, he gave a start. Had he been dozing, and for how long? A man entered the temple, dressed in the tunic of an imperial servant and carrying a torch.

“Claudius? Are you here, Claudius?”

Claudius woke. He clutched Lucius’s arm and wiped a bit of drool from his chin. “What? Who’s there?”

“Euphranor.” It was one of the emperor’s most trusted freedmen. His hair was black but his beard was almost entirely white. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” He approached and handed Claudius a wax tablet of the sort that could be written on, rubbed flat, and written over.

By the light of the torch Claudius peered at the tablet. In a crabbed, elderly hand was written the quaint phrase “Come, quick as asparagus,” with the word asparagus marked through and the word lightning scrawled above.

“A message written in Great-Uncle’s own hand!” declared Claudius, obviously surprised. “The man has an army of scribes to take his dictation at any moment of the day or night. Why in his own hand? What can he want so urgently? And why ‘quick as lightning ’?”

Lucius suddenly felt out of place. “I suppose I should go home now-”

“While the storm still rages? No, no! You’ll come with me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Great-Uncle didn’t say for you not to come. Follow me, cousin – quick as asparagus! Euphranor, lead the way.”

Pelted by rain, they followed Euphranor back to the house, past the dining rooms and the garden, where rain descended in a torrent, and then through a series of doors and a maze of hallways. At last they came to a narrow doorway that opened onto a flight of stairs leading down.

“I’ll stay here,” said Euphranor. “You’ll find him at the bottom of the steps.”

Claudius descended the long, steep, winding flight of stairs with Lucius following. At last they arrived in a lamp-lit, subterranean room. Lucius saw at once that the ceiling and the walls were decorated with mosaics; the thousands of tiny tiles glinted and shimmered. Among the dazzling images he recognized King Romulus with his long beard and iron crown. Another image could only be the infant twins, Romulus and his brother Remus, adrift on the Tiber in a basket. Another image showed Romulus being carried up to the heavens on a ray of light sent by Jupiter. There were many more images, all illustrating stories from the life of the Founder.

“What is he doing here?”

Lucius turned to see Augustus, standing closer than Lucius had ever seen the man before. What terrible teeth the emperor had, all yellow and decayed, and how short he was, wearing slippers instead of the thick-soled shoes that usually made him taller. Lucius told himself he should be at least a little awed, but the presence of the emperor was underwhelming. In his younger days, the fair-haired Octavius was said to have been the best-looking boy in Roma, so pretty that his uncle Julius Caesar took him for a lover (so went the whispered rumour), and in later days, the boy Octavius who became the man Augustus had commanded sufficient authority to bend whole nations to his will. But at that moment Lucius saw only a little old man with rotten teeth, unkempt straw-coloured hair, tufts of hair in his nostrils, and bushy eyebrows that met above his nose.

Eye to eye with the ruler of the world, Lucius was buoyed by a curious sense of confidence, remembering the premonition he had experienced in the Temple of Apollo that something very important was about to happen.

“Shall I send him away, Great-Uncle?” said Claudius.

Augustus stared at Lucius, so long and hard that Lucius’s confidence began to waver. The old man finally spoke.

“No. Young Lucius Pinarius may stay. He is an augur now, is he not? And his ancestors were among the very first augurs in Roma. A Pinarius accompanied Romulus when he took the auspices, and before that the Pinarii were keepers of the people’s first shrine, the Great Altar of Hercules. The state assumed that duty over 300 years ago; perhaps I should return the Great Altar to the hereditary keeping of the Pinarii. Reviving ancient traditions is pleasing to the gods. And he is a blood relation, for what ever that’s worth. Perhaps, Lucius Pinarius, the gods themselves delivered you here to me tonight.”

Lucius averted his eyes, humbled by the emperor’s scrutiny. He stared at the mosaics above them.

“Images from the life of Romulus, as you no doubt perceive,” explained Augustus. “The chamber in which we stand is the Lupercale, the sacred cave where the foundling twins Romulus and Remus were suckled by the she-wolf. I myself discovered the cave when the foundations for this house were being laid, and under my directions it’s been decorated as a sacred shrine.”