Empire (3 page)

“But never fear, young Marcus. Our efforts so far to punish Arminius and bring the situation under control have been thwarted, but not for much longer. As a senator I can assure you that the emperor’s attention to this matter is unwavering. Not a day passes that he does not take some action to correct it. And what Augustus sets out to do, Augustus does.”

“But the emperor is seventy-five years old,” said Marcus.

“True, but there are younger, more vigorous members of his family
with military expertise. His stepson Tiberius is a very fit commander; it was Tiberius’s late brother, Drusus Germanicus, who conquered the province in the first place. And there’s Germanicus’s son, who’s eager to earn the name his father handed down to him by his own victories. Never fear, Marcus. It will take time and effort and no small amount of bloodshed, but the province of Germania will be pacified. Ah, but listen to me, rambling on about warfare and politics in the presence of one with such tender sensibilities.” He smiled again at Acilia.

“Is it true, about the Germans cutting off the soldiers’ heads and putting them on stakes?” she whispered, looking pale.

“You’ve upset her, father,” said Lucius, taking advantage of Acilia’s distress to put his arm around her. Her brother did not object.

“No more talk of such unpleasant subjects, then,” said the elder Pinarius.

“No more talk at all, if you’re to be on time for the ceremony,” said Lucius’s mother, entering the room. “The rain has let up. The two of you must be off, and quickly. But you needn’t leave yet, Acilia. I have some spinning to do; nothing is more relaxing than spinning wool. You can help me, if you’d like, and we can have a nice visit.” Camilla accompanied Lucius and his father to the vestibule. “Don’t be nervous, son. I know you’ll perform splendidly. Or is it the presence of Acilia that makes you tremble?” She laughed. “Now off with you!”

“You don’t think I laid it on too thickly, do you,” said Lucius’s father, “reminding young Marcus about our kinship to both the Divine Julius and the emperor?”

They had descended the slope of the Aventine and were walking through the crowded riverfront district, heading for the Stairs of Cacus, which would take them up to the summit of the Palatine.

“I think the Acilii are quite aware of our family connections,” said Lucius ruefully. “But I’m not sure that it helps to keep bringing it up. For all that my grandfather was an heir of the Divine Julius, and we’re cousins of the great Augustus, what do we have to show for it?”

His father sighed. “What, indeed? Except for the fact that we’re still alive.”

“What do you mean by that?”

They began to ascend the Stairs of Cacus. As recently as the days of Julius Caesar it had been nothing more than a steep, winding footpath, as it had been since the time of Romulus. Augustus had made it into a stone stairway decorated with flowers and terraces. Lucius’s father looked ahead of them and behind, checking that no one was close enough to overhear.

“Have you never noticed, son, how many members of the emperor’s family have been sent into exile, and how those dearest to him have a way of dying?”

Lucius frowned. “I know he banished his daughter Julia.”

“Her morals disappointed him.”

“And his grandson Agrippa.”

“Who was also deemed insufficiently upright.”

“And I know that his other grandsons, Lucius and Gaius, the ones he intended to make his heirs, both suffered untimely deaths.”

“So they did. Being too close to the emperor is not necessary beneficial, either to one’s happiness or to one’s health.”

“Are you saying—”

“I am saying that the emperor is like a flame. Those around him are like men eager to warm themselves. But no one envies the man who draws so close that he sets himself afire.”

Lucius shook his head. “Might things have gone differently, if my grandfather had received more favor from the gods?”

The elder Pinarius sighed. “Like his cousin Augustus, your grandfather was named in the will of Julius Caesar—but little good it did him, since he chose to side with Marcus Antonius and Cleopatra in the civil war. After those two lost everything at the battle of Actium, your grandfather saw sense and went over to Augustus, who graciously forgave him—and forever afterwards showed him not one iota of generosity. Perhaps the victor thought it was enough to spare his errant cousin’s life and allow him to keep what remained of his fortune, most of which your grandfather eventually lost anyway, despite all his business concerns in Egypt. Since then, your cousin Augustus has mostly ignored us. We are tolerated but granted little in the way of either favor or disfavor—which is not necessarily a bad thing. Oh yes, to have his favor could be grand. But to suffer his
disfavor . . . or the disfavor of those who scheme and plot around him . . . can be fatal.”

“You say he grants us few favors, yet he put me in the lists to become an augur.”

“That he did. And you have no idea how many favors I had to call in to make that happen. Be grateful for this opportunity, my son.”

“I am, father,” said Lucius, humbly and sincerely.

At the top of the Stairs of Cacus they were afforded a view of the river; even on an overcast, blustery day, the wharves were bustling and the choppy water was crowded with ships. Above the river loomed the Capitoline Hill with its white temples glistening after the recent shower. A solitary sunbeam broke though the ragged clouds overhead and shone brightly on the gilded statue of Hercules.

In Lucius’s short lifetime, he had seen the city of Roma acquire an ever-greater air of prosperity and opulence. Countless shops were filled with goods from all over the world. Ancient temples and monuments had been refurbished, and new, even grander temples had been built. State buildings made of brick had been faced with slabs of travertine and marble. The emperor had once said, “I found Roma built of sun-dried bricks; I will leave her cloaked in marble.” Augustus had made good on the promise.

Lucius had never lived anywhere but in Roma and had never traveled farther than Pompeii. But it seemed to him there could be no other place as exciting and beautiful as Roma. He felt proud that he was about to become truly part of the city, to be given a role to play, to act as a mediator between the gods and the city they had favored more than any other on earth.

Amid the grand houses on the Palatine Hill was an open square planted with grass and surrounded by a low stone wall, known as the Auguratorium. On this very spot, almost eight hundred years before, Romulus performed the augury that established the site of the city. Romulus saw twelve vultures; over on the Aventine Hill, his twin brother Remus spotted only six vultures. Thus the gods made known their preference that the new city
should be founded on the Palatine, not the Aventine. In time, the city grew to contain the Aventine and all the Seven Hills along the Tiber, but this was the spot where it began. According to family legend, a Pinarius had been present with Romulus on that sacred occasion, and so the induction of a new Pinarius into the college of augurs was always an event that resounded with significance.

As Lucius and his father emerged from a narrow street and approached the Auguratorium, a sea of saffron and purple enveloped them; every man in the crowd was wearing a trabea and clutching a lituus. A tall young man abruptly appeared before them, holding his arms open to give Lucius an embrace.

“L-L-Lucius!” he said. “I thought you’d never get here. The idea of going through the examination all by myself was making me break into a c-cold sweat.”

“Surely you jest, cousin Claudius,” said Lucius. “Your skills at augury are far greater than mine, and you know it.”

“Seeking signs from the gods is one thing. D-doing it in front of an audience is another matter!”

“You’ll both do very well, I’m sure,” said Lucius’s father, beaming proudly at the two of them. Lucius and Claudius were to be the only inductees into the college on this day. Claudius was the grandson of Livia, the emperor’s wife, and thus the stepgrandson of Augustus—but was not the emperor’s grandson officially by either blood or law, since Augustus had never adopted Claudius’s late father, Drusus Germanicus. Nonetheless, Claudius was a blood relative to Augustus. He was the grandson of Marcus Antonius and Octavia, Augustus’s sister, and thus the emperor’s great-nephew, and also a distant cousin to Lucius.

Claudius and Lucius had been born the same year. In recent months the cousins had been studying the science of augury together. They had become close friends, though to Lucius’s father it seemed that their differences were greater than their similarities. Lucius was strikingly handsome, well built, and graceful—that was a plain fact, and not the prejudice of a doting father—while Claudius, though tall and not bad-looking, had a cowed manner, often spoke with a stammer, and suffered from nervous facial tics and jerks of the head. The stammer and the jerking were more pronounced at some times than at others. Some people assumed that the
young man was mentally incompetent. In fact, despite his youth, Claudius was an antiquarian scholar more deeply versed in the minutiae of Roma’s history than anyone the elder Pinarius had ever met. Of the friendship between his son and Claudius he entirely approved; the danger he had just warned Lucius about—of drawing too near the emperor and his inner circle—seemed hardly to apply to Claudius, whom the emperor, embarrassed by the young man’s defects, kept at a distance.

A gong was struck. The augurs stopped their milling and assembled along the four sides of the Auguratorium in order of their age and rank. In the center of the square, the magister of the college called on Lucius and Claudius to stand beside him, then asked, “Who nominates these new members?”

Lucius’s father stepped forward and placed his hand on Lucius’s shoulder. “I, Lucius Pinarius, an augur, nominate my son, Lucius Pinarius.”

Another figure emerged from the crowd, an old man who seemed quite careless of his appearance. His gray hair needed barbering and his threadbare trabea had seen better days. But when he placed his hand on Claudius’s shoulder and spoke, his voice carried an undeniable ring of authority. “I, Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus Augustus, an augur, nominate my nephew, Tiberius Claudius Nero Germanicus.”

The magister nodded. “Then I shall begin the examination.” A rumble of distant thunder caused him to glance skyward. “Divination is the means by which humankind may determine the will of the gods. The gods make their will known by signs, which we call auspices. Those who know the way may determine whether these auspices are favorable or unfavorable. By augury, the site of Roma was decided. As Ennius began one of his poems, ‘After by augury august Roma had been founded . . .’

“As the empire of Roma has grown, we have encountered other peoples with other means of divination. The Etruscans studied the entrails of sacrificial animals; the Babylonians observed the stars; the Greeks listened to blind prophets; the Jews received instruction from a burning bush. But these ways are not Roman ways; these are inferior means of divination, as is made evident by the inferior fortunes of their adherents. The Roman way of divination, handed down to us from our most ancient ancestors, is augury, which was and is and always shall be the best and truest means of divining the will of the gods.”

“Hear, hear!” shouted Augustus, prompting others in the crowd to do the same.

“There are five categories of augury,” the magister continued, “five means by which the auspices may be obtained. The most powerful auspices are delivered by thunder and lightning, which come directly from Jupiter. Auspices may also be obtained by the observation of certain birds: the raven, the crow, the owl, the eagle, and the vulture. From this second, avian form of augury derives the third form, which our ancestors originally devised for use on military campaigns, where an auspice might be required at any moment to make a critical decision; this third type of augury is performed by releasing a hen from its cage, scattering grain before it, and observing the way the creature pecks or does not peck at the food. Auspices may also taken from four-footed animals, and this is the fourth form. If a fox, wolf, horse, dog, or any other quadruped should cross a person’s path or appear in some unusual setting, only an augur may interpret the meaning; but it is important to remember that this fourth form of augury is never employed on behalf of the state, only as private divination. The fifth class of augury pertains to all signs which do not fall into the other four categories, and may include all manner of unusual events—the birth of a two-headed animal, a strange object that falls from the sky, flames that appear and disappear, leaving no trace. The fifth form of augury may also be derived from common accidents—a sneeze, a stumble, a misspoken name or word.”