by David Blixt
“That makes sense,” said Clemens. “Sulla marked the beginning of the end of the Republic and the rise of the Caesars.”
“Sulla was a great lover of theatre,” observed Tertius, smirking.
Clemens answered his brother's taunt by quoting the opening of Aeschylus' play The Eumenides, set in this very spot:
Then as a seeress to the sacred chair
I pass and sit; and may the powers divine
Make this mine entrance fruitful in response
Beyond each former advent, triply blest.
And if there stand without, from Hellas bound,
Men seeking oracles, let each pass in
In order of the lot, as use allows;
For Apollo guides whate'er my tongue proclaims.
“Stuff,” said Tertius. “Why not memorize something useful?”
“Boys,” said Sabinus reprovingly. Their brotherly squabbles were not aiding his nerves.
But the Hestiad chuckled. “You are correct to fear his love of theatre, Titus Flavius Sabinus Junior. For theatre will be his end.”
Clemens looked suddenly panicked, while Tertius let out a strangled laugh. Startled, Sabinus forced his voice to remain even. “Please, can you say more?”
“About what?” asked the crone blankly.
“About the theatre, and my son.”
The old woman looked nonplussed. “He quotes very well. But I never go to the theatre, myself.”
She seemed utterly unaware of her prior statement. Perhaps it's part of their show. The casual prophecy, predicting doom. I pray so. Yet Sabinus found himself placing a comforting hand on his younger son's shoulder. The boy remained silent the rest of the climb.
Uneasier than ever, they continued up the snakelike marble path. Delphi had clearly never recovered from the earthquake the priestess had mentioned. Despite the darkness, Sabinus could clearly see signs of decay – uneven paving stones, peeling paint on the marble, untended weeds.
At last they reached the Temenos of Apollo. Six ancient Doric columns ran across the front of the building, while fifteen supported each side. It had a rather blank façade, and even here on the Oracle's own temple the paint was peeling, revealing the limestone beneath. No marble here. It was old, invoking old things. Like the faceless gods of Roma. Like the lares and spirits that haunt every aspect of Roman life. Like nightmares.
The priestess bowed. “In here, Titus Flavius Sabinus Junior. Alone.”
It felt like a death sentence, as though a jury of ghosts were all whispering 'Condemno,' decreeing he should be led to face the stranglers in the bottom of the Tullianum.
But the Pythia did not kill. It was not part of her history. She would say words, he would hear them, and he would leave. That was all. 'The most powerful is he who has himself in his own power.' With that thought in mind, Sabinus nodded to his sons, climbed the temple steps, and passed under the lintel.
Built upon the remains of a temple destroyed by an earthquake four hundred years earlier, Apollo's temple was not very wide, but quite deep. Divided into three aisles, the walls bore altars for Poseidon and for Hestia's eternal flame. Treasures were heaped along both sides, from musical instruments to the crowns of kings. Here there were riches beyond compare. Despite the old priestess' complaints, Rome had yet to defile the interior of Apollo's sanctuary. Romans might have greed, but no Roman was immune from superstition.
Not even a Stoic.
Despite the torches, it was hardly more light inside than out. As though the darkness was drinking up all illumination. A second priestess beckoned Sabinus down the long central aisle to a short set of steps. Here stood the Omphalos, the navel of the world. Behind it hung a heavy woolen curtain, the pathway to the adyton, the center of the Delphic oracle and seat of Pythia.
The very word adyton meant 'do not enter.' Yet that was precisely what Sabinus was told to do. “Descend,” instructed this new priestess, even older than the first. “Announce yourself and hear Apollo's wisdom.”
Doing as bidden, Sabinus crossed to the curtain. There was a musty smell, and something very like sulpher. Left arm curled properly in his toga, he drew himself to his full height and spoke. “I am Titus Flavius Sabinus Junior, senator of Rome. I have been summoned to hear the words of Apollo.”
The voice that answered sounded like a knife scraped against a metal bowl. “Enter, Titus Flavius Sabinus Junior, and hear.”
Nerving himself, Sabinus pushed aside the curtain to descend, and instantly entered Hades.
Heat, and a stench of death and fire. A red light came from the coals of a brazier, but Sabinus saw a second source of light – a fissure in the very floor through which steam rose, filling the air, making him sweat.
When Apollo had slain the great serpent Python for trying to rape his mother Leto, the snakelike body had fallen into this fissure. Now the fumes from its eternally decomposing frame rose to intoxicate Apollo's priestess, transforming her into Pythia, the Oracle of Delphi.
The current Pythia sat on a three-legged stool over the crack in the earth. She was a terrible sight. Naked, the hair on her head was knotted in clumps while the hair from her legs, armpits, and groin were bristled and stiff. Her skin had turned leathery. Her breasts were so utterly limp and desiccated it looked as though they had been sucked dry. Under the sagging folds of her skin, her ribs jutted out, as did her hips, and her shoulders looked sharp enough to cut a man. Her nails were long and unkempt. Her teeth were yellowed, as were her rheumy eyes.
Sabinus prided himself on being a rational man. But in the presence of this haggard, wild-eyed creature, he realized he was trembling.
A screaming hiss of hot air vented up from the earth. At the same moment the Pythia's jaw cracked open, and that awful voice swelled up from the waddled, hairy throat:
Old gods lament the coming Time,
As Flavians grasp the Great Divine
To the despair of yours and mine.
The Sabines take revenge on Rome,
Not content with rapine alone,
Shall deny the Great God a home.
Eastward the ilk of Chronos flies
To where the Lonesome God resides
Three years more, then too denied.
Two Brothers born, two more apart
Shall suffer each a Broken Heart.
Three shall Mended be, none through Art.
United shall these powers be
In worship of a power free
Of Monumental Cruelty.
In Colossus' shade, far beneath,
Three men, three Gods, one true Belief,
Clemency's heir shall bring Relief.
A long prophecy, and to the purpose, if the mention of his Flavian family was any indication. But it was typical of a Pythian decree in that it was utterly unintelligible at first hearing. It would take time to decypher it, if that was even possible.
Sabinus had one immediate question. “Why give this to me?”
The Pythia stared through him. “What use a prophecy that goes unheard?”
“But why me, specifically? What is my role in life, then? Observer?”
“Not at all. Would you know the part you play?”
'Ignorance is the cause of fear.' Sabinus swallowed. “I would.”
“Be warned. Once you see Fate, Fate also sees you.”
'He who is brave is free.' Stoically, he said, “Yet I would know.”
The Pythia closed her eyes and slowly words croaked forth:
As cure to Clemency's lone vice,
There comes a teaching Sacrifice,
One emulated for great Price.
Alone, unsung, all but Forgot,
Save by the Jew who lays a plot
To defeat a dreaded Despot.
“Forgotten, then?” demanded Sabinus, his heart racing. “In the great pageant of Rome, I contribute nothing?”
The creature on the stool opened her eyes and gazed upon him without pity, without mercy, without hope. “Titus Flavius Sabinus Junior, your desti
ny is set. You feel it even now, hardening around you, like your cousin's invention. You have now been seen by Fate. Fortuna has her eye upon you, she holds your thread close. Your path is set.” With that chilling proclamation, the Pythia raised a gnarled finger. “Go.”
Sabinus opened his mouth to protest. He wanted to ask about the casual prophecy about his son and theatre. Did that connect to her words?
But the Pythia rose from her stool, standing in a crabbed, hunched pose that made her even less human than before. “Do not further badger the gods, Titus Flavius Sabinus Junior. Not when they have been so free with their wisdom. Go.”
Chest tight, Sabinus bowed before the Pythia, then retreated quickly up the stairs and out of Apollo's temple. He burst forth covered in sweat, his eyes blurred.
“Father! What's the matter?” asked Tertius.
“What did she say?” asked Clemens.
“Cold,” gasped Sabinus. The sweat hitting the freezing air was like a lightning bolt.
“What, father?”
Sabinus could only shake his head. His throat was closed tight, his eyes clouded with tears. He coughed and spat, then coughed some more. “Sulpher,” he explained when he could. “I'm fine. Just the sulpher.”
But in his heart Sabinus could feel the oppressive hand of Fortuna crushing his hopes.
V
ROMA, ITALIA
3 JANUARY 67 AD
Three days into the Roman New Year, Abigail was finally able to return to her washing. The house of Plautius was back in order, after nearly two full weeks of extravagance. First the Saturnalia, then the New Year's celebrations.
With the servants back in their proper places, Plautius and Domitia had hosted a surprisingly lavish event for friends, during which the mistress' laughter rang loud and long. It had become indecorous and quite raucous, with so many of the guests being young nobles – they ranged in age from fourteen to their mid-twenties. It had taken the household staff, servile and free, two whole days to return the domus to some semblance of order. Several frescoes had to be professionally restored, and Abigail was pleased she was not the one who had to clean whatever was at the bottom of the well.
The house felt sluggish and sleepy this morning, everyone's heads still swimming from excess. Not hers, of course. Nor Perel's or Seth's. As Abigail braved the snow, wrapped in shawls and woolen socks that had been an unusually thoughtful Saturnalia present from the mistress, she saw the master of the house crossing the enclosed garden to enter his study. Plautius nodded at her briefly, then kept his eyes on his destination. No lingering smile, just embarrassment. She wondered if he even remembered what had happened. It was probably a murky memory, and he clearly was not interested in clarifying it. Perhaps he was embarrassed at having bedded so old a woman.
But he had not. The wine had worked, and Abigail had not been forced to give to him what she had only ever given freely to Symeon. She tried not to revel in her relief. The time might come one day when she would be forced to go through with it, and if she considered this a victory, she might view that day as a true defeat. She knew all too well that it was more important to value the spirit than the body. The spirit could remain pure, even if the body was victim to defiling. As her beloved had proved. And his rabbi before him.
Abigail found herself standing in stillness, lost in thought. That would never do. She had a great deal to accomplish today. Tomorrow was the start of Shabbat. She and her daughter and Seth would be allowed to go out and gather with their fellow Hebrews to pray and partake of no work from dusk until the following dusk, but only if their chores were performed. Thank the Lord for the snow. She did not have to deal with the befouled well, gathering snow instead. She placed the metal bowl over the brazier to melt away the whiteness, then she went to work on the linens.
As she scrubbed, she thought about Shabbat, and the stories she had been told by other Jews here in the city. Abigail could not imagine what it must have been like for Jews in Rome before Augustus. Until the last hundred or so years, Rome had always worked on an eight-day week, whereas Hebrews lived by a calendar that held only seven days. Thus Jews were forever falling afoul of the Roman calendar. They could not take regular employment with gentiles, because there was no telling when Shabbat would fall in the Roman week. Of course, there were always Hebrews who chose to ignore the Shabbat, the Lord's day of rest and contemplation. For it was in the Jewish nature to be practical – nearly as practical as these Romans.
But then Augustus Caesar had changed the calendar in honour of his adoptive father, Gaius Julius Caesar Dictator. Thus the Romans had come around to what the Hebrews had long known: that, based on the stars, the moon, and the weather, one could create a calendar that was the same year after year. So now the Hebrews could take their day of prayer with predictable ease, allowing their owners or employers to schedule the religious observance. Romans respected religious devotion, even of the strange lonesome God of the Jews, who seemed uncharacteristically demanding for a deity.
The Romans had even gone so far as to name the days of the week, a brilliant innovation to their world. The days were named after either gods or planets – the Sun, the Moon, Mars, Mercury, Jupiter, Venus, and Saturn. Thus it was commonly understood that no Jew would willingly work on the dies Saturni – Saturn's day. In a monumental misunderstanding, Abigail's mistress had once asked why Jews worshipped Saturn so devoutly. Abigail had tried to explain, but the girl was soon bored. Well, Domitia was young, and the Hebrew God was no god of hers. She was showing more interest in the cult of Isis, which was worrying. But there was nothing for Abigail to do. She was not the girl's mother, nor would she ever be accepted in that role. Domitia Longina, descendant of Augustan blood, would never accept a slave's advice.
Slave. It was such an odd thought, chilling and yet mundane. For were not all Jews slaves? Abigail had been born in Galilee, in the city of Tiberias right on Lake Gennesar. The whole city looked Greek, with statues representing men and beasts, against the decree of the Lord. Was that not a form of slavery? Greek and Roman culture had entirely invaded the land of David. Even their king, named for a Roman and descended from Herod, himself no true Jew, had been raised in Rome, taught Roman manners, played with Roman boys in his youth, ruled in a half-Roman style. The land of Judea – in itself an insulting name – was subject to Roman rule through governors and client-kings. Making all Hebrews subject to Rome, most without the rights of citizenship. Was that not also slavery?
But her love had adhered to his rabbi's teachings. Freedom came from within. “Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's.” A brilliant motto. Money was unclean. Give the money to Caesar, and free yourself from greed, strife, and care. It was not the kind of revolution the Sicarii had wanted, not like the current revolt that would surely doom her homeland. It had been a different sort of rebellion. One of the mind. Of the spirit. One that was on-going, and far from lost.
It occasionally came to Abigail that she was odd. Women did not know such things as she knew, think of things the way she thought of them. But from their first meeting nearly twenty years ago, Symeon had ever treated her as a partner, an equal, sharing his knowledge, asking her questions to fish her thoughts. They read together, talked, learned, taught, and thought together. She had not minded being his whore. For with a wife at home, her love could not marry again. Early on, it had been her uncharitable wish that the old woman in the hut by Lake Gennesar would just die, freeing Abigail and Symeon to marry. Yet somehow, with Symeon, her honour had not mattered. Especially after the birth of Perel. They had been united in their love for their clever and adventurous little girl.
She is so much like him, thought Abigail. My beloved, who abandoned his nets on a whim and never looked back. A man built for fidelity. True, not to his wife. But faithful to his rabbi, his love, and his daughter. Most of all, faithful to his cause. The cause for which he had died.
Abigail was surprised to find herself crying. Even three years after his execution, the loss of him was like a limb
sawn off.
But still his work went on. Thinking of the prayer meeting tomorrow, Abigail cuffed her eyes and bent to her chores. There was so much to be done.
* * *
DELPHI, GREECE
The morning after his interview with the Oracle, Sabinus focused on the mundane, arranging their travel plans back home. Rather than return to Corinth, they would be ferried from Galaxidi to Patras, and from there to Brundisium.
When his sons asked why they were not returning to Caesar's court, Sabinus replied vaguely that he had duties to perform in Rome. The truth was that he could not imagine facing Nero at present. His Stoicism was shaken, the ship of his being rocked upon a choppy sea. To face the Princeps and be quizzed over the whole affair would be disastrous. And somehow impious.
But they had to spend this one day in Delphi. The hired vessel would not leave until tomorrow afternoon. To avoid the persistent questioning looks from his sons, Sabinus sent them to the morning markets with instructions to find suitable gifts for their female relations, their cousins Julia and Flavia.
Once they were gone, Sabinus closed the door to his room and lay upon his left side on the long couch. He was warmed by a low brazier placed by his feet, but he still felt a chill deep inside as he studied the sheet of parchment in his hands.
At dawn he'd sent a large donation to the Oracle. Larger, in truth, than he could afford. But after his rudeness, he owed the temple at least a new coat of paint.
In return, the same haggish priestess had descended from the hillside and delivered to him a copy of the prophecy written out fair. Sabinus doubted he would ever need it. The words were burned into his mind. Yet having it written somehow made it more real.
Staring now at the words, he let his eyes unfocus, blurring the words. Apollo, relent! I do not wish to be forgotten! I want my life to matter! O Seneca, comfort me, give me some balm, some wisdom that will cure me of this fear, this fury raging in my breast!
