The Nero Prediction

by Humphry Knipe

  The freedman's tiny green eyes twinkled as he watched me digest this grim morsel. "One day the tongueless slave brought him your fellow citizen, Thrasyllus of Alexandria. 'Interpret your own horoscope,' Tiberius told him. Thrasyllus took his time. First he drew up his own natal chart. Then, consulting his tables, he started calculating aspects with reference to the planets of that particular day. The deeper he probed, the more agitated he became. Finally he threw himself at Tiberius's feet. 'Oh lord,' he said, 'an immediate and fatal doom hangs over my head!' A horoscope is the future written in code. An astrologer is a code breaker. Thrasyllus proved he could break the code. So he became the imperial astrologer. Well, my little pen pusher, what do you think of Tiberius's strategy?"

  It took me a moment to recover from this flood of words delivered by someone who rarely threw together more than one sentence. "Unnecessarily cruel. Out of a consideration for humanity, a Greek would've exposed those quacks to ridicule rather than kill them."

  Euodus was at work with his strigil already, scraping the oil off his skin. "Ah, but that's precisely why Rome rules Greece. The Greek allows a sentimental attachment to tenderhearted humanity to blur the sharpness of his reasoning. The Roman doesn't. Don't you see? How could an astrologer be expected to foresee that he was in peril of death unless that peril was real? And how do you make that peril real without killing astrologers who cannot foresee it?"

  This neat rebuff, and the cackling tone with which it was delivered, made me blush with embarrassment, though I don't expect Euodus noticed that in the dim light of the swinging lantern. "Yes, I suppose there is no other way. But what's all this got to do with me?"

  "Simple. If we get to Rome in time to fulfill your destiny it proves to Agrippina that she’s found who she’s looking for. If not...”

  I didn't like the way he shrugged off the alternative, it reminded me of the way Tiberius's giant shoved astrologers off the cliff face.

  The freedman stared at the horizon ahead of us. “What was that you threw into the sea?” he asked after a long pause.

  There was no point in lying. “The box Tigellinus gave me. A dream told me the Copy Master’s hand was strangling me.”

  “Exactly what I thought,” the freedman rumbled, as if to himself. “That’s why Fate called off the wind. It was Fate’s hand. She wanted it back.”

  Two rowers died under the lash, Euodus had the captain drive the slaves so hard, but it wasn’t until shortly after dawn of October 15, the Ides, that we reached Ostia.

  Euodus hurried me on shore the moment the gangplank went down. "A carriage!" he roared at the stevedores loading a big merchant ship, "where do I get a carriage?"

  Men hurried past, some of them at the trot. Not very far away, towards the center of the town, trumpets sounded the reveille.

  "What's happening?" Euodus asked the carriage master.

  "The emperor is on the move and therefore so is everybody else."

  "Claudius is here?"

  The man looked up from the heavy brass belt buckle he was tying. "Been opening a new quay, but something's happened to his wife Messalina back in Rome. Now everybody wants a carriage."

  Euodus smashed his hairy fist into the palm of his left hand. "Zeus, we're not too late!"

  Our two-wheeled cart clattered along the ribbon of paved road taking us to Rome. Three hours and two changes of horses later the City of the She Wolf rose up out of the earth. Somewhere, just ahead of us, a gardener's cart was parked by the roadside. A mob, mostly jeering city scum, jostled the handful of nervous liveried servants who guarded it. Others watched the road along which we'd come, along which the emperor would come also.

  Euodus had the horses slowed to a walk. He hailed a man selling sausages from his barrow as fast as he could grill them. "Who's in the cart?"

  "Messalina and her brats, Octavia and Britannicus. She’s waiting for Claudius."

  More a crow of triumph from Euodus than a question: "Why?"

  "She's in disgrace. Something about marrying a senator during a secret Wine Festival orgy in her gardens."

  The Festival of the New Wine, I knew, fell on October 11, just four days ago. Again the freedman's fist attacked the palm of his left hand. "Drive on!"

  Rome, these days, was a city without walls, its old Republican fortifications having long since been overwhelmed by the avalanche of new buildings attacking them from both sides. So I entered the mistress of the world before I knew it and became aware of her magnificence only when we rounded the shoulder of the Aventine Hill. There it was, the mighty Circus Maximus with its electrum obelisk, the place Tigellinus dreamed about. Rearing above it were the imperial palaces of the Palatine, a riot of purple and gold leaf in the crisp morning Sun.

  Euodus and I were searched for weapons at the gates. We were searched a second time when we entered the anterooms of Agrippina’s quarters. The closer we got to her the quieter people were, the more concentrated their expressions, the more hurried their pace.

  I was searched by a chamberlain before he admitted me, alone, to her reception room. She was sitting in a chair flanked by two statues. The one on her left was Isis, the solar disk bright between the cow horns of her crown. I had heard that the worship of the great goddess had spread far, but not as far as the imperial palace in Rome. On Agrippina’s right stood a winged monster with a man’s body and a lion’s tawny head, its legs and its lower torso wrapped in the coils of a glistening black snake, holding the keys to the future in his hands. It’s gaping mouth was smeared with bright red paint. It was the figure on the box I had thrown into the sea.

  She sat so still, her face was so totally devoid of expression, that she seemed more a creature of eternity than of this world. Not even time had dared work its mischief on that calm, handsome face framed by auburn hair parted in the middle and falling down to her shoulders in long ringlets as slender as serpents. Her forehead, her cheeks, even her neck and hands, where a woman ages first, were still smooth as polished travertine. Agrippina, Caligula's sister, the emperor Claudius's niece, the owner of my body and soul.

  I fell to my knees and pressed my forehead to the floor. She ignored my obeisance, examined instead the document she’d unrolled. "The very day, the very hour," she whispered, gazing at me with her black eyes. "Yes, you are the one, I am sure of that. You are a copyist."

  "Yes domina."

  "You can mimic anyone's handwriting, I am told."

  "I think so domina."

  “Get up. Look at this,” she said, handing me a short scroll, an edict of some sort. It was signed “Claudius” in a spidery scrawl. It was the emperor's signature, I was sure of that.

  “Copy it,” she said, passing me a scrap of blank paper. I shuffled forwards on my knees, took the paper from her outstretched hand and smoothed it against the variegated marble floor.

  Agrippina compared my copy with the original. Without comment she handed me a second piece of paper which said, in the neat hand of an official scribe, "As just punishment for the crimes of adultery and treason with Gaius Silius, in conformity with the laws of our ancestors, I hereby command my wife Valeria Messalina to take her own life."

  "Write it with his hand."

  I knew I was being told to do a dreadful thing. My hand shook as I copied Claudius's scribble but that only improved the result.

  Agrippina took the warrant from me, nodded just perceptibly as she checked my work and then sealed it. "Epaphroditus of Alexandria, you are indeed a hand of Fate. Because of me you shall taste greatness.” She inclined her head slightly to her left. “Do you worship Isis?"

  My mother had worshipped Isis, Phocion had told me that, so I felt a sentimental attachment to her even though the goddess hadn’t saved her from dying when she gave birth to me. “Yes domina. Every year, ever since I can remember, I have attended the ceremony of her New Year rising.”

  She nodded as if she knew that already, which I was sure she did. “Yes, Isis has a lot in common with me. Tiberius murdered my father Germanicus, had
him poisoned in Antioch. Oh what a glorious Caesar he would have made! Tiberius also murdered my mother, starved her to death on Pandateria. My brother Caligula banished me because my enemies lied to him about me. Stripped of my protection Caligula too was murdered, struck down by assassins like Julius Caesar. With my help Claudius has put down several plots aimed at his life. We Romans fight each other like scorpions in a bottle. This must stop. Isis re-united a man’s body, her husband Osiris’s. I plan to do more. I plan to re-unite an empire.”

  After a long pause during which she seemed to stare vacantly into space, Agrippina inclining her head to the lion-headed statue on her right. "Do you know him?"

  I hesitated before I answered because my mind was reeling. I’d never heard anyone compare herself to a goddess. "Yes, the dominus Tigellinus introduced him to me. His Egyptian name is Kar-Knum. The Greeks call him Kronos. He’s Lord of Time.”

  She didn’t appear to hear what I was saying. “We Romans call him Saturn," she said, rising and walking with slow, deliberate strides to a life-like statue that was catching the morning sun. It was a red-headed boy of about ten years old with a freckled face, small features, blue eyes: a handsome child. "This is my son Lucius. What you may not know is that there is a relationship between the two, this lion-headed creature and my boy. Saturn is his star, Saturn who is destined to preside over a golden age. The golden age which will come when I resurrect the Roman Empire."

  Even though she was an imperial princess, Agrippina’s presumption was astonishing. Of course the blood of Julius Caesar and Augustus ran in her veins so she would she would be familiar with grand ideas. But she was also Caligula’s sister, so she had the seeds of madness in her too.

  “Do you Egyptians believe in the Golden Age?” she asked, still looking at the boy’s statue.

  “Yes domina. Although in Egypt it is associated with Sothis, also called Sirius, the star of Isis who commands the Nile to rise.”

  “Exactly! Isis and Saturn!” She moved behind her son's statue, placed both hands on his head, as if in benediction. "I had Tigellinus find you for me because the stars foretell that someone with your horoscope will cause the downfall of Messalina. It is because you have signed her death warrant that I am so confident she will die. Your stars predict also that you will be the shield of an emperor. My son Lucius has an imperial horoscope. Therefore I am equally confidant that it is his shield that you are destined to be."

  Agrippina's whisper took on a strange theatrical quality that sent shivers up my spine. It was as if she were talking in a dream. "His accession to the throne, his rule itself, will be illuminated by astrology. For the first time in history, the world will be ruled by science."

  I didn't want her to see the alarm in my eyes so I stared at the hands resting on the painted marble curls. They moved rhythmically, the movement of a woman's hands as she spins at the loom, something that in obedience to ancient Roman tradition Agrippina had no doubt done herself as a child.

  "There is something else that you are destined to do for me," she went on, "one final, fateful act. It must remain secret, even from you, until the appointed time. That is why you must never seek to know your future through your stars. Never. Do you understand me?"

  I nodded and raised my eyes cautiously to her face. But Agrippina was already in another world where it wasn't the ghost of rough wool that was running though her fingers but the silken thread of Fate itself.

  I was fed bread with dried figs and goat’s cheese then shown to a cubicle where I could rest. I fell asleep immediately and dreamt of a beautiful bird flying over black water. In its mouth it carried a twig of laurel. Ammut, the demon who eats the hearts of the damned, lunged out of the water and snapped at the gull with its crocodile mouth. Screeching in agony the bird struggled to escape from the slavering jaws.

  It was Euodus, jerking me awake. "You were crying out," he said. “What did you see?” When I told him he nodded. “Carrying a twig of laurel? Good. That means it’s her.”

  It took me a moment to shake off the horror of Ammut. "What's happened?"

  "The emperor has signed Messalina's death warrant."

  I was befuddled enough to ask when.

  Euodus must have known that it was I who'd signed the warrant because there was that familiar hint of grim humor in the green eyes. "A few minutes ago, along with some others to do with the new harbor. He's at dinner, drunk as usual. Probably won't even remember. I'm going ahead of the Praetorians to make sure the timing is right. You're coming with me."

  "Why me?"

  He gave me a black grin. "You’re Ammut.”

  We hurried down the steps of the Palatine, onto the

  Sacred Way, past the House of the Vestal Virgins and the temple of Julius Caesar towards the Forum with its forest of statues. The glorious dead of Rome peered at me disapprovingly out of the corners of their eyes as we passed. What right had I, a mere Greekling, to be instrumental in the death of one of their own?

  I stared back at them. I had absolutely nothing against Messalina. She was only twenty-three, beautiful with long, curly black hair, there were several statues of her in the palace. From what I’d heard she was glamorous, frivolous and romantic - a lot like Egypt’s Cleopatra. I'd have exchanged her for Agrippina any day.

  "Why do you hate Messalina so much?" I asked Euodus.

  "You saw my back."

  "She had you whipped?"

  "She whipped me herself. When her arm grew tired she handed the whip to her tormentor."

  "Why? What did you do?"

  "She wanted information about Agrippina and Tigellinus. I wouldn't give it to her."

  "She whipped you herself?"

  "She enjoys giving pain. She enjoys watching pain. Soon we'll see how she likes taking it."

  The Via Flaminia took us through the Field of Agrippa where a temporary, three-tiered wooden amphitheater had been erected. Although it was close to sunset, much later than gladiatorial games usually lasted, the crowd inside jeered, whistled and stamped their feet as if they were watching something highly entertaining.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, “surely they’re not still fighting?”

  “No, tomorrow. This is the feast.”

  “Who for?”

  “For them, the victims, runaway slaves, criminals, trash. The master of the games always gives the victims a feast the night before they’re killed. It’s sort of a going away party.” Euodus squinted at the Sun which was about half an hour from setting. “We’re running a little early so let’s take a quick look. It’ll give you a taste for what’s coming.”

  I followed in his wake as he shouldered his way through the press of bodies until we’d gained a clear view of the arena from the second tier. Below was a macabre spectacle. Perhaps two hundred people, some of them female, prostitutes perhaps, reclined like gentry on couches where they were being served huge helpings of meat and wine by liveried servants. Some ate nothing, sitting there stone-faced with terror or weeping uncontrollably. Others, the focus of the jeers, stuffed their bellies with food and snapped their fingers arrogantly at the wine pourers to get their goblets refilled. They appeared to be having the time of their lives. I saw men make themselves vomit so that they could eat and drink more. Several had already passed out. To the vast amusement of the audience, a few even brawled in pathetic anticipation of what was going to happened the next day, so staggering drunk that almost none of their punches connected. As I watched a burly man with a hairy back dragged a thin young woman from her coach. She struggled feebly as he raped her on the sand where they were both going to die tomorrow. Other men followed his example, contemptuously throwing away the last of their humanity in what seemed to be a desperate attempt to insult their tormentors. It had the opposite effect. The crowd screamed with delight.

  “Well, what do you think?” Euodus asked with his mischievous grin.

  “I was thinking of how they’re going to feel in when they wake up in the morning.”

  “Don’t wor
ry, the animals and the gladiators will find a permanent cure for those headaches. You don’t seem to think it’s funny.”

  “No,” I said. “It’s sickening.”

  “That’s because you’re still much too Greek. You’re going to need some starch in your spine.”

  It was already twilight and Venus burnt bright as polished steel in the rosy western sky when we climbed the hill overlooking Augustus's vast, round mausoleum on the Tiber. The tall, gilded gates of Messalina's private park, still called the Gardens of Lucullus after the wealthy Epicurean who had owned them a hundred years ago, stood half open. The grounds themselves seemed to be populated only by statues. As we walked towards the villa at the crown of the terraced hill we could see that a single lamp was burning in a room which appeared to be a library. A young woman, long necked and lithe as an asp, her hair piled high in steps, paced restlessly in front of the lamp. Her cheeks were wet with tears that had done nothing to dampen the passion in her lips and eyes. Messalina. There was a second woman in the room who sat in a chair, her face pale but composed. Euodus told me that she was Domitia Lepida, Messalina's mother.