Chapter 2: Chapter 2
Alone in his empty home, Longus stretched out unhappily on the tile floor. There was no place else to sit. Hyperion’s men had confiscated what had remained of the furniture not already seized by creditors. He had borrowed a stool from his neighbor, Silanus, but, now, that, too, had been removed. When Longus finally returned home, he stood by the doorway and tried to collect himself. At that point, Silanus simply marched by, entered the home, picked up the stool and left. Longus tried to protest, but there was nothing to say. Silanus hadn’t started a conversation. If anything, he simultaneously retrieved his stool and tried not to be seen by any curious onlookers.
As soon as the neighbor was gone, Longus merely walked into the atrium and plopped down with his back against the north wall across from the one remaining piece of art in the house, the mural on the wall across from him. Someone had tried to gouge out the corner in an effort to remove the artwork, but gave up. All his jewelry had been seized, too. He leaned back, happy for the sensation of something solid. He could feel the sun still on him. For a moment, he actually felt alive.
At least, he told himself, he had not been executed. He had not even been whipped, which had definitely been a possibility. Instead, he had been ordered into exile.
There was no point protesting that Longus did not know Perspectus was going to interrupt the Emperor’s ritual. Nor was Hyperion interested in the fact Longus tried to stop Perspectus. No, the slave belonged to him. That was enough. Longus could not counter that charge.
“I should have executed Perspectus before instead of releasing him,” Hyperion admitted. “This would not have happened. This is my failing. I have a soft heart. I must be hard when passing out punishment.” Longus felt cold inside. There was no question who the target of more-rigid punishment would be in the future.
“Death is too good for you,” Hyperion continued, ignoring Longus’ most humble expression. “You will leave Rome in two days. You must live outside Italy. Let’s see how well you do without prestige, money or slaves.”
Appalled, Longus already knew the answer. He was nothing anywhere else but in Rome, even if it only connoted gluttony and excess there. His family name, while distinguished, would carry no meaning in Syria, Egypt, Sicily or Gaul. Besides, he knew no one in those places. He could hardly saunter in and demand proper respect among strangers. He didn’t even have a toga that advertised his status. He couldn’t afford to buy respect either.
In his dismal state, he harbored no illusions anymore. The mosaic of a party scene on the wall had once radiated light and mirth. Now, it seemed a bunch of meaningless colors with strange humans as unhappy as he was. Longus had stopped crying. That would not help him. He just had no strength. Everything around him seemed so bleak.
The abrupt collapse of his life betrayed his lack of plans. He had no idea what to do with his life before. Now, forced to leave, he had no direction at all. His fate had been decided for him, but his destination remained unclear. Hyperion may have required him to leave Rome, but hadn’t provided a road map.
Longus felt lost. His once-imagined havens were all illusions. His family lived in Italy. Worse they all knew him. That already meant they wanted nothing to do with him. Even his sister probably wouldn’t open the door should he show up at her home. She was furious at him for dissipating the family fortune.
“You’ve ruined our good name,” she wailed at him.
“Nonsense,” he told her airily then. “I’ve given it a whole new cachet.” He couldn’t be that cavalier now.
Other choices did not really exist. Maybe he might find a distant cousin who could shelter him. Cousins seemed to have some pull. Just look at Hyperion. On the other hand, Longus didn’t have any cousins. His parents had no siblings who had survived long enough to produce children. His father’s brother, who never married and lived alone, was the lone older member of the family. If Longus showed up unexpectedly at his uncle’s front door, the old man would expect to be paid. Uncle Albinus wouldn’t give a starving man the rind off a lemon without obtaining some cash first.
What could he do for money? Longus opened the small leather purse attached to his pallium belt and counted the few coins inside. His remaining sesterces would last a few days. He would have to work. At what? A social consultant? He had no skill, unless identifying a particularly exotic dish by smell counted. He did not write or work with his hands. He had no talent for counting or selling. Arrogance wasn’t marketable. His shoulders slumped. Even a lofty name carried little weight anymore, especially with bankers who were far icier with him that Hyperion had been.
For the first time, he contemplated suicide. Some of the greatest Romans had selected that route to end their misery: the great philosopher Seneca, the Emperor Nero. He could follow their path. On the other hand, the concept of pain had never been appealing, even if the process would not take long. Unfortunately, he also lacked the kind of willing enemies who would perform the task. Hyperion had had the chance, but even he refused. Everyone else Longus had alienated would not waste their energy on him. Those few friends who shared his table were more adept at downing wine than using a sword. He doubted any of them could be induced to end his misery. They were too busy trying to kill themselves with their own excesses.
Besides, no one he knew even thought about fighting except the gladiators in the Colosseum. That was the only place human blood and guts were exposed these days. There was no reason for the average citizen of any rank to practice with arms: Rome had few enemies. The Parthians were cowed; the Goths preferred the peace beyond the Rhine. Peace had soothed most of the normal Roman bloodlust. Wine had drowned the rest.
What a pity, Longus thought. Just when he needed someone with grit and steel, one who would kill with a casual thrust, he was surrounded by docile cows, calmed by complete power and sedated by contentment. He had been born too late.
Lacking accomplices or motivation, Longus resigned himself to board a trireme for anywhere beyond the border. Augustus’ daughter and nephew were both exiled. He was in good company, albeit years later.
Eventually, he wandered into Perspectus’ small room to see if he could find any reason for the old man’s actions. It was a grubby place with just a straw pallet. The slave had etched some kind of T into the wall, and there was a scroll lying in a dusty corner. Longus idly opened it and saw some Greek writing. It was some kind of letter. Unwilling to translate, he tossed it aside, returned to his living room and resume sitting.
Finally, by mid-afternoon, he could abide no longer. He arose on unsteady feet and dusted himself off. There was nothing he could. He would adopt the Stoic approach. It was much favored these days anyway. He would appear his best. He would march away with his head held high. Let his neighbors say what they will. He would be unbowed and proud, ever haughty and strong in the face of unrelenting disaster. Longus had no idea why he had offended the gods, but they had sent the furies to drive him from his home. He could do nothing but accede to their demands.
The thought stopped him. Of course. He slapped his head. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? He was being pursued by harpies. What had he done wrong? He would visit an auger. He would find out what sin he had committed and atone for it. That was his lone hope. The thought inflamed him. An augur, of course. How could he have been so stupid not to have realized the real source of his anguish could be identified? Who else could pinpoint the cause?
Perhaps, the gods were mad because the soldiers had dismantled his household altar. Or, possibly, they had been outraged when the altar had become the target of ceramic goblets during his last dinner party. He had demonstrated the best aim, but the gods may have been offended by being showered with shards. Also, he often had ignored the proper rituals, not asked for guidance or paused in his debauchery for holidays. If anything, he had been totally sacrilegious, which, while that diffidence was the accepted norm among the social elite, might have disturbed the sensibilities of the deities.
Admittedly, his friends had not been selected for revenge, but that might change. He might be the harbinger of the future that awaited them.
Longus felt better as these thoughts percolated through his brain. He would seek out professional assistance to ascertain the minds of the gods.
His fumbling fingers recounted the sesterces in his leather pouch. Still only 10, plus a handful of denarii and aes. That was not enough to purchase a sacrificial bull, cow or even a lamb. He would not seek a priest to read entrails then. Augurs were expensive. Still, there were others blessed with insight into the minds of gods.
Perhaps he could find a nearby oracle. Greeks specialized in that form of wizardry. No, Longus decided, his pitiful offering was bound to be too small. Even if induced to try to contact the gods, they would either reveal a message sufficiently enigmatic for possible comprehension or simply pocket the money and report that Apollo had entered a silent period.
There were palm readers, but they seemed so unreliable. Longus examined his own pink, puffed, upright hand. There were few lines. There was nothing for anyone to read. Besides, the thought of one of those dirty, wizened creatures touching his hand made him shiver.
His other option was an astrologer. They had been in vogue recently because of Domitian. He had been given a horoscope as a young man and had based his life on its reading: he would die in the fifth hour in September in his 16th year in power. And, he had. Of course, Longus thought, his assassins were well aware of the prediction and may have chosen that day to act accordingly. No matter. He had no interest in getting a reading foretelling his death. So, he had always shied away from stargazers.
On the other hand, at this moment, knowing his future now would be extremely helpful. He could avoid questions about death and focus on such things as the best destination, source of income and marriage prospects. Perhaps that would ease his troubled thoughts while not overtaxing his meager purse. Astrologers did not charge much. They were occasionally banned from Rome, but always reappeared in seemingly larger numbers. He was bound to find one who was inexpensive and yet capable.
Longus had no idea how astrology worked, but knew exactly where to find one to show him. Astrologers always frequented the Forum market. However, he did not wish to be seen there. The story of his exile had no doubt circulated widely. He would seek a quiet reading, performed in a sanctuary or other setting.
He would go to their lair. He would venture into the rickety apartments away from the Forum, the dusty, dirty, flimsy buildings that were forever toppling over and catching on fire. Where Hyperion had made his fortune, Longus would find his future.
Inspired, Longus felt the burdens of the day lifted. He would ask where to go in exile, how long he would stay there, when he would recover his wealth and social position, how he could avenge himself on Hyperion in an appropriately elegant manner. Armed with such knowledge, he could face his future with an unflinching gaze.
He marched into the afternoon sunlight. Clouds had gathered with a hint of coolness now sifting through the air. He even could scent the aroma from bull sacrificed and burned in the repeated ritual enthroning the Emperor. It had ended just a couple of hours ago. Few people had bothered to attend, fearful both of a repeat of the previous day’s uproar and less interested now that the novelty of a new Emperor had worn off. On top of that, Nerva had declined to stay in Domitian’s huge palace and moved elsewhere. As a result, everyone knew the procession would take far longer and subtract from the shopping.
Longus had been specifically banned from attending the ceremony. Nor was he allowed to attend the ritualistic cleansing of the sacred altar following the execution of Perspectus. But the hour had passed for inaction. Cautiously, he walked along the Via Sacra and then turned quickly toward the reeking apartments of the city’s poor. The cobblestones led him toward the fetid smells and rumbling sounds of the ramshackle apartments that housed most Romans.
Wealthy people lived among them, but in vastly different styles of housing. The rich luxuriated in single family homes, often large enough to rent out the first floor to businesses and tradesmen. The rest huddled together in shoddy wooden apartments that towered three or four stories in strange configurations.
Longus always appreciated that his family had purchased villas far from such squalor. The mere presence of his more-isolated home testified to the centuries of his family’s existence and its importance. He gazed about at the chaos before him and silently thanked the gods not to have been born there.
People were everywhere in a swirl of bodies and voices, walking, buying, talking, screaming. The sounds of children laughing interlaced the din. The chorus muted the rumble of carts through the narrow byways. Beggars lay sprawled across walkways. Here and there, wantons walked with open invitations in their threadbare tunics. Then, too, toughs appeared in small groups or alone, studying passersby and practicing menacing glares.
The sides of the narrow road were crowded with vendors selling breads, fish, meat, cereal, beans and porridge. Everywhere, Longus could see stacks of coarse brown bread, the favorite meal of the lower class. He shuddered at the thought of having to dine on such food. However, the aroma from the various items reminded him he had not eaten. He bought a small roll for two asses, unhappy to part with any coins, but grateful to eat anything. He ate it so fast that he didn’t even taste it until he started burping repeatedly. His stomach was not attuned to such rough fare.
Behind the vendors, signs of small businesses proliferated along the fronts of the rickety apartments: goldsmiths, stonecutters, craftsmen in ivory and wood, tailors and cloth salesmen, dyers and more. Doors opened and closed as workmen hurried on their business.
Here and there, dogs raced amid the people, barking, seeking food or merely playing.
Longus waded into the crowd. The smells assailed him from the squalid firetraps that blocked the sun. Some buildings leaned so far forward that they appeared ready to topple in a slight wind. Others were titled in the opposite direction or leaned, like an old friend, on the side of the neighboring structure.
Longus did not see anything resembling a sign for astrology or an astrologer, and continued to weave through the throng. He felt dirty simply walking amid such a revolting scene. He stepped on something rotting on the ground. It squished below his sandal. Disgusted, he tried to rub it off against the cobblestones.
At that moment, he became acutely aware that people were looking at him. Then, he realized that his pallium contained two telltale purple stripes, the marks of social status. Around him, people were dressed in plain, unmarked tunics. They immediately knew he did not belong there. Longus felt exposed. He wanted to say something, to explain, but realized there was no one to talk to.
Two young men walked up in front of him and blocked his path. One had a short knife in his right hand. The shaft pointed forward, aimed at Longus’ ample stomach. He stopped and took a deep breath.
“I am looking for an astrologer,” Longus said.
“Your future isn’t in the stars,” one of the teens told him coldly.
“I have no money,” Longus said plaintively. “I never carry any with me.”
“That’s all right,” the other youth said. “I like your robe.”
“Do you want to trade?” Longus asked hopefully. His knees felt weak. There was no doubt what the men intended.
“You looking for an astrologer, master?” someone asked tugged at his arm. He glanced that way and saw a boy looking up at him.
“Stop,” a teen ordered.
“Oh, shut up,” the boy said. “This is business.”
Longus marveled at the courage of the youngster, who seemed unfazed either by the size of the knife or the glares of the teenagers. In turn, they appeared stunned and hesitant. Longus immediately took advantage of their hesitancy.
“If it’s all right,” Longus told the teens, quickly following the youngster. “I’d rather go with him. We can discuss clothing some other time.”
The two men stared at him, but the swirling crowd abruptly cut off their view. Longus glanced at them, but they were swallowed up in only a moment before he went with the child down a tight alley between two apartment buildings. The third floor of the building jutted right, creating a roof that shielded them from the sky. Longus glanced around. He would not be safe here. Nevertheless, he had nowhere else to go.
The boy continued to the other side. There was a small villa there with several businesses on the first floor. Longus was led to the last of the three stores.
“Talk to Gaius Olympus,” the child said. “He is an astrologer.”
“Thank you so much,” Longus said with honest gratitude.
He just shrugged. “He is my grandfather,” the boy reported and walked away. “That was my brother and his friend back there.”
Longus turned back toward the astrologer’s office. The storefront was a wall with a simple entry. He raised a hand to knock on the door, but decided that as a patrician, he should not wait outside for someone to open the door for him. He stepped inside. The small interior was dark, but illuminated by a single flame from a wick emerging from a round stone. It was as if he were entering a cave. Longus had never joined one of the mystery cults that proliferated around Rome, like friends who had described a similar setting: dark, foreboding and awesome.
“I’ve been expecting you,” a crackly voice said.
As his eyes adjusted, Longus could see a small man sitting on a pillow. He held a piece of wood in his hands. Dressed in a usual tunic, he had a straggly beard that fell across his chest. Longus drew closer. The man was very old with round bags under rheumy eyes and a creased, flabby neck. He gazed at Longus with a benevolent expression that revealed gaps in his teeth.
“Sit,” Olympus said. Longus obeyed, coming to rest on a pillow.
“I’d like to ask some questions,” he started. His voice filled the room.
Olympus held up a hand. “I will answer all. The stars will tell me.” He turned his hand palm up and extended it toward Longus. “Five aes,” he requested.
Longus pulled out his small purse and counted out the bronze coins. At least the visit would be affordable. Olympus placed the coins in a small container behind him and smiled at Longus. The coins clinked as they were dropped inside.
“I just need to know when you were born,” he said.
“August,” Longus replied. “August 12.”
He felt so uncomfortable. A good host would offer wine, but Olympus clearly had no etiquette training. The room was so eerie. He really didn’t want to stay. This was worse than the time he woke up in a strange home after an all-night drinking bout only to find himself surrounded by candles and arcane signs. Then, at least, he had been blessed with a hangover and blurred thoughts. Now, he was too awake and keenly aware of his surroundings. Then, he had merely stumbled away and let Perspectus guide him home. Now, isolated, he watched the shadows flickering on the wall and felt trapped in some weird ritual that portended only disaster.
“Time of day?” Olympus continued.
“It is mid-afternoon,” Longus replied.
“I mean when you were born,” Olympus said.
Longus thought a moment. “I really don’t know. I was much too young,” he finally answered.
“No matter,” Olympus said. “We will use noon.”
He placed the small wooden square on the ground. He opened a small pouch and dumped some shiny, white objects onto the ground next to him. Longus could see they were pieces of ivory. Olympus then began to place them laboriously in notches cut on the wooden surface until it glinted white. Eventually, breathing hard from the effort, he looked up.
“You are a Leo,” he said. “You like to live in style. You want to be pampered. You are considering a holiday in the East.”
East? Longus thought. I am supposed to go in that direction? Why not? It really didn’t matter to him. None were appealing except staying in Rome. What was east? Greece? Syria? Further east? India?
Olympus continued. “In your birth chart, in everyone’s birth chart, there is a good planet, the Starter, which gives 90 years, represented by 90 degrees, in either a clockwise or an anticlockwise direction around the chart. Somewhere within this 90-degree arc, the Destroyer lies in wait. The difference is degrees tells us how long you will live.”
Longus grimaced. This was definitely what he didn’t want to hear. What if he was to die in just another day or two? What if death awaited him in the East? He would rather not know.
“My problem is to determine which planets to select for Starter and Destroyer,” Olympus continued as if thinking aloud. “Because it is by far the most benevolent planet, Jupiter would be the ideal Starter while Mars and Saturn would be ideal Destroyers because they are malevolent. The Sun, Mercury and the Moon could go either way because they are labile planets. I have decided your destroyer is the Moon. Your starter planet must be within 90 degrees.” He checked the chart and read, “Sun, Mercury, Venus and Jupiter are the only possibilities.”
“I have always been partial to Jupiter,” Longus said. It was not only the great god, but also the greatest planet. That status matched his own opinion of himself.
Olympus nodded. “Jupiter, placed at 2833 of Sagittarius gives you 90 years, as I count 90clockwise around your chart to 2833 of Virgo. When we go anticlockwise 4454 from this imaginary point in Virgo, I find the Moon, your destroyer. It is positioned at 1326 of Scorpio.”
“Of course,” Longus said.
“To cast an accurate chart, I do need your time of birth since the Moon moves through the Zodiac at about 30 seconds of arc an hour. However, based on the date you provided, I can determine that the Moon would have occupied 13 26 of Scorpio for only two minutes. Ergo, you must have been born in the seventh hour of the night and not noon as you guessed.”
“Naturally,” Longus agreed. He was starting to get frustrated. Olympus was no closer to answering his questions than before.
The old man then carefully explained the location of each planet at that moment, where the Sun was, where the Moon was and what are the points on the Zodiac that were rising and setting on the horizon at the moment of birth. “All Astrological signs are determined by the position of the sun relative to certain constellations on your day of birth,” Olympus continued.
Longus squirmed. The lack of food was starting to get to him. “Could I ask my questions now?” he asked. “I am quite hungry.”
“Your Sun in the fifth house suggests a pleasure-and-fun loving nature, being the center of attention. You are possibly drawn to performing,” Olympus recited. He moved an ivory piece across the board. “Your Venus sits on the Aries/Cupido axis, which provides an artistic influence. Do you sing or paint?”
Longus shook his head.
“Juggle? Do acrobatics?’
Longus again just shook his head. “I would never debase myself like that.”
“Saturn and Mercury are conjunct on the chart,” Olympus continued, undeterred. “Your Saturn/Mercury indicates that you were trained to have strong discipline, endurance and survival instincts. That would counter the artistic influences. You may be a military leader with the arts as a possible side interest.”
“No,” Longus sighed.
“Sun/Jupiter equals both Mars, giving you weak, sensitive and weak muscles,” Olympus decided. “You may develop inhibitions through illness or physical disability, emotional or mental illness, emotional affliction.”
Longus didn’t answer that. He was moving beyond frustration to disappointment.
“You probably have abundant experience in the spiritual and psychic realms or spheres, mystical experiences, with sympathetic understanding of other people. These are not part of a pattern I usually find expect to find on the chart of one who is a professional soldier.”
“I’m not a soldier,” Longus corrected.
“Your Saturn/Mercury equals Mars, which involves brutality, violence, necessity to fight for existence; maltreatment and strict discipline,” Olympus continued.
“Fights?”
“Yes,” Olympus said. “It is all clear. Your twelfth house is ruled by Saturn, the symbol of religious beliefs and practices. Its conjunction with Mars, which stresses the underground nature of the site. Venus is in the 2nd, which is the 6th house of ritual from the ninth of religion; Mars, ruler 2, is in the 6th of ritual. Scorpio on the ninth cusp affirms a secretive religion and suggests that the rites could include death. Pisces, the sign of sacrifice, rises, and Earth, planet of sacrifice, verifies this.”
Olympus looked up triumphantly. “You will be a priest of Mithra,” he said.
“Not really.” Longus answered. “I was just hoping to find out where I should go and what I should do when I get there.”
“I can answer that, too,” Olympus said with confidence. Longus sat up. “You will talk to an astrologer wherever you go, and he will tell you what you will do there.”
Rubbing his head, Longus stood up. “You’ve been much too kind,” he said. “However, I must be going. I … I have an appointment.”
“For two aes, I can tell you whom you are meeting with,” Olympus offered.
Longus shook his head. “I can do it for free.”
He hurried home, not buying anything more and trying to avoid the thugs. He arrived at dusk, which, he decided, was a fitting image for his fortune and future. Weary, he resolved to get up early the next day to find some food and then head to Ostia. Perhaps he could find someone to take him there on the promise of later payment.
He stopped outside his dark home. There would be no candles. He had no funds for them.
“Master?” a voice quavered. The foreign accent was obvious.
Startled, Longus whirled. He could barely make out a figure in the gloom.
“Who are you?’ he demanded.
She stepped forward into the spare sunlight still faintly illuminating the atrium. He was startled to see a young woman with a plain face surrounded by long hair. He guessed she was 16 or 17 from her simple tunic. She appeared tired and anguished. “I am looking for my grandfather,” she said.
Longus composed himself. “I am not your grandfather,” he said.
“You may have known him, Master,” the woman replied timidly. “His name is Judah ben Mattathias.”
Longus shook his head. “I know no one with that name.”
The woman started weeping. “I am so tired,” she said and virtually collapsed. Longus caught her before she hit the floor. He placed her by the wall. He had no idea who she was. At another time, he would not have cared. She was just an available female, but she seemed so simple, so vulnerable. He would wait until morning. Maybe visiting the astrologer had softened the gods’ feelings toward him. He would have preferred answers, but the gods had sent him a woman.
Gifts
-- Gift
received Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone