John Roberts - Oracle of the Dead

“Watch, everybody!” She signaled to a musician, who blew a series of shrill notes on his double pipes. It is a peculiarity of pipes that they can be heard at greater distances than a trumpet, and are clear even above a loud clamor such as that of a battle.

All eyes turned to the bonfire atop the cliff opposite us. It had burned down, for pine burns very hot but very swiftly. What was there now was a huge heap of glowing coals with tongues of flame spurting up from it at intervals. At the signal from the pipes we heard a groaning, grinding, scraping sound. I could not guess at its origin until the heap of coals began to rise and hulk up in its center, as if it had come alive. The crowd gasped as if they were seeing some supernatural apparition. I was just a bit startled myself, though I am completely free of superstition.

Then we could see two teams of oxen to either side of the coals and I understood. They were dragging a huge scraper like the sort that is used for leveling roads and grounds for building projects. I think it is called a grader or something of the sort. In any case, this time one was being used to drag that gigantic heap of coals toward the cliff. The coals continued to tower ever higher until, abruptly, the forward edge reached the rim of the cliff, which was all but invisible by this hour, just a blackness with a faintly visible mass of seething whiteness at its base, where the waves broke upon the rocks.

Everyone gasped, all but stunned, as the coals poured over the cliff. They formed a huge cascade of glowing light, like a waterfall of fire. Flames burst anew from the coals, and in an instant there was a solid, broad stripe of living fire from cliff to surf, and when the coals hit the water below there was a hissing noise like a thousand dragons waking up and angry about it. Steam billowed upward in a cloud Jupiter could have hidden himself in. It flowed over us in a strange, warm wetness, lit from within so that the cloud glowed orange.

Then the last of the coals dropped, the light and the hissing faded, the cloud dispersed, and we were all standing there, stunned, and there was no trace left of what had just happened. A long-pent sigh escaped from every throat, including mine, and I turned to our hostess. She looked at me with an almost demented eagerness.

“That was the most spectacular thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” I told her.

She smiled with maniacal relief and signaled the musicians. They began to play as if the evening were just beginning, but clearly it was at an end. Absolutely nothing could have topped what we had just witnessed. Everyone prepared to go home, but I was the ranking man and all would await my departure, then the rest would go, in order of rank.

Julia and I took our most effusive leave of our hostess and told her we simply must retire to our quarters because I had a full day in court on the morrow. It truly had been an extraordinary evening. Amid loud ritual farewells from the other guests, we retired.

In our luxurious chambers, Julia said, “Sabinilla is the happiest woman in Campania tonight. This must have cost her a fortune, but her position is assured. It’s given me some ideas about entertaining when you are consul and we are back in Rome.”

“I was afraid of that. Sadly, there are no good cliffs in Rome.”

She thought about that for a while, as her girl dressed her hair for bed. “Do you think we could build one? A tower about four hundred feet high would do it. You could build it in the Valley of Murcia and people could gather on top of the Aventine to watch.”

“Good night, dear,” I said, going out to the sitting room that adjoined our bedroom. Doubtless she was joking, but with Julia I could never be sure. I summoned Hermes and he came in, walking like a man of eighty. His bruises were in full flower now, and he winced with every step.

“Tomorrow afternoon after court is over,” I told him, “we’ll go to the town palaestra. I want you to teach me that move with the longsword.”

Two days later we were back at my temple headquarters. This time the crowd seemed no larger, but it didn’t seem any smaller, either. I also learned something else. They weren’t all here for the festive atmosphere. The times were unsettled, with everyone on edge over the possible outbreak of civil war, and all the oracles, both traditional and impromptu, were doing a booming business, with nervous people asking them about what was to come and would they survive it. Or else, how to make a profit from everyone else’s upcoming misery, always a popular concern.

I was just getting comfortable in my curule chair, about to start the day’s proceedings, when something utterly unexpected happened. The crowd fell silent. This unprecedented quiet piqued my interest. Some sort of commotion was coming down the road to the north. It looked like a lot of men, some walking, some riding. I didn’t see any glitter of polished armor or standards, but it had a definite military look to it.

“What is all that?” I asked no one in particular. “Am I never to have a peaceful court day?”

Just moments later, the procession began marching into what had become my little town. First to arrive, to my unutterable dismay, were twelve lictors in a double file. Only a consul is entitled to twelve lictors. Or a proconsul. The consuls were in Rome and wouldn’t leave in times as uncertain as these. And there was only one serving proconsul in Italy.

Sure enough, a bit later there rode in none other than Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus himself. My lictors lowered their fasces in salute to a higher magistrate. I had, perforce, to stand and descend the steps of my dais to greet him.

“Hail, Proconsul,” I said, as the throng gaped. “What brings the distinguished Pompey to my court? Surely the demands of office should require you in the north.”

He looked down at me from his lofty horseback perch. Looking down at people was something he did well, having had so much practice. “Indeed they should, but it seems a matter here puts greater demands upon my attention. Why has this business of the murdered priests not been cleared up?”

I held on to my temper. He was, after all, the great Pompey. “Perhaps you could dismount and we can discuss this in a more quiet environment.”

“Very well.” He heaved himself from his saddle-and “heaved” was the word for it. The once hard, soldierly Pompey had gone soft and corpulent in his long years of peace. Even this effort left him winded and his aides had to catch him to steady him lest he fall. It removed the last vestige of uncertainty I nursed for the outcome of a showdown between Pompey and Caesar. It would be no contest.

We climbed the temple steps and sat in the shade of the portico while slaves quickly brought a table, pitchers of wine and water, and platters of food, all with great and silent efficiency.

Pompey took a great gulp of watered wine and I did the same, only with less water. “Now, Metellus, why is this business not resolved?”

“By what authority do you ask?”

“By the authority of a proconsul, by Hercules!” he all but shouted.

I remained admirably calm. “You are proconsul in Spain . Here in Italy you are overseer of the grain supply. It is an important and responsible position, but its duties are administrative, not military and not judicial. I, on the other hand, am praetor peregrinus, with imperium and the authority to judge cases involving foreigners all over Italy.”

He dropped the bluster and grinned slyly. “Then why are you embroiled in this case that, as far as I can tell, involves no foreigners? Why not leave it to the local authorities?”

He had me there. “Because I want to, just as you do whatever you want, no matter what rules the Senate and law tables have laid down.”