Steven Saylor - Catilina's riddle

Why a tent? I do not know, especially since the taking of the auspices by definition must be performed outdoors with a view of the sky. Perhaps it is the ancient linkage of the augurs with military campaigns, where their approval of the omens must still be sought before a general can engage his troops in battle. Perhaps it is because the augurs study not only the flights of birds and peregrinations of quadrupeds, but also the occurrence of lightning bolts, the study of which dates back to the Etruscans and beyond; where there is lightning, after all, there is likely to be rain, and thus the need for a tent.

However it may be, we found ourselves gathered on the Arx before the sacred tent. Rufus took up his ivory wand and with it marked out a section of the heavens from which he would take the auspices, like an invisible window frame set into the sky. Through it I could see most of the Field of Mars, a wide bend of the Tiber, and a great swathe of land beyond.

The augurs divide birds into two classes, those whose cry signifies

the divine win, including the raven, the crow, the owl, and the woodpecker, and those whose flight may be read for the same significations, including the vulture, the hawk, and the eagle, Jupiter's favourite bird. On military expeditions, where an omen may be needed on short notice and wild fowl may be scarce, chickens are taken along in special cages. To determine the will of the gods, the doors of the coop are thrown open and a handful of grain is thrown on the ground. A strong show of appetite on the part of the hens is deemed a good sign, especially if they drop little bits of food from their beaks onto the ground. A reluctance to leave the cage or a show of finickiness is a bad sign. As for the reading of lightning, it has always been my understanding that lightning on the left is good, but on the right is bad. Or is it the other way around?

There are those, like Cicero, who believe that augury is utter nonsense, and will say so in private letters and conversations. There are those politicians like Caesar who see augury as a useful tool, and have no more or less contempt for it than they do for any other device of power, such as elections, taxation, or courts of law. And there are those like Rufus who sincerely believe in the manifestation of divine will in various phenomena and in their own ability to perceive and interpret those manifestations.

For myself, standing in the hot sun and wishing I had thought to bring my broad-brimmed hat, I began to wish that the ceremonial tent behind us contained a chicken coop so that we could get on with the divination. All the birds of Rome appeared to be napping, and there was not a thundercloud in sight.

An augury takes as long as an augury takes. The divine will is not at the beck and call of even the youngest and most charming of the augurs. The gods have other things to do than to make a raven cackle or send a vulture soaring on the hot wind. Patience is the first duty of the pious.

Even so, I found my thoughts wandering. My eyes strayed from the designated section of the heavens to the eastern escarpment of the Arx, over which, if I stood on my toes, I could glimpse the Forum below. It was still full of people, but a stillness and a hush had fallen on the crowd. "Within the Senate House the senators were debating, and the men of Rome awaited word of their leaders' decision. Cicero was probably speaking even now. Caesar and Crassus might join in the argument, if it suited their ends to do so, as might Cato, with his heavy moralizing, and the troublemaker Clodius, and the year's forgotten consul, the nonentity Antonius. Catilina would be there as well, to defend himself, to strike back at Cicero, to demand that the election proceed. Was it really possible that he could be elected consul? And if so, could he force the Senate to implement his radical programmes? Would Caesar and Crassus support him — to a point? Would the state come to a standstill? Be torn apart? Descend again into bloody civil war? And who then would pick up the pieces — Crassus, Caesar, Pompey.. Catilina?

'There!' cried a hushed voice behind me. It was Eco, who had spotted something with wings in the sky. I shook my head, drowsy from the heat and trying to remember where my thoughts had wandered. I blinked and stared at the dark spot that hovered above the city. Unfortunately, it flew about in a low spiral and then descended, never having entered the designated section of the sky. Not an omen, after all. Around me I heard a collective sigh of disappointment. Rufus stood near the precipice, his back to us, so that I could not see his face. But his shoulders remained erect, his chin upraised and confident. He had faith in his science, and patience with the gods.

I should not have eaten so much at Meto's party, I thought. Cicero was correct: a man should eat only the lightest of meals at midday. But then, Cicero had always had a complaining belly. I felt no discomfort, only a heavy fullness, and a great sleepiness from the heat and from the tiring ascent to the Arx. I could barely keep my eyes open…

The last time Rome had been plunged into civil war the result had been disastrous. Sulla had triumphed, and with him the most reactionary elements in the state. Laws giving power to the populace had been repealed. The constitution had been reformed to give the wealthy greater influence over popular elections and law courts, and within the upper classes Sulla had done his best to exterminate the opposition. A generation later the state was in greater chaos than ever. Many of Sulla's reforms had been repealed and populist forces were on the move again, but Sulla's legacy lived on in the deprivation of the children of his victims and in the wholesale failure of his agrarian policy — the veterans he had intended to become farmers had ruined their land and were now rallying in desperation behind Catilina. Discontent was everywhere, except among that tiny handful who always had and always would possess more wealth and power than they could ever hope to use in a lifetime. Their comfortable state had been given to them by the gods, they believed; perhaps Cicero had been given to them as well, a sweet voice that could sing the turbulent masses to sleep…

Worst of all had been the heads, I thought. The heads of Sulla's enemies, spitted on poles and lined up in the Forum for all to see. Bounty hunters cut off the heads and brought them to Sulla for a reward. For the bodies they had no use. What had become of all the bodies, the bodies without heads? Suddenly, as clearly as on the day Diana found it, I saw the body of Nemo beneath me on the straw, with the blood all clotted about the stump of his neck. The shock of it was so great that I gasped and my shoulders convulsed.

'Yes! At last' whispered Eco in my ear, his hand on the back of my neck. 'There, flying up swiftly from the river.'

I blinked, confused and dazed by the brightness. White stones blazed at my feet and the sun seemed to have filled up the sky. In the midst of so much light a tiny black form took shape, flying from left to right and growing larger until it resolved itself into a body with long, outstretched wings.

'A hawk,' whispered Eco.

'No,' said Mummius, 'an eagle!'

The bird circled once over the Field of Mars and then grew larger and larger as it approached. Its speed was stunning; no horse could have galloped so fast across the sky. A moment later it landed so close to Rufus that he could have bent down to touch it if he dared. We stood transfixed and silent. We stared at the eagle, and the eagle stared back. I had never seen one so close. Then, as suddenly as it had landed, it spread its giant wings and ascended over our heads, straight up into the sun.

I lowered my eyes, blinking and half-blind. Rufus turned towards us with a look of awe on his face. 'The omen,' I said. 'Was it good?'