Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(42)
Sunlight had not yet infiltrated the chamber. The gloom was splintered by torchlight from sconces on the walls. Three large braziers were burning but did little to heat or illuminate the room. A huge statue of Apollo stood inside the entrance, holding a laurel branch in one hand, a lyre in the other. Marcus bowed his head to both the entity and the assembled elders.
Makeshift wooden rows had been erected around three sides of the chamber to mirror the arrangement of the Curia inside Rome. Those who were more notable sat on stools on the lowest level; those lesser in status craned their necks as they stood on the elevated rear tiers.
Aemilius beckoned to his son to speak, then sat down.
Marcus cleared his throat. His voice caught at first, but as he unfurled and read the scroll, his nerves settled.
“I, Marcus Furius Camillus, Consular General, call the Senate of Rome to heed the advice of Artile Mastarna, high priest of the Temple of Uni, the great haruspex and fulgurator of Veii, in the matter of the prodigy of Lake Albanus. This is for the benefit of all Romans, and to ensure the destruction of our foe. It is a matter of urgency. As such, I seek to have my term of office extended until all expiation rites have been conducted.”
A babble of angry voices erupted. Marcus glanced across to Aemilius, who shook his head, the gesture reminiscent of his paternal warning the night before.
Protocol was forgotten. Scipio called out, “How dare you bring an enemy into our midst.”
Artile stepped forward. The senators fell silent. Drawing back his hood, the seer let his cloak slip from his shoulders and fall to the floor. He lifted a tall conical hat he’d been hiding beneath the folds and placed it on his head. He had exchanged ill-fitting armor for the garb of his profession. And with the change of clothes, his confidence had been restored. His long tunic and sheepskin-lined coat protected him more than any breastplate. His soft leather ankle boots seemed hardier than hobnails. And when he tied the straps of the hat, it was as though he was buckling his helmet. He straightened his back and thrust out his chin. Marcus noticed how his shoulder-length locks were now oiled. His face was shaven clean. His eyes rimmed with kohl, his lashes blackened. His hypnotic stare focused on the wisest men in the city.
Medullinus was first to break the silence. His chair grated against the tiled floor as he stood. “My brother insults us in sending this charlatan. It’s timely his term is coming to an end.”
Scipio added, “All of us here possess skills of augury. Why listen to a treacherous priest?”
Artile’s mellifluous voice echoed in the high vaulted chamber: “I am no fraud.” The effect of his perfect Latin was marked. Medullinus sat down again. The senators remained quiet. “I can read messages from the gods in the livers of sacrificial beasts. I can read the future in the spark and flare of red, white, or black lightning. I spent a decade at the Sacred College at Velzna learning my craft. Roman augurs ask questions to which the gods merely answer yes or no. Rasennan soothsayers listen to complex answers to interpret divine will. If you fail to heed Furius Camillus’s request and ignore my counsel, then you do so at your peril.”
Marcus winced, thinking Artile unwise to denigrate these sages. Yet he could not deny Artile communicated directly with deities in a way that made Roman attempts seem clumsy.
A senator called Titinius called from the second row, “The Sibylline Books are silent on the issue. On what authority do you claim you have greater knowledge?”
“Because Rome only possesses three of the nine Sibylline Books, which only contain obscure Greek verses from Apollo’s oracle regarding certain proscribed rites. My people, on the other hand, possess the Etruscan Discipline, which includes all the branches of our religion in intricate detail: the Book of Thunderbolts reveals the meaning of lightning, and the Book of Acheron instructs how to ensure passage to our Afterlife.” He paused, ensuring he had the attention of all. “And the Book of Fate gives insight on how to prophesy destiny, or even defer it.”
Whispering and rustling filled the chamber. Postumius, a man known for his bluster, called, “This is a trick! Why would we trust an Etruscan? The reason Rome doesn’t possess all nine Sibylline Books is because of one of his race. The tyrant, Tarquinius Superbus, tried to cheat the sibyl and ended up paying full price for only three. She destroyed the other six.”
Artile was unfazed. He smoothed one eyebrow with one black-painted fingernail. “Don’t judge my people by King Tarquinius’s hubris. I’m not lying when I say I know the expiation rites required.”
“And what guarantee do we have you’ll not steer us to disaster?” asked Medullinus. “I prefer to hear what my brother Spurius says. His delegation seeks communion with Apollo at Delphi. They’ll return soon.”
The priest remained condescending. “The journey to Delphi is perilous. It could be months before you are given your answer.”
“Our representatives sailed in summer,” said Scipio. “We expect them to arrive back any time now.”
“You’re na?ve if you think your emissaries will be granted an audience immediately. The crone, Pythia, can only be consulted on the seventh day of each month. The Delphians take precedence, and their leaders choose the representatives of the next city who are to be given the opportunity to speak. They favor their own countrymen before foreigners. Those remaining must draw lots to determine the order. And if the sun sets before a question is put, those unheard must wait until the next month and start the procedure again.” His gaze traveled across the tiers of listeners. “The days are growing shorter. Apollo does not reside in Delphi during winter, and so Pythia retires for the season. If Rome has not queried her by December, your ambassadors must sojourn in her land.” He pointed to the statue of Apollo. “I, on the other hand, have spoken directly to the god of prophecy, and he has confirmed the answer I ascertained from my sacred books.”