Authors: Steven Saylor
“Perhaps, father, we should go to the Temple of Apollo on the Palatine and pray,” said Lucius.
By his careful reckoning, exactly 105 days had passed since lightning
had struck the emperor’s statue. The date on which he and Claudius had predicted that Augustus would be taken by the gods had come and gone, but the accuracy of the prophecy was still uncertain. Augustus was away from Roma, and since news could arrive no faster than the pace of a quick horse, there was no way to know whether something had happened to Augustus or not.
But the latest news, which Lucius and his father went seeking in the Forum each day, was unsettling. Intending to journey to Beneventum, accompanying Tiberius partway on a mission to begin new military operations in Illyria, Augustus had fallen ill. He was said to be recuperating at his retreat on the island of Capri, suffering from a minor irregularity of the bowels. Again, today, Lucius and his father had come to the Forum, anxious for further news of the emperor’s condition.
“Prayer is to be commended,” said Lucius’s father. “But why the Temple of Apollo?”
“Because that was where this all began, the night of the storm.” Lucius recalled the uncanny premonition he had experienced just before Euphranor had come to summon Claudius.
“Ah, but what would we pray for?” His father lowered his voice and looked around. They were not far from the Temple of Vesta, on a busy stretch of the Sacred Way. Several Vestals were leaving the round temple with their attendants, and a group of senators in togas was nearby; some of them nodded and hailed the elder Pinarius before passing on. Father and son retreated to a more secluded spot on the far side of the Temple of Castor.
“As I was saying, son, for what would you have us pray? Surely not for the emperor’s death; that would be treason. Yet, if we pray that the emperor should not die in accordance with the omen, then are we not praying to thwart the will of the gods?”
Not for the first time, Lucius regretted confiding in his father. If anything, the elder Pinarius was more nervous than Lucius about the omen and its outcome. And had he not put his father in danger by telling him about the omen, against the emperor’s explicit orders? Yet, Lucius could hardly have borne the strain of waiting alone.
“Then let us pray for neither of those things, father. Let us pray for the well-being of the Roman state,” suggested Lucius.
“Ah, you remind me of your late grandfather!” said the elder Pinarius with a dry laugh. “The old man was a master at finding the middle path. You’re right, of course. We shall go to the Senate House and make an offering there.”
They crossed the Forum, walking past the massive buildings Augustus had erected to house the imperial bureaucracy. They passed the ancient speaker’s platform called the Rostra, decorated by captured-ships’ beaks, where the great orators of the Republic had harangued the voters of Roma. The Rostra was little used these days.
The Senate House was relatively new, having been begun by Julius Caesar just before his assassination and completed by Augustus. The exterior was quite austere compared to the elaborately colored and decorated temples nearby. “I was present when the emperor dedicated this building,” recalled the elder Pinarius, “still a boy, not yet wearing my manly toga. I practically grew up here, watching debates with your grandfather, taking notes and carrying messages for him long before I became a senator myself.”
They ascended the steps and entered. In contrast to the exterior, the chamber was exquisitely finished. Gilded railings and plush red draperies divided the various spaces within the vast room. Polished marble adorned the walls and floors. Windows set high in the walls filled the lofty space with light. The Senate was not meeting on this day, but there were plenty of members about, idly conversing or tending to business with their secretaries. Under the autocratic rule of Augustus, the Senate still performed numerous bureaucratic functions. The continuing survival of the ancient institution helped to maintain the official fiction that Roma was still a republic, and the emperor was merely the first among equals, not the master of his fellow citizens but the devoted servant of all.
Lucius and his father approached the Altar of Victory. The altar itself was made of green marble adorned with elaborate carvings of laurel leaves. Looming beyond and above the altar was a towering statue of the goddess Victory, surrounded by a sampling of the spoils of war taken by Augustus. These displays were changed from time to time. On this day the spoils on exhibit included the iron prow of an Egyptian warship taken at Actium, fashioned in the shape of a crocodile’s head. There was also a
selection of Queen Cleopatra’s royal jewelry, including a carnelian necklace, and one of the queen’s tall atef crowns made of ivory with inlays of gold and lapis.
The elder Pinarius began the ritual performed by every senator upon entering the chamber. He burned a bit of incense on the altar, poured a libation of wine, and recited a prayer. “Goddess, grant victory to Roma and defeat to her enemies. Watch over the empire which you delivered to Augustus. Protect Roma from all those who would cause her harm, whether from without or from within.”
They stepped back from the altar. Lucius’s father shook his head as he repeated in a whisper the final words of the prayer. “ ‘Enemies from without . . . or from within.’ That last part was meant to apply to people like Marcus Antonius—and your grandfather. What a mess the old man made of his inheritance! He, too, was a great-nephew of the Divine Julius, no less than Augustus. He, too, was named an heir, though he was given a smaller share. He, too, might have risen to greatness. But how he loved that scoundrel Antonius! To please Antonius, he made an enemy of his own cousin. Augustus never quite trusted your grandfather’s late conversion to the winning side. The emperor spared him but excluded him from playing any role in the new regime. The Pinarii was set to one side, neither persecuted nor rewarded—the forgotten heirs of Julius Caesar.” The wistful tone of his voice suddenly turned bitter. “And through all our financial difficulties, Augustus has never so much as tossed a sesterce our way!”
He left unspoken the hope that he and Lucius had already discussed, privately and in whispers, that perhaps things would soon change. If the emperor
should
die, Tiberius would almost certainly take his place, and Tiberius had no reason to treat the Pinarii like outcasts. Perhaps the family falling-out between Augustus and Lucius’s grandfather could finally be forgotten. If Lucius could please the new emperor, there was no reason why he should not move forward in life. Toward that end, following Claudius’s advice and with an aim toward pleasing the future emperor, Lucius had begun to study the Babylonian science of astrology. And though Claudius carried little weight with Tiberius, he was nonetheless a member of the imperial family, and perhaps his growing friendship with Lucius might yet bring some benefit to the Pinarii.
Even as Lucius’s thoughts turned to Claudius, his friend appeared at the entrance to the Senate House. Claudius looked this way and that, appearing flustered and confused, then spotted Lucius and hurried to him.
“I thought I s-s-saw you earlier in the Forum. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Lucius raised his eyebrows. “Is there news?”
Claudius shook his head. “Nothing to report. But I do have something else to tell you. Something quite interesting. Perhaps it will at least take your mind off the m-m-matter that is preoccupying us all.” He looked around the chamber, at the clusters of senators in hushed conversation and the secretaries scurrying to and fro, and cringed. “I can’t stand the atmosphere in this place, all the stuffy formality and self-importance! Come, let’s find a more comfortable spot to talk. I know where we can go.”
He led them across the Forum, through the valley between the Capitoline and the Palatine, all the way to the waterfront. Their destination was a tavern on the docks. As they stepped inside and their eyes adjusted to the darkness, Lucius wrinkled his nose at the smell, a combination of spilled wine, unwashed humanity, and the effluvia of the Cloaca Maxima, which emptied into the Tiber nearby. The handful of patrons were the types who habituated taverns in the middle of the day—actors, sailors, prostitutes, and gamblers.
Claudius heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank the gods for a place where I can feel at ease! No one staring at me, no one c-c-carping at me, expressing their disapproval and disappointment. Here I can be myself.”
“Are you sure it’s proper for someone from the imperial household to be seen in such an establishment?” Lucius’s father looked askance at the clientele. He hung back for a moment, then sat on a bench beside his son, across from Claudius.
“Why not? Quite a few of Great-Uncle’s freedmen patronize this tavern. Why, it was Euphranor who first showed me this place. There’s no one more trusted by the emperor. I’ve seen the m-m-man on this very bench, so drunk on cheap wine he couldn’t stand up.”
“You said you had something to tell us,” said Lucius’s father. He looked up at the buxom serving girl who had brought cups and a pitcher of wine. “Just a splash of wine, no more; fill the rest of the cup with water.” Lucius
gave the same order as his father, but Claudius drank his wine neat. He drained a whole cup, then ordered another before he spoke.
“It’s about that amulet, that family heirloom of yours. I see you’re wearing it today, Lucius.”
Lucius touched the lump of gold at his breast.
“I have been c-c-consulting with my old tutor, Titus Livius,” said Claudius, his speech slightly slurred. “Of course you’ve read his history of the city, from its earliest beginnings. No? Neither of you? Not even the parts about your own family? Most people at least have a slave search through the scrolls to find the mentions of their ancestors.” Claudius shook his head. “Well, my conversations with Livius have confirmed my initial belief that this talisman can be identified as a fascinum. In other words, long ago, before the details were worn away, it would have depicted a magical phallus, probably a winged phallus, considering the shape. If you squint and use a bit of imagination, you can visualize the amulet as it originally appeared.” Without asking, he reached out and took hold of the talisman, pulling the necklace toward him and Lucius along with it. “Yes, look—here is the shaft, and here the t-testes, and here the two little wings!”
Claudius released the amulet. Lucius took it between his fingers and gazed down at it, feeling profoundly disappointed. A fascinum? Such trinkets were exceedingly common, worn for protection by women in childbirth and put around the necks of infants to protect them from the harmful gaze of the envious, the so-called evil eye. Even slaves wore them.
“So that’s all it is?” Lucius said. “Nothing but a common fascinum?”
Claudius wagged his finger. “Ah, hardly c-c-common! No, this fascinum is special, very special. Indeed, if my conjectures are correct, it could be the oldest such amulet in existence. These days, a fascinum is thought of as a mere trinket, a good-luck charm. One sees them made of cheap metal, hanging from the necks of slaves. Hardly anyone remembers the god Fascinus, from whom such amulets take their name, but the winged phallus appears in some of the most ancient stories told by our ancestors. Such a manifestation appeared in the hearthfire to the mother of King Servius Tullius, and even earlier, another such manifestation appeared to one of the kings of Alba, Tarketios, and demanded to have intercourse
with his daughter. No god who takes such a form was ever described by the Greeks, or indeed by any of the peoples that Roma has conquered. We may conclude that the god Fascinus appeared exclusively to our ancestors, and must have played some role in the origins of Roma.
“Furthermore, not every fascinum is a mere trinket. One of the holiest objects of the state religion is the sacred fascinum in the keeping of the Vestal virgins. I’ve seen the thing myself. It’s larger than life and very heavy, made of solid g-g-gold. For centuries, the Virgo Maxima has placed it in a hidden spot under the ceremonial chariot driven by generals during their triumphal processions, to ward off the evil eye. You could count on one hand the people who know the origin of this c-c-custom—Titus Livius, the Virgo Maxima, myself . . . and probably no one else, since you Pinarii seem to have neglected to pass the story down through the generations.”
“Are you saying a Pinarius was involved in the origin of this custom?” said Lucius’s father. He had been distracted earlier by the gambling with dice and certain lewd behavior that was going on in the shadows elsewhere in the tavern, but now Claudius had his full attention.
“I am saying exactly that. The c-c-custom of placing a fascinum beneath the triumphal chariot originated with a Vestal who had a special devotion to Fascinus, and her name was . . . Pinaria! Oh yes, without a doubt, she came from the Pinarius family. This Pinaria served under the Virgo Maxima Foslia in the days when the Gauls captured the city, some four hundred years ago. Back in those days, amulets like your fascinum were not at all common; indeed, I can find only one reference to a fascinum that dates as far back as the time of Pinaria. Now listen closely, because this is where the story gets tricky—especially when you’ve had as much wine to drink as I have!
“Thanks to the exhaustive history of Roma written by Fabius Pictor, who paid special attention to the contributions of his own family, the Fabii—I don’t suppose you’ve read that, either?—I have discovered a reference to a g-g-gold fascinum worn by a certain Kaeso Fabius Dorso. This Kaeso was the adopted son of the famous warrior Gaius Fabius Dorso, who was trapped atop the Capitoline Hill when the Gauls occupied the city, along with . . . the Vestal Pinaria! They were trapped on the Capitoline for about nine months. Almost immediately after their liberation,
Gaius Fabius Dorso adopted an infant he named Kaeso, whose parentage is unknown. Given these circumstances, it is not hard to imagine that this Kaeso was the love child of the Vestal Pinaria and Gaius Fabius Dorso, and that the gold fascinum he was known to wear was a gift from his mother, the same woman who originated the custom of placing a fascinum under the triumphal chariot.” Claudius leaned back against the wall, looking pleased with himself, and waved to the serving girl to bring more wine.