Domitian
might hate Christianity, but at the same time, he feared the wrath of the
Christian God now. He also brooded
constantly over what John had revealed about his future fate. Would he truly perish in the fifteenth year
of his rule? He had been Emperor now
slightly over three years, and he was only thirty-two. Surely his life could not be cut so
drastically short! Finally, unable to
sleep due to worry, the Emperor summoned the famous Greek astrologer Thallus to
inquire as to the veracity of John’s prophecy.
The
Greek was an ancient, withered figure who was ushered into Domitian’s presence
with fear and trembling. Domitian
assured Thallus that he would not be harmed, no matter what he predicted – the
Emperor only wanted the raw and unvarnished truth about how and when his life
would end. After multiple assurances and
being paid in a hefty bag of gold sesterces, the old stargazer finally agreed
to tell the Emperor’s fortune.
Once
committed to act, the old man’s fears seemed to vanish. He called for a brazier and pulled some
ancient, dried leaves out of his pouch and burned them, deeply inhaling the
bitter, aromatic smoke that curled up from them. Then he studied the Emperor’s palm closely,
tracing its lines with his withered fingers.
He reached into another compartment of his pouch and drew out a handful
of animal bones, each one carved and inscribed with runes in a language that
Domitian could not recognize. Thallus
cast the bones three times, jotting down which characters came up each
time. Then he unrolled a tattered scroll
that was covered front and back with sketches of the constellations. He studied it long and hard, comparing it to
the runes he had written down from casting the bones. Finally, he had the servants bring in a
freshly captured owl, hooting and screeching in protest. He deftly wrung its neck and then produced a
sharp knife made of flint with which he sliced open its abdomen from neck to
tail, pulling the rib cage apart to study the heart and lungs as well as the
entrails. Only then did he turn and
speak to Domitian, who had been watching with a combination of anxiousness and
revulsion.
“I
must observe the stars tonight, Caesar, in order to ratify my predictions. I shall return to you on the morrow and tell
you all that I have learned,” he said, his voice wheezy and asthmatic.
Domitian badgered the
old man for a hint, but Thallus was firm: he must watch the stars overnight
before he could predict the Emperor’s future.
Domitian watched the stooped, wrinkled form leave his audience chamber,
and then sat for a long time, lost in thought. . . .
The
next morning Domitian sent a message that he would be calling the Senate into
session that afternoon; he wanted to lay his trap for Sabinus while the idea
was still fresh in his mind. He had
almost forgotten about Thallus when Leonidas came into the chamber to announce
the seer’s return. Domitian felt the
pall return as soon as he heard the man’s name.
Did he really have only a dozen years left? His apprehension heightened as he heard the
tap of the old seer’s cane on the marble floor.
Thallus
looked terrible; the lines in his face seemed deeper and the circles under his
eyes darker than the day before. Was it
simply lack of sleep, Domitian wondered, or something more dire?
“Ave, Thallus,” he greeted the old
man. “What tidings do you bring your
Emperor this day?”
“Dark
are my tidings, Caesar, and grim are the portents that I would reveal to
you. The stars spoke volumes last night,
and when I finally slept, my dreams were stranger still. Indeed, I hesitate to reveal to you all that
I have seen, for fear that you shall punish the one who bears the message of
the gods to you,” Thallus said, his voice trembling.
“I
told you from the beginning, wise one, that what I required of you was simply
the truth, with no sweetening applied.
Give me what I requested, and you will have naught to fear,” Domitian
told him.
“I
was afraid you would say that,” said the withered seer. “Then hear, Oh Caesar! Hear the message that I read in the bones,
that the stars whispered to me, that the gods screamed in my ear as I
slept. I do not know what all of it
means, only that it is a prophecy of doom.”
Thallus
swallowed hard, and spoke: “Twelve are
the months of the year, and twelve are the Caesars who have ruled this
city. Twelve is the number of the
greater gods, and twelve are the apostles of the God to come. Twelve are the years remaining in your life’s
thread, for twelve days before the Kalends of October, blood shall shine on the
moon as she enters the house of Aquarius.
Then, ere the fifth hour of the day is done, your thread shall be cut
short, as the hand of those who share your household shall be raised against you,
and vainly shall you cry for succor. For
you have offended the god who is to come, who even now spreads his wings over
the heavens, and his message across the earth.
The gods of Rome wither and die, and piteous are their wails as they
fade from the pages of history! I see
the temples of Jupiter and Vulcan and Minerva crumble to dust and ruin, and the
line of Emperors fail. I see our city sacked and burned again and again. I see centuries of darkness, followed by
light too bright to behold, and shining in the heavens above the city of Romulus
I see a cross of gold, as bright as the noonday sun, and the face of the one
crucified thereon is too terrifying to behold.
Beware, O Caesar! Beware the
fifth hour of the twelfth day before the Kalends of October, twelve years
hence! Beware the dagger that flashes in
the noonday sun! BEWARE THE CRUCIFIED
GOD!”
As
the old man spoke, his voice grew in volume, the rheumy tone giving way to
something deeper, louder, and more profound, until that last terrible sentence
seemed to shake the very foundations of the Emperor’s palace. The noonday sun
seemed to darken, but an aura of light surrounded Thallus, growing brighter as
his prophecy grew louder. Domitian
stopped up his ears, for it seemed the booming voice issuing from the frail old
man’s throat would shatter his skull.
When the last words were spoken, Thallus stiffened, his eyes widening as
the power of his vision consumed him.
Then his body went limp, and Rome’s most famous fortune teller crumpled
before the Emperor’s throne, dead before he hit the ground.
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