Rome had never seen sunsets the equal to those of the past few days. Dagos knew this as he hurried along the road that lead to the temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline hill.
The appointment was set for nightfall, so as not to be witnessed by prying eyes. To avoid being noticed, the augur wore a long grey tunic and a cloak of rough wool which concealed his drawn, lined face under a large hood.
The sun was crouching on the horizon line like a giant crab settling into its den to wait for some small prey. The orange and violet rays embraced the hills of the Empire’s capital in a reassuringly symbolic way as that magical moment when day becomes night cast a reddish glow on the cobbled streets. A few dark clouds slowly approaching from the east announced the possibility of nocturnal rain.
Accompanied by the flickering of the torches arranged at the corners of the streets, Dagos walked at a steady pace, avoiding the eyes of the few passers-by hurrying home after the amusements of the bath houses. As the crimson shades of the dying day gave way to the inky blackness of the night, on the very cusp of the evening, the augur turned a corner and arrived
at his destination. A gust of wind snatched at a corner of his cloak as if to shake him and remind him where he was. He saw the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus almost every day, but at the approach of darkness, that silhouette, with its imposing pentelic marble columns supporting the Capitoline triad, had an extremely powerful effect on him.
The climb that led to the Capitoline hill was long and steep, particularly for a priest of fifty years, and Dagos had to stop for a moment to catch his breath. He cast his eyes over the chariots of Juno and Minerva, but his gaze lingered in particular upon the one driven by Jupiter that dominated the cusp of the temple. The life-size terracotta figure, created by Vulca, one of Rome’s most celebrated sculptors, showed the ravages of time only through its colours, which had faded somewhat, but it had lost none of the symbolic force that every day reminded the people to be proud of what they had inherited from Romulus. The temple’s esplanade looked like an enormous pregnant belly, swollen with life.
In the distance, Dagos glimpsed a flicker of light in the nocturnal shadows in front of the grandeur of the temple: one torch, then another, then more and more.
The silent procession of the flamines was heading towards the auguraculum, where that night, all the priests of Rome where appointed to meet. A private meeting in which the flamines, the fetials, the fifteen public augurs and selected representatives of the Praetorians were to participate.
Even the flamines provinciales had been recalled to the City for what might be considered the most significant religious gathering in recent decades. A meeting to which, however, the pontifex maximus was not invited. Because it was about the Emperor himself that they needed to speak.
As Dagos arrived at the portico of the temple, he noticed the delegation of salii, the ancient priests of the Sabines, who appeared at public occasions only in exceptional cases.
The procession made its entrance into the sacred place through the passage between the columns of the facade. The symbol of the power and glory of Rome received them with a thunderous silence.
Judging by the noise and the murmur of voices he heard coming from the opposite side of the temple, Dagos realised that he had arrived late, and hurried along the narrow path between the two rows of white marble columns that led to the cellae, the rooms of the resident gods. He knew that just below the temple floor ran walkways full of votive offerings, statues and treasures, and he could almost feel the energy of faith that radiated from the floor.
He quickly passed the altars of Jupiter, Juno and Minerva and came to the hall of Juventus goddess of youth, and that of Terminus. Proud gods who had refused to move their temples when Rome had decided to raise its tribute to Jupiter. Dagos slowed down a little as he passed the image of Terminus, god of endings. Of all the gods, it was he who might best understand the meaning of that night’s appointment.
The sound of the voices rose as the augur penetrated the heart of the temple, accompanied by an increasingly persistent scent of myrrh and incense. The entrance of the auguraculum seemed
enveloped in a luminous aura caused by the reflections of the gold laminated roof tiles and portals.
“Today we wish to celebrate Sol Indiges in a different way.”
The rex sacrorum addressed those assembled in a conversational tone. Like most other priests, he wore an apex, a traditional Etruscan pointed hat, and a simple garment with no distinctive embellishments.
The flamines and the salii, gathered in a semicircle, listened in silence, clutching their ancilia. The attendees were arranged in rings which were organised in order of increasing importance from the outside towards the centre, around the sacrificial altar, next to which a mighty ram with a huge, curved horn rattled its chains. The black-fleeced beast had chains on all four legs and, judging by the slow and drooping movements of the neck, it had previously been sedated with a potent herbal infusion. The altar had an oval hole at its centre that gave onto a gleaming white marble slab below.
“And this,” continued the king of sacrifices, “is for several reasons. As you can see, Octavius Augustus is not here with us. Our pontifex maximus is absent, but this does not mean that we plot against him today. This meeting was convened to bring together those who care about the future of Rome and the future of our emperor.”
A buzz of approval rose up among the attendees.
“Our priestly garments,” The high priest continued, touching a corner of his black robe,
“remind us of our oath of silence, and therefore I do not need to put you in mind of it. Because if any one of you should contravene it, the wrath of the gods would not abandon him until the day of his death.”
Silence fell suddenly in the room. The fear that hung over the crowd was almost tangible.
“Today we must make a serious decision and we will be called to do so with one voice. The rites of the augurs and soothsayers tell us that the path we are about to choose is the right one, but I want all of you to be fully convinced beyond the signs that the gods, in their magnanimity, have bestowed for our comfort.”
The rex sacrorum approached the altar and jumped up onto it so that all present could see him. Frightened by the sudden movement, the ram took a few steps back.
“There is a man among us who from the first has understood of the danger hanging over Rome and I want to offer you his testimony. He is a man who has personally experienced the annihilation of the values upon which this temple was founded – the erosion of those key values which since the foundation of Rome, have characterised the rites of life in the city, its close relationship to and dialogue with the gods.”
The echo of distant thunder reached the priestly gathering.
“Gods who are angry with us today and who,” he added, his eyes coming to rest upon the ram, “we have a duty to appease. But first, as I said before, the man who saw it all will speak.”
The eyes of the rex sacrorum wandered around the room in search of someone, and finally came to rest on Dagos.