Tales of Ancient Rome by S. J. A. Turney

was sure of was there was no more lucrative place in the Empire to practice haruspicy. The diviners of omens so favoured by the Roman masters were shunned and loathed by the Jews, and most reputable haruspices would go nowhere near the place for fear of their lives. That meant that the noble Romans of Judea would pay highly for the talents of even the lowest pond-life if they knew how to open a goat.
    His appointment at the palace was at the hour before noon and he’d planned on spending the morning begging for coins in front of the great temple so that he could afford to have his robe washed and perhaps a bath and a shave. Instead, he had woken late and rudely to broken fingers, dung and ill omens. Still, he would be at the palace on time and it was not a neat, pristine white augur the client was paying for; it was a reading.
    The best things came in shabby packages, as he regularly failed to convince people.
    Turning a corner, he made for the animal trader. His employer had informed him yesterday that Lebbeus had put a sheep aside for him and the cost would be deducted from his fee. Bah!
    He’d tried to persuade the client that all that was really required was an egg. Divination was just as easy with an egg. And so much easier to fake, too. Who the hell knew what the future held by looking into the way the yolk separates from the white. Oh he’d tried to actually make sense of what he’d been told many times, but the thing was: the liver of a goat was a powerful looking item, and people could believe in it as a symbol. Crack an egg, however, and people just stared at you. Not Etruscans, of course, ‘cause they would know the truth of it. But to a Roman, and to Spurius particularly, an egg was an egg was an egg. And an egg was cheap.
    But the sheep had been a requirement and the trader had the unfortunate animal penned carefully aside to keep it pure.
    Spurius rolled his eyes. As though the future was ever going to be clearer because of what the sheep had been doing the night before. Ridiculous. But then if the rituals were to be followed to the letter, he himself should be bathed, shaved, sober, of respectful attitude and, above all, not a charlatan with a three day hangover and halitosis that would help anaesthetise the sheep. He was also supposed to have fasted last evening instead of eating the greasy food of Bothus the Syrian and drinking cheap wine.
    Grumbling, he strode into the emporium and marked the trader’s ledger, collecting the sheep on the way out. Master Lebbeus looked at him the whole time as though he might have just crawled out of a sewer, but Spurius didn’t really care. Grasping the leash of the sheep, he all-but dragged it from the place, swearing as it took the time to carefully manure on his foot.
    Outside the store, he tethered the sheep and took a moment to prepare himself. From his bag he drew the fringed robe, patched and darned in many places, and the slightly bent conical hat. He hated them. Wearing them both, he felt like one of those Aegyptian obelisks. But it was expected. Obviously the liver would hardly reveal anything to him if he weren’t to dress like a deranged childrens’ entertainer.
    The journey along the long street to the palace was horrible and tortuous, spat on twice by Jews who repeatedly jeered at his apparel. Tightly, in his free hand, he clutched the bag that contained his knives and tools, wondering whether it would be sacrilege to open one of the jeering locals and divine something from his liver.
    But the jeering and the spitting was only the start.
    Omens came thick and fast as he walked, each one annoying him more than the previous.
    The sudden, almost explosive backwash from a drain cover that soaked his shin was hardly a good omen. The only cloud in the wide blue firmament, a few inches across at most, managing to hover in front of the sun and put him in the shade while every other person in the street remained brightly lit? That was clearly saying something.