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

The thrown bucket of slops that hit the sheep, staining its pristine white coat with brown sludge? The dog that tripped him up and then took an unhealthy interest in the sheep until he managed to deliver a heavy kick to its testicles? It all had the unhealthy aura of a campaign of hate against him by the Gods.
    Certainly, if it were not such a lucrative commission, he’d have gone home and hidden under the bed.
    As he reached the end of the street and stared up at the palace steps, he’d glanced down at the frightened, bedraggled and shit-covered animal and realised there was no hope in hell of him getting away with that. The client would dismiss him without payment. No one could ritually sacrifice a shit-soaked sheep! Racking his brains, he looked around, his eyes alighting with glee on the butcher that occupied the last building on the left. The sheep that was hanging in his window was still white and pristine, though dead of a snapped neck and about to be bled according to their law. With a grin, he jogged across to the shop.
    Ten minutes of tense negotiating resulted in his leaving the shop with a dead white sheep while the butcher looked after Fuscus, as he’d named the poor animal for its new colour. The promise he’d made to return with full payment was genuine, though. While Spurius was far from a good man in most respects, he had never been a violent one, nor wished harm to an innocent creature. In fact, he’d always hated the sacrificial part. He would have ample leftover in his wage for this to pay the butcher, and could take little Fuscus with him when he left. The idea of arriving in Alexandria with a sheep in tow brought a smile to his face.
    A practiced confidence trickster, Spurius set his jaw square and allowed a serious, imperious look to fall across his features. Striding across the square, he cradled the sheep in his arms, using his hand hidden beneath the beast to rhythmically push, giving the poor thing the outward appearance of breathing.
    With a sombre gait, he climbed the steps of the great palace. He was expected, and the guards merely gave him a cursory look, rolled their eyes and let him pass, wrinkling their noses in disgust. A minor functionary met him in the atrium and enquired as to why he was carrying the sheep. With a masterful combination of hand movements and ventriloquism, Spurius managed to make the beast appear to lift its head a little and make a small plaintive noise. He rattled out a simple explanation of needing to keep the sheep pure and out of the street’s filth, which seemed to satisfy the small, portly man.
    And so he’d been brought to the place of divination and had had a few minutes to prepare before the arrival of the crowd. More careful planning followed, as he moved the altar so that his customers would be looking into the sun and the whole thing would be easier. Needing only one hand for the knife, he arranged the body on the altar and used his other hand to jiggle it around as though he were restraining a mobile beast, wincing occasionally as his broken fingers suffered a knock.
    Then the client had arrived with his people. He had called for quiet and commanded that Spurius go on with the rituals, squinting to see the detail through the bright sunlight. The haruspex had announced in a clear, sombre, and sacred tone that a flight of geese that flew across the palace roof were auspicious, so long as the reading was immediate, and no delay would be brooked by the Gods. The client frowned, but nodded, unhappy that he would clearly be getting less for his money than he had originally expected.
    In a flurry, pretending to let the animal buck a little, Spurius jiggled the sheep’s body, lurching once or twice, and then drawn his blade across the neck, grateful that the beast was so freshly killed that the blood flowed freely, and trying not to let them see the fact that it already had a broken neck. Collecting the dish full of blood, he examined it.
    The thick liquid