Three Emperors (9780062194138) by William Dietrich Page A

pens, ink, parchment, incense, candles, and metal pentacles of the five-pointed star. “This is my son, Horus, named for the falcon god.”
    Paulina smiled. “More sparrow at his age.”
    â€œA sparrow hawk!” Harry said.
    â€œCan we really know the future, priestess?” Josef asked.
    â€œIt depends on interpretation,” I replied. “The Roman emperor Valens, when he wished to know the name of his successor, used a chicken for divination by assigning letters to grains of wheat and watching which ones the bird pecked. The feathered diviner spelled out T-H-E-O-D. When the emperor learned this, he assumed it referred to his high official Theodotus and had the poor man killed to extend his own reign. Shortly afterward, Valens lost his life in a battle with the Goths. His successor was a man named Theodosius.”
    â€œSuch stories chill, do they not?” Paulina said. “Josef, our visitor has more wisdom than the crones who sell predictions for a pfennig in the market square.”
    â€œAnd she has a clever helpmate.” Josef patted Harry like a dog. “But then, you expect more than a pfennig, don’t you?”
    â€œThe quality of a reading is reflected in what one pays,” I said. “I contribute learning to my interpretations. Antoine Court de Gébelin believed the tarot is an abbreviation of the Book of Thoth, a long-lost scroll of ancient wisdom.” I didn’t mention that my husband had found that book and that we’d watched it burn. “I’ve had instruction from the famed Marie Anne Lenormand in Paris.” Lenormand was a celebrity in Napoleon’s court, made rich enough by her prophecies to buy a house. I’ve been paying for my own journey through life by casting fortunes, mixing herbal remedies, serving as midwife, and selling songs. I’d practiced the harp while a prisoner of Leon Martel, and the flute while living in Paris. My habit was to practice when Ethan was absent, since he was tempted to lend his voice and is a terrible singer. In any event, the money I earn is not enough to afford books, let alone a house, but then, I can’t carry a magical repository with us anyway. I prowl the libraries we pass, looking for clues to the Brazen Head. My readings suggest Rosenkreutz came this way.
    So I flee, even as I seek. It troubles me that the French police did not make more effort to chase us after our escape from the coronation. Did they let us go to follow us now? Sometimes I feel we’re being watched as closely in Bohemia as we were in Paris.
    Josef would not be part of such a cabal, I assume. He’s a noble who retains the enthusiasms of a child. “We’re debating whether I can safely fly Apollo’s chariot at our audience during a performance,” the duke explained. “I want to descend like a god, but the theater rigging is old. My wife wants you to forecast my chances.”
    â€œPerhaps I should inspect the ropes and pulleys.”
    He laughed. “Our gypsy is sly!”
    â€œI’m not a gypsy. I’m a scholar, seeking knowledge.”
    â€œBut an Egyptian, no?”
    â€œYes.” I knew the gypsies are reputed to have originated from my nation, hence the name. Others say they are the Rom, from Slavic lands. “The wise say that, of the ancient magicians, Egypt had nine-tenths.”
    â€œThen come, priestess! Comfort my wife by inspecting my winged chariot.”
    He led us up a spiral stairway to the attic above the theater. A wooden footbridge crossed rafters to give peeks of seats and stage below. We glimpsed brightly painted balconies, candles mirrored by brass reflectors, and hard benches like pews. The loft itself was gloomy timbers and branching catwalks, a cavity to enchant my son. I looked up. A few bats slept. Below, painted scenery hung from pulleys. Drums of rope could be turned like an anchor capstan to raise and lower clouds, castles, or storms. Suspended