Rome—101 CE
Atia always knew she would die young. Even before she visited the ancient sisters she sensed her days were numbered.
On the morning of her twelfth birthday, Atia’s mother shook her awake. ‘Dress quickly, my dear,’ she said. ‘Today all will be revealed.’
Together they hurried down the Via Sacra, their heads hooded, their eyes fixed upon the paving stones.
‘Faster, Atia,’ her mother urged, for gossip moved like brushfire through the streets of Rome. ‘If your father finds out about our errand, we will feel his wrath in lashes.’
Atia hurried after her mother as they made their way into the Subura slum. They entered a towering insula and began to climb—one floor, five floors, ten. Finally, they reached the highest floor and stood before a door. Atia’s mother knocked and it creaked open.
‘May I help you?’ called an ancient voice. Atia peered into the shadows and beheld a short, round woman with hair as white as the moon.
‘We have an appointment,’ said Atia’s mother. ‘A reading for my daughter.’
‘Ah yes—the ladies of Palatine Hill,’ said the woman. She gave Atia’s mother a second glance, as all people did. ‘Please, seat yourselves,’ the old woman said, then disappeared down a dark corridor.
Atia and her mother took their seats at a large circular table. Soon the round woman re-emerged, carrying an incense lamp. A chunk of amber-coloured rock smouldered inside the lamp’s wide belly, producing a rich, otherworldly scent.
‘Frankincense,’ her mother remarked admiringly.
‘To invite the goddess’s favour,’ said the woman. She set the lamp on the table, then pulled a large scroll from beneath her belt and ceremoniously unfurled it.
Atia gazed in wonder at the eerie drawing: a perfect circle divided into twelve proportionate wedges. Strange symbols decorated the insides of the wedges and colourful lines crossed between them—some of the lines blue, but most of them red.
The round woman placed the scroll on the table and studied it, then fixed Atia with an onyx stare. ‘The girl is good,’ she pronounced.
Atia released a breath she did not realise she had been holding.
The woman pointed to a blue line. ‘This means her heart is tender. She abhors the suffering of others.’
‘It is true,’ trumpeted her mother. ‘Atia has always been kind. A blessing from Juno.’
‘And look at this,’ said the woman. ‘Mercury conjunct Saturn. A disciplined mind. Like a general or a politician.’
Her mother smiled wistfully and Atia knew what she was thinking: If only Atia had been a boy.
‘Sensitive to the thoughts and feelings of others!’ exclaimed the woman.
Atia took a long whiff of the sacred smoke and began to relax. ‘The girl is loving and helpful,’ said the woman. ‘The girl likes to jest.’ Atia was almost enjoying the game now. ‘She is a natural peacemaker.’
The woman puzzled over the wheel some more, tugging her silver chin hairs. She pointed to a symbol that looked like the moon. ‘Here is the girl’s mother. Very well aspected in the house of Venus. So much beauty.’
Since Atia could remember, strangers had remarked on her mother’s uncommon beauty, often expressing disbelief that Atia was indeed her mother’s daughter.
‘You speak only of my daughter’s gifts, Grandmother,’ said Atia’s mother, turning the subject back to Atia. ‘What of the ill? What challenges will she face?’
‘The ill? I am sorry, domina. We do not usually speak of ill in such a reading.’
Atia’s mother gave a loud
