[89] “Chaldean” astrologers played an almost incredibly important
  part among even the highest-class Romans of the period.

“My lord doth overcommend the wisdom of his slave,” replied Ulamhala (for such was his name) in Syriac Greek, with a second deep obeisance.

“Now, therefore,” went on Pompeius—­and his voice was unsteady with evident excitement and anxiety,—­“I have called you hither to declare the warnings of the stars upon the most important step of my life.  What lies now at stake, you know full well.  Three days ago I bade you consult the heavens, that this night you might be able to declare their message, not merely to me, but to these my friends, who will shape their actions by mine.  Have you a response from the planets?”

“I have, lord,” and again Ulamhala salaamed.

“Then declare, be it good or ill;” commanded Pompeius, and he gripped the arms of his chair to conceal his anxiety.

The scene was in a way weird enough.  The visitors exchanged uneasy glances, and Cato, who broke out in some silly remark to Favonius, in a bold attempt to interrupt the oppressive silence, suddenly found his words growing thick and broken, and he abruptly became silent.  Each man present tried to tell himself that Pompeius was a victim of superstition, but every individual felt an inward monition that something portentous was about to be uttered.

The conference had lasted long.  The lamps were flickering low.  Dark shadows were loitering in every corner of the room.  The aroma of flowers from the adjacent gardens floated in at the open windows, and made the hot air drugged and heavy.  Ulamhala slowly and noiseless as a cat stepped to the window, and, leaning out over the marble railing, looked up into the violet-black heavens.  There was no moon, but a trembling flame on one of the candelabras threw a dull, ruddy glow over his white dress and snowy turban.  His face was hid in the gloom, but the others knew, though they could hardly see, that he was pointing upward with his right hand.

“Behold,” began the astrologer, “three thousand seven hundred and fifty years since the days of the great Sargon of Agade have we of the race of the Chaldeans studied the stars.  One generation of watchers succeeded another, scanning the heavens nightly from our ziggurats,[90] and we have learned the laws of the constellations; the laws of Sin the moon, the laws of Samas the sun, the laws of the planets, the laws of the fixed stars.  Their motions and their influence on the affairs of men our fathers discovered, and have handed their wisdom down to us.”

  [90] Babylonian temple towers.

“But the word of the stars to us?” broke in Pompeius, in extreme disquietude, and trying to shake off the spell that held him in mastery.