Then Mercury, who had always been delighted by Claudius’s wit, took one of the three Fates aside and said, “You horribly cruel woman! Why do you allow the poor man to be tortured? Won’t you ever give him a rest from his long agony? It’s been sixty-four years now that he’s been wrestling with his life. Why do you hold a grudge against him and against the Republic? Let the astrologers be right for a change. They’ve been predicting his death every year—no, every month—ever since he became emperor. But still, it’s no wonder if they make mistakes and nobody seems clear about his final hour. For nobody ever realized he was alive. Do what has to be done:

Give him to death: let the better king

Reign in the empty hall.

But Clotho replied, “By Hercules! I wanted to give him just a teensy bit more time, so that he could confer citizenship on the last remaining stragglers”—for he had decided to see all Greeks, Gauls, Spaniards, and Britons wearing the toga. “But since you like the idea of keeping some foreigners for breeding stock, and that’s what you are insisting on, so be it.” Then she opened a small box and brought out three spindles. One belonged to Augurinus, the second to Baba, the third to Claudius. “These three men,” she said, “I shall decree to die in the same year, just a few minutes apart. I won’t send him away without companions. For it is not right that a man who has been accustomed to seeing so many thousands follow him, precede him, and swarm around him should suddenly be left all alone. He will be satisfied with these pals in the meantime.”

So she spoke; and, spinning the thread of fate

On a dirty spindle, snapped it, putting an end

To his royal stupid life. But Lachesis,

Sweeping her long hair up in a fancy knot,

And crowning her brow with the Muses’ own laurel,

Pulls from the snow-white skein a shiny thread

Of white wool, guiding it with happy hand.

As she spins it out, it magically changes color.

Her sisters stand amazed: common wool

Has suddenly been changed to precious metal.

On that lovely thread a Golden Age spins down.

There is no end. Spinning the happy fleece

They joyfully fill their hands. Work is sweet.

The task goes rapidly, without effort.

Easily the delicate thread winds round

The whirling spindle. His years exceed those

Of Nestor and Tithonus. Phoebus too

Is there: he helps them on with singing,

Happy about the times to come. With joy

He now plucks the lyre, now helps the spinning.

With his voice he enchants them, making their work easy.

While they heap praise on their brother’s lyre and singing

They spin out more than was their custom. Praise

Makes their work exceed the normal human life span.

“Don’t make it shorter, Fates,” Apollo says.