The Tribune's curse s-7 Read online

  “I am afraid so. There was rioting.”

  “We have that here in Rome from time to time. And was King Ptolemy forced to execute some of these Alexandrian supporters of Princess Berenice and the usurper?”

  “Only the ringleaders,” he said hastily, “and the closest and most immoderate of their adherents.”

  “How many?”

  “Oh, some three or four, perhaps as many as five thousand.” He blotted again at his runny face. He did not look well at all. Seeing him in full daylight for the first time in years, I realized that poor Lisas was not going to be with us much longer. Even his heavy makeup could no longer disguise his ghastly color and the sores that covered his skin. “It happened more than a month ago. Contrary winds kept all the vessels in port until just a few days ago.”

  “Well,” I said, “this is going to be difficult.” Like Pompey, I patted him on the shoulder. “We’ll work something out, but perhaps you’d better prepare yourself to serve a new king.”

  “I thank you for your support,” he said, “but I am too old for that now. I will not outlast King Ptolemy.”

  “Don’t be such a pessimist,” I advised. I wanted to speak with him some more, but senators began to crowd around, eager to know what was going on, and I had to leave him there and get on with my day.

  Egypt had been a problem for us for a hundred years. With its docile, priest-ridden peasant population and its absurd Macedonian royal family, we could have annexed it at any time, but we didn’t want to. Egypt was just too rich. Put a Roman governor there with an army, and he’d make himself king and raise a rebellion, as had Sertorius in Spain. No Roman trusted another with that much wealth and power. So we propped up one idiotic weakling after another, as the Ptolemaic dynasty grew more degenerate with each passing generation.

  And now this rebellion and its aftermath. I would have liked to believe that it meant the old drunk was showing some steel in his spine at last, but it sounded more like the vicious, peevish gesture of a frightened tyrant who feels his throne crumbling beneath him.

  And if Lisas said five thousand had been executed, ten thousand was a more likely number. And he’d said leading citizens, which meant men with close business ties to Rome. This was going to be serious.

  “Way for the praetor!” somebody shouted. I saw a file of lictors clearing a path for Milo, and I pushed my way over to him.

  “Decius!” He smiled, but perfunctorily. He, too, had caught the mood of the Forum. “Anything to report?”

  “Several things. Do you have a little time?”

  “Not much, but Pompey’s given the murder first priority, so go ahead.” In his usual fashion, he kept walking as we talked. I gave him a quick rundown of the previous day’s work.

  “I knew that business about the Furies was too good to be true. But where did that bastard go after he came down from the wall?”

  “That’s what I must find out.”

  “Work on it. For the moment, we’ll just keep this business about the men who jumped you to ourselves. A couple of bodies were found by the fire watch this morning. They weren’t mine or Clodius’s. Maybe the other two lived. It’s not important. Who hired them is.” Killings were not a major concern in Rome in those days, as long as arson was not involved.

  “That’s another matter I intend to find out about.”

  “What’s going on over at the curia?” He asked. “Why is old Lisas in town so early?”

  I gave him a quick rundown of the situation, and he shook his head.

  “That’s it for the Flute-Player, then. We’ve all grown heartily sick of him and his whole disgusting family.”

  “I always found him rather entertaining,” I said.

  “That’s right, you missed the big show, didn’t you? It was the first year you spent in Gaul, when Gabinius and Calpurnius Piso were consuls. For years, Ptolemy had been passing around bribes, trying to get the Senate to ratify him as king of Egypt. Finally got it the year before when Caesar was consul, but he’d squeezed the Alexandrians a little hard for bribe money, and they kicked him out, so he came here to get support for his return. The aristocrats were for it; the commons were against. Are you following this?”

  “It’s simple enough. What happened?”

  “Well, the Alexandrians sent a delegation to ask the Senate to renounce Ptolemy and put Berenice in his place.”

  “How did they fare? I hope they brought plenty of bribe money.”

  “They never even got here. Ptolemy got wind of the mission and hired a pack of outlaws down in the South. They ambushed the delegation right outside Brundisium and massacred the lot.”

  This was shocking even to my jaded sensibilities. “That’s brazen behavior even for a Ptolemy!”

  “The tribunes were in an uproar over it-denounced the aristocrats as a bunch of corrupt money-grubbers supporting a vile barbarian tyrant and murderer-all very true, by the way. After that, support for Ptolemy faded.”

  “He obviously struck a deal with the consul Gabinius,” I said. “Ten thousand talents, so I hear.”

  “It took him awhile to get all that silver together, but it was well spent. Clodius got a piece of it, too.”

  “Clodius? How?”

  “He was tribune that year, remember?”

  “How could I forget? It was the main reason my family wanted me out of Rome.”

  “Calpurnius got Macedonia for his proconsular province. Gabinius was to have Cilicia, but Clodius rammed through a law giving him Syria instead, putting him in a position to help Ptolemy as soon as he could get the bribe money together.”

  “And people wonder how we’ve conquered half the world,” I said. “With politics like ours, who stands a chance against us?”

  “It’s what makes us unique,” he agreed.

  Something struck me. “Crassus could make use of this. He might pass up his war with Parthia and use this as an excuse to take Egypt instead!”

  “Possible,” Milo said, “but not likely. For one thing, to do that without permission from the Senate would be tantamount to declaring war against Rome. For another, he’s not quite sane these days, as I’m sure you noticed. Taking Parthia is not just a fixed goal with him; it’s an obsession. He’s talked about nothing else for years. A saner man might have a go at Egypt, but not Crassus. Pompey would love to do it, but he lacks the courage to defy the Senate. Caesar would do it and make it look as if the Senate had given him permission.”

  “I hope you’re right. The last thing we need just now is war over Egypt.”

  By this time we had reached the basilica where Milo was holding court. Pompey had cleared his docket for the murder investigation, but that was just a gesture to calm the crowd. Milo had less than two months left in office and much business to tie up. There was already a crowd assembled there waiting for him to sort out their problems.

  “Get back to me as soon as you have a credible suspect for Ateius’s murder. Time is getting short.”

  “You’re not the first to remind me,” I said. I took my leave of him and wandered around the Forum for a little while, soaking in the feel of the place. By eavesdropping discreetly, I determined that the murder of the tribune was still the prime subject of conversation. The news from Egypt hadn’t spread and probably would not. It was a matter of great interest to the Senate, but foreign affairs occupied little of the attention of the average Roman, unless there was a war in which we were involved.

  Three years ago. That, I thought, had certainly been a busy year. Gabinius had been consul. So had Calpurnius Piso, who had ordered the suppression of the foreign cults. Aemilius Scaurus had been aedile, defraying the costs of his office by letting some of those foreigners off for a consideration and putting on his extravagant Games. In fact, far too many of the events of that year seemed to have led to the fateful happenings of this year.

  I pondered my next move. Whatever I was going to do, it seemed to me that I had better get it done before nightfall. The streets were getting dangerous for me.<
br />
  I had always found the Capitol a good place to think, so I climbed the winding road to its summit. Before the Temple of Jupiter, the ashes of the morning sacrifice still smoldered. I went into the temple and studied the serene face of the god for a while, not trying to concentrate, just letting my thoughts wander. The smell of smoke recalled to my mind the destruction of the temple almost thirty years before in a fire caused by lightning. The augurs determined that Jupiter had destroyed the temple because he had been displeased with it, so it was rebuilt with even greater magnificence. Many of its treasures had been destroyed, though, including the Sibylline Books.

  Once again I felt that featherlike tickling somewhere in the rear of my mind. I did not force things, but let my memory bring up such facts as I knew concerning the famous books of prophecy.

  The sibyls were Greek in origin-that I remembered. There used to be many of them; now only a few remained. They were somehow connected with Apollo, and were given to ecstatic utterance that sounded like gibberish to most people, but which, supposedly, could be interpreted by qualified priests as the will of the gods. The sayings of some of these sibyls had been written down in nine books that, somehow, made their way to Italy.

  Legend had it that, during the reign of the last king of Rome, Tarquinius Superbus, the celebrated books were brought to Rome and offered to him for sale. He considered the price exorbitant and refused, whereupon the sibyl had burned the books one by one, each time offering him the remaining books at the same price. Tarquinius, as poor a businessman as he was a king, agreed when there were three books left. These he deposited in a vault below the temple, where they were consulted from time to time. They were popularly believed to contain prophecies of the whole future history of Rome.

  I considered this to be among the silliest of all our ancient beliefs, but many believed in the books implicitly. It had been these books that Lisas had told me Crassus used as an excuse to prevent the Senate from sending Ptolemy back to Egypt with a Roman army to support him.

  And who was the sibyl who had sold the books, on such favorable terms, to Tarquin the Proud? Why, Italy’s most famous prophetess, of course, the Sibyl of Cumae. I whirled and strode from the temple. I was bound for the burying fields east of the City and the house of that expert on all things mystical, Ariston of Cumae.

  I knew before i reached the door that I had arrived too late. There is something about a house in which nobody lives that makes it indefinably different from an inhabited place. I walked between the cypresses, oppressed by the smell of death that permeated the air of the whole district, wondering if I would find more death within the modest house. Out here no dogs barked; no chickens squawked or crowed; there were no friendly, familiar sounds.

  For the sake of form I rapped on the door and waited a reasonable interval. Then I tugged on the door, and it opened easily.

  “Ariston!” I called. Nothing. I went within. All was quiet, and the place showed signs of having been vacated hastily. The modest furnishings were still there, but these consisted of only a table or two and some crude beds-nothing worth carrying off on a journey.

  I came to an upper room with a large window facing south. This was Ariston’s study, for it received the best reading light and it contained a cabinet with honeycomb cells that must have held Ariston’s books, but they were gone. Of course, he would not have left those. The kitchen contained no food, just a large water jar, half-full, and some melon rinds.

  Ariston and his slaves had left without ceremony and in haste. Had he left in fear? And, if so, of whom was he afraid? Did he fear that I would return with more questions to discern his guilty secret? Or was he afraid of the same violence that had been visited upon his erstwhile student, Ateius Capito? I suspected that it was the latter. If so, I could scarcely blame him. Being caught up in the power games of the great Romans was like being trapped between the stones of a great mill.

  I could find nothing of any interest within, so I went back outside, closing the door behind me. Another promising lead had been eliminated. There were not even any neighbors I could question. It would have been of some use to know whether he had started packing the moment I left his house, or when he got the news of Ateius’s death.

  All the way back through the gate and into the City, I pondered this turn of events. Crassus, a pontifex and an augur, but not one of the Board of Fifteen charged with authority over the Sibylline Books, had taken it upon himself to consult them on the question of Rome supporting Ptolemy. To do so he would have needed some sort of interpreter, and who better to perform that service than the famous authority Ariston of Cumae, a man who hailed from the home of the sibyl herself?

  So Crassus had suborned the interpretation he wanted from Ariston. There was the possibility that the Books really had said that we should not back Ptolemy with an army, but somehow I doubted it. Crassus had a way of getting what he wanted. Ariston had responded to bribery or threats. He lived simply in Rome, but for all I knew, he had been buying a fine estate for his retirement down in Cumae. Or perhaps he had just wanted to stay alive-a perfectly understandable motive. It was unlikely that I would learn anytime soon. I had neither time nor resources to scour Italy for a fleeing magician.

  I turned my steps southward, wending my way toward the Via Sacra. There remained one site I had not yet visited in my double investigation.

  The house of Ateius Capito was even more thronged than it had been on my previous visit. This time, instead of petitioners, the street outside was crowded with the sort of idlers who continually haunt the nightmares of those who must administer the City: the perpetual malcontents who seem to do no work, but are available at all hours to shout, argue, and riot. A couple of the remaining tribunes were there to keep them in a state of spirited outrage.

  True to a unique tradition of Rome, all the nearby walls had been slathered with that unique institution of the Latin race: graffiti. Daubed in paint of every color were slogans such as Death to the aristocrats! and The shade of Tribune Ateius calls out for blood! and May the curse of Ateius fall on Crassus and all his friends! All of this was scrawled wretchedly and spelled worse. Rome has an extremely high rate of literacy, mostly so that the citizens can practice this particular art form.

  Men nudged one another as I approached, casting one another significant glances, as such men are wont to do. I have no idea what it is that they hope to convey by these gestures, but they seem to enjoy the exercise. Perhaps it gives them a feeling of importance.

  “You are not welcome here, Senator,” said a tribune I recognized as Gallus, the cohort of Ateius in his strenuous efforts to deny Crassus the Syrian command.

  “Why do I need to be welcome?” I demanded. “I have been appointed iudex with praetorian authority. That calls for no welcome.”

  “You’re one of them!” yelled a meager-faced villain.

  “One of what?” I said. “One of the citizens?”

  “You’re an aristocrat!” the man shouted back.

  “Oh, shut up, the lot of you!” I shouted. “I wasn’t appointed by just any praetor! I was appointed by Titus Annius Milo! I imagine that name is known to you.” Now their growling died down. They may not have been among Milo’s adherents, but like most of Rome’s street toughs, they feared him.

  “No need for a riot,” Gallus said reluctantly. “What do you want here, Senator?”

  “I want to speak with Ateius’s Marsian friend, Sextus Silvius.”

  The men nearest the door looked at one another. “He’s not here,” one of them said.

  “Is that so? Where might he be?”

  “We-we don’t know. Some of the tribune’s closest friends have left the City. When a tribune can be murdered, who is safe?” The man looked to the others for agreement and support. I realized that they were at a loss how to act. The leaders of Ateius’s little factio had disappeared.

  “They were probably murdered as well!” said another of the door crowd. The grumbling rose.

  I turned around. �
�Tribune Gallus! I wish to speak with you in privacy. Come with me.”

  “You have no authority to order me, Senator,” he blustered, for the sake of his audience. “But, unlike the factio of Crassus and Pompey and the rest of the aristocrats, I respect the institutions of Rome.” He addressed the crowd. “My friends, I will return as soon as I have straightened this man out.”

  We walked down the street, out of sight and hearing. A few streets away there was a little park surrounding a shrine to the genius loci of the district, here represented in the traditional fashion as a sculpted snake climbing a stubby column. Withered garlands draped its base, and pigeons pecked at the offerings of bread and fruit left by the people of the neighborhood. I took a seat on a stone bench, and Gallus sat beside me.

  “Tribune, in the emergency meeting called by Pompey after the departure of Crassus, you said that you had no foreknowledge of the outrageous behavior of Ateius that day.”

  “And I spoke nothing but the truth,” he insisted. Here, away from his crowd, he spoke reasonably, as one public servant to another. “After the lustrum I went to the Temple of Vesta with Pompey and my fellow tribunes, and we all swore this before her fire.”

  “Very well. I need to know certain things about the tribune Ateius.”

  “I knew him only in our shared public functions,” he said, apparently anxious to distance himself from the man.

  “That is, principally, what I need to know. On what matters did the two of you cooperate?”

  “Why, on denying Crassus the Syrian command, of course. Everyone knows the harm that will be done to Rome if he-”

  “What other business?” I pressed.

  “There was no other business. Not for Ateius Capito!”

  “Do you mean to say that the two of you spent almost an entire year in office doing nothing but opposing Crassus?”

  “Nothing of the sort! Why, I worked with Peducaeus on getting the river wharfs rebuilt, and petitioning the pontifex maximus to extend Saturnalia for an extra day and reform the calendar, which has gotten into dreadful shape, and there’s the whole business of the agrarian laws and the land commissioners to be sorted out-”