The Tribune's curse s-7 Read online

  I held up a hand to stanch the flow of words. Everybody was complaining about overwork these days.

  “I can see that you’ve exhausted yourself in service to the People, as every tribune should. Did Ateius Capito concern himself with none of these pressing matters?”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “Well, no. It was only Crassus, as far as Ateius was concerned.”

  “What about all the petitioners who mobbed his home? How did he keep their support?”

  “The vast bulk of those people do nothing but take up a tribune’s time. Often as not, they just want an important ear to hear their complaints. If they do have real problems, they are usually so petty that they can be solved by a freedman with a few coins to pass around. Ateius’s staff handled those. The few with substantial grievances to address, Ateius passed on to the other tribunes. He wasn’t very popular among us.”

  “Didn’t that strike anyone as odd? The office of tribune is just one step on a man’s political career. Any man of sense uses it to make contacts, do favors that will profit him later on, even, perhaps, enrich himself a bit, within legal limits. How was Ateius supporting his rather expensive office if all he did was alienate the richest man in the world?”

  “Ateius came of a substantial equestrian family; you’ve seen his house.”

  “Oh, come now, none of that! You know as well as I that if he wasn’t doing profitable political favors for important people, he had to be buying the support he needed. That requires a great deal more than the fortune of a substantial equestrian family. Whose money was he spending, if not his own?”

  “He was passing out the silver rather freely,” Gallus said. “But I was not about to ask. The possible sources are rather limited, you know.” The last words were mumbled, as if he was reluctant to say even this much.

  I knew exactly what he meant. Crassus certainly wasn’t financing his own opposition. That left the two men with the most to gain from the elimination of Crassus: Pompey and Caesar. The conference at Luca the previous year had supposedly patched up their differences, but nobody mistook it for anything but a temporary political expedient, to keep things at home quiet while two of the Big Three were engaged in foreign service and the third was occupied with the all-important grain supply.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me about Capito? Any unusual visitors he may have had, foreigners who may have been seen with him, any other odd behavior?”

  “Senator, I rarely saw him except in the Forum when we dealt with that single issue. I was far too busy to socialize with him. His enthusiasm for foreign religions and sorcery was well-known, but public life in Rome is ridden with crackpots.”

  “All too true. Well, Tribune, I thank you for your cooperation.” We both stood.

  “This is a vicious business,” Gallus said. “I hope you find who murdered him. He was a tribune and shouldn’t have been touched while he was still in office.” He adjusted the drape of his toga. “Aside from that, I’m glad the bastard’s dead.”

  I went back to the Forum, stopping on the way to snack at the stands of some street vendors. With commendable moderation, I washed it down with nothing stronger than water.

  I hailed a few friends as I crossed the Forum, but I did not stop, instead climbing the lower slope of the Capitol to the Tabularium, the main archive of the Roman State. There I located the freedman in charge of the Censor’s records.

  “How may I help you, Senator?” he asked. He was surrounded by slaves who actually looked busy for a change, that year being one in which the Census was taken.

  “I need the records pertaining to the late tribune Caius Ateius Capito’s qualifications for office.” The fitness of candidates to stand for office coming under the purview of the Censors, Capito would have deposited a statement of his age, property, and military and political service with them. The man went off, shaking his head at this unreasonable imposition on the time of a busy, busy official. It was getting to be an old story.

  I waited for him amid the rustlings and cracklings of papyrus, the rattlings of wooden binders containing wax tablets, the thumpings of lead seals as the slaves and freedmen went through the motions of the most notoriously tedious job required by the constitution. It was a good thing we only had to do it every five years.

  “Here you are, Senator,” the archivist said, handing me a small roll of papyrus. I unrolled it and read.

  There was not much to it. Ateius stated that he possessed the minimum property required for equestrian status, that he had been enrolled in the equestrian order by the Censors Cornelius Lentulus and Gellius Publicola, fifteen years before. He had served with the legions for the required number of campaigns, under Lucullus, Metellus Creticus, Pompey, and Philippus, he of the famous fishponds. Most of his service had been in the East, I noticed-Macedonia and the wars with Mithridates and Tigranes and their heirs, for the most part, plus the bandit-chasing that inevitably takes up so much of an army’s time in that part of the world, even when it is nominally at peace. Perhaps, I thought, it was during these years that Ateius acquired his taste for strange, foreign religions and magic. The Eastern world is rank with sorcery.

  Of previous electoral offices he had none, but then none are required to hold the office of tribune. He had, however, served on the staffs of several serving officials, in the purely informal fashion that prevailed in those days. There was no need for him to list them in his declaration to the Censors, but, like so many of our lesser political lights, he seemed to feel compelled to boast of his associations with the mighty. One of these jumped out at me immediately: three years previously, he had served as assistant to the aedile Marcus Aemilius Scaurus, provider of wonderful Games and scourge of all vile cultists who could not pony up his price.

  I returned the scroll to the surly freedman and went out onto the portico atop the broad steps of the Tabularium. The view of the Forum was a good one that day, the clear light of winter bringing out the whitened togas of the candidates, who were doing what I should have been doing. The next year’s praetors and consuls, the aediles and tribunes and quaestors, were out there-hardly an honest man among them, to my way of thinking. Always excepting Cato, of course, who was standing for praetor. He was the one incorruptibly honest man in public life. Unfortunately, I couldn’t stand Cato.

  I descended the steps. I had lost my most promising lead, but the absence of Ariston made my thoughts drift back to that other suspect foreigner, Elagabal. Elagabal was from Syria. Ateius Capito had served in Syria under more than one proconsul. The connection was tenuous, but it was there. Roman men with ambitions for public office had to serve in a specified number of campaigns, and that meant going wherever there was a war. I had served in Spain and Gaul, but had the timing been different, I might have served in Syria instead. But now I remembered something Elagabal had said just as I left his house that I realized I should have followed up on, only I had failed to understand its implications.

  The house was unchanged, and I hoped that I would not find it deserted, as I had the house of Ariston. Over its door brooded the serpent swallowing its own tail, and I now remembered that I had seen a ring in that shape on the finger of Ateius the one time I had spoken with him. At my knock, the hulking guard opened the door.

  “Bessas, fetch your master.” The man glared for a moment, then disappeared within.

  “Why, Senator Metellus, I was not expecting to see you again so soon. Please, come in.” He smiled, but the smile showed a certain strain. I followed him up the stairs to the roof garden. “May I inquire what brings you back?”

  “The other day, after I spoke to you, I visited with Eschmoun and Ariston, and I found them both to be much as you described them: Eschmoun a relatively harmless fraud and Ariston a scholar of high reputation.”

  He gave a self-deprecating little bow. “As you see, I am no liar.”

  “Today, I went back to the house of Ariston, and he had fled without a trace.”

  His eyes went wide. “Can it be that the man
has a guilty conscience?”

  “That or a wholesome fear of death. Above your door there is a symbol painted-a serpent in the act of swallowing its tail. What does this signify?”

  He looked puzzled but did not hesitate. “It is a very common symbol in many parts of the world. It means creation and eternity. I have seen examples in the art of Egypt and Greece, as well as in the East.”

  “I see. Ateius Capito wore a ring in that shape. Might he have received this from you?”

  “By no means. As a dabbler in mystical things, such a trinket might have caught his eye almost anyplace, even in the jewelers’ stalls here in Rome.”

  “That may be it. Now, Elagabal, just before I left here on the occasion of my last visit, you said something: you said that soon I would be an important official-”

  “And so you shall be,” he assured me, looking relieved. He thought we were back to negotiating a bribe.

  “And you said that you had found that previous acquaintance made such an official more approachable. Had you previous acquaintance of the aedile Marcus Aemilius Scaurus, who was charged with expelling the foreign cults?”

  “Why, yes, long before he held that office.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere. When was it?”

  “It was about ten years ago, when Aemilius served as proquaestor in Syria under Proconsul Pompey.”

  “I see,” I said, hearing one of the names I most feared. “How did you happen to meet him?”

  “You must understand, General Pompey was much occupied with affairs in the northern part of his province and with the final stages of the war with Mithridates. The southern part of his dominions he therefore left in the charge of his subordinates. Aemilius Scaurus was charged with settling the dynastic disputes of the princes of Judea. It was said, later, that Aemilius Scaurus-how shall I say-that he allowed certain of these princes to be excessively generous toward him.”

  “Took bribes, eh? Well, no surprises there. What was your part in all this?”

  “When the proquaestor was in Damascus on his way to Judea, he consulted with me on the very peculiar religion of that part of the world. I had great difficulty in explaining to him the concept of monotheism.”

  “I have problems with that one myself. Doesn’t seem natural. Was Ateius Capito with him?”

  “That I could not say. He had a number of wellborn young men on his staff. And at that time, if you will forgive me, Roman names sounded much alike to my untrained ear.”

  “That’s odd. They sound very distinctive and individual to us. So, was this the extent of your acquaintance with Aemilius Scaurus?”

  He nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes, until I moved to Rome. In the year of his aedileship, when I was unjustly accused of practicing forbidden rites, I went to him and reminded him of how I had aided him when we were in Syria.” Elagabal nodded again. “He was most accommodating.”

  “I can well imagine.” I rose to leave. “I have other places to go now. Elagabal, if you have told me the truth, you may expect to find me a friend when I am in office. But this investigation is by no means over. Do not take it into your head to imitate Ariston and leave Rome. He dwelled without the gates, and for him, escaping was easy. I have left word with the gate guards to allow no foreign residents to leave until I am finished.” What a laugh. As if those louts could bestir themselves to stop a blind donkey from wandering out. Besides, they could be bribed with the smallest coins. I suspected that Elagabal was aware of this, but he had the good manners not to smile.

  “I wish only to serve you,” he protested, “and to spend the rest of my days in the greatest city in the world, under benevolent administrators.”

  I left him with some more important facts in my possession, but they were facts I would almost have preferred not to know. Too many of the wrong people had too much in common: Aemilius Scaurus, Ateius Capito, and Pompey, and all of them were tied together by Syria, the province just assigned to Crassus. Crassus, who, if he failed, would leave the East wide open to Pompey, who had been there before. Once again, he would have military glory, wealth, and a great army behind him. Caesar would have Gaul and the West, with immense armies of his own. The two of them would be the last players on the big game board, poised for a final, catastrophic civil war. And smack between them: Rome.

  I didn’t even want to think about it.

  12

  It wasn’t as if it was the first time I had suspected Pompey of murder. In fact, I had personal knowledge of his summary disposal of more than one inconvenient person. Men like Pompey and Caesar and their ilk were not the sort to balk at the odd bit of homicide from time to time. Of course, they made their reputations by slaughtering people by the townful, but those weren’t citizens.

  But somehow the strange sequence of events seemed unlike Pompey. To put Ateius up to cursing Crassus’s expedition, then kill the man to silence him and divert suspicion at the same time, was ruthless, and Pompey was sufficiently ruthless. But it was also brilliant and subtle, and these were qualities I would never have attributed to Pompey. I had to admit to myself that I had underestimated people before: I would never have guessed what a fine writer Caesar was.

  Complex murder plots are more serious than an excellent prose style, though. Caesar was eminently capable of such a scheme, but he was far away and perfectly happy with conquering Gaul.

  Would Pompey have sent the four killers after me? Killing a tribune was a major political crime. Eliminating a minor senator was not a serious matter, given the violent nature of the times. Pompey and I had been at odds before, and my family had resisted his ambitions for years. We had cooperated with Caesar and mended fences with Crassus, but Pompey and the Metelli had never become reconciled. He would kill me without blinking, if it seemed to be to his advantage.

  The four killers were a little crude. There were plenty of Pompey’s veterans in the City. A little hint dropped in the right ears, and I would be dead on the cobbles. But his veterans were, naturally, soldiers. The men who attacked me were sica-wielding street thugs of a sort that thronged the gangs of Clodius and Milo and lesser gang leaders, but they were men with no interest in serving in the legions.

  That, too, could be a way of diverting suspicion from himself, making it look like a common street killing. He would never have contacted the cutthroats personally, of course. He had nail-hard former centurions in his following who would take care of any such chores for him and keep their mouths shut. Every powerful man has such useful henchmen.

  These were not comfortable thoughts. Gaul was looking better to me with each passing hour. Maybe I should quietly leave town and go rejoin Caesar. The office of aedile was even more objectionable if I didn’t live to exercise it.

  But, no. I had been charged with an investigation, and I would see it through. I was a Roman official, and I had been given this assignment by the Senate, the consul, and the praetor urbanus, not to mention the whole Pontifical College and the virgo maxima. I would get to the bottom of the matter whatever the cost. It is with foolish thoughts like these that men frequently deceive themselves into great personal disasters.

  The afternoon was drawing to a close, and almost without conscious thought my steps had taken me back to the Forum. I stood amid the monuments of past glory and wondered if I was seeing the end of it. Scipio Aemilianus, it is said, having destroyed Carthage, stood amid its ruins and wept. Not because he had destroyed that magnificent city, but because, surveying the ruin he had wrought, he understood that someday Rome, too, would look like this.

  I tried to picture the Forum as a weed-grown field of deserted, roofless hulks, shattered columns, and limbless statues. The very thought was painful, and I tried to shake off the mood. If this was Rome’s eventual destiny, it was the duty of men like me to forestall it as long as possible.

  On the steps of the Temple of Vesta, I saw a large group of ladies who carried themselves with unmistakably patrician bearing. I went to the old, round temple and located Julia.

  “P
racticing for the Vestalia?” I asked her.

  She caught my mournful expression. “Yes. You’ve found out something bad, haven’t you?”

  “I may have. Come walk with me.”

  She took her leave of the other ladies and came down the steps with Cypria close behind. “We are going to excite gossip,” Julia said, not entirely serious.

  “Let people talk,” I said scornfully. Of course, I had my hands clasped behind my back. At the time it was considered the absolute depth of bad taste for a husband and wife to display affection in public. Just walking together like this, without a flock of friends and clients, was slightly scandalous.

  “Maybe Cato will show up,” I said. “If he does, I’ll kiss you, and we can watch him die of apoplexy.”

  “You’re in a wonderful mood,” she said. “What’s happened?”

  I told her of the day’s events and what I had found out from the records in the Tabularium. She considered these things for a while as we sauntered northwestward, toward the huge basilicas that dominated that end of the Forum. She did not seem terribly upset, but then Julia rarely got upset. I could see the signs that she was thinking hard, which was something she did well. When she spoke, she did not seem to be addressing the problem at hand.

  “It was terrible news out of Egypt this morning.”

  “Yes, I believe old Ptolemy’s finally stepped over the line, massacring the Alexandrians like that. This is going to bring us years of trouble.”

  “Well, yes, but I was thinking of poor Berenice. I can’t say that I admired the woman, but she was kind to Fausta and me while we were at her court. How can a man put his own daughter to death like that?”

  “Dynastic politics is a murderous business,” I told her. “But then, so is republican politics. Tyrants are always afraid, and close family members are the nearest rivals.”

  “I don’t think Pompey would try to have you killed,” she said, making what seemed to me an illogical leap.