The Tribune's curse s-7 Read online

  “Why not?”

  “He can’t afford to alienate Caesar just now. Forget about Crassus for the moment. I loathe the man, but I don’t think he’s as stupid as you seem to believe.”

  “He wouldn’t alienate your uncle Caius Julius if Caesar never knew about it.”

  She looked at me. “Surely you know Caesar better than that. He keeps track of what goes on in Rome. He maintains a huge correspondence with friends and family members, and he has the subtlest mind in the world. He’s as brilliant as Cicero, and unlike Cicero he isn’t blinded by his own importance. He would put together all the little details and come up with the true answer.”

  “I suppose you are right,” I said. More than once, Caesar had sent me off to investigate some matter to which he already knew the answer, just to see if I would arrive at the same solution by different means. But I did not tell her that, if Caesar needed an alliance with Pompey, he would consider my life a minor price to pay for it.

  “What bothers me more,” I told her, “was how the”-I lowered my voice to a whisper lest Cypria or some passerby hear “-Secret Name got into it. I mean, Pompey intends to be virtual king of Rome. He’s not especially superstitious, but even he would hesitate to perform an act that would endanger the City itself.”

  “Why didn’t Ateius hesitate?” she shot back instantly.

  “Why, he-” I paused, realizing that I hadn’t thought about this. When you assume someone to be mad, there is always a tendency to look no further for motive or intention, still less for signs of future plans. “I see what you’re getting at. Pompey said he intended to prosecute Ateius for perduellio and maiestas and sacrilege. Even if he was bluffing to cover his own complicity, someone else would have done it. There are at least a hundred senators with the legal expertise to bring those multiple charges against him. Any of them would have jumped at the chance.”

  “And Ateius must have known it. Before he went up on that gate, he knew that death or exile would be his inevitable reward.”

  “So he must have been planning for it. He knew that he would never be able to return to Rome. Julia, this gives me a great deal to think about.”

  “It should,” she said complacently. “Think about this: for a Roman politician, what is the ultimate dread?”

  “Exile,” I said. “Everyone dies, but to live in exile is unthinkable.” I shuddered at the thought. Even when I was away from Rome for years at a time, I always knew I would return. Everyone knew of the fate of the supporters of Marius, exiled twenty years before by Sulla and never allowed to return. They sought refuge with foreign rulers or joined rebellions like that of Sertorius. They lived on sufferance, always having to move on as Roman territory expanded, growing ever older. No wonder so many of them chose suicide instead.

  “Ateius Capito,” Julia went on, “had been in public service, in one capacity or another, for most of his adult life, you say?”

  “It’s a matter of public record, right over there.” I nodded toward the Tabularium, which was visible above the roofs of the Basilica Opimia and the Temple of Saturn, the three structures ascending rather like three uneven steps up the slope of the Capitol.

  “So he toiled for fifteen years, serving in the legions and on the staffs of more important men. Finally, he achieved the tribuneship, a truly important office. With a successful tribuneship behind him, he was poised for high office, military command, and prestige. He gave it all up to put a curse on Crassus. Does this make sense to you, Decius?”

  “Someone must have offered him a truly Titanic bribe!” I said.

  “Which was not paid,” she said. “Instead, he was killed.”

  “Well, naturally. I mean, would you reward a man that unscrupulous?”

  “You need to find someone who could make such a bribe credible,” Julia said. “And you had better find him soon. Time is getting short.”

  She didn’t have to remind me of that, I thought that evening as I went to the Grain Office. Julia and I had gone home, and I had eaten dinner hastily, with little appetite. Then, accompanied by Hermes, I left the house to make my report before the streets got too dark to negotiate.

  I found Pompey and Milo together, along with Clodius, Cato, and even the rex sacrorum.

  “I do hope you have someone for us, Decius,” Pompey said grimly.

  “I’ve made great progress,” I assured him.

  “That means nothing!” Pompey said, slamming his palm on the table. “I need more than your ‘great progress’! I need someone to try, publicly, for the murder of that wretched tribune! I was not in a good mood to begin with, and this incredible mess in Egypt has made me even less tolerant of your prevarication!”

  “And,” said Claudius, the rex sacrorum, “since it seems that this terribly delicate matter cannot be kept secret, I must know who gave him the Secret Name.”

  “It seems you’ve taken on a large task, Decius,” Clodius said. He was getting immense satisfaction out of my discomfiture.

  “Let’s hear what he has to say,” Milo put in.

  “You see, it’s like this.” I launched into a carefully edited version of my findings. I didn’t think it would be terribly wise to mention that I strongly suspected Pompey himself. In fact, there were few men in the room whom I exempted from suspicion. Cato was too upright, and the rex sacrorum was too unworldly. I was always ready to suspect Clodius in connection with any villainy. Milo was my friend, but I knew all too well that he would balk at nothing in his ambition to control the City.

  “This man Ariston-” Claudius put in, “you believe that he gave Ateius the Secret Name?”

  “His behavior certainly warrants the suspicion. I would like very much to question him further. If even Cicero has consulted him on the ancient cult practices of Italy, then of all non-Romans he must be the most likely to know the Name.”

  “And he is from Cumae,” Claudius said. “The sibyl there is said to know all things concerning Italy and the gods, although she usually keeps these things to herself. He might have learned it from the sibyl herself.”

  There had always been a sibyl at Cumae. The succession was supposed to be adoptive. Some of them were famous prophetesses, but many were obscure. I had never paid much attention.

  “I’ll have the whole peninsula scoured for him,” Pompey said. “If the bugger’s still alive, I’ll have him brought back to Rome for interrogation.”

  Or, I thought, he’ll be murdered upon apprehension, if he’s another of your tools. I was careful not to say this aloud.

  “Consul,” I said, “ten years ago, Ateius served on the staff of your proquaestor, Marcus Aemilius Scaurus, in Syria. Might they have had any contact with the Parthians?”

  He rubbed his chin, thinking. He did not seem to me to be apprehensive that this was getting a little too close to him. I certainly hoped not.

  “Let me see-I negotiated a boundary dispute that year, between Armenia and Parthia. Phraates was king of Parthia back then, the father of the present king. I don’t remember whether I’d sent Aemilius south by that time or not. In any case, the princes weren’t present. There were two of them at the time. They killed the old man, and the elder seized the throne; then he was kicked out by the council of nobles, and the younger took over. That’s Orodes.”

  “Aemilius stopped in Damascus on his way to Judea,” I said. “That’s where he consulted with Elagabal. Is it possible that Orodes was in Damascus at that time?”

  “Anything’s possible,” Pompey said impatiently. “Do you think Orodes could be behind this? He certainly has plenty of reason to lay a curse on Crassus.”

  “I don’t want to discount the possibility,” I said.

  Pompey barked a humorless laugh. “I hope he isn’t. I bear no love for him, but it’s a little difficult to go out and arrest a foreign king. The only way to bring him back is in chains behind a triumphator’s chariot.”

  “Crassus may do just that,” said Clodius with his usual consummate lack of tact. Pompey gave him a poisono
us look. It was good to have his wrath directed elsewhere.

  “We need something better than this,” Cato said. “Decius, you have one more day to get some results; then we can all prepare to see the City go up in flames.”

  “I’ll have him by tomorrow evening,” I promised. It was as empty a promise as I had ever made, but by that time my options were severely limited.

  There was a little more talk, most of it commentary upon the inadequacy of my investigation; then it broke up. I went out of the building with Milo. As we went down the steps, rough shapes detached themselves from the deepening shadows and formed a barrier around us. They were Milo’s closest thugs.

  “Now give me the real story,” Milo said.

  I knew better than to prevaricate with Titus Milo. I laid out my findings and my suspicions. As usual he was perfectly silent, absorbing everything. Then he was silent for a while longer, thinking about it all.

  “Pompey definitely has the most to gain from this,” he said at last. “And Julia is right: Pompey is far more intelligent than most people give him credit for being. It is subtle for him, but he’s learned to be subtle in the years he’s been separated from his legions.”

  “But would he kill a tribune, knowing that it would cause a riot?”

  Milo shrugged. “Rome’s burned before. It always gets rebuilt. The City doesn’t mean much to Pompey. He only cares about the army. He’s complaining about this crisis in Egypt, but it’s like a gift from the gods for him. All day the senators have been talking about a special command for him to go to Egypt and sort out the mess.”

  “To do it he’d have to have next year’s tribunes behind him,” I said.

  “Pompey always has enough tribunes bought up to get his commands pushed through the Popular Assemblies. I don’t see him setting himself up as the first Roman pharaoh, but he might well install a puppet who would act as his personal client.”

  I shook my head. “It could be Pompey, but I can’t get rid of the feeling that I’m letting my dislike of him cause me to overlook something obvious.”

  “You’d better get it figured out soon,” he advised.

  “Everybody seems determined to remind me of that,” I told him.

  13

  I awoke in a state of anxiety. This would be my last day to find the killer or killers. I had to stop a riot. I had to satisfy the gods. I had to save Rome. Needless to say, my wife was very annoyed with my behavior.

  “Decius,” she said as we sat down to breakfast, “stop acting as if the fate of the world hinged upon your actions. If there is trouble in the City, Pompey and Milo and the rest can handle it. That is the job of public officials. We have priests to act as our intermediaries with the gods. Settle down, eat, and plan out what you have to do.”

  So, in obedience to this very sensible advice, I managed to get down some bread with honey and a few slices of melon. It was far from my usual very substantial breakfast, but Julia was trying to wean me away from what she considered a barbaric and un-Roman practice.

  “Now,” she said, “where do you propose to start?”

  I thought about it. “At the Sublician Bridge.”

  “Why there?”

  “Because Ateius and probably his friends almost certainly crossed the river there. He was probably killed shortly after that somewhere in the Trans-Tiber district. His body was discovered on the western bank, and if you’re going to dispose of a body in the river, you dump it in from the nearer bank. You don’t carry it across a bridge and leave it on the other side.”

  “Your mind seems to be functioning clearly again. That’s a good sign. The Trans-Tiber is nowhere near the size of the City proper, but it’s still a sizable district. How will you conduct your search?”

  “To begin with, there are always beggars at bridges. They like to catch people in narrow spots where they can’t get away. What’s more, the same beggars are always in the same spot every day, because they defend a good begging spot against the competition. I’ll find out if anybody remembers seeing them.”

  “The bridge is heavily used,” she said doubtfully. “Was there any distinctive mark that would have made Ateius stand out?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” I said. “He was a fairly ordinary-looking man. So was Silvius, the one I am pretty sure was with him. He stuffed the famous robe into a sack.”

  “I suppose it’s worth a try,” she said.

  “It’s not just information I’ll be looking for there,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s more-I want to get into his mind. Maybe, by retracing some of his steps, I can get a feel for him, for the way he was thinking and where he would go from there.”

  “Well, I’ve always known your mind doesn’t work like those of normal people.”

  “I knew you’d understand.” I stood. “I’d better be going. If I don’t come up with something, maybe I can line up a fast horse. With luck, I can reach Transalpine Gaul before the passes get snowed in.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, giving me a warm embrace. “If you can’t live with disgrace, you have no business in Roman politics. All of the great men have far worse things to live down than a failed murder investigation.”

  “At least I always know where I can come for comfort.”

  “Will you be home for lunch?” she asked.

  “Don’t count on it. If I sniff out the very faintest trail, I will pursue it until I drop.”

  “Be careful, Decius.”

  “Am I not always careful?” She rolled her eyes upward, and I made my escape.

  “Come along, Hermes,” I said. “We’re going to the Trans-Tiber.”

  “I was headed that way anyway,” he said. “It’s time for my morning lesson.” As if he had any choice in the matter. I never knew a slave more determined to make it look as if my orders to him were just what he would have done on his own. Insolence takes many forms.

  I avoided passing through the Forum. There I would inevitably encounter many friends and acquaintances and be forced to talk to them and lose time thereby. Instead, we took the narrow streets through the neighborhoods to the east of the Forum, pushing past the heavy morning traffic and avoiding as best we could the things being dumped from the balconies overhead.

  The facades of the towering, firetrap tenements were covered with graffiti as high as the human arm could reach. Most of them were election notices, some of them very well lettered by professionals, many of whom would append brief advertisements at the bottom of the message. One such, for instance, read: Vote for Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus for consul. He will see that Pomptinus gets to celebrate his triumph. Domitius will oppose the greedy generals and save the Republic. Vote for Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus. Below this, in smaller letters: Echion wrote this by moonlight. Hire Echion, and he will work for you day and night. I deduced from this that the neighborhood contained many clients of Pomptinus. Seven years before he had put down a rebellion of the Allobroges and had been pestering the Senate ever since for permission to celebrate a triumph. Seven years was a long time to spend outside the walls waiting for permission, but that was how important a triumph was to a Roman politician.

  I saw more ominous wall-scrawlings calling for vengeance for the dead tribune. A few of these even attacked me personally for the ineffectiveness of my investigation. Most of these, luckily, had already been painted over by the men I had hired to paint my own election notices.

  When we reached the river, I noticed that the river wall just shoreward of the wharves was badly in need of repair, and I made a mental note to do something about it as soon as I took office. Now that I knew there was a flood coming, it would have to be given priority. I wondered if anybody during the last ten years had been paying attention to the upkeep of the City. Probably not. The great men just built grandiose theaters and put on shows, leaving all the real work to drudges like me.

  The Sublician is the oldest of our bridges, although it has been destroyed and rebuilt several times. The ver
y name refers to the heavy timbers of which it was once built, but the present bridge is of stone. For many generations it was the only bridge over the Tiber at Rome, because the Etruscans lived on the other bank, and Rome was strong enough to defend only one bridge at a time.

  The most famous story concerning the bridge is the one about Horatius Cocles, who is said to have held off the army of Lars Porsena single-handed while the Romans dismantled the bridge behind him. There are several versions of this celebrated tale. In one of them, Horatius is simply the point man of a wedge of Romans. In another, he held the bridge with two companions, who fell at his side before the bridge was destroyed. In a third, Horatius held the bridge alone right from the first.

  Personally, I think only the first version has any truth to it. I have been in many battles and skirmishes and played a heroic part in none of them. But I have seen last-ditch stands and delaying actions in plenty, and I have never seen a place, however narrow, that could be defended against an army by a single man for more than a minute or so. No matter how strong and skillful you are, while one man engages you, somebody else can always thrust a spear over the rim of your shield. And then there are the arrows and sling-stones that always fly about in such profusion when men thirst for one another’s blood.

  Supposedly, when the bridge was destroyed, Horatius somehow found leisure to address a prayer to Tiberinus, god of the river, and leaped in fully armed and swam across to great applause, to be rewarded richly by the citizenry. Another version has him drowning, which is what usually happens when a man in armor finds himself in deep water.

  Whatever really happened, it makes a good story.

  The day-fishers were already there with their poles, spaced along the stone parapet as evenly as gulls on a ship’s rail. The flocks of beggars were at work, too. At my approach, the ones who had eyes immediately recognized the quality of my toga. As one man, they came toward me with palms outstretched, except for the ones who had no hands.