John Roberts - The Tribune's curse

“Good morning, Father! How-”

He whirled around, his face red except for the great, horizontal scar that almost bisected his face and gave him his nickname: Cut-Nose.

“Did you really refuse Crassus’s offer to cover your debts yesterday?”

“Well, yes.”

“Twice, I understand?”

“How word does get around! Yes, I did. The second time to his face. You can’t count the first time. That was to Clodius, and I’d never give him a positive answer.”

“Idiot! You know how hard your family has worked to smooth relations with him, and with Caesar and Pompey!” These took the form of marriage ties: a son of Crassus married a Caecilia, I married Caesar’s niece, and so forth. The fact that Julia and I actually wanted to marry had no bearing on the political matchmaking.

“I know you and the others have alienated Pompey.”

He waved his big-knuckled hand. “No matter. He can manage the grain supply as long as he likes. He’s done a wonderful job. We just have to keep him from command of the legions. Caesar has turned into a wild man, and he must be dealt with eventually, if he lives. But Crassus is vastly wealthy, and he could come back from Parthia a triumphator! ”

“Everyone seems to think that he’ll die before he gets home.”

“How did I ever beget such a moron! No wonder you lose so much money at the races if that’s how you place your bets!”

“Lose money? Me?” I cried, stung. “Just last month in Mu-tina I won-”

“Silence!” He leaned across his desk, supporting his weight on his knuckles, thrusting his head forward as he glared at me. “I know your memory is short, but I remember when Caius Marius returned from his last war. He was even older than Crassus and madder than Ajax! He seized power in the City and proceeded to kill more Romans than Hannibal! If Crassus comes back with a triumph and the wealth of King Orodes added to what he already has and a heart full of bile toward everyone he even imagines has offended him, a lot of us are going to die!”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I admitted, chastened.

“And do you imagine the expenses of your office will be so slight that your family can afford to turn down a loan from Crassus? A loan that will be almost free from interest, I might add?” This was more like it: away from world events and back to the subject that touched us most intimately-the family purse.

“I’d rather go to the usurers than be owned by a monster like Crassus!”

“Nonsense! Crassus can’t own you because I do! You will do as I say, vote as I say, and deal with Crassus as I say!”

At one time I would have erupted like a volcano at this, but the years had thickened my skin and leveled my temper. Besides, after you’ve been terrified by the likes of King Ariovistus the German, a father isn’t all that frightening.

“I’ll take your advice to heart, Father. But the damage is already done. Maybe I can patch things up. The old fool may have forgotten the whole matter by now. But listen, Milo has made an excellent deal for me-” Father nodded, his color returning as I described the situation.

“Twenty of them? And some are Campanians, I believe. Yes, this will bring down the price of the funeral munera significantly. If we bring two or three pairs of the old champions on at the end of each day’s fighting, that is what people will remember, not that you didn’t have a hundred pairs earlier in the day. I’ve always held that it’s the quality of fighting that counts, not how many half-trained amateurs and wretched prisoners you can crowd into the field. Why, in my younger days-” and so on and on.

Thus I left him in a somewhat better mood than I found him. This did little to improve my mood. He had upbraided me just as, earlier that morning, I had upbraided Hermes, and for the same reason. I was still his property. Sometimes , I thought, the world is just not fair .

Midday brought an unexpected invitation. A well-dressed man came up to me, and I greeted him as genially as I would have any other potential vote.

“Senator,” he said, “I am Sextus Silvius, an equestrian. I come on behalf of the tribune Ateius Capito, who would greatly esteem your company at his house this afternoon. If you have no other plans, he customarily lays on an excellent midday meal. It will have to be quite informal. You know what a tribune’s house is like.”

I glanced at the rostra . “Your friend isn’t in his usual place this morning.”

“He knows that there is nothing more to be gained by talk. May I tell him that you will be coming? Or, better yet, will you come with me?”

I looked around the Forum, saw nobody I really wanted to associate with, heard my stomach growl, and decided. “It will be a pleasure.” I took off my candidus , handed it to a client with instructions to take it home and inform Julia where I was going, and dismissed the rest.

“Why does this year’s tribune want to cultivate next year’s aedile?” I asked bluntly as we ambled toward the Via Nova, thence eastward into the warren of streets northeast of the Via Sacra.

“Both you and he are headed for higher office. The men who are to direct the great affairs of Rome in the future had better get to know each other if you are to work well together.”

“That makes sense,” I agreed, musing. “Silvius. Is that a Marsian name?”

He nodded. “Oh, yes. My family are Marsi from near the Fucine Lake. Roman citizens for generations, of course.”

“Naturally.” The Marsi were noted as splendid farmers and, less favorably, as practitioners of all sorts of magic. “Are you a relative of the tribune?”

“No, a friend. Along with others, I’ve been his assistant during his year in office. I will be more than relieved when that year is up.”

“The tribuneship is a busy office,” I said, putting it mildly.

The house of Ateius Capito took up the ground floor of a tenement block that faced an identical tenement block across a narrow street. The street itself was thronged with citizens: idlers, hangers-on, petitioners with rolled papyri to give to the tribune, and the generally disgruntled-looking, all come to press their suits upon the representative of the people. They made a path for me when they saw the senatorial stripe on my tunic. Some of the scroll holders tried to give their petitions to me in hope that I would bring them to the tribune’s attention, but I begged off. The last thing I wanted to do was take on another politician’s job.

The door was open, naturally. By ancient law the door of a tribune’s house, even the door of his own bedroom, had to remain open during his year in office. He had to be accessible to the plebs every hour, day and night. Supposedly he incurred no danger through this practice because the sacrosanctity of his office rendered him immune from violence. Tribunes had been killed in past years of civil unrest, but that was considered very incorrect behavior.

It was just as crowded in the atrium, but there the great man’s servants regulated the flow of callers so that they entered by ones and twos and small groups to present their petitions and questions and complaints. These servants stood aside as I passed through with Silvius.

“Tribune Ateius Capito,” Silvius announced grandly, “I present the senator Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger!”

“Welcome to my house, Senator,” Ateius said, rising with hand extended. I took it and got my first close look at the man. He was lean as a dagger, with a dark, small-featured face dominated by unusually large, intense eyes. As a matter of fact, the whole man was intense. Even standing still, he seemed to vibrate like a plucked lyre string. “You do me great honor.”