John Roberts - The Tribune's curse

“There are others,” he said, portentously. “There are gods less remote than the official gods of the State-gods willing to aid those who know how to call upon them.”

I felt a sudden chill. I had just come from a place where savage gods were called upon all the time and seemed more than eager to take part in the affairs of men-the bloodier the better.

“And you are one who knows how to bend these deities to your will?” I asked.

“I am,” he said, smugly.

I stood. “Tribune, you tread close to the edge of sorcery. There are laws against such practices-laws that carry with them terrible punishments. It is my firm belief that religion and trafficking with the supernatural should have no part in the conduct of State business, except for the sacrifices, festivals, and omen-taking sanctioned by the constitution, all of which are more than adequately defined by ancient law.”

“Don’t be a fool, Metellus!” he cried, dropping his geniality. “We are prepared to take the strongest measures to stop Crassus, and if you are not with us, we must regard you as an enemy.”

The rest looked a little shamefaced, as if they were embarrassed by their colleague’s excessive reaction. “There is no need for a breach between ourselves and the house of Metellus,” Silvius said, trying to smooth things over. “The senator is clearly an anti-Crassan-”

“Join us, Metellus,” Ateius said, “or suffer the consequences with the rest.”

“Am I to regard this as a threat?” I said coldly.

“It is a warning I offer in good faith as tribune and priest,” he said with the same lunatic certainty that characterized the rest of his drivel. Tribune and priest? The tribuneship carried no sacerdotal duties to my knowledge. Obviously, the man was mad. Of course, being crazy was no impediment to a successful political career. Look at Clodius.

“Then good day to you. I have kept you from the citizens too long.” I swept out with what I hoped was imposing dignity. Behind me I heard an agitated muttering, as of an overturned beehive.

It had been one of the oddest interviews I had experienced in a career full of oddities. That night I described the bizarre business to Julia.

“Don’t let it upset you,” she said, sleepily. “The man is insane, and he’ll be out of office in less than three months.”

“Still, I dislike having a tribune announce himself to be my enemy, and lunatic enemies can be the worst kind. They are unpredictable.”

“Out of office he’ll be harmless,” she insisted. “After that, your sane enemies will give you all the worries you need.”

She made sense, but I had a definite feeling that sense would play little part in this matter, and I was right. I did not sleep soundly that night.

And so the great day dawned. Since it was one of the most famous days in the long course of those agonizing years, it behooves me to describe it in some detail. All the more so because it has been described wrongly by many who were not there or who were there but had reasons of their own to falsify the events, and by no few who weren’t even born at the time.

Many, for instance, will tell you that it was a dark, gloomy day, with lowering clouds and ominous rumblings from the heavens, since this is supposed to be the sort of weather that accompanies dreadful events. Actually, it was a crisp, clear day in November. There was a bite to the breeze but the sun shone brightly. In truth, it was not the weather but the citizens who displayed every sign of depression. The streets were thronged as they were on all such occasions, and there was scarcely room in the Forum for a small dog to dart about between people’s feet.

It was from this crowd, not from the clouds, whence came the ominous rumblings. Ateius and Gallus and many others had whipped them into a near frenzy against the departure of Crassus. A riot was in the offing.

The Senate had assembled before dawn, and I was there, yawning and stamping my feet, trying to get warm. Things were better when the sun rose to display the senators in their full majesty, struggling hard not to look as cold as the citizenry. Working at this hardest of all was Marcus Porcius Cato, dressed as he was in his hideous, old-fashioned toga. This garment was of the antiquated, rectangular variety, which does not drape as gracefully as the conventional, semicircular type. It was so dingy that he looked like a man in mourning, and he did not wear a tunic beneath it, since the ancestors he worshiped had seen no need for more than a single garment. He was barefoot since those ancestors considered shoes or sandals likewise effete. Or so Cato thought and communicated at great length.

Every senator living in or near Rome and capable of rising from his bed was in Rome that morning. Marcus Licinius Crassus Dives was stepping down from his consulship, taking up his proconsular imperium , and departing for Syria. Everyone wanted to see whether he’d make it to the City gate alive. There was considerable doubt concerning the likelihood of this. His army was far away, and he had few friends in Rome. He had secured his elections through intimidation and bribery, and supporters secured by such means are not likely to come to one’s aid when blood and teeth and random bits of flesh are being scattered in the streets.

As always happens on such occasions, the City buzzed with omens: a two-headed calf had been born in Campania, Aetna had erupted again, blood fell from the sky upon the patch of ground before the Temple of Bellona that is designated enemy territory, and so forth-all the usual bad omens. My favorite that morning was the reported sighting of an eagle that flew backward through the Temple of Janus, in the back door and out the front. It is so rarely that one hears of a truly original omen. It occurred to me to wonder how anyone knew which door was which, since the god faces both ways.

More disturbing were the accurate reports from the temples, where the sacrifices had been almost uniformly disastrous. Sacrificial animals had struggled; the priest’s assistant had needed more than a single blow of the hammer to stun them; unclean animals had intruded; or priests had stumbled over the ancient formulae. In front of the Temple of Jupiter Stator , an Etruscan haruspex , upon examining the liver of the sacrificed bull, had fled in horror. It is my own tendency to flee in horror from any liver, but haruspices are expected to be made of sterner stuff. Even as we waited at the base of the Capitol, Crassus was atop it sacrificing to Capitoline Jupiter.

My fellow senators were crowded onto the steps of the Temple of Saturn, and all around us were the members of the various priestly colleges wearing their insignia. The Vestals stood on the steps of their temple, surrounded by a well-behaved crowd made up mostly of women.

There were senators present who rarely came into the City twice in a year. I saw Quintus Hortensius Hortalus, my father’s old patron and colleague, who had retired to his country estate when his career in the courts was eclipsed by Cicero’s. He was deep in conversation with Marcus Philippus, one of the previous year’s consuls. I knew exactly what they were talking about: fishponds. Since the death of Lucullus the year before, Hortensius and Philippus had been unrivalled for the extravagance and magnificence of their fishponds, which contained both salt and fresh water, were the size of small lakes, and were surrounded by colonnades and porticoes, and whose every last mullet and lamprey they seemed to know by name. I suppose every man needs a hobby.

Cicero himself was there, back from exile but not really safe in the City. That morning, however, all the malice in Rome was directed elsewhere.