John Roberts - The Tribune's curse

“I am prepared to believe you,” Pompey said, grimly. “But in this matter mere words are not enough. Tomorrow evening you will go with me to the Temple of Vesta and swear exactly that before her altar and fire, and so will every other tribune, even Trebonius, whom I know to be the enemy of Ateius. As far as I am concerned, the whole institution of the tribuneship has been disgraced.”

After that, there were more speeches and more debate, for men never talk so much as when they are most afraid. This time it was as if a million Gauls were camped outside the gates, or Spartacus were risen from the dead and sitting out there with all our slaves behind him.

I returned to my house after sundown, famished and ill-tempered. I had not eaten since early morning, and nobody in Rome could bathe or shave until the lustrum was finished, which didn’t improve things. Julia was wide-eyed with apprehension when I came in. The figures of the household gods were covered with cloths. The slaves went around on tiptoes.

“The whole City knows what that awful man did,” Julia said. “The most terrible rumors are flying about. What did the Senate decide?”

“I’m forbidden to speak of it,” I told her, “but I can tell you what we are going to do in the morning. The people are being told by the heralds now.” In the distance, I could hear the loud shouts as the heralds went through the streets, telling everyone of the ceremony to be begun before dawn. I described the trial that awaited me.

“Will it be possible?” she said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

“Just barely, I think. The worst of it is, I can’t even go sacrifice at the Temple of Hercules for strength.”

“At least you’re in the best condition of your life,” she said encouragingly. “I know that better than anybody!”

For once, I wasn’t grousing and complaining at having to rise before dawn. I was too apprehensive for that. I breakfasted lightly, but drank plenty of water, for I was all too aware of how hard I would soon be sweating. I dressed in a red military tunic and caligae , since that was the ancient custom when performing the lustrum .

“All the patrician women are gathering at the Temple of Vesta,” Julia told me. “That is where I will be.” She had put on her aristocratic Roman lady persona, as she had been drilled by her grandmother to do in times of crisis. I shuddered to think that one day she might turn into Aurelia.

“I will meet you back here, then, my love, although I may have to be carried. Hermes, do you have all my things?”

“Got them right here.” He patted the bulging hide bag that contained most of my military gear, which might be needed at some stage of the ceremony. Surely, I thought, they would not demand that we wear armor the whole time. But anything was possible.

I kissed Julia and made my way into the street with Hermes close behind me. All the way to the front door, aged Cassandra sprinkled me with dried herbs and called upon obscure rural deities to lend me strength. On that particular morning they probably weren’t listening, but I was not about to turn down any aid, however slight, and it could do no harm.

The streets were crowded as people left their homes to find viewing places atop the wall. Despite the solemnity of the occasion, there was a certain subdued holiday feeling in the air, as there always is when routine is broken for an extraordinary event.

The Senate assembled by torchlight outside the gate nearest the base of the Capitol. Had this been the conventional, five-yearly lustrum , the citizens would have been drawn up by centuries, for this ceremony in former times was the purification of the army, and, by extension, of the populace as a whole. Of course, the armies were now far away, and the centuries had become mere voting categories, but we adhered to the ancient forms. The Censors were required to perform the lustrum before they left office.

But this was an extraordinary ceremony, and nothing was as usual. We had to hope that the rex sacrorum knew what he was doing.

“Senators!” Pompey shouted. “The sun will be up soon, so there’s little time to get organized. The lictors will direct each of you to his place along the support poles. Since there will be a bit of sag to the poles, the shortest men will be nearest the center, the tallest at the ends. Many of the older senators have volunteered to go a part of the way. I’ll take a hand myself for part of the course. But the senators under forty will make the whole three circuits-is that understood? Any of them who fall out had better recall that the Censors will be watching and they haven’t purged the senatorial roles yet. Personally, I want to hear death rattles from anyone who drops. Lictors! Get them lined up.”

With brisk efficiency, the lictors lined us up by height, with the shortest on the left end of the line, the tallest on the right. I found myself standing next to Cato, and he was dressed in full legionary gear, including a shield slung across his back.

“How far are you planning to carry it, Cato?” I asked.

“What do you mean? The full three circuits, of course.”

“You don’t have to, you know,” I said. “Only those under forty have to go the whole course.”

“I was born when Valerius and Herennius were consuls,” he said stiffly.

“The same year I was born?” I said, aghast. “Unbelievable!” Cato was one of those men who give the impression of being elderly from childhood. I had always taken him to be at least ten years my senior, and probably more.

“Ah!” Cato said, ignoring me. “This is splendid! The gods will have to be pleased with this!”

Dawn was creeping over the field, and at last I saw clearly what we had to carry. “Oh, no!”

The priests and the temple slaves had indeed outdone themselves to honor the gods. The litter was the sort that is carried in triumphs, but this one was huge even by triumphal standards, with two support poles the size of ship’s masts. It was beautifully made of the finest woods and decorated with gold, draped heavily with such flowers as were available in November. And atop it, on a high platform, rested the sacrifices.

The lustrum always takes the form known as suovetaurilia , in which three animals are sacrificed: a boar, a ram, and a bull. In the countryside near Rome there are sizable farms that do nothing except breed the exceptional animals required for the major ceremonies. The ram atop the float was not the wooly little creature you picture in hearing those awful pastoral poems, where lovesick shepherds tootle their pipes while mooning over some nymph named Phyllis or Phoebe. This one was the size of a small horse, with huge, curling horns and a haughty look on his face. The boar was the size of a common ox-a fierce-looking creature I wouldn’t want to meet if he were fully conscious. The bull was, I believe, the largest such creature I had ever seen, larger than the fighting animals bred in Spain. He was pure white and was, as required, an absolutely perfect specimen of the breed.

All three creatures has been drugged so that there would be no unseemly bleating, squealing, or bellowing to disrupt the proceedings. Their legs had been doubled beneath them and bound with ropes entwined with fine, golden chains. Horns and tusks were gilded, and the beasts themselves had been heavily sprinkled with gold dust.

“Gold,” I said, disgusted. “Just what we needed. More weight.”

Pompey strode down the line, inspecting. Like most of us, he wore a plain military tunic and boots. He stopped before Cato.

“Senator, all that ironmongery will not be necessary.”

“Consul, I am quite prepared to carry out this ceremony in the ancient fashion, fully armed.”