John Roberts - The Tribune's curse

Again Father shook his head. “I don’t think it’s that. They wouldn’t tell me, of course, but I think it is something far more serious than that.”

I began to get an uncomfortable sensation, the sort I had often felt just before the Gauls attacked. “More serious? What could be more serious than-”

“I don’t know, and I won’t speculate,” Father said. “Just meet with them. They’ll tell you.”

I sank back in my chair, groaning. “I hope they don’t want to meet too soon.”

“No, you’ll have plenty of time to recuperate,” he assured me. “Be at the Temple of Vesta at dawn.”

“Dawn!” I shouted, appalled. “By morning I’ll be unable to move! I’ll be lucky if I can get out of bed three days from now!”

“Nonsense,” he said, standing. “A few hours of sleep will set you up; no man needs more than that. Be there. Good evening to you.” With that he swept out in a cloud of gravitas .

“What am I going to do?” I moaned, covering my face with my hands.

“If I may make a suggestion,” Julia said, “you’d better get to bed right now.”

The first, gray light of dawn found me on the steps of the beautiful little temple. True to their duty, Julia and my household staff had accomplished the formidable task of getting me out of bed and out the front gate while it was still dark. In the neighborhood Julia had found a masseur to loosen my limbs and a barber to make me presentable, and between poundings and scrapings Cassandra had forced me to down honeyed milk, fruit, and bread. With Hermes dogging my steps lest I collapse, the long walk to the Forum completed my awakening process so that, by the time I reached the temple, I was actually feeling rather human.

Metellus Scipio was there, along with the Censors, both of whom were pontifices. Soon we were joined by the Flamen Quirinalis , a kinsman of my wife’s named Sextus Julius Caesar, and the rex sacrorum . Cornelius Lentulus Niger, the Flamen Martialis , arrived, and we stood there uneasily for a while, no one wanting to breach the subject of the day. The flamines wore their robes of office and their peculiar headgear: the close-fitting white cap topped with a short spike of olive wood. Passersby on early errands blinked to see such an assemblage at that hour.

A young Vestal came to the doorway of the temple. “The virgo maxima requests that you come inside,” she said. With that we passed within. The most powerful, arrogant men in Rome would never enter this particular temple without invitation.

The small, circular temple was one of the least pretentious in the central part of the City, but it was the most revered by the citizenry, who held it in greater affection than the Temple of Capitoline Jupiter. Its proportions were perfect, and it was built of white marble, inside and out, every inch of it scrubbed to an immaculate gleam. Citizens rarely saw the interior, except during the Vestalia in June, when mothers of families brought food offerings. For the rest of us, it was enough just to know it was there.

We found the virgo maxima seated by the fire, which was tended day and night by the Vestals. It was the hearth and center and in many ways the most sacred spot in Rome. There were a number of chairs placed in the sanctuary, and at her gesture we sat.

“After the hideous events of two days ago,” she began, “the rex sacrorum and I conferred, and we determined that this would be the best place to hold our meeting. It is as holy a place as Rome affords. Rex sacrorum , please begin.”

“Some of you,” said Claudius, “already know what I am about to impart. Others are not yet aware of how serious a sacrilege was committed.”

This sounded bad.

“When the unspeakable tribune Ateius Capito pronounced his execration,” Claudius went on, “he departed from the forms generally used in such cases. All were struck by the extreme obscurity of some of the deities upon whom he called. Most of them have not been recognized in Rome since the days of the kings, when the Etruscan influence was very strong in our territory. Others are wholly foreign. But in the midst of them he spoke a name that it is forbidden to pronounce, that is supposed to be known only to a handful of the most deeply consecrated sacerdotes of Rome. He spoke-” at this the rex sacrorum trembled, and his throat closed up.

My aunt leaned forward, and in a voice that was firm yet tense with emotion, she said: “That monster spoke, aloud and for all to hear, the Secret Name of Rome!”

Metellus Scipio gasped loudly and gripped the front of his robe in palsied fists. I thought that Servilius Vatia, the ancient Censor, would drop dead on the spot. His colleague, Messala Niger, was not taken by surprise, and neither was Sextus Caesar.

As for me, I was as shocked as anyone, although I was too sore for any extravagant demonstrations. The Secret, or Hidden, Name of Rome was an ancient and incredibly potent talisman. Legend had it that Romulus himself, when he marked out the pomerium with his plow drawn by a white cow and bull, gave his City this name, which was to be used only during specific rituals. Publicly, it was to be known by a variant of his own name-Rome. Names, as all men know, have power. To know the true name of a thing gives one power over that thing. At least, the superstitious believe this. I am not personally superstitious. Nonetheless, I was trembling like a dog caught in a Gallic rainstorm.

“The incident may not be as catastrophic as it seemed at first,” the rex sacrorum assured us, having regained his composure. “He spoke in a number of old, ritual languages. To almost all who heard, that name was just one more word in a great flood of gibberish, and all but impossible to remember. At least, so we must hope. With the Secret Name of Rome at his disposal, a foreign enemy would have Rome at his mercy.”

“In accordance with practice laid down at the very founding of the Republic,” said the virgo maxima , “only six persons are to know that Name, and each is to pass it on only to his successor. These are the three major flamines -” she nodded toward Messala and Vatia, “of whom the martialis and the quirinalis are here with us. Rome has lacked a dialis for far too long. The other three are the rex sacrorum , the virgo maxima , and the Pontifex Maximus .”

“How,” said Scipio, “did a wretch like Ateius Capito learn this name?”

“We would very much like to find that out,” said Claudius. “In fact, it is for this reason that we summoned your kinsman, Decius Caecilius.”

I was afraid of that. “Ah, I expect you want me to locate Ateius. That should not be difficult, but he may have fled-”

“While it may be desirable to find Ateius,” said Claudius, “we are far more interested in learning who imparted to him the Secret Name.”

“I see,” I said, trying to think of a way out of this. “It is likely that the only way I can find that out is by interrogating Ateius himself, a man who may not be arrested for nearly two months. And I hope you will forgive me for suggesting it, but the list of likely suspects is rather limited.”

“You mean it was probably someone in this room,” said Claudius. “If so, we must know. Caesar is of course in Gaul. But,” he spread his hands, “I think there may be other possibilities. The lands of Latium, Etruria, Samnium, and Magna Graecia and all the rest of Italy and Sicily are full of ancient cults and priesthoods of an antiquity comparable to our own. It is not impossible that some cult, or some family of sorcerers, at some time in the past learned the Secret Name and have kept it as a weapon against need.”