John Roberts - The Tribune's curse

“Presumably, they were able to come up with Aemilius’s price.”

“That is a disgraceful way for a Roman official to carry on,” Julia said.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ll be an aedile myself next year. I may have to accept the occasional handout from a questionable source, too.”

“But surely you would never deal with people as loathsome as these?” she said.

“Oh, I would never do that,” I murmured.

“Look. By all three names it says, ‘trafficker with the chthonians.’ None of the others has that particular description.”

I took the list and examined it. “You’re right. What a pity Aemilius Scaurus is in Sardinia and I can’t touch him. I’d love to question him as to why he let these three slide. Oh, well, I can do the next best thing, which is question the men themselves.”

“They’re an oddly assorted lot,” she noted. “A man from an old Carthaginian city with a Carthaginian name-Eschmoun was a god of Carthage, I believe-a Syrian, and an Italian Greek.”

“It does sound odd,” I agreed. “But then, they could be three slaves born within brick-throwing distance of this house, tricked out in foreign clothes, beards, and fake accents. That’s a pretty common dodge with frauds. Did you happen to find out where these three exotic specimens live?”

“Of course. Which will you begin with?”

“Whichever of them lives nearest. I have a suspicion that I won’t be up to much walking tomorrow.”

Elagabal the Syrian, it turned out, had his dwelling in the northern part of the Subura, near the Quirinal. This was a relief because, as I had predicted, I awakened in even worse shape than the day before. Amid much loud groaning I was once again massaged and shaved and shoved out the front door. I dismissed my solicitous clients and trudged through the cheerfully raucous morning bustle of my district. Here and there people recognized me and called out congratulations or wished me good fortune. Yes, it was good to be back in Rome, even in the poorest district.

There was no mistaking the house of Elagabal when I came to it. The facade was painted red, and flanking the doorway were a pair of man-headed, winged lions. Over the door was painted a serpent swallowing its tail. Not your typical, cozy little domus . It was two stories, and a trellis ran around its upper periphery, draped with climbing plants spangled with multicolored flowers.

When I tried to enter, a hulking brute stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest. He had a black, square-cut beard and suspicious little eyes flanking a nose like a ship’s ram.

“Do you have business with my master?”

“Is your master Elagabal the Syrian?”

“He is.”

“Then I do.”

The man stood, unmoved. Perhaps the little exchange had been too complicated for him. While he sought to sort out its nuances, someone spoke up from behind him.

“This man is a senator. Let him in.”

The hulk stood aside, and I passed within. I found myself in an atrium that had been converted into something resembling a ceremonial temple entrance. Several statues stood there, in human form but in very stiff poses.

“I apologize for Bessas. He defends my privacy with great skill but little wisdom.” The man was thin with a vaguely Eastern cast of countenance, wearing a long robe and a pointed cap. His beard was likewise pointed.

“I take it that I address Elagabal?”

“At your service,” he said, bowing with the fingers of one hand spread over his breast.

“Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger, senator and current candidate for next year’s aedileship.”

“Ah, a most important office,” he said.

“One with which you’ve had some official dealings, I understand.”

“Is this an official visit, Senator?” he asked.

“Of a sort.”

He appeared unapprehensive. “Official or social, there is no need to be uncomfortable. Please accept the hospitality of my house. If you will follow me, we may be comfortable above.”

We went up a flight of stairs and came out onto a splendid little roof garden, some of the plantings of which I had seen from the street below. At the corners, orange trees stood in great earthenware pots, and the trellises arched overhead so that, in summer, they would provide shade. Now, in November, the growth had been trimmed back but was still luxuriant. In its center a tiny stream of water bubbled in a delightful little fountain. There were few parts of Rome with sufficient water pressure to get even that much water up to what was, in effect, the third floor of a building.

At Elagabal’s gesture I took a seat at a little table, and he sat opposite me. Moments later a young slave woman appeared with a tray set with the expected refreshments, along with some strips of flat bread strewn with granules of coarse salt.

“If you will indulge me in a custom of my country, bread and salt form the traditional offering to a newly arrived guest. It is the ancient token of hospitality.”

“I am familiar with the custom.” I took one of the strips of bread and ate it. It was still hot from the oven and astonishingly good. The serving girl stood by silently. She was barefoot, wearing a simple wrap of scarlet cloth fringed with yellow yarn that covered her from armpits to knees. Bangles at wrists and ankles were her only adornments. Her heavy, black hair was waist length, and she kept her gaze demurely down, with none of the offhand insolence you so often see in Roman slaves. Maybe these Syrians were onto something, I thought.

Unlike many Romans I have a certain crude regard for other people’s customs, and I knew that, in the East, one did not bring up the subject of business immediately. To do so was a sign of rudeness and ill breeding.

“The gods in your atrium,” I said, choosing a mundane subject, “which of them is Baal?”

He smiled. “They all are.”

“All?”

“ Baal in my language just means ‘Lord.’ In my part of the world, we seldom or never use the actual names of our gods. This practice is so ancient that those names have sometimes been forgotten. So we address each deity by his best-known aspect or his location. Thus Baal Tsaphon is Lord of the North, Baal Shamim is Lord of the Skies, Baal Shadai is Lord of the Mountain, and so forth. A goddess is Baalat , which means, of course, ‘Lady.’ ”

“I see. Is this true of all the lands east of Egypt?”

“To an extent. In the various dialects Baal is honored. To the Babylonians he is Bel, to the Judeans El, to the Phoenicians and their colonies, Bal. The word forms a part of many names. My own name translates, from very archaic language, as ‘My Lord Has Been Gracious.’ Baal is also a part of the Carthaginian name best known to you Romans: Hannibal.”

“Fascinating,” I said. He seemed to be a learned man, not the wide-eyed fanatic I had half expected. “I have never been to that part of the world-no farther east than Alexandria.”

“Perhaps your duties will take you to my homeland someday. Even now your proconsul Crassus wends his way thither.”

“It is concerning something touching that expedition that my errand brings me here this morning.”

“I am far from the high ranks of power, merely a humble priest. But whatever poor knowledge I have is at your disposal; this goes without saying.”

“Undoubtedly you know of the scandalous act of the tribune Ateius Capito upon the departure of Crassus?”

He raised his hands in an Eastern gesture imploring protection from baleful powers. “All Rome has heard of this! I rejoice that I was not there when it happened. Such a curse contaminates all who witness it. He is lucky to be a serving official of Rome. In my own land he would be subjected to the most terrible punishments for such an offence to the gods.”