John Roberts - The Tribune's curse

“I suppose it’s too much to hope that the bugger’s hanged himself.”

“He didn’t strike me as so obliging a man.”

So I continued on my walk, all the way to the Esquiline Gate and out of the City. This was one of the most undesirable districts of Roman territory, where the poor were buried. Besides the depressing clay tombs of the poor, a part of the district included the notorious “putrid pits,” where the poorest of the poor, the unclaimed slaves, and foreigners and dead animals unfit for salvage were thrown into lime pits. In the hot days of summer, the wind blowing from that quarter carried an utterly appalling stench. It was none too fragrant in winter, for that matter.

In more recent years, Macaenas has covered over these pits and replaced them with his beautiful gardens. For this civic improvement I can almost forgive his being the First Citizen’s crony.

The learned Ariston actually lived in a house not far from these notorious pits. It was a two-story affair standing by itself, like a country villa, only much smaller. Its only plantings consisted of a small herb garden, and its only neighbors were some very modest tombs and a few small shrines.

At least his doorway and walls were devoid of magical images, I noted with some relief. My tolerance for supernatural paraphernalia has never been high. The slave who answered my knock at this unadorned portal was a middle-aged man. When I announced my name and mission, he ushered me inside, where an undistinguished woman his own age was sweeping. Ariston didn’t seem to share Elagabal’s taste for attractive, docile young serving women. Stoic, probably. Minutes later a man entered the atrium.

“Yes, what may I do for you?” No extravagant signs of welcome or offers of hospitality, just this rather abrupt greeting. The man had a tangled, gray beard with matching hair, and he wore Greek clothing. I took this for an affectation. Cumae was once a Greek colony, but it had been a Roman possession for two hundred years.

“You are Ariston of Cumae?” I asked.

“As it happens, yes. Aside from being a senator, what distinguishes you from the rest of the citizenry?” Obviously, this fellow was going to be difficult. Maybe he was a Cynic rather than a Stoic.

“My commission, which is to investigate the curse delivered by the Tribune of the People Marcus Aemilius Capito. Living where you do, you might not have heard of the affair.”

“I’ve heard. I live here by choice; I’m not an exile on some island. Come along, then. I have to look at my garden.”

I followed the peculiar specimen back outside. “I rather thought you lived here because you were driven from the City three years ago by the aediles.”

“Nonsense. I’m a Roman citizen; I can live anywhere I like.” He stooped to examine a sickly looking plant.

“Then why here? Most don’t consider it a desirable district.”

He gestured toward the surrounding tombs and the pillars of smoke ascending from the lime pits. “The neighbors here are quiet and don’t bother me much. That way they don’t disturb my studies.”

“You’re sure it’s not because proximity gives you the opportunity to commune with the dead?”

He straightened and glared from beneath tangled brows. “Most of those interred here were ignorant fools whom death has improved in no way whatever. Why should I want to talk with them?”

“Report has it that necromancy and trafficking with the chthonians are your specialties,” I said, undeterred.

“There is a difference between being a scholar of these things and being a fraudulent sorcerer,” he informed me with great dignity.

“And yet you enjoy a great reputation among my wife’s more superstitious lady friends, who can scarcely be accused of scholarship.”

His face clouded. “And what if I sometimes sell them the occasional charm or counsel them concerning the fate of the dead? Even a scholar has to eat.”

“I quite understand,” I said with patent insincerity.

“Listen, Senator,” he said, nettled, “Marcus Tullius Cicero himself does not scorn to come to me with questions about obscure gods and ancient religious practice. He has come here many times in the course of his researches and has asked me to read the drafts of his writings on the ways of the gods, solar and lunar, earthly and chthonian.”

This actually was most impressive. A man as deeply learned as Cicero would not allow anyone to edit his work except a scholar of equal credentials. I made a mental note to question Cicero about the man.

“Then you must indeed be what you say. That being the case, you are probably an authority on the extraordinary and alarming deities invoked by Ateius Capito some few days past.”

“I am. And if there is one thing I hate, it is the performance of dangerous, exacting rituals by an amateur!”

“You mean the curse was not well-done?”

“Oh, he carried it off well enough. Magical practice, on the level of ritual, is simply a matter of memorization; and if there is one thing every politician can do, it is memorize. The schools of rhetoric teach little else.”

“I knew that conventional temple ritual works that way. The flamines and pontifices have to memorize interminable formulae in languages nobody understands anymore. Is it the same with sorcery?”

“Oh, yes.” He lost some of his irascibility as he launched into his favorite subject. “The greatest difficulty may be encountered in assembling the very specialized apparatus and materials required to carry out a particular ritual. If, for instance, your ceremony requires the mummified hand of an Egyptian pharaoh, it isn’t something you can just pick up in the stalls around the Forum. You might have to travel all the way to Egypt to secure such a thing, and even then it can be difficult to distinguish such a hand from the appendage of a lesser person.”

“I can well imagine. The Egyptians are sharp traders.” I said this with considerable conviction, having been there.

“Even with something as simple as herbs and other plants,” he gestured to his well-kept garden, “it is best to grow your own. That way you are sure of purity and authenticity.”

I found myself fascinated despite my skepticism. It is always interesting to hear a real expert expound upon the arcana of his realm.

“How do men of learning such as yourself acquire these-these objects and assure yourselves of their quality?” I was remembering the nameless things Ateius had tossed into his brazier.

He glanced at me shrewdly. “If you need leopards for the shows you will be giving, how do you expect to get them? They aren’t sold in the Forum Boarium.”

“I’ll contact one of the hunting guilds in Africa Province.”

“And you will probably do this through the propraetor governing Africa, will you not? And is he not a man who was once an aedile himself, required to do exactly the same thing?”

“I see where this is leading. There is a sort of brotherhood of magicians who know how to contact one another and trust each other’s honesty and expertise?”

He actually smiled. “Exactly! Throughout the lands around the sea, there are scholars like myself, practicing sorcerers, priests of many deities, all able to call upon one another at need. It takes a lifetime to build up such an acquaintanceship, but it is an invaluable resource.”

He walked to a small marble bench beneath a stately cypress and sat. While we had been talking, the slave woman had brought out a pitcher and cups. I sat by him and accepted one.

“So, what did you mean when you said that Ateius is an amateur, even though he performed his curse competently?”

He brooded for a moment. “Sorcery, the deepest practice of magic, is a terribly serious business. I do not speak here of the petty magics practiced by witches. I mean the summoning of the often malevolent spirits of wasteland and underworld. It is not sufficient that this work be done by knowledgeable persons. It should be approached only by those who possess great strength of character, inner fortitude, and true nobility of soul.”