John Roberts - The Tribune's curse

“And why might this be?”

“Because one who is easily corrupted by the temptations of power will be instantly and utterly corrupted by the beings whom the greater gods have driven into the wasteland or beneath the earth. The practice is intensely dangerous to the practitioner. Cicero is a splendid man, and deeply learned, but he knows better than to practice any of the arcane arts we have discussed. Not only does he consider them ignoble, but he is very aware of his own weaknesses in this area.”

This was a shrewd comment. I admired Cicero above all other Romans of the day, but I, too, had seen how his thirst for power and distinction had lessened him. Once a young orator with all of Cato’s rectitude and none of Cato’s repulsive bigotry, he had over the years acquired an unseemly self-importance and a querulous indignation at being thwarted and denied the highest levels of influence and prestige. How interesting to learn that he recognized this himself.

“I take it that Ateius Capito is not such a man?”

“He is not.”

“Then you know him?”

“I do. Like many another, he has come to me over the years for instruction, which I imparted to him freely, as I do to all serious students. I daresay that some of the obscure deities he invoked are ones he learned from me.”

“And you taught him these things knowing him to be a man of poor character?”

He snorted. “Those names possess little power in themselves. They have been largely forgotten, not suppressed. The Romans came to a respect for the chthonians late in their history, but it was not so for the other Italian peoples-the Samnites and Campanians, the Falisci, the Sabines, the Marsi, the Paeligni, the Umbrians, above all the Etruscans. And I need hardly point out that southern Italy was largely Greek until a short time ago. My own home city of Cumae was founded as a Greek colony more than a thousand years ago, and my ancestors knew all those people well. In fact, the people of this peninsula have been more intimate with the underworld than all the rest of the world together.”

“I’ve had some experience with the local witch cults,” I admitted. It was an episode I preferred not to think about.

“Then you have some understanding of this. Well, Ateius Capito was a rising young politician and a minor scholar. He was agreeable, as politicians usually are when they want to be; he was quick and intelligent. But I soon discerned that he wanted the knowledge I had to impart in order to gain political advantage over his opponents, as such men often do.”

This caught me by surprise. “He was not the only man in Roman politics who has come to you?”

“Far from it. Power is power to them. When I was still living in Cumae, I was even consulted by the Dictator Sulla, who was famously attached to magical things, attributing all his successes to a unique relationship with the goddess Fortuna. He was also, I might add, easily duped by frauds. A man who is incredibly astute in his chosen field is often an utter fool in another.

“But whether intelligent and statesmanlike or merely grasping, such men care only for power, not for knowledge. A genuine scholar, like a philosopher, cares only for knowledge.”

I had my reservations about that. “When did Ateius last come to you?”

“Let me see, it could not have been in this year; his office has kept him far too busy for that. He came rather frequently beginning about four years ago, but his visits became fewer as he realized that I was not going to impart to him any genuinely fearsome secrets. I suppose he was last here about eighteen months ago, and then he was so preoccupied with his campaign for the tribuneship that his visit was at best perfunctory.”

“And what was he after that last visit?”

“Words and names of power, what else? He wanted me to help him influence the election! Absurd!” He snorted, above all such petty considerations as he was.

I had been wondering how to lead into the crux of my investigation without giving too much away, and this provided me with an opportunity.

“There are some in our higher pontifical offices,” I said delicately, “who suspect that he may have employed just such words or names.” I could not be more specific than that. “Would you know if he did?”

His look was frosty. “If he did, he learned none such from me!”

With this rather conditional denial he rose, and taking his cup, he walked into the nearby field, studded with its humble graves. He stopped at one of them, a mere stone marker crudely carved with a name. Beside the stone was a clay pipe that led into the ground below. Into this pipe Ariston emptied his cup.

“This one was a terrible drunkard,” he said. “He murdered his wife and children, then hanged himself. If he doesn’t get a drink from time to time, he disturbs the neighborhood.” He favored me with a less frosty glance. “It doesn’t pay to underestimate even dead men.”

We walked back to his house, and there I took my leave of him. “I thank you for your cooperation. This has been most informative. I may need to call upon you again.”

“Feel free to do so. Please give my regards to Cicero. Tell him it has been too long since I have seen him.” With that, he went back inside.

I began to walk back toward the City. As I made my way homeward, I reflected that this extraordinary investigation was bringing me into contact with some decidedly odd people. In the course of a single day, I had interviewed a priest of Syrian gods, a mountebank with a magical egg, and now a proud scholar-philosopher and friend of Cicero who was not above selling the occasional spell, charm, or cantrip to gullible customers. Rome is a city of such incredible variety. No wonder I have always hated to be away from her.

That evening, I discussed my findings with Julia, while she displayed, for my horrified edification, the clothing and adornments she had purchased for the reception at the Egyptian Embassy.

“I think Eschmoun sounds the most promising,” she said. “What do you think of these earrings?” She held them up to her delicate lobes.

“Lovely,” I said, a sudden pain shooting through my head. “Emeralds go so well with your eyes. Why Eschmoun? The man is nothing but a mountebank.”

“That is why I suspect him. He convinced you so easily that he is just a cheap trickster. That means he is hiding deep secrets. What about these green-tinted pearls?”

“They go well with the emeralds. No, I am not entirely satisfied with Ariston of Cumae.”

“Cicero’s friend? He seems to have been open and cooperative.”

“That means little. Every villain who knows his business knows how to seem open and cooperative.”

“But you pride yourself on spotting these subterfuges,” she pointed out. “This gown is half silk. Shall I wear it?”

I didn’t even want to think of what it cost. Half silk! “Please do. What he said didn’t rouse my suspicion. What he didn’t say did.”

“How subtle. Do go on.” She admired herself in a polished silver mirror.

“He was on Scaurus’s exile list, but he is still in Rome. Well, just outside the City, but you know what I mean. Elagabal as much as admitted that he secured his own situation with a substantial bribe and would be all too happy to perform the same tribute to me. So did Eschmoun.”

“And did you ask Ariston?”

“You don’t ask a citizen a question like that except in court or at least with a praetor’s authority, as an appointed iudex . No, a certain indirection was called for.”

“Are you sure he’s a citizen?” She tried pushing her hair into a pile atop her head.

“The Cumaeans have had full citizenship at least since Marius’s day, maybe before. If he’s really a Greek, he must be one of the last Cumaean Greeks alive. The place was taken over by the Campanians centuries ago.”