John Roberts - The Tribune's curse

“Ahh,” he said, clapping his palms together with delight at so utterly bizarre a story. “This is far better than the usual sordid murder for gain or for revenge. It is like something from one of the dramas,” he waved a hand toward the stage, where the actors still pranced through their paces. “In fact, thinking of them,” his face grew more solemn, “if I were a more religious man, or one more superstitiously inclined-” he let it taper off portentously.

“Then what?” I urged.

“The man committed a great offense against the gods. In the ancient tales immortalized in the great plays, the gods reserve an especially terrible punishment for those who offend them greatly.”

Against all reason, fear gripped my bowels. “You can’t mean the Fur-”

He held up an admonitory finger to silence me. “I mean, sometimes they release the Friendly Ones from the underworld to torment the sinner to his death.” He used the famous euphemism because to speak the name of those horrid creatures was to attract their attention. “These spirits of divine vengeance are said to be provided with natural weapons sufficient to wreak the sort of damage we see here.” He waved a hand airily. “That is, I might speculate thus were I of a superstitious turn of mind.”

His little qualification was too late for some of us. At his first suggestion the thugs were backing away from the otherwise inoffensive corpse, their eyes bugging out with dread. Two of them whirled and ran toward the exits so ingeniously designed to fill and empty the theater with greatest dispatch. Wonderful , I thought. Before nightfall, the City would be swept by yet another rumor: the Friendly Ones were loose in Rome!

“And I had always thought you the most rational of men,” I said.

“And so I am. I simply did not wish to leave any possibility unexplored.”

“I see. Well, leaving aside for the moment the nature of the creature that attacked him and adhering as closely as possible to mundane precepts, can you tell me anything at all about how he died?”

“To begin, he was probably not killed where he was found.”

“Why not?”

“He has been dead for at least two days, possibly as long as three. The cool weather has helped. In summer he would be very offensive by now.”

“He isn’t good company as it is, but I take your point.”

“He is largely drained of blood, as is only to be expected with such extensive wounds. These marks around his wrists,” he indicated livid lines encircling both joints, “indicate that he was bound at one point and struggling against his bonds.”

“That means there were at least two assailants,” I mused.

“Unless he cooperated in his binding, I would think that to be the case. It is not unheard of, but I would think it doubtful in this case. That, however, is your realm of expertise. And that,” he said, straightening, “is as much as I can tell you at this time. I shall consult with my colleague who tends to the wounds of the bestiarii , and, if I learn anything of value, I shall get word to you.”

“I am grateful for all your help.”

He waved my thanks aside. “The entertainment alone is worth the effort. This is much more interesting than stitching up conventional lacerations. In the course of your campaigning in Gaul, did you happen to encounter any unfamiliar weapons, anything capable of inflicting unusual wounds?”

So we talked shop for a while, and I told him about a really hideous new weapon we had found some of the Eastern Gallic tribes employing, called a falx . It had a handle long enough for two hands and sported a blade two feet or more in length, which was curved like a scythe and sharp on the inside curve. It could lop off a man’s leg with a single swipe. Asklepiodes showed great interest in this and expressed his regret that he had no opportunity to examine so impressive a wound. I promised him I would send him back a falx for his extensive collection of weapons.

At length we parted, promising to get together for dinner sometime soon. He called to his Egyptians, who seemed to be performing a prayer over the body of Ateius, as if they, too, saw in his sad condition some fearful manifestation of the vengeance of the netherworld gods.

By this time it was nearly noon. Without reluctance I took my leave of the late Ateius, who was now attended by only three or four intrepid supporters of Clodius, men apparently unafraid of maleficent underworld creatures.

As I walked back toward the City, head down and hands clasped behind my back, I must have looked like one of those Peripatetic philosophers who did their cogitating while walking. Or maybe it was their talking that they did while walking. Some-thing like that, anyway. Great as was my abhorrence for philosophy and its practitioners, most of whom, in my opinion, might be better employed doing something useful, like herding geese, I found myself trying to break down my problem by categories and subcategories, as philosophers are so fond of doing while feeling very clever about it all, too.

I had two investigations to conduct: the first was into the source from which Ateius Capito learned the Secret Name of Rome. The second was to find the murderer or murderers of the same Ateius Capito. Thinking philosophically, either the two cases were connected, or they were not. This, I think, is called a syllogism. I am not certain, and I am not about to ask a philosopher.

If they were connected, might Ateius not have been murdered to conceal the identity of his informant? If so, find the murderer and I would find the betrayer of the Secret Name, and it would be all very tidy. Unfortunately, this case bore no discernible aspects of tidiness. On the contrary, it spread out in too many directions. It involved foreign war, domestic politics, the ambitions of men great and petty, and it involved the gods and spirits of the underworld.

But what if most of these elements were peripheral, and the true motivation behind all of it, the prime mover, if you will, was a single thing that they all had in common? This is what I call the nexus, and in discovering this nexus I have solved a number of investigations, although few as odd as this one. The nexus may be right out there in plain view. The trick is to ignore all the irrelevancies. That can be very difficult to do when the irrelevancies are as colorful and diverting as they were in this case. I had certainly never had to take the Friendly Ones into consideration before.

One thing I have learned that has never, to my knowledge, been articulated by any philosopher. It is that nobody thinks better for being hungry. Desiring to improve my mental powers, I went in search of something to eat.

It is a virtue of Rome that you never have to go far to find a wineshop. They are to be found on every corner, and almost all of them supply a few tables and benches where one may repose, ponder, and watch the passing show. I found just such an establishment a few streets off the Forum, took a table, and, with a forbearance not entirely characteristic of me, waited until the food arrived before I began making inroads upon the wine.

With the mental clarity induced by a full stomach, I sought inspiration (Bacchus being a very inspiring god). I tried to lay out the facts as I had received them. Where had all this begun?

First, Ateius had cursed Crassus. More specifically, he had cursed Crassus’s expedition, and all who took part in it. Not very helpful. Crassus was not a popular man, just a man to whom many people owed debts. His proposed war was not a popular one. But would these things inspire such hideous crimes? Would not assassinating Crassus be easier, quicker, and more to the point? And who profited from this catastrophe? First off, the king of Parthia, one Orodes by name, who had to my knowledge no adherents in Rome. Opposition in Rome had nothing to do with affection for the Parthians, who were just another pack of horse-eating barbarians. Once again, if Orodes wished to take preemptive action, why not hire a man with a dagger instead of a tribune with a curse? It would be cheaper and probably more effective.