John Roberts - The Tribune's curse

I told him of my investigation and whom I had interviewed so far. “It all seems rather far-fetched, and I suspect I am pursuing the wrong people altogether,” I said untruthfully. Actually, I was very sure that I was close to something, but I felt no need to tell him anything prematurely.

“Most likely. Syrian mountebanks! Cumaean scholars! Forget about them. Find me some aristocrat who’s plotting against Crassus, and most likely against me and probably against Caesar, too. I know the Senate’s packed with them, and your family is not backward in that regard.”

“When my family has opposed you, Cnaeus Pompeius, we have never plotted behind your back. We have spoken out in public.” Doubtless the wine made my tongue a little freer than it should have been.

He reddened, but quickly regained composure. “So you have. Well, not everyone in the august body is so courageous, and no few members proclaim themselves my friends but plot my ruin and that of my colleagues. I suspect it was one or more of them who put Ateius up to it, and who probably got rid of him immediately afterward.”

Like most men who rise to great power over the bodies of other men, Pompey saw plots and conspiracies everywhere. Of course, when you behave as he and Caesar and Crassus had, you create plots and conspiracies against yourself.

“I can’t say whether this was aimed at you personally,” I told him, “but I suspect you may be right in thinking he was eliminated by his confederates rather than by an enemy. I spoke with the man only once, but he struck me as unstable, not somebody a conspirator would want to keep around once he’d been used.”

“And murdering a tribune got the whole City in hysterics, distracting everyone from the real business at hand, which was the curse itself.”

“Very true,” I admitted. This interview might not be so unproductive after all.

“Well, get back to it. Let me know the instant you’ve found out something substantive.” He returned his attention to the papers on his desk. I resisted the urge to salute and whirl on my heel like a dismissed soldier. Instead, I strolled out, wondering if Pompey had been sharing his own musings, or if he had been sowing confusion for reasons of his own. Since I was disinclined to think any good of Pompey, I was biased toward the latter possibility.

As I went out onto the temple steps, something that had been tickling the back of my mind without result suddenly came up for my inspection. Ateius’s body had been found on the Tuscan side of the river. Why there? He was wrapped in that strange robe, but he hadn’t been seen since delivering his curse. Had he really fled all the way from the Capena Gate to the river and across one of the bridges without being seen while wearing that eye-catching outfit in broad daylight?

I glanced at the angle of the sun. There was still plenty of time left before nightfall. I needed a walk to clear my head, anyway. I set out for the Capena Gate.

At that time the Servian Wall had some sixteen gates in common use, and two or three others for ceremonial purposes. I know this does not sound very impressive for a city as important as Rome. After all, Egypt boasts “hundred-gated Thebes.” Well, I have visited Thebes, and it doesn’t have a hundred gates, nor anything close to that number. That is just Egyptians for you. They like to think everything they have is bigger than anyone else’s. But there is no denying that Rome’s walls and gates were rather humble in comparison to those of, say, Syracuse or Alexandria or Babylon. They were, furthermore, in a state of perpetual disrepair. But then, we believed that the best defense of the City consisted in keeping our enemies several hundred miles away and prostrated by defeat.

Nonetheless, we maintained a tiny guard keeping watch in a minimal state of readiness at each gate. These men were unarmed in keeping with the law forbidding armed soldiers within the City, but they wore military insignia. Real soldiers laughed at them.

I found the captain of the gate watch lounging against one of the massive, oaken gateposts, arms folded and one booted foot propped behind him, head down, apparently napping in this half-upright position. At my approach a lesser guard nudged him.

“Sorry to disturb your repose, Captain,” I said, “but I must ask you some questions.”

The man blinked and came to a sloppy version of attention. “Yes, sir!” He wore a red tunic and over that a harness of handsomely polished leather straps arranged in a lattice. It made him look military, although it had no discernible function, since it neither supported armor nor suspended weapons. He was clearly a freedman who had lucked into this easy job through patronage.

“Were you on duty the other morning when the consul Marcus Licinius Crassus made his memorable exit?”

“I was, sir,” he nodded.

“Excellent. Doubtless you recall the activities of the late tribune Caius Ateius Capito atop this very gate?”

“Hard to forget, Senator.”

“Even better. Did you by chance notice how the tribune made his exit?”

“To be honest, sir, I was rooted to the spot like everyone else, until the consul Pompey and the virgo maxima got things under control.”

“I see. Did, may I hope, any of your stalwart companions take note of his route of escape?”

“Those buggers?” he laughed. “They took to hiding when Ateius started reciting his curse.”

“I should not have bothered to ask. What about outside the gate? Is anyone out there now who was there that morning?”

“There’s a whole crowd of vendors and beggars that’re out there every day, Senator.”

“Splendid. Might any of these be considered reliable informants?”

“Well, sir, I wouldn’t bother asking Lucius the sausage-seller. He’s blind. And the foreigners are all liars, so you can forget about them. The rest might’ve seen something, if they weren’t covering up their heads from terror.”

“Thank you, Captain, you’ve been a great help. Nice outfit, by the way.”

“Thank you, Senator,” he beamed. It was certainly a good thing that our legions kept everyone terrorized.

I went through the gate, which was just about wide enough for two oxcarts to pass through, if the oxen were thin. It was an amazing contrast to the magnificent road just outside, the Via Appia, first and still the greatest of our wonderful highways. Built more than two and a half centuries before by the Censor Appius Claudius, it connected Rome with Capua before being extended all the way to Brundisium. It cut through mountains, bridged valleys and swamps, tunneled through hills, and ran straight as a taut bowstring from one city to the next, perfectly usable all year in any weather because of its perfect drainage and solid construction. Where it crossed soft or marshy ground, it was more like a buried wall.

Just outside the gate, the first mile or so was lined with fine tombs, interspersed with the occasional crucified felon. It was also mobbed with beggars and with vendors who thus escaped paying the market fees. People sold all manner of goods, both sound and fraudulent. Others offered to act as guides for visitors to Rome, and it was not a bad idea to hire one. The Labyrinth of King Minos was not as confusing as Rome to a stranger. Unlike the great Greek and Roman colonial cities, which were usually laid out in a grid, Rome was an overgrown village of narrow, tangled streets and alleys. I got lost there myself, sometimes.

Very near the gate, a stout peasant woman sat beneath an awning, surrounded by straw cages holding doves, cocks, and other sacrificial birds. By law, all livestock, including sacrificial animals, were to be sold in the Forum Boarium under the supervision of the aediles. The commons assumed that the authority of City officials extended only as far as the walls. This was not true, but it is notoriously difficult to convince people that their inherited folk beliefs have no legal basis.