John Roberts - The Tribune's curse

The other man bowled into me even as the first fell away, mortally wounded. He had my toga still draped across his shoulders and chest, but his eyes were clear and he had the advantage. I dived for the pavement rather than try to come to grips with him, always a mistake if you don’t have some sort of control over your opponent’s knife hand. He slashed but only nicked the top of my ear, then he kicked at my side and connected solidly. The wind went out of me, and I thought I felt a rib or two give way, but I got onto my back, my legs doubled up and ready to kick as he dived toward me.

He jerked and grunted as something struck him. I thought it was Hermes, but from my new vantage point I could see him dealing with the others. A man howled, clutching a smashed elbow, the cry cut off abruptly as Hermes brought up the blunt tip of the stick hard into the spot an inch below where the ribs join the breastbone. That is a killing blow even with a stick.

In the instant my knife man staggered from the invisible blow, I kicked out, catching him in the belly and sending him backward. In a moment I had my feet beneath me and charged in, catching him in the jaw with my caestus , hearing the bone snap even as I jammed my dagger into his side. He went down with a grunt, and I saw Hermes circling the last man, who was armed with a short sword, grinning as they shuffled their feet on the treacherous footing. I heard shutters banging and voices shouting and things crashing all around. I reached out and grabbed the back of the sword-wielder’s tunic, jerking hard. In the instant that he was off balance, Hermes darted in and fetched him two blows, forehand and backhand, alongside the temples. With a faint crunch of soft bone, the man dropped like a sacrificial ox. The boy really was coming along nicely.

Something hit me between the shoulder blades, accompanied by a screaming, feminine imprecation, and a flowerpot narrowly missed Hermes. Then I knew what had staggered my second knifer: the neighbors were throwing things. It is the almost automatic response of Romans to sounds of riot in the street outside. They throw objects from the windows or go out on the roof and cast down roofing tiles. It is their way of telling the offenders to take their argument somewhere else.

“Come on!” I said to Hermes. I stooped to grab my toga, and we took to our heels, getting out of missile range as quickly as we could. I had seen veteran brawlers killed by flowerpots and roofing tiles.

“Are you hurt?” I asked Hermes when we were safely out of range.

“Me? Hurt? There were only four of them.”

“Getting cocky, aren’t you? I must be getting old, then. One of them nicked me at least twice.”

“Some of that blood’s yours? Let me see.”

“Your concern is touching, but we’re almost home. Let someone else fuss over me.”

“Are you going to report this?”

I paused for thought. “No, best not. There’s too much chance that whoever hired those louts is someone I’d have to report to. Let’s keep them guessing, whoever they are.”

We were almost to my door by this time. I had been ambushed many times in my life, and it was usually near my house. In a city as chaotic as Rome, the easiest way to assassinate someone was to lurk near his house and wait for him to come to you.

Julia was there as the door swung open, glaring. “I hope that’s not wine all over you.”

“No, my dear, just blood.”

“Oh, Decius! When are you going to listen to me and hire bodyguards? Cassandra! Cypria! Bring water!” All this while hustling me into the house, an arm over my shoulders as If I were about to collapse.

“Bodyguards?” Hermes said, offended. “I was with him!”

“Oh, be silent, boy! Decius, where are you hurt? Sit down here.” She pushed me onto a stool and peeled the clothes from my upper body. The slave women appeared with basins and cloths. Cypria was excited, but old Cassandra had done this so many times she was just resentful of the extra work.

“Cypria,” Julia said, “take this toga and soak it in cold water before the blood dries.” The girl carried it out at arm’s length, her nose wrinkling in disgust. Julia dabbed at my cut ear and side. The damp cloth was pleasantly cool. “I’m afraid this tunic is beyond salvage,” she sighed.

“Whereas my hide is self-repairing?” I said.

“Quit complaining. These things wouldn’t happen if you had the slightest foresight. You’ve been making enemies again, haven’t you?”

“Not personal ones,” I informed her. “I’m investigating something certain parties would just as soon did not come to light. You heard about last night’s doings in the Forum?”

“I went to the baths this morning as soon as I returned to the City. I heard about it from the wives of most of the men who were on the basilica steps with you.”

“Then you heard I’ve been appointed iudex , on top of the other investigation for the Pontifical College?”

“And Milo gave you full praetorian authority, which means you should have an escort of lictors, at the very least. You just like to run around snooping on your own.” She rubbed my side with a stinging ointment and covered the slight wound with a pad while Cassandra wrapped it in place with a bandage around my body.

“Anyway,” Julia said, “it’s really just a single investigation, isn’t it?”

“I am certain of it.”

“Cassandra, bring a clean tunic and tear this one up for rags.” She dabbed at the top of my left ear, which was now fractionally shorter than my right. “This is going to make you look lopsided,” she said.

“Next time I’ll have to get into a fight with a left-hander. Maybe I can get them evened out.”

Cassandra arrived with the clean tunic, and Julia drew it down over my poor, bruised old body. She took me by the hand. “Come have something to eat and tell me everything.”

After dinner, we lingered over fruit, cheese, and wine, which Julia diluted with far too much water. She had listened with great attention as I described the events of the momentous night before and the day just then drawing to its mercifully tranquil close.

“How utterly strange,” she said when I was done. “Not the murder-those are certainly common enough these days-but his body mangled by wild beasts, you say? What are we to make of that?”

“I think you may have hit on an important point.”

“How so?”

“That murders are common. True, this one involves a tribune, but that is just a legal complication; it has nothing to do with motive. Earlier today, I was lamenting that there were so many distractions in this case, and this strange method of eliminating a tribune is a distraction. What do you say, for the moment, we just get rid of the distractions? Forget the forbidden name and the curse and the involvement of gods. Let’s forget wild animals and Friendly Ones or whatever it may have been. What have we left?”

“A murder.”

“Exactly. A powerful politician named Ateius tried to thwart another powerful politician named Crassus and got killed for his pains. What is at stake here?”

She thought for a moment, then came back, just like a Caesar: “Political power at home and the wealth of Parthia abroad.”

“Precisely. You see, Julia, nobody fights and kills over matters of religion anymore, if they ever did. Sometimes they do it for reasons of revenge, or of jealousy; but here we are dealing with important men, and among this class, in Rome these days, all fighting and killing are done for purposes of wealth and power.”

“To gain wealth and power?” she said.

“Or else to prevent an enemy from attaining them. A long time ago, Cicero taught me a very important political principle: Cui bono? Who profits from this? Let’s examine the problem from that perspective.”