John Roberts - The Tribune's curse

“Why didn’t Ateius hesitate?” she shot back instantly.

“Why, he-” I paused, realizing that I hadn’t thought about this. When you assume someone to be mad, there is always a tendency to look no further for motive or intention, still less for signs of future plans. “I see what you’re getting at. Pompey said he intended to prosecute Ateius for perduellio and maiestas and sacrilege. Even if he was bluffing to cover his own complicity, someone else would have done it. There are at least a hundred senators with the legal expertise to bring those multiple charges against him. Any of them would have jumped at the chance.”

“And Ateius must have known it. Before he went up on that gate, he knew that death or exile would be his inevitable reward.”

“So he must have been planning for it. He knew that he would never be able to return to Rome. Julia, this gives me a great deal to think about.”

“It should,” she said complacently. “Think about this: for a Roman politician, what is the ultimate dread?”

“Exile,” I said. “Everyone dies, but to live in exile is unthinkable.” I shuddered at the thought. Even when I was away from Rome for years at a time, I always knew I would return. Everyone knew of the fate of the supporters of Marius, exiled twenty years before by Sulla and never allowed to return. They sought refuge with foreign rulers or joined rebellions like that of Sertorius. They lived on sufferance, always having to move on as Roman territory expanded, growing ever older. No wonder so many of them chose suicide instead.

“Ateius Capito,” Julia went on, “had been in public service, in one capacity or another, for most of his adult life, you say?”

“It’s a matter of public record, right over there.” I nodded toward the Tabularium, which was visible above the roofs of the Basilica Opimia and the Temple of Saturn, the three structures ascending rather like three uneven steps up the slope of the Capitol.

“So he toiled for fifteen years, serving in the legions and on the staffs of more important men. Finally, he achieved the tribuneship, a truly important office. With a successful tribuneship behind him, he was poised for high office, military command, and prestige. He gave it all up to put a curse on Crassus. Does this make sense to you, Decius?”

“Someone must have offered him a truly Titanic bribe!” I said.

“Which was not paid,” she said. “Instead, he was killed.”

“Well, naturally. I mean, would you reward a man that unscrupulous?”

“You need to find someone who could make such a bribe credible,” Julia said. “And you had better find him soon. Time is getting short.”

She didn’t have to remind me of that, I thought that evening as I went to the Grain Office. Julia and I had gone home, and I had eaten dinner hastily, with little appetite. Then, accompanied by Hermes, I left the house to make my report before the streets got too dark to negotiate.

I found Pompey and Milo together, along with Clodius, Cato, and even the rex sacrorum .

“I do hope you have someone for us, Decius,” Pompey said grimly.

“I’ve made great progress,” I assured him.

“That means nothing!” Pompey said, slamming his palm on the table. “I need more than your ‘great progress’! I need someone to try, publicly, for the murder of that wretched tribune! I was not in a good mood to begin with, and this incredible mess in Egypt has made me even less tolerant of your prevarication!”

“And,” said Claudius, the rex sacrorum , “since it seems that this terribly delicate matter cannot be kept secret, I must know who gave him the Secret Name.”

“It seems you’ve taken on a large task, Decius,” Clodius said. He was getting immense satisfaction out of my discomfiture.

“Let’s hear what he has to say,” Milo put in.

“You see, it’s like this.” I launched into a carefully edited version of my findings. I didn’t think it would be terribly wise to mention that I strongly suspected Pompey himself. In fact, there were few men in the room whom I exempted from suspicion. Cato was too upright, and the rex sacrorum was too unworldly. I was always ready to suspect Clodius in connection with any villainy. Milo was my friend, but I knew all too well that he would balk at nothing in his ambition to control the City.

“This man Ariston-” Claudius put in, “you believe that he gave Ateius the Secret Name?”

“His behavior certainly warrants the suspicion. I would like very much to question him further. If even Cicero has consulted him on the ancient cult practices of Italy, then of all non-Romans he must be the most likely to know the Name.”

“And he is from Cumae,” Claudius said. “The sibyl there is said to know all things concerning Italy and the gods, although she usually keeps these things to herself. He might have learned it from the sibyl herself.”

There had always been a sibyl at Cumae. The succession was supposed to be adoptive. Some of them were famous prophetesses, but many were obscure. I had never paid much attention.

“I’ll have the whole peninsula scoured for him,” Pompey said. “If the bugger’s still alive, I’ll have him brought back to Rome for interrogation.”

Or , I thought, he’ll be murdered upon apprehension, if he’s another of your tools . I was careful not to say this aloud.

“Consul,” I said, “ten years ago, Ateius served on the staff of your proquaestor, Marcus Aemilius Scaurus, in Syria. Might they have had any contact with the Parthians?”

He rubbed his chin, thinking. He did not seem to me to be apprehensive that this was getting a little too close to him. I certainly hoped not.

“Let me see-I negotiated a boundary dispute that year, between Armenia and Parthia. Phraates was king of Parthia back then, the father of the present king. I don’t remember whether I’d sent Aemilius south by that time or not. In any case, the princes weren’t present. There were two of them at the time. They killed the old man, and the elder seized the throne; then he was kicked out by the council of nobles, and the younger took over. That’s Orodes.”

“Aemilius stopped in Damascus on his way to Judea,” I said. “That’s where he consulted with Elagabal. Is it possible that Orodes was in Damascus at that time?”

“Anything’s possible,” Pompey said impatiently. “Do you think Orodes could be behind this? He certainly has plenty of reason to lay a curse on Crassus.”

“I don’t want to discount the possibility,” I said.

Pompey barked a humorless laugh. “I hope he isn’t. I bear no love for him, but it’s a little difficult to go out and arrest a foreign king. The only way to bring him back is in chains behind a triumphator ’s chariot.”

“Crassus may do just that,” said Clodius with his usual consummate lack of tact. Pompey gave him a poisonous look. It was good to have his wrath directed elsewhere.

“We need something better than this,” Cato said. “Decius, you have one more day to get some results; then we can all prepare to see the City go up in flames.”

“I’ll have him by tomorrow evening,” I promised. It was as empty a promise as I had ever made, but by that time my options were severely limited.

There was a little more talk, most of it commentary upon the inadequacy of my investigation; then it broke up. I went out of the building with Milo. As we went down the steps, rough shapes detached themselves from the deepening shadows and formed a barrier around us. They were Milo’s closest thugs.

“Now give me the real story,” Milo said.

I knew better than to prevaricate with Titus Milo. I laid out my findings and my suspicions. As usual he was perfectly silent, absorbing everything. Then he was silent for a while longer, thinking about it all.