John Roberts - The Tribune's curse

“Pompey definitely has the most to gain from this,” he said at last. “And Julia is right: Pompey is far more intelligent than most people give him credit for being. It is subtle for him, but he’s learned to be subtle in the years he’s been separated from his legions.”

“But would he kill a tribune, knowing that it would cause a riot?”

Milo shrugged. “Rome’s burned before. It always gets rebuilt. The City doesn’t mean much to Pompey. He only cares about the army. He’s complaining about this crisis in Egypt, but it’s like a gift from the gods for him. All day the senators have been talking about a special command for him to go to Egypt and sort out the mess.”

“To do it he’d have to have next year’s tribunes behind him,” I said.

“Pompey always has enough tribunes bought up to get his commands pushed through the Popular Assemblies. I don’t see him setting himself up as the first Roman pharaoh, but he might well install a puppet who would act as his personal client.”

I shook my head. “It could be Pompey, but I can’t get rid of the feeling that I’m letting my dislike of him cause me to overlook something obvious.”

“You’d better get it figured out soon,” he advised.

“Everybody seems determined to remind me of that,” I told him.

I awoke in a state of anxiety. This would be my last day to find the killer or killers. I had to stop a riot. I had to satisfy the gods. I had to save Rome. Needless to say, my wife was very annoyed with my behavior.

“Decius,” she said as we sat down to breakfast, “stop acting as if the fate of the world hinged upon your actions. If there is trouble in the City, Pompey and Milo and the rest can handle it. That is the job of public officials. We have priests to act as our intermediaries with the gods. Settle down, eat, and plan out what you have to do.”

So, in obedience to this very sensible advice, I managed to get down some bread with honey and a few slices of melon. It was far from my usual very substantial breakfast, but Julia was trying to wean me away from what she considered a barbaric and un-Roman practice.

“Now,” she said, “where do you propose to start?”

I thought about it. “At the Sublician Bridge.”

“Why there?”

“Because Ateius and probably his friends almost certainly crossed the river there. He was probably killed shortly after that somewhere in the Trans-Tiber district. His body was discovered on the western bank, and if you’re going to dispose of a body in the river, you dump it in from the nearer bank. You don’t carry it across a bridge and leave it on the other side.”

“Your mind seems to be functioning clearly again. That’s a good sign. The Trans-Tiber is nowhere near the size of the City proper, but it’s still a sizable district. How will you conduct your search?”

“To begin with, there are always beggars at bridges. They like to catch people in narrow spots where they can’t get away. What’s more, the same beggars are always in the same spot every day, because they defend a good begging spot against the competition. I’ll find out if anybody remembers seeing them.”

“The bridge is heavily used,” she said doubtfully. “Was there any distinctive mark that would have made Ateius stand out?”

“Unfortunately, no,” I said. “He was a fairly ordinary-looking man. So was Silvius, the one I am pretty sure was with him. He stuffed the famous robe into a sack.”

“I suppose it’s worth a try,” she said.

“It’s not just information I’ll be looking for there,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s more-I want to get into his mind. Maybe, by retracing some of his steps, I can get a feel for him, for the way he was thinking and where he would go from there.”

“Well, I’ve always known your mind doesn’t work like those of normal people.”

“I knew you’d understand.” I stood. “I’d better be going. If I don’t come up with something, maybe I can line up a fast horse. With luck, I can reach Transalpine Gaul before the passes get snowed in.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, giving me a warm embrace. “If you can’t live with disgrace, you have no business in Roman politics. All of the great men have far worse things to live down than a failed murder investigation.”

“At least I always know where I can come for comfort.”

“Will you be home for lunch?” she asked.

“Don’t count on it. If I sniff out the very faintest trail, I will pursue it until I drop.”

“Be careful, Decius.”

“Am I not always careful?” She rolled her eyes upward, and I made my escape.

“Come along, Hermes,” I said. “We’re going to the Trans-Tiber.”

“I was headed that way anyway,” he said. “It’s time for my morning lesson.” As if he had any choice in the matter. I never knew a slave more determined to make it look as if my orders to him were just what he would have done on his own. Insolence takes many forms.

I avoided passing through the Forum. There I would inevitably encounter many friends and acquaintances and be forced to talk to them and lose time thereby. Instead, we took the narrow streets through the neighborhoods to the east of the Forum, pushing past the heavy morning traffic and avoiding as best we could the things being dumped from the balconies overhead.

The facades of the towering, firetrap tenements were covered with graffiti as high as the human arm could reach. Most of them were election notices, some of them very well lettered by professionals, many of whom would append brief advertisements at the bottom of the message. One such, for instance, read: Vote for Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus for consul. He will see that Pomptinus gets to celebrate his triumph. Domitius will oppose the greedy generals and save the Republic. Vote for Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus . Below this, in smaller letters: Echion wrote this by moonlight. Hire Echion, and he will work for you day and night . I deduced from this that the neighborhood contained many clients of Pomptinus. Seven years before he had put down a rebellion of the Allobroges and had been pestering the Senate ever since for permission to celebrate a triumph. Seven years was a long time to spend outside the walls waiting for permission, but that was how important a triumph was to a Roman politician.

I saw more ominous wall-scrawlings calling for vengeance for the dead tribune. A few of these even attacked me personally for the ineffectiveness of my investigation. Most of these, luckily, had already been painted over by the men I had hired to paint my own election notices.

When we reached the river, I noticed that the river wall just shoreward of the wharves was badly in need of repair, and I made a mental note to do something about it as soon as I took office. Now that I knew there was a flood coming, it would have to be given priority. I wondered if anybody during the last ten years had been paying attention to the upkeep of the City. Probably not. The great men just built grandiose theaters and put on shows, leaving all the real work to drudges like me.

The Sublician is the oldest of our bridges, although it has been destroyed and rebuilt several times. The very name refers to the heavy timbers of which it was once built, but the present bridge is of stone. For many generations it was the only bridge over the Tiber at Rome, because the Etruscans lived on the other bank, and Rome was strong enough to defend only one bridge at a time.

The most famous story concerning the bridge is the one about Horatius Cocles, who is said to have held off the army of Lars Porsena single-handed while the Romans dismantled the bridge behind him. There are several versions of this celebrated tale. In one of them, Horatius is simply the point man of a wedge of Romans. In another, he held the bridge with two companions, who fell at his side before the bridge was destroyed. In a third, Horatius held the bridge alone right from the first.