John Roberts - The Tribune's curse

Personally, I think only the first version has any truth to it. I have been in many battles and skirmishes and played a heroic part in none of them. But I have seen last-ditch stands and delaying actions in plenty, and I have never seen a place, however narrow, that could be defended against an army by a single man for more than a minute or so. No matter how strong and skillful you are, while one man engages you, somebody else can always thrust a spear over the rim of your shield. And then there are the arrows and sling-stones that always fly about in such profusion when men thirst for one another’s blood.

Supposedly, when the bridge was destroyed, Horatius somehow found leisure to address a prayer to Tiberinus, god of the river, and leaped in fully armed and swam across to great applause, to be rewarded richly by the citizenry. Another version has him drowning, which is what usually happens when a man in armor finds himself in deep water.

Whatever really happened, it makes a good story.

The day-fishers were already there with their poles, spaced along the stone parapet as evenly as gulls on a ship’s rail. The flocks of beggars were at work, too. At my approach, the ones who had eyes immediately recognized the quality of my toga. As one man, they came toward me with palms outstretched, except for the ones who had no hands.

I used a palm of my own to warn them back. “I am the iudex Metellus. Which of you is the head beggar?”

A truly pitiable specimen came forward. “I am, Senator.” Some nameless disease had rotted away the left side of his face, although he spoke clearly enough considering he had what seemed to be only half a mouth. He wore verminous rags and hobbled on a crutch, his left leg being gone below the knee. He managed the crutch with his left hand and held out a wooden bowl with the three remaining fingers of the right.

“You’re Mallius, aren’t you? You used to beg at the Quirinal Gate.”

“That’s me,” he agreed.

“How did you end up here at the bridge?”

“The guild promoted me.”

“Really?” I said, intrigued. “You mean, like in the legions? How do you get promoted? Are you a better beggar than the others?”

“It’s more a matter of seniority, Senator,” he said.

“Amazing.” There are facets of Roman life that even lifelong residents never dream of. “Well, the reason I am here is to determine the whereabouts of some fleeing felons. Were all of you here on the morning that Crassus departed the City?”

“Most of us. A few had permission to beg at the Capena Gate, on account of the big crowd that was to be there that morning. But most of us stayed here. We didn’t figure that crowd would be feeling very generous, what with Crassus and his war being so unpopular. People in a nasty mood would rather kick beggars than give them coins.”

“I see that you know your trade. Anyway, on that morning, does anyone remember a man, possibly two or three men, crossing the bridge from the City side in great haste? One of them was carrying a sack.”

Mallius frowned, a truly alarming sight on that face. “That’s not much to go on, Senator. Hundreds of people use this bridge every morning. Most of them are carrying something, and a lot of them are in a rush.”

I was afraid of that. Then I remembered something. “One of them had a freshly bandaged arm. And he may have had some paint on his face.”

“I remember that one!” An emaciated, one-armed man pushed forward. “There was three of them, two men in good clothes, another one behind them, looked like a slave, carried a sack over his shoulder.”

This seemed promising. “Go on.”

“Reason I remember, I went up to the one in front, he snarled like a dog, pushed me back, and I almost went over the parapet there into the river. Arm he pushed me with was wrapped in a white bandage with fresh blood showing through. And he had streaks of paint in front of his ears and down the sides of his neck. Now that I remember, the whole front of his tunic was wet, like he’d just washed off the paint.”

“What color was the paint?”

“Red and white.”

Others claimed that they, too, remembered the trio, but this confirmation was unnecessary. I now knew that Ateius had crossed the bridge under his own power. He hadn’t been killed in the City and carried across. Two citizens, Ateius and, almost certainly, Silvius. The third a probable slave brought along to carry the magical paraphernalia, help with the ladder, and so forth. Ateius was keeping his circle of conspirators as limited as possible-always a good idea when conspiring.

“Can you give me a physical description of the men?”

The one-armed beggar thought for a while. “Man that pushed me was shorter than you, pretty thin, dark hair and eyes. I think the second was taller, but I don’t remember what his face was like, or his hair. He wore some pretty expensive-looking rings. Third was just a slave, maybe the same height and color as the man with the bandages; a few years younger, maybe.” Like most beggars, he was used to sizing people up by the quality of their clothes and jewelry. As it was, I was delighted to get so much information from this source.

“Did you see which way they went when they were off the bridge?” I asked him.

“Up that way,” he said, pointing up the hill along the ruinous old wall of Ancus Marcius, which led to the equally ruinous old fort atop the Janiculum, where the red banner flapped listlessly in the morning breeze, waiting to be lowered in warning of an approaching enemy.

I distributed some money, took my leave of the beggars, and crossed the bridge into the Trans-Tiber. At that time, the district was mainly devoted to businesses involving the river trade, as well as those that could not be practiced within the walls of the City.

“Where will you go now?” Hermes asked.

I thought for a moment. “I’ll come along with you.”

“To the ludus? ” he said, surprised.

“I want to speak with Asklepiodes.”

The ludus of Statilius Taurus was one of those activities forbidden within Rome proper. It had been sited on the Campus Martius, but the building of Pompey’s theater complex had forced it to move. The Senate had been trying to forbid ludi near Rome ever since the rebellion of Spartacus. Back in the days when most of the gladiators were volunteers, nobody had worried much about them. But the increasing use of slaves and barbarian prisoners for this purpose made people nervous, and with good reason.

The familiar clatter of arms came from within as we passed beneath the entrance portal, its lintel carved with trophies of arms, the doorposts engraved with the names of famous champions of the school. Inside, about a hundred men practiced against one another and strove with the various ingenious pieces of training equipment while others stood around awaiting their turn, all under the watchful eyes of the trainers. Hermes went off to get into his practice armor while I went to the infirmary.

I found Asklepiodes there, splinting the fingers of a careless trainee. He smiled as he looked up. “Ah, Decius! How good of you to visit me.” He turned to his Egyptians and said something. One of them took over the task, carefully wrapping the mangled finger of the stoically unflinching combatant.

“Come up to my study,” Asklepiodes said. We went up the stairs into the spacious, airy room with its racks of books and its profusion of weapons hanging on the walls, each carefully labeled as to origin and effects.

“I made enquiries,” he said, “but I was unable to locate any bestiarii . There are no schools for them nearer than Capua.”

“I was afraid of that. Even if I’d summoned one the minute I was appointed iudex , I doubt he’d have reached Rome before Ateius’s body, along with half the buildings on the Campus Martius, went up in flames.”