John Roberts - The Tribune's curse

“It is unfortunate,” he said complacently. He lived safely on the other side of the river. “May I offer you refreshment?”

“I’m afraid not, thank you. I have a lot to accomplish today.”

He quirked an ironic eyebrow. “You must be truly concerned. Have you learned nothing of any help in this matter?”

I told him of the facts I had been able to glean, leaving aside much of the religious accretion that so occluded the demonstrable facts. Asklepiodes nodded wisely as I spoke, but then, physicians always do that.

“You say he was enrolled in the equestrian order some fifteen years ago?” he said when I was finished.

“Why, yes. It’s done every five years when there’s a Censorship. The Censors conduct the Census of the citizens, assess their property holdings, and assign them to classes. An equestrian or candidate for that status has to demonstrate that he possesses at least the minimum wealth required. If he can’t, he’s reduced in status. It comes from the days when the Roman cavalry was made up of men who could afford to maintain their own horses. Now it’s just a property class.”

“I see. I must confess that I am not terribly knowledgeable concerning your political institutions. You allow children into this class?”

“What?” I was utterly mystified at his words. “What do you mean? Candidates for equestrian status are still of military age, just like in the old days.”

“The man I examined at the Theater of Pompey was badly mangled, but not so badly that I was unable to estimate his age. Fifteen years ago, he was no more than seven or eight years old.”

I felt like a man struck on the head with a padded club. “Are you sure?”

“Please,” he said, offended. “I am an expert on wounds caused by weapons, not the mauling of beasts, but I can still judge age as well as any physician.”

“Of course, I mean, it’s just-”

“Perhaps some refreshment is in order after all. You look rather pale.” He said something in a foreign tongue, and one of his Egyptians came into the study, then dashed out. I sat at a table with my mind working like an overturned beehive as the implications swarmed all around. I was looking for two men now; one of them was Ateius. Silvius might be alive as well. Out of the picture was the slave who carried the sack, the one the beggar had described as being about the same size and coloration with the man in front, but a few years younger. The slave lay, unknowingly, in state in the Theater of Pompey. The Egyptian came back in with a pitcher and cup. He filled the cup and placed it in my half-numb fingers.

“I met Ateius Capito,” I said, “and he was a man about my age. The bastard’s still alive, hiding someplace.”

“The same thought just occurred to me,” Asklepiodes said. “What a pity neither of us thought to consult on the age question at the time. I thought then that the unfortunate fellow seemed young to have held an office as important as the tribuneship, but I have no vote here and never paid attention to the various age qualifications.”

“There’s no age requirement for tribune,” I told him. “It isn’t one of the offices you have to hold to climb the political ladder. But I never knew a tribune to be much younger than thirty. It takes time and long service to build up a political following.”

“I fear I have failed you,” he said.

“Not at all. I just haven’t been asking the necessary questions.” I sipped at the wine, trying to remember any other questions I might have failed to ask. I glanced up at the man who held the pitcher so attentively.

“Asklepiodes,” I said, “back at the theater, just before we parted company, your Egyptians went through some sort of ceremony or prayer over the body. I thought it was just one of those superstitious rituals people always perform in the presence of death. What was it about?”

“Oh, yes. They spoke to me about it on the way back here. They are from a Nile village near the First Cataract. It is still rather savage and wild country. Their prayer was a propitiation of the god Sobek.”

I knew that god. My scalp prickled. “Why Sobek?”

“They thought that the dead man looked just like one who has been savaged by crocodiles, and Sobek is the crocodile god. Those killed by crocodile attack are considered his sacrifices.” The Greek smiled indulgently. “Of course, I told them that there are no crocodiles in Rome.”

I jumped to my feet. “Asklepiodes, you have come through for me again, if somewhat belatedly. I must be off!”

“I am always overjoyed to be of aid to a servant of the Senate and People,” he said bemusedly. The last words were addressed to my back as I dashed down the stairs.

All the way back into the City, I had to force myself not to run. It would display a terrible lack of gravitas to dart into the City with my toga flapping around my legs. Luckily, from the City end of the bridge to the Temple of Ceres was but a short walk.

I went into the headquarters beneath the portico. The aedile Paetus was nowhere in evidence, but I didn’t need him. “Demetrius!” I bellowed.

The clerk came from in back, his eyes wide with astonishment. “Sir?”

“Demetrius, I want you and your staff to drop everything you are doing. I want all the records pertaining to the aedileship of Marcus Aemilius Scaurus, and I want them now! Bring everything out onto the terrace outside, where we’ll have decent light. I order this as an official iudex with full praetorian authority. Jump!”

He scurried back inside, and I went out into the fine light of late morning, studying the facade of the Circus Maximus, thinking while the temple slaves brought out folding tables, then emerged with armloads of scrolls and tablets.

Of all things to stumble over , I thought as they got things in order. Asklepiodes had helped me in so many investigations, and this time he had the answers but didn’t know it. He was unaccustomed to injuries of animal origin, but his slaves weren’t. He was ignorant of our political institutions and had no experience of the diplomatic life of Rome. He could have solved this for me days ago at the Theater of Pompey.

But I knew I was foolish to rebuke him, even mentally. This was my investigation, and I had been misled by all the mystical mummery. I should have asked him the right questions.

“What are we looking for, sir?” Demetrius asked. In an amazingly short time they had arranged the records in neat piles. There were five slaves besides Demetrius, including Hylas, the boy who had assisted me on my previous visit.

“I want anything that may involve Egypt, either foreign correspondence or contact with Egyptians here in Rome, most especially with King Ptolemy, who was here in Rome for much of the time Scaurus was in office. I also want anything concerning the Games he put on-particularly, who contributed money toward his financing of them. I want anything that bears the name of his assistant, Ateius Capito. Get to work!”

It was not an easy task, and it did not go swiftly. An aedile generates an awesome amount of documentation in the course of his year in office. Much of what I really wanted probably never made it into the official record, anyway, especially those things involving gifts of money. But there was hope. Powerful, arrogant men can be amazingly maladroit when it comes to leaving evidence of their malfeasance. They assume that nobody will ever investigate them, and that they are immune from attack anyway.

“Did any of you attend these Games?” I asked as I went over a huge bill for animal fodder for such exotic beasts as lions, bears, zebras, even ostriches.

“Most of us went to the races,” Demetrius said. “Some watched the plays. As slaves we couldn’t attend the munera and the animal fights.”