The Tribune's Curse (20 page)

“To begin, he was probably not killed where he was found.”

“Why not?”

“He has been dead for at least two days, possibly as long as three. The cool weather has helped. In summer he would be very offensive by now.”

“He isn’t good company as it is, but I take your point.”

“He is largely drained of blood, as is only to be expected with such extensive wounds. These marks around his wrists,” he indicated livid lines encircling both joints, “indicate that he was bound at one point and struggling against his bonds.”

“That means there were at least two assailants,” I mused.

“Unless he cooperated in his binding, I would think that to be the case. It is not unheard of, but I would think it doubtful in this case. That, however, is your realm of expertise. And that,” he said, straightening, “is as much as I can tell you at this time. I shall consult with my colleague who tends to the wounds of the
bestiarii
, and, if I learn anything of value, I shall get word to you.”

“I am grateful for all your help.”

He waved my thanks aside. “The entertainment alone is worth the effort. This is much more interesting than stitching up conventional lacerations. In the course of your campaigning in
Gaul, did you happen to encounter any unfamiliar weapons, anything capable of inflicting unusual wounds?”

So we talked shop for a while, and I told him about a really hideous new weapon we had found some of the Eastern Gallic tribes employing, called a
falx
. It had a handle long enough for two hands and sported a blade two feet or more in length, which was curved like a scythe and sharp on the inside curve. It could lop off a man’s leg with a single swipe. Asklepiodes showed great interest in this and expressed his regret that he had no opportunity to examine so impressive a wound. I promised him I would send him back a
falx
for his extensive collection of weapons.

At length we parted, promising to get together for dinner sometime soon. He called to his Egyptians, who seemed to be performing a prayer over the body of Ateius, as if they, too, saw in his sad condition some fearful manifestation of the vengeance of the netherworld gods.

By this time it was nearly noon. Without reluctance I took my leave of the late Ateius, who was now attended by only three or four intrepid supporters of Clodius, men apparently unafraid of maleficent underworld creatures.

As I walked back toward the City, head down and hands clasped behind my back, I must have looked like one of those Peripatetic philosophers who did their cogitating while walking. Or maybe it was their talking that they did while walking. Some-thing like that, anyway. Great as was my abhorrence for philosophy and its practitioners, most of whom, in my opinion, might be better employed doing something useful, like herding geese, I found myself trying to break down my problem by categories and subcategories, as philosophers are so fond of doing while feeling very clever about it all, too.

I had two investigations to conduct: the first was into the source from which Ateius Capito learned the Secret Name of Rome. The second was to find the murderer or murderers of the
same Ateius Capito. Thinking philosophically, either the two cases were connected, or they were not. This, I think, is called a syllogism. I am not certain, and I am not about to ask a philosopher.

If they were connected, might Ateius not have been murdered to conceal the identity of his informant? If so, find the murderer and I would find the betrayer of the Secret Name, and it would be all very tidy. Unfortunately, this case bore no discernible aspects of tidiness. On the contrary, it spread out in too many directions. It involved foreign war, domestic politics, the ambitions of men great and petty, and it involved the gods and spirits of the underworld.

But what if most of these elements were peripheral, and the true motivation behind all of it, the prime mover, if you will, was a single thing that they all had in common? This is what I call the nexus, and in discovering this nexus I have solved a number of investigations, although few as odd as this one. The nexus may be right out there in plain view. The trick is to ignore all the irrelevancies. That can be very difficult to do when the irrelevancies are as colorful and diverting as they were in this case. I had certainly never had to take the
Friendly Ones
into consideration before.

One thing I have learned that has never, to my knowledge, been articulated by any philosopher. It is that nobody thinks better for being hungry. Desiring to improve my mental powers, I went in search of something to eat.

It is a virtue of Rome that you never have to go far to find a wineshop. They are to be found on every corner, and almost all of them supply a few tables and benches where one may repose, ponder, and watch the passing show. I found just such an establishment a few streets off the Forum, took a table, and, with a forbearance not entirely characteristic of me, waited until the food arrived before I began making inroads upon the wine.

With the mental clarity induced by a full stomach, I sought
inspiration (Bacchus being a very inspiring god). I tried to lay out the facts as I had received them. Where had all this begun?

First, Ateius had cursed Crassus. More specifically, he had cursed Crassus’s expedition, and all who took part in it. Not very helpful. Crassus was not a popular man, just a man to whom many people owed debts. His proposed war was not a popular one. But would these things inspire such hideous crimes? Would not assassinating Crassus be easier, quicker, and more to the point? And who profited from this catastrophe? First off, the king of Parthia, one Orodes by name, who had to my knowledge no adherents in Rome. Opposition in Rome had nothing to do with affection for the Parthians, who were just another pack of horse-eating barbarians. Once again, if Orodes wished to take preemptive action, why not hire a man with a dagger instead of a tribune with a curse? It would be cheaper and probably more effective.

And since Crassus was so roundly detested, why kill Ateius? Most of the men who opposed Crassus must have felt only delight at his discomfiture when his expedition was cursed. In the entire City, the only man I could think of who would kill Ateius for his actions was the younger Marcus Crassus, who keenly felt the insult to his family and had much to lose if his father’s war failed. He had expressed to me a quite reasonable and laudable desire to horsewhip Ateius as soon as he stepped down from office. Had he been concealing far-more-dire intentions? I rather doubted it. He had too much of his father’s unemotional, dispassionate nature. Still, I did not discount him as a possibility.

Then there was the curse, more specifically the Secret Name of Rome. Was Ateius murdered to protect the identity of the person who had divulged that name? This looked more promising. Also, it suggested a conspiracy. One thing I knew from long experience: it is easier to hide an elephant under the bed than it is to hide a conspiracy in Rome, especially one that involves not only important men, but foreigners like the sorcerers I had interviewed.
Sometimes, it seems as if conspirators are actually eager to talk, if you can just give them an excuse.

I was beginning to get impatient with Bacchus when he tapped me with one of those inspirations: I had been concentrating on the cursed man and the murdered man, but suppose these were just minor casualties of an attack aimed at Rome itself? This seemed promising and got my patriotic, republican feathers ruffled. After all, the indignation over the curse was not because of its assault on Crassus, whom nobody liked, but because it endangered Rome. Orodes again? But the business of the curse seemed incredibly subtle for some long-sleeved, trousers-wearing barbarian tyrant. Unless, of course, he had the aid of a Roman traitor.

I realized that I was trying too hard to pin the blame on a foreign enemy. I did not want to believe that, once again, Romans were engaged in fratricidal, internal warfare. A will to believe or disbelieve something is the enemy of all rational thought.

Somehow, I knew that I was overlooking something. I was sure that there was a motivating factor that I was missing, as well as a unifying center, a sort of double nexus at which all the tangled strands of this maddening business crossed. I slammed my cup on the table in frustration.

“Is something wrong, Senator?” asked a plump young serving woman.

“I am receiving insufficient inspiration,” I told her.

“I thought maybe it was because your jug’s empty.”

I looked into the lees swirling in the bottom of the jug. “So it is. Well, that’s easily rectified. Bring me another.”

She took the empty and returned with a full jug. “I can’t promise inspiration, but the wine’s good.”

It may be that I was walking a trifle unsteadily when I made my way back through the Forum. Even for the greatest gossiping spot in the world, it was in something of an uproar. Self-appointed public orators were haranguing knots of idlers from the bases of
monuments; people were babbling away as if they were actually well informed about the affairs of the world; senators stood around on the court platforms and the steps of the great public buildings, arguing vehemently about one thing or another.

“Decius Caecilius!” It was Cato, standing in the portico of the Temple of Castor and Pollux. He was with Sallustius Crispus, the hairy oaf I’d met at the baths a few days before. Just what I needed. The man who had been one of my least favorite Romans for many years was friendly with my latest object of dislike. Oh, well. After shaking Clodius’s hand in public the night before, I could smile my way through this.

“Any progress on the investigation?” Cato asked. He smelled like a wine cask, but then so did I. For a moment I wondered which investigation he meant, then I realized he might not know about the first.

“Things are coming along nicely,” I lied. “I was looking for Milo to make my report.”

“Have you heard the rumor that’s sweeping the City?” Sallustius said. “People have reported seeing the Furies right here in Rome!” He grinned, apparently proud of his bravery in speaking the name right out loud. “They are described as having the heads of hags with snakes for hair and long fangs, vulture bodies, huge claws, and tails like serpents.”

“I always knew they’d look just like the pictures on Greek vases,” I said.

“Word has it they came to destroy Ateius Capito for his sacrilege,” Sallust said.

“Asklepiodes says he’s been dead at least two days,” I told them. “Why are they still hanging about?”

“What I want to know is how such a rumor got started,” Cato said in ill temper. “As if people weren’t enough on edge already.”

“I’m sure I have no idea,” I told him, my second lie in as many minutes.

A lictor came up the steps and stopped in front of me, unshouldering his
fasces
. “Senator, the consul Pompey wishes to speak with you. Please come with me.”

“I am summoned,” I said. “Will you gentlemen excuse me?”

“Do not let us detain you,” said Cato.

Perhaps I should explain our ironic tone. In these days of the First Citizen, subservience is the rule, but back then Roman senators resented being summoned like the lackeys of an Oriental despot. A consul had the right to convene a meeting of the Senate, but he had no power over individual members of that body. We all chafed at Pompey’s high-handed methods, which may have resulted from his ignorance of constitutional forms. Pompey was, as I have said, a political lummox.

I followed the lictor to the temporary Grain Office established in the Temple of Concord. Here Pompey and his staff had their headquarters, and from here he amended and controlled the grain supply of Rome and all its possessions. We passed through a foyer where slaves, freedmen, and their supervisors went over the heaps of documents that arrived daily by special courier. These were sorted, reduced to manageable size, and reported to Pompey and his closest advisers. The messengers would be sent back out with orders for the many local Roman governors and purchasing agents all over the world. It was a formidably efficient organization.

We passed out onto a roofed terrace, and Pompey looked up from a broad, papyrus-strewn desk. “Ah, you found him. The rest of you, give us leave.” The other men filed out of the terrace like dismissed soldiers, and the two of us were alone.

“What progress, Senator?” Pompey asked. I told him what little I’d learned so far that day, and he shook his head in exasperation. “Whatever killed the wretch, I am sure it wasn’t some snaky-headed Greek harpy.”

“I believe the harpies are supposed to live above ground,” I said, “and while mischievous, are not so fearsome as the
Friendly
Ones.
Prettier, too, if we’re to believe the paintings.”

“I know that. I am just not interested in tales to frighten children. I need somebody to throw to that mob before they get out of hand.” This was an uncommonly blunt statement, even for Pompey.

“I’ll have a name for you soon,” I said.

“Not unless you go easier on the wine.”

“It’s never interfered with my attention to duty,” I said, fuming. Bad enough to be summoned like a straying slave by this jumped-up soldier, but I had to listen to him berate me as well.

“Now, what about your other investigation?”

“Other investigation?” I said innocently.

“Yes,” he said impatiently, “the one that charges you to discover who betrayed the Secret Name of Rome.”

“Well, so much for the Pontifical College being able to keep a secret.”

“Are you serious? Three of the men at that meeting told me all about it within the hour.”

I told him of my investigation and whom I had interviewed so far. “It all seems rather far-fetched, and I suspect I am pursuing the wrong people altogether,” I said untruthfully. Actually, I was very sure that I was close to something, but I felt no need to tell him anything prematurely.

“Most likely. Syrian mountebanks! Cumaean scholars! Forget about them. Find me some aristocrat who’s plotting against Crassus, and most likely against me and probably against Caesar, too. I know the Senate’s packed with them, and your family is not backward in that regard.”