The Tribune's Curse (23 page)

“Cleopatra?” I asked. “She’s awfully young, but she’s the only one in the whole family with any brains.”

“No, it was one of the others,” Sulpicius said. “Berenice, that’s the one.”

“Berenice?” I said. “I know her. The woman can’t plot her next party, much less a rebellion.”

“She married a fellow named Archelaus,” Sulpicius said, “a Macedonian whose father was one of Mithridates’ generals. A real soldier, so they say.”

I thought I remembered him: one of the hard-faced professionals who kept the degenerate Macedonian dynasty on the throne of Egypt, supporting whichever of the claimants treated them best.

“Here comes Lisas now,” Gutta said.

I looked up toward the entrance of the
curia
and saw Pompey coming out with Lisas on his arm. He was patting the ambassador’s shoulder as if to reassure him. Lisas parted from the consul and descended the steps, mopping at his face. His makeup was running
in streaks, even though the morning was chilly.

I went up the steps to meet him. “Lisas, what’s happened?”

“Ah, my friend Decius! In the middle of the night, a terribly disturbing dispatch arrived from Alexandria.”

“Old Ptolemy’s croaked, eh?” I said, unable to imagine that anything else would upset Lisas so deeply. “Well, it happens to them all, and there are plenty of—”

“No, no, no!” He waved his purple-dyed scarf in agitation. “It is not that at all! My master, King Ptolemy Dionysus, is in excellent health. But, it became necessary for him to put Princess Berenice to death to punish her for her unfilial rebellion.”

“That’s sad news,” I commiserated. “The woman was just a pawn. What happened to Archelaus?”

Now he waved the scarf dismissively. “Oh, the usurper died in the last battle with Gabinius. He was of no account.”

“I see. But, sad though this news may be, surely it is nothing unusual. Anyone who tries to seize a throne must expect death as the price of failure.”

“Even so, even so,” he said, wringing his hands, covered as they were with perfumed oil and inflamed lesions. “Great as was my affection for the princess, I understand that His Majesty had no choice in the matter. No, there were—more severe consequences.”

“Ah.” Now we were getting to the real news. “What manner of consequences, if this is not a matter of diplomatic secrecy?”

“On, no. I thought it best to come at once and inform the consul Pompey. I believe he will address the assembled Senate on the matter soon, although there is little to be done about it now.”

“Lisas,” I prodded gently, “what’s happened?”

“As you may have learned, Berenice had some degree of support from the people of Alexandria, including some of the leading citizens.”

“I’ve been out of touch,” I told him. “Did these Alexandrians take it ill that Ptolemy killed his daughter?”

“I am afraid so. There was rioting.”

“We have that here in Rome from time to time. And was King Ptolemy forced to execute some of these Alexandrian supporters of Princess Berenice and the usurper?”

“Only the ringleaders,” he said hastily, “and the closest and most immoderate of their adherents.”

“How many?”

“Oh, some three or four, perhaps as many as five thousand.” He blotted again at his runny face. He did not look well at all. Seeing him in full daylight for the first time in years, I realized that poor Lisas was not going to be with us much longer. Even his heavy makeup could no longer disguise his ghastly color and the sores that covered his skin. “It happened more than a month ago. Contrary winds kept all the vessels in port until just a few days ago.”

“Well,” I said, “this is going to be difficult.” Like Pompey, I patted him on the shoulder. “We’ll work something out, but perhaps you’d better prepare yourself to serve a new king.”

“I thank you for your support,” he said, “but I am too old for that now. I will not outlast King Ptolemy.”

“Don’t be such a pessimist,” I advised. I wanted to speak with him some more, but senators began to crowd around, eager to know what was going on, and I had to leave him there and get on with my day.

Egypt had been a problem for us for a hundred years. With its docile, priest-ridden peasant population and its absurd Macedonian royal family, we could have annexed it at any time, but we didn’t want to. Egypt was just too rich. Put a Roman governor there with an army, and he’d make himself king and raise a rebellion, as had Sertorius in Spain. No Roman trusted another with that much wealth and power. So we propped up one idiotic weakling
after another, as the Ptolemaic dynasty grew more degenerate with each passing generation.

And now this rebellion and its aftermath. I would have liked to believe that it meant the old drunk was showing some steel in his spine at last, but it sounded more like the vicious, peevish gesture of a frightened tyrant who feels his throne crumbling beneath him.

And if Lisas said five thousand had been executed, ten thousand was a more likely number. And he’d said leading citizens, which meant men with close business ties to Rome. This was going to be serious.

“Way for the praetor!” somebody shouted. I saw a file of lictors clearing a path for Milo, and I pushed my way over to him.

“Decius!” He smiled, but perfunctorily. He, too, had caught the mood of the Forum. “Anything to report?”

“Several things. Do you have a little time?”

“Not much, but Pompey’s given the murder first priority, so go ahead.” In his usual fashion, he kept walking as we talked. I gave him a quick rundown of the previous day’s work.

“I knew that business about the Furies was too good to be true. But where did that bastard go after he came down from the wall?”

“That’s what I must find out.”

“Work on it. For the moment, we’ll just keep this business about the men who jumped you to ourselves. A couple of bodies were found by the fire watch this morning. They weren’t mine or Clodius’s. Maybe the other two lived. It’s not important. Who hired them is.” Killings were not a major concern in Rome in those days, as long as arson was not involved.

“That’s another matter I intend to find out about.”

“What’s going on over at the
curia?
” He asked. “Why is old Lisas in town so early?”

I gave him a quick rundown of the situation, and he shook his head.

“That’s it for the Flute-Player, then. We’ve all grown heartily sick of him and his whole disgusting family.”

“I always found him rather entertaining,” I said.

“That’s right, you missed the big show, didn’t you? It was the first year you spent in Gaul, when Gabinius and Calpurnius Piso were consuls. For years, Ptolemy had been passing around bribes, trying to get the Senate to ratify him as king of Egypt. Finally got it the year before when Caesar was consul, but he’d squeezed the Alexandrians a little hard for bribe money, and they kicked him out, so he came here to get support for his return. The aristocrats were for it; the commons were against. Are you following this?”

“It’s simple enough. What happened?”

“Well, the Alexandrians sent a delegation to ask the Senate to renounce Ptolemy and put Berenice in his place.”

“How did they fare? I hope they brought plenty of bribe money.”

“They never even got here. Ptolemy got wind of the mission and hired a pack of outlaws down in the South. They ambushed the delegation right outside Brundisium and massacred the lot.”

This was shocking even to my jaded sensibilities. “That’s brazen behavior even for a Ptolemy!”

“The tribunes were in an uproar over it—denounced the aristocrats as a bunch of corrupt money-grubbers supporting a vile barbarian tyrant and murderer—all very true, by the way. After that, support for Ptolemy faded.”

“He obviously struck a deal with the consul Gabinius,” I said. “Ten thousand talents, so I hear.”

“It took him awhile to get all that silver together, but it was well spent. Clodius got a piece of it, too.”

“Clodius? How?”

“He was tribune that year, remember?”

“How could I forget? It was the main reason my family wanted me out of Rome.”

“Calpurnius got Macedonia for his proconsular province. Gabinius was to have Cilicia, but Clodius rammed through a law giving him Syria instead, putting him in a position to help Ptolemy as soon as he could get the bribe money together.”

“And people wonder how we’ve conquered half the world,” I said. “With politics like ours, who stands a chance against us?”

“It’s what makes us unique,” he agreed.

Something struck me. “Crassus could make use of this. He might pass up his war with Parthia and use this as an excuse to take Egypt instead!”

“Possible,” Milo said, “but not likely. For one thing, to do that without permission from the Senate would be tantamount to declaring war against Rome. For another, he’s not quite sane these days, as I’m sure you noticed. Taking Parthia is not just a fixed goal with him; it’s an obsession. He’s talked about nothing else for years. A saner man might have a go at Egypt, but not Crassus. Pompey would love to do it, but he lacks the courage to defy the Senate. Caesar would do it and make it look as if the Senate
had
given him permission.”

“I hope you’re right. The last thing we need just now is war over Egypt.”

By this time we had reached the basilica where Milo was holding court. Pompey had cleared his docket for the murder investigation, but that was just a gesture to calm the crowd. Milo had less than two months left in office and much business to tie up. There was already a crowd assembled there waiting for him to sort out their problems.

“Get back to me as soon as you have a credible suspect for Ateius’s murder. Time is getting short.”

“You’re not the first to remind me,” I said. I took my leave
of him and wandered around the Forum for a little while, soaking in the feel of the place. By eavesdropping discreetly, I determined that the murder of the tribune was still the prime subject of conversation. The news from Egypt hadn’t spread and probably would not. It was a matter of great interest to the Senate, but foreign affairs occupied little of the attention of the average Roman, unless there was a war in which we were involved.

Three years ago. That, I thought, had certainly been a busy year. Gabinius had been consul. So had Calpurnius Piso, who had ordered the suppression of the foreign cults. Aemilius Scaurus had been aedile, defraying the costs of his office by letting some of those foreigners off for a consideration and putting on his extravagant Games. In fact, far too many of the events of that year seemed to have led to the fateful happenings of this year.

I pondered my next move. Whatever I was going to do, it seemed to me that I had better get it done before nightfall. The streets were getting dangerous for me.

I had always found the Capitol a good place to think, so I climbed the winding road to its summit. Before the Temple of Jupiter, the ashes of the morning sacrifice still smoldered. I went into the temple and studied the serene face of the god for a while, not trying to concentrate, just letting my thoughts wander. The smell of smoke recalled to my mind the destruction of the temple almost thirty years before in a fire caused by lightning. The augurs determined that Jupiter had destroyed the temple because he had been displeased with it, so it was rebuilt with even greater magnificence. Many of its treasures had been destroyed, though, including the Sibylline Books.

Once again I felt that featherlike tickling somewhere in the rear of my mind. I did not force things, but let my memory bring up such facts as I knew concerning the famous books of prophecy.

The sibyls were Greek in origin—that I remembered. There used to be many of them; now only a few remained. They were
somehow connected with Apollo, and were given to ecstatic utterance that sounded like gibberish to most people, but which, supposedly, could be interpreted by qualified priests as the will of the gods. The sayings of some of these sibyls had been written down in nine books that, somehow, made their way to Italy.

Legend had it that, during the reign of the last king of Rome, Tarquinius Superbus, the celebrated books were brought to Rome and offered to him for sale. He considered the price exorbitant and refused, whereupon the sibyl had burned the books one by one, each time offering him the remaining books at the same price. Tarquinius, as poor a businessman as he was a king, agreed when there were three books left. These he deposited in a vault below the temple, where they were consulted from time to time. They were popularly believed to contain prophecies of the whole future history of Rome.

I considered this to be among the silliest of all our ancient beliefs, but many believed in the books implicitly. It had been these books that Lisas had told me Crassus used as an excuse to prevent the Senate from sending Ptolemy back to Egypt with a Roman army to support him.

And who was the sibyl who had sold the books, on such favorable terms, to Tarquin the Proud? Why, Italy’s most famous prophetess, of course, the Sibyl of Cumae. I whirled and strode from the temple. I was bound for the burying fields east of the City and the house of that expert on all things mystical, Ariston of Cumae.

I
KNEW BEFORE I REACHED THE
door that I had arrived too late. There is something about a house in which nobody lives that makes it indefinably different from an inhabited place. I walked between the cypresses, oppressed by the smell of death that permeated the air of the whole district, wondering
if I would find more death within the modest house. Out here no dogs barked; no chickens squawked or crowed; there were no friendly, familiar sounds.

For the sake of form I rapped on the door and waited a reasonable interval. Then I tugged on the door, and it opened easily.

“Ariston!” I called. Nothing. I went within. All was quiet, and the place showed signs of having been vacated hastily. The modest furnishings were still there, but these consisted of only a table or two and some crude beds—nothing worth carrying off on a journey.

I came to an upper room with a large window facing south. This was Ariston’s study, for it received the best reading light and it contained a cabinet with honeycomb cells that must have held Ariston’s books, but they were gone. Of course, he would not have left those. The kitchen contained no food, just a large water jar, half-full, and some melon rinds.