The Tribune's Curse (27 page)

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.”

“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.