The Tribune's Curse(25)

Crassus wore the most frightful expression, compounded of rage and terror, his teeth grinding audibly. “That tribune has robbed me!” he finally choked out. “Today was to be glorious!”

“Go!” she said coldly.

“I do not care!” he screamed at the multitude. “He has taken my setting forth, but I will return in glory, and then I will kill him and all his friends!” He whirled and stalked out beneath the gate, where a small party of horsemen awaited. A great, collective sigh escaped the crowd.

“Consul,” the virgo maxima said to Pompey, loud enough for all to hear, “I instruct you to convene a full meeting of the Senate, to include all the priestly colleges. We must devise a way to avert the wrath of the gods. This is a religious matter, so the convocation escapes my ban on secular business.”

“You have heard the august lady,” Pompey called. “All senators and priests: to the curia now! All other citizens, foreigners, and slaves, go to your homes and allow the duly constituted authorities to deal with this matter. I dismiss you!”

Slowly, frightened still but no longer panicky, the crowd began to break up. The situation was in competent hands. People believed in Pompey, and everyone revered the Vestals.

We all began to trail back the way we had come, but I looked back over my shoulder and saw the dwindling figure of Crassus riding amid his escort, framed by the Capena Gate. It was the last I ever saw of Marcus Licinius Crassus. Within eighteen months he would be dead along with most of his army in one of the greatest military disasters of Roman history. That was one powerful curse.



THE CURIA WAS PACKED, WHAT with so many more senators than usual being in town. It was also noisy. We usually adhered to a grave, dignified demeanor when the commons were watching, but we carried on like supporters of rival factions in the Circus when we assembled in one of the meetinghouses. The Curia Hostilia was the most venerable of these, and it was right in the Forum. The new meetinghouse attached to Pompey’s Theater was far more spacious, but it was a long walk out over the Campus Martius, and it was usually used only in summer, when the heat made the old curia stifling.

When Pompey made a point of summoning the priests, that had been mostly a gesture to reassure the people, since most of the priests were senators anyway. At least it was more colorful than usual, since most of the members of the various priestly colleges wore their robes and insignia of office. The Arvals wore wreaths of wheat ears, the augurs wore striped robes and carried their crook-headed staffs, the flamines wore their conical, white caps, and so forth. There was no Flamen Dialis that year. In fact, there had been none for more than twenty years. The duty was so laden with taboos as to make it too onerous for anyone in his right mind to want. The virgo maxima, rarely seen in the curia, sat next to Pompey, attended by her single lictor.

Pompey stood from his curule chair, and the room fell silent. Well, almost silent. It was, after all, the Senate.

“Conscript Fathers,” he began, “today Rome has suffered an unprecedented misfortune. A man who may not be touched by any legal authority has taken it upon himself to perform a terrible ceremony within the pomerium and before the assembled people. The implications of this ritual must be interpreted for us by the highest religious authorities, and a suitable remedy and course of action must then be found. None here may speak of our deliberations outside this chamber. A single report will be written, and this will be delivered under seal to the Pontifex Maximus, Caius Julius Caesar, in Gaul. In his absence the next-highest authority will address us first. Rex sacrorum, speak to the Senate.”

Pompey resumed his seat, and the King of Sacrifices rose from his front-row bench and turned to face the assembly. He was an aged priest named Lucius Claudius. He had held the office since he was a young man, and because it barred him from political life, he had devoted himself to the study of our religious institutions. Although he had never held public office, like all the highest priests he had a seat in the Senate with all its insignia and privileges, except that he had no vote.

“Conscript Fathers,” he said, “I was not present at this desecration of the City, but the curse has been related to me in its entirety by qualified colleagues, and rest assured that this was a ritual of the utmost power, and one nearly certain to fall back upon the one who pronounced it. Furthermore, it was of a deadliness sufficient to destroy the City of Rome itself. Our City and our people have become ritually unclean and abhorrent to the immortal gods!”

This pronouncement was so terrible that the whole Senate was actually silent for a while.

“Tell us what we must do,” Pompey said, more frightened than he had ever been in battle.