The Tribune's Curse(33)

“In accordance with practice laid down at the very founding of the Republic,” said the virgo maxima, “only six persons are to know that Name, and each is to pass it on only to his successor. These are the three major flamines—” she nodded toward Messala and Vatia, “of whom the martialis and the quirinalis are here with us. Rome has lacked a dialis for far too long. The other three are the rex sacrorum, the virgo maxima, and the Pontifex Maximus.”

“How,” said Scipio, “did a wretch like Ateius Capito learn this name?”

“We would very much like to find that out,” said Claudius. “In fact, it is for this reason that we summoned your kinsman, Decius Caecilius.”

I was afraid of that. “Ah, I expect you want me to locate Ateius. That should not be difficult, but he may have fled—”

“While it may be desirable to find Ateius,” said Claudius, “we are far more interested in learning who imparted to him the Secret Name.”

“I see,” I said, trying to think of a way out of this. “It is likely that the only way I can find that out is by interrogating Ateius himself, a man who may not be arrested for nearly two months. And I hope you will forgive me for suggesting it, but the list of likely suspects is rather limited.”

“You mean it was probably someone in this room,” said Claudius. “If so, we must know. Caesar is of course in Gaul. But,” he spread his hands, “I think there may be other possibilities. The lands of Latium, Etruria, Samnium, and Magna Graecia and all the rest of Italy and Sicily are full of ancient cults and priesthoods of an antiquity comparable to our own. It is not impossible that some cult, or some family of sorcerers, at some time in the past learned the Secret Name and have kept it as a weapon against need.”

“That is, indeed, a possibility,” I admitted. “However, such cults are, by their very nature, rather secretive, and it might be quite difficult to—”

“Nephew,” my aunt interrupted briskly, “we are not asking if you can find time in your busy schedule to assist us in this matter. We are telling you to drop all lesser things and find this offender. It must be done at once!”

“Exactly,” said Claudius.

“Lesser things to include the upcoming election?” I said.

“Don’t worry, Decius,” said Scipio. “You are one of what the citizens are already referring to as the Twenty. You’ll be a hero for weeks to come, until they find someone else to idolize. You couldn’t lose if you set fire to the Temple of Castor and Pollux.”

No way out. Oh, well. “How much of this may I divulge in the course of my investigation?” I asked. “That is to say: who knows about Ateius using the Secret Name, and whom may I inform of this?”

“The members of the Pontifical College who were not summoned to this meeting may be told,” Claudius said. “Beyond those, we do not wish anyone to know that this catastrophe has befallen us.”

“That could hamper my investigation,” I protested. “Should I need the aid of a praetor, for instance—”

“You are not to spread this about,” said Messala. “As Censor I forbid it. The mere rumor of this would be sufficient to panic the citizens, to encourage Rome’s enemies, to bring about chaos. We are engaged in wars at the fringes of the world, but our hold on the peninsula of Italy is not so secure that we can afford to ignore unrest in nearby territories. Most of us remember the Samnite army camped outside the Colline Gate just twenty-seven years ago. The Umbrians, the Lucanians, even the contemptible Bruttians bide their time, watching for some great disaster to befall Rome and planning to seize upon this to rise in arms once more. None of these peoples are extinct. No, Decius, you must not give these people encouragement.”

I didn’t think much of this line of reasoning, but I was far too lowly to rebuke a Censor, especially in company as exalted as I found myself in that morning.

“You must not waste any time,” Claudius said. “I shudder at the thought of what our foreign enemies might do with the Secret Name.”

“And when I find this excessively knowledgeable person?” I asked.

“He must not be allowed to live, of course,” said Vatia.

“I can’t just kill him!” I protested. “I’m an investigator, not an executioner. The man may be a citizen, and the laws are quite specific concerning who gets to kill citizens. He will have to be tried in a praetor’s court.”

“A trial would be bad,” Claudius said. “Not only would Rome’s honor be besmirched, but the Secret Name might be uttered. No, this will have to be settled in some other fashion.”