Eschmoun himself was a plausible, smooth mountebank, as described by Elagabal. The rogue proudly displayed his mystical egg, a handsome object of smooth gold the size of a child’s head. I had to take for granted the residence within of the holy serpent. Eschmoun, too, tried to bribe me, and again I ignored the attempt, while leaving the impression that I might be back sometime. His occult knowledge clearly extended only to his confidence spiel, and fleecing wealthy, gullible ladies is far down on my list of intolerable offenses.
It was another long walk to the dwelling of Ariston, and I stopped on the way for lunch and a brief rest. I was loosening up, and walking had become moderately tolerable. Passing through the Forum, I saw Milo returning from his morning court. I asked him if anything had been heard from our eccentric tribune.
“Not a word or a sighting since the curse,” he informed me. “He has a gang surrounding his house, but no petitioners have been able to get through to see him.”
“Then he can be impeached,” I said.
“If someone is willing to bring charges. And if he can be located. The house may be empty. The populares are concerned for the institution of the tribuneship. If he’s disappeared, they may be pretending to protect him from assault to prevent a wider scandal.”
“I suppose it’s too much to hope that the bugger’s hanged himself.”
“He didn’t strike me as so obliging a man.”
So I continued on my walk, all the way to the Esquiline Gate and out of the City. This was one of the most undesirable districts of Roman territory, where the poor were buried. Besides the depressing clay tombs of the poor, a part of the district included the notorious “putrid pits,” where the poorest of the poor, the unclaimed slaves, and foreigners and dead animals unfit for salvage were thrown into lime pits. In the hot days of summer, the wind blowing from that quarter carried an utterly appalling stench. It was none too fragrant in winter, for that matter.
In more recent years, Macaenas has covered over these pits and replaced them with his beautiful gardens. For this civic improvement I can almost forgive his being the First Citizen’s crony.
The learned Ariston actually lived in a house not far from these notorious pits. It was a two-story affair standing by itself, like a country villa, only much smaller. Its only plantings consisted of a small herb garden, and its only neighbors were some very modest tombs and a few small shrines.
At least his doorway and walls were devoid of magical images, I noted with some relief. My tolerance for supernatural paraphernalia has never been high. The slave who answered my knock at this unadorned portal was a middle-aged man. When I announced my name and mission, he ushered me inside, where an undistinguished woman his own age was sweeping. Ariston didn’t seem to share Elagabal’s taste for attractive, docile young serving women. Stoic, probably. Minutes later a man entered the atrium.
“Yes, what may I do for you?” No extravagant signs of welcome or offers of hospitality, just this rather abrupt greeting. The man had a tangled, gray beard with matching hair, and he wore Greek clothing. I took this for an affectation. Cumae was once a Greek colony, but it had been a Roman possession for two hundred years.
“You are Ariston of Cumae?” I asked.
“As it happens, yes. Aside from being a senator, what distinguishes you from the rest of the citizenry?” Obviously, this fellow was going to be difficult. Maybe he was a Cynic rather than a Stoic.
“My commission, which is to investigate the curse delivered by the Tribune of the People Marcus Aemilius Capito. Living where you do, you might not have heard of the affair.”
“I’ve heard. I live here by choice; I’m not an exile on some island. Come along, then. I have to look at my garden.”
I followed the peculiar specimen back outside. “I rather thought you lived here because you were driven from the City three years ago by the aediles.”
“Nonsense. I’m a Roman citizen; I can live anywhere I like.” He stooped to examine a sickly looking plant.
“Then why here? Most don’t consider it a desirable district.”
He gestured toward the surrounding tombs and the pillars of smoke ascending from the lime pits. “The neighbors here are quiet and don’t bother me much. That way they don’t disturb my studies.”
“You’re sure it’s not because proximity gives you the opportunity to commune with the dead?”
He straightened and glared from beneath tangled brows. “Most of those interred here were ignorant fools whom death has improved in no way whatever. Why should I want to talk with them?”
“Report has it that necromancy and trafficking with the chthonians are your specialties,” I said, undeterred.