Then there was the curse, more specifically the Secret Name of Rome. Was Ateius murdered to protect the identity of the person who had divulged that name? This looked more promising. Also, it suggested a conspiracy. One thing I knew from long experience: it is easier to hide an elephant under the bed than it is to hide a conspiracy in Rome, especially one that involves not only important men, but foreigners like the sorcerers I had interviewed. Sometimes, it seems as if conspirators are actually eager to talk, if you can just give them an excuse.
I was beginning to get impatient with Bacchus when he tapped me with one of those inspirations: I had been concentrating on the cursed man and the murdered man, but suppose these were just minor casualties of an attack aimed at Rome itself? This seemed promising and got my patriotic, republican feathers ruffled. After all, the indignation over the curse was not because of its assault on Crassus, whom nobody liked, but because it endangered Rome. Orodes again? But the business of the curse seemed incredibly subtle for some long-sleeved, trousers-wearing barbarian tyrant. Unless, of course, he had the aid of a Roman traitor.
I realized that I was trying too hard to pin the blame on a foreign enemy. I did not want to believe that, once again, Romans were engaged in fratricidal, internal warfare. A will to believe or disbelieve something is the enemy of all rational thought.
Somehow, I knew that I was overlooking something. I was sure that there was a motivating factor that I was missing, as well as a unifying center, a sort of double nexus at which all the tangled strands of this maddening business crossed. I slammed my cup on the table in frustration.
“Is something wrong, Senator?” asked a plump young serving woman.
“I am receiving insufficient inspiration,” I told her.
“I thought maybe it was because your jug’s empty.”
I looked into the lees swirling in the bottom of the jug. “So it is. Well, that’s easily rectified. Bring me another.”
She took the empty and returned with a full jug. “I can’t promise inspiration, but the wine’s good.”
It may be that I was walking a trifle unsteadily when I made my way back through the Forum. Even for the greatest gossiping spot in the world, it was in something of an uproar. Self-appointed public orators were haranguing knots of idlers from the bases of monuments; people were babbling away as if they were actually well informed about the affairs of the world; senators stood around on the court platforms and the steps of the great public buildings, arguing vehemently about one thing or another.
“Decius Caecilius!” It was Cato, standing in the portico of the Temple of Castor and Pollux. He was with Sallustius Crispus, the hairy oaf I’d met at the baths a few days before. Just what I needed. The man who had been one of my least favorite Romans for many years was friendly with my latest object of dislike. Oh, well. After shaking Clodius’s hand in public the night before, I could smile my way through this.
“Any progress on the investigation?” Cato asked. He smelled like a wine cask, but then so did I. For a moment I wondered which investigation he meant, then I realized he might not know about the first.
“Things are coming along nicely,” I lied. “I was looking for Milo to make my report.”
“Have you heard the rumor that’s sweeping the City?” Sallustius said. “People have reported seeing the Furies right here in Rome!” He grinned, apparently proud of his bravery in speaking the name right out loud. “They are described as having the heads of hags with snakes for hair and long fangs, vulture bodies, huge claws, and tails like serpents.”
“I always knew they’d look just like the pictures on Greek vases,” I said.
“Word has it they came to destroy Ateius Capito for his sacrilege,” Sallust said.
“Asklepiodes says he’s been dead at least two days,” I told them. “Why are they still hanging about?”
“What I want to know is how such a rumor got started,” Cato said in ill temper. “As if people weren’t enough on edge already.”
“I’m sure I have no idea,” I told him, my second lie in as many minutes.
A lictor came up the steps and stopped in front of me, unshouldering his fasces. “Senator, the consul Pompey wishes to speak with you. Please come with me.”
“I am summoned,” I said. “Will you gentlemen excuse me?”
“Do not let us detain you,” said Cato.
Perhaps I should explain our ironic tone. In these days of the First Citizen, subservience is the rule, but back then Roman senators resented being summoned like the lackeys of an Oriental despot. A consul had the right to convene a meeting of the Senate, but he had no power over individual members of that body. We all chafed at Pompey’s high-handed methods, which may have resulted from his ignorance of constitutional forms. Pompey was, as I have said, a political lummox.