I followed the lictor to the temporary Grain Office established in the Temple of Concord. Here Pompey and his staff had their headquarters, and from here he amended and controlled the grain supply of Rome and all its possessions. We passed through a foyer where slaves, freedmen, and their supervisors went over the heaps of documents that arrived daily by special courier. These were sorted, reduced to manageable size, and reported to Pompey and his closest advisers. The messengers would be sent back out with orders for the many local Roman governors and purchasing agents all over the world. It was a formidably efficient organization.
We passed out onto a roofed terrace, and Pompey looked up from a broad, papyrus-strewn desk. “Ah, you found him. The rest of you, give us leave.” The other men filed out of the terrace like dismissed soldiers, and the two of us were alone.
“What progress, Senator?” Pompey asked. I told him what little I’d learned so far that day, and he shook his head in exasperation. “Whatever killed the wretch, I am sure it wasn’t some snaky-headed Greek harpy.”
“I believe the harpies are supposed to live above ground,” I said, “and while mischievous, are not so fearsome as the Friendly Ones. Prettier, too, if we’re to believe the paintings.”
“I know that. I am just not interested in tales to frighten children. I need somebody to throw to that mob before they get out of hand.” This was an uncommonly blunt statement, even for Pompey.
“I’ll have a name for you soon,” I said.
“Not unless you go easier on the wine.”
“It’s never interfered with my attention to duty,” I said, fuming. Bad enough to be summoned like a straying slave by this jumped-up soldier, but I had to listen to him berate me as well.
“Now, what about your other investigation?”
“Other investigation?” I said innocently.
“Yes,” he said impatiently, “the one that charges you to discover who betrayed the Secret Name of Rome.”
“Well, so much for the Pontifical College being able to keep a secret.”
“Are you serious? Three of the men at that meeting told me all about it within the hour.”
I told him of my investigation and whom I had interviewed so far. “It all seems rather far-fetched, and I suspect I am pursuing the wrong people altogether,” I said untruthfully. Actually, I was very sure that I was close to something, but I felt no need to tell him anything prematurely.
“Most likely. Syrian mountebanks! Cumaean scholars! Forget about them. Find me some aristocrat who’s plotting against Crassus, and most likely against me and probably against Caesar, too. I know the Senate’s packed with them, and your family is not backward in that regard.”
“When my family has opposed you, Cnaeus Pompeius, we have never plotted behind your back. We have spoken out in public.” Doubtless the wine made my tongue a little freer than it should have been.
He reddened, but quickly regained composure. “So you have. Well, not everyone in the august body is so courageous, and no few members proclaim themselves my friends but plot my ruin and that of my colleagues. I suspect it was one or more of them who put Ateius up to it, and who probably got rid of him immediately afterward.”
Like most men who rise to great power over the bodies of other men, Pompey saw plots and conspiracies everywhere. Of course, when you behave as he and Caesar and Crassus had, you create plots and conspiracies against yourself.
“I can’t say whether this was aimed at you personally,” I told him, “but I suspect you may be right in thinking he was eliminated by his confederates rather than by an enemy. I spoke with the man only once, but he struck me as unstable, not somebody a conspirator would want to keep around once he’d been used.”
“And murdering a tribune got the whole City in hysterics, distracting everyone from the real business at hand, which was the curse itself.”
“Very true,” I admitted. This interview might not be so unproductive after all.
“Well, get back to it. Let me know the instant you’ve found out something substantive.” He returned his attention to the papers on his desk. I resisted the urge to salute and whirl on my heel like a dismissed soldier. Instead, I strolled out, wondering if Pompey had been sharing his own musings, or if he had been sowing confusion for reasons of his own. Since I was disinclined to think any good of Pompey, I was biased toward the latter possibility.
As I went out onto the temple steps, something that had been tickling the back of my mind without result suddenly came up for my inspection. Ateius’s body had been found on the Tuscan side of the river. Why there? He was wrapped in that strange robe, but he hadn’t been seen since delivering his curse. Had he really fled all the way from the Capena Gate to the river and across one of the bridges without being seen while wearing that eye-catching outfit in broad daylight?