The Tribune's Curse(68)

The sibyls were Greek in origin—that I remembered. There used to be many of them; now only a few remained. They were somehow connected with Apollo, and were given to ecstatic utterance that sounded like gibberish to most people, but which, supposedly, could be interpreted by qualified priests as the will of the gods. The sayings of some of these sibyls had been written down in nine books that, somehow, made their way to Italy.

Legend had it that, during the reign of the last king of Rome, Tarquinius Superbus, the celebrated books were brought to Rome and offered to him for sale. He considered the price exorbitant and refused, whereupon the sibyl had burned the books one by one, each time offering him the remaining books at the same price. Tarquinius, as poor a businessman as he was a king, agreed when there were three books left. These he deposited in a vault below the temple, where they were consulted from time to time. They were popularly believed to contain prophecies of the whole future history of Rome.

I considered this to be among the silliest of all our ancient beliefs, but many believed in the books implicitly. It had been these books that Lisas had told me Crassus used as an excuse to prevent the Senate from sending Ptolemy back to Egypt with a Roman army to support him.

And who was the sibyl who had sold the books, on such favorable terms, to Tarquin the Proud? Why, Italy’s most famous prophetess, of course, the Sibyl of Cumae. I whirled and strode from the temple. I was bound for the burying fields east of the City and the house of that expert on all things mystical, Ariston of Cumae.



I KNEW BEFORE I REACHED THE door that I had arrived too late. There is something about a house in which nobody lives that makes it indefinably different from an inhabited place. I walked between the cypresses, oppressed by the smell of death that permeated the air of the whole district, wondering if I would find more death within the modest house. Out here no dogs barked; no chickens squawked or crowed; there were no friendly, familiar sounds.

For the sake of form I rapped on the door and waited a reasonable interval. Then I tugged on the door, and it opened easily.

“Ariston!” I called. Nothing. I went within. All was quiet, and the place showed signs of having been vacated hastily. The modest furnishings were still there, but these consisted of only a table or two and some crude beds—nothing worth carrying off on a journey.

I came to an upper room with a large window facing south. This was Ariston’s study, for it received the best reading light and it contained a cabinet with honeycomb cells that must have held Ariston’s books, but they were gone. Of course, he would not have left those. The kitchen contained no food, just a large water jar, half-full, and some melon rinds.

Ariston and his slaves had left without ceremony and in haste. Had he left in fear? And, if so, of whom was he afraid? Did he fear that I would return with more questions to discern his guilty secret? Or was he afraid of the same violence that had been visited upon his erstwhile student, Ateius Capito? I suspected that it was the latter. If so, I could scarcely blame him. Being caught up in the power games of the great Romans was like being trapped between the stones of a great mill.

I could find nothing of any interest within, so I went back outside, closing the door behind me. Another promising lead had been eliminated. There were not even any neighbors I could question. It would have been of some use to know whether he had started packing the moment I left his house, or when he got the news of Ateius’s death.

All the way back through the gate and into the City, I pondered this turn of events. Crassus, a pontifex and an augur, but not one of the Board of Fifteen charged with authority over the Sibylline Books, had taken it upon himself to consult them on the question of Rome supporting Ptolemy. To do so he would have needed some sort of interpreter, and who better to perform that service than the famous authority Ariston of Cumae, a man who hailed from the home of the sibyl herself?

So Crassus had suborned the interpretation he wanted from Ariston. There was the possibility that the Books really had said that we should not back Ptolemy with an army, but somehow I doubted it. Crassus had a way of getting what he wanted. Ariston had responded to bribery or threats. He lived simply in Rome, but for all I knew, he had been buying a fine estate for his retirement down in Cumae. Or perhaps he had just wanted to stay alive—a perfectly understandable motive. It was unlikely that I would learn anytime soon. I had neither time nor resources to scour Italy for a fleeing magician.

I turned my steps southward, wending my way toward the Via Sacra. There remained one site I had not yet visited in my double investigation.

The house of Ateius Capito was even more thronged than it had been on my previous visit. This time, instead of petitioners, the street outside was crowded with the sort of idlers who continually haunt the nightmares of those who must administer the City: the perpetual malcontents who seem to do no work, but are available at all hours to shout, argue, and riot. A couple of the remaining tribunes were there to keep them in a state of spirited outrage.