The Tribune's Curse(74)
“Why didn’t Ateius hesitate?” she shot back instantly.
“Why, he—” I paused, realizing that I hadn’t thought about this. When you assume someone to be mad, there is always a tendency to look no further for motive or intention, still less for signs of future plans. “I see what you’re getting at. Pompey said he intended to prosecute Ateius for perduellio and maiestas and sacrilege. Even if he was bluffing to cover his own complicity, someone else would have done it. There are at least a hundred senators with the legal expertise to bring those multiple charges against him. Any of them would have jumped at the chance.”
“And Ateius must have known it. Before he went up on that gate, he knew that death or exile would be his inevitable reward.”
“So he must have been planning for it. He knew that he would never be able to return to Rome. Julia, this gives me a great deal to think about.”
“It should,” she said complacently. “Think about this: for a Roman politician, what is the ultimate dread?”
“Exile,” I said. “Everyone dies, but to live in exile is unthinkable.” I shuddered at the thought. Even when I was away from Rome for years at a time, I always knew I would return. Everyone knew of the fate of the supporters of Marius, exiled twenty years before by Sulla and never allowed to return. They sought refuge with foreign rulers or joined rebellions like that of Sertorius. They lived on sufferance, always having to move on as Roman territory expanded, growing ever older. No wonder so many of them chose suicide instead.
“Ateius Capito,” Julia went on, “had been in public service, in one capacity or another, for most of his adult life, you say?”
“It’s a matter of public record, right over there.” I nodded toward the Tabularium, which was visible above the roofs of the Basilica Opimia and the Temple of Saturn, the three structures ascending rather like three uneven steps up the slope of the Capitol.
“So he toiled for fifteen years, serving in the legions and on the staffs of more important men. Finally, he achieved the tribuneship, a truly important office. With a successful tribuneship behind him, he was poised for high office, military command, and prestige. He gave it all up to put a curse on Crassus. Does this make sense to you, Decius?”
“Someone must have offered him a truly Titanic bribe!” I said.
“Which was not paid,” she said. “Instead, he was killed.”
“Well, naturally. I mean, would you reward a man that unscrupulous?”
“You need to find someone who could make such a bribe credible,” Julia said. “And you had better find him soon. Time is getting short.”
SHE DIDN’T HAVE TO REMIND ME of that, I thought that evening as I went to the Grain Office. Julia and I had gone home, and I had eaten dinner hastily, with little appetite. Then, accompanied by Hermes, I left the house to make my report before the streets got too dark to negotiate.
I found Pompey and Milo together, along with Clodius, Cato, and even the rex sacrorum.
“I do hope you have someone for us, Decius,” Pompey said grimly.
“I’ve made great progress,” I assured him.
“That means nothing!” Pompey said, slamming his palm on the table. “I need more than your ‘great progress’! I need someone to try, publicly, for the murder of that wretched tribune! I was not in a good mood to begin with, and this incredible mess in Egypt has made me even less tolerant of your prevarication!”
“And,” said Claudius, the rex sacrorum, “since it seems that this terribly delicate matter cannot be kept secret, I must know who gave him the Secret Name.”
“It seems you’ve taken on a large task, Decius,” Clodius said. He was getting immense satisfaction out of my discomfiture.
“Let’s hear what he has to say,” Milo put in.
“You see, it’s like this.” I launched into a carefully edited version of my findings. I didn’t think it would be terribly wise to mention that I strongly suspected Pompey himself. In fact, there were few men in the room whom I exempted from suspicion. Cato was too upright, and the rex sacrorum was too unworldly. I was always ready to suspect Clodius in connection with any villainy. Milo was my friend, but I knew all too well that he would balk at nothing in his ambition to control the City.
“This man Ariston—” Claudius put in, “you believe that he gave Ateius the Secret Name?”
“His behavior certainly warrants the suspicion. I would like very much to question him further. If even Cicero has consulted him on the ancient cult practices of Italy, then of all non-Romans he must be the most likely to know the Name.”