The Tribune's Curse(82)
Still Lisas held his silence.
“But even the most heroic efforts of Ateius Capito and his confederates were in vain. However many votes he could buy with Ptolemy’s money, Crassus could buy more. If Ptolemy hadn’t had to pay Gabinius so much to put him back on the throne, maybe he could have managed it, but that was not to be. I must admit, though, that the curse was an amazingly clever device. It robbed Crassus of whatever Roman support he had left. And who knows? It might even be a perfectly good curse. If anything ever got the gods’ attention, that ceremony did.”
Lisas sighed deeply once more. “It seemed so fitting. Crassus thwarted His Majesty with a false reading of the prophetic books, and His Majesty revenged himself with the curse of a suborned tribune.”
“Was it Ateius’s idea?” Milo asked him.
Lisas nodded. “He was very enthusiastic about it. He had always wanted to produce a truly potent curse, and now he would have the—the resources to do it.”
“Because he knew that Ariston of Cumae was corruptible. He knew because Crassus himself had bought the man to advise him on his fraudulent reading of the Sibylline Books. With Ptolemy back in power in Alexandria, he had the money to buy a really unique curse from Ariston, one that contained the ultimate name of power.”
There was a commotion at the door, and twelve lictors came into the audience chamber. Behind them came Pompey.
“Cnaeus Pompeius Magnus, Consul of Rome,” Lisas said, wearily. “How you honor me.”
POMPEY LOOKED AT MILO AND me. We both nodded, and I held up the bit of gold wire with its colorful threads. He turned to Lisas. “Produce them, Egyptian.”
“This is Egyptian territory, Consul,” Lisas said. “Greatly as I esteem you, and the Senate and People of Rome, I must insist that the treaty obligations pertaining between our nations be observed.”
“Lisas,” Pompey said, “I have lost patience with King Ptolemy. Rome has lost patience. Do you know what I am going to do if you do not produce those men, Lisas? Now, I know you are familiar with the Temple of Bellona, out on the Campus Martius near my theater. The Senate always meets there to deal with foreign ambassadors.”
“I have been there many times, Consul,” Lisas affirmed.
“Excellent. Are you aware of the special priesthood called the fetiales? In the old days, they used to accompany the army to the enemy’s border and hurl a spear dedicated to Mars into enemy land to declare war before the gods. That was practical when our enemies were no more than a day or two from here, but now they are too far away. Instead, there is a patch of bare earth before the temple, with a column in the middle of it. That patch is designated enemy territory, and when we go to war, a fetial hurls a spear of Mars into it.”
“I am familiar with your custom,” Lisas said.
“Good. Because tomorrow I am going to go to the Temple of Bellona and declare that patch of land to be Egypt. A fetial will hurl a spear of Mars into it. I will demand that the Senate declare war on Egypt, and it will do it. The tribunes will get the Assemblies to vote me the command, and I will go collect Ptolemy’s head. After that I may put one of his children on the throne, or I may not. If I want to, I will make Decius Metellus here pharaoh. I will be able to do anything I feel like doing because I will be absolute master of Egypt. Do you understand me, Egyptian?” This last sentence was roared out in Pompey’s parade-ground voice, a phenomenon dangerous to any delicate objects in the vicinity.
Lisas wilted, the last defiance gone from him. He spoke to the majordomo, and the man beckoned to Milo’s lictors. They passed into the rear of the estate.
“That’s better,” Pompey said. “Perhaps something may still be worked out. Ptolemy has offended us greatly, both with the massacre of the Alexandrians and with this unprecedented tampering with the internal administration of Rome. But we are long accustomed to dealing with degenerate drunks, and forgiveness follows repentance. And reparations, of course.”
“I wish only to serve my king,” Lisas said.
Minutes later the lictors returned holding two men by the scruff of the neck. With the efficiency of long practice, they cast them down to sprawl on the polished, marble floor at our feet.
“You’ve furnished us with some extraordinary entertainment, Ateius Capito,” Pompey said. “What have you to say for yourself?”
Ateius struggled to his knees. Silvius remained prone, despairing. Ateius glared at us madly. “I say that I am in an embassy and may not be touched!”
“Lisas has seen fit to waive that ambassadorial privilege,” Pompey told him.