The sun rose, the day grew warmer, and we headed back toward the City proper. Halfway across the bridge I sat on the coping and began to think. “What do we know about Curio?” I mused.
“He was a politician like a hundred others,” Hermes said. “He was rowdier than most, good with crowds, and an extremely popular tribune of the plebs. For a little while he was more popular than Caesar or Pompey, but that’s common with tribunes. While they’re in office the people love them for their public works and the laws they whip up enthusiasm for. Usually their popularity fades as soon as they step down from office.”
“That’s how I remember him. His father was Caesar’s deadly enemy, a strong supporter of Pompey and the aristocratic faction. For a while it looked like the younger Curio would follow the same path.”
“But he ran up huge debts endearing himself to the voters,” Hermes said. “Not unlike others.” He grinned when he saw me wince. “But worse than most. Rumor had it that he was more than two and a half million denarii out of purse.”
“So what made him come over to Caesar’s side? I remember that Caesar covered his debts, which was no small thing, but he trumped up some sort of charge to desert the optimates and join the populares.”
“Maybe you should ask Sallustius.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to be any more obligated to him than I am already. Besides, it may be nothing. The man’s been dead for a couple of years now, fighting King Juba in Africa.”
“Old Juba,” Hermes mused. “There was bad blood between him and Caesar, so I guess it was his way of getting revenge. What was his grudge? Didn’t Caesar insult him publicly?”
I chuckled at the memory. “He certainly did. It was just before Caesar left for Spain. He was representing a client of his, a Numidian nobleman, in a case before the praetor peregrinus. The old king, Heimpsal, claimed this noble as a tributary, and the man disputed it and went to Caesar for aid. Heimpsal sent young Prince Juba to represent his side of the case. Caesar got a bit carried away in his defense and he grabbed Juba by the beard and dragged him all over the court.” I couldn’t help but laugh. “Of course the court found in favor of the king after such a display, but Caesar smuggled his client out to Spain with him.”
“We’re used to rough-and-tumble in our courts,” Hermes noted, “but that sort of thing is a mortal insult to royalty.”
“Well, Caesar was young then, but it’s no wonder Juba was just waiting to do him a bad turn. He went over to the aristocrats as soon as they set up shop in Africa.”
“So a few days ago wasn’t the first time Caesar roughed up a foreign representative publicly.”
I thought about that. “It was different. Caesar was a young politician on the make, not dictator of Rome. Juba was just another prince. We’ve never made much over foreign princes, since their fathers breed so many of them and nobody gets royal honors in Rome. Archelaus is an ambassador, and we always observe the diplomatic niceties. Usually, anyway.” I thought about it for a moment. “At any rate, Juba is dead.”
“How did that happen?” Hermes wanted to know.
I had to think about it. Those were eventful years, packed with incident. There were powerful personalities and men had died in peculiar ways.
“Curio was victorious at first. He was a brilliant man, and he had a flair for military affairs as well as for politics, but he and his army were ambushed by one of Juba’s generals. Curio decided to die fighting rather than surrender. When Caesar showed up in Africa, Juba went to join Publius Scipio, but Scipio was defeated and Juba fled with Petreius. When their defeat was inevitable, they decided to fight in single combat. That way the loser would have an honorable death and the winner could commit suicide to avoid capture by Caesar. Petreius won and promptly killed himself.”
Hermes shook his head. “I’ll never understand nobles and royalty.”
“Personally, I’d have surrendered as soon as I knew Caesar was anywhere near. That’s probably why I’ll never be entrusted with command of an army.”
“Well, the day is young. What next?”
“I hate this,” I said.
“Hate what?”
“All this scurrying about, cornering people and asking questions, while all the time the killer or killers go calmly about their business, killing and torturing people as if I didn’t worry them at all. As if I didn’t even exist.”
“It’s probably just as well,” he said. “If they were worried about you they’d probably kill you, too.”