I thought I saw where this was leading. “Has anything been heard from Ateius?”
Father shook his head. “No, the villain’s vanished. It’s at times like this that we need a Dictator. The evil demagogue should be impaled on a hook and dragged down the Tiber steps. As it is, we’ll have to wait until he’s out of office, and then the best we can do is exile him.”
“I suppose they’ll want me to find him. As far as I know, he can be interrogated before a pontifical court, tribune or not. They have no imperium, but they can make it impossible for him ever to show his ugly face in Rome again. That’s not too far from being a death sentence.”
Again Father shook his head. “I don’t think it’s that. They wouldn’t tell me, of course, but I think it is something far more serious than that.”
I began to get an uncomfortable sensation, the sort I had often felt just before the Gauls attacked. “More serious? What could be more serious than-”
“I don’t know, and I won’t speculate,” Father said. “Just meet with them. They’ll tell you.”
I sank back in my chair, groaning. “I hope they don’t want to meet too soon.”
“No, you’ll have plenty of time to recuperate,” he assured me. “Be at the Temple of Vesta at dawn.”
“Dawn!” I shouted, appalled. “By morning I’ll be unable to move! I’ll be lucky if I can get out of bed three days from now!”
“Nonsense,” he said, standing. “A few hours of sleep will set you up; no man needs more than that. Be there. Good evening to you.” With that he swept out in a cloud of gravitas.
“What am I going to do?” I moaned, covering my face with my hands.
“If I may make a suggestion,” Julia said, “you’d better get to bed right now.”
The first, gray light of dawn found me on the steps of the beautiful little temple. True to their duty, Julia and my household staff had accomplished the formidable task of getting me out of bed and out the front gate while it was still dark. In the neighborhood Julia had found a masseur to loosen my limbs and a barber to make me presentable, and between poundings and scrapings Cassandra had forced me to down honeyed milk, fruit, and bread. With Hermes dogging my steps lest I collapse, the long walk to the Forum completed my awakening process so that, by the time I reached the temple, I was actually feeling rather human.
Metellus Scipio was there, along with the Censors, both of whom were pontifices. Soon we were joined by the Flamen Quirinalis, a kinsman of my wife’s named Sextus Julius Caesar, and the rex sacrorum. Cornelius Lentulus Niger, the Flamen Martialis, arrived, and we stood there uneasily for a while, no one wanting to breach the subject of the day. The flamines wore their robes of office and their peculiar headgear: the close-fitting white cap topped with a short spike of olive wood. Passersby on early errands blinked to see such an assemblage at that hour.
A young Vestal came to the doorway of the temple. “The virgo maxima requests that you come inside,” she said. With that we passed within. The most powerful, arrogant men in Rome would never enter this particular temple without invitation.
The small, circular temple was one of the least pretentious in the central part of the City, but it was the most revered by the citizenry, who held it in greater affection than the Temple of Capitoline Jupiter. Its proportions were perfect, and it was built of white marble, inside and out, every inch of it scrubbed to an immaculate gleam. Citizens rarely saw the interior, except during the Vestalia in June, when mothers of families brought food offerings. For the rest of us, it was enough just to know it was there.
We found the virgo maxima seated by the fire, which was tended day and night by the Vestals. It was the hearth and center and in many ways the most sacred spot in Rome. There were a number of chairs placed in the sanctuary, and at her gesture we sat.
“After the hideous events of two days ago,” she began, “the rex sacrorum and I conferred, and we determined that this would be the best place to hold our meeting. It is as holy a place as Rome affords. Rex sacrorum, please begin.”
“Some of you,” said Claudius, “already know what I am about to impart. Others are not yet aware of how serious a sacrilege was committed.”
This sounded bad.
“When the unspeakable tribune Ateius Capito pronounced his execration,” Claudius went on, “he departed from the forms generally used in such cases. All were struck by the extreme obscurity of some of the deities upon whom he called. Most of them have not been recognized in Rome since the days of the kings, when the Etruscan influence was very strong in our territory. Others are wholly foreign. But in the midst of them he spoke a name that it is forbidden to pronounce, that is supposed to be known only to a handful of the most deeply consecrated sacerdotes of Rome. He spoke-” at this the rex sacrorum trembled, and his throat closed up.
My aunt leaned forward, and in a voice that was firm yet tense with emotion, she said: “That monster spoke, aloud and for all to hear, the Secret Name of Rome!”
Metellus Scipio gasped loudly and gripped the front of his robe in palsied fists. I thought that Servilius Vatia, the ancient Censor, would drop dead on the spot. His colleague, Messala Niger, was not taken by surprise, and neither was Sextus Caesar.
As for me, I was as shocked as anyone, although I was too sore for any extravagant demonstrations. The Secret, or Hidden, Name of Rome was an ancient and incredibly potent talisman. Legend had it that Romulus himself, when he marked out the pomerium with his plow drawn by a white cow and bull, gave his City this name, which was to be used only during specific rituals. Publicly, it was to be known by a variant of his own name-Rome. Names, as all men know, have power. To know the true name of a thing gives one power over that thing. At least, the superstitious believe this. I am not personally superstitious. Nonetheless, I was trembling like a dog caught in a Gallic rainstorm.
“The incident may not be as catastrophic as it seemed at first,” the rex sacrorum assured us, having regained his composure. “He spoke in a number of old, ritual languages. To almost all who heard, that name was just one more word in a great flood of gibberish, and all but impossible to remember. At least, so we must hope. With the Secret Name of Rome at his disposal, a foreign enemy would have Rome at his mercy.”
“In accordance with practice laid down at the very founding of the Republic,” said the virgo maxima, “only six persons are to know that Name, and each is to pass it on only to his successor. These are the three major flamines-” she nodded toward Messala and Vatia, “of whom the martialis and the quirinalis are here with us. Rome has lacked a dialis for far too long. The other three are the rex sacrorum, the virgo maxima, and the Pontifex Maximus.”
“How,” said Scipio, “did a wretch like Ateius Capito learn this name?”
“We would very much like to find that out,” said Claudius. “In fact, it is for this reason that we summoned your kinsman, Decius Caecilius.”
I was afraid of that. “Ah, I expect you want me to locate Ateius. That should not be difficult, but he may have fled-”
“While it may be desirable to find Ateius,” said Claudius, “we are far more interested in learning who imparted to him the Secret Name.”
“I see,” I said, trying to think of a way out of this. “It is likely that the only way I can find that out is by interrogating Ateius himself, a man who may not be arrested for nearly two months. And I hope you will forgive me for suggesting it, but the list of likely suspects is rather limited.”
“You mean it was probably someone in this room,” said Claudius. “If so, we must know. Caesar is of course in Gaul. But,” he spread his hands, “I think there may be other possibilities. The lands of Latium, Etruria, Samnium, and Magna Graecia and all the rest of Italy and Sicily are full of ancient cults and priesthoods of an antiquity comparable to our own. It is not impossible that some cult, or some family of sorcerers, at some time in the past learned the Secret Name and have kept it as a weapon against need.”
“That is, indeed, a possibility,
” I admitted. “However, such cults are, by their very nature, rather secretive, and it might be quite difficult to-”
“Nephew,” my aunt interrupted briskly, “we are not asking if you can find time in your busy schedule to assist us in this matter. We are telling you to drop all lesser things and find this offender. It must be done at once!”
“Exactly,” said Claudius.
“Lesser things to include the upcoming election?” I said.
“Don’t worry, Decius,” said Scipio. “You are one of what the citizens are already referring to as the Twenty. You’ll be a hero for weeks to come, until they find someone else to idolize. You couldn’t lose if you set fire to the Temple of Castor and Pollux.”
No way out. Oh, well. “How much of this may I divulge in the course of my investigation?” I asked. “That is to say: who knows about Ateius using the Secret Name, and whom may I inform of this?”
“The members of the Pontifical College who were not summoned to this meeting may be told,” Claudius said. “Beyond those, we do not wish anyone to know that this catastrophe has befallen us.”
“That could hamper my investigation,” I protested. “Should I need the aid of a praetor, for instance-”
“You are not to spread this about,” said Messala. “As Censor I forbid it. The mere rumor of this would be sufficient to panic the citizens, to encourage Rome’s enemies, to bring about chaos. We are engaged in wars at the fringes of the world, but our hold on the peninsula of Italy is not so secure that we can afford to ignore unrest in nearby territories. Most of us remember the Samnite army camped outside the Colline Gate just twenty-seven years ago. The Umbrians, the Lucanians, even the contemptible Bruttians bide their time, watching for some great disaster to befall Rome and planning to seize upon this to rise in arms once more. None of these peoples are extinct. No, Decius, you must not give these people encouragement.”
I didn’t think much of this line of reasoning, but I was far too lowly to rebuke a Censor, especially in company as exalted as I found myself in that morning.
“You must not waste any time,” Claudius said. “I shudder at the thought of what our foreign enemies might do with the Secret Name.”
“And when I find this excessively knowledgeable person?” I asked.
“He must not be allowed to live, of course,” said Vatia.
“I can’t just kill him!” I protested. “I’m an investigator, not an executioner. The man may be a citizen, and the laws are quite specific concerning who gets to kill citizens. He will have to be tried in a praetor’s court.”
“A trial would be bad,” Claudius said. “Not only would Rome’s honor be besmirched, but the Secret Name might be uttered. No, this will have to be settled in some other fashion.”
They were talking as if sacerdotal courts still had power of life and death, as they had many centuries ago. Yet, with the exception of the virgo maxima and the rex sacrorum, all of them were Roman politicians of many years’ experience in the Senate, the Assemblies, the courts, and the army. They were certainly not naive. They were playing some deeper game of their own, either collectively or individually. Just my luck.
“To whom do I report?” I asked, knowing I would not be able to weasel out here. I would just have to weasel out somewhere else.
“It would be best if you were to report to the Censors,” Claudius said. “The virgo maxima and I are not always approachable. The Censors are men of the highest honor, and one of them is the Flamen Martialis. They will in turn report to the rest of us.”
Now for the big question. “Has Pompey been told? And if not, is he to be told?”
“The consul,” my aunt said, “although we esteem and honor him most highly, is an initiate of no priestly order save that of the augurs. He is neither pontifex nor flamen. He is aware that this extraordinary meeting has been called, but he very wisely did not seek to learn the reason for it.”
There was no love lost between my aunt and Pompey. She was a younger sister of Metellus Pius, who spent years putting down the rebellion of Sertorius in Spain. Pompey, in his usual fashion, mopped up the shattered remnants of the rebel army and then claimed sole credit for winning the war, robbing her brother of his rightful glory.
Claudius stood and bowed toward the virgo maxima. “Honored Lady, most of us have duties to perform. The morning sacrifices will begin soon.” Then he turned to me. “You have been charged with your sacred duty. When you have information, report at once to the Censors. If it should be necessary that we all meet again, you shall be informed. I dismiss this meeting.”
Hermes read my expression as I walked down the temple steps.
“Bad?” he asked.
“Hermes, kiss the easy times good-bye. We have work to do.”
6
Of course, I told Julia all about it immediately. We hadn’t been married long, but I had already learned the futility of keeping anything secret from her. We sat in the small garden, and I sent the slaves away, out of earshot, for whatever good that might do. Julia looked somewhat aghast when I told her about the compromising of the Secret Name, but she quickly recovered her patrician aplomb.
“I think it’s very wise of you to tell me this, Decius, even though you were expressly forbidden to do so by such high authority.”
“Of course it’s wise to tell you, my dearest, but I don’t think the matter will remain secret for long, in any case.”
“Why not?”
“Except for my aunt and Claudius, every man there this morning was a senator. There is no way such men will keep a juicy bit of political gossip like that quiet, not if they see the slightest chance of using it to their own political advantage.”
“You have a low opinion of the Senate.”
“I am a senator. I rest my case, my little white Falernian heifer.”
“The mantle of Cynicism sits ill on your shoulders,” she said. “Cynicism is Greek, and you are always saying that you detest Greek philosophy.”
“Even a Greek may be correct once in a while, my little jug of vintage garum.”
“And stop devising ridiculous endearments!” she snapped.
“It’s just a sign that I’m deep in thought. This is by far the strangest investigation I have ever been handed. I’m not sure even where to begin. I would like to go and lean on Ateius Capito. His invulnerability is a legal fiction, but the supporters of tribunes can be extremely violent these days.”
“Will the people support him after what he did?”
“Yes, they will. The shock is over, and he will be out of office soon, anyway. The Assemblies have spent the last twenty years fighting tooth and nail to restore the tribunician powers stripped away by Sulla. They’ll rally even to this fool if they see a threat to the institution.”
“Do you think he is in hiding?”
“I don’t know. Supposedly, if he does not keep himself accessible to the plebs, he forfeits his office. But who pays all that much attention to the laws anymore? My guess is, he’s hiding right at home, behind a heavy bodyguard.”
“Leave him alone, then. Milo’s thugs might force you a way in, but a street riot is no way to conduct an investigation.”
“I did not contemplate such a thing. No, I’ll have to be more decorous. I need to find someone not connected with the Senate, who is knowledgeable concerning the old religions, the mystery cults, that sort of thing.”
“A rather large subject,” she said, “but you probably needn’t concern yourself with the Eastern sort, the slave cults, and other such nonsense. I’ll make inquiries among my friends. Some of them are dreadfully superstitious. They trade the names of their magicians the way they do those of their jewelers or their perfumers. What will you do?”
“I’ll look into the records of the aedile’s office, to begin with. They have the task of expelling magicians from the City. I won’t waste much time with it. I suspect that the bulk of them are nothing but mountebanks, and that goes for the ones your lady friends frequent as well.”
“I knew being married to you was going to come in handy.”
“Something else strikes me,” she mused. “Crassus himself is a pontifex. Do you think he had any idea of what was being used to curse him?”
I thought back over the scene at the gate. “I don’t think so. If he had, he probably would have turned right around and gone home. Surely even his lust for loot has limits.”
“So one would think.”
Soon I was back in the Forum, but this time I wasn’t wearing my candidus. Instead, dressed as an ordinary citizen, I went to the end of the Forum where the men standing for the office of quaestor were lounging about, cadging votes. Among them was Faustus Sulla, looking uncomfortable the way an aristocrat always does when he has to go about the low-bred process of vote-grubbing. Near him was the younger Marcus Crassus, who looked much more at home. He grinned engagingly when I walked up. We went through the usual, overdone public greeting.
“Taking the day off, Metellus?”
“Yes, but not willingly. Not much longer until the elections, anyway. Will you be joining your father in Syria to be his quaestor?” Like me, he was almost certain of election. Nobody could outbribe a Crassus.
“No, I’ll be with Caesar in Gaul. My brother Publius will be leaving Caesar’s army early next year to take some Gallic cavalry to Father’s war with Parthia.”
“Lucky you. I spent my year in the Treasury.”
“Safe but unprofitable,” he said. “I hear Caesar’s doing rather well.” In peacetime a general’s quaestor was little more than a paymaster, but in a great war he could get rich. Besides disbursing pay for the troops, he let contracts to businessmen supplying and serving the army, divided and accounted for the loot, and sold prisoners to the slave traders who followed the army like a bad smell. A bit of every transaction could stick to his fingers, and I had no doubt that the younger Marcus Crassus had been an apt student of the elder.
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