Milo hauled the thing over to the edge of the pool, and I reached out for the golden glint. I managed to get the wire between my fingernails and slowly worked it loose from the tooth. When it came out, I saw that a tuft of purple-and-black threads was twisted into the end of the wire that had been in the animal’s mouth. With a surge of his whole body, Milo flung the great beast into the water, and it disappeared beneath the water with a lazy wave of its tail.
Lisas did not try to bluster as Milo climbed out and resumed his toga. “Let’s go back inside,” I said.
In the great audience room Lisas sat. “How may we resolve this?” he said wearily.
“My fat old friend,” I said sadly. “You had better speak swiftly and to our great satisfaction, if you value your life.”
“Oh,” he said, almost managing a smile, “I don’t value my life very highly these days.” He sighed deeply, almost buried his face in his hands, then stiffened his spine and sat upright. “But I must still serve my king. What would you have of me?”
“The men you hide in this villa,” Milo said, “Ateius and Silvius. They must go back with me to Rome to stand trial.”
“My friends,” Lisas said, “this is an embassy. By treaty, I am not bound to surrender anyone to you. This is Egypt.”
“Matters have moved beyond the stage of public embarrassment, Lisas,” I told him. “You have been in collusion with Ateius Capito for at least three years, from the time he agreed to become King Ptolemy’s agent in Rome.” Lisas said nothing, and I went on. “On behalf of Aemilius Scaurus, he approached Ptolemy for bribe money, found out just how much money Ptolemy had to spread around, and let it be known that he would be Ptolemy’s servant, for a price. What did Ptolemy buy him with? A villa near Alexandria? A big estate in the Delta with hundreds of peasants to work it for him?” Still, Lisas said nothing.
“There was one service Ptolemy needed more than any other. He wanted to prevent Crassus from getting the Syrian command. When Ptolemy was here in Rome, Crassus publicly humiliated him by coming up with that patently fake reading of the Sibylline Books. He knew that Crassus was greedy beyond all other Romans. Ptolemy could deal with Pompey; he could deal with Caesar. He could not and would not deal with Crassus.”
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.
Ateius whirled on Lisas. “You Egyptian pig!”
“Such language,” I said, “to address a man who has stood by you faithfully, until we brought pressure against his king.”
“You still may not touch me!” he shouted. “I am a Tribune of the People, and my person is inviolable by ancient law.”
“Ateius,” I said, “by the same ancient law that grants the Tribunes of the People their inviolability, they are forbidden to be absent from Rome for as long as a single day. You have forfeited your office and all its privileges.” I saw with some satisfaction the curtain of fear descend over him as the mad defiance left his eyes. “You were unlucky in the time of year,” I said. “In summer you could have ridden to the coast and caught a ship for Egypt. You were hiding out here until the sailing weather got better, weren’t you?” I shook my head. “You should have chanced it anyway.”
“Ateius,” Pompey said, “you are to have a rare experience. You are going to attend your own funeral tomorrow in my theater, where you will have a chance to explain to your assembled supporters why it is not you on the pyre, but some unfortunate slave who resembled you in size and build.” He signaled his lictors. “Take them away. Kee
p them under close watch. I want them alive tomorrow.”
The lictors dragged the two out, both of them too paralyzed by terror to use their own feet.
“Lisas,” Pompey said, “I will not lay hands upon you, but you are no longer welcome in Rome. Tell Ptolemy to send us another ambassador, one with a long list of favors Ptolemy is eager to perform for us.” With that, Pompey and his lictors swept out.
Milo looked at me. “Are you ready to go?”
“I’ll be along shortly.”
Milo left with his lictors. Lisas and I were alone, Lisas looking more like a corpse than a man.
“Lisas, you didn’t send those thugs to kill me, did you?”
He shook his head. “It was Silvius; he slipped out after we heard that you had been appointed iudex. No one was looking for Silvius at that time. You are too famous for your specialty. I rejoice that they failed.”
“Why the crocodile?”
He shrugged. “They came in that morning, and I concealed them as we had agreed. Ateius told me he intended to kill the slave and disfigure him so that the populace would think their tribune was murdered. This would make him safe and throw Rome into turmoil at the same time. I thought, I have been accused of throwing men to my crocodiles for so long, might it not be amusing to try it?”
“What will you do now?”
“I must go and compose a letter to my king.”
“Why not deliver your message personally?”
He shook his head. “It was such poor timing that you reached the climax of your investigation at the same time the news came from Alexandria. Pompey and the Senate might have been inclined to smooth things over otherwise. Now, as the intermediary, I must take the full blame for how things have fallen out. I am too old for that, and I am tired of life, anyway.”
“I shall miss you,” I said. He was a strange man, but I couldn’t help liking him.
“Leave me now. I hope the balance of your life will be prosperous.” He knew better than to hope it would be peaceful.
So I took my leave of Lisas. Word came to us later that he retired to his chambers, wrote out his letter to Ptolemy, and took poison.
The next day, Rome was treated to a rare spectacle. The surly crowd assembled for the funeral and riot; then Pompey appeared and exposed Ateius and Silvius to them and explained, with great sarcasm, how they had all been duped. Derisively, he put a torch to the pyre, giving the nameless slave a fine send-off. Then he led the whole mob back to the Forum, where a court was convened and the two men were condemned on all three counts. I gave a summary of my investigation, and Pompey addressed the jury. There was no need for rhetorical flourishes. As Cicero used to say, the facts spoke for themselves.
The men were taken up to the top of the Capitol and hurled from the Tarpeian Rock; then their shattered but still-living bodies were impaled on bronze hooks and dragged down to the Sublician Bridge, where they were cast into the river.
After these odd events Rome settled down like a man trying to wait out a bad hangover. A few weeks later I was elected aedile, and new scandals occupied the attentions of the people. The gods accepted their sacrifices again, and Rome, at least, seemed to be out from under the curse. Not Crassus, though.
For my part, I knew I was going to miss Lisas. He was an amusing companion, he served his king loyally, and he threw the best parties ever seen in Rome.
These things happened in the year 699 of the City of Rome, in the second consulship of Cnaeus Pompeius Magnus and Marcus Licinius Crassus Dives.
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The Tribune's curse s-7 Page 22
