Within these two major groupings were many smaller factiones representing more limited interests. I had the feeling that I was in the midst of one of these.
“Perhaps you had better elucidate, Tribune,” I said. “It is true that I declined a loan from Crassus because I have no wish to become his lackey. I had no motive other than retaining my own political, not to mention economic, independence.” This was not precisely true, but I did not feel that I owed this odd tribune any more.
“Oh, I quite understand that,” he said. His tone said, on the contrary, that he knew a pack of lies when he heard one. “But you know that his proposed war is a disgrace.”
“And yet,” Silvius said in a well-rehearsed interruption, “the senator voted in favor of Crassus’s command.”
“As you all know perfectly well,” I said, “the Senate voted no war. Crassus is to take over the Syrian promagistracy from Aulus Gabinius. What he does with his soldiers once he’s there is up to him. It’s a disgrace that the government has so little control over how our generals employ their troops, but that is the constitution as we have received it. As usual, I voted with my family on this. The Senate only ratified the law passed by your fellow tribune, Caius Trebonius. Blame him.”
“Oh, I do, Senator, I do!” Ateius all but hissed, his fingers working reflexively as if on a dagger grip. Obviously, Ateius and Trebonius shared one of those Milo-Clodius relationships: each would happily drink the other’s blood.
“Senator,” Silvius said, “we must stop Crassus before he wrecks the Republic. Many, many Romans of all classes and all factiones agree with us in this. We have made it our business to appeal to all men of influence whom we know oppose Crassus to join us in this. We hope to number you as one among us.”
“Gentlemen,” I said, spreading my palms in an appeal to reason, “it is too late. There is nothing to be done. Whatever underhanded means were employed to secure him this command, the Senate and People have spoken. He has the backing of Caesar and Pompey. The Plebeian and Centuriate Assemblies have voted to pass the Trebonian Law, and the Senate has ratified it. The damage is done. There is no constitutional means to stop him.”
“Then,” Ateius said, his eyes glowing in a fashion not quite sane, “we may have to appeal to powers beyond the constitutional.”
“I beg your pardon?” I said. “Admittedly, I am just back from Gaul after a long absence, but surely I would have been informed if our government had been set aside by, say, a Dictatorship or invading Libyans.”
“I do not joke, Senator!” Ateius snapped. Clearly, here was a man of limited jocularity.
“Then what do you mean?”
“The Republic,” he began, “has for many centuries rested upon a tripartite foundation. First,” here he held up a knobby-knuckled finger, “there is the body politic—the Senate and People. Second,” he raised a finger no comelier beside the first, “there is the constitution—our body of laws and practices, rigid in place but always changeable after due deliberation. Third,” finger number three, somewhat shorter than the other two, and decorated by a ring in the form of a snake swallowing its tail, a tiny emerald for an eye, “the will of the gods.”
I tried to think of other factors, but came up with none. “I suppose that about sums it up.”
“As you just said, the possibilities of the first two have been exhausted short of violence. That leaves the third.” He seemed quite pleased with himself for a man who was making no sense.
“The gods? I am sure that in this matter, as in all others, they were consulted, the proper sacrifices were made, prayers were offered, the auguries were taken, and so forth. But we all know that it is quite rare for the Olympians to take a direct hand in the affairs of Rome. At most they send us signs that we ignore at our peril.”
“There are others,” he said, portentously. “There are gods less remote than the official gods of the State—gods willing to aid those who know how to call upon them.”
I felt a sudden chill. I had just come from a place where savage gods were called upon all the time and seemed more than eager to take part in the affairs of men—the bloodier the better.
“And you are one who knows how to bend these deities to your will?” I asked.
“I am,” he said, smugly.
I stood. “Tribune, you tread close to the edge of sorcery. There are laws against such practices—laws that carry with them terrible punishments. It is my firm belief that religion and trafficking with the supernatural should have no part in the conduct of State business, except for the sacrifices, festivals, and omen-taking sanctioned by the constitution, all of which are more than adequately defined by ancient law.”
“Don’t be a fool, Metellus!” he cried, dropping his geniality. “We are prepared to take the strongest measures to stop Crassus, and if you are not with us, we must regard you as an enemy.”
The rest looked a little shamefaced, as if they were embarrassed by their colleague’s excessive reaction. “There is no need for a breach between ourselves and the house of Metellus,” Silvius said, trying to smooth things over. “The senator is clearly an anti-Crassan—”
“Join us, Metellus,” Ateius said, “or suffer the consequences with the rest.”
“Am I to regard this as a threat?” I said coldly.
“It is a warning I offer in good faith as tribune and priest,” he said with the same lunatic certainty that characterized the rest of his drivel. Tribune and priest? The tribuneship carried no sacerdotal duties to my knowledge. Obviously, the man was mad. Of course, being crazy was no impediment to a successful political career. Look at Clodius.
“Then good day to you. I have kept you from the citizens too long.” I swept out with what I hoped was imposing dignity. Behind me I heard an agitated muttering, as of an overturned beehive.
It had been one of the oddest interviews I had experienced in a career full of oddities. That night I described the bizarre business to Julia.
“Don’t let it upset you,” she said, sleepily. “The man is insane, and he’ll be out of office in less than three months.”
“Still, I dislike having a tribune announce himself to be my enemy, and lunatic enemies can be the worst kind. They are unpredictable.”
“Out of office he’ll be harmless,” she insisted. “After that, your sane enemies will give you all the worries you need.”
She made sense, but I had a definite feeling that sense would play little part in this matter, and I was right. I did not sleep soundly that night.
4
AND SO THE GREAT DAY DAWNED. Since it was one of the most famous days in the long course of those agonizing years, it behooves me to describe it in some detail. All the more so because it has been described wrongly by many who were not there or who were there but had reasons of their own to falsify the events, and by no few who weren’t even born at the time.
Many, for instance, will tell you that it was a dark, gloomy day, with lowering clouds and ominous rumblings from the heavens, since this is supposed to be the sort of weather that accompanies dreadful events. Actually, it was a crisp, clear day in November. There was a bite to the breeze but the sun shone brightly. In truth, it was not the weather but the citizens who displayed every sign of depression. The streets were thronged as they were on all such occasions, and there was scarcely room in the Forum for a small dog to dart about between people’s feet.
It was from this crowd, not from the clouds, whence came the ominous rumblings. Ateius and Gallus and many others had whipped them into a near frenzy against the departure of Crassus. A riot was in the offing.
The Senate had assembled before dawn, and I was there, yawning and stamping my feet, trying to get warm. Things were better when the sun rose to display the senators in their full majesty, struggling hard not to look as cold as the citizenry. Working at this hardest of all was Marcus Porcius Cato, dressed as he was in his hideous, old-fashioned toga. This garment was of the antiquated, rectangular variety, which does not drape as gra
cefully as the conventional, semicircular type. It was so dingy that he looked like a man in mourning, and he did not wear a tunic beneath it, since the ancestors he worshiped had seen no need for more than a single garment. He was barefoot since those ancestors considered shoes or sandals likewise effete. Or so Cato thought and communicated at great length.
Every senator living in or near Rome and capable of rising from his bed was in Rome that morning. Marcus Licinius Crassus Dives was stepping down from his consulship, taking up his proconsular imperium, and departing for Syria. Everyone wanted to see whether he’d make it to the City gate alive. There was considerable doubt concerning the likelihood of this. His army was far away, and he had few friends in Rome. He had secured his elections through intimidation and bribery, and supporters secured by such means are not likely to come to one’s aid when blood and teeth and random bits of flesh are being scattered in the streets.
As always happens on such occasions, the City buzzed with omens: a two-headed calf had been born in Campania, Aetna had erupted again, blood fell from the sky upon the patch of ground before the Temple of Bellona that is designated enemy territory, and so forth—all the usual bad omens. My favorite that morning was the reported sighting of an eagle that flew backward through the Temple of Janus, in the back door and out the front. It is so rarely that one hears of a truly original omen. It occurred to me to wonder how anyone knew which door was which, since the god faces both ways.
More disturbing were the accurate reports from the temples, where the sacrifices had been almost uniformly disastrous. Sacrificial animals had struggled; the priest’s assistant had needed more than a single blow of the hammer to stun them; unclean animals had intruded; or priests had stumbled over the ancient formulae. In front of the Temple of Jupiter Stator, an Etruscan haruspex, upon examining the liver of the sacrificed bull, had fled in horror. It is my own tendency to flee in horror from any liver, but haruspices are expected to be made of sterner stuff. Even as we waited at the base of the Capitol, Crassus was atop it sacrificing to Capitoline Jupiter.
My fellow senators were crowded onto the steps of the Temple of Saturn, and all around us were the members of the various priestly colleges wearing their insignia. The Vestals stood on the steps of their temple, surrounded by a well-behaved crowd made up mostly of women.
There were senators present who rarely came into the City twice in a year. I saw Quintus Hortensius Hortalus, my father’s old patron and colleague, who had retired to his country estate when his career in the courts was eclipsed by Cicero’s. He was deep in conversation with Marcus Philippus, one of the previous year’s consuls. I knew exactly what they were talking about: fishponds. Since the death of Lucullus the year before, Hortensius and Philippus had been unrivalled for the extravagance and magnificence of their fishponds, which contained both salt and fresh water, were the size of small lakes, and were surrounded by colonnades and porticoes, and whose every last mullet and lamprey they seemed to know by name. I suppose every man needs a hobby.
Cicero himself was there, back from exile but not really safe in the City. That morning, however, all the malice in Rome was directed elsewhere.
I thrust my way through the press to Cato’s side. “The betting is five to three that he doesn’t make it alive past the Golden Milestone,” I said. “It’s ten to one and climbing that he doesn’t get to the City gate on his feet.”
“I loathe the man,” Cato said with some degree of understatement, “but a Roman magistrate should be allowed to depart for his province without interference.”
“They just shouldn’t be allowed to take office, eh?” I said, studying the fine new scar on his forehead. In the elections of the year before, he had tried to stop Pompey and Crassus from standing for consul. In the subsequent riot he had been badly injured.
“It was Crassus’s hired thugs who started the brawl,” Cato said, stiffly.
“I’m sorry I missed it.” I sighed.
“You’d have been in your element.” He looked uphill. “Here they come.”
A hush fell over the great mob as the procession made its way down the steeply sloping Capitoline Street. First came two files of lictors, twelve in each file. One file, Pompey’s, wore togas. The lictors of Crassus wore red tunics cinched with broad, black leather belts studded with bronze—field dress for lictors accompanying a promagistrate in his province. Behind them strode the consuls.
“Pompey is with him,” Cato said, relieved. “He may make it to the gate yet.”
It was a splendid gesture on Pompey’s part. He had set aside his personal animosity to see his colleague safely out of Rome. Pompey was still an immensely popular man, and his presence just might avert violence. Close behind Pompey, I saw an enormous man who had a mustache in the Gallic fashion. He wore a toga the size of a ship’s sail, so I knew he was a citizen. I had never before seen a Roman citizen wearing a mustache.
“Who’s the hairy-lipped giant?” I asked.
“Lucius Cornelius Balbus,” Cato said. “He’s a close friend of Pompey and Caesar. He soldiered under Pompey against Sertorius. Pompey gave him citizenship as a reward for heroism.” Of course, I had heard the name, and Caesar had spoken to me of him often, but this was the first look I’d had of him. He was from Gades, in Spain. The people around there are a mixture of Carthaginian and Greek and Gallic, with the latter predominating and probably accounting for his lip adornment.
The year’s praetors walked behind the consuls, and I saw Milo and Metellus Scipio and a few others I knew. One of the Censors, Messala Niger, was with them, but his colleague, Servilius Vatia Isauricus, was not. Vatia was very elderly and probably had stayed home. I saw a man come from the crowd and fall in beside Milo. It was his brother-in-law, the almost equally handsome Faustus Sulla.
“Senators!” Cato called. “Let us fall in behind the serving officials. We must not allow the dignity of public office to be molested by an unruly mob.” Nicely put, I thought. Nothing to indicate support for Pompey or Crassus, whom everyone knew to be among his personal enemies. Cato stepped forth fearlessly, muttering out of the side of his mouth: “Decius, stay close to me. Allienus, Fonteius, Aurelius Strabo, and Aurelius Flaccus, come to the front.” He called for others, assembling all the Senate’s most notorious veteran street brawlers; there was no lack of such men in that august body. When a man like Milo could make it all the way to praetor, you can imagine what the back benches were like.
Slowly, we walked behind the men with the purple borders on their togas. There was still grumbling from the crowd, and Crassus made a show of ignoring it, but the presence of Pompey kept things from getting violent. I almost thought they were going to pull it off.
The first disturbance came before we were out of the Forum. As if by magic the crowd parted before the lictors, and there stood the tribunes Ateius and Gallus with their staffs ranged behind them. Ateius raised a palm and cried out: “Marcus Licinius Crassus! As Tribune of the People, I forbid you to leave the City of Rome!”
“Stand aside, Tribune!” Pompey shouted in a parade-ground voice that cracked through the Forum like a stone from a catapult.
Ateius pointed at Crassus. “Arrest that man!” The tribunal assistants surged forward, but the lictors closed ranks. With a few brisk strokes of the fasces, Silvius and his companions were laid out on the pavement. People cheered this rare entertainment.
Abruptly, another man rushed at Ateius. “Let our consul proceed, idiot!” he cried, even as he punched Ateius in the mouth.
“This man has laid violent hands upon a tribune!” Ateius screamed. “This is sacrilege!”
“Trebonius is a tribune, too,” Milo shouted. “Can’t do a thing about it. He’s sacrosanct.”
Purple in the face, growling like a dog, and bleeding slightly from the lip, Ateius whirled around and pushed his way into the mob. Shakily, his men got to their feet and hustled off after him.
The procession continued on its way. The little farce seemed to have put everyone in
a better mood. There were no cheers, but the threatening noises had subsided to a few rude shouts and derisive laughter aimed at Crassus.
“I think he’s going to make it to the gate,” someone said from behind me.
“I hope so,” I said fervently. “I’ve bet a hundred and fifty sesterces he’d get all the way out of the City.” The senators who had bet he wouldn’t even make it out of the Forum alive were already paying the winners, sour faced and with one more grudge against Crassus to add to the rest.
We marched all the long way to the ancient Capena Gate, which gave onto the Via Appia. Crassus was going to travel the Appia all the way to its end, in Brundisium. Thence he was going to sail to Syria, so eager was he to get there fast. A man who would set sail in November was capable of any folly.
Ateius was waiting for him upon the city wall atop the gate.
“What’s that fool up to?” Cato said, as mystified as the rest of us. The procession and the whole following crowd, as well as the multitude that had been waiting by the gate all morning, stood goggling at this unwonted spectacle.
Ateius was transformed. Not only did he stand in this rather unorthodox spot, but he had discarded his toga for a bizarre robe striped red, black, and purple, bordered with Greek fretwork in gold thread, and spangled with embroidered stars, scorpions, serpents, and other symbols, many of them unfamiliar to me. The left side of his face was painted red like that of a triumphator, the right side painted white. On his head was a close-fitting cap covered with what looked like a multitude of tiny bones. Before him a fire burned in a bronze bowl mounted on a tripod. The flames were an ugly green.
SPQR VII: The Tribune's Curse Page 6
