The Tribune's Curse (9 page)

Now he pointed at Crassus, using a wand wreathed with myrtle and tipped with what appeared to be an infant’s skull.

“Immortals! Marcus Licinius Crassus has ignored the many and profuse omens you have sent to make plain your displeasure with his impious expedition to make war against the will of the Senate and People!” All this he spoke in a hieratical chant, the sort of voice one is accustomed to hear priests using, for they must often recite formulae in language so antiquated that even the best scholars disagree on their exact meaning, and the only way to speak them intelligibly is to chant them rhythmically. Priests are so accustomed to this mode of speech that they use it even when reciting prayers in Latin or Greek. Now he raised hands and wand high, and he shouted in a voice louder than ever.

“I curse this man! I curse his expedition, and all who take part in it! I curse all who support it in Rome! In the name of all the gods I have invoked thus far, I invoke the most terrible execrations upon the head of Marcus Licinius Crassus!”

Every jaw of the multitude sagged with disbelief. Unconsciously, we covered our heads as if attending a sacrifice. Everywhere, people were pulling out protective amulets and making the ancient hand gestures to ward off evil. A geniune, priestly curse was a great rarity, usually invoked only against a foreign enemy or, very rarely, a Roman traitor. Curses were only performed by qualified priests and then only under rigidly prescribed safeguards to prevent the curse from rebounding upon the priest and anyone else standing nearby.

Thus far?
I thought. Who was left to invoke? I soon learned.

Ateius reached into a fold of his weird robe and took out
something that looked like a dried snake. This he cast into the flames, releasing a foul-smelling smoke. He drew forth a similarly dried human hand and cast it in. Herbs, roots, preserved animal and human parts went into the green flames. He snapped the wand in two and placed it on the flames. Then he drew a small, hook-bladed knife. With this he opened a vein on his forearm, and, as his blood dripped sizzling into the fire, he resumed his chant.

“Father Dis, Plutus of the Underworld, Eita, Charun of the Hammer, Tuchulcha, Orcus, and all the Manes and Lemures, summon to the enforcement of my curse all the unspeakable minions of your realm!” And now he got down to the real business of the day.

“Immortals! I invoke—” and here he spoke a name that was forbidden for any man below the priestly rank of
flamen
to pronounce, and even then only in the company of enrolled priests of the State. And then he spoke another. And another. These were unthinkably ancient, half-forgotten gods, most of them worshiped in Italy before the foundation of the City. Some were Etruscan gods, and Etruscans were the most powerful magicians outside of Egypt. Even now, all these many years later, the pen trembles in my hand as I think of that day. Well, my hand trembles these days anyway, but this is worse.

I heard him speak the name of a god I had thought was only known within my own family, one we called upon to communicate with our dead ancestors at special Caecilian rites, after the
paterfamilias
had performed all the protective and purificatory rites. I looked around me and saw every major priest of the State gone dead white. The
virgo maxima
had her hands clamped tightly over her ears, and all the Vestals behind her did the same. The other citizens stood with looks of stupefied terror. One rarely sees people who are both panic-stricken and absolutely still.

Ateius’s voice rose to an eerie, wailing shriek. At first the words were in one of the ancient, ritual languages that even Etruscans
no longer understand, but that are terrifying just to hear. Then, in Latin:

“I curse him forever, in life and in death! I curse his friends and followers! In the name of all the gods and demons I have invoked, I curse them all forever! Immortals, hear me!” With the last word, he kicked the brazier over, and it toppled from the top of the gate to the pavement, scattering flame and hot coals and foul-smelling substances indiscriminately. People drew back shrieking as clothes were set smoldering, and when we had wit to look up again, Ateius was gone. For a long time, nobody spoke.

At last Cato uncovered his head. “What a time for the
pontifex maximus
to be out of the City! He’s the only one with authority over this sort of thing.”

Cicero came up to us. “At least Caesar would be able to control this crowd,” he said. “They’re like stunned cattle now, but in a few moments they’ll come halfway to their senses, and there will be a riot such as we’ve never seen before! They are terrified!”

“There’s one they’ll listen to,” I said. “Wait here.”

I went over to the huddle of Vestals. The
virgo maxima
was an aged aunt of mine, and the most revered person in Rome. The priests and augurs were mostly politicians, and viewed as such except when conducting rituals, but the Vestals were the embodiment of Rome itself.

“Auntie, dear,” I said, “you had better speak to this crowd, or they will tear the City apart. Assure them that this curse will not fall upon them.”

“I can assure them of no such thing,” she said. “But I will do what I can.”

She strode to the center of the plaza, awesome, but serene, in her dazzling white robe. A jerky, spastic muttering had broken out among the crowd, but it stilled when she went to stand by the consuls.

“Romans!” she called out. “Our ancient and sacred City is
unclean. I forbid all work, all celebration, all activities save those for the maintenance of life. There will be no sacrifices, no funerals, no manumission of slaves, no courts, no official business of any sort.” She turned to Crassus. “Marcus Licinius Crassus, leave the City of Rome instantly, and bear your curse with you. Go forth to take up
imperium
over your province and accomplish whatever mischief is in your heart, but leave.”

Crassus wore the most frightful expression, compounded of rage and terror, his teeth grinding audibly. “That tribune has robbed me!” he finally choked out. “Today was to be glorious!”

“Go!” she said coldly.

“I do not care!” he screamed at the multitude. “He has taken my setting forth, but I will return in glory, and then I will kill him and all his friends!” He whirled and stalked out beneath the gate, where a small party of horsemen awaited. A great, collective sigh escaped the crowd.

“Consul,” the
virgo maxima
said to Pompey, loud enough for all to hear, “I instruct you to convene a full meeting of the Senate, to include all the priestly colleges. We must devise a way to avert the wrath of the gods. This is a religious matter, so the convocation escapes my ban on secular business.”

“You have heard the august lady,” Pompey called. “All senators and priests: to the
curia now!
All other citizens, foreigners, and slaves, go to your homes and allow the duly constituted authorities to deal with this matter. I dismiss you!”

Slowly, frightened still but no longer panicky, the crowd began to break up. The situation was in competent hands. People believed in Pompey, and everyone revered the Vestals.

We all began to trail back the way we had come, but I looked back over my shoulder and saw the dwindling figure of Crassus riding amid his escort, framed by the Capena Gate. It was the last I ever saw of Marcus Licinius Crassus. Within eighteen months
he would be dead along with most of his army in one of the greatest military disasters of Roman history. That was one powerful curse.

T
HE
CURIA
WAS PACKED, WHAT
with so many more senators than usual being in town. It was also noisy. We usually adhered to a grave, dignified demeanor when the commons were watching, but we carried on like supporters of rival factions in the Circus when we assembled in one of the meetinghouses. The Curia Hostilia was the most venerable of these, and it was right in the Forum. The new meetinghouse attached to Pompey’s Theater was far more spacious, but it was a long walk out over the Campus Martius, and it was usually used only in summer, when the heat made the old
curia
stifling.

When Pompey made a point of summoning the priests, that had been mostly a gesture to reassure the people, since most of the priests were senators anyway. At least it was more colorful than usual, since most of the members of the various priestly colleges wore their robes and insignia of office. The Arvals wore wreaths of wheat ears, the augurs wore striped robes and carried their crook-headed staffs, the
flamines
wore their conical, white caps, and so forth. There was no
Flamen Dialis
that year. In fact, there had been none for more than twenty years. The duty was so laden with taboos as to make it too onerous for anyone in his right mind to want. The
virgo maxima
, rarely seen in the
curia
, sat next to Pompey, attended by her single lictor.

Pompey stood from his curule chair, and the room fell silent. Well, almost silent. It was, after all, the Senate.

“Conscript Fathers,” he began, “today Rome has suffered an unprecedented misfortune. A man who may not be touched by any legal authority has taken it upon himself to perform a terrible ceremony within the
pomerium
and before the assembled people. The implications of this ritual must be interpreted for us by the
highest religious authorities, and a suitable remedy and course of action must then be found. None here may speak of our deliberations outside this chamber. A single report will be written, and this will be delivered under seal to the
Pontifex Maximus
, Caius Julius Caesar, in Gaul. In his absence the next-highest authority will address us first.
Rex sacrorum
, speak to the Senate.”

Pompey resumed his seat, and the King of Sacrifices rose from his front-row bench and turned to face the assembly. He was an aged priest named Lucius Claudius. He had held the office since he was a young man, and because it barred him from political life, he had devoted himself to the study of our religious institutions. Although he had never held public office, like all the highest priests he had a seat in the Senate with all its insignia and privileges, except that he had no vote.

“Conscript Fathers,” he said, “I was not present at this desecration of the City, but the curse has been related to me in its entirety by qualified colleagues, and rest assured that this was a ritual of the utmost power, and one nearly certain to fall back upon the one who pronounced it. Furthermore, it was of a deadliness sufficient to destroy the City of Rome itself. Our City and our people have become ritually unclean and abhorrent to the immortal gods!”

This pronouncement was so terrible that the whole Senate was actually silent for a while.

“Tell us what we must do,” Pompey said, more frightened than he had ever been in battle.

“First, and immediately, there must be a
lustrum
. Censors!” Servilius Vatia and Messala Niger stood. Vatia was a
pontifex
as well as a Censor. “Have you chosen the sacrificial victims for the
lustrum
required by your office?”

Messala, the younger of the two, answered: “The ritual is always performed in May. We have been too occupied with the Census to look at sacrificial beasts.”

“Then send out your assistants immediately. The rite must begin before sunrise tomorrow, and it must be completed, without failure or interruption, before sunset!”

Vatia said: “That should be plenty of time—”

“You misunderstand,” said the
rex sacrorum
. “This is not to be the conventional
lustrum
. The entire City must be purified before we can resume relations with our gods. That means that the sacrificial animals will not merely be carried around the citizens assembled by centuries on the Field of Mars. They must be carried around the entire circuit of the Servian Walls! Three times!”

At this a great collective gasp went up. It would be an absolutely Herculean task, but nobody thought to protest. If we lay under so great a curse, no mere formality would impress the gods. I felt sorry for the men who would have to accomplish the feat. Pompey must have been reading my thoughts.

“The people must see how seriously we regard this matter,” said the consul. “I want those animals carried by senators! Every man of this body who is under his fortieth year, and especially those who have recently returned from military service, are to report to the
rex sacrorum
at the end of these deliberations!”

I closed my eyes and buried my face in my palms. I should have stayed in Gaul.

Pompey recognized Cato. “I think,” Cato said, “that we should look into reviving the old custom of human sacrifice. That would be pleasing to both the gods and our ancestors.”

“Isn’t that just like Cato?” I muttered, this novelty taking my mind temporarily from my upcoming torment.

Cicero rose, and I knew from his malicious smile that he had been waiting for just this proposal from Cato.

“My learned colleague, Marcus Porcius Cato, raises an interesting point. While, as all men know, human sacrifice was forbidden by senatorial decree many years ago, it has been revived under circumstances of very special danger to the State from time
to time. This particular instance presents us with certain problems in choosing a suitable victim. The usual sacrifices have been foreign captives or condemned criminals. However, this offense has insulted all the greatest gods of the State. Such a sacrifice would be contemptible to these deities. On the contrary, when sacrificial animals are chosen for sacrifice, they must be perfect in all respects.

“If we transfer this consideration to a human victim and choose him with the same rigor, ruthlessly rejecting those who display any defect of body or character, we should be hard put to find one pleasing to all the gods. He would have to be highborn, of the highest moral character, of unimpeachable honesty, and of perfect piety. In fact, since Marcus Porcius Cato is, by his own admission, the only Roman of this generation who possesses all these virtues, he must be the only suitable sacrifice! Cato, do you volunteer?”