The Tribune's curse

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 gracefully 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.

“Hear me, Janus!” Ateius cried. Conventional enough so far, I thought, despite the strange getup. When we invoke the gods, we always invoke Janus, god of beginnings, first. “Hear me, Jupiter Best and Greatest! Hear me, Juno, Minerva, Mercury, Venus, Saturn, Mars, Neptune, and all the Olympians! Hear me, Bellona, Ops, Flora, Vulcan, Faunus, Consus, Pales, Vertumnus, Vesta, Tiberinus, the Dioscuri, and all the gods of the City, the river, the fields, and the woodlands of Rome! Hear me, the Unknown God!” A comprehensive but not unusual invocation, I thought.

It was an unprecedented display. Ateius belonged to no priestly college I was aware of. He was not performing his ceremony, whatever it was, at a temple, shrine, or other sacred site. Still, despite its boldness and effrontery, nobody sought to stop him. It was not that any authority restrained us. It was just that, as Romans, we were terribly reluctant to interrupt a ritual in progress. From earliest youth we were drilled in the rule that a rite must be performed from beginning to end without interruption and without mistake. Ateius was taking advantage of our unthinking adherence to ritual law.

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.

The 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?”

Face flaming, Cato resumed his seat. There was much choking, coughing, and clearing of throats. If it hadn’t been such a solemn occasion, the curia would have experienced its greatest outburst of hilarity since the day Caesar had said his wife must be above suspicion, seven years earlier.

One after another, the heads of the priestly colleges spoke, as did others who were experts on ritual law. Pompey appointed a special commission, headed by Cicero, to examine all the religious implications of what had happened and come up with remedies. The lustrum was only the beginning, allowing us to address the gods in greater detail.

“Now,” Hortensius Hortalus said, “what are we to do about this renegade tribune, Caius Ateius Capito?”

“Nothing can be done to him now,” Pompey said, “but in less than two months’ time, both he and I will step down from office, and at that time I intend personally to prosecute him for sacrilege, for perduellio, and for maiestas! For offense against the gods, for offense against the State, and for offense against the Roman people! I want you, Hortensius, and you, Cicero, to assist me in this.”

“Gladly!” said both men at once.

Pompey turned to face the door outside of which was the bench of the tribunes. “Publius Aquillius Gallus!”

The man came to stand in the door, white faced. “Yes, Consul?”

“Of all the Tribunes of the People, you have been closest to Ateius in opposition to Crassus. What was your part in this matter?”

“Consul, I had no idea that he would do this! Like most of Rome, I oppose the aims of Crassus and will do so until I die or he does, and all men know this. But I never knew Ateius intended this impious act and would have done all in my power to stop him. This I swear-that is, after the lustrum tomorrow I will swear it before all the gods!”

“I am prepared to believe you,” Pompey said, grimly. “But in this matter mere words are not enough. Tomorrow evening you will go with me to the Temple of Vesta and swear exactly that before her altar and fire, and so will every other tribune, even Trebonius, whom I know to be the enemy of Ateius. As far as I am concerned, the whole institution of the tribuneship has been disgraced.”

After that, there were more speeches and more debate, for men never talk so much as when they are most afraid. This time it was as if a million Gauls were camped outside the gates, or Spartacus were risen from the dead and sitting out there with all our slaves behind him.

I returned to my house after sundown, famished and ill-tempered. I had not eaten since early morning, and nobody in Rome could bathe or shave until the lustrum was finished, which didn’t improve things. Julia was wide-eyed with apprehension when I came in. The figures of the household gods were covered with cloths. The slaves went around on tiptoes.

“The whole City knows what that awful man did,” Julia said. “The most terrible rumors are flying about. What did the Senate decide?”

“I’m forbidden to speak of it,” I told her, “but I can tell you what we are going to do in the morning. The people are being told by the heralds now.” In the distance, I could hear the loud shouts as the heralds went through the streets, telling everyone of the ceremony to be begun before dawn. I described the trial that awaited me.

“Will it be possible?” she said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

“Just barely, I think. The worst of it is, I can’t even go sacrifice at the Temple of Hercules for strength.”

“At least you’re in the best condition of your life,” she said encouragingly. “I know that better than anybody!”