Whipped by the cold wind, the blazes shot higher and higher until the whole Senate House was engulfed by flames. The mob danced on the marble steps, hooting and laughing while they dodged cascades of cinders and ash.
The fire began to spread, first to the complex of senatorial offices to the south of the Senate House. The threat of the mob had already emptied most of the buildings, but after the flames started a few panic-stricken clerks came rushing out, carrying armloads of documents. Some tripped and fell, others zigzagged madly, dodging the taunting mob, dropping their burdens. Wax tablets scattered like tumbling dice. Scrolls unfurled and streamed like pennants in the breeze.
Then the wind changed. The flames spread west of the Senate House, to the Porcian Basilica. One of the great buildings of the Forum, it was a hundred and thirty years old, the first basilica ever built. Its distinguishing features – the long nave terminating in an apse with colonnaded aisles on either side – are now duplicated in buildings all over the empire. Many of the wealthiest bankers in the world kept their headquarters in the Porcian Basilica. It took hardly an hour for the fire to reduce its venerable majesty to a smouldering pile of rubble.
It was the bankers, I learnedlater, desperate to salvage what remained of their records, who finally organized a large contingent of freedmen and slaves to battle the flames. Acting out of pure selfishness, they may have saved a large part of Rome from going up in smoke. The firefighters formed long, snaking lines across the Forum and through the cattle market all the way to the banks of the Tiber, where they filled buckets with water and passed them up to pour on the flames, then passed the empty buckets back again. From time to time a few rowdies broke away from the mourners' frenzied revelry to harass the firefighters, pelting them with stones and spitting on them. Scuffles broke out. A cordon of bodyguards, also sent by the bankers, arrived to protect the bucket-passers.
It was a mad day. Rome seemed racked with fever, delirious. With Clodius consigned to the purifying flames, and the Senate House along with him, his mourners carried on their unconventional funeral celebration. Could they have planned such madness in advance, or did they make it up as they went along, inspired by the dancing flames and the billowing smoke, invigorated by the charred tang in the air? At mid-afternoon, they held a funeral feast. Before the smouldering Senate House they set up tables, covered the tables with black cloths and spread out a banquet.
While the firefighters continued their frantic efforts, the Clodians drank and ate in honour of their dead leader. The poor and hungry of the city came out to join them, at first meekly and then, seeing that they were welcome, in jubilation. Vast quantities of food arrived -great urns full of blood-black sausages, pots of black beans, loaves of black bread, all suitably black for a feast to honour the dead, washed down with blood-red wine. Meanwhile the confused, frightened, curious citizens of Rome – those who lacked the safe vantage of a Palatine rooftop to watch what was going on – skirted the edges of the Forum, cautiously peeking around comers and peering over walls, gawking variously in outrage, delight, disbelief and consternation.
I spent much of the day on my root watching. So did Cicero. He would disappear for a while, then reappear with various visitors, many of them senators, as I could tell from the purple border on their togas. They would take in the view, shake their heads in disgust or gasp in horror, then disappear again, talking and gesticulating. There seemed to be some sort of all-day meeting going on in Cicero's house.
Eco came by to see me for a while. I told him he was mad to venture out on such a day. He had stayed clear of the Forum, and though he had heard the rumour that the Senate House was destroyed, he had thought it was only that, a rumour. I took him up on the.roof so he could see the spectacle for himself. He headed back to Menenia and the twins soon after.
Even Bethesda overcame her distrust of the ladder and ventured up on the roof for a while to see what all the fuss was about. I teased her that the sight of so much rioting must have made her homesick for Alexandria, seeing that the Alexandrians were so famous for rioting. She didn't laugh at the joke. Neither did I.
The feasting and the firefighting down in the Forum continued until well after nightfall. Towards evening Belbo brought me a bowl of hot soup and climbed back down. A little later Diana joined me with her own steaming bowl. As we sat alone on the roof the sky darkened to deeper and deeper shades of blue verging into black. In every season, twilight is the most beautiful hour in Rome. The stars began to show in the firmament, glittering like bits of frost. There was even a kind of prettiness about the nickering lights down in the Forum, now that darkness hid the ugliness of charred wood and blackened stone. The fires had largely died down, but the deepening gloom revealed smouldering patches of flame in the ruins of the Porcian Basilica and the senatorial office buildings.
Diana finished her soup. She put down the bowl and pulled a blanket over her shoulders. "How did Clodius die, Papa?"
"From his wounds, I should think: Surely you don't want me to describe them again."
"No. I mean, how did it happen?"
"I don't know, really. I'm not sure that anyone does, except whoever killed him, of course. There seemed to be quite a bit of confusion about it at his house last night. Clodia said there was a skirmish of some sort down on the Appian Way, near a place called Bovillae, where Clodius had a villa. Clodius and some of his men had an altercation with Milo and some of his men. Clodius got the worst of it."
"But why did they fight?"
"Clodius and Milo have been enemies for a long time, Diana." "Why?"
"Why are two men usually enemies? Because they want the same thing." "A woman?"
"In some cases. Or a boy. Or a father's love. Or an inheritance, or a piece of land. In this case, Clodius and Milo both wanted power." "And they couldn't both have it?"
" Apparently not. Sometimes when two ambitious men are enemies, one of them has to die if the other's to go on living. At least that's how it usually works out, sooner or later. It's what we Romans call politics." I smiled without mirth.
"You hate politics, don't you, Papa?" "I like to say I do." "But I thought -"
"I'm like the man who says he hates the theatre but never misses a play. He claims it's his friends who drag him along. Even so, he can quote every line of Terence."
"So you secretly love politics."
"No! But it's in the air I breathe, and I don't care to stop breathing. Put it another way: politics is the Roman disease, and I'm no more immune than anyone else."
She frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Certain diseases are peculiar to certain tribes and nations. Your brother Meto says that up in Gaul there's a tribe in which every person is born deaf in one ear. You've heard your mother say that there's a village on the Nile where everyone breaks out in hives at the approach of a cat. And I read once that Spaniards suffer a form of tooth rot that can only be cured by drinking their own urine."
"Papa!" Diana wrinkled her nose.
"Not all diseases are grossly physical. The Athenians are addicted to art; without it they become irritable and constipated. Alexandrians live for commerce; they'd sell a virgin's sigh if they could find a way to bottle it. I hear the Parthians suffer from hippomania; whole clans go to war with each other to lay claim to a fine breeding stud.
"Well, politics is the Roman disease. Everyone in the city catches it sooner or later, even women nowadays. No one ever recovers. It's an insidious sickness, with perverse symptoms. Different people suffer in different ways, and some don't suffer at all; it cripples one man, kills another, and makes yet another man grow fat and strong."
"So is it a good thing or a bad thing?"
"Just a Roman thing, Diana. And whether it's good or bad for Rome, I can't say. It's made us the rulers of the world. But I begin to wonder if it won't be the end of us." I stared down at the Forum, no longer like Jupiter watching the plain of Ida – more now like Pluto surveying the fiery pits of Hades.
Diana leaned back. Her jet-black hair made a pillow for her head as she studied the sky above. Her dark eyes reflected glimmers of cold starlight.
"I like it when you talk to me like this, Papa."
"Do you?"
"This is how you used to talk to Meto sometimes, before he left for the army."
"I suppose."
She turned on her side, propped her head on her hand and looked at me earnestly. "Is something bad going to happen, Papa?"
"I imagine the people around Clodius think something bad has already happened."
"To us, I mean. Are we in danger, Papa?"
"Not if I can help it." I ran my hand over the side of her face and stroked her hair.
"But things are getting worse, aren't they? That's what you and Eco always say to each other, when you talk politics. And now it's worse than ever – Clodius dead, the Senate House burned down. Is something awful about to happen?"
"Something awful is always about to happen – to someone, somewhere. The only escape is to make a friend of Fortune, if she'll have you, and run the other way whenever you see a politician coming."
"I'm serious, Papa. Are things about to – I don't know, about to fall apart? For us, for everybody?"
How could I answer her? Out of the past I suddenly remembered a scene from the Forum when I was a young man, after Sulla won the civil war: rows and rows of heads mounted on pikes, the enemies of the dictator paying gaping witness to his triumph. Afterwards, people swore that such a thing would never happen again. That was thirty years ago.
"I can't see the future, Diana."
"But you know the past, enough to understand about Clodius and Milo. Explain it to me. If I could understand what's happening, perhaps it wouldn't worry me so much."
"Very well, Diana. Clodius and Milo: where to begin? Well, we shall have to start with Caesar and Pompey. You know who they are."
"Of course. Gaius Julius Caesar is the man Meto serves, up in Gaul. The greatest general since Alexander the Great."
I smiled. "So Meto says. Pompey might not agree."
"Pompey cleared the seas of the pirates and conquered the East."
I nodded. "And surnamed himself Magnus – 'the Great,' just like Alexander. As I said a moment ago, sometime when two men want the same thing -"
"You mean Caesar and Pompey both want to be Alexander the Great?"
"Yes, exactly, since you put it like that. And there can't be two at once. The world is not big enough."
"But don't Caesar and Pompey both serve the Senate and the people of Rome?"
"Nominally, yes. They receive their commands and permission to raise their armies from the Senate, and between them they've conquered the world in the name of the Senate. But sometimes servants outgrow their master. Caesar and Pompey have both grown too big for the Senate. So far, the salvation of the Republic has been that the two generals have held one another in check – neither can grow too powerful for fear of riling the other. And there have been other factors figured into the balance."
"Pompey married Caesar's daughter, didn't he?"
"Yes: Julia. Apparently it was a genuine love match. That marriage link smoothed over the two men's differences. Family connections mean everything, especially to patricians like Caesar. And another factor: the two rivals used to be three. There was Marcus Crassus."
"The man who owned Meto when he was a little boy. He was the one who put down Spartacus and the slave rebellion."
"Yes, but despite that victory Crassus was never much of a general. But he did manage to make himself the richest man in the world. Crassus, Caesar and Pompey formed what they called the Triumvirate, sharing power between the three of them. That seemed to work for a while. A table with three legЈ is steady."
"But a table with just two legs…"
"Sooner or later has to fall. Last spring Crassus was killed in Parthia, at the eastern end of the world, trying to prove his military prowess once and for all by conquering some of the same lands that Alexander conquered. But the Parthian cavalry defeated him. They killed his son, along with forty thousand Roman soldiers. They chopped off Crassus's head and used it for a stage prop to amuse their king. Exit Crassus."
"Leaving the Triumvirate with only two feet."
"But at least those two feet were still bound together by the marriage link between Pompey and Caesar – until Julia died in childbirth. Now nothing holds the two of them together, and there's nothing to keep them from coming to blows sooner or later. Rome holds its breath, like a hedgehog watching two eagles circle overhead, ready to battle it out to see which of them gets to eat the hedgehog."
"I think you must be the first man ever to compare Rome to a hedgehog, Papa!" Diana studied the stars. "Is there a hedgehog constellation?" "I don't think so."
"So you've told me all this about Caesar and Pompey the Great. But what about Clodius and Milo?"
"Caesar and Pompey are eagles up in the sky, soaring over mountains and seas. Down here on solid ground, it's Clodius and Milo who've been fighting over Rome itself – the city, not the empire. They fought with gangs instead of armies. Instead of mountain ranges and seas, they squabbled over the seven hills and the markets on the riverfront. Instead of battles, they staged riots in the Forum. Instead of campaigning against barbarians, they campaigned against each other for office – bullying and bribing voters, pandering to their constituents, postponing elections, pulling every possible trick to get the better of each other.
"Milo represents those who call themselves the Best People – old families, old money, the most conservative elements in the Senate. The kind of people Pompey likes to associate with, so it's not surprising that from time to time Milo has more or less acted as Pompey's henchman here in Rome.
"Clodius is-was-a radical, despite his patrician blood. He appealed to the mob. When he was in the military, he staged an uprising of common soldiers against their commander, who happened to be his own brother-in-law. The year the plebeians elected him tribune, he promised to set up a free grain dole, and he did, by annexing Cyprus to finance the scheme. Clodius was always out to better the lot of common foot soldiers and farmers and the city poor, and in return they were always there to vote when he needed them, sometimes with ballots, more often with fists. The rabble loved him. And the Best People hated him.
"From time to time Clodius found himself on the same side as Caesar, another patrician with populist leanings, and so they assisted each other, mostly behind the scenes. People came to think of them as allies – Caesar and Clodius against Pompey and Milo. The two great men moving all over the world, each allied with a lesser man with a gang at his disposal here in Rome to fight for control of the capital."
"Like the heroes of the Iliad," said Diana. "The gods allied with mortals: one god looking out for Hector, another god on the side of Achilles. And Hector and Achilles each haying an army."
"All these references to Troy – I take it you've been reading Homer?"
"I need to practise my Greek. Mother helps me." "Your mother can't read."
"Yes, but she speaks Greek. She helps me with pronunciation."
"I see. Well, a little literary allusion goes a long way. But if I can compare Rome to a hedgehog, I suppose we can also compare our local gang leaders to Hector and Achilles. It's apt, in a way. The gods withdrew their favour from Hector in the end, didn't they? So fell the House of Priam, and Troy along with it. The gods can be fickle, like any ally; it's all politics in the end. Allegiances shift like sand underfoot. Loyalty slips through your fingers."
"And a man dies."
"Yes. Then more men die, usually."
"And buildings burn."
We watched the Forum in silence for a while.
"Caesar and Pompey, Clodius and Milo," said Diana. "Still, how did it come to this, Papa? The Senate House burned to the ground…"
I sighed. The young think there must always be a simple answer. "You know how the elections are held, Diana, or at least how they're supposed to be held: citizens gather on the Field of Mars to cast their ballots for the various magistrates who run the government. There are different elections, on different days, for the various magistrates. Most of the elections are held in the summer; good weather for gathering out of doors. The voters elect two consuls, who have the highest power. After the consuls come the praetors, and then the aediles and the quaestors and so on, all with different powers and duties.
"The old year ends. At the beginning of Januarius the elected magistrates take office. They serve for one year and then step down or move on to govern foreign provinces. So it's been, for hundreds and hundreds of years, going all the way back to the fall of the kings and the founding of the Republic.
"That's how it's supposed to work, anyway. But today Rome is a city without magistrates. We're halfway through the month of Januarius, and still there are no magistrates to run the state."
"What about the tribunes?" said Diana.
I hummed, stalling while I thought of the answer. The Roman constitution is so damnably complicated! "Technically, tribunes are not magistrates. The tribunate was established long ago when only patricians could be magistrates, and the plebeians demanded to have their own representatives. Nowadays the magistracies are open to both classes, but tribunes must still be plebeians. There are ten of them each year, chosen by a special assembly of plebeians only. They still tend to represent the interests of the weak against the strong, the poor against the rich. Clodius himself served a term as tribune – that was the year he managed to get Cicero sent into exile and established the grain dole."
"But Clodius and his sister are patricians."
"Ah, but Clodius fixed that; he had himself adopted by a plebeian practically young enough to be his son just so that he could run for the tribunate. Even his enemies had to admire his ingenuity! It's a natural office for a rabble-rouser. I dare say some of our more ambitious tribunes are down in the Forum right now, haranguing that mob. Anyway, the selection of tribunes was carried out as usual last year, with no disruptions. But not so with the regular magistrates."
"What happened?"
"Last year Milo chose to run for consul. Clodius ran for praetor. If each had won, they'd have cancelled each other out. Milo would have vetoed Clodius's radical schemes, and Clodius would have undermined Milo's efforts on behalf of the Best People."
"Each would have been a thorn in the side of the other," said Diana.
"Exacdy. So each was determined to keep the other from winning. Yet each was a formidable candidate, likely to win his office. So every time an election was scheduled, something occurred to postpone it. An augur would read the signs in the sky and say the omens were bad – election cancelled. A new day would be chosen, but on the eve of the election someone in the Senate would come up with an obscure point of calendar law to show that no voting could be held on that day after all. Much debate – a new date is finally chosen. The day arrives – riots break out on the Field of Mars. And on and on. In previous years' elections there have been gross irregularities – voters bribed or intimidated, lawsuits used to keep men from running for office or from serving out their terms, all sorts of manoeuvres to tilt and skew the process. But there's never been a year like this last one -pure chaos. A republic that can't even manage to hold elections is a very sick republic."
As if to punctuate that sentiment, a smouldering pocket of flame down in the Porcian Basilica suddenly flared up. The fire must have eaten through to a cache of lamp oil and ignited it. The concussion reached the Palatine a moment later, like the muffled boom of a drumbeat. By the glare of the towering flames I saw the tiny figures of startled firefighters scattering. A cheer went up from the feasting Clodians. The snakelike line of bucket-carriers altered course to douse the new flare-up, which spat back at them with steam and tongues of flame. In the gathering darkness the struggle between the fire and those who fought it began to take on fantastical shapes.
"So it's no surprise," I went on, "if Milo should, have killed Clodius. The only thing less surprising would have been if Clodius had killed Milo."
Diana nodded thoughtfully.
A little while later Bethesda called up from the garden. It was nearly time for dinner. Diana went down to help her mother. She seemed satisfied with the answers I had given her, though I was quite aware that I had not answered her most important questions.
Are we in danger, Papa?
Is something awful about to happen?
The fiery explosion down in the Forum seemed to have ignited a fresh burst of excitement among the Clodians. They finished their feast. Speakers mounted the Rostra again. Chants echoed up from the mob.
A strange ceremony began. Men marched in single file up to the smouldering ruins of the Senate House, then descended the blackened steps holding fiery torches aloft. After a while I realized what was happening: they were lighting their torches from the same purifying fire that had consumed Clodius's remains. Out of piety and devotion, they would take it home with them, to add to their own hearth fires. Or so I thought, until I saw that the mob had another use in mind for the sacred fire.
From the steps of the Senate House the torchbearers headed towards the Palatine. It was easy to follow their progress; they moved like creeping rivers of flame between the temples and across the paved squares. They returned by the ways they had come, some heading up the Ramp, others disappearing from my sight around the edge of the hill, heading for the paths that would take them up the western flank of the Palatine. The torchlight in that direction made such a glow that over on Cicero's roof I could see the figures of Cicero and Tiro in silhouette, their backs turned towards me as they put their heads together.
Those who ascended the Ramp turned west, away from my house, and ran in the direction of Cicero's house. I held my breath. I saw Cicero's silhouette stiffen. But the torchbearers ran on. Following the street, making a circumference of the crest of the hill, they would meet up with the rest of the mob at some point on the farther side.
Who had a house in that vicinity?
Milo.
With the same cleansing fire that had turned the bloody remains of Clodius to ash, the mob intended to burn down Milo's house, and Milo with it, if he had dared to return to the city.
Diana called to me from below. "Papa! Mother says it's time to eat."
"Yes, Diana. In a moment."
Milo's house was far away, measuring by a stone's throw; not far at all, measuring by the speed of flames riding a cold breeze to jump from roof to roof If the mob set fire to Milo's house, the blaze could easily spread all over the Palatine…
The safest course might be to take the family to Eco's house over on the Esquiline. But what would happen then if my house did catch fire? Who would fight the flames? And what reason was there to think that we could cross the Subura and reach Eco's house in safety on such a night, with such a mob on the loose?
"Papa, are you coming down? Do you see something?"
A few stragglers came running up the Ramp. Their torches crackled in the air like flapping pennants as they took the sharp turn towards Cicero's house and beyond.
"I'm coming," I said. I took a last look in the direction of Milo's house. I seemed to hear sounds of conflict – clattering, shouting – but the echoes were confused and distant.
"Papa?"
I turned and stepped onto the top rung of the ladder.
It was a sombre meal. I tasted nothing. Afterwards, when Diana and Bethesda had retired for the night, I stole up to the roof again. I looked in the direction of Milo's house but saw no sign of flames. Still, when I was ready to come down, I called for Belbo to take my place. We took turns through the night, one fitfully dozing beneath a mound of blankets on a couch in the garden, one up on the roof watching the skyline for any telltale orange glow. But when it finally came, the glow was in the opposite direction. The sun came up, and my house still stood.
I went up to the roof to have a final look. In the cold, hazy morning air, the Forum was like a smeared painting. I could hardly make out any details at all. But when I took a deep breath I caught the scent of burned wood and baked stone, the smell of what had once been the Senate House, which had become the crematorium of the rabble's fallen champion.
V
"Driven off with arrows," said Eco, stretching his arms over his head and yawning; he had slept as poorly as I had. The haze had lifted. The sun was shining in the garden. We sat on folding chairs across from the statue of Minerva, soaking up the tenuous midday warmth.
"That's the word in the street, anyway," he continued. "The Clodians didn't anticipate so much resistance. They expected to find Milo's house more or less deserted, I suppose. They figured they could break in, kill a few slaves, loot the place, then burn it to the ground. Instead, they were met by a troop of archers posted on the roof. Expert marksmen, apparently. The battle didn't last long. A few casualties, and the Clodians turned and ran."
"I should think they'd have had enough by that point, anyway -burning the Senate House, stuffing themselves sick, listening to all those speeches. You'd think they'd have been ready to call it a day."
"You'd think so. But then, so the rumour goes, after they were repulsed from Milo's house, the mob left the Palatine, ran through the Subura and outside the city walls to the necropolis."
"The city of the dead? At night? I should think they'd have been as frightened of lemures as of arrows."
"They stayed clear of the sepulchres and burial pits. They headed for the sacred grove of Libitina."
"Goddess of the dead." – Eco nodded. "They broke into her temple."
"In the middle of the night? But why? Surely the duty of registering Clodius among the dead fells to his family, not to the mob. And they can't have been looking to rent requisites for the funeral – they'd
already done the job of cremating Clodius, without paying much heed to religious niceties."
"It had nothing to do with that, Papa. For some reason, it's in the Temple of Libitina that the fasces are kept when there are no consuls. You know, those bundles of sticks with an axe projecting, carried by the consuls at ceremonies and processions."
"Their badges of office."
"Exactly. With no consuls in office, the fasces have to be stored somewhere, and apparently the official place is the Temple of Libitina. So the mob breaks into the temple, seizes the fasces, and then runs back into the city to seek out the men running for consul against Milo."
"Publius Hypsaeus and Quintus Scipio,"
"Yes. Both supported by Clodius, of course. The mob goes straight to Scipio's house and shouts for him to come out and claim the fasces."
"Forgo the election entirely? Become consul by appointment of the mob?"
"That must have been the idea. But Scipio wouldn't show his face."
"Probably scared out of his wits, like everybody else in Rome last night."
"Then the same thing at the house of Hypsaeus. Shouts of acclamation, but the candidate kept his door shut. Then somebody in the mob got the idea to offer the fasces to Pompey."
"Pompey! But he's not even eligible. He's still a proconsul, in charge of running Spain. He commands an army; legally he can't even enter the city walls. That's why he's living in his garden villa out on the Pincian Hill."
"The mob couldn't be bothered by such technicalities. They ran out the Fontinalis Gate and up the Flaminian Way to Pompey's villa. They waved their torches and lifted up the fasces. Some shouted for Pompey to become consul. Others shouted for him to become dictator."
I shook my head. "What in Hades are they thinking of? Probably most of them weren't even born the last time Rome had a dictator."
"There are plenty of people in the street who think it's time we had one again, to put an end to all this chaos."
"They're mad. A dictatorship could only make things worse. Anyway, I can't believe the leaders of the Clodian mob came up with such an idea. Clodius and Pompey detested each other, and Pompey's never been a friend of populist causes."
"He's popular with the masses, even so. The mighty general, conqueror of the East. The Great One, Pompey Magnus." – I shook my head. "It still doesn't sound right. The same people who provoked the mob to burn down the Senate House are hardly likely to want a reactionary like Pompey to be their dictator. Maybe it wasn't the same mob at all. Or maybe the mob was taken over at some point by infiltrators from Pompey's camp."
Eco raised an eyebrow. "So you think the incident might have been staged by Pompey himself? Do you think he wants to be dictator, then?"
"More likely he wanted a chance to publicly turn down the call There are plenty of senators, especially friends of Caesar, who think Pbmpey might be plotting to take over the state. How better to reassure them than to turn down a mob of citizens offering him the fasces?"
"He didn't exactly turn them down. Like Scipio and Hypsaeus, he didn't show his face."
I moved my chair a bit to keep up with the sun. Where the shade fell the air had a bite. "What word of Milo, then?"
"Some think he sneaked back into the city last night, and is holed up in his house. They say that's why the archers were in place to fight off the Clodians last night, because they're part of Milo's personal bodyguard. But it seems just as likely that he left them to guard the place in his absence, especially if he had planned to murder Clodius. He knew the mob would react with violence, so he left his house fortified. Others say he's gone into voluntary exile, off to Massilia or somewhere."
"That's possible," I said. "It's hard to see how he could possibly be elected consul now, if and when the state finally does manage to hold elections. And if Milo can't be elected consul, he's finished. He's spent a fortune putting on shows and games, trying to impress the voters. He doesn't have the resources of Caesar or Pompey, or even of Clodius. He wagered everything on his run for consul, and now he's surely lost all chance of winning. Exile might seem the only honourable solution to him."
Another voice joined us, from the direction of the statue ofMinerva. "But then why did Milo kill Clodius, if it meant ruining his own future?"
I looked towards the statue. The virgin goddess towered above us, painted in such lifelike colours that she seemed almost to breathe. In one hand she clutched an upright spear, in the other a shield. An owl perched on her shoulder. A snake coiled at her feet. Under the midday sun her eyes were shaded by the visor of her crested helmet. For just an instant it seemed that Minerva herself had spoken. Then Diana stepped from beneath the shade of the portico and leaned against the pedestal. She put her hand on the sculpted snake.
"A good question, Diana," I said. "Why would Milo murder Clodius, if he knew it would unleash such a fury? Why kill his enemy, if that meant killing his own chances of being elected?"
"Perhaps he miscalculated the reaction," said Eco. "Or perhaps he killed Clodius by accident. Or in self-defence."
"Do you mind if I join you?" said Diana. Not waiting for an answer she pulled up a little folding chair and sat. She shivered in her cloak. "It's cold out here!"
"Let the sunshine sink in for a bit," I said.
"And then there's a third rumour," Eco said. "Some say that Milo is plotting revolution, and the murder of Clodius was just the first stroke. They say he's stockpiled weapons all over the city – there must have been an arsenal of arrows at his house to fend off the mob last night – and now he's criss-crossing the countryside, gathering troops to march on Rome."
"Setting himself up as another Catilina?" I raised an eyebrow.
"Only this time the revolutionaries would have men like Cicero on their side, instead of against them."
"Cicero is the last man to support anything remotely like a revolution, even if it was led by his good friend Milo. But who knows, nowadays? I suppose anything is possible."
"Oh, and some other news, Papa. This must have happened yesterday, while the mob was rioting down in the Forum. A patrician committee of the Senate met somewhere here on the Palatine. They finally appointed an interrex."
Diana looked puzzled.
"See if I can explain it accurately, Eco," I said. "In cases where there are no consuls – say, if both should die on a battlefield -"
"Or if a whole year should go by with no elections," added Eco.
I nodded. "In such a case, where there are no magistrates at the head of the state, the Senate appoints a temporary magistrate called an interrex to run the government and hold new elections. Each interrex serves for only five days, and then a new one is appointed; that way they don't get too settled in their office. So on and so forth until one of them manages to get new consuls elected. The Senate should have appointed an interrex at me beginning of the year, since there were no new consuls when the old consuls stepped down, but friends of Hypsaeus and Scipio managed to stall the appointment, thinking Milo had the upper hand and wanting to hold off the elections a while longer. No interrex, no elections. Well, perhaps now there'll finally be elections and an end to this crazy talk of solving the crisis with a dictator."
"Not for another five days, at least," said Eco. "You missed one technical point, Papa: the first interrex can't hold the election. That can only be done by a subsequent interrex."
"Not by the first interrex?" I said.
"During his five-day term he simply oversees a sort of cooling-off period."
Diana nodded. "It should take at least that long for the Senate House to cool off."
The first interrex had no authority to hold elections, as Eco had astutely pointed out. But the supporters of Scipio and Hypsaeus, sensing that the candidacy of Milo was done for, decided the time for elections had arrived. Even as Eco and I talked, they surrounded the house of Marcus Lepidus, the newly appointed interrex, on the Palatine. Lepidus's wife, a lady of irreproachable character named Cornelia, was busy setting up ceremonial looms in the foyer, following an ancient custom pertaining to the wives of interrexes. (No one knows the origin of this custom; perhaps it has something to do with the interrex's role in weaving the threads of the Republic's future.)
When Lepidus appeared at his door, the leaders of the crowd demanded that he hold elections at once. He explained to them the impossibility of his doing so. They repeated their demands. Lepidus, a very old-fashioned patrician, told them exactly what they could do with such a radical notion, in terms to make their ears burn. Then he slammed the door on them.
The crowd did not erupt in a riot, but they did tighten their cordon around the house, preventing anyone from leaving or entering. They built fires in the street to keep themselves warm. To keep themselves amused they passed wineskins back and forth and shouted their electioneering chants, many of which were obscene poems about Fausta, Milo's notoriously unfaithful wife. When the wine made the convoluted lyrics too complicated to recite, they resorted to a simpler chant: "Vote – now! Vote – now!"
The interrex, ostensibly the head of the Roman state (at least for the next few days), was a prisoner in his own house.
Of course, every man is a prisoner in his own house when the streets are unsafe and atrocities take place even in broad daylight. What is a man to do? Lock himself away like a cowering deaf mute? Or step into the fray, looking for a means to put an end to the violence around him?
I had actually seen worse times in Rome – the civil war that led to Sulla's dictatorship, for a start – but I had been a young man then. I moved through those crises following the instinct of the young, which craves adventure ahead of survival. Looking back now, I'm shocked at how little regard I seemed to have had for the risks I took. I wasn't especially brave or foolish, merely young.
Now I was no longer young. I was far more aware and more respectful of death and injury, having seen and experienced so much of both in the intervening years. With every passing year the fabric of existence seemed more fragile to me. Life seemed more precious. I was less amenable to taking chances with my own life or with the lives of others.
Yet I found myself in times that called for taking chances. The idea of shutting myself away and disclaiming all responsibility offered no satisfaction to me, like many a man in Rome that winter, the tumult in the streets sparked a tumult in my own heart.
The Republic was very sick, perhaps sick unto death. Its wrenching spasms presented a spectacle I could hardly bear to look at, but I found it even harder to look away.
Some years before I had tried to remove myself completely from the arena of politics. Sick of deceit and false promises, of the pompous vanity of politicians and the gaping credulity of their followers, of the vindictive arrogance of victors and the squalid backbiting of the vanquished, I declared I would have no more of it. I moved to a farm up in Etruria, determined to turn my back on Rome.
That attempt did me no good. Instead, I became more deeply embroiled in political intrigue than I could ever have imagined. I was like a fretting navigator who goes to great' lengths to avoid a whirlpool only to find that he's plotted a course straight into the vortex. The episode of Catilina and his riddle had made me recognize the inexorable nature of Fate.
Rome is my fate. And the fate of Rome was once again in the hands of her politicians.
So, in retrospect, I justify to myself my reaction when later that day, after Eco had gone home, I received a visitor. He was an old, old acquaintance.
Such an old acquaintance, in fact, that Belbo, secretly peering out the peephole in the front door, didn't recognize the man. I had told. Belbo not to let in anyone he didn't know by sight, so he dutifully fetched me from my study to have a look for myself.
I saw a man past middle age, of medium build with an open, handsome face and a touch of grey at his temples. He had the well-moulded lips, the straight nose and the curly hair of a Greek. He carried himself with an almost haughty self-importance, like a philosopher or a scholar. The boyish young slave I had first met thirty years ago had grown into a distinguished-looking man. It had been a long time since I had seen him so close at hand. Usually, when I saw him at all, it was at a distance, as I had seen him on the previous night, putting his head together with Cicero up on the roof of Cicero's house. He was very nearly the last person I had expected to call on me.
I shut the peephole and waved to Belbo to unbar the door. "Tiro!" I exclaimed.
"Gordianus." He bowed his head and smiled faindy. Behind him stood a troop of bodyguards. I counted at least ten men, which seemed a bit excessive ifhe had merely walked the short distance from Cicero's house. On the other hand, anyone leaving Cicero's house was likely to be a target of the Clodian mob. With a wave of his hand he ordered them to stay outside. Belbo shut the door behind him.
I showed him to my study and gestured for him to take a chair near the flaming brazier. Instead he walked slowly around the room, examining the scrolls in their pigeonholes and the decorative painting of a garden on one wall.
"You've prospered, Gordianus."
"In some ways."
"I remember your old house over on the Esquiline. That big, rambling place with the garden all gone to seed."
"It belongs to my son Eco now. His wife has restored the garden to immaculate condition."
"Time passes so quickly! Who would have thought that you'd ever have a son old enough to run his own household?"
"He's made me a grandfather." "So one hears." "Does one?"
A smile quivered at the comer of his lips. "You are still spoken of from time to time in Cicero's house, Gordianus." "But not too fondly, I imagine." "Oh, you might be surprised."
"I certainly would be, if Cicero has anything good to say about me these days. I should have thought that the trial of Marcus Caelius was the last straw between us."
Tiro shrugged. "Cicero bears you no ill will. He's not a man to hold grudges."
"Ha!"
Tiro inclined his head thoughtfully. "Cicero can make himself a formidable enemy, to be sure, against those who make themselves his enemies by their spitefulness and deceit, or by the danger they pose to the Republic. But that has never been the case with you, Gordianus. Cicero understands that you're a complicated man, not always easy for him to understand, but at heart an honourable and honest man. Honourable. Honest," he repeated, stressing the words. "Like Cicero riimself. If the two of you have sometimes come into conflict, it's because you've seen things in different lights. Honourable men can't be expected always to agree."
I sighed. Tiro was obviously as devoted to Cicero as ever. It would be useless to point out to him the flaws in his master's character – the man's totally unscrupulous behaviour as an advocate, his pompous self-importance, his utter disregard for the truth (unless it happened to serve his purpose), the long string of victims he had destroyed in the cause of upholding the privileges and the power of the Best People.
"Are you sure you won't sit, Tiro? Belbo can take your cloak; it looks rather heavy, even for this weather."
"I'll sit, yes. I tire rather easily these days. And yes, I suppose I can do without the cloak. The room seems warm enough. I have to be careful of catching a chill…"
I hardly heard what he said, because as he shrugged off his heavy cloak I saw what he was wearing underneath – not a slave's tunic, but a toga. Tiro was dressed as a citizen! I looked at his hand and saw, sure enough, that he wore the iron ring of a citizen just as I did.
"But Tiro, when did this happen?"
"What?" He saw the direction of my gaze and smiled. He worked his fingers as if he was still not used to the ring. "Oh, this. Yes, a change in status. Hardly more than a formality in many respects. I do the same work, serve the same man. It's easier for me to own property now, of course -"
"Tiro – no longer a slave! You're free!" "Yes." He seemed almost embarrassed.
"Well, it took Cicero long enough. You and I talked of such a possibility the very first time we met. Do you remember?"
"Not really." His cheeks coloured a bit, and I realized how pale they had been before.
"What did you just say – about taking a chill and tiring easily? Tiro, is something wrong?"
He shook his head. "Of course not. Not any more."
I looked at him sceptically.
"I was ill," he admitted, "but that was last year. Very ill, to be frank. My health has been… somewhat erratic… for the last few years." He smiled. "I suppose that's one of the reasons Cicero made me a freedman last year; it looked then as if it might be a case of now or never. But I'm much better now. I could have wished for a fester recovery, but at least I'm not walking with the cane any more. The physicians say there's no reason I shouldn't regain my full strength and be as healthy as I ever was."
I looked at him with fresh eyes. What I had read as a haughty expression was merely due to the gauntness of his cheeks. I reckoned in my head and realized that he must be fifty. He suddenly looked his age; there was more grey among the tight curls than I had thought, and there was a bald spot at the top of his head. A kind of boyish enthusiasm still sparkled in his eyes, but the firelight also caught the haunted glimmer of a man who had known severe illness. Yet he also seemed a man who was comfortable with himself and his place in the world; his frank and easy manner exuded an air of sophistication and self-contentment. And why not? The boyish slave who had come to my door those many years ago as the messenger of an obscure master was now a free citizen and the invaluable right-hand man of the most famous orator alive. Tiro had met great men and travelled the world at Cicero's side. He had helped to run the government when Cicero was consul. He was famous in his own right, having invented a form of abbreviated writing whereby a copyist could take down a speech verbatim as quickly as it was spoken; every clerk in the Senate House was now required to learn Tironian shorthand.
"Why did you come to me today, Tiro?"
"On behalf of Cicero, of course."
"He might have come himself."
"Cicero is keeping indoors," he said, stressing the last word only slightly.
"So am I. What could he possibly want with me?" "He'll tell you that himself." "He can't possibly think I'll agree to help him." "But you don't know what he wants."
"It doesn't matter. I paid back the favour I owed him for helping me acquire my Etruscan estate years ago, with interest. Since then -let me be candid with you, Tiro-since then, with every passing year, Cicero has fallen lower and lower in my esteem, not that I imagine my estimation means anything to Cicero. But I have my standards, humble as they may be. I don't intend to come running simply because Cicero thinks he can make some use of me one more time."
Tiro's face was impassive, which disappointed me. I suppose I expected him to wince, or sigh, or shake his head. He only replied, in a dispassionate voice, "You're mistaken, of course, in your opinion of Cicero. You misjudge him. Many men do. That always confuses me. But then, I work with him every day. I understand every nuance of his thought. Others aren't so privileged." He looked at me steadily. "Well, shall we be going?"
I almost laughed. "Tiro, were you not listening to me?"
His expression became more severe. "I saw you yesterday, Gordianus, watching the fires down in the Forum from your rooftop. What did you think of all that? You were appalled, of course. But not everyone was appalled. Those behind the destruction were delighted. Say what you like about Cicero, but when it comes to certain fundamental matters, you and he are on the same side. Did you know they tried to burn Milo's house last night?"
"I heard about it."
"Such a fire could have spread all over the Palatine. This room we're sitting in could have been a pile of smoking rubble this morning. You realize that, don't you?"
I looked at him for a long moment and sighed. "You're really not a slave any more, are you, Tiro? You talk like a free man. You bully with words just like a Roman."
His face tightened. He was trying not to smile. "I am a Roman now, in every sense of the word. As much a Roman as you, Gordianus."
"As much a Roman as Cicero?"
He laughed. "Perhaps not quite."
"What does he want from me?"
"There's a fire, Gordianus. No, not the fire down in the Forum; a greater fire that threatens to consume everything worth fighting for. Cicero wants you to help pass buckets of water, so to speak." He leaned towards me with an earnest look. "There are men who start fires. There are men who put them out. I think we know which kind you are. Does it really matter whether you happen to like or dislike the citizen standing next to you in the bucket-passing line? The point is to put out the fire. Come, let Cicero talk to you."
I sat for a moment, watching the flames in the brazier. I waved to Belbo, who stood quietly in the corner of the room. "Bring Tiro his cloak," I said. The flames danced and wavered. "And bring a cloak for me, too. Tell Bethesda I'm going out for a while."
Tiro smiled.
The walk was brief. The air was bracing. The bodyguards were perhaps unnecessary; we didn't pass a single person in the street. All the houses along the way were shut up tight.
I had never been inside Cicero's newly rebuilt house. Some years before, when Clodius managed to get Cicero exiled from Rome, the Clodian mob had celebrated their triumph by burning down Cicero's house; I had watched the flames from my balcony. When the Senate recalled Cicero from exile sixteen months later, he set about rebuilding. Clodius dogged him at every step, blocking his progress with legal manoeuvres. The property had been confiscated by the state and consecrated for religious use, he claimed. Cicero countered that the confiscation was illegal and that his rights as a Roman citizen had been grossly violated. It had been one of their livelier, uglier exchanges.
Cicero had won the case. The house had been rebuilt. Well, I thought, as we stepped across the threshold, Clodius would never threaten this home again.
Tiro led me through the foyer to the atrium beyond. The room was chilly. High clouds had gathered, blocking the sun's warmth.
"Wait here a moment," Tiro said, and exited to my left. After only a brief pause, I heard voices from the hallway to my right
The first voice was muffled and indistinct, but I recognized the second voice at once. It was Cicero. "Well," he was saying, "what if we tell people that it was Clodius who staged the ambush, instead of the other way around?"
I also knew the third voice. It was Cicero's handsome, fiery protege, Marcus Caelius: "Jupiter's balls! Who'd believe that, given the circumstances? Better to say, perhaps, that -"
The three men stepped into the atrium. Caelius saw me and fell silent.
At the same moment, Tiro returned from the opposite direction. He saw the situation and looked chagrined. Cicero gave him a brief, sharp look, rebuking him for leaving a visitor unattended. Had I heard something I was not intended to hear?
"Gordianus agreed to pay you a visit," Tiro said quickly. "I went to the study to announce him, but -"
"But I wasn't there," said Cicero. His rich orator's tones filled the atrium. An unctuous smile lit up his fleshy face. "I tend to think better on my feet. The more expansive the thoughts, the bigger the circuit -the study couldn't contain me! We've walked a mile since you left, Tiro, round and round the house. Well, Gordianus…" He stepped forwards. "I'm honoured to welcome you to my home once again. You know Marcus Caelius, of course."
I did indeed. Caelius crossed his arms and gave me a sardonic look. He was a creature of quicksilver, and always had been. He had begun as Cicero's pupil. Then he allied himself or appeared to do so, with Cicero's arch-enemy Catilina; that was how I first met him. Eventually he drifted into the camp of Clodius and into the arms -some said the clutches – of Clodia. His felling out with those two had landed him in dire straits, a trial for murder for which I helped gather evidence for the prosecution. He had been rescued by Cicero, who came to the defence of his errant pupil with a stirring oration. Now, to all appearances, Caelius was once again the faithful protege. He seemed to bear me no ill will for having helped the opposing side at his trial; his ambition was of the freewheeling sort that has little use for grudges. He was famous for his sharp tongue, but equally famous for his charm and extraordinary handsomeness. He was now serving a term as a tribune, which meant he was one of the few currently operating officers of the state.
"But I'm not sure that you've met my other friend," said Cicero. He gestured to the third man, who hung back, peering at me distrustfully. The fellow was short and stocky, with the kind of muscular, barrel-shaped body that looks even stouter in a toga. His fingers were short and blunt, as was his nose. His face was round, with a small mouth and deepset eyes under shaggy eyebrows. The shadow of his beard was so heavy that it gave his jaw a dark, greasy look. No wonder he had been the natural enemy of the lithe, long-limbed, effortlessly elegant Clodius. Physically, two men could hardly have been more opposite.
Milo was back in town after all.