"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. B
ut 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.)
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