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
