'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.
