A murder on the Appian way rsr-5 Page 9

  Eco came to visit each day. "They're all three mad if they think that the fellow still has a chance of being elected consul," he said, when I told him about my peculiar interview with Cicero, Caelius and Milo. "But Cicero is right about one thing: the Clodians went too far when they burned the Senate House. They lost the sympathy of the people in the middle. Murder's an outrage, but fire scares the wits out of people."

  "Fire is a symbol of purification," I suggested.

  "Maybe at a funeral, or in a poem. But when you start burning down buildings, fire stands for ^discriminate destruction. Purifying the state may sound like a lofty idea in a speech, but not when people start getting burned. When reformers turn violent, they scare people."

  "So that anyone with anything to lose prefers things to stay as they are."

  "That's one result."

  "Then maybe Milo does stand a chance to be elected consul."

  "Never. He's tainted by Clodius's death."

  "About which we still don't have any concrete details," I said, worriedly rubbing my chin. "So you think the voters will make Hypsaeus and Scipio consuls? But aren't they tainted, as well? They had-the support of Clodius, and now people are frightened of the Clodians."

  "Yes, but Hypsaeus and Scipio are seen as being their own men. They weren't associated with the burning of the Senate House."

  "But they're rabble-rousers nonetheless! Look at the blockade their supporters have thrown around Lepidus's house! Surely they're no more acceptable to the people in the middle than Clodius was."

  Eco looked at me thoughtfully. "If Milo's out… and if Hypsaeus and Scipio are also out…"

  "Don't say it!"

  But he did. "People will turn to Pompey."

  Pompey was much on the minds of many people in those days, including his old ally Milo.

  On the fifth and final day of Lepidus's term as interrex, a trio of radical tribunes held a contio down in the Forum. Eco and I attended.

  A contio is a public open-air meeting. Though it may have a feeling of informality, it is a function of the state and is governed by specific rules. Only certain people may speak at a contio, they must address a specific topic, and so on. Most importantly, only certain officials may hold a contio. The consuls may do so, for example. So may the tribunes.

  Rome had no consuls for the time being. But there were ten tribunes, as usual. Some of them were keeping very busy.

  The funeral of Clodius, or rather the gathering in the Forum to hear Clodius eulogized and to burn his corpse, had been a contio, or at least had started out that way. It had been called by the tribunes Pompeius and Plancus. I had seen both of these men at Clodius's house on the night of his murder, in the anteroom where the politicians had gathered to assess the disaster. The next day these two led the procession around the Palatine and down to the Forum. It was their speeches which inflamed the mob. Pompeius and Plancus were the same tribunes who had blocked the appointment of an interrex at the beginning of the new year, and had thus pushed back the scheduling of elections at a time when Milo felt confident of victory.

  Their contio on the final day of Lepidus's term as interrex was attended by a great crowd. When Eco came to my house that morning and announced his intention to attend, I declined at first to accompany him. It would be insanity to go out in public at such a time, I argued, even with bodyguards. But the pull of the Forum was too strong. For four days, except for my visit to Cicero, I had kept almost entirely to my house. I was growing restless. In times of crisis or jubilation, there is something in a Roman's blood that pulls him inexorably to join with great throngs of his fellow citizens to listen to other citizens make speeches beneath the open sky, where men and gods alike can see and hear.

  Eco insisted that we push our way to the front of the crowd. We wore our togas, as befitted the occasion; Eco's bodyguards were dressed in tunics and cloaks. Thus one can often tell at a glance, in a mixed crowd, who is a citizen and who is a slave attending a citizen.

  Up on the platform, Plancus and Pompeius were joined by their fellow tribune Sallust. It was Sallust whom I heard in the house of Clodius, arguing that no one but Clodius could control the mob. He had warned of a bloodbath. But apparently he had reconciled himself to the rabble-rousing efforts of his fellow tribunes and had decided to join them.. These three addressed the crowd not with formal speeches but alternating back and forth, as if having a conversation or a debate among themselves and soliciting the reactions of their fellow citizens.

  The exact circumstances of the incident on the Appian Way were not discussed. I was beginning to find this paucity of details maddening, but no one else in the crowd seemed to mind or even to notice. That Milo and his men had murdered Clodius in cold blood was simply taken for granted. The issue was what to do about it. The main thing, the speakers all agreed, was to hold consular elections at once. Once Hypsaeus and Scipio were in office, Milo could be dealt with accordingly.

  "But what about the rumours that Milo's raising an army?" shouted someone in the crowd.

  "If his goal is insurrection," said Sallust, "then it's all the more important that we elect consuls at once, in order to raise a force against him for the defence of the city."

  "But what about Milo's allies here inside the city?" shouted someone else. "They say he has secret stockpiles of all sorts of weapons. They could cut our throats while we sleep. They could set our houses on fire — "

  "Ha! You Clodian arsonists shouldn't talk about fire!" said another man. There were harsh words. A scuffle broke out. Though it was some distance away, Eco's bodyguards grew tense and tightened their circle around us. The speakers on the platform ignored the interruption.

  "The fact is," said Sallust, "Milo is back in Rome."

  This news sent a murmur through the crowd.

  A man behind me, close enough for me to smell the garlic on his breath, cupped his hands around his mouth. "The shameless pig came back to Rome the very day after he murdered Clodius!" he shouted. "Milo must have been in his house that night when we went to pay a call with our torches. I should know, I took an arrow in my shoulder!" The man pulled his toga open at the throat to show off his bandages.

  "Brave citizen!" cried Sallust. He raised his arm in salute, which prompted a round of cheering mixed with a few jeers. "But whatever Milo's whereabouts for the last few days, we know that he was in town as of yesterday, because yesterday Milo emerged from hiding to go and pay a visit to Pompey Magnus at his villa on the Pincian Hill."

  This news set off another murmur in the crowd. In the race for consul, Pompey had given his blessing to Hypsaeus, who had served him as a military officer in the East. But Pompey and Milo had once been allies, and Pompey and Clodius had often been enemies. Could it be that the Great One had been induced to countenance Milo's crime and to throw his support behind the murderer? Pompey's involvement could shift the balance conclusively, either for Milo or against him.

  Sallust smiled, reading the crowd's anxiety and uncertainty, drawing out the suspense with his silence. "You will be happy to learn," he finally said, "that Pompey Magnus, to his great credit, refused even to see the villain!"

  The suspense broke with a round of cheers.

  "And more than that, he sent the scoundrel a roundabout message politely asking him to refrain from calling again, so as to spare Pompey the embarrassment of refusing to see him again. Milo's perfidy is so profound that even the Great One fears it might taint him if he should brush against it."

  The tribune Plancus stepped forwards. He spoke as if engaging Sallust in conversation, but his words rang out as only those of a trained orator can. "I should imagine that Milo was greatly offended by Pompey's rebuff"

  "I should imagine he was," agreed Sallust. "We know that Milo is a man who offends easily. And we have seen how deadly his grudges can be."

  Plancus mimed an expression of dismay. We were so close to the platform that I could see just how broadly he played his part. "What are you implying, Sallust? Do you imagine that Pompey
himself might be… in danger?"

  Sallust gave a world-weary shrug, exaggerated just enough so that the gesture could be read from the back of the crowd. "We've seen that the monster will stop at nothing to take over the state. Clodius has already fallen victim to his bloodlust. If Pompey now stands in his way — "

  There were cries from the crowd:

  "No!"

  "Never!"

  "Impossible!"

  "Milo wouldn't dare!"

  "Wouldn't he?" The tribune Pompeius, who had been holding back, stepped forwards. As a member of Pompey's clan, he claimed the crowd's full attention. "I shall tell you what I think," he said. "It was Milo who provided a body to be cremated in the Senate House. And it's Milo who'll provide another body to be buried on the Capitoline Hill!" His meaning was clear, for who but Pompey could be worthy of a sepulchre on the hill of Rome's most sacred temples?

  The crowd raised their fists and began to shout, drowning out the speakers on the platform, who seemed only too pleased to fall silent and yield to the roar of the mob. Was Milo plotting to kill Pompey? The tribunes had not offered even a shred of evidence, but the mere suggestion drove the crowd to a frenzy.

  The Forum was like a great pool of sound. Individual cries were like pebbles that rippled through the crowd and echoed back from its edges. All coalesced into a deafening, indistinct roar, until somewhere in the crowd someone began to chant. The chant was joined by more and more voices until it rose above the roar "Vote… now! Vote… now!" It was the same cry that had echoed for days around the house of the interrex Marcus Lepidus.

  The crowd began to move. How this movement began, I never quite understood. I saw no signal from the tribunes on the stage. I heard no shout from the crowd, urging everyone to head for the house of Lepidus. Perhaps if I had been on my rooftop watching instead of in the thick of things, I could have seen and understood the dynamics of the mob — or perhaps not. One might as easily comprehend the uncanny unison of a swarm of bees in flight.

  However it happened, the crowd became a mob, and the mob began to move as a single body towards the Palatine. Eco and I moved along with it for a while, unable to separate ourselves, like flotsam on a current. I was jostled and poked and pushed forwards against my will. I gritted my teeth and grunted. But the same experience that I found so unpleasant seemed to invigorate many of those around me, who grinned and made giddy whoops of excitement as if they had drunk too much wine.

  Little by little we worked our way sideways through the press of the crowd until we reached the edge and were able to drop back. Even Eco seemed intoxicated by the excitement. "What's wrong, Papa?" he said, smiling and catching his breath. "Don't you want to join the march on the interrex's house?"

  "Don't be funny, Eco. There's no telling what will happen. I'm going home. So should you."

  I spent that afternoon on my rooftop, anxiously looking for signs of fire or smoke. I saw none, but heard the clattering echoes of some kind of battle taking place in the direction of Lepidus's house.

  A sharp wind began to gust from the north, followed by dark clouds. As the first cold raindrops pelted my face, Bethesda appeared in the garden.

  "Come down from there!" she demanded, her hands on her hips.

  I obeyed. But halfway down the ladder I turned to stone, as did everything around me. A bolt of lightning opened the sky. Jupiter blinked, as the augurs say. The blinding flash of bone-white light was followed by a crack of thunder so loud that the earth itself seemed to flinch. Rain swept across the garden. I hurried down the ladder, shivering, and told Belbo to light the brazier in my study.

  I hardly had a chance to warm my hands over the flames before Belbo was back, announcing a visitor. "The same as before," he said. "Cicero's man."

  "Tiro?"

  Belbo nodded.

  "Well, show him in."

  "What about his bodyguards?"

  "They can stay outside in the rain."

  A moment later Tiro stepped into the room, pushing the hood back from his face. His heavy woollen cloak was wet. He covered his mouth and coughed.

  "Cicero shouldn't send you out in the rain, Tiro. He should consider your health."

  "It's only a short walk. Besides, he thinks you're fond of me."

  "And that I might not come if he sent someone else to fetch me?"

  Tiro smiled. "Will you come?"

  "Shouldn't you and I have a brief polite conversation about the weather first?"

  "Thunder and lightning," said Tiro, rolling his eyes skyward. "Omens and portents."

  "If you believe in that sort of thing." "Doesn't everybody?"

  "Don't be disingenuous, Tiro. It doesn't suit you. Just because your master — your former master, I mean — pretends to go along with such superstitious ideas for the sake of politics…" "You really despise Cicero, don't you?"

  I sighed. "No more or less than I despise all the rest of his kind, I suppose." "His kind?" "Politicians."

  "No, I think you despise him more than the rest. Because once upon a time you thought he was different somehow, and then he disappointed you."

  "Perhaps."

  "Whereas you expect only the worst from the rest of them, so they've never let you down." I shrugged.

  "But isn't it really only your own false expectations that have let you down, Gordianus? Do you think a man can cross a muddy street without getting his feet dirty? Cicero can't walk on air. No one can."

  "Cicero doesn't just cross the muddy street, Tiro. He stoops down and flings handfuls of mud at anybody in his way. He sticks out his foot and trips people — and claps when they fall on their faces! Then he washes his hands at the nearest fountain and blithely pretends they were never dirty."

  Tiro gave me a grudging smile. "Cicero can be a bit self-righteous."

  "Smug is more like it."

  "Yes. Well, I try to tone down those parts in his speeches. But it's a funny thing. People may say that modesty is a virtue, but they respect a man who sings his own praises. They think if he's vain, he must have a reason. And when such a bright fellow starts slinging mud, they pay attention. They figure he must have a good reason for doing that, too."

  "You don't have to convince me that Cicero knows how to manipulate an audience."

  "Gordianus, these are merely questions of style, not content. Certain things about Cicero rub you the wrong way. Don't you think I sometimes tire of his manner, spending so many hours of the day in his company? He can drive me mad! And yet I've never met a more admirable or honourable man in all my life. Fundamentally, you and Cicero are on the same side — "

  "Tiro, you needn't try to convince me to come along with you. I've only been waiting for a break in our conversation to send Belbo after my cloak. But look, here he is, already anticipating my needs." Belbo put the cloak over my shoulders. I pulled it around me. "The weather has turned colder."

  "Still, let's hope this rain keeps up," said Tiro. "It makes it harder to start fires. Keeps the flames from spreading. There, we've talked about the weather. Shall we be going?"

  I found Cicero in his study, deep in conversation with Marcus Caelius.

  Cicero looked up and saw me scanning the room. "Milo isn't here," he said. "He's returned to his own house. A show of self-confidence. After all, what does Milo have to fear in his own home, when the people of Rome love him so?"

  "Do they?"

  "How can they not, after the favour he's done them, ridding the world of that appalling scoundrel? 'He trapped the tyrant in iron bands.."

  " 'And slew him with his own bare hands’ " I said, finishing the quotation from Ennius. "Well, did he?" "Did he what?"

  "Did Milo slay Clodius with his own bare hands?" I remembered the marks I had seen on Clodius's throat. Something had been twisted around his neck before he died, either to restrain him, or to choke him, or to drag him.

  Cicero shrugged. "I wasn't there to see. But the image appeals to me. Like his namesake, the fabled wrestler of Croton, Milo is a strong fellow. I suppose he co
uld strangle a man to death. What do you think, Caelius?"

  Caelius looked thoughtful. "Strangulation? It might make people forget the blood… take their minds off those gaping wounds. The idea of Clodius being strangled — I like it. It's cleaner, less gory. Thinking about knives sets people's teeth on edge. Strangulation is more manly, more heroic. It suggests killing an animal barehanded. It equates Clodius with a wild beast. Best to skirt such graphic details, really, but if we must discuss the actual where and how of the murder-"

  "I didn't come here to listen to two orators toss ideas in the air," I said.

  Caelius smiled. "But how else can we see which ideas float, and which ones fall like stones?"

  "You can do that after I leave."

  Tiro made a face of disapproval at my rudeness.

  "Why did you agree to come, Gordianus?" said Cicero. "I thought perhaps Tiro had converted you with his eloquence."

  "Converted me? But I thought you said we were already in the same camp, Cicero."

  "We are. You just don't realize it yet." He laced his fingers behind his head and smiled.

  "Don't be so smug, Cicero. You asked me to come. Here I am. Why did I come?" I walked to the brazier and spread my hands over the flames. "Because it's a cold night in Rome, and dark outside, like everyone else I'm craving warmth and light. Especially light. My reasons for coming are entirely selfish. I want more illumination on the path ahead, any glimmer to show the way. Knowledge is a fire. It burns high in this house. But right now it seems to be putting out a great deal more smoke than light"

  Cicero shrugged good-naturedly. "Well, then, perhaps you might cast some light for me, Gordianus."

  "Perhaps."

  "I believe you went down to the contio in the Forum today." "Yes. How did you know that?"