"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."