speaker was still ranting, striding back and forth and exhorting the mob with wild gestures, but the body of Clodius had disappeared. I frowned; puzzled, then caught sight of the naked body on its black-draped bier proceeding with odd, jerky movements towards the steps of the Senate House. It seemed that the mob was passing the bier from hand to hand above their heads. I suddenly had a vision of the mob as a colony of insects, and the corpse of Clodius as their queen. I shivered and felt an intimation of vertigo. With one hand I reached for Diana, putting my arm around her shoulder, and with the other I held more firmly to the tiles of the roof.
The bier reached the foot of the Senate House steps, stalled for a moment, then tilted upward and began to ascend. The mass of the crowd, able to see the body again, produced another loud roar of mingled triumph and despair. The bier reached the top of the steps and was propped upright. A man stepped up beside it, waving a burning torch. He seemed to be giving a speech, though it was hard to imagine that the roaring crowd could hear him any better than I could. Even at such a distance, I was almost certain that the speaker was Sextus Cloelius, Clodius's wild-eyed lieutenant, the man who had spoken of riots and revenge against Milo the previous night.
After a while, still waving his torch, he turned and entered the Senate House. The bier was carried in after him.
"What can they possibly be thinking?" I said.
" 'Burn it down,' " said Belbo. "Wasn't that what the fellow said, the one who pounded on the door?"
I shook my head. "He was raving. Besides, he must have meant burning down Milo's house, or maybe Cicero's. He couldn't possibly have meant..."
Sometimes, uttering the impossible can suddenly make it seem quite possible after all. I stared at the roof of the Senate House, as if by concentrating I could see through it to perceive what Sextus Cloelius was up to. Surely not —
And then I saw the first wisps of smoke, streaming wraithlike from the shuttered windows set high along the walls of the Senate House.
"Papa-"
"Yes, Diana, I see. They must be cremating the body, inside the building. The idiots! If they aren't careful -"
"They hardly look to me like the sort to be careful," said Belbo, tilting his head earnestly.
A little later the first flickering tongues of flame appeared at one of the windows. One after another the shutters caught fire. Heavy black smoke began to pour from the windows, then from the open doorway. Sextus Cloelius ran out of the building, waving his torch triumphantly over his head. The crowd fell silent for a moment, probably as awed as I was by the enormity of what had happened. Then they released a roar that must have been heard all the way to Bovillae.
It was heard in Cicero's house, at least. From the corner of my eye I saw a movement on his roof He had returned, along with Tiro. The two of them stood upright, no longer crouching, and watched the spectacle in the Forum below. Tiro clutched his face. He was weeping. How many happy hours had he spent in that building, copying down his master's speeches in the shorthand he invented, ordering his army of clerks about, paying witness to the great career he had done so much to foster? Slaves can be very sentimental.
Cicero did not weep. He crossed his arms, set his jaw in a hard line and stared grimly at the orgy of destruction below.
"There!" said Diana. She was pointing at Cicero. "There! That's what Jupiter must have looked like, gazing down at Troy."
Knowing Cicero far better than my daughter did, and certain that there was nothing remotely godlike about him, I was about to correct her when Belbo interrupted.
"You're right," he said. "The very image!"
Their shared certainty forced me to take another look. Diana was right. I had to concede it. As Cicero looked at that moment, watching the destruction of the Senate House by Clodius's mob, so great Jupiter might have looked when he brooded on
The bier reached the foot of the Senate House steps, stalled for a moment, then tilted upward and began to ascend. The mass of the crowd, able to see the body again, produced another loud roar of mingled triumph and despair. The bier reached the top of the steps and was propped upright. A man stepped up beside it, waving a burning torch. He seemed to be giving a speech, though it was hard to imagine that the roaring crowd could hear him any better than I could. Even at such a distance, I was almost certain that the speaker was Sextus Cloelius, Clodius's wild-eyed lieutenant, the man who had spoken of riots and revenge against Milo the previous night.
After a while, still waving his torch, he turned and entered the Senate House. The bier was carried in after him.
"What can they possibly be thinking?" I said.
" 'Burn it down,' " said Belbo. "Wasn't that what the fellow said, the one who pounded on the door?"
I shook my head. "He was raving. Besides, he must have meant burning down Milo's house, or maybe Cicero's. He couldn't possibly have meant..."
Sometimes, uttering the impossible can suddenly make it seem quite possible after all. I stared at the roof of the Senate House, as if by concentrating I could see through it to perceive what Sextus Cloelius was up to. Surely not —
And then I saw the first wisps of smoke, streaming wraithlike from the shuttered windows set high along the walls of the Senate House.
"Papa-"
"Yes, Diana, I see. They must be cremating the body, inside the building. The idiots! If they aren't careful -"
"They hardly look to me like the sort to be careful," said Belbo, tilting his head earnestly.
A little later the first flickering tongues of flame appeared at one of the windows. One after another the shutters caught fire. Heavy black smoke began to pour from the windows, then from the open doorway. Sextus Cloelius ran out of the building, waving his torch triumphantly over his head. The crowd fell silent for a moment, probably as awed as I was by the enormity of what had happened. Then they released a roar that must have been heard all the way to Bovillae.
It was heard in Cicero's house, at least. From the corner of my eye I saw a movement on his roof He had returned, along with Tiro. The two of them stood upright, no longer crouching, and watched the spectacle in the Forum below. Tiro clutched his face. He was weeping. How many happy hours had he spent in that building, copying down his master's speeches in the shorthand he invented, ordering his army of clerks about, paying witness to the great career he had done so much to foster? Slaves can be very sentimental.
Cicero did not weep. He crossed his arms, set his jaw in a hard line and stared grimly at the orgy of destruction below.
"There!" said Diana. She was pointing at Cicero. "There! That's what Jupiter must have looked like, gazing down at Troy."
Knowing Cicero far better than my daughter did, and certain that there was nothing remotely godlike about him, I was about to correct her when Belbo interrupted.
"You're right," he said. "The very image!"
Their shared certainty forced me to take another look. Diana was right. I had to concede it. As Cicero looked at that moment, watching the destruction of the Senate House by Clodius's mob, so great Jupiter might have looked when he brooded on
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