12
The law forbids any man with an army under his command to enter the city walls. Technically, Pompey was such a commander, though his army was off in Spain; he had seen fit to delegate its operation to lieutenants while he stayed close to Rome to keep watch on the electoral crisis. He resided at his villa on the Pincian Hill not far outside the walls. As Pompey was unable to come to Rome, Rome went to Pompey, as the mob had done when they ran to his villa to offer him the consular axes, or as Milo had done when unsuccessfully seeking an audience, or as Eco and I found ourselves doing that afternoon.
Baby Face and his troop of gladiators closed ranks around us like an armored tortoise for the walk down the Ramp, across the Forum and through the Fontinalis Gate. We crossed the traditional boundary of the city as we stepped through the gate, but the Flaminian Way was just as crowded with buildings outside the wall as within. Gradually the buildings became smaller and fewer until we came to an open area. The disused public voting stalls were off to our left. Up ahead to the right was a high, guarded gate that opened at our approach.
The paved path led up through terraced gardens, sometimes sloping, sometimes in steps, switching right and left as it ascended. The grounds on either side were mantled with winter grays and browns, the dreariness of the naked trees and bushes relieved here and there by statues in marble or bronze. A regal swan that might have been Jupiter courting Leda graced a small circular pool. We passed a low wall where a slave boy sat pulling a thorn from his foot, painted in such lifelike colors I might have mistaken him for flesh and blood except that he was naked under the cold sun. I saw no gods or goddesses in the garden, until we came upon the requisite Priapus, guardian and motivator of growing things, occupying a stone alcove set into a high hedge, grinning lasciviously and displaying an erection almost as large as the rest of him. The crown of his marble phallus had been rubbed shiny-smooth by passing hands.
We came at last to the villa, where more gladiators stood guard before a pair of tall wooden doors with bronze fittings. Baby Face told us to wait while he went inside.
Eco tugged at my sleeve. When I turned there was no need to ask what he wanted to show me. The view was spectacular. Tangled branches and treetops hid the path we had just ascended, as well as the Flaminian Way and the voting stalls immediately below us, but above and beyond the treetops the whole Field of Mars lay open before us. The ancient marching grounds and equestrian training courses had all but vanished in the course of my lifetime, filled up by cheap tenements and jumbled warehouses. Dominating everything else was the great complex built by Pompey in his consulship two years back, a sprawling mass of meeting halls, galleries, fountains, gardens and the city’s first permanent theater. Farther on, like a great arm curving around the Field of Mars, was the Tiber, its course marked by a low, thick blanket of river mist that allowed only glimpses of the gardens and villas on its other bank. Clodia’s garden villa, where the stylish young men of Rome used to swim nude for her amusement, was somewhere on that distant bank. The whole scene was like a painting done in muted winter hues of rust-red and gray-green, bone white and iron blue.
Eco tugged at my elbow again and nodded toward the south. The mass of the villa blocked the view of most of the city proper except for a narrow glimpse of the temples on the Capitoline Hill and a jumbled cityscape beyond. Far away, perhaps on the Aventine Hill, a plume of smoke rose like a vast marble pillar into the still air. Whatever chaos reigned at the base of that pillar, it was too far away for us to see or hear. Did a man begin to feel remote and uncaring, looking down on Rome from such a high place? Or did he become even more acutely aware of buildings burning out of control and chaos in the streets, surveying Rome from such a godlike vantage point?
The doors behind us opened with a clank. Baby Face emerged, smiling grimly. “The Great One will see you now.”
I must have been rather nervous as Baby Face ushered us through the vestibule, into the atrium and up a curving flight of stairs, because afterward, when Bethesda asked me, I couldn’t remember a thing about the furnishings and fixtures, though I could vividly recall that my mouth was as dry as vellum and my heart seemed to have swollen to twice its normal size.
We were led to a room of many windows at the southwest corner of the house. Curtains and shutters had been pulled back to allow an expansive view of the city. The column of smoke off to the south which we had glimpsed from the doorstep was at the center of this view, and was joined by two more pillars of smoke, closer and off to the left, probably made by fires on the Esquiline Hill or down in the Subura. Pompey stood at the windows, his back to us. He was only a silhouette at first, a crown of unkempt curls above powerful shoulders and a robust, well-padded torso. As my eyes adapted to the light I saw that he wore a long, voluminous woolen robe of emerald green. His hands were joined together behind his back, his fingers tapping nervously against each other. He heard us enter and slowly turned around. Baby Face moved inconspicuously into a corner. I glimpsed the shadow of another guard on the balcony outside the windows.
Pompey was the same age as Cicero, which meant that he was a few years younger than me. I could have wished for as few wrinkles, though not for as many chins. It occurred to me that Pompey might be the sort of man who turns to food in a crisis. Commanding armies on the march kept him busy and fit. Holed up in his Pincian villa, he had taken on the weight of the world.
But there were no puns in my mind at that moment. This was not Fulvia or Clodia, mysterious and grimly determined but made vulnerable by their sex. Nor was it Cicero or Caelius, a known quantity with whom I could exchange careless banter. This was Pompey.
When he was young, poets had swooned for his beauty. With his luxuriant, wind-tossed locks of hair, his smooth brow and chiseled nose, people had called the boy general another Alexander even before his military prowess proved them right. Young Pompey’s typical expression had been a placid, dreamy half smile, as if the contemplation of his own future greatness kept him perpetually cheerful but also a bit aloof. If his face had a flaw, it was a tendency to roundness and a fullness in his lips and cheeks that appeared either ripely sensual or pleasantly plump, depending on the angle and the light.
As he grew older his face seemed to flatten a bit and to grow even rounder. The chiseled nose became fleshy. The wild locks were shorn in deference to maturity. The smile became less sensual, more complacent. As his prestige and power grew, it was as if Pompey had less need of physical beauty, and so put aside the comely garment of his youth.
All this I had seen from a distance as Pompey built his career, orating in the courts of law, campaigning for office on the Field of Mars, cutting a great swath through the Forum attended by his vast retinue of military and political lieutenants, each of those lieutenants in turn attended by his own coterie of followers seeking favors at second hand from the Great One. But what cannot be seen from a distance are a man’s eyes, as I now saw Pompey’s eyes staring into mine with a disconcerting intensity. For some reason I recalled a famous quote from his youth. When he was sent to drive the dictator Sulla’s enemies out of Sicily, the people of the liberated city of Messana had complained that Pompey had no jurisdiction over them because of ancient agreements between themselves and Rome. Pompey had replied, “Stop quoting laws to us. We carry swords.”
“Gordianus the Finder,” he said, “and your adopted son Eco.” He smiled to himself and nodded, as if pleased that he could remember such insignificant details without a slave to remind him. “We haven’t met before, have we?”
“No, Great One.”
“I didn’t think so.”
The silence that followed was uncomfortable for me, but apparently not for Pompey, who paced slowly before us, his hands still clasped behind his back. “You’ve had a busy day,” he finally said.
“Pardon, Great One?”
“Clodia comes by to carry you off in her litter. You pay a call on Fulvia. I suppose Sempronia was there, as well. No sooner are you home than Cicero’s freedman comes calling, and you and your son are off to confer with Cicero and Caelius. Milo wasn’t there today, was he?”
I started to answer, then realized that Pompey was looking not at me but at Baby Face, who shook his head and answered, “No, Great One. Milo hasn’t left his house all day.”
Pompey nodded and returned his gaze to me. “But you’ve met with Milo before, under Cicero’s roof.”
It was not a question, but it seemed to require a response—an admission, rather than an answer. “Yes.”
“It’s been quite a while since I saw Titus Annius Milo. How is he looking these days?”
“He’s always been so proud of his powerful physique, naming himself after Milo, the legendary wrestler of Croton, and all that. Is he holding up?”
“He appears fit enough.”
“And his state of mind?”
“I’m not privy to that, Great One.”
“No? But you’re a reader of signs, are you not? Surely you read something from his face, his voice.”
“Milo is anxious, angry, uncertain. But you hardly need me to tell you that.”
“No, I do not.” His smile seemed without irony, merely a gesture of appreciation for not wasting his time. “What did Clodia want with you this morning?” When I hesitated, Pompey frowned. “Don’t tell me it’s none of my business. It is. Everything that happens in Rome nowadays is my business. What did Clodia want with you?”
“To take me to Fulvia. Only that.”
“And what did Fulvia want?”
“Great One, surely words spoken in confidence by a grieving widow—”
“Finder, you make me impatient.”
I considered how to answer. “A certain man has approached her. She’s uncertain whether to trust him.”
“Surely suitors haven’t started knocking on her door already!”
“Not a suitor, exactly,” I said, though in fact Antony had once been Fulvia’s lover, if Caelius was to be believed.
Pompey looked profoundly uninterested. “Well, I won’t press you for details; Fulvia’s personal affairs are of no immediate importance to me. Did you agree to help her?”
“I haven’t yet decided.”
“Perhaps I could help. Who knows? I might possess whatever information you’re seeking.”
It seemed unlikely. Marc Antony was Caesar’s man, not Pompey’s. “Are you offering to help me, Great One?”
“Perhaps. I’m a reasonable man. If I can give something of value to you, then I imagine you’ll be more willing to give me what I want.”
“And what is it that you want from me, Great One?”
“I’ll come to that in a moment. Do you have any questions for me?”
I thought carefully and saw no danger in asking. “What can you tell me about Marc Antony?”
“Caesar’s lieutenant? I know that his father made a mess of clearing out the pirates before the Senate finally gave me the job. And that his stepfather got himself executed for treason at Cicero’s behest. And I recall that young Antony went off soldiering in my old stamping grounds out east for a few years before he signed up with Caesar. What else is there to know?”
“Perhaps nothing.”
“By Hercules, he’s not the one courting Fulvia, is he? I don’t see how. He’s already married to his cousin Antonia, and that’s not the sort of marriage it’s easy to step out of. But if he is a suitor, Fulvia would do well to avoid him; that’s my advice. Clodius may have been an extortionist and a rabble-rouser, but at least he knew how to bring home the silver; look at that house they ended up in. Young Antony’s another matter. Like Caesar and the rest of that circle, always more and more in debt, always selling themselves for the next loan to see them through. They’ll come to a bad end, the lot of them. I only hope they don’t bankrupt the Republic along with them.”
He fell silent and raised an eyebrow in mild surprise—at himself, I realized, for saying more than he meant to.
“And what did Cicero make of your visit to Fulvia?” said Pompey, pressing on.
I cleared my throat. “He was curious—like yourself, Great One.”
“He wasn’t somehow behind your visit to Fulvia, was he? No? I thought perhaps he’d set you up to be his spy. That would be so very like Cicero. Covert networks, unsigned letters, messages sent in some secret code invented by Tiro, paid informers, one lurker keeping watch on the next. Like a spider casting webs in all directions. He’d have turned out differently if he’d had any talent as a military man. More action, fewer words. Are you Cicero’s spy, Finder?” He disconcerted me again with his gaze.
“No, Great One.”
“Perhaps you are and you simply don’t know it.”
The suggestion surprised me, then made me uneasy. “I think I know all of Cicero’s tricks by now.”
Pompey raised an eyebrow. “Really? Even I wouldn’t make that claim! What do you make of Caelius’s behavior? Why is he standing up for Milo? What’s in it for him?”
“Caelius has cast his lot with Cicero; Cicero has cast his lot with Milo.”
“So by extension, Caelius is Milo’s man?”
“I’m not sure that Caelius is anybody’s man.”
“You speak the truth there, Finder. And what do you make of Milo himself?”
“As I said before, Great One—”
“Yes, I know: ‘anxious, angry, uncertain.’ But what do you make of him?”
“I met him for the first time only recently—since the death of Clodius.”
“Really? No previous connection?”
“None.”
“But you do have some old connection with Clodius.”
“No. I did a bit of work for Clodius’s sister a few years ago—”
He nodded. “When she helped prosecute Caelius for murder.”
“Yes.”
“What a speech Cicero made that day for Caelius—or against Clodia, should I say? So, Finder, were you ever in Clodius’s camp?”
“I was not and I am not.”
“And you’re not in Milo’s camp, either?”
“No.”
He appraised me for a long moment, then turned to Eco. “What about you? Like father, like son?”
Eco cleared his throat. “I helped my father when he worked for Clodia, but I never met her brother. I went with my father to Cicero’s house today, but I have yet to meet Milo face to face.”
“And your loyalties?”
“I’m my father’s man.”
Pompey smiled. “A loyal son makes the best partisan of all, eh, Finder? But what about your other son, the one who’s off in Gaul? Has he not pulled the rest of the Gordiani into Caesar’s orbit along with him?”
“My son Meto is a loyal soldier, but my family has no special allegiance to Caesar.”
Pompey regarded me curiously. “How is it that you manage to navigate such an independent course, Finder, without being smashed on the rocks?”
“It seems to me, Great One, that if I let another man navigate for me, I would have been smashed on the rocks long before now.”
“Do you always steer your own course, Finder? But how? Do you have some special knowledge of the stars? Or do you sail blindly into the future?”
“As blindly as every other man, I suppose. Perhaps it’s the stars that are steering us.”
“Ah, yes, I know that feeling. You believe you have a destiny, then?”
“A very small one, perhaps.”
“Better than none at all, I suppose.” The Great One shook his head, as if the idea of having no destiny, or only a small one, was too difficult for him to imagine. “Destiny is a strange thing. Look at Clodius, ending as a bloody corpse on the great road his ancestor built; it’s almost too approrpriate, like a Greek tragedy. Look at Milo. I suppose the appropriate end for him would be to get caught in a trap of some sort and eaten alive by his enemies.”
“I don’t follow you, Great One.”
“You know, like the legendary Milo of Croton.”
“Is there a story attached to his death? Famous athletes have never been my particular interest.”
“No? But you can’t really understand our Milo unless you know about his namesake. What a man calls himself tells you what he thinks of himself, and sometimes where he’s headed. Surely I needn’t point that out to a man who calls himself ‘Finder.’”
“I understand . . . ‘Great One.’”
Pompey didn’t even blink. “I shall tell you about Milo of Croton, then,” he said. “Come, it’s warmer on the balcony. We can sit in the sun. I’ll have some heated wine brought. Alban or Falernian? I prefer Alban myself—a drier aftertaste . . .”
So we sat on the southwest balcony of Pompey’s Pincian villa, sipping ten-year-old wine and looking out over the city. The fire on the Aventine Hill had apparently been extinguished. The great column of smoke had been cut off at the base and seemed to float above the rooftops like something from a nightmare. A new pillar of smoke, thicker and jet black, had appeared in the vicinity of the Colline Gate, far away to our left.
Pompey swirled the wine in his cup. “When our Milo was young, he was quite an athlete. Or so he says; after the third cup of wine he starts bragging about his athletic glory days the way a soldier brags about old battles. He won many competitions, especially as a wrestler. I don’t know what sort of competition a boy has growing up in a village like Lanuvium, but Milo was always the strongest, the fastest, the most determined. Powerful as an ox. Stubborn as an ox, too—that’s our Milo.
“He’s still as vain as a Greek about his physique, you know. Not exactly the Greek ideal—too short and stocky—but he’s certainly kept himself fit. I’ve seen him naked at the baths. Belly like a brick wall, shoulders like catapult stones. He could crack a nut between those buttocks!” Pompey let out a coarse laugh that was quietly echoed by the guard at the end of the balcony, who could hardly help overhearing. I realized that Eco and I had been admitted to a certain intimacy with the Great One. He was sharing with us the sort of manly talk a commander shares at ease with his subordinates.
“So when Titus Annius was casting about for a name to give himself, he settled on Milo. Do you remember the old schoolboy exercise about Milo of Croton?”
When I showed a blank expression, Eco, whose spotty education had nonetheless been more formal than mine, ventured to answer. “ ‘Compose a recitation on the following theme and show how it might instruct us through life: Milo of Croton, having accustomed himself to carrying a calf every day for exercise, kept on carrying it until it was grown to a bull.’”
Pompey and Eco shared a nostalgic laugh. “The moral of the theme: as a boy grows into a man, so grow his burdens,” said Pompey, “and if you’re a fellow like Milo of Croton, you won’t shrug them off, but just keep smiling through clenched teeth as you lug them forward, grunting and groaning. I’m sure that our Milo had to write on the same theme. The lesson seems to have stuck with him.”
He took a sip of wine, frowned and called for the steward. “Is this really the best Alban we have? It’s gone off. It won’t do. Bring the Falernian. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Feats of strength. Milo of Croton could hold a ripe pomegranate in his fist, they say, so firmly that no one could wrest his fingers apart, and yet so carefully that the pomegranate wouldn’t bleed. He could stand on a discus covered with grease and maintain such perfect balance that no one could push him off. He could tie a cord around his head, hold his breath, and make the veins on his forehead bulge out until the cord broke—now that’s something I should like to see!
“But Milo of Croton wasn’t always graceful. Once at the games at Olympia when he was on his way to accept the laurel leaf crown for wrestling, he slipped and fell flat on his back. As he was scrambling to get up, some of the wags in the crowd started saying he shouldn’t be crowned, having displayed such clumsiness. Milo said, ‘That wasn’t the third fall! I fell only once. Let’s see one of you throw me two more times!” That shut them up in a hurry.
“He won twelve crowns altogether, six at Olympia and six at Delphi. When Croton went to war with the Sybarites, for a helmet Milo wore all his laurel leaf crowns at once—enough to cushion a blow—and dressed like his hero Hercules in a lion’s skin, carrying a club. He led the people of Croton to victory. And when, in gratitude, they decided to erect a statue of him, Milo himself carried his own statue through the square and placed it on the pedestal.
“When Pythagoras the philosopher was living in Croton, he and Milo became great friends. Opposites attract: the thinker and the strongman. Lucky for Pythagoras, since Milo saved his life. There was an earthquake, and in the dining hall at the philosophers’ school a pillar gave way. Milo held up the collapsing ceiling while Pythagoras and his students cleared out, then slipped out from under it and managed to save himself as well.
“Do you begin to see, Finder, how these legendary feats might bear some allegorical relation to the way in which our Milo conducts himself and sees his destiny? The legendary hero whose clenched fist cannot be opened against his will; who will not be shoved aside, no matter how slippery his footing; who carries a great burden, but does not complain; who can hold his breath until the veins in his forehead pop out; who is best friends with a famous wise man; who is willing to throw himself into the lurch to save his friends; who goes into battle wearing the mantle, or in this case, the name of his boyhood hero; who would gladly put his own statue upon a pedestal; who cannot be thrown down by anyone . . . but who might, all on his own and in full sight of the watching world, fall flat on his back.”
I considered this as I sipped freshly poured Falernian from my cup. A late afternoon breeze had begun to stir the sky high above Rome, slanting the pillars of smoke and tattering their upper reaches.
“But what of the death of Milo of Croton, Great One?”
“How does the adage go? ‘To possess great strength counts for nothing unless a man knows how to use it.’ That was the undoing of Milo of Croton. He set out on a journey one day, on foot, and lost his way in a deep forest. Far from the road he came to cleared place where some woodsmen had been working, but the day was late and the woodsmen were gone. He saw a huge log. There was a long crack along the whole length of the log, with several iron wedges driven into the gap. Apparently the woodsmen had intended to split the log in two, but the job was too big for them and they left it for another day. Milo thought, I shall split the log myself. Think how surprised they’ll be to find that one man has done the job for them, using only his bare hands! How clever they’ll think me! How grateful they’ll be! Another famous feat of strength for Milo of Croton! So he pushed his fingers into the narrow breach until his palms were flat against the two sides. He pushed them apart with all his might. The iron wedges loosened and fell out—and instantly the crack snapped shut. Milo’s hands were trapped. His arms were bent. The log was too heavy for him to shift. He couldn’t move.
“Darkness fell. There was a howling in the woods. Wild beasts crept out of the forest into the clearing. They could smell his fear, sense his helplessness. They only nipped at him at first, but when they saw that he couldn’t defend himself, they clambered onto him, fangs flashing. They tore him apart. They devoured him alive.
“The next morning, the horrified woodsmen found what was left of Milo of Croton.” Pompey sipped his wine. “Need I belabor certain obvious parallels to the peril in which our Milo finds himself?”
“No, Great One. You seem to know a great deal about both Milos.”
“My father used to tell me stories about Milo of Croton when I was a boy. As for Titus Annius Milo, he and I have been allies now and then.”
“But not any longer?”
“Clodius and I were allies once, too,” he said, deflecting the question, “just as Caesar and I were once allies, and still are, for all I know.”
“I don’t understand, Great One.”
“Some things only the Fates seem to fathom. No matter. What about you, Finder? Who are your allies? Whom do you serve? You seem to be a man who moves through every camp but belongs to none.”
“It would seem that way, Great One.”
“That makes you a rather unusual fellow, Finder. A valuable man to know.”
“I’m not sure how, Great One.”
“I want you to do a bit of work for me.”
I felt several things at once—excitement, wariness, a sinking sensation. “Perhaps, Great One. If I can.”
“I want you to take a trip down the Appian Way, to the place where Clodius was killed. Take along your son, if you like. Have a look at the site. Talk to the local people. See what you can find out. If you’re as good as your name, perhaps you’ll discover a few things that others have overlooked.”
“Why me, Great One? Surely there are other men you could send.”
“There’s no one who could move as freely as you seem to move between Fulvia’s house and Cicero’s. As I said, you’re an unusual fellow.”
“The Fates seem to have landed me in a curious spot.”
“You’re not the only one. We must all submit to the Fates.” He drained his wine slowly, never taking his eyes off me. “Finder, let me explain something to you. As a general, I have been very nearly infallible. I’ve moved from triumph to triumph without a misstep, with hardly even a moment’s hesitation. I have the instinct for it, you see. A peculiar genius, all my own. I could do it with my eyes shut. But politics—politics is another matter. I approach the Forum the same way I approach a battlefield. I marshal my forces, I lay out a plan—but things never seem to go exactly as I want. I’ll think I’m headed straight for the prize, and suddenly I find that I don’t know where in Hades I am, or how I got there. I lose all sense of direction.
“Julia always said I had bad advisors. Probably right. On a battlefield, your troops are here, the enemy is there, and a man either gives you the right information or else he’ll be dead the next day. But in this hazy murk, a dagger can be aimed at your heart and you never know it, and so-called advisors have a habit of telling you what they think you want to hear, never mind the facts. I wouldn’t care to tell you how many times I’ve charged down a path using a map that led me straight into a brick wall. That mustn’t happen now—not now! No false advice, no fawning lies, no blind spots. I must know the lay of the land, the disposition of the enemy, the precise movements of all the forces around me. First of all, and above all else, I want to know exactly what happened on the Appian Way. Do you understand?”
“I think so, Great One.”
“Can I trust you, Finder?”
I looked at him for a long moment, wondering if I could trust Pompey.
“No need to answer,” he finally said. “My general’s instinct senses no deceit in you. So: will you do what I ask?”
Fulvia had already asked me to investigate the circumstances of her husband’s death. Now Pompey was doing the same. I felt Eco’s eyes on me. I took a deep breath.
“I’ll go down the Appian Way. I’ll find out whatever I can about Clodius’s death.”
Pompey nodded. “Good. I’m sure we can agree on terms; I’ve never asked a man to march for me without proper payment. As for lodging, you can stay at my villa while you’re down there. It’s not far from Clodius’s place. Probably just a stone’s throw from the spot where he was killed.”
He took a sip of Falernian and gazed down at the city. “I shall be leaving Rome myself in a day or two. When I come back, I shall put an end to all this nonsense.”
“Nonsense, Great One?”
By a wave of his hand he indicated the pillars of smoke. “This infernal disorder.”
“But how, Great One?”
Pompey looked at me shrewdly. “I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. Tomorrow, the Senate will convene in the portico at my theater, out on the Field of Mars.”
“Outside the city walls?”
“Yes. That way I can attend—legally attend—the proceedings. Let no man say that Pompey thinks himself above the law! A lot of business has piled up, as you can imagine. A number of proposals shall be put forth. One of them is to rebuild the Senate House. No controversy there. I shall suggest that Milo’s brother-in-law Faustus Sulla be given the contract. Let no man say that Pompey is unfair to the relatives of Milo! Besides, such a commission seems only proper, since it was Sulla, Faustus’s father, who remodeled the old Senate House. Thus the Senate shall pay homage to the memory of the dictator Sulla and his achievements. Many Romans flinch at that word, dictator. They forget how important it is to have some mechanism whereby supreme power can be placed in the hands of a single man, when circumstances demand it.”
He took another sip of wine and stared at the pillars of smoke as if he could disperse them by sheer will power. “And there will be another, more important proposal—that the Senate declare a state of emergency and issue the Ultimate Decree. Do you know what that means, Finder?”
“Yes,” I said, remembering the last time such a decree had been issued, when Cicero was consul and had demanded extraordinary powers to deal with Catilina and his circle. “The Ultimate Decree instructs the consuls to do ‘whatever may be necessary to save the state.’”
“Martial law,” said Pompey, bluntly.
“But there are no consuls.”
“Yes, that’s a problem. How can troops be levied from the countryside if there are no consuls to levy them? Well, it’s only a technicality, really. Someone other than a consul will have to do the job, of course. Fortunately, as a man who has twice been elected consul and as the current commander of the Roman troops in Spain, I have both the necessary expertise to raise a militia here in Italy, and the skill to deploy it in the most efficient manner to bring order to the city.”
“The Senate will agree to this?”
“I’m certain they will. It’s all a matter of counting the votes ahead of time. Oh, some of Caesar’s supporters will make a fuss, as may some of the more hidebound conservatives, like Cato. A terrible precedent, they shall say, but what other solution have they to offer? They won’t protest too vehemently. I shall find ways to mollify them. The important thing is that order be restored. If we must resort to certain innovations to achieve that end, if the law must be slightly bent, then so be it.”
He at last turned his gaze from the pillars of smoke, which, for the moment at least, had refused to disperse. “Well then, shall we discuss your fee, Finder?”