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shrugged. "Well, what makes you think we can control the mob one way or the other? Clodius could, but Clodius is dead. There's no telling what will happen tomorrow, or tonight for that matter. A slaughter? Perhaps a bloodbath. We'll be lucky if there's enough organization left in Rome to stage a trial."
    At this there was another round of groaning and scoffing, but no one challenged outright what Sallust had said. Instead they turned uneasily away and resumed their argument without him.
    "A trial!" Appius insisted.
    "A riot first!" said Sextus Cloelius. "The mob won't settle for anything less. And if Milo dares to show himself, we'll chop off his head and carry it through the Forum on a stick."
    "Then the mood of the city will surely swing against us," argued Appius. "No. Uncle Publius understood the way to make use of the mob - as a dagger, not as a bludgeon. You're wrought up, Sextus. You need some sleep."
    "Don't tell me how Publius used the mob," said Cloelius. "Half the time, I was the one who plotted his strategies for him."
    Appius's eyes flashed. They reminded me of Clodia's eyes, glittering and green like emeralds. "Don't try to rise above your station, Sextus Cloelius. Save your vulgar rhetoric for the mob. The men in this room are a little too sophisticated for your style of blustering."
    Cloelius opened his mouth to answer, then turned and stalked off.
    There was a tense silence, broken by Sallust. "I think we're all a little wrought up," he said. "I'm going home to get some sleep." A large coterie of retainers shuffled out of the room with him, leaving more space for those who remained to carry on with their pacing and gesticulating.
    "We should do likewise," I said, nudging Eco. "I need my sleep. Besides, it's as Sallust says: there's no telling what may happen in the streets tonight. We should be home with our families behind barred doors."
    The gladiator who had escorted us earlier had been keeping an eye on us. As we moved towards the door he joined up with us and insisted on showing us out. He turned back only when he had delivered us into the protection of Eco's bodyguards on the landing outside the secluded side entrance.
    We descended the steps to the street. The crowd gathered outside the forecourt of Clodius's house had grown even larger. Men stood in groups, arguing, like their leaders inside the house, over what should be done, only in louder voices and cruder language. Other men stood alone and openly sobbed, as if their own brother or father had been murdered.
    I meant to walk straight on, but the crowd was like a force, an undertow at my feet that held me back. Eco was content to stay and observe, and so we lingered, fascinated by the torchlight, the floating bits of conversations, the shifting mass of humanity, the mood of uncertainty and dread.
    Suddenly the great bronze, doors to Clodius's house swung open with a double clang. A hush of anticipation rippled through the crowd. Armed men appeared first. They descended the steps in a cordon, preceding and flanking the men in togas who carried the body of Clodius upon a long, flat bier.
    A groan rose from the crowd at the first glimpse of the body, followed by a great rush forwards. The bier was set down on the steps, tilted upward so that Clodius could be seen. We were caught in the crush. The crowd in the forecourt compressed, and those in the street were pulled in behind them, as if sucked into a vortex. Eco gripped my hand as we were carried through the gates and into the forecourt, like flotsam on a flood. His bodyguards struggled to stay close, shoving and pressing against us. I was jabbed in the ribs by the point of a knife concealed inside the tunic of the bodyguard beside me, and considered the mad irony if I should be accidentally gutted by the weapon of a man intending to protect me.
    We came to a stop. The crowd was packed into the forecourt like grains of sand in a bottle. Through the reek of the torches, I had a clear view of Clodius