The Venus Throw by Steven Saylor Page B

defense. Clodius, whether acting for Caesar, or Crassus, or entirely on his own, appeared to be badgering Milo chiefly to get at Pompey. Clodius seemed determined to undermine Pompey’s attempts to take control of the notorious Egyptian situation . . .
    This chain of thoughts caused me to remember my visit from Dio the previous month, and I suddenly felt uneasy. “By the way,” I said, “do you remember the odd pair who visited me on the day before I left for Illyria? I was wondering if you had heard from them, or if you knew—”
    Bethesda gave me her Medusa look. Her anecdote was not to be interrupted. “There was a great crowd gathered for Milo’s trial, too many to fit into the open square where it was being held, so the mob spilled out into the nearby streets. When Pompey appeared, there was much cheering from the crowd. You know how the people adore Pompey.”
    “The Conqueror of the East.”
    “Exactly. But then Clodius appeared atop some high place and began shouting to the mob below, which was apparently packed with his supporters. Most people were too far away to hear what he was shouting, but whenever he would pausethe mob below him would cry out with one great voice, ‘Pompey!’ Even those too far away to hear Clodius or even see him could hear the name of Pompey being shouted in unison. It was like a slow chant: ‘Pompey!’ A pause. Tompey!’ A pause. ‘Pompey!’ Well, apparently Pompey heard his name being called, for they say he pricked up his ears and broke out in a broad grin, then changed his course and began making his way toward the shouting, thinking he was being lauded by the crowd.”
    “A typical politician,” I remarked, “beating a path toward his adoring supporters like a calf heading for the teat.”
    “Except that this milk was sour. As he drew closer, the smile vanished from Pompey’s face. First he saw Clodius, pacing back and forth atop the ledge, addressing the mob below and clutching himself with laughter whenever they responded with the cry of ‘Pompey!’ When Pompey drew close enough to hear what Clodius was shouting, he turned the color of a hot flame.”
    “And what set Pompey’s cheeks ablaze?”
    “Clodius was posing a series of questions, like riddles, over and over, and the answer was always the same—‘Pompey!’ ”
    “And what were these questions?”
    “Like his friend and tenant Marcus Caelius, Clodius is a very brazen man . . .”
    “Please, wife, no false modesty. I’ve heard you blast dishonest vendors in the market with curses that would make even a man like Clodius blush with shame.”
    “You exaggerate, husband.”
    “Only slightly. Well?”
    She leaned forward. “The chant went something like this:
    What’s the name of the general who’s generally obscene?
    Pompey!
    Who peeks up his soldier’s skirts when they’re marching on parade?
    Pompey!
    Who scratches his skull with one finger?
    Pompey!”
    This last was a reference to a not-so-secret sign practiced by the initiated when seeking intimate companionship with their own sex; on certain days at the baths half the clientele seemed to be wandering about scratching their heads with one finger. Such riddles were typical invective of the sort that might have been directed at any politician or general. All in all, such doggerel was pretty tame stuff, and hardly in a league with Caelius’s quip about Bestia’s guilty finger. But then, Pompey was not as accustomed as other politicians to the free-for-all of the Forum. He was used to being obeyed without question, not to being insulted in public by a Roman mob. Generals make thin-skinned politicians.
    “But in the end,” said Bethesda, leaning forward and lowering her voice, “it was Clodius who got the worst of it.”
    “How did that come about?”
    “Some of Milo’s men heard the shouting and came running. Soon there were enough of them to drown out Clodius and his gang. Their chants were positively shocking.”
    “Oh, probably not