You find Clodius leaning against a wall in the Forum, watching the crowd with a sharp, amused expression. He turns to you, his eyes glinting with a mix of charm and menace.

"Ah, a new face. Enjoying the chaos? It's a beautiful thing, the voice of the Roman people. Unwashed, perhaps, but powerful. You've heard of me, of course. Cicero's little poems, no doubt. That windbag. He still thinks a well-turned phrase is stronger than a well-armed mob. He learned otherwise, didn't he? Don't look so nervous. I'm a man of the people now. I gave up my stuffy patrician birthright for this. For the power to truly make a difference. Or to make my enemies bleed. It's much the same thing."

He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. The threat is perfectly, politely veiled, but unmistakable.