“You will not speak of Beatrice in such disrespect!”
“You will not deal with our eternity in such disrespect!” Hatshepsut said, descending a step also to lean very close to Dante. “The asp of the earth and the vulture of the sky are mine, the crook that rescues and the flail that beats out the grain in judgment! I am the Osiris and the Ra Ascended! I am Isis and Sekhmet, and I rule on the spiritual Nile. Yet I have preferred this house to the Fields of the Blessed – for its knowledge, its seeking after new things, its gathering of minds and its vantage on eternity. I have gained things here that I will not give up, not for all the honors that would be mine if I were willing to go to the Eternal Fields. Oh, you want hell, son of Thoth – try an afterlife of no change, never change, not a day different than any other, for all eternity! I refuse to go back to it – but that is what you threaten! If you bring the eyes of Erra on this place, he will know it is a hotbed of things out of place, and enjoyment, and anticipation, which are not a part of hell outside these walls! Appreciate what you have, scribe! And respect the house of our host! We have enough trouble with Tiberius, who is mad enough to think he can win in this court! But you, you, poet, I have thought you were wiser than that. What use is a poet if he is not wise?”
Dante had begun to wilt, in Sargon’s grip. And now he began to shake his head. “Beatrice,” he moaned. “Beatrice. Beatrice!”
“Hopeless,” Sargon said. “We cannot let the scribbler loose until this is resolved. We cannot have him wandering about with his ‘Beatrice’ and his petitions.”
“We have the basement,” Niccolo said. “He will be happy with the library and the books.”
“You cannot lock me up!” Dante cried. “I shall never forgive you! Never!”
“For his own good,” Hatshepsut said, and bent and picked up a book, as Sargon picked up Dante and marched him downstairs.
Niccolo arranged his cuffs and raked a hand through his hair and tried to compose himself, trying not to think what could happen if Sargon’s hell descended on the villa.
He picked up a couple of books himself, and heard Dante still shouting about Beatrice as a door shut, below.
Dante was going to be very upset with them, but not half as upset as he would be if he got what he wanted to petition for.
Boom! From outside.
The Cong might be coming back through. Or might take another route. He hoped so.
Dante was still screaming, distantly. A door thumped shut. Niccolo looked up, about to go back to the main floor.
And looked up at a scowling Augustus.
“Signore,” Niccolo said, dismayed.
“What is that?” Augustus asked.
“Dante, signore.” Deep breath. “He thinks to petition the court for a new hearing….”
“Di immortales,” Augustus breathed, gone a shade paler. “And the garden? The garden, Niccolo?”
The booming was still going on outside. The shouting from inside.
“I shall go see,” Niccolo said, and added: “If the German Guard could be set to guard the stairs, signore…”
“A good idea,” Augustus agreed.
“Auguste!” One of the servants came running up. “A car. A taxi in the driveway.”
“Damn!” Augustus said. “Damn!” And left.
It was by no means certain there would be any of the German Guard showing up. And it was too late for the rose garden. A car in the driveway?
It likely was the great man himself. And Niccolo was not about to leave the stairs unguarded, even with Hatshepsut and Sargon attending arrangements below. He liked his arrangement with the Romans. He liked being here and not in Cesare Borgia’s basement. He had come here after his initial trip back to Slab One, had reincarnated and gotten shipped here, and he existed in mortal terror on every trip back – every time he died in hell – that some clerk in Infernal Records would realize that someone had gotten Cesare crossed with Caesar and dropped him into the Roman paradise.
Oh, he did not want that mistake reviewed. And the Audit that might send the Roman paradise to a nether hell was terrifying. Personally terrifying.
Hell if he was going to let a love-besotted poet end his residency here.
*
There was nothing for it. Julius had that figured. The old man was Republican, give or take his penchant for honors, public acclaim, and being important, and staying decently in the house and letting servants bring the visitor to him and Augustus just wasn’t going to set the right tone.
The personal touch. There was a lot of water under the bridge with them – from pristine and sweet to not-so-good water under the bridge. But he’d done the man favors. He’d saved his damned life. Never mind the likelihood the conspirators that had assassinated him had probably approached Cicero and Cicero hadn’t warned him. He’d forgiven Brutus. For Brutus’ sake – and Caesarion’s – and the safety of the household, he could damned well forgive Cicero.
The old man, toga-clad, meticulously coiffed, in the spitting rain, was paying off the taxi – and arranging a stand-wait, apparently, since the cabby nodded several times.
Damn! There was that tower in Decentral Park, big metal thing, like a girder, straight up.
But it was closer now. Right across the street. Hell of an eyesore. And gods knew what it did.
Phone public works and ask? They weren’t phoning anybody official until the Audit was out of here.
“Cicero, my old friend,” he called across the drive, as Cicero still admonished the unfortunate cabbie. “I’m sure he understands.” Best classical form. “Please, come inside!”
“Here!” Cicero said, stabbing a finger at the driveway. “Do not budge! Intelligisne?”
“Si, signore,” the driver said, and Cicero edged away with a second stay gesture.
“Please,” Julius said with an inviting sweep of his arm.
“You seem well-adapted to this place,” Cicero said, casting a jaundiced look at Julius. “I suppose that Octavianus is the same.”
“Well, well,” Julius said, waving the old man inside the foyer. “We do get along, but mentally, sir, mentally, we keep the old ways. Please. Come out to the back. We have everything arranged.” The old man didn’t hold with electric lights, didn’t accept this or that invention, and the taxi was a major concession. The Republicans could be like that.
And if it was daylight, the place for reading and paperwork was, yes, the portico overlooking the rose garden – whence there was a fair view of the back gate, and Tiberius’ villa, or at least its back boundaries.
Augustus was on his way – note that Cicero used his adopted name, Octavianus, not the Senate-awarded title Augustus preferred.
And they had maybe a quarter of an hour to set the tone, deliver the old senatorial warhorse enough wine to mellow his mood, and talk him into handling the case.
Keep the boys out of sight.
And try not to talk about old times.
Augustus had arrived there, in toga. Cleopatra hadn’t. Cicero would not approve, and she had discreetly headed off to find Hatshepsut. Decius was standing by, looking Republican, likewise in toga, instead of the usual fatigues. And one of Augustus’ household was there to play servant, in simple tunic and sandals – jeans and a tee-shirt was Galba’s usual. They were so good.
“Delighted you came,” Augustus said. “So glad. Thank you.”
Augustus offered a handshake, perfect old-fashioned manners, and Cicero stood a moment and surveyed the grounds, the beautiful nude Niobe in the middle of the rose garden – which was shaggy as hell with new growth.
“Amazing vigor,” Cicero remarked. “Quite. No buds however. What are you feeding them?”
“It’s not the food,” Julius said, “it’s the variety. I’m sure we’d be happy to send you one – they’re rather crowding the bed. They’re red, mostly.”
“Very kind of you,” Cicero said, taking his seat. Galba hastened to pour wine all around.
“Your health,” Julius said.
&nbs
p; “Indeed,” Augustus said.
They drank. They sipped for a moment in silence. “So,” Cicero said, with a gesture to the modest stack of paper. “I understand you’re in receipt of a letter from the man.”
This was the best part. Caesar quietly slipped the letter in question from the stack and handed the scroll over – parchment, with red wax, no simple tabula for this official creation. They were keeping records in Tiberius’ establishment.
Cicero read it. Or started to. “Stalenus!”
“Caius Stalenus,” Augustus said quietly. “Law firm of Stalenus, Dolabella, and Marcus Licinius Crassus – not to be confused with the esteemed jurist of that cognomen. You and I have had our difficulties. Fate assigned me an ally I repented at leisure, my dear sir – you know who I mean. An ally once dear to Julius, and estranged, even before the plot. When you opposed Julius, you had the grace to do so absolutely, publically and on the most honorable of terms; and would that I had had you at my side, sir, rather than Lepidus and Antonius – who hired that infamous law firm in Tiberius’ name. The flood yonder – as good as the Mediterranean, which once divided me from Antonius – separates us from that vile house, and would that it would wash out the corruption. Hell has spared your domicile, and spares this house, honorable gentleman, but hell has full sway across that flood, and if you are so brave as to take this commission, I do not envy you the task of negotiating with that collection of scoundrels. You see what we are up against!”
Cicero took in a breath. “Allow me to read this.”
Julius took a sip of wine. Augustus did. There was a moment of profound silence, just the crinkling of parchment, the unrolling of a fairly short scroll.
Then Cicero laid it down and brushed his hands off as if brushing off dirt. His chins, immaculately shaven, acquired more wrinkles, with an expression of distaste.
“These are venal men. You need no lawyer. You need a full purse!”
“One might conclude so,” Julius said, “but we need a release. A definitive statement. You know what’s going on downtown. The old lecher, Tiberius, wants to file a lawsuit. Look at it this way. First of all, the boys are innocent.”
“You say.”
“On my honor, Tullius Cicero! On clan Julia’s honor, which I take fully seriously. I’ve bent my own a few times. But not in this. Not in this, Tullius Cicero. These boys made a foolish, youthful mistake. They ended up in Tiberius’ villa, scared out of their minds, and were lucky to get out with their innocence intact, if you take my meaning. The man is notorious.”
“My wife’s son,” Augustus said glumly. “Livia. She spoiled those boys. But syphilis and an old age of debauchery hasn’t improved the old goat’s intellect. He’s a polluted, bloated thing with a taste for things one had rather not name. His house guests are no better – one of whom you well know. The other great orator of our age.”
“I do not admit he is great.”
“He certainly isn’t now,” Julius said, “which is why he’s hired Stalenus, Dolabella and Crassus to represent Tiberius. He’s rarely sober. You won’t have to deal with him, Marcus Tullius. But in his sober interludes he’ll know you won.”
“I haven’t agreed to this!”
“There’s no one better to deal with it. You’re more than a lawyer. You’re a legal scholar. Centuries have not dimmed your reputation.” Flattery, absolute, disgusting flattery. But the old man loved it. He always had.
“The question is a binding legal agreement. An agreement to hold these young men harmless. Are they?”
“One is Marcus Brutus. You know he’s honest.”
Cicero frowned. “And the other, the Egyptian woman’s boy.”
“Caesarion. Yes. Likely he got Brutus into it. But they’re both far out of their depth. And the household, Tullius. The household! A drunk and a syphilitic madman have decided now is the time to launch a lawsuit. Now, of all times! If we go to court, the inquiry may well ask – not why is Tiberius’ house a cesspool of iniquity and misery? But rather, why are Romans in hell enjoying their villas and their comforts, their rose gardens and their traditional ways? You are an astute man. You know exactly what will happen if an inquiry shines a light on this villa. The inquiry will leap from us to your tranquil establishment, to the Elysian meadows, to all the Roman souls that now have the reward of just lives and honorable dealing. You are more than a lawyer, Marcus Tullius. You are the exemplar of an honest lawyer – who fought corruption and challenged wrongdoing in high places. You do not deserve to spend eternity as a courtier in Tiberius’ villa – and that is what is at stake here.”
“That is entirely what is at stake,” Augustus said. “We cannot deal with Tiberius. But we must stop this lawsuit going forward.”
“An out of court settlement,” Cicero said.
“Exactly.”
“Both boys.”
“Yes,” Julius said. “They’re both my sons.”
“There are three positions, one to settle, one to defer – to countersue, which I gather is not desirable.”
“Not desirable,” Augustus said. “Even after the Audit departs, the court may be unsettled.”
“In the remaining options, cost may be an issue.”
*
“No,” Augustus said. “It is not. This is family.”
Well-played, Julius thought. Cicero, besides being an odd combination of puritan and peacock, was an honest man, and Roman to the core. Family. Clan loyalty.
And Cicero was thinking now, fingering the scroll. “And the payment?”
Trick question. A test. A traditionalist did not take pay for legal representation.
“You would never ask payment,” Augustus said.
Bright lad, Caesar thought, and eyes did not meet, while discussing that nasty word money between clans. Cicero was clan Tullia. They were Julia. And should represent themselves. Asking another clan to do it – was a little dicey.
“We want the best,” Julius said. “And you are the best. You are absolutely impossible for Tiberius to hire – but we hope, not out of reach for us to engage on honorable grounds.”
“There is the matter of Antonius.”
“Of whom clan Julia has washed our hands. Entirely. On many grounds. You opposed me openly, siding with Pompeius – but did I hold that against you, when that side went down? You used that eloquence against me. Yet I respected you. I did not heed the advisors who wanted you dead. I was handed a list of my political enemies. I burned it.”
“After reading it?” Cicero asked pointedly, and Julius laughed, honestly.
“I knew the source, the self-seeking bastards. But your name crossed my desk repeatedly, yes, from Antonius. And I trusted Antonius less and less.”
“Would that you had not listened to him,” Cicero said to Augustus.
“What can I say? I was in a situation. I didn’t have the power to stop him. Not on that. Power – came at Actium. After that – I could have. But it was much too late.”
Cicero arched an eyebrow. “You are glib, Octavianus.”
“I was twenty years old, Marcus Tullius. I was a boy allied to Marcus Antonius. I was a boy dragged into public life by Julius’ will, with a handful of advisors and a copy of Aristotle’s Rhetoric. I did what I could on the side of justice – but I could not stop him, where his mind was made up. It gave me nightmares, what he did.”
“It gave you nightmares, First Citizen! It was more than a little inconvenient to me.”
“Yet – may we talk of favors, Marcus Tullius? Of clan Julia’s protecting you, as long as it could…”
“You did support the law,” Cicero said. “I give you that, Octavianus.”
“We are all in this together, now,” Julius said. “If that lawsuit goes forward, not only clan Julia will find the attention of the Audit directed on it – we may find those lunatics downtown assigning damages that will ruin us. That may set Tiberius in charge of the Roman establishment. And that brings Marcus Antonius, as his chief officer, and Stalenus, Dolabella and Crassu
s as his legal office. To an administration interested in increasing the misery of hell, that should do it.”
“Appalling,” Cicero said.
“And of course,” Augustus said, “there is no tit for tat, no recompense, and of course no shameful offer of money, but if the undying friendship of clan Julia weighs anything with clan Tullia, we shall be very glad to do this on a handshake.”
Cicero stood up and proffered his hand. Augustus stood up and took it. Julius extended a hand.
“I shall need,” Cicero said, “a letter of apology from the boys individually. And a letter from the head of clan Julia. Is that yourself, Julius, or has the burden passed –”
“– to my heir, indeed. Augustus will see to it and we shall courier all the letters to you.”
“Make it good,” Cicero said. And winced as, with a screaming passage overhead, a boom and a huge splash amid the flood – a horde of black-clad Viet Cong poured toward the garden gate, on their way back.
Galba moved fast, reached the driveway gate and opened it, allowing a yelling tide of Cong to go through and down the driveway, past the garage.
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