"There you go again. For godssakes I've got men could peel you like an onion.
Let's don't lay bets. There's nothing you've got that I'm after. It's yourself I wanted back. For your mother's sake. For mine. Dammit, I've been your route.
I hoped time would cure it. But this last I can't tolerate. Attach yourself to a ragtag like that, a fool like Guevara-you're too damn smart to believe that crap they hand out. It's my name you're after. To make me any damn trouble you can, and you were so damn smug you walked right into a trap two thousand years in the making."
"What are you talking about?"
"One foot in Roman territory, one in the East-oh, they do want you. Freedom isn't what you're bargaining for. Look at it. You wonder what you'll be worth to them-if ever you get out of line. Where's your independence then?"
Caesarion thrust himself to his bare feet. Tee shirt and jeans, like his other son, but darker. And the flush still showed on the left side of his face. "So what place have I got?"
"That's negotiable." It was as much as could be gotten. "Depends on how convinced I am. But that's your job." Julius walked to the door, shot the inner bolt back and opened the latch. Two legionaries waited outside. "Mind your manners."
"Back to that place."
"Son, we just haven't got a lot of secure accommodations here."
Caesarion straightened his shoulders. "Sir," he said. And walked out, quietly between his guards.
Stopped then, dead in his tracks, at sight of the toga-clad, freckled man who stood across the hall. One half heartbeat.
Then Caesarion ran, broke from his guards and pelted down the hall as the legionaries reached for guns.
"Damn!" Julius hit the first-drawn pistol aside and blocked the second, shoving the legionaries into motion. "No! Catch him!" As Augustus himself hesitated and fleet bare feet headed around a comer. The legionaries ran after the boy; Julius sprinted for the stairs to head the boy off from the downstairs main hall.
Down and down, his boots less sure on the marble than bare feet would be. Down into the main hall and around the turning as he saw Caesarion coming down the hall between him and the two legionaries in hot pursuit.
A door opened midway down the hall. Dante Alighieri stared in profoundest shock as he stepped out carrying a sandwich and a glass of milk.
"For the gods' sake-" Julius yelled, but Caesarion bowled the Italian aside on his way out the offered door to the kitchens, and Julius hit the poet from the other side, rattling the French doors and leaving a second crash of glassware-legion oaths then, as the GIs followed, on a crescendo of Italian imprecation. But with the lead he had gained Caesarion sped ahead, down another, darkened corridor toward the dining rooms, toward the turn that led round again by a row of windows. He snatched up a bronze bust off a bureau one-handed and sent it through the window in a shower of glass and wood, himself leaping after it without ever, the thought came to Julius in a fit of frustrated rage, even knowing what damned floor he was on.
Julius got that far, leapt up with his foot on the ledge to try the eight foot drop to the flower garden, before the legionaries grabbed his arms and pulled him back, risking that jump themselves, one and the other landing in the bushes and staggering across dark bark chips where glass shone.
There was one thing in which a fit. seventeen year old, even barefoot, had the advantage of a pack of thirty year olds. Caesarion was on his feet in the half-light of Hell's night, running like a deer across the lawn and toward the hedges-gods knew how cut, or bleeding. But the legionaires with their gear and their guns could not catch him. "Track him!" Julius yelled into the dark; and at the flicker of a sycophant that came to the broken glass: "APB," he said.
"Get Horatius."
Horatius, Horatius, Horatius-the creature whispered, and went for the security chief.
Damned little chance, he thought, seething. And heard the agitated apologies of the poet down the hallways, protestations of innocence ... Dante had heard the commotion, had come out in all good faith to see what the trouble was ... Augustus' voice then, no little agitated on its own. Julius looked, hearing footsteps, and found Augustus coming toward him in haste down the hall.
"I'm sorry," Augustus said. "Pro di, I'm sorry."
Julius stared at his adopted son. The Emperor, who after effecting Antonius'
and Klea's earthly deaths, had lured Caesarion and his tutor to Alexandria and into his keeping, from which neither had come alive.
"Sorry for which?" Julius asked. "Then or now?"
Augustus said not a word.
BY INVITATION ONLY
Nancy Asire
Light spilled down the stairs leading to Louis XIV's palace. Napoleon helped Marie from the big Mercedes and tried to erase (he frown he knew he had worn during the entire ride across Decentral Park. Narrow face touched by just a hint of a smile, Wellington stepped back from the driver's side of the car so the valet could' park it.
Napoleon straightened his uniform, tugged at the collar and mightily wished himself elsewhere.
Damn Wellington anyway. Probably enjoying himself. Here we are, going to this damnable party or whatever it is Louis throws in his place, playing spy and courier for Caesar, and he's enjoying it.
A quick glance at Marie: she looked beautiful tonight, yet her eyes told him she knew this outing was more than it seemed. Napoleon cursed under his breath-her presence would make it easier to explain why he had come to a party, but he disliked exposing her to possible danger.
Before the valet drove off, Wellington took a quick look into the outside rear-view mirror, set his cocked hat at a different angle, and adjusted his cravat. Napoleon sighed.
"That's the fifth time you've looked at yourself since we left, Wellington. I don't think anything's out of place."
Wellington snorted. "You're upset because you had to dress up, that's all."
"Damned right I'm upset about it. I hate dressing up, I hate parties, and--"
He shrugged. "Oh, well. It can't last forever."
"One hopes." Wellington motioned to the stairs. "Shall we?"
Napoleon offered Marie his arm and walked up the steps beside Wellington. A simple in and out. You'll have a string on you all the way. Mouse says. All very smooth. Huhn.
Damned Romans! It'd better be.
The entry hall was a sea of brilliant uniforms, gowns, and jewels. As the valet took his and Wellington's hats and Mane's shawl. Napoleon glanced around, seeking familiar faces. He had little to do with those who frequented Louis' parties, even less with those who turned up at a God-forsaken ball.
Dilettantes, all of them! All he asked was to be let alone on his side of the park. He bothered no one and expected the same in return. But the game had changed.
To say nothing of the rules.
Louis' chamberlain glided across the marble floor, some trick since he was wearing three-inch high heels. His elaborate wig was redolent with perfume.
Napoleon frowned and Wellington sneezed.
"Shall I announce you now, majeste?"
Napoleon nodded briefly, put on a smile for Marie's sake, and shot a glance in Wellington's direction. In and out, Wellington. No loitering.
The chamberlain stepped up to the doorway leading to the huge ballroom and rapped his staff three times on the floor. "His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor Napoleon. The Countess Mane Walewska. His Grace, the Duke of Wellington."
Heads turned as those already present stared in their direction. Napoleon tried to remember the last party he had been to and gave up. It had been years, at least. If nothing else, his being here would be the topic of conversation for days to come. He shrugged, sighed quietly, and walked into the even brighter room beyond.
"I must say," Wellington murmured at Napoleon's elbow, "you do look smashing tonight. It's the new uniform, don't you think? Aren't you glad I talked you into wearing it?"