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.
“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.