like most men of his generation, Asicius can’t seem to resist any opportunity to show off.)
The litter was an enormous eight-man affair, elaborately decorated (Egyptian fitters make the most elegant Roman conveyances look plain) and attended by no fewer than a hundred armed bodyguards, also lent to Asicius by King Ptolemy. (If the king supplied the bodyguards for Asicius’s physical defense, who can help but conclude that it was also the king who hired Cicero for Asicius’s legal defense?) Can you see it in your mind—Cicero and Asicius discussing the upcoming murder trial while they proceed along the shore borne aloft in a lifter, lolling about in Egyptian luxury with a hundred swordsmen in their train?
I missed the trial; a relapse of the cough which plagued me in Illyria kept me from venturing down to the Forum. Bethesda went to watch, but you can imagine the sort of report she same back with—I was informed that Asicius is quite good-looking, if a bit wasted and pale (Bethesda has heard that he drinks to excess); that Asicius’s friend, our handsome young neighbor M.C., was nowhere in light; and that Cicero was as long-winded and boring as ever.
And oh, yes, that Asicius was
acquitted
of murdering Dio.
I now regret having missed the trial, for I should like to have heard with my own ears the evidence presented. But I do not regret having missed whateverdevious conjurer’s tricks Cicero used to distract, disorient and ultimately persuade the judges. I don’t need the aggravation.
So, for better or worse, the matter has come to a conclusion. Poor Dio shall go unavenged, but his legacy may yet prevail—
I lifted my stylus from the parchment, distracted by a knock. I turned in my chair and saw Belbo in the doorway.
“The messenger’s come back, Master. He says he must have your letter now if he’s to take it for you.”
I grunted. “Show him in. No need to make him wait in the hallway.” I returned to the letter.
I must close abruptly. Caesar’s message bearer has returned.
I have foolishly spent this precious hour recounting Forum gossip and left myself no time to speak of family matters. Know that all is well. Bethesda is as always, and Diana becomes more like her mother every day (more beautiful, more mysterious). Eco continues to prosper, though I often wish I could have taught him a less dangerous trade than his father’s, and his beloved Menenia has proved herself a woman of surpassing patience, especially in bringing up the uncontrollable twins. Imagine having
two
four-year-olds squabbling and stubbing their toes and catching colds. . . .
I must close. The messenger has entered the room and stands before me, glancing over his shoulder at the statue of Minerva in the sun-filled atrium, tapping his foot impatiently.
Take care, Meto!
I dusted the parchment with fine sand, then pursed my lips and gently blew the sand away. I rolled the parchment,slipped it into a leather jacket and sealed the cylinder with wax. As I handed it reluctantly to the messenger, thinking of things left unsaid, I took a closer look at the man. He was dressed in a soldier’s regalia, all leather straps and clinking steel and blood-red wool. His jaw was stiff and his countenance stem.
“How old are you, soldier?”
“Twenty-two.”
Meto’s age exactly; no wonder the fellow looked to me like a child playing soldier. I studied his face, searching for some sign of the horrors he must have beheld already in his young life, and saw only the bland innocence of youth framed by a soldier’s helmet.
His stem expression abruptly softened. He looked puzzled. I realized he was swing beyond me at someone in the doorway.
As I swung about I heard Belbo bluster, “Master, another guest—I told him to wait in the foyer, but he’s followed me anyway—”
At first I hardly saw the visitor, blocked as he was by Belbo’s bulk. Then he slipped into view, and what he lacked in stature was more than made up for by the gaudy
The litter was an enormous eight-man affair, elaborately decorated (Egyptian fitters make the most elegant Roman conveyances look plain) and attended by no fewer than a hundred armed bodyguards, also lent to Asicius by King Ptolemy. (If the king supplied the bodyguards for Asicius’s physical defense, who can help but conclude that it was also the king who hired Cicero for Asicius’s legal defense?) Can you see it in your mind—Cicero and Asicius discussing the upcoming murder trial while they proceed along the shore borne aloft in a lifter, lolling about in Egyptian luxury with a hundred swordsmen in their train?
I missed the trial; a relapse of the cough which plagued me in Illyria kept me from venturing down to the Forum. Bethesda went to watch, but you can imagine the sort of report she same back with—I was informed that Asicius is quite good-looking, if a bit wasted and pale (Bethesda has heard that he drinks to excess); that Asicius’s friend, our handsome young neighbor M.C., was nowhere in light; and that Cicero was as long-winded and boring as ever.
And oh, yes, that Asicius was
acquitted
of murdering Dio.
I now regret having missed the trial, for I should like to have heard with my own ears the evidence presented. But I do not regret having missed whateverdevious conjurer’s tricks Cicero used to distract, disorient and ultimately persuade the judges. I don’t need the aggravation.
So, for better or worse, the matter has come to a conclusion. Poor Dio shall go unavenged, but his legacy may yet prevail—
I lifted my stylus from the parchment, distracted by a knock. I turned in my chair and saw Belbo in the doorway.
“The messenger’s come back, Master. He says he must have your letter now if he’s to take it for you.”
I grunted. “Show him in. No need to make him wait in the hallway.” I returned to the letter.
I must close abruptly. Caesar’s message bearer has returned.
I have foolishly spent this precious hour recounting Forum gossip and left myself no time to speak of family matters. Know that all is well. Bethesda is as always, and Diana becomes more like her mother every day (more beautiful, more mysterious). Eco continues to prosper, though I often wish I could have taught him a less dangerous trade than his father’s, and his beloved Menenia has proved herself a woman of surpassing patience, especially in bringing up the uncontrollable twins. Imagine having
two
four-year-olds squabbling and stubbing their toes and catching colds. . . .
I must close. The messenger has entered the room and stands before me, glancing over his shoulder at the statue of Minerva in the sun-filled atrium, tapping his foot impatiently.
Take care, Meto!
I dusted the parchment with fine sand, then pursed my lips and gently blew the sand away. I rolled the parchment,slipped it into a leather jacket and sealed the cylinder with wax. As I handed it reluctantly to the messenger, thinking of things left unsaid, I took a closer look at the man. He was dressed in a soldier’s regalia, all leather straps and clinking steel and blood-red wool. His jaw was stiff and his countenance stem.
“How old are you, soldier?”
“Twenty-two.”
Meto’s age exactly; no wonder the fellow looked to me like a child playing soldier. I studied his face, searching for some sign of the horrors he must have beheld already in his young life, and saw only the bland innocence of youth framed by a soldier’s helmet.
His stem expression abruptly softened. He looked puzzled. I realized he was swing beyond me at someone in the doorway.
As I swung about I heard Belbo bluster, “Master, another guest—I told him to wait in the foyer, but he’s followed me anyway—”
At first I hardly saw the visitor, blocked as he was by Belbo’s bulk. Then he slipped into view, and what he lacked in stature was more than made up for by the gaudy
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