Out of Court Settlement
by
C.J. Cherryh
Snip. Snip-snip. Snip.
Partly overcast in hell, a few spots of rain – but the job had to be done, and when jobs of a less elevated nature had to be done in Augustus’ villa, there was a question of rank involved. Augustus wasn’t going to do it. Neither was Caesar or Cleopatra, nor Sargon of Akkad; nor was Hatshepsut. The villa had Roman rulers and Egyptian pharaohs, but no gardener, and that elected the two Renaissance refugees who’d found the villa a comfortable berth in hell.
Dante was dithering around in the basement about some research project.
That left one Niccolo Machiavelli to be dragooned into the job, when Augustus came out of his office in a dither – not about the flood downtown, not about the Audit of Injustice proceeding in the Law Court, but about two young fools, both Julius’ sons, who’d decided to burgle Tiberius’ villa, over across the greenspace and a good hike beyond.
The lecherous old goat, the Emperor Tiberius, had them dead to rights. And was suing Augustus for instigating the permanently young fools in the invasion of his premises.
It was not a good time to have a lawsuit questioning the peculiar status of any Roman in hell, not that one could explain that to the syphilitic old fool, Tiberius, who’d died insane and who’d not improved in the process.
That was why Machiavelli was out there trimming roses into shape … in a light rain. With an extensive flood spreading over the greenspace. Cardinal Richelieu’s place had half the lawn underwater. Tiberius had a regular canal behind his mansion. It was a lawn-rimmed grey sheet beyond the gate and the hedge, and it might get beyond the gate tomorrow, but for now, the garden had to look its best, old roses, Roman roses, cuttings from Paestum, Augustus swore, a little bit of earthly paradise, around the beautiful statue of weeping Niobe, mourning her lost children, symbolic of the rain, and more than appropriate today.
Bailing the boys out was the mission.
Getting that old sybarite, Tiberius to settle.
And with every high-level Roman being, in essence, a lawyer, representing his house, his clients, his sympathizers, voters, and connections, in whatever court – there was still a time to call in the experts.
Tiberius had, on his side, the law firm of Stalenus, Dolabella Crassus, the most unprincipled law firm in hell.
That was a bit of a problem.
So … up against scoundrels, potentially pleading in front of antiquity, go for the headliner. The Dershowitz of his day, Marcus Tullius Cicero.
And getting Cicero to come in, was a dicey sort of request to have to make. Julius and Cicero had history. Augustus and Cicero had history. Oh, did they have history.
Snip. Snip-snip.
Cicero had died rather messily, head and hands tacked up in the Forum (shocking beyond belief, and a clear indication of the barbarity of Antony’s revenge).
But then, Marcus Antonius had always lacked class. Even Cleo said so.
“What choice did I have?” was Cleo’s statement on the situation – quietly not mentioning the other choice, Augustus. But marrying your father’s wife was beyond déclassé … a little fact the historians since had neglected to add to their reasons why Cleo had taken the liaison she had.
“Good in bed,” she’d remarked of Antonius, “when he was sober.”
The drinking problem hadn’t improved, so the rumor was. Antonius hung out sometimes at Tiberius’ villa, sometimes at Claudius’, in close company with Caracalla and Caligula, and Antonius was one of their current most serious problems – a loud mouth, a loose habit, and a rarely sober judgment.
Bad judgment in the two teens, who’d ended up in Tiberius’ basement.
And the biggest inducement to Cicero to take their side might, amazingly enough, be the fact that Antonius was over on Tiberius’ side, currently resident with the old goat.
Snip. Snip-snip.
Boom! Boom-boom-boom….
Which wasn’t thunder. Or hell’s occasional indigestion in the lower levels.
It was coming from the front of the villa, out on the street.
Or across the street, where Decentral Park’s graceful trees concealed a multitude of hell’s own problems.
It was worth wondering. Especially when it came again.
Artillery.
Damn it, it sounded for all the world…
Damn, damn, damn. He heard the yelling as a misshapen thing the size of a six-year-old child bounded over the yard’s back fence, from beside the driveway and raced past him to the sound of howling pursuit.
Imp. Niccolo had only seen a few in all his stint in hell, and this one was fast … encumbered as he was with a greasy paper bag from Hellzacre BarBQ.
A noisy black-pants mass was coming down the drive, across the gravel, and didn’t bother with the gate: they came over the fence, waving AK-47's and Tokarevs and screaming at the top of their lungs. Niccolo backed up, dropping the shears – and the basket of rose clippings, which rolled across the rose garden aisle, scattering thorny bits across the path of first the barefoot imp and then the barefoot Cong.
Coals of fire rained down, the imp’s doing, a veritable hail as the imp vaulted the back gate and splashed off across the flooded lawn. Howls of indignation went up from the Cong, and a volley of shots rang out and stitched across the grey flood – no damage to the imp.
The Cong went right over the fence and splashed after him, firing and howling, and leaving behind a confetti of rose debris and curls of white from the smoldering coals, where falling raindrops hissed and sent up steam, commingled with burning lawn.
The roses obliged with an instant spurt of green leaves and soft sprigs.
Hell’s roses were, if anything, tenacious, especially if abused. Sprigs grew from every angle, pale green and vigorous.
“Dannazione!” Niccolo cried. And it was a good bet when the Cong gave up tracking the imp they’d be back, right across the same route to Decentral Park. “Dannazione!” He snatched up the shears and the empty basket, and began gathering up the clippings that now were scattered all the way to the back gate.
It thundered overhead. A spate of rain followed. And a third “Dannazione!” from Niccolo, whose fingers were bleeding from the thorns, and whose shirt and doublet were getting damp. A particularly chill gust sent him back toward the portico, with the intention of heading for the basement and rousting Dante Alighieri out of his library hunt, with threats of murder.
A car pulled up in the drive. Caesar and Cleopatra were back from a very essential quest, and that, momentarily, outranked thoughts of revenge. Niccolo set the basket and shears on a plinth and wiped his bleeding hands, standing by for a courteous little bow as the two came hurrying in out of the rain – Cleo in a smart cloche hat with a feather that was showing drops of rain, a trim little black skirt and smartly-seamed black nylons, Julius in a MacArthur jacket and a Red Sox cap.
“Where’s Augustus?” Julius asked.
“In his office, I believe, signore – anxious for news. Which one hopes is good.”
“Moderately,” Julius said. A Viet Cong shell boomed out, flew overhead, and burst somewhere beyond the garden gate. “Is the Cardinal at odds with the Cong?”
“An imp came through, signore. One believes it came from the Park.”
“There’s some sort of a tower in the Park, that wasn’t there this morning. A metal tower, straight up, like an antenna.”
“One has no idea,” Niccolo said. He hadn’t. He’d been working in the garden since breakfast. “I have not seen it.”