The engineers gave orders. The pedestal joined the weeping lady.
Did a romantic imagine a look of panicked distress on the marble face? Rain glistened on her skin. Her outstretched hand, so delicate, appealed to brute men for salvation, to the thoughtless heavens for a rescue.
None such was coming. You play chess with gods, signora, you just do not expect to win. You were a vain bitch.
Now you get a new admirer. Doubtless you’ll grace his bedroom. Lucky signora. You’re marble. He’s – shall we say – less than pure.
“He-us!” the senior engineer shouted, and the legionaries scrambled to grab rose bushes and to get them aboard. And Julius had probably been watching the progress, since he came out, looked the situation over, counted rosebushes – little nods of his head – and walked grandly back indoors, into the dry.
Well.
Dannazione. Not a shred of notice, his direction. Julius was thinking about those two boys of his. He was thinking about Augustus, or Cleopatra, or any of a dozen others.
Who did he have? Dante Alighieri. Who believed heaven and Beatrice awaited him – if he could ever reconstitute his great epic.
Ha.
Well, he had the garden to keep his mind off his problems. He had to move some rosebushes to cover the scars the trucks had made – and the missing ten bushes. Eleven, counting Cicero’s.
Couldn’t have made it an even, easy-to-apportion number, could they?
Maybe he should send a gift of his own to Cicero … just paving the way for future favors. One never had too many favors of the inbound sort.
He thought that, gathering up his garden spade from its place, leaning against a pillar of the portico.
And saw, through the gate, three things.
First, there was a great metal tower in the far distance – right next to the edge of the flood, right on the edge of Tiberius’ lawn.
Second, on Richelieu’s lawn, there was a small band of the Cardinal’s men, armed with swords, determinedly facing something, short and singular, splashing its way across the flood at an angle.
Thirdly, and equally determined, there was one of the Cardinal’s men in galoshes, headed for the villa’s back gate, sword in hand, and fire in his eye.
“Toi!” the man shouted at him.
That did it. “Don’t you toi me, vous!” He flung down the shovel. “You are addressing Niccolo di Bernardo dei Machiavelli, Secretary to the Second Chancery de la Repubblica di Fierenze, lately Secretary to Caius Julius Caesar Octavianus Augustus, master of this villa. Whom do you think you are addressing?”
“A most peculiar occupation for a gentleman, sir! You are head to foot in mud, and that –”
It was an imp, emanated from the tower on Tiberius’ green rolling lawn, and the Cardinal’s men were having at it, with poor effect.
“Don’t look at us! We had one cross our grounds with the Viet Cong in hot pursuit! If you let it get to the Park you’ll have that horde coming back after it! Tiberius is not under my lord’s jurisdiction! He’s your neighbor!” There was a horrendous scream. Niccolo winced. “My lord views this as his property line, and kindly respect it. I am sure my lord wishes your lord well, and hopes you will succeed in driving that creature back to Tiberius’ premises, where it will be aptly situated. I shall report it immediately, and you may rest assured we will not let it pass.”
“You may rest assured His Eminence will seek damages!” the Cardinal’s man cried.
“You may rest assured His Eminence understands exactly the situation downtown. If you cannot deal with this yourselves, then appeal to my lord, and we will take over your defense – in a neighborly way. But I think His Eminence has a very clear reason why we will not be seeking anything in the law courts at this precise moment!”
“Vous,” the Cardinal’s man said – the respectful pronoun, this time, then at a renewed scream from his men, spun around and started to run. “Idiotes! Chut! Tenez! Tenez-vous!”
Damn the roses. Niccolo turned and ran for the house, but Julius was already on his way out into a sudden spate of rain, armed with a pistol, with Mus, Scaevola and Sargon’s two Scorpion Guards – that was two M-16’s and a pair of tall spears; and behind them came Augustus’ German Guard, howling like wolves, invoking one-eyed Wotan and waving their Gewehr 98’s at the lightning above.
Niccolo simply wiped the mud off his hands and nicely opened the garden gate, as the French rallied and began to chase the imp back in Tiberius’ direction.
Rifle fire stitched the water. The Germans and Sargon’s Scorpion Guards waded out after the retreating imp.
Julius and his bodyguards stopped at water’s edge, watched for a moment, then walked back through the villa gate.
“I think that’s handled,” Julius said. “Was he appropriately polite, the Cardinal’s man, Niccolo? I noticed a little waving of hands.”
“He had to have things explained, m’lord.”
“You might write the incident up,” Julius said. “In case.”
Niccolo bowed. Smiled at Julius, despite a raindrop making a slow path down the side of his nose, and another down his opposite temple.
He so appreciated little chances like that, to advance himself in the household, to become – perhaps – essential. Essential was good.
Essential was always good, where it came to princes.