Rome: "A Fate Suitable to His Deserts."
Mar. 15th, 2007 03:23 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
artyartieWritten for the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
rome_fic Ides of March challenge. Writen for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cerebel, who asked for "Antony/Cicero. Explaining "A woman's role always suited you best", from Cicero's speech delivered in absentia."
Pairing: Cicero/Antony
Rating: Very hard R.
Notes: Spoilers up through 'These Being the Words...'
Word Count: 4,631
Last night's phrases
sick wih lack of basis
are still writhing on my floor.
And it doesn't seem fair
That your wicked words should work
In holding me down
No, it doesn't seem right
To take information
Given at close range
For the gag
And the bind
And the ammunition round.
-'Not About Love', Fiona Apple
“Is there anything you need, Dominus?” Tiro’s voice, as full of anxiety as his visage, interrupted Cicero’s melancholy meditation on Antony’s scroll full of miscreants and the worst of the common rabble. No amount of alteration could make the ugly reality of Antony’s power over the Republic any easier to digest.
“A strength I do not posses,” he said, pushing away a proffered cup of wine. “Either to rid the Republic and myself of our oppressor, or to rid myself of this miserable existence altogether.” He closed his eyes and shut out the babble of Tiro’s protests – his man, of all people, should have realized his master could not bring himself to either action.
“Tiro, please, cease this inane blabbering. I speak in-“ Cicero smiled, mockingly, at his own cowardice, “bitter jest. I will live to be an old man, surrounded by reminders of my many failures. “ With renewed futility, Cicero struck the worst of the offenders from the cross, black ink splattering across his fingers. Gray dust felt like ashes in his hand, the ashes of the Republic, his former power and glory, his daughter, closed forever in her tomb.
“Fetch the litter – I will attend to the matter myself. No doubt, Antony will see my minor alterations as drastic changes.” Cicero shook off the scroll and rolled in his hands. It was dry and lifeless to the touch, which only seemed fitting. “The best I can do is soften the blow myself.”
**
“Friend Cicero! This is an unexpected delight.”
“Unexpected, I’m certain.”
Antony’s hands clasped his, raising them to his lips to press a feather-light kiss across the knuckles before releasing them. Cicero caught the scent of honey and wine, clinging to his skin, and he savored it for the briefest moment even as fear flickered in his eyes at the memory of another intimate, far more brutal gesture. Antony must have caught that fear, for he looked at Cicero as if he was trying to soothe a frightened animal.
“Come now, I wouldn’t kill you in my own home - what kind of host would I be?” Antony laughed as if it was the most ridiculous idea and not a distinct possibility. Cicero, accordingly, kept a guarded silence. “Besides, you’d bleed all over my mosaics, just to spite me.”
“I would be obligated to make my death as inconvenient as possible.” This morbid banter was easier. Cicero’s wit seldom deserted him, especially at the most inappropriate times. “Regardless, this visit will be a brief interruption – I have exorcised the worst of the names – I cannot believe some of the scoundrels-“
“Yes, yes, how shameless of me.” Antony snatched the scroll out of Cicero’s hands and tossed it idly on a couch. “I’ll strike your offenders off the list – protect your delicate moral sensibilities.”
“I’m positively touched by your concern for my honor,” Cicero said, every syllable dripping with equal parts amusement and disdain, “but I am no slip of a maid in need of defending.”
“I don’t doubt that for a second.” Antony clapped him hard across the shoulder, his cheeks flushed pink with more than mere exertion. “Now I see the Cicero of legend, who’d verbally eviscerate a man and have the Assembly half-dead of laughter. What you used to be able to do with that mouth and those hands…”
What Cicero had been able to do, once. He spoke and the Republic trembled to listen. He had defended her, championed her in what he once thought was her darkest hour, suppressing a violent revolution – and had sentenced Antony’s stepfather to death in doing so. This line of conversation and this faintly damning praise was deeply unsettling. “Please, I need no such praise, and certainly not from you.”
“Tshh.” Antony tilted his head, regarding Cicero with that same disturbingly predatory smile. “I’m sure you had those lily white hands of yours beneath your toga, tight around your dick, while the crowds applauded.”
The very walls of the villa seemed to close in around him, and for a moment, Antony wavered and swam in his vision as rage and terror rose in his chest, with the latter taking the larger part. His trembling hands clutched at his tunic, and his voice stammered and shook in protest.
“Such a vain creature.” Antony’s arm was suddenly wrapped tight around his waist, his wine-laced breath hot on his cheek. Cicero should have felt nothing but hatred, but to his everlasting shame, there was something more, something so inexcusably wrong. Something that took pain, whether crushing hands or humiliation, and turned it into exquisite pleasure.
Cicero writhed feebly against Antony, but every motion simply brought him closer, and he could feel Antony’s hardness press against his belly.
“I a-am vain, perhaps, but not so v-vile-” His protests, feeble and pitiful as they were, sputtered and died as Antony cupped Cicero’s cheek with a cruel tenderness, his calloused thumb caressing his cheek. Despite the utter humiliation, for a moment he leaned into the touch.
“Not so vile as me? Oh, I may give you that.” Antony’s hand trailed down his neck, drawing lazy spirals around his collarbone, and Cicero’s skin could have burned in shame and pleasure. “But any man, even a spineless, sniveling worm of a man like you, is still a beast.” Antony cradled the back of Cicero’s head and tilted it closer, his wine-drenched lips coming within a breath, and he laid a kiss at the corner of Cicero’s agape lips.
Even as Antony withdrew to a safe distance, Cicero couldn’t bring any words into his throat, as dry and parched as Athens in July. He tentatively licked at the hint of sweetness clinging to his lips, despite Antony’s contented smile of triumph at the gesture. “I m-must be on m-my way…”
“Of course, of course! It’s been wonderful having your company,” Antony said, his tone as lighthearted as if nothing had passed between them than idle chatter. “You absolutely must come to a symposium I’m hosting tomorrow night. And please, don’t try to decline the invitation – things would not go well for you if you did.”
**
Cicero knew nearly all of the illustrious company at Antony’s symposium, and despised over half. As for his feelings towards the host himself, disgust and desire still mingled in his blood.
Despite the slaves fanning the cool night air into the atrium, the room was stifling with the crush of people, steamy as the baths of Pompeii. Cicero instantly regretted his choice of attire – his most extravagant and heaviest tunic, which was already clinging to his skin.
“Friend Cicero! I thought you were the pig, sweating like that.” Antony’s booming voice, any other time, would have made Cicero jump out of his skin. But tonight, that fear was tempered by anger, shame, and something far darker that Cicero could scarcely bring himself to admit.
“A foolish choice in attire, nothing more.” One of Antony’s slaves pressed a glass of wine into his hands, and he was grateful for the cool, if cloyingly sweet liquid. Antony was not yet completely inebriated, but Cicero had no doubt the man would be a sodden wreck by the time the night was done.
“Well, then.” Antony took a lazy sip of his own wine and looked at Cicero over the rim of his glass, as if contemplating how best to consume him. He then raised it with a smug smile that made Cicero acutely envious, winked, and leaned in so close his lips brushed Cicero’s ear. “We’ll have to fix that later.”
**
Cicero closed his eyes and waited for the room beyond the couch to stop spinning. The sweetness of Antony’s wine masked its strength, and so despite only drinking two glasses, in an attempt to keep his wits about him, Cicero was far drunker than he intended to be.
Despite the mutual animosity of many of Antony’s guests, Cicero found a small coterie of admirers, who were surprised, yet delighted at his company. He astonished them with his insights on Zeno. By his second glass, he thoroughly perplexed them with a discourse on Heraclitus that left his own head spinning as much as the wine.
The din beyond his couch seemed to be fading to a tolerable level. He opened his eyes, mere slits, to see Antony’s slaves hurriedly guiding his guests, all slighted to some degree, to the door. Panic penetrated Cicero’s wine-addled brain, and he pushed himself upright. The room pitched and rolled as if he was sailing on the Mediterranean in winter, and only a pair of strong hands kept him from pitching forward to the tiled floor.
“Steady now, old man. You hardly drank anything!” Antony’s hand were not only steadying him, they were keeping him from standing up, not that Cicero would have been terribly steady on his feet. Antony was swaying himself, and his eyes were liquid and bright as wine. He had enough presence of mind, it seemed, to nod to the last servant to bar the door after the last guest.
“I’m most gracious for your hospitality, but I must be getting home. The hour-“ He tried to rise again but Antony, even drunk, easily overpowered him, and his fingers twisted painfully into his shoulders.
“It’s no decent hour for such eminent men to be out. Don’t you know how dangerous it is?” Antony laughed, the sound of it setting his hairs on edge. “Your litter will be back in the morning, and I’ve already arranged a room for you. Aren’t I gracious?”
“Most generous,” Cicero said, the words thick and heavy on his tongue, his limbs suddenly leaden and limp. “But this concern for my safety is entirely misplaced.”
“You judge me so badly.” Antony sat down besides Cicero, one leg dangling over his, a hand resting dangerously high on his thigh. “Murdered in the street by common thugs – that’s no way for you to die.”
The strange paralysis reluctantly left Cicero’s body, and he could barely bring himself to shake his head. Antony certainly had the exact manner, place, and time of his death well planned.
“My guests say you were the delight of the party! Smarter than the counting pig and I dare say you smelled better.” Antony’s insults, however, awoke him from the lethargy his threats induced. “You’re skilled with that silver tongue of yours – quite the cunning linguist.”
Only Antony would make such a crude entendre and laugh at it like it was the height of wit. “I assure you that I am not.”
“You’re probably right. I mean, if you were, you might have kept that shrew of a wife and her money.” Antony’s laugher was far harsher, and the gleam in his eyes was bright and cutting as the blade of a sword. “Then again, you certainly made your darling daughter a happy woman.”
Blind fury, a maelstrom that overwhelmed every other sensation and memory of rage, swept through Cicero. His hands grabbed at Antony’s collar, and if Cicero’s strength had matched his will, Antony would have been dead at his feet.
“You-” Cicero’s voice was a low, furious whisper, his voice trembling with the barest vestige of control. “You are not fit to mention her name, much less these-“ A new wave of grief and rage overwhelmed him, and he drew Antony so close his spittle splashed back on his lips. “Do you understand?”
Antony nodded, almost imperceptibly, and before Cicero could push him away, Antony desperately pushed his lips to his. Hands clutched at his back, fingers pulled at his hair, and despite his humiliation and his grief, Cicero returned the kiss with equal fervor before pushing Antony away.
Between them, Antony was the one with everything to gain. The Republic and Cicero, both broken at his feet. Cicero had nothing left, nothing but former glories, but perhaps in conceding to Antony’s lust and surrendering to his own, a dark and tangled path to redemption, somehow, would present himself. Perhaps there was yet power over Antony to be gained.
When Antony first ascended to power, Cicero’s extensive network of spies reported a wide variety of the man’s worst sins and indiscretions. Drunken debauchery and financial recklessness were nothing new, and could hardly ruin a man. But one charge could certainly damn Antony, though Cicero had doubted it at the time. But now, with Antony’s body, warm and willing, half pinned beneath his, he realized he should have paid his informants far more.
He reached out and pulled Antony close again, and this kiss was a battle of tongues and teeth and wills and a not-so-subtle jockeying for dominance. But arms were yielding to the toga, and Antony surrendered his mouth slightly more willingly than Cicero yielded his.
They gasped for air, a temporary truce, and Antony’s eyes smoldered even as they struggled to focus. “Oh, I underestimated you. Never thought I’d catch the self-righteous Cicero in such a compromising position.”
“You and I certainly understand compromising positions, in our own ways.” There was still a razor-edge of anger in Cicero’s voice, but now his instincts were guiding him, instincts and decades of experience. This would be the most dangerous speech Cicero had given in his life - inciting Antony’s passions to serve his own ends. “You have dominance in me in every respect – your public humiliation of me is near complete.”
“Oh, I’d say it’s quite nearly complete.” Antony’s smug grin would ordinarily be infuriating, but now it was confirmation that playing at Antony’s vanities would be like plucking a harp.
“A slight difference of opinion.” Cicero conceded a half-smile, his eyebrows slightly raised. Every motion had a purpose, every inflection and lilt to his voice a specific intent. Antony was a master of military strategy, but in this battle, he was the lowest foot soldier facing Caesar himself. “But you will not dominate me in this regard. I am not completely spineless, despite what you may think.”
“Maybe you’re not a complete worm,” Antony said, tracing Cicero’s jaw. “But what in the name of the Gods would make you think I would let you - dominate me in any way?”
Cicero palmed Antony’s cheek, felt the beginning of stubble. Their faces brushed against each other, their lips so close they shared one breath. “Rome hangs on your every word, watches your slightest movement. The Republic is in your hands, and even if you relish that power, you grow weary of it. You tire of bringing the Senate to heel, of controlling wayward vassals and their bastard sons. You want nothing more than to surrender control, but safely – think of this, then, as that opportunity.”
Laughter rustled against his cheek, but the other man made no effort to move away, or to strike Cicero down for his observation. “You’re my worst enemy, after Atia’s pig of a son. How could this possible be safe?”
“You’ve answered your own question.” Cicero let the statement and his lips linger. “Who would ever believe the rumors, if they arose? It would be-“ He drew back, biting his lip. “It would be madness.”
And it was madness, delirious, drunken laughter, wine-sodden kisses, feather-light breezes from a slave who watched them with thinly veiled satisfaction. Antony, eventually dissuaded from pulling off Cicero’s tunic, pulled the drunken orator to his feet and sank down before him. As Antony’s mouth, warm and willing as his body, enveloped him, before pleasure annihilated every last lucid thought, Cicero realized that his oratory had brought many men to their knees, but never in quite this manner.
**
For a brief moment, there was only a pleasant oblivion, marred only by heaviness in his head. Cicero grimaced as lights flickered behind his eyes, and as they flickered open Antony was there, watching him awaken.
“Aren’t I a sight to wake up to in the morning!” And he was, sprawled out on the bed, lapping up the sun like a cat, shadows defining every muscle. “Now you – well, you’re not the ugliest thing that’s shared my bed – some of the Gaulish whores were truly hideous.”
Shared his bed? Memories of last night pierced through the early morning fog, but he couldn’t remember just how he ended up in Antony’s bed, or what he did in it. At least he was fully dressed, the folds of fabric obscuring his remembrance of what occurred before. “If that is some sort of compliment, then I thank you. But I assume that when you say I shared your bed, that nothing more-“
“Oh, your honor’s pure as a Vestal. After I debauched myself, quite well, wouldn’t you agree, you passed out. Unbelievably rude! I wasn’t far behind you, though, which is a pity.” Cicero sent up a silent prayer that nothing more had transpired, and vowed never to drink more than one glass in Antony’s presence again. “But still, you have no stamina! Not a surprise, though your tastes…not quite the defender of good Roman morality I thought you were!”
“This was a most exceptional circumstance, won’t you agree?” Cicero had known a few men, early in life, but whether to a wife or lover, he was always faithful. “And since neither of us intends to repeat it-“
Antony’s enthusiastic nod made clear his sentiments on the singular nature of last night. “No, but you at least have to say it was a good cocksucking. You make it sound like damn Forum business”
Self-recrimination flushed in Cicero’s cheeks and he was even more grateful for the fact that he was clothed. “I prefer to see it as finding a balance between private and public humiliation.”
“Through cocksucking.”
“Yes, through-“ He managed to sputter a syllable before he gave up the attempt, and Antony’s laughter drowned out his protests. “Regardless of what we chose to call it, I believe it served its purposes, and does not need to be repeated.”
**
“And what of the situation on the Aventine? The grain shipment is due in a matter of weeks and I have yet to hear of any improvement.”
“I’ve said over and over, senator, I’ve put one of my men in charge. Why can’t you just trust me?” Antony sprawled in the consul’s chair, meeting Cicero’s gaze with lazy contempt.
“And what is the name of this mysterious savior of the Aventine? You are as coy as a – well, that metaphor is not one for this august company.” Cicero allowed himself to smile at the applause – Antony was wearing on the patience of the Senators and they eagerly caught the scent of blood in the water. The subject of the name sat like bitter fruit in Antony’s mouth, and this pleased Cicero nearly as much as the Senate’s voiceless praise.
“Why is his damn name so important? You’re splitting hairs-“
“And you are being an obstinate-“
“Citizen Lucius Vorenus, formerly of the 13th-“ Antony, gripping onto the arms of the chair with familiar strength, threw the name at Cicero’s feet.
“Formerly of this esteemed body as well, if I remember correctly?” A murmur of recognition rippled through the Senate, tinged with derision once it reached the moderates and conservatives. “One can hope he is more successful leading the rabble than he was in his mercifully brief political career.” Cicero could hear the raw contempt in his voice, could all but feel it dripping off his skin. Antony rose out of his chair, as if an actor summoned to a part.
“In my chambers, senator, at your leisure.” Except it wasn’t at Cicero’s leisure, it was at Antony’s command. He gathered up his courage and the folds of his toga, aware that every pair of eyes watched him descend and follow in the consul’s wake. Perhaps this would be the last they saw of him, before he was yet another stain on the floor.
**
“My questions were perfectly tactful and appropriate. I can’t see what objections you could possibly have.” Cicero shook his head, watching Antony with guarded caution. “If anything, I was more than tact-“
Before Cicero could even breathe, Antony was descending on him in a flurry of white and purple, soft fabric and strong limbs enfolding him. Antony’s kiss was equally urgent, and Cicero found himself responding in kind, with no intoxication besides the thrill of besting Antony before the Senate.
“As I was saying, before you rudely interrupted, I was entirely tactful,” Cicero said, his head falling back as Antony licked the hollow between his collarbones. “I assumed you wish to talk.” His voice lilted as Antony bit at the sensitive skin, and his knees felt as weak as a willow in the breeze.
“I wish you to fuck me to Gaul, but I couldn’t very well say so in that damned august company.” Cicero’s hand closed around Antony’s wrist as he reached for his toga, meeting Antony’s naked lust with infuriating patience.
“Keep it on then!” Antony’s toga fluttered off his shoulder in a waterfall of white. Every breath, hot against his shoulder, was laced with impatience. “I’ve had Vestals who- oh, Juno’s cunt!”
Cicero laughed, the sound as intoxicating to himself as the hiss of Antony’s breath. He curled against Antony’s chest, the other man’s skin salty on his lips, and every breath as slow and measured as his hand. “Soft, pink hands, on occasion, have their advantage. But if you don’t want…”
An almost feral growl escaped Antony’s lips, and he closed his hands painfully around Cicero’s. “You’re a damned tease.”
It was painful yet so very pleasurable, and Cicero moaned at the touch. He looked up at Antony, and knew his eyes were perfect mirrors. “And you best have a jar of olive oil at hand.”
**
Cicero could not define what transpired between him and Antony. It wasn’t merely sex; it was more, perhaps, than loathing sublimated into lust or a mere exchange of humiliation, though Antony didn’t seem to take any shame in it. It certainly wasn’t curiosity that drove Cicero to Antony’s chambers and his home on the other end of the Palatine day after day, night after night.
He could not possibly fathom Antony’s intentions, but his body was always eager enough. It pushed his body’s limits, urged its desire for physical satisfaction, even as it fueled those darker motivations that lay hidden in shadows.
“Do you think of the Republic when you fuck me?” The question caught Cicero off guard, but half-buried in Antony, pale hands gripping shoulders laced with scars, he was easily rattled. He closed his eyes and slid further into Antony instead.
“What kind of question is that?” he gasped. They both knew it was only the most important question either of them could ask.
**
Pillow talk with Antony was even more dangerous than sex. At least half the conversations were dominated by bile for Octavian and it took all of Cicero’s effort not betray anything in a wayward word or gesture. This was why Antony conducted business after pleasure, in moments slick with olive oil and sweat.
The other half concerned Macedonia, and its many failings. Atia was dropping this poison in Antony’s ear, he was certain, but Antony would have come to this on his own. Neither Cicero’s words nor his body could convince him that taking Macedonia was in everyone’s best interest.
“Nothing to fuck there but sheep,” Antony’s smirk had no hint of playfulness or any semblance of mercy. “If I want to hear pitiful bleating, well, I don’t have to go that far.”
Cicero slid off the bed, clutching his sheet around his waist. There was nothing more for him in the room, with this man, and whatever advantage he had gained was rapidly slipping through his hands.
“Now, if I was somewhere much closer, I could come back whenever I wanted. For a friendly visit.” It would be nothing of the sort, it would be Antony’s final humiliation of Cicero, and there would be so much pain before he would even allow Cicero to beg for death.
“This is hardly the time or place to discuss such matters.” Cicero’s voice stammered and shook like his hands, and he saw Antony’s eyes widen at his fear. Once again, Cicero was on the losing side, but this time, there was no Caesar to grant him clemency. There was only Antony,
“Then return here tomorrow when you’re fit to discuss them.” Antony leaned back on his pillow, and his tone had a tenderness utterly devoid from his words. “I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to fucking you so hard I split you in half. Maybe in front of all the Senate, so they know what a little cowardly whore you really are.”
**
“Dominus, you’re so pale! Dominus!”
Cicero collapsed on a couch, his head held in trembling hands, panicked laughter fluttering in his throat. Everything was undone – Antony would ask for Gaul – he would be another Caesar, and Cicero would be his personal triumph, crucified on a cross of Antony’s flesh.
“If your master is not well, I could return-“ The concern in the stranger’s gentle voice made Cicero look up, and he gathered up what he could of his composure.
“No, no, it was a mere momentary weakness. Pray, Tiro, who is our guest?” A slip of a man, hardly past boyhood, but he carried himself with a proud, respectful bearing.
“Marcus Agrippa, Dominus, sent on behalf of Gaius Octavian.”
**
A glass of wine had calmed Cicero’s nerves even as Agrippa’s presence offered a slender thread of hope amid so much despair.
“We’re grateful for your past help – Octavian couldn’t have secured his inheritance without your legal counsel.” Agrippa, a fellow son of Arpinum, was flattering yet honest, a rare quality indeed. “But even with the money at his command, it isn’t enough. Antony controls Rome, even if he isn’t fit to rule it. There are – rumors.”
“Rumors? Whatever do you mean?” Cicero drew himself up, trying to gauge Agrippa’s intent.
“That he seeks the governorship of Gaul in order to threaten Rome, of course. He only needs the support of the Senate. If he lacked that support…”
“You speak like it would be an easy thing, to deny him.” Cicero’s steps ground into the well-worn tiled floor. “Like it would be such a simple task, to move the Senate against him. He controls the mobs, the rabble – he would overwhelm the Senate’s forces in a single battle!”
“Which is why Octavian stands ready to offer his forces and to come to the Sen- the Republic’s aid against Antony.” Agrippa’s words had been well chosen, likely by Octavian himself, but they still rang in Cicero’s ears.
“That is a most generous offer, most generous indeed, but to even turn the Senate against Antony-“ Cicero paused, lowered his head in painful understanding. “You need me, then.”
“The Republic needs a general, to lead by the power of his words and the strength of his voice. To raise the righteous anger of the Senate, to inspire the people to turn this drunken wreck of a man away from Rome.” Agrippa laid a hand on Cicero’s arm. “You’re the only one who can sway the hearts of the Senate and the passions of the people. You can save the Republic.”
Tears stung at Cicero’s eyes and he caught his breath before it turned into an outright sob. Amid the ashes of his former glory, amid the charred remains of his devotion to the Republic, a flame flickered into a yet unknown brightness. “Tell Octavian that I will do my rightful part. Tell him I will write, when I have done my duty.”
rome_fic Ides of March challenge. Writen for cerebel, who asked for "Antony/Cicero. Explaining "A woman's role always suited you best", from Cicero's speech delivered in absentia."Pairing: Cicero/Antony
Rating: Very hard R.
Notes: Spoilers up through 'These Being the Words...'
Word Count: 4,631
Last night's phrases
sick wih lack of basis
are still writhing on my floor.
And it doesn't seem fair
That your wicked words should work
In holding me down
No, it doesn't seem right
To take information
Given at close range
For the gag
And the bind
And the ammunition round.
-'Not About Love', Fiona Apple
“Is there anything you need, Dominus?” Tiro’s voice, as full of anxiety as his visage, interrupted Cicero’s melancholy meditation on Antony’s scroll full of miscreants and the worst of the common rabble. No amount of alteration could make the ugly reality of Antony’s power over the Republic any easier to digest.
“A strength I do not posses,” he said, pushing away a proffered cup of wine. “Either to rid the Republic and myself of our oppressor, or to rid myself of this miserable existence altogether.” He closed his eyes and shut out the babble of Tiro’s protests – his man, of all people, should have realized his master could not bring himself to either action.
“Tiro, please, cease this inane blabbering. I speak in-“ Cicero smiled, mockingly, at his own cowardice, “bitter jest. I will live to be an old man, surrounded by reminders of my many failures. “ With renewed futility, Cicero struck the worst of the offenders from the cross, black ink splattering across his fingers. Gray dust felt like ashes in his hand, the ashes of the Republic, his former power and glory, his daughter, closed forever in her tomb.
“Fetch the litter – I will attend to the matter myself. No doubt, Antony will see my minor alterations as drastic changes.” Cicero shook off the scroll and rolled in his hands. It was dry and lifeless to the touch, which only seemed fitting. “The best I can do is soften the blow myself.”
**
“Friend Cicero! This is an unexpected delight.”
“Unexpected, I’m certain.”
Antony’s hands clasped his, raising them to his lips to press a feather-light kiss across the knuckles before releasing them. Cicero caught the scent of honey and wine, clinging to his skin, and he savored it for the briefest moment even as fear flickered in his eyes at the memory of another intimate, far more brutal gesture. Antony must have caught that fear, for he looked at Cicero as if he was trying to soothe a frightened animal.
“Come now, I wouldn’t kill you in my own home - what kind of host would I be?” Antony laughed as if it was the most ridiculous idea and not a distinct possibility. Cicero, accordingly, kept a guarded silence. “Besides, you’d bleed all over my mosaics, just to spite me.”
“I would be obligated to make my death as inconvenient as possible.” This morbid banter was easier. Cicero’s wit seldom deserted him, especially at the most inappropriate times. “Regardless, this visit will be a brief interruption – I have exorcised the worst of the names – I cannot believe some of the scoundrels-“
“Yes, yes, how shameless of me.” Antony snatched the scroll out of Cicero’s hands and tossed it idly on a couch. “I’ll strike your offenders off the list – protect your delicate moral sensibilities.”
“I’m positively touched by your concern for my honor,” Cicero said, every syllable dripping with equal parts amusement and disdain, “but I am no slip of a maid in need of defending.”
“I don’t doubt that for a second.” Antony clapped him hard across the shoulder, his cheeks flushed pink with more than mere exertion. “Now I see the Cicero of legend, who’d verbally eviscerate a man and have the Assembly half-dead of laughter. What you used to be able to do with that mouth and those hands…”
What Cicero had been able to do, once. He spoke and the Republic trembled to listen. He had defended her, championed her in what he once thought was her darkest hour, suppressing a violent revolution – and had sentenced Antony’s stepfather to death in doing so. This line of conversation and this faintly damning praise was deeply unsettling. “Please, I need no such praise, and certainly not from you.”
“Tshh.” Antony tilted his head, regarding Cicero with that same disturbingly predatory smile. “I’m sure you had those lily white hands of yours beneath your toga, tight around your dick, while the crowds applauded.”
The very walls of the villa seemed to close in around him, and for a moment, Antony wavered and swam in his vision as rage and terror rose in his chest, with the latter taking the larger part. His trembling hands clutched at his tunic, and his voice stammered and shook in protest.
“Such a vain creature.” Antony’s arm was suddenly wrapped tight around his waist, his wine-laced breath hot on his cheek. Cicero should have felt nothing but hatred, but to his everlasting shame, there was something more, something so inexcusably wrong. Something that took pain, whether crushing hands or humiliation, and turned it into exquisite pleasure.
Cicero writhed feebly against Antony, but every motion simply brought him closer, and he could feel Antony’s hardness press against his belly.
“I a-am vain, perhaps, but not so v-vile-” His protests, feeble and pitiful as they were, sputtered and died as Antony cupped Cicero’s cheek with a cruel tenderness, his calloused thumb caressing his cheek. Despite the utter humiliation, for a moment he leaned into the touch.
“Not so vile as me? Oh, I may give you that.” Antony’s hand trailed down his neck, drawing lazy spirals around his collarbone, and Cicero’s skin could have burned in shame and pleasure. “But any man, even a spineless, sniveling worm of a man like you, is still a beast.” Antony cradled the back of Cicero’s head and tilted it closer, his wine-drenched lips coming within a breath, and he laid a kiss at the corner of Cicero’s agape lips.
Even as Antony withdrew to a safe distance, Cicero couldn’t bring any words into his throat, as dry and parched as Athens in July. He tentatively licked at the hint of sweetness clinging to his lips, despite Antony’s contented smile of triumph at the gesture. “I m-must be on m-my way…”
“Of course, of course! It’s been wonderful having your company,” Antony said, his tone as lighthearted as if nothing had passed between them than idle chatter. “You absolutely must come to a symposium I’m hosting tomorrow night. And please, don’t try to decline the invitation – things would not go well for you if you did.”
**
Cicero knew nearly all of the illustrious company at Antony’s symposium, and despised over half. As for his feelings towards the host himself, disgust and desire still mingled in his blood.
Despite the slaves fanning the cool night air into the atrium, the room was stifling with the crush of people, steamy as the baths of Pompeii. Cicero instantly regretted his choice of attire – his most extravagant and heaviest tunic, which was already clinging to his skin.
“Friend Cicero! I thought you were the pig, sweating like that.” Antony’s booming voice, any other time, would have made Cicero jump out of his skin. But tonight, that fear was tempered by anger, shame, and something far darker that Cicero could scarcely bring himself to admit.
“A foolish choice in attire, nothing more.” One of Antony’s slaves pressed a glass of wine into his hands, and he was grateful for the cool, if cloyingly sweet liquid. Antony was not yet completely inebriated, but Cicero had no doubt the man would be a sodden wreck by the time the night was done.
“Well, then.” Antony took a lazy sip of his own wine and looked at Cicero over the rim of his glass, as if contemplating how best to consume him. He then raised it with a smug smile that made Cicero acutely envious, winked, and leaned in so close his lips brushed Cicero’s ear. “We’ll have to fix that later.”
**
Cicero closed his eyes and waited for the room beyond the couch to stop spinning. The sweetness of Antony’s wine masked its strength, and so despite only drinking two glasses, in an attempt to keep his wits about him, Cicero was far drunker than he intended to be.
Despite the mutual animosity of many of Antony’s guests, Cicero found a small coterie of admirers, who were surprised, yet delighted at his company. He astonished them with his insights on Zeno. By his second glass, he thoroughly perplexed them with a discourse on Heraclitus that left his own head spinning as much as the wine.
The din beyond his couch seemed to be fading to a tolerable level. He opened his eyes, mere slits, to see Antony’s slaves hurriedly guiding his guests, all slighted to some degree, to the door. Panic penetrated Cicero’s wine-addled brain, and he pushed himself upright. The room pitched and rolled as if he was sailing on the Mediterranean in winter, and only a pair of strong hands kept him from pitching forward to the tiled floor.
“Steady now, old man. You hardly drank anything!” Antony’s hand were not only steadying him, they were keeping him from standing up, not that Cicero would have been terribly steady on his feet. Antony was swaying himself, and his eyes were liquid and bright as wine. He had enough presence of mind, it seemed, to nod to the last servant to bar the door after the last guest.
“I’m most gracious for your hospitality, but I must be getting home. The hour-“ He tried to rise again but Antony, even drunk, easily overpowered him, and his fingers twisted painfully into his shoulders.
“It’s no decent hour for such eminent men to be out. Don’t you know how dangerous it is?” Antony laughed, the sound of it setting his hairs on edge. “Your litter will be back in the morning, and I’ve already arranged a room for you. Aren’t I gracious?”
“Most generous,” Cicero said, the words thick and heavy on his tongue, his limbs suddenly leaden and limp. “But this concern for my safety is entirely misplaced.”
“You judge me so badly.” Antony sat down besides Cicero, one leg dangling over his, a hand resting dangerously high on his thigh. “Murdered in the street by common thugs – that’s no way for you to die.”
The strange paralysis reluctantly left Cicero’s body, and he could barely bring himself to shake his head. Antony certainly had the exact manner, place, and time of his death well planned.
“My guests say you were the delight of the party! Smarter than the counting pig and I dare say you smelled better.” Antony’s insults, however, awoke him from the lethargy his threats induced. “You’re skilled with that silver tongue of yours – quite the cunning linguist.”
Only Antony would make such a crude entendre and laugh at it like it was the height of wit. “I assure you that I am not.”
“You’re probably right. I mean, if you were, you might have kept that shrew of a wife and her money.” Antony’s laugher was far harsher, and the gleam in his eyes was bright and cutting as the blade of a sword. “Then again, you certainly made your darling daughter a happy woman.”
Blind fury, a maelstrom that overwhelmed every other sensation and memory of rage, swept through Cicero. His hands grabbed at Antony’s collar, and if Cicero’s strength had matched his will, Antony would have been dead at his feet.
“You-” Cicero’s voice was a low, furious whisper, his voice trembling with the barest vestige of control. “You are not fit to mention her name, much less these-“ A new wave of grief and rage overwhelmed him, and he drew Antony so close his spittle splashed back on his lips. “Do you understand?”
Antony nodded, almost imperceptibly, and before Cicero could push him away, Antony desperately pushed his lips to his. Hands clutched at his back, fingers pulled at his hair, and despite his humiliation and his grief, Cicero returned the kiss with equal fervor before pushing Antony away.
Between them, Antony was the one with everything to gain. The Republic and Cicero, both broken at his feet. Cicero had nothing left, nothing but former glories, but perhaps in conceding to Antony’s lust and surrendering to his own, a dark and tangled path to redemption, somehow, would present himself. Perhaps there was yet power over Antony to be gained.
When Antony first ascended to power, Cicero’s extensive network of spies reported a wide variety of the man’s worst sins and indiscretions. Drunken debauchery and financial recklessness were nothing new, and could hardly ruin a man. But one charge could certainly damn Antony, though Cicero had doubted it at the time. But now, with Antony’s body, warm and willing, half pinned beneath his, he realized he should have paid his informants far more.
He reached out and pulled Antony close again, and this kiss was a battle of tongues and teeth and wills and a not-so-subtle jockeying for dominance. But arms were yielding to the toga, and Antony surrendered his mouth slightly more willingly than Cicero yielded his.
They gasped for air, a temporary truce, and Antony’s eyes smoldered even as they struggled to focus. “Oh, I underestimated you. Never thought I’d catch the self-righteous Cicero in such a compromising position.”
“You and I certainly understand compromising positions, in our own ways.” There was still a razor-edge of anger in Cicero’s voice, but now his instincts were guiding him, instincts and decades of experience. This would be the most dangerous speech Cicero had given in his life - inciting Antony’s passions to serve his own ends. “You have dominance in me in every respect – your public humiliation of me is near complete.”
“Oh, I’d say it’s quite nearly complete.” Antony’s smug grin would ordinarily be infuriating, but now it was confirmation that playing at Antony’s vanities would be like plucking a harp.
“A slight difference of opinion.” Cicero conceded a half-smile, his eyebrows slightly raised. Every motion had a purpose, every inflection and lilt to his voice a specific intent. Antony was a master of military strategy, but in this battle, he was the lowest foot soldier facing Caesar himself. “But you will not dominate me in this regard. I am not completely spineless, despite what you may think.”
“Maybe you’re not a complete worm,” Antony said, tracing Cicero’s jaw. “But what in the name of the Gods would make you think I would let you - dominate me in any way?”
Cicero palmed Antony’s cheek, felt the beginning of stubble. Their faces brushed against each other, their lips so close they shared one breath. “Rome hangs on your every word, watches your slightest movement. The Republic is in your hands, and even if you relish that power, you grow weary of it. You tire of bringing the Senate to heel, of controlling wayward vassals and their bastard sons. You want nothing more than to surrender control, but safely – think of this, then, as that opportunity.”
Laughter rustled against his cheek, but the other man made no effort to move away, or to strike Cicero down for his observation. “You’re my worst enemy, after Atia’s pig of a son. How could this possible be safe?”
“You’ve answered your own question.” Cicero let the statement and his lips linger. “Who would ever believe the rumors, if they arose? It would be-“ He drew back, biting his lip. “It would be madness.”
And it was madness, delirious, drunken laughter, wine-sodden kisses, feather-light breezes from a slave who watched them with thinly veiled satisfaction. Antony, eventually dissuaded from pulling off Cicero’s tunic, pulled the drunken orator to his feet and sank down before him. As Antony’s mouth, warm and willing as his body, enveloped him, before pleasure annihilated every last lucid thought, Cicero realized that his oratory had brought many men to their knees, but never in quite this manner.
**
For a brief moment, there was only a pleasant oblivion, marred only by heaviness in his head. Cicero grimaced as lights flickered behind his eyes, and as they flickered open Antony was there, watching him awaken.
“Aren’t I a sight to wake up to in the morning!” And he was, sprawled out on the bed, lapping up the sun like a cat, shadows defining every muscle. “Now you – well, you’re not the ugliest thing that’s shared my bed – some of the Gaulish whores were truly hideous.”
Shared his bed? Memories of last night pierced through the early morning fog, but he couldn’t remember just how he ended up in Antony’s bed, or what he did in it. At least he was fully dressed, the folds of fabric obscuring his remembrance of what occurred before. “If that is some sort of compliment, then I thank you. But I assume that when you say I shared your bed, that nothing more-“
“Oh, your honor’s pure as a Vestal. After I debauched myself, quite well, wouldn’t you agree, you passed out. Unbelievably rude! I wasn’t far behind you, though, which is a pity.” Cicero sent up a silent prayer that nothing more had transpired, and vowed never to drink more than one glass in Antony’s presence again. “But still, you have no stamina! Not a surprise, though your tastes…not quite the defender of good Roman morality I thought you were!”
“This was a most exceptional circumstance, won’t you agree?” Cicero had known a few men, early in life, but whether to a wife or lover, he was always faithful. “And since neither of us intends to repeat it-“
Antony’s enthusiastic nod made clear his sentiments on the singular nature of last night. “No, but you at least have to say it was a good cocksucking. You make it sound like damn Forum business”
Self-recrimination flushed in Cicero’s cheeks and he was even more grateful for the fact that he was clothed. “I prefer to see it as finding a balance between private and public humiliation.”
“Through cocksucking.”
“Yes, through-“ He managed to sputter a syllable before he gave up the attempt, and Antony’s laughter drowned out his protests. “Regardless of what we chose to call it, I believe it served its purposes, and does not need to be repeated.”
**
“And what of the situation on the Aventine? The grain shipment is due in a matter of weeks and I have yet to hear of any improvement.”
“I’ve said over and over, senator, I’ve put one of my men in charge. Why can’t you just trust me?” Antony sprawled in the consul’s chair, meeting Cicero’s gaze with lazy contempt.
“And what is the name of this mysterious savior of the Aventine? You are as coy as a – well, that metaphor is not one for this august company.” Cicero allowed himself to smile at the applause – Antony was wearing on the patience of the Senators and they eagerly caught the scent of blood in the water. The subject of the name sat like bitter fruit in Antony’s mouth, and this pleased Cicero nearly as much as the Senate’s voiceless praise.
“Why is his damn name so important? You’re splitting hairs-“
“And you are being an obstinate-“
“Citizen Lucius Vorenus, formerly of the 13th-“ Antony, gripping onto the arms of the chair with familiar strength, threw the name at Cicero’s feet.
“Formerly of this esteemed body as well, if I remember correctly?” A murmur of recognition rippled through the Senate, tinged with derision once it reached the moderates and conservatives. “One can hope he is more successful leading the rabble than he was in his mercifully brief political career.” Cicero could hear the raw contempt in his voice, could all but feel it dripping off his skin. Antony rose out of his chair, as if an actor summoned to a part.
“In my chambers, senator, at your leisure.” Except it wasn’t at Cicero’s leisure, it was at Antony’s command. He gathered up his courage and the folds of his toga, aware that every pair of eyes watched him descend and follow in the consul’s wake. Perhaps this would be the last they saw of him, before he was yet another stain on the floor.
**
“My questions were perfectly tactful and appropriate. I can’t see what objections you could possibly have.” Cicero shook his head, watching Antony with guarded caution. “If anything, I was more than tact-“
Before Cicero could even breathe, Antony was descending on him in a flurry of white and purple, soft fabric and strong limbs enfolding him. Antony’s kiss was equally urgent, and Cicero found himself responding in kind, with no intoxication besides the thrill of besting Antony before the Senate.
“As I was saying, before you rudely interrupted, I was entirely tactful,” Cicero said, his head falling back as Antony licked the hollow between his collarbones. “I assumed you wish to talk.” His voice lilted as Antony bit at the sensitive skin, and his knees felt as weak as a willow in the breeze.
“I wish you to fuck me to Gaul, but I couldn’t very well say so in that damned august company.” Cicero’s hand closed around Antony’s wrist as he reached for his toga, meeting Antony’s naked lust with infuriating patience.
“Keep it on then!” Antony’s toga fluttered off his shoulder in a waterfall of white. Every breath, hot against his shoulder, was laced with impatience. “I’ve had Vestals who- oh, Juno’s cunt!”
Cicero laughed, the sound as intoxicating to himself as the hiss of Antony’s breath. He curled against Antony’s chest, the other man’s skin salty on his lips, and every breath as slow and measured as his hand. “Soft, pink hands, on occasion, have their advantage. But if you don’t want…”
An almost feral growl escaped Antony’s lips, and he closed his hands painfully around Cicero’s. “You’re a damned tease.”
It was painful yet so very pleasurable, and Cicero moaned at the touch. He looked up at Antony, and knew his eyes were perfect mirrors. “And you best have a jar of olive oil at hand.”
**
Cicero could not define what transpired between him and Antony. It wasn’t merely sex; it was more, perhaps, than loathing sublimated into lust or a mere exchange of humiliation, though Antony didn’t seem to take any shame in it. It certainly wasn’t curiosity that drove Cicero to Antony’s chambers and his home on the other end of the Palatine day after day, night after night.
He could not possibly fathom Antony’s intentions, but his body was always eager enough. It pushed his body’s limits, urged its desire for physical satisfaction, even as it fueled those darker motivations that lay hidden in shadows.
“Do you think of the Republic when you fuck me?” The question caught Cicero off guard, but half-buried in Antony, pale hands gripping shoulders laced with scars, he was easily rattled. He closed his eyes and slid further into Antony instead.
“What kind of question is that?” he gasped. They both knew it was only the most important question either of them could ask.
**
Pillow talk with Antony was even more dangerous than sex. At least half the conversations were dominated by bile for Octavian and it took all of Cicero’s effort not betray anything in a wayward word or gesture. This was why Antony conducted business after pleasure, in moments slick with olive oil and sweat.
The other half concerned Macedonia, and its many failings. Atia was dropping this poison in Antony’s ear, he was certain, but Antony would have come to this on his own. Neither Cicero’s words nor his body could convince him that taking Macedonia was in everyone’s best interest.
“Nothing to fuck there but sheep,” Antony’s smirk had no hint of playfulness or any semblance of mercy. “If I want to hear pitiful bleating, well, I don’t have to go that far.”
Cicero slid off the bed, clutching his sheet around his waist. There was nothing more for him in the room, with this man, and whatever advantage he had gained was rapidly slipping through his hands.
“Now, if I was somewhere much closer, I could come back whenever I wanted. For a friendly visit.” It would be nothing of the sort, it would be Antony’s final humiliation of Cicero, and there would be so much pain before he would even allow Cicero to beg for death.
“This is hardly the time or place to discuss such matters.” Cicero’s voice stammered and shook like his hands, and he saw Antony’s eyes widen at his fear. Once again, Cicero was on the losing side, but this time, there was no Caesar to grant him clemency. There was only Antony,
“Then return here tomorrow when you’re fit to discuss them.” Antony leaned back on his pillow, and his tone had a tenderness utterly devoid from his words. “I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to fucking you so hard I split you in half. Maybe in front of all the Senate, so they know what a little cowardly whore you really are.”
**
“Dominus, you’re so pale! Dominus!”
Cicero collapsed on a couch, his head held in trembling hands, panicked laughter fluttering in his throat. Everything was undone – Antony would ask for Gaul – he would be another Caesar, and Cicero would be his personal triumph, crucified on a cross of Antony’s flesh.
“If your master is not well, I could return-“ The concern in the stranger’s gentle voice made Cicero look up, and he gathered up what he could of his composure.
“No, no, it was a mere momentary weakness. Pray, Tiro, who is our guest?” A slip of a man, hardly past boyhood, but he carried himself with a proud, respectful bearing.
“Marcus Agrippa, Dominus, sent on behalf of Gaius Octavian.”
**
A glass of wine had calmed Cicero’s nerves even as Agrippa’s presence offered a slender thread of hope amid so much despair.
“We’re grateful for your past help – Octavian couldn’t have secured his inheritance without your legal counsel.” Agrippa, a fellow son of Arpinum, was flattering yet honest, a rare quality indeed. “But even with the money at his command, it isn’t enough. Antony controls Rome, even if he isn’t fit to rule it. There are – rumors.”
“Rumors? Whatever do you mean?” Cicero drew himself up, trying to gauge Agrippa’s intent.
“That he seeks the governorship of Gaul in order to threaten Rome, of course. He only needs the support of the Senate. If he lacked that support…”
“You speak like it would be an easy thing, to deny him.” Cicero’s steps ground into the well-worn tiled floor. “Like it would be such a simple task, to move the Senate against him. He controls the mobs, the rabble – he would overwhelm the Senate’s forces in a single battle!”
“Which is why Octavian stands ready to offer his forces and to come to the Sen- the Republic’s aid against Antony.” Agrippa’s words had been well chosen, likely by Octavian himself, but they still rang in Cicero’s ears.
“That is a most generous offer, most generous indeed, but to even turn the Senate against Antony-“ Cicero paused, lowered his head in painful understanding. “You need me, then.”
“The Republic needs a general, to lead by the power of his words and the strength of his voice. To raise the righteous anger of the Senate, to inspire the people to turn this drunken wreck of a man away from Rome.” Agrippa laid a hand on Cicero’s arm. “You’re the only one who can sway the hearts of the Senate and the passions of the people. You can save the Republic.”
Tears stung at Cicero’s eyes and he caught his breath before it turned into an outright sob. Amid the ashes of his former glory, amid the charred remains of his devotion to the Republic, a flame flickered into a yet unknown brightness. “Tell Octavian that I will do my rightful part. Tell him I will write, when I have done my duty.”
