What a day it is

The soil sinks into the river lapping against the banks, and Cicero leaves his sandals in the grass and steps into it, daintily, as a woman might, fearful that something as light single misplaced feather, let alone a shift of his weight here (or perhaps a shift there, passed from foot to foot), might disturb the careless equilibrium of nature.

Behind him, his fellow senators chat the hours away -- about Antony, about Octavian, about the Aventine, about their duties as the noblest men in Rome, charged with the defense of the Republic. Beyond that, their servants stand guard, arms folded in front of them, eyes scanning the horizons for intruders upon this innocent picnic in the countryside. What a day it is, Cicero wonders, when the greatest statesmen of the civilized world cannot enjoy a simple lunch and conversation among friends without fear of kidnap, assassination, or some other unkind form of political or personal retribution.

He thinks he should return those friends of his now, for he has lingered at the water's edge for long enough. They will be worried soon, if they are not already, as they always are, about his safety and whereabouts. But, craning his head upward, drinking the sunlight and curling his toes in the mud, he cannot think of politics, only this: that he must always remember he is a guest on this earth, and that it is an honor to behold the entirety of it (warmth and sky and gentle gasping of wind) in a single moment of living.