Chapter Text
193AD The Year of the 5 Emperors – Outside the Temple of Vesta, Rome
Crowley gave the Aedile his most serpentine grin, “You can just replace the hand and face, no need to build a whole new statue,” Crowley said, handing over the carved marble and leaning closer to the Aedile, “and between you and me, you’ll probably need a few, emperors are dropping like flies.”
The Aedile, a sensible man named Marcus Aurelius, took the offered statue parts and made haste away from their vendor. This was not a good time to be in Rome, nor to be elected to a public office, but Marcus Aurelius believed it possible to survive both, but when he had looked at that vendor, he was afraid he had seen something truly sinister. Perhaps an omen from the gods. He would try to find a way to get out of Rome. As soon as he had ensured the statues were all changed to Pescennius Niger from Didius Julianus.
Crowley watched Marcus Aurelius’ back warily. These were unusual times in Rome. Well, not really unusual, but the humans were more open about their propensity for quick and easy murder than ever before. Crowley could spot, seven – no eight – assassins from his vantage point by the Temple of Vesta.
The temple had been rather fun, he would change his appearance and seek refuge there as a young woman going by the name Antonia Corva. Then, by day he would leave for some errand and change to the form he wore now. The guardians of the temple – though not aptly named – certainly knew how to have a good time, and they did not question their charge’s frequent disappearances.
“Ugh.” Crowley heaved a sigh as he saw Marcellus enter the forum. The bidding for his ‘wares’ which travelled behind him in iron chains, would drown out Crowley’s own marketing, and that was definitely what upset him, not the people in chains, he was a demon for pity’s sake, demons love people in chains.
“Shall we begin with a thousand sesterces?” Marcellus boomed as he held a slave by the neck.
Miraculously Crowley’s interchangeable statue parts vanished and he was unencumbered as he began to walk away from the forum. He saw a flash of white but that wasn’t important, he was walking away. He was definitely walking away. His feet turned around, seemingly without any direction from his head.
Aziraphale hid behind the group of slaves. Nobody would have noticed him if they weren’t looking for him, but of course Crowley was never not looking for him. Because they were adversaries. Rivals. That sort of thing. Obviously.
Then came that feeling, not the terrible unwelcome ones that crept up on Crowley and whacked him on the head with a cast iron frying pan, the one that told him a miracle was happening nearby. And it truly was.
With a great clang, the shackles of about 50 slaves fell to the stone floor of the forum. Marcellus raised his great whip in anger but he was just a moment too late. The former slaves ran, they leapt over carts selling cabbages, they raced for the port, they ran at the people who had been their guards and were now their victims.
Among the madness, Marcellus’ head lashed about as if he could stop his escapees with only his eyes. Perhaps he thought he could, those who went to foreign countries and captured their people and turned them into cargo were seldom of stable and virtuous mind. But his gaze inched closer and closer to Aziraphale, who had found himself caught in the throes of the crowd.
Crowley was not able to stop himself. He moved quickly, with the danger and purpose of a striking snake, woe betide the prey item. He tapped one of the former slaves on the shoulder, she was a young woman, probably 17 or so.
“Can you speak Hebrew?” He asked her.
Her eyes went wide and she nodded.
“I’ll give you enough money to get yourself and whoever you can get. To go with you home, if you smack that shithead over the head with this.” He handed her a large plank of wood and she grinned. He watched her run up to Marcellus, her way made clear with some demonic guidance and smack him over the head so hard there was a resounding smack that echoed through the forum.
Marcellus tumbled down, yeah that would be fatal. Probably because of the carefully placed metal nail. Crowley felt Marcellus’ soul fall downwards. He hoped Hastur and Ligur had fun with that one.
He moved across the crowd and grabbed Aziraphale by the toga and pulled him back towards the Temple of Vesta.
“Crowley’ we can’t go in the-,” Aziraphale began, his mind only just beginning to catch up with what had happened.
“Oh make an effort, Aziraphale!” Crowley hissed, already changing into the form he had gotten used to as Antonia. The two, now woman-shaped (whatever that meant), entered the temple and were safe, at least for the moment. The sacred flame burnt brightly and it’s attendant, Luna, gave ‘Antonia’ a lazy smile.
“You’re back early, Antonia,” she said.
“Found someone who needed help,” Crowley replied, gesturing to Aziraphale.
“Head on through, dears,” she said, her eyes returning to the flame.
“Aziraphale what were you thinking?” Crowley said, as soon as they were alone.
“The chains-“ Aziraphale replied, her voice full of worry, “And the – oh dear – how are they going to get home?”
“S’taken care of,” Crowley said. She’d never seen Aziraphale take a feminine form before, it suited her.
“Oh, oh you didn’t,” Aziraphale replied, not sure whether to feel grateful or upset. This was a common dilemma whenever Crowley was involved.
“The one that hit him, she got a way out in exchange.” Crowley looked at the floor.
“I see.” Aziraphale also cast her gaze downwards, despite the floor being stone and not especially interesting. “So, this is where you’ve been staying.”
“Safest place to make sure I’m not assassinated,” Crowley replied.
“These are difficult times,” Aziraphale echoed the sentiment of most of Rome. “Do you think things will die down soon. Outside, I mean.”
Crowley wasn’t sure what else Aziraphale might have meant, “Give it a while longer,” she advised, and then paused, “Did you ever get that copy of Natural History?”
“I did! It was exactly as you said, I saw the same vendor selling it the next day for several times the price I paid.”
“Good,” said Crowley, the word feeling odd in her mouth. She looked around, Flavia and Olivia would be returning soon to relieve Luna from tending the fire.
“I know a place not far from here that does excellent honeyed dormice, been meaning to try it out,” Crowley said, hoping she sounded casual and uninterested (she didn’t).
“Oh really?” Aziraphale’s interest was piqued.
“Yeah, but we’d have to change back, being out in Rome as a woman . . . Not fun,” Crowley replied.
“Oh? I’ve, erm, never tried it before, or ever really.” Aziraphale looked down self-consciously.
Crowley enjoyed the excuse to look Aziraphale over, “You’ve done well enough. I wouldn’t have known.”
“Oh, oh thank you.”
The popina was down an alley that backed onto the temple, so it was easy enough to get to. What was not easy was finding a place to change back into man-shaped corporations. They had to hide behind a statue (once that Crowley had sold funnily enough) and wait until no one was paying any attention.
Crowley had worried for a moment that Aziraphale would leave, given that so much changing and changing back was involved in this little escapade of theirs, but he needn’t have been; the food at the popina was good enough to justify a lot more work. And eventually, Crowley would see just how far Aziraphale was willing to go for good food.
“This is wonderful,” Aziraphale smiled, lightly dabbing at his chin to clean of any remnants of honey. Crowley hoped his glasses his just how much he was staring.
“I am quite grateful for your . . .” Aziraphale trailed off.
“Don’t say help,” Crowley hissed.
“I wouldn’t dare,” Aziraphale agreed. “Still, it was unusual that we were both able to do our jobs without interfering with the other.”
“’Suppose,” Crowley said. Aziraphale might have thought that he was covering his tracks, but Crowley knew Heaven hadn’t sent Aziraphale to do what he’d done. They weren’t fans of chaos, even if it was for a good cause. What Aziraphale had done, he’d done because of his own feelings, his own moral compass. Just like when he’d given away his flaming sword 4,197 years ago. Not that Crowley was counting. Sort of like how he didn’t feel like his insides were melting into a puddle of goo in the most pleasant way possible. This was dangerous. It was moments like these when Crowley was almost afraid, not of Aziraphale, but of himself.
“Well, I had best be getting on, lunch was excellent.” Aziraphale got up to go. Crowley thought about stopping him, but it was probably for the best. It was definitely for the best.
Antonia Corva did not return to the Temple of Vesta. In fact, no one in Rome knew where she’d gone. Crowley knew he’d have to leave Rome, if just for a little while. He needed a rest.