Work Text:
“What have you got? Give me a jug of whatever you think's drinkable.”
Aurelius glanced up from the board and promptly forgot all about his game. The man at the counter stood out from the rest of the taberna’s patrons like a wolf from a flock of sheep. His black toga with subtle red pattern did nothing to conceal his whip-thin stature and quite a lot to offset his unusual dark-red hair, short in the back and meticulously styled in flat curls in front. The wreath of silver laurels seemed to serve the same purpose. The longer Aurelius looked at the stranger, the more curious he got, and not only because of the man’s uncommonly good looks…
“House brown. Two sesterces,” the attendant said curtly. The redheaded man reached for his purse, but Aurelius jumped at the chance to insinuate himself in the conversation and to save the man from the indignity of the house brown in the process.
“My apologies for overhearing your request,” he said unapologetically, “but their house brown is far from what a cultured man like yourself would call drinkable. Will you allow me to share my own jug with you? It’s Falernian.”
The man paused, weighing the offer or possibly Aurelius himself, and nodded. Aurelius quickly procured a second cup and poured. “Salutaria.” The man drank and hummed his approval; this was all the conversation opener Aurelius needed. “In Rome long?” he ventured, putting his cup down.
This simple question caught the man unawares. He sputtered, barely avoiding spilling his wine.
“What kind of stupid question is that?” he asked after triumphing over the treacherous liquid. “I’m a Roman, I live here!”
Aurelius tutted reproachfully.
“Do you really expect me to believe that? I hate to break it to you, my dear boy, but you need to do a much better job of blending in if you want to fool anyone at all.”
The man frowned and glanced down, checking his garments for obvious shortcomings. His face expressed such bewilderment that Aurelius took pity on the man, who was an impostor and possibly a spy, but also clearly an innocent soul.
“Oh, where do I begin?” he started, somewhat theatrically. “Your toga, I suppose.”
“What’s wrong with my toga? Romans wear togas, don’t they? Don’t we, I mean?”
“It’s too dainty, to start with. A proper toga is at least triple the amount of fabric that yours is, and more likely quadruple. It shows off the citizen’s wealth and freedom from manual labour, not their slender physique and tantalisingly narrow waist.
“Then, it’s black!” Aurelius continued, elevated by the subtle blush spreading on the man’s cheeks. “Everyday togas are white, maybe with a coloured border. What you’re wearing is a toga pulla, a formal mourning garment, suitable for a very limited set of funeral occasions.
“And the fibula…” The man’s hand flew up to the serpent pin on his shoulder, as if checking that it was still there. “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with it per se, but it should be holding the garment together in a strictly metaphorical sense, not in a load-bearing manner. Togas are kept in place by the weight and friction of fabric and skillful folding, not because the layers are pinned together.”
“The thrice-damned thing just wouldn't stay on otherwise,” the man grumbled, the blush now reaching the tips of his ears. “Would’ve been even harder to blend in if it slipped off midstreet.”
It took a conscious effort to avoid being distracted by the mental image painted by the words; Aurelius prevailed.
“Next, the laurel wreath. It is an exquisite contrast with your beautiful hair,” Aurelius couldn’t help but wonder just how far this lovely blush could spread, “but laurels signify a triumph, a victory, typically of military kind. And cast in silver, like the one you’re wearing? That’s nothing short of a ceremonial crown, not everyday headgear you’d don for a walk to the nearest taberna. Definitely not while you’re in mourning too.”
The man groaned at the tease and hid his face behind his hands. It was all going rather splendidly, Aurelius thought, and, buoyed by the feeling, promptly made a mistake.
“And whatever is that black contraption on your face?” he asked curiously. He had never seen anything like that before; a frame of wires seemed to be designed to hold two flat disks of dark glass in front of the man’s face, but for what purpose, Aurelius couldn’t begin to fathom. It must’ve been terribly inconvenient for the man to have his eyes constantly obscured, right?
The man made a distressed sound that Aurelius’s linguistic skills were helpless to decipher, jumped up from his stool, and fled the taberna. His abrupt departure left Aurelius vaguely discombobulated and distinctly intrigued. The man was clearly hiding something, but what?
A week later, Aurelius’s curiosity was satisfied. He almost didn’t recognise the man when he strolled through the doors of the taberna and sauntered straight to where Aurelius was sitting.
“I’m back,” he offered with a flourish, showing off. The slinky black toga was gone, replaced by something white and voluminous, and the silver laurels were nowhere in sight. The serpent fibula migrated away from his shoulder, though Aurelius suspected continued involvement of some hidden pins. The wire-and-glass contraption was still in place on the man’s face, though.
“I can see that,” Aurelius said distractedly, feigning interest in the scroll he had been reading to conceal his excitement at the man’s reappearance.
“‘M sorry I ran away like that last time,” the man said after some fidgeting. “Your uncanny observations put me right on edge. I’m Korax, by the way.”
“My name is Aurelius, and it’s an absolute pleasure to meet you.” An odd expression slid across Korax’s face at the introduction. “To be fair, you did give me plenty of Clues for my deductions,” Aurelius continued quickly and motioned for the man to join him at the table. “And my last question might have been a tad too… invasive.”
Korax sighed and, turning farther away from the room, lowered the weird device to allow Aurelius a good look at his eyes. Aurelius gasped in surprise. His huge irises were the colour of molten gold and split by vertical cat-like pupils; the overall effect was eerie and markedly inhuman.
“An unfortunate run-in with Mechaniotes,” Korax explained bitterly, sliding the eye shield back up his nose. “I only ever asked questions, that's all it takes to earn a divine curse these days. The eyes, some scales in regrettable places, might be venomous too. Dunno, never had the habit of biting anyone who could complain about it, not a good time to start now.”
The history of their world was full of stories of divine curses, and those were not to be taken lightly; depending on how irate the god had been when meting out the punishment, the families and friends of the victims, even entire cities, could become collateral damage.
“That’s why I came to Rome, actually,” Korax continued. “An oracle named Hagnḗ sent me here. Well, it was more cryptic than that, something like ‘Follow the sun across the sea up from the oyster city. The golden one turns the wheel of fate. Seek the serpent’s staff to find healing.’ but I reckon I figured parts of it out.”
“Petronius does remarkable things to oysters,” Aurelius muttered, deep in thought, then brightened. “Oh, the serpent staff must be the Rod of Asclepius!”
“That would do it,” Korax agreed. “No clue where to seek it, though. That’s why I’m trying to blend in, easier to learn more as a local than as a foreigner.”
“I can help you look for it,” Aurelius offered. “Lend a hand, so to speak. I am the curator of the Imperial Library, everybody is used to me poking about.”
“I'd hate to see you getting into any trouble,” Korax objected, though his heart was clearly not in it.
“I wouldn't worry. How much trouble can I get into just for asking a few questions?”
Korax arched an eyebrow above the rim of his eye-hiding contraption, and Aurelius belatedly realised how awkward his words must’ve sounded. His offer had been genuine; it would be a magnificent adventure and an opportunity to spend more time with the captivating Greek besides. But what if his flippant comment had just ruined his chance?
“I've never eaten an oyster, by the way,” Korax said offhandedly, and Aurelius might not be the best with people, but even he knew a hint when he heard one. The Arrangement was on.
They got into quite a lot of trouble in the end.
They sneaked into the Theatre of Pompey during the performance of Clytemnestra, Aurelius enjoying whatever snippets of the play they could overhear and Korax complaining about it being a tragedy throughout. Apparently, Korax preferred comedies.
Aurelius landed himself in Custodia Publica when he got distracted from their search by some extremely tempting libum that was, unfortunately, already designated as an offering to gods. Korax had to break him out before he got executed on charges of blasphemy. They learned that Korax was not, in fact, venomous, though it would have certainly been handy on this occasion.
They did a stint employed at the villa of a patrician who might’ve been in the possession of the staff, Korax as a tutor for the kids and Aurelius as a gardener. Aurelius learned that Korax was great with kids. Korax learned that Aurelius didn’t have anything like a green thumb. The patrician’s kids learned a lot, mostly Greek swear words.
They confronted the double-crossing priests of Wodan in the temple of Jupiter. They learned that Korax’s curse did really peculiar things when he walked on the ground consecrated to other gods. They barely escaped the crumbling temple with their lives; the priests were less lucky.
Finally, after enough adventures to fill a whole scroll, they stood hand in hand in front of a carved chest and looked down at the object they’ve been seeking for so long.
The “serpent staff” was not quite what they had expected. The second snake could be explained away—nothing wrong with the serpent in charge of the Rod of Asclepius seeking some discreet ophidian company now and then—but the other thing was harder to excuse…
“The wings,” Aurelius breathed.
“The wings,” Korax agreed dejectedly.
“Wrong staff.”
“Wrong staff.”
They exchanged long looks full of exhaustion. The caduceus, feeling that its work here was done, fluttered its wings, rose up from the chest and flew off to somewhere else.
“I can’t believe we spent all this time looking for the wrong staff,” Aurelius said after a pause. “All this work was for nothing; you’re still stuck with your curse.”
“It’s not that bad once you get used to it. Should probably retire somewhere in the countryside, though. All the screaming about monsters when people see my eyes gets old really quick.”
“Retirement sounds lovely, my dear,” Aurelius agreed. He glanced down, to where they were still holding hands, neither willing to let go first. “What if Poecilometes planned it like this all along?” he asked, giving the other’s hand a gentle squeeze. “From the very beginning? The oracle emphasized seeking the staff, not finding it…”
“Sounds like one of those motivational phrases,” Korax snorted. “The real staff of healing was the one you found along the way.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
“Are you saying she was making a dirty joke?” Aurelius inquired in half-outrage half-delight.
“Could have. I wouldn't put it past her,” shrugged Korax. “But hey, her prophecy led me to you. And we learned something important too: I’m definitely not venomous.”
“You cannot actually be suggesting what I infer you're implying,” Aurelius demurred, his gaze traveling to Korax’s lips.
Korax took the hint and demonstrated what he was implying, thoroughly and to their mutual enjoyment…
And this is where we’ll give our heroes some privacy. After all, this is not that kind of a scroll.