Chapter 2:

Bad omens

Aziraphale fiddles with his cup while casting furtive and worried glances all around him. He doesn't usually sit in that kind of tavern.

The prostitutes lean lazily against the counter or wander in the cramped room, their gait always so suggestive, flying between the overcrowded tables and the customers collapsing under the weight of alcohol. One of them even catches the disgusted look of the poor angel and signals him to approach, waving her slender fingers whose nails she painted in a thousand shades. Confused, he can only frown and shake his shoulders to better turn his back on her.

The lively conversations gradually turn into a hubbub that will soon become deafening. The air gives out whiffs of beer, perspiration, and that acrid smell which must be that which humans link to carnal pleasures. A scent that makes them feel reckless and invites them to succumb to temptation and drag themselves up the stairs, craving for a taste of negotiable affection.

Aziraphale knows full well that these cabarets are all the rage as of late, and perhaps have always been, but he still doesn't understand why. He can't deny that drink and gluttony are his guilty pleasures - and luckily no one blames him. But this incessant comings and goings between the room and the first floor... these obscenities only concealed by thin curtains and these wheezes of enjoyment that echo behind the walls... Are the pleasures of the flesh so irresistible? And after all, why did Crowley dare set their meeting in such a dump? Is it again one of his demonic jokes? Does he really like to defile the pure soul of his friend? And maybe… maybe he also planned to spend some time with these harpies? Oh, he better not even think about it...

"Good evening, mister the head librarian."

The mellow voice of the demon strokes the ears of the angel who, as usual, jumps and almost spills his drink.

Crowley slumps heavily onto the empty stool that has been keeping Aziraphale company for almost half an hour. Aziraphale delicately stands his cup on the counter and turns to greet his comrade with a delighted smile.

"Crowley! I almost thought that this meeting was nothing but one of your tasteless jokes!"

"You know perfectly well that's not my type."

"Couldn't we have met elsewhere and not… because, I mean... You see, this place is rather…"

"I know, I know", Crowley sighs, waving his hand to order a drink. "You would have preferred a picnic by the lake Mareotis."

"I'm not quite sure I would accept to have a picnic with you, but I think beer houses are not a suitable place for two beings of our kind."

"Why is that?"

"Well... you know I truly don't mind drinking beer… but the side activities of this kind of tavern embarrass me.

A raucous laughter escapes the demon's throat before he swallows his beer in one go. He shakes his head, an amused smile floating on his lips, and he wipes the foam at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

"None of these women will soil your celestial body."

"Well, I don't know how I'm supposed to welcome this remark."

"Just stop thinking and have a drink."

The ginger raises his arm again so that their cups are again filled to the brim. His friend cracks a faint smile, somewhat taken aback by their first exchange of the evening. He should have become used to it after all these centuries spent alongside this singular creature of Hell. However, whatever he does, whatever he says and whatever he thinks, he is always afraid of committing a blunder, a mistake that could upset his friend and deteriorate their already too ambiguous relations. He's not supposed to fraternize with the enemy like he always did with Crowley. He's also pretty certain that the other angels, or at least Gabriel, are well aware of their little encounters. A conscientious angel would try to extract information from a demon, taunt him, convince him to act against the interests of his side and to serve Good instead of Evil… but Aziraphale does nothing with it. Because he just doesn't want to.

"I ordered some oysters", he continues, his fingers curled around his cup.

Extremely keen about the possibility of sharing such a meal with his lifelong companion, he pushes the plate towards Crowley and finally realises that the latter does not pay him the slightest attention. His golden eyes are lost over the crowd of young women strutting at the foot of the rickety staircase, vainly trying to arouse customers and line their pockets.

The poor angel's fears immediately surface. Is it really for this kind of fun that Crowley wanted them to meet here? To drink a few beers and then go away with a degenerate human? Or is he responsible for these poor lost souls? After all, temptation can only be the work of the Devil... Adam and Eve would sure like to confirm so.

"Crowley?" he calls, clapping his hands gently to catch his friend's attention. "Are you considering… talking to one of these girls?"

"I've already told you a thousand times that I don't like oysters."

Crowley pushes the plate towards Aziraphale and lifts his cup to his still wet lips. Abashed, Aziraphale looks down and twists his fingers. He was so happy to be able to spend some good time with his vile friend... Not only the setting of their meeting is absolutely repulsive, but if Crowley also starts to play up and become unbearable... Hopefully he will n-…

"Here, angel. This is for you."

The ginger hands him a thin scroll which he had hidden under his toga. Aziraphale hastens to grasp it. A manuscript? One more? After the huge load he seized the day before?

"Captain Hippolytos had hidden it in his cabin to prevent your minions from taking it away."

"Nobody searched his cabin?" the angel asks while unsealing the precious document. "I asked them to chec-…"

"Of course they did, but some people can be very imaginative when it's about hiding their most precious goods."

"What do you mean?"

"Trust me, you don't want to know more."

The blond shrugs and goes back to reading. Strange. What can this mysterious scroll contain? Why would the captain try to hide it? Is it an important war document? Too thin to contain erudite reflections but too neatly sealed to be some sort of love letter.

"So? What is it about?" Crowley asks, his eyes alternately flying back and forth between the oysters and the scroll.

His friend does not utter a word. He just observes the signs on the paper, his eyes wide with shock.

It's a missive.

A missive which would undoubtedly be destroyed once delivered to its recipient.

A missive that was entrusted to the wrong intermediary, in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

Aziraphale folds the scroll and hides it under his toga, holding it firmly against his chest. He gets up without even emptying his cup and walks hesitantly but hastily towards the door. Completely bewildered by this sudden change in his behavior, Crowley gets to his feet and rushes after him. Was the content of this document so scary? Or is it an important or confidential paper that must be delivered to its recipient as soon as possible?

Both men dive into the night, the sea breeze caressing their wet cheeks and leaving a salty taste on their lips. They walk a few meters in silence, towards the library, Aziraphale leading the way and tottering imperceptibly on his poor little legs.

"Aziraphale!" Crowley exclaims, catching hold of his sleeve. "Where are you going? And what about the oysters?"

"I don't really care about the oysters."

Crowley looks back to make sure no one is following them. He was almost certain that his unexpected gift would make quite of an impression but he certainly did not imagine that his companion would just run away after reading it. Is this how his consuming passion usually shows up? This urgent need to rush into his office does not seem the very sane. Is he really unable to hold a scroll calmly? This reaction could have been incredibly adorable and touching if Aziraphale's features weren't so creased.

"Please, Aziraphale", he moans, trying to stand in the way. "Tell me what's wrong. Is it because of this document?"

"How dare you ask such a question!"

The librarian continues on his way without paying attention to the implorations of his friend.

Even though the sky is sprinkled with stars at this late hour, the streets remain alive enough to prevent any kind of intimate conversation. Questions will wait. No one should hear anything. No one should see them. Their hurried departure must have already caused enough confusion and seemed too suspicious. What a lovely idea to have organized their dinner in this tavern in the company of prostitutes, brigands and mercenaries! He and Crowley obviously did not go unnoticed with their sumptuous clothes and their radiant hair. And if it turns out that a gabiniani was there...

Aziraphale half-opens the panels of the heavy door and sneaks inside the silent library, the red haired demon hissing on his heels. He immediately heads towards the staircase to cloister himself into his office and be sure that everything will be safe - the scroll just like his own body.

"Crowley…" he murmurs in a hushed voice, his jaw clenched, a vein throbbing furiously under his temple. "What kind of ship was it exactly?"

"Just one of the many ships departing from Thessaly, why so?"

"What was your final destination?"

"Oh, I don't know. I already told you that I was too busy with the ducks."

The angel rolls his eyes, cursing the stupidity of his comrade who could, at least once in this damn century, make himself truly useful by doing his job properly. Besides, he would never have wished for a demon to fulfil his task, but in this instance, a minimum of conscientiousness would have greatly served the interests of both their sides.

The two men shut themselves up inside Aziraphale's office. The angel repeatedly checks the lock, his fingers working on the handle in a manic tic. The ginger stares at him with an air of utter incomprehension, frowning in a silent question. Now that their little nocturnal marathon is over, it is certainly time for him to get answers.

"Will you tell me what's going on?" he insists, somewhat annoyed but still too soft to be intimidating.

Aziraphale crosses the room to finally slump into his chair and place the scroll standing on the desk in front of him. His pale eyes get lost in the meanders of its texture, as if they tried in vain to decipher the signs through the paper. Oh, he sure doesn't need a second reading to remember what's in there. One was enough to mark his mind.

"Aziraphale?"

Crowley leans over the desk, his hands flat on the polished wood, his golden irises piercing Aziraphale's with their mesmerizing radiance. His ultimate weapon. The attribute to which Aziraphale has never been able to resist.

"Aziraphale, I beg you. Answer me."

As usual, the poor angel turns his eyes away and wrings his hands while searching for his words. His lips part several times without releasing any intelligible sound.

A silver moonbeam filters through the thin curtains floating at the windows. Aziraphale's pearly skin glows in this obscure light, giving it that angelic air that Crowley has never forgotten since their first meeting and which sometimes haunts him during his periods of deep loneliness. His forehead is wrinkled with fear and his eyes sparkle with an unusual glow, a glow that Crowley has rarely seen in these irises that are ordinarily so innocent, so candid, so enthusiastic.

Aziraphale is terrified.

"When you were on this ship... Did you... did you notice anything abnormal?" he asks in a broken voice, his throat dry, his hands clammy. "A passenger... conversations... nothing at all?"

"Well... maybe, yes, I don't know. It all depends on what you believe to be "abnormal". I know I should have been more careful, but the fact is that I preferred to get a tan. Here. We were on a large ship in the middle of the mare nostrum, the temptation was far too strong, so I j-…

"Do you know how the captain came into possession of this document?" Aziraphale continues, his knuckles whitening as he keeps on clenching his fists nervously.

"Ah, yes, I do!" Crowley exclaims with some poorly disguised pride. "When we berthed, there was... a guy from the army, probably a gabiniani, waiting for us on the wharf. I heard him and Hippolytos talk about little Ptolemy. Perhaps he was looking to requisition the ship, who knows? No holds barred in this damn war."

"This paper gives off demonic reeks!" the angel responds, groping his chest. "Is this one of your wicked ideas?"

"Look, I just went around the ship after berthing and I found that manuscript. If you don't like it, give it back to me so I can sell it to someone who…"

"This document is a missive from Pothinus."

Crowley frowns a little stronger so that his red eyebrows almost meet in a thin line.

"I don't even know who that is."

"The pharaoh's regent."

Crowley's jaw drops and his lips open in a silent exclamation. Then he was not wrong, the captain and the soldier did converse about the young pharaoh. If only he had cared about listening for a few more seconds instead of... well, instead of thinking about visiting his old friend. Why the devil is he supposed to be monitoring this ridiculous war? This is far too much of a responsibility for a fool of his kind.

"And?" he articulates after swallowing painfully, the weight of his responsibilities falling down on his frail shoulders. "What does this missive say?"

Aziraphale's lips twitch in a nervous smile. He would love to believe that this evening is only a nightmare that will vanish at dawn. That the few words he deciphered have no meaning, that they were never even written or addressed to anyone.

Sadly, reality is quite different. Cruel and bitter, as it always has been and will always be for all the human beings as well as for their celestial guardians.

He nods pitifully and looks up at Crowley, again meeting his blazing gaze veiled in shared concern.

"It orders the killing of Pompey."

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