Title: Ara Pacis
Characters: Lucifer, Jeshua
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 660
Summary: In which two gentlemen meet by the edge of the Tevere.
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Chapter Two:
Ara Pacis
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The turnstile squeaks. He gently pushes with his hip until the thing slides open, making a deferential little clack. Already he's craning his neck, scanning the room when the fury in her glass cubicle starts screeching. "Signore! Eh, signore! Biglietto." He turns and stares at the woman. She mouths something, waving a paper slip. The motion sends the flabby flesh of her arm quivering.
What the... "Fine. Scusi. I thought it was late."
"Late, early," she snarls, "is no matter. That will be six euro fifty, signore. Close in fifteen minutes."
He shoves her a crumpled ten, snatches the ticket and, huffing too-cold museum air, wheels around to stride up the ramp. Disregarding signs and exhibits, he heads straight for the altar: just a few more angry steps now, then he can sense it, looming. Of course it looms; these are the Fields of Mars, after all. Any old ground will do, but blood-thirsty ground is best; at least the ancients knew. So he slows his pace and slings his jacket over his shoulder and closes his eyes, walking forward until the thrumming in his head tells him to stop.
Looking up, he can't help the whistle: even if he's not... awed, he's suitably impressed. If they put their minds to it, if they pulled their act together (or, quite simply, if they were beaten hard enough) the filthy little ants could produce a certain kind of beauty. It was the surprise of an idiot child, speaking its first sentence without a stammer, the scraggly drawings of a five-year-old, pretty only to her mother - but still, he thinks: for a few slabs of Carrara, this is... nice.
He walks around and studies the Altar, marvels at its conceit: what self-congratulatory splendour. He studies the architecture, too, the American's design, a fêted dialogue of marble, glass, and concrete supplanting Mussolini's idea of style. Why surely, Octavian's finest piece of propaganda needed a new house, once they'd pulled it from the mud. He'll have to point that out later, gloat in the sheer fucking beauty of it: Look, he'll say, behold, oh my Lord, two thousand years of Peace, most of them spent buried under corpses and shit.
The same as it ever was.
The visitor looks around, pulls out a cigarette and, without lighting it, waits. He hasn't been given a time. Not even a date. He just... knew. That, in itself, irritates the fuck out of him. Well, he shrugs. Couldn't keep away either, now could he.
He's just discovered Augustus-as-Pontifex-Maximus when he hears rapidfire Italian from the front desk, an avalanche of "We are about to close, you hear? Eh, stop! Stop!" answered by a mellow "That's quite all right," and "Why don't you tell the guards to close up and go home? It's been a long day, hasn't it, signora."
There's a palpable sigh of relief washing through the building. It resounds in the clanging of keys, in cash registers snapping shut, computers shutting down. Wardrobe doors are banging. There's the usual end-of-shift chatter, the shuffle of feet in sensible footwear. Perhaps he imagines it, but as they recede, the employees' voices sound light now, no longer tired. Giddy almost.
Shaking his head, he lights up. Fucking show-off.
He's aware of the other visitor long before he sees him. Then why does his cigarette slip and dangle as soon he lays eyes on him? Takes a few seconds before he remembers it, hanging from his lips. "And who do we have here," he says, squinting, pinching the cigarette away. "John Lennon, fresh from the Bed-In. Where's Yoko?"
"In New York, I believe." Jeshua smiles. He doesn't seem to mind stopping on the ramp, having to look up. His hands are casually folded in front of him.
No stigmata, Lucifer notes.
"Buona sera to you, Lightbringer," Jeshua says. His voice is warm and dry, like the evening outside.
"Rabbi," Lucifer returns, dropping into a mock-polite bow. He might just be about to snort blood.
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