Chapter 6 #2
We’re walking along the top tier of the Colosseum, sun hot on our faces, and skin glistening with sweat.
Roman’s white shirt is damp enough to stick to his chest in an obscene manner, and lends some handy visual aids to our guide’s fantasy of him as a sweaty gladiator.
I scowl at the man’s back. I might be small, but I’m strong for my size and everyone knows jealously is the best motivator.
“I’m definitely throwing him over the edge,” I declare, before Roman can respond.
“Well, to be fair, I probably would make a good gladiator,” he replies, sounding proud of himself.
I roll my eyes and he laughs, grabbing my hand despite how dismally hot it is.
Our sweaty fingers slide together, but I don’t mind either.
Not when someone glances back at us and notices, frowning.
That’s right, I think tartly, find your own gladiator, this one’s taken.
Half an hour later, we exit the Colosseum, caught along in the stream of bodies.
Brushing a hand up the back of my neck, grimacing at the way the hair that escaped from my bun is sticking to my skin, I say a silent thank-you to past-me for keeping the makeup to a minimum this morning.
People who visit Rome in the height of summer are crazy.
I am crazy. The big Viking turned gladiator next to me is definitely crazy, if the smile on his face is any indication.
“What next?” he asks enthusiastically, pulling up his trusty notes app and looking at me with eager, brown, puppy-dog eyes. I melt a little bit at that look, despite needing no help in that department, and sidle closer to take a look.
“Let’s do Palatine Hill, the Arch of Constantine”—I point at the arch, within a stone’s throw of where we’re standing now—“and the Roman Forum. All of that is right here. Also, the Basilica of San Clemente is close as well, and worth a visit. It’s not on your list, but the basilicas are like standing works of art around here.
Not to mention, they house a lot of art worth seeing as well. ”
“You don’t have to convince me!” he says excitedly. “I want to see it all. Anything you recommend, let’s do.”
Smiling, the feathers that had been ruffled by our Colosseum guide smoothing down, I retake his hand and tug him toward the arch.
I know quite a bit of random knowledge about the sites in Rome, having swallowed a guide book during my own inaugural visit here, and I mean to use the knowledge to make myself appear a touch more intelligent than I really am.
“Wow,” Roman says, eyebrows raised as he looks between me and the Arch of Constantine, after I word vomit a history lesson on him. “I didn’t know half of that.”
“It’s only one of three remaining arches in Rome,” I add, gesturing toward the massive structure. “It’s also the largest.”
“Only three? Wow,” he repeats, “that’s sad. No wonder they have the fence around it.”
We walk slowly toward Palatine Hill, the heat rising in visible waves off the stone paths. July in Rome is truly hellish. Only the thought of our tiny, blessedly air-conditioned hotel room keeps me pushing forward. Well, that and the lovely little single bed we’re going to be cuddled up in tonight.
“Okay,” Roman prompts, once we’ve reached the top of the hill. Almost unconsciously, he reaches out and uses a finger to tuck a stray bit of hair behind my ear. I flush, body heating up further, as though he did that with his tongue. “Tell me about the hill.”
Taking a deep breath in an attempt to reroute my blood back to my head, I glance around. We’re stopped in the shade—bless these trees—and the crowds are noticeably thinner up here, just like they were last time I visited.
“I don’t remember much,” I admit, “but it’s said to be one of the seven founding hills of Rome. The first hill, if you believe the legends. Oh, and Cicero lived here.”
“Who the hell is Cicero?” Roman asks.
“I haven’t a clue.” Tipping his head back, he laughs loud enough to draw the attention of a family walking by.
Still chuckling, he whips out his trusty cellphone and snaps a picture of the tree we’re standing under.
“Some of the emperors also had homes here: Augustus, Caligula, and a few others I can’t remember. ”
“Maybe Cicero was an emperor,” Roman comments, adjusting his position so the Colosseum is behind me in the distance, and taking another picture.
“Maybe,” I agree, waiting for him to finish this series of photographs, before leading him along.
“Whoa,” he says on a heavy exhale, when we reach the balcony overlooking the Roman Forum. I smile, ignoring the ruins in favor of drinking in his expression. There’s nothing quite like introducing something magnificent to someone else, and getting to watch the magic light up their eyes.
“Welcome to downtown ancient Rome.” I gesture toward the ruins, enjoying the way he’s smiling and snapping photos like his life depends on it.
Indulgently, I let him steer me around and take pictures of me with the forum below, and even snag us a pair of tourists to take some of us together.
Roman, fully unconcerned with the pool of sweat that has made its home on my lower back, drapes his arm around my waist and pulls me in.
I put a steadying hand on his stomach and wrap my free arm around his hips, which makes our photographer coo happily.
“So cute!” she declares, handing the phone off to Roman, who bravely asks her to take a few more from a different angle.
“Wow. This is so cool. So cool,” he repeats, once we finally make it down into the ruins.
“It is,” I agree. The Roman Forum is one of my favorite attractions in the city, and although it is nice to visit on a guided tour, I feel a case could be made for enjoying it like this.
We stroll through leisurely, stepping back in time and seeing an ancient Roman market; hearing the echoes of prayers in the temples, and treading the same paths that were walked hundreds of years ago. The going is slow, as we stop and admire each half-crumbled building, carving, and stone pillar.
“This one is my favorite,” he declares, as we stop in front of the Temple of Antoninus and Faustina. I bite back the urge to drag his face down and kiss the hell out of him.
“Mine too,” I whisper, squeezing his hand and staring at the church.
Silently, we stand at the foot of the ancient stairs and crane our necks, heads tipped backward as we take in the columns of stone.
I wait for him to look his fill, before we continue on our meandering way.
Somehow, we’ve managed to time our visit with some sort of celestial miracle that kept the rest of Rome away—the paths are relatively clear and only a handful of visitors pass us.
I haven’t seen a guided tour in thirty minutes, which might mean it’s time for us to leave.
They’re probably hurrying over here as we speak.
“Niilo?”
“Mm?” I look up at him, squinting, fighting with the sun that’s currently nestled in the crook of Roman’s shoulder.
“Hungry?”
“Starving,” I agree, as my stomach gives a helpful little gurgle.