Shadow in the Sun

Roman AU

First chapter contains graphic violence, also to animals – it's the arena, I'm sorry.

1.

There is a city that stands at the centre of the world; a city that is itself the beating heart of that tumultuous, wheeling world. The city is a dream, a promise, an ideal. The city is a warning, a fleck of dust in the eye of a dying god. City of colour, of noise and stench. City of sun and sweat and sensation, of glory, of honour, corruption and sin. It is the flash of azure and gold on a pale wrist, it is the putrescence of a dead dog's decaying arse running into the gutter. City of life and of death – that is all the stuff of life and a thousand new ways to die. There is a city that redefines the title and the city is Rome.

Height of July, the year is 14 AD. The dust rising from the parched and cracking ground stifles and threatens to fill the nostrils unto death, but the stench from the overheated wooden tenement blocks is worse and still Loki would have happily taken all of that in twice rather than to have just foolishly taken a glance beyond the silken curtains of his lectica. He wrinkles his nose and lets the emerald curtain drop, wrinkles his nose and falls back into the soft feather cushions with a groan of disgust, face contorted in distaste.

"Honestly – why?" he wails to his companion – "Why when I could be sat at home in the shade of sweet smelling citrus tree, good book in my lap, glass of wine in my hand, enjoying the fact of the shade in the glare of the sun – why then am I here? Here where it fucking stinks and on my way to a game –" he sneers the word out with all the derision he feels it deserves – "You know I hate the games."

His friend just laughs at him good naturedly –

"You should get out more Hermes –" he laughs and Loki sighs, a little reassured out of his irritation by the now familiar nick-name – "These games are to celebrate my uncles' succession and being brought to the people on my commission – that's why you're here."

Loki looks at his companion sharply; succession he thinks – is that what we have now? Dear Republic, we are gathered here to say our goodbyes – he wisely keeps these thoughts to himself and arches an eyebrow.

"If that distinct odour of the district that I smell is anything to go by, and an indication of my getting out more, I do think I'll continue to stay in thank you very much."

"Yes, I do agree it is a little ripe around here."

"Ripe? It's positively stewing! That's not even the worst of it Gaius – I mean did you see them? Those people- if you can call them that – gawping at us with mouths to catch flies. Ugh! They're just – they're so ugly." Loki pouts, sullen and cantankerous at having to be exposed to such creatures; for ugliness is perhaps the only crime that still distresses him. Though if he could have, which he could not, seen what they looked like from the plebeian viewpoint he would have not been surprised at being so stared at with the picture they made – in a lectica fit for a future emperor, carried by four men, shielded elegantly from those rheumy and reddened eyes by drapes of the softest silk, billowing in snow white and emerald green to match the upholstery within. Himself a curious and pale apparition, held above from the common masses like a silver birch tree, clinging above a soiled and rushing river on roots more tentative and fragile than they would at first appear.

Ugliness. He sniffs, petulantly, to himself as they come to a halt and he steps gingerly down into the cesspit of the street There is plenty of it to be seen. Rome is bustling today, with the festivity of holiday and the crowds outside the coliseum are thick and ripe. Loki's delicate lip twitches in disgust and, caught between the crowd and the sunshine he feels sweaty and sullied within seconds.

"If any of them touch me I am going to scream," he announces pristinely, steering clear of everyone as though they were ghastly bugs that might jump onto him as they make their way through them and in by the entrance reserved for high ranking officials and nobility. They weave their way up to the top seats and there, above the sweltering masses Loki breathes more easily. There is a breeze up here and servants bearing drinks and fans. Nevertheless he sinks into one of the best seats wondering how long before he can get away with leaving.

Loki slumps into his seat with a perfectly pitched, practised expression of boredom and infinite superiority. As his friend chats to more congenial acquaintances he watches the games already in progress, unprepared to be anything other than highly unimpressed.

For many dragging minutes he is distinctly unimpressed, amusing himself more dwelling with sour pleasure on his own superior sense of taste than in actually watching the gladiators fight. Certainly, he thinks, there never ceases to be a frisson of elation to be had in watching men die but it seems dreamlike from up here and far away. Closer are the spectators below that bay and jabber worse than monkeys. Truly, he thinks, this is humanity at its depressing worst. The gladiators in their messy deaths have more nobility than these creatures do in their raucous lives.

"I'd kill them all," he mutters to himself, fingers twisting like snakes around the fine stem of his glass. He wonders if anyone else here is thinking about throwing the spectators to the gladiators, decides that the answer is probably not, and congratulates himself on his own elevated thought processes.

One of the fighters on the sand catches Loki's eye like a shiny jewelled trinket glinting in the sun. An especially pretty piece of jewellery that draws you to look closer at the vendors' stall. This one is lighter than all the rest, brighter, shining truly in between the heat haze and the blue. There is dirt and sunshine caught in his hair and, even from this distance Loki can see, crackling fire burning in his eyes. Sun sparks like a forge spitting, off the drops of blood that fall from mighty but scratched up arms into the dust and he glistens as though something scaled in oil and in sweat. He is golden and glorious. It suddenly occurs to Loki that he has been watching this one with something almost like interest for quite some time. He has outlasted everything it seems the arena can throw at him. A pitchfork tearing the helmet from his head reveals the bared teeth and golden hair as he stands like Mars triumphant over the body of the Parthian behind the trident. Before long there is, too, what looks like half a pack of feral wolves dead at his feet and he, glistening and chiselled as if from rock or gold glares up at the crowd with challenging eyes that call out, almost roaring – what more have you to throw at me?!

But the crowd wants a feast and it always has more to give and to demand. It will not forgive one who dispatches all enemies so fiercely and efficiently and yet refuses to take evident joy in doing so. They – the human wolves – enjoy it vicariously through this, their champion. They who if placed here would all fall at the first attack – Loki despises them all dearly – but not so this gorgeous Germanic Apollo. No in him Loki sees perhaps the only other worthy creature besides himself in this whole arena of fools, and he finds himself watching more intently than he means to, green eyes narrowed and glinting in the sun as he leans forward, chin resting on his hand.

A volley of arrows flies through the air and the crowd cheers as the newcomer rides in like a centaur. The Archer has acquired such notoriety in recent months that even Loki has heard of him. They say that he has never been seen to miss a target; that his aim and his vision are next to godly. The say the gods in error rendered him deaf and in return gave him his eyesight twice. They say a lot of foolish things, all of which could just as well be true. There is a fire in those vaunted eyes as well, though it is a cold fire and does not arrest Loki like the blaze he can see consuming the German. He watches him knock arrows out of the air with his bare hands, as though they were flies, then using his sword to shield himself and to cut them in two as they keep coming. For a while he simply stands in place, sword wheeling arcs, eyes following the archer's galloping circular progress until when he finally moves it is to swing himself in a merciless sweep behind the ebony horse and to severe the beast's back legs as though cutting a scythe through wheat. Even from up high Loki can hear the animal scream and only this, after all the human death, makes him wince, not even the sight or smell of the blood that sprays arterial across the sand and coating the man from head to toe. In a swift move he leaps over the animal, mercifully taking it out in a single swing, mounting the fallen archer before he has a chance to move and holding his sword poised as the crowd roars.

The gladiator's eyes roam the crowd for a signal and, needless to say, all thumbs turn emphatically down in the sign for mercy. But of course they do, for the one they call Hawk- Eye is everybody's favourite and, from the royal seat, the recently crowned emperor concurs.

Just when Loki is beginning to lapse back into boredom at the predictability of these events, something occurs on the sand to cause the crowd to waver in its cheering. As the German helps the Dacian archer to his feet he pats him hard on the back like a friend in view of them all. He does not let go the Archer's hand and they punch the sky together, sharing a roar that does not reach over the crowd but can be seen in their bared teeth and snarling lips. They do it as one in a silent display of solidarity that slips unease into the cheers of the crowd.

We are men. The gesture says – we are human. We are victorious this day and we will not be ignored.

While the masses shuffle and mutter at this display of blatant humanity from those they comfort themselves on viewing as animals, Loki grins widely and crookedly in appreciation.

"How much –" hoarsely, throat dry, turning to his friend and starting again –

"How much do you suppose –"

"You'd buy old Hawk-eye? After this? Dream on my friend."

"No not him – the other – I mean, is a gladiator even for sale?"

Gaius laughs and slaps him on the shoulder.

"My friend, you do not get out enough – these day's everything's for sale."

_x_