World History/Lunch: 58 BC
Title: World History/Lunch: 58 BC
Author: clodia_metelli
Rating: PG
Book/Source: Good Omens.
Summary: Lunch and world history collide. This one's all about the lunch, though. Given the diners, what else could it be?
Disclaimer: I own nothing and make nothing from this but my own entertainment.
Word Count: 565
~ world history/lunch: 58 BC ~
There was a cookshop in the Subura where they made the best pies in Rome. The wine was pretty rough, but then, so was the clientele, other than the odd hapless scion of a worn-out patrician clan or some would-be popular politician looking to shake a horny hoof or two. The neighbourhood got hotter after dark when the wild-oats boys arrived, but right now it was midday and most people were looking for lunch.
“You know how it is, dear boy,” one of the patrons was saying, a rather gaunt blond gentleman with a heavy brow and pronounced eye-sockets. “The rats… the over-crowding… the sewers… the numerous persons of negotiable virtue… did I say rats?”
“Yeah,” said his companion and scratched at his short black beard. “You got the rats.”
The hollowness of the blond gentleman’s cheeks gave his smile an oddly mournful quality. “Such misunderstood creatures,” he remarked. “I must say, the pies are rather small today. I thought we agreed -“
A sudden uproar interrupted him, thanks to the unexpected (if not particularly unusual) appearance of a twitching pink nose in the pie preparation area. Under normal circumstances, this would not have been cause for any particular concern, but in this instance the cook’s boy made the unwise decision to chase after the misunderstood creature with a carving knife and thus erupted, weapon raised, into the cookshop. Hard on his heels followed the furious cook.
“You were saying?” said the dark man, raising his eyebrows, while the resultant chaos calmed down and various bits of nasty-looking kitchen or work-related implements were returned to their hiding places.
The blond gentleman had the grace to look embarrassed. “Well,” he said. “Let’s say no more about it, shall we?”
His companion grinned. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m hungry.”
They began on the pies. “I’m definitely liking the area,” said the dark man, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of gristle. “‘s got potential -“
This time, the interruption came from outside in the street. Some sort of procession seemed to be going past, complete with shouted slogans and the sort of bronze cymbals the Great Mother’s priests normally used to make a racket. A woman sitting by the door got up to look. “It’s Clodius’s lot at it again,” she called back. “Here, did you hear what they were saying about Pompeius in the Forum the other day?”
Someone had. The political discussion that resulted was heated, to say the least. In the middle of a loud argument about whether Clodius was the best thing that had ever happened since the Gracchi themselves, was he not, and anyone who said otherwise would receive the beating of a lifetime, the door banged open. A Clodian henchman, one Sextus Clodius, swung on the doorframe. “Hey, you lot, get out of here!” He was flushed from the marching and the shouting; his eyes seemed almost yellow, but that might have been just the dazzle from the midday sun. “Clodius needs you! He’s shut the shops! There’s going to be a vote!”
Amid a certain amount of grumbling, the cookshop’s patrons filed out, blinking, onto the crowded street. Off bounced Sextus, looking for more supporters to drum up, while back in the deserted cookshop, the dark gentleman finished off his pie and looked around at the remnants of everyone else’s lunch in satisfaction.
“It’ll do,” he said. “It’ll do just fine until Red gets back.”
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