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.Socool,” 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 probably means it’s time for us to leave, since they’re likely hoofing it 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.
