The Larceny

Volos, Year 348

Theft is easy; getting away is not.

Anthony Heius put his foot up on a spindly teak bench as he deliberated on Moon Xeator's words, his arm drooping from the knee.

You and Drusilla must work as a team.

He glanced around the tavern abutting a dirt street. Across the rough-hewn table smudged with grease sat Drusilla Fabiana, a young woman with fair skin and waist-long hay-colored hair in a thick warrior braid.

"I still don't find it necessary," he groused, his eyes shifting between her and the street. "I can handle it myself!"

Drusilla observed him, disregarding his complaint. A half smile hung on her lips, her storm-gray eyes flickering. Tucking flyaways to her ear, she glanced up at the clear sky, where the sun had crested the meridian. "How's the gamble by the way?" she asked.

The randomness of the question made him squint; muscles spasmed along his cheeks. "Why?"

"Has Moon ever lost a bet?"

Anthony stared at a loss. In the last five years since he met Moon Xeator, they had made quite a fund he didn't know was possible. He had only needed to place the exact number on the Pyrrhic pugilists Moon had asked for. Drunk on the jubilation of their growing stash, seldom, however, had he reflected on the calculations that went behind.

"No," he mumbled at length, balling his hands under the table. No, he brooded. How simple a word but lethal! They had never lost a bet because Moon had never miscalculated, and to acknowledge that would discredit Anthony, stripping him of the pride he took in the riches that might never have been his to claim.

"If you can listen to him when you place your bet, why not this time when he tells you there is a higher chance of success when we work as a team?"

He snorted, raising his chin. "Do you like him or what?"

She smirked, cocking a brow. "Does it make you tick?"

A drunkard reeled diagonally on his way out and bumped into their table. "Pardon me," he spluttered, bloodshot eyes ogling Drusilla, his breath a roaring stink of ale and slop yet to digest.

Drusilla begrudged a smile in reply. Rising to her feet, she sidled up to Anthony on his side of the table. "Look," she whispered, resting her cheek in a palm, her elbow propping against the table. "Across the street at the stables, the lad with dark ringlets. Let's get him." She grinned, her white teeth scraping on her plump bottom lip.

Anthony put down the foot as he tilted his head, glancing sideways where she had beckoned with her eyes. "By the name of which blighted gods you think he's up to scratch?" he grunted. "Look at him! He's carrying his own sack! A bloody nobody! Besides, have you forgotten why we chose today?"

"They announce the result of the stupid law exam," she shrugged. "So?"

"So we should be focusing on the officials sent for the job, or the candidates swarming the square as we speak!"

She chuckled, a mocking snort. "The officials won't demean themselves by coming out here. They'll delegate someone else, someone below them for the drudgeries, just like how they've been delegated. That means," she leaned sidelong, groping for a jug from the next table. "Water?" She swigged from the jug, then thudded it before Anthony.

Rolling his eyes, he shook his head.

She shrugged and continued, "Those making the announcement are more likely low-class servants. Not only are their amulets worthless, they will also be escorted by the Praetor's guards the whole time, hence too difficult to approach. We'll be wasting our time going after them."

"And the candidates?" Too stubborn or proud, or both, Anthony persevered. "Must there be one or two among them that belong to the first class!"

"Assume that a first-class citizen would actually need to go through the rigmarole of exams for a position in the court, do you think he'll wait in the sun-beaten square for the result?" She asked, tilting her head. Wavy flyaways bounced off her ear, slinging across her heart-shaped face. The storm gray of those eyes blinked with such innocence as if she was only trading with him an innocuous piece of gossip.

"Then why the fuck would Xeator pick today specifically?" Anthony glared, his patience thinning at the mind game.

"Because," she let out a small sigh that tingled his ears like the sound of water over a hissing fire. "It isn't easy getting away. He picked today because the announcement will distract the eyes, and even if we run into a little trouble, we can avail ourselves of the distraction." She flicked her eyes at the stable across the street. "The boy may be carrying his own sack, but quite a chance he's one of those runaways from Pethens who wants to avoid acquaintances and prying eyes. See how he talks like giving orders? He can't quite leave behind his pride and wont as he has left behind his entourage, which means …" She withdrew her eyes, turning her back to the street. "His amulet will be worth the hustle."

Anthony peered across the mudded street at the stables under a stone arcade. Wagons creaked in and out of the street, and riders shuttled. The kick-over latches clattered as the doors flung open and closed, their hinges squeaking a weary moan in cacophony with the neigh of donkeys and garrons. Against a column before the wooden stall fence, the boy stood in the shade of a festooned arch. Swarthy and lithe, he had striking blue eyes that glittered as if sapphires from the south and a headful of flossy ringlets the color of onyx. He didn't look like those patricians Anthony had seen before – those who flaunted their wealth with gemstones gaping from their fingers or inlaid in their fine silks. But Drusilla was right. The lad struck indeed an air far too smug. However plain, his beige tunic was of gleaming silk and … clean. So much for not attracting attention, Anthony scoffed.

"Fine," He got to his feet. "But don't take me for your shill. I'm not."

Drusilla scrunched up her face for a grin and went to the rammed earth counter, where she bought two large wineskins. Carrying one under either arm, she dashed across the street. Mud spattered the hem of her linen.

"Will there be a wagon leaving for the Praetor's Port soon?" she asked, her voice lost to the commotion about her.

While keeping her in sight, Anthony loitered around a corner of the stables. Too many caravans swarming from the south, he took note, while a throng of men seethed from the forum in the north.

Must they've finished the announcement.

If he turned south, the caravans could block his way. Best to blend into the crowd. Engrossed in thoughts, he bumped into a stout man stooping over a gutter.

"Sorry!" The man lurched aside and apologized. He had ebon hair cropped close to an egg-shaped head. A rivulet of vomit hung still from a corner of his mouth. He wiped it off on his sleeve while trying to laugh, his laugh a stiff cackle.

Never before had Anthony been apologized to for his own fault. Stumped for a reply, he only scowled before turning on his heel, his eyes seeking Drusilla.

Back in the arcade, she had proceeded, her feet shifting backward to the boy. Wineskins jiggled, dangling from her hands like an old cow's withered dugs. She let herself trip over the boy's feet. During her spectacular fall on her hip, she groped for balance, grasping at the hem of his tunic. Wine fanned out from a spout she had intentionally left unscrewed. He fell with her, red spilling over them both.

"I'm so sorry!" she cried, her voice a tremor; her hands fumbled about, trying to blot with her sleeves the stains on his silk.

The boy swung his arm, clutching her wrist. "Don't touch me," he intoned; his ringlets rambled about his brow like tendrils, shading the upper half of his face. He pushed her away.

"I was just," Drusilla whimpered. "I only wanted to help—"

"Out of my way!" Anthony bellowed from behind. He booted Drusilla but halted his foot as it landed in her back.

"Pardon me, sir!" she cried, scrambling to her feet while she rammed the loot in his hand on the back.

A jade plate and a pouch of denarii.

A thrill unknown to Anthony crepitated through his veins. Straining his face so as not to laugh, he flung a surly look at Drusilla as if to threaten her off, then took off, thrusting himself into a crowd as he exited the arcade.

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Mud splashed on Drusilla's hem as she crossed the rutted street with two wineskins.

One to celebrate, the other for the spill.

She prayed to the Sun God Ra for all things living, and for mercy from the Death Lord Kish. She prayed before her mischief, and it had been a while since she said her last prayer.

Time flashed back by two years, and she could still feel the pulse of the past as though a breeze on her skin. When the humid roar of summer began to cool, and the seasonal tournament in Volos commenced, an ash-blond youth offered himself to make the game more, in his word, interesting.

"What a twat!" the crowds booed as they bet against him. "A betting booth clerk in the Pyrrhic fight? He'll get himself flayed!"

They all lost.

When people suffering the same defeat found themselves together, they gained a sense of justice in their sheer number to defy the validity of the victory against them. A riot was on the brink.

The ash-blond youth sneered as if watching pieces fall into their place. In the wispy shadow of locks, his almond-shaped eyes dimmed and glowed like emeralds in the dark, exuding a charm Drusilla fought to leave unnoticed. His straight nose silhouetted upon the diamond-cut jawline, a rivulet of blood hanging still from the corner of his lips. He spat. Arms about chest in a slouching pose, he proceeded to the center of the arena.

"How about we make everyone a winner today?" he offered, skewing around on his heel as he scanned the spectators at large. "Nobody shall pay on the conditions that I make my oath to the League as a pugilist, and the dance girl walks free." He swung his arm at Drusilla, pilloried by the edge of the arena. "What say you, my lords?"

The arena quieted to bouts of whispers.

"The girl is a thief, alright. She got caught stealing from Lord Romulus Scipio's guest chamber!" Drusilla heard them canvass from a row of seats behind her.

"But nothing went missing, eh?" a new voice countered.

"Well, who cares so long as the blond boy can fight and win us gold!"

An agreement was reached that day.

In cheering and jeering, the ash-blond youth strode up to the edge of the arena and helped her to her feet, his gaze affirmative, on his lips a lopsided grin. "You'll be fine," he reassured her, crooning to her ear, his voice magnetic. "My name is Moon Xeator, by the way. What's yours?"

On the same night before he made his oath to the Scipios' League, he introduced her to Anthony. The three of them gathered around a fringe of reeds by a sinus creek, winding downstream from a small dam near the Tigris Canal. Silver stars studded the arc of the canopy, their reflections caught on the murmurous flow.

"Why would you do it?" Anthony groused, his face a perennial scowl.

Crouching by the creek, Xeator skipped a stone. "Didn't you say you liked her? Well, too late now, I don't think the Scipios take returns." he jested, darting a glance at Drusilla. "Apologies, lady. I mean no offense. Neither does my friend."

"Why would you do it?" she seconded Anthony, however. "Why would you trade your freedom for mine? I, too, want to know."

"Have I ever been free before?" The blond youth huffed a sigh. "I worked at the betting booth, remember? So, please, don't feel bad like you owe me. I've only changed the terms in my oath."

"For what?" Anthony snapped. "At the booth, we get to make so much gold together! And now you'll get beaten to a pulp!"

"How else would you like me to get her out?" Xeator retorted.

"But why?" Drusilla insisted her question be addressed, so he did with quite an honesty she had not expected.

"Because you have something I need."

"Which is?"

"Even though you got caught, you did sneak into Romulus' gust chamber, evincing your skill and motive. I need someone deft and motivated."

She glanced up warily, her hands clenching into fists.

"But no need to fret." He favored her with an airy smile. "I don't need you to tell me what or who motivates you. In fact, the more personal a motive, the more motivating. Besides," he paused, meeting her eye. Wayward locks flopped across the diamond-cut face, his emerald eyes flecked with shimmers like a star-spangled night caught on a quiet pond. "You were a Scipios' dance girl, and as I've said, my friend here likes you. He's loitered around the arena more often than he should just to see more of you, subjecting himself to unwarranted suspicions that jeopardize our gamble. His obsession with you has caused quite a rift between me and him of late. Much that I enjoy seeing you myself, I can't afford to have you as a liability."

"Oi!" Anthony shoved him sideways. "Don't listen to him!" he added, snapping his eyes at Drusilla; his sunken cheeks blushed.

She quirked her brows, her lips pursed. However flattered, she was in no mood for such luxury as flirtation – or perhaps, as she realized in hindsight, when the flirtation had involved the wrong man. "And what exactly kind of skill do you think I have?" Shuffling the subject, she returned her gaze to Xeator.

Xeator grinned, his buffed teeth glimmering in the starry night. Musing on her, he chose his word. "Slinking."

Not stealing, because she wasn't. Nor sleuthing, because she didn't want to tell anyone that she was looking for Aemilia, her little sister, who never came home after being sent to a banquet held in Pethens a year before then. No authority would assert involvement, and those who persisted in asking about the missing youths had, too, one by one disappeared. So Drusilla took the matter furtively into her own hand.

As she bored into Xeator's emerald eyes, she wondered how much he knew about her, and how she could avail herself of his knowing.

The weight of wineskins tugged at her hands, compelling her attention to the present. She shook her head with a sigh, then turned to a dour man of a medium stature sagging behind a rickety window.

"Will wagons be leaving for the Praetor's Port soon?" she asked.

The man skewed around; his doublet creased, accentuating his paunch. He stared with his eyes open halfway, flaky lips stretching to a yawn. "There is one leaving after dark."

"And what about tomorrow?"

"Who knows?" he drawled, his murky eyes brimming with impatience. "Check again tomorrow if you aren't leaving tonight!"

Miming a smile, she bid the man good day and swiveled to the street. Upon espying Anthony in position nearby, she loosened the cork to a wineskin and walked on back step toward their target. In the same breath she fell on her hip, she tossed the wineskin in the air. Clutching the hem of the boy's tunic, she fashioned a look of panic and took him down with her. Ruby wine drew an arc over their heads.

"I'm so sorry!" she cried, blotting the stains with her sleeves as she fumbled about him. She snatched the amulet of citizenship from his belt in a fast clip.

The boy wrung her wrist. "Don't touch me," he said, his voice imposing; his brilliant blue eyes drilled, betraying no thoughts within. He pushed her away.

"I was just," she whimpered, "I only wanted to help." Her lashes fluttered, her lips a quivering pout. Men like girls stupid, so she had heard, learned, and tested. Musing on those sapphire eyes, she choked back the panic that it wasn't working on him.

"Out of my way!" Anthony's voice rose behind them.

She took the chance. "Pardon me, sir!" Glancing up from the dirt, she groped at Anthony as she got to her feet; her other hand slipped into the boy's sack and out with a pouch of denarii. Seeing her accomplice disappear into a crowd out of the corner of her eyes, she forgot to breathe.

"Do you actually think it'll work?" asked the boy as he got to his feet.

Drusilla gulped, her smile feigning innocence. "I beg your pardon?"

He snorted, dusting himself off. "Give me back my amulet, you little wench."

Though still a boy, he was over a head taller than she. Drusilla picked up the wineskin from the dirt, one that had not spilled, her hands shaking. "How dare you accuse me of such! And watch your tongue! Hasn't your mother taught you anything? Manners, for example?"

"My mother has taught me plenty." The boy gave a derisive laugh, one brow jutting above the other. "How to watch out for a wench like you, for example."

"I have no time for this child play!"

As she was about to turn on her heel, he caught her. His slender fingers coiled around her forearm like chains and made her wince. "I'm not a child," he considered her, his blue eyes glowing dark. "I'm eighteen."

"Let go of me!" she screamed, shaking her arm. "You accuse me of stealing, but what evidence do you have?"

"Let go of her, boy!" A new voice sounded from their back, jolting them both to look over the shoulder. Hands about hip, a stout man stood astride. His short-cropped hair revealed his scalp the shape of an egg.

"Stay out of it, old man, and walk away!" the boy commanded.

The man guffawed, ignoring his threat. "Answer the lady first, what evidence do you have to accuse her? And if your accusation doesn't hold, you have no right to detain her."

"I demand a search!" The boy glared. "I'm a first-class citizen."

Bullseye! A flare pulsated, coursing through Drusilla. She had to pinch her lips so as not to chuckle. "Fine," she said. "If you want a search, go ahead." She raised her chin, daring him with a sneer.

The boy looked incredulous as he let go of her arm and reached for her waist. But the man with an egg-shaped head bounded up to them, catching the boy's hand in midair. "Even if you're first-class, you have no right to search her on the street!"

Pity rose inside Drusilla as she peeked at the stranger from behind. She lay a hand on his arm. "I thank you, sir," she said, beaming softly. "But let him search; in fact, I'll do it for him." She handed the wineskin to the stout man and rolled up both sleeves all the way up to either shoulder. Then, as she shook her arms with force, her own pouch fell, sending up dust as it thudded on the ground. She picked it up and tossed it between her hands.

"I believe it isn't yours, is it?" she took a teasing pause, waiting for the ring of sarcasm to froth to the brim, then resumed spieling. "While I don't think I could sneak in anything under my skirt without you noticing, you can feel around if it helps you sleep easy. I wouldn't mind because you're pretty. However, the same cannot be said about my irascible husband, I'm afraid. If you find nothing there, he'll find you, beat you up, then report you for feeling up a married woman in public. And this man here will be my witness." She swiveled to the man who still had her wineskin.

The boy glowered, frosting the sultry air of late summer with his cold blue gaze.

"Well then, I guess it's settled," She gave it a shrug, then took her wineskin from the stout man with a gesture of gratitude. Turning on her heel, she slithered away into a seething crowd like a fish back in the water.

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About half an hour's trek west of Volos, she met Anthony by a sinus creek. The setting sun spread a gold veil over the burbling stream. Tall reeds rustled as if giggling to the tickles of warm breeze. Anthony led a garron into her view, their shadows slanting behind them.

"All good?" He grabbed her shoulder with one hand, his eyes scanning her up and down. "Did he hurt you?"

"Do you see a scratch?" Rolling her shoulders, she wriggled free from his grip.

"I still think we should have done it my way!" he croaked. "Just me, grab and run, simple!"

Drusilla heaved, glancing up at the sky where thin wicks of clouds hung low, shifting windward as they scattered and reshaped. Patience. She reminded herself as she turned to meet his hooded eyes. "We're lucky we got the right amulet on the first strike," she said, making an effort to tune down the disdain in her voice. "But what if we weren't and would have to try again? How many times would it take for you to finally get caught doing the hit-and-run? Moon was looking out for you!"

"By jeopardizing you?"

"Am I jeopardized?"

The creek burbled, interspersed with the chirpings and buzzings of birds and crickets.

"Never mind," she broke her gaze, thrusting at him the wineskin.

He snatched it and took a sullen gulp.

"By the way," She flicked a large gold coin in the glorious air of dusk and caught it backhanded. "I've got us a little extra."

Anthony glimpsed her sidelong. Wine dribbled down his chin. "Stupid," he snorted.

"Oh yeah?" She snatched the wineskin from him.

Anthony hawked as he watched the skin slip from his hand. "If you got caught, you'd be caught with evidence! What's the point of staging such a show if it isn't to rub off evidence?"

The garron whickered a protest at the sudden rise in his voice, hooves clopping.

"You're scaring the horse!" Drusilla scolded him. Skirting around, she put her cheek to the garron, her fingers running through the mane. She sipped the wine. A citric tang singed. "Even if I did get caught," she continued, "the coin has no name on it, and nobody can prove it isn't mine. Besides, it doesn't belong to the boy anyway."

"So, who did you steal from?"

"A man."

"What man?"

Drusilla puffed her cheeks and sighed, recalling the pristine kindness in the stout man's eyes. "The boy wouldn't let me go, and a man stepped up. I wouldn't have got away so easily had he not done so."

"And this is how you return the favor?" Anthony scoffed. "By stealing from him?"

"A coin for a lesson he desperately needs that the eyes are beguiling. If he learns not to judge from what he sees, he may last longer among the vultures."

"Well, aren't you sweet!" Throwing back his head, Anthony howled with a mirthless laugh. "The coin may carry no name, but you want to leave your signature, informing your victims that it really was you so as to one up on them! But you keep telling yourself that."

His derisive gaze rattled.