Chapter 3

On a low foothill outside the city rested Oasis, a pauper's attempt at a nobleman's shop. Everything in it was once thrown out of some luxurious place, but arranged as it was and taken together, it had a certain dignity to it. Ruins of Roman columns held up what was left of the roof. There were mirrors, chandeliers, mismatched benches and chairs, exposed rough brick and clay walls, and candles hanging by brass chains. A woman's statue, missing arms and toes, greeted visitors. A corner near the entrance was marked out as the performance stage. Further inside, a large painting of a garden decorated the wall, with a faint slash through the middle. On the opposite side of the shop, a three-lion coat of arms hung below the counter, upon which wine jars sat artistically arrayed. Standing behind them was Jerome, the gruff-looking proprietor.

Very little was known about Jerome. His personal struggles and thoughts were as mysterious to his friends as they were to those who were just meeting him for the first time. He had once been a musician, but now he rarely played. It once came up that he had lost a brother, and he blamed him for not being there. His wife would occasionally come by the Oasis, bringing their son along, but it was not often. For some reason known only to him, Jerome was compelled to found the shop, a house of music for those with nowhere else to go. When he first opened, he quickly enlisted the help of the island's most skilled musician, Don Peppe. He knew he could count on Don Peppe, and many nights went by when the two had no audience at all. Still, the music continued. Night after night, they would not relent, until the crowd they had been hoping for finally materialized. . .

It was a typical early evening, when only Jerome and Don Peppe were present. It was rare that other musicians would stagger in before dark. And there he was, Don Peppe, a bearded man wearing a patchwork robe and felt hat. He leaned back on a bench clutching his flute. A drum and tambourine were by his side. It would be hard to separate the man from the music. The type of song didn't matter. As long as it had any kind of rhythm, Don Peppe relished in it. He had been a mentor to the other musicians, and could be found at Oasis almost any time it was open. This was his home, much more so than the house he slept in. The two were uncharacteristically silent, Jerome drinking from a cup of wine, when Niccolo and Luca arrived.

Luca kicked out a chair. "Where is everyone?"

Don Peppe's throaty voice rose from the bench. "Haven't you heard? Alvise is in from Syracuse."

"Alvise! Let's go then," Luca shot back.

"We'll meet you," a weary Don Peppe responded.

Niccolo and Luca raced out. They wound their way through the road to the stadium, encountering no one along the way. At the crest of a hill, they could see that everyone else had already arrived. They descended and pranced inside, looking for a space. Tyndarians covered the stone benches fanning out in a semicircle around a low stage at the water's edge. Scattered chestnut trees and the ocean's purple ripples formed the backdrop. Niccolo and Luca settled on standing room in the back.

Ellisa arrived, stepping down to the front row. She had a new purple dress and braided silver curls woven into her hair. Walking beside her was Zane, the music teacher.

"Helen of Troy with all her rubies was never so captivating," Niccolo mused aloud.

"Likely not, but Helen had her sanity," Luca replied.

"I don't believe a creature like her could have flaws."

"There are stories—"

"Do not speak of them!"

"Fine, fine. Have it your way if you wish to remain a great ignoramus. You're still my friend."

Niccolo's face soured. "Is that donkey-face her teacher?"

"Certainly."

"You can't think he's good."

"No one else plays the cithara," Luca conceded. He ran his fingers along his beard. "How will you get close to her?"

Niccolo looked away into the distance for a moment.

"A cithara is like any other stringed instrument. I could learn if she's fond of it."

"Could you imagine her learning from a tavern lute player? Someone like you?"

"No, I could not," Niccolo grunted.

"Would her father allow you anywhere near her?"

"Such an obstacle, it will also have to change."

Alvise arrived on stage to applause, and quickly set to work as the sun dove below the waters. He began with intensity, the notes arranged and placed in the air like pieces of a puzzle that fit together perfectly.

A rare look of genuine contentment washed over Luca's face. "Ah! Magnificent."

With the pacing of a virtuoso, Alvise held the crowd enraptured. All, except for one. Her rough, scarred hand reached out for Niccolo's arm. Niccolo reacted before she could touch him. He would know her anywhere; he could sometimes feel her presence after all the years they'd spent together. Sonja. She wore a black tunic. Her shaved head hid under a hood, and her ice-blue eyes clung to Niccolo.

Niccolo ducked behind the crowd and the two scattered apart as if they were strangers. They scampered well outside the stadium before Niccolo suddenly broke for her, returning the stare of her grasping eyes. He dropped his gaze down to her easily recognizable Roman army boots and shook his head. As he backed away, she took his arm. He pulled against her.

Her voice cut through the air, it's both strong and, in another way, vulnerable. "Niccolo. Aeneator."

Niccolo instinctively spun around to see whether anyone could be watching. He closed in until he could feel Sonja's breath and lowered his voice.

"Do not refer to my rank and never approach me in public." He turned away disapprovingly.

Sonja grinned as he plodded back to the stadium. "Always the wise soldier, my Niccolo."