1. The Larceny

Volos, Year 348

Pulling a job 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.