* * *
Hadrian entered the town, attempting to appear as casual as possible with one arm swinging freely at his side, the other holding the horse steadily. He whistled a jaunty tune. As he passed, townsfolk, busy in their rituals of selling fragrant fruit and hardy nuts and describing the winter-belying freshness of their produce, paused to give him bemused glances but, luckily, not much note.
Above was a strange place, he thought. Of course he had read about it: being Thetis’ son had guaranteed him a first rate education in all matters but not even the most descriptive memoirs could do justice to the reality. Firstly was the sun, which glared down at him as if he had committed some grave transgression. In Atlantis the water had softened and rippled the light, but his new atmosphere gave no such respite. His eyes felt constantly blurry as they adjusted and focused to the unobscured brightness.
And then there was the air—dry. Incredibly dry. He felt that if he breathed it long enough, he would be dried into a husk. He shuddered. Not to mention that he had been feeling a sort of light-headed nausea, which he supposed came from the change in pressure.
He passed through the foreign streets, searching for a likely place to sell the blasted horse. He did not understand why they couldn’t keep the bloody thing and steal what they needed but Calista was adverse to that idea, refusing to rob her people. He still had Claudius’ armband but she had said the piece would draw too much attention. He snorted and the mare mimicked him. He tossed an amused look at the strange beast, who stared back placidly. It just was not natural. Animals in Atlantis would never be so uppity.
Turning away from the mare, he looked around the large square populated with vendors. Surely there should be some sort of stall where these sorts of transactions occurred? He could not help but be irritated at Calista for her meager directions. “Just sell the horse!” he mimicked aloud in a high-pitched voice.
“Are you looking for somewhere to sell the horse, sir?”
Hadrian jumped, jerking the horse’s reins with him. The mare tossed her head back in irritation. Swiftly, the boy calmed the horse down and Hadrian took a moment to examine him. He was twelve or thirteen, dark-haired and slight, but something in the way he held his shoulders and head spoke of durability, reliability.
The boy gave him an impish grin, a flash of bright white against his olive complexion. “My apologies.”
Smiling back, Hadrian answered, “Do you know anyone who would buy a horse? He’s a good one.” Or perhaps it is a she, Hadrian mused. No, definitely a she. A man would never have that kind of knowing smirk on his face.
“Aye. They are always searching for horses, Avaritus’ men. I should know,” he explained, seeing Hadrian’s questioning look. “I work in the stables.” That much was evident by the boy’s grubby tunic.
Hadrian followed the boy all the while keeping a firm hold on the horse. “So who is this Avaritus?” he asked casually.
The boy stiffened. “At the moment he is styled as Proconsul of Portus Tarrus.”
“‘At the moment?’”
“Things weren’t always so but now they’re all gone and I’m the only one left.” A spasm of fear crossed the boy’s face: he had said too much.
“Who is gone?” Hadrian probed.
Hadrian thought he heard a disgruntled mutter of “My wits,” but the boy beamed falsely and said, “Someone who can show you where to sell this horse. Come along, come along.”
The boy skipped to the stables. “Wait a moment,” he said and disappeared inside.
When he reemerged he was with another man whose long black hair obscured his eyes. He ignored Hadrian, but examined the horse closely. “Ah, well, she looks well enough. Healthy. Although ridden hard but nothing a little rest…”
“Yes, yes,” Hadrian said impatiently. “How much will you give for it?”
The man finally looked up at Hadrian’s, his brown eyes vague and mild. “I will have to speak to the bursar…”
“I do not have time for that.”
“Strangers without time. Suspicious. Selling his horse. Where does he plan to go? Riddles and mysteries…”
Hadrian’s back prickled, but the boy chortled, dispelling the eerie air, which had begun to slowly surround and suffocate Hadrian. “Come on Caecilius, give the man a price.”
“Without negotiating with the bursar, it will be lower…”
“How much?” Hadrian said tersely. There was yet much work from him to do in the city, much information to scrounge. After all, he had been chosen because only he could blend in without garnering too much attention. Calista was too obvious: the daughter of the former proconsul and Claudius was the one with whom she had fled. That would not leave town memory for a good while yet.
“Forty aureii, and let me a moment to show him to the bursar and you will have your money. Maro, give the man some water.”
“Fifty,” Hadrian challenged.
Caecilius shook his head. “The highest I will go is forty-two.”
“Forty-five and half of that amount in silver denarii.”
“Forty-three,” Caecilius countered.
Nodding in accord, Hadrian acceded the price. The man then headed towards the villa, horse in tow.
Gratefully, Hadrian gulped the water from the wooden goblet provided by Maro (that name sounded familiar), watching Caecilius lead his horse away. He handed the boy, Maro, his cup. “Is it always so…is the air always so dry here?” Hadrian complained.
The boy, Maro, chortled. “It has actually been uncommonly humid these past few weeks. A little warmer than it should be for the end of Januarius, but the heaviness makes it up for it. The air is building up for a storm. And I reckon, the way the build-up has been going, it will be a sight to see.”
“A storm?” Hadrian visualized an Atlantian storm: the water would whirl around the city, white and black, violently shaking its boundaries. Hadrian looked upwards. Surely the grey sky above them could manage no such thing.
“Yes, a storm. Rain, thunder, lightning.”
The words held little meaning for him, just vague memories of lessons with Thetis but he nodded sagely nonetheless. As nonchalantly as he could, he began to wander, seemingly aimlessly, about the area. What he was really doing was reconnaissance, a word Hadrian felt Calista had learned from old stories, but it was upon such faulty foundations they built their efforts. Behind him he could the sense the lad tailing him. Seemingly giving him little thought, Hadrian mentally tallied up Avaritus’ reserves: food, water, horses, men. The situation looked graver for them than he had expected.
As of yet, he was uncertain of the means by which Calista had entangled him in this mess. And a mess it is. I should convince her to give this up…Perhaps it was a twinkle in her eye, a flick of her hair but he was ensnared, her captive and willing to do her bidding. But it cannot last, he reminded himself. He knew he owed her for his attempted seduction—although that had hardly come off the ground. There was also the possibility that a certain guilt concerning his liaison with Philyra played some part in his behavior. Although, he rationalized, that has no need for any such emotion. After all, I owe her nothing. Two different worlds… “Oh Calista, what I do for you,” he murmured aloud.
Suddenly, something clattered behind him and Hadrian leapt into the air. The boy had dropped the cup and was now bending over to retrieve it.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I thought I heard something.”
“The wind is blowing strangely today, almost as if it were speaking,” Hadrian said, and although the statement had been a vague nothingness, it struck him as true. And sounded slightly mad, to boot. The winds, which swirled from the ocean, had gone unnoticed by him now seemed glaringly obvious. Neptune stirred.
At that moment, Caecilius appeared with a leather scrip clutched in his palm. “Forty-three, as promised.”
Assiduously, Hadrian counted the amount and finding it to his satisfaction nodded curtly.
“Be careful with that!” he called to Hadrian’s
back.
CHAPTER XXVI