The little girl had come to Adria and told her about her ill grandmother. The woman had a lingering case of ague and was not eating. The old woman had mentioned to her young granddaughter that oranges would taste like ambrosia to her and so the child had sought Adria out. Please, the doe-eyed child had implored. Could Adria please get her grandmother an orange?
Of course, she could.
Adria blew out a breath. Even if the child hadn’t offered her a precious bronze
quadran
in payment—which she had refused—she would have done it. Mili’s grandmother cared for the child, protected the little girl from the ugliness of the streets—a task she could not do if she were infirm or worse, dead.
Your tender heart will bring you trouble.
Adria brushed her foster mother Miriam’s admonition away. Perhaps, but seeing Mili kept safe was worth a bit of risk.
Lost in her thoughts it took Adria a moment to realize that the noise of the fight had faded. Thank the gods. She wanted to finish before the concealing crowds thinned out for the day. Keeping her manner casual, she stepped out only to retreat back to the shelter of the column.
The men were indeed no longer fighting, though from the way they were sneering at each other it was clear the quarrel was not settled. The disputed fish lay in a gray lump in the dirt at their feet. As one, they shot hot glares to the source of the interruption.
It was a man; not uncommon of course but this one stood out apart from the crowd of people. His presence filled this one small corner of the marketplace, his stance straight and confident, his scowl fierce and so full of threat that the brawlers shrank back—as did many of the bystanders.
Concealed as she was, Adria openly studied the intruder. Her gaze traced the broad line of his shoulders, trailed down the wide expanse of his back to a trim waist circled with a stained leather belt. His tunic of plain brown wool ended mid-thigh, which still afforded her a fine view of legs as well-muscled as the bared arms that hung loose at his side. She noted his right hand opening and closing into a fist and knew from his broad stance that he was prepared for a battle.
What a foolish thing for a foreigner to consider and he
was
a foreigner. A well-bred Roman citizen would rather leap from the Tarpeian rock than see his hair falling down his back uncontained. Oddly appealing though, much like a curtain of black silk. What, she wondered, would it feel like to run her hand along its length?
It would feel like suicide because the predatory menace emanating from the stranger would see her dead if she dared move one finger in his direction.
The cluttered mass of shoppers who’d stopped at the altercation still kept their distance, but began to stir even as they kept wary eyes on the man. It was as if he were an island in the midst of a sea of people, a sea churning with disdain, disgust and blatant hostility. Adria chewed her lip and frowned. Such a strong reaction to the outsider. True, most Romans considered themselves far above those unfortunate enough to be born outside of the Empire, but the city was filled with people from different lands, both slave and free. Why such scorn for this one?
A Roman matron, standing on the opposite side of the column made a disgruntled noise and muttered beneath her breath. “Barbarian filth.”
The man’s head whipped around and Adria felt as if she’d been struck by a stone. Gods, he was striking. It wasn’t the fine beauty of his features that stunned her, though the harsh angles of his god’s face, straight nose and firm mouth could stir a blind woman to swoon, but his eyes—she’d never seen eyes the color of emeralds. They glittered now with challenge so strong that she took an involuntary step backwards.
He scanned the clusters of people on either side of her hiding place, but passed over Adria, which left her relieved but no less fascinated. She noted a pair of thin braids swinging from his left temple which added credence to the woman’s designation of barbarian. A muscle worked in his clenched jaw which hardened all the more when his gaze locked on the woman who had spoken. Adria peeked from the shadows and saw the color drain from the matron’s face, heard her sharp intake of frightened breath. For one long moment the man stared, the power of his contempt surpassing any that had been aimed at him.
He said nothing. Did nothing. Yet the woman stumbled backwards into the arms of her startled servant, who just managed to keep her from tumbling to the ground. Adria’s lips twitched as the woman floundered in her attempts to gain her feet. Several concerned bystanders rushed to her aid which only increased her hysterics. With an aggrieved look, the servant helped her settle onto an outdoor bench next to the wine shop.
Adria shook her head, unable to contain her smile. Gods, you’d think she’d been attacked by the three-headed Cerberus the way she carried on. Adria turned from the cluster of people surrounding the moaning woman and lifted her head, her gaze snared and held by those glittering-jewel eyes.
The man still did not move, and neither did Adria. He did not change his stony expression but watched her with an unearthly calm. He meant to intimidate, which Adria refused to allow. She raised her chin and returned his scrutiny, fighting down the urge to ask what it was he found so interesting. Even as the thought passed through her mind, he cocked his head and scanned her body from head to foot and back again, lingering a beat too long on her breasts.
Adria fought the urge to cover herself, trembled with outrage and awareness, warmth spreading through her body with his bold perusal. Reflexively, she pressed one hand against her belly in a vain attempt to ease the knot of heat that had kindled there. He ended his inspection by once again holding her gaze, raising one winged brow, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to be called a sneer.
Adria’s gasp was lost in the noise of the market. The arrogant ass!
“A hex, the heathen put a hex on me,” moaned the patrician woman, accepting a second cup of wine from the shopkeeper, her demeanor less frightened than eager. Adria rolled her eyes and returned her attention to the man, only to see his broad back as he strode down the street.
Adria cursed as she realized she was craning her neck to see where he’d gone. His path had been swallowed by the crowd who were once again milling about the market. Disconcerted and not liking it one bit, Adria pushed all thoughts of the foreigner from her mind and returned her focus to the fruit stand.
Nasim, the produce vendor, sent a rotten-toothed smile over his shoulder at his stall guardian, chuckling when the monkey slapped the hand of a man trying to gauge the ripeness of a melon. Adria stifled her own laugh at the look on Nasim’s face when he realized the man was a paying customer. He rushed over and pulled the creature away by its leash, securing it to a hook in the stone wall behind the stall and began offering profuse apologies to the offended man.
Ah, distraction. A gift to any thief.
Flipping her plait behind her, she slipped from her observation point and strolled casually toward the opposite side of the wooden booth. Nasim and his monkey were both chattering away at the customer who seemed to enjoy the groveling and was currently considering the merchant’s offer of a free head of cabbage for his trouble. Keeping one eye on the trio, Adria opened the coarse cloth bag slung over her shoulder and began to fill it with fruit.
The howling squeal nearly deafened her.
For one long moment, her vision tunneled to wide open mouth and bared fangs. Spraying saliva, face twisted in fury the creature was lunging at her, pulling at the leash which suddenly seemed too flimsy to keep the snarling beast away from her fingers which were frozen, curled around a plump orange. Nasim’s shrill voice pierced through the daze.
“Thief!”
Adria’s senses snapped back into place. She snatched one more orange and crammed it into the sack, spared a look at the vendor who was stumbling toward her, eyes bulging and mouth twisted in rage. Put a purple vest on him and he’d look like his monkey.
“Thief!” he shouted again.
Between Nasim’s cry’s and the wretched monkey’s infernal squalling, a crowd had thickened around the stand erecting an immovable wall of humanity that blocked her escape.
This was a problem.
Adria pushed back against the sagging belly of a large woman, rolled along her girth in an effort to squeeze through the throng. Instead she was shuffled closer to the stand.
“Street rat! Thief!”
Nasim’s glare pinned Adria.
A shiver of fear combined with a rush of nerves urged her to action. Punishment for thieves ran the gamut from prison, to public floggings, enslavement or, Adria swallowed hard, death. In all the years she’d survived on
contributions
from Rome’s merchants, she’d never been caught and she had no intention of beginning now.
“Yes, thief,” Adria repeated spinning around. She grabbed an unsuspecting bystander by the sleeve. “There is a thief! Catch him!”
“I...um, I don’t know...” the man stuttered.
“There!” she said, cradling the bulging sack to her side, muttering a curse when one of the precious oranges rolled out and was trampled by a big-footed boy. She pointed across the market with her free hand. “Isn’t that him?”
The man’s eyes went wide with excitement. “Yes! I see him! Over there!”
The people close to the man took up his cry and surged in the direction of the false suspect providing a spacious opening. Adria glanced over her shoulder, her lips twitching at the look of utter disbelief on Nasim’s face. Unable to resist, she pulled out an orange and held it up in silent salute before she turned and disappeared into the crowd.
In moments, the din of the market faded away but Adria did not slow. She knew the streets, knew every alleyway, every building and crevice suitable for concealment. It was knowledge essential to survival. She used it now, weaving a convoluted path until she reached a favorite refuge behind the crumbled stone wall of an abandoned bakery.
She closed her eyes and focused on slowing her breathing. It wasn’t entirely fear that had her so shaken but heart racing exhilaration. It was foolish, she knew, to feel such a thrill at using her wits and skill in the face of very real danger. Prideful, is what those who knew her would say and she would not be able to argue against it. She was very proud that she had never been caught. She glanced at the fruit in her lap and smiled. She was still the best thief on the Aventine.
“That was a bit sloppy.”
Adria’s eyes popped open. She stared at the man who leaned indolently against the end of the wall, blocking her way. Many would look at the tall, thin man and think him a poor adversary. They would be wrong. Beneath the loose tunic, the non-descript cloak were hard muscles and the skills of an assassin. Some might think him dull witted, his lank, brown hair hanging in tangled clumps to his shoulders, with an equally limp moustache drooping beneath a long, narrow nose, askew thanks to a puckered scar on his right cheek. The face of a ruffian, an inconsequential sewer rat. And like a sewer rat, the master thief of the Aventine had not made any noise alerting her to his presence.
Adria flicked her gaze around the deserted courtyard. There was no quick escape route. “What do you mean, Tiege?”
Tiege didn’t seem surprised that she knew his name, just watched her with small, beady eyes completing the image of a rodent. It was one of his best tactics, unnerving the person being scrutinized to the point that they would readily spew out any information he wanted. Adria refused to allow him the satisfaction of seeing her discomfort. She slipped her hand to her belt and found the hilt of her knife. She also refused to trust him.
“Ah, so you know me, little sunflower.”
His intent gaze unnerved her. “I know of you,” she answered. Gods don’t let her voice waver. “I do not know what you are talking about.”
Tiege’s smile was oily. “You were nearly caught back there.”
Adria frowned. How had he known about that? The incident had happened on the other side of the district. It was impossible that he had been there to witness it and still find her in her best hiding place. Well, it had been her best. She pushed down the anxiety rising in her chest and made a scoffing noise. “Hardly,” she said in a bored voice, “I bribed the monkey to make a fuss.”
Tiege threw back his head and laughed, which increased the uneasy feeling skittering down her back. The master thief was not known for his humor or making idle conversation. His methods were much more intimidating and lethal. She’d seen enough broken bones, missing fingers and sudden appearances of his rivals floating in the sewers to think otherwise.
“Ah, girl, you are spirited.”
His gaze sharpened on her, making that crawling sensation coalesce into a thick knot of dread in the pit of her stomach. She stole to survive, never taking from those who could ill afford the loss, not even for the pleasure of it, no matter how she relished the challenge. Most of the time she took only food or an occasional small bauble that she could sell
surreptitiously, using the coin to pay for rent, clothes or her knife. She clutched the hilt tighter, suddenly thankful she’d
procured
enough baubles to own such a well-crafted weapon. Adria rose to a standing position.
Tiege pushed away from the wall and took a few steps toward her. From the corner of her eye she saw a movement in the shadows to her right, and over his shoulder two of his men ambled into position, blocking the entrance to the alley. She swallowed the panic rising in her throat.
“It’s a shame for such talent to be wasted on such mundane items as...” Tiege glanced at the bag in her lap, shook his head in disgust, “...fruit. It’s time for you to share in the bounty of Rome, child.”
Adria was mentally calculating the height of the stone wall at the end of the alley when she brought her attention back to the master thief. “I have no need for treasure. I take care of myself and answer to no one.”
“Tsk, what a foolish notion,” Tiege said. “No one should be alone.
You
do not have to be alone. Not as you have been since your parents’ death.”