To Crown a Caesar (The Praetorian Series: Book II)

by Crichton, Edward

  I listened to the clanging noise of my coins striking wood as I gathered up my bag. Turning to leave the establishment, I decided to go on an afternoon walk through the bazaar. I was wearing simple woolen trousers that went to my knees, with a likewise simple linen tunic that draped past my waste. It was a very comfortable outfit that breathed well in these warm summer months, and my open soled sandals completed the casual outfit.

  Slung over my shoulder was a locally made bag I had purchased from one of Byzantium’s shops my first day here. Its design was similar to modern day messenger bags, like the one I had used during the Battle for Rome, that I was compelled to buy it the moment I saw it. Unlike modern day bags, this one started its life as a single piece of canvas, cut and sewn to produce a bag, a flap to cover it, and a non-adjustable shoulder sling. It was very basic, and lacked the pockets and compartments I was used to, so I put to use the sewing skills my mother had drilled into me as kid and managed to attach three pockets on the outside of the bag, each large enough to hold a single M4 magazine, as well as a number of internal pockets. I made ones for my small flashlight, multitool, two spare magazines for my Sig, and I even crafted a small interior holster for the pistol. I also carried the monocular scope off of Penelope, a small first aid kit, a basic survival kit, a pair of socks, and my radio. I also had the small computer system, minus the eye piece in there as well, just in case I picked up Santino’s UAV should Bordeaux return early.

  Each item was secured and easily retrievable, and gave me slightly more confidence I’d survive each day.

  With my bag of goodies secured over my left shoulder, I began to wonder through the market, occasionally stopping at one random kiosk or another to peruse the selection.

  The first stall I passed by was selling what I called “meat-on-a-stick”. My first day wandering through Byzantium had landed me here, and I’d purchased one of the chef’s heavily spiced mystery meat sticks for lunch. It had a distinctly Indian taste to it, heavy with curry, cumin, coriander, or some such, but I had never gotten around to asking what the meat was. The owner had been very persistent that I try it, and always one looking to sample new foods, especially when on vacation, I’d given in and purchased the freshest looking one I could find. Tentatively biting into it, I was pleasantly pleased with how spicy and flavorful it was, and offered my compliments to the chef. As I ate, I asked what it was that I was consuming, only to be told it had been one of the many rats infesting the area.

  The interruption in my chewing had lasted only for a moment before I shrugged and kept on eating. I couldn’t deny that the rat was in fact delicious. I purchased one the next day as well, but today had opted for the sit down restaurant just down the street.

  I smiled and waved as the owner tried to flag me down again, but I politely waved him off, saying I’d be back tomorrow. I hoped he wasn’t so insistent on my business because I was the only dumb sap who ate his food, but I liked it, so I didn’t care.

  As long as I didn’t contract the Bubonic Plague, I’d be happy.

  I continued my tour around the market, listening to men and women haggle and bid on an assortment of items. I passed by one jewelry stand in particular and my eye caught something bright, sparkly and probably expensive. I walked over to an elderly woman who appeared to be the patron of the small establishment. She seemed small and frail beneath her multicolored shawl, but her beaked nose and eyes like a hawk said otherwise, and I knew not to act like an ignorant tourist around someone like her. She could probably sell a steak dinner to a vegan, and I had to be careful I didn’t buy something I didn’t want.

  What I did want, however, was a necklace that I knew would look lovely on Helena. In the four years we’d been on the run, not one gift had been exchanged between us. Not a Christmas or birthday, except mine, went uncelebrated, but we rarely had enough time to go shopping. The only gift exchanged had been Santino’s knife from Helena, but that was more out of necessity. Santino would have gone crazy without one.

  I decided that considering the circumstances, it would be a nice gesture if I bought her something. Start the healing process, as some would say.

  But I was never the best shopper for women back home, although I had tried my best. I tended to stay away from clothing, since I found women’s clothing sizes beyond complicated. I had no idea what the sizes meant. It didn’t make sense that their sizing numbers didn’t correspond to inches and I could never understand how someone could be sized with a negative number. So, I’d long ago decided it was best to stick with jewelry. It was more expensive, sure, but it was much easier to pick out. Besides, women loved the stuff, and having to shop for a sister, a mother, the random girlfriend and countless aunts during my early adult years, I’d developed a pretty good eye for what was tacky and what wasn’t.

  The little old lady eyed me suspiciously when I approached her booth, possibly measuring me up as a potential scam. I gave her as friendly a smile as I could manage and politely pointed to my object of interest.

  “May I see that piece over there, please?” I asked in Latin, mostly sure she’d understand. “The one with the rubies?”

  The woman continued to eye me as she blindly retrieved what I asked for. Her hand went right to it, and she tentatively passed it to me. I smiled and bowed my head slightly in thanks before examining it.

  The band itself was very simple, a mere cord of some kind. It felt more durable than it looked, which was good because it looked very delicate, but that only enhanced its elegance. As for the rubies, there were two of them. Each about the size of a nickel, they were roughly cut, at least by modern standards, and dangled beside one another from the cord, encased in a pair of solid gold bands. They looked of good quality and alone would make the necklace a nice buy, but what really interested me hung between the two rubies.

  It was a simple crescent that enveloped a five pointed star, attached by its points to the interior of the crescent. The crescent itself was slender and made of gold, while the star was of simple design and roughly cut from some kind of green gem. What made it so interesting was that the crescent and star was the symbol for Byzantium, long before Christianity or Islam had adopted them.

  Christianity’s main symbol was, of course, the cross, but the five pointed star was one as well, associated with the magi and the birth of Jesus Christ. Islam, on the other hand, had adopted the crescent as their symbol under the Ottoman Empire, and a small star was sometimes placed next to it as well, which is what differentiated the Islamic symbol from the symbol of Byzantium, as the latter’s star was of near equal size to the crescent, and placed within it.

  The crescent and star symbol held no religious connotations amongst Islam, but was simply adopted by the Ottoman Empire after their conquering of Constantinople in 1453 under Mehmed the Conqueror, probably just because old Mehmed had a good eye for historically rich symbols. Even his choice of the name, Istanbul, had a local legacy, being the Byzantine word for “the city”. Many Islamic countries presented the symbol on their flag, some with or without the star, but many Muslims argued that the symbol was meant only for national pride, not faith.

  Religious and cultural connotations aside, the necklace was simply beautiful, and I knew Helena would love it. At least she’d better after I spent a few hours going over those exact cultural and religious implications.

  I looked down at the diminutive woman and held out the necklace, reassuring her I hadn’t stolen or damaged it.

  “How much?” I asked.

  She tapped her chin with a finger before flashing all five fingers followed by just her pointer finger.

  “For you!” She yelled at me. “Sixty sestertii.”

  That would put the value of the necklace at a very approximate three hundred American dollars. She had to be kidding. Considering inflation rates after the past two thousand years, that price was way too high.

  “Forty,” I said, finding the whole haggling experience enjoyable. I was getting pretty good at it these days, but unlike Madri
viox and the Gauls in Valentia, something told me this old woman wouldn’t be quite as naïve.

  “Fifty five,” she countered.

  “Forty five.”

  The woman looked at me coyly, perhaps for once seeing me as a true buyer and seller of goods, instead of just some dumb tourist.

  “Fifty,” she finished with a smile, knowing that was as good as I was going to get.

  “Fine,” I said, fishing around for some money. Two hundred and fifty bucks in this day and age was a hefty sum, but we had the money these days, and Helena was worth it, at least, I hoped the gift would remind her that I still thought she was. Or, maybe, perhaps it would convince me that I thought she was.

  Locating the small money purse at the bottom of my bag, I noticed something was wrong. My Sig was missing, as was my flashlight. Thinking they might have simply fallen out, I looked around my feet but found neither. I looked up and saw a small boy with short black hair look back over his shoulder and make instant eye contact with me.

  And in that instant I froze, unsure what I should do.

  The boy had stolen valuable equipment that could prove detrimental in countless ways should it fall into the wrong hands. It was also evidence of our presence in the city, information that could sell our location to Agrippina and invite trouble. However, chasing after the thief could also cause a scene, alerting any agents Agrippina may already have stationed here.

  If I ran, I could also hurt someone.

  If I stayed and alerted Santino maybe he could…

  Just stop it. What the hell is wrong with you?

  Just make a decision, Hunter.

  Just do something!

  I looked up and snatched the necklace from the woman, who had kindly wrapped it in a piece of silk cloth, and tossed her the appropriate amount or coinage, plus a few extra denarii for being such a kind host. Dropping both money purse and necklace in my bag, I turned back to find the boy gone. He must have taken off as soon as he realized he was burned.

  With the midday crowd still mingling about, I almost lost all hope of tracking the little kleptomaniac down. I weaved through crowds and pushed people aside, hoping to catch up with him near one of the two exits to the square. I still couldn’t see him, so I jumped in the air, using peoples’ shoulders to help propel me higher. Most gave me dirty looks and a few threatened my sexual organs, but I ignored them and kept moving. I wouldn’t be so adamant to catch him if he had just been a normal pickpocket, and taken my money, but I suppose I couldn’t just let my pistol and flashlight float around the Roman Empire.

  Leaping over a woman who had been trying her own “meat-on-a-stick” entrée, I finally spotted him fleeing from the square down a narrow and dark side street. As he ran, he spared a single glance in my direction, throwing me an upraised middle finger as he went.

  There were many origin stories surrounding the genesis of that particular crude gesture, one of which theorized it went back as far as the Greeks, where it was specifically used as an insulting gesture. In Roman writing, the middle finger was known as the digitus impudicus, the impudent finger, and was commonly used as an insult. Seeing it used by a child in the days of the Roman Empire was annoying, but entirely humorous as well.

  I ran as fast I could, feeling my legs begin to burn, a reminder that it had been weeks since I had last worked them out. I lost the kid again when he rounded a corner, but I was gaining on him. Unless he found someplace to hide, he was as good as caught. Turning the corner, I saw another right angled corner a few dozen meters in front of me that would take me to another major throughway.

  I ran towards it, but just as I about to rush out into the adjoining plaza, I heard a shuffling noise behind me.

  I stopped and turned around to see a large trash heap filled with thrown out clothing, furniture, food, and dead animals. Wonderful. Moving towards the dump, I wrinkled my nose at the putrid stench and noticed a spot in the pile that looked recently disturbed. Muttering in annoyance, I plunged my hand through the trash. When I felt something that could have been hair, I pushed deeper, grabbing what I thought felt like clothing and yanked as hard as I could. I was rewarded with the face of a kid who knew he was in big trouble.

  For nearly a minute we simply eyed each other.

  I estimated he had to be only twelve or thirteen years old, with short black hair and a dark complexion. He had a round face with bright blue eyes, but still looked more Roman than Eastern. As if on cue, the kid smiled at me and held up my stolen pistol and flashlight.

  Grunting in annoyance, I lifted the kid out of the garbage, and put him down next to me. I retrieved my stolen goods and put them back in their proper spots in my bag. I looked down at him and gave him as stern a look as I could, until I realized I must have looked too much like my father when he went about scolding me, and my expression immediately softened.

  “The only mistake you made,” I began, “was turning back to look at me. Had you not done that, you would have made it.”

  The kid cocked his head to the side, his expression confused, probably wondering if I had lost my mind. The last thing a kid like him would think is that I would give him a lesson on how to better pickpocket people.

  “And you never stop running,” I continued, almost lecturing. “You run around the city twenty times before you finally duck into a safe spot. The quicker your pursuer loses track of you, the quicker he starts looking through the areas you’ve already been. The more distance you cover, the more places he needs to look.”

  The kid continued to stare, seemingly unwilling to say anything for fear that I might snap and break his neck.

  “Who are you?” He finally asked, his voice still a prepubescent high.

  “I’m nobody, kid,” I said, a small smile forming at my unintentional reference to The Odyssey.

  After Odysseus had escaped from the clutches of the dreaded Cyclops, Polythemus, he shouted from the safe confines of his ship that his name was “Nobody.” When Polythemus went to his brethren, to tell them of Odysseus’ horrible misdeeds, his only response to the question, “who did this to you,” was “Nobody.”

  What a crafty devil.

  “Nobody?” The kid asked. “Who do you think you are? Odysseus?”

  I was shocked. How could I stay angry at a kid who knew his Homer?

  “It warms my heart to discover that the youths of today are still keeping up with their schooling,” I said sardonically and I couldn’t help but laugh. Adults from all time periods in history must have used that line on the youngsters in their lives, never quite realizing just bleak the future had been for all those jaded old people who lived hundreds of years before them. “So, educated youth. What is your name?”

  The kid continued to look as though he were waiting for me to erupt at any moment.

  “Xenophon,” he replied, cautiously.

  “That name has quite a bit of history behind it,” I commented. “Mind explaining how a street urchin like you came by such a lofty name?”

  Xenophon had been a fairly popular name throughout antiquity, but one particularly popular man named Xenophon had been a Greek explorer who traveled throughout the Persian Empire sometime around the fourth century B.C., dictating his experiences as he went. He was most famous for his time spent as the leader of the Ten Thousand, a mercenary group who fought through Mesopotamia to reach their home in Greece.

  “I know all about Xenophon and his travels, old man,” the child said squeakily and angrily. “I am not a stupid child you can pick on.”

  “Hey. Weren’t you the one who just pick pocketed me? I have every right to insult you.” I paused, and gave the kid a little shove. “And how does some common street criminal know his Homer as well as his history? Shouldn’t you be hanging out with Aristotle or somebody?”

  The boy opened his mouth wide and raised his hand as if to yell something back at me, but a third voice interrupted him.

  “Who’s your friend?” A voice that could only be Helena’s asked.

  I lo
oked to my right, noticing her approach but did a double-take at what I saw. She wore native garb colored in dull yellows, oranges and reds, complete with a thin, see-through veil over her face. It had a distinctly eastern flair and style to it, one that reminded me of something from an episode of I Dream of Jeanie. I had fallen hard for Jeanie when watching reruns of the show as a kid, her scandalous attire and overt sexual undertones always getting my blood flowing, and Helena’s sudden association with my childhood crush brought on such urges even now, and it didn’t help that I knew Helena was available in ways Barbara Eden had never been.

  “Who this?” I asked nonchalantly, trying to play it cool as I glanced down at the thief. “Just some young punk who tried to rob me.”

  “I see,” she said.

  Ever since Xenophon had laid eyes on Helena, he hadn’t been able to look away. His posture was sagged, his shoulders were slumped and his head was lulled longingly to one side as he stared at Helena strut towards us. The kid’s eyes never stopped moving. There was too much to see. His eyes darted from ample cleavage to legs clearly visible beneath the sheer fabric that hung tightly around her thighs and into Helena’s eyes, which were gazing at the boy in a way that would melt any man’s heart. The kid’s mouth hung wide open and his tongue dangled from it. I rolled my eyes, reached out, and shut his mouth, snapping him from his trance. He shook his head and tried to focus.

  I chuckled. I knew he had to have been experiencing one of those dreams meant only for the movies. The ones where the girl walks in slow motion, her eyes locked with your own as she slowly removes her clothing, purring that she wants you. It was always a great gimmick in the movies because few men could honestly deny not having had one of those dreams at one point in their lives.