“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 Madriviox 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.