by Mira Zamin
The sun fluttering above Hadrian, peeking out every so often from its veil of clouds, related the time as being an hour or so before noon. He had learned at least that much from Claudius—as if his growling stomach could not have told him that it was time for lunch. The money secured tightly around his waist, he entered a likely looking tavern. The traditional sign of Bacchus wreathed in vines swung softly in the damp breeze. Hadrian sat down at a well-scrubbed wooden table near the center, where all the conversation and sweet, piercing music of the stringed kithara floated to him.
The establishment, like all other taverns, attracted the seedier populace of the town: soldiers and plebs and in response, strong-arms were flanked the door. Naturally, when this sort of customer frequented an establishment, another type of woman fell into the equation. As Hadrian had guessed, a few such ladies, garbed in togas, lurked in the corners, flashing calculated glimpses of skin and hot glances at entering men. One such woman boldly eyed Hadrian but receded into the arms of another patron after he quietly shook his head no.
A plump, greying woman decked in a clean apron approached Hadrian. “I am Potita,” she said briskly. “Today we have fish, fresh-caught and baked with olives and better than your mother’s and bread, steaming from the ovens with the cheese melted right on the inside.”
Thinking of Calista and Claudius, no doubt hungry in their hideout, he said, “That sounds excellent. I shall have three plates of the fish and bread and one glass of wine.”
Potita’s brow tautened. “Will others be joining you, sir?”
“No. That is for later.”
The woman nodded and Hadrian settled down to wait.
As Potita disappeared into the kitchen a man slurred loudly, “Ah, Luke. He was a nice…chap.”
The soldiers suddenly straightened, their short swords glinting ominously in the low light of the tavern. Hadrian strained to hear the man’s words.
“But,” continued the obliging drunk more loudly, “things ain’t half bad with this Avaritus. No worse than before.”
The mercenaries relaxed.
Teetering to his feet, the man proclaimed, “But the way he did it….he did it low. I wonder what happened to the family. Shouldn’t have killed them. Or Luke. But things aren’t bad. As good as before. He can do the job, at least.”
Hadrian filed away this information although he was unsure whether Calista would be willing to hear that her father’s murderer and usurper was a competent ruler. Well, that is Calista’s affair. But, by this point, he could no longer deny that what was Calista’s business was rapidly becoming intertwined with his own.
Potita arrived with the fish, bread and wine, and Hadrian chewed through the food hastily, barely tasting it. Brushing past the table again, Potita laid the food before him, wrapped in cheap cloth. Suddenly, a loud crash tore through the common room, drowning the sound of husky laughter and kitharas. It came from below, and Hadrian examined the floor beneath him curiously.
“What in the name of Pluto…?” he murmured. He sneaked a look at Potita, still standing before his table, who muttered, “That damn Pyp.”
Hadrian froze. Pyp. Calista’s brother. “I beg your pardon?”
A flash of panic crossed the woman’s face. “N-n-nothing. Enjoy the meal.” She slipped into the kitchen.
Once the chatter in the room resumed, Hadrian followed her. The kitchen was a hot, miniature labyrinth of stone ovens and stoves but Hadrian found Potita readily enough. Standing immediately behind her, he could see her quivering and could guess precisely why she was so panicked.
Sensing him, Potita turned around and boldly looked him in the eye. “What do you want? This area is for cooks only.”
Quietly, Hadrian said, “I heard a name just now and I was wondering how you came across it.”
With a brusque air, Potita responded, “You ears must have been ringing after that bang. You must forgive my cats. They enjoy climbing the barrels.”
Hadrian admired her coolness. He probably thought he was one of Avaritus’ men come to unearth the missing Olympia and her son. How much of her subterfuge is self-preservation and how much loyalty?
“I am a friend and mean them no harm.”
Potita turned around and answered dismissively, “I do not understand what you are talking about, but I advise you to return to your food. It will grow cold.”
Growling in frustration, he started towards the exit to the kitchens when suddenly a thought struck him. He turned around and smiled with satisfaction. “If,” he whispered, “it was merely your cats, then why do you have your men standing in front of the cellar door?”
Potita’s thin lips worked wordlessly against the air and again Hadrian tried, his voice so low she had to strain to hear it. “Would you believe me if I brought you Calista?”
Potita gaped.
“Should I come with her at night?”
“After midnight,” said Potita, sounding strangled. “Not,” she added, “that we have whomever you want but you seem to like to brag. Let us see if you can produce your prize.”
Hadrian flashed a winning, easy grin. “Of course.”
“Your food is growing cold,” repeated Potita pointedly but Hadrian was gone.
Eyeing the guards, Hadrian scarfed down the rest of his food, appreciating the tanginess of the fish and richness of the bread. Leaving a few copper on the table, he was momentarily blinded by the bright-white sheet of clouds that swathed the sky. Alright, to the beach.