Bucero didn't know what took him when he grabbed the boy's wrist and shook it like his own hapless fate. He needed to do something that felt right so he could still believe in doing the right things. While the girl thanked him, he wasn't sure if he deserved the gratitude. Her handling of the situation bespoke such savoir-faire that sought no assistance. But he needed to step in, to feel needed.
When she left, Bucero sensed the boy's glare on his back. He wheeled himself around. "Look, I'll help you find your stuff," he said, smiling. "Your amulet, eh? When was the last time you saw it?"
"You officious peasant!" the boy growled; the cold blue of his round eyes glimpsed behind dark ringlets. "Stay away from me!"
"Fine, sorry for offering a hand!"
"I would have been fine had it not been for your meddling hand!"
"Now, there is no need to get rough on me," Bucero laughed wearily, his hands about hip. "It wouldn't solve your problem, eh?"
"Which part of stay away from me don't you understand?" the boy snapped and shoved him to the street.
Between grayish swaths of cloud, the sun began its descent into the west, throwing both their shadows on a stretch of ruts. A caravan rolled over, splattering them with mud. The boy shut his eyes, his straight, white teeth in his bottom lip, his hands shaking on either side while balling into fists. He harrumphed to muffle a scream.
Bucero dropped his head forward, trying to wipe the mud off the hem of the boy's linen only to have smudged it. He lurched a step back, telling himself it wasn't his fault the boy pushed him on the street. His smile felt gauche, tinctured with whatever remained of his dignity. "Oh, come on, it's just mud!" He tried to shrug. "It'll come off!" Before he could muster up another word, the boy put up a palm, keeping him at arm's length.
"Check your own belongings," he said, his voice flat yet final.
"Why?" Bucero cocked an incredulous brow.
"Just do it."
Bucero groped about in his sack and dropped his jaw as though unhinged. "I lost my gold piece, one that's worth twenty denarii," he slurred, his voice quivering. He needed the gold for his ride home! Just when he thought he had hit the rock bottom, the mischievous Gods pulled out the bottom like a rug. He reeled back inside the arcade and leaned against a column. Each breath he drew leaked before reaching his lungs. He stared blankly at his feet, too dazed to speak. His knees buckled.
"You believe me now?" asked the boy with cold equanimity.
Bucero nodded, however reluctantly. He scratched his pate, trying to summon his wit. "We should report her," he remarked at length.
"It took you this long to come with that?" the boy snorted, his voice ridden with derision. "Well here is another lesson for you, genius: Nobody gives a shit about such petty crimes!"
That the boy considered twenty denarii a petty crime boggled Bucero's mind. "But she also stole your amulet, eh? That's no petty crime!"
"Answer this, why would the guards waste time on us they could otherwise spend on drinking? They would, only if they're compensated, and long live justice for only those who can afford it. But oh wait, what was that? You lost your gold piece, you said?" Shaking his head, the boy hissed with a sardonic chuckle. "How much has she left you?"
Bucero tugged at his sack, pulling it to his front. Bending his neck like a duck dabbling in shallows, he fumbled for all he had left. "Two denarii short for the wagon ride home," He sagged against the stone column; it scorched with half a day's absorption of the heat. "You?"
"Nothing."
Bucero snuck a sidelong glance at the boy. Whatever remained of his dignity had turned to self-loathing. "Sorry," he mumbled.
"Sorry doesn't help," the boy deadpanned. "If it does, what do we need fists for?"
A chortle slipped from his throat like a reflex. Bucero clamped a hand to his mouth, aware that him laughing now wouldn't be exactly apropos. "Where're you heading, lad?" he asked, keeping his eyes on the ruts ahead.
"None of your business."
"Well, I'm going south, and if you're, too, I might be able to get you a ride. You know the Mediator's Tavern near the Praetor's Port?" Bucero snuck a glance at the boy. "The tavern owner has a small barque that plies between the Port and the south every other day for supply. And I know someone who works there. She might be able to put us on it."
The boy looked suspicious. "How do I know you won't sell me for a slave? Or that little wench isn't your accomplice?" His ringlets flopped, shadowing his eyes.
"I could ask you the same, eh?" Bucero retorted. "Besides, how would I know you're going where I'm going? South, north, east, west, northwest, it could be anywhere. What are the odds for me to guess right? I picked south precisely because that's where I'm going!" There weren't many moments in the thirty years of his life such as now when he felt quick-witted. He allowed himself a brief smile, then went forth, "Look, lad, I understand how you want to take it out on me. And I can see how it is partially my fault. That's why I want to help. Of course, you can choose not to trust me and turn tail. But what's good in there, eh? It's not like you have more to lose." He gave the boy a wink.
The jurisconsult didn't know what they had missed, he thought. That he, Lucius Ignatius Bucero, could have made a good lawyer elated him to a moment of buoyancy. But he didn't. He didn't because he couldn't, and of no one else's fault but his own. His moment deflated, turning poignant.
The boy harrumphed, shooting him a sulky side-eye. "How long would it take to go from here to the tavern?"
"If we leave now, we should be able to get there a little after nightfall," Bucero replied, surveying the boy. He was tall and slim, with long limbs and swarthy skin, unlike the patricians Bucero had seen. Meaning not to draw attention, his plain attire belied the quality of texture that was hard to ignore once noticed. Bucero wondered to what extent he could believe that the boy was a highborn as he had claimed.
"You got a name, lad?" he asked.
"Dracus."
Bucero tilted his head as he waited for more. But Dracus was all he got. Even if he lied, he's still just a boy. Lips smacked, followed by a sigh; he thrust a hand forward, "I'm Lucius Bucero."