Bucero woke up to breakfast delivered to the guest chamber on a silver salver.
He sat up in bed. Birds chirped over the ledges below the eaves. He glanced through the window that overlooked a verdant parterre burgeoning with lustrous plants of various kinds. Between them, sweeping meanders of spring water flew cold, clear, and good to drink. Dragonflies hovered, fluttering their wings, and perched like dew drops atop water lilies.
Bucero sighed. He knew he shouldn't miss that which never belonged to him. But an ineffable yearning for belonging wriggled free through the crevices on a wall of darkness which he didn't know had existed.
Flipping off the duvet, he clambered off the bed, whose soft fabric tangled his limbs like a faceless lover that visited his dreams. Up on the silver salver meticulously placed a charcuterie of assorted cheeses and marbling hams sliced to skin thin. A warm loaf was cut into squares, lining next to a rattan plate of freshly picked berries and grapes.
Recounting the kinds of luxuries to which he had so quickly grown accustomed, Bucero felt both abashed and sentimental. Besides every meal sent to his chamber like the breakfast before him, he would miss having clean laundry folded on toasty fresh sheets every morning. Even more so he would miss not having to worry about a thing while reading for days on end, the thrill of uncompromising focus, and that he was living the dream.
Roaming his eyes over the bales of papyrus he had perused so many times, he held up a sheaf vertically, at a loss about what to do with them, or himself, now that he had passed the bar. He plucked a grape from its vine and ate it with a chunk of aged cheese. Refreshing sweetness burst on his palate, mingling with the tang of time. He clamped a hand over several days' worth of scruff and realized that he hadn't shaved since the day of the play.
"Spacing out again?" spoke a familiar voice behind him.
Bucero jolted, and the sheaf of papyrus fanned out on the table in a semicircle.
Dracus chuckled as he pulled out a chair. Since their arrival in the city, Bucero hadn't been able to see him much besides at the play and a few dinners where the boy seemed entirely absentminded. He looked even more so today.
Compressing his lips, Bucero felt his brow furrowed. He had been meaning to tell the boy about his encounter with Moon Xeator and the stranger who tailed them. But as he remembered the young lord's order for him not to wander alone, he had not yet breathed a word. What's there to tell anyway? Is there a law that says the two men mustn't meet? But as he kept the secret he thought to be guileless, it dawned on him why trust was proportionally inverse to status. Now that he knew Dracus, he couldn't help but choose his words around him in fear of consequences – however latent was the fear, or whatever might be of the consequences – and he considered himself a friend. Imagine those who hatched plots through whispers and what they would tell or keep from the boy, who probably hadn't heard a single word of truth all his life. On that note, Bucero felt for him an immense pity, which he didn't expect, and the pity wracked him with guilt about his own discretion.
Yet despite his pity, would it still be possible to rule without arousing fear? And without fear, who would have brought anyone meals on a salver? To win some was to lose some. Hadn't power always been a choice between give and take? Such was the epiphany he arrived at while cramming for his exam, drilling on what to skip or pick. He held his breath at the glimpse of an extensive plexus on which all the impertinent dots of the ever-changing world were, in truth, pulsing on the same beat impervious to any change.
"I'm here to say goodbye," said the boy as he sagged in the chair. "I'm leaving the city in two days."
"So soon? I thought you'd stay at least until after the finals."
The boy shook his head with a frowning smile. "I've stayed long enough." He wrung his fingers about his chin. Dark ringlets flopped over his forehead, shading the sapphire blue of his eyes. He kicked his legs under the table, his feet tapping the floor. Leaning backward while he stared at the high dome decked out in gold filigree, he slurred, "Mother wanted me to marry Lord Gaius' daughter."
"And you don't want to?"
"Doesn't matter now." The boy sighed with his nose and shrugged. "Apropos of everything that's been happening, an engagement no longer seems apropos."
"So, it's a good thing?"
Quirking his brows, the boy scowled. "Why are you speaking in questions?"
"I don't know." Bucero croaked with an awkward cackle. "To be more responsive while I don't know what to say in response?"
The boy rolled his eyes. "The engagement may be off now," he went forth. "It's likely to be brought back once all the dust is settled. And I don't take companions, in case you still haven't noticed. Taking care of you was enough of a hassle for me, leave alone some high-born brat with her head up her arse."
"Me? You were taking care of me?" Bucero chortled, throwing back his head. "And who's the brat, exactly? Are you talking about her or yourself?"
"Fine, I guess the hassle was mutual."
"You guess?"
"Meet me halfway, old man!" Jolting forward, he snatched a berry from the rattan plate and hurled it at Bucero, who essayed a catch but failed.
"I'm glad for Lady Gaius that you've decided to jilt her before the altar," Bucero jested. "You'll make a terrible partner."
The boy laughed in three sardonic bursts. Folding his arms, he put his feet up on the table, his gaze on the floor. "What about you? You know you can't stay here while I'm gone, I hope?"
"You don't need to worry about me." Bucero shrugged. "I'll figure it out."
"What about your first case? Anything I can help with before I leave?"
Bucero shook his head and smiled till his face hurt. Leaning on his hip, he levered himself on his palms against the table and glanced out the window, where the verdant grass yawned in an early autumn breeze. He withdrew his eyes, fixing them upon his feet. "I've given it a lot of thought over the last few days about what kind of lawyer I want to be and what I want for my first case. I think I'll have to drop the hypocaust."
Dracus didn't say a word. Straightening his back, he sat up in the chair and waited for Bucero to continue.
"I can't crack it," Bucero said, conceding his defeat, and as he did, he felt a profound weight being lifted from his chest. "Think of all the interests involved, the names behind them, and their clout. How can I take them all out? Me? A country bumpkin? If I pursue the case, I won't be exposing what's obviously a pyre but all the secrets, maneuvers, and deals that never meant to see light. But those secrets, those maneuvers and deals also pump blood to Renania, don't they? I've been mulling over what you said about corruption, and despite my scruples, I think you're right. At the heart of power that generates the wealth we all depend on, it isn't justice or democracy but corruption! Why would anyone push for any laborious project if they don't yield any personal gains? To stand in the way between the men and their gains that will trickle down and benefit us all, I most definitely will lose. And if I insisted on pushing against the tide, I'd be returning to the woods sooner than I know! Only this time, I'd be the charcoal!"
"What happened backstage?"
"What?"
"You haven't been yourself since the play. Something must have happened." The boy leaped to his feet, proceeding to the window. He turned to Bucero. A brief smile touched his eyes. "You see the slug up there?" throwing a thumb at a large fiddle leaf flapping in the breeze, he asked languidly. "You know what I like about them?"
Bucero shook his baffled head, his brow furrowing. "You got slug from all I've said?"
"Just answer the question."
"I didn't know you liked them at all!"
"They're tenacious," Dracus answered for him. "It takes them weeks, months, even years, Gods forbid, to get where they want. But they always get there. Stubborn to the point I find it admirable."
As he spoke, his hand fumbled under his toga and drew out a gold key chained to a signet of a scale. "While you can't stay here while I'm gone, you're welcome to my dungeon if you ever find use for that Hectius." He grabbed Bucero's hand and slapped the key on his palm. "This is the Praetor's Pass, possessed only by dignitaries at the court. It grants access. Take good care of it."
Bucero parted his lips at a loss, his eyes straining. "I don't understand," he spoke at length.
"You're no wolf, Bucero, and that's a fact. In a world where every man aspires to be wolf, this fact is no doubt unfortunate. That said, the world would have ended already had everyone been born a wolf," the boy paused, boring into Bucero's eyes. "While you are who you are for a reason, no one will give a shit about that reason until you make a good case for it. The hypocaust could be your reason. And even though now may not be a good time to pursue it yet, don't turn down what you should do just because you're turned down by some girl."
"Well, she hasn't turned me down per se," Bucero bleated. "She's just infatuated with that bloody playwright. It's written all over her face."
"Drouet Titus?"
Bucero hawked, recalling the name that had slipped off her crimson lips in fretful joy. He felt disgusted. "Some quirky name like that."
"Does she know that Titus is engaged to Olivia Carina Benedictus?"
"Who?"
"The daughter of a second cousin to the Scipio brothers. She was there with him at the play. You probably have seen her."
"The one who's, erm," Bucero flapped his arms, drawing a pair of brackets in the air.
"Buxom?"
He nodded.
"Yeah, you've seen her."
Bucero blinked and rubbed his eyes. The world he saw now looked a blur, and he missed the old time when things were simpler. "You know what?" He shrugged, a sigh of resignation dilating his nose. "I should forget about her business and focus on mine. I need to focus on how to foray into my law practice. What'd you think?"
Puffing his cheeks again, Dracus sat on the table beside him. His feet dangled, eyes wandering to the parterre outside upon which brushed the shadows of scuttling clouds. "Might be your best idea, my good man." He clapped Bucero on the back.
"What about you?" Bucero asked, regarding the boy over the shoulder. "Still hanging on salt-tolerant wheat?"
"What else?" The boy gave an uneasy laugh. "I ran into that Underdog on the night of the banquet, and he gave me some advice I've been deliberating on over the days. Instead of growing salt-tolerant wheat, perhaps I can find ways to control soil salinity. Terrace fields, perhaps?" His voice faltered. In his eyes, Bucero found the same qualm that had kept him awake at night.
"Well, you're a hell of a lad, and I mean it," Bucero said, clinching the boy in an arm. "You'll make it. Just don't lose your shit this time, 'cause you aren't going to bump into me again."
"Praise the Gods!" Rolling his eyes, Dracus gripped Bucero's shoulder. "I don't usually say this, but thank you, old man, for everything."