Scene I
Not a very large corner. Well, not a corner in any sense of the word. He wondered why everyone referred to it as one. But then again, he was thinking too much. Way too much. Clutching the knife hidden under his clothes, he suddenly forgot what he had even come here for.
It was a clunky knife. Large. Unwieldy. Stolen from a hawker of fish, really. Still reeking of the damn things, and with a few fish scales stuck to the blade here and there. But it would serve its purpose well enough. Whatever that purpose was. See, he didn't exactly remember what he had to do with this knife. Perhaps he should have written it down. That is, if he had known how to read or write.
It's not that he was too poor to learn. Heavens above, no! And here, in the center of the world, the second Rome? The boy could have easily learned to read, write, and stand on his head if he had wished to! Ah, but why hadn't he? He could have easily made something of himself, his tavern mates had always said so!
His tavern mates. He couldn't help a long, bitter, laugh. It was a single chuckle, and startled a bird from the wooden post next to him. The knife slid a little down his stomach, cutting the laugh short. He suddenly remembered why he had the knife with him. And he was on the wrong corner!
Wrong side of the city as well.
Come to think of it, the boy was on the wrong side of the world.
Scene II
There he was, knife in hand. He knew how he'd do it. Ask for directions to so and so's house, maybe a polite greeting in his coarse accent. Maybe even a handshake? The least he could do was make sure that his target died happily, and thinking that the boy was his friend. He couldn't help it, that was just his style.
He had to do it. And he couldn't stop himself, no matter how hard he tried. That is, if he cared enough to try. He had been living in a state of limbo, just gliding from day to day, petty theft to armed robbery. Mother had always told him that-
But wait. What had mother told him? Besides that he would always be here, always on this corner, always with the hastily purloined knife, always on the very brink of ruin. That he wasn't worth saving from this occupation. He had chosen this way of life, anyway. He couldn't do anything about it either way. He needed more money for that. And how would he get money? By doing this.
He admitted that returning to the corner was now more compulsory than voluntary now. He was drawn to it, just as he now saw the shoulders of his target drawn to the blade in his fingers...
And it was all over. The patrician stumbled, falling onto his knees in the mud. And he started to yell, bawling all over the street. He hadn't stabbed well enough. He hadn't even stabbed in the right place. What was going on? A sudden panic gripped the boy and he tried to run. But he couldn't let go of the knife. The bloody knife that reeked of fish and dying fat men. And before he could wrench the tool from his grasp, he was surrounded.
Skythikoi.
Desperate, the boy flailed the hand holding the knife at one of the mercenaries and found himself flat on his back. The world spun and there was suddenly a vacuum around him. Air...he needed air!
The knife was brutally kicked out of his hand and he was hoisted up on a pair of brawny shoulders.
He was going to jail.
Scene III
It was smelly. Rotten. Yes, it smelled rotten. A timber lay strewn across the floor over the remains of what used to be a wooden bench. It was now a few inches of wood in the mud. He thought it was mud. He really didn't want to know either way. Wasn't very appealing. Made anything outside look quite attractive, really. Outside. Out.
Maybe if he charmed the others enough he would be let out? Explain to them nicely that it wasn't what they thought it was, and could they please let him back home before dusk or mother would be upset?
It never had a chance of working on the hardened guards, veterans of numerous campaigns for the Emperor.
He sunk back into his corner, wary of the others in the cell. He wouldn't allow himself to fall asleep. Not tonight.
[H.F.] Corner Boys
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