The marketplace in Messina was crowded, as always. The faint smell of the salty sea carried under the exotic tang of people and goods in the air, a reminder of Messina’s proximity to the sea.

“Hey!” Hadrian elbowed Garum, pointing out to the harbour at a particularly large ship docked, “Carthaginian trade ship.”

Indeed it was. It was easily the largest ship in the entire harbour, and a variety of goods were being unloaded off of it. Its size was hardly a surprise. Carthage was arguably the biggest power in the Mediterranean, and indubitably the largest shipping empire. Superior naval technology and navigational skills had made certain of that.

“We should go check it out. Probably has loads of cool stuff,” Hadrian grinned and began pulling Garum in the direction of the ship.

Garum eyed Hadrian and the ship with a raised eyebrow, “The stuff on that ship probably costs more than everything on Sicily combined. There’s no way you’ll be able to afford anything.”

While a slight exaggeration, the claim wasn’t entirely unfounded. Carthaginian dye alone, made from what was essentially lots and lots of snail goo, fetched nearly twice its weight in silver. Other goods, glassware, pottery and whatnot, while not quite as expensive, still were rather pricey.

Hadrian waved a hand, “We’ll just take a look. No harm in just looking.”

“Hm,” Garum grunted a reluctant affirmative.

As they walked, all sorts of sights assaulted the senses. Exotic fruits and spices filled the market with an air with a sort of tangy natural perfume. Garum’s nose prickled with the peppery smell of herbs as they passed by a stall with some particularly fragrant spices.

The strumming of a lute player caught Garum’s attention the next instant. A fun, upbeat melody plucked its way out of the strings, stretched over a tortoise shell, guided by the musician’s deft fingers and their swift movements.

A jaunty movement revealed itself from the corner of Garum’s eye. Turning to his right, he saw a troupe of dancing boys, their arms waving wildly and feet pattering in practised unison in practised unison upon a colourful carpet.

A bizarre show of a snake-charmer, claiming to be from the far east, took place on the other side of the street. A dozen cobras swung their heads side to side to the rhythm of the man’s music, the sounds emerging from a bulbous-looking foreign instrument.

Dozens of other strange and lovely things lined both sides of the streets, along with all of the stalls and all of the vendors selling all manner of things.

In short: it was quite a lot.

The number of things happening in the marketplace never ceased to amaze Garum, no matter how many times he frequented the area. But it simultaneously discomforted him. The rowdy, energetic place was at odds with his temperament.

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“How’s this look?”

Garum turned away from the street performer that he had been watching, an odd snake charmer claiming to be from the far east, to look at Hadrian.

The boy had put on a brimless conical hat, dull white in colour, having snatched it off the rack of an accessory salesman to try on. He grinned, tipping the hat, a pileus, in Garum’s direction.

“Stupid,” Garum said in response to Hadrian’s query, “You look stupid.”

Hadrian laughed and threw the hat back onto the salesman’s rack, having expected a dry comment from Garum after knowing him from childhood, “Suppose I’m not particularly suited for hats. They’d obscure my beautiful hair anyway.”

Garum cast a sorry look at the salesman, who was slightly irritated at having lost a customer. As he did, he eyed the stall’s wares, a bright red piece of cloth catching his eye.

A neckerchief, a focale. Just what he was looking for.

“How much for this?” He asked the man, pointing to the scarlet scarf.

“One drachma,” He replied.

Garum winced at the price and began bargaining for a better price, “I’ll give you a diobol for it.”

The salesman scowled tugging slightly on his dark beard, “Are you insane? Five obols at the least.”

Six obols to a drachma. A single obol’s worth of reduction, to a price of five, was not an acceptable price to Garum.

“Three,” Garum held up his fingers to illustrate, “A triobol.”

“Four obols,” The shopkeep said, a warning tone lying in his voice and a light glare in his dark eyes, “Final offer, you scumbag.”

It was acceptable, but not optimal, Garum thought, “I’ll take it.”

He reluctantly tossed the appropriate sum of money to the shopkeep, who caught the coins with practised ease. Garum snatched his scarf off of the stall’s counter, hurriedly tying it around his neck in a simple knot.

Garum let out a breath in relief as he felt the scarlet fabric settle around his neck. With the necklace properly hidden, he felt far more at ease. There was a slightly uncomfortable heat around his neck already, a result of the Sicilian summer, but it wasn’t unbearable. Especially as the necklace’s gold was still unnaturally cool around his neck.

“A strange clothing choice,” Hadrian teased as they walked away from the stall, “Is that what’s in fashion these days?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Garum said, “In fact--”

Garum was interrupted as he spoke by a large, gruff-looking man bumping roughly into him. The was part of a larger group of similarly crusty figures. Their clothing was dirty and torn, they wore mismatched bits of armour, and smelled faintly of rust.

“Watch it!” The rough man snapped at Garum, glaring at him. The man’s voice was rough and red.

The necklace shifted uncomfortably from under Garum’s new scarf.

Hadrian shuffled forward quickly, pulling Garum along with him, away from the men with a touch of panic in his step.

“Who were those guys?” Garum whispered to him, looking over his shoulder to see the man that he had bumped into staring after him.

“The Mamertimes,” Hadrian answered, “Their group came here to Messina a few months ago, moved in near my house. They’re a whole lot of trouble, I tell you.”

“They certainly look like it,” Garum muttered.

Hadrian only nodded in agreement.