Wagers of Sin: Time Scout II (5 page)

Time to leave.

He decided to buy a little wine to cool his throat and used some of his takings to purchase it from a nearby shop which nestled under the stands, one of several hundred other little stalls, from the look of it. He noticed some shrimp set delicately on grape leaves and decided to try some. Mmm! The Romans know how to cook a shrimp! That finished, Skeeter noticed some cheesecakes along the back shelf. Several were molded into the shape of a woman's breast.

He asked and was told, "Almond cheesecake. Whole is all I sell."

Well, that one in the corner looked pretty small. He gestured toward it and the proprietor duly placed it in front of him, then collected the coins Skeeter produced from his "winnings." One bite and he knew that, good as this was, Ianira Cassondra's were so much superior it was like comparing caviar to potted meat. As he munched contentedly, a roar went up inside the stadium. "First race, huh?" Skeeter asked conversationally, proud of his acquired Latin.

The man looked startled. "Race? You hadn't heard? The Emperor requested a special opening to the day's games."

Paying only half attention, Skeeter said, "Really?" He was hungrier than he'd thought and this cheesecake wasn't bad, washed down with the last of his wine.

"Yes," the shopkeeper told him, considerable surprise running through dark eyes. "A special exhibition bout by the Emperor's favorite gladiator."

"What?" He nearly strangled on cheesecake and ovine.

"Yes. Bout to first blood in honor of Lupus Mortiferus' hundredth appearance in the arena." The man chuckled. "What a champion. Haven't been better'n one to four odds on him since his eightieth victory. Bout ought to be finished any minute-"

Skeeter didn't wait to hear more. He didn't have a hundred-fifty aurii to pay off that idiotic bet. Damn, damn, damn! He shot out of the shop, leaving the half-eaten cheesecake behind. He headed down the long facade of the Circus, toward town. The River Tiber ran its merry way somewhere behind him. He kept his pace at a fast walk, not wanting to draw attention to himself by running. As much money as he was carrying, someone might mistake him for a thief.

Okay, Skeeter, just stay calm. You've been in worse spots. He's not going to come collecting that money right away, even if the bout is going on right now. Just get back to the Time Tours Inn and hide out until the gate cycles and you'll be just fine. You've gotten through worse. Lots worse.

Another roar broke from the high tiers of seats. Skeeter winced. Then silence fell over the great arena. Skeeter wanted to break into a run, but held himself to a brisk walk, like some businessman intent on important business.

Then, the sound of nightmare: "Hey! Hey, odds maker!"

He glanced around-and felt his cheeks go cold.

It was the lean, grizzled Roman who'd placed the bet, about a hundred yards behind him. Even from here, Skeeter could see the blood spattered on his clothes and arms.

Oh, man, I gotta bad feeling that IS Lupus Mortiferus.

Skeeter did the only logical, honorable thing he could.

He ran like hell.

"Stop! Stop, you-"

The rest of it was Latin Skeeter hadn't learned yet.

He ducked around the first corner he came to and picked up speed. The money pouches at his belt swung and bruise thighs with every stride. The streets near the Circus were a maze of narrow alleys and crooked, twisting passageways. Skeeter dodged and ran with everything in him, convinced he could outrun the heavier Roman with ease. Given his skill at vanishing in the places he'd lived as a child, losing himself in Rome ought to be a piece of cake.

But his pursuer was faster than he looked.

Skeeter glanced back and bit back a yelp of terror. The man was still with him-and gaining. Thunderstorms rolling across the vast plains of Outer Mongolia had looked friendlier than that Roman's face. And he had a long knife in his hand. A really long one.

Skeeter skidded around another corner, crashed through a group of women who shrieked curses at him, and kept going. Can't just go to the inn.. He'd track me there and carve me up into little bits of Skeeter Where, then? Clearly, he hadn't studied the layout of the city adequately. Skeeter cut around another corner, dashed down a long straight-way, zipped around another corner-

And yelled, even as he tried to stop.

The street ended abruptly in a drop-off straight into the Tiber. Momentum carried him over the edge. Skeeter sucked in air, knowing the gold would weigh him down. Then he splashed feet-first into the muddy river and sank toward the bottom. Skeeter swam frantically for the surface, holding his breath and kicking with every bit of strength he had left. His face broke water. He gulped air into burning lungs.

Something hard grazed his shoulder. Skeeter yelled, went under, strangled ... then caught at something that splashed down right in front of him. He was lifted completely out of the water. For an instant, he was face-to-face with an astonished slave rowing a large boat. The man was so shocked, he dropped the oar. Skeeter plunged like a rock back into the river. A tremendous backwash sent water into his sinuses. But he hung onto the oar and managed to drag his head above water again. He blinked river water and hair out of his eyes, coughing weakly and drawing in shuddering lungfuls of air that only set him coughing harder.

The boat above him was a shallow-draft thing that looked like a pleasure yacht of some sort. Rowers all along the side leaned over to stare at him. Several oars fouled badly, cracking into one another like gunshots. The whole yacht ewed in the water.

Great. Talk about not attracting attention.

A glance over one shoulder revealed Lupus Mortiferus on the bank, shaking his fist and cursing inaudibly. Just get one out of this one, God, and I swear I'll never come back to Rome again. I'll stick to obnoxious tourists and government bureaucrats and other deserving UPtimers. Skeeter clung to the oar, pulled along by the yacht's momentum for a couple of moments, allowing him to regain his breath; then an overseer stalked to the gunwales to see what was fouling the oars.

"What the-"

Skeeter lost most of the curse in the translation, but the general gist seemed to be, "Get the hell off my oar!"

Skeeter was about to marshall a sob story to convince the guy to let him climb aboard when the s.o.b. snaked out a whip that caught Skeeter right across the hands. Pain blossomed like acid. He yelled and let go involuntarily-and plunged back into the river. Skeeter snorted a noseful of water before he managed to kick his way back to the surface.

Gotta get to shore ... before I ... wear out and drown. That gold was heavy. But the few minutes' rest clinging to the oar had helped. Skeeter struck out for the nearest bank, which thankfully was opposite the Circus and the wrathful Lupus Mortiferus. By the time he reached the riverbank and crawled out, sodden tunic clinging to his thighs and back, Skeeter was shaking with exhaustion. But he still had the gold. And he was still alive.

He'd just begun to celebrate those two facts with a shaky grin when a terrifying, familiar voice shouted, "There! He's there!"

Lupus Mortiferus had crossed a bridge Skeeter hadn't even noticed.

And he had friends with him.

Big, mean, ugly-looking ones.

Skeeter swore shakily under his breath and shoved himself to his feet. Can't possibly outrun 'em.. Hell, he could scarcely stand up. Out-talk 'em? Convince 'em the whole scam had been a simple miscommunication? In English, he could probably have pulled it off. But not in Latin. The language handicap made that impossible. Wondering what Romans did with confidence men they caught-a roar of voices from the Circus gave him a clue-Skeeter looked wildly around for some way out of this.

What he saw was a group of horse handlers loading racing teams onto a barge for the trip across to the Circus. The horses were between him and the group of enraged gladiators. Skeeter didn't have many skills, but living in a yurt of the Yakka Clan, one thing he had learned to do was ride. If it had four legs and hooves, Skeeter could ride it.

So he ran straight toward the men hunting him and caught a glimpse of shocked amazement on Lupus Mortiferus' face. Then he said to a surprised animal handler, "Excuse me, but I need that," and snatched the bridle of the nearest racehorse still on shore. He was on the animal's back in a flash. The startled horse reared and screamed, but Skeeter had stayed with horses ornerier than this. He slammed heels into the animal's flanks and brought its head and forelegs down with a savage jerk on the reins. The horse got the message: This ain't no novice rider on, my back.

Skeeter hauled the horse's head around and kicked the animal into a fast gallop. The racing handlers yelled and cursed him, but he put distance between himself and all his pursuers in nothing short of miraculous time. This horse could run.

Skeeter laughed in sheer delight and leaned low over the animal's neck. The whipping mane caught his face with a wiry sting-The muscles bunching under his thighs rippled in perfect rhythm. He missed the iron Mongol stirrups, shaped like the tips of Dutch wooden shoes, to which he'd grown accustomed, but he hadn't lost his sense of balance-and he'd learned to ride bareback, just to prove to Yesukai that he could, and hopefully to be permitted the chance at learning to ride proper ponies with proper saddles.

Pedestrians scattered out of his way with curses and screams. He laughed again at the horse's astonishing speed. "Must've liberated me a champion!"

It was several years overdue, but Skeeter had finally completed his manhood ritual. Wow! Finally! My first real horse-thieving raid! Too bad no Yakka clansmen were around to witness it and celebrate the occasion.

The Yakka khan had not permitted Skeeter to go along on such raids, fearing his funny little bogda might be injured, which would bring bad luck. Skeeter grinned. Never thought I'd get a chance to do this. Not bad for a kid who fell through an unstable gate and ended up in a place nobody thought he'd survive!

He hated to give the horse up.

But riding a stolen race horse through Rome while its handlers and several really pissed-off gladiators were chasing him was not a smart move. And neither his Mama nor-particularly-his foster Mama had raised a fool. In fact, Yesukai's stolen bride had not only accepted her marriage, but had begun to rule her husband's yurt like a queen born to the task and, alone among strangers, she had adopted the funny little bog who was in much the same predicament, teaching him a great deal and smiling on him with great favor.

So, having learned caution from both his adoptive parents, Skeeter pulled the animal to a walk, cooling him out, then halted as soon as he dared and patted the beast on the neck. Dried sweat clung to his hand.

"You did good by me, fella. Thanks. I owe you. Too bad I can't make it up to you."

The horse blew softly into his face and nudged his chest, friendly-like. "Yeah," Skeeter said with a smile, stroking the velvety-soft nose, "me, too. But I gotta run an you've gotta race."

He tied the reins to the nearest public fountain, so the horse could at least get a drink of water, then set out to find himself a good, deep hidey-hole until the Porta Romae cycled sometime near midnight. The jingling of gold in the pouch at his waist sounded like victory.

Skeeter grinned.

Not a bad day's work.

Not bad at all.

Lupus Mortiferus didn't like losing.

In his line of work, defeat meant death. And like most gladiators, losing a wager was an almost omenlike foreshadowing of trouble to come. The Wolf of Death, as the School had named him, was going to find that miserable street vermin and shake his money loose, or see him die in the arena for thievery.

All he had to do was find him.

He and his friends stood muttering in a group as the cheat escaped on Sun Runner, one of the greatest champions ever to run in the Circus. The handler was beside himself with fury. Already several other handlers had mounted to give chase, but the thief had a good lead on a fast horse. Lupus Mortiferus didn't hold out much hope that anyone would catch the rat.

"So," Quintus nudged him with an elbow, "you were gonna make a hundred-fifty aurii, just like that, huh?"

"Guess the Wolf isn't as smart as he thought," another friend laughed. "Getting a little long in the tooth and a little short on savvy?"

Lupus just ground his teeth and held silent. He'd needed that money to start a new life. Having just purchased his own freedom last year, he'd barely begun to save enough to leave the arena for good. Then, in one glorious moment, some country rube offers the chance to get there three times faster ... and he turns out to be a sneak thief.

"You go on back," Lupus led. "My big matches aren't for hours, yet. Then I'll follow those racing handlers, see what I can find. The Wolf does not give up this easily."

He took another round of ribbing he had, after all, walked right into the rat's smiling arms-then stalked in the direction the racing handlers had gone. I will find that little puke and I will by Hercules break every bone in. his cheating body to pieces and after that I'll break the pieces into pieces

He met the riders coming back, leading Sun Runner by the bridle. Sweat had dried on him, but he'd been properly cooled out or the handlers wouldn't have been smiling in such enormous relief.

"Found him tied to a public fountain," one of them explained when asked. "Three blocks farther on."

Lupus nodded and stalked on. He found the fountain, but no trace of the thief. So he started bribing shopkeepers for information. He hit paydirt on the third bribe.

"Yeah, he strolled off that way, whistling like he owned the Emperor's palace."

"Thanks." Lupus flipped him a second silver sestertius and headed that way. The streets here weren't quite as twisted and winding as they were across the river. Lupus spotted him within five minutes. Every impulse in him said, "Now!"

But he held back.

If he followed the little snake back to his lair, he might recover more than just the money he'd lost. Who knew how much this rat had swindled since coming to Rome? The thief led him a merry chase. Evidently, he was intent on touring the whole blasted city. He paused now and again to buy wine and sausages with money he'd swindled from other victims, then bought a few trinkets a woman might enjoy wearing.

By the time the little rat re-crossed the Tiber and stopped to stare at the great temple complex atop the Capitoline hill, Lupus was out of time. Either he had to shake the rat down now and get back his money or he'd miss the fighting matches for which he was scheduled today. He was actually advancing, hand on the hilt of his gladius, when a third alternative occurred to him.

He had noticed a couple of wide-eyed beggar brats staring at him and paused to consider what use he might make of them.

"Are you really Lupus Mortiferus?- the bolder of the two asked, eyes round with wonder and a glint approaching fear.

I am.

Wide eyes went rounder.

Lupus smiled coldly. "Want to earn some money?"

Mouths dropped open. "How?"

"See that man?" he pointed out the thief. "Follow him. Find out where he lives and tell me and I'll give you enough silver to buy slaves of your own."

The boys gasped. "We'll follow him! But how can we let you know where he's gone?"

Lupus sighed. Starvation left a man stupid and these boys looked like they hadn't eaten properly in years. "One of you stay wherever he's gone," Lupus said patiently. "The other of you, come find me. I'll be at the starting boxes, waiting."

He gave each boy a couple of copper asses as incentive, showing them the silver in his purse as greater incentive, then headed grimly back toward the Circus. He had some fights to win. Given his mood, Lupus Mortiferus pitied his opponents today. The crowd ought to be very pleased with his performance. And afterward ...

Afterward, a certain foreign thief would learn the bite of Roman revenge.

Agnes Fairchild's voice rose on a half-scream of hurt rage. "You used me, Skeeter Jackson! How ... how dare you-"

"Agues-"

"Don't touch me! My God, to think I gave you a ticket, money, slept with you! I hate you! All you wanted was a chance to sneak away and make a bunch of illegal bets!"

"Now, Agnes-"

"I could lose my job!" Tears in her eyes sparkled in the lamp light, but they were angry tears more than fear. "I can't believe you would do this to me." She hugged both arms around herself and refused to look him in the eye.

"Look, kid, you're a nice girl. I happen to like you a lot. But business is business. Good God, Agnes, you take a bunch of bloodthirsty perverts to the arena to watch men butcher each other, you ferry around zipper jockeys so they can rape prostitutes in downtime brothels, and you don't bat an eyelash, but let a man make a little wager-"

"Get out of my sight! I wish I'd never laid eyes on you, Skeeter Jackson! If I thought I could get away with it, I'd ... I'd maroon you here! That'd be rich, leave you stuck in Rome with all the people whose money you swindled!"

Skeeter gave up. He'd broken up with his share of women, although he rarely understood why, exactly, but he'd never had one react this violently. Well, there was the exception of Margo. She'd said a few choice things to him, after she'd found out he wasn't a time scout after all. And he hadn't even managed to get her into bed!

All of which was useless to pursue. He would miss Agnes' company, particularly in the sack, but the amount of gold in the pouches at his belt was more than incentive to dismiss her serious overreaction. It'd only been one little day's wagering, for God's sake. Yesukai would've been singing his praises to the entire clan around the cookpots.

Oh, well. Easy come, easy go. So much for this scheme. Guess Ill have to come up with something else that doesn't involve a downtime gate. Of course, with his winnings today, he could take all the time he wanted, deciding his next intrigue. He left Agnes sitting in her private room at the Time Tours Inn and rejoined the festivities in the dining room, aware that she was crying as he shut the door, aware of a pang of guilt down inside himself, but also aware that she'd brought most of her anguish on herself.

Sheesh. One little bet.

You'd have thought he'd stolen her heart or something. Women. Can't figure 'em, any way you look at it. When he got back to TT-86, he was going to march straight into the Down Time Bar & Grill and get roaring drunk. Hell, he'd buy drinks for everybody there and get well-and-truly Mongolian drunk with friends. After the fit she'd pitched, he deserved a little celebration.

Maybe he'd even find someone willing to console him in the privacy of his apartment afterwards. Some sweet, soft-skinned tourist willing to assuage the sense of loss and loneliness he couldn't quite dismiss as he entered the raucous main room of the Time Tours Inn. Yeah, that was the ticket. Wine and women. Age-old cure for what ailed the heart.

Skeeter put on his best smile and wondered how many pockets he might have the chance to pick before the Porta Romae Gate cycled a few hours hence.

The thief had taken up lodgings at an inn situated pleasantly on the Aventine. It bustled with customers. Lupus paid both boys and watched them scamper off, then stepped into the crowded room. A few people gave him odd looks, but he was served with good food and better wine than he'd expected. The man he sought was in a far corner, all smiles and triumph, talking to a plain-looking slave girl who smiled at him the way a well-bedded woman smiles at a man who's tumbled her frequently. Lupus hid his own smile as they left for more private surroundings, then heard the beginnings of an argument through their closed door. It ended with the thief storming back into the main room, thunderclouds in his eyes, whereupon he struck up a lively discussion with the nearest girl.

All does not go well, then, between master and concubine. He chuckled, finished his meal, and left the inn to wait for darkness. All he needed to do was wait until the guests bedded down for the night and the thief was his.

He could have called for the city watch to arrest the man, but his reputation was already damaged. So far, only his closest friends knew of his foolish loss. Let the city watch discover it, and his name would become a laughingstock from the janiculum to the Campus Martius. This was a score he intended to settle personally. To his great chagrin, however, a banquet or great party of some kind was being celebrated inside, with loud laughter and singing in some barbaric tongue he couldn't place. It went on until the night grew very late.

"Will these colonial clods never bed down and sleep?"

Carts and heavily laden wagons rumbled past in the darkness, casting lantern light on weary-faced drivers and dark, rutted paving stones. Another hour passed, then another, and still the party roared on. Hugging his impatience to his breast like a well-honed dagger, Lupus waited.

What happened next surprised him beyond all belief.

Every single one of the revelers left the inn in a packed group, led by lantern light and collared slaves through the wagon-jammed, dangerous streets. The man Lupus sought was there amongst them, grinning like a trained monkey. Lupus followed, one hand on the pommel of his sword. He trailed the group to a wine shop on the Via Appia. Judging from the positions of the stars, it must be nearly midnight, yet nearly forty people entered the dark, silent wineshop. Some were giggling, some reeling, while some looked like they might be ill at any moment.

Lupus' prey entered without so much as a backward glance over his shoulder. An open door at the rear of the shop spilled lantern light into the now-empty shop front with its counters, stone benches, and tight-lidded amphorae of wine. Beyond was clearly a small warehouse where the shopkeeper stored his stock. Lupus slipped across the street and cautiously entered the public area just as someone closed the warehouse door. Darkness smothered him in an instant. He swore under his breath and waited for his night vision to return. He listened at the edge of the door, but could hear nothing.

Then a strange buzzing began to vibrate the bones of his skull. There was no real sound, but he clapped hands over both ears, trying to shut out the unpleasant sensation. What manner of wine shop is this. Sweat started out on his brow. He wasn't afraid, exactly-

The warehouse door opened again, unexpectedly

Lupus hurled himself into the shadows behind the counter.

Some fifty people emerged from the warehouse room--but none of them were the ones who'd gone inside moments before. The last person through closed the door to the warehouse, leaving Lupus hidden in shadows while lanterns swung in the night and giggles and whispers in that same foreign tongue reached his ears. Lupus stared at the departing group, while the bones of his skull ached. Gradually the sound that wasn't a sound faded away. The men and women who'd just left the warehouse disappeared around a street corner.

Lupus emerged slowly from behind the humble limestone countertop, glancing from the closed warehouse door to the street corner and back. Then he tried the door. It wasn't locked. Someone had left a lamp burning; the shop owner must mean to return shortly, else he'd have blown out the lamp. Lupus searched the room thoroughly, if somewhat hastily, but found absolutely no trace of the forty-odd people who had entered this room moments earlier. Nor could he find a doorway or hidden trap in the floor. The room was absolutely empty, save for racks of dusty amphorae. The nearest of those, shaken gently, proved to be full.

Standing in the center of the deserted room, Lupus Mortiferus felt an unaccustomed trickle of fear run up his spine. His quarry had vanished, apparently into thin air, taking Lupus' hard-won money with him. Lupus swore softly, then returned the amphora to its place in the rack, turned on his heel, and strode out again. He would discover the secret of that wine shop. The people who came and went from it had to come through somehow, as they were not spirits from the underworld, but flesh-and-blood men and women. And since Lupus-superstitious though he might be-did not believe in outright magic, he would find that way through. All he had to do was follow the next group more closely.

And once through.. .

Lupus Mortiferus, the "Wolf of Death" of Rome's great Circus, smiled cruelly in the starlight. "Soon," he promised the thief. "Soon, your belly will meet my blade. I think you will find little enough stomach for my revenge-but my steel will find more than enough of your stomach."

Laughing darkly at his own joke, Lupus Mortiferus strode away into the night.

Gate days always packed in the customers at the Down Time Bar & Grill. With the Porta Romae cycling, Marcus had all he could handle keeping up with drink tabs and calling sandwich orders to Molly. The clink of glassware and the smell of alcohol permeated the dim-lit interior as thickly as the roar of voices, some of them bragging about what they'd done/seen/heard downtime and others drowning whatever it was that had shaken them to the core and yet others denying that anything at all was bothering them.

All in all, it was a pretty normal gate day. Marcus delivered a tray full of drinks to a table where Kit Carson and Malcolm Moore were sharing tall tales with Rachel Eisenstein. The time terminal's physician wasn't taken in by either man, but she was clearly having a good time pretending to believe the world's most famous time scout and La-La Land's most experienced freelance time guide. Marcus smiled, warmed more by their welcoming smiles than their more-than-generous tips, then moved on to the back room, shimmying skillfully between pool players intent on their games, to a corner where Goldie Morran was deeply involved in a high-stakes poker match with Brian Hendrickson.