Wagers of Sin

by Robert Asprin

  "Bets, eh?" the man said, eying Skeeter appraisingly. "On the combats?"

  "Yes, sir," Skeeter grinned, trying to hide the sudden pounding of his pulse. Judging by the gold the man wore and the embroidery on his tunic, this guy was rich.

  "Tell me, what odds do you place on the bout with Lupus Mortiferus?"

  "To win or lose?"

  A flicker of irritation ran through dark amber, lupine eyes. "To win, of course."

  Skeeter didn't know a damned thing about Lupus Mortiferus or his track record. He'd simply been quoting made-up odds all morning. He smiled and said cheerfully, "Three to one."

  The lean man's eyes widened. "Three to one?" Startlement gave way to sudden, intense interest. "Well, now. Those are interesting odds, indeed. You're a stranger, I think, by your accent."

  Skeeter shrugged. "If I am?"

  His mark grinned. "I'll place a bet with you, stranger. How about fifty aurii? Can your purse handle that big a bite?"

  Skeeter was stunned. Fifty gold aurii? That was . . . that was five thousand silver sestercii! When he thought of the money he'd get exchanging fifty gold aurii at Goldie Morran's shop back in Shangri-La Station . . .

  "Of course, friend! Of course. I may be a foreigner, but I am not without resources. You just surprised me." Skeeter prepared the marker.

  "Stellio," the grizzled Roman addressed his slave, "fetch fifty aurii from my money box." The man produced a key from a pouch at his waist and handed it over.

  The slave dashed into the crowd.

  "I have pressing business elsewhere," the Roman said with a smile, tucking the marker into his pouch, "but I assure you my slave is trustworthy. He was a complete knave when I bought him, which is why he bears that name, but sufficient correction can cure any man's bad habits." The Roman laughed. "A slave without a tongue is much more docile. Not to mention silent. Don't you agree?"

  Skeeter nodded, but felt a little sick. Once, as a boy, he'd seen a man's tongue cut out . . .

  The Roman strolled off into the crowd. Clearly, Skeeter had quoted the wrong odds on Lupus whatever. But on the bright side, he wouldn't be around when this guy came to collect his hundred-fifty aurii. Skeeter repressed a shiver. Just as well. He wondered with a pang of genuine pity what that poor slave had done to merit having his tongue cut out.

  No wonder Marcus didn't want to come back here. Ever.

  Skeeter continued taking bets, filling his money pouch and giving out markers while waiting for Stellio to return. Shrill notes from Roman trumpets, sounding the beginning of the opening parade, floated on the clear morning air. A roar went up from the crowd. Skeeter took a few last bets, then spotted Stellio running toward him. The man was panting, mouth hanging open with exertion from his run. Skeeter swallowed hard. He didn't have a tongue.

  "Nrggahh," the poor man said, shoving the pouch into Skeeter's hands.

  He ran off again before Skeeter could say a word in response. Feeling a little queasy still, Skeeter opened the pouch and tipped shining gold into his hand. The slave hadn't cheated him. Fifty gold aurii . . . They glittered in the sunlight, striking glints like lightning against the dark Gobi sky. Skeeter grinned as he counted them back into the pouch, then tightened the drawstring and secured it to his waist. Just wait until Goldie sees these!

  A few stragglers placed bets, mostly with copper coins ranging from full asses through the whole spectrum of its fractions: the sextans, the quadrans and triens, a quincunx, several semis coins, the cheaper septunx, the bes, and dodrans, one dextans and deunx each, and of course, the inevitable and popular uncia. He even got a couple more silver sestercii—then the trumpets signalling the start of the first chariot race sang out.

  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 wine.

  "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 bruised his 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 ende
d 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 slewed 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 me 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 ornrier 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 bogda 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 and 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.

  Chapter Three

  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 growled. "My big matches aren't for hours, yet. Think 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 recrossed 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.