Then she was gone.
Marcus discovered he was shaking with rage. His dislike of Goldie Morran and her sharp tongue and prejudices had just changed in a way that frightened him. Dislike had flared like a fire in high wind, smoldering from a half-burnt lump of coal to a roaring conflagration consuming his soul-and everything foolish enough to come too close.
Marcus was proud of his recently acquired education, which included several languages, new and wonderful sciences that seemed like the magical incantations that made the world run its wandering course through the stars-rather than the stars wandering their courses around it-even mathematics explained clearly enough that he had been able to learn the new ways of counting, multiplying, dividing, learning the basics of multicolumn bookkeeping along with the new tools-all of it adding up to something no scribe or mathematician in all of Ancient Rome could do.
Perhaps a boy from Gallia Comata could be considered half-wild, but even as a chained, terrified boy of eight, he had known perfectly well how to bathe and had amused his captors by requesting a basin each night to wash the dirt and stinking fear sweat off his skin.
He actually jumped when Skeeter spoke.
"Vicious old harpy," Skeeter said mildly, his demeanor as perfectly calm as his person was neat and eternally well groomed. "She'll do anything to throw her competition off form." He chuckled. "You know Marcus here, sit down again-I would dearly love to see someone scam her."
Marcus sat down and managed to hold his sudden laughter to a mere grin, although he could not keep it from bubbling in his eyes. "That would be something to witness. It's interesting, you know, watching the two of you circle, probe defenses, finally sending darts through chinks in one an other's armor."
Skeeter just stared at him.
Marcus added, "You both are strong-willed, Skeeter, and generally get exactly what you want from life, same as Goldie. But I will tell you something important." In this one particular case, at least, Ianira was not the only "seer" in his family. The story was there, plain to witness for anyone who simply bothered to look, and knowing people as he did, the future was not difficult to predict. He finished his beer in one long swallow, aware that Skeeter's gaze had never left his face.
"Goldie, ' Marcus said softly, "has declared war upon you, Skeeter, whether you welcome it or no. She reminds me of the Mediterranean sharks that followed the slave ship, feeding off those who died. No ... the sharks did only what they were made to do. Goldie is so far gone in the enjoyment of her evil deeds, there is no hope of salvaging anything good from her."
He returned Skeeter's unblinking gaze for several moments. Then his friend spoke, almost coldly as Goldie had. "Meaning you think me worth salvaging. Is that it, friend?"
Marcus went ice-cold all through. "You are a good man, Skeeter," he said earnestly, leaning forward to try and make his friend understand. "Your heart is as generous as your laughter. It is merely my hope that you might mend your morals to match. You are a dear friend to me. I do not enjoy seeing you suffer."
Skeeter blinked. "Suffer?" He began to laugh. "Marcus, you are truly the wonder of the ages." His grin melted a little of the icy fear in Marcus' heart. "Okay, I'll promise I'll try to be a good little tourist in Rome, all right? I still want to do that betting, but nothing more devious than that. Satisfied?"
Marcus sagged a little in his chair. "Yes, Skeeter. I am." Feeling more hopeful than he had in months, he was forced to apologize for having to abandon his friend so soon after coming to a somewhat uneasy understanding of one another's intentions in this odd friendship. "I am most sorry, my friend, but I must return to work, before the manager returns from watching the Porta Romae cycle, and I have not yet finished all the chores he set me to do. Go with the gods when you step through Porta Romae, Skeeter. Thank you for the beer. And the company."
Skeeter's grin lit up his face again. "Sure. Thank you. See you in a couple of weeks, then. "
Marcus smiled, then busied himself cleaning vacated tables and wiping down the bar. Skeeter Jackson strolled out like a man about to own the world.
CHAPTER TWO
Agnes Fairchild was a nice girl. Not too pretty, but sweet and generous. And great in bed. By skeeter's standards, the shy, academic types were often the most fun: overcoming their inhibitions and showing them a thing or two about mad, wet sex was as good as getting a stunning "10" into bed. He often regretted the fact that his lovers never stayed with him long, but, hey, there were new women coming through La-La Land all the time. And after Skeeter's childhood experiences, he was not choosy about looks. Willingness and sincerity were what counted. A knockout in your own bed was great. But a bombshell in somebody else's bed was no fun at all.
So when Agnes Fairchild walked into Skeeter's life, he was more than pleased. And when she opened up the chance to do some scheming outside the time terminal, he showered her with every charm at his command. She even taught him enough Latin to get by in case they were separated-which he wouldn't and did not allow to happen-not until the day of the games. Agnes was good at her job, too. Skeeter enjoyed tagging along with her tour group almost as much as he enjoyed a passionate lover willing to share intimacy during sultry Roman nights. The ancient city come to life was like a Hollywood movie set to Skeeter-but a movie set full of real people with real money he could pry loose from real hands that wouldn't miss a few pilfered coins, because they were all dead already.
Of course, he didn't tell Agnes that. He just enjoyed her company and sights like Augustus' giant sundial and the huge Emporium of market stalls that backed the wharves and warehouses of the Porticus Aemeha -- where he picked up a bit of profit with light-fingered skill-and bided his time while charming everyone from the richest billionaire in the group-whose money pouch Skeeter coveted-to the smallest, wide-eyed little girl who called him "Unk Skeeter." He even liked tickling and teasing her when she tickled and teased him. She was cute. Skeeter had discovered to his surprise that he liked kids. There'd been a time when the sight of another child-particularly boys-had made his blood run cold.
Long time ago, Skeeter. Long, long time ago. You're not everybody's bogda any more. You're not anybody's bogda anymore. And that was the best part of all. As long as he kept up the con games, the swindles, the mastery of skills a-bitter, deadly childhood had taught him, Skeeter Jackson would never again be anybody's isolated, lonely, private tribal spirit-in-the-flesh, a position that had, much of the time, amounted to that of victim, unable to retaliate when teased, taunted, or hooted at in careful privacy by the other boys, because it was unseemly behavior for a bogda to roughhouse, no matter what the provocation. So he'd developed the knack of endurance and remained a victim because that was the only thing he could do, other than steal the belongings of certain tormentors and plant them in the yurts of other tormentors. He'd grown skilled at the game and enjoyed the results with bitter, malicious glee.
And all of that was something few people understood, or ever could understand, because Skeeter would sooner die than admit any of it to those who hadn't already figured it out for themselves.
He wondered, sometimes, if his friend Marcus carried memories as frightening as his own? After two weeks in Rome, he was convinced of it. After witnessing what went on casually on the streets, he deliberately asked Agnes to take him to see the slave markets. What he found there ... well, if Skeeter had harbored any shred of scruple, it was erased by the sights and sounds of that place.
Anything he stole from any rich Roman bastard was money the wretch deserved to lose: The more, the better. For a moment, Marcus' words about him and his standing with Goldie Morran made sense. There were levels and levels of depravity. Compared to these pros, Skeeter was a saint. He watched through narrowed eyes endless parades of rich, arrogant Roman men carried through the streets in fancy sedan chairs and recalled the bitter cold winds which swept endlessly across the steppes where he'd grown to teenhood.