He recalled, too, the glint of winter sunlight on sharp steel and the myriad ways of killing a man the people who'd raised him had taught their sons. And as he remembered, Skeeter watched wealthy Romans abuse helpless people and bitterly wished he could introduce the two groups for an intimate little get-together: Roman to Yakka Mongol, steel to steel.
Because that would never happen in Skeeter's sight, he elected himself the Yakka Clan's sole emissary in this city of marble and misery and money. He could hardly wait to start depriving them of serious amounts of gold earned on blood, not just a purse here and there just begging to be lifted by nimble fingers. His long-awaited chance finally came the morning of their last day in Rome. The entire tour group left the inn near dawn.
"Form up in your groups," Agnes called, echoed by other Time Tours guides and even a freelancer or two hired for guiding their employers safely to places not on the main tour, then safely back again. Since Skeeter was closest to Agnes, it was her voice he paid most attention to as they formed up in the silvery, pearl-hued morning. "We'll be taking seats together in the upper tier, which is reserve for slaves and foreigners. Be sure you have the proper coinage with you to purchase admission tickets and don't forget to collect a colored handkerchief to cheer on your favorite racing team. The gladiatorial games will begin after midday, once the racing is completed..."
Skeeter wasn't really listening. He was planning his scheme and trying to recall Marcus' instructions. He had a pouch half full of copper coins, mostly unciae, or one-twelfth of an as, the as being a pound of copper divided into twelve "ounces" (the first coins Romans had minted, according to Agnes). They were- mixed with a few silver denarii and sestercii, plus a few gold aurii on top just to make it look good. Agnes had loaned him the silver and gold coins so he could-as he'd explained it impress local merchants that he really did have money. That way, they'd be less likely to gyp him. "Agnes, I don't want them to think I'm some provincial rube not worth wasting their time on."
And like the sweet girl she was, she'd believed every word.
He wondered how long she'd be able to stomach watching what Romans did to non-Romans. Two weeks was more than enough for him, even without watching the games, and he'd spent five years in the yurts of the Yakka clan.
"Skeeter?"
He glanced up and found Agnes smiling at him. "Yeah"
"Ready?"
"Am I ever!"
Her smile was so enchanting, he kissed her, earning hoots and whistles from half the crowd. She blushed to the roots of her mouse-brown hair.
"All right, people, let's go!"
Skeeter followed eagerly as Agnes led the first group away from the inn Time Tours owned on the Aventine Hill and ushered her charges into the narrow, winding streets of an already crowded, noisy Rome. Games day, Skeeter identified the electric difference from the tours' previous mornings. Skeeter hung back, letting Agnes gain distance. Tourists eager for their first and for many of them, only-look at genuine Roman games surged ahead. Skeeter grinned, then slipped quietly away from the group and headed for the Circus Maximus by the route Marcus had given him two weeks previously.
He knew the entrance he wanted was near the starting gates of the mile-long structure. Shops selling food, wine, commemorative mugs with scenes of chariot racing molded into them, even shops selling baskets and seat cushions did brisk business despite the early hour. The morning air was clear and golden as dawn brightened the hot, Latin sky. The scents of frying peas and sausages mingled with the smell of wine, the stink of caged animals, and the sweat of several thousand men and women pushing their way toward the entrances. A few betting stalls did even brisker business, a sight that made Skeeter all but salivate.
Yesukai, your wandering bogda has done found himself in paradise/
The streets were confusing, though, and so were the entrances. There were more archways into the great Circus than he'd expected. And crowds jammed each one. Which entrance, exactly, had Marcus meant? He walked all the way to the squared-off end of the Circus, down by the stinking Tiber, which flowed past the starting gates just beyond a couple of little temples he recognized from photos. The scream of caged cats and the bleating of zebras assaulted Skeeter's ears. Down here, too, were men stripped to the waist, hauling the great cages into place from barges tied up at the river. Teams of high-strung racing horses fought their handlers, while collared slaves rolled tiny, tea-cup chariots of wicker and wood-into place for the first races. Men and boys who must be charioteers, given the colors of their tunics, stood around in groups, looking deadly earnest as they discussed what must have been last-minute strategy.
Well, Skeeter decided, I'll just pick the nearest entrance to all this and hope for the best. This ought to be just about where Marcus meant.
He found a likely looking spot and prepared to launch his scheme. Although Agnes had taught him some "survival phrases" he hadn't known, Skeeter had begun work several weeks previously. Through that pilfered library account, he'd learned as many Latin phrases as he could, aware he'd need them for his patter, as well as understanding the likeliest responses he'd get back from potential customers. And if he didn't understand something, Skeeter had carefully learned, "Please, I'm just a poor foreigner, your Latin is too complicated. Would you say it more simply?" He'd even researched what kind of markers to give out to those who placed bets. No need to learn how to make payouts ...
Since the gladiatorial fights wouldn't take place until afternoon, Skeeter had a simple plan-collect a ransom in betting money, then simply vanish while the races were on. He'd hightail it back to the inn, apologize to Agnes later this afternoon by claiming he hadn't been feeling well, then tonight when Porta Romae cycled, he'd step back into La-La Land a rich man. And an untouchable rich man, so long as he didn't try to step uptime with any of his winnings.
Rubbing metaphorical hands, Skeeter Jackson looked over the crowd, reined in an impish grin of anticipation, took a deep breath ... and shouted, "Bets, place your bets, gladiatorial combats only, best odds in town ... ."
Within half an hour, Skeeter had begun to wonder if his scheme were going to pan out, after all. Most of the people who approached him declined to wager at all. Those who did were mostly poor people who wagered a copper as, or more likely, one of the cheaper copper coins based on a fraction of an as. Great. Must've picked the wrong damned entrance. He was just about to try a different arched entryway when a lean, grizzled man in his early forties, sporting a short-trimmed head of reddish-blond hair, sauntered over, trailed by a collared slave.
"Bets, eh?" the man said, eyeing 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."