Skeeter didn't. Lupus hadn't asked for quarter, but Skeeter wasn't about to take the man's life unless ordered to do so. And maybe not even then. What happened to a gladiator who refused the express orders of crowd and Emperor? That maniac with the hammer probably crushes your skull or something. While Skeeter was thinking such happy thoughts, Lupus hacked at the rope binding his legs. It gave way with a snap, leaving Skeeter with half the length of the original lasso. He took to his heels, fashioning another knot and threading it as he ran--and then it happened.
The answer to all those prayers he'd sent heavenward.
A mounted andabate, mortally wounded by his opponent, toppled to the sand. While the crowd was cheering and the victor was collecting his prize and the hammer-happy executioner was making damned sure the poor sap was dead, the loose horse ran within lassoing distance. Skeeter flipped the rope expertly and tightened it down. The poor horse reared once, half-heartedly, more confused than ornery. Skeeter ran toward it, leaping into the saddle with old skill he'd never quite forgotten. There were no stirrups, as there had been on Mongolian ponies, but the saddle was a good one and the horse, after one snort, settled down and responded to the hastily gathered reins.
Skeeter whirled the animal's head around and caught a glimpse of Lupus gaping up at him. Skeeter laughed aloud, started his war song again, and charged, trident lowered like a medieval jousting lance. Lupus hurled himself out of the way, barely missing the horse's thundering hooves. The crowd went maniacal. Even the Emperor had straightened in his chair, leaning forward intently.
Wonder if this is afoul or just something they didn't expect?
Skeeter worked Lupus in circles, harried him with the tip of the long trident, tripping him up and letting him rise again, just to let his opponent-and the crowd-know he was toying with a doomed -victim. Skeeter's blood sang in his veins. This was living! Driving your opponent back against the wall, looking him in the eye and seeing nothing but shock and dawning terror ... .
Lupus tried to bring up the single remaining blade he carried, but Skeeter caught it in the prongs of the trident and ripped it out of his grasp. A collective gasp went up from the crowd. Unarmed, Lupus snarled up at him, then grabbed the trident. For a few seconds, no more although it seemed like minutes-they played tug-of-war, Skeeter skillfully backing and turning his mount with legs and reins. Lupus was forced to follow, putting all his weight into the effort of wresting the trident loose.
Skeeter glanced along the barrier wall of the long spine and felt his heart leap with wicked joy. A long, long hunting spear from an earlier fight had tumbled to the sand at the foot of some enormous, golden goddess in a chariot drawn by lions. Skeeter grinned, and let go of the trident. Lupus staggered backwards and fell, wounding himself inadvertently as he went down, the weight of the trident's barbs cutting one arm and drawing blood on his bare chest.
Under a solid wall of noise from a hundred thousand human throats, Skeeter licked his mount into a startled gallop and leaned forward and down, his head mere inches from the wall of the spine. A miscalculation at this speed would be death-then he closed his hand around the hunting spear, clutching it solidly in one hand. He whirled his mount around, bringing the long shaft up and around even as he regained his seat in the saddle. Then he charged, spear held like a medieval lance.
Lupus parried awkwardly with the trident, a weapon he was clearly not accustomed to using. Skeeter raced past at full speed, passed the turning post at the far end of the straightaway, then whirled and sent his horse leaping over a tiny shrine on a circular pedestal set right down on the track. Another gasp went up from the crowd. If that was sacrilege, sorry about that, whoever you're dedicated to.
Whoever it was, they didn't seem to mind.
The crowd started chanting what sounded at first like "mercy," then resolved into a single word: "Murcia! Murcia! Murcia!"
Skeeter had no idea who or what Murcia was. The only thing of immediate concern to him was the stumbling figure of Lupus Mortiferus ahead, trying to bring the trident around, its tines aimed low this time, to catch his horse. Skeeter windmilled the spear in his grasp, letting it slide butt-first until he gripped it near the lethal tip. At the last second, he jerked his mount's head, sweeping past just out of range of the trident. The solid butt-end of the spear clanged against Lupus' head with such force that it lifted the gladiator off the sands, bent in his helmet, and hurled him at least four feet across the arena floor.
Skeeter whirled his mount for another charge, but there was no need. Lupus didn't stir on the sands. He was-thank all gods-still breathing, but he was clearly down, and out for the count. The crowd had gone absolutely mad, waving colored handkerchiefs, screaming words he couldn't begin to translate, throwing flowers, even coins, through the high fence and across the wide gap of water. Skeeter drew another wild burst of enthusiasm when he dipped from one side to another, scooping up anything that gleamed silver or gold in the sands.
He ended in front of the Emperor, sitting his mount easily, breathing quickly and lightly against the fire in his side where Lupus' sword had grazed him. The Emperor met his gaze for long moments. Skeeter, who had met without flinching the gaze of the man who'd sired Genghis Khan, stared right back at Claudius, neither of them speaking. The Emperor glanced at the crowd, at the fallen champion, then back to the crowd. Then, with a swift gesture, he drove his, thumb down, sparing a brave man's life with a single movement.
Skeeter would've sagged with relief and exhaustion had he not faced a yet worse challenge: escaping the Circus alive. He had absolutely no intention of being hauled back to that training camp in chains. The Emperor was beckoning him forward. Skeeter moved his horse closer. A slave ran from the Emperor's box and hurled a laurel crown and a heavy sack down to him. Skeeter caught them, felt the bulge of coins inside, knew the prize was a really big one and felt the skin of his face stretching into a savage grin as he donned his honest-to-God victory crown.
All he had to do now was figure out a way to: One, escape the soldiers who were even now galloping toward him from the starting stalls-which had already been shut behind them; Two, figure a way over that high iron fence; Three, somehow rescue Marcus from his so-called master; and Four, hide out until the Porta Romae cycled again.
After what he'd just been through, his impudent mind whispered, Piece of cake. The rest of him, aware how close it had been, resumed intense prayers to Anyone who'd listen. Even the mysterious Murcia, with his or her little shrine down in the track itself, next to a scraggly little tree growing from the hardpacked sand.
He caught a thrown handkerchief, which landed on the sands nearly at his horse's hooves, with the tip of his spear and brought it up, snapping bravely in the wind of his horse's canter as he rode toward the soldiers, carrying that handkerchief like the pennon of victory it was. He tucked the coins he'd scooped from the sand into the quilted, chain-studded sleeve that protected his net arm, shoved the money pouch's leather thong into his waistband, and sent his horse flying past the soldiers in a sweeping victory lap of the Circus. The crowd was on its feet, hurling money at him which he scooped up as best he could on the gallop, aiming for golden gleams in the sand. And as he rode, Skeeter looked for a way-any way-out of this pit of sand and death. He rounded the far turn, mounted soldiers riding easily behind him, and headed down the long sweep of the straightaway toward the starting stalls, with their wooden doors, metal grills set above into marble, and above that, the open balustrade where officials stood, having doubtless watched with delight the show he'd put on saving his skin.