"The Praetorian Guard?" Marcus shuddered and bent his head. Skeeter went to work on the lock holding his friend's collar in place. The lock gave with a screech, then broke. Marcus jerked the collar loose with a low snarl.
"I have been keeping track of the days. The Porta Romae cycled last night."
Skeeter swore. "Then we hide out for two weeks and make our getaway next cycle. Broad daylight'll work to our benefit, anyway. More chances for a diversion to get you back through."
Marcus paused, dark eyes blazing with unspoken emotion.
"Don't mention it. All in the package deal. One combat, two escapes. C'mon, let's make tracks before those guards figure out which alleyway we dodged down.
They waylaid a hapless freedman by simply racing past him and snatching off his peaked cap. They rounded two corners and Marcus jammed it onto his own head.
"Hope he didn't have head lice," Marcus grumbled.
Skeeter laughed aloud. "Rachel Eisenstein will disinfect you nicely, if he did. And I don't think Ianira would give a damn even if Rachel didn't disinfect you. Okay, one more block, down that little alley, then we slow down to a nice leisurely walk, a citizen and his freedman out for a stroll ... ."
About ten minutes later, mounted Praetorian guardsmen tore past them, searching the crowds for a fleeing gladiator and his collared companion. Marcus waited until they were out of sight to sigh in heartfelt relief. Skeeter grinned. "See? Told you it'd be a piece of cake." He didn't mention that his knees were a little weak and his insides shook like gelatin in a blender.
Marcus glared at him. "You did not say any such thing, Skeeter Jackson!"
His grin widened. "No. But I thought it, to give myself the nerve to try pole-vaulting out. And look at us, now; we're alive and we're free. Let's keep it that way, if it's all right by you."
Dark emotion bubbled up in Marcus' eyes again. "It is very much all right by me."
"Good. I think I see an inn up ahead. Know anything about it?"
Marcus peered through the crowd. "No. But this is a good part of town. It should be safe enough and serve food worth eating."
"Sounds good to me." He chuckled. "Nothing like that proverbial purloined letter."
"The what?"
"A story I read once. Sherlock Holmes. Best place to hide something is right out in the open, where nobody expects to find it."
Marcus laughed, not from mirth but from sheer amazement.
"Skeeter Jackson, you astonish me more and more the longer I know you."
Skeeter rubbed the side of his nose, feeling heat creep into his face. "Yeah, well, I've had an interesting sorta life. I'd about ten times rather have a great wife and a couple of kids, right about now. Hell, I'd settle for a friend." Marcus cast a glance in his direction, but didn't speak. Skeeter felt the silence like a punch to his gut. He dragged in a deep breath, even that hurting, and muttered, "Okay, here we go. Your Latin's better than mine and something tells me rich guys don't do the dickering."
Marcus smiled. "You learn quickly. Keep closed your mouth and no one will be the wiser."
Skeeter grinned, then dutifully closed his mouth, shook loose some coins, and handed several of the silver ones over. "That be enough?"
"I'd say so. Now hush and let me play the hero this time."
They stepped into the cool quiet of the inn and met the bright smile of the proprietor. Marcus launched into Latin too rapid to follow, but it got results. They were taken to a private room and shortly were feasting on chilled wine, roasted duckling, and a pot of boiled beef and cabbage. Skeeter ate until he couldn't hold another bite.
"Gawd, that was heavenly.
Marcus wiped his mouth and nodded. "Much better than wheat gruel." He paused, then added awkwardly, "If-if you will take that tunic off, Skeeter, I will wash and bandage your injuries."
Skeeter didn't argue. His wounds stung and burned every time he moved in his stolen garments of wool. Marcus tore up some of the bedding and laved the long slice with clean water, then wound strips of cotton around Skeeter's torso. "There. That should keep the blood from seeping out and giving you away." He cautiously dabbed at the stains on the side of the tunic, which the long toga had hidden. Most of them came out with the application of cold water. Marcus finished that chore and hung up the tunic to dry, then cleared his throat. "If you will give me the sword, I will stand guard. You are exhausted, Skeeter. Sleep. Anyone looking for you will have to kill me."
Skeeter held his gaze for a moment and realized Marcus meant it. He didn't know what to say. Maybe ... just maybe ... all those prayers he'd uttered back at the start of the fighting had given him back not only his life, but a chance at winning back the friendship he'd so thoughtlessly shattered?
Because he couldn't have spoken to save his half-wild soul, Skeeter sank back on the denuded mattress without a single word and was asleep before Marcus had finished setting aside the dishes from their meal. His final thought was, if I do have a second chance, don't let me screw it up. Please.
Then all was silence and peaceful sleep while Marcus stood guard over him, placing his life between Skeeter and the door.
Goldie Morran spent an unhappy two weeks, waiting with the rest of TT-86 for word of Skeeter Jackson. As she'd discovered already, she didn't want Skeeter dead. Kicked off the station had seemed like a grand idea, but now ... all she could do was wonder what he was up to downtime. Rescuing Marcus? She snorted. Goldie really couldn't credit that, Dr. Mundy and vidcam evidence notwithstanding. A person could always interpret a bit of evidence ten different ways from Sunday. Besides, Skeeter was too much like Goldie to spend his time rescuing a worthless slave when he could be scamming so much gold downtime, she'd never catch up. Of course, Brian might disallow it, on the grounds that the wager was on hold. Or, she shuddered delicately behind her cold, glass-top counters-that dratted librarian might just decide that since Skeeter would have had no way of knowing the wager was on hold, his earnings would count.
Curse the boy!
She was theoretically ahead, with more than half the bet's term left to run. If Skeeter returned.
What if Skeeter never returned? Some people thought Goldie was a heartless sociopath. She wasn't although she put out considerable effort to seem that way. So if Skeeter Jackson, never mind that nice kid who tended bar at the Down Time never came back, she'd have their fates on her conscience.
And backstabbing cheat that she knew herself to be, that was something she knew she couldn't live with. Please, she whispered silently, bring them back. l miss that obnoxious little bastard. She was discovering she actually missed watching that boy con tourists out of cash, cameras, wristwatches, wallets, and anything else he could lift to turn a buck. She even missed the arguments over whiskey and beer at the Down Time while tourists who wandered in watched, goggle eyed .... I miss them. Bring them back, please. Whatever I felt before, l never meant for this to happen.
Goldie didn't realize she was crying until the tears dripped with a soft splash onto her glass counter. When she sniffed and looked around to find a handkerchief, she found a young Asian woman she'd never laid eyes on standing in front of her counter. The girl offered a clean, beautifully embroidered handkerchief.
"Here, Miss Mon-an, you are hurting. You have much to be sorry for, but we understand."
Without another word, she slipped out of Goldie's shop, moving with the unobtrusive grace of a girl trained in one of the finest geisha houses in Japan. Goldie stared at the embroidered handkerchief, stared at the doorway, then very slowly dried her face and blew her nose. It wasn't easy, facing the fact that if those two boys didn't return, it would be largely her fault.