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 Stelho 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 guadrans and trims, 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 signaling 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 ovine.

"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 bruise 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 ended 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.