Wagers of Sin

by Robert Asprin

  The great spine of the Circus wasn't solid. It had gaps in it, wide enough for a man to duck into—or through. Skeeter ducked. Lupus swore hideously, his bulk too large to follow. He ran around the long distance of the spine to catch him on the other side. Skeeter simply ran back the other way. The crowd's roar turned to howls of laughter. Lupus' face, when Skeeter glimpsed it, was almost the color of pickled beets. The gladiator, veins in neck and throat standing out in clear relief, charged back down the long wall of the spine.

  Gee, maybe he'll have a stroke and I'll win by default.

  No such luck, though. Lupus scrambled through sideways this time, grunting and cursing at him as he scraped belly and back on rough stone. Skeeter dodged out into the open, where he most profoundly did not want to be, but avoided a deadly sword thrust aimed at his side. Shouts and cries from the stands indicated that someone had gone down. Skeeter's peripheral vision showed him one of the netmen down, left arm upraised in supplication. The crowd was roaring, thumbs turned up. The Emperor copied their motion, jerking his thumb upward from gut to throat.

  The secutore who'd hacked his opponent's leg out from under him plunged the sword through his fallen opponent's chest. The crowd roared its approval. Skeeter ran, Lupus chasing him, and dodged around behind one of the racing chariots, drawing curses from its driver as well as from Lupus. Skeeter caught the harness of one of the horses and hung on, letting the horse save his strength while Lupus fought to get past the encumbering chariot. Down where the dead gladiator lay, a man raced out from the starting stalls and smote the poor bastard a skull-cracking blow from an enormous hammer, then dragged the body away.

  Okay. Thumbs up means you're a gonner and if the guy you're fighting doesn't do it properly, they'll finish you off. Good things to know, Skeeter, my boy.

  He let go of the chariot horse's harness and darted between a pair of circling horsemen, ducking under one horse's belly. The startled animal screamed and reared, blocking Lupus' way. The crowd roared its approval with cheers and laughter. Sweat dripped into his eyes, along with a pall of dust—stirred up from the speeding, circling chariots and horsemen—forcing him to blink tears from his eyes. Not near as bad as a rip-snorting Gobi sandstorm, though, Skeeter decided. He was quite abruptly very glad Yesukai the Valiant had made him go on that hunt so many years previously.

  If I can take a snow leopard with a bow, I can take this bastard.

  Maybe.

  If I'm really damned careful.

  When Lupus closed, Skeeter dove for the ground, rolling under the stabbing swords, and came up with a fistful of sand and a net, both of which he flung at the cursing gladiator. Lupus snarled, swiping at his eyes with the backs of his hands while fighting blindly to free one entangled leg. Skeeter hauled—hard. Lupus went down—harder. The crowd surged to its collective feet, screaming its bloodlust. Lupus hacked at the net, managing to free himself before Skeeter could close with the lethal trident.

  Shit! Goddammit, I don't really want to kill this cretin, but what am I supposed to do? Ask him to dance? Skeeter skipped back out of range while Lupus fought to clear sand from his eyes. Skeeter unwound the lasso from his waist. He formed a hasty loop and swung it easily. A lasso, he knew how to use. Skeeter grinned, a taut, fang-bearing grin. During his brutal training he'd deliberately fumbled the lasso exercises, same as he'd tossed the net with awkward casts. They'd thought it a monstrously funny joke, sending him out with the weapons he'd done poorest with.

  Bless you, Yesukai, wherever you are, for teaching me a sneaky trick or two.

  The crowd roared again, three times in rapid succession as gladiators fell to their opponents and died. The next one was spared and limped bravely from the sands while Skeeter ducked and dodged and felt his own strength ebbing under the cruel sun and Lupus' inexorable stalk.

  Gotta do something spectacular, Skeeter, or it's shish-ka-bob a lá Skeeter as the main course.

  A charioteer went down, dragged behind his spooked horses. The crowd screamed its decision and the other charioteer pursued, stabbing his opponent to death on the run before collecting his prize and leaving the arena under armed escort.

  Okay, so even if you win, a bunch of soldiers are waiting to haul your butt back to barracks. Another good thing to know.

  A slice of fire along his ribs sent the breath rushing out of him in a hiss. He brought up the trident, cursing his momentary lapse of attention, and managed to entangle the bloody sword in the prongs. He gave a heave and a twist and the sword snapped off halfway down. Lupus snarled and lunged forward while the crowd went mad, on its feet and screaming. The cut along his ribs burned like a thousand ant bites. If it'd been a slashing blow instead of a stabbing one, he'd be on his back in the sand, bleeding to death from the deep wound.

  Skeeter stumbled away, too tired to dance lightly on his feet any longer. Lupus grinned and closed in for the kill. Skeeter, unable to think of anything else, began to sing, his voice hoarse with pain and fatigue. Lupus' eyes widened. Skeeter sang on, a wild, hair-raising Yakka Mongolian war song, while the crowd nearest them fell silent, as disbelieving as Lupus. Skeeter pressed the slight advantage and whirled the lasso expertly. It settled over Lupus' body and slid down to the knees. Skeeter jerked. Lupus went down with a startled yell.

  Skeeter couldn't understand individual words in the immense wall of sound that beat down across him, but he gathered the general gist of it was, "Skewer his belly with the trident, you fool!"

  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 a foul 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 kicked 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 hard-packed 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.

  He measured the height critically, glanced at the long spear in his hand, studied the looming marble wall he and his horse thundered toward—and made the only decision he could. He'd mounted horses that way dozens of times, learning to do what the older boys and warriors could do, earning their grudging respect as he mastered skill after skill. He'd never scaled a fifteen-foot wall off the back of a horse, but with the horse's momentum and the long axis of the spear . . .

  It was his only hope. He headed his mount for the starting gates at a rushing gallop, aiming between the tall, semihuman stones that stood on round stone bases between each starting stall. When he was certain the horse wasn't going to shy on him, he stood up in the saddle, drawing a gasp and thunderous roar from the crowd. Skeeter narrowed his eyes, timing it, timing it—and planted the butt of the spear solidly on the pavement in front of the starting stalls. Momentum from the galloping horse and the long arm of the spear helped as he leaped and swung his body up, higher and higher as he twisted like an Olympic pole vaulter, up past the heads of the statues, up past the grillwork on the stalls, up and up past the marble facade of the balustrade . . .

  Then he was over the top, rolling like a cat across an incredibly hard stone floor. His laurel crown, loose around his head, fluttered back down to the arena sands. Shocked officials simply stood rooted, staring open-mouthed at him as he continued the roll and came to his feet, weaponless but free of the suddenly astonished soldiers in the arena below. Then his eyes met the stunned gaze of his one-time friend.

  Marcus, standing behind a richly dressed man who was gaping at Skeeter, ignored everything, even his "master," to stare, jaw slack, even hands slack as he completely failed to write down the winner of this particular bout. Obviously, he still couldn't believe it. What had Marcus told him? Honor was all he had left of his tribe? Skeeter's throat closed. The money in the pouch still tucked through his belt seemed to burn him, saying, I will win your wager. Cut your losses and run, fool!

  Instead, he hurled the heavy prize pouch at Marcus' master. It thumped off his chest and fell to the marble floor with a solid chink of gold. "I'm buying and you're selling," Skeeter snarled in bad Latin. Then, in English, "All debts paid in full, pal. Now run like hell!"

  Without bothering to see if Marcus followed, Skeeter did just that, bursting down the stairs to the street level before the soldiers down there could recover their wits enough to ride him down. Every stride hurt him, hurt his ribs, hurt with the knowledge that he'd lost his wager for sure—

  "This way!" Marcus' voice yelled behind him.

  A hand grabbed his iron collar and forcibly jerked him into a narrow alleyway that wound down around the Aventine Hill away from the Circus. The roar from the great arena was deafening, even at this distance.

  "We've got to get you out of that gladiator's getup or we're lost!" Marcus yelled practically in his ear.

  Skeeter just nodded. The next man they came to,
Skeeter simply tackled and stripped, top to toe. The fellow protested loudly until Marcus, showing a ruthlessness Skeeter had never witnessed, simply kicked him in the head until he passed out.

  "Hurry!" Marcus urged, scanning the street for any sign of pursuit.

  Skeeter wriggled out of his protective sleeve, forming a bag of it with knots at both ends to hold his coins, then skinned into tunic and perniciously awkward toga while Marcus dragged the unconscious man into an alleyway. "Hey, Marcus, know where we might find a blacksmith's shop?"

  Marcus laughed, a little shrilly. "Follow me."

  Skeeter grinned. "Lead the way."

  The blacksmith was close, tucked between a potter's stand and a bakery. Before the blacksmith knew what was up, Skeeter had grabbed a dagger, a sword and a belt, and cutting tools, then he and Marcus were off and running again, dodging into twisting alleyways until Marcus pulled him into a rutted little snaking pathway between tall wooden tenements.

  "Here! Give me the cutting tools! Bend your head!"

  Skeeter did as he was told, even as he strapped the swordbelt on and hid the sleeve full of money in the awkward folds of his badly draped toga. The lock on his collar snapped.

  Skeeter grabbed the tools. "You next."

  "But—I can't pass for a citizen!"

  "Then pass for a freedman!"

  "But I have no freedman's cap or—"

  "Shut up and turn around! We'll get one! Or would you rather get caught by whoever's been sent after us?"

  "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."