Kit said slowly, -There were some unsuccessful forays into India. An officer might have plundered it, wrapped it carefully, carried it on his person. Then again, by the time of Claudius there were some trade routes open to the East. Or a slave artisan might have carved it from memory. We'll probably never know."
With reverent hands, Robert Li lifted the little multiarmed, multilegged dancer. "Flawless," he whispered. "Absolutely flawless." A low moan of pleasure escaped him as he turned it around and around in his hands, absorbing details with his dark, quick eyes, caressing it with trembling fingertips. "But why would a man who collected those," he gestured toward the small hoard of sexual implements, representations, and brothel art, "want this?"
Margo cleared her throat. "Well, the dance of Kai-Ma and Shiva is sexual in nature. Very much so. They dance the dance of life, meant to regenerate the entire universe each year. Shiva has to die, so his blood will fertilize Kali-Ma, impregnating her so she can give birth to his reincarnated self, plus all the grain crops, the fruits of the earth, the birds and game animals, the deadly snakes that could kill a man within three dizzy steps ..." She trailed off, suddenly uncertain under the stares of all three men, each of whom was qualified at least five times more than she was.
Kit spoke first. "Margo, I see you have been hitting the books hard." He shook his head. He leaned across the corner of the cabinet and ruffled her hair playfully. "You done good, kid. Real good."
Margo's delighted grin brightened the room.
Robert Li smiled, too, then entered the Kali-Ma/Shiva statue into his computer, carefully wrapped it up, and with a sigh-moved to the next piece.
Chapter Twenty
DAWN OF GATE Day left Marcus and Skeeter in a tense sweat. They intended to remain in hiding until nearly ten-thirty that morning, since this was to be a daylight opening. No games, though, which meant Lupus Mortiferus-a man very much smarter than he looked would be there in the crowds on the Via Appia.
"We'll have to watch out for him. He's got his life back," Skeeter groaned, "but I made a fool of him in sight of practically all Rome. Not to mention the Imperator, Claudius. He's going to want blood, and the more he gets, the more his reputation will be soothed. If that happens, blend in with the tourists, offer to carry baggage, anything just get through that gate!"
"Without you?" Marcus asked in a low voice: "Without the man who has brought me safely this far? No, Skeeter, I cannot in good conscience leave you behind to die."
"You ever see Lupus play with his victims?"
Marcus' shudder was his answer.
"You break in, try to stop him from killing me, he'll tear you apart like kindling."
"So we must avoid his notice. Go through carefully, perhaps in disguise?"
Skeeter considered that. "Not a bad idea. With a quick expedition, I could acquire just the right costume for you. At the market," he added, seeing the stricken look on Marcus' face. "Now.. . I'm going to be a little trickier, since I don't have any of my makeup kit with me.,,
"Well, we could always ask the innkeeper to send for a barber. With a close shave and a few changes in costume, you could pass for an Egyptian merchant."
"Close shave, hmm. Just how close are we talking about?"
Marcus' face burned. "Well, Skeeter, you would need to, um, buy an Egyptian robe and neck collar-no Egyptian would be seen in public without one-and then, um ..."
"Yes?" Skeeter, having guessed the reason for the barber and the stalling tactics. He just wanted it confirmed, so no misunderstandings loused up their chances.
Resignation darkening his eyes, Marcus met Skeeter's gaze. "You would need to shave your head bald."
"Bald," Skeeter echoed aloud, his guess confirmed, while to himself he thought, Poor Marcus. He thinks I'll be shocked. He never saw me in Mongolia, thank all the gods of the air. "Very well, I'll go and fetch what we need and when I come back, you can ask the innkeeper to send in a barber."
Marcus hesitated. "Can we afford this?"
Skeeter snorted. "We can't afford not to. Besides, I thought you knew. Several gold aurii were amongst the coins I scooped out of the sand on my victory lap. Quite a few silver denarii and sestercii, too. We can't afford to waste it, but these purchases are necessary."
Marcus nodded. Skeeter rose to his feet and squeezed Marcus' shoulder. "Lock the door, Marcus. If it won't lock, push a couple of chests in front of it, and pray Lupus doesn't trace us here. When I come back, if I say, The weather's going to change,' you'll know I'm being held hostage to catch the other runaway. Get out through that little back window, if you can."
Marcus glanced at it, nodded. He could probably squeeze through. He was no longer as thin as he'd been as a slave, but the time spent in the arena master's household had taken a few pounds off his frame. He could still taste the gruel that had been his only meal for so much of his life. "And if you are alone?"
"I won't say the code words." With that, Skeeter departed, leaving Marcus to move furniture around with deep, scraping sounds and more than a few grunts.
Skeeter was genuinely in his element at the market place, an enormously long colonnaded building which sat right behind the wharves and warehouses along the river's edge, busy with the cargoes from ships that had sailed from gods-only-knew what part of the empire, only to unload at Ostia's deep-water harbor and send their goods upriver on heavy, shallow-water barges. It was just like a mall. He recalled it fondly from the trip here with the unfortunate Agnes. The roofed-over portico ensured a wild babble of voices rising to a roar in the market itself, crowded with slave running errands for their masters, merchants looking over goods with resale-and profit in mind, and everywhere the haggling, shouting, ear-bending roar of voices engaged in bargaining with merchants for a better price.
Skeeter ignored the cacophony. He'd lived in New York, after all, mostly on the streets for several years; by comparison, the market seemed almost quiet: no sirens screaming in the distance, no semi trailer truck horns blaring at smaller cars to get out of the way, not even the screech and roar of taxicabs dodging through the perpetual traffic with the nimble, reckless grace of a gazelle with a leopard snarling hungrily at. its heels.
Intent on his errand, the displayed goods he shouldered his way past did nothing to attract attention to himself. A glance here and there showed fine cloth, imported wines, bulging sacks of wheat for making bread (the staple of a poor man's diet), delicately hand-blown glass vases, baskets, cups, even glass amphorae which rested in wrought-iron tripod stands.
Skeeter dragged his attention back to concentrating on his job. He figured Lupus was going to be skulking around the Via Appia wineshop, so he should be perfectly safe here in his disguise as a toga-wrapped citizen, but he wanted to take no chances whatsoever. It took some time to find what he wanted, not only for his own disguise, but one for Marcus, too. He hoped Marcus didn't mind losing his hair, as well. Frustrated, he skillfully lifted a couple of heavy money purses from distracted Roman men and continued shoving his way through the throng of eager shoppers snapping up the goods that every conquered province was required to send to the capitol. Skeeter looked wistfully at some of the more primitive pieces, reminded of the time spent in a yurt and wanting them, just to remember. But he wasn't here for souvenirs.
He finally discovered what he wanted: a whole booth devoted to Egyptian wares, all of it dreadfully expensive. Good thing I lifted those extra money pouches and dumped them into mine. He bargained with the shopkeeper in his slowly improving Latin, fighting to bring down the prices. He succeeded on two exquisite linen robes, the. pleats sewn down and neatly pressed where they weren't sewn. The shopkeeper moaned, "You have robbed me, Roman," and put on a mournful face that neither of them believed for a single second.
Skeeter said, "Wrap them."
The shopkeeper bowed and did as told.
"What else may I offer to interest your Eminence? Collars? Rings? Ear-bobs?"
Skeeter, who did not have pierced ears-and even if he had, the hole in
his earlobes wouldn't be nearly large enough to wear those earrings-declined the latter with an air of distaste, then perused the collars and rings.
"How much?" he pointed to two collars and several rings.
"Ah, a man of perfect, exquisite taste. For you, only ten thousand sestercii."
"Who is the robber now?" Skeeter demanded, carefully choosing his words from his limited Latin vocabulary.
The bargaining began in earnest, delighting Skeeter, who had spent five years watching-and occasionally taking part in haggling over the price of a pony, a bauble for Yesukai's wife, a strong, new bow. He talked the shopkeeper down by seven thousand, --quite an accomplishment. Glowing inside with pride, Skeeter maintained a polite smile for the shopkeeper, instructing him with the simple words, "Wrap them."
The shopkeeper, who seemed nearly in tears, conjured by who knew what method-wrapped the new items, put them with the parcels containing the robes, and added a small basket for nothing, so Skeeter could carry his purchases. Should've haggled even lower, Skeeter realized, glaring at that innocent basket. Despite the mournful face, Skeeter caught the satisfied gleam in the back of the trader's eyes. Skeeter gestured and his purchases were carefully piled into the basket. Skeeter hefted it, moving and watching carefully lest some pickpocket steal one of his parcels, then left the shopping district.
He returned cautiously to the cramped upper room of the inn where they'd taken refuge, tang great care to ensure he was not followed, then finally knocked on the door. "Marcus, it's me. Shopping's done."
Inside, Marcus waited for the code phrase. When it was not forthcoming, Skeeter heard the scrape of heavy furniture. Then the door opened, barely wide enough for Skeeter to peel himself and his purchases through the slit. He shoved the door closed again and said with a relieved smile. "Did it. Not a tail, not a hint of pursuit."
Marcus was shoving the furniture back into place. "While you were gone, I slipped downstairs and told the innkeeper that my patron was in need of a haircut and shave and could he please send a barber up. The man should be here momentarily."
"If that's the case," Skeeter mused thoughtfully, "this room has got to look normal." He started shoving furniture away from the door, returning each piece to its correct place. Marcus, eyes dark with fear, did the same. Not five minutes later, a knock on the door startled Marcus to his feet.
"Easy. It'll be the barber."
Marcus swallowed, nodded, and went to the door like a man on his way to the executioner. It was the barber. Marcus actually had to lean against the doorjamb to keep his knees from shaking.
"I was told to come," the barber said uncertainly.
"Yes," Marcus said in a good, steady voice, "my patron wishes a haircut." He gestured toward Skeeter, seated regally in one of the better chairs.
"Patron, eh?" the barber asked, glancing from Marcus' peaked, freedman's cap to Skeeter. "Looks like you didn't take that cap too seriously, if you ask me."
Marcus' face burned at the insinuation, but then the barber was moving toward Skeeter. Marcus managed to shut the door.
"Better if we had sunlight," the barber complained.
"Lamplight will do," Skeeter said shortly. "Marcus, explain what I want."
"My patron wishes you to shave his head."
The barber's eyes widened. "Shave it? All of it?"
Skeeter nodded solemnly. "And Marcus' hair must come off, as well."
Behind the barber, Marcus' eyes widened and he put involuntary hands to his longish brown hair.
"But why?" the barber stammered.
"Vermin picked up accidentally."
Marcus, picking up on the cue, added, "I believe we have found most of them and their filthy egg sacs, but to be safe, the patron wants you to shave our heads."
The barber nodded, then, in perfect understanding. "Let me get my things."
In a very short time, neither of them recognized themselves in the polished bronze mirror the barber held up. Nearly bald, the barber having carefully scraped away most of the stubble left over, Skeeter nodded and paid the man. The barber bowed, murmured, "I thank you for the business," then left the room.
"Unless I miss my guess," Skeeter said quietly, while unconsciously running one hand across his bare pate, "we have about half an hour to reach the gate. Here." He tossed a couple of parcels to Marcus, who caught them with a numb, clumsy motion.
Skeeter ripped open his own, glanced up, and said impatiently, "Come on. We haven't much time."
Marcus opened the packages slowly, then gasped. "Skeeter! This ... this must have cost you thousands. How could you pay for such things?" He shucked out of his rough tunic and freedman's cap and slipped on the exquisite robe.
"Lifted a couple of heavy purses. And don't give me that look. Our goddamned lives are at stake."
Marcus only shook his head, regretfully. He slipped on the collar and glittering rings, set with precious gems. Skeeter was already dressed in similar getup when he finished.
"Ready?" Skeeter asked with a grin for the way they looked.
Marcus managed a snort of laughter. "No. But I will come with you, anyway. I want to be rid of Rome forever."
Skeeter nodded and opened the door.
Stepping through it was harder, this time, with his head bare and vulnerable, and wearing enough jewelry to look like a New York drag queen. Marcus closed the door softly behind them, then caught up at the bottom of the staircase. "Let's go," he said roughly.
Skeeter nodded sharply, and led the way to the Via Appia, eyes alert for any sign of Lupus Mortiferus in shadowed streets no bigger than alleyways, in the dark. interiors of wine shops, in the crowd pushing its way past the vast facade of the great Circus. He repressed a shiver, and found the Time Tours wine shop. Men, women, and a fair number of children converged slowly on the shop. Street urchins, their faces filthy, their hollow eyes screaming their hunger, lined both sides of the great road, begging for a few small copper coins from Romans and rich Greeks and Egyptians and others Skeeter didn't recognize. A rich litter carried by sweating slaves approached from the side away from the Circus.
Skeeter narrowed his eyes; then smiled, a chilled, savage smile that caused Marcus, standing courageously straight and alert at his side, to shiver.
"What is it?" Marcus asked in Latin.
Skeeter shook his head, the movement feeling strange without hair to shift about around his ears. "We wait. It is almost time."
The street urchins continued begging in pitiful tones. Some had lost limbs, or were or pretended to be crippled, to increase the sense of pity in those who might give them coins. Skeeter averted his face, judging the timing of the approaching litter. Just as it neared the wine shop, the familiar sound-that-was-not-a-sound began buzzing inside his bald skull.
Now!
Skeeter tossed an entire handful of glittering, gold coins into the center of the street. Begging children scrambled for them, creating a mass of limbs that was impassable. The slaves bearing the litter were caught dead in the center of the miniature storm. The litter swayed dangerously. One slave lost his footing and the litter crashed to the street, accompanied by a high, feminine scream.
"Move!" Skeeter snarled. He dodged around the confusion, Marcus at his heels, and dove into the Time Tours wine shop. He cold-cocked the guard at the sound-proofed door, then yanked it open and ran inside, a juggernaut that no one in the room could stop. He was aware of Marcus at his heels. New arrivals were already pushing their way into the shop, creating confusion, but Skeeter plowed right through them, as well. Cries of protest rose behind him, some of. them from Time Tours guides, then he glanced around, making sure of Marcus, grabbed him by the arm just to be sure, and dove headfirst through the gate. The sensation of falling was genuine: the moment his body hurtled through the portal, he fell flat on the steel grid and rolled violently into the solid railing with leftover momentum.
Marcus slammed into him in much the same manner.
Sirens were already sounding. Skeeter didn't car
e.
"we did it!"
Then he gulped. He'd have an awful fine to pay, crashing the monumentally expensive Porta Romae twice, plus Marcus' fine, which Skeeter had already decided was his own responsibility to pay for having let him down so badly earlier.
"C'mon," Skeeter said more quietly. "Might as well go down and confess to Mike Benson and take our punishment, 'fore they come and slap us in handcuffs."
Marcus' eyes showed fear for just a moment fear, Skeeter realized, that was focused on him, not for his own sake-then he nodded and pushed himself painfully up while Skeeter grabbed for the railing and hauled himself to his own feet. In the crowd below, Mike Benson stood out like an angry beacon. Security men were converging on all the ramps. Skeeter sighed, then started down the one closest to Benson. Marcus followed silently.
The return of Marcus and Skeeter was a nine-day wonder, even for TT-86, which always had something exotically strange to gossip about. But their return, together-that was something unheard of in the station's annals. An uptimer crashing a gate, remaining missing for a whole month, then crashing the gate again, with the missing downtimer? It was a thing to twist and turn and talk and argue over endlessly, late into the station's night and on into the early morning hours, the passage of time hardly noticed under the eternal glow of the Commons' lights. Everyone wondered-and laid bets on how long Marcus and Skeeter would be quarantined in one of Mike Benson's unpleasant cells.
Many another wager was laid on how soon Benson would kick Skeeter's backside through Primary into the waiting arms of prison guards.
The 'eighty-sixers waited, laid their bets, and talked the subject to death with one theory after another to explain the inexplicable why.
And just outside Benson's office door, a gathering of silent downtimers, including Ianira Cassondra and her beautiful little daughters, sat blocking the door, waiting for news or sitting in protest, nobody was quite certain. Many an 'eighty-sixer had been shocked that the downtimers, previously regarded as nonentities, had managed to organize themselves enough to hold a silent but well-orchestrated "sit-in" vigil that Gandhi himself would've been proud to claim.
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