Something hard grazed his shoulder. Skeeter yelled, went under, strangled ... then caught at something that splashed down right in front of him. He was lifted completely out of the water. For an instant, he was face-to-face with an astonished slave rowing a large boat. The man was so shocked, he dropped the oar. Skeeter plunged like a rock back into the river. A tremendous backwash sent water into his sinuses. But he hung onto the oar and managed to drag his head above water again. He blinked river water and hair out of his eyes, coughing weakly and drawing in shuddering lungfuls of air that only set him coughing harder.

The boat above him was a shallow-draft thing that looked like a pleasure yacht of some sort. Rowers all along the side leaned over to stare at him. Several oars fouled badly, cracking into one another like gunshots. The whole yacht ewed in the water.

Great. Talk about not attracting attention.

A glance over one shoulder revealed Lupus Mortiferus on the bank, shaking his fist and cursing inaudibly. Just get one out of this one, God, and I swear I'll never come back to Rome again. I'll stick to obnoxious tourists and government bureaucrats and other deserving UPtimers. Skeeter clung to the oar, pulled along by the yacht's momentum for a couple of moments, allowing him to regain his breath; then an overseer stalked to the gunwales to see what was fouling the oars.

"What the-"

Skeeter lost most of the curse in the translation, but the general gist seemed to be, "Get the hell off my oar!"

Skeeter was about to marshall a sob story to convince the guy to let him climb aboard when the s.o.b. snaked out a whip that caught Skeeter right across the hands. Pain blossomed like acid. He yelled and let go involuntarily-and plunged back into the river. Skeeter snorted a noseful of water before he managed to kick his way back to the surface.

Gotta get to shore ... before I ... wear out and drown. That gold was heavy. But the few minutes' rest clinging to the oar had helped. Skeeter struck out for the nearest bank, which thankfully was opposite the Circus and the wrathful Lupus Mortiferus. By the time he reached the riverbank and crawled out, sodden tunic clinging to his thighs and back, Skeeter was shaking with exhaustion. But he still had the gold. And he was still alive.

He'd just begun to celebrate those two facts with a shaky grin when a terrifying, familiar voice shouted, "There! He's there!"

Lupus Mortiferus had crossed a bridge Skeeter hadn't even noticed.

And he had friends with him.

Big, mean, ugly-looking ones.

Skeeter swore shakily under his breath and shoved himself to his feet. Can't possibly outrun 'em.. Hell, he could scarcely stand up. Out-talk 'em? Convince 'em the whole scam had been a simple miscommunication? In English, he could probably have pulled it off. But not in Latin. The language handicap made that impossible. Wondering what Romans did with confidence men they caught-a roar of voices from the Circus gave him a clue-Skeeter looked wildly around for some way out of this.

What he saw was a group of horse handlers loading racing teams onto a barge for the trip across to the Circus. The horses were between him and the group of enraged gladiators. Skeeter didn't have many skills, but living in a yurt of the Yakka Clan, one thing he had learned to do was ride. If it had four legs and hooves, Skeeter could ride it.

So he ran straight toward the men hunting him and caught a glimpse of shocked amazement on Lupus Mortiferus' face. Then he said to a surprised animal handler, "Excuse me, but I need that," and snatched the bridle of the nearest racehorse still on shore. He was on the animal's back in a flash. The startled horse reared and screamed, but Skeeter had stayed with horses ornerier than this. He slammed heels into the animal's flanks and brought its head and forelegs down with a savage jerk on the reins. The horse got the message: This ain't no novice rider on, my back.

Skeeter hauled the horse's head around and kicked the animal into a fast gallop. The racing handlers yelled and cursed him, but he put distance between himself and all his pursuers in nothing short of miraculous time. This horse could run.

Skeeter laughed in sheer delight and leaned low over the animal's neck. The whipping mane caught his face with a wiry sting-The muscles bunching under his thighs rippled in perfect rhythm. He missed the iron Mongol stirrups, shaped like the tips of Dutch wooden shoes, to which he'd grown accustomed, but he hadn't lost his sense of balance-and he'd learned to ride bareback, just to prove to Yesukai that he could, and hopefully to be permitted the chance at learning to ride proper ponies with proper saddles.

Pedestrians scattered out of his way with curses and screams. He laughed again at the horse's astonishing speed. "Must've liberated me a champion!"

It was several years overdue, but Skeeter had finally completed his manhood ritual. Wow! Finally! My first real horse-thieving raid! Too bad no Yakka clansmen were around to witness it and celebrate the occasion.

The Yakka khan had not permitted Skeeter to go along on such raids, fearing his funny little bogda might be injured, which would bring bad luck. Skeeter grinned. Never thought I'd get a chance to do this. Not bad for a kid who fell through an unstable gate and ended up in a place nobody thought he'd survive!

He hated to give the horse up.

But riding a stolen race horse through Rome while its handlers and several really pissed-off gladiators were chasing him was not a smart move. And neither his Mama nor-particularly-his foster Mama had raised a fool. In fact, Yesukai's stolen bride had not only accepted her marriage, but had begun to rule her husband's yurt like a queen born to the task and, alone among strangers, she had adopted the funny little bog who was in much the same predicament, teaching him a great deal and smiling on him with great favor.

So, having learned caution from both his adoptive parents, Skeeter pulled the animal to a walk, cooling him out, then halted as soon as he dared and patted the beast on the neck. Dried sweat clung to his hand.

"You did good by me, fella. Thanks. I owe you. Too bad I can't make it up to you."

The horse blew softly into his face and nudged his chest, friendly-like. "Yeah," Skeeter said with a smile, stroking the velvety-soft nose, "me, too. But I gotta run an you've gotta race."

He tied the reins to the nearest public fountain, so the horse could at least get a drink of water, then set out to find himself a good, deep hidey-hole until the Porta Romae cycled sometime near midnight. The jingling of gold in the pouch at his waist sounded like victory.

Skeeter grinned.

Not a bad day's work.

Not bad at all.

Lupus Mortiferus didn't like losing.

In his line of work, defeat meant death. And like most gladiators, losing a wager was an almost omenlike foreshadowing of trouble to come. The Wolf of Death, as the School had named him, was going to find that miserable street vermin and shake his money loose, or see him die in the arena for thievery.

All he had to do was find him.

He and his friends stood muttering in a group as the cheat escaped on Sun Runner, one of the greatest champions ever to run in the Circus. The handler was beside himself with fury. Already several other handlers had mounted to give chase, but the thief had a good lead on a fast horse. Lupus Mortiferus didn't hold out much hope that anyone would catch the rat.

"So," Quintus nudged him with an elbow, "you were gonna make a hundred-fifty aurii, just like that, huh?"

"Guess the Wolf isn't as smart as he thought," another friend laughed. "Getting a little long in the tooth and a little short on savvy?"