"Linda Evans - Time Scout 2 - Wages of Sin" - читать интересную книгу автора (Evans Linda)

groups, looking deadly earnest as they discussed what must have been last-
minute strategy.
Well, Skeeter decided, I'll just pick the nearest entrance to all this and
hope for the best. This ought to be just about where Marcus meant.
He found a likely looking spot and prepared to launch his scheme. Although
Agnes had taught him some "survival phrases" he hadn't known, Skeeter had
begun work several weeks previously. Through that pilfered library account,
he'd learned as many Latin phrases as he could, aware he'd need them for his
patter, as well as understanding the likeliest responses he'd get back from
potential customers. And if he didn't understand something, Skeeter had
carefully learned, "Please, I'm just a poor foreigner, your Latin is too
complicated. Would you say it more simply?" He'd even researched what kind of
markers to give out to those who placed bets. No need to learn how to make
payouts ...
Since the gladiatorial fights wouldn't take place until afternoon, Skeeter
had a simple plan-collect a ransom in betting money, then simply vanish while
the races were on. He'd hightail it back to the inn, apologize to Agnes later
this afternoon by claiming he hadn't been feeling well, then tonight when
Porta Romae cycled, he'd step back into La-La Land a rich man. And an
untouchable rich man, so long as he didn't try to step uptime with any of his
winnings.
Rubbing metaphorical hands, Skeeter Jackson looked over the crowd, reined
in an impish grin of anticipation, took a deep breath ... and shouted, "Bets,
place your bets, gladiatorial combats only, best odds in town ... ."
Within half an hour, Skeeter had begun to wonder if his scheme were going
to pan out, after all. Most of the people who approached him declined to wager
at all. Those who did were mostly poor people who wagered a copper as, or more
likely, one of the cheaper copper coins based on a fraction of an as. Great.
Must've picked the wrong damned entrance. He was just about to try a different
arched entryway when a lean, grizzled man in his early forties, sporting a
short-trimmed head of reddish-blond hair, sauntered over, trailed by a
collared slave.
"Bets, eh?" the man said, eyeing Skeeter appraisingly. "On the combats?"
"Yes, sir," Skeeter grinned, trying to hide the sudden pounding of his
pulse. Judging by the gold the man wore and the embroidery on his tunic, this
guy was rich.
"Tell me, what odds do you place on the bout with Lupus Mortiferus?"
"To win or lose?"
A flicker of irritation ran through dark amber, lupine eyes. "To win, of
course."
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