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

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.
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