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.