Free Requiem for a Slave by Rosemary Rowe Page B

and tallow grease), and despite the blindfold round the head, I was uncomfortably aware of the memory of those bulging eyes – as if the dead man was somehow staring through the cloth.
    I was glad that we had moved the body earlier; it made it easier to turn our backs on it, though I had an eerie feeling that it was watching me – reproachful because I hadn’t gone to find his mother first. But the turnip-seller seemed to be free of such uncomfortable fantasies and he was already kneeling by the plaque and laying hold of the linen backing piece. So I suppressed my fancies and, with his help, I shuffled the whole plaque on to the tray, stuffed strips of cloth around it and lashed it into place. Then between us we carried it out on to the barrow. It fitted, in a fashion, though it was precarious. Then we went back and gathered up the extra tiles into another length of cloth, knotted it securely into a roll and wedged the bottom of the load with it, so it could not slip forwards if the barrow lurched. The whole thing looked incongruous, but all the same it was a great relief to have it safely out.
    And just in time, it seemed. There was an unfamiliar sound of wheels and jangling chains, and the military cart came lurching into view, moving slowly in the narrow, muddy confines of the road. It was not forbidden to bring horse-drawn transport here during the hours of daylight, as it was within the walls (and anyway this was an army vehicle and would have been exempt) but the area was not designed for wagons of this size. There was barely room for it to inch along. I leaned against the wall and tried to look insouciant, as though I had been waiting there since Quintus left.
    The turnip-seller, however, was not content with this. He glanced towards the barrow. ‘This looks out of place with a mosaic on – they’ll notice it for sure. I’ll take it round and put it in the alley while they’re here.’ He seized the wooden handles and made as if to trundle the whole thing out of sight.
    I shook my head. ‘That would only take you past them. Go the other way. Push it a little further down the road,’ I urged. ‘That will arouse much less suspicion than you going skulking by the midden-heap. These soldiers have no idea that you have been with me – to them you are just another vendor with a barrow in the street. They won’t know what’s on it, if you take it far enough.’ I saw him hesitate, and added urgently, ‘When they’ve taken Lucius, we can decide what we do next. But move quickly if you’re going to. They are almost here.’
    They were indeed: one obviously senior soldier with a swagger stick, and two reluctant younger ones behind him with the horse. The older one, whom I had nicknamed ‘Scowler’ in my mind, was already striding purposefully towards us.
    The turnip-seller must have seen him coming too. He did not even glance in my direction as he said, ‘I could always take it to the site for you. I know where it is – the villa is even on my own route home. When you’ve been to see the woman, I will meet you there and take the barrow back.’ He gave a fleeting grin. ‘That’s worth another half-sestertius, don’t you think, citizen?’ And, without waiting for an answer, he set off down the street. I swear I heard a distant cry of ‘Turnips!’ as he went.
    ‘Are you this pavement-maker we’ve been sent to find?’ Scowler was barking the question in my ear.
    I turned to face him. He was standing close beside me: deliberately close, in a posture designed to be threatening. His feet, in their hobnailed sandals, were planted wide apart and he carried a helmet tucked beneath one arm, while the other hand rested lightly on his hip, the fingers caressing the handle of the baton at his belt. His head was tilted arrogantly back.
    ‘Well?’ he said.
    I looked him up and down. The man was swarthy, crop-haired and stocky, with a self-important air, though the chain-mail tunic and the sweat-stained leather