A titter of laughter ran around the room. Malcolm didn't join in. Everyone had been shown photographs in advance to prevent the disaster of someone laughing at the disfigured emperor should they accidentally stumble across an Imperial procession. Margo, not knowing any better, laughed too, then turned a puzzled glance toward him.
"What's wrong, Malcolm?- she asked anxiously. "That was funny. Wasn't it?"
"No. It wasn't."
She studied his face for a moment. "Why not? You've seen him, haven't you?"
"Yes. That's precisely why I don't find it funny."
Margo's brows drew together, but she didn't respond flippantly. Good. She was learning. Up near the front of the room, the Time Tours guide said, "All right, everybody ready? Any last questions? Good. Let's have some fun!"
Malcolm said quietly, "When we get to the street, it's okay to stare at the buildings. You're dressed- like a provincial; it'll be expected."
Margo nodded eagerly. The shine had returned to her eyes.
The door to the street opened once more to a bedlam of noise. Margo craned her neck to see outside, but was too short to see over the people between them and the door. The line moved forward slowly. The tour was permitted to leave in small groups of no more than three or four plus porters and guides. It always took a while to assemble a group for departure or to disperse a newly arrived tour without raising suspicion about the number of people entering and leaving the wineshop.
"Defer to anyone wearing a toga," Malcolm went on as soon as the door closed and Margo's attention returned to him. "If you encounter a member of the Praetorian Guard, try to look like the humblest, least important worm on the streets. You don't want to catch a Guardsman's attention. If I tell you to do something, do it fast and ask why later."
"Okay. What's the Praetorian Guard look like?"
"Roman soldiers. If you see anyone dressed like the soldiers in Ben Hur, get out of the way."
"They look like soldiers? Helmets with plumes, metal breastplates, little skirts, all that?"
"They don't just look like soldiers, Margo, they are soldiers. Bloody arrogant ones, at that."
Margo smiled. "Your accent's slipping, Malcolm."
He rubbed the end of his nose. "Well, yes. But the Praetorian Guard is something you don't want to tangle with. A lot of them are Germans. There taller -a lot taller than Romans. Now, about another important matter, have you studied the money?"
Margo groaned. "A little. Mostly I was trying to cram Latin."
The line moved forward again in a blare of noise from the open door.
"You're dressed as a free man, so you'll be expected to know the use of Roman money. As your slave, all I can do is translate. The more you know about the local money, the less likely you'll be completely rooked. I can tell you fair value for items, but remember we're not here to shop. We're here to learn."
Margo nodded impatiently. They were almost to the door.
"One last thing. I'm dressed as your slave. You're dressed as my dominus-my master. That's for public appearances. Don't let the master-slave thing go to your head or I'll turn you over my knee the second we're in private."
Margo shot him a startled glance. "You wouldn't!"
Malcolm grinned "Oh, yes I would. I m the teacher the magister-and you're the pupil. Forget that and I'll remind you."
The door opened in front of them and Margo let out a tiny squeal of excitement. It was their turn to cross the threshold and enter the street. Then Margo got her first good look at genuine imperial Romans.
Her mouth dropped open. "They're ... they're so short!"
The look on her face was so priceless, Malcolm burst out laughing. Margo was a dainty little thing, but very few of the people on the street were even close to her height. Malcolm towered over everyone in sight. Even the wineshop counter and seats were designed for childsized bodies.
Margo gaped, staring from one Roman to the next. "They're tiny!"
"Among scholars," Malcolm told her with a chuckle, "speculation is rife that Julius Caesar's six-foot height had no little impact on his success as a politician. Everybody had to look up to him."
Margo grinned. "That's funny."
Malcolm laughed. "Yes. That is. Ready?"
"And then some! Show me!"
"Okay, hang a sharp right-left-right-left past the end of the Circus Maximus, then follow the Via Ostiensis until it breaks southwest toward the Porta Ostiensa: the Ostian Gate. We'll take side streets around the Aventine Hill to the inn."
Margo cast a worried glance at him. ."If I take the wrong turn?"
"I'll be right behind you. Just don't walk too fast. I am carrying all the luggage." That was one of the downsides to freelance guiding in Rome.
Margo set out without further delay. Malcolm hoisted the bundles to a more comfortable position on his back and followed. Crowds jostled him as he made his way down the stone sidewalk. He tried, with little success, to avoid being bumped off into the muck in the streets. When Margo reached the first corner, she paused.
"People are staring at me."
"You're dressed like a provincial. They'll probably laugh at your expense. Ignore them."
"Are those stepping stones to the other side?" She pointed at a series of high, squared-off stones set like miniature tank traps in the street.
"Yes."
"The street stinks. Worse than London."
Several people crossed on the stones, with pedestrian traffic flowing first one direction then the other as people took turns. Those who were impatient braved the muck.
"Yuck. This place is filthy!"
"No, actually it's very clean. State-owned slaves periodically clean the streets and the Cloaca Maxima is still in use in Rome even in our time."
"The what?"
"Main sewer of Rome. Just how much reading did you finish?"
"-Uh-..." She took, advantage of a switch in traffic flow to cross the paving stones. Malcolm, caught in a crunch of people, had to resort to wading across at street level just to keep up with her.
"Hsst! Slow down!"
She glanced back and slowed down for all of three minutes, then the lure of more delightful sights down the street caused another lapse. She drew ahead again, paying no attention to Malcolm struggling along with their luggage. Malcolm held his temper and followed, wondering how long it would take her to admit she was in trouble:
She negotiated the dogleg around the end of the Circus just fine, despite the inattention she paid to the directions he'd given her. Malcolm didn't begrudge her the awed stare at the immense arena's facade. A single-story building ran around the outside, crammed with shops selling everything from baskets to hot sausages. Shopkeepers on the mezzanine above. Entrances near each led directly into the arena-level seats behind the podium wall. Stairs led upward to the second and third tiers where the one bleachers of the center sections gave way to bleachers rounding the semicircular end High overhead, three stories up, rose the colonnade and wooden arches which surmounted the end of the arena.
Margo walked with her neck cricked, staring upward and bumping into Romans who grinned and nudged one another.
"Barbarian's new to town."
"Wonder what gods-forsaken corner that rube's from?"
"Bet his eyes are about to POP'"
"Hey, meretrix! Take a look at the barbarian. Could be a good prospect!" This latter was shouted to a nearby woman in a short tunic. She ogled the Palmyrene "boy" hopefully. Margo, oblivious, passed the whore without noticing. Malcolm winked at her. "Maybe later?" he said in Latin.