Time Scout

by Robert Asprin

  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.

  The woman laughed. "Cheap enough for you? Or expensive enough for him?"

  Malcolm grinned. "You look good to me, but who knows what a Palmyrene likes? Sheep, maybe?"

  She laughed and passed the joke on to another loitering whore nearby. Several Roman men also laughed, overhearing the exchange.

  Margo, oblivious, trailed a wake of good-natured laughter at her expense. She found the Via Ostiensis without difficulty. But she was so busy gawking at the sights, she didn't pay attention to the markings on the buildings when the Via Ostiensis apparently veered southwest. Margo committed the classic folly of taking the wrong fork in the road, wandering enthralled from one shop to the next. Malcolm, sweating under the weight of the luggage, let her walk all the way to the end of the Via Ardeatina. When Porta Ardeatina grew visible in the distance, she paused, then stared uncomprehendingly at her surroundings. She ended with a beseeching look at Malcolm.

  "Where are we?"

  He caught his breath. "You tell me."

  Margo widened pretty green eyes. "What? Don't tell me were lost? I thought you knew Rome?"

  "I do.. l know exactly where we are. We're about a hundred yards from the Porta Ardeatina on the southern edge of Rome. Hell and gone, I mig
ht add, from the inn."

  "Why didn't you say something?"

  "Margo, I was under the impression you'd learned something from your experiences in London. Was I wrong?"

  Margo had the good grace to flush bright red

  "Pay attention to what you're doing. " He said it quietly but with enough force to make her hang her head "I refuse to believe Sven Bailey has trained you for several weeks, yet neglected to mention that little gem of survival wisdom."

  Margo's flush deepened. "No harm done. We weren't mugged or anything."

  He could have pointed out that she wasn't carrying anything heavy and so wasn't in a fit position to judge harm done, but he'd voluntarily assumed the weight of responsibility when he'd decided to teach her a little object lesson.

  "Not yet," he pointed out. "But you still need to pay attention, Margo. There are consequences to everything you do–or, don't do. As a scout, you won't have me along to bail you out."

  She huffed as only Margo could do. The elegant folds of her costume flounced with the movement, leading Malcolm's attention badly astray from the lesson at hand When Margo pouted, Malcolm was hard pressed to keep his attention on the job at hand-or anything else, for that matter.

  All right, eyes front and center, Malcolm! You were hired to play teacher, not Don Juan. But darn it... all that spirit and tenacity and the occasional flashes of warmth and brilliance, glimpsed behind the pert facade and the periodic deep-seated hurt in her eyes, had come gift wrapped in such a pretty package ....

  None of which was her fault.

  Maybe Kit picked the wrong guide for this job.

  "Okay," Margo sighed. "I screwed up again. It's my fault, I admit it But I am here to learn. So show me."

  He found it increasingly difficult to remain firm with her. "All right. This time, follow my directions."

  Malcolm was tempted to make her retrace her steps and follow the route he'd given her. Instead, he deliberately took her through a maze of narrow, cramped side streets that wandered in zigzags up and down Rome's hills and valleys, just to underscore the lesson in paying attention. They finally emerged on the Via Ostiensis near the Ostian Gate. He led her back north again, to the place. where he'd meant for her to leave the Ostian Way

  , where they should have circled the Aventine Hill. By the time they reached the inn, Malcolm's shoulders ached

  "You're late," the Time Tours employee said sourly, glancing at Malcolm for an explanation as he checked off their names against his master list.

  "Object lesson," Malcolm said shortly, offering no further excuses. He retreated to their assigned room and dropped their luggage to the tiled floor then sat down on a wooden bed frame, not even bothering to locate the rolled-up bedding first. He could feel the pull of tired muscles from his neck to the middle of his back. When Margo came in, she caught him working his shoulders in circles. Her face flamed again.

  "Are you hurt?"

  Contrite as a child, now that the damage was done. He studied her silently. She was biting her lower lip. Malcolm had forgotten how very young eighteen was, with its mixture of invincible assuredness, fragile emotions, and the desperate need to be taken seriously even when caught in complete ignorance.

  Malcolm sighed. "Not much."

  She glided across the room in a ripple of Parthian folds, then knelt behind him. Before he could protest, she was rubbing his shoulders. Malcolm shut his eyes. God ... She was surprisingly skilled, working hard knots out of aching muscles from his neck to the middle of his back. Where'd you learn to do that, little girl? When her touch lightened to the merest whisper across his neck, Malcolms insides reacted mindlessly. She didn't know what she was doing to him

  Did she?

  Malcolm shot to his feet. "Gotta see about lunch," he mumbled, bolting for the safety of the crowded. dining tables. The last thing any of them needed was for him to lose control. If Malcolm ever kissed her the way his body demanded she be kissed ...

  He called to mind Kit's blackest glower and held it firmly in place. Grandpa, Malcolm warned himself solemnly, would not be amused.

  Not at all.

  Margo had never seen anything like the Procession of Attis.

  Their inn lay on the southern side of the Aventine Hill near the Tiber. From there, Malcolm led the way around the end of the Circus where the starting gates overlooked a bend in the river and kept going all the way to the Palatine side of the mile-long Circus.

  "Hey!" Margo said, pointing to a small, round temple. "I know that one! That's the Temple of Vestal"

  "Mmm ... Well, it's been misnamed that for years, yes." Margo's spirits fell. "You're in good company." Malcolm grinned. "Hundreds of books still mislabel it that. Actually it was the Temple of Hercules. And that," he pointed to a squarish temple a stone's throw away, "is the Temple of Fortuna Virilis."

  "Fortuna Virilis?"

  "Temple of Man's Fate. Fate and the Circus games are very closely connected."

  That made sense. Men died in the Circus.

  "See up there?" he pointed to the crown of the Palatine Hill. "That's the Imperial residence. And that," he pointed to a magnificent temple which faced the great Circus, "is the Temple of the Magna Mater Deum Idea."

  "What's that?" Margo asked breathlessly.

  "What does it sound like?"

  She considered, dredging up the bits of Latin she'd absorbed. "Magna sounds like magnificent. Mater... I'm not sure. Magnificent Material? Matter?"

  "No, mater means mother. It's one of the words that sound similar in all languages descended from Indo-European: mater, mere, madre, mutter, mother."

  "Oh. Magnificent Mother?"

  "Close. Great Mother. What about the Deum Idea?"

  "Uh ... Deum is, like, deify?"

  "Good guess. Deum translates `of the gods'," Malcolm explained.

  "Great Mother of the Gods of Ideas?" she guessed.

  Malcolm grinned. "Not quite, although it's a logical enough guess. Idea in this case, however, refers to a mountain in Phrygia, near Troy. The Magna Mater is the goddess Cybele, the great mother of the gods from Phrygia. She's an import to Rome, but a very old one. About three hundred years ago, in fact. Her cult's been completely Romanized, of course. The Julian gens Julius and Augustus Caesar's family-claims her as a founding deity. She was sacred to Aeneas, who founded their family. Claudius' family also has ties to her through Claudia Quintas."

  Margo stared up the Palatine Hill, wondering what Malcolm saw that she didn't because she didn't know what to look for or what she was looking at. Okay, I have to study and I will. But if I don't start scouting soon, it'll be too late and I'll never prove anything ... .

  They fought their way through thick crowds until they could see the Via Appia where it turned to round the Palatine Hill. In the distance they could hear the sound of flutes and drums.

  "Just in time," Malcolm grinned.

  Margo craned to see. She was taller than the waiting crowd, which was a novel experience. She could see movement now in the street. Sunlight glittered against gold. The shrill of trumpets and the sharp sound of tympani drums rose above the noise of the crowd. Then she could see individuals. The person in the lead wore a long gown with folds of cloth pulled up like a hood. Under it Margo could see some kind of crown with three separate disks across the brow.

  "Is that a priestess?" she asked excitedly.

  "No, that's the archgalli – the High Priest of Attis.

  He just arrived in Rome through the new port Claudius is building. He managed to secure permission for this procession, to carry the sacred tree to Cybele's temple."

  Margo blinked. "But he's dressed like a woman. I mean, he isn't dressed like any of the other men I've seen so far. Is it because he's a foreigner?"

  "No, you were right the first time. Attis priests wore women's clothing. For that matter, so did the priests of Hercules."

  Hercules? Mr. Macho himself, the guy with all the muscles who'd done all those impossible labors or whatever they were called? Why wou
ld Hercules' priests dress like women? It didn't make any sense. With every maddening snippet of information Malcolm shared, she sensed a vast depth of knowledge he wasn't sharing. She glanced up, wanting to ask, but he was so visibly excited by the procession wending its way toward them she decided to hold her question for later. He darted his gaze eagerly, noting details, even mumbling to himself.

  The high priest-archgalli Malcolm had called him,neared their position. He moved slowly, wailing in a shrill voice and weeping while beating himself with a long flail. He held a scepter made of reeds in his other hand. Behind him came sweating bearers with a heavy litter. On it rode the gilded statue of a gorgeous young man in a soft, peaked cap. His "shirt" was open to the groin, leaving his chest and belly bare to well below the navel. His trousers were carved with diamond shaped cutouts like a Harlequin's costume. In one hand he held what looked like a walking cane.

  In the other, he held a small tympani drum exactly like the ones carried by wailing priests who trailed behind. They beat their drums with flails, then beat themselves, then sounded the tympanies again. Priests behind them, also wailing at the top of their lungs, carried more of the reed scepters. Behind them came another litter earned by sweating priests. On it was a statue of a tree. Sunstruck pine cones glittered with gold leaf

  "A pine tree?" Margo asked doubtfully.

  "Shh! Later! Look!"

  Margo widened her eyes. "My God..."

  Half a dozen men each held thick leather leashes which chained a pair of lions. The huge cats glared at the crowd with hateful amber eyes. Margo clutched Malcolm's arm. "They're not even caged!" The lion handlers were sweating profusely, dragging on the leashes to keep their charges in the center of the street. Behind the stalking lions came another great litter. On it rode a gilded statue of a tall, beautiful woman. She rode a chariot drawn by lions.

  "Cybele?" Margo whispered

  Malcolm just nodded He was listening to the chanting priests. What were they saying? The crowd took up the chant, too, as the Magna Mater passed regally by Some people tossed coins which weeping priests scooped off the paving stones and drop into little bowls. Behind the gilded image came two priests who led a great black bull with scarlet robes draped across its back. At the rear of the procession came trumpeters, flute players, and a host of young men who stumbled along with glazed eyes, beating themselves with flails and wailing. They carried no reed scepters.