Time Scout

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Porta Romae, the Roman Gate, opened into the storage room of a busy wine shop on the Via Appia. Ancient Rome's "Main Street" ran from the Appian Gate to the great Circus Maximus where it turned north past the foot of monumental Palatine Hill, home of gods and emperors.

The hulking Circus rose like a battleship from the valley floor, its bulk silhouetted against a brilliant white sky. In deepest antiquity the Circus had been merely an open sweep of valley where even the Etruscans had run sacred funerary races. Over the intervening centuries the Circus, with its towering monuments and soaring wood-and-stone bleachers, had come to dominate the valley between the Palatine and Aventine Hills, one of the most sacred spots in the city of Rome.

The air of electric excitement which permeated the whole district when a games day approached was apparent the moment one stepped through the Roman gate and heard the screams of caged beasts, the shrill calls of high-strung racing horses, and the roar of Roman voices betting, arguing, laughing, and ordering food.

For Malcolm Moore, the chance to step through Porta Romae, the first of the great time gates to be explored (and subsequently the first owned lock, stock, and barrel by Time Tours) was worth every moment of the heartache, the uncertainty and misery which accompanied the life of a freelance guide. Whenever he stepped through onto the packed-earth floor in a crowd of excited tourists, something in his soul came back to life again.

Stepping through into the midst of the festival of the Magna Mater of Rome was simply icing on the cake.

Malcolm had guided tourists through the Porta Romae many times.. But he'd managed to attend the Hilaria and the Ludi Megalenses only twice and this was the first year imperial decree would permit the Procession of Attis in its entirety through the streets of Rome. He could scarcely contain an idiotic grin.

Margo, of course, approached the trip in much the same light she'd approached London. Young Margo had no concept what the next two weeks would entail. Given the glimpses he'd seen in London of a bright and thoughtful young mind struggling to overcome something terrible in her past and make something good and decent of her future, Malcolm found himself looking forward to watching her process of self-discovery in Rome. He hoped she would surprise him.

Before new arrivals had finished clearing the gate, Malcolm reminded Margo to take a reading with her ATLS. He pulled her off to one side and put her through the drill of ATLS readings and log updates, then checked her work. He glanced carefully through her notations, double-checked her ATLS readings, and nodded. "Very good. You're getting the hang of it."

She beamed

He finished his own notations then put away his equipment in the carefully disguised bag he would carry. Malcolm then adjusted his slave's collar and scrutinized the drape of Margo's provincial garb.

"I want her to look like a trader from somewhere really remote," Kit had said in the back room of Connie Logan's Clothes and Stuff. "Ideas?"

"Roman Syria," Malcolm -had suggested at once. -Palmyra's perfect."

"Why Palmyra?" Margo asked curiously.

"Palmyrenes were almost unknown in Rome of A.D. 47. No one should question your complete lack of ancient languages-which also means they won't be able to question you about 'home.' And since they can't talk directly with you, I'll be able to `translate'-and I do know the answers. Palmyra was only incorporated as an autonomous part of Roman Syria thirty-seven years before A.D. 47, with very tenuous trading ties to Rome, at best."

The costume Connie had come up with was delightful: draped folds of a Parthian-style tunic with voluminous trousers and leggings embroidered in wine-red designs. Metal "suspenders" supported the leggings, fastening them to the tunic's gold-embroidered hem. The trousers and even the long, narrow sleeves fell in a series of soft, U-shaped drapes down arms and legs. Overhanging the draped tunic came a cloak that fell in loose folds down the back. The shoes were elaborately embroidered "Persian" slippers. Capping off the costume came a cloth belt from which hung a scabbard for a long dagger.

When Margo heard the size of the estimated bill, she actually paled. "My God! Why so much?"

Connie grinned. "Any guesses?"

Margo glanced at the half-finished garments strewn everywhere in Connie's design studio. Computer-controlled sewing machines dominated two whole walls. "I have no idea."

"The chain-stitch sewing machine was invented in 1830. The lock-stitch machine came even later. Before that, all clothing was assembled by hand."

"But not all your costumes are this expensive. Not even close. What are you going to do? Hand spin the thread for this thing?"

Connie laughed. "No, although I've done that, too, on occasion, and spent hours at a loom hand weaving. Most costumes can be assembled by machine from the threads up. Even for pre-sewing-machine time periods, we can sometimes fudge. Take this."

She snagged an extraordinary gown from a peg. In three parts, it consisted of a coat-like overdress, a wide, skirt-like affair, and a triangular piece that was evidently meant to go across the front of the bosom, tapering to a point at the waist.

"This is an eighteenth-century English gown. One of our smaller gates opens into colonial Virginia every five years or so. It's due to open in about a month and a couple of researchers are going through for an extended sabbatical in Williamsburg." She chuckled. "Goldie Morran always makes a killing, exporting China metal to Williamsburg through whoever's going down time. The researchers carry the stuff through to help pay for their research trips."

"China metal?" Margo asked. "What on earth is that?"

"Ordinary nickel-silver," Malcolm grinned. "Not any silver in it, even. It's a base-metal alloy similar to German silver. It's used in cheap costume jewelry, junk trays and candlesticks, that sort of thing."

"Yes," Kit chuckled, "but in colonial Williamsburg it was worth as much as gold." His eyes twinkled. "Much like Connie's gowns."

Connie grinned. "Speaking of which ... This gown has seven-hundred eleven inches of seams alone, never mind hems for both skirts and the sleeves or the decorative stitching visible from the surface. I can do an average of ten inches of seam an hour by hand, against a few seconds by machine. If I fudge and set the computers to simulate the slight variations in hand stitching, I can assemble a whole gown in a few hours-except for decorative stitching, any quilting the customer wants, and so on. I can't do that by machine. Someone down time would notice. Fashion has always been closely studied, both by practitioners and by poorer folk who want to ape the newest styles in cheaper versions. So some of it can't be fudged.

"Now, with your Palmyrene costume, I can't fudge anything. It'll take hours and hours of work to complete. I won't have to hand spin or weave, but the embroidery alone will be murder. I'll have to pull a couple of assistants off other jobs to finish it in time."

"Which is expensive," Margo sighed. "I guess," she said, giving Kit and Malcolm a hang-dog look, "I'd better not get it dirty, huh?"

Malcolm, like Kit and Connie, had laughed.

But now, the overly cautious way Margo moved told Malcolm she was terrified of ruining Connie Logan's exquisite creation.

"Margo," he said, "one piece of advice."

She glanced up, trying to avoid a dusty stack of wine jars. "What's that?"

"That costume is meant to be lived in. It may have been expensive, but it isn't a museum piece. Keep walling around like that and some Roman snob is going to think you're a puer delicatus for sale."

Margo's face registered absolute bafflement.

"Pretty boys brought twice as much at the slave markets as pretty girls, whether they were destined for a brothel or a private bed."

Lips and eyes went round with shock.

"This isn't Minnesota. It isn't London, either. Morals here aren't at all what they are up time. Not even remotely close. Neither are the laws. So don't go mincing around as if you're afraid to smudge your clothes. You're a wealthy young foreigner, son of a merchant prince in one of the richest caravan states the desert ever produced. Act like it."

She closed her mouth. "Okay, Malcolm."

"Study wealthy Romans on the street for body language. That isn't the same here, either. Neither are common gestures like nodding and shaking your head.

To indicate yes, tip your head back. To indicate no, tuck your chin." He demonstrated. "Shake your head side to side and a Roman will wonder what s wrong with your ears."

"What if I screw up?"

"Intelligent question. Romans were notoriously rude about their cultural superiority. If you make any minor errors, they'll put it down to a rank provincialism without the saving graces of intelligence, manners, or culture."

"Worse than the Victorians?"

"Lots worse," Malcolm said dryly.

"Too bad. It's a horrid thing to say about people who invented ... well, lots of things."

Malcolm sighed. -Margo, you really have to study."

"I know! I am studying. I'll study more when we get back! At least I can now tell you everything Francis Marion ever did, said, or thought!"

Still a sore subject. He was sorry, indeed, that she and Kit had fought about it. All La-La land had buzzed with the gossip when Margo had walked out of the Delight and headed for the library in tears-leaving Kit so rattled a down timer, for God's sake, had nearly gotten the better of him in a hand-to-hand with a croquet mallet. That was the primary reason Malcolm was here: to convince her how important those studies were. Malcolm took his job seriously.

Then he had to stifle a grin: If the Hilaria and Ludi Megalenses didn't convince Margo she needed to study, nothing would.

A Time Tours guide opened the outside door again to communicate with employees in the wineshop proper. The roar of noise from the Via Appia just beyond caused a wave of excited laughter to ripple its way back through the tourists. The soundproofed door closed and the Time Tours guide stepped onto a crate to command attention.

"As you know, we'll all be staying at the inn we've purchased in the Aventinus district, west of the Baths of Decius and southwest of the Temples of Minerva and Luna. That's very close to the Circus Maximus, in the heart of the sacred district, so we're not far from it now. We'll go there first. It's vital that everyone know how to find it. If you get lost, find the Circus and you can find the inn again. The most important instruction I have for you is simple: Don't get separated from your guides! There are more than a million people living in Rome right now, not to mention the thousands more who've crowded in for the Games of the Magna Mater.

You don't know the language or the customs. If you lose your guide, you could find yourself in fatal trouble very fast. Our porters will carry your luggage, since neither free-born men nor free-born women carried their own parcels. You've already been warned not to venture out after dark. Rome is a deadly city by night.

Not even the ruling classes walk the streets after dark.

Now... are there any questions?"

"What do we do after you show us the hotel?" a man near the center of the group asked.

"You've already been assigned to your tour groups. Each group will follow an itinerary based on the selections you made at the time station. Today is the Sacrifice of Attis, with an historic first procession of the sacred pine, plus the regular annual celebrations and the dedications of new priests. Three days from now the Hilaria begins. The Ludi Megalenses games begin on April fourth and will continue through the tenth, with Circus games and races daily. Chariot races, horse races, and bestiaries are scheduled for the mornings, gladiatorial combats for the afternoons.

"As you know, when the Games open, it will be arena seating"-another ripple of laughter went through the crowd at the silly pun-"so we'll need to find seats quickly to be assured of places. Be ready to enter the Circus by sunrise. The gate back to the time terminal reopens shortly after midnight on the eleventh. You'll probably be exhausted-so don't arrive late!"

"What about the lottery?"

The speaker was another man, near the edge of the crowd.

"We've already drawn the winners of the Messalina lottery but we won't announce the results until tomorrow As you know, there will be only three winners and the liaisons have to be carefully arranged by our employee in the Imperial palace. With Claudius in town, these trysts have to be set up with care. The winners, as you know, are not guaranteed a night with the Empress Messalina has the right to refuse any lover she wants, but her tastes in men are generally broad enough we don't anticipate any problems. After all, she does sleep with Claudius."

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.

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 might 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 would 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.

"Who are they?" Margo asked.

"Initiates. They'll dedicate themselves to Attis today. But I rather doubt they'll do it in the traditional Phrygian fashion. Claudius hasn't legalized that."

"They look stoned."

"They probably are."

She stared. "Why?"

"Purification ritual. Come on, if we scramble, I know a way up the hill."

Margo followed his lead as they dodged up the Palatine through narrow alleys that led past the imperial palace toward the crowning Temple of Magna Mater. Crowds had gathered there, too. In a courtyard at the front of the temple they found space to jam themselves close enough to watch. The shrill of flutes, trumpets, and wailing voices drew nearer as the procession wound its way up the far side of the Palatine.

"They're passing through the Forum," Malcolm explained, "down the Sacra Via. Look, here they come."

Margo stood on tiptoe, anxious not to miss anything. What exactly was going on? She didn't know anything about Attis or Cybele-and Malcolm was so caught up in the moment she didn't want to interrupt to ask for explanations. The High Priest arrived first and took a position near a long, deep trench which had been dug in the courtyard. Planks capped it, arranged so that gaps showed. The images of Attis, Cybele, and the pine tree were carried up the steps to the entrance of the temple. The leashed lions snarled at the crowd The roar vibrated against Margo's chest, bringing a prickle of unreasoning terror to the back of her neck.

The courtyard filled up. The black bull was led in and paraded around the periphery. Over in front of the temple, priests had lifted the gilded image of Attis off its litter. They were tying it to the gilt pine tree with stout ropes. Other ropes served as guide wires to keep the pine tree from toppling under the weight.

A line of robed priestesses-Margo was sure, this time, that she was looking at women-appeared from inside Cybele's temple and took up positions in a semicircle. The High Priest led the black bull onto the platform, where several attendants held it with strong ropes. A swift glance at Malcolm showed Margo a man completely lost in study. He watched the barbaric scene as though memorizing every baffling detail.

This is his specialty, Margo remembered suddenly, what he took his degrees in., Classics and Antiquities and stuff. He's forgotten me completely. She'd seen Malcolm the teacher, Malcolm the guide, Malcolm the sparring partner, even Malcolm the perennially broke friend who made her smile when she felt like curling into a ball and hiding from the world, but she'd never seen Malcolm the scholar enthralled by his life's passion.

The intensity of his gaze made her wish suddenly he'd look at her that way.

You want him to do that, you're going to have to meet him on even ground, Margo. And that meant she had to become a scholar. Well, she'd already discovered a burning desire to learn and understand; what better place to start than with something Malcolm, too, found passionately interesting? So get started already!

Margo studied the scene before her, trying to look at it as a student of ancient cultures. She wished she hadn't skipped so many Latin lessons or skimped on the cultural reading Kit had assigned her in favor of more time in the gym. Robed initiates stripped naked and descended into the deep trench. The bull lowed piteously. Its eyes rolled white. Someone she couldn't see too well was doing something under the animal's belly. She caught a flash of sunlight on steel as the High Priest shouted something.

The bull screamed and lunged. The men holding it strained at the ropes. The knife flashed again to the throat, this time. Margo flinched. God, they're really killing it .... Blood poured through gaps into the trench. The bull fought, screaming and bellowing and bleeding to death at the end of its ropes. Margo covered her ears. She'd never seen an animal die up close like this, hadn't realized they would scream so pitifully. It was terrible, cruel, monstrous ....

You're not in Minnesota, Margo.

But the bull's agonizing death shook her, nonetheless.

They don't take so long to die in modern slaughterhouses, she told herself. But it would be a long time before she wanted to eat beef again. Eventually the bull sank to its knees, dead The High Priest held up something long and crooked at one end, like the walking cane on Attis' statue.

Then she realized what it was. "My God!"

Her shocked expletive was lost in the cheer from the crowd. Trumpets sounded again, wild and shrill in the April sunlight. The young initiates emerged, reeling and covered with blood. They looked like they'd been drinking it. They stumbled past the High Priest, each touching the bull's severed member in turn, then vanished into the temple. The priestesses followed. The High Priest, too, entered the temple. Other priests took up a chant that lasted a long time. Then, at some signal from inside the temple, the crowd began to cheer wildly. The high priest of Attis returned, still holding the bull's severed genitals.

Margo's head swam. None of this made any sense. The crowd had taken up its own chant. Malcolm looked like he was trying to memorize every word. Then she realized he'd loosened the flap on the bag which held his personal log. How long had he been recording? She caught a glint in his palm and recognized a miniature digitizing camera, one that worked like a video recorder but fed directly to the computerized log. Surely he'd attended one of these parades and ceremonies before?

No, she remembered suddenly, this was supposed to be a historic first for Rome.

No wonder he'd been desperate to get here and see this, record it in its entirety. She wondered how many other scholars had come on this tour? Given the questions about the Messalina lottery, probably none. Perhaps Malcolm was the only scholar present to record the Procession of Attis. She felt like a heel that she hadn't thought to turn on her recorder, too.

"Malcolm," Margo hissed, "just what are Attis and Cybele?"

He hushed her. He seemed to be waiting for something, as though unsure what might happen next. The High Priest bowed low before the great gilded statue of Cybele in her lion chariot. He placed the severed bull's phallus before it and backed away, flailing himself and chanting. Initiates stumbled out, assisted by other priests. Then, at something which completely escaped her, he said, "Ahh" and suddenly relaxed

The High Priest had obtained a basket filled with reed scepters. He presented one to each reeling initiate. While Margo stared, the new priests broke the reed scepters violently in half, then carried them one by one and tied the broken reeds to the gilded pine tree. The crowd was chanting along with the priests.

"What are they saying?" Margo demanded. "What are they doing?"

Once again, Malcolm hushed her. She stood in the midst of an insane crowd and tried hard to figure out the lunacy she'd just witnessed, but didn't come up with anything rational as explanation. Some scholar I am. To interpret something, one first had to know something on which to base an interpretation.

Why was it there was never enough time to fulfill one's dreams properly? To be a proper scout would take years. If she took years, the one burning goal that had made the past three years tolerable would never amount to anything more than daydreams. Margo sighed as the priests re-entered the Temple, carrying their sacred images inside. Then it was all over and the crowd broke up. People chattered excitedly, sounding for all the world like sports fans comparing the performances of favorite basketball stars. Malcolm fussed briefly with the bag containing his personal log, sliding the digitizing camera back into it and shutting off everything. Then he stood blinking like a sleepy English spaniel just coming awake in the morning.

"Well ..." Malcolm's glance rested on her. His face reddened. "Hi. I, uh, think you had a question?" he asked sheepishly.

"Or three, yes." She stood glaring at him, hands on hips, then had to laugh. "You look so funny when you're embarrassed, Malcolm. What the hell was that all about? I tried to make sense of it, but it was pretty weird."

"Today is known as Black Friday, the day of the Sun's death," Malcolm explained as he led the way down from the sacred Palatine Hill. "Attis is a Solar god, castrated and sacrificed to fructify the earth, then reborn again after coupling with his mother/consort Cybele. The Taurobolium-the ritual slaughter of the bull-is a purification ritual."

"Did they really drink its blood?"

"Yes, indeed. Then each initiate mated with a priestess of Cybele in the Temple of the Magna Mater. I'm surprised they didn't couple in the courtyard. I believe in some areas, the sacred marriages are done publicly." He smiled. "Roman morals, however, are generally much stricter, despite what you may see in movies. Of course, his eyes twinkled, "all bets are off during Hilaria."

A shiver ran up Margo's back. Hilaria was only a couple of days away. Just exactly what would the festival be like? And her seventeenth birthday was going to fall right in the middle of it. She couldn't have asked for a better birthday present.

"Anyway, after going inside to mate with the Goddess, our young initiates symbolically castrated themselves by breaking those reed scepters. I'd wondered how they would get away with the ritual in Rome, Imperial law being what it is."

"What do you mean? What's so terrible about breaking a bundle of reeds in half?"'

Malcolm grimaced expressively. "It used to be a requirement of the priesthood of Attis for the initiate to castrate himself and present the severed organ to the Goddess."

Margo halted in the middle of the street. "Yuck!"

"Margo, you're blocking the way."

She started walking again, but her expression caused Malcolm to chuckle. "It's a very, very common myth in this part of the world, actually," Malcolm said as they turned into another narrow side street. "It's already ancient by these people's reckoning. The Sun God or Grain God mates the Mother Goddess, sometimes in her incarnation as the Moon, sometimes as Earth. The Solar God reigns as sacred king, is ritually killed, then is reborn again to begin the cycle of seasons and crops all over again. Hercules is another ritually murdered sacred king. But he was burned alive rather than being castrated and hung to bleed to death on a pine. In Carthage, ancient sacred kings were burnt alive on pyres as the solar Hercules. Aeneas barely escaped that fate when he ran away from Queen Dido of Carthage. In Egypt, Ra-Osiris was cut into pieces and scattered-"

"Malcolm, that's gross!"

His glance was highly sardonic. "Well, yes, from our perspective it is. But they really believed sacrificial blood was required to fertilize the earth. Crops wouldn't grow without it. And they really believed the god and his severed phallus were regenerated by the blood and by mating with the Goddess. That's why the full-fledged priests in the procession carried reed scepters. They're symbols of the god's phallus reborn as grain. It's the same reason you'll find Herms-phallus symbols-all over Herculaneum, for instance, which has Hercules as its patron deity. They re considered good luck symbols. People put them up by their doorways, touch them for luck."

Margo could understand rubbing a stone penis for luck better than she could a man mutilating himself. "But Malcolm ... what kind of man would want to do that to himself? Did they do it voluntarily? Or were they prisoners"

"No, they were volunteers. Look on the bright side: the tradition was modified years ago to kill the bull instead of the castrated priests. And now the tradition's been modified again, substituting broken reed scepters for the real castration. Roman law wouldn't tolerate the cult, otherwise. Of course, the Romans like to pay lip service to civilized notions about human sacrifices, but they have their own darker element to religious practices."

Like what?"

"The Games."

"Those are human sacrifices?" She halted again; blocking the flow of the dispersing crowd behind her. Someone cursed at her in Latin. Hastily she stepped aside. "Malcolm, you're not serious? Nobody in any of my history classes ever said anything about human sacrifices in Rome and I didn't find anything like that in any of the reading I did do. I mean ... the Romans were supposed to be civilized!" She stared down the hill toward the hulking facade of the great Circus. "Why would civilized people do something like that? I don't understand. Malcolm, it doesn't make sense and it ought to, if it's true."

Malcolm's eyes glinted. "I seem to have reawakened that curious itch to learn I first glimpsed in London. All right. Let's see if I can shed some light. Centuries ago, probably during Etruscan times, the Circus Maximus began life as a natural amphitheater of ritual sacrifice. The games, mostly races, were part of elaborate funerary rites. When we watch the Ludi Megalenses in a few days, keep that in mind We are not merely watching spectator sports. The Games are not a Roman form of NFL Football. We'll be watching a sacred drama.

"It's exciting drama and the spectacles help the emperor keep the unemployed masses quiet by giving them something to do, but it's still sacred at its core and most people in this time recognize the ritual for what it is-if not overtly, then at some level of awareness.

"You asked if the priests of Cybele were volunteers or prisoners. The participants in Roman games are largely prisoners: criminals and slaves, prisoners of war. It's always easier on the king to substitute slaves for the real thing when the king must die. And in this particular time and this particular place, that is precisely what must happen."

The dust and noise of the bright April morning faded from Margo's awareness. She had difficulty taking in everything Malcolm had said. She understood much more clearly now why he'd said most guides held advanced degrees. They had to, in order to explain to tourists what they were watching. But I can't spend years at this before my first scouting trip! What she needed to become was a generalist. She could learn a little about a lot of things and fake it whenever she had to.

Meanwhile, she'd learn everything Malcolm would teach her.

"Huh. So now what?"

"Now," Malcolm grinned, "I think it's time to scout out some lunch."

"Now there's a plan I like!"

Malcolm laughed and took her back down the sacred Palatine Hill in search of her first genuine Roman meal.

Grey light had barely touched the sky when Malcolm stepped out of the Time Tours inn. Wagons and carts, caught like vampires by the sunrise, had been unharnessed and abandoned where they stood. Slaves and yeoman farmers carted off the goods by hand.

"The next three days," Malcolm told Margo as she joined him, "are going to be very much a repeat of yesterday."

"More weird parades?"

He shook his head. "No. That's reserved for the day of Attis' sacrifice. But Attis is a popular cult, particularly amongst the poor in the slums and in the port cities. A lot of people will walk around in a festive state of mourning, if that makes any sense, flailing themselves same as the priests yesterday and weeping for the tragic fate of their god."

She wrinkled her nose. Malcolm chuckled. "Get used to weird sights if you want to scout. Now, since the real fun doesn't begin until the Hilaria, and since that doesn't start for three days, I have a different plan of action in mind."

"That being?"

"Ostia."

"What's that? Another sacred ritual where some poor schmuck gets to play king of the hour?"

"No," Malcolm smiled "Ostia is the port city downriver from Rome."

"Oh! Oh! That means a sightseeing trip outside Rome?"

Malcolm resisted the urge to tousle her hair. "Yes. Claudius has been building new harbor facilities. I want to see them. You should, too, just to get a grasp of Roman engineering." He chuckled. "The engineers told the emperor the harbor would be ruinously expensive, but it had to be built because the main harbor is silting in. I can hardly wait to see it, even if it won't be finished in Claudius' lifetime. It's said to be spectacular."

Margo had brightened visibly. "That sounds super! How do we get there?"

"We hire a boat."

She grinned. "Great! Show me!"

Malcolm made arrangements with a local merchant willing to hire out his little lenunculi since he was on holiday for the festivals. The boat reeked of fish, but handled beautifully.

"You know how to sail, I guess?" Margo asked

"Yep. So will you, by the time we get to Ostia."

She groaned, but took to the lessons cheerfully once they were on the water. Malcolm taught her the rudiments of terminology while he navigated the heavy traffic in the Tiber. Once they were downstream from Rome and into quieter water, he started the hands-on lessons. She was clumsy at first and nearly put them into the near bank a couple of times but eventually caught on. He let her steer for a while and relaxed in the warm morning sunshine.

"You like it here," she said after a while.

Malcolm peeled an eyelid and found her watching him pensively. He smiled "Yes, I do."

"Even though they're barbaric and put people to death in the arena?"

He considered how best to answer. "Every culture's barbaric in some fashion. It's a matter of perspective. The reverse is generally true, as well. Every culture has something fine and useful to offer. It's a matter of how you look at it. The trick in scouting is to figure out what you're looking at, to decide what: if anything-you can gain from that particular culture and time period, then to make off safely with whatever you've found, whether it's scholarly information or something more lucrative. Like, say, a potential new tourist gate or some treasure that's about to be lost through natural or man-made calamity. The more you know about when and where you are when you step through, the likelier you'll be able to identify what's useful."

"You don't care much about the money, do you?"

He chuckled and tucked his hands more comfortably behind his head. "You're beginning to figure me out, young lady. Nope. Not like some scouts and guides, anyway." He winked. "That's not to say I'd be averse to picking up a nice little treasure if I had the chance. But for me, it's the learning that's the kick. It's why Kit's rich and I'm broke. He likes to learn, too. Isn't a scout alive who doesn't. But he cares more about the money than I do and truthfully ... I think he's a lot luckier than I am."

"People make their own luck," Margo said with surprising vehemence.

He glanced into her eyes, then smiled "Well, yes. Maybe they do. You're here, after all. And I'd have bet money you'd never get this far."

She flushed. "Thanks. I think."

Malcolm laughed. "Well, considering the first thing you did in La-La Land was get lost in Residential ... Straighten the rudder, Margo. We're headed for the river bank again."

She put out her tongue and steered for the central current again. It was a glorious day for a sail, perfect weather and perfect company, but as they neared the new port, river traffic grew much thicker. Malcolm took over and steered a course toward the far bank to get the best view possible when they neared what should be the spot for the new harbor facility.

"There are a lot of boats coming up river," Margo commented.

"Ostia's the grain port for Rome. Italian agriculture's in trouble, mostly for economic reasons. Almost all of Rome's food supply, grain in particular, is imported In fact, Rome imports far more than she exports. Take that, for instance." He pointed to a heavily laded corbita, a kind of heavy freighter, passing majestically on its way upriver. "Those amphorae probably contain wine or olive oil, I can't see the markings at this distance to be sure. Those bales are Egyptian cotton and imported luxury goods." A barge towed by scaphae followed Huddled on its decks were miserable, half-naked men and women in chains.

Margo's eyes widened. "Those are slaves!"

"Ostia is a trading port," Malcolm pointed out. "And slaves are big business. Rome has had a slave economy for centuries."

She followed the barge's progress until it passed out of sight beyond a bend, then shivered. They rounded another curve in the river and the new port came into view. Ostia was just visible in the distance, more than two miles away across silty salt marsh. The new port rose from the marshes as though the gods themselves had set the giant stones in place.

Margo breathed, "Wow!"

For once, Malcolm shared her awe.

Two curving breakwaters had been constructed across the entrance to an enormous excavation. The main harbor-some one-hundred-seventy acres of it had already been dug and flooded. Between the two breakwaters, Roman engineers had built an artificial island A tall tower rose toward the bright sky, incomplete as yet. An artificial channel connected the newly dug harbor with the river.

Malcolm dragged over the bag containing his ATLS and log and slung it across his chest, bandolier style, then risked a quick scan with a digitizing camera which hooked into the log like an ordinary scanning mouse. He photographed the entire panorama, then steered for the middle of the Tiber. Now that he'd seen the whole layout, he was dying to get a closer look. Margo leaned over the prow like an excited kid.

"What's that?" Margo asked, pointing to the tower. "A temple of some kind?"

"No. Much more important."

She glanced around, brow furrowed. "Like what?"

He grinned. "A lighthouse.

"A lighthouse?" Margo laughed. "I never thought about ancient people building practical things like lighthouses, but I guess they'd need one, wouldn't they? Especially to navigate around that island in the fog."

"Yes. It's almost finished. Claudius will dedicate the new harbor this year, although construction will continue through A.D. 54 under Nero, after Claudius' death. Get your log. I want you to start recording your impressions. Just open the flap on your bag a little and press voice record."

She did so, draping the bag around her own neck and shoulder much as he had.

"Wow That's really something, Malcolm.- She began describing everything in sight, then started asking questions. "How long must it have taken to dig all that out? Months? Years? And look at those walls. What is that? Stone? Or concrete? And look at those piers. They're solid stone! How'd they get those blocks into place? Say, what's that?"

Malcolm grinned. Watching Margo's mind come alive was almost as much fun as studying the new port to satisfy his own scholarly itch. They moved on downriver and spent the day in Ostia, prowling the wharves while merchants offloaded cargo for the river voyage up to Rome and manufactured goods arrived for export to the far-flung provinces. Ostia's harbor was so badly silted, the town was already showing the effects of lost business to overland routes. Eventually, even Claudius' fine new harbor would silt in and everything would come overland from Naples-until Trajan would finally build his non-silting, hexagonal-basin harbor. Almost sixty years from now, Ostia would come into her true glory as a port. But even now, Ostia was an impressive little city.

Malcolm took her to the barracks of the vigiles and explained the function of the special cohort.

"Firemen?" Margo echoed. "I thought Benjamin Franklin invented fire departments."

"Say, you have been doing that American history reading, haven't you? Very good. In a manner of speaking, he did. But the Romans had a special fire-fighting brigade to protect the grain port and there was even a private company in Rome. Of course, its main job was to arrive at a fire and convince the owner to sell out cheap before putting out the blaze ... ."

"That's awful!"

"Free enterprise in action," Malcolm grinned. "The owner got filthy rich."

Margo huffed Malcolm's gut response disturbed him to his core. C'mon, Malcolm, she's your student. But he couldn't help the fact that Margo was doing seriously troubling things to his bodily chemistry.

"Come on, I'll show you the Mithraeum and the Temple of Vulcan."

Margo giggled. "The guy with the ears?"

Malcolm gave her his best disapproving scholar's glare, which reduced her to fits of laughter.

"I'm sorry," she laughed, "but it always tickles me. And you look so funny when you're irritated."

He sighed, feeling suddenly old. Was a man old at thirty-six? Old enough for a bubbly eighteen-year-old to consider funny ...

It was just as well. He needed complications in his life the way a flock of turkeys needed Thanksgiving. Malcolm adjusted the fit of his slave's collar and gestured to his "master."

"This way, if you please. The buildings you see here are the collegia of the boatmen, professional guilds with considerable clout in Ostia. Down that way are the warehouses and if we look off to the southeast, we can just see the roof of Ostia's Temple of Cybele ... ."

Margo waited until Malcolm had fallen asleep, then quietly dressed in the darkness and slipped out of their rented room. She wanted to get away by herself to think. What with lessons and down-time adventures, she hadn't really found five whole minutes to just think about the enormity of what she was doing. She knew she was taking a risk, going out at night, but Ostia wasn't Rome. Besides, I need to prove I'm ready to solo.

Margo gained the dark street without raising an alarm. She leaned against the wall and let go her breath, then grinned. So far so good. When her eyes adjusted, Margo caught her breath. The sky ... Clearer even than a Minnesota winter night, the sky was so filled with stars Margo lost whole minutes just gazing upward.

Everybody should see a sky like this, just once be for they die .... Margo had met folks who'd never seen anything but the murky yellow glow that passed for night in places like New York. Maybe if they saw a sky like that they wouldn't feel so ... so self-important.

Feeling keenly her own insignificance, Margo found her way to the docks. Wooden hulls creaked in the night Wind flapped in loose sails, sang through slack rigging. Where ships rode quietly at anchor, a few braziers burned on high stern decks, marking the presence of night watchmen. Margo found a stone archway near the entrance to one long pier and settled in the shadows. Far away, drifting on the spring wind, she could hear a magical chorus of frogs and insects from vast salt marshes. Margo sighed. I'm really sitting on a dock two thousand years before I was born.

She'd planned this moment all her life. So why wasn't she happy? Malcolm Moore's smile flitted into her awareness, causing her pulse to dance like mating butterflies. Malcolm Moore was more than a good teacher. He was becoming a good friend, maybe the best friend she'd ever found. She was grateful for that, but...

But what?

But deep down, you're afraid of him, that's what. And she wasn't sure she wanted to be, which scared her even worse.

Starlight silvered the rolling breakers. In her own time, the sea had wiped out some of the world's greatest cities. Margo didn't understand all the science and stuff that had caused The Accident. All she knew, was a burning need to grasp the opportunity before her. And she would grasp it. Come hell, high water ... or Malcolm Moore. How much time was left? She counted backwards in her head. Three months. Margo bit her lip. Was she being foolish, rushing her training just to prove him wrong?

"I have to! I just have to ..."

Her father's voice, angry and slurred, slapped her from out of the past. "You'll turn out same's her! Filthy, stinking whore-"

My mother was not a whore

All those years ago, Margo had wanted to shout it back at him. Not shouting it had probably saved her life. But not saying it then or now-didn't change facts. Everyone else had said it: the cops, the news people, the foster parents who took her out of a hospital bed and gave her a home in another town. Even the judge who'd eventually passed sentence on her father had said it: Margo, trying to rebuild her life, had turned a dry-eyed mask to the world to hide the pain.

Leaning against a cold stone pier, Margo thought she finally understood what had driven her mother to prostitution. Since leaving Minnesota, there'd been a moment or two when Margo's hunger and desperation had made any source of money seem attractive. How much worse must it have been for her mother, with a young child to raise, mortgage payments, groceries, medical bills ...

And a husband who drank whatever money he got his hands on including any he could beat out of her..

In that moment, it became doubly critical for Margo to succeed. Not only did she have to prove to her father she could do this ... I'll make you proud, Mom. And I'll pay him back for what he did to us. l hate him! I'm glad he's dying, he deserves it... But she wanted him to live just long enough. The only way Margo could find to strike back at him, to really prove she wasn't everything he'd ever called her, was to do something no other woman had ever been able to do.

And she had only three months left in which to do it Three months to convince Kit she was ready to scout, to tackle an unknown gate, to come back with proof of her success. Three months. From where she sat, it seemed as impossible as telling Kit the truth about his only child.

Malcolm Moore's smile, flickering at the edges of memory, seemed nearly as great a threat to Margo's plans as the ticking dock. Men were nothing but trouble. They used you if they could, hurt you when they pleased, shattered your dreams if you didn't run faster than they could punch you to the ground ...

Malcolm Moore isn't like Billy Pandropolous. Or my father. But it didn't matter. She didn't have time for love. At least Malcolm Moore was too much a gentleman to hurt her the way Billy Pandropolous had That was very little comfort when Margo crawled back to their rented room in the wee hours and huddled under her cold blanket for the remainder of the night.

Margo tried to keep up a brave front when they returned to Rome. Malcolm, suspecting none of the turmoil inside her every time his wide mouth curved into a smile, showed her the Campus Martius, where the secular games were held in the Circus Flaminius. The area also boasted gardens where young men could exercise and play, the Villa Publica where Romans assembled for the census and to levy troops for the legions, the Septa where people came to vote, splendid shops where the wealthy purchased luxury items imported from around the empire, even a place along the Tiber where Romans could swim and splash in the shallows.

They toured the Forum Romanum, with its Comitium, the Forum's political center; the religious Regia with the real Temple of Vesta, the House of the Vestals, and the seat of the Pontifex Maximus; and the Forum proper, a marketplace, center of civic activities, public functions, and ceremonies. The Forum's famous rostrum or speaker's platform was where a man could address his fellow citizens while running for office or just pass along juicy tidbits of news. Decorated with the prows of ships taken in battle, it was impressive, with its backdrop of the Temple of the Divine Julius (on the spot where his body had been cremated), marble-faced basilicas or law courts and other public buildings. Margo was surprised to find women lawyers arguing cases in the basilicas.

"Yes, women lawyers were increasingly common from the late Republic on," Malcolm explained. "Women in Imperial Rome weren't confined to the home as they were in early times and other cultures."

Margo liked that. The water clocks used to time the lawyers' speeches fascinated her. Some dripped water from a tank into a bowl, lifting a float with an attached rod whose cogs turned the hour hand. Another kind used water pressure to blow a tiny trumpet every hour.

"An alarm clock,' Margo marveled. "They use an alarm clock!"

Malcolm only smiled, which left her insides in turmoil.

They followed the course of the aqueducts through the city, while Malcolm explained how the public fountains worked and how the aqueducts fed the great public baths as well as private homes. He even hired a boat and took her into the immense Cloaca Maxima which drained the city's swampy valleys.

He took her down the fullers' street, showing her how "dry cleaning" was done by slaves who stomped soiled garments into damp fuller's earth. The absorptive clay then dried and was beaten out of the cloth, taking with it oils and dirt. Then he let her watch Roman glass production, following that with a trip to a mosaic artist's the best of 'em." He hoisted the wineskin with a chuckle. "Come on, let's find something to eat."

Quite unexpectedly, Margo realized she was having a good time. She relaxed. Maybe a little dissipation would be fun. She'd certainly worked hard enough to earn a party. And if you have to say goodbye to this man someday soon, maybe you should enjoy him while you still have the chance. So Margo ate sausages that had been cooked in deep vats of olive oil, tried fresh-baked bread hot from the oven and wonderful little cakes made with honey and sesame seeds, and washed it all down with sweet red wine that left her giddy.

Greatly daring, she did a dance, not caring when people laughed and called her provincialis, rusticus, and other probably less flattering names. Malcolm roared with laughter, then cut in line behind her. His hands came to rest on her hips, leaving her flushed from scalp to toes. They snaked their way through crowded streets in a wild line dance that ended in front of a tall marble temple. When the dance broke up, Margo staggered dizzily, then fell laughing against Malcolm. He caught her and set her back on her feet. His face was flushed.

Her heart gave a traitorous thump.

"Where are we?" she asked breathlessly. Over there was the long side of the Circus and over that way was the river, but she didn't know what this temple was.

"That's the Temple of Ceres, Liber, and Libera." It came out oddly husky. His eyes were fever bright.

"Who?"

"Ceres, Goddess of Grain and Agriculture. Liber Pater and Libera, very ancient Italian god and goddess. She and Liber Pater celebrate a sacred marriage."

Margo found herself swallowing hard. "Really?"

"Why join during the Ludi Ceriales. That's about twenty-two days from now."

The whole city beyond Malcolm's bright eyes was spinning in her awareness. "Do Roman gods do anything besides make love?"

"Not in the spring." He was very close to her. His smile-and that answer-did wicked things to Margo's insides. The way the corners of his eyes crinkled, the way his hair, fell across his forehead in an unruly curl, the way he took her questions seriously even when laughter made his eyes sparkle-even the sharp masculine scent of him-

Everything about Malcolm Moore set her blood pounding. l don't care if this is all there is, I don't care about scouting, I don't care about anything, oh God, let him kiss me .....s though he'd heard her silent prayer, Malcolm bent toward her. April sunlight turned the dark sheen of his hair to the gloss of a raven's wing. Then his mouth covered hers, warm and demanding and gentle all at the same time. Her senses reeled. She found herself clutching the front of his tunic. Margo had never been kissed like this, as though her mouth were a precious jewel which must be handled with exquisite care. Then his hand slipped from her face and touched the side of her breast

The kiss exploded into a mindless clutching at one another in the bright April sunlight. Afterward Margo was hardly cognizant of stumbling through the streets with his hand on her waist. Was hardly aware of the change when he plunged into a rustling grove of trees and sought a remote, unoccupied corner. Peripherally she noticed low hanging branches that dipped to screen a tiny glen. A natural spring bubbled up from a rocky basin and poured away through the trees.

Then she was in his arms again and his hands were on her bare skin and the only thing in her awareness was the pounding of his heart against hers as they went to the sweet scented earth in the tangle of their clothing.

Only afterward did the full enormity of what she'd done sink in. Margo lay in the crook of Malcolms arm, his body pressed warmly against hers, his breath shuddering against her ear. The fire of their joining still lingered in deep tremors inside her.

Then, like ice water through her veins:

I slept with him.

Dear God, I slept with him.

Panic smote her so hard Malcolm stirred. "Margo? What's wrong?"

She couldn't answer. Couldn't put into words the myriad terrors ripping her apart. Dad was right. I'm nothing but a two-bit whore, I'll never be anything, never amount to anything, I can't even say no when I know it's the wrong thing to do, l could be pregnant ... .

Oh, God. She could be.

She'd destroyed everything she'd worked for, would never be able to face down that bastard who'd murdered her mother, could never tell him he'd been wrong

And Kit Carson ...

If she couldn't even be trusted not to fall into bed with the first man who took her down time ...

She began to cry. When the dam burst, she couldn't control the flood. Malcolm touched her shoulder.

"Margo? Please, what is it?"

She jerked away, so miserable she wanted to die.

Malcolm's tender concern only made the enormity of her folly worse. Clearly, he'd anticipated a jolly romp in the grass with a woman capable of enjoying the moment. A woman he'd thought had just turned nineteen. All she'd managed to give him was a ten minute quickie with a scared kid. Worse, a scared kid with a past. The fact that it had been the most profoundly shattering experience of her young life ...

She hid her face in the sweet grass and cried until she thought her heart would burst.

Malcolm listened for a long time, damning himself for several dozen kinds of fool. He finally dared a question.

"Margo, I have to ask. Who was he?"

She strangled on another hiccough and stopped crying long enough to ask, "Who?"

Malcolm wanted to touch the nape of her neck, but she wasn't ready for that yet. "The bastard who hurt you."

She finally rolled over to face him. Tear streaks blotched reddened cheeks. Faint surprise flickered in her eyes. For several moments, he thought she wasn't going to answer. When she did, it still wasn't really an answer.

"You sound angry."

This time he did touch her, very gently. And this time, she didn't flinch away. "I am angry, Margo. More than you can know"

She held his gaze for long seconds. Behind her, spring water poured over a lip of stone and meandered through Diana's sacred grove down to the Tiber and the distant sea.

Then she turned away again. "You're wrong. It wasn't what you're thinking. And I was wrong, too. About a lot of things."

Malcolm bit one lip. God, who did this to her? I'll take him apart .....Maybe, but so was he. Whoever he was, whatever reason he had for doing it. He was wrong."

"How-how can you be so-so damned nice?"

Meaning you only sleep with boys who are rotten to you?

He decided to introduce a little levity. "But I'm not nice. I'm a calculating cad, Miss Margo." She went very still in his arms. "Consider: I dragged you two thousand years into the past, plied you with sweet Roman wine, then danced you through half the streets in the city for the express purpose of scaring myself half witless. We perverts are like that, you know. Devious fellows. We'll do anything to indulge our bent for self-inflicted terror."

His smile, calculated to put her at ease, shattered her fragile self-control. Margo's whole face crumpled, then she turned away from him, shutting him out once again. "Where are my clothes? I'm too naked. If you want to talk, let me get dressed."

"Margo..."

She paused, holding the Parthian tunic in front of herself like a shield.

"What?"

"You've no idea how sad that makes me feel."

Her brows dove together. "How sad what makes you feel?"

"That you can take your clothes off to sleep with a man, but you can't talk to him afterward. That's what love is all about. Touching and talking and caring."

She opened her lips several times, but no sound came out. Then, bitterly, "Who made you the world's expert, anyway? You're a penniless bachelor! You....ou are a bachelor, aren't you?" she asked suddenly, hugging the tunic more tightly to her breasts.

He managed a smile. "Yes. I'm a bachelor, Margo. And I never claimed to be anyone's expert on the subject. But I do think you ought to be at least friends with the people you sleep with. Otherwise, it's the saddest thing in the world, groping after something you can't define with a total stranger who probably can't define it, either."

"I know exactly what sex is!" She crouched in the sunlight, fingers dug into the earth, the folds of her tunic forgotten. "It's getting drunk and thinking you're having a good time, then waking up trapped and hurt and scared of everyone you thought you liked! It's miserable and lonely and I'm sorry I ever laid eyes on you! Damn you, Malcolm Moore! You ruined my seventeenth birthday!"

SEVENTEENTH? Malcolm opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Terror and regret and rage at her lie tore through him so savagely he couldn't even move. Seventeen? My God, Kit will kill me!

She flung herself into her Parthian tunic and trousers, then fled. Malcolm swore and hurtled himself into his own clothing, but by the time he gained the street, dodging tree trunks and pleasantly occupied couples, she was gone, swallowed up by the teeming celebration beyond the temple precinct. He stood on the stone sidewalk, shaken so deeply he could scarcely breathe.

Idiot, fool, dolt .....ou knew shed been hiding from something) Whatever it is, you just drove her right back into the middle of it. In a moment of utter folly, Malcolm had allowed himself to forget that Margo was young and vulnerable, trying to hide something desperately painful behind a pert, sexy exterior. Donning a mask of confidence and challenging the world didn't change the fact that she was a scared little girl hiding in a woman's body. Memory crucified him. The passion, the quivering fire against him and inside him . ...

There wasn't anything he could do now except pick up the pieces and go on, hoping Margo would eventually forgive him.

It was even money Kit Carson never would