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XXVIII. COMPLICATIONS
The last mournful notes of the cornu are still lingering across the fake landscape behind the players, when a finger taps you on the shoulder. You look up and see Amalthea, disguised as a young man, complete with glossy dark hair. All that’s needed now are the sunglasses. Felix wears the plain white toga of a citizen, so he must be from a reasonably well-off middle class family and will blend in perfectly anywhere. The hair has been trimmed short, as Roman men generally wear it. Felix/Amalthea has acquired a faint beard shadow, and the features seem a bit more edgy and roughened, as if someone had sandpapered her fine, soft feminine lines to bring out stronger male features. You recognize her instantly. Strange as it strikes you that moment—a woman disguised as a man, but recognizable more for the woman within than the man on the surface—you start to comment how happy you are to see her, but she places a finger over her mouth to quiet you. Her face is a mask of concern, and her eyes radiate fear. The audience is in tears as the melodrama on stage plays itself to a climax. You had not noticed, but Professor Darwin (Drusus) has already slipped out.
You are almost glad to leave the hot, sweaty air of the theater, with its smells of greasy perfumes and pomades. It’s not that the Romans are dirty. Far from it, they are among the cleanest people in history, and no civilization has ever had a thousand public baths in its capital city. They put them up everywhere they go, which is everywhere—call it the McBath. The finest cosmetics from Egypt or Syria could almost compete with the best of your time, except of course that the lead (yes, plumbum!) in Roman eyeshade—that exquisite, glittering white—is enough to make a genius babble like a dolt while his brain cooks in a bath of poison. On the positive side, there’s no animal testing. On the negative side, there hasn’t been this much toxic makeup since (sorry, until) charlatans in the 1920s introduced radium (yes, the stuff that glows in the dark) as a miracle cure for everything from acne to asthma, which went fine until a few people noticed the roof of their mouth was gone, and some of their compatriots were dropping dead. That’s almost as gruesome as the Colosseum on a summer afternoon, so we’ll change subjects now.
Darwin/Drusus waits on the street outside. Now you feel free to speak, albeit not much louder than in a whisper. You’re still amazed at how Amalthea looks like her own twin brother. You hug her, saying "The beard shadow had me fooled."
"Call me Felix," she says. He says. Darn, this is confusing. You’ll be glad to get back home and order a decent cup of coffee, along with a proper bear claw. You miss a thousand things, from your cell phone to your toothbrush. Why did you ever have to agree to this journey into Oy-Veh, or is that A-Ornis? "We have to make like a banana and split, old chum," says Felix. "You in particular, old pal, are in grave danger. You see, this fellow Meteor who has rented you his beef, he’s wanted by the urban cohort. That’s the cops. Allegedly, he doctored the books at the Manilius Grain Warehouse. Don’t ask me why they picked this tick on the water clock to start investigating Meteor, but there you have it." So saying, Felix grabs you painfully by the forearm and tows you along next to Drusus; er, Darwin.
Darwin says: "We’ll get this all straightened out as soon as I can have a talk with Ulpian. Someone has informed on us to the Quaestor, Querculus, who works directly for Carinus’ court. They know we’ve come from someplace special, and they are interested in your supposed priestly powers. At the same time, Meteor is wanted on trumped-up charges of embezzlement, so they have a reason to grab you off the street."
Amalthea says: "We have to first escape the cops, and then we can sneak back to Ulpian’s library and contact first Marcellus and Polybius, then Ulpian. I’m sure we can then get everything straightened out."
Already, you hear the sound of marching feet drawing near. You hear the jingle of leather and armor, of buckles and shields, of swords and spears, as the Quaestor rides close. He has two dozen of Rome’s finest quick-stepping behind him in formation, as best the narrow and slippery alleys permit. Cloaks flying, here they come! "In here!" Amalthea says and pulls you both into an alley. Already the smell of garbage and decay assaults your nose, while pitch blackness slips over your eyes, and in the same moment you give a breathless yell as the ground disappears from under your feet.
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