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.”