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.”