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.”