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had preceded them to the streets, and as they headed back to the villa they found the crowds were electrified and fearful. Gen saw her chance. She slowed until they were bringing up the rear of the tour group. They entered a crowded square. When a soldier on horseback galloped by, a troop of legionaries double-timing behind him, Gen stumbled. Owen caught her and pulled her away, but by the time she gathered herself she had managed to separate them from the group.
    A gust of rain slanted down between the tall apartment buildings. Though she pulled her cloak over her head, Gen made sure she got good and wet before they ducked under an awning. When she shivered Owen took off his own cloak and threw it around her shoulders. He started rubbing her arms, blushed furiously and stopped.
    "Do you know the way back?" Gen asked.
    "I'm not sure."
    She leaned against him.
    "That market looks familiar," he said, pointing.
    As the news of the assassination spread the city was in turmoil. Gen and Owen ducked into the covered market to hide out until the crush in the streets dissipated. They walked down the market nave, past vendors gone suddenly quiet. Flies hovered over displays of cheese and vegetables. In the doorway of a wine shop sat a weeping barmaid, who no doubt served other appetites in the back rooms. Everywhere shocked citizens whispered in twos and threes. At a barber's a three shabby men discussed the implications of the assassination: who was responsible, who would take power, would the Republic be restored. The barber set aside the hot iron with which he was curling the fringe of a balding man, and said darkly, "Let those conspirators only set foot in my shop, and I'll give them a shave they'll not forget."
    "Who's to say you haven't shaved the lot of them already?"
    "They might well have learned their bloodletting from lead-handed Lucius!" another said.
    No one laughed.
    This is fascinating, isn't it?" Gen asked.
    Owen was staring at her shoulders and neck. "Yes, I haven't seen . . . anything like it . . . for some time."
    "We've just witnessed one of the signal events of history, Owen."
    "I'm sorry. It's just that I've been in the Cretaceous . . . for two years"
    "There aren't any girls in the Cretaceous?"
    "Most are sauropods."
    This was hardly work at all. Owen Vannice was like a little boy, highly intelligent, repressed, eager to please, proper and decent. The quintessential mark.
    The barber looked up at them standing by his doorway. "Who's that lanky oaf ?" He pointed at Owen. "I haven't seen you before. Why are you lurking around here?"
    Owen fumbled with the language. "Pardon me--"
    Gen took him by the arm. They retreated to the end of the market. "Owen," she said. "At least try to look like you belong here. You stand out like a telephone pole."
    "But how would I know how a Roman's supposed to act?"
    "Pretend. Act like you know what you're doing even when you don't. Make it up. Haven't you ever pretended before?"
    "I don't like to lie. We should get back to the villa. They must be worried about us."
    "What's the matter, Dr. Nice? Afraid to be seen with me?" And just because he was so sober, she ran off through the crowd, down the length of the market, dodging through the gossiping Romans, and out the other side.
    Behind her she heard Owen's cry for her to stop. She felt exhilarated. She danced down the steps, through a plaza where worried citizens, huddled in doorways, discussed the uncertain future. Down a narrow side street reeking of rotting food and excrement. In the next twisting side street she saw the entrance of some public building where women came and went--a bath.
    Hesitating only a moment, she strode inside. She paid a quadrans and proceeded to the dressing rooms, where she left her pala, stola, loincloth and sandals. In the tepidarium she sat with a dozen matrons and young women. A red-haired woman came in an announced the news, and several of the others immediately left. An old lady, face painted into a