I look around - seemingly, a screen of silk or fine muslin has been thrown around me... or perhaps that is the effect of drink and herbs. People laugh, scream, drink and make love - I hear no sound. I sit in my corner, nursing the indignities of my fumbled pass at a fine Roman mistress, and contemplate my fellow celebrants. I get up, walk around, and no one notices me - save for a half naked thracian type who beckons me. This is merely transient. His interest is diverted by a fresh plate of delicacies, and my anonimity is intact. This room, to me, is deadly silent, though there are revellers in profusion, and much activity, music, dancing and laughter. Pertinax looks concerned, grasps my shoulders, and gives me a tincture in a tiny glass, which I drink. I offer him no thanks as I walk on, expressionless, although I will feel guilt at this tomorrow and make amends. I regard two dancing girls - they appear to be patrician types, although they dance in the vulgar style of the subura. Is one of them the matron of the house? Surely not. One of her friends, perhaps. But she seems fine to me, and a little familiar. Gaius Octavius senses a developing problem and strides towards me, rapidly discarding his half - full goblet. He is too far away. He whistles to Pertinax, who looks toward me through the compact press of guests and shrugs. The baby -eating thracian, totally out of character, assumes some responsibility, spots the danger, and attempts to divert his acquaintance from a path of disaster.
What the hell. Chat up line on standby...