On down the Vicus Tuscus we went into the meat market, where he bought
four plump, young, white hens. As we started on with them, each of us
carrying two, he asked his first question.
"What building is that?" nodding.
"The Temple of Hercules," I told him.
"I thought so," he said, "they always build his circular. We'll stop in
there on our way back. I never miss a chance to ask his help."
Whereas, when I made my offering before my flight the previous year, the
street had been deserted, since I passed along it within an hour after
sunrise, now it was humming with unsavory life, the eating-stalls under
the vaults crowded, throngs about the Babylonian and Egyptian seers who
prophesied anyone's future for a copper, tawdry hussies leering before the
doors of their dens, unsavory louts chatting with some of them, idlers
everywhere. This festering cess-pool of humanity Maternus regarded with
disdain and contempt manifest to me, but carefully concealed behind a
bland expression.
When we came out of the Temple of Mercury, after making our offering,
Maternus whispered:
"Walk very much at ease and as if your mind were as much as possible at
peace; two men opposite are watching us."
I assumed my most indifferent air and carefully avoided looking across the
street, except for one cautious glance from the lowest step of the Temple.
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