He considered how best to answer. "Every culture's barbaric in some fashion. It's a matter of perspective. The reverse is generally true, as well. Every culture has something fine and useful to offer. It's a matter of how you look at it. The trick in scouting is to figure out what you're looking at, to decide what: if anything-you can gain from that particular culture and time period, then to make off safely with whatever you've found, whether it's scholarly information or something more lucrative. Like, say, a potential new tourist gate or some treasure that's about to be lost through natural or man-made calamity. The more you know about when and where you are when you step through, the likelier you'll be able to identify what's useful."

"You don't care much about the money, do you?"

He chuckled and tucked his hands more comfortably behind his head. "You're beginning to figure me out, young lady. Nope. Not like some scouts and guides, anyway." He winked. "That's not to say I'd be averse to picking up a nice little treasure if I had the chance. But for me, it's the learning that's the kick. It's why Kit's rich and I'm broke. He likes to learn, too. Isn't a scout alive who doesn't. But he cares more about the money than I do and truthfully ... I think he's a lot luckier than I am."

"People make their own luck," Margo said with surprising vehemence.

He glanced into her eyes, then smiled "Well, yes. Maybe they do. You're here, after all. And I'd have bet money you'd never get this far."

She flushed. "Thanks. I think."

Malcolm laughed. "Well, considering the first thing you did in La-La Land was get lost in Residential ... Straighten the rudder, Margo. We're headed for the river bank again."

She put out her tongue and steered for the central current again. It was a glorious day for a sail, perfect weather and perfect company, but as they neared the new port, river traffic grew much thicker. Malcolm took over and steered a course toward the far bank to get the best view possible when they neared what should be the spot for the new harbor facility.

"There are a lot of boats coming up river," Margo commented.

"Ostia's the grain port for Rome. Italian agriculture's in trouble, mostly for economic reasons. Almost all of Rome's food supply, grain in particular, is imported In fact, Rome imports far more than she exports. Take that, for instance." He pointed to a heavily laded corbita, a kind of heavy freighter, passing majestically on its way upriver. "Those amphorae probably contain wine or olive oil, I can't see the markings at this distance to be sure. Those bales are Egyptian cotton and imported luxury goods." A barge towed by scaphae followed Huddled on its decks were miserable, half-naked men and women in chains.

Margo's eyes widened. "Those are slaves!"

"Ostia is a trading port," Malcolm pointed out. "And slaves are big business. Rome has had a slave economy for centuries."

She followed the barge's progress until it passed out of sight beyond a bend, then shivered. They rounded another curve in the river and the new port came into view. Ostia was just visible in the distance, more than two miles away across silty salt marsh. The new port rose from the marshes as though the gods themselves had set the giant stones in place.

Margo breathed, "Wow!"

For once, Malcolm shared her awe.

Two curving breakwaters had been constructed across the entrance to an enormous excavation. The main harbor-some one-hundred-seventy acres of it had already been dug and flooded. Between the two breakwaters, Roman engineers had built an artificial island A tall tower rose toward the bright sky, incomplete as yet. An artificial channel connected the newly dug harbor with the river.

Malcolm dragged over the bag containing his ATLS and log and slung it across his chest, bandolier style, then risked a quick scan with a digitizing camera which hooked into the log like an ordinary scanning mouse. He photographed the entire panorama, then steered for the middle of the Tiber. Now that he'd seen the whole layout, he was dying to get a closer look. Margo leaned over the prow like an excited kid.

"What's that?" Margo asked, pointing to the tower. "A temple of some kind?"

"No. Much more important."

She glanced around, brow furrowed. "Like what?"

He grinned. "A lighthouse.

"A lighthouse?" Margo laughed. "I never thought about ancient people building practical things like lighthouses, but I guess they'd need one, wouldn't they? Especially to navigate around that island in the fog."

"Yes. It's almost finished. Claudius will dedicate the new harbor this year, although construction will continue through A.D. 54 under Nero, after Claudius' death. Get your log. I want you to start recording your impressions. Just open the flap on your bag a little and press voice record."

She did so, draping the bag around her own neck and shoulder much as he had.

"Wow That's really something, Malcolm.- She began describing everything in sight, then started asking questions. "How long must it have taken to dig all that out? Months? Years? And look at those walls. What is that? Stone? Or concrete? And look at those piers. They're solid stone! How'd they get those blocks into place? Say, what's that?"

Malcolm grinned. Watching Margo's mind come alive was almost as much fun as studying the new port to satisfy his own scholarly itch. They moved on downriver and spent the day in Ostia, prowling the wharves while merchants offloaded cargo for the river voyage up to Rome and manufactured goods arrived for export to the far-flung provinces. Ostia's harbor was so badly silted, the town was already showing the effects of lost business to overland routes. Eventually, even Claudius' fine new harbor would silt in and everything would come overland from Naples-until Trajan would finally build his non-silting, hexagonal-basin harbor. Almost sixty years from now, Ostia would come into her true glory as a port. But even now, Ostia was an impressive little city.

Malcolm took her to the barracks of the vigiles and explained the function of the special cohort.

"Firemen?" Margo echoed. "I thought Benjamin Franklin invented fire departments."

"Say, you have been doing that American history reading, haven't you? Very good. In a manner of speaking, he did. But the Romans had a special fire-fighting brigade to protect the grain port and there was even a private company in Rome. Of course, its main job was to arrive at a fire and convince the owner to sell out cheap before putting out the blaze ... ."

"That's awful!"

"Free enterprise in action," Malcolm grinned. "The owner got filthy rich."

Margo huffed Malcolm's gut response disturbed him to his core. C'mon, Malcolm, she's your student. But he couldn't help the fact that Margo was doing seriously troubling things to his bodily chemistry.

"Come on, I'll show you the Mithraeum and the Temple of Vulcan."

Margo giggled. "The guy with the ears?"

Malcolm gave her his best disapproving scholar's glare, which reduced her to fits of laughter.

"I'm sorry," she laughed, "but it always tickles me. And you look so funny when you're irritated."

He sighed, feeling suddenly old. Was a man old at thirty-six? Old enough for a bubbly eighteen-year-old to consider funny ...

It was just as well. He needed complications in his life the way a flock of turkeys needed Thanksgiving. Malcolm adjusted the fit of his slave's collar and gestured to his "master."

"This way, if you please. The buildings you see here are the collegia of the boatmen, professional guilds with considerable clout in Ostia. Down that way are the warehouses and if we look off to the southeast, we can just see the roof of Ostia's Temple of Cybele ... ."

Margo waited until Malcolm had fallen asleep, then quietly dressed in the darkness and slipped out of their rented room. She wanted to get away by herself to think. What with lessons and down-time adventures, she hadn't really found five whole minutes to just think about the enormity of what she was doing. She knew she was taking a risk, going out at night, but Ostia wasn't Rome. Besides, I need to prove I'm ready to solo.