I turned to my right, where the fog was less intense, hoping that the stone bridge led somewhere. As I turned, I gasped – at the end of the bridge, standing outlined in a narrow stone doorway was a man.

He was dressed in an authentic-looking costume of a Roman soldier – golden (or brass?) plumed helm, heavy red cloak over a plain linen tunic, no body armor but a leatherish short skirt, and sandals with straps wrapped up to his knees. I also noticed that he had, belted at his waist, an equally authentic-looking short sword. He stepped forward and saluted me, his right arm extended from the shoulder (in the noble gesture that Hitler so ignobly stole), and said “Be welcome, Sir. Your arrival is anticipated, and all is in readiness. Come this way.” And with the air of one who is used to having his commands obeyed, he turned and strode through the doorway into the passage beyond.

I hurried after him, thinking “Wow. Some of these volunteer docents are really into their parts.” The passage beyond the bridge, instead of leading back up to the upper areas where the tour groups had been, continued on a slight downward slope. I noticed also that there were no longer electric lights down here, as there had been before the twisty staircase and the bridge over the pools, but this passage was lit by flaming torches stuck into brackets in the walls. I had seen some of the brackets in the display cases up above, but I had never seen one actually in use. The soldier/docent led me into a small chamber in which there was a large stone couch with a woven rush-mat on it, and a linen sheet on top of the mat. There were niches cut into the solid rock walls, with jars and vases and pots in them, and a stone trough next to the couch with water flowing through it, that emptied into a sort of basin and drained away somewhere below. The docent/soldier stood by the doorway and took off his cloak and hung it on a peg, then doffed his helm and placed it on a shelf. He gestured towards the couch and said, “After your long journey, a massage will refresh you. Take off your clothing and lie down – I will attend to you myself.”

I protested “Oh, no, really, that’s not necessary at all – I just want to get back up to my group before the bus leaves…”

He stood there, regarding me steadily, unmoving as the rock walls around him. With one hand on the authentic-looking short sword, he said quietly, “I think it would be best if you obey, Sir.”

He was shorter than me by a few inches, but his shoulders were almost as broad as he was tall, and I could see that the arm resting not-too-casually on the short sword was solid muscle. I could not get past him back out the door, and I saw no other entrance or exit. With visions of such lovelies as Jack the Ripper and Hannibal Lecter flashing through my head, I figured I had better go along with the demented docent/soldier’s plan and hope that an opportunity for escape would present itself. I began very slowly taking off my