Saxa wouldn't have written the mime himself, of course. For a moment, Corylus wondered if Varus had. No, he would've said something. And besides, Varus had given up dramatic writing after his public reading last month.

Corylus glanced again at his friend and saw that he was jotting notes with a short bronze stylus on a tablet. Varus had decided to become a historian of the sacred rites of the Republic. That meant not only things like the auguries attending the appointment of a consul, but also theatrical performances like this one: they too were religious in character.

If something went wrong with a mime, a gladiatorial spectacle, or a beast hunt, it had to be repeated: restarted, in official terminology. That clause had been used to extend public events beyond the limits set for them by ritual.

In the past, a rich man could keep a spectacle going as long as he thought necessary to burn his name into the memory of the electorate. That wasn't required now that officials were elected only after being nominated by the Emperor. Indeed, a thoughtful senator might conclude that it wasn't entirely wise to call the Emperor's attention to one's wealth and popularity.

New "denizens of the deep" flowed along the channel: a cuttlefish lifting its arms, and a seahorse on which a painted triton rode. Floats in water so shallow wouldn't bear the weight of an actor, but overhead performed three rope dancers dressed as sea-nymphs in diaphanous silk.

Hercules gestured with his left hand and said, "Blessed will the people of this land be…!"

Flats against the rear wall of the stage rotated on vertical axles to display city walls beyond which red roofs peeked. "… when my successor arrives to dispense the justice and mercy of godlike Caesar!"

"Say, how are they doing that?" Pulto said in a low voice. He nodded toward the stage. "The sea, I mean. That really looks…"