text: [Themes: Pornographic, silly, sex, Egypt, ancient world, Gay/queer protagonist]
  
  > Look around
  The Curia Steps lead up to the Curia to the north; the Forum is south.
  
  > go north
  The Curia is still under reconstruction; renovations won't be completed for quite some time [footnote 2]. For the time being, the Senate still meets over at Pompey's porch. Frankly, this place is basically just a construction site. Steps to the Forum lead down to the south.
  
  An olive-colored velvet bag rests empty on the ground here.
  
  > Footnote 2
  [Footnote 2]: The Curia Hostilia burned in 52 BC; Julius Caesar started its renovation, but the Curia Julia (named in his honor) was not completed until 29 BC during the reign of Augustus. I hope you now feel better-educated.
  
  > look at the bag
  This is an olive-colored velvet bag; it's large enough to hold, say, a large melon, or a human head. Unfortunately, it has a fairly large hole partway down one side.
  
  > get the bag
  Taken.
  
  > examine the hole
  It's a hole maybe three inches across and an inch high. It is large enough and near enough the bottom of the bag to make trying to carry things in the bag a bad idea.
  
  > check your inventory
  You are carrying:
  a velvet bag
  an aureus
  your penis
  a toga
  
  > wear toga
  You put on the toga.
  
  > Wear bag
  But then you couldn't see. The hole isn't that near the bottom.
  
  > remove toga
  You take off the toga.
  
  > Go south
  This is the Forum. White marble stretches off in all directions. To the west is the Temple of Jupiter Virilis. The Curia is north. To the east you can see the Via Sacra, and the Temple of Eris gleams golden to the south. Crowds of people fill the space.
  
  In the distance, a mustachioed Gaul with a despondent bear on a chain briefly coaxes it into a shambling dance. The crowd cheers.
  
  > Go east
  The Via Sacra doesn't look too sacred from here, although it is choked with people rushing past on errands of their own. The Forum is west. To the north and east, the city deteriorates into a maze of twisty little alleys, all alike.
  
  > examine the people
  Crowds of men and women throng the streets, Romans going about the daily business of the greatest city in the world.
  
  A small knot of arguing senators wanders past in their purple-striped togas, surrounded by menacing bodyguards with clubs.
  
  > Go east
  This is a maze of twisty little alleys, all alike.
  
  > go north
  This is a maze of little twisty alleys, all alike.
  
  > Go north
  This is an almost unimaginably seedy tavern. Wine, of the undigested, partially digested, and completely digested varieties, stains all visible surfaces. The exit is south.
  
  The Priest of Jupiter Virilis sways gently from side to side as he sits on a bench at a wooden table.
  
  A clay bottle of wine, adorned with a leering satyr, rests on a leaning table.
  
  > look at Priest
  The priest's long white beard is stained with wine, and his eyes are vaguely defocussed. He has clearly had better days.
  
  An eructation, a whiff of sour wine, a splash, a thump, and stentorian snores signify the end of someone else's drinking evening.
  
  > examine bottle
  A clay bottle filled, presumably, with cheap wine.
  
  A drunkard begins to sing an obscene song, but can't remember the words, and lapses into besotted silence.
  
  > get the bottle
  The priest glowers so fiercely that you meekly retreat.
  
  > talk to Priest
  All conversations in Mentula Macanus: Apocolocyntosis are of the form ASK [SOMEONE] ABOUT [SOMETHING].
  
  A drunkard begins to sing an obscene song, but can't remember the words, and lapses into besotted silence.
  
  > ask Priest about the jupiter
  "The god withholds his strength from me."
  
  [ At any point you can review conversations you have had with the RECAP command. ]
  
  An eructation, a whiff of sour wine, a splash, a thump, and stentorian snores signify the end of someone else's drinking evening.
  
  > ask Priest about the wine
  "Mine!"
  
  A drunkard begins to sing an obscene song, but can't remember the words, and lapses into besotted silence.
  
  > ask Priest about the beard
  "Shut up. I'm trying to drink here."
  
  > ask Priest about the sex
  "It's the nose. I just....can't. Oh! The shame! If only she looked like, say, Syra. Ah, Syra."
  
  A drunkard begins to sing an obscene song, but can't remember the words, and lapses into besotted silence.
  
  > ask Priest about Syra
  "Ah, yes. Syra. Another woman with a large and ugly nose. Yet...alluring. Olive complexion, hair like midnight, eyes like topaz, skin like velvet, breasts like melons, ass like Caesar's, lips like wine, a kiss like fire." He sighs.
  
  > ask Priest about yourself
  "Shut up. I'm trying to drink here."
  
  A drunkard begins to sing an obscene song, but can't remember the words, and lapses into besotted silence.
  
  > ask Priest about the nose
  "If, perhaps, something were to hide it, to cover it with something more alluring."
  
  An eructation, a whiff of sour wine, a splash, a thump, and stentorian snores signify the end of someone else's drinking evening.
  
  > Sing
  Your singing is abominable.
  
  > give the bag to Priest
  The priest looks at the bag. "Enh," he says. "It's not exactly alluring, now is it?"
  
  > examine table
  The table is about as stained as everything else in here.
  
  On the table is a bottle of wine.
  
  A drunkard begins to sing an obscene song, but can't remember the words, and lapses into besotted silence.
  
  > go east
  This is a hovel of the sort classically frequented by artists. The exit is west. A sign on the wall reads: "Portraits 1 aureus. Bring your own canvas."
  
  An insufferable-looking artist sits behind an easel.
  
  > look at artist
  The artist is a young man with a small goatee. If eyeglasses had been invented yet, he would have little rectangular ones with heavy black frames [footnote 3].
  
  > Footnote 3
  [Footnote 3]: This is a rather loose translation from the original.
  
  > examine the sign
  "Portraits 1 aureus. Bring your own canvas."
  
  > ask the artist about the artist
  The artist is much too hip to talk to the likes of you.
  
  > give the bag to the artist
  The artist takes the velvet bag from you and indicates the first sentence of the sign with a small twitch of his goatee in its direction.
  
  > give aureus to the artist
  The artist bites down on the coin, then flinches. "You coulda told me it was one of Big Julie's, eh? Dude, that's totally been in his butt. Nasty, man. Nasty."
  
  "Hmmm," says the artist. "A bag. Kinky." He rolls his eyes. "Guess you're wanting it to put over someone's head, to make him...her?...more alluring, huh? Yeah, I get a lot of these...So. Guy? Girl? Eh, it doesn't matter. I'll put one on each side. That way, if it's a girl, you can do her from the front and then flip her over and do her up the butt and it'll be like doing a guy. Only a guy with a broken neck.
  But some people like that, you know?
  
  "Anyway, so, yeah. Interesting olive color, velvety texture. Reminds me of this totally hot MILF I knew named Syra. Wow. She was like riding one of the mares of Diomedes...Hey, there's a hole over here already for the mouth. Cool. Tell you what, I'll cut a matching slit on the other side for that picture too, so you can kiss him...or her, hey, whatever floats your boat, man...or, you know, receive oral."
  
  In a few minutes, he paints a portrait of an attractive, if not very young, woman on one side of the bag, and an attractive young man on the other. He hands you the bag and lapses again into sullen silence.
  
  > go north
  This is an almost unimaginably seedy tavern. Wine, of the undigested, partially digested, and completely digested varieties, stains all visible surfaces. The exit is south.
  
  The Priest of Jupiter Virilis sways gently from side to side as he sits on a bench at a wooden table.
  
  A clay bottle of wine, adorned with a leering satyr, rests on a leaning table.
  
  An eructation, a whiff of sour wine, a splash, a thump, and stentorian snores signify the end of someone else's drinking evening.
  
  > give the bag to Priest
  The priest looks at the mask, comprehension dawning on his sodden features. "Yes!" he cries. "This looks a lot like Syra! I think this will do!" He downs the rest of the wine, smashes the empty bottle on the floor, and dashes off, mask grasped in his hand.