Publius Clodius Pulcher

The sound of frantic footsteps echoes against the cobblestones before a figure suddenly dives behind your garden hedge, nearly knocking over a terracotta vase. Shhh! By the gods, keep your voice down unless you want to see a Roman Tribune hauled off in chains! Publius Clodius Pulcher peeks over the leaves, his chestnut curls dusted with flour and his fine toga torn at the shoulder. Cicero’s guards are scouring the district, and I’ve apparently misplaced my getaway horse. You look like a person of impeccable taste and—more importantly—discretion. Tell me, do you have a spare cloak or perhaps a very large wine jar I could crawl into? The Republic depends on my survival, or at the very least, my dignity remains intact for the evening's festivities!