"I should think such a gift would be rather unreliable, producing more riddles than answers."

"Her visions required interpretation, if that's what you mean. Not a suitable job for your College of Augurs! But if a person listened to her closely, and if that person already possessed a genuine sympathy for the divine world-"

"A person like yourself," I said.

"Yes, I was able to make sense of Cassandra's visions. That was why I arranged for her to come here, to Terentia's house, on more than one occasion."

"And did she always prophesy?"

"Almost always. There was a method that helped to induce her visions."

"What was that?"

"If she sat in a still, darkroom and gazed at a flame, almost always the visions would come to her."

"And before or after, you would give her food and drink?"

"Of course we would," said Terentia. "She was treated as kindly in my house as any other guest."

"Even though you had no idea of who she really was or where she came from?"

"It was her gift that interested us," said Fabia, "not her family history or the name she was born with."

"And when Cassandra delivered these prophecies, what did you make of them?"

The two sisters exchanged a searching look, silently debating how much they should tell me.

Fabia finally spoke. "Cassandra had many visions, but there was one in particular-a recurring vision of two lions battling one another over the carcass of a she-wolf."

"How did you interpret this vision?"

"The she-wolf was Rome, of course. The lions were Pompey and Caesar."

"And which of them killed the other and ate the carcass?"

"Neither."

"I don't understand. Did they split the she-wolf between them?" I imagined the Roman world split permanently between two factions, Caesar ruling the West, Pompey ruling the East. "One world split between two Roman empires-could such an arrangement ever last?"

"No, no, no!" said Terentia. "You misunderstand. Tell him, Fabia!"

"The vision ended with a miracle," said Fabia. "The she-wolf sprang back to life, and grew until she towered over the lions, who gave up fighting and meekly lay down together, licking at each other's wounds."

"What did the vision mean?"

Fabia began to speak, but Terentia was too excited to remain silent. "Don't you see? It's the best possible outcome! Everyone assumes that Caesar and Pompey must come to blows, that one of them must destroy the other, with Rome as the prize. But there's another possibility-that both sides will come to their senses before it's too late. It's one thing for Romans to shed the blood of Gauls or Parthians, but for Romans to kill Romans-it's unthinkable. Such madness offends the gods themselves. Cicero knows that. It's what he's been trying to tell both sides all along. They must find a way to settle their differences and make peace! That's what Cassandra's vision foretold. For the moment Rome appears paralyzed and helpless; but the she-wolf only sleeps, and when she wakes she'll show herself greater than either Caesar or Pompey. They shall be awed by her shadow, and there shall be a reconciliation between the two factions." Terentia smiled. "It's my belief that Cicero himself will broker the reconciliation. It's the real reason the gods guided his footsteps to Pompey's camp. Not to fight-we all know my husband is no warrior-but to be on hand when the two sides finally do meet, and to make them see the madness of their ways. There shall be peace, not war. Every day I look for a messenger to arrive with a letter from my husband bringing the glorious news."

Fabia walked to her side and laid her hand on Terentia's shoulder. The look on both their faces was transcendent.

I took a deep breath. "How did you learn of Cassandra's death?"

"She died in the marketplace, didn't she?" said Fabia. "People saw. People recognized her. News travels fast in the city."

"Yet neither of you came to my house to pay your respects."

They both averted their eyes. "Well," said Terentia, "she was hardly of our… I mean, as you yourself pointed out, we didn't even know her true name, much less her family."

"Yet you came to see her burn."

"An act of piety," said Fabia. "The burning of the body is a holy rite. We came to witness that."

I lowered my eyes, then looked up at the sound of another voice from the doorway.

"Aunt Fabia! I was wondering where you'd gone. Oh-I didn't realize you had company, Mother."

Cicero's daughter, Tullia, had suffered the misfortune of inheriting her father's looks rather than her mother's, and had grown from a spindly girl into a rather plain young woman. The last time I had seen her had been at her parents' house down in Formiae the previous year, while Cicero was still trying to decide which way to jump. She had been pregnant then and just beginning to show. The child had been born prematurely and had lived only a short while. A year later Tullia appeared to be in good health, despite her slender arms and wan complexion.

Unlike her mother, Tullia wore several pieces of costly-looking jewelry, including gold bracelets and a silver filigree necklace decorated with lapis baubles. Despite the drastic economies the war had imposed on the household, I suspected that young Tullia would be the last member of the family called upon to make personal sacrifices. Cicero and Terentia had spoiled both their children, but Tullia especially.

"Actually," said Terentia, "my visitors were just leaving. Why don't you escort your aunt back to the sewing room, Tullia, while I show them out?"

"Certainly, Mother." Tullia took her aunt's hand and led her from the room. Over her shoulder Fabia gave me a long, parting glance in lieu of a farewell. Tullia's parting glance was at Davus, who reacted by shuffling his feet and clearing his throat.

I began to move toward the door, but Terentia restrained me with a hand on my forearm.

"Send your son-in-law on to the foyer," she said in a low voice, "but stay here a moment longer, Gordianus. There's something I want to show you, in private."

I did as she asked and waited alone in the room, gazing at the pastoral landscapes on the wall. A moment later she returned, carrying a scrap of parchment. She pressed it into my hand.

"Read that," she said. "Tell me what you make of it."

It was a letter from Cicero, dated from the month of Junius and headed From Pompey's Camp in Epirus:

IF YOU ARE WELL, I AM GLAD. I AM WELL. DO YOUR BEST TO RECOVER. AS FAR AS TIME AND CIRCUMSTANCES PERMIT, PROVIDE FOR AND CONDUCT ALL NECESSARY BUSINESS, AND AS OFTEN AS POSSIBLE WRITE TO ME ON ALL POINTS. GOOD-BYE.

I turned the scrap of parchment over, but that was all there was to it.

I shrugged, not knowing what she wanted from me. "He advises you to recover. I take it you were unwell?"

"A trifie-a fever that came and went," she said. "You'll notice he doesn't even wish me a speedy recovery or the favor of the gods or any such thing. Merely, 'Do your best to recover.' As if reminding me of a duty!"

"And he charges you with conducting necessary business-"

"Ha! He expects me to run a household-two households, my own and Tullia's-on a budget of thin air! Just to make ends meet, I'm selling off the best furniture and the finest pieces of jewelry handed down from my mother-"

"I don't understand why you showed me this letter, Terentia."

"Because you know my husband, Gordianus. You've known him from the bottom up. You have no illusions about him. I'm not sure you like him-I'm not even sure if you respect him-but you know him. Do you detect in that letter one shred of love or affection or even goodwill?"

Perhaps it's written in code, I wanted to say, knowing from experience that Cicero was prone to such tricks in his correspondence. But Terentia was in no mood for jokes. If she had mustered the courage to bare her soul to me of all people, I knew she must be in genuine distress. "I hardly think it's for me to say what Cicero felt when he wrote this letter."