A little later Birria returned. Was he more sullen than when he'd left? With such an ugly face, it was hard to tell. "The mistress can't see you today," he said.

"No? Perhaps-"

"I gave her your name. She knows who you are. She doesn't have time to see you."

"Perhaps you could go back and mention another name."

He scowled. "What would that be?"

"Cassandra. Tell her that I want to talk about Cassandra."

"Won't make a difference. You'd better go now." He walked up to me, squaring his massive shoulders to block my way. He didn't stop, but strode right into me, forcing me to take tripping, back ward steps. Behind me, Davus emitted a threatening grunt. I looked over my shoulder and saw a scowl on his face to match the gladiator's. I felt like a man caught between two snorting bulls.

From behind Birria, I heard a woman's shrill voice. "No! Birria, stop this! No fighting before Papa's image! I've decided to see the Finder after all. I… I want to see him." Her voice had an oddly plaintive tone, as if she were asking for permission.

Birria stopped and stared down at me, then over my head at Davus. I smelled garlic on his breath-gladiators eat it for strength-and wrinkled my nose. At last he stepped back and out of the way.

"As you wish, mistress," he said, glaring at me.

Davus and I stepped past him toward Fausta. Instead of waiting, she turned away while we were still several paces distant and began to lead us down a dim hallway. "This way. Follow me. Where shall we…? Not the garden, I think. No, definitely not the garden. We'll talk… in the Baiae room. Yes, that will do."

She kept several paces ahead of me. I found myself staring at the mass of ginger hair pinned atop her head and the jiggling of her ample back side beneath her orange stola. I noticed with a start-for until then she had managed to hide it-that one of her arms was in a sling, and that she was walking with a slight limp. Had she suffered an accident?

The chamber she called the Baiae room was a narrow alcove off a hall. The only light came from the doorway. Lamps were hung from the ceiling, but none were lit, and so the room was dim and shadowy. Even so, I could see how the room came to have its name. The floor was a mosaic in many shades of green and blue, touched with flashes of gold, depicting various creatures of the deep-octopi, whales, dolphins, fish-and bordered with images of seashells. The walls of the room were painted with scenes of villas perched above the sea cliffs of Baiae. I stepped closer, losing myself in the picture, until the voice of Fausta called me back.

"Why don't the two of you sit over there, in those chairs at the far end of the room?" she said. "I'll sit here close by the doorway."

"This must be a very beautiful room when it's well lit," I said, taking a seat and gesturing to Davus to do the same.

"Oh, yes. My brother Faustus used to own this house. He didn't actually live here; he only kept it as a sort of guest house, a place to lend out to visitors and friends. Faustus was awfully flush with money at the time. He spent a great deal on fixtures and stonework and such. He doted on this little room more than any other. The mosaics and the wall paintings are meant to be viewed by lamplight at night. It's quite a magical place when you see it that way. By day it's rather dim in here, isn't it? And it could use a bit of restoration. I don't think the painters quite knew what they were doing. In places there's an awful lot of peeling and flaking. Of course I can't afford to have it properly redone, and neither could Faustus these days. But once the war is over, his fortunes will change for the better. Caesar's rich supporters will lose their heads along with their estates, and men like Faustus will get what's due to them. That's how my father rewarded his partisans, giving them the best of the booty seized from his enemies. Pompey will do the same, if he has any sense. What do you think, Gordianus? Is Pompey half the man my father was?"

Twice the man, but half the monster, I wanted to say, but bit my tongue. I had the feeling she was teasing me, but it was hard to read her expression. She sat with her back to the door, so the light came from behind her and cast her face in shadow.

"You think it will be Pompey who triumphs, then?" I said. "I might have thought, in light of recent events…"

"You mean this business with my husband and Caelius?" I couldn't see her face, but I could hear the disgust in her voice. "As soon as word reached Rome that Milo had slipped out of Massilia, Isauricus himself came here to question me. He assumed, since I'm still married to Milo, that I would be able to tell him exactly what my husband was up to, even though I hadn't seen Milo in years or exchanged a letter in months. 'Do you think I can read Milo's mind at a distance of several hundred miles?' I asked him. 'Do you think that I can predict what the fool will do next?' I ran Isauricus out of the house, and he hasn't come back."

I nodded. Considering the state of Fausta's household, the consul had probably decided that she posed no threat and wasn't worth keeping an eye on. I shifted uneasily in my chair, frustrated at being unable to see her face clearly.

Fausta sighed. "Fortune was cruel to Milo. Cruel to us both. To be perfectly candid-and I'll be more candid with you than I was with Isauricus-I wasn't the least bit surprised when I heard about Milo escaping from Massilia and coming back to Italy. Nor was I surprised to learn that he had taken up with Marcus Caelius. Each chose to follow a different leader. Both of those leaders cruelly let them down; Pompey abandoned Milo, and Caesar shunted Caelius aside. Milo and Caelius are like two orphans, taking up with each other so they won't be alone. There must be many more like them, big men and little men, all feeling abandoned by whichever leader they chose, all feeling angry and cheated at the prospect of either of those leaders winning. Why not turn away from Caesar and Pompey both, and find a third way to the future? It makes perfect sense-if they can pull it off."

"Can they?"

"How should I know. Do I look like Cassandra?"

I drew a breath. "How well did you know her?"

"Did anyone really know Cassandra? That's why you've come, of course. Not to ask after Milo, or me, but because I came to Cassandra's funeral, and you want to talk about her. Am I right?"

"Yes."

She nodded. "I sought her out one day in the market. I invited her here. She stared at a flame and had a fit. I listened to what she had to say, gave her a few coins, and sent her on her way. Why not? Every woman in Rome was desperate to hear what Cassandra had to tell them."

"And what did she tell you?"

Fausta laughed. "A bunch of garbled nonsense. Truthfully, I couldn't make sense of it. I suppose I'm too literal minded for that sort of thing. Why do oracles and portents always have to be so obscure? Call a truffle a truffle, that's what I say! I never much liked plays or poetry for the same reason. I've no patience for metaphors and similes."

"Cassandra didn't foretell Milo's return and his alliance with Caelius?"

Fausta shrugged and winced a bit-I heard her hiss-as she rearranged her arm in the sling. "Oh, there was something about a bear and a snake, I think. And two eagles. Was the bear Milo? Was the snake Caelius? Were the eagles Pompey and Caesar? Or was it all the other way around? Your guess is as good as mine." She sighed. "Milo was always so much more interested in that sort of thing than I was."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. He always took omens very seriously. More now than ever, I should think."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because"-she sighed heavily-"on that fateful day when Clodius died, Milo saw all sorts of bad omens before we ever set out on the Appian Way. He saw a vulture flying upside down, and then a duck with three feet crossed our path, or so he claimed. Later, when everything started going wrong that day, Milo kept muttering, 'I should have paid attention to the signs; I should have known there would be trouble; we should never have set out; we should have stayed home.' You probably never saw that side of him. He didn't talk much about premonitions and such, except to me, because Cicero would make such fun of him for being so superstitious. But Milo was always on the look out for portents. A lot of good it ever did him! What's the use of seeing a falling star if it's careening straight toward you?"