A roar erupted as Bethesda was settling herself beside me. We were just in time to see the beginning of the parade.

Following tradition, the procession began with the senators. They were usually three hundred in number. The body had been greatly depleted by the civil war, but new appointments by Caesar had replenished their ranks. Dressed in their togas with red borders, the senators flowed down the Sacred Way like a river of white flecked with crimson. For many of the newcomers, this occasion marked their first public appearance. I could pick out the new senators by how stiffly they adopted the politician's standard pose-one hand clutching the folds of the toga, the other raised to wave to the crowd. These included, either appropriately or ironically considering the occasion, a number of Gallic chieftains who had allied themselves with Caesar. Not one of them sported long hair or a giant mustache; they were as well-groomed as their Roman colleagues. Still, keeping together in a group, they were easy to spot by their stature. The Gauls towered above the sea of white.

Cicero and Brutus, who were usually the type to put themselves out front, marched near the back of the contingent. They strode with their heads close together, conversing, as if more interested in each other's company than in what was happening around them. Their attitude seemed almost deliberately disrespectful of the occasion. What were those two talking about?

Next in the procession came the white oxen that would be sacrificed on the altar before the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline, attended by the priests who would slaughter them, bearing their ceremonial knives. The oxen had gilded horns, brightly colored fillets of twisted wool on their heads, and garlands of flowers around their necks. Following were the camilli, the specially chosen boys and girls who would attend the priests, carrying the shallow libation bowls in which they would receive the blood and the organs of the sacrificed oxen.

Other members of the priesthoods followed, wearing long robes and mantles over their heads. These included the keepers of the Sibylline Books, the augurs responsible for divination, the flamens devoted to various deities, and the priests who maintained the calendar and reckoned sacred dates. Among this last group I saw a familiar face, the white-haired uncle of Calpurnia, Gnaeus Calpurnius, whom I had seen briefly in the garden at her house. Clearly, Uncle Gnaeus was in his element on this day, a priest among priests taking part in a great occasion. His expression was at once solemn and joyous; he had that smug look one often sees on priests, of knowing a little more than ordinary people and rather enjoying this superior knowledge. Now that I realized the priesthood to which he was attached, it occurred to me that it might have been Uncle Gnaeus who piqued Hieronymus's interest in the calendar, and perhaps even assisted him with astronomical calculations-if, indeed, he had deigned to have anything to do with Hieronymus. I made a mental note to ask him about it, if the opportunity arose.

Next came a band of trumpeters, blaring the ancient summons to arms, as if a hostile enemy approached. In fact, behind the trumpeters, an enemy did approach-the captive chiefs of the conquered Gauls. There were a great many of these prisoners; the Gauls were divided into scores of tribes, and Caesar had subdued them all. These once-proud warriors were dressed in rags. They shambled forward with their heads bowed, chained to one another. The crowed laughed and jeered and pelted them with rotten fruit.

At their head was Vercingetorix. He was as I had seen him in the Tullianum, nearly naked and covered with filth, but his appearance was even more appalling under bright sunlight. His eyes were hollow. His lips were dry and cracked. His hair and his beard were as tangled as a bird's nest. His fingernails were like claws, so long they had begun to curl. His shoes had disintegrated while he walked; bits of shredded leather trailed from his ankles, and each step left a bloody footprint on the paving stones.

Confused and exhausted, he suddenly came to a halt. A soldier pacing alongside the prisoners, like a herd dog, ran up and struck him with a whip. The crowd roared.

"Fight back, Gaul!" someone yelled.

"Show us what you're made of!"

"King of the Gauls? King of the cowards!"

Vercingetorix lurched forward and almost fell. One of the other chieftains reached out to steady him. The soldier struck the man across the face and sent him reeling back. Spectators jeered and clapped and jumped up and down with excitement.

The chastened prisoners quickened their pace. A moment later, they passed beyond my sight. Bethesda touched my arm and gave me a sympathetic look. I realized I was gripping the edge of the shelf so firmly that my knuckles had turned white.

So this was the end of Vercingetorix. For him, the day would end where it began, back at the Tullianum, where he would be lowered into the pit and strangled. In quick succession, the other chieftains would meet the same fate. There would be no last-minute rescue. There would not be even a final show of defiance or pride or anger, only submission and silence. He had been broken to the ultimate degree that could still leave him breathing and able to walk. Caesar's torturers were exquisitely skilled at obtaining exactly what they wanted from a victim, and Vercingetorix had proved to be no exception.

Next came musicians and a troupe of mincing mimes who mocked the chieftains who had just passed. The tension aroused in the crowd by the sight of their enemies melted into screams of laughter. The mime who played Vercingetorix-recognizable by a ludicrously oversized version of the warrior's famous winged helmet, which almost swallowed his head-confronted a mime meant to be Caesar, to judge by his glittering armor and red cape. Their mock swordfight, attended by a great deal of buffoonery, excited squeals of laughter from the children watching and ended when the Caesar mime appeared to plunge his sword up the fundament of the Vercingetorix mime, who first gave a high-pitched scream, then cocked his head to one side and started rolling his hips, as if he enjoyed the penetration. The crowd loved this.

Dancers, musicians, and a chorus of singers followed. People clapped their hands and sang along to marching songs they had learned from their grandparents. "Onward Roman soldiers, for Jupiter you fight! The way of Rome is forward, the cause of Rome is right…"

Next came the spoils of war. Specially made wagons, festooned with garlands, were loaded with the captured armor of the enemy. Superbly crafted breastplates, helmets, and shields were mounted for display, as were the most impressive weapons of the enemy, including gleaming swords with elaborately decorated pommels, fearsome axes, and iron-tipped spears hewn from solid oak and carved with strange runes.

The grandest wagon was reserved for the armor and weapons of Vercingetorix. The crowd applauded the sight of his famous bronze helmet with massive feathered wings on either side. There was also a display of his personal belongings, including his signet ring for sealing documents, his private drinking cup of silver and horn, a fur cloak made from a bear he himself had killed, and even a pair of his boots, crafted of fine leather and tooled with intricate Celtic designs.

More wagons rolled by, carrying captured booty from every corner of Gaul, artfully displayed so that the crowd could take in each object as it slowly passed by. There were silver goblets and pitchers and vases, richly embroidered fabrics, woven goods with patterns never before seen in Rome, magnificent garments made of fur, elaborately wrought bronze lamps, copper bracelets, torques and armbands made of gold, and clasps and pins and brooches set with gemstones of remarkable size and color. There were bronze and stone statues, crude by Greek or Roman standards, depicting the strange gods who had failed to protect the Gauls.