It didn't help, of course, that we were constantly confronted with the contrasting example of our daughter and her muscle-bound husband. They, too, had begun life in unequal stations-Diana born free, Davus a slave-and the gulf between Diana's sharp wits and Davus's simplicity had struck me from the first as unbridgeable. But the two of them were inseparable, constantly touching, forever cooing endearments to each other, even as they approached the fourth year of their marriage. Nor was their attraction purely physical. Often, when I came upon the two of them in my house, I found them deep in earnest conversation. What did they find to talk about? Probably the state of her parents' marriage, I thought…

But the guilt I felt came from more than long silences and petty squabbles. It came from more than the very major row we had had after my return to Rome from Massilia the previous autumn, bringing a new mouth to feed-my friend Hieronymus-and the news that I had disowned my adopted son Meto. That announcement very nearly tore the whole household apart, but over time the shock and grief had lessened. No, the guilt I felt had nothing to do with household matters or family relations. I felt guilty because of Cassandra, of course.

And now Bethesda, who complained of feeling unwell every day, who seemed to be in the grip of some malady no doctor could diagnose, had taken it into her head that she must have radishes-and her wretched husband was trapped between a greedy vendor and his own guilty conscience.

"I shall buy you more than one radish, Wife," I said quietly. "I shall buy you the whole bunch of them. Davus, you're carrying the moneybag. Hand it to Diana so that she can pay the man."

Diana took the bag from Davus, loosened the drawstrings, and slowly reached inside, frowning. "Papa, are you sure? It's so much."

"Of course I'm sure. Pay the scoundrel!"

The vendor was ecstatic as Diana counted the coins and dropped them into his hand. He relinquished the radishes. Bethesda, clutching them to her breast, gave me a look to melt my heart. The smile on her face, such a rare sight in recent days, made her look twenty years younger-no, younger than that, like a gratified and trusting child. Then a shadow crossed her face, the smile faded, and I knew that she suddenly felt unwell.

I touched her arm and spoke into her ear. "Shall we go home now, Wife?"

Just then, there was a commotion from another part of the market-the clanging of metal on metal, the rattle of objects spilled onto paving stones, the crash of pottery breaking. A man yelled. A woman shrieked, "It's her! The madwoman!"

I turned about to see Cassandra staggering toward me. Her blue tunica was torn at the neck and pulled awry. Her golden hair was wild and unkempt. There was a crazed expression on her face. That was how she often looked, especially during a fit of prophecy-but when her eyes met mine, I saw in them a look of utter panic, and my blood turned cold.

She ran to me, her arms reaching forward, her gait uneven. "Gordianus, help me!" she cried. Her voice was hoarse and strained. She fell into my arms. Beside me, Bethesda gave a start and dropped her radishes. Cassandra fell to her knees, pulling me down with her.

"Cassandra!" I gasped. I lowered my voice to a whisper. "If this is some pretense-"

She clutched my arms and cried out. Her body convulsed.

Diana knelt beside me. "Papa, what's wrong with her?"

"I don't know."

"It's the god in her," said Bethesda from above and behind me, her voice tinged with awe. "The same god that compels her prophecies must be tearing her apart inside."

A crowd gathered around us, pressing in from all sides. "Draw back, all of you!" I shouted. Cassandra clutched at me again, but her grip was weakening. Her eyelids flickered and drooped. She moved her lips, but no sound came out.

"Cassandra, what's wrong? What's happened?" I whispered.

"Poison," she said. Her voice was failing. I could barely hear her above the hubbub of the crowd. "She's poisoned me!"

"Who? What did she give you?" Our faces were so close that I felt her shallow breath on my lips. Her eyes seemed huge, her blue irises eclipsed by the enormous blackness of her pupils.

"Something-in the drink…" she said. I could barely hear her.

She convulsed again, then was still. I felt a last, long exhalation against my lips, strangely cold. The fingers clutching my arms relaxed. Her eyes remained open, but the life went out of them.

The crowd pressed in. Diana was knocked against me and gave a squeal. Davus bellowed at the on lookers to back away, brandishing his fists at those who didn't move quickly. As they dispersed, I heard snatches of excited conversation:

"Did you see that? She died in the old man's arms!"

"Cassandra-that's what people called her."

"I heard she was a war widow. Went crazy with grief."

"No, no, no! She was a Briton, from way up north. They're all crazy. Paint themselves blue."

"She didn't look blue to me! Rather beautiful, in fact…"

"I heard she was a Vestal who broke her vows and got herself buried alive. Managed to claw her way out of the grave but ended up raving mad."

"Nonsense! You'll believe anything."

"All I know is, she could see the future."

"Could she? I wonder if she saw that coming?"

I swallowed hard. I wanted to press my lips against Cassandra's, but I felt the eyes of my wife and daughter on me. I turned to Diana, kneeling beside me. What must my face have looked like for my daughter to gaze back at me with such pity and puzzlement? I peered up at Bethesda. For a long moment, she registered no emotion-then suddenly raised her eyebrows in alarm.

"The radishes!" she cried, slapping her hands to her face.

In all the commotion, someone had stolen them.

The first time I saw Cassandra was in the Forum. It was a day in mid-Januarius. When I count the months on my fingers, I realize that from the first day I saw her to the last, not quite seven months passed. So brief a period! Yet in some ways it seems I knew her for a lifetime.

I can place the date precisely, because that was the day word reached Rome that Caesar had successfully crossed the Adriatic Sea from Brundisium to the coast of northern Greece. For days, all Rome had been holding its breath to learn the outcome of that bold gambit. The gray-bearded, self-styled sages who passed their days gossiping and arguing in the Forum all agreed, whether they favored Caesar or Pompey, that Caesar was mad to attempt a naval crossing in winter, and madder still to attempt such a thing when everyone knew that Pompey had the superior fleet and ruled the Adriatic. A sudden storm could send Caesar and all his soldiers to the bottom of the sea in a matter of minutes. Or, in clear weather, Caesar's fleet was likely to be outmaneuvered by Pompey's and destroyed before they could reach the other side. Yet Caesar, having settled affairs in Rome to his liking, was determined to carry the battle to Pompey, and to do that he had to convey his troops across the water.

All through the previous year, from the day he crossed the Rubicon and drove Pompey in a panic out of Italy, Caesar had campaigned to secure his mastery of the West-mustering troops from his stronghold in Gaul; destroying the Pompeian forces in Spain; laying siege to the seaport of Massilia, whose inhabitants had sided with Pompey; and arranging to have himself declared temporary dictator so as to set up magistrates of his choosing in Rome. Meanwhile, Pompey, driven in confusion and disarray from Rome, had been biding his time across the water in Greece, insisting that he and his fellow exiles constituted the true government of Rome, compelling Eastern potentates to send him massive contributions of money and vast numbers of troops, and building up a huge navy that he stationed in the Adriatic with the express purpose of keeping Caesar in Italy until Pompey was ready to face him.