But we also had Julius Caesar, and Caesar would put everything right. So his supporters claimed; so Caesar promised. He would rebuild the Roman state, making it stronger than ever. He had even pledged to fix the calendar; according to rumor, the details would be announced at the conclusion of his upcoming triumphs, after which the requisite number of days-two months' worth-would be added to the current year, and the forthcoming year, with newly proportioned months, would commence in harmony with the seasons and the passage of the sun.

But could Caesar repair the broken people of Rome? Even the gods cannot restore a severed hand or a plucked-out eye to a body maimed by warfare. Others, whose bodies might show no signs of damage from violence or deprivation, had nonetheless been changed by the fear and uncertainty that hung over their lives for so many years, while Caesar and Pompey struggled for dominion. Something about those men and women was not as it had been before, not quite right. No doctor could diagnose their nameless disease, yet it burned inside them nonetheless, changing them from the inside out. Like the calendar, they still functioned, but no longer in harmony with the cosmos.

Even Calpurnia might be numbered among these invisible victims. The confederate of Caesar and mistress of his spy ring in the capital-rigorously logical, ruthlessly pragmatic-now confessed to being driven by dreams. She allowed a haruspex to conduct her affairs, and was doing so behind her husband's back.

I came to the Ramp, the long, straight, tree-lined path that led down to a gateway between the House of the Vestals and the Temple of Castor and Pollux.