By Steven Saylor
In the 12 months forty eight B.C., Rome is in the middle of Civil warfare. As Pompey and Caesar struggle for keep an eye on of the Republic, Rome turns into a hotbed of intrigue, pushed via espionage, greed and betrayals.
A appealing younger seeress staggers around the Roman industry and dies within the hands of Gordianus the Finder. potentially mad and claiming no reminiscence of her previous, Cassandra― like her Trojan namesake―was reputed to have the present of prophecy, a present many in Rome may pay for handsomely...or inn to homicide.
Obsessed with Cassandra's secret, Gordianus investigates her homicide. As he peels away the veils of secrecy surrounding her existence and loss of life, he discovers an internet of conspiracy linking lots of Rome's so much ruthless and robust girls. Now Gordianus's pursuit not just endangers his personal existence, yet might switch the way forward for Rome.
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Extra info for A Mist of Prophecies (Novels of Ancient Rome)
I caught a glimpse of her face and recognized Fabia, the sister-in-law of Cicero. She was quickly followed by two younger Vestals. The three of them gathered around the prostrate form of the woman called Cassandra. They put their heads together and conferred in low voices. Cassandra stirred and rose to her knees, using her arms to steady herself. She looked dazed. She seemed hardly to notice the Vestals as the three of them helped her to her feet. I could see that Fabia was speaking to her, apparently asking her questions, but Cassandra made no reply.
The clerk who attended me was officious and sullen from the moment he slammed his record book on to the counter that separated us. I told him I wanted to register a death. He opened the hinged wooden diptych with its inlaid wax tablets and took up his stylus. " he asked curtly. " He looked at me as if I had entered the temple with the specific intention of wasting his time. "I didn't really know her. " "No. " He slammed shut his record book and brandished his stylus at me. " I reached across the counter and grabbed the front of his tunic in my fist.
Ours was not the only funeral that day. Here and there, plumes of smoke from funeral pyres rose into the air, scenting the necropolis with the smells of burning wood and flesh. A little way off the road, atop a small hill, the pyre for Cassandra had already been prepared. While her bier was being laid upon it and the keepers of the flame set about stoking the fire, I stepped into the Temple of Venus Libitina, where the registry of deaths is kept. The clerk who attended me was officious and sullen from the moment he slammed his record book on to the counter that separated us.
A Mist of Prophecies (Novels of Ancient Rome) by Steven Saylor