Definitely patricians—only patricians had such a complete lack of imagination when it came to naming their daughters. Four girls born to one clan—undoubtedly the Cornelii!—and as was traditional, they’d all just been named Cornelia and then numbered in order. Nessus listened to their chatter with half an ear, not bothering to figure out which girl was which. They ranged in age from perhaps thirteen to five or six: a girl with dark hair wound in a crown around her head, a taller girl with the beginnings of a bust, a scabby-kneed towhead and a plump little giggler.

“Yes, what a future!” He put on his most oracular voice, and the first of the girls leaned in with round eyes even as the nursemaid sighed impatiently behind. “A golden-haired man who loves you, and a long journey over water . . . now, for you, let’s see that hand. A dark stranger who adores you from the shadows, who turns out to be a prince in disguise . . . And for you a rich husband, yes, you’ll have six children and dress in silk all your days . . .”

He’d been congratulating himself on a nice fat fee when he got the last palm. His breath stopped in his throat then, and for a moment the whole busy Forum—the housewives bustling past with their baskets, the hoarse-voiced hawkers crying their wares, the stray dogs and noisy children and clouds of white summer dust—seemed to freeze in place.

“What is it?” the girl said again, looking at him quizzically. Nessus felt icy fingers dancing up and down his spine; he had to force himself not to drop her hand like a hot coal and go running around the Forum for a while shrieking. But threadbare young astrologers just getting started in the business of telling the future didn’t last long if they went around shrieking in front of the customers, so he forced a bright smile.

“Little mistress, you have a very grand future ahead of you. All little girls dream of wearing a crown, but you’re going to be Empress of Rome someday! Wife of the Emperor, with more jewels and slaves and palaces than you can count. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“I want to be an empress,” one of the other little Cornelias objected.

“No, me!”

“Horsie,” crowed the youngest, waving chubby fingers at a cart horse plodding by.

Nessus dropped the hand of Cornelia Number Three or Two or whichever one she was. I didn’t lie, he thought queasily. I just didn’t tell . . . all of it.

He looked at the other girls, the ones to whom he’d promised rich husbands and dark lovers and many children, just as he promised all girls, and now he could feel the sweat pouring down his body. Because he didn’t need to look at their hands anymore; he could see futures for all of them.