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story. Much too complicated for you.”
    I turned to say something clever to the stranger, but he had retreated far down the hall now, rather deliberately alone, it seemed. I fought a pang of disappointment as he turned a corner and disappeared.
    “No, not for me, these myths,” the German said, pulling his tie, as if he had decided something important. “No one knows what they are for certain. And however they end, somebody dies.”
    The guide gave a tight smile, but I could see now that she liked him even less than she liked me. It hardly mattered. Siesta was approaching, and the museum, aside from us, was now completely empty. With a final half nod, the trio turned and graciously retreated; I was left in the cool unquiet alone with Iphigenia’s ghost.

 
    Adriana, 1st century BC
    Adriana Soevii, the daughter of a baker. The Soevii house was built in the shadows of an alleyway, so that no sun would ever fall near the already smoking ovens. It was Adriana’s job to knead and bake the flat tablets of bread. Her brother pounded the grain. Her father made the purchases from the farmers and kept the accounts. Her mother, a pretty woman, went from house to house, taking the orders, although there were rumors that she performed other services as well.
    The baker wasn’t rich, but he had a good house, comfortable and clean. He was shrewd, and never gave away bread, even to needy soldiers during the beginning of the famine.
    And then, the famine went on. Sometimes, at night, Adriana’s father would come down to find thieves trying to break into the kitchen. He ordered a stronger bolt for the door from the ironsmith down the way.
    It was a year free of rain. Dust filled in the sky and the grain seedlings withered in the ground. By the end of the winter, people were hungry, and the stores of grain were all but depleted.
    On a hot spring day, Adriana propped the door open, waiting for a certain boy to visit, even though her father told her not to.
    The boy didn’t come, but a thief did. He was quick and thorough. He grabbed Adriana by the shoulder, then shoved a dagger in her side and turned it clockwise. She watched her blood pour onto the floor as she struggled for breath. She could feel the cold iron inside her, could see an organ spilling out. Finally blackness came and the man filled his bag.
    Word traveled among the nobles, and money was raised for a proper sarcophagus. A girl like this did not deserve such a death. Carved into the stone, a relief of Iphigenia.
    It was noted that there would be more deaths like this. The undeserved deaths of women in need of proper burials.
    At this, a small Compagnia was formed. They gathered at various houses, planning, waiting for the next one.
    Adriana Soevii, fifteen years old, 1st century BC

 
    4
    In the Etruscan Museum in Rome, one can see room after room of relics of a sophisticated, pleasure-loving society. Beautifully engraved plates and wine goblets, combs, pumice-holders, necklaces, bracelets, earrings. While the working class—for the classes were strictly divided—lived in comparative modesty, the wealthiest subjects surrounded themselves with luxury to the point of ostentation. They kept monkeys, dogs, and ferrets as pets. The men wore togas over tunics, bronze jewelry, high-topped boots. The women wore tunics with belts, often embroidered with gold.
    And the parties, the parties. Banquets, sometimes two a day, were elaborate, served at huge tables heaped with meat, fruit, and wine. Men and women reclined on sumptuous sofas, their legs covered in blankets. They ate flatbread, fava beans, faro, eggs, pomegranates, grapes. The Etruscan wine cups were wide-mouthed, their platters long. Beneath the tables, animals rummaged for scraps. Sometimes, plied with wine and music, the guests would watch a wrestling match, followed by a fight to the death between gladiators. When one of the men was finally beaten, his bleeding carcass was dragged behind the gates of the arena, then