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way the remaining skeleton of the place stood out against the cloudy sky. Francesca walked them down into the ruins, and Jessa felt herself descending into history. They stood silently near the place where Mark Antony held Caesar before he was cremated.
    “Interestingly,” Francesca told them, her arms poised like a conductor, “the group of senators who assassinated Caesar on the Ides of March wanted to bring a sense of normalcy back to the republic, but their betrayal really lead to another Roman civil war.” She clucked her tongue and stared out at them, dropped her arms to her sides. “Any questions?”
    No one had questions. A girl from the other group in a Stanford sweatshirt yawned loudly.
    Holding back what appeared to be a sigh but could have been a yawn of her own, Francesca released them. The frog on a stick took a break, propped against stone and grass. The group spread out to wander the Forum, to run their hands over its ancient remains. Jessa pressed her face into a slab of white, breathing in the cold dirt smell of it. She pulled her earbuds out of her jacket and started to put them in her ears.
    “Et tu, Brute?” Mr. Campbell motioned at her ears.
    She stuffed them back in her pocket. “What?”
    “I’m just teasing you. It’s not like my generation’s any better with our constant need for a soundtrack.”
    Jessa felt her face grow hot. “I don’t need it.”
    “OK, I’m just teasing you.” Mr. Campbell motioned to the grounds. “So what do you think?”
    She hesitated, stuffing her iPod back into her pocket. “It’s pretty amazing.”
    “And?”
    “Old.”
    He laughed and put his hands in his pockets, his eyes sweeping the angles and shadows of the place. “Yeah. It’s amazing to think of all these people who walk around every day with their world grown from all these ruins, you know?”
    “Makes me feel small.” Jessa pulled her jacket closer. Across the Forum, Sean and Natalie groped each other with little notice of the couple trying to take a picture of the historic spot the two of them were currently disrespecting.
    Mr. Campbell nodded, still staring out over the grounds. He frowned as his eyes fell on the gropers. “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow… Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
    “Is that from Julius Caesar ?”
    “ Macbeth .”
    “It’s kind of depressing.”
    “Yes it is.” He shook his head, as if trying to pop himself from a trance.
    “Can I ask you a question, Mr. Campbell?”
    “Shoot.”
    “Why didn’t Katie come?”
    His eyes grew sad. Jessa had never noticed before how dark they were. His eyes, all milk- and dark-chocolate swirls. He cleared his throat. “Katie and I broke up. Last month.”
    Jessa kicked at a small tuft of grass at her feet. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.” The first time Jessa met Katie had been at the dress rehearsal of The Breakfast Club . Jessa had been a freshman, co–stage managing the show with Tyler. Katie brought them pizza, taking a break from the dissertation research she had just started. She had been studying something with sociology, something about the way girls group themselves. She told Jessa about it over a slice of pepperoni pizza, her short, dark hair lifting with each passionate statement. She came to every play Mr. Campbell directed, and always brought him flowers and a metal thermos of coffee, but she usually left at intermission.
    A breeze picked up through the Forum. Jessa shuddered. Each breeze here seemed to carry spirits of the ancients prodding her with their wise, skeletal fingers. “Are you OK?”
    Mr. Campbell swallowed, his hesitation lowering like a curtain. Then his eyes settled on her. “Not really.”
    ***
    Waiting in line for the Sistine Chapel viewing, Jessa tried not to roll her eyes at the woman from the other