Roma.The novel of ancient Rome

HEADS IN THE FORUM

81 B.C.

“How did it come to this?” muttered Lucius Pinarius, talking to himself to keep up his courage as he hurried across the Forum. Despite the mild spring weather, he wore a hooded cloak. He nervously fingered the fascinum that hung at his breast-a family keepsake from his late grandfather-and whispered a prayer to the gods to keep him safe.

The lowering sun of late afternoon loomed blood-red above the rooftops, casting long shadows. Quickening his pace, Lucius passed the Rostra. Nowadays, the beaks of captured ships were not the only trophies that adorned the speaker’s platform. Lucius tried not to look, but despite himself he took a quick glance at the severed heads planted on the row of tall spikes that now encircled the platform. Some of the heads had been on the Rostra for a month or more and were in an advanced state of decay, the features no longer recognizable. Others, dripping blood, had been placed there so recently that their gaping mouths and wide-open eyes still expressed shock and horror.

Lucius scanned the faces quickly. He thanked the gods there was no one he recognized.

Looming above and beyond the Rostra, high on a tall pedestal, was the Forum’s newest ornament, a statue of a general on horseback. The gilded statue gleamed with red fire in the light of the dying sun, so brilliantly that it hurt Lucius’s eyes to look at it. The sculptor had captured to perfection the confident posture and bold features of the dictator, Lucius Cornelius Sulla. The statue appeared to be gazing out over the severed heads with a placid, self-satisfied smile.

Above and beyond the statue of Sulla loomed another reminder of the desperate pass to which Roma had come: the craggy summit of the Capitoline Hill, upon which the ancient temples stood in charred ruins. Two years ago, a great fire had swept across the Capitoline, destroying everything in its path, including the ancient Temple of Jupiter. The fire had been an ill omen, portending the unspeakable terrors of civil war and the victor’s gruesome vengeance.

Lucius turned away from the Rostra. He hurried on until he came to the posting wall. A group of men had gathered to read the latest lists. Proscription lists, they were called, because they contained the names of those who had been officially denounced as enemies of the dictator Sulla. A proscribed man could be killed with impunity, by anyone, even in his own home. His head was worth a bounty. His property was summarily confiscated and auctioned by the state.

Reading the new lists, some of the men sighed with relief. A few stifled cries of despair. Most kept their faces hidden. Lucius did likewise, pulling the hood low across his brow as he made his way to the front of the crowd to scan the lists.

The name Lucius dreaded to see, that of his wife’s younger brother, was not there. Lucius touched the fascinum and whispered a prayer of relief.

“What’s this?” A man behind him leaned forward and squinted at the list over Lucius’s shoulder. He spoke in an unnaturally loud voice. “Can it be? I see they’re posted the name of a certain…Lucius Pinarius!”

Lucius spun about, his heart pounding. He recognized the speaker, but only barely-the man was a friend of a friend whose name escaped him. Seeing the look on Lucius’s face, the man let out a ghastly laugh.

“I’m only joking!” he said.

“It’s not funny-not funny at all!” snapped Lucius, his voice breaking. “To say such a thing, even in jest-I might have been killed, you fool! Murdered where I stand, before I could say a word!”

It was true. Such atrocities occurred every day. A man came to the posting board to read the latest list, discovered to his horror that his name was on it, gave himself away with a cry of dismay, and then, within moments, was murdered by assassins who lurked nearby, waiting for the opportunity to kill one of the dictator’s enemies and claim the bounty.

Lucius elbowed his way out of the crowd and hurried across the Forum, walking as fast as he dared; walking too fast might attract attention. The straight, steep path behind the Temple of Castor took him quickly to the crest of the Palatine. From there it was only a short walk to his house.

Lucius turned down a narrow street. He gave a start. One of his neighbors was being dragged out of his house by a gang of rough-looking men. The man clutched the doorframe, clinging to it desperately with his fingernails until they pulled him clear and threw him down in the street. From within the house came the screams of his family.

The few bystanders in the street turned and fled at once, except for Lucius, who was too startled to move. He watched in horror as the assassins proceeded to stab the man to death. The sound of metal tearing flesh was nauseating. The man’s wife and children ran outside just in time to see the killers hack off his head.

The leader of the group held up the severed head. Lucius recognized the killer, a notorious henchman of Sulla’s named Cornelius Phagites.

“Can you believe it?” said Phagites to his companions. “This one’s been on the list for more than a month. Kept out of sight ever since, until today, when he dared to come home. Thought he could slip past Phagites, the stupid bastard! There’s a special premium for men who’ve been on the list that long. This head will be worth a small fortune when we deliver it to Sulla!”

Phagites grinned, showing crooked teeth with a gap in the middle. He saw Lucius watching and curled his upper lip, giving him a look of such malice that Lucius thought he might loose control of his bladder.

“What are you looking at, citizen?”

Lucius said nothing and hurried on.

He arrived home badly shaken. The slave who admitted him quickly barred the door behind him. His wife stood in the atrium beyond the vestibule, holding their newborn son to her breast. A nursemaid stood nearby, waiting to put the child to bed. Seeing Lucius, and the terrible look on his face, Julia pulled the baby from her breast. She kissed the child’s forehead, then handed him to the slave. She waited until the girl had disappeared before speaking.

“It’s bad news, isn’t it? Please, Lucius, tell me at once!”

“It’s not what you think.” He rushed to embrace her, as much to comfort himself as to reassure her. “I saw something…terrible…on the way home. Terrible! But the new list-”

“Was Gaius on the list, or not?” Julia pulled away from his embrace. Her fingers dug painfully into his arms.

“No, Julia, no! Calm yourself. His name wasn’t there.”

“Not yet,” said a rasping voice from the shadows. “But they will post my name any day now. So my informers tell me.”

Julia released her grip on Lucius and hurried to the hunched figure in the shadows. “Little brother, what are you doing out of bed? You’re much too ill to be up.”

Gaius Julius Caesar was only eighteen, but his face was haggard and he moved like an old man, stiff and bent.

He was unshaven, and his matted, unkempt hair made a mockery of his name; generations ago, his branch of the Julius family had taken the cognomen Caesar, meaning “possessor of a fine head of hair.”

“I’m feeling much better, sister. Really, I am. The fever’s broken. The chills are gone.”

“They’ll be back. That’s how the quartan ague runs its course. It comes and goes until it’s entirely spent.”

“Are you my physician now, as well as my sister?”

Julia kissed his forehead. “You are cooler than you were before. Do you think you could swallow some broth? You must keep up your strength.”

In the dining room, Lucius held up a small silver dish with both hands. He bowed his head, and intoned a prayer.

“Asylaeus, we offer the best morsels of the meal to you-you, who were especially worshipped by Father Romulus; you, patron of vagabonds, fugitives, and exiles; you, whose ancient altar on the Capitoline offered a place of sanctuary to those who could find it nowhere else. Keep safe this cherished visitor in my home, my brother by marriage, young Gaius. Grant him asylum here in the shelter of my house. To you, Asylaeus, I make this prayer.”

“Asylaeus, protect my brother!” said Julia.

“Protect us all,” whispered Gaius.

Lucius reclined on the couch next to Julia. He picked at bits of roasted pork on a silver dish. His stomach was empty, but after the horrors he had seen that day, the sight of charred flesh revolted him. Julia likewise had no appetite, but Gaius quickly finished one cup of broth and started on another.

Gaius saw that Lucius was staring at him. He managed a weak smile. “You did a brave thing today, brother-in-law, going down to the Forum to read the new list. I thank you for it.”

Lucius shrugged. “I did it for my own peace of mind. As long as you’re not officially on the list, Julia and I can’t be punished for keeping a wanted man under our roof.”

“I shall move on tomorrow, I promise.”

“Nonsense!” said Julia. “You can stay here for as long as you like.”

Lucius groaned inwardly, but Gaius spared him the awkwardness of objecting.

“Thank you, sister, but for my own safety I need to keep moving. As soon as I’m able, I must leave the city and get as far away from Italy as I can. If it weren’t for this damned ague, I’d be gone already. Sulla wants me dead.”

Lucius shook his head. “How did it come to this? In our grandfathers’ time, Gaius Gracchus was beheaded and his killer collected a bounty, and the bodies of the Gracchi were thrown in the Tiber, without proper burial, but decent Romans were outraged. Now scores of heads are added every day to the display on the Rostra, and men do nothing. The headless bodies of citizens are dumped in the river like refuse from the fish market, without a thought. Did you hear the latest outrage? Sulla disinterred and then deliberately desecrated the body of your uncle, Marius, the one man who might have stopped his madness. He cut the corpse into pieces and smeared it with feces, gouged the eyes from their sockets, and cut out the tongue. What an age we live in! Strong men no longer fear the gods. Wickedness has no limits.”

Gaius turned pale. “Is it true, about Marius? Would even Sulla commit such an abomination?”

“Everyone is whispering about it. Why shouldn’t it be true? Sulla will stop at nothing to punish his enemies. He tortures them while they live. Now he desecrates their corpses after they die.”

Gaius stared into his cup of broth. His expression was a blank, but Lucius knew that his brother-in-law was deep in thought. By nature, young Gaius was analytical and dispassionate. Brought low by sickness and finding himself in precarious circumstances, he nonetheless held his emotions in check. Lucius envied his self-control.

“You ask how it came to this, Lucius. You hint at the answer when you mention the Gracchi. In the days of our grandfathers, the destiny of Roma lay upon one of two paths-the way of the Gracchi, or the way of their enemies. Their enemies won. The wrong path was taken. Nothing has gone right since.

“Gaius Gracchus attempted to expand the rights of common citizens, and to extend those rights to our allies. His selfish, short-sighted enemies thwarted his legislation, but the problems arising from injustice and inequity didn’t go away. Instead, a long, bloody war erupted between us and our Italian allies. What the Gracchi might have accomplished peacefully was instead settled by bloodshed and brute force. What a waste!

“Because the Gracchi saw a better future, they were destroyed. Their enemies got away with murder, and ever since, men in power have never hesitated to use violence. When the Gracchi were killed, people were shocked to see Romans kill Romans. Now we’ve suffered a full-scale civil war, and a catastrophe that would have been unthinkable to our ancestors-a Roman army laid siege to Roma herself!”

In retrospect, the civil war of which Gaius spoke had perhaps been inevitable. Roma’s expanding foreign wars led to the mustering of ever-larger armies, and the acquisition of ever-greater wealth by her military commanders. An era of conquest had given rise to a generation of warlords whose power grew to exceed that of the Senate. Driven more by personal ambition and mutual suspicion than by politics, the warlords turned on one another. In the brief but ferocious civil war that resulted, it was Sulla, surviving his rivals Marius and Cinna, who emerged as the last man standing. Sulla had marched on Roma, laid siege to the city, and then forced the Senate to declare him dictator.

“Now the winner holds the city in his grip,” said Gaius. “He piously vows to restore the Republic and the lawful rule of the Senate, but not before he purges the state of all his enemies and potential enemies, and divides their property among his henchmen.”

Gaius lowered his eyes and gazed into the cup of broth. Because Marius had been his uncle, and because Gaius had recently married Cornelia, whose father Cinna had been another of Sulla’s rivals, he was certain to be counted among Sulla’s enemies.

“That such a monster should rule over us is proof of our decadence,” declared Julia. “The gods are angered. They punish us. In olden times, ‘dictator’ was a title of great honor and respect. Our ancestors were blessed to have a dictator like Cincinnatus, a man who rose up to save the state and then retired. After Sulla, ‘dictator’ shall forever be a dirty word.”

“A monster, as you say,” muttered Lucius, nervously gnawing at his thumbnail. “A madman! Do you remember when the first proscription list was posted? Men gathered at the posting wall to read the names. How shocked we were to see eighty names on the list-eighty! Eighty citizens stripped of all protection, eighty good Romans reduced to animals fit to be hunted down and slaughtered. We were outraged at Sulla’s impunity, appalled at such a number. And then, the next day, there was an addendum to the list-two hundred more names. And the next day, two hundred more! On the fourth day, Sulla made a speech about restoring law and order. Someone dared to ask him just how many men he intended to proscribe. His tone was almost apologetic, like a magistrate who’d fallen behind in his duties. ‘So far, I’ve proscribed as many enemies as I’ve been able to remember, but undoubtedly a few have escaped my recollection. I promise you, as soon as I can remember them, I’ll proscribe those men, as well.’”

“He was making a joke,” said Gaius ruefully. “You must admit, Sulla has a wicked wit.”

“He’s as mad as Cassandra!” said Lucius. “The killing never stops. Every day there’s a new list. And anyone who gives shelter to a proscribed man is automatically proscribed as well, even a man’s parents. The sons and grandsons of the proscribed are stripped of their citizenship and robbed of their property. It’s happening not just in Roma, but in cities all over Italy. Men are being murdered every minute of every day, and every killer is given a reward, even a slave who kills his master, even a son who kills his father. It’s madness-an insult to our ancestors, a crime against the gods.”

“It’s a way for Sulla and his friends to accumulate a vast amount of wealth,” said Gaius. “The first men on the list were genuine enemies, men who’d fought against him in the civil war. Then we began to see other names-Equestrians who’d never taken an interest in politics, or wealthy farmers who never even came to the city. Why were they proscribed? So that Sulla could seize their property. The state sells the goods at public auctions, but the dictator’s friends are the only men who dare to bid.”

“It’s as simple as that,” said Lucius. “Men are being murdered for their property.”

“Men are being murdered by their properties,” said Gaius. “I was down in Alba the other day. I rode by a beautiful country house with gardens and vineyards, and the fellow with me said, ‘That’s the estate that killed Quintus Aurelius.’”

Julia groaned. “Gaius, that isn’t funny!”

“Then I don’t suppose you’ll laugh when I tell you that men who’ve committed murder are arranging to have their victims inserted retroactively in the lists. They say Lucius Sergius Catilina pulled that off, after he murdered his brother-in-law. The killing was not only made legal, but Catilina received a bounty for it!”

The grim conversation lapsed for a while. Gaius drank more broth. Lucius pondered the untouched food before him. Julia finally spoke.

“Do you think we can take Sulla at his word, when he promises to lay down his dictatorship and retire to private life? He’ll do so in a year, he says, or at most two years.”

“We can only pray that he’s telling the truth,” said Lucius glumly.

“And what if he is?” said Gaius. “What will have changed, if Sulla steps down? Elections will resume, and the Senate will be in charge again-with all Marius’s men dead and Sulla’s men taking their places. But the state will still be crippled. The things that were broken before the civil war will still be broken, merely patched together with makeshift remedies. Gaius Gracchus, if he’d had the chance, might have sorted things out and breathed new life into the Republic; a petty, vindictive tyrant like Sulla is not the man to accomplish that. It will take someone else to save Roma, someone who can combine the political vision of the Gracchi, the military genius of Scipio Africanus, and a measure of Sulla’s ruthlessness, as well.”

There was a faraway look in Gaius’s eyes, almost as if he were speaking of his own ambitions for the future. That was absurd, thought Lucius. The fever was giving his brother-in-law delusions of grandeur. Gaius should worry about keeping his own head, not daydream about saving the Republic.

“Perhaps,” suggested Lucius, “the man you’re thinking of is Pompeius Magnus.” He referred to one of Sulla’s proteges, a military prodigy only six years older than Gaius. Sulla, who liked pet names-he had dubbed himself Felix, “Lucky”-had taken to addressing young Gnaeus Pompeius, half in jest, half in earnest, as Magnus, “the Great.” The name had stuck.

“Pompeius!” Gaius scoffed. “I hardly think so. He doesn’t have the strength of character to be a true leader.”

“Well…” Lucius raised an eyebrow. He had no affection for Pompeius, but it seemed to him that Gaius was hardly worldly enough to make such a scathing assessment. Gaius read his expression.

“Must I justify the comment? Very well, I need cite only one example to show the fundamental weakness in Pompeius’s character. Other than cutting off heads, what’s Sulla’s most despotic behavior? Arranging marriages for those around him. And not just innocent matchmaking. Against their will, he’s forced women to marry his favorites; that action turns marriage into rape, an offense to the gods. He’s even dissolved existing marriages, forcing spouses to divorce each other and remarry new partners of his choosing.”

“Another symptom of Sulla’s madness,” said Lucius.

“Perhaps. But if Pompeius thinks so, the so-called Great wasn’t great enough to stand up to his master. Sulla told Pompeius to divorce Antistia-a devoted wife, by all accounts-and marry Sulla’s stepdaughter Aemilia, even though Aemilia was already pregnant by her husband! And Pompeius, like the sycophant of some Asian monarch, obeyed without a whimper. This is the man to lead Roma out of the wilderness? I hardly think so!” Gaius shook his head. “I would never submit to such dishonorable, disgraceful behavior to curry favor with another man, no matter what the consequences. Never!”

“Well,” said Julia, seeking to diffuse the tension in the room, “let us pray you never have to face such a dreadful choice. May your marriage to Cornelia be long and fruitful!” She smiled wanly. “When I think of a good marriage, I think of our parents, don’t you, Gaius? They always seemed so happy together. If only the gods had not taken father so swiftly, so suddenly…”

Julia and Gaius had lost their father three years before. To all appearance, the elder Gaius had been a healthy, vigorous man in the prime of life, but one day, while putting on his shoes, he gave a lurch and fell over dead. His own father had also died young, in a similarly sudden fashion. The siblings had felt his loss deeply, and had grown even closer in the years since he died.

Gaius, seeing the look of sadness on his sister’s face, leaned toward her and gently touched her shoulder.

Suddenly, there came a noise from the vestibule, so loud that all three of them gave a start and leaped to their feet. Someone was not merely banging at the door, but was trying to break it down. There was a snap of splintering wood and the shriek of hinges giving way.

Gaius turned to flee, but managed only a few steps. He was too weak to run. He swayed and would have fallen had Julia not rushed to his side.

A gang of armed men barged into the room. Lucius blanched when he recognized their leader: Cornelius Phagites.

Phagites smiled, showing the gap between his crooked teeth. “Ah, there’s the very one I’m looking for-young Caesar!”

Julia stood before Gaius, like a mother protecting her young. Though his knees trembled, Lucius stepped up to Phagites, who was much taller, and raised his chin high.

“You’ve made a mistake. This is my wife’s brother, Gaius Julius Caesar. His name is not on the proscription lists.”

Phagites laughed. “‘Name isn’t on the list!’” he said mockingly. “How often have we heard that one?”

“It’s true! I checked the new lists myself, this afternoon. You saw me when I was coming back from the Forum. Don’t you remember?”

Phagites squinted at him. “Well…if his name’s not on the list yet, it can always be added later,” he said, but in his voice there was a sliver of doubt. Lucius did his best to take advantage of it.

“Taking men on the list is one thing, Phagites. Taking men who aren’t on the list is another. Sooner or later, by his own promise, Lucius Cornelius Sulla will resign his dictatorship. He’s granted himself immunity from prosecution for life, but I doubt that he’s given that sort of protection to you. Well, has he?”

Phagites frowned. “No.”

“Which means that some day there will be an accounting of…of mistakes that were made. This is such a mistake, Phagites. Gaius Julius Caesar is not on the list. He’s a citizen with full rights, not an enemy of the state. You have no right to harm him.”

Phagites turned to one of his underlings, who produced a scrap of parchment, and together they pored over it for a moment, whispering and sniping at one another. At last Phagites swaggered back. He smirked and looked down his nose at Lucius. “Just how much are you willing to pay me to make sure I don’t make any…mistakes?”

Lucius bit his lip. He thought for a long moment, then whispered a sum.

Phagites laughed. “I don’t blame you for whispering! You ought to be ashamed, offering so little to make sure that nothing bad happens to your wife’s darling brother. Make it four times that amount, and I’ll consider your offer.”

Lucius swallowed a lump in his throat. “Very well.”

Phagites nodded. “That’s more like it. Now, all you have to do is beg me to take the money, and I’ll be on my way.”

“What!”

“Beg me. I have to have some sport tonight, don’t I? Go down on your knees, citizen, and beg me to accept your offering.”

Lucius glanced at Julia, who averted her face. Gaius seemed to have been drained of his last ounce of strength by the sudden panic, and was hardly able to stand. Lucius dropped to his knees. “I implore you, Cornelius Phagites, take the money I offer, and leave us in peace!”

Phagites laughed. He mussed Lucius’s hair. “Much better, little man! Very well, go fetch my money. But you’re striking a fool’s bargain. Your brother-in-law will be dead before the next Ides. Oh, I’ll take your money now, and let young Caesar keep his head; and later, when I do take his head, I’ll get a second payment from Sulla. I shall be paid twice for the same head-on his shoulders, and off!”

Lucius brought the money. Phagites and his men left without another word. Julia was too distraught to speak. Gaius staggered to his dining couch and collapsed on it.

Lucius felt Gaius’s forehead. The young man was again burning with fever.

Despite Gaius’s illness, later that night Lucius and Julia summoned a litter and took him to another hiding place. If Phagites had found Gaius, so might someone else. The fact that his name was not yet among the proscribed clearly was no guarantee of safety.

In the days and nights that followed, despite his lingering ague, Gaius moved from one refuge to another. Meanwhile, the elders of the Julii entered into frantic negotiations with members of Sulla’s inner circle, trying to remove Gaius from danger. Lucius met with the Julii daily, hoping for good news.

The proscriptions continued. New names were added daily. Lucius began to fear that he himself might be added to the lists. He made sure that the door broken down by Phagites and his men was repaired and made stronger than before. He kept a dagger on his person at all times. He purchased a quick-acting poison from a dubious character on the waterfront, and gave it to Julia for safekeeping. Death by beheading would be grisly but swift, he told himself, but he shuddered to think of what might be done to Julia once he was gone. He wanted her to have a means of quick escape. What times they lived in, that a man should have to plan for such contingencies!

One day a visitor came to the house, attended by many bodyguards. He was a beautiful young man with a mane of golden hair. Lucius recognized him: Chrysogonus, an actor who had become one of Sulla’s favorites. Ever since he was young, Sulla had had a weakness for actors, and especially for blonds. Chrysogonus was dressed in a tunic made of a sumptuous green fabric embroidered with silver stitching. The garment must have cost a fortune, Lucius thought. He wondered who had died so that Sulla’s catamite could wear it.

“I won’t stay long,” said Chrysogonus, gazing about the vestibule with a practiced eye, as if scrutinizing a property that might someday be his. “My friend Felix sends you a message.”

Lucius could barely stifle his disgust at hearing a former slave and actor speak so familiarly of the most powerful man in Roma. Chrysogonus, sensing his disdain, fixed him with a cold stare. Lucius’s mouth turned dry. “What does Sulla say?”

“Your wife’s brother will be spared-”

“You’re certain?” Julia, who had remained out of sight, rushed to Lucius’s side.

“If you will allow me to finish?” Chrysogonus raised an eyebrow. “Gaius Julius Caesar will be spared-but only on the condition that my friend Felix is able to meet with him face to face.”

“So that he can see the boy beheaded with his own eyes?” snapped Lucius.

Chrysogonus gave him a baleful look. “The dictator will call on you tonight. If he sincerely wishes to receive the dictator’s pardon, the young Caesar will be here.” With a theatrical flair, Chrysogonus spun about on his heel and departed, surrounded by his bodyguards.

A festive retinue appeared in the street outside Lucius’s house that night. Chrysogonus was among them, along with several other actors and mimes, male and female; they laughed and joked among themselves, as if out for a carefree stroll by torchlight. The bodyguards looked more like trouble-loving street toughs than staid, sober lictors. Sobriety was in short supply. Several members of the party were obviously drunk.

Perusing the group through the peephole of his front door, Lucius shook his head.

Sulla himself arrived in a curtained red litter carried by a phalanx of burly slaves. One of them dropped to his hands and knees so that the dictator could use his back as a step to descend to the street. Seeing him, Lucius sucked in a breath, appalled that the fate of the Republic and its citizens should rest in the hands of such a decayed specimen. Once strappingly muscular, the very image of a dashing Roman general, Sulla had grown jowly and fat. His complexion had always been splotchy-“mulberries covered with oatmeal,” as some described it-but now a skein of spidery red veins had been added to his blemishes.

The dictator banged his fist against the door. Lucius stepped back and nodded to a slave to open it, then stood straight to greet his visitor. Sulla stepped past him and entered the vestibule without a word, alone, bringing not a single bodyguard with him. Did he think himself invulnerable? He had named himself Felix, after all.

Gaius awaited him in the atrium. Physically, the young man could not have presented a greater contrast to the dictator. Naturally slender, with a long face, Gaius had been rendered even leaner by his illness, and his bright eyes glittered with fever. Despite his weakness, his bearing was fearless. He stood with his shoulders back and his chin held high. For the occasion he wore a toga borrowed from Lucius. Even with Julia’s nips and tucks, it hung on him loosely.

While Lucius stood to one side, Sulla gave Gaius a long, appraising look. He stepped closer.

“So this is young Caesar,” he finally said. “I stare, and you stare back at me. I frown, but you do not blanch. Who do you think you are, young man?”

“I am Gaius Julius Caesar. I am the son of my father, who was praetor. I am the scion of the Julii, an ancient patrician house. We trace our lineage back to Venus herself.”

“Maybe so. But when I look at you, young man, I see another Marius.”

Lucius held his breath. His heart pounded in his chest. Did Sulla intend to kill Gaius with his bare hands?

The dictator laughed. “Nonetheless, I have decided to spare you, and so I shall-as long as my conditions are met.”

Lucius stepped forward. “Dictator, you requested that young Caesar should meet you face and face, and here he is. What more…?”

“First and foremost,” said Sulla, speaking to Gaius, “you must divorce your wife, Cornelia. And then-”

“Never.” Gaius stood still. His face showed no emotion, but his voice was adamant.

Sulla raised an eyebrow. His fleshy forehead was creased with furrows. “I repeat: You must divorce Cornelia. In your marriage, the houses of my enemies Marius and Cinna are combined. I cannot have such a union-”

“I refuse.”

“You what?”

“I refuse. Even a dictator cannot make such a demand of a Roman citizen.”

Sulla stared at him blankly. His florid complexion became even redder. He nodded slowly. “I see.”

Lucius braced himself. He felt for the dagger under his toga, and wondered if he would have the courage to use it. What was Gaius thinking, to speak to Sulla in such a way? It had to be the fever, making him delirious.

And then, Sulla laughed, long and loudly.

At last he stopped laughing, and spoke in a tone of wonderment. “Is it Marius I see in you, young man-or myself? I wonder! Very well, then, you may keep your head and your wife. But in return for this favor, it seems only fair that some member of your family must remarry to please me.” Sulla glanced over his shoulder. For the first time since entering the house, he looked directly at Lucius. “What about you?”

“I, Dictator?”

“Yes, you. What are you to this young man? His brother-in-law?”

“Yes, Dictator.”

“And where is the boy’s sister, your wife? I suppose she’s skulking nearby; they usually are. Out with you, woman! Step into the atrium where I can see you.”

Julia emerged from behind a corner, looking very meek.

“Why, she’s the very image of her brother! Very well, she can take her brother’s place. You and this fellow here-what’s your name, again?”

“Lucius Pinarius, Dictator.”

“You and Lucius Pinarius shall divorce at once. Since it’s a patrician marriage, certain formalities must be observed. I give you two days, no more. Do you both understand?”

“Dictator, please,” whispered Lucius. “I beg you-”

“After your marriage is dissolved, I don’t care what you do, Pinarius. But you, Julia, must remarry at once. You’re the niece of Marius, just as your brother is his nephew, and I must keep a watch on all you Julii. But whom shall you marry? Let me think.” He tapped his forehead, then snapped his fingers. “Quintus Pedius! Yes, just the fellow.”

“I don’t even know him!” said Julia. She was on the verge of tears.

“Well, soon you shall know him very well indeed!” Sulla smiled broadly. “There, it’s settled. Young Caesar’s name will be removed from the upcoming proscription lists. Even so, I’d advise you to get out of town for a while; accidents happen. Also, young Caesar may keep his wife. Meanwhile, you two shall divorce-”

“Dictator-”

“Please, call me Felix.”

“Lucius Cornelius Sulla-Felix-I beg you to reconsider. My wife and I are deeply devoted to one another. Our marriage is a-” He wanted to declare that their marriage was a love match, but it seemed obscene to speak of love in front of Sulla. “We have a young son. He’s still suckling at his mother’s breast-”

Sulla shrugged. “Then let the child stay with his mother. You shall give up all claims to him. Let Quintus Pedius adopt him.”

Lucius gaped, too stunned to speak. Julia began to sob.

Gaius stepped forward, unsteady on his feet. He was the color of chalk. “Dictator, I see that I was wrong to oppose you. I shall do as you asked. I shall divorce Cornelia-”

“You shall do no such thing!”

“Dictator, it was never my intention-”

“Your intentions mean nothing here. My will prevails. Your life is spared. Your marriage is preserved. But your sister and her husband will divorce each other.” He turned to Lucius. “Either that, or I shall see your name in the proscription lists, Pinarius, and your head on a stake!”

With a dramatic flourish worthy of Chrysogonus, Sulla turned about and left the house. His entourage welcomed him back with drunken cheers and laughter. A slave quickly closed the door to shut out the raucous noises.

Lucius stared at the floor. “After all our efforts…all our…sacrifices…our sleepless nights…the bribe I paid to Phagites…the humiliation…”

“Brother-in-law,” whispered Gaius, “I never imagined-”

“Don’t call me that! I’m your brother-in-law no longer!”

From the nursery, the baby began to wail. Julia dropped to her knees, weeping.

Lucius glared at Gaius. “It’s Julia and I who must now pay the price for your pride. To save your neck and preserve your precious dignity, we must give up everything. Everything!”

Gaius opened his mouth, but could find nothing to say.

“You owe us for this!” cried Lucius, pointing his finger at Gaius. “Never forget! Never forget the debt you owe to my son, and to his sons, for as long as you live!”

Gradually, as thousands died or fled into exile, the frenzied pace of Sulla’s proscriptions subsided, but the dictator continued to rule Roma with an iron grip.

His divorce left Lucius Pinarius a bitter and broken man. No one blamed him for his misfortune. Friends, many of whom had suffered terribly themselves, did their best to comfort him, and even praised his sacrifice. “You did what you had to, to save another man’s life,” they said. “You did it for the sake of your son and your wife; had you disobeyed, Sulla would have proscribed you, and your family would have been left destitute.”

But no argument could alleviate Lucius’s anguish and regret. To save his family, he had lost his family. To keep his head, he had surrendered his dignity.

Julia’s new husband, Quintus Pedius, did nothing to bar Lucius from seeing his son, or Julia for that matter, but Lucius was ashamed to face them. To bow before a dictator reduced a man to a status hardly better than a slave; a Roman without honor was not a Roman at all.

It would be best, he decided, if his loved ones considered him a dead man. Let Julia be as a widow who had remarried. Let his son be as an orphan. How much better it would have been if Lucius had died. If only he had caught the quartan ague from Gaius and died of that!

So, like a dead man, he prematurely bequeathed to his son a precious heirloom: the golden fascinum which had been in the family for untold generations. The amulet was very worn, its shape hardly recognizable. Nonetheless, Lucius sent it to Julia with a prayer that it might protect their son from such a disaster as had overtaken his father. The talisman was passed to the next generation.

Having no desire to remarry, despondent and forlorn, he lived alone in his house on the Palatine.

As for Gaius, he took the advice of Sulla and left Roma as soon as he was able to travel. He accepted a military posting on the Aegean coast, serving on the staff of the praetor Minucius Thermus.

Lucius thought about Gaius as little as possible, but one day, while crossing the Forum, he passed a group of men conversing and overheard a stranger mention Gaius’s name. Lucius stopped to listen.

“Yes, Gaius Julius Caesar,” the man repeated, “the one whose father dropped dead a couple of years ago.”

“Poor young fellow! I suppose King Nicomedes makes a dashing father figure, but no Roman should ever bend over to pleasure another man, not even a king.”

“Especially not a king!”

This was followed by salacious laughter. Lucius stepped forward. “What are you talking about?”

“Young Caesar’s escapades in the East,” said one of the gossips. “The praetor Thermus sent him on a mission to King Nicomedes in Bithynia. Once Caesar got there, he didn’t want to leave. It seems he hit it off with the king a little too well, if you know what I mean. All that high living in the royal court turned the boy’s head-and Nicomedes is a handsome fellow, to judge by his coins. Meanwhile, Thermus is like a spurned husband, sending messenger after messenger demanding that Caesar return, but Caesar can’t bear to leave the king’s bed!”

“How could you possibly know such a thing?” snapped Lucius. “If Caesar’s detained on a mission, there could be a hundred other explanations-”

“Please!” The gossip rolled his eyes. “Everyone’s talking about it. Did you hear the latest joke? Sulla let him keep his head-but Nicomedes took his maidenhead!”

There was a great deal of laughter. Lucius, disgusted, stalked away with his jaw tightly clenched. He made his hands into fists. Tears welled in his eyes. Was it for this that he had sacrificed everything? So that a fatuous young man could desert his military post to live in luxury in Bithynia? What sort of Roman was Caesar, to speak admiringly of Gaius Gracchus and daydream about rebuilding the Roman state, and then to run off and play catamite to a Bithynian monarch? Lucius should have let Sulla take the young fool and do what he wanted with him!

78 B.C.

Belying the worst fears of his enemies-those few who remained alive-Sulla made good on his promise to step down from the dictatorship after two years.

Declaring that his work was done, he restored full authority to the Senate and magistrates. In retirement he dictated his memoirs, and proudly boasted that, having rid Roma of the worst of the “troublemakers” (as he called those who opposed him), he had instituted reforms that would return the Republic “to the golden days before the Gracchi stirred the pot and threw everything into confusion.”

But could even Sulla could turn back time? Since the destruction of Carthage, Roman politics had been driven by tremendous wealth and headlong expansion, and the ever-greater injustices and inequalities that resulted. Roma needed powerful generals to conquer new territories and enslave new populations; how else could more wealth be accumulated? But what was to be done when those generals grew jealous and suspicious of one another, and a citizenry riven with greed and resentment was compelled to choose sides? Civil war had resulted once. Nothing in Sulla’s reforms would stop such a war from happening again. If anything, his example was an encouragement to would-be warlords with dreams of absolute power. Sulla had shown that a man could ruthlessly exterminate all opposition, declare his actions to be legitimate and legal, and then retire to live out his days in comfort and peace, beloved by the friends and supporters who had benefited from his largesse.

In the month of Martius, at his villa on the bay near Neapolis, at the age of sixty, Sulla died of natural causes. But his death was not an easy one, and in the revolting symptoms that plagued him some saw the hand of the goddess Nemesis, who restores balance to the natural order when injustice has been done.

The disease began with an ulceration of the bowels, aggravated by excessive drinking and sumptuous living. Then the corruption spread, and converted his flesh into worms. Day and night, physicians picked the worms away, but more worms appeared to take their place. Then the pores of his flesh discharged a vile flux in such quantities that his bed and his clothing were saturated with it. No amount of bathing and scouring could stop the oozing discharge.

Even in this wretched state, Sulla continued to conduct business. On the last full day of his life, he dictated the final chapter of his memoirs, concluding with this boast: “When I was young, a Chaldean soothsayer foretold to me that I would lead an honorable, upright life and end my days at the height of my prosperity. The soothsayer was right.”

Sulla’s secretary then reminded him that he had been requested to settle the case of a local magistrate accused of embezzling public funds. The magistrate, who wished to defend himself, was in the antechamber, awaiting an interview. Sulla agreed to see him.

The magistrate entered. Before the man could say a word, Sulla ordered the slaves in the room to strangle him on the spot. The slaves were Sulla’s private servants, not assassins; when they hesitated, Sulla became furious and shouted at them. The strain caused an abscess on his neck to rupture. He began to bleed profusely. In the resulting confusion, the magistrate ran for his life.

Physicians came to stanch the bleeding, but Sulla’s end had come. He became confused and lost consciousness. He survived the night, but died the next morning.

Some perverse but powerful inclination-the wish to see a dreadful episode to its bitter end, or the need to be absolutely certain that a terrifying creature is truly dead, beyond any doubt-drove Lucius Pinarius out of his house and into the streets to witness Sulla’s funeral.

The entire city turned out to watch the procession. Lucius found a spot with a good view, and wondered at his luck until he realized why the spot was vacant. A ragged beggar was standing nearby, emitting such a foul odor that all others had been driven away. Lucius ignored the stench. If he could stand the sight of Sulla on his funeral bier, he told himself, then surely he could endure the smell of a fellow human being.

Heading the procession was an image of Sulla himself, a duplicate of the equestrian statue in the Forum. As the effigy passed by, it emitted an odor of spices that overwhelmed even the stench of the beggar. The man looked at Lucius and flashed a toothless grin.

“They say that thing’s made of frankincense and cinnamon and all sorts of other costly spices. They took up a collection from all the rich women in Roma to have it sculpted. They’ll burn it on the funeral pyre along with Sulla. The smoke from it will perfume the whole city!”

Lucius wrinkled his brow. “Sulla’s to be cremated? His ancestors among the Cornelii were always interred.”

“Maybe so,” said the beggar, “but the dictator specified in his will that his remains are to be burned to ashes.” Such men, free to spend their days eavesdropping and collecting gossip, often knew what they were talking about. “You can imagine why.”

“Can I?”

“Think about it! What happened to Marius, Sulla’s rival, after he was dead? Sulla opened the crypt and took a shit on his body! There are those who’d do the same to Sulla, to have their revenge, never doubt it. Rather than give them the chance, he’s having himself cremated.”

Lucius looked sidelong at the beggar. The man was missing his left hand and leaned on a crutch under his right arm. There was a deep scar across his face and he appeared to be blind in one eye.

Following the effigy came the consuls and the other magistrates, and then the whole membership of the Senate, dressed in black. The leading Equestrians followed, then the Pontifex Maximus and the Vestal virgins. Then, by the hundreds, Sulla’s veterans came marching by, outfitted in their best armor and led by young Pompeius Magnus.

Musicians and a chorus of professional funeral singers, all women, followed. The musicians played a mournful tune on pipes and lyres, to which the chorus sang a song in praise of Sulla.

Mimes followed, breaking the somber mood with their buffoonery. Mimes were traditional at a wealthy man’s funeral, and among these were some of the most famous actors in Roma, members of Sulla’s inner circle since the days of his youth. The beggar felt obliged to point them out.

“Look, there’s Roscius the comedian! I saw him play the Swaggering Soldier once. They say he’s richer than most senators. And that’s old Metrobius, who always specialized in female roles. Played the leading lady in Sulla’s bed for years, they say, until that pretty-boy Chrysogonus took his place; getting on in years, but he still looks good in a stola. And of course that must be Sorex playing the archmime today, dressing up like Sulla and impersonating the dead man. He’s got the walk and hand gestures down perfectly, don’t you think? Let’s hope he doesn’t start chopping off people’s heads!”

The mimes were followed by the procession of Sulla’s ancestors. Men wore the wax masks of the dead and dressed in the ceremonial robes they had worn in life. They held aloft the garlands, crowns, and other military honors Sulla had received in his long, victorious career.

At last the honor guard approached, carrying the funeral bier. Sulla’s body lay upon a couch of ivory decorated with gold ornaments, draped with purple cloth and garlands of cypress. His wife Valeria and the children of his five marriages followed.

The procession appeared to be headed not toward the necropolis outside the Esquiline Gate, but in the opposite direction.

“Where are they taking him?” muttered Lucius.

“Didn’t you know?” said the beggar. “Sulla’s funeral pyre is out on the Field of Mars. His monument’s there as well. They’ve already put it up.”

“The Field of Mars? Only the kings were ever buried there!”

The beggar shrugged. “Even so, Sulla specified in his will that his monument should be on the Field of Mars.”

The last of the procession passed by. Spectators fell in behind. Lucius, grimly determined to see the burning of the corpse, joined the crush. The beggar did likewise, staying close beside him. Forever after, Lucius would remember the man’s stench whenever he thought of Sulla’s funeral day.

As the multitude assembled on the Field of Mars, storm clouds gathered. The sky grew so dark that the men in charge of the pyre nervously conferred. But as quickly as they gathered, the black clouds dispersed. A shaft of golden sunlight shone down on the bier atop the pyre.

“You know what they’ll say,” whispered the beggar, drawing close to Lucius. His smell had cleared a way for them to stand at the front of the crowd. “They’ll say his good luck followed Sulla even to his funeral pyre. Fortuna herself drove the rain away!”

Speeches were made. Sulla was praised as the savior of the Republic. Tales were recounted to demonstrate his virtue and genius. The words were like the buzzing of locusts in Lucius’s ears.

The pyre was lit. The flames reached higher and higher. Lucius was so close that the heat blasted his face and cinders swirled about him. The beggar pointed at the monument nearby, an imposing crypt the size of a small temple. He said something, but amid the crackle of flames Lucius could not hear. Lucius frowned and shook his head. The beggar spoke louder, almost shouting.

“What does it say? The inscription across the pediment of the temple? They say that Sulla composed his own epitaph.”

Waves of heated air obscured the view, but by squinting Lucius could make out the letters. He read aloud, “‘No friend ever did him a kindness, and no enemy ever did him a wrong, without being fully repaid.’”

The beggar cackled with laughter. Lucius stared at the man, feeling pity and revulsion. “Who are you?” he said.

“Me? Nobody. Everybody. One of Sulla’s enemies who received his full payment, I suppose. I was a soldier. Fought for Cinna, then for Marius-always against Sulla, though for no particular reason. And look at me now! Sulla paid me back in full. What about you, citizen? Dressed in your fancy clothes, looking spruce and sleek, with all your limbs intact; I suppose you were one of his friends. Did Sulla give you your just deserts?”

Lucius was carrying a small coin purse. He began to reach into it, then thought better and gave the whole thing to the beggar. Before the man could thank him, Lucius disappeared into the crowd. He made his way through the throng and back to the city.

The Forum was empty. His footsteps echoed as he hurried over the paving stones. Passing near the Rostra, he felt a sudden chill. He looked up and saw the gilded statue of Sulla in silhouette; the sun, behind the statue’s head, gave it a scintillating halo. Even in death, the dictator cast a cold shadow across his life.

74 B.C.

The winter of that year was unusually harsh. One storm after another dropped sleet and rain on the city. On many mornings the valleys brimmed with a cold, white mist, like bowls filled with milk, and the hills were glazed with frost, making the winding, paved streets that ran up and down the hillsides treacherous underfoot.

Lucius Pinarius contracted a cold early in the winter, and could not shake it off; the ailment moved from one part of his body to another, but would not depart. He ventured out seldom, and received few visitors. Only belatedly, from a talkative workman who came to repair a leak in his roof, did he learn the news that every gossip in the Forum already knew: Gaius Julius Caesar, while traveling in the Aegean, had been kidnapped by pirates.

Lucius had not seen Julia, or his son, for many months. His rare visits were too painful and awkward for all concerned. But hearing of her brother’s misfortune, he knew that Julia must be distraught, and he felt compelled to see her.

Coughing violently, Lucius put on a heavy woolen cloak. A single slave accompanied him through the dank, frosty streets to the far side of the Palatine, where Julia lived with her husband, Quintus Pedius.

The marriage had apparently worked out well for her. In its early days, however unhappy she might have been, the prudent thing had been to make the best of it, since there was no way of knowing how long Sulla would reign as dictator. Julia had adapted quickly to her new circumstances; like her brother, she was a survivor, thought Lucius bitterly. Lucius, too, had adapted, in his own fashion. Simply to keep from going mad, early on he had banished from his thoughts any notion that Julia might someday divorce Pedius and remarry him. After Sulla’s death, the notion occasionally entered his thoughts, especially when his loneliness was most acute. But the act of submitting to Sulla had robbed him of his dignity as a Roman; without dignity, he had neither the authority nor the will to take back what had been his. It was useless to blame the gods, or Gaius, or even Sulla. A man must endure his own fate.

A door slave admitted him to Pedius’s house. Looking surprised and not a little wary, Julia met him in a room off the garden where a brazier was blazing and shutters had been closed to keep out the cold.

The sight of her was like a knife in his heart. Even through the loose folds of her stola he could see that she was pregnant. She saw him staring at her belly, and lowered her eyes.

The phlegm rattled in his chest. He fought against the need to cough. “I came because I heard the news about your brother.”

Julia drew a sharp breath. “What have you heard?”

“That he was kidnapped by pirates.”

“And?”

“Only that.”

Julia wrinkled her brow. This was old news. He had alarmed her by making her think he knew something she did not, and now she was peeved at him.

“If there’s anything I can do…,” he said lamely.

“That’s kind of you, Lucius, but Quintus and I managed to raise the ransom. It was sent some time ago. All we can do now is wait.”

“I see.”

A faint smile lit Julia’s lips. “His captors must be illiterate. If they had read what Gaius says about them in his letters, they’d never have allowed him to send them.”

“His letters?”

“That’s how we found out about his situation. ‘Dear sister, I am held captive,’ he wrote-ever so matter-of-factly! ‘Could you be so kind as to raise a bit of ransom for me?’ Then he went on to write the most scathing insults about his captors, how uncouth they are, how stupid. To hear Gaius tell it, he’s lording it over them-ordering them about, demanding decent food and more comfortable sleeping quarters, even trying to teach them some manners. ‘One must use a tone of authority with such creatures, as one does with a dog.’ As if the whole experience is simply a learning exercise for him-the proper way to handle a pirate crew!” She lowered her eyes. “Of course, his bravado may be an attempt to reassure me and to keep up his own spirits. These men are thieves and murderers, after all. The things they do to people…the terrible stories one hears…”

Julia trembled and her voice broke. It was all Lucius could do not to rush to her and take her in his arms. He resisted the impulse because he had no right to do so, and because he could not bear it if she pushed him away.

“Gaius is a survivor,” said Lucius; like his sister, he thought. “I’m sure he’ll be alright.” He coughed into his sleeve.

“Lucius, you’re unwell.”

“It sounds worse than it is. I should go home now. I merely came to offer…” He shrugged. “I don’t know why I came.”

Julia gazed into the flames of the brazier. “Did you want to see…?”

“Probably it’s best if I don’t.”

“He’s growing up very fast. Only six, and able to read already! He knows about his uncle. He has bad dreams about pirates. He looks just like you.”

Lucius felt a great weight on his chest, as if a stone were crushing him. It had been a mistake to come. As he was turning to leave, a slave rushed into the room. The man clutched a scrap of parchment, tightly rolled and tied and sealed with wax. When Julia saw it, her eyes grew wide.

“Is it-?

“Yes, mistress. From your brother!”

Julia snatched the letter and unrolled it. She scanned the contents, then began to weep. Lucius braced himself, thinking it must be bad news. Then Julia threw back her head and laughed.

“He’s free! Gaius is alive and well and free! Oh, this is wonderful! Lucius, you must listen to this: ‘Dear sister, for forty days I was held captive against my will. Thanks to the ransom you sent, I was given my freedom. The experience was most disagreeable, but left me little the worse for wear; have no anxieties about my well-being. I cannot say the same about my captors. As soon as I was freed, I set about organizing a party to hunt down the pirates. They provided little sport; the simple-minded fools were eager to spend their ill-gotten gains and headed for the nearest port with a tavern and a brothel. We captured them easily, and recovered a considerable part of the ransom; I shall return as much as I can to you now, and the balance later. As for the pirates, we set up crosses on a hillside visible to all passing ships and crucified them. During my captivity, I warned them that I would see them come to a bad end, and so I did. I watched them die, one by one. By all means, spread this news to everyone in Roma. Between you and me, I am quite proud of how this all turned out. Justice was done and Roman dignity was upheld. The episode shall make a splendid campaign story when it comes time for me to begin the Course of Honor.’”

Julia laughed. “Dear Gaius-always with an eye to the future! I think he shall be consul someday, don’t you?”

Lucius’s mouth was dry. His chest ached from coughing. “Perhaps he’ll be the next Sulla,” he said.

“Lucius! What a terrible thing to say.”

“Or perhaps the next Gracchus-except that your brother will probably succeed where the Gracchi failed.”

Before Julia could respond to this, their son came running into the room. The boy’s elderly Greek tutor followed, looking flustered. “Mistress, I couldn’t stop him. Word’s spread through the house that you’ve received a letter from your brother. Little Lucius wants to know-”

“Where is Uncle Gaius?” shouted the boy. Lucius noticed that he was wearing the fascinum of his ancestors. The sight of the amulet both pleased and pained him. “Where is Uncle Gaius? Do the pirates still have him?”

Julia took the boy’s face in her hand. “No, they don’t! Brave Uncle Gaius escaped from the pirates.”

“He escaped?”

“Yes, indeed. And then do you know what he did? He hunted them down, and he killed them.”

“All the pirates?”

“Yes, every one! Uncle Gaius nailed them to crosses, and gave them the terrible deaths they deserved. Those awful pirates will never bother anyone ever again.”

“Because Uncle Gaius killed them!”

“That’s right. So you must have no more bad dreams about them. Now, there’s someone here to whom you must say hello.”

Julia looked up, but Lucius had disappeared.

Out in the street, Lucius coughed violently. His breath formed streams of mist in the cold air. He walked quickly, aimlessly, his thoughts a muddle; his slave had to hurry to keep up with him. His eyes welled with tears. The tears felt hot running down his cheeks. They blurred his vision. He did not see the patch of ice on the paving stones ahead of him. The slave saw, and shouted a warning, but too late.

Lucius stepped on the ice. Limbs flailing, he fell backward. He struck his head on a stone. He shuddered and twitched, then lay very still. Blood ran from his skull.

Seeing the empty look in his master’s wide-open eyes and the peculiar way his neck was twisted, the slave let out a scream, but there was nothing to be done. Lucius was dead.