Marcus Livius rode down the Vicus Jugarius, the Street of the Yokemakers, a pair of slaves following him in solemn procession. Then, finding the crowd too sparse for his liking, he turned and processed down the Vicus Tuscus instead. His ragged toga, dyed the deep grey of mourning, flapped behind him in the early breeze. So did his beard, uncombed and rubbed down with ashes.

“Perhaps,” Calavia had said—his young bride, his life, his delight—as he set off from the farm, “you might make more of an impact if you shaved? We don’t want anything to distract from your bad news.”

“Not at all, Calavia!” said Livius. “My beard will only add dignitas to our tragedy. Have no fear!”