Sixtus II, reigned slightly less than a year as pope. His martyrdom was almost inevitable, as his election came just after the Emperor Valerian had issued an edict of persecution. Valerian’s strategy was to destroy the Church by “decapitation” — executing the clergy, then waiting for the people to lose interest. The method worked well in the suppression of pagan cults, but seemed to have an opposite effect on the Church. “The blood of the martyrs is seed,” said Tertullian, and he was right. Today is Sixtus’s memorial.

Roger Pearse, who has done such great work on the Fathers at The Tertullian Project, is now co-blogging at Thoughts on Antiquity. This is cause for celebration.

Roger has already posted quite a bit. One fascinating recent item is on the fragments of the neo-Platonist philosopher Porphyry — one of Christianity’s three greatest intellectual opponents in antiquity (the other two being Celsus and Julian). Roger briefly reviews some of the published editions of Porphyry and then links to his own online collection of the fragments.

I don’t often recommend that Christians spend their leisure hours reading the Church’s enemies — especially when so many volumes of the Fathers go unread. But it is fascinating to see how little the arguments against the faith have changed or developed in 2,000 years. Christianity, meanwhile, has undergone beautiful development. Yet it is still quite recognizable as the Church of the apostles and martyrs, the Church that drew the fury of the persecutors and the best efforts of brilliant men like Porphyry. (His name, by the way, means purple, as in the gemstone.)

Oh, and Roger also reports on the possibility that one of Theodore of Mopsuestia’s lost works may have been found recently in France.

Kevin at Biblicalia has posted many more new translations of St. Jerome’s Vulgate prologues. Most interesting is Jerome’s intro to Tobit, as the crotchety scholar is sometimes invoked by those who reject the Old Testament deuterocanonical books — Wisdom, Tobit, Maccabees, and so on. The Orthodox and Catholic Church has always accepted those books as inspired and canonical. Apparently — and contrary to some claims out there — Jerome was okay with that.

Please promise me that you’ll read St. Augustine’s homily for today’s Feast of the Transfiguration. You’ll be very glad you did.

The Lord Jesus Himself shone bright as the sun; His garment became white as the snow; and Moses and Elijah talked with Him. Jesus Himself indeed shone as the sun, signifying that He is “the true light that enlightens every man come into the world.” What the sun is to the eyes of the flesh, so He is to the eyes of the heart; and what that is to the flesh of men, that He is to their hearts…

Peter sees this, and as a man savoring the things of men says, “Lord, it is good for us to be here.” He had been wearied with the multitude. He had now found the mountain’s solitude; there he had Christ the Bread of the soul. What — should he depart once again to labor and suffering now that he had a holy love for God and a holy way of life? He wished well for himself; and so he added, “If you wish, I will make three booths here, one for you and one for Moses and one for Elijah.” To this the Lord made no answer; nevertheless, Peter received an answer. “He was still speaking, when lo, a bright cloud overshadowed them.” He wanted three tabernacles; the heavenly answer showed him that we have One, which human judgment desired to divide. Christ, the Word of God, the Word of God in the Law, the Word in the Prophets. Why, Peter, do you seek to divide them? Is it not more fitting for you to join them. You seek three; understand that they are but One.

As the cloud overshadowed them, and in a way made one tabernacle for them, “a voice from the cloud said, ‘This is my beloved Son.'” Moses was there; Elijah was there; yet it was not said, “These are My beloved sons.” For the Only Son is one thing; adopted sons another. He was singled out in whom the Law and the prophets glorified. “This is My beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased; hear Him!” Because you have heard Him in the Prophets, and you have heard Him in the Law. And where have you not heard Him? “When they heard this, they fell” to the earth. See then in the Church is exhibited to us the Kingdom of God. Here is the Lord, here the Law and the Prophets; but the Lord as the Lord. The Law in Moses, Prophecy in Elias — but they are servants and ministers. They are vessels: He is the fountain. Moses and the Prophets spoke and wrote; but when they poured out, they were filled from Him.

But the Lord stretched out His hand and raised them as they lay. And then “they saw no one but Jesus only.” What does this mean? When the Apostle was read, you heard, “For now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face.” And “tongues shall cease,” when that which we now hope for and believe shall come. When they fell to the earth, they signified that we die, for it was said to the flesh, “You are dust, and to dust you shall return.” But when the Lord raised them up, He signified the resurrection. After the resurrection, what is the Law to you? what is Prophecy? Therefore neither Moses nor Elias is seen. Only He remains for you, He who “in the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” He remains for you, “that God may be all in all.” Moses will be there; but now no more the Law. We shall see Elijah there, too; but now no more the Prophet. For the Law and the Prophets have only given witness to Christ, that it befit Him to suffer, and to rise again from the dead on the third day, and to enter into His glory.

And in this glory is fulfilled what He has promised to those who love Him: “he who loves me will be loved by My Father, and I will love him.” … Great gift! great promise! God holds for you nothing less than Himself. O you covetous one; why isn’t Christ’s promise enough for you? You seem to yourself to be rich; yet if you do not have God, what do you have? Another person is poor, yet if he has God, what does he lack?

Come down, Peter! You wanted to rest on the mount. Come down and “preach the word, be instant in season, out of season, reprove, rebuke, exhort with all longsuffering and doctrine.” Persevere, work hard, bear your measure of torture — so that you might possess what is meant by the white garment of the Lord, through the brightness and the beauty of an upright labor in charity …Hear and listen, O covetous one: the Apostle explains clearly to you in another place: “Let no man seek his own, but another’s.” He says of himself, “Not seeking mine own profit, but the profit of many, that they may be saved.” This Peter did not yet understand when he desired to live on the mount with Christ. He was reserving this for you, Peter, after death. But for now He says, “Come down, to labor on the earth; on the earth to serve, to be despised, and crucified on the earth. The Life came down, that He might be slain; the Bread came down, that He might hunger; the Way came down, that life might be wearied in the way; the Fountain came down, that He might thirst; and yet you refuse to work? Seek not your own. Have charity, preach the truth; so shall you come to eternity, where you shall find security.”

On the Roman calendar, today is the feast of the Dedication of St. Mary Major, one of the great basilicas in Rome. Pope Liberius started the building project around 360 A.D., to commemorate an apparition of the Blessed Virgin at that site. The vision was accompanied by a miraculous snowfall (in August, in Rome), and the snow marked out what would be the edges of the church. The building as we know it today actually dates from the time of Pope Sixtus III, who built it in 432 to commemorate the great Marian doctrine of the Council of Ephesus. I’m told that the interior artwork (much of it in mosaic) is some of the best preserved from the patristic era. Word is that St. Jerome, one of my heroes, is interred somewhere in the basilica, his bones having been moved there from the Holy Land — but no one knows where, precisely, they’re located.

When I first visited Rome, St. Mary Major was high on my list of “must see” sites, second only to St. Peter’s. But at the appointed time, two of my children got terribly ill, and I had to stay back at the hotel. The next time I was in Rome, I resolved to get there, but was prevented by sudden schedule changes. The third time, I set my jaw, clenched my fists, and steeled myself against any eventuality — except a change in flight times. My fourth trip to Rome was entirely given to meetings.

I’m hoping, hoping, hoping to visit this shrine of Our Lady in 2007, when Scott Hahn and I will lead a Marian pilgrimage to Rome in the very Mary month of May. The details are almost set. We’re still waiting for some last words from the airline and hotel. Perhaps the Blessed Virgin wanted to make this meeting part of my most Marian trip to that city she has loved so long.

I’m very pleased to know that so many visitors to this website are interested in making the trip to Rome with the St. Paul Center. I hope to have the registration info to you in a week or so.

Meanwhile, let’s celebrate the feast by visiting the shrine online.

Today is, among other remembrances, the memorial of Saints Addai and Mari. Addai played a leading role in one of the legends most popular among the early Christians — the legend of King Abgar of Edessa (modern Urfa in Turkey). Eusebius tells the tale at length in his Church History, testifying that he found all the documentation in the archives of Edessa. It is recorded in other places as well, including the apocryphal Doctrine of Addai.

The story goes that King Abgar contracted leprosy and was desperate for a cure; so he wrote a letter to Jesus of Nazareth, who was then gaining fame as a miracle-worker in distant Judea. Jesus received Abgar’s messenger and sent word back that the king would indeed be healed, but by one of Jesus’ disciples. Abgar heard the news with joy, and waited.

Time passed, and Jesus, through His dying and rising, accomplished our redemption. Then the disciples of Jesus set out to the “ends of the earth,” as the Lord had commanded. St. Thomas sent a disciple named Addai to Edessa, to preach the Gospel and to complete the task of healing the king. Some versions of the story identify Addai with the apostle Jude, also known as Thaddeus. Addai indeed can be a shortened form of Thaddeus.

Addai healed the king, who, in gratitude, gave him freedom to establish the Church in Edessa. Addai chose priests, taught them the liturgy, and ordained them. He continued his missionary activity throughout Mesopotamia, baptizing many people in the land today known as Iraq. One of his disciples, named Mari, would continue the mission long after Addai’s death…

That’s a bit of a hash of the story, compiled from several sources. The details are indistinct in the mists, but are entertainingly told (and gorgeously illustrated) in my son’s book, Saint Jude: A Friend in Hard Times. It’s perfect for kids middle-school age and younger. (But adults like it, too.)

The spiritual children of Addai and Mari have often been in the news in recent years. Some still live in Iraq, and they still use an ancient Eucharistic Prayer, which they say is based on the one taught by Addai to those first priests of Edessa. It is known as the Liturgy of Addai and Mari, and it was the subject of a remarkable (and very controversial) ruling from the Vatican several years ago. In 2001, Rome permitted intercommunion between Chaldean Catholics and members of the Assyrian Church (also known as the “Church of the East,” descended from the ancient Nestorians). The ruling, which you can find here, allowed Catholics to use the Assyrian Church’s version of the Liturgy of Addai and Mari, which is quite ancient and which lacks the institution narrative (the story of the Last Supper). The great liturgist Robert Taft said that this decision from Rome marked “the most important magisterial teaching since Vatican II.” Three years later, in the Vatican journal Divinitas, theologians hotly debated the wisdom of the decision. (The news story is here; scroll halfway down the page.) But Rome had spoken, and has upheld the decision.

Today’s conditions surely constitute a dire emergency for Christians in the lands of Addai and Mari. Here is the sad story from Catholic News Service this week:

Half of all Iraqi Christians have fled their country since the 2003 U.S.-led invasion, said the auxiliary bishop of Baghdad.

Chaldean Catholic Auxiliary Bishop Andreos Abouna of Baghdad said that before the invasion there were about 1.2 million Christians in the predominantly Shiite Muslim state. Since then the overall number has dropped to about 600,000, he said.

“What we are hearing now is the alarm bell for Christianity in Iraq,” the bishop said. “When so many are leaving from a small community like ours, you know that it is dangerous — dangerous for the future of the church in Iraq.”

The bishop said 75 percent of Christians from Baghdad had fled the capital to escape the almost daily outbreaks of sectarian violence.

Since the beginning of the war, the number of Chaldean Catholics, who make up the country’s most numerous Christian denomination, had dropped below half a million from 800,000, he said. Many sought new lives mostly in the neighboring countries of Syria, Jordan and Turkey, he added.

Bishop Abouna said he thought it was unlikely that many of those who had emigrated would return.

Please pray for these spiritual children of Saints Addai and Mari as they wander from their home. May they remain faithful to their rich Christian heritage, nourished by the blood of many martyrs. And may their patrons bring them the grace of Jesus Christ abundantly on this great day.

A new book examines the early apocryphal texts and concludes that “orthodoxy” — a mainstream, “Great Church” — was well established very early on. I have not yet read the book (only this Boston Globe review), but it seems a welcome counterforce to the tsunami of nonsense that hit pop culture with the Gospel of Judas.

Whenever you hear someone speak of early “Christianities,” just reach for your Revolver. (It’s better to listen to the Beatles’ greatest album than to that claptrap.)

Hat tip: Paleojudaica.

The old city keeps coming up in our conversations. Now it’s the subject of a medium-sized feature article (2,000 words) in the September issue of The Atlantic, which is now on the newsstands. “The Road from Ravenna,” by Cullen Murphy, is wistful, evocative, and it even includes a sidebar you can use to plan “Highlights of a ‘Fall of Rome’ Tour.” Murphy focuses on the sad case of the Emperor Romulus Augustulus, who reigned 475–476, but also spotlights some of our regular guest stars: Galla Placidia, Theodoric, etc. The story is available online, but I think only for Atlantic subscribers. It’s not worth the price of a subscription — The Atlantic is only intermittently interesting — but certainly worth the price of the issue on the newsstand — if indeed you’re planning that trip to Ravenna. Someday.

Here’s St. Augustine on rain. We could use some here in Western Pennsylvania. St. Augustine, pray for us. Fr. Z, do us a rain dance, please.

Today’s also the day for St. Eusebius of Vercelli (A.D. 283-371), who labored to end the Arian heresy. It was a difficult time to be orthodox. The emperor had heretical leanings, and was in the habit of summoning synods to do nasty things like condemn St. Athanasius and exile the old Alexandrian once again from his see. Eusebius refused to take part in such proceedings, and for that refusal he himself was exiled, jailed, and publicly humiliated. He played an active role in many other controversies of his day. History proved him to pick the right side unfailingly. If a man is known by the company he keeps, then you can be sure that Eusebius was a great guy. Among his close friends were St. Athanasius and St. Hilary of Poitiers. Some scholars believe he is the true author of the so-called Athanasian Creed (which begins with the Latin word Quicumque, and which I try to recite once a month).

Eusebius of Vercelli is not to be confused with the historian Eusebius, who sometimes picked the wrong side of the same controversies.

Last weekend I spoke at the annual Defending the Faith Conference at lovely Franciscan University of Steubenville. My topic was martyrdom, specifically in the centuries before the accession of Constantine and the peace of the Church. During the Q&A afterward, someone asked how many of the popes of the first two centuries died as martyrs. I didn’t know the answer (and I still don’t), but I suggested that martyrdom was probably listed in the standard benefits package under the heading “pension plan.”

Today is the memorial of one of those early popes, Stephen I, who lived in a time of martyrs and was perhaps a martyr himself. In all events, he was a wise and just referee in the confusion that invariably attended persecution — judging among the contending voices of aggrieved confessors, repentant apostates, renegade theologians and strange bishops, not to mention slugs like me who were trying to get by.

May Pope St. Stephen intercede for us as we honor him today.

Wisdom! Be attentive to the old Catholic Encyclopedia:

It is generally believed that [Stephen] was consecrated 12 May, 254, and that he died 2 August, 257. According to the most ancient catalogues, he was a Roman by birth, and the son of Jovius, and there is no reason to doubt the assertion of the “Liber Pontificalis” that Lucius I, when about to be martyred, made over the care of the Church to his archdeacon Stephen. Most of what we know regarding Pope Stephen is connected directly or indirectly with the severe teachings of the heretic Novatus. Stephen’s most important work was his defense of the validity of heretical baptism against the mistaken opinion of St. Cyprian and other bishops of Africa and Asia. Stephen “triumphed, and in him the Church of Rome triumphed, as she deserved” [E.W. Benson, “Cyprian, His Life, His Times, His Works”, VIII (London), 1897, 3].

In the early part of his pontificate Stephen was frequently urged by Faustinus, Bishop of Lyons, to take action against Marcian, Bishop of Arles, who, attaching himself to doctrines of Novatus, denied communion to the penitent lapsi. For some reason unknown to us Stephen did not move. The bishops of Gaul accordingly turned to Cyprian, and begged him to write to the pope. This the saint did in a letter which is our sole source of information regarding this affair (Epp. lxix, lxviii). The Bishop of Carthage entreats Stephen to imitate his martyred predecessors, and to instruct the bishops of Gaul to condemn Marcian, and to elect another bishop in his stead. As no more is said by St. Cyprian on this affair, it is supposed that the pope acted in accordance with his wishes, and that Marcian was deposed. The case of the Spanish bishops Martial and Basilides also brought Stephen in connection with St. Cyprian. As libellatici they had been condemned by the bishops of their province for denying the Faith. At first they acknowledged their guilt, but afterwards appealed to Rome, and, deceived by their story, Stephen exerted himself to secure their restoration. Accordingly some of their fellow bishops took their part, but the others laid the case before St. Cyprian. An assembly of African bishops which he convoked renewed the condemnation of Basilides and Martial, and exhorted the people to enter into communion with their successors. At the same time they were at pains to point out that Stephen had acted as he had done because “situated at a distance, and ignorant of the true facts of the case” he had been deceived by Basilides. Anxious to preserve the tradition of his predecessors in matters of practical charity, as well as of faith, Stephen, we are told, relieved in their necessities “all the provinces of Syria and Arabia”. In his days the vestments worn by the clergy at Mass and other church services did not differ in shape or material from those ordinarily worn by the laity. Stephen, however, is said by the “Liber Pontificalis” to have ordained that the vestments which had been used for ecclesiastical purposes were not to be employed for daily wear. The same authority adds that he finished his pontificate by martyrdom, but the evidence for this is generally regarded as doubtful. He was buried in the cemetery of St. Calixtus, whence his body was transferred by Paul I to a monastery which he had founded in his honor.

Diocletian’s name turns up frequently on this blog. It was he, after all, who — more than any other Roman emperor — made martyrdom widely available to the greatest number of Christians. But pity the man, at least for a moment.

Diocletian saw the empire suffering repeated civil wars, and he knew that something was wrong in the basic structure of the Empire itself.

First of all, in order to restore the respect for the Emperor that had been tattered by the years of uprisings, he decided to imitate Eastern kings. Instead of presenting himself as one of the people, Diocletian magnified himself into a god, an awful figure who could be approached only with fear and trembling — and through a system of etiquette that was painfully complex. He wore splendid robes and surrounded himself with ceremony every hour of the day. He also made sure that the ancient Roman religion was restored to its former dignity — and unlike most upper-class Romans, he seems to have really believed in the old gods.

But restoring respect for the Emperor was only the beginning of his plan. Diocletian came up with a brilliant scheme to end the civil wars forever. The problem, as he saw it, was that there was no set way to choose an emperor. Usually whoever had the largest part of the army behind him became emperor, but often different emperors were proclaimed in different parts of the Empire, and civil war was the inevitable result.

So Diocletian decided to scrap the whole system and start over. Instead of one Emperor for the enormous Roman Empire, there would be four — two Augusti and two Caesars. Each Augustus would rule for twenty years and then retire. During those twenty years, he would choose his Caesar, someone whose ability he trusted, and when the Augustus retired the Caesar would become a new Augustus. The elder of the two Augusti would be the head of the whole Empire. This way, there would be no doubt about who was to become the next emperor. And an ambitious Caesar wouldn’t be tempted to rebel, because he knew he would become Augustus when the current Augustus retired. Diocletian picked his other Augustus and the first two Caesars carefully — they were men who had shown exceptional ability as military leaders, and they seemed to be loyal to him and to his dream of a restored Roman Empire. Diocletian installed himself in the city of Nicomedia, southeast of where Istanbul is now, and the other Emperors chose the capitals that seemed most convenient for administering their sections of the Empire.

Diocletian was quite tolerant of the Christians. In fact, some of his best friends were Christians — even his wife and daughter were at least Christian sympathizers. His court was filled with Christians, and he seemed to trust them more than he did anyone else except the pagan priests. For most of his reign, the Church was left at peace, and it continued to grow.

But the pagan priests saw the writing on the wall. If Christianity continued to flourish, they would all be out of jobs. Diocletian was completely devoted to their pagan superstitions. But Diocletian was getting to be an old man, and according to his own system he was scheduled to retire soon. Here was their last chance to get rid of the Christians before the Christians got rid of them. The priests were supported by other pagan fanatics in the court. Chief among them was Galerius, Diocletian’s designated successor. He was a fanatical hater of Christians, and he was determined to reign in a Church-free Empire. Galerius, in turn, was urged on by his mother, who was even more hateful and more fanatical than Galerius was.

But what could be done about the Christians? Diocletian wanted peace more than anything else, and he wasn’t about to start a war against a large portion of his own people. But Diocletian made every decision by consulting the omens, as interpreted by the pagan priests. That gave those priests incredible power, and they decided to make the most of it.

One day Tagis, the chief priest, was offering a solemn sacrifice before the Emperor. As usual, the future of the Empire depended on the omens revealed in the sacrifice. The whole court was there, including the Christians. When the priest killed the sacrificial animal, the Christians crossed themselves—as they always did to show that they had nothing to do with sacrifices to idols.

But this time something unheard-of happened. Tagis announced that the omens hadn’t appeared in the entrails of the sacrifice. He ordered the priests to make another offering, but still no omens appeared. Drawing himself up and frowning with all the awful dignity of his office, Tagis pointed his finger at the Christians.

“The gods refuse to appear,” he shouted, “because these profane men are keeping them away with that sign, the sign that the gods hate!”

That was enough to convince Diocletian. But he still didn’t want to go down in history as a cruel tyrant. He had worked all his life to bring peace to the Empire. The Christian Church must be brought down, he agreed, but no blood must be shed.

“Oh, of course not,” the pagan fanatics told him. “That won’t be necessary. The Christian religion has grown only because we were so permissive. Once they see we’re serious, the Christians won’t be willing to die for their faith.”

Of course, Diocletian’s advisors knew they were lying. But all they had to do was get the Emperor started, and then he wouldn’t be able to stop.

Immediately the persecution began. Early in the morning, a hand-picked squadron of imperial storm troopers swooped down on the beautiful church in Nicomedia — built during the decades of peace since the last persecution — and broke down the doors. They made a bonfire of the Scriptures, then destroyed the whole building. After that, they posted copies of the new edict from the Emperor: all the churches were to be torn down, and all the Christian books were to be burned. An upper-class Christian tore down one of the posters, and he was immediately captured, tortured, and killed. The bloodshed had begun.

Now the pagan fanatics had to keep it going. Everywhere they magnified arguments into riots and riots into rebellions. As long as the Emperor was convinced that the Christians were conspiring to plunge the Empire into chaos, he would go along with any persecution, no matter how bloody. The Emperor’s own palace caught fire twice, and of course the Christians were blamed—although there was good reason to suspect that the pagans had set the fires just to make the Emperor more nervous. All the Christians in the court were given a choice: sacrifice to the Emperor or die. Many of them died.

Soon the persecution had reached even the remotest provinces. Even children who refused to give up their faith were executed. But it was only beginning. More edicts came out in Diocletian’s name. The clergy were rounded up and imprisoned. Finally, all Christians of every sort were ordered to sacrifice to the idols.

The Emperor tried to make it easy for the Christians: even a single grain of salt sacrificed to the idols would do, if only they would make the sacrifice. Some did. But many heroic Christians held out. With ruthless efficiency, the persecutors surrounded whole towns, rounded up all the Christians, and called each one by name to sacrifice. The ones who refused were carried off to horrible tortures.

And always the option of sacrificing to the idols was open to them. Just a little pinch of incense, and the tortures would stop, and they could go home free. Only an incredibly stubborn fanatic could refuse such a reasonable offer. But thousands did refuse. Some died from the tortures; others — the lucky ones — were executed.

Meanwhile, Diocletian lay sick in his bed, his dream of a peaceful Empire torn to shreds. From Gaul came the news that Constantius Chlorus, one of the Caesars, was refusing to persecute the Christians. The four emperors were no longer acting as one. And Diocletian had to watch helplessly as the persecution raged into something worse than civil war. Meanwhile, the time had come when he had said he would step aside. Galerius, who desperately wanted to finish the war against the Church, practically pushed Diocletian out the door in 305, and the poor old man retired to his palace in what is today Croatia to watch the Empire disintegrate around him. At the same time, Maximian, the other Augustus, was more or less forced out. Galerius was left as the supreme Emperor.

Immediately he picked two Caesars who were remarkable mostly for their unflagging hatred of Christians. But Constantius Chlorus, who was now the other Augustus, had a son named Constantine who was dangerously popular among the army. And Maximian had a son named Maxentius who was just plain dangerous. When Constantius Chlorus died, the army (used to having its own way) picked Constantine to succeed him. Galerius was forced to accept what he couldn’t stop, and made Constantine the second Caesar, while everyone else moved up one notch in the ranks. But Maxentius thought he deserved to be a Caesar too, and the army in Italy recognized his claim. And then—as if things weren’t mixed up enough already — Maximian decided to revoke his abdication, and declared that he was still Emperor. Soon six emperors were claiming the title of Augustus. Once again, there were too many emperors, and civil war was inevitable.

With his life’s work in tatters, Diocletian came out of his retirement and made a futile attempt to paste the Empire back together. Instead of gratitude, he got death threats. Broken and sad, Diocletian saw that there was no hope. His dream of a restored pagan Rome would never come true. Already sick, and with nothing left to live for, Diocletian found a comfortable spot to lie down, and then took poison.