A life with the Roman army

A hotel in Croatia I recently stayed in had a face-in-the-hole photoboard in the reception area. The theme was in keeping with the nearby Roman remains — a Roman legionary of sorts. Of course, I had to have my photo taken.

This wasn’t the first time I had appeared as a Roman soldier. Almost exactly forty years ago, I was persuaded to don an ill-fitting set of “lorica segmentata” armour and an uncomfortable pair of hobnailed sandals (uncomfortable, as they’d been made for someone else’s feet) in fulfilment of my part of a bargain.

Bargains are very Roman. Dozens of ancient altars were set up in fulfilment of a bargain with a particular god or goddess; the dedicant expressly votum solvit libens laetus merito (“fulfilled his vow willingly, gladly, deservedly”), usually abbreviated to V S L L M, but very occasionally written out in full (e.g. AE 1934, 280).

In summer 1984, as a recent graduate student embarking upon the study of the Roman army, I had made a bargain with Chris Haines, or rather Lucius Flavius Aper, centurion of the Ermine Street Guard. I had become rather interested in ancient artillery (and was even then eagerly awaiting the appearance of my first “proper” academic article, which discussed catapults en passant) and I knew that the Ermine Street Guard had built their own catapult. In fact, the only reconstructed catapult then in existence, apart from Erwin Schramm’s classic reconstructions built for Kaiser Wilhelm, on display at the Saalburgmuseum.

I suggested to Chris that I should visit him in Gloucestershire to see his catapult in action. He suggested that I should accompany them on a tour of France, Germany, and Belgium, the only proviso being that I should make up the numbers in a couple of displays. My votum was duly solvit.

As I recall, I never got a chance to see the catapult up close, it being jealously guarded by ESG “regulars”. But I did get to see (for the first time) the Saalburgmuseum (where we slept on the floor of the principia forehall), the Römisch-Germanisches Zentralmuseum in Mainz (now in a different location under a new name), and (if memory serves) the Rheinisches Landesmuseum Bonn (now extensively remodelled).

This photo, snapped forty years ago, shows that the Ermine Street Guard had a better grasp of Roman armour than today’s Croatian hospitality industry. Naturally.

Those About to Die (of tedium)

I have been watching the new epic drama Those About to Die, which is set in Rome in AD 79. (Well, what else would an ancient historian do with a free trial subscription to Amazon Prime?)

According to the makers (Peacock), it “explores a side of ancient Rome never before told : the dirty business of entertaining the masses, giving the mob what they want most : blood and sport”. Never before told? Isn’t this just like the mini-series Spartacus, or Ben Hur from 2010?

And it’s surely just a coincidence that the series has aired four months before the eagerly awaited Gladiator II.

I couldn’t identify a recognizable plot, other than (a) lots of nasty things go on in the seedy parts of Rome, (b) lots of nasty things go on in the imperial palace at Rome, and (c) it’s nasty and seedy being a slave in Rome.

The producers allegedly drew inspiration from a 65-year-old book of the same title by Daniel Mannix. I had a quick flick through and I can’t see any resemblance beyond the title and the fact that neither has managed to place Scorpus the charioteer in the correct faction (the term used to differentiate between the four “teams” of charioteers).

Scorpus the charioteer

In the TV drama, Scorpus is the star charioteer of the Blues (and — Episode Three spoiler alert — the Golds), whereas Mannix already assured us that “we have plenty of old records of the sport such as ‘Scorpus of the White Faction got first place seven times, second place twenty-nine times and third place sixty times’.”

In fact, the poet Martial, who was a contemporary and an eye-witness to (amongst other things) the opening of the Colosseum in AD 80, writes about “Scorpus and the Greens”! In addition, seven victories is laughably meagre for a champion charioteer. The well-known epitaph of the Hadrianic charioteer Diocles, who raced mostly for the Reds, records 1,462 victories. Unfortunately, I have no idea where Mannix got his information, as he begins his book with this rather unbelievable disclaimer: “so many sources were used in preparing this volume that it would be impossible to name them all”!

Although Those About to Die shows all the usual signs of writers who are resistent to the slightest historical advice, the admittedly entertaining twist in Episode Three (“Death’s Door”), alluded to above, does have — astonishingly (perhaps accidentally, though it could’ve come from Mannix) — a basis in fact: for Suetonius records that Domitian, when emperor, “added two factions of drivers to the previous four in the Circus, with gold and purple as their colours”. They did not outlast his reign. Nor did they predate it!

Shallow Flavians

I stayed with this dull drama for three episodes, long enough to see if Vespasian (played, rather low-key and with minimal screen-time, as an aged and infirm emperor by Sir Anthony Hopkins; see above middle) would die accurately. I must acknowledge that, yes, we did hear him say (as his biographer Suetonius reported) “Oh, dear, I think I’m becoming a god!”

But the writers have failed to capture anything of the genuine man, whom Suetonius claims was a witty fellow, a man of the people, in fact. Nor have they captured his elder son Titus, who was his father’s right-hand man all along. So there’s no basis for the spiteful on-screen sibling rivalry. Titus was also his father’s spitting image (unlike actor Tom Hughes, here sporting a full beard, moustache and bouncy quiff, and no double chin; see above left). Nor have the writers done Domitian justice in this caricature of an insane deviant (played by a mad-eyed Jojo Macari, who really should have gained 20lbs to play this part properly; see above right).

For those who would excuse the inaccuracies on the grounds that “it’s a TV show not a documentary”, that simply excuses sloppy writing, sloppy research, and misdirected budget.

There’s a scene (pictured here) where we can clearly see a bust of Caracalla (born over a hundred years later) in the background, and I’m sure I saw the Arch of Titus (not completed until AD 81) in one of the aerial views.

As for the lazy writing, when Vespasian warns his sons about the threat of “Parthians, Gauls, Britons, and Huns”, he displays an enviable skill for clairvoyance (the Huns would not emerge for another 300 years). Perhaps that doesn’t matter to the average viewer. But when your writer thinks it’s a good idea for a first-century Numidian character — in AD 79 — to address a Syrian character in Arabic, invoking the name of Allah, it’s time to hire a new one.

No sh*t!

I have just returned from the sweltering 32° heat of Solin, ancient Salona (or, sometimes, Salonae) in Croatia. To be honest, I expected to see more archaeology, although there is a bijou amphitheatre for those willing to trek two kilometres, there and back; and the municipal baths building is impressive. (‘Provincial’ impressive, not ‘eternal city’ impressive.)

However, I was struck by the complete absence of inscriptions on the site. After all, Mommsen reported no fewer than 791 in 1873 (Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum Vol. III, pp. 304–355, nos. 1933–2674; pp. 1030–1034, nos. 6373–6405; pp. 1061–1062, nos. 6549–6564), besides an additional 1,134 published in the 1902 supplement (pp. 1509–1608, nos. 8565–9698). Since then, several hundred more have apparently come to light, judging by the indices in L’Année épigraphique, the annual round-up of newly-reported inscriptions.

So, while seeking some much-needed shade behind the site office (dubbed “Tusculum” by the Croatian archaeologist Frane Bulić, when he had it built in 1894), I was overjoyed to see an inscribed lintel on the door of this curious privy-like shed (pictured here).

An unusual inscription

I was overjoyed, because of its remarkable message, and I laughed aloud as I read.

Line 1: quisquis hoc in loco stercus non posuerit, “whoever has not dumped filth in this place ...” (stercus seems usually to mean dung or manure, as in Columella, On Agriculture 2.5 and elsewhere, but Vitruvius, On Architecture 7.9.1, uses it to mean the dross produced when extracting metal ore, so the word probably covers any unpleasant detritus.)
Line 2: aut non cacaverit aut non miaverit, “or has not shat or pissed ...” (miaverit confused me for a while, but it seems to be a variant of minxerit, the past tense of the verb meio, later mingo, “to urinate”.)
Line 3, lefthand side: habeat illas iratas, “may he (or she) make them angry ...” (It’s not entirely clear who illas, “them”, are supposed to be. I’ve seen the epithet iratae used of the deae Manes, the “ghosts of the departed”, who are supposedly tetchy; e.g. CIL X, 2289. That might be the point of the threat.)

Line 3, righthand side: si neglexerit viderit, “if he or she disregards this, watch out!” (a tricky line, not helped by an evident misspelling of NEGLEXERIT as NEGEEXEBIT.)

... with an unusual message

The message is an odd one: the gods will be angry with anyone who does not defecate here. Crap away! This seems strange, as normally in the ancient world people were preoccupied with the danger of their property being fouled, defiled, or otherwise polluted by others.

Graffiti from Pompeii repeatedly warns the cacator (literally, “defecator”, or “one who voids excrement”, according to the older, quainter dictionaries) that no good will come of his (or her) misdemeanor: cave malum, “beware of something bad” (e.g. CIL IV, 5438; 7714). A well-known graffito from the vicinity of the Nucerian Gate (CIL IV, 6641) gives the following advice: cacator sic valeas ut tu hoc locum trasia, “Hey, shitter! You would do well to keep walking!” (literally, “pass this place by”, reading transeas for misspellt trasia).

The mystery grew deeper as I finally noticed that the inscription must be a modern one, perhaps dating from the days of Bulić himself (although I was unable to verify this), for at bottom right I could just make out the letters “CIL 1966” (beneath the word VIDERIT).

The authentic inscription

In fact, this refers to CIL III, 1966, an ancient inscription discovered in Salona in the eighteenth century and taken to Vienna, where it now resides. However, the wording on this threatening message bearing the image of the diva triformis, the “three-formed goddess” Diana–Selene–Hekate, is subtly different.

Quisq(ue) in eo vico stercus non posuerit aut non cacaverit aut non miaverit habeat illas propitias si neglexerit viderit, “Anyone who has not dumped filth in this neighbourhood or shat or pissed, may he make them gracious; if he or she disregards this, beware!” (I’m still not entirely sure about illas iratas, “the angry ones”, and illas propitias, “the gracious ones”, but I think I might have got the gist of the message.)

Whoever designed the inscription that I saw in Solin was clearly making a joke based on the authentic inscription (now in Vienna).

And I can only assume that the privy-like shed was indeed a toilet, where people were encouraged to defecate and urinate (hoc in loco, “in this place”), as opposed to the original message threatening people not to defecate and urinate in eo vico, “in this neighbourhood”. In fact, it is remarkably similar to the one pictured here, even down to the padlocked door.

No shit!

Conan the Praetorian

I have been reading the “Warrior of Rome” trilogy by Harry Sidebottom (sorry, “Dr Harry Sidebottom”, as he appears on the title page, to assure us that he knows what he’s talking about).

The books are now a dozen or more years old, and have always been greeted with favourable reviews, like this one from TV’s Bettany Hughes: “Dr Harry Sidebottom’s prose blazes with such searing scholarship that there is enormous enjoyment in this rumbustuous tale of the late Roman empire”.

I must agree that Sidebottom knows how to spin a yarn, dragging his hero Marcus Clodius Ballista into (and out of) all sorts of predicaments, but in my opinion he’s no Patrick O’Brian (as British explorer Tim Severin claimed in his review). Rather, he reminds me of Robert E. Howard, creator of Conan the Barbarian. It cannot be a coincidence that his Ballista is really “Dernhelm, son of Isangrim, Warleader of the Angles and one of the Woden-born” (which, incidentally, permits him the liberal use of Anglo-Saxon expletives throughout).

I must admit that I enjoyed Fire in the East (Part One of the trilogy), as it was soundly based on the Sasanid siege of Dura-Europos around AD 255 (though why Sidebottom coyly renamed the town “Arete” I cannot imagine). My enjoyment gradually declined thereafter, through Part Two (King of Kings) and Part Three (Lion of the Sun), as Sidebottom, lacking the focus of the siege, took his hero traipsing rather tediously up and down the Middle East. (Sidebottom later added a second trilogy, and I confess that I started to read Part Four, The Caspian Gates, but ... life’s too short.)

The sure hand of a scholar?

Several reviewers praised Sidebottom’s “superb knowledge of the ancient world” (this was Professor Bryan Ward-Perkins) or his “sure hand of a scholar” (this was Professor Barry Strauss), while the late Lucinda Hamilton (wife of Bryn Mawr College’s Rick Hamilton) lauded “his considerable knowledge of 3rd century warfare and Roman military terminology”.

I think I find this most ironic of all. The one thing that never rang true to me, in each of the three books, was Sidebottom’s attempt to evoke the Roman third century, for there is no doubt in my mind that his version of Ballista inhabits the fourth century. When the hero enters the presence of the emperor Valerian, who is floating like something out of Frank Herbert’s Dune (“as befitted his role as mediator between mankind and the gods, the emperor Valerian appeared suspended in mid-air ... bathed in bright sunlight ... gaze fixed over the heads of mere mortals”), Ballista “prostrated himself full length on the floor” (which Sidebottom calls “proskynesis”, the adoration reserved for Persian kings).

However, the fourth-century historian Ammianus Marcellinus explains that “it was the emperor Diocletian who was the first to introduce this foreign and royal form of adoration, whereas we have read that, always previously, our emperors were saluted like the holders of other high offices” (Roman History XV.5.18). Aurelius Victor agrees that it was Diocletian, some thirty years after Valerian, who “was the first of all, besides Caligula and Domitian, to allow himself to be called ‘Lord’ and to be worshipped and addressed as a god” (On the Caesars 39.4). The recuitment of northern barbarians into positions of military authority is also a fourth-century phenomenon. (It is interesting that reviewers like Bettany Hughes, quoted above, assume that the novels are set in the “late Roman empire”, which is not how historians characterize the mid-third century.)

Military expert?

Lucinda Hamilton was not the only reviewer to praise Sidebottom’s military expertise. But is this particular compliment deserved?

One of the most egregious errors in Part One must be the classification of Ballista’s military engineering friend Mamurra as a praefectus fabrum, which he translates as “chief of engineers” (in fact, it is literally “prefect of the workmen”, which in practice was an honorary “rank” given to non-military toffs).

Another is certainly the repeated translation of Ballista’s title Dux Ripae as “Commander of the Riverbanks”, when the Romans held only one bank of the Euphrates river (ripae is the genitive case of a singular noun meaning “of the riverbank”). Several other such blunders, while admittedly minor irritations, make Sidebottom’s flippant comment — that, because his books are set in a period “about which so little is known”, no one can prove him wrong — seem just a little ironic.

We may certainly forgive Sidebottom’s ignorance of technical matters, such as the 20-pounder ballista on the north-west tower of “Arete”, which is pointlessly over-engineered if its torsion-frame is 10 feet wide and its springs “as high as a very tall man”. (For comparison, the ballista illustrated on the cover of my Greek and Roman Artillery book is a 40-pounder.) And finally, still on the subject of artillery, Ballista is credited (in Part Four) with the invention of the onager, the single-armed catapult used by the Romans at least since the days of Hadrian and which, in truth, had probably taken over as the standard stone-projecting catapult by the time Sidebottom is writing about. But in Sidebottom’s version, the machine’s single arm held the stone “in a sort of bowl at the end”, so Ballista had actually built a medieval mangonel!

Clearly, many thousands of readers have enjoyed Sidebottom’s ripping yarns, but the unwary Roman army enthusiast may assume that they are historically sound, whereas Ballista is as grounded in reality as Conan the Barbarian.

If you don't ask, you won't get.

I saw this video clip and simply had to post it:

Rain Miracle in June

Wikipedia is host to many bizarre and spurious claims, which I suppose is only to be expected in a publicly editable resource.

In my own field of ancient history, many of the errors are common misconceptions and some are the pet theories of cranks who don’t like the communis opinio; but some have a far stranger origin. Take, for example, the case of the “rain miracle” on the Column of Marcus Aurelius in Rome. Wikipedia informs us that it occurred on this day; namely, 11 June.

The context is the Marcomannic Wars fought by the emperor Marcus Aurelius on the Upper Danube frontier in the early AD 170s. The Roman historian Cassius Dio (or rather, his eleventh-century epitomator, John Xiphilinus) recorded an incident from a later phase of the war, when the Romans were fighting the tribe of the Quadi. On this particular occasion, the Romans were surrounded and in danger of succumbing to heat and thirst.

“The Romans, accordingly, were in a terrible plight from fatigue, wounds, the heat of the sun, and thirst, and so could neither fight nor retreat, but were standing in the line and at their several posts, scorched by the heat, when suddenly many clouds gathered and a mighty rain, not without divine interposition, burst upon them” (Roman History 72 (71).8.3).

Xiphilinus himself was amazed by the story, which he explained by claiming that the Roman force involved was the Twelfth Fulminata Legion (whose name means “thunder-bolt bearers”), and furthermore that the soldiers were well-known Christians, whom the emperor implored to pray to their God for salvation. “Their God immediately gave ear and smote the enemy with a thunderbolt and comforted the Romans with a shower of rain” (Roman History 72 (71).9.5).

However, no date was attached to the tale; not even the year, although it can most probably be placed in AD 172 (not, as Wikipedia says, AD 173). Incidentally, the Christian element, introduced here by Xiphilinus himself, was already known to the Christian writer Tertullian in AD 200, around the time that Cassius Dio was writing. Be that as it may. My question here is: where on earth did Wikipedia’s date of 11 June come from?

The answer is rather convoluted, as it turns out. A series of fragmentary altars discovered at the Roman fortress of Carnuntum (where Marcus Aurelius had his headquarters during the Marcomannic Wars) all made reference to some unnamed event that had occurred on III Idus Iunias (“the third day before the Ides of June”). By Roman calendrical reckoning, the Ides of June fell on the 13th, and the third day before (using inclusive counting) was 11 June.

It was the German archaeologist Werner Jobst who claimed, firstly, that the earliest such altar could be dated to AD 172, and secondly, that the event thus commemorated on all the altars must have been the “rain miracle”.

Unfortunately, this inscription that Jobst wanted to have been erected on 11 June AD 172 (AE 1982, 778, pictured here) turns out to have been erected in AD 159. And so the case for a “rain miracle” on 11 June AD 172 crumbles. Or, more appropriately, is washed away.

Unbuttoned

I have heard of many officially named fears or dreads, from aerophobia (a genuine ancient Greek medical term for the fear of air, as registered by the Afro-Roman physician Caelius Aurelianus in his Acute Diseases 3.12.108) to zoophobia (a nineteenth-century word created to describe a psychological aversion to animals).

Alongside the well-known arachnophobia and xenophobia lie twentieth-century neologisms like ergophobia (coined by the surgeon W.D. Spanton in 1905 to describe a preference for leisure over work) or mycophobia (coined in the 1960s to describe an aversion to mushrooms).

Most terms observe the accepted rules of grammar, whereby words derived from ancient Greek and Latin should stick entirely to one language or the other. Consequently, the suffix phobia, as an ancient Greek word, requires its prefixes to similarly derive from ancient Greek. The most famous exception, for a long time the only exception (namely, television, combining Greek τῆλε with Latin visio) proves the rule.

However, more recent neologisms, either from ignorance or rebelliousness, have flouted the rule by pairing phobia with non-Greek prefixes. Arthur Koestler’s coining of the term feminophobia springs to mind, or the frivolous bogyphobia (isn’t everyone “bogyphobic”? surely that’s the point of a bogeyman), or even the puzzling coulrophobia, invented in the 1990s to describe a fear of clowns. Incidentally, the Oxford English Dictionary have thrown their hands up in despair of ever working out where that prefix is supposed to have come from, since the ancient Greeks called their clowns sklêropaiktai (σκληροπαῖκται) or skôptolai (σκωπτόλαι).

Finally ... the buttons

Today, I encountered a new one — koumpounophobia. Interestingly, neither the OED nor Merriam-Webster register this word. It supposedly means a fear of buttons.

A Spectator article of 22 November 2014 claims that Steve Jobs, co-founder of Apple, suffered from it, “or at least a strong aversion, which explains his affinity for touch-screens and turtlenecks”. So perhaps more of an intolerance than a debilitating fear, like Dr Spanton’s work-averse ergophobics.

I must admit to having scratched my head for a while over this word. Where on earth did the koumpouno prefix come from? There is no ancient Greek word that’s even slightly similar. But it turns out that κουμπώνω (thus, koumpono, not koumpouno) is a modern Greek verb meaning to fasten a garment using κουμπιά (koumpia) or buttons. Whoever coined the term has actually invented a modern Greek word (not an English word) for the fear of buttoning something up. In English, we should probably stick to “button phobia” (on analogy with the likes of commitment phobia, computer phobia, and Europhobia).

Beware the internet

Along the way, I found yet another instance of why the internet is not a reliable guide in this post-truth world.

The CPD Online College (who are, understandably, a little wary of telling us exactly who they are, although worryingly, they list HM Government and the NHS amongst their “clients and partners”) claims that “Koumpouno means ‘bean or button’, as the ancient Greeks used beans in the place of buttons” — really?! (Incidentally, the commonest ancient Greek word for a bean is κύαμος, kuamos.)

The above illustrations show that, far from using beans (how is this even possible?!), the ancient Greeks did indeed use buttons, for we are looking at four ancient Greek bronze Gorgoneion buttons from the collection of the British Museum. Such buttons were used to fasten the sleeves of the garment known as a chiton, as the second illustration (from Thomas Hope’s Costume of the Greeks and Romans of 1812) shows. (The objects are certainly buttons, as they have a loop at the back for fastening onto fabric.)

The Gorgoneion (“Gorgon’s head”) was intended to avert evil. Now that’s worthy of a phobia.