More Roman military diplomas

I have just received my copy of Roman Military Diplomas VI, hot off the University of London press, in which another 179 diplomas are catalogued (nos. 477–655), continuing the series begun in 1978 by the late Margaret Roxan (Roman Military Diplomas 1954–1977, nos. 1–78). (In a break from tradition, the pagination has not been continued from previous volumes, and begins at p. 1.)

Margaret passed the baton to Paul Holder in 2002, owing to her failing health, when Roman Military Diplomas IV was imminent. It is hard to believe that the previous volume of the series, Roman Military Diplomas V (nos. 323–476), appeared as long ago as 2006, but I understand that there were difficulties in arranging publication of the new volume.

Besides a description and transcription of each individual diploma, the usual additional material has been included.

First, a table of “Diplomas in RMD VI”, in which the diplomas are arranged in date order and run from 7 March AD 70 (no. 477, a complete sealed example of a Legio II Adiutrix diploma, pictured below but currently lost) to 7 January AD 252/253 (no. 655, a corner fragment of tabella I of a Praetorian diploma).

Next, the “Revised chronology of the diplomas published up to RMD VI”, integrating nos. 477–655 in their proper places. (Holder says there are 840 listed; I haven’t counted them.) As before, RMD numbers are prefixed with a † symbol, to differentiate from the original CIL XVI diplomas.

There are 14 pages of “Further Notes on the Chronology”, highlighting any issues raised in the interim regarding previously published diplomas. In particular, Holder notes that there is a new “last positive date” for an auxiliary diploma; namely, AD 206, from AE 2012, 1960 (not included in this volume, which catalogues only those diplomas reported up to 2007).

The end matter includes the usual indices, and a complete concordance with AE (and with the diplomas of the Römisch-Germanisches Zentralmuseum, already published by Barbara Pferdehirt in 2004) has been added. Unfortunately, only four diplomas are illustrated, one of which also appears as the cover image (no. 639, damaged witness list on tabella II).

I very much look forward to perusing this volume at my leisure, and sincerely hope that a suitable publisher can be found for Roman Military Diplomas VII.

Caledonia, land of cold and rain (deuxième partie)

The scene shifts from the little Roman fort to the home of the Caledonians, a dark broch (precursor of the tower house) standing proud on its own rocky peninsula. Despujol’s graphics are fabulous (p. 16).

The young Caledonian champions, Cirig and Fel, argue over the correct course of action (p. 17). “My daughter will be yours Cirig, if you bring her back to her people”, says Galam, the chieftain.

“Leta is able to escape on her own”, counters Fel. “I’m sure she would consider our help insulting. In any case”, he continues, “she has only herself to blame”.

But Galam knows that there are other allies he can call upon — allies to be cultivated by the crone, Isla. “My stones will determine the next sacrifice”, she says ominously (p. 18).

Conversing with the enemy

Back in the little fort, although the sentries are on high alert, they report that “All is quiet”. Meanwhile, despite losing 4 pints of blood, Leta has made a miraculous recovery, thanks to a poultice of Cretan dittany; but the medic is keeping her bound and gagged, “because she has formidable claws and fangs and threatens to rip my throat every time I approach her!” (p. 19)

Against his advice, Lucius the centurion unties her, whereupon she wrestles him to the ground and would surely have strangled him, if the medic hadn’t intervened (pp. 20–21). It transpires that, conveniently, Leta is fluent in the language of the Romans, which she learned during two years of captivity. “You’re not getting away from here”, promises Lucius, for the girl is now tied to the fence outside (p. 22). “We shall see”, she replies. Lucius explains that it is the Roman mission to halt tribal warfare and pacify Caledonia, but Leta is defiant: “Whatever our tribes do is none of your business!”

Days pass (p. 23), and Lucius comes to realize that, even if you capture a wild animal, it’s impossible to tame it. Over a meal, he tries to convince her that Roman peace benefits everyone (p. 24). Again Corbeyran’s prose soars like the seagulls that flit across Despujol’s drawings. (Je suis née sur cette terre. Elle m’a donné la force de la tempête et la douceur de la brise. Elle m’a façonnée. Les miens m’ont appris tout ce que je devais savoir pour vivre en harmonie avec mes semblables, les collines, la mer et les dieux. Et toi, tu juges notre façon de vivre sans rien connaître. Pourquoi devrais-je t’écouter?) Leta remains unconvinced. “If you’re treating me to a meal in order to convince me of the benefits of Roman civilisation, so that I will persuade my father, let’s get it over with”, she laughs. “You may as well lock me up in a cage!” As night falls, Lucius duly complies (p. 25).

At this point, Corbeyran’s story-telling starts to step up a gear. So far, Caledonia could be an untold episode from Tacitus’ Agricola. But gradually, misbegotten creatures of the night creep into the narrative. A single arrow announces the arrival of a group of Caledonians, but they stand off as if waiting (pp. 26–27). Just then, two giant lizards cross the rampart, snatching soldiers left and right in their wicked jaws. Lucius calls for Leta to be released and seizes her as a human shield, yelling “Tell them to stop or I slice your throat!” (pp. 28–29)

Leta cries out in Gaelic: caomhain mi, caomhain iad “Hell dogs! Spare me, spare them!” The creatures depart, but Lucius has questions for Leta: “From what hell did they emerge and who commands them?” Calling for a map, she explains that the answers lie on the “Island of Death” offshore from the Caledonians’ broch.

To be continued ...

Caledonia, land of cold and rain (première partie)

I have begun reading Caledonia. Book One: The Ninth Legion, a new bande dessinée by Corbeyran (scénario) and Emmanuel Despujol (dessin). (Thank you, Santa!) Naturally, Corbeyran’s text is in French, so I present the following précis in order to make it more accessible to Anglophone readers.

It opens by night (p. 3), with a woad-striped crone chanting Gaelic on a bonfire-lit beach (thighearna nam marbh “Lord of Death, receive our gifts, so that our alliance may last forever!”). She despatches five young Caledonians into the large scaly hand of a mysterious forest dweller (p. 4). (Hold that thought for fifty pages).

Grey daylight, and a Roman column is marching through a defile in the Scottish mountains (p. 5). These are men of the third cohort of the Ninth Legion. Riding at their head, the newly-arrived centurion grumbles, “We’re making an infernal noise!” The hard-bitten optio shrugs: “Believe me, we’ve already been spotted by everything that has a sense of smell, two ears, and two eyes, from leagues around”.

The optio has seen the world and battled on various frontiers, but he has never met more ferocious adversaries than the Caledonians. The centurion is unconvinced: “I hear that blood flows in their veins, and I conclude that they are only men. If they are human, they will die”. (“We will die, too”, mutters the optio. “Just a matter of time”.) And sure enough, at that precise moment, a rocky avalanche heralds a flank attack by the savage Caledonians, gloriously depicted (pp. 8–9) by artist Emmanuel Despujol (and beautifully coloured by his daughter Juliette). After a hard-won victory, the Romans trudge off through the icy February rain.

The little fort

It is March and the unnamed centurion rests, binds his wounds, and writes up his report (p. 11). Men move about the tented enclosure (p. 12). Corbeyran’s graceful prose (Les dieux qui habitent ces contrées et ont façonné ces paysages ont été bien inspirés. Ils sont à la fois d’une grande beauté et offrent de multiples possibilités de cachettes à nos adversaires. Les Caledonii savent utiliser le relief du terrain à leur avantage. Chaque creux, bosse, faille, fossé, chaque arbre, chaque fourré constitue un allié solide sur lequel ils peuvent compter) cries out for a lavish landscape view. But the plot forges ahead.

A young woman — Leta, daughter of the chieftain Galam — has been captured but remains badly wounded (p. 13). The men are exhausted, fifteen were killed in the latest skirmish and five wounded. The disgruntled medic sees them as his priority, “but”, says the centurion, “the prisoner must not die”. The two men bicker (pp. 13–14). “I can put her out of her misery” growls the medic. “Her life is worth more than yours”, spits the centurion. “With such a bargaining chip, we can get Galam to lay down his arms!” “You are not only a bad commander, but also a dreamer, and I don’t know which is worse”, mutters the medic, at which the centurion lashes out with the back of his hand, warning him that next time he will use his blade.

Leaving the infirmary tent, the centurion runs into the optio, who reveals to us the centurion’s name (p. 15): it is none other than Lucius Aemilius Karus! Against the optio’s advice, he has ordered the men to their action stations. “They need rest” objects the optio. “If they are killed, they will have eternal rest,” replies Karus. “But if they defeat the Caledonians, they will live and be able to sleep victorious!” However, I have an uneasy feeling that his final words — “sacrifices are sometimes necessary” — might prove to be true ... literally.

To be continued ...

Life in the Roman army

Earlier this year, from February until June 2024, the British Museum hosted an exhibition entitled “Legion: life in the Roman army”. (Tickets were priced at £22.) Richard Abdy, curator of Roman and Iron Age coins at the museum, has written a 300-page book to accompany it (available in hardback from the British Museum book shop for £40).

It seems a little odd for the project to have been entrusted to someone who describes himself as “peripheral to Roman army studies”. However, it presents an interesting opportunity to see how good a job has been done by those people who would describe themselves as “central to Roman army studies” in communicating their knowledge to Mr Abdy.

He credits, amongst others, David Breeze and Simon James for having “hacked through various drafts of the entire book”, while others “provided enthusiastic support and advice” or “valuable advice and insight”. Has this support network proved successful?

At the outset, we should give Abdy credit for his writing style. He can turn a good sentence and has an ear for a pithy phrase (Trajan’s Column and the Marcus Column are “frozen filmstrips of Rome”, Lucius Verus is “the hairiest of those hairy Antonines”, and the Roman army is a “citizenship machine”, though this last one rests on Le Bohec’s observation that “l’armée a fonctionné comme une machine à fabriquer des citoyens romains”). But readable prose doesn’t guarantee sound content. In short, Abdy lacks authority.

Real soldiers

It is an intriguing conceit, to attempt to wrap a discussion of “life in the Roman army” around the lives of two Roman soldiers from Egypt (Apion and Claudius Terentianus), but ultimately unsustainable, given the paucity of evidence. After introducing the two characters, they recur only sporadically. That’s natural, given that only two letters from Apion survive (BGU II, 423 and 632), and ten letters from Terentianus, five in Latin and five in Greek, in a cache (the so-called “archive of Claudius Tiberianus”) discovered at Tebtunis (P. Mich. VIII, 467–471 and 476–480).

Readers cannot know this, because of Abdy’s peculiar reticence, here and elsewhere, to cite primary evidence. This is perhaps a symptom of having drawn facts from secondary publications (Le Bohec’s L’armée romaine sous le haut-empire, cited in its 1994 English translation, is a favourite, but he also leans on David Breeze’s slim The Roman Army volume) rather than (apparently) studying the sources at first-hand.

Some readers may find it useful to know that fig. 1.2 on p. 28 (“Letter of Apion. Egyptian Museum of Berlin, P. 7950”) is BGU II, 423. At least fig. 1.20 (p. 46) is labelled P. Mich. VIII, 468, but there is no indication that this is the famous letter in which Terentianus asks his father to send him caligae cori subtalares (“under-the-heel leather sandal-boots”) and udones (“socks”), which might usefully have been cross-referenced to the paragraph on footwear on p. 167.

Curiously, Abdy claims (on p. 53) that “Terentianus expected to wear out two pairs of shoes a month”, but the Latin in P. Mich. VIII, 468 is not at all clear. (Does Terentianus actually wear calcei, “shoes”, twice a month, and would prefer to have hard-wearing caligae, the soldiers’ hob-nailed sandal-boots?) Equally, his throwaway comment about Terentianus’ “felt socks” (p. 66) requires explanation; the poet Martial, for one, seems to think that socks were normally woollen (Epigrams XIV, 140). Incidentally, for all clothing-related matters, Graham Sumner’s Roman Military Dress (2009) is unaccountably absent from Abdy’s bibliography.

Real pay

It is quite clear that many men will have enlisted in order to benefit from food and board and regular pay. Abdy, as a coin specialist, is naturally attracted to the last of these. However, his frame of reference is a peculiar one. It seems overly simplistic to accept that “The Bible suggests that a fair day’s wage for a day’s fair labour was a denarius” (p. 21), even with the caveat that the vineyard work in question was “sporadic and seasonal”, since evidence from Egypt consistently shows that day-labourers made do with closer to a sestertius (one-quarter of a denarius) per day, and might expect to work, at most, 250 days per year. This casts the auxiliary soldier’s 1,000 sestertii per year in a different light. Compare the foundation charter of the colony of Urso in southern Spain, which set down annual salaries for each magistrate’s staff, including 300 sestertii for clerks and 400 for messengers, and 1,200 for an educated scribe (ILS 6087, section 62). This (more effectively, I think) puts the contemporary legionary pay of 1,200 sestertii into perspective.

For Abdy, the veteran legionary was a man of means, since he was “eligible for a retirement lump sum worth around a decade’s pay” (p. 260), a fact that he illustrates with the Didcot hoard (not known to have belonged to a soldier, it should be noted). Readers need to have a good memory, though, for the evidence was given over a hundred pages earlier, where we read that “an ordinary legionary received a praemia (discharge bonus) of 3,000 denarii” (p. 128, based on Cassius Dio, Roman History LV, 23.1).

Illustrated artefacts

The book is lavishly illustrated in colour on heavy-grade paper. There is a picture of everything from the exhibition, and much else besides. Coins feature prominently, from the museum’s own collection, and casts of Trajan’s Column (provided by the National Museum of Romanian History in Bucharest), identified by Cichorius’ scene numbers. A map has been specially prepared, showing “the Roman Empire at its greatest extent, c. AD 117” (though its greatest extent was actually eighty years later under Septimius Severus); confusingly, both Hadrian’s Wall and the Antonine Wall (neither of which existed in AD 117) are included, and boldface numerals represent the number of legions in each province “c. AD 200” (i.e. under Septimius Severus). Why not just map the Roman empire in AD 200? (Incidentally, I noticed an odd no-man’s-land at the junction of Cappadocia, Assyria, and Syria.)

The main strength of the exhibition, in my opinion, was the opportunity to see the various items face-to-face. For example, the wooden “practice post” from Carlisle, often depicted in discussions of Roman military training, is disconcertingly large (broken at the base, it still stands a shade over 5 feet tall with a one-foot-diameter disc at the top, surely representing a human assailant), while the diplomas (I counted four on display) are beautifully delicate. (The training post is figure 1.28 on p. 52, and only one diploma has all four sides illustrated as figure 0.5 on p. 21.)

It is difficult to gain a sense of scale from the book illustrations, although dimensions are given in the captions. For example, the sheer size of the well-known Carvoran modius or grain measure cannot be appreciated from the printed image (fig. 8.2, occupying half of p. 247), although the caption states that it stands 28.6cm tall. By contrast, the turricula or dice tower found at Vettweiss-Froitzheim seems enormous in fig. 7.13, which occupies the whole of p. 219, although shorter than the grain measure, at 25cm.

These latter two items perfectly encapsulate the ecclecticism of the exhibition, since neither (like the Didcot hoard, above) is particularly military and couldn’t really be said to represent “life in the Roman army”. It is almost as if the curator has taken the opportunity to assemble as many eye-catching items as possible. Certainly, it’s difficult to justify the inclusion of the crocodile-skin outfit from Manfalut in Egypt, here labelled as “armour or religious costume” (fig. 5.4 on p. 150). Surely no self-respecting Roman soldier would ever have worn such outlandish gear.

Some random idiosyncracies

A two-page timeline lists key dates, beginning with 27 BC (“Augustus founds the Roman principate (empire)”), though AD 142 is probably too late for Antoninus Pius ordering the advance into Scotland, and “c. AD 180–192” for Roman marines slaughtering the Colosseum crowd (for 12 years?) is surely mistaken! Abdy has decided to draw matters to a close in AD 238, with the death of Maximinus Thrax (“the first ‘soldier emperor’”), though the army he discusses continued in existence until the reforms of Diocletian and Constantine.

If a timeline is of questionable utility in a book about “life in the Roman army”, so too is a list of “Rulers of the Roman empire”, in which most emperors (not all) are labelled as having had an “offensive military reign” (Augustus, Claudius, Nerva (!), Trajan, Septimius Severus) or a “defensive military reign” (Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus), or having had a “military career before accession” (Tiberius, Vespasian, Titus, Hadrian) or “military activities widely criticised” (Domitian, Caracalla, Maximinus Thrax).

The five-page glossary (pp. 282–286) is oddly unbalanced and doubles as a who’s-who. We learn about Arminius, Arrian, Julius Civilis, Julius Caesar, Marius, and the writers Galen, Josephus, Juvenal, Pliny (Elder and Younger), Suetonius, Tacitus, and Vegetius. “Apion, son of Epimachos, also known as Antonius Maximus (b. c. AD 130s)” merits an 11-line description, and “Terentianus / Claudius Terentianus (AD 90s–after c. AD 136)” thirteen lines, but these are Abdy’s main characters. Couldn’t the descriptions have been given in the text? After all, the index shows that Apion recurs on pages 20–21, 26, 34–37, 48–49, 67, and 98. Similarly, Terentianus recurs on pages 19, 21, 46–47, 60, 66, 109, 186, 221, 222, 258, and 260. Is that not sufficient? (In this connection, it is surprising that Abdy doesn’t actually quote any of the correspondence that tells us so much about his two protagonists.)

The glossary also includes definitions of the Augustan, Flavian, Antonine, and Severan periods, along with the “First Jewish Revolt” and “Second Jewish Revolt”. There is a handful of geographical terms (Batavians, Dacia, Misenum, Parthia, and Sarmatians — could these not have been shown on the map?), the main coin denominations (aureus, denarius, sestertius — the as and dupondius are not mentioned), and some basic English (cuirass and governor!).

Some random misunderstandings

While browsing, I jotted down some questionable facts. Caesar was responsible for the establishment of named legions long before Augustus (p. 16). It is a misnomer to characterize military diplomas as “military retirement diplomas”, as this was not their function (p. 19 and elsewhere). The term numerus does not imply “a unit even lower in status than the auxiliary cohorts” (p. 58) — the elite equites singulares Augusti were a numerus. Hamian archers are not “Arabian” (p. 140). And it is not particularly helpful for Abdy to refer to hard-to-find publications (such as the companion volume to the 2021 Nero exhibition) rather than to the primary sources themselves (e.g. p. 143 for Nero depicted as cavalry commander).

All in all, I wonder if it might not have been a better idea simply to issue a standard exhibition catalogue?

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!