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) 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.

Render what unto Caesar?

Today’s sermon concerned the Gospel of Matthew 22:15-22, in which Jesus advises his listeners to “render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s”.

In this well-known story (also found in Mark 12:13-17 and Luke 20:20-26), Jesus is asked the loaded question, “Is it lawful to give tribute to Caesar, or not?”

Those posing the question clearly wish to catch Jesus out in some way. The Gospel-writers say as much. A negative answer could be construed as being seditious, while an affirmative answer might lose him support among his natural constituency, the poor tax-burdened provincials.

Jesus circumvents the problem by asking to see the money with which tribute is paid. (The word used for “tribute” is κῆνσος, census, meaning the poll-tax.)

For everyday transactions, most Judaeans would have used the copper coins (known as prutot) issued by their own authorities. The example shown here is a coin of Herod Archelaus issued at Jerusalem between 4 BC and AD 6; it carries his name in Greek characters, ΗΡWΔΟΥ (“belonging to Herod”), inscribed around a bunch of grapes on the vine. (Greek, of course, was the lingua franca of the eastern Roman empire.)

However, this is clearly not the coin handed to Jesus. In fact, it has been claimed, on good authority, that the Jews paid their taxes using Tyrian silver, on account of its purity.

Those arriving at the Temple to pay their annual “Temple tax” would have exchanged their everyday prutot for a Tyrian half-shekel.

Like the example shown here, the half-shekel typically carried the image of the god Melqart, patron deity of Tyre, who was equated with the Greek Herakles and the Roman Hercules. It appears to have been worth a little more than a Greek drachma or Roman denarius.

The question is: how did the Jews pay their Roman poll-tax? Did they use this same coin? Unfortunately, the answer seems to be: we don’t know.

In fact, the only evidence appears to be this passage from the Gospels, where Jesus, having been shown the relevant coin, asks “whose image and inscription does it have?” It is true that Mark alone refers to the coin as a δηνάριον (denarius), but the others do not.

And so, we are left with the rather weak argument that the coin must have been a Roman denarius, because it carried Caesar’s image and Caesar’s name. In fact, the most common example (by a long way) circulating in the Roman empire at this time was the coin of Tiberius shown here. Curiously, it remains true to this day that very few denarii have ever been found within the borders of Roman Judaea.

What soldiers of the Empire?

I have been reading Roman Legionaries. Soldiers of Empire by Simon Elliott. Purely out of curiosity (and the reduced price tag for a 5-year-old book). Actually, my reading quickly became perusing (and then flicking through).

“Much has been written about the Roman legionary”, the author informs us at the start, before continuing: “this book builds on that canon of work but also brings my own new primary research about the Roman military to the fore”. Intriguing. The prospect of an original, fundamental book about the Roman army, not derivative but based on “new primary research” sounded exciting. Initially. Then reality dawned.

There are certainly some surprising novelties here. The word princeps, we are told, “ meaning chief or master” (it actually means “first”, and thereby comes to mean the most distinguished person, from which we derive our word “prince”), “was assumed by each emperor on their accession” (actually, since it wasn’t an official title, it couldn’t be assumed as one. And wasn’t).

Early on, the author employs the rather ugly term “Nervo-Trajanic dynasty” to describe Nerva, Trajan, and Hadrian (a Google Books search reveals that the term is found most frequently in books by this author!) and perpetuates the myth that “the lengthy reign of Antoninus Pius was one of relative peace” (although he clearly isn’t sure, as he adds the get-out clause “though much campaigning still took place”).

Disappointingly, most of his examples are drawn from Roman Britain (there’s even a table of “Known governors of Roman Britain” and a chart of “Key events in the Roman occupation of Britain” — surely simply padding in a book ostensibly about Roman legionaries). Speaking of padding, the author even includes a table of assorted auxiliary units (so, not legionaries. In a book entitled Roman Legionaries). Vague platitudes abound, including the revelation that “legionaries bolstered the regular urban gendarmerie” and “played a key role in agricultural and industrial enterprises in the Roman Empire”. But in a book where no references are given for anything, the author has free rein to ramble about all sorts of things.

I was taken aback to find a non-wargaming book illustrated with photos of wargaming miniatures. Lots of them. But as for the author’s primary research, I confess that I could find no trace. The picture of the Roman army drawn here is pretty standard stuff. The same old theories-fossilized-into-facts appear on page after page.

And I was amused to see that, in the table of legions, legio IX Hispana is listed as “possibly destroyed in the reign of Hadrian during the Bar Kochba rebellion in Judea” — this from the writer who has claimed elsewhere that “regarding the fate of legio IX Hispana (...) the least likely hypothesis to my mind is that the legion was lost in the east (while) the most likely hypothesis regarding the loss of legio IX Hispana is with it being lost in some dramatic event in the north of Britain”.

In conclusion, the author (in self-congratulatory mode) claims that “in this extensive review of the Roman legionary we have seen this elite warrior up close and personal”. I respectfully beg to differ.

An unreliable history of Roman Scotland

I have been reading The Eagle and the Bear (subtitled “A New History of Roman Scotland”) by John Reid, a Roman archaeology enthusiast, whose privileged position as a retired consultant radiologist at Borders General Hospital has enabled him to pursue his pastime by holding office in the Trimontium Trust, and by travelling widely, not only in his native Scottish Borders (apparently accompanied by his own camera-drone) but also as far afield as Israel, where a visit to the site of Masada seemingly informs his understanding of Roman Scotland.

The book, which the publisher assures us is “superbly researched, accessibly written and thoughtfully and convincingly argued”, is clearly aimed at Mr Reid’s fellow enthusiasts, because students and scholars will easily identify the errors and misconceptions.

His aim has been “to provide a less Roman-centred overview of the period”, but he repeatedly laments the lack of archaeological enquiry into indigenous (as opposed to Roman) sites, so that he is dealing essentially with the same material as every other commentator on Roman Scotland. The difference here is in the spin that he applies to the evidence. At least one Amazon reviewer has been convinced, recommending the book “if you are willing to challenge your commonly held misconceptions about Roman-era Scotland”, without realizing that they probably aren’t misconceptions and Mr Reid has craftily set up a series of straw men to rail against.

Early in the book, Mr Reid draws particular attention to “confirmation bias”, where (he explains) “an observer selectively emphasizes data that confirms a particular theory while failing to consider evidence that challenges it” (p. 5). As it turns out, this is rather ironic, as Mr Reid himself, in his zeal to redress the alleged belittling of Caledonian culture by Romanist archaeologists and historians, willfully misrepresents several current theories and omits to mention facts that might prove inconvenient to his theories.

It would be tedious to enumerate them, one by one, but time and again previous writers (unnamed, unreferenced) are pilloried for having formed their opinion based on “a fixed Roman military supremacy viewpoint” (p. 87). We are in the hands, not of a Roman expert, nor even of an Iron Age specialist, but of an enthusiast, albeit a well-read one, but with a very particular axe to grind and a keen flare for debating-society rhetoric. And he doesn’t let facts get in the way of his “informed view”.

Slave soldiers or free men?

I have been reading what would now be classed as “an old book” — it was published in 1981 —, though it has never been superseded and appears still to be considered the last word on its subject: Die germanische Leibwache der römischen Kaiser des julisch-claudischen Hauses by the late Heinz Bellen.

The subject is the Germani corporis custodes, or “German bodyguards”, who appear to have provided close personal security for the Julio-Claudian dynasty; that is, the five emperors from Augustus to Nero, from 27 BC (though Augustus seems to have owned them already before he became emperor) until AD 68.

A quick bibliographic search revealed that few authors have revisited the subject since 1981. Besides Lawrence Keppie’s enthusiastically welcoming review (in The Journal of Roman Studies 72, 1982) and Michael P. Speidel’s generally positive assessment (in Germania 62, 1984), almost no scholars have addressed the subject in English, although Alexandra Busch includes a discussion of the bodyguard in her Militär in Rom (Wiesbaden 2011) and Maria Carmen D’Onza published a beautifully illustrated article on “Germanische Bodyguards” in Antike Welt 4 (2016).

One aspect in all of their discussions surprised me, as I have always agreed with Mommsen that the Germani were slaves owned by the emperor. All of the above-named scholars go through various contortions to try and deny this. Bellen even suggests that they had taken slave names to blend in at Rome! Others have been content to state that the Germani were free foreigners who adopted a Greek or Latin name because their own name was difficult to pronounce. On the contrary, as far as I am concerned, the proof stares at us from their gravestones.

Let us consider the gravestone of Phoebus (CIL VI, 8808 = ILS 1728 = Bellen No. 21), illustrated above. Although it is a little more verbose than most of the other 20-odd examples, nevertheless, the first four lines conform to the standard pattern adopted by the bodyguards: Phoebus / Neronis Claud(i) / Caesaris Aug(usti) / corp(oris) cust(os) (“Phoebus, (property) of the emperor Nero Claudius Caesar, a bodyguard”).

The important points to note are (a) the man’s single name, and (b) the statement of imperial ownership. Free men typically included a statement of paternity, like the tombstone of Verzo (AE 1990, 205), an exotically-named sailor on the liburnian Triton in the Ravenna fleet, which gives his father’s name as Themus. No free man would ever be referred to by a single name only.

By contrast, slaves are always referred to by a single name, followed by a statement of imperial ownership. The tombstone of Fronto (CIL V, 2386) is typical, in this respect: Fronto / Ti(beri) Claudi Caesaris / Aug(usti) Germanici / dispe(n)sator / lintianus (“Fronto, (property) of the emperor Tiberius Claudius Caesar Germanicus, a linen-weaving superintendent” — reading lintianus as an error for lintiarius).

Whatever else they might have been (and our evidence is severely limited), the Germani corporis custodes were imperial slaves belonging to the household of the reigning emperor. As such, they served until they died or until their master chose to grant them freedom, when they could return home.

Roman spelling again

There are several Roman inscriptions that mention the Ninth Legion. I was able to include images of a few of them in my book The Fate of the Ninth. But one — a rather beautiful metre-wide marble slab — remained unavailable to me. This is the memorial set up by Gaius Julius Erucianus Crispus “to his excellent friend” Lucius Aemilius Karus.

The inscription (shown above) has long been known, and appeared in the usual epigraphic compendiums as far back as Gruter (1603). It is most conveniently consulted in Dessau’s Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae (1892) as no. 1077.

One vitriolic Amazon reviewer has written, “PS It’s Carus not Karus, the Romans didn’t use Ks — a rather unprofessional mistake”. Perhaps if he’s looking in on my “pretty nasty blog site” (another quote from his rather bitter review), he’ll see that he was wrong, because it’s perfectly clear from the above image that this particular Roman preferred to spell his cognomen Karus, not Carus (on the first line).

Nor was he alone. For example, a grave-marker from Ostia carries the name of Publius Nonius Karus, who lived for only 8 years, 9 months, and a few days (AE 1971, 70). There are other instances of the same spelling and the same distinctive letter-shape.

No Roman was ever called Caius

I have been reading Robert Harris’ Cicero trilogy with great enjoyment. However, one thing jars. Men whose praenomen (“first name”) was Gaius are routinely called “Caius”. For example, in Lustrum (the book that I’m currently reading), Cicero’s consular colleague in 63 BC is named “Caius Antonius Hybrida”.
Of course, this problem does not belong exclusively to Harris. Other authors are in the habit of rendering the praenomen Gaius as “Caius”. The reason is a simple misunderstanding.

The Latin language derived from Etruscan, which had no letter B, D, or G. For example, the word magistratus (“magistrate”) is rendered as macistratus on early Roman inscriptions (e.g. CIL IX, 782 = Dessau, ILS 4912; or CIL VI, 1300 = ILS 65, pictured below — note also “Cartacinienses” for the people of Carthage on line 9).

Consequently, the praenomen Gaius had to be represented as “Caius” and was abbreviated with the letter C. This rule persisted down through the ages, so that, even with the introduction of the Latin alphabet (with its B, D, and G), the letter C was retained as the abbreviation for Gaius. Similarly, Cn. remained the abbreviation for Gnaeus.

The problem has perhaps been exacerbated by the epigraphic convention that calls for the expansion of the abbreviation C. in Roman inscriptions as “C(aius)”, instead of pointing out that it simply stands for the praenomen Gaius.

In fact, the historian A.R. Birley once suggested that epigraphers should employ the convention “C. (Gaius)” to indicate this (L’Antiquité classique Vol. 70, 2001). He called for the banishment of “Caius” and “Cnaeus”, and pointed out, quite correctly, that the Greek writers of the Roman era employed the word Γαίος (not Καίος) for Gaius (thus indicating the correct pronunciation).

So let us have no more Caiuses and Cnaeuses! No Roman was ever called by those names.

Limits of Empire, Limits of Patience

Today, a review of Simon and Jonathan Forty’s Limits of Empire. Rome’s Borders (2021) dropped into my mailbox, and I wondered if the reviewer and I had read the same book. I certainly didn’t feel that “This book is a nice addition to the literature aimed at a general readership”. However, I must admit that I read it on my vintage black-and-white Kindle, whereas I see (from Google Books) that the 200-page hardback is lavishly illustrated with 350 photographs (many of them from the wonderful collection of Carole Raddato, misspelled “Raddoto” here).

This no doubt swayed the reviewer, who emphasizes the “numerous high-quality pictures and maps which enable the reader to engage with the analysis of evidence more closely” (what analysis of evidence?). In the end, he recommends the book to “those who have no insightful knowledge and familiarity with the history of the Roman frontiers”. On the other hand, those who have such knowledge, he concedes, “might find glitches in it”. This is surely a worrying attitude for any educator to adopt. And I’m not sure that Casemate Publishers should be let off with typographical errors, even if “some of [them] are entirely forgivable”. (I wonder what the reviewer considers to be a “forgivable” error? The “African deserts of Arabia”, perhaps? Or the absence of a warning on the “mosaic from Mogontiacum [showing] the Capricorn symbol of legio XXII Primigenia” that it’s modern?)

The book is clearly intended for the coffee table, so I really shouldn’t be surprised by such gaucheries as “We are lucky that the Romans loved building as much as they liked fighting”; or such platitudes as “the largest collection of written information we have of the Roman world is in their books and letters”; or such banalities as “watchtowers, forts small and large, legionary fortresses: these all have a military purpose as well as potentially providing a customs barrier”. (However, I did enjoy the unintended comedy of aerial photography “unearthing otherwise hidden locations”.) Virtually every statement is qualified and vague; “potentially”, “mostly”, and “usually” conceal the authors’ unfamiliarity with the subject.

Errors abound — my goodness, there are so many —, but it is probably as tiresome to read about them as it is to record them. It’s just a pity that Casemate Publishers think so little of their readers as to sell them a book that is most certainly not “an ideal introduction to the Limesforschung”.

True and false at Mons Graupius, Part One

I recently came across the “Romans vs Caledonians” podcast, recorded (in two parts) on 5 September 2021 by Dr Andrew Tibbs. He is there introduced as “an expert on the Romans in Scotland”, no doubt on the basis of his book, Beyond the Empire. A Guide to the Roman Remains in Scotland (Marlborough 2019) and his Durham University doctoral thesis on An Examination of the Location, Intervisibility, Orientation & Interconnectivity of Flavian Fortifications in Roman Scotland (submitted in 2021, but embargoed until 2024, so unavailable). We have seen (in an earlier post) that his book is somewhat unreliable, so I was intrigued to see if the podcast was any better.

It is billed as a discussion of the Battle of Mons Graupius, an event that forms the climax to the vita Iulii Agricolae (“Life of Julius Agricola”) written by the historian Tacitus in AD 98 (the year after he held the consulship), so Dr Tibbs devotes the first 30 minutes or so (Part One of his podcast) to that work. Unfortunately, his knowledge of the Agricola (as it’s known for short) is rather wobbly.

Mainly, he is unwilling to accept that the Agricola is a biography, as this would imply a degree of accuracy that he believes is absent: “I would never really, I think, personally describe it as a biography”, he says. “It is probably best described as, like a play or a film — it’s the edited highlights. You have a beginning, a middle, and an end. You have a big climax, a dénouement. You have an afterthought. So, you know, this is a film of his life, just written down without the pictures. It has elements of truth, it probably has elements of fiction, it’s a bloomin’ good read”. Colourful stuff. But is it accurate?

The “Ninth Legion disaster”

We can agree, of course, that the Agricola is “a good read”, but Dr Tibbs’ claim that “it probably has elements of fiction” really needs to be substantiated. Which parts are fiction?

Dr Tibbs highlights the episode of the night attack on the Ninth Legion, which occurred in the campaigning season prior to the one that saw the Battle of Mons Graupius. Tacitus records that “the enemy massed for a night attack on the Ninth Legion, as being by far the weakest in numbers” (Agr. 26.1: hosti ... universi nonam legionem ut maxime invalidam nocte adgressi). Having sprung the attack, “fighting was already going on inside the camp itself when Agricola, who had learned of the enemy’s route from his scouts and was following close on their tracks, ordered the most mobile of his cavalry and infantry to charge the combatants from the rear” (Agr. 26.2: iamque in ipsis castris pugnabatur, cum Agricola iter hostium ab exploratoribus edoctus et vestigiis insecutus, velocissimos equitum peditumque adsultare tergis pugnantium iubet). As day dawned, Tacitus writes, “finally the enemy were driven back before the rival efforts of two armies, the one wanting to show that it had come to the rescue, the other that it had not needed help” (Agr. 26.3: donec pulsi hostes, utroque exercitu certante, his, ut tulisse opem, illis, ne eguisse auxilio viderentur).

Dr Tibbs wishes to sow the seeds of doubt here. He says that we don’t even know whether the Ninth Legion were occupying a camp or a fort (but Tacitus says it’s a camp) and confusingly claims that “it’s very difficult to prove that they were at this particular site”. (Which site?) He claims that the ramparts were breached (“if defences are breached, and that’s what we’re getting from Tacitus that that’s what happens, they’re going to knock down these ramparts”), but it seems that the enemy entered by the gates. Tacitus actually writes that “they cut down the sentries and burst into the sleeping camp, creating panic” (Agr. 26.1: inter somnum ac trepidationem caesis vigilibus inrupere), and as if to confirm that they had entered by the gates, Tacitus writes that they tried to get back out that way: “they ventured on a break out and a fierce battle followed in the narrow passage of the gates” (Agr. 26.3: ultro quin etiam erupere, et fuit atrox in ipsis portarum angustiis proelium). Finally, Dr Tibbs despairs of ever finding the evidence of the breached ramparts or burned debris that might prove the story and concedes that it is, after all, a movie. The entire episode is dismissed. “So, something may have happened”, he concludes. “The Ninth Legion — the indication is from the literary evidence it was already depleted, because it had been involved in the Boudican Revolt some twenty-odd years before — 15, 20 years beforehand — so it’s difficult to know what was happening. Was this just a rubbish legion that Tacitus decided, right, I need a story, you’re the guys that are going to be, you know. We need to look at it like you would a film”.

The “pantomime villain”

Tacitus writes that, among the Caledonians, a certain Calgacus was “outstanding among their many leaders for his valour and nobility” (Agr. 29.4: inter pluris duces virtute et genere praestans nomine Calgacus), but Dr Tibbs dismisses him as “a storytelling tool”. Clearly, the Caledonian forces required a leader, and it is curious that Tacitus was able to concoct such a bafflingly Celtic name, if he was completely fictional. Nevertheless, for Dr Tibbs, he is “the big pantomime villain that comes in and says, ‘oh, I hate the Romans’.” We can all agree that Tacitus must have composed the speech that he attributes to Calgacus, but Dr Tibbs doubts the man’s very existence: “did he exist?” he asks, before concluding that “We've no evidence. There’s very little there to imply that there was that sort of figure”.

I’m not sure that this level of textual criticism, even combined with cinematographic techniques, will help us find Mons Graupius, but perhaps all will be revealed in Part Two of Dr Tibbs’ podcast.