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 flair 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.