+ Some mildish fun at the expense of the Ancient Rome.
+ 'Horae' instead of Chapters
- Some mild editing issues.
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Above all, ancient Rome was an attitude. (c)
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The historian Tacitus remarked with outraged horror the story of an aristocratic woman called Visitilia who, facing punishment for her numerous affairs, evaded the law by simply applying for a prostitute’s licence (licentia stupri). When the Aediles could find no reason not to give it to her, she carried on as she had before, but now charged for it. (c)
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It’s not as though it is hard to discover what Mamila is doing there. She’s not as blatant as the dorides (women who stand naked at the doors of some brothels and taverns to lure in passers-by), but she is wearing a toga. On a Roman man, the toga is a symbol of respectability. On a Roman woman of negotiable virtue, the toga is a highly practical garment without fastenings that a) drops to the ground after a practised wiggle of the shoulders, and b) when on the ground, the garment – which is actually a semi-circle of thick woven wool – forms a soft blanket for what happens next. (c)
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... casting an imperial horoscope tends to be terminally discouraged. (c)
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In other words, garbage in, garbage out, and Balbilus has no idea of the accuracy of the information he is using to calculate Hadrian’s future. (c)
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Sergius is an auctoratus. This means that while most gladiators fight because they have no choice, Sergius is a gladiator because he wants to be. (c)
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Things went downhill from there. It quickly became apparent that the Syrian was a spice trader who knew Cyrene and the eastern Mediterranean as well as Selius knows the way to his own latrine. Selius writhes mentally at the memory of Manidus dabbing his lips with a napkin to hide his smile as the trader gently corrected him at every turn. ‘Flocks of ibex flying into the sunset? Do you perhaps mean ibis? It’s just that ibex are a kind of antelope and not very aerodynamic.’
‘Your meal was flavoured with silphium? How wonderful that they have rediscovered a supply of the plant! Everyone thought it had been extinct these last hundred years. And you ate it at the taverna of Tingitus by the harbour? That is excellent news. I was told it had burned down a few years ago. I am delighted to hear it has been rebuilt.’ (c)
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He mutters to himself, ‘It’s pure larceny, the philosophers aspiring to happiness. I mean, what is happiness, when you come down to it? I take it that happiness is an untroubled soul in a body at peace with itself. So who has that? Is it the man who is constantly enquiring into the shape of the earth, whether space is infinite and the size of the sun? Do I grapple with astronomical distances, the nature of the elements, the existence or non-existence of the gods, or do I engage in incessant controversies with my colleagues? That’s your philosopher. I, once I’ve arranged my next dinner, am convinced that I’m living in the best of all possible worlds. Once my stomach is satisfied, my hands and feet can look after themselves. Philosophers, hah! They have no place in a decent dining room.’ (c)
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The carriage is not sacred, but the occupant is, and anything that might be conceived as disrespect for her is generally fatal. (c)
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Marcia has taken a deliberately roundabout route to get there because she rather relishes these trips into the busy bustle of the metropolis. Another reason for the unusual route is to give condemned prisoners she may cross paths with a second chance. Every now and then, the guards hauling a man off to his place of execution – for example, to the Tarpeian Rock near the Capitoline Hill – might bump into the attendants of a Vestal Virgin as she goes about her duty. Naturally, the guards will give way – consuls, tribunes and even the emperor must do that – and then, if she wishes, the Vestal can exercise her power to free the condemned man right there and then.
Since those carrying out the execution have a certain sense of duty, they make sure they don’t take their intended victim along the route usually used by a Vestal on her way to get the shrine’s sacred water. However, Marcia likes to give her goddess a sporting chance to exercise clemency, and, like the guards, she does not take the usual route either. (c)
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A Vestal’s career lasts thirty years and has three stages. In stage one, which lasts for ten years, the Vestal is a student, and if this seems a long time to outsiders it certainly does not to the student, who has to learn arcane texts, odd rituals and a surprising amount of Roman law within this time. (Unlike most women, Vestals can testify in court and are often asked to keep contracts, wills and other vital documents in their care. Also, a deposition sworn before a Vestal is as valid as sworn testimony in court.)
The next ten years of a Vestal’s career are spent practising what she has learned. The final ten years are spent teaching this painfully acquired knowledge to the next generation. After that, it’s done. The Vestal has discharged her duties, and should she so wish, she can spend the next thirty years painting the town red as she works off various pent-up frustrations.
In reality, no Vestals actually do this. In fact, very few even marry. The average retired Vestal is in her early forties, wealthy, independent and of an aristocratic family. Why such a person – among the freest in Rome – would then want to subordinate herself to a husband is something Marcia can’t understand. Most ex-Vestals are of the same opinion, so they generally remain single and continue to live at the Vestal’s shrine. If they do take lovers, they do this very discreetly, and elsewhere.
Also – someone has been counting – the statistics do not look good for prospective husbands either. For some reason, the husbands of those Vestals who do marry seldom last more than a year or two. The devout believe that even Vesta, gentle goddess of the hearth, is jealous of sharing with mortals those who once belonged to her alone. Marcia, who is keenly aware of certain illicit stirrings within her own body, secretly suspects that with some of these prematurely deceased husbands exhaustion might also be a factor. (c)
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Marcia idly ponders on the odd combination of circumstances that has a professional virgin collecting water from the spring of a nymph goddess who is mainly worshipped in the context of conception and pregnancy. (Egeria is also pretty hot on urban legislation, prophecy and earth-mother rituals, so as a goddess she has a remarkably mixed portfolio.) (c)
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Secondly, the average Roman court case is meant to start at sunrise and end before dusk. This does not give prosecution or defence a lot of time... (c)'defence', it should have been.
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Trials are held in public, and since even a case of modest theft – such as a cloak – can result in draconian punishment, the histrionics by defendants, their counsel and even the judge, all provide an intriguing, authentic spectacle for onlookers.
A condemned thief might end up in the arena wearing the toga molesta – a tunic covered in inflammable material that is set alight for the delectation of the audience. Hence the grim Roman joke, ‘A thief stole a tunic. To hide the pattern he smeared it with pitch.’
Unsurprisingly then, anyone accused of a crime looks for the best legal representation he can find. (c)
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... in the more civilized world of the Empire, the law recognizes that slavery is an unnatural condition, and those subject to it – by birth or misfortune – are, nevertheless, as human as anyone else. Therefore, all sorts of legal issues have developed around the rights of slaves and their relationship with their masters. For example, a master can be forced to sell a slave whom he is judged to have treated barbarically, and a master who abandons a sick slave so as to save the cost of medical treatment is judged to have performed manumission by neglect. If the slave recovers, he or she does so in freedom. (c)
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Fortunately – all unbeknown to Cerinthus – Sulpicia will be her guide, as she was the source of the loving letters she had sent earlier. Sulpicia has been dead now for several generations, but Miyria’s most prized possession is a copy of The Elegies of Tibullus and Propertius, in which the poems of Sulpicia are preserved. Sulpicia lived in the reign of the Emperor Augustus, but she was Miyria’s age when she wrote her poetry. Sixteen is late for an aristocratic Roman girl to marry (many are married at the age of thirteen or fourteen), but a merchant’s daughter such as Miyria might marry later, at the ripe old age of eighteen. Both girls knew the dark excitement of forbidden romance, and frustration with an older generation which tried to control their every move. (c)
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In front of Augustus’ tomb is the horologium, one of the first Egyptian obelisks ever brought to Rome. This is one of Gallienus’ favourite structures, for when he passes it on a sunny day a quick glance at the pavement in front of the obelisk tells him the time of day and even the season. In fact, there is a line marked on the stone flags north of the obelisk that shows the maximum stretch of the shadow at different times of the year.
Detractors say that the whole thing was designed only so that on Augustus’ birthday the shadow of the obelisk would point directly at the door to Augustus’ tomb, but the sceptical Gallienus doubts that the whole thing is merely a propaganda exercise. Rather, the obelisk, by measuring the length of the shadow cast by the sun, acts as physical proof that the calendar reformed by Julius Caesar (and refined later) is truly keeping track of the seasons. In the last days of the Republic, the calendar was so wildly out of sync with reality that summer festivals were sometimes celebrated in ankle-deep snow. (c)
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... the kitchen. This is a small, unpleasantly hot room that leads to the alley out back, which – despite punishments and protestations – often serves as a toilet of first resort for the tavern’s more desperate customers. (c)
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Sometimes, Copa wishes she were a man and could try a more relaxing career – perhaps a legionary post on the Rhine fighting off Germanic raiders. (c)
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as the proverb goes: ‘Sooner two clocks will agree than two philosophers’, with the implication that both groups tend to be rather idiosyncratic. (c)
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... the real problem lies in the nature of Roman days and nights. Each lasts for twelve hours, from sunup to sundown, and from sundown to dawn. This would be fine, if only every day were the spring and autumn equinox, when day and night are exactly the same length. However, a day at midsummer is a great deal longer than a day in midwinter, though each is still exactly twelve Roman hours long. To keep with twelve hours for each day and night, Roman hours get longer and shorter with the seasons. This means that sundials work perfectly all year long, but variable hours present the clockmaker with a major challenge.
For example, at the equinox, the time taken to get through this hour, hora septima, is just under three-quarters the time it will take at the summer solstice, but a quarter longer than it did at the midwinter festival. Once you have calibrated for the shorter or longer day, you need to build in a mirror system to measure the nights, which are doing the opposite. Nor do the days move smoothly across this half-hour variation in the annual length of the Roman hour. Winter hours remain short until the spring, after which they start to lengthen rapidly. The philosopher Aristarchus of Samos (circa 300 BC) would argue that this is because the Earth has an oval orbit around the Sun, but the man was evidently a fool and his argument was comprehensively shot down by Archimedes. The current approach to the issue skips the theorizing and attempts to deal with the inconvenient reality. (c)
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Most people find squinting at the sun and agreeing the time by consensus works just fine. (c)
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A thought strikes her. By all means build the dial, she tells Albinus, as it will impress the grey-beards of her father’s group. But leave out the complex machinery behind it. She will just remind her father’s slave to advance the needle a bit further every week.
Unknowingly, Copa has identified a major reason why the Romans will never become a fully mechanized culture. The Romans have so much cheap manpower available that there is no real incentive to invent machines to do the work or reason to use these machines if they are invented. (Once, someone invented an ingenious crane that would significantly reduce the manpower needed to build the Emperor Vespasian’s new amphitheatre at the Colosseum. Vespasian rewarded the inventor but declined to use his invention, saying, ‘You must allow me to give work to the poor.’) (c)
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The Romans believe that washing clothes in urine makes whites whiter and colours brighter, and this magic ingredient also removes stubborn stains. And the Romans are right. Yes, that wonder material, human pee, is what every materfamilias relies on for her husband’s shining white toga and her seductively dyed filmy nightwear. This is because urine contains the special component ammonia, which will still feature in washing powders two millennia hence. In a pre-chemical era, the best way to get ammonia is from those cheap and self-powered dispensaries known as human bladders. (c)
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Even the priestess herself is a henotheist, which means that, though dedicated to Isis, she acknowledges the existence of other gods, and will even pray to them on occasion. (c)
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Like all long-distance traders, Miyrius knows the ratios 1:5:28. The first is the cost of shipping an amphora by sea on an established trading route. It is five times cheaper than moving that amphora the same distance by river barge, and twenty-eight times cheaper than moving the goods overland by ox-cart. That’s why it is cheaper to import corn from Egypt than to trek it over the Apennines from the Po valley in Northern Italy. (c)
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The world is huge and strange, and only merchants in their quest for new trade routes and goods have probed – unsuccessfully – to find its limits. Sometimes Miyrius wonders if the gods who allegedly gave the Romans their ‘empire without limit’ realize that they were actually bestowing on the Romans a relatively small chunk of land on the shores of a somewhat minor sea. (c)
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There’s an entrepreneurial spirit and an unflinching belief that, no matter how good or bad things may be, they can always be made better. In Rome, the slave strives to be free, the freedman to be prosperous, and the wealthy merchant to be accepted by higher society. While often complaining bitterly about their lot, the Romans are seldom resigned to it. They are dynamic, not depressed. They are convinced of their own superiority, and imbued with the feeling that, now they are here at the centre of the universe, they should make the most of it and kick and claw their way to a better life for themselves and their children. (c)