Selling out core values

The Historia Augusta, probably dating to the fourth century A. D., is a most peculiar assemblage of imperial biographies, much of which may be pure fiction.

In the context of the Life of the Deified Aurelian, an emperor of the third century A. D. (270–275), the following story is related (ch. 38, transl. D. Magie):

There was also during the rule of Aurelian a revolt among the mint-workers, under the leadership of Felicissimus, the supervisor of the privy-purse. This revolt he crushed with the utmost vigour and harshness, but still seven thousand of his soldiers were slain, as is shown by a letter addressed to Ulpius Crinitus, thrice consul, by whom he had formerly been adopted:

“From Aurelian Augustus to Ulpius his father. Just as though it were ordained for me by Fate that all the wars that I wage and all commotions only become more difficult, so also a revolt within the city has stirred up for me a most grievous struggle. For under the leadership of Felicissimus, the lowest of all my slaves, to whom I had committed the care of the privy-purse, the mint-workers have shown the spirit of rebellion. They have indeed been crushed, but with the loss of seven thousand men, boatmen, bank-troops, camp-troops and Dacians. Hence it is clear that the immortal gods have granted me no victory without some hardship.”

The ‘revolt among the mint-workers’, or monetariorum bellum, as it is called in the Latin original, which took place in the first half of the 270s A. D. (though an exact date cannot be established: likely dates are A. D. 271 and 274), allegedly resulting in the death of some 7,000 soldiers, is certainly a remarkable incident. (For a fuller, academic investigation of the matter read C. P. M. Conway’s article here.)

The report in the Historia Augusta is substantiated by another fourth-century source, Aurelius Victor and his history of imperial Rome, De Caesaribus. Victor writes (ch. 35.6):

In the same manner the mint workers in the city were destroyed. Since, at the instigation of the treasurer, Felicissimus, they had been filing off the coin marks, in fear of punishment they had fought so serious a war that after gathering on the Caelian Hill they killed about seven thousand troops.

Another source for this incident, also from the fourth century, is Eutropius, who, in his Breviarium, reports it as follows (ch. 9.14, transl. J. S. Watson):

In his [i. e. Aurelian’s] reign, the people of the mint raised a rebellion in the city, after having adulterated the money, and put to death Felicissimus the commissioner of the treasury. Aurelian suppressed them with the utmost severity; several noblemen he condemned to death.

As the sources partly contradict each other, it is difficult to understand what precisely happened, and even more difficult (if not impossible) to gather the motivations of those involved.

The sources report the matter at hand largely to illustrate the unreasonable, cruel behaviour of the emperor himself. All one can reasonably say is that, while the number of casualties has almost certainly been exaggerated, the incident was of major significance, involving deployment of armed forces to rein in the violent riot of the monetarii, who in turn appear to have gained support of certain (privileged) parts of Rome’s society.

The role of Felicissimus, and in fact even his actual title and role, remains unclear. What is clear, however, is that one of the issues at the core of this conflict must have been the continued debasement of Rome’s coinage – which the mint workers either no longer felt able to support, or complicity to which made them feel increasingly uneasy: after all, they would have to deal with the eventual backlash if found out.

If this narrative comes close to the truth, then the riots instigated by Rome’s mint workers were a response to their initial readiness to sell out their core values to increasingly corrupt regimes – right up to a point where they had to fear severe retribution.

At that point, however, they had become complicit in a fundamentally corrupt system to such an extent that the emperor saw no other choice than to wage war against them and everyone who supported their cause – and then to close the mint at Rome for a number of years, waiting for the dust to settle.

Perhaps it would have been better after all not to sell out to powers who suggest that shaving off a bit here and there won’t have a major impact on the core values or the system as a whole . . .

Posted in Labour disputes, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Worth a fart(h)ing?

There are many things one may say about Petronius‘ famous Neronian-era novel Satyricon; that it shows much sympathy for Rome’s lower and lowest social classes, however, or for those who managed to escape their social predicament and reached a certain level of prosperity, certainly is not one of them.

At the same time, though usually with a desire to ridicule, Petronius’ work preserves many a sentiment that credibly may have been held by members of Rome’s plebs.

A fascinating scene features in Sat. 117. In this scene, Encolpius, the novel’s principal character and narrator, accompanied by Giton (a young man) and Eumolpus (an older, impoverished, somewhat creepy poet), having narrowly escaped death after a shipwreck, find themselves in the neighbourhood of Crotona. They are accompanied by a hired servant called Corax, who also survived.

As the inhabitants of Crotona were notorious for their being legacy-hunters, the three are then seen to be scheming in order to take advantage of that by means of a little charade.

Once they have come up with a plan and decide to get their fraudulent show on the road, Giton and Corax are tasked with carrying their possessions (transl. M. Heseltine):

His ita ordinatis, “quod bene feliciterque eveniret ” precati deos viam ingredimur. Sed neque Giton sub insolito fasce durabat, et mercennarius Corax, detractator ministerii, posita frequentius sarcina male dicebat properantibus, affirmabatque se aut proiecturum sarcinas aut cum onere fugiturum. “Quid vos, inquit? iumentum me putatis esse aut lapidariam navem? Hominis operas locavi, non caballi. Nec minus liber sum quam vos, etiam si pauperem pater me reliquit.” Nec contentus maledictis tollebat subinde altius pedem, et strepitu obsceno simul atque odore viam implebat. Ridebat contumaciam Giton et singulos crepitus eius pari clamore prosequebatur

This was all arranged; we offered a prayer to Heaven for a prosperous and happy issue, and started on our journey. But Giton was not used to a burden and could not bear it, and the slave Corax, a shirker of work, kept putting down his bundle and cursing our hurry, and declaring that he would either throw the baggage away or run off with his load. “You seem to think I am a beast of burden or a ship for carrying stones,” he cried. “You paid for the services of a man, not a horse. I am just as free as you are, although my father did leave me a poor man.” Not satisfied with curses, he kept lifting his leg up and filling the whole road with a disgusting noise and smell. Giton laughed at his impudence and matched every noise he made.

Encolpius’/Petronius’ auctorial perspective presents Corax as detractator ministerii, ‘a shirker of work’, first and foremost – and his behaviour is presented as obscene and juvenile when he eventually gets on with it, yet appears almost to be propelled by his own resounding flatulence (a well-known humorous motif: after all, who doesn’t like a fart joke!).

At the same time, Petronius may well have captured a common comment on ancient working conditions, insufficient salaries, and employers’ contract violations: after all, Corax complains about dehumanising treatment (being mistaken for a beast of burden or a stone-carrying vessel), ill-defined contracts that just see additional chores added to what was originally agreed, and his employers’ lack of respect for a free man who needs to work for a living. (One might add that Corax’s chores, whether he wants it or not, now also involve becoming complicit in his employers’ questionable efforts in seeking ill-gotten gains.)

Can he be blamed for venting some pressure, or even raising a veritable stink, in response to that?

Posted in Labour disputes, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , ,

Strike where the sun don’t shine…

The sun-god Helios could not believe it when his daughter Lampetië told him what had just happened: a bunch of savages had dared to kill and devour his sacred cattle that he pastured on the island of Thrinacia!

P. Tibaldi: The Companions of Odysseus Steal the Cattle of Helios (source:

Of course, Odysseus had been warned beforehand, and he even had passed on the warning to his companions: under no circumstances touch the cattle of Helios, as doing so would be a sure-fire way to trigger the devastating wrath of the gods!

But greed, following their adventures around Scylla and Charybdis, got the better of them and clouded their judgement.

Helios was displeased, to say the least, to see his sacred cattle killed. He approached Zeus about the matter at once, and in this context the following dialogue ensued (Homer, Odyssey 12.377–388, transl. Murray – Dimock):

‘Ζεῦ πάτερ ἠδ᾿ ἄλλοι μάκαρες θεοὶ αἰὲν ἐόντες,
τῖσαι δὴ ἑτάρους Λαερτιάδεω Ὀδυσῆος,
οἵ μευ βοῦς ἔκτειναν ὑπέρβιον, ᾗσιν ἐγώ γε
χαίρεσκον μὲν ἰὼν εἰς οὐρανὸν ἀστερόεντα,
ἠδ᾿ ὁπότ᾿ ἂψ ἐπὶ γαῖαν ἀπ᾿ οὐρανόθεν προτραποίμην.
εἰ δέ μοι οὐ τίσουσι βοῶν ἐπιεικέ᾿ ἀμοιβήν,
δύσομαι εἰς Ἀίδαο καὶ ἐν νεκύεσσι φαείνω.’

τὸν δ᾿ ἀπαμειβόμενος προσέφη νεφεληγερέτα Ζεύς·
‘Ἠέλι᾿, ἦ τοι μὲν σὺ μετ᾿ ἀθανάτοισι φάεινε
καὶ θνητοῖσι βροτοῖσιν ἐπὶ ζείδωρον ἄρουραν·
τῶν δέ κ᾿ ἐγὼ τάχα νῆα θοὴν ἀργῆτι κεραυνῷ
τυτθὰ βαλὼν κεάσαιμι μέσῳ ἐνὶ οἴνοπι πόντῳ.’

‘Father Zeus and you other blessed gods that are forever, take vengeance now on the comrades of Odysseus, son of Laertes, who have insolently slain my cattle, in which I took delight whenever I mounted to the starry heaven, and when I turned back again to the earth from heaven. If they do not pay me fit atonement for the cattle I will go down to Hades and shine among the dead.’

Then Zeus, the cloud-gatherer, answered him and said: ‘Helios, for your part do not fail to go on shining among the immortals and among mortal men upon the earth, the giver of grain. As for these men I will soon strike their swift ship with my bright thunderbolt, and shatter it to pieces in the midst of the wine-dark sea.’

Helios threatens to upset the order of the entire world in response to the violent interference with his cherished property:

εἰ δέ μοι οὐ τίσουσι βοῶν ἐπιεικέ᾿ ἀμοιβήν,
δύσομαι εἰς Ἀίδαο καὶ ἐν νεκύεσσι φαείνω.

If they do not pay me fit atonement for the cattle I will go down to Hades and shine among the dead.

Not the world of the living (and of the immortals), but the world of the dead, otherwise clad in eternal twilight or darkness, Helios threatens, will soon benefit from his powers, unless there be a proper response to the injustice he suffered: quite possibly the most drastic walk-out ever threatened.

Zeus is unwilling to take his chances in this matter – he does not even try to negotiate in the face of this fundamental threat. Instead, he begs Helios to keep rendering his vital services and offers retribution in response to the injustice that Helios had to endure.

It does not take long for Odysseus’ companions to experience the thundering consequences for their greed and sacrilege: they all drown, and Odysseus alone gets to survive – he is eventually stranded on Calypso’s island, where his return to Ithaca is stalled for another seven years.

Helios, the reliable provider of light and life on earth as we know it, is presented by the author as – quite literally! – prepared to go to, and through, hell in his quest for justice against those who cruelly took his cherished property away.

Helios succeeds in this quest. Though hardly powerless himself, it probably helped that he had an ally in a position of real power who was utterly unafraid to throw a thunderbolt or two when and where needed to hit the greedy thieves of Helios’ property.

Posted in Labour disputes, Poetry | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

The solidarity of the precariously employed

A papyrus from the Hermopolite nome in Egypt, dated to A. D. 117, written by a lady called Eudaimonis to her daughter Aline addresses a wide range of family matters, including some current worries over the family business (P. Brem. 63, transl. R. S. Bagnall – R. Cribiore):

Eudaimonis to her daughter Aline, greetings. Above all, I pray that you may give birth in good time, and that I shall receive news of a baby boy.

You sailed away on the 29th and on the next day I finished drawing down (?the wool). I at last got the material from the dyer on the 10th of Epeiph. I am working with your slave girls as far as possible. I cannot find girls who can work with me, for they are all working for their own mistresses. Our workers marched through all the city eager for more money.

Your sister Souerous gave birth. Teeus wrote me a letter thanking you so that I know, my lady, that my instructions will be valid, for she has left all her family to come with you. The little one sends you her greetings and is persevering with her studies. Rest assured that I shall not pay studious attention to God until I get my son back safe.

Why did you send me 20 drachmae in my difficult situation? I already have the vision of being naked when winter starts.

Farewell. Epeiph 22.

(Postscript): The wife of Eudemos has stuck by me and I am grateful to her for that.

(Address on back): To her daughter Aline.

In the second paragraph, Eudaimonis refers to the family weaving business, which she would appear to run on Aline’s behalf while she was on maternity leave (so to speak, if such a blatant anachronism can be permitted).

Things were not going too well for Eudaimonis during her stint as acting manager: she reports a highly disruptive walk-out, threatening the functioning of the entire operation, staged by her workforce to protest their wages publicly, visibly, and audibly for the entire city to witness.

Attempts on Eudaimonis’s side simply to replace her workers with ad-hoc cover failed: no one made themselves available – not an indication of good reputation or competitive pay in Eudaimonis’s and Aline’s business, but also, as has been speculated, consequence of the economic crisis caused by the Jewish-Roman (Kitos) War at the time.

It is unknown how this local event of industrial action was eventually resolved. It shows quite clearly, however, the importance of competitive pay – and the power that lies in unity when it comes to making a positive impact on the conditions offered by one’s employer.

Posted in Labour disputes, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Strike, Legal Action, and Delusion

Photo from a 1913 bakers’ strike in France (with soldiers called in).

Many stories about walk-outs and strikes in the Roman Empire originate from its Eastern provinces.

A particularly noteworthy event in this context is the strike of the bakers’ guild in Ephesus in the second half of the second century A. D. – an event that is known from an edict, originally presumably written in Latin and subsequently translated into rather careless Greek (SEG IV 512).

In the English translation of Allan Chester Johnson, Paul Robinson Coleman-Norton, and Frank Card Bourne, the transmitted (somewhat fragmentary) text reads as follows:

. . . and according to the agreements . . . thus it happens that sometimes the people fall into confusion and tumults because of the captious audacity of the factions of bakers in the market place, for which they should have been summoned forthwith and placed on trial. But, since it is necessary to provide for the welfare of the city rather than for the punishment of these persons, I have resolved to bring them to their senses by means of an edict.

I, therefore, order the bakers not to indulge in meetings and their leaders not to undertake audacious actions, but to obey in every respect the regulations made for the common welfare and to furnish the city faultlessly with the labour that is necessary for bread-making.

But if anyone of them hereafter is apprehended either attending a meeting contrary to orders or taking the lead in any tumult or sedition he shall be summoned and punished with the appropriate penalty. But if anyone plotting against the city dares to hide himself he shall in addition have ‘belonging to the decury’ branded upon his foot; and anyone who harbors such person shall be liable to the same punishment.

In the prytany of Claudius Modestus, on the fourth day from the beginning of the month Klareon, at a meeting of the council held on another occasion, Marcellinus said, ‘Yesterday Hermeias gave a very great example of the folly of the workshop foremen . . .’

Though it is not entirely clear from this text what the bakers were doing, and how the tumults were caused, it is clear that they also withheld their labour – after all, the edict requires them to ‘to furnish the city faultlessly with the labour that is necessary for bread-making’ for the future.

The edict is not only testament to the effectiveness of collective industrial action in causing disruption and public attention to pressing matters, especially when the disruption affects central aspects of provisions in the public interest (for another example see an earlier blog piece). It also shows the great responsibility that everyone involved in such a conflict has when it comes to striking the right balance between valiantly defending vital interest and not causing disruption to a degree that a forceful response becomes necessary.

Talks, designed to resolve the dispute, are necessary. But that requires both sides to enter negotiations without conditions.

In the case of the Ephesian bakers, the Roman magistrate wrote:

‘But, since it is necessary to provide for the welfare of the city rather than for the punishment of these persons, I have resolved to bring them to their senses by means of an edict.’

The modern editors added a footnote to this:

‘This is perhaps one of the most unrealistic, overoptimistic, and pitiable sentences in Roman legal documents.’

It is indeed.

Posted in Epigraphy, Labour disputes, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , | 2 Comments

United we stand, divided we fall

A Latin inscription from Beirut, dating to the third century A. D., records a conflict between shipowners from Arelate (Arles) in Gaul and the Roman government:

[- – – I]ulianus naviculariis / [mar]inis Arelatensibus quinque / [co]rporum salutem / [qu]id lecto decreto vestro scripserim / [- – -]S[- – -] proc(uratori) Augg(ustorum) e(gregio) v(iro) subi/[e]ci iussi opto felicissimi bene valeatis e(xemplum) e(pistulae) / exemplum decreti naviculariorum ma/rinorum Arelatensium quinque cor/porum item eorum quae aput me acta / sunt subieci et cum eadem querella la/tius procedat ceteris etiam imploranti/bus auxilium aequitatis cum quadam de/nuntiatione cessaturi propediem obsequi / si permaneat iniuria peto ut tam indemni/tati rationis quam securitati hominum / qui annonae deserviunt consulatur / inprimi charactere regulas ferreas et / adplicari prosecutores ex officio tuo iu/beas qui in urbe pondus quo susce/perint tradant // – – – – – –  / Maxi[- – -] / utique [- – -] / et ex[- – -]tor ex[- – -]/cianu[- – -]/nes pr[- – – ha]vicula[ri- – -] / feci / eiusdem [- – -] / legi decret[um naviculariorum – – -]/tes hom[ines – – -]/tiones [- – -] / est ut [- – -] / coni[- – -] / non [- – -] / SES[- – -] / ST[- – -] / R[- – -].

(CIL III 14165.8 (cf. p. 2328.78) = ILS 06987)

In the translation of Fik Meijer and Onno van Nijf:

Claudius Julianus to the navicularii marini (marine shippers) of the five corpora (associations) of Arles, greetings! What I wrote, after reading your decree, to . . . a . . . s . . ., vir egregius procurator of the Augusti, I have ordered, and I want it to be added (thereafter). Fortunate people, may you prosper! Copy of the letter (from (J)ulianus to the procurator). I have added a copy of the decree of the navicularii marini of Arles belonging to the five corpora and likewise (a copy) of the documents from the courtcase conducted before me. And should the same dispute continue further, and the other (navicularii) appeal to justice with what amounts to a formal complaint that they will soon cease to comply with their obligations, and if the injustice continues, I request that provision be made for both a guarantee against fiscal loss in the books and for exoneration of the people providing services for the annona, and that you order the marking of the iron bars, and that escorts from your staff be provided, who will hand over (details of) the cargo weight that they ‘have taken on board’.

As far as one can tell on the basis of this fragmentary text, the navicularii marini, who played a role in Rome’s food supply (annona), felt short-changed or defrauded by Roman state authorities or its corrupt representatives. (Mention of officially administered ‘marking of the iron bars’, among other things, would suggest that previously fraudulent measures were in applied or misappropriation and embezzlement took place.)

In response to the injustice they encountered, the marine shippers relied on their corpora, their corporations or trade unions, so to speak, and made a powerful representation.

They sought, and obtained, a legal decree from the governor, and, to increase pressure on the Roman government, they threatened to disrupt the provision of previously agreed services, should the injustice continue (cessaturi propediem obsequi / si permaneat iniuria) – a veritable threat of industrial action, jeopardising Rome’s food supply.

Threat of such collective action, rather than individual complaints, was enough to gain a favourable outcome – an outcome that was advertised even far away from Arelate, at the other end of the Mediterranean.

There is strength in numbers when one wishes to fight against unfair treatment, and only slaves without the means or the power to revolt have to render services at a cost solely determined by their masters.


Posted in Epigraphy, Labour disputes, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

On strike!

Tibicines, professional flute-players, held an awkward position within the society of Republican Rome.

On the one hand, they were admired for their skills and regarded as quintessential for maintaining the sacred order of the state. Unsurprisingly, due to their quintessential role in many central aspects of religious and cultic life, they enjoyed many privileges, several of them introduced as early as the Roman Kingdom.

On the other hand, like most artists, they held little actual influence, and they were an easy target for ridicule, not least due to their presence at holidays, feasts, and celebrations on occasion of which copious amounts of alcohol were consumed.

In 311 B. C., however, as the Roman historian Livy reports, the following, remarkable incident occurred (Liv. 9.30.5):

I should omit, as an incident hardly worth narrating, a little thing that happened in that same year, but that it seemed to concern religion. The flute-players, angry at having been forbidden by the last censors to hold their feast, according to old custom, in the temple of Jupiter, went off to Tibur in a body, so that there was no one in the City to pipe at sacrifices.

The flute-players’ established right to feast in the temple of Jupiter appears to have dated back to Rome’s legendary second king, Numa Pompilius, as Plutarch reports in his Quaestiones Romanae on the same incident (ch. 55):

This sort of men (as it seems) had great privileges accruing to them from the grant of King Numa, by reason of his godly devotion; which things afterward being taken from them when the Decemviri managed the government, they forsook the city.

Whether it was the censors (as Livy says) or the Decemviri (as Plutarch claims) who chose to interfere with what the flute-players regarded as their sacred entitlement, we cannot know. In fact, Ovid gives yet third version of the story in his work Fasti (6.657–664):

In the times of your ancestors of yore the flute-player was much employed and was always held in great honour. The flute played in temples, it played at games, it played at mournful funerals. The labour was sweetened by its reward; but a time followed which of a sudden broke the practice of the pleasing art. Moreover, the aedile had ordered that the musicians who accompanied funeral processions should be ten, no more.

Whatever may have happened, the flute-players clearly felt that they were confronted with a withdrawal of long-enjoyed privileges and potentially a significant threat to their livelihoods. Consequently, they chose to withdraw to Tibur (Tivoli) and to go on an indefinite strike – after all, why should one show gratefulness, or even tolerance, in a situation in which such proposals are made, when there is no apparent need for such measures other than the desire of a few (usually significantly better-off) leaders to present themselves in a certain light?

The strike of the flute-players, to the mind of the Romans anyway, was a very dangerous situation indeed. It posed a supreme threat to the sacred order and therefore the well-being of the city of Rome herself.

Livy continues his report (9.30.6–10):

Troubled by the religious aspect of the case, the senate dispatched representatives to the Tiburtines, requesting them to use their best endeavours to restore these men to Rome. The Tiburtines courteously undertook to do so; and sending for the pipers to their senate-house, urged them to return.

When they found it impossible to persuade them, they employed a ruse, not ill-adapted to the nature of the men. On a holiday various citizens invited parties of the pipers to their houses, on the pretext of celebrating the feast with music. There they plied them with wine, which people of that profession are generally greedy of, until they got them stupefied. In this condition they threw them, fast asleep, into waggons and carried them away to Rome; nor did the pipers perceive what had taken place until daylight found them – still suffering from the debauch – in the waggons, which had been left standing in the Forum.

The people then flocked about them and prevailed with them to remain. They were permitted on three days in every year to roam the City in festal robes, making music and enjoying the licence that is now customary, and to such as should play at sacrifices was given again the privilege of banqueting in the temple.

These incidents occurred while men were preoccupied with two mighty wars.

One can almost feel from this just how intense the situation must have been when the flute-players faced the people whom they had deserted in anger, with an acute need to make a decision – to carry on striking, or to do what was expected of them for the common good (and what they, of course, enjoyed).

Ovid’s version of this stand-off, as well as the events that led up to it, is even more intense (Fasti 6.669–692):

At Tibur there was a certain man who had been a slave, but had long been free, a man worthy of any rank. In his country place he made ready a banquet and invited the tuneful throng; they gathered to the festal board. It was night, and their eyes and heads swam with wine, when a messenger arrived with a made-up tale, and thus he spoke (to the freedman): ‘Break up the banquet without delay, for see here comes the master of thy rod!’ Immediately the guests bestirred their limbs, reeling with heady wine; their shaky legs or stood or slipped. But the master of the house, ‘Off with you all!’ says he, and when they dawdled he packed them in a wain that was well lined with rushes. The time, the motion, and the wine allured to slumber, and the tipsy crew fancied that they were on their way back to Tibur. And now the wain had entered the city of Rome by the Esquiline, and at morn it stood in the middle of the Forum. In order to deceive the Senate as to their persons and their number, Plautius commanded that their faces should be covered with masks; and he mingled others with them and ordered them to wear long garments, to the end that women flute-players might be added to the band. In that way he thought that the return of the exiles could be best concealed, lest they should be censured for having come back against the orders of their guild. The plan was approved, and now they are allowed to wear their new garb on the Ides and to sing merry words to the old tunes.

Prima facie Ovid seems to provide a rationale for the use of peculiar garments worn in his own times. But in doing so, he offers much deeper insights into the dynamics of such strikes. With a powerful collegium (‘guild’), and thus essentially the ancient equivalent of a modern-day trade union, in the background, and the need to escape the blame of being traitors to the cause (or ‘scabs’, as one would call it now), individuals still need to make difficult, personal choices – weighing up their own interests against the common good.

Ovid (and other authors) suggest that the flute-players, in response to the booze-fuelled trap into which they fell, came up with a cunning plan that allowed the strikers to preserve face when finding their way back into the society from which they chose to withdraw in response to the shabby treatment that they had received.

Yet, and this is also clear from Ovid, and even more so from Livy’s account: the harsh, collaborative, action was a successful response to an act of profound injustice – a threat to established rights – and repeated acts of disrespectful behaviour towards their profession, which, though easily ridiculed for its faults, played a central role in its society.

At the beginning of his report, Livy suggests that the story as such would not be especially worth mentioning at all, if it were not for its religious implications.

Livy’s final statement, however, reveals another aspect to it: haec inter duorum ingentium bellorum curam gerebantur, ‘these incidents occurred while men were preoccupied with two mighty wars’.

In other words, this was a completely needless (and ultimately futile and costly) conflict, caused for no good reason, that distracted much energy from the much bigger challenges that one should have focused on instead – collectively.

To gain collective support against much bigger challenges, of course, requires leaders who are not just looking after their own benefits and economic gain for only a few at the expense of the many. It requires leaders who, beyond cheap lip service and meaningless rhetoric, value the contributions of those on whose labour the general prosperity of our society rests, leaders who honour contracts and established rights, and leaders who are prepared to defend the dignity of those whom they were appointed to serve.

Posted in Education, Labour disputes, Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

True Love

Love Birds.jpeg

exemplo iunctae tibi sint in amore columbae,
masculus et totum femina coniugium.
errat, qui finem vesani quaerit amoris:
verus amor nullum novit habere modum.

‘Let doves yoked in love be your model, male and female, a perfect union. He errs who seeks to put a limit to the madness of love: true love knows no bounds.’

(Propertius 2.15.27-30, transl. G. P. Goold)

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Escape Routes

Probably in A. D. 474, Gaius Sollius Modestus Sidonius Apollinaris, more commonly known just as Sidonius Apollinaris, a Gallo-Roman aristocrat, Bishop of Clermont (eventually canonised), as well as an acclaimed poet, wrote a letter to one Magnus Felix, a former prefect of Gaul (Sidonius, Epistles 3.17).

In his letter, Sidonius urges Felix, who appears to have been particularly bad at answering his mail (at least when it came from Sidonius…), to comment on the following matter (3.17.2–3, transl. W. B. Anderson):

certe vel metus noster materiam stilo tuo faciat, mementoque viatorum manus gravare chartis, quatinus amicorum cura relevetur, et indicare festina, si quam praevio deo quaestor Licinianus trepidationi mutuae ianuam securitatis aperuerit. persona siquidem est, ut perhibent, magna exspectatione maior adventu, relatu sublimis inspectione sublimior et ob omnia felicitatis naturaeque dona monstrabilis. summa censura, par comitas et prudentia fidesque misso mittentique conveniens; nihil adfectatum simulatumque, ponderique sermonum vera potius severitas quam severitatis imitatio; et nec, ut plurimi, qui cum credita diffidenter allegant, volunt videri egisse se cautius, sed neque ex illo, ut ferunt, numero qui secreta dirigentium principum venditantes ambiunt a barbaris bene agi cum legato potius quam cum legatione.

At least let our anxieties, if nothing else, provide material for your pen; take care to load the arms of travellers with despatches, so that the cares of your friends may be lightened, and do not delay to inform us whether under God’s guidance Licinianus the quaestor has opened any door of safety to our joint alarm. People say that he is a person who inspires large expectations and exceeds them all when he appears, who is exalted in repute but rises still higher on acquaintance, a man remarkable for every endowment of fortune and of nature. He is very strict, but no less courteous and wise, and he shows a conscientiousness which befits the emissary as much as the master who sends him. There is no affectation or pretence about him, and his weighty deliverances show genuine rectitude not a mere imitation of it. He is not like most people, who deliver with an air of hesitation the message with which they are charged and expect to be considered to have acted cautiously; still less, I am told, is he of the number of those who traffic in the secrets of the princes who instruct them and who seek to secure from the barbarians favourable treatment for the envoy rather than for his mission.

Licinianus, Sidonius hoped, would provide some kind of relief to the citizens of Clermont, his bishopric, who were under threat from the Ostrogoths at the time – a relief that Sidonius metaphorically describes as ianua securitatis, a door – or rather a gateway – to safety, a life in which the concerns, curae, of the inhabitants would be removed so that they could enjoy securitas (literally: un-concern) again.

Although metaphorical use of ianua had featured in Latin literature already for several centuries by the time Sidonius composed his letter, the phrase ianua securitatis appears to be unique in surviving Latin literature.

It is all the more surprising to find it on a coat of arms in Berkshire’s county town of Reading – a coat of arms that, recently restored, decorates an otherwise utterly unremarkable side-entrance to an outstanding, listed building on West Street known as the W. I. Palmer Memorial Hall:


Supported by two talbots on green grass (which serves as the bottom mantle), this coat of arms features a blue shield at its centre that displays a golden gateway with a key in its middle and a round sign displaying waves in its central arch. The same round elements with its waves is repeated in the collars around the talbots’ necks. Above the shield there is a helmet, with a crowned lion holding a sword and surrounded by a top mantle. Below the shield there is a motto scroll that displays the words Janua Securitatis, ‘gateway to safety’, ‘gateway to security’.

In 2015, I published a little anthology of the delightful range of Latin inscriptions of Reading (which you are encouraged to buy – it is very good, if I do say so myself: The Writing on the Wall: An Anthology of Reading’s Latin Inscriptions), but I chose not to include this particular piece. I did not know enough about it, and at any rate, the text is very short.

Yet, I remained curious about its meaning, and, supported by emeritus professor Jane F. Gardner, who has been a resident of Reading for longer than I have been alive, I think I eventually managed to uncover its original purpose (though I cannot be entirely sure).

Recently, the property has been converted into flats – and while these flats may be a safe haven for their tenants or owners, this is, of course, not to what the coat of arms pertains. The owner of the property invested a fair bit of money, however, in the restoration of the piece, which previously looked more like this:


This gives me a good enough reason to reveal what I now think is the sign’s origin (though I stand to be corrected – if you know better, please do let me know!).

Prior to its current manifestation, the building was shared by a temp agency and the London College of Research. Unsurprisingly, they had nothing to do with this coat of arms. The same is evidently true for previous tenants that I managed to track down, including the Reading Chamber of Commerce and the Co-operative.

Before that, however, the W. I. Palmer Memorial hall housed an Amethyst Tea Bar, promoting temperance – and this gives a connection straight back to the person who had the present-day lavish façade, as well as his name, added to the building: William Isaac Palmer, who, as offspring of a Quaker family, supported the temperance movement on religious grounds. The central shield, with its golden key in the middle of a gate, strongly supports the view that this coat of arms originated in a religious context.

Sidonius hoped for a ianua securitatis, a gateway to security, while he found himself and his parish embattled by the Ostrogoths.

If the coat of arms does indeed relate to Reading’s temperance movement, as I suspect, then it must have been designed with a similar idea in mind (and quite possibly as a deliberate reference to Sidonius): good people, embattled by hostile forces in the shape and form of alcoholism and excess, need a feasible escape route, provided by a hope-inspiring leader, to find a life of unconcern.

Posted in History of Reading, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

In memoriam Dr Hans Krummrey (1930-2018)

A few days ago, I received the sad news that Dr Hans Krummrey, one-time director of the Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum in Berlin, had passed away.

It would be inappropriate for me to attempt a full obituary – there are others who have known Dr Krummrey for much longer than I have, and who will be able to praise his true and lasting achievements. I am aware of many of them, of course, but he and his many decades of service to Latin epigraphical scholarship, with many a personal hardship that he underwent for the greater good, deserve a far better chronicler than I ever could be.

Dr Krummrey, born 1930 in Guben/Gubin, was already retired by the time that I first met him when I joined the CIL, initially as an undergraduate research assistant appointed by Krummrey’s successor Dr Manfred G. Schmidt, and eventually as a member of research staff. Yet, Krummrey was very much still a permanent fixture of this institution, with an unassuming humility and a sense of duty that was verging on self-sacrifice, that has made a lasting impression on me professionally at an important stage of my academic career.

When I started my PhD in 1997, with a project on the so-called Saturnian verse inscriptions, I could not have hoped for a more generous, supportive senior advisor. The co-editor of the addenda and corrigenda to CIL I ed. alt. had worked on  the Republican Latin inscriptions for decades, as well as a first-rate scholar of the Carmina Latina Epigraphica (with one of the finest paper databases on the subject that I am aware of to the present day), Krummrey left no detail of my work unturned.

In his most beautifully ironic and self-deprecating manner, he steered me away from many a grave mistake – except for those, of course, that I was too stubborn to acknowledge (usually to my regret). Krummrey’s painstaking attention to detail, his insistence on due method and consistency, and his long experience were invaluable (and I can just about imagine how embarrassed he would be to read this about himself).

But there was another side to him that I distinctly remember: an almost childlike joy that Krummrey derived from technical equipment – a joy that was contagious, and a joy that meant that in many ways, while still in post, he drove the CIL to embrace technological advances as much as possible, even in an eminently difficult and challenging, and eventually, rapidly changing political environment.

I will never be able to repay my debt to him, but today, more than ever before, I see it as my obligation to honour his work – and to share the passion and enthusiasm that he has helped me to develop and to foster with future generations of scholars in the field of Latin epigraphy and the Latin verse inscriptions.

Occasionally, we would joke about our shared research interests as ‘graveyard science’, telling each other of particularly outrageous pieces that we had recently studied.

It seems fitting therefore to conclude this short, personal piece in commemoration of Dr Krummrey with a piece from Sisak/Siscia in modern-day Croatia (CIL III 3980 = ILS 5228 = AE 2006.34):

D(is) M(anibus).
positus est hic Leburna
magister mimariorum
[q]ui uicxit annos plus
[m]inus centum.
[al]iquotie(n)s mortuus
[sum], set sic nunquam.
[opto u]os ad superos bene

To the Spirits of the Departed.

Here lies Leburna, master of a mime troupe, who lived for one-hundred years, give a few, take a few.

I have died many times, but never like this before.

I hope you up there are doing fine.

Graveyard science and death have been our business for a long time, and they continue to be mine. It has not made anything any easier when confronted with the real thing.

Dr Krummrey – requiescas in pace.

Dr Hans Krummrey, 1930–2018

Posted in Carmina Epigraphica, Poetry | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments