A Bitter Pill

When I first became aware that there was to be a fictional work (a triliogy no less!) based in the lupanar of Pompeii, my reaction was somewhat… disdainful. It is, I think anyone with considerable expertise would admit, incredibly difficult to consume popular culture that aims to accurately replicate your specialist subject. Anyone who has had the misfortune of watching Troy, Gladiator, or The Mummy with a Classicist knows exactly what I am talking about. Beyond the fact that I have spent the majority of the last twenty years focused on Pompeii, I have done extensive research on women and prostitution in the Roman world, including reviewing the definitive work on the brothel itself. Therefore, when a friend offered to lend me a copy of The Wolf Den by Elodie Harper, I was reluctant. I started reading fully expecting to hate it.

I didn’t.

Yes, there are inaccuracies. But let’s be honest – a work of fiction written with the aim of a high degree of factual historic and archaeologic content would probably be a bit boring for most people. It is clear the author did research: chapters begin with appropriate quotes from Latin literature, much of the physical space of Pompeii is described with some level of accuracy, and various real names known from the epigraphic record are included within the story. Pliny the Elder stays in town for a bit, borrowing a residence from a friend that is clearly meant to be the House of the Faun. There is a duovir named Fuscus both in the novel and amongst the evidence from Pompeii (both placed in the last decade of the city’s life). CIL IV 3592 names a Lucius Laelius Fuscus who is running for that office. Evidence for this man also exists as a campaign notice for the office of aedile (CIL IV 102) and four times as a witness in the tablets of Iucundus (CIL IV 3340. 13, 15, 35, 103). A caupona, commonly referred to as The Elephant by archaeologists because of a wall painting of the animal and a graffito that says ‘Sittius restored the elephant’ (CIL IV 806) is frequented by characters of the book. This illustrates some attention to detail, as the inn, located at VII.i.44, is a few doors away from the brothel at VII.xii.18.

There are numerous references to real Pompeian graffiti, including an episode where the prostitutes themselves collectively carry out adding an inscription to the walls of the brothel (p. 36-7). They write about a rather odorific customer whom they dub ‘Mr. GarlicFarticus.’ This is an accurate translation of the name Scordopordonicus, a compound of two Greek words.

CIL IV 2188
Scordopordonicus hic bene / fu(tu)it quem voluit.
‘Scordopordonicus here fucks well who he wished.’

There are other uses of graffiti that are quite touching, such as the exchange of scratched messages between two slaves. As is well known, conversations greeting friends carried out on the walls of the city is one of the most prevalent types of graffiti. In the context of The Wolf Den this is conducted in Greek as the slaves, both of whom were born free and enslaved later in life, establish a degree of agency by communicating in their own language and using their original names. Giving a purchased slave a new name is not an uncommon occurrence, but there is no hard and fast rule when it comes to language. Latin and Greek names are both used, and more often than not the name is not a reflection of the ethnic origin of the individual.

Naming, however, is my one real issue with this book. The main character is an enslaved woman of Greek origin who, when purchased and made a prostitute, is given the name Amara. Harper explains the name as one reflective of the woman’s overall demeanour in the eyes of her owner/pimp. She is ‘halfway between love and bitterness’ (p. 245). There no halfway about it. The adjective amarus (a, um) means bitter, disagreeable, shrill. This is not a word one would use to describe someone who you want to have sex with, paying customer or not.

Whilst it is difficult to tease out the patterns of naming of slaves generally, there are some professions, largely amongst the infamia, where naming conventions are adhered to. Prostitution is one of them. The names (or stage names, if you will) assigned promote beauty, luck, or refer to some aspect of potential gratification. This can be taken beyond the lupanar as well, as there were also particular names used for high class courtesans, many of which were idealised through the repetition of the names of lovers used by elegists such as Propertius and Ovid. In her book on the brothel of Pompeii, Sarah Levin-Richardson explains (p. 61):

‘It is possible that Victoria was a stage name giving her an aura of “victory” in the brothel; that Fortuna and Fortunata might have been meant to feel “lucky” themselves or bring luck to others; and that Mola was a “grindstone” in bed.’

She lists ‘other potential stage names’ such as Panta (All: CIL IV 2178b), Helpis (Hope: CIL IV 2189), Felicla [= Felicula] (Happy: CIL IV 2199, 2200), Mola (Grindstone: CIL IV 2204, 2237), Victoria (Victory: CIL IV 2212), and Fortuna/ata (Fortune: CIL IV 2224, 2259, 2266, 2275). She concludes that ‘[t]hese names were probably given to the prostitutes by a master, pimp, or madam, though some prostitutes may have chosen these monikers themselves. Some names may not have been intended specifically as stage names – many are common names for female slaves – though they may have been interpreted as such by those in the brothel regardless’ (p. 118).

The names of the other prostitutes (female and male) used by Harper such as Victoria, Dido, and Paris fit into the general schematic of naming slaves involved in sex work. As much as it seems to have been chosen specifically to reflect the personality of the character, or more to the point, her reaction to the current circumstances of her life, I find it very difficult to reconcile a prostitute named Amara with what is known about names. The evidence we have suggests that prostitutes in the ancient world, much like today, were meant to entice, to appear available and eager, and fulfilled a function that was both sexual and emotionally gratifying. For the Romans, this meant assigning names that reflected these qualities.

Fundamentally then, a sex worker named Bitter is a major marketing problem, and for that reason alone would never exist.

As much as the name irks me, the story is good and I’m looking forward to the next book in the trilogy.

Galba Hominum*

Roughly halfway through her new book, Galba’s Men, there is a passage describing the new emperor’s reaction to attending games in Rome:

“Galba had no particular love for the games. He’d seen real action and considered gladiator bouts as mere play: overdone and false. Yet he attempted a tight smile and waved as required.
It appeared genial to the palace staff, who were used to their grim-faced master. But the people, accustomed to cheery, flamboyant Nero, were not so enamoured of their new emperor. Casting sly looks at him in-between the entertainment, they saw a hook-nosed, scrawny old man with thinning white hair who looked almost bored by the proceedings.”

This, in a nutshell, encapsulates a number of issues faced by Galba and many other emperors, especially those who assumed power during the Year of the Four Emperors. There was a fine line to be traversed, negotiating the balance between pleasing the Senate, the people, and the military. Here, by being less adept publicly than the previous, crowd-pleasing ruler Nero, Galba is already failing to win over the public. He soon also has issues with the military, thus quickly tipping the balance in favour of a new (or, to be historically accurate, two new) usurpers of the imperial throne.

In her second book chronicling the tumultuous year of AD 68-69, L.J. Trafford once again combines history and fiction to bring forth an accurate, yet hugely entertaining narrative of the lives, loves, and quite a few deaths, of those whose lives revolve around the heart of Roman rule. Picking up a few months after the deaths of Nero and Sabinus, the Praetorian Prefect who led the revolt to install Galba as told in Palatine, Rome eagerly awaits the arrival of her new emperor. Many of the slaves and freedmen who keep the imperial bureaucracy running are still reeling from the fallout of the events earlier in the year, but are eager to start over, and hope for a return to normalcy. A similar desire is echoed amongst the military men and citizens we encounter. Galba, unfortunately, is plagued from the outset not only by the normal intrigues and machinations of his underlings, but also by his stubborn belief in a return to the moral, economic, and traditional view of Rome that few of its citizens seem to share with him.This, in effect, is what ultimately leads to his downfall.

In a note concluding the book, Trafford, echoing the words of Tacitus, indicates that Galba was, on paper at least, capable of being an outstanding emperor. He is a serious, older man, with years of military and political experience, who had served under four emperors (he first took public office as a praetor in AD 20, during the reign of Tiberius). He wanted to eliminate bribery of the Praetorian Guard and the army, the flashy displays of gladiatorial games and athletic contests, and restore the treasury that Nero had decimated with wanton building programmes and gifts. In other words, Galba wanted to get down to the serious business of restoring Rome to the good old days before the debauchery and carelessness of Caligula and Nero, but found a citizenry that had little recall, and even less interest, in his plans. Enter Otho, a man (as Trafford portrays him), with all the charisma, good-will, and charm that Galba lacks and then some, who devotes most of his time to winning favour amongst the Senate, the people, and the Praetorian Guard. Though somewhat hapless in some of his dealings (Poor Philo! Poor Straton!), Otho seemingly gets the necessity of striking the right balance, and is eagerly anticipating being named Galba’s heir so that he will have a chance to help the people of Rome in the manner he sees fit. When Galba passes him over, Otho is understandably mortified, and the rest, as is said, is history.

Thus, the book plays out over the seven months from when Galba seized power to his death, when Otho, with the help of the Praetorian Guard, the army, and a mob of Roman citizens, took control of the city. Like the first in the series, the story is woven of real and fictional characters, largely focusing on the slaves and freedmen who comprise the day to day workforce of the government and the imperial palace. This allows a certain amount of freedom for creating characters and situations that are necessary for attracting an audience and keeping them engaged from book to book (Really, what will Sporous get up to next? And how has that flibbertigibbet Mina survived so long?), but I think also is quite clever for historical purposes. Despite the lack of visibility on the historiographies of the period, it is likely that the turmoil of this year was felt most keenly by those closest to the rotating seat of the emperor: the members of the imperial household and the guard. It is the Praetorian Guard particularly who, like with the downfall of Nero, play a major role in the end of Galba’s reign. Otho seemingly understands the importance of having these people on side, and looks to be in place to be the kind of emperor that Rome both wants and needs. Unfortunately, the book ends with a note that Vitellius is on the march from Germany….

Despite knowing the history, I can’t wait to see what happens next.

 

*Disclosure: The author, L.J. Trafford, asked if I would be willing to review this book as I had the first in the series, and thus sent me a copy so that I could do so.

Book Review: Graffiti and the Literary Landscape in Roman Pompeii

The review I wrote of Kristina Milnor‘s latest book has just been made available online by The Classical Review, a publication of the Classical Association. Her book, Graffiti & the Literary Landscape of Pompeii, addresses Pompeian graffiti that is thought to derive from or otherwise copy known ancient authors or literary styles. For the purposes of her study, Milnor focuses entirely on metrical graffiti. In addition, she discusses potential influences on some other types of graffiti, mainly greetings as a reflection of epistolary style. I admittedly have some issue with her methods and overall conclusions, but for that you’ll just have to read the review. It is available online here.

On Palatine*

If you are going to have the great misfortune of spending the better part of a week in bed with a terrific cold (really, if anyone finds my voice, please return it), it helps to find yourself in possession of a good book. In this regard, I lucked out.

Palatine is the first of a series of four historical fiction novels set in the tumultuous period known as the year of the four emperors (AD 68-69) written by Linda Trafford. The series begins in the final months of the reign of Nero, the last of the Julio-Claudian line that began with Augustus, whose overthrow leads to a period of government instability in which the Senate, governors, generals, and the Praetorian Guard all play a part in figuring out (repeatedly) who should ultimately have control of Rome.

Historical fiction – of which I admit I’ve read more than my fair share over the years – toes a fine line between being an accurate portrayal of the period and figures at its heart and simply being a stonking good read as only fiction truly can. And as any ancient history undergraduate could tell you, the intrigues and behind the scenes machinations of the imperial court at Rome has always provided fodder for a tale of the most outlandish soap operatic heights. A story set in Nero’s court could easily and quickly become ridiculous, and with good reason.

What Trafford, however, provides her reader is a series of characters – real and created – who each have their own story, their own circumstances to deal with, surrounding and leading up to the death of Nero and the seizure of the throne by Galba. What we get is a novel driven largely by the guardsmen, freedmen, and slaves whose lives were integral to the running of the Imperial household as well as government itself. Sure, there’s a bit of toga-ripping, recollections of the more debauched activities Nero’s court was infamous for, and some of the over-wrought dramatics one would expect from Sporus, the eunuch pretending to be Nero’s dead wife Poppea, but at the heart of the novel, there’s history. As an historian, I recognise the re-tellings of anecdotes from Tacitus, Suetonius, and Plutarch. As an archaeologist, the descriptions of both the Palatine palace and Domus Aurea are as many reconstructions have imagined them. Trafford has a degree in ancient history, and her familiarity with first century Rome is apparent from these pages.

I often disregard historical fiction from ancient Rome, simply because I can see the holes too easily, and thus fail to enjoy it at all. This was not the case at all with Palatine. I enjoyed it simply for the fiction, for the story that is told, but more to the point, I appreciated it on the level of an historian who could recognise the (undoubtedly) painstaking research behind the story, the accuracy of the historical points, and that for those unfamiliar with this period in Rome, the fiction was done well enough to foster an interest in the history. In other words, read it. Terrible cold keeping you in bed to do so: completely optional.

*I should probably preface this by saying a actually won my copy of the book from Linda in a Twitter contest, but she in no way asked for (or is even aware as of this writing) of this endorsement of her work.

Book Review: Written Space in the Latin West

For anyone interested in the relationship of inscriptions, movement, and space in the Roman city, the volume Written Space in the Latin West (2013), edited by Gareth Sears, Peter Keegan, and Ray Laurence contains a variety of papers that demonstrate clearly how important writing was in the ancient city. My full review, on the BMCR website, can be found here.