Estelle Lazer and the Bathhouse of Horror / February 23, 2017 by Anthony Gibbins

On today’s page, Claudia examines the skeletal remains of a young woman who died during the Vesuvius eruption. She concludes that the assembling of bones is a difficult task. To her right, holding an oversized magnifying glass, is Dr Estelle Lazer, an extraordinary archaeologist who has spent many seasons in Pompeii doing just that (and so much more). Through her work we have gained a better understanding of what information the skeletal remains of Pompeii can actually provide. And she has yielded tantalising glimpses into the lives and deaths of the victims of Pompeii.

Her monograph, Resurrecting Pompeii, was published in 2009. After reading the following extract, you will want to read more. Or watch Indiana Jones. It could go either way.

The environment in which the bones are stored is as romantic as the novels that have served to popularise the site. The majority of the human skeletons have been stored in an ancient bath building, the Terme del Sarno. This structure is situated to the south of the Forum. The Sarno Bath complex was first used as a repository for ancient bones and casts in the early 1930s when modern stone walls were incorporated into the structure and iron bars were inserted to deny access through doors and windows.

When I commenced work on this project, the road to the Sarno Baths was not accessible to tourists and was overgrown with wild fennel. Entering the Sarno Baths was like being immersed in a classic B grade movie. The modern iron gates at the entrance to the baths had rusted shut and had to be forced open by guards. The entrance was completely obscured by brambles that had to be hacked away with a machete. Access was obtained via a dimly lit barrel-vaulted sloping passageway.

The next level down was reached by a crumbling set of stairs. This level contained what has been interpreted as the women’s baths. The ceilings are covered with stucco and vibrant paintings. Mounds of bones and the remains of casts that could no longer be displayed due to dismemberment of limbs littered the floor, along with the remains of portions of marble statues, such as the odd disembodied foot. The human bones stored in this building had been indiscriminately piled along with the bones of other animals, like horses, sheep, goats and dogs.

The Sarno Bath building houses its own ecosystem, directly associated with the presence of skeletal remains. There were various rodents, cats, bats, snakes, spiders and various insects, such as carpenter bees and beetles. Birds had been nesting in the bones for many years; the inside of a cranium apparently formed an excellent basis for a nest. In a number of cases it was necessary to remove over a centimetre of bird lime from bones before they could be examined. Occasionally, a large green lizard would unexpectedly drop off the ceiling onto my workbook. Resurrecting Pompeii pp. 99-100

I was able to inspect the bones of a certain young woman who had been killed by Vesuvius. It is a difficult task to correctly organise the bones.

The Lego model of Pompeii is housed in the Nicholson Museum of The University of Sydney, Australia. Entry to the museum is entirely free, and you may visit Monday to Friday between 10:00 and 4:30. The Nicholson is Australia’s oldest University museum and contains the largest collection of antiquities in the Southern Hemisphere.

The Pompeii model was commissioned by the Nicholson and constructed by LEGO Professional Builder Ryan McNaught. It is the third such model the museum has exhibited, following the Colosseum and Acropolis. The Colosseum was returned to McNaught and recently exhibited around Australia. The Acropolis was denoted by the Nicholson to the Acropolis Museum in Athens. The Pompeii model is estimated to include 190 000 bricks and took 420 hours to complete.

the plaster casts of Pompeii / February 22, 2017 by Anthony Gibbins

This aerial shot depicts excavation, restoration and reconstruction at Pompeii. Claudia describes the area as a locus mirabilis marvellous place. One of the wonderful things about the Pompeii model is that it mixes three broad time frames (and a little fantasy) into one broad scene; ancient Pompeii, the town’s rediscovery, and modern tourism and study. In a single street you might see merchants selling bread from an ancient bakery, Mozart, visiting the temple of Isis when he was 13 years of age, Amedeo Maiuri, director of the dig for 37 years (1924-1961), Australian archaeologist Steven Ellis, who made headlines for overseeing one of archaeology’s first digs to use iPads, and Doctor Who. In this shot, standing under a purple and white striped umbrella, is Vittorio Spinazzola, director of excavation from 1910 to 1923. Under his direction we learnt a great deal more about the town’s shops and housing.

But most striking is the long line of plaster casts; no one who has been to Pompeii, visited the Naples Museum, or flicked through a guide-book, can forget encountering these ghostly figures. They capture the final (frightened) moments of individuals, friends, families and even animals as they perished. Thirteen can be seen today in the Garden of the Fugitives lying in situ where they fell. There are two in the Sabine Baths, two in the Macellum, and another two in the Villa of Mysteries. There are some in houses that are rarely opened to the public, and others stacked unceremoniously in storage sheds. More still are displayed respectfully in the Naples Museum. For many, they are the enduring image of Pompeii.

The plaster casts owe their existence to Giuseppo Fiorelli, director of excavations from 1860 to 1875. Others had recognised the significance of the cavities formed in the deposits of hardened ash resting over the town’s remains. In 1777, the bones of a young woman were found at the Villa Diomede. As well as her skeleton, the outline of her upper torso was clearly visible in the material packed beneath her. But it was Fiorelli and his team who developed the technique of injecting liquid plaster into the cavities before they were excavated, enabling them to capture the last moments of around one hundred of Vesuvius’ victims. This passage from Mary Beard speaks to their evocative power;

One group of four, found in a street near the Forum, was probably an entire family trying to make its escape. The father went in front, a burley man, with big bushy eyebrows (as the plaster cast reveals). He had pulled his cloak over his head, to protect himself from falling ash and debris, and carried with him some gold jewellery (a simple finger-ring and a few ear-rings), a couple of keys and, in this case, a reasonable amount of cash, at almost 400 sesterces. His two small daughters followed, while the mother brought up the rear. She had hitched up her dress to make the walking easier, and was carrying more household valuables in a little bag: the family silver (some spoons, a pair of goblets, a medallion with the figure of Fortuna, a mirror) and a small squat figurine of a little boy, wrapped up in a cloak, his bare feet peeking out at the bottom. It is a crude piece of work, but it is made out of amber, which must have travelled many hundreds of kilometres from the nearest source of supply in the Baltic; hence its prized status. Pompeii: The Life of a Roman Town pp. 4-5

In the 1990’s x-rays were taken of the casts for the first time, revealing invaluable information about the bones and or artefacts trapped within. Today a technique similar to Fiorelli’s is practised, but with a clear resin that allows all these things to be seen and studied.

Soon I found I marvellous place where very learned people were working. Some were digging up the earth, others were inspecting the bodies of the dead.

vale, Imperative Verbs and traveling solo / February 21, 2017 by Anthony Gibbins

A few posts back (on February 15 to be exact) I posted something on the Latin greeting salve salvete Be well! What I did not say then was that salve is in fact the Imperative Form of the Verb salveo, salvere to be well, a Verb rarely seen outside of its use as a salutation. An Imperative Verb is the form used to give somebody an order, the order here being the rather friendly be well!

A similar Imperative Verb is vale valete. vale is used to say fare well to one person, valete to more than one. At the end of Catullus CI, the poet's mournful meditation at the grave of his brother, Catullus finishes atque in perpetuum, frater, ave atque vale and without interruption, brother, hail and farewell. Many schools and universities hold a Valete Dinner to farewell graduating students. But, unlike salveo, salvere, the Verb valeo, valere to be well, strong, in good health is often seen and heard outside of its Imperative Form. Indeed, we saw it at the opening of Claudia’s letter; si vales, bene est If you are well, it is well.

As Claudia and Marcus say goodbye, each choosing to continue their Pompeii trip alone, I thought of writing something about the joys of solo travel. But then I came across an article by Brande Plotnick that I did not think I could improve upon. Here is taste;

Nine Reasons Why You Should Travel Alone

2. Work on your bucket list Is there something you’ve been dying to try that no one is willing to try with you? Maybe you’d like to go skydiving over the Grand Canyon, see ancient Mayan ruins, or simply eat real Maine lobster. When your partner and friends don’t share every one of your interests, that’s OK, but it’s not OK to sacrifice your dreams, especially when all you have to do is get there.

3. You’re great company If you rarely spend significant time alone, you may be surprised at how enjoyable it can be. When was the last time you truly listened to only your thoughts and entertained only your dreams? Depending on the destination, a solo trip can be a powerful, introspective, life-changing experience. Imagine sitting on a peaceful beach at sunset or taking an invigorating morning hike without having to make conversation with anyone.

4. Meet new people If you’re a born extrovert, traveling alone can be a wonderful way to meet locals and make new friends. Often, people who are alone appear more approachable to others. Before you know it, you could be chatting with some interesting folks at a sidewalk cafe or even joining a group of like-minded people for yoga on the beach. The key is to keep an open mind while keeping safety in mind, especially in a foreign land.

6. It’s empowering If traveling makes you a better, smarter person, then traveling alone makes you super-better and super-smarter. For any of you who may feel uncomfortable even sitting alone at a diner to have breakfast, taking a trip by yourself might seem daunting. Once you take the plunge and get over your fears, you’ll feel a sense of empowerment. A successful solo vacation can inspire you to tackle even more things in life you’ve been afraid to try.

You can read the full article here. Brande is a self-taught home cook, gardener and writer. Take a look at her website, Tomato Envy, which Brande describes as Joyful, Sustainable and Deliberately Decadent. It promotes home cooking, gardening and ‘making nice with Mother Earth.’

After lunch Marcus and I said ‘Fare well’. It was very good to have a companion for a while, but I wanted to explore alone some more.

borrow, lend and share / February 20, 2017 by Anthony Gibbins

This post is as much for myself as for anyone else. I have long been wondering about these important words, and decided to set out in investigation.

My first memory of seeing the Latin word for borrow is while reading Harrius Potter et Philosophi Lapis. It occurs in the first chapter, when Hagrid arrives on a motorbike, which Peter Needham has translated as birotula automataria. Dumbledore asks Hagrid unde illam birotulam automatariam nactus es? From where did you obtain that motorbike? This Verb is, by the way, nanciscor, nancisci, nactus sum to obtain, get, come upon, find. Hagrid responds mutuatus sum illam, Professor Dumbledore, domine I borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir. The Verb to borrow is mutuor, mutuari, mutuatus sum.

From what I can see, there are two ways to express the Verb to lend. The first is with an Adjective related to mutuor; mutuus borrowed, lent, mutual, reciprocal. Cicero, for example, uses this expression in one of his letters to Atticus; to lend someone money alicui dare pecuniam mutuam, which literally translates as to give someone lent/borrowed money. Smith’s English-Latin Dictionary stresses that this is the best expression, when implying an actual loan. The Verb commodo, commodare, commodavi, commodatum can mean to lend, but it can also mean to please, to oblige, to furnish. Thus, while you do see expressions such as aurum commodare to lend gold, you also see the likes of reipublicae tempus commodare to make time for the republic and aurem commodare our to lend someone an ear.

In Book I of the Aeneid, the hero brings back a large quantity of hunted deer to share among his men. The Verb Virgil uses is partior, partiri, partitus sum.

hinc portum petit, et socios partitur in omnes.

Thence he makes for the harbour, and shares [the food] among all his allies.

But, and again I am relying here on Smith, partior appears to be used when one individual is sharing up property among others, not taking a slice for him or herself. For that other sense of to share, the Verb is communico, communicare, communicavi, communicatum to enjoy with others, possess in common. From Livy, for example, we have civitatem nostram vobiscum communicare to share our state with you. This is the meaning of share that I wanted for Claudia’s lunch with Marcus.

After the play we were both hungry. We found a place suitable for lunching. Kind Marcus shared his lunch with me.

The Theatres of Pompeii – and a little on social legislation / February 19, 2017 by Anthony Gibbins

There were two theatres in Pompeii, although there is only the one in the Lego model. It is the larger of the two, essentially Greek in design and believed to be older than any other theatre in Italy. At the time of its destruction (or preservation, dependant on how you see the consequences of the volcanic eruption) it sat an audience of 5000 – it had been renovated and enlarged during the reign of Augustus. Augustus was also responsible for a change in the law that insisted men and women sit separately at the theatre. Such a law seems strange – perhaps even harmful – today. Yet it is consistent with a larger swath of laws pushed through the senate by Augustus, that historians today tend to categorise as social legislation.

Adultery, for example, became a criminal offense. A woman charged by her husband could now be banished and lose her dowry, and half of her lover’s property was confiscated. If she remained in Rome, the woman was forbidden to marry another free-born citizen. Moreover, a husband who did not divorce and prosecute a “guilty” wife could be charged with condoning her offense. Anthony Everitt’s Augustus : The Life of Rome’s First Emperor, contains this reminder – as if we needed one – that those who force their will under the guise of moral defender, often do so with hypocrisy;

On another occasion, when Augustus was sitting as judge, a young man was brought before him who had taken as wife a married woman with whom he had previously committed adultery. This was most embarrassing, for it was exactly how the princeps emperor had behaved when he married [his wife] Livia in 38 B.C. Uncomfortably aware of the coincidence, he recovered his composure only with difficulty. ‘Let us turn our mind to the future,’ he said, ‘so that nothing of this kind can happen again.’ (p. 240)

The second theatre was smaller; it sat about 1500 people, and had a covered roof. It has been suggested that while the larger theatre was used primarily for drama, this was used for concerts, lectures and poetry recitals. The two theatres share a common neighbourhood, and nearby is a large open space surrounded by covered colonnades. It is easy to imaging theatre-goers stretching their legs here between acts. By the time of the eruption, however, this quadriporticus had been taken away from the theatre-goers by conversion into gladiatorial quarters. One wonders if this caused tensions between the fans of competing entertainments, or whether Pompeians enjoyed both activities without prejudice.

Then we hurried to the theatre. For we were wanting to watch the ‘stage story’ (fabulam scaenicam) which the actors were performing there.

Guest Post : Water and Pompeii 2 of 2 by Caroline Brehaut / February 18, 2017 by Anthony Gibbins

Once again, it is an absolute pleasure to welcome Caroline Brehaut to Legonium. Caroline is a dear friend and a spectacular historian. She received an Australian Commonwealth Scholarship to study a Master’s Degree at Oxford University and was awarded the University Medal at Macquarie University in her home town of Sydney.

The castellum aquae castle of water, situated at the town’s highest point, near the Vesuvian Gate, was the first collection and distribution centre for the water which reached Pompeii via the aqueduct. The structure has the appearance of a brick built bunker, with three beautiful brick arches. From these pipes which began the distribution of water to the remainder of the town.

Now, the castellum aquae, at Pompeii’s highest point, stands at 42 metres above sea level, and the lowest point of the town at only 6 metres above sea level. Again, what with water’s tendency to flow downhill, it is this height difference that allowed the flow of water from the castellum throughout the rest of the town. BUT, what with water’s tendency to flow downhill at increasing speed, and the immense pressure created as water was siphoned out of the large castellum via much narrower pipes, the problem became that of too much water. Solution? Water towers built throughout the town to help reset water pressure.

Fourteen have been excavated so far, serving a dual purpose: to regulate water pressure, and to provide a distribution point for smaller lead pipes, which in turn led water to the street fountains, the bath buildings, to the private houses of the wealthy, and to workshops. The towers are completely ingenious – they ‘consume’ water pressure by piping the water up the tower, collecting it in a basin at the top, and then drawing it down through a pipe on the tower’s other side, and then onto the next tower.

Forty street fountains, almost all equipped with a spout (plus a small sculpture) and a square or rectangular basin, were supplied from these towers, providing water for the majority of the town's inhabitants. In addition, about a 100 private households (out of about 1,000 dwellings) had a private connection to the public water. Public bath houses also drew water from these towers.

Now, you might be forgiven for thinking that this all sounds very clean and hygienic. But note: private dwellings seemed to have primarily used this water for ornamental displays, not for hygiene or cooking. Water displays in private homes, in the form of fountains and lush gardens, became status symbols. The House of the Vettii alone has 14 fountains!!! The streets of Pompeii, meanwhile, would have resembled open sewers at times, and those quaint looking stepping stones across the viae were probably in constant use (not just after heavy rainfall). Whether storm water was washing effluvia into the Sarno, or the streets were simply filthy with garbage and human waste, stepping stones would no doubt have seemed like a great idea.

Thank you, Caroline, for writing Legonium’s first Guest Post. If any readers, or one of your students, would like to write a Guest Post for Legonium, I would love to hear from you. I can be reached on visitLegonium@gmail.com.

In ancient times The Pompeians would often go to the baths to wash themselves. We walked around the ruins together.

Guest Post : Water and Pompeii I of 2 by Caroline Brehaut / February 17, 2017 by Anthony Gibbins

It is an absolute pleasure to welcome Caroline Brehaut to Legonium. Caroline is a dear friend and a spectacular historian. She received an Australian Commonwealth Scholarship to study a Master’s Degree at Oxford University and was awarded the University Medal at Macquarie University in her home town of Sydney.

Roman hydraulic engineering is undeniably cool, whether you are looking at the self-flushing toilets at Housesteads (a fort on Hadrian’s Wall), or the Qanat Firaun, a 170 km long aqueduct that runs underground in Syria (aka the Gadara Aqueduct).

But it is a common misconception to imagine a town like Pompeii with clean sparkling streets, white marble, and well groomed, freshly bathed inhabitants. Rather, Roman cities would have more resembled 18th Century Paris: a breathtakingly cacophonous, odiferous, garish mess of colour and filth and wealth and poverty, all smooshed into one. (If you have ever seen the HBO mini-series Rome, you will know what I am talking about.) What impact could a piece of infrastructure, even one as splendid as an aqueduct, have had on such glorious squalor?

Nonetheless, aqueducts are amazing. Pompeii had fresh water piped in from the nearby springs at Acquaro, about 26 km from the town, from sometime in the late 1st century BC – mid 1st century AD. Until then, rain water was the citizens' only water supply. It would have collected in cisterns beneath the impluvia open roofs of many of the wealthier homes in town. Those less fortunate could collect water from public wells, or indeed make the walk to the bank of the River Sarno. The aqueduct improved matters, ensuring a fairly continuous supply of FRESH and FLOWING water, however tainted with lead from the piping.

The name, aqueduct, is apt. aqua water was ductus led down from the springs. This was done without the aid of a mechanised pump, instead relying on water pressure and gravity, via pipes above, below or at ground level (ductus comes from the Verb duco I lead, cognate with the Noun dux leader). The underlying principle was that water, given the opportunity, will of course flow downward. When an aqueduct carries water over a long distance, it must gradually slope down towards its destination, but not too steeply. The gradient has to be maintained with astonishing accuracy so that the water will continue to flow steadily, smoothly, and marginally downhill, over tens of kilometres.

Caroline’s piece will conclude tomorrow. If you or one of your students would like to write a Guest Post for Legonium, I would love to hear from you. I can be reached on visitLegonium@gmail.com.

Soon we arrived at the baths. Today the baths are only ruins, but we were able to imagine in our mind(s) people washing themselves there.

urbanitas – you either have it or you don’t / February 16, 2017 by Anthony Gibbins

The Oxford Latin Dictionary defines urbanitas as refinement or polish or style, especially as marked by elegance, good taste and smartness of humour. Or, to put it another way (and to reveal its inbuilt prejudices), the qualities typical of a city-dweller, sophistication. Domitius Marsus, a poet of the Augustan Age and one of Maecenas’ inner circle, wrote a treatise on the subject, de urbanitate, now sadly lost. In Cicero’s de oratore, urbanitas is considered along with sal character : urbanitas being an elegant and cultured mode of expressing one’s sal to others. These references are collected by J.P. Sullivan in Martial : the unexpected classic. Sullivan also provides this elaboration;

Now the word urbanitas is essentially how a sophisticated Roman would refer to that broad and diachronically shifting quality or phenomenon once called ‘wit’.

urbanitas belongs to a family of words, the most common of which is urbs city. In the Latin context the quintessential urbs was, of course, Roma. There are also two Adverbs, urbane with refined politeness, suavely, urbanely, with refined humour, wittily and urbanatim in the style of a city-dweller. And then there is the Adjective urbanus having the style of the city, elegant and sophisticated, free from uncouthness, polished and smart. If you find the inbuilt assumptions of these terms worrying, you may not be alone. mus urbanus et mus rusticus The City Mouse and the Country Mouse, is an exploration of the highs and lows of both lifestyles. Horace has the mus rusticus conclude of urban living;

This life’s no use to me: and so, farewell: my woodland hole,

And simple vetch, safe from such scares, they’ll do for me.

One last example from the ancient literature, this time from Catullus who, mea sententia, oozes urbanitas. Suffenus, Catullus writes in poem 22, is stylish in everything that he does – except in the writing of his god-awful poetry;

homo est venustus et dicax et urbanus.

He is a person charming and witty and urbanus.

Claudia tells Miranda that Marcus was both urbanus and iucundus delightful. I could try hold you here longer to discuss that word too, but that would show a distinct lack of style.

I led Marcus through the streets to the baths. Without a doubt, he was a delightful and urbanus man. Walking we talked about the ancient town.