by Mary Beard
There is a good deal of truth in this argument (even though we tend to attribute far too much uniform consistency to the Romans in law as in much else). The surviving constitutions in some respects certainly match the practices we have seen in other sorts of evidence at Pompeii. One formal requirement in a Spanish charter is that the duoviri and aediles should present games, partly from their own money. In the legalese of the lex, it runs:
Whoever shall be duoviri, except for those who shall be first appointed after this statute, they during their term of office are to organise a show or dramatic spectacle for Jupiter, Juno, Minerva and the gods and goddesses, during four days, for the greater part of the day, as far as shall be possible according to the decision of the council, and each one of them is to spend on that spectacle and on that show not less than 2000 sesterces from his own money, and it is to be lawful to take and spend out of public money up to 2000 sesterces for each duumvir, and it is to be lawful for them to do so without personal liability ...
This is a typical piece of careful Roman drafting: note how they lay down explicitly that the shows should last ‘for the greater part of the day’ (there was to be no getting away with just a morning’s worth). It is almost certain, to judge from the tombstone of Aulus Clodius Flaccus, that some very similar clause was included in the Pompeian constitution too.
The surviving constitutions remind us also of the kinds of issues that the Pompeian version must have covered. These range from particular questions of legal practice and procedures (what cases could be heard locally, or under what circumstances might they be referred to courts in Rome itself?) to arrangements for the timetabling of meetings of the ordo or rules on where councillors should live (the same Spanish constitution specifies a five-year residence requirement in the town or within a mile of it). But it is much harder to know exactly how closely any of the details would be reflected in the lost Pompeian document.
Another clause from the Spanish version lays out precisely what attendants each of the officials should have, and how much they should be paid. It is in the same formal legal style:
Whoever shall be duoviri, there is to be the right and power for those duoviri, for each one of them, to have two lictors, one servant, two scribes, two messengers, a clerk, a crier, a haruspex, a flute-player ... And the fee for them, for each one of them, who shall serve the duoviri, is to be so much: for each scribe 1200 sesterces, for each servant 700 sesterces, for each lictor 600 sesterces, for each messenger 400 sesterces, for each clerk 300 sesterces, for each haruspex 500 sesterces, for a crier 300 sesterces.
This is not only carefully drafted. Note how the wording makes it absolutely clear that this is the staff which each duumvir will have (though, less carefully, the pay for the flute-player seems to have been omitted). It also offers a vivid glimpse into the role of a local official and how he might carry it out. The haruspex and flute-player hint at the religious duties of the duumvir (a haruspex would examine the entrails of sacrificed animals for signs from the gods (Chapter 9)). The scribes – by far the best paid – and the clerk imply that a good deal of writing was involved in the job, though the crier makes it clear that there were oral as well as written ways of transmitting information. The mention of lictors, attendants who in Rome itself carried the bundles of rods and an axe, the fasces, that were the symbol of official Roman authority, suggests that the duoviri were surrounded by a certain degree of pomp and ceremonial.
The question is, can we assume that the Pompeian duoviri enjoyed the services of the same or similar staff. They are certainly not prominent in the written evidence from the town – hardly extending beyond the single ‘public slave’ doing the city’s business in the Jucundus tablets, and a group of four ‘clerks’ who sign their names on an inn wall. This does not prove that they did not exist. As the old archaeological cliché goes, ‘absence of evidence is not evidence of absence’. All the same, it is hard not to suspect on the basis of what survives that the Pompeian duoviri worked with a more skeleton staff than some of their equivalents elsewhere. Certainly, if this was his entourage, the salary bill alone would have eaten up almost 75 per cent of what Aulus Clodius Flaccus paid when he entered office as duumvir.
70. A sketch reconstructing the interior of the Basilica in the Forum, an imposing building for a small town. The columns provided a convenient place for local graffiti artists to leave their messages.
But there is a more significant point here. For we must always remember that many of the confident claims of modern scholars about how local government worked in Pompeii are drawn not from the evidence found in, or about, the town itself, but from documents that refer to other – albeit similar – communities. Of course it may well be true, as it is so often stated, that the ordo at Pompeii was made up of a hundred members; or that the duoviri and aediles wore the toga praetexta (the toga with a purple border worn by senators in Rome itself). It is, however, a conjecture, based on what is known in other similar towns.
Perhaps the most intriguing gap in our knowledge of the way the city was run lies in the simple, day-to-day practicalities of Pompeian political life. What, for example, went on in a meeting of the ordo of decurions? How did a duumvir or aedile spend his day? Even simpler, where did formal political business take place? It is a reasonable assumption that most of it was conducted in the Forum, but exactly where we do not know. The three buildings at the southern end of the piazza are usually thought to be connected with the local government and are marked on many modern maps of the town as ‘council chamber’, ‘government office’ and ‘archive’ (Fig. 14). But the only evidence for this is their location, the fact that they have no other obvious purpose, and that the council and other officials surely need a meeting place somewhere. Hardly an overwhelming argument: in Rome itself, the senate often met in a temple – why not here too?
Legal cases may well have been conducted in the large and grandly decorated building in the Forum known as the Basilica (Ill. 70). The duumvir would perhaps have directed proceedings, and made his judgement from the raised platform at the far end – though the fact that there is a base for a statue right in front of the platform, blocking the view, makes that reconstruction rather less likely than it might seem at first sight. In any case, to think of this as a permanently designated courtroom, and only as a courtroom, would be to exaggerate the time spent on legal business in the town. Legal geniuses the Romans may have been, but the chances are that in Pompeii, as elsewhere in the ancient world, most disputes were settled, and most crimes punished, outside the full mechanisms of the law. Even the duoviri might have operated relatively informally, as we saw in the paintings of the Forum, where some kind of dispute was apparently being settled under the colonnade (Ill. 28).
The one thing we know for certain about the Basilica is that lots of people stood around there with plenty of time on their hands: for it has provided one of the richest stocks of graffiti anywhere in the city, hundreds and hundreds of them. Almost none of these have any obvious legal flavour (although the scrawled maxim ‘A tiny problem becomes a vast one if you ignore it’ might appeal to a tidy legal brain). Most are the kind of street-talk we have seen before, including a memorable couplet wishing on some unfortunate person called Chius even worse piles than he already has (‘so that they burn more than they’ve burned before’). There is one graffito, however, which may refer to the duoviri and their staff, albeit under the cover of a crude pun. It reads: ‘If you bugger the accensus, you burn your prick’. Accensus in Latin can mean ‘fire’. So at first sight, this is more of the usual earthy style of humour (‘If you bugger the fire, etc. ...’). But there is another sense of the word accensus, found in the Roman city constitutions: it means the ‘servant’ of the duumvir or aedile. Is this a different sort of joke then – about meddling with the duumvir’s assistants?
Maybe there is a hint here about how we should picture Pompeian public life: less formal and, at the same time, less familiar than the image we so often draw from a combinatio
n of upmarket Latin literature, nineteenth-century paintings and novels, and sword-and-sandals movies. We cannot hope to be able to reconstruct with any accuracy a meeting of the Pompeian ordo. We do not know where, or how often, it met, or how many members it had, or what particular topics it would have discussed. (Did it normally ‘fix’ the elections to the duovirate, by prearranging which ex-aediles would stand? Did it discuss the management problems of the city’s farm, or Lucius Caecilius Jucundus’ arrears of his rent?) But it is very unlikely that it was ever full of starchy figures in togas, standing to orate in grave and earnest style, as if rulers of the world (that is probably a misleading image even for the senate at Rome itself). It was probably much more down to earth, much less pompous – even in our terms, I suspect, a little seedy.
The same goes for the business of the duoviri and aediles. True, there must have been some elements of pomp and grandeur in holding these offices. That is certainly the image implied by the tombstone of Aulus Clodius Flaccus, and by the references in other city charters to lictors and fancy togas. But it is hard not to suspect that the day-to-day reality was altogether less grand, more improvised and more rough and ready. It is easy enough to invent, as scholars often have, an impressive-sounding schedule for these local bigwigs: rise and receive clients at the morning salutatio, leave home for the Forum, handle financial affairs, sign contracts, deal with law cases, network at the baths, entertain over dinner ... There is some evidence for almost all of these activities (and, interestingly, the times of day noted on the signed documents from Puteoli (p. 182) do show a clear preference for financial business in the early to mid-morning). But how regular and systematic such a schedule was, and how far we can work out what most of these activities actually entailed, is another matter. How busy these officials were, how many hours a day they spent on their official duties, what expertise they could draw on in managing the city’s affairs, how they conducted legal business when many of them could have had little or no legal training are just some of the curious puzzles, for us, of life in Pompeii.
The face of success
We know a good deal more about the men who held office in Pompeii than we do about the day-to-day practicalities of local government. Even in those earlier periods where the electoral posters are lost (and with them the names of the candidates standing for office), we can still work out in many cases who the elected duoviri and aediles were, and even in which year they held office. It is a delicate business of piecing together a list from the names and dates found, for example, in Jucundus’ tablets, from inscriptions commemorating those who sponsored building works or gladiatorial shows, and the names and offices blazoned on tombstones.
The end result is that for some decades we know the names of over half the local officeholders; during the reigns of Augustus and Tiberius (partly because there was so much building work going on in Pompeii), that figure rises to at least three quarters. Some of these remain just names. Others we can get to know much more intimately: we can see something of their individual achievements and aspirations, and of how they chose to be remembered. Just occasionally we can put a face to a name.
These officeholders conformed to a certain type. Not everyone in Pompeii would have been eligible to stand for election, not even all the free citizens. Assuming that it was organised like other towns in the Roman world, those who put themselves forward to become an aedile or a duumvir were formally required to be male, adult, of free-citizen birth, respectable and rich. This means, for example, that no ex-slave could hold public office at this level. A slave granted his freedom by a Roman citizen became a citizen himself and could vote in elections, a strategy of incorporation almost without parallel among other slave-owning societies. But it was only in the next generation – for their sons were under no such restriction – that the family of an ex-slave could begin to play a completely free part in local government. It also means that the poor were not merely discouraged from standing for office by its various obligations (for how could they have afforded the entrance fee and the required benefactions?). They were also formally prevented from doing so by a minimum property qualification: in other towns, 100,000 sesterces’ worth was a common minimum. There were also rules which excluded a variety of unsuitable professions, such as actors, and laid down the minimum age for office. At Pompeii, no one under twenty-five, or perhaps thirty, was allowed to be an aedile.
There was still room, however, for plenty of variety among the officeholders at Pompeii: from those who must only just have reached the property qualification to men of very considerable means; from the local landed aristocracy to the newly rich. Aulus Umbricius Scaurus’ family, as we have seen, had recently made their money out of garum. Caius Julius Polybius has a name which hints that his family was descended from a slave in the emperor’s household. Others, like Marcus Holconius Rufus, whom we shall shortly meet face to face, belonged to a family prominent in Pompeii for generations and whose wealth derived mostly from its land.
Generations of scholars have looked for a pattern in these variations. Can we, for example, spot periods when the nouveaux riches become more prominent? After the earthquake, perhaps? Despite an enormous amount of work (and ingenuity) the only safe conclusion is an unsurprising one. Some old families were prominent in the town’s hierarchy from the early first century BCE until the eruption. Throughout this period members of newer families often gained public office, making up around 50 per cent of aediles and duoviri, but they seem rarely to have gained a permanent foothold in the elite. A mixed society, in other words, but one where old money always counted.
Just occasionally we find an interloper, when one of the duoviri came from outside the local community. This may have broken the rules for local residence, but in these cases that would hardly have been a worry – for the officeholder concerned was the emperor himself or an imperial prince. Caligula was twice duumvir of Pompeii, once in 34 CE in the reign of Tiberius (when, for what it’s worth, he must also have been considerably below the minimum age required for the office), and once as emperor six years later. In fact, when Caligula was assassinated in January 41 CE, he was halfway through his term of office as duumvir quinquennalis at Pompeii. There seems to have been no illusion that he would have undertaken any practical duties of the duumvirate, for on each occasion we find an additional ‘prefect with judicial power’ in office – acting, as is explicitly stated in one inscription, on the emperor’s behalf. This office of ‘prefect’ proved a useful stand-by on other occasions too. Experienced men obviously deemed ‘a safe pair of hands’ were appointed as praefecti following the riot in the Amphitheatre and after the earthquake of 62 to take the lead in the emergency.
How exactly would Caligula’s duumvirate have been arranged? And where would the initiative have come from: the imperial palace or Pompeii itself? One theory is that by inserting an emperor or prince into the local government, even in an honorary capacity, the central authorities in Rome were attempting to gain some control of affairs in the town. It was, in other words, a punishment or a rescue bid after some crisis in the town’s management. Hard as it is to imagine the mad Caligula ever being more of a help than a hindrance, maybe even a nominal imperial presence would make scrutiny and central government intervention easier. But more likely an imperial name among the duoviri would be considered an honour for the town, and the initiative would have come from the Pompeian side. Caligula’s agreement to accept the office would have been the result of careful negotiation between Pompeii and palace officials – not unlike, I imagine, the delicate protocols that lie behind securing the visit of a British ‘minor royal’ to a school fete.
Honour was also at stake in some extraordinary appointments to the town council. One young lad, Numerius Popidius Celsinus, was given membership of the ordo ‘without payment’ at the age of only six, because he had rebuilt the temple of Isis at his own expense. Or so the inscription says – presumably his father, an ex-slave, rebuilt it in his son’s name and so eased the boy’s path
into the local elite. Another precocious councillor was a young member of that long-established elite family whose burial ground has been discovered at Scafati. Decimus Lucretius Justus was nominated to the council without charge when he was only eight years old; he died at thirteen. Almost certainly these ‘honorary members’ did not have full rights within the ordo. Documents from elsewhere in the Roman world suggest that there may well have been different ranks of councillors, some who would not have had the right to speak in discussion. All the same, a handful of pre-teens makes a startling addition to our picture of the ordo.
Aediles, duoviri and councillors were the very top notch of Pompeian society, in wealth, influence and power. They formed the local ruling class – or the ‘decurial class’ as they are often now called (from ‘decurion’, meaning councillor). Even so, these local bigwigs fell far behind the rich powerbrokers of the capital itself. A property qualification of 100,000 sesterces (if that is what it was at Pompeii) is substantial enough. From the reign of Augustus on, it took ten times that amount, 1,000,000 sesterces, to qualify to be a senator at Rome, the very top rank of the Roman social hierarchy. In fact, many Roman senators did have their origins in the country towns of Italy. But there is not a single senator whom we know for certain came from Pompeii or a Pompeian family; they might have owned attractive seaside villas in the neighbourhood, but it was not their ancestral home.