2025

January - ‘A Coat of Many Colours: Depictions of Joseph on Late Roman Textile Fragments’ by Cameron Heagney

February - 'Perspectives of Perusal: The Yorkshire Museum's Four Seasons Mosaic' by Noah Fenwick

March - 'Love and Loss: Commemorating Children in Romano-British Tombstones' by Zhian Zhang

April - 'The Lex Ursonensis and the Romanisation of Baetica' by Carlos Enríquez de Salamanca

May - 'Beauty and the Beast, Polyphemus and Galatea, a love story?' by Elena Claudi and Jacqui Butler

June - 'Roman sailors in Australia? Discovering the Roman navy from the Nicholson epigraphic collection of the University of Sydney' by Ludovico Bevilacqua

July - 'How Were the Romans Connected by Death? A Sarcophagus in the Uffizi' by Rose Su

How Were the Romans Connected by Death? A Sarcophagus in the Uffizi by Rose Su

Bibliography

Roman sailors in Australia? Discovering the Roman navy from the Nicholson epigraphic collection of the University of Sydney by Ludovico Bevilacqua

Did ancient Roman sailors ever make it to Australia? Well, their funerary monuments certainly did in the nineteenth century, and today they offer a fascinating window into the Roman navy and the lives of those who served in it. The Nicholson epigraphic collection of the University of Sydney consists of 68 funerary inscriptions, 63 of which are written in Latin and 5 in Greek. Today these are displayed at the Chau Chak Wing Museum of the University of Sydney, New South Wales (Fig. 1).

Almost all the inscriptions were collected by Sir Charles Nicholson (1808-1903), the English founder of the University of Sydney (1850), during two trips which he made through Italy between 1857 and 1858. These travels are testified by his original Passport, today kept in the Archives of the University of Sydney, and the analysis of it allows us to reconstruct where he acquired the objects (Fig. 2). In 1860, at the time when he was University Provost, Nicholson donated his inscriptions to the institution, together with hundreds of other ancient objects. His aim was to establish the first Australian Museum of Antiquities, which became known worldwide as the Nicholson Museum, recently transferred into the new Chau Chak Wing Museum.

The Nicholson epigraphic collection, for the most part, was collected from Rome and the surrounding countryside and the territory of the Campi Flegrei near Naples. In particular, 7 inscribed plaques, almost all of which came from Campania, deal with sailors of one of the two ancient Roman fleets, the classis praetoria Misenensis, whose headquarters were located, not by chance, in the ancient city of Misenum (Miseno), close to Naples. In this context, the funerary inscriptions related to seamen of the Roman fleet appear to be characterised by some common features, which we can easily recognise in the objects from the Nicholson collection. They are generally carved on rectangular white marble plaques, sometimes re-used, with irregular sides and have no decoration. Although not all of the plaques contain explicit references to the fleet in their text, they almost all indicate at least the name of the ship on which the deceased or the dedicator served, confirming that they were actually seamen. Most of them clarify the age of the deceased (vixit annis n^o), often accompanied by his years of service in the fleet (militavit annis n^o), and his role on board (e.g. manipularis). In half of the cases, the text records the sailor’s heritage, expressed through the term natio, and the typology and name of the ship where he served (e.g. ex III [3 = trireme] Fide]. In particular, while the details related to the age of the deceased seem to have usually been approximated to multiples of 5, as in the ancient world it was hard to deal with this information with precision, the references to the years of service are considered to be reliable, as they were carefully recorded in the Roman army (Fig. 3).

At the beginning of the Principate of Octavian, after the battle of Actium in 31 BC, a new military port for the Roman fleet was built under the supervision of Agrippa at the Campanian promontory of Miseno. The aim was to substitute a previous structure which had been built during the war against Sextus Pompey in the Tyrrhenian Sea but had rapidly become unusable for natural causes, the portus Iulius near Pozzuoli. The new port was built inside two natural basins and, alongside Ravenna on the Adriatic Sea, became the main naval base of the Roman fleet for the following centuries in which it dominated the Mediterranean. The port also contributed to the development of the city of Miseno, that was then made independent from the administration of Cuma. During the centuries of its activity, the fleet of Miseno consisted of at least one hexeris (ship with six banks of oars), one penteris (five) and various quadriremes (four), triremes (three) and liburnae (two), on the basis of their dimensions. The Roman sailors, who were at the same time the soldiers and the rowers of the ships, were subordinated to a military hierarchy which was similar to the one of land troops: they were called milites or manipulares (“soldiers”), not nautae (“sailors”), and had different roles according to their function on board, divided between soldiers, technicians, sub-officers and officers (Fig. 4).

From the time of Vespasian to that of Septimius Severus, the term of military service on the ships, the longest and the least prestigious of the Roman army, lasted 26 years, and was then raised to 28 years. The seamen’s age of enlistment was usually between 18 and 23 years old, but they could also voluntarily join the navy when they were older. Sailors were usually enlisted among peregrini (foreign non-citizens who were however freeborn) from a variety of different areas of the Mediterranean. They often specified their heritage on documents related to them, such as funerary inscriptions and military diplomas, using the formula “natione + a geographical adjective”. According to the surviving sources it seems that, in the case of Miseno, the favourite enrolment areas were Egypt and Thrace, the latter especially from theThracian “Bessi” people, where the majority of the milites came from (Fig. 5).

As is commonly believed by scholars, under the rule of Vespasian the fleet was given the name of praetoria. Probably in relation to this occurrence, from the end of the first century AD sailors, from the moment of their enlistment, replaced their original foreign names as peregrini with a new Roman one, made up of three Latin names (tria nomina – first name, family name and nickname), like all the Roman citizens. The sailors either chose their new denomination on their own or were given it by the fleet’s officers. This resulted in a striking variety of seamen’s names in Miseno and Ravenna, even though a few common habits can be recognised. In particular, the new family names were usually chosen among widespread Roman names(e.g. Iulius, Fig. 3), which could be referred to former Emperors or to officers and fellow soldiers of the fleet. On the other side, the new nicknames generally came from the sailors’ original non-Latin names (e.g. Buccio, Fig. 5) or from a traditional collection of Roman epithets, especially the ones referred to moral or physical qualities(e.g. Valens, Severus) (Fig. 4).

As confirmed by epigraphic sources, during the years spent in the navy, seamen created common law families with their partners, who were often freedwomen or daughters of fellow soldiers, and had children and sometimes owned slaves and freedmen. Apart from these relationships, it seems that the manipulares of the fleet during their service did not integrate much into society at Miseno and created, instead, a separate community of sailors. Most of the references to people from outside the milites’ families found on funerary inscriptions are linked to other members of the fleet, who had usually been appointed as heirs of the deceased. Indeed, it was customary for seamen to nominate their heirs among their fellows, often exclusively, making them responsible for their belongings, burial and gravestone, and for the safeguard of their not legally recognised families, in case of sudden death during service (Fig. 3).

At the end of their conscription, through the honesta missio (“honourable discharge”) veterans obtained full Roman citizenship and their eventual common-law marriages were officially recognised. Most of them, as it is possible to learn from the inscriptions related to sailors who explicitly presented themselves as veterans, remained at Miseno or in the surrounding area, where they generally started commercial or agricultural activities, finally integrating into society in the city. A few people continued serving past their required term of service, probably because of their experience in specific technical roles (Fig. 5). The habit of definitively settling in the urban centre where they had served was mainly favoured by the existence of a collegium (corporation) which reunited all the navy veterans at Miseno. That represented an occasion for them to take part in the social and political life of the city and to gain social promotion for themselves and their descendants, who sometimes even entered the ordo decurionum (the ruling class of the city).

In conclusion, despite their nineteenth-century transfer to the other side of the world, the ancient inscriptions from the former Nicholson Collection remain a paramount source for our understanding of the Roman past. Above all, the group of seven funerary plaques relating to sailors from Campania, almost all on display at the Chau Chak Wing Museum of the University of Sydney, Level 2, significantly enhances our understanding of the organisation of the Roman navy and the lives of the men who served in it.

Bibliography

AE = L'année épigraphique, 1888-.

CIL = Corpus inscriptionum Latinarum, Berlin 1863-.

Bevilacqua, L. (2022) The Nicholson Epigraphic Collection of the University of Sydney, MA Thesis, Ca’ Foscari University of Venice, a.y. 2021/2022.

Chau Chak Wing Museum Website, Collections search, Nicholson's epigraphic collection: https://www.sydney.edu.au/museums/collections_search/?record=enarratives.980.

Chioffi, L. (2013) ‘Portus Iulius. Un porto militare?’, Mélanges de l’École française de Rome. Antiquité 125.1.

Fitzhardinge, L.F. (1951) ‘Naval Epitaphs from Misenum in the Nicholson Museum, Sydney’, The Journal of Roman Studies 41:17-21.

Forni, G. (1979) ‘L’anagrafia del soldato e del veterano’, in Actes du VII° Congrès International d’Épigraphie Grecque et Latine, Pippidi, D.M. (ed.), Conference proceedings (Bucaresti – Paris) 205-28.

Parma, A. (1992) ‘Osservazioni sul patrimonio epigrafico flegreo con particolare riguardo a Misenum’, in Civiltà dei Campi Flegrei. Atti del Convegno Internazionale, Gigante, M. (ed.), Conference proceedings (Napoli) 215-7.

Parma, A. (1994) ‘Classiari, veterani e società cittadina a Misenum’, Ostraka 3.1: 43-59.

Parma, A. (1999) ‘Per una tipologia delle iscrizioni funerarie dei classiari misenati’, in Atti del XI Congresso Internazionale di Epigrafia Greca e Latina, Conference proceedings (Roma) 1, 817-24.

Parma, A. (2002) ‘Note sull’origine geografica dei classiari nelle flotte imperiali: i marinai di provenienza nordafricana’, in L’Africa romana, 14. Lo spazio marittimo del Mediterraneo occidentale: geografia storica ed economica, Khanoussi, M. - Ruggeri, P. - Vismara, C. (eds), Conference proceedings (Roma) 323-32.

Parma, A. (2017) ‘Nuovi dati su società cittadina e classiari a Misenum: prime note’, in Colonie e municipi nell’era digitale. Documentazione epigrafica per la conoscenza delle città antiche, Antolini, S. - Marengo, S.M. - Paci, G. (eds), Conference proceedings (Tivoli, Roma) 459-72.

Passport of Nicholson, containing visas to a number of European countries, University of Sydney Archives, Personal Archives of Sir Charles Nicholson, Group P.4, Series 2, Item 2.

Reddè, M. (1986) Mare nostrum: les infrastructures, le dispositif et l'histoire de la marine militaire sous l'Empire romain (Rome).

Reeve, E. (1870) Catalogue of the Museum of Antiquities of Sydney University (Sydney).

Salomies, O. (1996) ‘Observations on some names of sailors serving in the fleets at Misenum and Ravenna’, Arctos 30:167-86.

Starr, C. (1960, 2^nd edition) The Roman imperial navy (Cambridge).

Trendall, A.D. (1948, 2^nd edition) Handbook to the Nicholson Museum (Sydney).

Beauty and the Beast: Polyphemus and Galatea, a love story? by Elena Claudi and Jacqui Butler

What first springs to mind when you think of Polyphemus? Most likely it is the monstrous one-eyed Cyclops, the Homeric ogre who imprisoned Odysseus and his men in his cave, devouring them one by one (Homer, Odyssey 9.116-566). This is certainly how he is first represented in archaic art; scenes of his blinding by Odysseus are a recurrent theme on Greek vases (Fig. 1). However, despite this being a key part of his characterisation, there is more to Polyphemus’ depiction in surviving Greek and Roman literature and art than simply a one-eyed, man-eating monster. This article explores the lesser-known love story between Polyphemus and the Nereid (sea nymph) Galatea which appears in both literary sources and frescoes from Pompeii and surrounding sites in Campania.

One of the earliest sources (4^th-3^rd century BCE) that tells us of the love between Polyphemus and Galatea is Theocritus in his Idylls 6 and 11. The former describes a bucolic competition between the two oxherds Daphnis and Damoetas who perform two contraposed songs: the first one is addressed to Polyphemus and describes the fickle nature of Galatea; the second song is performed by Damoetas, who acts the part of Polyphemus. The Cyclops tries to arouse Galatea’s interest by ignoring her and praising his own beauty: “The other day, when there was a calm, I was looking into the sea, and in my judgment my beard seemed fair, and fair my single eye, and it reflected the gleam of my teeth whiter than Parian marble” (Theoc. Id. 6.35-38, trad. N. Hopkinson).

A similar illusion – grotesque and comic – characterises Polyphemus’ song in Idyll 11: although he is aware of his unattractive physical appearance, the Cyclops tries to seduce Galatea, but then realises that the Nereid will not reciprocate and, while talking to himself, expresses his resentment: “why do you pursue someone who flees? Maybe you’ll find another Galatea who is even prettier. Many girls invite me to play with them through the night, and they all giggle when I take notice. It’s clear that on land I too am a somebody.” (Theoc. Id. 11.75-79, trad. N. Hopkinson). Idyll 11 represents a naive and clumsy Cyclops who arouses our sympathy for him. The contrast between the roughness of Polyphemus and the beauty of Galatea creates a tragicomic distance between the “beauty” and the “beast” and makes us question whether the giggles of the many girls who invite the Cyclops to play are meant to seduce or mock him.

Among the Latin sources, Ovid’s Metamorphoses (1^st century BCE-1^st century CE) is the text that narrates more extensively the myth of Polyphemus and Galatea and proposes a different perspective, Galatea’s, as she tells Scylla the unfortunate ending of her love story in confidence. In this version, the Nereid is in love with Acis, who is transformed into a river after the jealous Polyphemus kills him with a rock. The song of Polyphemus, who tries to seduce Galatea in vain, is here quoted by Galatea and imitates Polyphemus’ song in Idyll 11. However, in contrast with Theocritus’ Idyll, in the Metamorphoses, Galatea portrays Polyphemus as a violent man whose brutal nature cannot be changed by love and whose jealousy determines the hate of the Nereid: “Nor, if you should ask me, could I tell which was stronger in me, my hate of Cyclops or my love of Acis; for both were in equal measure.” (Ov. Met. 13.756-8, trad. F. J. Miller).

Similarly, the Dialogues of the Sea-Gods 1 by Lucian, a Greek text written in the 2^nd century CE, shows us a mingling of love and repulsion in the dialogue between Galatea and Doris. While Doris criticises Polyphemus’ physical appearance and behaviour realistically and bluntly, Galatea tries to overturn her friend’s observations by showing her lover in a positive light.

GALATEA

[…] But not one of you has any shepherd or sailor or boatman to admire her. Besides, Polyphemus is musical.

DORIS

You’d better not talk about that, Galatea. We heard his singing the other day, when he came serenading you. Gracious Aphrodite! Anyone would have taken it for the braying of an ass. (Lucian, Dialogues of the Sea-Gods 1.3-4, trad. M. D. MacLeod)

Polyphemus is considered from a more ruthless perspective also in the Imagines (2.18) of Philostratus (2^nd-3^rd century CE). This ekphrastic text describes the various paintings of a Neapolitan house; one of them portrays Polyphemus as he is singing and wooing Galatea, who, nevertheless, is in the sea, ignoring him and looking at the horizon. The Imagines point out the brutal nature of the Cyclops and his illusion of being a sweet lover, while, instead, he appears to the viewers as a beast: “He thinks, because he is in love, that his glance is gentle, but it is wild and stealthy still, like that of wild beasts subdued under the force of necessity.” (Philostr. Imag. 2.18.3, trad. A. Fairbanks).

The description of Philostratus that portrays Polyphemus singing to Galatea and looking at her from his mountain resembles the Third Style painting from the Augustan villa at Boscotrecase which dates to ca. 11 BCE (Fig. 2). It is a pastoral and idyllic scene with Polyphemus (interestingly not portrayed as a particularly large figure) sitting centrally on a rock with a flock of goats in the foreground; lovestruck, he raises his panpipes to play and woo Galatea, who sits below left on a dolphin, as her clothing billows around her in the breeze.

So far, so romantic; but look upward to the right of centre, and we see another figure standing on a rocky outcrop about to hurl a large rock at a departing ship. This alludes to the separate Homeric part of Polyphemus’ narrative, but also perhaps to the other more violent side of his character. The repetition of the same character in Greek and Roman art is referred to as continuous narrative, and the recurrent character usually features in several scenes, as in a frieze. Alongside this, whether the painting represents the reciprocal love between Polyphemus and Galatea, or Polyphemus’ unrequited love, is difficult to answer definitively. This uncertainty may have been part of the composition’s appeal – the viewer chose which version they understood from the painting.

Is this the same painting described in the Imagines? It is unlikely, as the paintings described by Philostratus probably did not exist (Webb, 2006). However, real paintings could have inspired Philostratus to engross his audience in his descriptions by reminding the readers or listeners of artworks they saw (Squire 2015, esp. 204, 211).

The painting from Boscotrecase is one of many from Campania which depict the Polyphemus and Galatea narrative, with approximately twenty-two known portrayals depicting different parts of their relationship. The Vesuvian eruption provides a terminus ante quem dating of 79 CE for all the frescoes, although some of the mythological Third Style paintings are dated to the first century BCE.

Most (but not all) of the surviving Polyphemus/Galatea paintings can be categorised into three different types: Polyphemus seeing or wooing Galatea who sits upon a sea creature, Eros and Polyphemus with a letter, and the couple as lovers. While the first type is best represented in the example we have just considered, the second composition depicts Eros either delivering a letter from Galatea to Polyphemus, or receiving a letter from Polyphemus to take to Galatea.

These are again generally idyllic pastoral scenes, with Polyphemus’ role as a shepherd indicated by the inclusion of a staff. The best surviving example is from Herculaneum (Fig. 3); Polyphemus is seated on a rock holding a lyre and stretching his right hand towards Eros. The ambiguity as to whether Polyphemus is giving or receiving the letter may suggest that, similar to the Boscotrecase painting, the viewer could decide what was happening. Alternatively, this composition could reflect an element of narrative which more clearly told this part of the story, perhaps a lost literary source, or another form of storytelling.

The third composition type depicts the supposed happy outcome of Polyphemus and Galatea’s story; Appian, writing in the 2^nd century CE, believed this was the most convincing version of the narrative and names their three sons Celtus, Illyrius and Galas (Appian Roman History, 9.2). In the frescoes the couple are usually shown in an intimate embrace, as seen in the painting from the Casa della Caccia Antica, Pompeii (Fig. 4). This is a sensual image; Polyphemus stands behind the mostly naked Galatea, who reaches up to embrace him as he encircles her in his arms. The viewer’s recognition of the scene is aided by the inclusion of the sheep and staff. Interestingly, a painting depicting Polyphemus wooing Galatea featured in another room in the same house. This suggests that in the context of this particular house, the paintings may have been viewed progressively, with viewers first encountering the wooing image where there is an element of tension as the outcome is uncertain, before seeing reciprocal love as the conclusion.

To sum up, some parallels can be drawn between the literary sources for the Polyphemus and Galatea narrative and their depiction in the Campanian wall paintings. However, the paintings have a sense of freedom in how the viewer may have interacted with them. Well-educated viewers were likely familiar with the different versions (including perhaps theatrical versions), which informed their response and interpretation of images. For Polyphemus, we have various literary and visual representations which show different dynamics between him and Galatea, some making us question whether they are in love or the Nereid is rejecting her admirer, and others where their love seems a foregone conclusion. Regardless, Polyphemus’ love for Galatea provides a softer and more human element to his character which contrasts with his often monstrous ogre portrayal and invites a more complex interpretation of his multifaceted persona.

Bibliography

Primary Sources:

Appian, Roman History, Volume II (2019), edited and translated by B. McGing (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press).

Lucian, Dialogues of the Dead. Dialogues of the Sea-Gods. Dialogues of the Gods. Dialogues of the Courtesans (1961), translated by M. D. MacLeod (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press).

Ovid, Metamorphoses (Volume II: Books 9-15) (1916), translated by F. J. Miller; revised by G. P. Goold (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press).

Philostratus the Elder, Imagines; Philostratus the Younger, Imagines; Callistratus, Descriptions (1931), translated by A. Fairbanks (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press).

Theocritus, Moschus, Bion (2015), edited and translated by Neil Hopkinson (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press).

Secondary Sources:

Goldhill, S. (1988) ‘Desire and the figure of fun: glossing Theocritus 11’ in Post-Structuralist Classics, ed. A. Benjamin (London: Routledge) 79-105.

Hodske, J. (2007) Mythologische Bildthemen in den Hausern Pompejis (Ruhpolding, Franz Philipp Rutzen).

Leach, E.W. (2004) The Social Life of Painting in Ancient Rome and on The Bay of Naples (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press).

Lorenz, K. (2015) “Wall Painting” in A Companion to Roman Art, ed. B.E. Borg (Chichester, John Wiley & Sons) pp. 252-267.

Newby, Z. (2016) Greek Myths in Roman Art and Culture Imagery, Values and Identity in Italy 50 BC-AD 250 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press).

Shapiro, H. (1994) Myth into Art, Poet and Painter in Classical Greece (London and New York, Routledge).

Squire, M. (2009) Image and Text in Graeco-Roman Antiquity (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press).

Squire, M. ed. (2015) Sight and the Ancient Senses (London, New York: Routledge).

Webb, R. (2006) “The Imagines as a Fictional Text: Ekphrasis, Apatē and Illusion” in Le défi de l’art: Philostrate, Callistrate et l’image sophistique, eds. Costantini, M. et al. (Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes), 113-136.

Woodford, S. (2003) Images of Myth in Classical Antiquity (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press).

The Lex Ursonensis and the Romanisation of Baetica by Carlos Enríquez de Salamanca

The Lex Ursonensis (CIL II²/5, 1022) [Fig. 1], the foundational charter of the colony of Urso (modern-day Osuna, Andalucía, Spain) offers a particularly good opportunity to consider the effects of Roman influence in the region and the processes traditionally considered under the term “Romanisation”. A Flavian-era (AD 69 – AD 98) copy of the charter was discovered in 1870 and is currently conserved at the Museo Arqueológico Nacional de Madrid in a series of 5 extant bronze tablets, of which we have 73 chapters that have survived, out of the original 142. These tablets measure about 59cm x 92.2cm, making them relatively large. Here, I will consider some of the phenomena that I believe are most interesting as revealed by the charter: firstly, the local elites of Baetica, traditionally seen as the spearheads of voluntary Romanisation; and secondly, the topographical changes that came with Roman colonisation/influence, which has often been seen as an extension of Romanisation. Through analysis of the charter, I hope to nuance these views and reconsider our assumptions about the effects of Roman influence.

With the arrival of the Romans to the Iberian Peninsula at the tail end of the 3rd century BC in the context of the Second Punic War, the Iberian world began to change. Throughout the following centuries, Roman presence would profoundly re-shape the political institutions, social composition, and topography of the region led by a series of urbanisations, colonisations, municipalisations, and a final universal grant of ius latii (Latin rights – a middle-ground between Roman and foreign status) under the Flavians to the whole of Hispania (Plin. NH III.30). In 45/44 BC, the colonia civium Romanorum of Urso was established under Caesar’s directive, as punishment for the city’s support of his enemies during the civil war. A Flavian-era copy of the charter of its foundation survives incomplete, and yet it is a significant piece of evidence which gives us insight into how the Romans intervened in the region.

While at the very beginning of Roman presence in the area the locals were permitted to keep their own forms of government, eventually the Roman system prevailed, “effectively [eliminating] the reguli, principes, duces, and other anomalous leaders” and replacing them with local magistrates on the Roman model (Curchin 1990, 7). These local elites were thus re-organized or re-shaped into a more Romano-Italic model with the internal government now located in the ordo decurionum or local senate (Urs. 64, 96, 98, 105). The members of the local elite could now compete for political honours in the ‘Roman’ way, through a mixture of elite co-optation and community elections which required campaigning. (Rodríguez Neila 2003, 79). Election to one of the magistracies brought with it not only honour and prestige, but also (in the Latin towns) the coveted Roman citizenship.

Access to the ordo was zealously guarded by the local elites, and this was ensured both by a series of entry requirements (age, property, citizenship of local community, free birth, and good moral standing), and by the fact that membership could be revoked (Urs. 105). Furthermore, one could only join the ordo through election (creatio) or co-optation (adlectio). However, in order to be able to stand for a magistracy, membership to the ordo was required, which ensured that the municipal honours could be safely guarded and shared within the local aristocracies (Urs. 101). Furthermore, given that the decurions would conduct periodical checks on the lists of members, they could also ensure that no undesirable people joined or stayed within their ranks.

The most important political positions were those of the local magistrates, of which three stand out: quaestors, aediles, and duumvirs. Although the lex Ursonensis does not speak of quaestors, these are well attested elsewhere, and were lower in potestas (power) to the duumvirate, and possibly at the same level or lower than the aedileship, which was, at the same time, clearly lower than the duumvirs (Mal. 54; Urs. 62). The quaestorship was not always necessary before the holding of the higher magistracies, although the aedileship did seem to be the stepping stone towards the duumvirate, despite the fact that other avenues – such as religious offices – could also serve as part of an individual’s cursus (political career) (Curchin 1990, 31-32, 40). At Urso, aediles are stated to have the duties of organising shows and games in honour of the gods, overseeing the construction of local buildings and infrastructure projects, administer the accounts of the colony, or they could even be left in charge in the absence of the duumvirs (Urs. 71, 77, 81, 94, 98). Meanwhile, the duumvirs were mainly in charge of the running of the city as the leading magistrates and settling judicial matters (Urs. 61, 77, 100).

The status and prestige those magistracies and membership of the ordo brought with them was not minor. Local aristocrats invested greatly in euergetism and donations for the cities in order to join the ordo, but also to ensure that their families and descendants would gain access to it too. For instance, see the dedication made by a duumvir at Urgavo (Arjona) to the emperor Augustus in AD 11/12 (CIL II²/7, 69) or the dedication by another duumvir (elected for a second time) of Italica (Seville) marking his donation of porticoes and arches for the city’s theatre (AE 1983, 522; Luzón & Castillo 2007, 197-198). While membership to the local aristocracy was not hereditary, the ordo had the prerogative to add or remove members, so it was very important for local elites to ensure their descendant’s inclusion in order to enhance their family’s standing. This was especially the case in cities with the Latin rights, where locals could access Roman citizenship through holding local magistracies (Salp. 21). This has led some scholars to argue that Romanisation was a voluntary and enthusiastic phenomenon, spearheaded by the local elites who had much to gain. Some elites even went so far as to leave their hometown in search of further political gains in the neighbouring towns, such as M. Marcius Proculus in Córdoba [Fig. 2], thus creating what has been dubbed a supra-local elite (Melchor Gil 2011; CIL II²/5, 257).

However, assumptions about the degree of Romanisation of areas conquered by Rome, often based on misleading information in the ancient sources, can, however, be too rash. A case in point is the idea of the 'replica model' of Roman colonisation (Enríquez de Salamanca 2024). Aulus Gellius wrote that “[Roman] colonies seem to be miniatures, as it were, and in a way copies [of Rome]” (Gell. NA 16.13.9), an assertion that later scholars took at face value, and which greatly influenced their studies of the topography of Roman colonies and colonisation (Salmon 1969; Brown 1980). It was said that a Roman colony could easily be recognised by its urban ‘kit’ that likened it to Rome, composed of a citadel with a Capitolium temple (a temple dedicated to the divine triad of Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva, as in Rome [Fig. 3]), a forum as the main political space, and, within it, a comitium (voting space) and a curia (the senate-house) (Bispham 2006; Quinn & Wilson 2013, 117, 126; Enríquez de Salamanca 2024, 120-125). This ‘kit’ would thus reaffirm Gellius’ notion and establish these colonies as enclaves of Romanisation. Can it be said that Urso presented this urban ‘kit’?

Given the scarcity of topographical surveys of the colony of Urso, we must turn to the lex Ursonensis once more and see what it tells us. It has been debated at length whether Urso had a Capitolium temple (Bendala Galán 1990, 12), and most debates focus on the mention of the Capitoline Triad on the charter itself, where it instructs the duumvirs and aediles to conduct shows and games for these deities (Urs. 70-71). This mention has been, for some, enough evidence to warrant the assertion of there being a Capitolium temple at Urso, but as Torelli clearly showed in a paper from 2014, the cult to the Capitoline Triad did not need a physical temple and could follow non-traditional forms (Torelli 2014). Given that we are focused on the topographical elements, and a Capitolium has not been unearthed at Urso, we cannot grant this point to the replica model.

The forum, and the comitium and curia present different problems. The forum and comitium are well attested in the charter, but there is no mention of a curia, nor has it been discovered. However, one might plausibly argue that there must have been a curia where the well-attested ordo decurionum could meet, and indeed that must have been the case. The forum and comitium, too, we have little reason to doubt. Surely this should be enough. However, as I have argued elsewhere – just like the existence of the forum at Corinth could easily be explained not in terms of replica, but of logical development of pre-Roman spaces (in this case, a Greek agora) – a forum, a comitium complex, and a curia in a pre-existing colonial city cannot easily be said to represent a copy of Rome, but could rather be the development of local institutions turned into the political heart of the new colonial city. One could further argue that the fact that the charter was written the same year the colony was founded, and these institutions are taken for granted, that some sort of similar places must have already existed that could be used to those effects (Enríquez de Salamanca 2024, 127-128, 130-131).

In short, the lex Ursonensis posits one of the most interesting pieces of evidence in the study of Roman intervention, Roman colonisation, provincial governance, Romanisation, and local reactions to Roman rule. In this post I hope to have showed how this charter might be used to reconstruct a picture of how Rome’s influence changed the cultural and political landscape of the provinces, in this case Baetica, but also that we should be careful about our pre-existing assumptions and how they influence how we read these sources.

Bibliography

Primary Sources:

Aulus Gellius. Attic Nights, Volume III: Books 14-20. Translated by J. C. Rolfe (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1927).

Pliny the Elder, Natural History, Volume II: Books 3-7. Translated by H. Rackman (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1942).

Secondary Sources:

Bendala Galán, M. (1990). “Capitolia Hispaniarum”, Anas 2/3, 11-36.

Bispham, E. 2006. “Coloniam Deducere: How Roman was Roman Colonization During the Middle Republic?”, in Greek and Roman Colonization, eds.: G. Bradley, J-P. Wilson (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales), 73-160.

Bonneville, J.-N. (2000) Belo VII. Le capitole (Madrid: Casa de Velázquez).

Brown, F.E. (1980). Cosa: the making of a Roman town (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press).

Curchin, L.A. (1990). The Local Magistrates of Roman Spain (Toronto: University of Toronto Press).

Enríquez de Salamanca, C. (2024). “The Emergence of the Replica Model? An Analysis of the Question of the ‘Copies of Rome’ in Late Republican Colonization Through Three Case-Studies”, Studia Antiqua et Archaeologica 30(1) 117-138.

Johnson, A.C., Coleman-Norton, P.R., Bourne, F.C., & Pharr, C. (1961). Ancient Roman Statutes: a translation with introduction, commentary, glossary, and index (Austin: University of Texas Press).

Luzón, J.M. & Castillo, E. (2007). “Evidencias arqueológicas de los signos de poder en Itálica”, in Culto Imperial: política y poder, eds.: T. Nogales & J. González. (Mérida: L'Erma di Bretschneider), 191-214.

Melchor Gil, E. (2011). “Élites Supralocales en la Bética: Entre la Civitas y la Provincia”, in Roma Generadora de Identidades. La Experiencia Hispana, eds.: A. Caballos Rufino & S. Lefebvre. (Madrid: Casa de Velázquez), 267-300.

Navarro Caballero, M. (2017) Perfectissima Femina: Femmes de l’élite dans l’Hispanie romaine (Bordeaux: Ausonius Éditions).

Quinn, J.C. & Wilson, A. (2013). “Capitolia”, Journal of Roman Studies 103, 117-173.

Rodríguez Neila, J.F. (1999). “Élites Municipales y Ejercicio del Poder en la Bética Romana”, in Élites y Promoción Social en la Hispania Romana, eds.: J.F. Rodríguez Neila & F.J. Navarro Santana (Pamplona: Ediciones Universidad de Navarra S.A.), 25-102.

Salmon, E.T. (1969). Roman Colonization Under the Republic (London: Thames and Hudson).

Sánchez Moreno, C. (2013) “Lex coloniae Genetivae Iuliae seu Ursonensis”, in The Encyclopedia of Ancient History, eds.: R.S. Bagnall, K. Brodersen, C.B. Champion, A. Erskine, S.R. Huebner. (Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell), 4037-4039.

Stylow, A. (1997). “Texto de la Lex Ursonensis”, Studia Histórica. Historia Antigua 15, 269-301.

Torelli, M. (2014). “Effigies parvae simulacraque Romae. La fortuna di un modello teorico repubblicano: Leptis Magna colonia romana”, in Roman Republican Colonization: New Perspectives from Archaeology and Ancient History, eds.: T. Stek, J. Pelgrom. (Rome: Palombi Editori), 335-356.

Love and Loss: Commemorating Children in Romano-British Tombstones by Zhian Zhang (March 2025)

[D(is)] M(anibus) Corellia Optata an(norum) XIII Secreti Manes qui regna Acherusia Ditis incolitis quos parva petunt post lumina vite exiguus cinis et simulacrum corpo(r)is umbra insontis gnate genitor spe captus iniqua supremum hunc nate miserandus defleo finem Q(uintus) Core(llius) Fortis pat(er) f(aciendum) c(uravit).

To the spirits of the departed: Corellia Optata, aged thirteen. You mysterious spirits who dwell in Pluto’s Acherusian realms, and whom the meagre ashes and the shade, empty semblance of the body, seek, following the brief light of life; father of an innocent daughter, I, a pitiable victim of unfair hope, bewail her final end. Quintus Corellius Fortis, her father, had this set up. (RIB 684, Fig. 1)

This heartfelt inscription captures a father’s sorrow over the loss of his young daughter. He envisions her journey across the River Acheron in the underworld, lamenting her short-lived existence. Discovered on a tombstone in York, these words were accompanied by a glass vessel of ashes. As a public memorial, this tombstone transcends the personal loss of one family, connecting their story to our modern world.

Tombstones are typically stone stelae inscribed with epitaphs and sometimes decorated with figural and/or non-figural reliefs. This funerary practice was introduced to Britain after the Roman conquest in 43 CE, which became an example of so-called “Romanisation”. Many have been found near Roman legionary forts such as those at Chester and Hadrian’s Wall, and most dedicatees are linked to the Roman military. These inscriptions and reliefs are more than just markers of identity—they provide us with valuable insights into social hierarchies, gender roles, and family relationships. They also serve as a commemorative language, revealing how people grieved and remembered their loved ones. Tombstones dedicated to children are particularly poignant, and they can shed light on childhood, early death, and how families coped with such loss.

Many tombstones bear only inscriptions and decorative patterns (such as Fig. 1), likely due to financial constraints or personal preference, and yet some include figural reliefs. However, these figures are often described as crudely carved with stumpy and disproportionate bodies that rarely resemble real individuals. This raises a question: what do these distinctive and publicly displayed tombstones invite viewers to reflect on or appreciate?

While searching all the figural reliefs, I was particularly struck by one which displayed a “floating” girl with a box-shaped body (Fig. 2). This tombstone, found in Corbridge, is dedicated to four-year-old Vellibia Ertola. She has a round face with a big rectangular nose. Her geometric form, dressed in a belted garment with stumpy limbs, gives her an abstract and non-naturalistic appearance. This portrait announces its presence as a young girl, but it seems also to distinguish her from a living body, while her floating position within the gabled niche evokes a spiritual and divine sense. Her frontal gaze invites viewers to engage with her, yet it creates a feeling of uneasiness. It is as if she is saying: I am here, yet I am not.

What is the round object in her hands? A ball, an apple, or perhaps just a toy? Could it be the apple of Aphrodite, symbolising Ertola’s lost potential for marriage and family life? This theme of unfulfilled potential echoes in ancient literature, as in a Hellenistic epigram by Anyte (dated to around the 3^rd century BCE):
Often on this her daughter’s tomb did Cleina call on her dear short-lived child in wailing tones, summoning back the soul of Philaenis, who before her wedding passed across the pale stream of Acheron. (The Greek Anthology, 7.486)

Attributes like the one Ertola holds are a common feature on children’s tombstones, ranging from animals and fruit to scrolls or unidentified objects. On another tombstone from Old Penrith dedicated to a six-year-old boy, he holds a palm-branch in his right hand and a whip in his left (Fig. 3). This image, reminiscent of a chariot-race victory, may also represent his lost potential in adulthood. Like Vellibia Ertola, his bell-shaped body suggests that attributes, rather than individual likeness, were emphasised more to define a child’s identity. Comparing the girl’s apple with the boy’s whip, we can glimpse Roman gender ideals embedded in these memorials. Whatever these attributes might have meant to the family, to some extent they reflect the social and parental expectations placed on children. It is noteworthy that tombstones for girls and boys under the age of 17 are nearly equal in number (Adams & Tobler 2007, 21), which could be interpreted as evidence of emotional attachment to children, regardless of gender.

Let’s examine the inscription on Vellibia Ertola’s tombstone (Fig. 4):



This inscription is much simpler than our opening example but still follows the typical formula found on most tombstones: DM (abbreviation for Dis Manibus, “to the spirits of the departed”), age, the names of the deceased and the dedicator, and their relationship. Superlative adjectives like pientissime (“most devoted”), carissime (“dearest”), or as seen here, felicissime (“most happily”), were often used to express affection. We can imagine that Ertola enjoyed a loving and carefree childhood despite her ephemeral life.

Interestingly, faint traces of an earlier text can be spotted beneath the inscription. Was this a mistake made by the artisan? Or was the tombstone repurposed for Ertola? Tombstones could be pre-made: they “ranged from completely original commissions to pre-carved ‘stock’ pieces; many must have been something in between, perhaps with details of the portrait left blank until the customer was known” (Mander 2013, 36). If Ertola’s tombstone was a reused or stock piece, its figural relief may not have been (entirely) personalised for her. This might also explain why many children on tombstones appear older than their stated age—perhaps a result of using stock images, as evidenced by a three-year-old girl with adult-like features (RIB 961, Fig. 5). Alternatively, these mature appearances might again suggest children’s lost potential, aligning with the possible interpretation of their attributes.

The framing of Ertola’s tombstone is also an important part of its commemorative language (Fig. 4). The gabled niche functions as a spiritual house for the young girl, while the holes above and below the niche may have been intended for garlands (Phillips 1977, 28). The formula “DM” is carved on a protruding ledge, separate from the lower panel. Three lines of text are enclosed within a frame, but the last two lines extend beyond its boundary. Was it due to the use of a stock tombstone, or was it an attempt to redefine framing as a decorative element rather than a simple divider? Despite the impossibility of knowing the reason, this break in structure suggests that words, decorative elements, and reliefs could work together as a visual language, shaping how viewers engage with the monument.

In addition to tombstones featuring a single child, there are also family tombstones that include one or both parents. For example, a father from York dedicated a tombstone to his wife, son, daughter, and even himself, all depicted together (Fig. 6). The four family members are shown with similar bell-shaped bodies, dress and poses, conveying a sense of unity. Both children died before the age of two, yet their portraits do not reflect their actual age, again probably due to the use of stock images or a lamentation for their lost potential. The father, Gaius Aeresius Saenus, identifies himself in the inscription as a veteran of the Sixth Legion Victrix. His tombstone stands as a poignant reminder of a family tied to military service, now resting far from their homeland.


These reliefs which deviated from naturalistic portrayals were not uncommon in Celtic regions. This style may reflect the blending of local and Roman tastes, as symbolic and abstract patterns prevail in Celtic art. It could also follow the evolution of classical art during the Roman period, when the conceptualisation of bodies might have changed. In any case, style cannot be solely explained by its provincial context. Rather than questioning why these figures appear this way, I try to explore their agency and the commemorative strategies at play in Roman Britain. The figures balance both presence and absence, distance and intimacy; the children distinguish themselves from the living, and yet they embody the hopes and expectations of their parents and society. Though gone, the children remain timeless through these loving depictions.

A Greek inscription found near Brough and dedicated to a boy from Commagene (ancient Greco-Iranian kingdom) begins with “Let some travellers, on seeing…” (RIB 758)—a direct appeal to passers-by that highlights the public nature of these tombstones. These beautiful souls want to tell us a story, about life, death, and the afterlife. Whether carved in stone two thousand years ago or expressed in other ways today, the desire to remember a lost child is a universal human experience. Through these tombstones, the children of Roman Britain live on in the enduring legacy of their families’ love.

Bibliography

Primary Sources:

Paton, W. R. (2014), ed., The Greek Anthology, Volume II: Books 7-8, revised by M. A. Tueller (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press).

Secondary Sources:

Adams, G. W. and R. Tobler (2007) Romano-British Tombstones between the 1st and 3rd Centuries AD: Epigraphy, Gender and Familial Relations (Oxford: BAR Publishing).

Allason-Jones, L. (2004) ‘The family in Roman Britain’, in M. Todd (ed.), A Companion to Roman Britain (London: Blackwell Publishing), 273-287.

Collingwood, R. G. and Wright, R. P. (1965) The Roman Inscriptions of Britain (RIB) Vol. 1 (Oxford: Clarendon Press).

Croxford, B. (2016) ‘Art in Roman Britain’, in M. Millett, L. Revell, and A. Moore (eds), The Oxford Handbook of Roman Britain (Oxford: Oxford University Press), 599-618.

Hope, V. M. (1997) ‘Words and pictures: the interpretation of Romano-British tombstones’, Britannia 28: 244-58.

Johns, C. (2003) ‘Art, Romanisation, and competence’, in S. Scott and J. Webster (eds), Roman Imperialism and Provincial Art (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), 9-23.

Mander, J. (2013) Portraits of Children on Roman Funerary Monuments (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press).

Phillips, E. J. (1977) Corpus Signorum Imperii Romani, Great Britain Vol. 1 fasc. 1. Corbridge, Hadrian’s Wall East of the North Tyne (Oxford: Oxford University Press).

Robyn, C. (2020), ‘Female status and gender on the Roman frontier in Britain’, in T. Ivleva and R. Collins (eds), Un-Roman Sex: Gender, Sexuality, and Lovemaking in the Roman Provinces and Frontiers (London: Routledge), 183-209.

Salisbury, H. (2022), ‘Inscribing the artistic space: blurred boundaries on Romano-British tombstones’, in E. H. Cousins (ed.), Dynamic Epigraphy: New Approaches to Inscriptions (Oxford: Oxbow Books), 121-142.

Perspectives of Perusal: The Yorkshire Museum's Four Seasons Mosaic by Noah Fenwick (February 2025)

The post-excavation history of artefacts is sometimes considered secondary to their ancient lifespan; after all, as classicists, our gaze is usually fixed on the ancient world. However, the more recent history of a Roman mosaic demonstrates the significance of our treatment of artefacts after their excavation, particularly in terms of their conservation and display.

The Four Seasons Mosaic (Fig. 1) was discovered in 1853 in York and is currently displayed in The Yorkshire Museum, part of the York Museums Trust. As the name suggests, its corner panels depict personifications of the four seasons, each identified by accompanying iconography and connected by a decorative geometric design. Although the central panel has not survived in its entirety, two remaining segments of snakes suggest that the original centrepiece of the mosaic was a depiction of the head of Medusa.

The combined representation of the seasonal personifications and Medusa is not unusual; they were frequently represented together on Roman mosaics (Figs. 2-3). The depiction of the seasons is often considered a celebration of the seasonal cycle which was critical to agriculture, and therefore to the food supply and the economy. The image of Medusa, on the other hand, was frequently employed to ward-off evil. The sight of the gorgon’s head was believed to petrify an enemy, making its image a “powerful protective amulet” (Witts, 2005, 94). Therefore, the combination of the seasonal personifications and Medusa can be considered a two-fronted appeal to good fortune that both protects against malevolence and celebrates the prosperity brought by the changing of the seasons.

The personifications themselves are identified by accompanying iconography. Spring is indicated by a swallow – its migration heralding the season, Summer by a cluster of grapes, Autumn by a rake, and Winter by a bare branch (Fig. 4). Whilst the use of iconography to identify seasonal personifications was common across the empire, the use of the rake to identify the season of Autumn is seemingly unique to Britain, showing how Roman imagery was adapted rather than uniformly reproduced in different parts of the empire.

The mosaic was discovered during the 1853 excavation of a Roman-era house beneath Toft Green, York. The excavation report states that the house had "at least five rooms”, though this is a minimum because the site was never fully excavated (The Royal Commission on the Historical Monuments of England, 1962). Despite this, two other less complete mosaics were discovered on the same site, testifying to the wealth and status of the inhabitant. A posthumous coin of Claudius II Gothicus was discovered underneath the mosaic, providing a terminus post quem (the earliest possible date) for the mosaic’s installation at the end of his brief reign, AD 270.

The excavation of the mosaic, however, was certainly not the end of its story. Early interpretations of the mosaic were ambivalent, as scholars were challenged by the anomalous use of the cluster of grapes to identify the personification of Summer. More traditionally, grapes are associated by the Romans with Autum. Varro, for instance, clearly labels the harvesting of grapes an autumnal labour: “In summer the grain should be gathered, and in autumn, when the weather is dry, the grapes” (Varro, De Re Rustica, 1.27.3). The depiction of grapes, therefore, led early interpreters of the mosaic to identify the second personification as Autumn, suggesting the seasons were peculiarly depicted out of sequence when read in the usual clockwise manner. However, the corner of the mosaic featuring the grapes reportedly suffered water damage whilst in storage in the 19^th century, and re-interpreting the grapes as the result of an inaccurate 19^th century repair of more generic ‘summer fruits’, has allowed scholars to restore the more conventional ordering of the seasons. This interpretation seems to be validated by the fact that, whilst the other seasonal attributes (and the majority of the mosaic) are made up of square cut tesserae, the grapes are comprised of circular tesserae, suggesting their later addition. Other stylistic variations, such as the use of highlights and the form of the personifications’ shoulders has led to subsequent uncertainty regarding the originality of larger sections of the mosaic, but the example of the grapes demonstrates the importance of the accurate conservation of details for our understanding of ancient artefacts.

Its almost complete preservation, combined with the initial challenges of its interpretation, provide ample reason to visit the Four Seasons Mosaic. However, in my mind, an equally remarkable part of the mosaic’s history is the context of its current display in The Yorkshire Museum.

It was first displayed in the museum mounted upon a wall in a stairwell between two galleries (Fig. 5). The mounting of mosaics upon museum walls in this manner is not unusual, a similar utilisation of space occurs in the West Stairs of the British Museum, where a much larger number of Roman mosaics are displayed (Fig. 6). Moreover, there are some advantages to wall-mounted mosaic displays: they assign otherwise unused space to difficult-to-store artefacts, and the distance between the visitor and the display affords a good view of especially large mosaics and aids the viewing of the mosaics in their entirety.

However, following a refurbishment of The Yorkshire Museum in 2010, the Four Seasons Mosaic was moved to its current, very different display context. Now, the mosaic is set into the gallery’s floor, with a fragment of painted Roman wall plaster mounted on an adjacent wall, creating an immersive recreation of a Roman room (Fig. 7).

The new display context reflects the mosaic’s original function as a decorative floor, which is often obscured when mosaics are mounted on walls. Reinforcing the emphasis of the mosaic’s original function, visitors are encouraged to remove their shoes and walk on the mosaic, whilst children are given pairs of ‘Roman-style sandals’ and prompted to ‘walk like a Roman’. The significance of this new display context is best appreciated in light of Annette Haug’s (2021) work on understanding how our perspective of reception plays an active role in our interaction with imagery. In the ancient world, as today, imagery could be experienced in many different ways based on its spatial context. For example, the image of a cult statue might dominate the entrance to a sanctuary, whilst the image(s) on coinage can be handled, and those of mosaics are walked upon, thus seen from an oblique view. Haug recognises these different visual and spatial contexts and the influence they bear “on the relevance, significance, and effect of images” (Haug, 2021, 26).

It follows that in order to enhance the visitor’s ability to connect to the ancient world through material culture, the display of artefacts might be tailored to reflect the ways in which items were originally intended to be interacted with. In this way, The Yorkshire Museum’s efforts to reproduce the original spatial context of the mosaic facilitate visitor engagement with the mosaic’s imagery in as similar a manner as possible to that of its ancient viewers. In seeing the mosaic displayed in a manner evocative of its original spatial context, the visitor is empowered to see the imagery it contains in a more authentic manner than the mosaic’s earlier, wall-mounted display enabled. Thus, conceptual barriers to the modern visitor’s engagement with ancient Roman culture more generally are removed. In this way, in stepping onto the Roman mosaic, we might follow the lead of the children in sandals and also step into the Romans’ (albeit more figurative) shoes. The awareness of the power of perspective evidenced by The Yorkshire Museum’s display of the Four Seasons Mosaic is what makes it, in my view, one for every classical enthusiast’s ‘to-visit’ list.

Bibliography

Primary Sources:

Varro, On Agriculture, trans. W. D. Hooper, H. Boyd Ash (Loeb Classical Library; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press 1934).

Secondary Sources:

Cosh, S. and Neal, D. (2002) Roman Mosaics of Britain: Volume 1. Northern Britain incorporating the Midlands and East Anglia. (London: Illuminata Publishers).

Haug, A. (2021) 'The Role of Images: Theoria and Exemplum', in The Oxford Handbook of Roman Imagery and Iconography, eds. L. K. Cline and N. T. Elkins (New York: Oxford University Press), 7-30.

The Royal Commission on the Historical Monuments of England. (1962) “Roman York: Civilian Settlements”, in An Inventory of the Historical Monuments in City of York, Vol. 1, Eboracum, Roman York (London: Her Majesty's Office).

Witts, P. (2005) Mosaics in Roman Britain: stories in stone (Stroud: Tempus).

Online Sources:

Corinium Museum, “Objects in Mosaics Collections”, online at: https://coriniummuseum.org/discover/collections/featured-objects/mosaics/page/2/. Accessed: 18/02/2025.

Gordon, F. 2020. “Discovering the Seasons Mosaic”, online at: https://coriniummuseum.org/2020/09/discovering-the-seasons-mosaic/. Accessed: 07/02/2025.

York Museum Trust, “Collection Item: Four Seasons Mosaic”, online at: https://www.yorkmuseumstrust.org.uk. Accessed: 07/02/2025.

York Museum Trust, “Four Seasons Mosaic”, online at: http://www.historyofyork.org.uk/timeline/roman/four-seasons-mosaic. Accessed: 07/02/2025.

A Coat of Many Colours: Depictions of Joseph on Late Roman Textile Fragments by Cameron Heagney (January 2025)

The importance of clothing and fashion in the visual culture of Late Antiquity (c. AD 250 - 750) ought not to be underestimated. Access to new colours, wearing technologies, and textile materials increased the range of clothing combinations available to those who could afford them, developing into a visual way to communicate a wearer’s wealth, social status, and elected identity in the presence of others. In Constantinople, elaborate robes in many colours and sizes were worn to increase the size of their wearers, signalling their power and importance in public places (Procopius of Caesarea, Secret History 7.11-7.13). Elites are also reported to have worn garments that depicted humans or animals (Ammianus Marcellinus, History 14.6.9) to visually suggest certain values or qualities about themselves to others.

Naturally, the emperor(s) had access to the finest clothing in the land, and the appearance of their dress was likened to an instrument of imperial power: in a panegyric speech, Constantine I’s august and sole dominion as emperor of the Romans was supposedly made clear “by the remarkable robes of his vesture” (Eusebius of Caesarea, Oration in Praise of Constantine 5.4). Clothing could visually illustrate the status someone held, and different combinations of patterned and expensive textiles had an inclusive and exclusive power: wearing elaborate vesture enacted and visually affirmed the wearer’s membership of an elite socio-economic group, whilst also visually separating them from groups and individuals who could not afford or access them. Social status and identity were, in part, constructed and communicated within this rubric, in a visual culture that has been termed a “hierarchy through clothing” (Lopez (1945) 21).

Examples of these ancient textiles, made out of organic materials such as linen, wool, and silk, have scarcely survived from the late Roman world. The dry climate of Egypt, however, has preserved many hundreds of fragments and several intact tunics from this period. The cities of Middle and Upper Egypt, most notably Panopolis (modern day Akhmim), were famous in the ancient world for the production of textiles (Strabo, Geography 17.1.41) and tunics such as that pictured in Figure 1. This textile, produced from dyed wool and undyed linen, bears many of the hallmarks of the late antique tunic: it features clavi, two strips of fabric sewn into the garment that fall from the shoulders and neckline to the stomach, often decorated with ornate patterns; segmenta, decorated fabric roundels or squares typically sewn into the lower garment around the knee as well as onto the shoulder; it also features bands and hems around vulnerable parts of the fabric, particularly at the neckline, wrist, and bottom of the garment. Polychromatic floral patterns and haloed figures feature prominently in the design of this tunic, set against a deep crimson to draw onlookers’ attention to the intricate detail of the textile art.

As Egyptian devotional tastes incorporated Christianity during the fourth century, so too did their tastes in clothing. Many textile fragments and tunics depict symbols associated with Christianity, such as the cross and the vine, as well as figural scenes from the Old Testament and canonical Gospels. A particularly popular motif found on textiles unearthed from Christian tombs in Egypt was the early life of the biblical patriarch Joseph, whose betrayal and enslavement are told across several scenes in a cyclical arrangement. The roundel segmentum in Figure 2 narrates (in an anti-clockwise manner, from the top-left) the story of Jacob sending Joseph to his brothers (Genesis 37:12-14); upon meeting them, Joseph is betrayed and thrown into a cistern at Reuben’s suggestion (Genesis 37:18-24); Joseph’s coat is torn and coated with animal blood, to fake his death to his father Jacob (Genesis 37:31); an Ishmaelite caravan arrives, and Joseph is retrieved from the cistern and sold into slavery (Genesis 37:27-28); Reuben weeps for Joseph at the cistern (Genesis 37:29-30); Joseph is led as a slave to Egypt by the caravan and is sold to the Pharoah’s captain of the guard, Potiphar (Genesis 37:36). In the centre, Joseph’s prophetic dreams are collapsed into a single scene, as both wheat sheafs (Genesis 37:5-8) with his brothers’ faces and the stars (Genesis 37: 9-11) bow before his sleeping body – the sources of his brothers’ envious hatred for him.

The Joseph-type roundel was produced in different workshops according to the different personal styles and tastes of weavers, it seems, upon comparison with other fragments depicting a similar narrative. The roundel in Figure 3 depicts the same select moments of Genesis 37 as in Figure 2, but the weaver has made the stylistic decision to use different dyes and follow the scriptural account in clockwise narrative instead. Likewise, the roundel in Figure 4 reduces the number of individual scenes and figures represented in the scriptural account altogether. Across all of the roundels, however, it is interesting that the same scenes are selected for representation. There is no depiction of Jacob’s mourning of Joseph (Genesis 37:32-35) at all, and both Reuben’s lamentation at the empty cistern (Genesis 37:29-30) and Joseph’s enslavement (Genesis 37:28) are consistently represented after the bloodying of Joseph’s coat (Genesis 37:31). The choice seems intentional. As argued by Vasileios Marinis (2007), it is clear that a personal element is involved in the selection and depiction of biblical scenes on clothing, and this purposeful selection of Joseph’s experience of his passion speaks to something particularly meaningful in displaying the scriptural account this way.

In any case, the significant number of surviving textile fragments depicting Joseph suggests that he was a popular figure for self-representation among wearers of ornamental textiles in late Roman Egypt. Among other things, it may have been because of his ‘coat of many colours’ (Genesis 37:3), from which the modern West End musical derives its name: wearing such a tunic may have been intended to be an imitation of the holy figure in some way. In biblical scripture, Joseph was a capable administrator of Egypt who brough prosperity to the land and its people (Genesis 41:41-47). Joseph was also a figure praised by Jews and Christians in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt for his consistent noble conduct (Philo of Alexandria, On Joseph 270) and for his introduction of agricultural technologies that brought abundance to Egypt (Eusebius of Caesarea, Preparation for the Gospel 9.23 (PG 21:725)). Joseph was a pious and God-fearing man who had successfully handled worldly power without sacrificing his faith: representations of the patriarch Joseph may have indeed been an especially attractive idiom for the Christian officials of late Roman Egypt, as well as for the land-owning and mercantile urban elite, who sought to express their moral accomplishment and social standing through this identity elected from scripture.

This does not sufficiently explain, however, why it is Joseph’s passion that is represented on the textile roundels worn on tunics. Ancient commentators recognised the great virtue of Joseph during these trials. John Chrysostom, Archbishop of Constantinople (r. AD 397 - 404), praised the self-restraint (σωϕροσύνην) and courage (ἀνδρείαν) of Joseph, and remarked in an Antiochene homily on Genesis that he was eager “to excite those listening to the imitation of this dutiful man” (John Chrysostom, Homilies on Genesis 44.6 (PG 54:412)). Cyril, Patriarch of Alexandria (r. AD 412 - 444), authored a commentary on Genesis, observing that Joseph’s passion uniquely prefigures aspects and events in the life and passion of Jesus Christ. He observed that Joseph’s ‘multi-coloured cloak’ (χιτῶνα ποικίλον) given to him by his father provoked the envy of his brothers and resulted in his betrayal; likewise, the ‘multi-formed glory’ (ποικιλότροπόν… δόξαν) of the Father rendered to the incarnate Son provoked the envy of the Pharisees, who then persecuted Christ (Cyril of Alexandria, Glaphyra on Genesis 6.4 (PG 69:301)).

The depiction of Joseph may have indeed communicated a specific Christian identity local to Egypt. But it is not unlikely that these roundels themselves were produced with a similar Christological reading of Joseph’s passion in mind: the wearer may have personally identified with the life of a biblical figure who could both be likened to Christ in their suffering as well as be called an Egyptian. The unique medium of textile, too, is important for understanding this meaning: enveloping the body and limbs, textile clothing exerts agency upon the bodies by putting wearers in full sensory contact with the textile material and the Christian values represented upon it. Considering the Pauline metaphor for ‘clothing’ oneself in Christ as embracing a Christian lifestyle (Romans 13:14, Galatians 3:27), the use of the material appears all the more loaded with symbolic meaning. Joseph roundels played a part in enabling ancient Christians to physically sense the Christian symbols, figures, and scriptural accounts they so often reflected upon. They are an example of specific engagement with scripture by laymen in late Roman Egypt, and grant us a view of the materiality of Christianity for ordinary folk in the later Roman Empire.

Bibliography

Primary Sources:

Ammianus Marcellinus, History, trans. J. C. Rolfe, Loeb Classical Library 300 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1950).

Eusebius of Caesarea, Oration in Praise of Constantine, ed. J.-P. Migne, Patrologia Graeca 20 (Paris, 1857-1886).

Eusebius of Caesarea, Preparation for the Gospel, ed. J.-P. Migne, Patrologia Graeca 21 (Paris, 1857-1886).

Procopius of Caesarea, Secret History, trans. H. B. Dewing, Loeb Classical Library 290 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1935).

Strabo, Geography, Book 17, trans. H. L. Jones, Loeb Classical Library 267 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1932).

Philo of Alexandria, On Joseph, trans. F. H. Colson, Loeb Classical Library 289 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1935).

John Chrysostom, Homilies on Genesis, ed. J.-P. Migne, Patrologia Graeca 54 (Paris, 1857-1886).

Cyril of Alexandria, Glaphyra on Genesis, ed. J.-P. Migne, Patrologia Graeca 69 (Paris, 1857-1886).

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Secondary Sources:

Kristensen, T. M. (2015) ‘Dressed in Myth: Mythology, Eschatology, and Performance on Late Antique Egyptian Textiles’ in Antike Mythologie in christlichen Kontexten der Spätantike, ed. H. Leppin (Berlin: De Gruyter) 263-296.

Lopez, R. S. (1945) ‘Silk Industry in the Byzantine Empire’, Speculum 20 (1): 1-42.

Marinis, V. (2007) ‘Wearing the Bible: An Early Christian Tunic with New Testament Scenes’, Journal of Coptic Studies 9: 95-109.

Migne, J.-P. (1857-1886) Patrologia Graeca, 161 vols. (Paris).

Morgan, D. (2021) The Thing about Religion: An Introduction to the Material Study of Religions (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press).