Sunday 27 December 2020

Though we told that the astrological sign for the planet Jupiter is supposed to symbolise his thunderbolt or eagle, I’ve always thought it was a stylised number four for the fourth heavenly body in the firmament and just today learned that—unconnectedly—that in the subtractive notation for Roman numerals IV (four) is also an abbreviation for IVPITTER. To avoid blasphemy in inscriptions, it is postulated that the convention of additive notation (IIII) is used instead and preserved on most modern clock and watch faces and dedication, though by no means is this universal. The value 499, for instance, occurs as either ID, XDIX, VDIV, LDVLIV or CDXCIX and sometimes the Latin numerological terms—99 as undecentum—that is, one from a hundred or IC, set the standard.

Monday 5 February 2018

mensis intercalaris

Previously we’ve discussed how the sixty days or so that mark the dreariest winter season went by without record until King Numa Pompilius (in the days pre-Republic) instituted calendar-reform measures to augment the fair-weather ten month calendar that the Romans had been using since the city’s founding, recognising that dates were being constantly recalculated as the seasons drifted into one another and that the civic uses of a calendar expanded beyond its agricultural roots, but we didn’t know the whole story nor of their superstitious aversion to round numbers.
Ianuarius and Februarius (from the word februum, a device for ritual purifications and figuratively marked the time when fallow fields were tended to and when olive trees could be pruned) were added as the last months of the year, and to coincide as closely as possible to the passing of the lunar year, they assigned each month either twenty nine or thirty-one days on an alternating basis. To mathematically align with the 355 days of the lunar year and the twelve observed cycles of the Moon, however, one month would have to have an even number of days, so February became the odd one out. The insertion of intercalary time was still necessary to manage the procession of the seasons but instead of a leap-day like we award February with on a regular basis, the Romans adopted an entire leap-month called Mercedinus—“work month”—which should have been used judiciously every other year to keep everything in sync. All time-keeping decisions, however, were invested in the pontifex maximus, and as an active politician usually held this esteemed position it was not unheard of exercising this prerogative as a punitive or prolonging measure to increase or curtail the administration of consul members, at the expense of accuracy in tracking time. When Julius Caesar took power in 46 BC, he decreed that Rome stop this caprice and adopt a solar calendar that is more familiar to the modern civil calendar, based on Western traditions. 

Monday 25 August 2014

it happened on the way to the forum: gonzo & camille

Before entering into battle—or committing to any course of action for that matter, the Romans had many rituals that required strict observance. As military maneuvers especially were by and of the polity any breech of custom and reverence was an affront against one's neighbours and directly threatened public security and not just one's survival on the battle-field or the success or failure of any given mission. There are several war stories related about armies on the the march having to make a u-turn or at least pause over the auspices not being properly consulted. The actual ritual is shrouded in mystery, although the Romans were against exclusive cults in the main—including those up-start Christians, as they represented a threat to the State and public order, but seemed to be arm-wrestling the gods to secure a blessing. There are quite a few occasions when otherwise competent, successful and loyalty-inspiring generals were turned public-enemy for transgressing the divination-process, being distracted and tempted by targets of opportunity before the auspices were read and marching could resume.
Another grave transgression took place during the first engagement with Carthage, known as the Punic War (Punic being the Roman exonym for the Phoenicians who founded the north African naval and commercial power). Fearless about taking risky ventures outside of their element, Rome resolved to learn the art of seafaring to counter Carthage's strength and dominance. Such abandon was almost unheard of, but Rome, relying on perhaps the apocryphal tale of Athens countering Sparta in the same manner, was willing to take that risk. Although the first iteration of the wars general proclaim Rome the victor—only affording the chance to address attacks and revolts on other fronts, and more pain was to come, Rome became a tested and certified naval power. This prosperity came about by chance and mostly due to a spectacular failure in their first showing. In order to save time when it came to consulting the oracles, the sacred chickens were carried on board as the flagships made their way across the Mediterranean. The sacred chickens were to be consulted before advancing into enemy-waters (though Carthage had helped Rome over-throw the Greeks just a few years before but now constituted a threat to their trade-routes) and the ritual began—it is imaging this scene that makes me think of Gonzo and his harem of hens. If the chickens ate the feed they were tossed, then it was a sure sign of the gods' support for battle, however if they did not (and I find it rather hard to believe that chickens would not peck at something even if not hungry) then it was a sign to refrain. Having no time for such superstitions, the admiral proceeded to dump the coop overboard, proclaiming that if the sacred chickens were not hungry, maybe they were thirsty instead. That first encounter did not end well for the Romans, but Carthage dismissed Rome's prowess in subsequent engagements and grew over-confident in their own abilities, to their distinct disadvantage.