(almost) the end of episode 7 / February 26, 2017 by Anthony Gibbins

With today’s page we come to the end of Claudia’s letter, and almost to the end of episode 7. I want to say a huge gratias tibi ago to the Nicholson Museum for allowing Claudia’s visit, and of course to all of you who read and shared and liked this month’s posts. As of this moment, the Squarespace stat-bar tells me that the story itself has been read 1,896 times. euge! The most popular post this month was Pink Floyd: Live at Pompeii, which has been read 219 times. My favourites were urbanitas – you either have it or you don’t, Estelle Lazer and the Bathhouse of Horror and How Claudia met Mary Beard : The Untold Story. I also thank Caroline Brehaut for her excellent posts on Water and Pompeii. It was the perfect start to what I hope will be a long tradition of Legonium Guest Posters. Please, get in touch, if you or a student would like to contribute something (visitLegonium@gmail.com). And finally, thank you to Mary Beard and Estelle Lazer, for agreeing to be a part of Claudia’s journey. See you all soon, back in Legonium!

The sun was now setting and it was time to depart. I am so happy because I visited Pompeii. It was an excellent opportunity.

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

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

Mary Beard’s Pompeii: The Life of a Roman Town / February 25, 2017 by Anthony Gibbins

As we near the end of our time in the ancient city, I should like (velim) to recommend to you Mary Beard’s Pompeii: The Life of a Roman Town. It is a fascinating account of what we know about Pompeii, and how we know it. Below are the first page and a half of the introduction. They invoke the archaeological record to sing of what it would have been to die in Pompeii. The heart of the book, meanwhile, explores what it would have been to live there.

Life Interrupted

In the early hours of 25 August 79 CE, the rain of pumice falling on Pompeii was easing off. It seemed a good moment to leave the city and make a bid for safety. A straggling group of more than twenty fugitives, who had been taking shelter within the walls while the dreadful downpour had been at its worst, took a chance on one of the eastern gates of the city, hoping to find a way out of the volcanic bombardment.

A few others had tried this route some hours before. One couple had fled, carrying just a small key (they presumably hoped one day to return to whatever it locked – house, apartment, chest or strong box) and a single bronze lamp. This can hardly have made much impact against the darkness of the night and the clouds of debris. But it was an expensive and fashionable object, moulded in the shape of a black African head – a hint of the (to us) disconcerting forms of ingenuity we shall often come across in Pompeii. The pair didn’t make it. Overwhelmed by the pumice they were found in 1907 where they had fallen, next to one of the grand tombs which lined this road, like others, out of the city. They collapsed, in fact, next to the lavish memorial to a woman who had died perhaps fifty years before, Aesquillia Polla, the wife of Numerius Herennius Celsus. Just twenty-two years old (as we can still read on the stone), she must have been less than half the age of her husband, a member of one Pompeii’s most prominent families, who had served as an officer in the Roman army and had twice been elected to the highest office in the city’s local government.

The layers of pumice had built up to several feet by the time the other group decided to risk escape in the same direction. Walking was slow and difficult. Most of the fugitives were young men, many carrying nothing with them, either because they had nothing to bring or they could no longer get to their valuables. One man had taken the precaution of arming himself with a dagger, in an elegant sheath (he had another sheath with him too, empty, because he had perhaps lost or lent the weapon it had held). The few women in the group had rather more. One carried a little silver statuette of the goddess Fortuna, ‘Good Fortune’, sitting on a throne, plus a handful of gold and silver rings – one with a tiny silver phallus attached by a chain, as a lucky charm perhaps (and an object we shall often meet in the course of this book). Others had their own little store of precious trinkets: a silver medicine box, a tiny base to hold a (missing) statuette and a couple of keys all stuffed into a cloth bag; a wooden jewellery case, with a necklace, ear-rings, silver spoon – and more keys. They had also brought what cash they could. For some just a loose bit of change; for others, whatever they had stashed away at home, or the takings of their shop. But it was not much. All in all, between the whole group there was barely 500 sesterces – which is in Pompeian terms about what it costs to buy a single mule.

Some of this group got a little further than the earlier couple. Fifteen or so had reached the next grand memorial, twenty metres further down the road, the tomb of Marcus Obellius Firmus, when what we know as the ‘pyroclastic surge’ from Vesuvius wiped them out – a deadly, burning combination of gases, volcanic debris and molten rock travelling at huge speed, against which nothing could survive. Their bodies have been found, some mixed up with, even apparently still clutching, branches of wood. Maybe the more agile amongst them had taken to the trees which surrounded the tombs in a hopeless attempt to save themselves; more likely the surge which killed the fugitives also brought the trees crashing down on top of them.

She in turn greeted me in a friendly manner. I asked her many things about Pompeii and she asked me about my journey. (I have read all of the books written by her).

How Claudia met Mary Beard : The Untold Story / February 24, 2017 by Anthony Gibbins

Professor Mary Beard first wrote about Lego Pompeii in A Don’s Life (The Times Literary Supplement) on January 23rd, 2015. ‘If you're looking for a reason to visit Australia in 2015,’ the piece begins, ’let me suggest a visit to the new Lego Pompeii in the Nicholson Museum.’ The article contains a wealth of information, about what and – more importantly – who appears in the model. Mary gives a shout out to Estelle Lazer, Andrew Wallace-Hadrill and Johann Joachim Winckelmann, among others. She concludes, ‘Oh and just round the corner, there's me on my bike. I'm jolly proud to be there. Thanks to you all at the Nicholson!’ It is a fun article, and got a huge – and, I should say, mixed – response.

When I decided to ask the Nicholson if I might shoot an episode of Legonium on the Pompeii model, the first thing I did was write to Professor Mary Beard. It was, for me, a really big deal. Would she, I asked, allow me to include her (in mini-figure form) in a story set in an imaginary world, told in Latin and illustrated with Lego photography. I wasn’t holding my breath. To my surprise, a response arrived the very next day. Delighted, she said. But I would have to be quick. The Nicholson’s Curator, Michael Turner, had promised that she could have the figure when they were done with it.

Michael Turner, as I understand it, was the brains behind Lego Pompeii (and Lego Acropolis and Lego Colosseum). He saw it, as Professor Beard points out in her article, as a way of engaging with young people and drawing them towards the Classics. I have met Michael on a few occasions. He is lively, generous, enthusiastic and inspiring. When I arrived to photograph the Pompeii model he had just left the Nicholson – he was Senior Curator from 2005 to 2016 – for other pursuits. And, I was told, he had taken Mary Beard (minifigure form) with him! He was traveling to the UK and had taken Lego Mary as a gift for the real Mary Beard. Great for Mary, but a setback for me. Dr Craig Barker, The Nicholson’s Manager of Education and Public Programs, came to the rescue. He contacted Ryan McNaught, the model’s creator, and asked if he could assemble a second Mary Beard. A few weeks later it arrived.

Professor Mary Beard is a legend. She is an outstanding historian and has done more than anyone else I can think of to make the ancient world accessible without removing any of its complexity or mystery. Reading her work, one is left with a much greater understanding of not only what we know, but also where those limits of knowledge are reached. And a feeling that understanding what we don’t know is at least as interesting as knowing what we do. Moreover, forced recently to confront the ugly that is the internet troll movement, she has done it with a strength, dignity and confidence that they simply cannot reckon with. Claudia is not a real person. All I know of her is that she is a thoughtful young woman with a deep interest in ancient History. But that alone leads me to think that it would be a great thrill for her to meet Professor Mary Beard.

Then - miraculous to say! - Professor Mary Beard, a most expert person, arrived there by bike. I approached most bashfully and greeted her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nine Reasons Why You Should Travel Alone

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

hinc portum petit, et socios partitur in omnes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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