From James Bond, Jason Bourne, and every other spy with the initials J.B., to real life spies, government agencies, and our own vivid imaginations, we seem to really like spies. There’s even museums for espionage. Between the gadgets, the tactics, the webs of lies and secrets, it is admittedly compelling stuff. Espionage is as old as recorded history. So let’s talk espionage in the ancient world. Quietly, so nobody overhears….
Should I even bother with my usual opening about how little we know? I guess in this case it’s defendable; spies aren’t supposed to leave a paper trail, so not having a lot of evidence just means they were really good at their jobs, right? It is clear espionage in the Greco-Roman world was widespread, but most of our knowledge comes from accounts discussing how to defend against spying, rather than works about spies directly. Aeneas Tactius, a 4th century BC military writer provides the bulk of our literature. His only surviving work, “How to Survive Under Siege”, talks about, well, it’s obvious.
Tactius’ work lays some of the ground rules for Greek espionage and insight into typical clandestine operations. κατάσκοποι (kataskopoi), spies or scouts, offered military leaders both important intelligence, and possible means of sabotage. Tactius’ work covers smuggling, army signals, infiltration, passcodes, and the like.
Of course in the Greek world, one of the most common intelligence sources was the mercenary. Mercenaries were common, recruited from all over, and offered a first-hand assessment and knowledge of local matters. Persian kings would also have Greeks in their courts, and Xenophon’s Anabasis is the story of his experiences as a mercenary for the Persians.
For the Greeks, espionage wasn’t necessarily a simple matter. Issues like guest-friendship, mercenary troops, multi-state alliances, and multi-state armies made it a little more difficult to pick out friend from foe. Xenia (guest-friendship) left both a figurative and literal open door for spies. Greeks made plenty of diplomatic and familial alliances as well. Defense against spies was difficult, to say the least. Short of extreme measures such as ξενηλασία (xenelasia), “driving out strangers”, literally expelling all foreigners from the city—a plan nobody but the Spartans and Donald Trump have ever thought was even remotely a good idea—the fact that there were probably a few spies running around appears to be just something they lived with. Some stories from surviving literature show military leaders purposefully leaking false information, counting on the fact that their cities and armies were full of spies. Tactius at the least gives reasonable advice on how to overcome some of these issues in the event of a siege, such as making sure verbal passwords can’t be equally expressed by another word in another dialect (remember, there were lots of dialects in ancient Greece), or only allowing loyal guards with ties to the city (read; families) as gatekeepers.
On the Roman side of things, our evidence isn’t much better. We have some sources that discuss information gathering, and works like Caesar’s memoires offer first-hand examples. For the most part, espionage was just not a “Roman thing”; rather than a system of scouts, spies, and informants feeding generals information, the Romans preferred just sending an army to fight whoever they found, wherever they were. Can’t really blame them, for the most part it worked.
That said, the Romans didn’t operate completely in the dark. They were ballsy and ran a nearly unstoppable military juggernaut, but they weren’t invulnerable. Intelligence operations were still useful. Within the standard Republic legions were contingents of cavalry, useful for scouting, and specialists called “speculatores”. For Caesar, these seemed to be the go-to people for carrying out basic spying. Caesar also talks a decent amount about Gauls he employs for more reliable information. When he decided to invade Britain, Caesar was basically flying blind; his first trip across the pond was essentially just a recon mission to find out what the hell was on the other side. Coincidentally, the Britons must have had a much better intelligence network than Caesar, because they had an army ready and waiting for Caesar at the landing site!
By the Roman Empire, speculatores, and to a lesser extent exploratores (guess what they did), gave way to other groups. Frumentarii, who were originally logistics officers (word literally means “grain dudes”), made decent intelligence officers for the Empire, since their duties naturally involved travelling to various places and interacting with lots of people. Spying wasn’t just done on foreign nations, of course, and the frumentarii had a third function as a sort of secret police force. So Emperors basically used them like Gestapo agents. Or rather, Gestapo agents acted like frumentarii—the posers. Similarly, reference is made to curiosi, which seems a more general term for “spies”. By the Late Empire, the frumentarii were causing too many complaints among the populace, so Diocletian disbanded them. In their place were agentes in rebus, literally “general agents”. Notarii, whence we get notary publics, were basically bureaucratic secretaries in the Late Empire, and also served intelligence roles. Speculatores wound up serving as imperial bodyguards, mostly doing what we would today call “wet work”. The notable change in all these groups is that by the Late Empire intelligence shifted from the military (speculatores and frumentarii) to civilian control (agentes in rebus and notarii).
Espionage in the ancient world operated much like today. They used disguises, forged papers, recruited “assets”, created ciphers, and came up with other clever ways to carry out spy missions. Not everyone could be a spy, and the use of documents precluded the illiterate from some uses. Slaves also made good recruits for spies, since their status gave them a sort of natural cloak against attention. Obscurity was always an asset, and just like the Spanish Inquisition, nobody really expected the slave. There are some accounts of making special compartments in the soles of sandals to hide messages, which is about as technologically advanced as their gadgets got—the Aston-Martin DB5 wasn’t around yet. What the ancients lacked in fancy spy gadgetry they made up in cleverness though. Herodotus tells the story of Histiaeus, who wanted to return from Susa and the Persian court as tyrant of Miletus. To this end he needed to instigate a revolt, and found only one way to get the message out.
For Histiaeus, when he was anxious to give Aristagoras orders to revolt, could find but one safe way, as the roads were guarded, of making his wishes known; which was by taking the trustiest of his slaves, shaving all the hair from off his head, and then pricking letters upon the skin, and waiting till the hair grew again. Thus accordingly he did; and as soon as ever the hair was grown, he despatched the man to Miletus, giving him no other message than this- “When thou art come to Miletus, bid Aristagoras shave thy head, and look thereon.” Now the marks on the head, as I have already mentioned, were a command to revolt. Herodotus, Histories, Book 5.
Intelligence in the Greco-Roman world wasn’t so dissimilar from modernity then. While there wasn’t as much official activity (as far as we know), both the Greeks and Romans made use of spies. There wasn’t as large a need to break the ancient equivalent of the Enigma machine. Neither the Greeks nor Romans considered espionage an “honored profession”, which helps explain why there is not a lot of material to work with, and why they didn’t create their own versions of the NSA. For the most part, intelligence and espionage were informal systems of information gathering, making use of various existing groups in the military and civilian professions. The collection of alphabet agencies we have today probably would have been overkill for the Greeks and a “wussy” way to fight for the Romans.
Remember, you will die. Well that’s a cheery way to start an article, innit? When Roman generals rode through the city during their triumph, a slave rode on back of the chariot with them. The slave held a wreath over the general’s head, and as they proceeded the general received the cheers and applause of the city. His army marched behind in full arms. The spoils of war, captives, and enemy leaders in chains displayed the military prowess of Rome, and the honor bestowed on the general for such victories was enormous. The Imperator himself wore a purple toga and regalia associated with the ancient Roman kings. The general offered sacrifice at the temple to Jupiter. He was as close to a king or divinity as the Romans allowed under the Republic. And to remind the general of their place, the slave whispered in his ear during the parade, “memento mori”. So goes the legend. The phrase has entered our vernacular, and Christian art and literature from the Middle Ages has made pretty wide use of the concept, usually depicting it with skulls—because Christians back then were a bit more metal. One should also look to Shakespeare for memento mori scenes, because Shakespeare is fucking awesome. Case in point, “Alas poor, Yorik, I knew him well”.
How much of this is reality, and how much is fabricated nonsense? Say it with me now, “we don’t know”. Let’s start at the top; does this sound like something the Romans would do? Actually, yes, for the most part. The Romans had some “modest” virtues, and a bit of humility and moderation were good things. The state itself was set up under the premise that no single individual could hold absolute power—which is why Rome had two Consuls. As mortals, the gods had the power to reverse anyone’s good fortune, and were known to do so. Despite the lavishness of the procession, it ends with a sacrifice, the spoils of war being dedicated to the people, the Senate, and the gods. It would seem natural that as a successful general was hailed, there would be some sort of warning against letting such acclaim go to his head; Romans like Cincinnatus tended to be of the iconic type that discouraged autocracy and monarchy. On the other hand, Romans like Julius Caesar tended to be of the iconic type that got stabbed.
Tertullian is our source for the phrase, discussing why he will not call the Roman Emperor God. His argument is that the Emperor is not God, merely man, and even the ancients—in his case meaning the old Roman Republic—appreciated that fact, “Those who call him ‘god’ deny what he is, ‘emperor’; if he is not a man, he is not an emperor. That he is a man is even brought to mind during a triumph in his lofty chariot. It is suggested to him in the rear: Look behind you! Remember you are man!’” (Apologeticus XXXIII). So that’s it, right? Open and shut case? Nah.
These are the people who dominated the world, and are known for orgies, excess, empire, and decadence. A little humility is understandable, but a slave constantly reminding a general, during his moment of glory, that his shit in fact does stink? That’s just plain gullibility. A closer look into the Tertullian quote is warranted, and remember to apply a few liberal servings of skepticism. Tertullian was a 2nd century AD Christian author writing about a 2nd century BC aspect of pagan Roman society. The availability of research and knowledge about the Republic is reasonably suspect among later authors like Tertullian; they didn’t have Google or Wikipedia after all. No earlier author confirms Tertullian, and he gives no clear source for this information. In short, we shouldn’t accept this just using Tertullian as the evidence.
Despite the Tertullian quote not having a reference, it does seem to be based on some truth of how a Roman triumph went. Livy gives the details of a few Roman triumphs, which shows us the typical procession. Pliny reveals few details too. Between the two of them, we have a decent picture. Pliny (Natural History 33) tells us that the triumph started as an Etruscan tradition, and that the Romans adopted some of their customs. The crown of gold held over the head of the general was one of them. It is also notable that Pliny notes (I really need a thesaurus) a public slave as sharing the chariot with the general. No mention of the slave speaking though, let alone anything as humbling as “memento mori”. Livy (5.49) does mention some talk at the general’s expense, but it is by the soldiers, rather than the slave. He states that during the triumph of Camillus, his troops chanted some “lovely jests” which “soldiers are wont to bandy”. Likewise, Livy says the soldiers similarly shouted some “rude verses” during the ovation of Valerius “with their accustomed license”. It should be noted enregistered (found a thesaurus) an “ovatio” is not the same as a “triumph”; we can think of it as the silver medal, so we shouldn’t get overly excited by Livy, since it’s possible more license was given to mock the silver medal winners as opposed to the gold medalists. This sort of jesting by the soldiers is supported by Suetonius (Jul. 49, 51) and Martial (I.4). So it seems there was plenty of license to poke fun at the general, by the soldiers at any rate.
Given the Republic’s primary claim to fame—that it wasn’t a monarchy—it makes sense that during a military triumph, some license would be given to bring the general back down to earth as a none-too-subtle reminder that he served the state, not the other way around. Given that this jesting came from the general’s own soldiers, the message of mortality might still be there; more than a few later emperors learned the hard way not to piss off their soldiers if they wanted to remain emperor—and alive—for any decent amount of time. The evidence suggests a slave does ride with the general and holds a wreath or crown over the victor’s head. It does not appear, however, that the slave said anything to him. The Tertullian quote might be a bit of an embellishment on his part to make his point, or what became a sort of urban legend among people of the day. Our “memento mori” seems to be a bit of a mix between legend and truth.
To prove the point that things often get misquoted over time and that history acts as one giant game of telephone, I put one misquote right at the start of this article. The Shakespeare line is “Alas poor Yorik, I knew him, Horatio”. Ok, I lied. There’s really two. For those diligent and bored enough to click on all the links, you’ll note that Tertullian actually writes, “Respice te post! Hominem te memento!”
Aw yeah, we’re getting into some stuff now! This is one of the most familiar, read, misinterpreted, and debated collections of literature in the world. Everyone thinks they’re an expert, and most think their particular religion is correct. But we’re not here to talk about religion, we’re here to talk about dick jokes. And history. And language. Hence, I’m not discussing a holy book, but a collection of ancient works, written 2000 years ago in Ancient Greek, during the heyday of the Roman Empire, in the Hellenized East, by a bunch of Jews. Needless to say, there are a lot of quirks in the Bible worthy of discussion. This one’s about Bible manuscripts.
Throw a stone or do a Google search and you can find someone talking about Bible manuscripts. Some say it’s the best attested or most accurate text in ancient history. It’s a common line and claim among Christians and apologists. Likewise, it’s commonly dismissed outright, denied, or harshly criticized by non-Christians (including believers in other religions). Bias is rampant, but there are ways through the weeds. As usual, a dispassionate, objective analysis reveals the truth as somewhere in the middle.
Let’s start with the good things to make us stand up erect and proudly bask in the impressive girth of our wisdom. There are some 20,000 manuscripts for the Bible. That is undeniably the largest for an ancient work (or collection of works). The Bible is the biggest. Some, like the Codex Sinaiticus are quite complete, and offer a great resource. Others are merely fragments, little snippets of text sometimes only offering a few words, like P52, the earliest New Testament manuscript. Fortunately, we have a boatload of these, so they are pretty helpful too, once scholars put the jigsaw back together. Unlike some other works, we have the Bible in its complete form, with plenty of pieces to support our readings. By comparison, we’re missing entire books from Tacitus’ works.
Now for the bad news. Most of those 20,000 manuscripts (mss. for short) are crap. It’s not the size of the manuscripts that counts, it’s how you use them. Here’s a handy dandy chart showing the distribution, by century, of all 5,742 Greek manuscripts.
If you look, most are from the middle ages. Almost none are from the century in which the Gospels and other NT books were written, and there are relatively few from the immediate following centuries. Similarly, Bible mss are categorized into 5 rankings, 1 being the best, 5 being the worst, the majority of which are ranked 3-5. This creates an issue for reconstructing the “first edition”. Even worse, those later mss tend to be the ones filled with mistakes. Our manuscripts are impressive in their volume, but there’s a weird odor coming from them. Turns out, copying an error 1000 times doesn’t make the error go away. There’s been a good amount of work in just trying to figure out where the interpolations—unintended additions not written by the author—have snuck into the texts. With volume also comes an additional problem due to the nature of the manuscripts being handwritten; namely, there are some 400,000 textual differences! That’s a number you know is false, because who the fuck is going to count that high? While the actual number is unknown, there are a massive number of differences, making Bible mss one of the worst games of telephone ever. No two manuscripts are exactly the same. Which one’s the “real” one? Which one’s the “correct” one? There are enough problems to make even the most pompous person’s mighty ego shrivel up like a politician being asked about ethics.
Hey, look at that! Another article where I point out how little we know. Sounds like we’re up the creek without even a damn boat, but we’re actually in decent condition on the Bible, so don’t break out the little blue pills and attack me for being a heretic quite yet. Most of those 400K variants—or however many there really are and feel free to count them up yourself if you’ve got a few decades of free time—are things like spelling differences and word order changes (word order in Greek being less about grammar and more about emphasis). There are relatively few critical issues that seriously alter the text, but they do exist. Feel free to look up the ending of Mark, the Comma Johanneum, and the Pericope Adulterae for three examples of Bible oopsies. Even Isaac Newton got in on the action. Scholars will forever argue about which manuscripts are the best, which words (and word order) are most accurate, and which readings are most correct, but for the most part, this is the stuff of high level academics, and not the concern of the common man.
That said, everyone should be aware of what manuscripts are being used as the basis for a given translation. They are not all equal, and some “critical editions” are better than others. So yes, this is sort of a mess. Not only do we have different translations with different focuses and methodologies, but we even have different source material for the basis of those translations. The nice thing is Wikipedia has listed the source material for most of the translations when you search for them (the Bibles themselves should also do the same somewhere).
Research on Bible manuscripts is an ongoing process, as it is with all ancient texts. Scholars have been very effective at correcting the text, but it is not perfect. For the serious student, it is good practice to remember a given passage is only one translation of one version of the text; there may be multiple variations that alter what gets translated, and of course multiple ways to translate. If your study bible has a critical apparatus, it will list all the textual variants for a passage, as well as the manuscript evidence for each difference. So they’re at least trying to make it a little easier for you.
Free Speech. The right to say what you want without fear of arrest or prosecution by the government. Is there any aspect more fundamental to democracy? Ok, voting, but shut up, I’m trying to make a point here. We regard freedom of speech as essential to a free state. The denial of free speech is seen as a move to dictatorship, oppression, and slavery. It’s a big deal. The ancient Athenians thought free speech was a big deal too. Just like how you can’t say “fire” in a crowded theater, the Athenians also had limitations on freedom of speech. In a way these laws—what I like to call anti-asshole initiatives—highlight the importance of freedom of speech in the society. It seems most societies grapple with the lines, and so I can think of no better way to look at this than making it a straight up competition between freedom and limitation of speech.
Socrates was more or less killed for saying the wrong thing. His trial sets one limit on free speech. Technically, Socrates was indicted on two charges; denigrating the city gods (impiety) and introducing new gods (corrupting the youth). Both highlight one area where speech was more regulated, namely, religion. Unlike modernity, Athens was not a secular state. Religion and politics were intricately intertwined, with rituals and temple buildings being functions of the government. The gods were real, intervened in human affairs, and didn’t take kindly to being mocked.
Hence, the health of the state was at least partially believed to be dependent on the favor of the gods. When Socrates was put on trial, Athens had just lost the Peloponnesian War to the Spartans. They lost a great deal of pride in themselves, their democracy, and were understandingly worried about their future. Their navy, the source of Athenian power, was utterly destroyed at the Battle of Aegospotami. Things were bleak. Then along came Socrates, praising Sparta, and tempting the fate of Athens by pissing off the gods. In such a context, it is perhaps easier to see why free speech didn’t extend to religious matters. That said, it’s still a restriction, point for the limits.
Before anyone decides the Athenians were a bunch of superstitious backwards nutters, keep in mind we tend to have similar debates. When the Phelps family of Westboro Baptist Church fame started picketing the funerals of deceased soldiers, a similar issue came up. How far do we go to defend First Amendment rights? The issue went to the Supreme Court, which ruled in Snyder v. Phelps that public speech on public sidewalks could not be restricted. Perhaps this was such a big deal because it also touched on something almost universal among cultures—the prohibition against speaking ill of the dead.
Athens was little different with regard to the dead. In Athenian thinking, not speaking ill of the dead was one of those fundamental things in life. Plutarch cites Solon as the lawmaker forbidding this act:
“Praise is given also to that law of Solon which forbids speaking ill of the dead. For it is piety to regard the deceased as sacred, justice to spare the absent, and good policy to rob hatred of its perpetuity. He also forbade speaking ill of the living in temples, court-of‑law, public offices, and at festivals; the transgressor must pay three drachmas to the person injured, and two more into the public treasury” (21.1).
There’s a problem though. During the 3rd century BC, Athens and other states had a tendency to attribute various laws to past leaders or mytho-historical figures. The idea is clear enough; the older a law or custom and the more famous its supposed founder, the more weight and credence it appears to have. We tend to do the same thing with our Founding Fathers. It doesn’t always represent truth though. In this case, Solon is one of the legendary figures in Athenian history, and the extent to which he created Athenian democracy, or wrote a law prohibiting bad-mouthing the dead probably cannot be known with any great certainty or accuracy.
Adding to the skepticism are clear cases of Athenians speaking ill of the dead, seemingly with impunity. Aristophanes seems to do it regularly. In the Frogs, performed in 405 BC, the plot follows the god Dionysus in trying to bring the recently deceased Euripides (died in 406 BC) from Hades. Likewise, in Peace (performed 421 BC) Kleon is ruthlessly mocked, despite having died in battle merely months before. Peace won 2nd place at the City Dionysia that year. Either the law didn’t actually exist, it was unenforced by the time of Aristophanes, or the penalty was never updated—and five drachmas for someone like Aristophanes wouldn’t have even counted as a rounding error. So we’ve got a law that doesn’t work, even if it existed (and it probably didn’t). Point for free speech.
Next are several restrictions governing “aporreta (ἀπόρρητα)”, literally things forbidden to be said. Essentially these were slander laws. Interestingly though, these laws seemed to forbid pretty specific accusations rather than general practices—such as calling someone a murderer, a father-beater, a mother-beater, and a shield-thrower. Yeah, that last one is going to need some explanation.
The Athenians, like pretty much all the Greeks, fought in phalanx formations. These were tightly packed shield and spear walls, basically the ancient equivalent of a tank. Ideally, the shields would overlap, and your shield was used to protect the guy next to you, rather than yourself. Everyone see where this is going? Dropping your shield was thus both an act of cowardice and basically treason. It meant you were betraying your friends and countrymen, leaving your fellow soldier exposed, and fleeing from the enemy.
Of course, Aristophanes pushes the limits even on slander. In Birds (287-289), he almost accuses Kleonymos of being a shield-thrower, but changes it to “crest”. Like the sarcastic little bastard he was, Aristophanes was basically told not to push the red button, totally pushes the button using a stick, and then justifies it by saying it wasn’t him, it was the stick that pushed the button. To be fair, he’s making fun of politicians—some things never change (cough, Jon Stewart, cough). He followed the literal letter of the law, but damn sure not its spirit. Lysias also cites the law in Against Theomnestus—this gives a little more weight to the historicity of it. Point for the limitations.
That brings us to the last piece for discussion, the Decree of Syrakosios. The decree is mentioned in a scholiast’s note (a Medieval commentator) on Aristophanes’ Birds. It supposedly bans satirizing someone by name, although the exact language is a little unclear. It either bans satirizing people by name, or satires that name people. Obviously this would be a major issue for comedians like Aristophanes. There is a matter of debate regarding what this law actually banned, what the punishments were, and whether the damn thing even existed. But no fear, because remember: Historian = Time Detective.
Aristophanes’ first comedy, Babylonians, went after Kleon very hard. It seems then Kleon sued him. We know this because like a typical sarcastic, satirical ass, Aristophanes decided to reference the lawsuit in his next play, Acharnians. The character Dikaiopolis breaks the fourth wall to address the lawsuit as if he were Aristophanes himself:
“And in my own case I know what Cleon did to me because of last year’s comedy. He hauled me before the Council, and slandered me, and tongue-lashed me with lies, and roared like the Cycloborus, and soaked me in abuse, so that I nearly died in a mephitic miasma of misadventure” (48-50).
It seems like it was a real thing, and a big deal for the comedian. So perhaps the decree has some historical teeth, and there were limits on comedians’ free speech after all?
Nah. Keep in mind all these scholiasts are Medieval people—they’re writing notes in the 8-10th centuries or later about events nearly 1000 years old. Doesn’t necessarily make them wrong, but you have to ask where they’re getting their information, before we start using them to get our information.
Secondly, while Kleon probably did sue Aristophanes, it wasn’t for personal slander. The charge was slandering the city in the presence of foreigners. The Babylonians was staged during the City Dionysia, with foreign diplomats from states allied to Athens in attendance. Dikaeopolis (probably representing the playwright) says that this won’t be a problem anymore because there are no foreigners present this time around. The Acharnians was staged during the Lenaia, with pretty much only Athenians in attendance. Once again, the comedian is exploiting a loophole, following the letter but not the spirit of law.
Finally, Aristophanes still wrote and put on plays. We don’t know what happened to this case, but in any event, Aristophanes didn’t stop. He didn’t even seem to hold back any more than usual, and you can read the rest of his plays to see just how harsh and critical he could be.
So that leaves us with a few possibilities: One, the Decree existed, and banned named comedy (in whichever sense). This probably isn’t the case since it’s clear this just didn’t happen. Grass is green, sky is blue, and Aristophanes makes fun of politicians by name. The evidence refutes this theory. Two, the Decree existed, but involved something else. Some scholars have proposed that the Syrakosios decree concerned a scandal with the hermai, others have said it is one and the same with the slander law. Neither alternative really add up though. Finally, the damned thing doesn’t really exist. It’s a mistake on the part of the scholiast; speculation that a law was preventing named comedy. My bet’s on the last one—point for freedom—but as the great philosophers of Monty Python once said, “You’ve got to think for yourselves. You’re all individuals! You’re all different!”
On that note, I think it’s game, set, and match for Freedom of Speech. So the next time you enjoy a good mocking of our politicians, think of Aristophanes.
For those with academic library access, there’s a buttload (technical term) of discussion on free speech in Athens, the various laws supposedly limiting free speech, the comedian’s right to free speech, and the Decree of Syrakosios.
Look at me, giving a bibliography like I’m all professional and shit. . . .
Atkinson, J.E. “Curbing the Comedians: Cleon versus Aristophanes and Syrakosios’ Decree.” The Classical Quarterly, New Series Vol. 42.1 (1992): 56-64. 1 Nov. 2010. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/639144>
Halliwell, Stephen. “Ancient Interpretations of ὀνομαστὶ κωμῳδεῖν in Aristophanes.” The ClassicalQuarterly, New Series Vol. 34.1 (1984): 83-88. 1 Nov. 2010. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/638337>
Halliwell, Stephen. “Comic Satire and Freedom of Speech in Classical Athens”. The Journal of Hellenic Studies, Vol. 111 (1991). pp. 48-70. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/631887>
Hunter, Virginia. “Gossip and Politics of Reputation in Classical Athens.” Poenix Vol. 44.4 (Winter 1990): 299-325. 1 Nov. 2010. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/1088805>
Koster, W.J.W. Scholia in Aristophanem: Scholia in Vespes; Pacem; Aves et Lysistratam. Bouma’s Boekhuis B.V. Groningen, The Netherlands. 1978.
Koster, W.J.W. Scholia in Aristophanem: In Acharnenses. Bouma’s Boekhuis B.V. Groningen, The Netherlands. 1975.
MacDowell, Douglas M. The Law in Classical Athens. Cornell University Press. Ithaca, NY. 1978. Pgs 126-129.
MacDowell, Douglas M. “Law-Making at Athens in the Fourth Century B.C.” The Journal of Hellenic Studies, Vol. 95 (1975). pp. 62-74. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/630870>
Radin, Max. “Freedom of Speech in Ancient Athens.” The American Journal of Philology Vol. 48.3 (1927): 215-230. 1 Nov. 2010. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/290126>
Sommerstein, Alan H. “The Decree of Syrakosios.” The Classical Quarterly, New Series Vol. 36.1 (1986):101-108. 1 Nov. 2010. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/638947>
Sommerstein, Alan H. “Aristophanes and the Events of 411.” The Journal of Hellenic Studies Vol. 97 (1977): 112-126. 1 Nov. 2010. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/631026>
Sommerstein, Alan H. “Harassing the Satirist: The Alleged Attempts to Prosecute Aristophanes”. In Free Speech in Classical Antiquity (Edited by Sluiter, Ineke and Rosen, Ralph M.). Brill-Leiden. Boston. 2004. pp. 145-174.
Trevett, Jeremy. “Was There a Decree of Syrakosios?” The Classical Quarterly, New Series Vol. 50.2 (2000); pp. 598-600. 1 Nov. 2010. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/1558915>
Wallace, Robert W. “Law, Attic Comedy, and the Regulation of Comic Speech”. In The Cambridge Companion to Ancient Greek Law. Cambridge University Press. 2005.
Rich vs poor. Wealthy elites vs the proletariat. The upper classes vs the lower classes. Class warfare, income inequality, socioeconomic disparity. It’s a major issue in our world right now. Some are arguing against big banks and corporate welfare, others are arguing against business taxes and regulations. On some level, though, the argument is the same; income inequality has risen to unacceptable measures, and we need to fix it so the gap between the rich and the poor, the elite and the common man, is not so great.
Income inequality has always existed. Every society and every country has had to deal with the issues separating the aristocracy from the peasantry. We’re just a naturally shitty species that way. Sometimes the issue of power and wealth will come to a violent conclusion, as when nobles and monarchs are overthrown in revolution. Other times political and economic forces mollify people and prevent violent outcomes.
Rome was no different. Just like we have socio-economic classes (upper, middle, lower, working), Rome had divisions – senatorial, knight, patrician, plebeian. Throughout her early history, the divide between the senatorial class and the commoners was as an issue for politicians and people alike. From the earliest of the early Roman state (the Roman Kingdom) up to the late Republic, the distinctions between patrician and plebeian were important and influential in running the state. Although our information about the Roman Kingdom is scant, we have some idea of how early Rome divided powers and privileges between the two groups. Livy (1.8) tells us that Romulus made 100 people the first senators, and hence they became the first “patricians”. Whether that story is true, or is the ancient equivalent of George Washington’s cherry tree, this essentially shows the start of the Roman aristocracy. From the early days, patricians were the people who owned most of the land and controlled most of the wealth. It’s good to be the king pater.
Under the Early Republic, patricians sought to consolidate their control. Obviously, the plebeians sought to gain some power of their own. Both groups argued and moved against each other for control of the state over a roughly 200 year period historians call the “Struggle of the Orders”. The patricians had political power, money, and land. The plebeians had numbers. Sometimes money wins, but when things get bad enough, or the people get fed up enough, the numbers always win. This is a lesson Jeb Bush probably should have learned before getting his ass kicked by Donald Trump.
According to tradition, only patricians could stand for the highest magistracies like the consulship. Likewise, membership in various priesthoods was closed to the plebeian class. The upper echelon of political and social power was pretty much off limits to the lower classes. With the dissolution of the monarchy and the formation of the Republic, however, the plebs saw an opportunity to gain more powers, specifically a voice and representation in government (the original “no taxation without representation” group). The fledgling years of the new government seemed the best time to give it a shot.
Rome, at the formation of the Republic in 505 BC, was not the Mediterranean superpower we all know and love. Rome was more or less just “Rome”, the singular city on seven hills. And they were to a large extent surrounded by enemies. In their immediate vicinity were the Latins, an early Italic tribe. There were also the Volscians, another nearby tribe. Larger groups included the Etruscans, the Sabines, and other peoples.
People like Pyrrhus or Hannibal, or groups like the Carthaginians and Gauls won’t be on the radar for a while. So in short, Rome is kind of weak sauce. With the last Roman King being expelled and the new Republic in its formative years, Rome is still facing problems internally and externally. In 495 BC, Rome had just won a decisive victory against the Latins at Lake Regillus. It was an important victory for the Romans, both in solidifying the Republic against future attempts to restore the monarchy, and in demonstrating to its neighbors that under a Republic, Rome could still raise an army and kick major ass. Shortly after, Rome sent an army into the Volscian territory, just to reinforce the message.
No sooner than the army returned home did many of its legionaries, and other members of the plebeian order, start to raise complaints about taxes and debt. Wars cost money, and with a civilian army, those who fought in it tended to run the risk of winding up without a farm or home on their return, and subsequently no way to pay for taxes or personal debt. Rome was basically another state that did a terrible job taking care of its veterans. Livy describes the event that really kicked things off:
But a war with the Volscians was imminent, and the State was torn with internal dissensions; the patricians and the plebeians were bitterly hostile to one another, owing mainly to the desperate condition of the debtors. They loudly complained that whilst fighting in the field for liberty and empire they were oppressed and enslaved by their fellow-citizens at home; their freedom was more secure in war than in peace, safer amongst the enemy than amongst their own people. The discontent, which was becoming of itself continually more embittered, was still further inflamed by the signal misfortunes of one individual. An old man, bearing visible proofs of all the evils he had suffered, suddenly appeared in the Forum. His clothing was covered with filth, his personal appearance was made still more loathsome by a corpse-like pallor and emaciation, his unkempt beard and hair made him look like a savage. In spite of this disfigurement he was recognised by the pitying bystanders; they said that he had been a centurion, and mentioned other military distinctions he possessed. He bared his breast and showed the scars which witnessed to many fights in which he had borne an honourable part. The crowd had now almost grown to the dimensions of an Assembly of the people. He was asked, “Whence came that garb, whence that disfigurement?” He stated that whilst serving in the Sabine war he had not only lost the produce of his land through the depredations of the enemy, but his farm had been burnt, all his property plundered, his cattle driven away, the war-tax demanded when he was least able to pay it, and he had got into debt. This debt had been vastly increased through usury and had stripped him first of his father’s and grandfather’s farm, then of his other property, and at last like a pestilence had reached his person. He had been carried off by his creditor, not into slavery only, but into an underground workshop, a living death. Then he showed his back scored with recent marks of the lash. Livy 2.23
Well, as one would expect, the plebs lost their minds, and demanded the Senate (made up of patricians) be convened to address the debt and tax issue. The Senate, as one would expect, paid lip service to the commoners and went back to swimming in pools of their own money, Scrooge McDuck style.
Fortunately for the patricians, there were bigger fish to fry. The Senate decided this fight with the plebs should probably be put on the backburner until the Volscians were pacified. As such, they sent out a levy to raise the appropriate ass-kicking force. The plebs then promptly decided not to enroll in the army. The plebs had the patricians by the balls here—little hard to kick ass when your ass-kicking force decides not to show up for work. One of the consuls, Publius Servilius Priscus Structus, urged the people to take up arms for the common defense, and sweetened the deal by passing an edict that nobody should be prevented from enrolling due to debt, and more importantly, that no active duty legionary should have his property seized or his family imprisoned while on tour. The plan and concession worked, the plebs enrolled, and Servilius led the army on a series of victories against the Volscians, Sabines, and Aurunci. Did I mention the early Romans had a lot of enemies?
Unfortunately, almost immediately on taking out the external problems, the senators/patricians went back on their words, imposing severe penalties for debt. The plebs took some revenge when another threat from the Sabines a year later popped up, prompted a new army levy, and again nobody enrolled. This time though, there was no Servilius to save the day.
With no moderate voices, on either side, shit pretty much hit the fan. The Senate cracked down hard with arrests, and the people formed mobs and got violent. Rome was essentially tearing itself apart, and the Sabines weren’t even doing the damage—but seeing the Romans destroy the city must have been quite funny, because they invited the Aequi and Volsci to join the party. Things were so bad Rome elected a dictator to deal with everything. Manius Valerius Marius was given unlimited power and a six month term to save the Republic, both from the combined Sabines/Aequi/Volsci threat (seriously, the Romans were not well liked), and from itself. He issued a similar decree as Servilius, providing debt relief and protections from creditors. The people accepted, an army was raised, and Rome kicked ass.
In a move anybody with some sense prompts them to ask what the hell is wrong with these people, upon return, the Senate started acting like dicks again. The Senate were such dicks, Valerius the dictator, a person with absolute power, by law, resigned in protest. I can’t even think of a joke to make that funny. Nobody with absolute power just. . .quits, do they? Well, in 493 BC, the Aequi decided to stir up some trouble. Again. Can you guess what happened next? Yup, let’s run history by the book. Once more from the top everybody!
In what is called the “First Secession of the Plebs”, rather than go through the same process that had occurred in the last two years, the plebs decided they were just going to leave the city, literally. A decent sized body of the plebs said, “fuck this noise” and went up to Mons Sacer, about 3 miles outside Rome, and set up camp.
In what had to feel like a Twilight Zone episode, the patricians woke up to find half the city deserted, and the few remaining plebs none too keen on obeying the patricians, let alone joining the army to fight the Aequi. The patricians collectively crapped their togas.
The Senate negotiated (which is to say totally caved in to plebeian demands), and the First Secession of the Plebs ended peacefully. Livy recounts that part of the conditions were that “the plebeians were to have magistrates of their own, who should be inviolable, and in them should lie the right to aid the people against the consuls, nor should any senator be permitted to take this magistracy”. Thus, the office of Tribune of the Plebs was created. This office gave the plebs much of what they wanted, which at the core of their message was representation in the affairs of state. Now they could bitch about high taxes to one of their own! Taxation with representation! Uh, victory is ours?
The Tribune of the Plebs became an unequivocally important and influential position for almost the entirety of the Roman Republic. The office fell outside the cursus honorum, the typical succession of offices for a Roman political career, but because of their powers, they were never far from the action. The Tribunes were elected by the plebs, and had to be plebs themselves, putting a check on the patricians from controlling the office. Their role was to protect plebeians from the power of the consuls; to this end, Tribunes had the all-important ius intercessionis, “law of intercession”, or more popularly known as veto power.
In Rome, every magistrate had veto power over magistrates in a lower office; hence, an Aedile could overturn a Quaestor, a Praetor an Aedile, and the Consuls could veto a decree from anyone, including each other—where do you think our Founding Fathers got that whole “checks and balances” notion from? Veto for the Tribunes meant any action, by any magistrate, including the consuls, could be overturned. This put Tribunes in a unique position of falling outside the magistracy, yet practically on top of the pyramid. Even better, the position being “inviolable” (sacrosanctus or more literally “sacrosanct” in the Latin) meant attempting to harm a Tribune, prevent a Tribune from carrying out their duties, or disregarding a Tribune’s veto was punishable by death as an insult to the gods. No more fucking around. The plebs have POWER. So the struggle between the plebs and patricians basically ended with the plebeians winning.
Keen observers will notice that I earlier stated the Struggle of the Orders occurred over a 200 year period and not the three I’ve talked about so far; they might also note I referred to the above episode in Roman history as the First Secession of the Plebs. There is some disagreement over the number, but there are at least three such Secessio Plebis events in the Roman Republic. I will give a quick breakdown of the situation and changes that resulted in the plebs literally leaving the city in protest two more times. History really does repeat, and chances are, you can guess what the results were: The patricians act like jerks, the plebs leave, the patricians cave and more or less give the plebs what they want. Wash, rinse, and repeat.
The second Secessio Plebis occurred in 449 BC. Rome appointed 10 men, “decemvirs”, to overhaul the legal system and compile a code of laws. This would eventually become the Law of the Twelve Tables. In order to facilitate this, they suspended all magistrates and offices, and exempted the decemvirs’ statutes and actions from appeal. It’s still a mystery why they thought this was a good idea. Well, after their term ended and the legal codex was assembled, the decemvirs decided to keep their near unlimited power and acted how one would expect someone with unlimited power to act—like power-hungry bellends. The plebs seceded, the Senate caved, and eventually things went back to normal. The resulting lex Valeria Horatia (named after the two consuls of 449 BC) restored appeal and decreed that laws passed by the Plebeian Council were binding to all Roman citizens. So the plebs gained the right to issue laws that would also affect patricians, and not just themselves. Oh, and they also banned the creation of any new offices not subject to appeal—at least they learned something from this episode.
The Third Secessio Plebis occurred in 287 BC. Quintus Hortensius was appointed dictator after the plebs once again did their thing. While the previous law allowed the Plebeian Council to pass laws binding to both orders, there was still a stipulation that any “plebicites” (laws passed by the Plebeian Council) had to be approved by the Senate—filled, of course, with patricians. Essentially, the Senate was just vetoing all the pleb laws and bypassing having to follow them. Hortensius, a pleb himself, issued a law that made plebicites binding, whether they were Senate approved or not. Pretty easy solution.
There were other fights and laws leading up to the final secession in 287 BC. Sometimes historians will count these as separate secessions. For example, in 445 BC, tribune Gaius Carnuleius led a fight to get a law passed allowing intermarriage between plebs and patricians, and for the consulship to be opened to the plebs.
All in all, it worked out well for the plebeians. The little guys won. Probably because they outnumbered the big guys like 100 to 1. Like I said, when push comes to shove, the side with the numbers always wins. Threatening to move to Canada if Trump wins sounds silly, but the Romans essentially made this sort of threat work. Although there was still a divide between rich and poor, the function of the orders became more or less obsolete. Being a patrician just didn’t matter much after 287 BC. Being a plebeian was no longer a sentence of complete poverty and powerlessness either. Of course, the Roman Republic would unravel in the 1st century BC, and the Empire would rise in the 1st century AD, bringing with it a whole new set of rules, orders, and socioeconomic system.
But that’s an article for another day.
At some point, everyone should experience live performance. It’s fun. I recently saw a production of Sophokles’ Antigone. It was bad. Ok, that wasn’t a great endorsement for live performance. But seeing the play made me think about the difficulty of trying to perform a 2000 year old Greek tragedy for a modern American audience. Despite my less-than-impressed reaction, it was testament to the legacy we inherited from the ancient Greek theater.
Much of our information on the Greek theater comes from the period where it was at its height of popularity—at Athens, during the 5th and 4th centuries BCE. The three great tragedians, Sophokles, Aeschylus, and Euripides, wrote the majority of the surviving plays. The comic Aristophanes provides the bulk of surviving comedies. Satyr plays were a mix of tragedy and comedy, and made up the third form of staged drama. While most of our information comes from this period, drama pre-dates it. By how much, we don’t know. We are not entirely sure on when, who, or how drama and theater originated. We don’t know shit. Welcome to Classics.
Fortunately, we can pass the buck on this one, because the Athenians themselves weren’t very sure of the origins either. Various authors speculated over the different aspects of theater, including when and who invented each part. One favored explanation is drama grew out of rituals associated with the god Dionysus, starting in the 7th century BCE, and took a more coherent and recognizable form around the mid-6th century BCE. From several sources, Arion of Methymna is credited with producing the first drama, composed of a sung dithyramb and chorus around 625 BCE. Other sources refer to Thespis of Ikarion as the first (or second) playwright in 532 BCE, and the inventor of “acting”—which is why actors today are called “thespians”.
Other names have been dropped in playing roles in the invention. Epigenes of Sicyion is mentioned in the Suda (a 10th century CE encyclopedia) as the first tragic poet. Cleisthenes gets credit for transferring the tragic chorus to Dionysus, having supposedly previously being rites for Adrastrus. Peisistratus founded the Greater Dionysia, also called the City Dionysia, which is when a lot of the plays were staged during the heyday of Athenian theater.
While the origins of drama and theater are still unclear, what is undeniable is tragedy, comedy, and satyr plays become a well-known and recognizable feature of Athenian society. Staging the plays occurred in much the same way they are done today, albeit with some differences. Greek theaters were built all over, in many cities. They look exactly liked you’d think. The all-stone design allowed for longevity in their construction, which is why many survive in decent condition today. Earlier theaters were built of wood, but being exposed to the elements (all theaters were outdoors) meant they were high maintenance, and none survive—let that be a lesson if you want something to survive for 2000 years , don’t build it out of wood.
No more than three actors were used, regardless of how many speaking roles there were, whether tragedy or comedy. At the City Dionysia, playwrights competed for both fame and prizes, and unlike today, were primarily funded by the state. The theater itself can be broken into four parts; the “theatron” is where the spectators sat. The “orchestra” was a circular area in front of the stage where the chorus would dance, sing, and perform their roles. The “parodos” were passageways where the chorus or actors would enter and leave the stage. Finally, there was the “skene”, a small building directly behind the stage; it usually had a set of doors for actors to enter and exit, could be decorated to embrace the scenery, and had a roof where actors could climb when they played divine roles—the “deus ex machina” or “god from the machine” could literally be a crane to raise or lower actors from the roof of the skene to the floor.
Because the actors were in the open and conventions limited the number of performers, actors wore masks (think of the famous happy/sad actor masks) and costumes to display different characters. As a rule, each time the actor enters and leaves the stage, they take on a new character, usually accompanied by a wardrobe and mask change. The skene became quite useful in hiding actors “backstage” while they changed masks and costumes.
The plays themselves were usually divided into various sections of more or less recognizable pieces. They usually started with a prologue spoken by one or two characters that set the scene and introduced the play. They had three big “acts” for your beginning, middle, and end. Chorus speeches and dances filled the rest of the play, typically done between acts as transition pieces.
Unlike modern theater, Greek plays followed meter—even the spoken parts. This is similar to the Homeric poems, which we sometimes forget were in meter too. Iambic trimeter was the standard for dialogue, and trochaic tetrameter was the preferred form for the chorus’ songs. Musical theater and opera are the closest comparisons popular in today’s world. This is probably the most untranslatable aspect of ancient Greek theater, Greek being a fairly musical language, and the flow of dialogue spoken in meter becomes apparent only through the experience of hearing it. A similar problem with translation exists, with some people trying to translate the plays or metered works like the Homeric poems using meter or rhyming patterns, while others ignore these features and translate into straight prose. Basically, we tend to suck at capturing the true “essence” of these plays.
While today theater, Broadway, and Hollywood are prominent aspects of our society and culture, in Athens and elsewhere they carried extra public and social importance, in some respects even being functions of the state and government. It is quite likely part of this grew out of the relationship between state and religion, and the historically ritualized religious aspects of theater. Likewise, while the City Dionysia was a big ostentatious display of the might of the Athenian polis, it was still a religious festival for the god Dionysus. Because of the emphasis on ritual, the Greek states, much like the later Romans, controlled the public religious displays to ensure they were done correctly. Hence, the performance of plays became controlled as well.
The playwright submits his play to the Eponymous Archon, one of the chief Athenian magistrates. The Archon then decides which proposals to accept, and assigns a “choregos”, literally “grantor”, to fund the play (see my article on liturgies for how plays were funded and the Athenian tax system worked). During the festival, civil and religious proceedings go on. Libations are poured, a sacrifice is made, and the tribute of all the allied states is laid out on the stage, vast sums of silver and riches put on display to highlight the power of the Athenian Empire.
Then come the plays themselves. In the audience are foreign dignitaries, the Archons, generals, and other leaders of the city, other important and prominent Athenians, and the common folk. A few playwrights would be accepted, and they would compete. In the first row are the priests of Dionysus and the 10 judges. All in all, this was a festive and enjoyable day for everyone involved, but was still a serious and professional event. An upset didn’t just mean bad review, but serious consequences as an insult to the city and god.
A notable case is Aristophanes. Ancient Greek “Old Comedy” was highly political and biting, like Jon Stewart on a particularly hash and unforgiving day. In his first (now lost) play, Babylonians, he was particularly critical against Athenian policy and Kleon, a highly influential politician. Kleon sued Aristophanes, not for personal attacks, but slander against the city in front of foreigners. Although little is known about the incident, and although it does not appear to have impacted the comic’s career (Aristophanes lampooned the event two years later in the Acharnians, his second play, and the Babylonians itself reportedly took second place) it does highlight the high level of professional, religious, and political implications involved. Essentially, it’s like being asked to put on a play by the federal government, and President Obama, various foreign ambassadors, and the Pope are going to be in attendance. Oh, and the gods might get angry if the play is not up to par. No pressure.
Drama was biggest in Athens, thanks both to its sphere of influence and celebrations like the City Dionysia. Plato and Aristotle would write about drama in the 4th century BCE, and Menander’s “New Comedy” would be popular, although all his works only survive in fragments. Perhaps because of the collapse of the Athenian Empire, the rise of Macedon and Alexander the Great, or the sentiments of the Hellenistic Age, the centuries following would not be as prominent for Greek drama. Eventually, Roman drama took over as a major cultural attraction of the Western World.
Greek theater set the stage—pun intended—for much of how we do live performances today. At the very least, Greek theater influenced the Romans in many ways. The theater design itself has basically remained the same over the centuries, and the design served as the inspiration for the Coliseum (also called the Flavian Amphitheater, amphi–theater, literally “two theaters” mashed together). When the Romans expanded into Greece, they basically copied Greek theater. The first Roman playwright writing in Latin, Livius Andronicus, simply translated Greek plays. The comedians Terence and Plautus likewise adapted plays from Greek “New Comedy”, i.e., Menander, and when push came to shove, guys like Seneca the Younger simply staged classics like Euripides’ Medea, with his own unique spin.
The Romans, influenced by the Greeks, would in turn influence poets of the Middle Ages, including Shakespeare, and continue right up to the modern day. Of course, the ancient plays themselves have a legacy. “Greek tragedy” has become a phrase on its own and even in 2016, I can attend a showing of Antigone, written in 414 BCE. I can imagine the look of shock on Sophocles’ face if he knew people would still be performing his play almost 2500 years later. But there it is; Greek theater has survived the test of time, and by current indications, will continue well into the future.
Don’t fix it if it ain’t broke.
Perhaps no single article of clothing is so famous, so iconic, and so well remembered as the Roman toga. Drunk frat boys can even create parties with a toga theme, and it seems almost instinctual that we all know how to make one out of our bedsheets. There were, of course, other elements to the Roman wardrobe, and just like today, industries around clothing-material, making clothes, and keeping them clean. So before we commit any party fouls, let’s look at the dress code of Ancient Rome.
Togas. Let’s start at the top with what we know, because I don’t want anyone to wet their pants in anticipation. These are like suits or dresses by our standards, as in to say, togas are a bit more formal than frats would have us believe. The toga has significant social er…significance (I need a thesaurus), and was worn as your social class allowed. Even the Romans knew the toga was a symbol of Rome. Virgil remarked, “Romanos rerum dominos gentemque togatam” (I. 282). Romans, masters of the world, the toga-wearing people.
Unlike the modern bedsheet, the real Roman toga took two people to put on, and was made to high quality standards. Wool was the material of choice, and togas came in a few variations. The most common was the toga praetexta, which was just an ordinary white toga with a broad purple stripe. The magistrates wore this and this is probably what you see in the movies. Just like suits and dresses, though, there were other togas for other occasions, like the toga pulla for funerals and mourning.
The other thing you see is the regular old tunic. This is like a t-shirt, or maybe a golf polo if you splurged on a nice one. Both women and men, common citizen, rich patrician, and slaves wore it. Speaking of, the female equivalent to the toga was the stola. It was similarly difficult to put on, and generally a more formal article of clothing.
As for the more interesting point, laundry. “Laundry is interesting?” you ask, “and where can I get whatever it is you’re smoking?” “Well it is interesting when you take a piss on your clothes to clean them” I respond.
When that toga finally started to be too dirty and smelly to justify wearing, the Romans took them to the local Fullo. Just like today, they treated the clothes in a cleaning solution (they didn’t have soap), rinsed, and dried them. But unlike today, what the Romans sometimes used as “soap” included urine.
First, the fullers put the clothes in big tubs (some of which are archaeologically preserved). Then some alkaline substance is added; from the evidence, urine from men and animals was one of the common ingredients used to clean clothes. Then workers or the fuller himself stomps on the clothes. No seriously, here’s a mural of fullers at work, stomping clothes.
Next they rinsed the clothes and dried them. In a fairly ingenious low-tech process, the fuller usually had a system of tubes and basins for rinsing, so they weren’t continually rinsing the clothes in dirty water.
Finally, they treated the garment. This could include brushing or carding, or adding sulfur to white clothes in order to make them brighter. According to Pliny, fullers were taken pretty seriously, and the Romans even had the “Metilian Law” to govern methods and responsibilities. Thanks to digs in Pompeii, the literary evidence can be supplemented by archaeological remains. Fulleries seem to have come in all sorts of sizes, and frescos help give us more concrete ideas of the fuller and the methods employed. Just be thankful soap got invented, otherwise we might have people cleaning our clothes by pissing and stomping on them.