Tag Archives: consular dating

Indictions (more Roman dating; still not Ovidian)

You may be thinking, ‘Gee, dating by consuls sure was fun. How else did Romans write the years in dates?’ Let me tell you, if consular dating is your bag, you’ll love indictions. I was reminded of the ancient Roman indiction cycle recently, since my current research has brought me up against Pope Gregory VII (pope, 1073-85), who uses this system in his letters, thus:

Data Rome VIIII. Kalendas Maii, Indictione XI.

Given at Rome, 8 days before the Kalends of May (24 April), in the eleventh indiction.

One may quickly jump to the conclusion that this is some medieval popery. After all, doesn’t Gregory the Great (pope, 590-604), who comes after The End of Ancient Christianity use indictions as well? Aha, but what sort of man was this first Pope Gregory? Gregory the Great was a Roman aristocrat of senatorial descent who owned a villa on the Caelian Hill, had spent time in the imperial court of Constantinople, and who acted as though Gaul was part of the Empire, not an independent, Frankish kingdom.

Not the sort of guy to go around using new-fangled dating systems.

However, the consulate was gone by Gregory’s day (the last consul was Basilius in 541). But the consulate was not the only way to write a year. Nonetheless, people did not universally and immediately start writing things Anno Domini according to their favourite paschal tables and systems of computus. They did keep using some of the older systems, and the indiction gains greater prominence at this time, at least from what my own, informal glance at the evidence shows.

Two questions, then: What on earth is an indiction? Who used them?

The indiction can be very unhelpfully explained as a fifteen-year cycle for late Roman taxation purposes. It was instituted by the Emperor Constantine (possibly originally developed by Diocletian, r. 284-305), and definitely in use in Egypt (whence come so many useful papyri for this sort of thing) by 313. What this means is that the emperors declared what the average valuation for taxation would be for the next fifteen years. The fifteen years themselves form the indiction. The very first indiction, proclaimed in 313, was backdated to 1 September 312. Every 1 September, every 15 years, a new indiction started, with the start of a new fiscal cycle for the imperial administration.

When used in dates as the Gregory VII quotation above, the word indiction actually refers to one of the fifteen years of the cycle. Thus, if people had been using the indiction in this way in 312 (which I’m pretty sure they weren’t), then ‘first indiction’ would refer to 1 September 312 – 31 August 313. Then the second indiction would begin, and so on for fifteen years. Then the cycle starts again with the new fiscal term.

One of the things this reminds us of — and it’s something I like to point out — is that Constantine, like Diocletian before him, was a reformer and shaper, and he would have been a big deal even without converting to Christianity. Indeed, perhaps his ability to think outside the conventional Roman box is part of why he threw his lot in with the Christian god.

One more small but important note is that, due to an error, in the medieval West, indictions began on 24 September. This must make chronology fun for people who look at Latin-Byzantine relations in the Middle Ages!

Anyway, that, in short, is what an indiction is. I’m probably imprecise in one or more ways; hopefully Richard will correct me in the comments.

People who use indictions to write dates:

A few Latins: Popes. Popes also used consular formulae in letters whereas such dates don’t survive for other letters. So the papal chancery is a big deal, whatever you think about institutional religion. Bede. No surprise, given that he wrote a text call On the Reckoning of Time. Cassiodorus in the Variae; I’ve not checked his historiography.

A few Greeks: Evagrius Scholasticus does sporadically, but not as his main means of dating. Theophanes Confessor.

In Syriac, at least Pseudo-Zachariah Rhetor, it seems.

Lots and lots of other people do, but I really don’t have time to hunt them all down.


Dating in ancient Rome

First, no — this post is not about Ovid’s elegiac how-to guide Ars Amatoria (‘Art of Being a Lover’), entertaining as that volume is. Rather, it is about how ancient Romans wrote what day, month, and year it is. We all think that writing a date is a fairly simple, straightforward task, whether you write 9 July 2017 in the UK or July 9, 2017 in Canada, or 09.07.2017 or 2017.07.09. However you slice it, a modern date is a pretty tame creature, even if the engineers get up in arms about how other people choose to write it numerically. It wasn’t so straightforward in the ancient world.

The topic has been at the heart of the past week of mine at work, as I looked through papal letters and imperial laws from the pontificate of Leo the Great (440-461) on the one hand and the reigns of the Emperors Majorian (457-61) and Leo (457-74) on the other. And yes, there are letters between the two Leos (Leones!), addressed: ‘Leo episcopus Leoni augusto in domino salutem.‘ — ‘Bishop Leo to Emperor Leo, greetings in the Lord.’ One such letter from Leo to Leo (Ep. 165) is dated thus:

Data decimo sexto kalendas Septembris, Leone et Majoriano Augustis coss.

Given on the sixteenth day before the kalends of September when Emperors Leo and Majorian were consuls.

I don’t have all my notes with me, but I suspect that in the manuscripts that probably looked more like, ‘Data XVI kal. Sept, Leone et Maiuriano Augg coss‘. We would write that as 17 October 458. The basic elements of a Roman date are all there.

Rather than writing the day of the month by which number of day it is, as 17 October, ancient Romans counted backwards from three different days — the kalends (first of the month), the nones (sometimes the seventh, sometimes the fifth), or the ides (sometimes the 15th, sometimes the 13th). Usually, the ides fall on the 13th. However, in March, July, October, and May the ides fall on the 15th day. Nine days before the ides come the nones, thus either the seventh or fifth.

Wait, you say. How is the seventh nine days before the fifteenth? Isn’t it only 8?

Ah, well here’s where we move along to the next part. Not only are you counting your days before one of these three specially-marked days of the month, as a Roman, you count inclusively. Therefore, it is not simply the difference as in arithmetic they taught you in Grade 1. The current day and the day you look ahead to are both included. So the number becomes one greater than anticipated.

This was even a bit weird for the Romans on the day before, so rather than saying that the final day of a month was two days before the kalends of the next, they simply said, ‘pridie’, ‘the day before’ (in essence).

I can assure you I spend a lot of time counting backwards on my fingers or writing the days of the month out to be sure I get the inclusive reckoning right whenever I convert a number into the modern system.

So, today is 9 July 2017. The ides of July are the 15th, so to day is 7 days before the ides of July.

So at least Romans had a way of reckoning dates that they agreed on.

What about years? Well, in 458, people had made a few calculations of their own as to when what we would call the BC or BCE to AD or CE crossover occurred (that is, the birth of Jesus). They were also largely united that what we now call 753 BC was the foundation date of Rome. Some people writing chronicles would actually date things from the creation of the world as calculated in Genesis. Others didn’t. In 457, Victorius of Aquitaine decided to start his Easter Tables (for reckoning when Easter had and would fall) with Year 1 as the crucifixion  — which he dated to our AD 28. This is perfectly logical, since there was no Easter before that.

Anyway, our dear friend Dionysius Exiguus, the bilingual monk from Scythia who did a lot of work on canon law and his own Easter tables, wasn’t around for about 75 years yet, in 458. His Easter Tables and related matter are what set the AD/BC turning point as we know it, as he dated the nativity of Jesus to AD 1 (there is no year 0). And his numbers for the years were not suddenly adopted as the standard way of telling which year it was. I don’t know how long that took, but it was a secondary aspect of his work.

Regardless of what number of year it would have been, not everyone agreed, and not everyone numbered the year. Then how did you know which number of year it was in ancient Rome?

The consuls.

The consuls of Rome were originally the highest-ranking magistrates, elected from the Senate. There were two consuls every year, and they originally had particular powers and authority in terms of proposing and passing laws. Obviously, with the arrival of the emperors with Augustus, they lost most of their real power.

One thing that they always did, however, was give their names to the year. Thus, one could refer to the consulship of Cicero and Hybrida (63 BC). There is a big list of all the consuls here. This way of naming years was not unique to the Romans. The Athenians also did it, naming years after the magistrate called the archon.

Naming the year becomes one of the biggest functions of the Late Antique consul. And people would put together big, unofficial lists of consuls to keep track of the years, sometimes with events slotted in.

This practice can have numerous ramifications for all sorts of things, of course. That’s why I’m taking an interest in it, particularly the year 458. Not that we have time to deal with my research now.

Anyway, I thought I’d share with you one of those small yet distinctive ways in which we and the Romans differ.