Rome’s Neighborhood Bosses and the Power of the Purple Border

Marcus Valerius

Mind your step right here on these basalt paving stones. The morning mist hasn't cleared off the Tiber yet, and, uh, if you trip on the Vicus Sandaliarius at dawn, well, you'll end up face first in a butcher's discard bucket. But look right over there, just by the sandal maker's awning. You see that man standing in the doorway, stretching his arms in the chill air? That is Gaius Sulpicius. And I, I want you to look very closely at his cloak. You see that border running along the hem? That bright, brilliant stripe of Tyrrhenian purple wool? Now, if you asked a visiting provincial from Greece or Syria who wears a toga praetexta like that, they would tell you, oh, that must be a high Roman magistrate. A praetor heading to the courts, or a senator, or maybe a freeborn Roman boy who hasn't reached manhood yet. But Gaius Sulpicius? Gaius was born in chains in Asia Minor. He spent twenty years hauling timber for a merchant down by the river before his master freed him. He is a freedman. So how does a former slave get to walk the streets of Rome wearing the sacred purple border of the Republic? It is because he is a vicomagister. One of four elected street bosses for this very block. You see, while our emperor Trajan is up on the Oppian Hill building colossal marble baths that cover acres of land, that is not how Rome actually functions day to day. A giant empire needs local eyes. The whole city is carved up into these tight, crowded vici, these neighborhood blocks. Back in the reign of Vespasian, in seventy three AD, Pliny wrote that there were two hundred and sixty five crossroads shrines across the fourteen regions of Rome, and the city has only grown since then. In every single one of those neighborhoods, the working people elect four vicomagistri from among the local freedmen. And as historians like John Lott have noted in their studies of these streets, in addition to maintaining the local compitum and its cult, each college of magistrates coordinated tasks like security and fire prevention at the local level. They are the ones who organize the bucket brigades when a kerosene lamp tips over in a timber insula. They check the tallow street lamps at dusk. They make sure the sewers under our feet aren't backed up with refuse. Ah! Wait, wait, listen to that. Right on the corner. Here comes Gaius's morning duty right on cue. Look at that sausage vendor, that botularius, standing there with his iron brazier. He's shoved his sizzing cart right across the main doorway of that four story insula, roasting spiced pork cuts, blowing smoke straight up into the ground floor flats. And look up at the second story window! That woman has a wooden bucket full of grey wash water, and she is threatening to dump the whole thing right onto his head if he doesn't clear the entrance! They are screaming obscenities that would make a sailor blush. But here comes Gaius. He doesn't panic. He just steps between them, lifts his arm so that purple border catches the morning light, and pulls his toga slightly tighter. He tells the sausage seller to roll his cart back five paces onto the public curb, and he tells the tenant up at the window that if one single drop of dirty wash water lands on the paving stones, he will use his official authority to levy a fine of half a denarius on her landlord before noon. And just like that, the yelling stops. The cart rolls back, the window slams shut. That is street power.

Marcus Valerius

Come walk with me a few steps further down to the intersection where three streets meet. This is the compitum, the heart of the vicus. See that small brick and marble shrine built right into the corner wall? That is where Gaius spends his first hour of daylight. His slave assistant, his minister, is already there holding a wicker basket of laurel branches and a small bronze incense burner. Ah, taste the air right here. It is an amazing mix of burning frankincense, fried garlic, flatbread from the baker across the way, and, well, horse manure from the delivery carts. Gaius takes a pinch of incense, drops it onto the charcoal, and then decks the little marble altar with fresh laurel leaves. He is sacrificing to the Lares Augusti. These aren't the high, terrifying gods of the Capitol like Jupiter Optimus Maximus. The Lares are the household guardians, the protective spirits of our specific street corner, tied directly to the emperor's own household. And this is where the real social currency of Roman street life happens. Watch what Gaius does next. He takes a knife and cuts up a heavy wheel of libum, a traditional sacrificial cake made of salted cheese, wheat flour, and honey, baked fresh on laurel leaves. He sprinkles it with salted wine from an earthenware jar, takes a piece for the gods, and then begins handing out the rest to the neighbors gathering around. There is Marcus the cobbler taking a slice, and a couple of wool weavers from the Subura, and a porter from the river docks. They all take a piece of bread, take a sip of wine, and nod respectfully to Gaius. Think about what Augustus accomplished when he reorganized these street shrines more than a century ago. He took thousands of former slaves, men who could never hold public office, men who could never sit in the Senate or command a legion, and he gave them real civic authority over their own blocks. He made them the guardians of the neighborhood gods, gave them the right to wear the purple border on feast days, and turned potential street rioters into the very guardians of public order. We have at least five hundred thousand working souls packed into this city, living wall to wall, floor above floor. If we relied entirely on distant senators sitting in the Curia to keep the peace, Rome would burn itself down or tear itself apart in a week. It is block wardens like Gaius Sulpicius, standing at a crossroads shrine with incense in his hand, garlic on his breath, and purple wool on his shoulders, who keep the greatest city in the world turning every single morning. But the sun is up now, the shops are unfastening their wooden shutters, and I need to go see about some wine casks down by the river. Walk carefully on your way back, and mind the carts!