Roman Hobnails, Cobblers, and Footwear Rank

Marcus Valerius

Mind your step right there on the basalt. You, uh, you hear that sound? That awful, irregular, slick clack scrape coming from under my right heel? I, I, I lost three iron hobnails somewhere near the Subura this morning. Just three little iron studs, clavi, popped out of the leather, and now, well, now walking on these wet, sloping Roman stones is like trying to ice skate across polished lard. Millions of feet have smoothed these volcanic paving blocks over the centuries, and when the morning dew hits them, if your shoe does not have its iron teeth, down you go, right into the gutter mud.

Marcus Valerius

Now, you might ask yourself, why not just pull off the shoes and walk bare foot for a few blocks? Ah, by Hercules, no! In our Rome, under the great Emperor Trajan, going bare foot in public is, well, it is unthinkable for a citizen. It is the absolute, unmistakable sign of absolute destitution, or worse, a slave who owns nothing. A free born Roman man wears leather on his feet. Proper leather, bristling with dozens of sharp iron grip studs to bite into these steep, greasy thoroughfares. Your footwear tells the whole street exactly who you are before you even open your mouth.

Marcus Valerius

So, keep up with me. We are turning down the Vicus Sandaliarius, Shoemakers Street, just off the Forum. You can smell it before you see it, can you not? That heavy, pungent stench of oak bark tannage and raw hide floating over the crowd. Ah, there he is. Look at the sutor, the street cobbler, perched right out in the open on his little, worn three legged stool, subsellium, surrounded by leather scraps and wooden lasts. I, I, I remember three winters ago during a heavy rainy procession near the Temple of Castor, my entire sole split wide open. I had to limp away carrying my sandal, trying to hide behind a column. Most embarrassing moment of my young life. So today, I am taking no chances. Watch this. Hail, master craftsman! I need three clavi driven into this heel right now. I will just stand here on one cold flagstone on my left leg while you work your magic.

Marcus Valerius

Watch how he works. He takes a carved wooden foot model, a forma, and slides it inside my calceus so the leather holds its shape. Then he flips the whole thing upside down on a heavy, solid iron anvil block. According to historians and craftsmen who know the trade, ancient Roman shoemakers, known as sutores, always use these wooden lasts called a forma on which shoes and boots are made, along with an iron block on which hobnails are hammered into the soles. See how he drives the fresh iron hobnails straight down through all three layers of thick cattle hide? The point hits the iron anvil underneath and turns, bending flat inside the sole so the tip never pricks my foot. Smooth as silk, and tough as iron.

Marcus Valerius

Ah, look at this old fellow who just stepped up to the bench. Look at his legs, scarred from years on the Danube frontier. He is a retired legionary, boasting to anyone listening about his old army caligae, claiming his campaign boots had eighty heavy iron studs pounded into the soles for those brutal forty mile marches. But the cobbler just nods and laughs, pointing his hammer at the veteran. He reminds him that you cannot wear heavy military caligae into civic space! You try walking into the marble basilicas or the Senate house with eighty iron cleats on your boots, and the magistrates will throw you right out. Iron cleats chew up polished marble floors like a boar in a vineyard. Rome has rules for every foot.

Marcus Valerius

It really is a rigid social code written right on our feet, is it not? A senator walks past us right now in his calceus senatorius, soft, high leather tied with red thongs, or sometimes four black thongs for the magistrates. Wealthy women wear soft slippers dyed purple or gilded with leaf gold. Working citizens like me have sturdy, repaired calfskin sandals, patched and resoled three times over. And the poor convicts down in the quarries? They are forced to wear heavy wooden clogs that weigh them down so they can hardly run. Every step you take in this city announces your station to the world.

Marcus Valerius

There! The cobbler hands my shoe back, three shiny new iron heads gleaming in the leather. I slip it back on, buckle the thong, and set my foot down hard on the wet basalt. Ah, feel that grip! The fresh iron hobnails bite straight into the slick stone without slipping a finger breadth. Now, if you will excuse me, a properly shod Roman citizen has business at the Forum. Walk carefully out there, my friend, and check your heels!