For most Romans, the day began at dawn and ended at dusk.
Since the absence of strong artificial light made work difficult after dark, shops kept
daylight hours.
And since the unlit streets were dangerous at night, most people stayed near home after
sunset, venturing out only to the local bar.
This was partly a matter of necessity.
The cramped apartments in which most Romans lived lacked kitchens.
So for a decent meal, the only option was often the local taberna or caupona – a restaurant
serving fast food and cheap wine.
In Pompeii, there was at least one tavern for every 100 inhabitants; Rome’s network
must have been equally dense.
Although many Roman taverns seem to have sold most of their food to go, some were true restaurants,
with tables or built-in booths for diners.
The food was basic, centered on such staples as bread, cheese, roast chickpeas, and sausages.
Whatever was on the menu, bars were favorite spots for gambling and drinking, as this humorous
fresco from a tavern in Pompeii illustrates.
Two men are shown playing dice at a table.
The one on the left says “I’ve got it” (that is, a winning roll).
The one on right says “that’s a two, not a three.”
In the following panel, the men fight and are shoved out the door by the bar’s owner.
Another fresco from the same tavern shows a waitress bringing wine to two men on stools.
The one on the left says “over here,” the one on the right says “no, it’s mine,”
and the waitress, who has no time for this, replies “whoever wants it should take it.”
The Roman elite regarded taverns as squalid places.
The satirist Juvenal, imagining the clientele of a bar in Ostia, described a crowd thick
with thugs, assassins, and fugitive slaves.
Centuries later, the historian Ammianus Marcellinus criticized Roman commoners for sitting in
bars all night, lounging, gambling, and – for some reason – snorting.
On several occasions, the emperors, regarding taverns as sources of trouble, limited the
foods that could be served in them.
For the vast majority of Romans, nightlife began and ended with the local bar.
The elite, however, entertained themselves in a wider range of settings.
Like most premodern cities, Rome had no fine restaurants or exclusive night clubs, simply
because there was no demand for such places.
The rich partied at home, either in the mansions scattered along the crests of the seven hills
or in the suburban villas of Rome’s garden belt.
When the rich partied, they partied hard.
To mention only emperors: Tiberius once hosted a drinking bout that lasted two entire days.
Nero raced chariots in the palace gardens.
Domitian staged a lion hunt inside one of his villas.
And at a time when most men earned less than 1,000 sestertii a year, Lucius Verus hosted
a banquet for 12 that cost six million.
At the end of that feast, by way of a party favor, each guest was given an elaborate carriage,
complete with mules and driver, to carry them home.
The default mode for elite nightlife was an extravagant banquet, often with five or more
courses of rich foods, garnished with entertainment ranging from poetry readings to striptease.
One star of this world was the epic tippler nicknamed Tricongius – literally “three
gallon guy” – whose party trick was to drink three gallons of wine in a single pull.
Another was the legendary gourmand Apicius, who exhausted a vast fortune in his quest
for the perfect dinner.
Although party animals of this caliber were exceptional, they had many imitators: the
tombstone of one Roman woman notes that she liked to drink wine and have a good time.
When they weren’t at banquets, some wealthy Romans – usually young men – liked to
go slumming in rough neighborhoods.
Emperors were no exception.
Nero disguised himself with a wig and cruised the mean streets, breaking into shops and
starting fights.
Otho and his friends pulled pranks on drunks stumbling out of the taverns.
Lucius Verus brawled with neighborhood toughs, returning to the palace with a bruised face
and black eyes.
For commoners, in short, nightlife consisted of drinking and gambling in the local tavern.
But for members of the elite, it could be an epic progress from mansion to mansion and
party to party, sometimes with a few dive bars between.
To capture that experience, I’ve created what I hope is a plausible description of
how a modestly debauched aristocrat in second century Rome might have spent an evening.
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And now: an evening in ancient Rome.
A hot night, without a shadow of a breeze.
The Dog Star is burning beside the moon, and the marble floor’s as hot as blood.
You’re a young Roman aristocrat.
You’ve got time on your hands, a dagger at your belt, and more money than a sane man
could spend in a year.
You feel like having a good time.
You emerge from the gate of the family mansion in a simple tunic, a cheap clay lamp in one
hand.
Your two bodyguards – both former gladiators – follow a short distance behind.
A walk down the hill brings you into a neighborhood where tenements lean wearily across the stars,
and the air is heavy with filth and perfume.
You enter a random tavern.
It looks like a hundred others: a marble-top bar with jars of cheap wine stacked behind
it, a half-dozen tables of regulars, two waitresses hustling drinks.
There was a time when you and your friends would pick fights in places like this.
These days, you prefer to gamble.
There isn’t any money in it – among commoners, the stakes are always low – but there’s
nothing like the feeling.
Spotting five men dicing at a table in the corner, you motion one of your bodyguards
to bring you a cup of the tavern’s least disgusting wine, and walk over to the players.
Before they can tell you that their game is full, you reach into the leather pouch at
your belt, pull out a golden aureus, and lay it on the pile of small change in the table’s
center.
The men’s eyes bulge.
That coin is worth more than most of them make in a month.
You sit down and ask whether they would mind if you diced with them.
It turns out that they’re willing.
Dice is a simple game with infinitely varied rules.
In the version these men are playing, anyone who rolls a score of four or six has to throw
a coin on the table, and a Venus throw – every die showing a different face – scoops the
pool.
Now that your aureus is on the table, the game becomes fiercely competitive.
A ring of onlookers crowds the table, shouting and laying bets on the winner.
You sit back, sipping a cup of wine, and allow yourself to imagine, just for a moment, that
you care too.
On the third round, the man beside you throws a Venus, and the whole tavern erupts.
You clap the winner on the back, excuse yourself, and head for the door.
One of the barmaids has noticed that you have money, and shoots you a significant glance.
A pity you don’t have more time.
But you know from experience that it’s not wise to linger after laying down a gold piece.
Sure enough, almost as soon as you and leave the tavern, two men who had been standing
near the door begin to tail you.
Playing dumb, you turn down a narrow alley.
The would-be thieves follow, and are beaten to a pulp by your bodyguards, who had positioned
themselves just inside the alley entrance.
You don’t bother to participate.
You hear footsteps behind you.
A group of six is coming down the alley, led by a tall figure with a torch in one hand.
Just your luck: the night watch.
Your bodyguards, noticing the commotion, stop pummeling the would-be thieves and straighten
up.
Fortunately, the letter of the law is not something that people with money have to worry
about.
Before the watchmen can speak, you put on a winning smile and exaggerate your upper-class
accent.
“Good evening, gentlemen!
My companions and I were accosted by these brigands.
By the grace of the gods, we were able to fight them off.”
One of the men on the ground groans.
You continue: “I hope that you will see these wretches brought to justice.”
You pull a half-dozen coins from the pouch at your belt, and hand them to the lead watchman.
“For your trouble.”
The man salutes, and watches you and your guards leave.
By now, it must be the third hour of the night.
Time to crash a party.
You’re only a short walk from the mansions along High Street, where there’s always
a banquet or two going on.
A friend of a friend should be at a party up there tonight.
And so, a short time later, you find yourself standing at the great iron-studded front gate
of a Quirinal mansion.
A few coins convince the doorman that you were invited.
The banquet has been over for hours now.
You pause by the empty dining room, surveying the debris of the meal.
To judge from the serving dishes, still on sideboards by the door, the main course included
peacock, lampreys, and a platter of sow udders in wine sauce.
Not a bad spread, though you’ve always preferred dormouse and goat kid.
Voices echo from the garden.
Leaving your guards at the door, you walk into a courtyard, where the moon glimmers
through the branches of ancient olive trees.
After splashing your face with water from a fountain, you saunter toward a group of
couches at the garden’s far end, ringed by bronze statues of boys with lighted lamps
in their hands.
There are seven men sprawled over the couches.
As is customary at these affairs, everyone is wearing a colorful linen tunic.
A bored-looking slave, napkin in hand, stands behind each guest.
You recline next to a distant acquaintance, apologize for being late, and call for chilled
wine.
A server rushes forward, fills your cup, and scoops a bit of mountain snow into it.
Fortunately, everyone is drunk enough to regard your arrival without surprise.
You turn to your acquaintance – whose name you have forgotten, or possibly never knew
– and ask him about the dinner entertainment.
He peers at you blearily, and mumbles something about dancing girls from Spain.
In the meantime, the conversation of the other guests has turned to the practical matter
of hangover cures.
One man recommends chewing cabbage.
Another suggests wearing amethysts.
The host – a distinguished senator – proclaims that the only way to avoid headaches is to
avoid bad wine, and orders his steward to bring up an amphora of fifty year-old Falernian.
The wine is opened, dosed with honey, and passed around.
The first cup isn’t very good.
But the second cup isn’t bad at all, and the third goes down splendidly.
You stagger out the door a few amphorae later, leaning heavily on one of your bodyguards.
Birds are beginning to chirp in the gardens, and the stars – with all their spangled
gods and heroes – spin merrily overhead, wheeling over the cool and empty streets through
the final hour of night.
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You might also enjoy my book, Naked Statues, Fat Gladiators, and War Elephants.
Thanks for watching.