This is a Roman latrine in Ostia, Rome’s port.
It’s not especially large – only about 20 seats – and it never had the marble floors
or statues of the most lavish lavatories.
For centuries, it was nothing more and nothing less than a commodious commode.
To our eyes, the strangest thing about it is just how ordinary it was – the fact that
almost every sizable Roman town had facilities like this, where citizens could relieve themselves
en masse.
Before exploring what it was like to visit a public latrine in ancient Rome, I’d like
to talk briefly about private toilets.
To judge from finds in Pompeii, there were quite a few of these, tucked into corners
of houses and shops.
Many were located in or near kitchens, so that food scraps could be tipped down the
hatch.
Some were situated in upper stories, and serviced by what must have been distressingly leaky
terracotta pipes.
Few private toilets were connected to sewers, for the excellent reason they had no traps,
and thus allowed everything in the sewers – from noxious gasses to clawing rats – to
make its way into one’s home.
Most Romans preferred to have their toilets empty into cesspits.
A cesspit in Herculaneum, in fact, was found still half-filled with waste, providing archaeologists
with a fascinating, if unsavory, window into ancient diets.
For many Romans, especially those living in apartments, private latrines were not an option.
The simple but effective alternative was a chamber pot – a large vessel, usually made
of clay, but sometimes of bronze or even silver – that was emptied as needed, often by being
tipped out the nearest window.
The chamber pot itself might fall out in the process, to the acute and occasionally fatal
distress of those below.
In this world of brimming cesspits and chamber pot shrapnel, public latrines must have seemed
like refuges.
Although some were quite small, like the single-seat latrines perched atop Rome’s Aurelian walls
or the 2-seaters on the ground floor of many apartment buildings, most had at least a dozen
seats.
Some were considerably larger, like the 50-seater (complete with a heated floor) in the Forum
of Julius Caesar, and the 68-seater in the Roman Agora of Athens.
A few may have had room for as many as 80 patrons.
Although many Roman latrines were architecturally unambitious, a remarkable number were equipped
with marble paneling, mosaic floors, and even statues.
One in Timgad, pictured here, featured fancy toilet armrests in the shape of leaping dolphins.
A few one-seater latrines in Hadrian’s Villa, designed for the emperor’s personal use,
were favored with marble seats, frescoed walls, and windows framing ornamental pools.
The goddess Fortuna was often painted on the walls of latrines, apparently in the hope
that she would guard the health of those using the facility.
A less reverent attitude was on display in the latrine of a bath in Ostia, where frescoes
of the seven wise men of Greece were captioned with advice about things like farting stealthily.
We have a few examples of bathroom graffiti, like this one from Herculaneum, which reads:
“Apollinaris, doctor of the emperor Titus, crapped well here.”
Nice of him to let us know.
As you’d expect, public latrines were normally located in high-traffic areas, often near
fountains or baths, whose wastewater could be channeled under the seats and into the
nearest sewer.
Proximity to the sewers sometimes led to unforeseen consequences, as on one memorable occasion
when a large octopus popped out of a toilet.
Before we move on to the experience of using a Roman latrine, I’d like to thank Steve
of Woosh Drains in New York City, who gave me the idea for this video and generously
offered to sponsor it.
He can’t help you if there’s an octopus in your toilet, but for your other plumbing
needs, call Steve at Whoosh Pipe and Drain, located in Astoria, and serving all of Queens.
So – what was it like to use a Roman public latrine?
Most facilities had a swinging door or curtain at the entrance, watched – if it was a pay
toilet – by an attendant.
The interior was almost always quite dim, which provided a measure of privacy.
So did the nature of Roman clothing, which covered users more or less completely as they
did their business.
This helps to explain the fact that – as far as we can tell – men and women used
the same latrines.
Around the Mediterranean, the toilet seats were usually stone.
Wood was more common in northern Europe, not least because it was unpleasant to sit on
stone during the northern winter.
There was usually a slot beneath the seat to allow discreet use of the latrine sponge.
The sponge on a stick that served as the equivalent of toilet paper is one of the more notorious
aspects of daily life in ancient Rome.
The sponge pressed into service was normally, it seems, the absorbent and pleasantly soft
Mediterranean Sea sponge, moistened before use and rinsed after.
Latrine sponges were filthy and riddled with parasites.
But at least they were soft – which could not be said of the pottery shards and sea
shells that some Romans used instead to scrape themselves clean.
A less abrasive alternative seems to have involved splashing one’s undercarriage with
small jugs of water.
There may have even been toilet paper, in the form of a dampened cloth.
If old papyrus was ever used for the purpose, it must have chafed terribly.
The Romans attempted to keep their latrines clean.
Most were equipped with a basin for washing hands and/or latrine sponges.
The floors were designed to be easily washable, often with drains beneath each toilet seat.
Though usually small and high, windows ensured basic ventilation.
Scented candles may have sometimes been burned to control odors.
By our standards, however, latrines must have almost always been unpleasant places – dim,
crowded, and reeking.
There were hazards, too, that would have made even the boldest Romans pause.
On at least one occasion, a hapless latrine user was bitten in a sensitive spot by a snake
hiding in the toilet channel.
And thanks to build-ups of hydrogen sulfide and methane in the sewers, latrines were routinely
rattled by explosions that sent gouts of flame roaring through the seats.
No wonder so many latrines had frescoes of Fortuna – if there was ever a place where
divine protection was needed, it was a Roman toilet.
If you enjoyed this video, please consider supporting toldinstone on Patreon.
You might also be interested in my book, Naked Statues, Fat Gladiators, and War Elephants.
Thanks for watching.