Via Museum of Hoaxes, the Nazi air marker hoax — though it seems to me that it was not a hoax in the sense of a deliberate attempt to deceive, but rather an honest misinterpretation. And taking into account the role of the press in the story’s rise and fall, it looks a lot like what I’d call a defence panic.

What happened was that in August 1942 the US Army issued a press release claiming that its airmen had discovered strange patterns in fields across the eastern United States, which appeared to point in the direction of important nearby military and industrial sites. This was offered as evidence that enemy agents were active in the US, laying down signals for German bombers. Nearly two thousand newspapers (including Time) across the country published the story, and editorialised about the enemy within.

Of course, the patterns weren’t Nazi air markers; they were the result of perfectly ordinary rural activities, which had been appearing for years without anybody paying any attention to them. For example, the one shown above was created in 1938 under the supervision of the Department of Agriculture. It’s just the way the field had been ploughed. It was only now, when the country was at war and people were worried about its security, that such patterns were interpreted as signs of danger. It took a sceptical Washington Star and a sheepish confession from the War Department to lay fears of a fifth column to rest.

One aspect I found interesting is that the same story had circulated in a few newspapers in June, but for some reason didn’t take off as it did a couple of months later. The major difference seems to have been the addition of photos of the supposed markers. Maybe they were the evidence needed to make the stories plausible. Maybe they just made the stories more striking and so more appealing to editors. Or it could just be that they were desperate for news in the slow summer months. But it could also be that there was some domestic reason why security was more of a concern in August.

There are a number of obvious parallels. This was not the first time that Americans had imagined aerial threats to their nation: in the First World War — even before their country was in it — there were reports of aircraft flying across the border from Canada at night, perhaps bringing spies and saboteurs. That there were plenty of less dangerous ways for German agents to enter the country dampened the rumours in 1916 about as much as the improbability of New Jersey or Virginia being bombed did in 1942.

The idea of covert signals to enemy bombers can be found in the British press in both world wars. For example, in September 1940, Emil and Alma Wirth, an elderly Swiss-German immigrant and his British-born wife, were arrested on suspicion of ‘making signals “intended to be received by an aircraft in flight”‘ from their Kensington flat. A neighbour, who presumably reported them to the police, said that during an air raid on the night of 24 August he’d seen ‘flashes from the window of the accused whenever an aeroplane appeared to be overhead’. A porter also gave evidence against the couple. It’s not clear from the press accounts, but as the Wirths first appeared in court on 8 September, they may have been arrested in response to the first day of the Blitz, the day before. At any rate the magistrate dismissed the charges, so evidently he wasn’t particularly impressed by the evidence against them. It seems that they weren’t even fined for violating the black-out, which perhaps suggests that there may have some personal reason for the accusations — and being an ersatz German, Emil was an easy target, of course.¹ Sounds like a bit of a witch-hunt, but as the magistrate’s response — and the Washington Star’s scepticism — shows, just because it was war-time doesn’t mean that paranoia was automatically given free reign.

1. Manchester Guardian, 9 September 1940, p. 11; The Times, 9 September 1940, p. 9; 13 September 1940, p. 2.

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A GIANT OF THE AIR. A HANDLEY-PAGE FOUR-ENGINED BIPLANE.

A Handley Page V/1500, the Kabul bomber. Below is (I think) a S.E.5a.

Image source: Harry Golding, ed., The Wonder Book of Aircraft for Boys and Girls (London: Ward, Lock & Co, 1919), frontispiece. Painting by Geoffrey Watson.

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This post relates to my trip to Europe in July-September 2007.

The last few hours of daylight of my last day in Rome were upon me. So, sadly, I couldn’t linger in the forum — there was still so much to see!

On top of the Capitoline Hill (the centre of religious life in ancient Rome) is the Piazza del Campidoglio, a space designed by Michaelangelo. There are three palazzi on its edges: this one, the Palazzo Senatorio, is Rome’s town hall. It was built in the 13th century, though the facade is from the late 16th (and the twin staircases are by Michaelangelo). The resting place for the birds is a replica of an equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius which stood here for several centuries (see below).

The other two palazzi are occupied by the Musei Capitolini, the Capitoline Museums. Their history can be traced back to 1471, when Pope Sixtus IV donated what are still some of its most impressive artefacts to the people of Rome (though it seems they weren’t actually allowed to see them for about three hundred years) and housed them on the Capitoline. 1471! That’s ZOMG-worthy in and of itself. But there are far more ZOMGs to come.

These aren’t part of the original collection: they have only been in the museum for 522 years. They are marble fragments of a colossal statue of Constantine which originally stood (or sat, rather, as he was enthroned) in the Basilica of Maxentius.

The original statue (the torso was made of brick, wood and possibly bronze, and has not survived) was about 12 metres high. Here’s how Con would have appeared from the vantagepoint of one of his citizens in the early 4th century.

A newly-restored bronze equestrian statue, sans rider, which is Greek and either 5th- or 4th-century BC. It may even have been carved by one of the great sculptors of antiquity, Phidias, if this USA Today article is to be believed. (Well, it’s probably no worse than Wikipedia …)

This is the equestrian bronze of Marcus Aurelius which used to stand in the piazza. Notice the lack of stirrups — the Romans didn’t have ‘em.

It’s apparently the only full-size bronze of an emperor to have survived, as in the Middle Ages they tended to be melted down to make more useful things. The pagan philosopher Marcus was spared, it is said, because he was confused with Constantine, the first Christian emperor. Seems a bit unlikely when you look at the clean-shaven Constantine above … but whatever the reason, we can be grateful that it has survived.

Probably the museum’s most famous artefact out of an incredibly iconic collection: the Capitoline Wolf, a bronze statue of the she-wolf who, according to Rome’s founding myth, suckled the infant Romulus and Remus. (Their figures were added in the 15th century.) It’s not just any statue, either: it was famous enough for both Cicero and Pliny the Elder to write about it. That is, assuming it is the same statue — two Italian scholars claimed recently that it may have been cast in the middle ages. (Bloody historians, they are no fun at all.) Otherwise, it’s Etruscan and dates to 500 BC or so.

Also mentioned by Pliny is this Hercules, which originally stood in the Temple of Hercules Victor, by the Tiber (and which I didn’t know about when I was only 200 metres from the place!)

And the hits keep on coming: fragments of another colossal statue of Constantine, bronze this time. Part of the original collection (thanks, Sixtus!)

A life-size dog, found near the auditorium of Maecenas, a patron of the arts. Whether this has anything to do with him, I don’t know, but it’s probably safe to assume that whoever commissioned it was a dog person.

Connecting the two palazzi of the Museum is a tunnel running past the ancient state records archives, which has some interesting bits and pieces in it, but the best thing about it is the view of the Roman Forum. From the left: the Arch of Septimius Severus, the tiny Arch of Titus, the Column of Phocas, the Palatine.

Marforio, one of Rome’s five talking statues — a place where, during the Renaissance, popular dissent could be expressed by sticking up satrical poems and the like. He now resides (reclines) in the second of the museum’s palazzi. Originally (i.e. during the 1st century) he represented the god Oceanus.

.

Another really, really, really famous piece, the Dying Gaul. I hadn’t really thought about it, but I guess I sort of assumed he was one of Vercingetorix’s mob. He’s actually a Galatian warrior, one of a large group of Gauls who managed to make it to central Anatolia, in what is now Turkey. It’s a Roman copy of a Hellenistic original from the 3rd century BC.

Dying with dignity.

Rather more cheerful is this boy playing with a goose. Unless it’s a copy of a statue made by Boethus, mentioned by Pliny: in that case, he’s strangling it.

If I squint the right way, it looks like the bust in the middle is of Lucilla, daughter of Marcus Aurelius, brother of Commodus, old flame of Russell Crowe. But the interesting thing is the colours — it’s made from at least four types of marble — and in particular the stripes. How did the sculptor do that? Are they just painted on? Has the marble been stained somehow? Not for the first time I find myself wishing I’d lashed out on the beautiful and massive museum catalogue!

I have no idea who she was …

… but this is the Capitoline Venus. Presumably as a concession to her modesty, she has a room all to herself. Compare with the Campo Iemini Venus in the British Museum.

Hey, you’re supposed to appreciate her from all angles, that’s why she’s in the middle of an octagonal room! And compare with Aphrodite Kallipygos. I think the latter wins out, actually — purely on artistic merit, you understand.

Once again, I must confess my ignorance of this statue’s identity. Nike/Victoria? Nemesis? Iris?

Now, this statue fascinated me. Who it represents is unknown, other than a Roman matron from the Flavian period. The head is clearly a portrait of a real person, not idealised (though the body probably is). Judging from her face, she’s past the first bloom of youth, but confident enough to display her mostly-naked body and perhaps even disdainful of the viewer’s reaction. What would she do with such a statue? Is it something you’d put in the atrium to greet visitors? Or keep it in private for the pleasure of a privileged audience? I’d love to know the story behind this one.

This small boy is definitely strangling the snake, because he’s the infant Hercules, defending himself against Juno’s assassin.

That’s it for the Capitoline Museum. It’s an amazing collection, not as big or diverse as the British Museum’s, but possibly of even higher quality overall (at least if you like Roman stuff. Which I do).

Probably everyone does a little double-take when they see this — it seems familiar somehow, have I taken a wrong turn? It’s not the Colosseum, of course, but the Theatre of Marcellus, inaugurated by Augustus in 12 BC. It’s been extended by later users — the top level is apartments! (The silhouetted photo at the top of the post shows the theatre as well.)

Nearby is a contemporary structure, the Porticus Octaviae. In antiquity, it contained temples, a library and a curia. Latterly it was the site of a fish market, from medieval times through to the end of the 19th century. I can report that it no longer smells of fish.

I walked past the porticus to the Tiber, to the Pons Fabricius, the second-oldest intact bridge in Rome (I think so — the Milvian Bridge is older). The faces on the pillar belong to Janus.

The inscription reads:

L FABRICIVS C F CVR VIAR
FACIVNDVM COERAVIT
Q LEPIDVS M F M LOLLIVS M F COS

Don’t ask me what it means, except that Q. Lepidus and M. Lollius were evidently the consuls in the year the bridge was finished (i.e. 62 BC).

Looking north along the Tiber. On the left is Tiber Island, or Isola Tiberina, the site of a temple to Aesculapius the healer in antiquity, and the location of an antimatter bomb in a Dan Brown novel, according to Wikipedia.

By now I was very tired and footsore, hot and sweaty. I could have tried to find a few more sights to cross off my list, or wandered around one of the many museums, or even gone back to the Roman Forum to see what it looked like at dusk. But to be honest, all I could think of now was getting back to the hotel and flopping down on the bed. Which was half-way across the city. Cursing the ubiquitous Roman cobblestones, I rested in the Largo dei Librai, very near the site of the (long gone) Theatre of Pompey, where Julius Caesar was assassinated. Squashed into the angle between two buildings is this tiny church, Santa Barbara dei Librai (St. Barbara of the Books), founded in the 11th century and rebuilt in 1680.

Nearby is the Campo de’ Fiori. The papal rulers of Rome used this space to carry out executions, and it was on this spot on 17 February 1600 that Darth BrunoGiordano Bruno was burnt at the stake for heresy. (DID YOU KNOW: the call sign of the popular Sydney radio station 2GB is named for Bruno, because its original owners were theosophists who held him in high regard.)

And then I eventually got back to the hotel, packed my bags, got a good night’s sleep, and after another day or so got back to Australia (via Heathrow and Hong Kong).

This concludes my series of posts on my 2007 trip to Britain and Italy!

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This post relates to my trip to Europe in July-September 2007.

After my first day in Rome, I collapsed onto my bed in my little hotel room, watched Italian TV, and got a good night’s sleep. Which was just as well, as I still had a lot to see on my last day …

First stop: the Column of Marcus Aurelius, erected in the late 2nd century to honour his victory in the Marcomannic Wars, in which the Romans defeated a series of invading German tribes. (The column at the head of the post is Trajan’s Column, the inspiration for this one.)

Winding up around the column is a pictorial account of the campaign. Here, the Roman Army crosses the Danube into barbarian territory, over a pontoon bridge, probably in 172. Note the window on the right — there’s a spiral staircase inside the column leading up to the platform at the top.

I kept my eye out for this bit, as I remembered it particularly from Anthony Birley’s biography of Marcus Aurelius. It’s the Rain Miracle, a mysterious episode which occurred in 172 or so. The legion XII Fulminata was surrounded by the Quadi and without water. Weak from thirst, they were nearly at the point of surrender when an Egyptian priest in the Emperor’s retinue used magic to bring down the rain. Reinvigorated, the legionaries defeated the Quadi. And the makers of the column commemorated this deliverance with the rather spooky figure above.

Trajan’s Column and Trajan’s Forum (above) are just behind the typewriter, and were my introduction to the whole forum complex — the heart of ancient Rome. It doesn’t look like much now, but this was once the biggest and busiest forum of them all. Also the last to be built, opening for business in 112.

This is Trajan’s Market (on the right in the previous photo, behind the fragment of wall). Ignore the black egg thing — that’s part of some modern art installation. This is way cool — it’s basically a Roman shopping centre/office building, which you can walk around in! It’s also where the corn dole (the bread in ‘bread and circuses’) was administered.

Here are some of the little shops on the second floor. I’m not sure what exactly was sold in this area, but probably something along the lines of food, oil or wine.

Until I make it to Pompeii or Ostia, this is the closest I’ll get to an actual ancient Roman street! And how cool would it be to live in the house behind, and peer out your window into the past?

Now, this is (part of) the Roman Forum proper. It was already ancient when Augustus became emperor: Tarquinius Priscus, one of the Etruscan kings of Rome, cleared a space for it by draining the original marsh sometime around 600 BC.

The Arch of Septimius Severus. Like the columns of his imperial predecessors, it was built to celebrate a victory, this time over the Parthians. Originally, it would have had a flight of steps leading up to the arch, like Trajan’s Arch in Ancona, rather than a having a road through it as it does now, and as more modern triumphal arches tend to do.

In the foreground on the left is the Column of Phocas, erected in 608 to honour the Byzantine emperor Phocas — or rather, re-erected and re-purposed from its original function, which was to support a statue of Diocletian. Not exactly in the same class as the older columns shown above: such was the decline of Rome. It was apparently the last addition to the forum.

In its way, the survival of this building is as remarkable as that of the Pantheon, and it has survived for the same reason: because it was turned into a church. The Curia Julia was where the Senate of Rome met to debate and vote. Sadly, it’s not the same building that Cicero, Fabius Cunctator, Cincinnatus, etc used, or even in the same location. This site was chosen for a new senate house by Julius Caesar (hence the name), which was completed by Augustus in 29 BC. But that building itself burned down in 283, and was rebuilt under Diocletian (according to Wikipedia, but wouldn’t Maximian have been responsible, as the tetrarch in charge of Italy?)

Inside the Curia. I’m not sure what this is — supposedly the Curia was mostly bare inside. I suppose that could be the emperor seated on the chair in the middle, with his senators around him? You can also get a glimpse of the colourful pavement, which dates to the early 4th century.

Just nearby is the Temple of Antoninus and Faustina, another building preserved by its use as a church (though only partly, this time). Antoninus Pius was one of the five proverbially good emperors (others included Trajan and Marcus Aurelius). I don’t know how good he really was, but he certainly loved his wife Faustina, for after her death her deified her and dedicated this temple to her. After his own death, Hadrian (another good emperor) deified Antoninus himself and re-dedicated the temple to both of them.

Facing in the opposite direction for a moment, in the foreground is (I think) the House of the Vestals and behind that, the Palatine Hill. Actually, you can’t see much of the hill itself because in front of it are these massive retaining walls. The Palatine was the most exclusive address in Republican Rome, and so naturally when the Emperors came along it’s where they built their palaces.

The massive Basilica of Maxentius and Constantine (M started it but C won the right to finish it at the Milvian Bridge). Nowadays a basilica is a church, but back then it was something more like a town hall. More recently, it was the setting for the wrestling at the 1960 Olympics!

Further down the Via Sacra is the Arch of Titus, built by Domitian to honour his predecessor and older brother, who died in 81. It has been restored in recent centuries (note the obviously newer bits on the sides). In the middle ages it had been used as a fortress by one Italian noble family!

It was also used, in the 16th century, as the site for the Jews of Rome’s ghetto to declare their obedience to the Pope, Rome’s ruler. The reason for this, I presume, is because the Arch marks the defeat of the Jewish rebellion by Titus. This detail from the arch shows the looting of the Temple of Jerusalem.

Yet another arch, possibly the most famous of all the Roman arches — the Arch of Constantine, dedicated in 315. It was probably originally the Arch of Hadrian, but as he died nearly two centuries earlier, I don’t suppose he minded being usurped too much. It’s a beautiful spot for wedding photos (possibly after holding the ceremony itself in the Pantheon), but judging from where the photographer is standing, the actual backdrop is …

… the Colosseum! One of the most famous structures in the world. On which I promptly turned my back, and headed up the Palatine Hill. I can’t even remember why. I think it was because the same ticket covered both the Colosseum and the Palatine, but the queues were far shorter at the Palatine!

The Colosseum from the Palatine.

There are all sorts of interesting bits and pieces on the Palatine, though no structures as impressive as in the forum. This is on the side of a long pedestrian tunnel or cryptoporticus, built for Nero. (Caligula was stabbed in the Palatine cryptoporticus — oooooh, that must hurt, as Kenneth Williams might have said — though it might have been a different one which was uncovered recently.) It’s a wonder some duke or pope didn’t cart it away centuries ago.

The same goes for this, which is on a wall above a small outdoor shrine or something of that sort — there are two niches where statues presumably used to stand. Who, or what, is she?

Part of a monumental foot. Look on my works, ye mighty, etc.

There’s a small museum on the Palatine, mostly filled with assorted statuary found nearby, but some frescos too. This one of Apollo Citaredo — Apollo the cithara player?

A courtyard in Domitian’s late-1st century palace, dominated by a fountain (?).

One end of the so-called Hippodrome of Domitian. It’s too small to be for racing horses, so maybe it was a stadium for athletics, or perhaps just a garden shaped like a stadium … The oval feature shown here may be part of the restoration carried out during the reign of the Ostrogothic king Theodoric, some decades after the end of the Roman Empire in the West.

The Colosseum’s big, yeah, but it’s not the G, is it? And in fact, the name probably comes from a giant statue of Nero which stood nearby: the Romans called this the Colossus and the Colosseum the Amphitheatrum Flavium, the Flavian Ampitheatre. It wasn’t until about 900 years after it was built that people started calling it by the now-familiar name.

Closer to the level of the arena floor itself, which was made of wood and so is long gone (though much of the more durable bits have also since been plundered for building materials). But you can still see the hypogeum, the tunnels in which the animals and gladiators were kept before combat.

I had previously read somewhere that the Colosseum was well-designed in terms of moving people around. Recent simulations have cast some doubt on this view, however, identifying some potential bottlenecks. Perhaps that’s not so surprising — how much experience could the Romans have had with designing buildings capable of holding 50,000 people at a time?

It was by now mid-afternoon. Time to push on … but I had to take another picture of the Arch of Constantine, before walking back through the forum up to the Capitoline Hill.

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This will end in tears: Zeppelins to make tourist flights over London. (Via Airshipworld.)

Image source: from the front cover of Louis Gastine, War in Space: or, an Air-craft War between France and Germany (London and Felling-on-Tyne: Walter Scott Publishing, 1913). (OK, it’s Paris, not London — so I cheated.) The oldest paperback I own, incidentally.

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This post relates to my trip to Europe in July-September 2007.

So. After leaving the Vatican, I headed south.

I walked past these massive walls. I thought at the time they were the Aurelian Walls, built in the 3rd century, which I vaguely knew were somewhere in the direction I was heading. But as far as I can judge, they’re actually much later, built by some pope or other in the Middle Ages.

Crossing back over the Tiber, I found my way to Piazza Navona, which is much bigger and more airy than the one in South Yarra. At one end is the Fontana della Nettuno, or Fountain of Neptune, designed in the 16th century by Giacomo della Porta, whose influence can be seen all over Rome today.

Adjacent to the piazza is the 16th-century church of San Luigi dei Francesi, St Louis of the French. It is in fact the French national church in Rome (designed by della Porta, as it happens). Underneath a statue of St Louis is this curiously dinosaur-like creature, and the legend NVTRISCO ET EXTINGO. It’s actually a salamander, the heraldic device of Francis I of France. Not sure what his connection to the church is, other than perhaps his daughter-in-law Catherine de’ Medici, who apparently helped out in some way.

This was my intended destination: the Pantheon, something I’ve long wanted to see. It’s just astounding that this building has survived intact and in continuous use for so long. For it was built in about 125, and so will reach a lazy 1900 years of age in 2025 or so. Originally it was a temple, more recently a church. (It’s still a church. Some people even get to have weddings there. Just awesome.) It’s built on the site of an earlier temple designed by Agrippa, the friend of Augustus who appears on the Ara Pacis, and his proud claim was reproduced over the portico, as can be seen above: ‘Marcus Agrippa, son of Lucius, consul for the third time, made it’.

Around 200, the Roman historian Cassius Dio wrote that:

Agrippa finished the construction of the building called the Pantheon. It has this name, perhaps because it received among the images which decorated it the statues of many gods, including Mars and Venus; but my own opinion of the name is that, because of its vaulted roof, it resembles the heavens.

Here is that vaulted roof (though minus the original metal ceiling, stripped away by the Byzantine emperor Constans II in 663). It’s magnificent.

The hole, the oculus at the apex is 9 metres across and lets in light and fresh air. I had the idea from somewhere that it also relieved the stress on the dome by reducing its weight, but can’t find a source for that. It wouldn’t have had much effect anyway; the indentations would have helped more. The Wikipedia page says that just how the Pantheon has remained intact for so long is a bit of a mystery, that normal Roman concrete would have crumbled long ago. Apparently its builders took especial care to squeeze out air bubbles which would have weakened it.

Right next to the Pantheon is Piazza Minerva (so called because there was a temple of Minerva on this site in Roman times), with this delightful obelisk (Egyptian, 6th century BC) and pedestal, the Pulcino della Minerva. (And behind can be seen a 14th-century Gothic church, Santa Maria sopra Minerva, with a magnificent restored interior. Of which I was completely oblivious at the time. Sigh.)

The obelisk is the smallest in Rome, and the elephant was designed in the mid-17th century by Gian Lorenzo Bernini, whose name is even more ubiquitous in Rome than della Porta’s. It’s apparently inspired by one of the illustrations in the Hypnerotomachia Poliphili (1499), one of the earliest printed books and a wonderfully arcane and allegorical text. I read the 1592 English translation a long time ago, and the recent full translation by Jocelyn Godwin is sitting on my bookshelf waiting for me to finish my PhD …

The Monument to Vittorio Emanuele II, AKA ‘the typewriter’. Inside is the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Behind is the Roman Forum.

On the way back to my hotel, I stopped at the Palazzo Massimo alle Terme, a museum near the main railway station and the Baths of Diocletian. I had the place practically to myself — apparently everyone else in Rome could find better things to do on a Saturday evening!

These are part of the Praeneste Fasti, an Augustan-period calendar of various important dates from the forum a town near Rome — religious feasts, the emperor’s birthday and so on. (There were a lot of holidays, but then the Romans hadn’t invented the concept of a ‘week-end’ yet.) It also specified the days on which, for religious reasons, judicial courts and the like could not sit. As you can see, I’ve discovered that the Romans used the same alphabet order as we do! Possibly somebody’s noticed that before now, though.

The chief glory of the Palazzo Massimo is its statuary. For example, Augustus, pontifex maximus, from the last decade BC.

A Greek statue from the fifth century BC, which some Roman plundered or purchased and brought to the Gardens of Sallust. She is one of the children of Niobe, and unfortunately has been hit in the back by an arrow fired by Artemis. On the plus side, it’s done wonders for her bustline.

A rare Hellenistic bronze, dating to the second century BC. Inspired by a statue of Alexander, it may be intended to represent Attalus II, the King of Pergamum, or else a Roman Hellenophile.

He’s pretty clearly a real individual, but this is all that’s left of him now.

Found with the ‘prince’ was this seated boxer, another Greek masterpiece from the 1st century BC. His face shows the scars of his battle.

A Venus Pudica, 1st century BC.

Another beautiful female form …

… ah, no. Well, partly, it is. It’s Hermaphroditus, from the 2nd century.

This looks like a mother and child, at first glance. But as far as I can tell from the Italian caption and Babelfish, it’s actually Tethys (Teti in Italian) and baby Triton (look closely at the legs … they’re not), her grandson. I think.

A Dionysus Sardanapalus, a 2nd century copy of a much older Greek original.

Part of a bronze guard-rail from one of Caligula’s Lake Nemi pleasure barges. The two ships themselves, 70 metres long, were recovered during the Fascist period (when the lake was drained), only to be destroyed by fire in 1944 — whether by the German (intentionally) or American (unintentionally) army is unclear. My impression is that Italy suffered comparatively lightly from the war, in terms of its cultural heritage, but I suppose it couldn’t escape entirely.

The first of three emperors, each in a different style: Septimius Severus (late 2nd century).

His great-nephew, Severus Alexander (earlyish-3rd century).

Gordian III (not long after Severus Alexander). This seems more realistic than the previous two — certainly than Alexander’s, which is very idealistic, but Severus’s looks stylised to me as well.

A late-3rd century sarcophagus, showing a husband and wife (one or both of whom was presumably inside). The way they are reacting to each other seems to show trust and respect.

Part of another sarcophagus, belonging to one Marcus Claudianus, evidently a Christian as it shows a scene from the New Testament. The figures on the previous one were highly individual, very easy to imagine meeting them in real life. Here they’re far more stylised, with angular faces and pointy noses, which I found less to my taste. I did very much like this detail of a child trying to catch a chicken, though.

Second century floor mosaics, showing chariot racers from the different circus factions, along with (I guess) their favourite horses.

I could hardly resist Clio, muse of history! This mosaic and the preceding ones are from the Villa Baccano, which seems to have belonged to the Severans.

One of the last things I saw before closing time was the wonderful room brought from the villa of Livia, wife of Augustus. The walls are decorated with trompe l’oeil frescos of a garden, very softly lit and absolutely no photography allowed. So instead I’ll end with this view of the Piazza della Repubblica at dusk, which ain’t bad but is not nearly as nice.

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[Cross-posted at Revise and Dissent.]

It’s time again for my six-monthly look at that portion of the blogosphere devoted to military history, as defined by the ‘Wars and Warriors’ section of Cliopatria’s blogroll. So, let’s begin.

Not a lot has changed since September, actually, and this plot shows why: the number of military history blogs has grown by only 13%, whereas between March and September 2007, it grew by more than 50%. Does this mean that fewer military history blogs are being started than before, or that instead Cliopatria is missing a significant portion of them? I’d be tempted to say the latter — the Cliopatricians are only human, after all, and can only add those blogs which come to their attention — but I can’t think of any they’ve missed. Also, the rate of growth of the blogosphere may be slowing — it’s hard to say, as Technorati seem to have stopped publishing their quarterly state of the blogosphere reports.

Here’s one change: the Australian share of the military historioblogosphere has doubled from, from 7% to 14%. This is almost entirely due to the Australian War Memorial’s new group blog, which draws on a wide range of its staff. (I’m not sure if this means the AWM will abandon the practice of separate blogs for each of its exhibitions — at the moment, the forthcoming Over the Front exhibition is the main focus.)

This growth has been at the expense of the Americans. Even taking into account the bloggers of unknown nationality — who are mostly going to be Americans too, given their predominant interest in the American Civil War — they’re now closer to three-fifths of the military historioblogosphere than three-quarters, as before.

The number of women blogging about military history continues to slowly edge upwards. Much of the growth, and most of the bloggers, are in group blogs, mostly attached to an institution or research project, rather than individually.

Nothing to see here …

… move along …

… move along.

Finally, we come to the only bit that anybody ever looks at, the top 5 military history blogs by Technorati rank. And here there has in fact been quite a bit of movement. Two of the top 5 are new to the list, and there is also a new number 1. That’s Civil War Memory, which has been threatening to become the most popular military history blog ever since I started doing these posts. Second is one of the new entrants, Kings of War. Though it’s an excellent blog, and has impeccable academic credentials, it’s only very rarely about military history: reflecting the interests of its maintainers, it’s mostly about contemporary wars. But as it is in fact in Cliopatria’s blogroll, and it has become very popular very quickly, Kings of War has earned its place at number 2. At number three is the former number one, and still the doyen of military history blogs, Blog Them Out of the Stone Age. Fourth is the other newcomer, Rantings of a Civil War Historian. And bringing up the rear is Airminded (phew).

None of this proves anything, other than the fact that I enjoy plotting numbers in a half-arsed fashion (and really, who doesn’t?) But what will happen next time? Will Australians take over the military historioblogosphere? Will Kevin Levin still have bragging rights over Mark Grimsley? Only time will tell …

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This has been all over the news here today, though I suspect interest is somewhat less outside Australia: the wreck of HMAS Sydney has been found. On 19 November 1941, Sydney was returning to Fremantle, Western Australia, after escorting a troopship north to Sunda Strait. It encountered the German commerce raider Kormoran somewhere out in the Indian Ocean, and a battle ensued. When the engagement broke off, both ships were mortally wounded. (Kormoran’s wreck was itself found only a few days ago.) About 320 out of Kormoran’s crew of nearly 400 were eventually rescued, but there were no survivors at all from Sydney. Its 645 dead represent the Royal Australian Navy’s greatest wartime loss.

The press reports seem to follow the same line — a 66-year old mystery solved. The location of the Sydney’s wreck was unknown because no radio signal was ever received from her during or after the battle, and the Kormoran’s lifeboats had drifted a long way before rescue. But that’s actually only part of the mystery. The real mystery — or at least the one which is the real reason for the long-standing interest in finding the wreck, and for the accompanying conspiracy theories — is how did a modern warship like Sydney come to be sunk by Kormoran, a converted merchantman?

This does seem strange, on the face of it. Sydney was a modern Leander-class light cruiser, commissioned in 1935. It was much faster than Kormoran (32 knots to 19), more heavily armoured, and more powerfully armed. Kormoran was on its first (and only) cruise: in nearly a year’s sail from Germany it had encountered nothing more fearsome than defenceless merchantmen. Sydney, by contrast, had previously had a successful career in the Mediterranean. In particular, in the Battle of Cape Spada in July 1940 she led a British destroyer squadron (correction: flotilla) into action against a pair of Italian light cruisers, which fled before her. Sydney’s accurate gunnery disabled the Bartolomeo Colleoni, which was then despatched by torpedoes from the destroyers. It doesn’t seem credible that the proud victor of Cape Spada could be sunk by a lowly commerce raider.

Except, that is, if you look a bit more closely:

1. Sydney’s armament was not hugely superior to Kormoran’s. The Australian ship had 8 x 6-inch guns for its primary armament, compared to the German’s 6 x 5.9-inch guns. It also had 8 torpedo tubes, to Kormoran’s 6.
2. Kormoran’s modus operandi was to pretend to be a regular, unarmed merchant vessel, which would allow it to get within striking distance of Allied merchants, or (hopefully) to pass by Allied warships. Normally, its weapons were concealed, only unveiled at the point of combat, so its disguise was very convincing.
3. Given 1. and 2., there’s a plausible narrative of Sydney’s last battle. Testimony from the Kormoran’s survivors indicates that the Sydney was suspicious enough to intercept the Kormoran when it was sighted on the horizon, but then was trusting enough to approach it without being ready for action — its guns were not even aimed at Kormoran, which opened fire first at a range of about 1000m. Sydney’s two forward turrets were soon out of action, and only one of its rear turrets seems to have fired accurately. Sydney was hit by about fifty 5.9-inch shells, as well as by at least one torpedo. It eventually managed to escape southwards, aflame. It probably met its end when its magazine exploded. (Update: or not. See below.) Kormoran’s engine room had been hit, and fire was approaching the several hundred mines stored on board. So it was abandoned and scuttled.

Obviously, given the lack of any testimony from the Sydney’s crew, we can’t know for sure what happened on board her that day. (Though, of course, investigation of the wrecks may help here.) But, still, I really don’t know what is so hard to believe about the above narrative. Yes, judging from the accounts of the German survivors it’s possible that Sydney’s captain, Captain Joseph Burnett, made a serious mistake in not approaching the Kormoran with much more caution. What is the point of investigating a suspicious ship if precautions are not taken in the event that the suspicions were well-founded? (But equally, he may have been following standard procedure: see this, 4.76-4.90) This is a very serious charge to level at a commanding officer, particularly since he didn’t live to defend his actions. It must have been, and may still be, awful for his family to have to bear this burden. But so what? Mistakes are committed in warfare all the time. Even by Australians.

This is where the conspiracy theories come in. As a culture, we don’t have a great talent for them, and they’re not particularly inventive. I can only think of a handful: that the CIA engineered the dismissal of Gough Whitlam in 1975; that a Chinese submarine abducted Harold Holt in 1967; that Phar Lap was poisoned by American gangsters in 1932. The Sydney conspiracy theory is that Kormoran didn’t sink Sydney, a Japanese submarine did. (See here, 5.39-5.51.) Problem 1: Sydney was sunk over two weeks before Japan attacked the US and the British and Dutch empires. Why would it risk alerting its prospective enemies for the sake of a lowly light cruiser? Problem 2: no evidence has ever been found of a Japanese submarine being anywhere within 6000 km of the battle site on the date in question. (See here, 5.52-5.61.) The same goes for a putative German or Italian submarine.)

Of course, any conspiracy theory worth its salt can explain away any and all objections. The Kormoran was taking on board Japanese officers to take back to Germany for liaison purposes. It’s precisely because Japan was not yet at war that Sydney had to be sunk. A painting was seen in a navy office during the occupation of Japan showed a submarine sinking an Australian cruiser (but had disappeared by the next day).

Yeah, yeah — whatever. There’s no actual verifiable evidence, no solid foundations for any of these beliefs. So why do people believe them? What’s wrong with going as far as the evidence will take you, but no further? That, I do not know.

Image source: Bruce Constable and Navy Photos.

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This post relates to my trip to Europe in July-September 2007.

Rome, beautiful Rome! Is there anything I can say about the Eternal City that hasn’t been said before? No, but I won’t let that stop me trying. It was fantastic both in the sense of great and in the sense of unbelievable — it’s almost hard to believe I really was there. But I have the photos to prove to myself that I didn’t just imagine it all.

One of the first things I noticed was the way that SPQR (Senatus Populusque Romanus, ‘the Senate and people of Rome) is plastered across every lamppost, rubbish bin, etc. The Empire ended some time ago so it seems a bit anachronistic to me …

My first ‘big’ sight on my first day in Rome: the Trevi Fountain. It looks far more impressive in real life than it does on posters on the walls of cheap Italian restaurants, that’s for sure. It’s huge, and the way it dominates a small piazza makes it seem even bigger.

I loved the rocks over which the water tumbles, they seemed both artful and natural at once. They and the rest of the fountain were made in the mid-18th century, to mark the terminus of one of the main aqueducts into Rome. Apparently the water is very pure — I assumed it must have been liberally dosed with chlorine!

The Spanish Steps. Luckily, you don’t have to be Spanish to use them.

From half-way up the Steps, looking down the Via Condotti (i.e. in the opposite direction to the above photo), a very fashionable shopping district. Lucky I didn’t try to walk down it then, or I’d probably have been arrested by the fashion polizia.

This was taken from somewhere on the Pincian Hill, looking past a fountain towards some church or other.

An Egyptian obelisk, in Rome? Yes, and it’s not the only one, either. They’re all over the place, in fact. This one is the obelisco Flaminio in the Piazza del Popolo. It’s from the reign of Rameses II, from Heliopolis, and during the reign of Augustus was brought to Rome to stand in the Circus Maximus. It rather puts Cleopatra’s Needle to shame!

Some church (not the same some church as above, although I think that church is nearby) in the Piazza Augusto Imperatore (where the Mausoleum of Augustus is, though that’s not particularly interesting to look at, as it’s currently closed). There are a lot of churches in Rome. (Not so many chapels, synagogues, mosques or temples.) I honestly don’t know what they do with them all! The following day was a Sunday, but I didn’t see much evidence of them filling up with parishioners.

Update: By chance, I came across an account of the opening of the Ara Pacis in the Times of 1938, and it has a little map … so I now know that the church is San Rocco.

Also in the Piazza is a Fascist-era building, with a frieze celebrating the technology of war: early modern-era weapons on the left, modern ones (e.g. machine guns) on the right.

My first ‘wow … just, wow’ moment of the day. According to the Res Gestae Divi Augusti, a record of the achievements of the emperor Augustus written late in his life,

When I returned to Rome from Gaul and from Spain, in the consulship of Tiberius Nero and Publius Quintilio, having brought to a satisfactory finish my works in these provinces, the Senate decreed that there should be consecrated in the Field of Mars an altar to the Augustan Peace and ordered that the officials, priests and vestal virgins should celebrate a sacrifice at it every year.

And this is that altar: the Ara Pacis, or Altar of Peace (also now in the Piazza Augusto Imperatore), dedicated in 9 BC. Or at least some of it is — much of it is a modern reconstruction, as only fragments have been found. But what fragments!

(Oh, the mannequins in the dresses? There was some sort of retrospective fashion exhibition in the Museo dell’Ara Pacis, that is to say, modern fashion. I can’t blame Italians for wanting to point out that they didn’t just die out at the end of the 18th century … but still: not interested.)

Start with the steps. Well, they’re only steps … but steps that Augustus himself probably climbed. Or am I assuming too much? Maybe he wasn’t allowed inside the altar, just the priests? (The Romans did have some odd superstitions. Then again, he was Pontifex Maximus …) Or maybe he didn’t turn up at all because he had an empire to run? Or maybe they were replaced a couple of centuries later due to wear and tear. Oh well.

How about this fragment then, on the east exterior. The identity of the figures is disputed. The one in the middle could be Tellus, Italia, Venus (ancestor of the Julii), or the Pax Augusta herself (which seems most likely to me, but then I’m just a tourist). She is dandling two putti (NOT cherubs, as I discovered about 1 minute ago), which along with the plants, fruit and animals refer to fecundity and plenty, and then on either side are figures representing the winds. Why the winds? For their importance for maritime trade, perhaps?

On the south side is a long panel showing a procession of people, priests, lictors and Augustus himself. In the photo above can be seen Agrippa, Augustus’ close friend and advisor; either Livia, Augustus’ wife, or Julia, Agrippa’s; and between them, Agrippa and Julia’s son (and Augustus’ grandson), Gaius. He, along with his older half-brother Lucius, was adopted by Augustus so that they would be his heirs. But first Lucius and then Gaius died in their twenties, while Augustus was still alive, and so Tiberius (Augustus’ stepson) eventually became emperor. It’s impossible to know if the Julio-Agrippans would have been any better than the Julio-Claudians, but they could hardly have been worse.

Another family group: here we see Germanicus holding the hand of Antonia, his mother, and behind him is his father, Drusus. Germanicus was another might-have-been-emperor: he was an excellent general, like his father, but died in suspicious circumstances, perhaps due to the jealousy of his uncle Tiberius, who was then emperor. However, his son Gaius — Caligula — succeeded Tiberius, and his brother Claudius succeeded Caligula, so his part of the family got to have their turn.

After leaving the Ara Pacis, I headed south along the Tiber, where I saw this building. It looks like somebody has ripped out the twin fasces symbols from either side of the facade (the keystone over the arch is also damaged). But they didn’t bother to plaster over the holes left behind. This strikes me as quite apt. All over Rome, there are ancient sites and monuments with signs saying that this area was first excavated in 1928-35 (say), or underwent major renovations in 1934-7. But they never say who or what was responsible for all this interest in the Roman past during the 1920s and 1930s. So Fascism is often only detectable by the holes it left behind.

Speaking of the Tiber, here it is. I hate to say it, but it’s not one of the world’s great rivers. It’s sluggish, dirty and smelly. At least it was when I was there, at the start of autumn. But still: what a view! The bridge is the Ponte Sant’Angelo, and behind that is the dome of St Peter’s.

The Pont Sant’Angelo leads, naturally enough, to the Castel Sant’Angelo.

This bridge was built in the 130s! So it’s only a quarter-century short of 1900 years old, and still bearing traffic across the Tiber. The castle was built at the same time — although it wasn’t originally a castle, but Hadrian’s mausoleum. Every emperor from Hadrian to Caracalla was buried there. Under the emperor Honorius, the mausoleum was made part of Rome’s defences, though it was itself looted in 410 by the Visigoths and again in 537 by the Ostrogoths. The popes used it into a fortress (Clement VII sheltered here during the sack of Rome in 1527) and a prison (Giordano Bruno stayed here). Now it’s a museum, although sadly I didn’t visit it as I could see one of my major objectives of the day, St Peter’s Basilica (as shown in the photo at the top of the post).

Even 75 years ago, I wouldn’t have been able to see it from near the Castel Sant’Angelo, however, as the view was blocked by a jumble of old palaces and churches. To celebrate the signing of the Lateran Treaties, Mussolini knocked them down and built the Via della Conciliazione. It’s still controversial, and understandably so — but the view down it is magnificent.

After trekking all that way, I finally made it to St Peter’s Square. Here I am at the back of the queue to go through the security screening (about where the white square is, I think) — there’s another queue beyond that to get into the basilica etc. Actually, I can’t remember if there was security screening, but there was definitely modesty screening: no shoulders, no knees, no belly buttons, no cleavage. These things are evidently not part of God’s plan.

Still, despite the length of the line, it relatively quickly … less than 20 minutes total, which was good because it was now about noon and getting warm. Here I’m a lot closer to getting somewhere. In fact, I’m so close to the basilica that the dome, which is set quite far back, isn’t visible at all. It’s actually a lot more striking from a distance than up close.

This was taken near the door to the basilica, looking back towards Castel Sant’Angelo. It shows just how vast St Peter’s Square is. The canopy is presumably where the Pope stands when addressing the multitudes sitting in all those chairs. And yes, that’s another Egyptian obelisk, 13th century BC this time. During Caligula’s reign it was in a nearby circus, which may have been where St Peter was martyred. It was moved here in the 16th century.

Hmmm, this isn’t St Peter’s. What’s going on here? Well … one of the things I wanted to see was the Sistine Chapel. And the Vatican Museum too. As do most visitors to the Vatican, I’m sure. The problem was that I was in Rome on a weekend, and both the chapel and the museum were open only on the Saturday morning. I was well aware of this, but when I stood at the back of that long queue, I thought that was the line to get into the chapel, because on my map it was marked very close to the basilica. Well, it probably is, but the entrance to the chapel (by way of the museum) is actually a quarter of the way around the Vatican. It may be the world’s smallest country, but by the time I’d realised my mistake I think I had about 10 minutes to get there and I missed it by less than 5. So I took this photo while I was trudging along the walls back to St Peter’s, feeling drained because of my sudden adrenalin burst and dejected because I’d missed out on seeing the Sistine Chapel. I mean, that’s like going to London and not seeing the Tower …

Then I figuratively slapped myself upside the head. I was in Rome! It’s not like there’s nothing else to see and do. So I went and stood in the queue again, and went inside the basilica — actually, down into the crypt below. I took this photo of the tomb of John Paul II, but obviously I wasn’t meant to … never fear, there’s a webcam !

Also in the crypt is the tomb of a king of Great Britain: James III. I was surprised, because there wasn’t a James III. OK, so obviously he’s the Old Pretender. But I was still surprised — what’s he doing under St Peter’s? It turns out that his younger son, Henry Benedict Stuart, became a cardinal in the Catholic Church — though he still styled himself Duke of York and Henry IX. So presumably he pulled strings to get himself, his father and his brother (Bonnie Prince Charlie — they’re all in there) a prime burial place.

Inside the basilica itself. A statue of St Peter, the first Bishop of Rome. The statue is probably about seven hundred years old …

… which is about how long it takes for the kisses and caresses of thousands of pilgrims every year to wear the toes off.

A list of all the Popes buried in St Peter’s. I wonder how accurate it is, and why there’s a gap from the 3rd to 5th centuries.

The so-called Chair of Peter — it’s not old enough to be really be his, as the chair itself is probably Byzantine in origin. As it was falling to pieces, Alexander VII commissioned a monument from Bernini to protect it, with a glory above it. It’s pretty impressive. It’s also pretty blurry — most of my photos inside St Peter’s were unfortunately the same or worse, which I attribute to the aftereffects of the adrenalin rather than an act of God.

As I said, from the ridiculous to the sublime: Michaelangelo’s Pièta. There’s nothing I can add to this.

I’m only half-way through day 1 in Rome — I couldn’t bring myself to leave out enough photos to cram the whole day into one post. The next post will feature a hole, an elephant, and an hermaphrodite, among other things.

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A curious snippet from Margaret MacMillan’s account of the Paris Peace Conference, Peacemakers (2002):

Why not give it to Hughes of Australia, suggested Clemenceau.¹

The ‘it’ was Heligoland, a small island in the North Sea, off the north-western coast of Germany. For most of the 19th century it had belonged to Britain, which swapped it for Zanzibar to Germany in 1890 — when relations between the two countries were still friendly. But then the naval arms race started up, and Heligoland became a handy place from any attempt by the Royal Navy to approach the German coast could be interfered with. Which is why, in Paris in 1919, the question arose of what to do about it.

The Admiralty naturally wanted the island back, but presumed that the Americans would object. In the end, the compromise solution adopted was to destroy all of its fortifications. Presumably Clemenceau’s suggestion was that Australia, as a nation almost as far away from Heligoland as possible, be given a Mandate over Heligoland (to add to New Guinea and Nauru), so that neither Britain nor Germany would have control over the disputed territory. I don’t know how seriously he meant it, or whether it ever had a chance of getting up. But in my mind’s eye I could see Australia dominating the North Sea from its Heligoland base with our single battlecruiser … well, no. But what would have happened if Australia had been given a Mandate over Heligoland?

Well, for a start, I don’t think Australia would have been exactly regarded as a disinterested party b