When I became a Classics Major, I expected to learn about emperors and epics and etymology. I expected to learn about mythology and mosaics and monuments. But one thing I didn’t expect was that I would come out of my degree with an in-depth, deeply impassioned rant about calendars.
I learned about the other stuff too, of course, but the calendars—those caught me off guard. Did you know that the Romans were absolutely, completely, gods-awful terrible at constructing calendars? They were so good at so many things, including building massive domes and arches, which require a pretty solid grasp of math. But calendars… where do I even begin?
If you don’t want to have unreasonably strong opinions about calendars, turn back now. It’s too late for me, but there’s still a chance at blissful ignorance for you. You might not think it’s possible to get angry over something so simple—how controversial can a calendar be, after all? Well, you’re about to find out. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Like many ancient societies, the first Roman calendars were structured around the cycles of the moon. Of course, this is already a flawed system, but to be fair, so is trying to fit days evenly into a year, so we’ll let that pass for now. What we will not let pass is that, according to legend, the original Roman calendar had only ten months. Not that the year was divided into ten months—these ten months (March to December) added up to 304 days. And then they just… had sixtyish days that weren’t in a month at all, because it was winter and time lost all meaning outside (okay, that is kind of a mood).
Credit where credit is due, they figured out pretty quick that this was a stupid system, and added January and February back around 700 BCE. The new calendar had 355 days to a year, which again, isn’t quite right. To fix this, they had to intercalate—stick some extra days into the calendar every so often, not unlike modern leap days. But Romans didn’t use leap days. They had a leap month. Which they inserted into the middle of February.
Thanks, I hate it.
But that’s not the worst part. See, nowadays, leap years have been predetermined, and I can tell you all the leap years for the next several millennia. But in Roman times, intercalation had to be declared by the pontifex maximus, a major priest. It was supposed to happen more or less every other year, but it was considered unlucky and so was sometimes avoided during wars, resulting in the calendar becoming months out of sync with the actual seasons. The pontifex maximus also had to be in Rome to declare intercalation, which wasn’t usually a problem… until a certain pontifex maximus (who shall remain Julius Caesar) decided to go conquer Gaul for ten years. And then get into a major civil war for another four years, so that he could be dictator-for-life. By the time that was all sorted out, the calendar was so far off that they had to have a fifteen-month year to get things fixed.
Clearly, this semi-random intercalation thing was an absolute disaster and had to be fixed, so Julius Caesar (being the kind, helpful, upstanding dictator he was) decided to copy the Egyptians (it’s okay, he’s allowed to steal from Africa, his side chick was from there) and introduce a solar calendar to replace the lunar one. This calendar was almost identical to the one that we use today, with 365 days to a year and an extra leap day added every four years. Where was this leap day? Guess. I dare you.
The leap day was not February 29th. It was February 24th—but a second time, like a weird ancient Roman version of Groundhog’s Day.
Thanks, I hate it.
But at least adding one extra day every four years is a pretty simple system, much easier than an arbitrarily inserted bonus month, so it should be easy to implement, right? Wrong. The Romans didn’t really vibe with the concept of zero, and instead counted inclusively, so they accidentally had leap years every three years. How long did it take anyone to notice? Four decades.
Another instance of counting inclusively is that the Romans didn’t have a seven-day week like we do today. Instead, they had the “nundinal cycle,” derived from Latin nonus for ninth, because they held a market day every… eighth day.
And then there are the nones of each month. You’ve probably heard of the “Ides of March” (infamous for being the day when the Senate decided they should totally stab Caesar)—the ides are the 15th of months with 31 days, and the 13th of months with fewer days. The kalends (from which the word “calendar” is derived) are the first of each month. And the nones, obviously, are the ni—just kidding, they’re not the ninth. Why should anything make sense? That would be ridiculous. No, the nones are the fifth or the seventh of the month, because they are nine days before the ides. Where by nine I actually mean eight. Because Romans can’t count like normal humans.
Thanks :) I hate it :)
But we’re not done yet (almost, I swear). Say you want to tell someone about an event that’s happening on a specific date—Awkward Moments Day, for instance. Today, we would say this holiday is on March 18th (the day after St. Patrick’s Day, which is, of course, quite prone to awkward moments). The Romans would say it was fifteen days before the kalends of April. That’s right, the date could be identified in relation to a month it wasn’t even in, because they counted backwards from the next major day. And—once again—they counted inclusively.
Romans: you make some good art. You make some good poetry. But you do not make good calendars.
Maybe just ask the Mayans for help next time.
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