7 of the weirdest and most disgusting jobs you could do in ancient Rome

In the bustling streets of Rome and other major cities, one could find a wide array of professions.

Artisans, traders, and merchants filled the marketplaces, selling everything from exotic spices to intricate jewelry.

Skilled laborers like blacksmiths, carpenters, and masons were in high demand, particularly for state-sponsored construction projects.

Meanwhile, the Roman legions offered a different kind of employment, one that came with the promise of Roman citizenship upon completion of service.

The legal profession was another avenue for social mobility, as eloquent speakers could rise through the ranks to become influential senators.

Yet, not all jobs were created equal. Social standing played a significant role in the kind of work one could pursue.

The elite often held positions of power and influence, while the lower classes took on more menial, labor-intensive roles.

Slaves, who were considered property rather than citizens, were often forced into the most grueling and demeaning jobs.

However, the Roman job market was not just a straightforward hierarchy of prestige and labor.

It was also a landscape of unique, specialized roles that catered to the specific needs and idiosyncrasies of Roman society.

Some of these jobs, which we will explore in this article, were so peculiar that they have no modern equivalent.

These roles were often borne out of cultural norms, religious practices, or even personal whims of the elite.

They may seem strange to our contemporary sensibilities, but they were essential in the context of Roman life, fulfilling needs that were both practical and, at times, profoundly symbolic.

It's easy to overlook the humbler professions that contributed to the daily life and well-being of the populace.

One such job, which may raise eyebrows today but was considered essential in ancient Rome, was that of the Armpit Plucker, or Alipilus.

This profession was part of the broader category of personal grooming, a sector that was surprisingly sophisticated given the technological limitations of the time.

The Alipilus was primarily responsible for removing unwanted body hair, particularly from the armpits, using a variety of tools such as tweezers and specialized creams.

While the task may seem trivial to us, it was a crucial aspect of Roman beauty standards, which prized smooth, hairless skin as a sign of cleanliness and refinement.

The role of the Alipilus was not limited to mere aesthetics; it also had social and even health implications.

In a society without antiperspirants, removing armpit hair was a practical way to reduce body odor, a concern that was taken quite seriously in the communal settings of Roman baths and gymnasiums.

Moreover, the Alipilus often worked in conjunction with other grooming professionals like barbers and masseurs, creating a holistic grooming experience that was an integral part of Roman social life.

Frequenting the baths and taking care of one's appearance was not just a matter of personal hygiene; it was a social ritual that facilitated networking and the exchange of news and gossip.

In this context, the Alipilus played a role that transcended the mere act of hair removal; they were a cog in the wheel of a larger social machine.

However, the job of an Alipilus was not glamorous. Often, they were slaves or individuals from the lower strata of society.

The work was tedious and likely not particularly pleasant, but it was a specialized skill that could command a decent fee, especially if the Alipilus was known for their expertise and gentle touch.

In some cases, wealthy families might even have a household slave trained specifically for this task, elevating the role to a somewhat more prestigious position within the domestic sphere.

Some roles were often defined by practical needs and social standing. In this way, the Vestal Virgins occupied a unique and paradoxical space.

These women, selected from Rome's most prestigious families at a young age, were neither wives nor mothers, yet they held a position of immense respect and influence.

Tasked with maintaining the sacred fire of Vesta, the goddess of the hearth, their role was deeply embedded in the religious and cultural fabric of Rome.

The Vestal Virgins were not just keepers of a flame; they were the living embodiment of Rome's spiritual health and, by extension, its political stability.

Their chastity and purity were considered essential for the well-being of the state, making their role far more significant than mere ritualistic duties.

The Vestal Virgins lived a life of contrasts. On one hand, they enjoyed privileges that were extraordinary for women of their time.

They were educated, could own property, and even had the rare ability to draft a will.

They were also among the few women who could move freely in public spaces, often appearing at public events and religious ceremonies, where their presence was considered a blessing.

On the other hand, the weight of their responsibilities was immense. A Vestal's failure to maintain her vow of chastity was not just a personal disgrace; it was a calamity that could bring divine wrath upon the entire city.

The punishment for breaking this vow was severe, often involving a grim ritual of live burial.

Despite the gravity of their role, the Vestal Virgins were not secluded ascetics.

They were an integral part of Roman society and interacted with various social and political circles.

Their temple was not just a religious sanctuary but also a social and political space where important meetings were held and treaties were signed.

The Vestals were often consulted on matters of state and had the power to pardon prisoners, a testament to the high regard in which they were held. Yet, this influence came at a cost.

The Vestals were bound by a 30-year term of service, after which they were free to leave the order and even marry.

However, transitioning back to ordinary life was often a challenging process, as their long years of service and the weight of their religious duties set them apart from other women.

Gladiators, often slaves or prisoners of war, were the superstars of their time, their exploits discussed in the streets and their likenesses immortalized in art.

Yet, behind the scenes of these brutal contests was an array of support staff, each with their own specialized role.

One such job, which might seem peculiar to modern sensibilities but was vital in the context of Roman gladiatorial games, was that of the Gladiator's Sweat Scraper, or Strigilis.

Armed with a curved metal tool called a strigil, these individuals were responsible for scraping sweat, dirt, and sometimes blood off the bodies of gladiators after their bouts.

The role of the Strigilis was not merely hygienic; it was also therapeutic and, in some ways, ritualistic.

The act of scraping was often followed by a massage and the application of oils, serving both to clean and to relax the muscles of the gladiators.

This was crucial for warriors who often fought multiple bouts in a single day and needed quick recovery to be at their best.

The Strigilis was a part of the gladiator's team, much like a modern-day athletic trainer, contributing to the fighter's overall performance and well-being.

Moreover, the strigil itself was not just a utilitarian object; it was often intricately designed and could be a symbol of status.

A skilled Strigilis, therefore, was a valuable asset, not just for the practical benefits they offered but also as a marker of a gladiator's prestige.

However, like many jobs that revolved around the lives of gladiators, the position of a Strigilis was not particularly glamorous.

They were often slaves or individuals of low social standing, their work considered menial despite its importance.

Yet, the role was specialized enough to require a certain level of skill and expertise.

The Strigilis had to know the right amount of pressure to apply and the best techniques to use for different types of bodily grime and wounds.

Their work was not just about cleanliness; it was also about comfort and, to some extent, the gladiator's dignity.

In a profession where life and death were separated by the thinnest of margins, even the smallest details mattered.

As an ancient city, Rome was remarkably advanced, boasting a complex sewage system and public latrines that were a marvel of engineering.

These public toilets, often strategically located near baths and marketplaces, were frequented by citizens from all walks of life.

Ensuring their smooth operation was the job of the Public Toilet Attendant, or Latrinarius.

Far from being a mere janitorial role, the Latrinarius was a key figure in the maintenance of public health and urban cleanliness.

The Latrinarius were responsible for ensuring that the facilities were stocked with necessary supplies like sponges on sticks, which Romans used in lieu of toilet paper.

They also managed the flow of people in and out of the latrines, sometimes even collecting a small fee for usage.

In a society that highly valued cleanliness and public health, the role of the Latrinarius was crucial.

Their work helped prevent the spread of diseases and contributed to the overall well-being of the community.

Moreover, the public latrines were often social spaces where people gathered to chat and exchange news, making the Latrinarius a sort of informal gatekeeper of local gossip and information.

However, despite the importance of their role, Latrinarii were often looked down upon, their work considered menial and undesirable.

They were usually slaves or individuals from the lower classes, and the job itself was physically demanding and far from pleasant.

Yet, it was also a specialized role that required a certain level of expertise. The Latrinarius had to understand the intricacies of the sewage system and be skilled in the use of various cleaning agents and tools.

They also needed to be adept at managing people, a skill that was particularly important during busy times when the latrines were crowded.

In Roman society, where the line between the sacred and the profane was often blurred, the role of the Funeral Clown, or Archimimus, stands as one of the most fascinating professions.

At first glance, the idea of a clown participating in the solemn rituals of death might seem incongruous, even disrespectful.

However, in the context of Roman beliefs about the afterlife and the importance of a proper send-off for the deceased, the Archimimus served a purpose that was both deeply symbolic and culturally significant.

These performers were skilled impersonators who would mimic the deceased, often wearing masks and adopting their mannerisms, as a way to honor and immortalize the individual.

The role of the Archimimus was not to entertain but to serve as a living memorial, capturing the essence of the departed in a way that static monuments could not.

This was particularly important for public figures, whose lives were considered worthy of emulation.

By imitating the deceased, the Archimimus helped to crystallize their virtues and achievements, making them a part of the collective memory.

This practice was rooted in the Roman belief in the immortality of the soul and the idea that a person's qualities could live on through the act of mimicry.

It was a form of storytelling, a way to keep the spirit of the deceased alive in the minds of the living.

However, the role of the Archimimus was not without its challenges and complexities.

The job required a deep understanding of the individual being impersonated, as well as the ability to capture the nuances of their character in a respectful yet compelling manner.

This was a form of high art, demanding not just theatrical skill but also psychological insight.

Moreover, the Archimimus had to navigate the emotional landscape of a funeral, a setting fraught with grief and solemnity.

Their performance had to strike the right balance between homage and entertainment, a task that required both sensitivity and finesse.

The role of the Food and Drink Taster, or Praegustator, was a position of surprising importance.

On the one hand, the job was a matter of life and death, serving as the first line of defense against potential poisoning attempts aimed at emperors, generals, or other high-ranking officials.

On the other hand, it was a role fraught with personal risk, as the Praegustator was essentially a human shield, ingesting food and drink to ensure its safety before it reached the lips of someone more important.

In a society where political assassination was not uncommon, the Praegustator was both a guardian and a potential sacrificial lamb.

The Praegustator required a keen sense of taste and smell, as well as a deep knowledge of various types of food and preparation methods.

The Praegustator had to be able to detect subtle irregularities that might indicate the presence of poison.

This was a specialized skill set, honed through training and experience, making the Praegustator a valuable member of any noble household or imperial entourage.

Moreover, their role extended beyond mere tasting. They were often involved in overseeing the preparation of meals, ensuring that food was sourced from reliable vendors and prepared under strict supervision.

In this sense, they were also guardians of quality, contributing to the culinary experiences of the elite.

Despite the inherent risks, the position of Praegustator could offer certain privileges.

They were often slaves or servants, but their unique skill set and the trust placed in them by their masters could elevate their social standing.

In some cases, they were freed upon the death of their master as a reward for their loyal service.

However, the role was also a psychological burden. The constant awareness of potential danger, the scrutiny under which they performed their duties, and the life-and-death implications of their work made it a high-stress profession.

In the bustling streets of ancient Rome, where chariots, pedestrians, and animals jostled for space, the sight of a litter, or lectica, carried by a team of bearers was a symbol of status and privilege.

These litters, often ornately decorated and sometimes even equipped with curtains for privacy, were the preferred mode of transport for the Roman elite.

The men responsible for carrying these litters were known as Litter Carriers, or Lecticarii.

At first glance, the job may seem straightforward, even menial, but the role of a Lecticarius was more nuanced than it appears, reflecting the complex social hierarchies and cultural norms of Roman society.

The Lecticarius was often also a status symbol for the person he served. The quality of the litter, the number of bearers, and even the skill with which it was carried were all indicators of the owner's social standing.

A smooth, comfortable ride was a mark of a skilled Lecticarius, and such skill could command a higher wage.

Moreover, the Lecticarius often had a vantage point into the private lives of the elite, as he was privy to conversations and social interactions that took place within the litter.

This proximity to power could be both an advantage and a liability, as discretion was a highly valued trait.

However, the life of a Lecticarius was not an easy one. The work was physically demanding, requiring strength, endurance, and coordination.

The bearers had to move in unison to ensure a smooth ride, and they often had to navigate through crowded, uneven streets.

The job was also somewhat precarious, as the Lecticarius was exposed to the elements and the unpredictability of street life.

Moreover, they were often slaves or individuals from the lower social strata, and their well-being was entirely dependent on the whims of their employers.

Yet, despite these challenges, the role of the Lecticarius was a specialized one, requiring a skill set that was honed through experience and training.