Laudator Temporis Acti

Sarcophagus of Julius Achilleus (late 3rd century AD), in Museo nazionale romano, Terme di Diocleziano, inv. 125802 (click once or twice to enlarge): Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum VI, 41286:

D(is) M(anibus) // Iulio Achilleo / v(iro) p(erfectissimo) ex prox(imis) mem(oriae) / CC ludi magni qui / vixit annis XLVII / m(ensibus) X Aurelia Maxi/mina co(n)iux eius // marito dulcissimo

CC = ducenario

Mont Allen, The Death of Myth on Roman Sarcophagi (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2022), pp. 13-15:

As the inscription on his sarcophagus proudly proclaims, Iulius Achilleus had been Procurator in charge of the Ludus Magnus, Rome’s most important gladiatorial barracks, where men were trained for death in the nearby Colosseum. The position carried great power and status — and also wealth, if the size of his coffin is any guide. It is the largest and most elaborate pastoral/bucolic sarcophagus yet discovered. Horses prance beside bulls while goats nibble on leaves, rams butt heads, and ewes rest placidly: a multiregister marvel, with some of the lushest effects of surface texture to be found in the third century. (The contrast between sleekly polished horses and bulls and shaggily drilled sheep and goats is especially delightful.)

Bucolic scenes never present the gritty realities of ancient pastoral life, of course — ceaseless tending of the flocks, baking in ferocious summer heat, freezing in winter, at the mercy of the elements and uncertain food supplies, miserable accommodations, a life of wretched poverty – but instead serve up a sanitized fantasy of rustic life designed to indulge the pampered yearnings of elite city-dwellers eager for scenes of tranquility. Of course we know this, just as the coffins’ carvers knew it, and doubtless those who commissioned and bought them knew too. Yet how effectively the imagery still works. Here we are given three shepherds hard at work, as Rome’s well-off liked to imagine them. One sits before his straw hut (it arches up behind him, following the curve of his own back), gently milking one of his ewes. A second shepherd, higher up/further back, uses a curved knife to whittle a throwing stick; listen closely and you can almost hear him whistling while he works. And a third is busily doing nothing at all: seated on a rock, he rests his elbow on his stick, hand held up to his chin in a classic gesture of languid contemplation. He is lost in placid thought, his eyes softly focused, if we could see them but a little closer, on his own quiet musings. These are the faces of pastoral tranquility, of idyllic bliss. And not just those of the shepherds, but the animals as well. Sheep turn to smile at each other while nimble goats nibble on green leaves and cattle happily chew away.