The Ancient Roman Finance Role No One Survived for Long
It is AD 60, and the streets of Rome are restless. Senators whisper behind cloaks, temples burn incense for the emperor’s health, and a new figure is spotted in the corridors of the Palatium. He wears fine wool, carries scrolls full of figures, and walks with the careful step of a man who knows he’s being watched. He is Nero’s advisor. And he does not sleep well.
Modern financial advisors are concerned with pension planning, annual review meetings, and gently reminding clients that their investment portfolios must weather short-term volatility. The Roman equivalent, by contrast, begins his day with a message that the grain supply from Egypt has been disrupted and there’s a small riot developing near the Circus Maximus. His client, the emperor, sleeps soundly.
By the time Nero awakes (typically just after noon, depending on how late he sang the night before), his advisor has already written several scrolls, shifted funds from military pay to public games, and drafted a polite reminder to the praefectus annonae that running out of bread tends to sour the mood of the crowd. Not that Nero is overly concerned with public moods, unless they’re chanting his name during a performance.
The financial advisor’s working environment is, how to put it?, a touch more theatrical than one might prefer. He does not work in a marble-columned office with potted palms and helpful clerks. He works in a political minefield, where every document must flatter, every budget conceal reality, and every conversation be conducted as if the room has ears. Because it often does.
A large part of the role involves translating imperial fantasy into something that sounds like fiscal logic. For example, when Nero requests funding for a new amphitheatre, complete with gilded columns, cooling fountains, and possibly a lake, the correct response is not “We can’t afford it.” The correct response is “A splendid investment in the moral elevation of the citizenry, Augustus.” It helps to use words like “legacy,” “civic virtue,” and “immortal fame.” These cost nothing and are tax-deductible in spirit.
The most pressing challenge is usually one of cash flow. The emperor has expensive tastes: he likes statues of himself (many), games (frequent), wars (occasional), and tours of Greece in which he performs operatic tragedies to a stunned and clapping audience (always clapping). The fiscus, by contrast, does not like being empty.
Funds are obtained through inventive means. A new tax on provincial merchants might be disguised as a “tribute of loyalty.” Confiscated estates from inconvenient senators make a timely addition to the coffers. Debasing the currency, adding less silver to the coins while insisting they’re just as valuable, can buy a few more weeks of feasting. It also buys inflation, but that’s tomorrow’s problem.
It is worth remembering that Nero’s Rome is not a place for financial caution. It is a place where statues cost more than cities, musicians earn more than magistrates, and the most dangerous phrase one can utter is, “Perhaps we ought to reconsider that expense.” The financial advisor is not allowed to reconsider anything. He is allowed to nod. To agree. And, very occasionally, to make helpful suggestions, provided they are wrapped in silk and flattery.
He must also never forget his predecessors. Seneca, once the emperor’s tutor and a man of immense intellect, was forced to commit suicide after his moral objections grew too pointed. Burrus, the commander of the Praetorian Guard, died conveniently. No one asked how. In Nero’s Rome, advisors who become too visible tend to become briefly famous, then permanently silent.
Those who survive tend to be unobtrusive, flexible, and supremely unprincipled. They understand that in this court, political neutrality is not a virtue. It is a cloak. They also understand the golden rule of imperial service: the emperor is never wrong. His budget is visionary. His spending is generous. His performances are divine. His enemies are always guilty, and their fortunes, fortunately, redeemable.
And so the advisor ends his day quietly, drafting scrolls in the dim light, making sure that the ledger balances not just in numbers, but in tone. He removes any mention of delays. He adjusts figures to appear generous. He adds a final note at the bottom of the expenditure summary: In honour of our beloved emperor’s matchless wisdom and refined artistic spirit.
He then retires to a modest meal, drinks a cup of heavily watered wine, and listens for footsteps outside his door. Because in Nero’s Rome, there are no financial guarantees, no safe investments, and no defined-benefit schemes. The only real return on one’s service is not being murdered before sundown. Which is why the wisest imperial advisors, and certainly the longest-lived, are always, without fail, future ready.
