On a crisp autumn morning in 79 CE, the city of Pompeii fell mute beneath a shroud of volcanic ash. Centuries later, archaeologists peeling back the layers of time have unearthed far more than ruined architecture: within a private house off Via di Nola, they discovered election posters—literally painted on the walls beside a domestic shrine. The find sheds new light on corruption, clientelism, and the everyday interplay of politics and survival in ancient Rome.
Few things are more surprising than electoral propaganda placed inside a home. These inscriptions, endorsing Aulus Rustius Verus for the office of aedile, were tucked into a room housing the lararium—the household altar to the Lares and ancestral spirits.
Normally, such public messages would be plastered across exterior walls so passersby could read them. That someone chose to bring political endorsements into the sacred space of family ritual reveals how interwoven public life was with the private sphere in antiquity.
Politics By Candlelight: Dinners, Favors, And Votes
The placement of the inscriptions begins to make sense when we recall that elite Romans often hosted dinners and gatherings during election season, using social hospitality as a form of campaigning. It seems plausible that guests arriving for such events would encounter pro-Rustius graffiti inside the very house they entered.
Rustius was no obscure figure. Already known from inscriptions, he later served as duumvir—one of Pompeii’s two magistrates—so scholars infer that these campaign posters date to an earlier stage of his career. The dual role of aedile and then duumvir was a typical stepping stone in local politics: an aedile oversaw public works, markets, and festivals, while the duumviri jointly held supreme municipal authority.
But perhaps the most vivid part of the discovery is a bakery built into the same home. Archaeologists uncovered a large oven and, tragically, the remains of two women and a child, casualties of a roof collapse in the first phase of the eruption.
Near the bakery, a millstone engraved with the initials A.R.V. (Aulus Rustius Verus) lies leaning against the entrance hall. The implication is compelling: Rustius (or his backers) may have financed the bakery, perhaps distributing bread (or subsidizing it) in return for political support. In short: vote-buying before the term even existed.
Maria Chiara Scappaticcio, co-author of the study, explains that “councilors and bakers collaborated to the limits of legality,” aware that “the voter lives on bread.” In that sense, the politics of Pompeii hardly differ from many modern democracies, where food subsidies, patronage, and social benefit promises can sway electoral outcomes.
Ritual At The Moment Before Doom
If the walls whispered politics, the household altar bore witness to the personal, spiritual side of life. On the masonry altar of the lararium, archaeologists found the remnants of a final votive offering—likely the last the inhabitants ever made before the eruption.
The ritual included burning figs and dates over olive pits and pine cones; a whole egg was placed directly on the altar; then the entire assemblage was covered with a tile. Earlier offerings of grapes, fish, and mammal meat also left traces.
Two stucco snakes adorn the lararium’s backdrop—symbols common in Roman domestic shrines. These serpents, guardians of the domestic hearth and ancestral spirits, watched silently as both ritual and competition played out under the same roof.
This convergence of election politics and final ritual is especially poignant: as the walls spoke of ambition and patronage, the altar spoke of piety, continuity, and the desire for protection in an uncertain world.
Voices From The Dig And The Digital Frontier
The excavation is ongoing in Regio IX, a block of Pompeii previously less explored. The Park’s director, Gabriel Zuchtriegel, highlights that instead of hoarding discoveries, the team publishes an electronic diary in real time—allowing the public to track progress as trenches open. It’s an approach rooted in transparency and community engagement.
In many ways, this is archaeology reinvented for the 21st century: a living conversation between past and present, engaging everyone from scholars to casual enthusiasts.
Turning Over Ancient Pages
This exceptional find in Pompeii forces us to recalibrate what we think we know about ancient political culture. From the surface, Roman elections may seem distant, ceremonial, and elite-driven—but here we see campaign messages embedded in everyday life, even in the holy heart of the home.
We see food exchanged (or subsidized) as political capital. We see the strategies of persuasion—public and private—played out centuries ago with the same basic logic we still recognize today.
Indeed, when the 4th point is given particular weight—the interplay between politics and bread—we glimpse the beating heart of political life. A politician’s vow: feed the people, and their loyalty may follow. That dynamic echoes across empires and centuries, reminding us how fundamental sustenance is to political legitimacy.
But this is not a story of cynicism—it’s a story of continuity, of humanity bridging millennia. It’s about people seeking influence, connection, and divine favor. It’s about women, children, bakers, voters, and the unseen threads tying ritual and reputation together under the same roof.
Pompeii’s ash has preserved the ruins, but here, tucked beneath the plaster and among the oven embers, it preserves human stories—ambition and faith, persuasion and piety. As new layers peel away, we wait, expectant, for the next whisper from the city frozen in time.
