Helpfully for us as readers and epigraphers, many inscriptions are incredibly formulaic. This means they’re also generally fairly predictable, even when the physical text isn’t in the best of shape. While this does mean that less frequently or odd constructions can cause some trouble and there are some things we are just unable to predict or reconstruct, many things we can read from our knowledge of generally used epigraphic practices.

This means that while certain abbreviations that are common in epigraphy may look quite strange to us at first glance, resulting in a text that seems chopped up (or maybe even barely intelligible), to someone used to reading those abbreviations all the time, they can simply be filled in.

Looking at inscriptions found on funerary monuments, we can see how a standardized set of phrasings resulted in a common body of abbreviations. If, for instance, you ever see an inscription beginning with the abbreviation D.M., know that what you’re really looking at is D(is) M(anibus), “to the spirits of the dead”, sometimes also D.M.s., D(is) M(anibus) s(acrum). On the same headstone, you might also find one or more names partially abbreviated: M. is always M(arcus) and Marcus might also be M(arci) f(ilius), the son of Marcus. Other names, like L(ucius) or C(aius) are abbreviated the same way. Perhaps you’ll see h(ic) s(itus/ita), “here they lie”. At the end, the epigraph might wish s(it) t(ibi) t(erra) l(evis), “may the earth lie lightly on you”. All of these are highly formulaic phrases. They don’t need to be written out because the abbreviation is sufficient to convey the meaning without all the extra letters - it’s not all that different from, say, texting abbreviations, where reader and sender know what the phrase means based on minimal text.

There are a lot of common epigraphic abbreviations out there, and a lot of ways to use them. An abridged list of common abbreviations in the Oxford Handbook of Roman Epigraphy runs eleven pages, and cites two other epigraphy handbooks whose lists run thirty nine and sixty four pages respectively. As intimidating as that might seem, though, as you read more you start to pick them up, and, helpfully, oftentimes certain abbreviations and notations tend to appear in the same places and contexts. A funerary monument of the kind I outlined hypothetically above will contain different set phrases than, say, the dedication of an aqueduct or a temple or a victory monument, the last which I’ll be using as an example below, because we have one more kind of reconstruction to get to.

You’ll notice I’ve been using (these) to note information that’s there but which is contained in the abbreviation, rather than [these], which are used to mark information that isn’t there and is either reconstructed or missing. One more major challenge to reading inscriptions is that the epigraphic record hasn’t always survived to us in the best shape, and that means some of our texts are missing [important] information.

To show how some of the formulaic elements mentioned above can help us fill in missing information, I’m going to look at the inscription commemorating Gaius Duilius for his achievements in the First Punic War. Based on the style, we can actually tell that this isn’t the original inscription, it’s an Augustan Era re-inscription, and at the time that it was re-inscribed there were some orthographic changes made to it to make it look, to its Augustan audience, old-timey, but otherwise offers us a look at some of the first historical writing in Latin. Comparing pictures of the Duilius inscription to a transcription (I’m using the version printed in Potter, cited below), you can see that while we do have a lot of extant, readable text, there’s a lot that’s still reconstructed. Some of this reconstruction comes from when letters are missing from words that are still recognizable from context or available letters or both, especially when less is missing from those sections. Some of it comes from when we have part of a formulaic phrase or series and can therefore fill in from there, hence nave[is cepe]t, where we can safely assume the standard verb capio, or the line below that where we can fill in [queresm]osque triresmosque naveis, because at the time it was written the inscription would logically mention quadrireme and trireme ships together. The trio of [aur]om, [arcen]tom, [omne] captom aes we can determine from the ways Roman monuments talk about capturing stuff together with the parts we do have. Much of the rest of it is reconstructed from the literary tradition, which gives us some of the important contextual details for Duilius’ military accomplishments (like his consulship, the date of which is known), hence why the first line of the inscription, with only three letters extant, can be reconstructed to [consol Secest]ano[s, socios p(opli) R(omani), Cartaciniensiom] when nothing else in the extant inscription mentions the Segestans. Predictable, formulaic language, here together with contextual information from other sources, helps to fill in gaps in the original inscription.

For both reconstructing damaged portions of inscriptions and understanding the many abbreviations used in them, context and familiarity can help guide us to what’s being said even if at first glance the writing seems unapproachable. The original inscriptions weren't meant to conceal what they had to say, they were meant to communicate, and they still do once you learn your way around set phrasings.

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Kondratieff, Eric. “The Column and Coinage of C. Duilius: Innovations in Iconography in Large and Small Media in the Middle Republic.” Scripta classica Israelica 23 (2004): 1-39.

Potter, David S. “Inscriptions and the Narrative of Roman History.” In The Oxford Handbook of Roman Epigraphy. Edited by Christer Bruun and Jonathan Edmondson. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015. 345-363.