Did the Romans Have a Postal System?
Wales is a country full of people with the surnames Davies, Jones or Evans. What's more, in the early to middle part of the 20th Century, Wales was full of men called David. David Davies, David Jones or David Evans. So if you were to remark on how you were down at the pub last night and you spoke to 'David', it would be natural to ask which one.
"David Davies, of course!" you could reply, and the issue there would be that the village in which you lived might have upwards of a dozen people called David Davies in it, even if your village barely had upwards of a dozen people in it, period.
There's a simple solution to this, naturally. Firstly, the shortened version of 'David' in Wales is not 'Dave' but 'Dai' (pronounced dye). Also, people in Wales tend to develop nicknames based on one of a set of criteria. It could be a character trait that sets them apart, such as where they live or the job they do. So in any Welsh village, you will meet Dai Disaster, who is constantly unlucky or Dai Twp, who wasn't very good at school ('Twp' being Welsh for 'daft' or 'stupid'), Dai Coal, who delivers the coal or Dai Maes-y-Felin because that Dai lived at Maes-y-Felin. You get the picture.
When I was a boy, we had Dai Bread, who, you won't be too surprised to learn, would deliver bread rolls to us every week. Nobody ate Dai Bread's rolls as they qualified as bread in name only. Not even the dogs ate Dai Bread's rolls. We had to soak them in milk for a week and then feed them to the pigs, who only ate them when there was nothing else to chew on. Even after soaking, they were a challenge. It was said that one of Dai Bread's rolls could last a man a month, but only because they were so terrible that the man couldn't bring himself to eat it.
But baking and then delivering bread rolls in a wheezy little red van was what Dai Bread did, with atomic regularity, twice a week, regardless of any impediment, natural disaster, apocalypse or actual death. And as he was an unfailingly jovial sort with a two-toothed grin and baritone laugh and as his bread routine made him happy and gave him something to do, everyone was pleased to see him and bought his bread and looked forward to seeing him again next time.
One week, he appeared, flustered, on Christmas Day, effusive with apologies because his van had broken down the week before, and he hadn't been able to deliver his horrible bread, but he wanted to make sure we had some in for Christmas. We invited him in and gave him sherry, and because he "didn't have his good trousers on", he didn't come in but stood outside the open kitchen window, drinking his sherry and exchanging Christmas greetings with everyone inside.
Dai Bread always came. Even in the Winter of 1982, when the snow was so high that you could walk along the snowdrifts and sit on top of the telegraph poles and we didn't go to school for three months, he still came, on foot, wrapped like a sherpa, an enormous basket of rock solid bread rolls in hand that nobody wanted.
And we'd buy his rolls because Dai Bread was part of a society in which people cared for one another. We didn't want his awful bread; we just wanted him to be happy. If it cost us two quid a week to make Dai Bread happy, it was a price well worth paying.
Dai Bread always came.
Until, one day, he didn't.
I didn't find out until decades later that he had died quietly in his bed, but the period after Dai Bread stopped coming felt, on reflection, like a watershed moment in my young life. It was as though the glorious isolation of the rural life I grew up in was suddenly invaded by the reality of the outside world. The disappearance of Dai Bread was like Saruman turning up in the Shire. Nothing was the same again.
They say that on a quiet afternoon, even to this day, if you catch the wind just right, you can still hear the ghostly splutter of Dai Bread's red van, an avalanche of hellos and smiles and laughs and '...just the one today, please Dai...'.
In the village of memories, the echo of a happy man, doing something he loved, among people who loved him, who all wished to Christ that he would stop doing it.
The other man who slogged his way across the snowdrifts in that amazing (if you were 12 years old) Winter of '82 was the postman, who, you might have guessed, was called Dai Post.
Dai Post walked five miles through snow that was, in places, 4 metres deep to deliver mail that we didn't really need, and he did so whilst wearing his regulation Royal Mail Post Office uniform. Not only did he trek through these Arctic conditions dressed like a postie, but he also did so while wearing his knee-length summer shorts because he always wore his shorts.
He turned up one day, knocked on the kitchen roof (because we were buried), handed a bundle of bills and junk mail through the window with the only word I ever heard Dai Post say - "Morning!" - and then trudged off again, job done.
Dai Bread and Dai Post always delivered.
This brings us to the question of whether Roman postmen always delivered. Did they deliver at all? How far? How long did it take?
At the heart of the Roman Empire was an intricate communication network known as the cursus publicus, the imperial postal system. Established during the reign of Augustus, this system was not merely a logistical tool but a lifeline that bound the empire together. It enabled the swift transmission of orders, intelligence, and administrative documents across vast distances, ensuring the cohesion of an empire that spanned over 5 million square kilometres at its height.
The cursus publicus was a testament to Roman ingenuity, relying on a network of roads, relay stations, and a highly organised workforce. Yet, despite its critical role, many questions remain about its operational efficiency, accessibility, and the speed at which it could deliver messages. How long did it take for a letter to travel from Rome to the far reaches of the empire? Who could use this system, and what were its limitations?
The cursus publicus was a state-run system designed to facilitate the movement of official communications, personnel, and goods. Its infrastructure was based upon the Roman road network, which spanned approximately 80,000 kilometres at its peak. These roads, such as the Via Appia and Via Egnatia, were engineering marvels, constructed with durability and efficiency in mind. Along these roads, the Romans established relay stations known as mutationes and mansiones.
Mutationes were small stations spaced approximately 10–15 kilometres apart, where messengers could change horses or vehicles. They were essential for maintaining the speed of communication, as fresh horses allowed couriers to travel long distances without delay. Archaeological evidence from sites such as Saepinum in Italy reveals the layout of these stations, which typically included stables, storage facilities, and accommodations for personnel.
Mansiones were Larger and more complex than mutationes, these stations were located every 30–50 kilometres and provided lodging, food, and rest for travellers. They also served as administrative hubs where officials could coordinate the movement of goods and personnel. Excavations at mansiones in Gaul, such as those at Augustodunum (modern Autun), have uncovered inscriptions detailing the roles of station managers (mansionarii) and the types of services provided.
The cursus publicus employed a variety of vehicles and personnel to meet its diverse needs. Fast messengers, known as veredarii, rode on horseback or used lightweight carriages to deliver urgent messages. For heavier cargo, such as official documents or supplies, the system relied on angariae, carts pulled by oxen or mules. The efficiency of the system depended on the seamless coordination of these elements, ensuring that messages and goods could traverse the empire with minimal disruption.
The cursus publicus was primarily an imperial institution designed to serve the needs of the state. Its primary users were government officials, military commanders, and imperial agents. For example, governors of provinces relied on the system to send reports to Rome and receive instructions from the emperor. Military commanders used it to coordinate troop movements and receive intelligence.
Private citizens, however, were generally excluded from using the cursus publicus. The system was funded by the state, and its resources were reserved for official purposes. That said, there were exceptions. Wealthy individuals or those with connections to the imperial administration could occasionally secure permission to use the system, often through bribes or favours. The Theodosian Code (CTh. 8.5.1) provides evidence of such abuses, noting that unauthorised use of the cursus publicus was a punishable offence.
That doesn't mean those same officials didn't take advantage of the infrastructure for their own personal needs, of course. A letter written by Pliny the Younger (Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secundus) to Emperor Trajan, found in Book 10 of Pliny's Letters, explains how he used the system in an emergency.
"Up to the present moment, Sir, I have not granted anyone a special permit, nor have I despatched any messenger except on your service. However, I have been obliged to break from this rule of mine, for when I heard of the death of my wife's grandfather, and my wife was anxious to hasten to the side of her aunt, I thought it would be hard to deny her the use of a permit, especially as the value of such an act of kindness on her part depended on her prompt arrival, and as I knew that I could approve to you the cause of a journey which was motivated by family affection. I have written this letter because I thought I should not be showing you the gratitude I ought, if I omitted to mention that I owed this particular favour to your kindness, in addition to all those you have showered upon me. I was so confident of your kindness that, without asking your permission, I did not hesitate to do what, if I had asked your permission, would have been done too late."
(Letters 10.120)
Trajan's reply is quite short:
"You did right, my dear Pliny, in having confidence in my sympathy. There is no doubt that, if you had waited to ask my permission to expedite your wife's journey by the permits which I have given you for official purposes, they would have been of little service to her, especially as the speed with which she travelled must have made her arrival still more welcome to her aunt."
(Letters 10.121)
This exchange shows that whilst officials could throw the odd letter on a pony for personal use, circumnavigating the official system for personal use was definitely frowned upon. It also indicates that the common people couldn't simply walk into a 'post office' and ask to send a letter to their aunt in Gaul, although if you slipped the rider a few pennies, who would know?
Epigraphic evidence from the eastern provinces, such as a 2nd-century AD inscription from Ephesus, highlights the strict regulations governing the system. The inscription records a decree by the proconsul of Asia, Lucius Antonius Albus, prohibiting the use of the cursus publicus for private purposes and imposing heavy fines on violators. This underscores the system’s role as a tool of imperial control rather than a public service.
One of the most intriguing aspects of the cursus publicus is the speed at which it could deliver messages. Primary sources and archaeological evidence provide valuable insights into this question. For example, the Itinerarium Antonini, a Roman road map from the 3rd century AD, lists the distances between major cities and the locations of mutationes and mansiones. By analysing these distances and considering the average speed of Roman couriers, historians have been able to estimate travel times.
A well-documented example comes from the reign of Augustus. According to Suetonius (Life of Augustus, 49.3), news of the Roman defeat at the Battle of Teutoburg Forest in AD 9 reached Augustus in Rome within a matter of weeks. Given that the battle took place in modern-day Germany, this suggests that urgent messages could travel at a speed of approximately 50–75 kilometres per day.
Another example comes from the Vindolanda Tablets, a collection of wooden writing tablets found at a Roman fort in northern Britain. These tablets include letters sent between military officers, some of which were delivered within a few days over distances of 100–200 kilometres. This indicates that the cursus publicus was capable of remarkable efficiency, at least within well-connected regions.
However, the speed of communication varied depending on factors such as terrain, weather, and the urgency of the message. For instance, a letter sent from Rome to Alexandria, a distance of approximately 2,000 kilometres, might take anywhere from three to six weeks, depending on the season and the condition of the roads.
While letters and official documents were the primary cargo of the cursus publicus, the system was also used to transport a variety of other items. Military supplies, such as weapons and uniforms, were often sent to frontier regions. Imperial officials and soldiers were also transported, particularly when their presence was required in distant provinces.
The cursus publicus even played a role in cultural exchange. For example, the Periplus Maris Erythraei, a 1st-century AD guide to trade routes in the Red Sea and Indian Ocean, describes how goods from India and East Africa were transported to Rome via the cursus publicus. This highlights the system’s role in facilitating not only administrative and military communication but also economic and cultural integration.
Despite its efficiency, the system was not without its limitations. One major challenge was the cost of maintaining the system. The construction and upkeep of roads, relay stations, and vehicles required significant financial resources, which were often strained by the empire’s vast size and frequent military campaigns.
Another limitation was the system’s vulnerability to disruptions. Natural disasters, such as floods or earthquakes, could damage roads and relay stations, causing delays. Banditry was also a persistent threat, particularly in remote or unstable regions. Apuleius (Metamorphoses 1.7) describes bandits attacking travellers on Roman roads, highlighting the broader issue of insecurity. Inscriptions from various regions, such as a 2nd-century AD milestone from Mauretania, record the construction of fortifications along roads to protect against bandits, suggesting that banditry was a significant concern for Roman authorities.
Regional variations in the system’s efficiency were another issue. While the system operated smoothly in well-developed regions such as Italy and Gaul, its performance in more remote areas, such as Britain or Dacia, was often less reliable. This was due to factors such as poorer road conditions, fewer relay stations, and a lack of local infrastructure.
For example, archaeological evidence from Roman Britain reveals that the cursus publicus in this region was less developed than in other parts of the empire. Excavations at Vindolanda and Deva Victrix (modern Chester) have uncovered fewer mutationes and mansiones compared to sites in Gaul or Italy. This suggests that the system in Britain was primarily focused on military needs rather than civilian or administrative communication.
The cursus publicus was a cornerstone of the Roman Empire’s administrative and military success. Enabling the rapid transmission of messages and the efficient movement of personnel and goods played a vital role in maintaining the cohesion of an empire that spanned three continents. While the system was not without its limitations, its efficiency and reach were unparalleled in the ancient world.
References and Further Reading
Apuleius. (2004). The Golden Ass (E. J. Kenney, Trans.). Penguin Classics.
Chevallier, R. (1976). Roman Roads. University of California Press.
Kolb, A. (2000). Transport and Communication in the Roman State: The Cursus Publicus. Routledge.
Mattingly, D. (2006). An Imperial Possession: Britain in the Roman Empire. Penguin Books.
Periplus Maris Erythraei. (1989). In L. Casson (Ed. & Trans.), The Periplus Maris Erythraei: Text with Introduction, Translation, and Commentary. Princeton University Press.
Shaw, B. D. (1984). Bandits in the Roman Empire. Past & Present, 105(1), 3–52. https://doi.org/10.1093/past/105.1.3
Suetonius. (2007). The Twelve Caesars (R. Graves, Trans.). Penguin Classics.
Theodosian Code. (1952). In C. Pharr (Ed. & Trans.), The Theodosian Code and Novels and the Sirmondian Constitutions. Princeton University Press.
Vindolanda Tablets. (2011). In A. K. Bowman & J. D. Thomas (Eds.), The Vindolanda Writing-Tablets (Tabulae Vindolandenses IV). British Museum Press.
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