Introduction

Lately, I’ve been frequenting author and self-publishing sites, and I’ve noticed a recurring question among historical fiction and fantasy writers: many budding authors get stuck on character names or other types of names. While I can’t speak for all eras or cultures, I’ll offer advice on three ethnicities that feature in my novels and books — Roman, Greek, and Nordic. In this article, the focus is on Roman names.

Looking back at some of my creative writing from grade and middle school, I could see I had trouble picking names. Many were embarrassingly awkward sounding. As I’ve grown, poor name choices have become a pet peeve of mine. For instance, while I suspect Frank Herbert intentionally chose the name Leto Atreides, it still irks me—Leto was a goddess, the mother of Apollo and Artemis. And Gaius Helen Mohaim? Gaius is a common Roman first name for men! But enough griping—I’m sure you’re not reading this to hear me complain.

When selecting a name, it helps to choose an ethnic background for your character. Even in world-building, it helps to root the culture in something historical. In my opinion, one of the masters of world-building was J.R.R. Tolkien. He relied heavily on Celtic, Nordic, and Germanic cultures. Many of his characters’ names have roots in these languages, which gives the names an exotic feel while maintaining a trace of familiarity—making them seem authentic. Once you’ve defined a culture, do a study in onomastics (a fancy word I just looked up for the study of name origins) for that culture. If you’re aiming for an unusual world, you can even go with an eclectic mash-up like a Japo-Roman culture.

Since I write historical fiction and alt-reality set in Imperial Rome, rich with numerous characters, I wanted to come up with credible yet not cliché names. I mean, if I never hear another Roman named Maximus, it will be too soon. You’ve got Maximus from Gladiator and Flavius Maximus from Star Trek’s “Bread and Circuses.” Okay, okay, I did use a Maximus in my first novel, Femina, where the protagonist’s childhood nemesis was Quintus Fabius Maximus. But that’s in line with historical names, as Maximus is associated with the Fabii clan. I only have to reference the famed general who gave Hannibal a run for his money during the Second Punic War. By the way, Maximus means “the greatest”—a haughty name for a character.

Throughout this article, I’ll share my personal experiences with selecting names. My novels were originally written when I was a teenager/young man, and many of the name choices were a bit cliché. But I was able to upgrade them while staying true to the original vision. Of course, I’ve got an ulterior motive—I might tantalize you with tidbits in hopes you’ll check out my work. But more importantly, I hope my name-picking process will offer you some valuable insights for your own writing.

Roman Names

To begin with, it’s important to understand the anatomy of a Roman name. The praenomen, akin to a first name, was limited in the early Republic, with a dozen common ones like Aulus, Gaius, Gnaeus, Lucius, Marcus, Quintus, Sextus, Decimus, Publius, Titus, Tiberius, Manius, and Spurius. Less common ones like Appius, Servius, Numerius, and Postumus were often tied to specific families or, in Postumus’ case, children born posthumously. In my short story Swan and Nightingale, I used Mamercus, a name particular to the Aemilii clan.

The second name is the nomen, which we might call the surname, representing the family. Optionally, there’s a cognomen, which can be loosely described as a hereditary formal nickname. Beyond that, there can be an honorific title, the agnomen. For example, Publius Cornelius Scipio earned the agnomen Africanus after defeating Hannibal at the Battle of Zama. This agnomen becomes hereditary, so his children are permitted to carry it. In fact, Quintus Fabius Maximus (the general, not my character) was given the agnomen Cunctator—“the delayer”—because of his tactic of hit-and-run harassment against Hannibal rather than direct engagement.

A common misconception (and pet peeve of mine) is about Julius Caesar. Many assume his first name was Julius, and his family name was Caesar. In fact, his first name was Gaius, his family name was Julius, and Caesar was a hereditary nickname.

If you ask a large language model—and I tried this at first—it will spit out one of the 10 most common nomina. How many Julii, Junii, Aemilii, Antonii, and Cornelii can you have in fiction? Fear not; in this Internet age (and with Wikipedia), you can find hundreds of nomina to suit your tastes. Start with a family name by searching for a list of gentes on Wikipedia. While many have dead links, those with valid links provide detailed family backgrounds.

For Femina, I found the Papiria gens for my title character. In truth, after looking at my original draft penned almost 40 years ago, she was originally Antonia, which is a bit too common, so I changed it. However, I paid homage to it when she used both Lucius Antonius and Antonia as her alter egos in places in the story.

The Wikipedia page for each gens lists common praenomina and cognomina. This helps you avoid unintentional mistakes like Titus Julius Scipio or Appius Valerius Cicero. Despite this, in my trilogy Restitutor Reipublicae, the title character takes on the name Titus Claudius, which is not a proper combination, as Claudians didn’t use Titus as a praenomen. While I don’t remember if that choice was intentional 40 years ago, it was a deliberate choice in the updated version. The oddity allowed for some minor plot elements and even made its way into my novel Femina, which takes place almost three hundred years later in the alternate reality created by my time-traveler.

Another example from Femina is the character of Scipio. In the original draft, Scipio was the somewhat conventional Publius Cornelius Scipio. With a more mature eye and through research on Wikipedia, I discovered that the Scipio cognomen had crept into the Caecilia clan, so he became Quintus Caecilius Scipio—a historically accurate but less clichéd name.

More Cognomina

All that being said, as a writer, you, of course, have the creative license to mix and match. Furthermore, you have some creative license with the cognomen and agnomen. Though historically, thousands of cognomina are known through not only written history but also inscriptions on monuments and tombs, it is likely they don’t cover all that existed. Many cognomina were simply adjectives. I’ve already mentioned Maximus—greatest— but others include Crispus—curly-haired, Magnus—great, Pulcher—beautiful, Rufus—red-haired, and Niger—black. This opens up a rich arena for creating names. You can take an adjective, find its Latin equivalent, and use it as a cognomen. Just be sure to match the case and gender.

For example, you could create a character with the cognomen Stultus, meaning “stupid.” Imagine a foolish character named Gaius Fuficius Stultus. Realistically, I doubt anyone would have actually received that cognomen, but such a name could serve your narrative purpose. The cognomen could also be a profession, as many surnames are today, such as Agricola—farmer or Pistor—baker. A Roman general in Britain was named Gnaeus Julius Agricola—literally Gnaeus Julius, the farmer. A well-chosen cognomen can really give your character personality.

Animal names are another great source of cognomina. For example, Gaius Asinius Gallus—literally “the rooster”—or names like Lupus (wolf) and Aquila (eagle). In my short story The Decline of Rome, I applied this technique with two characters: Marcus Aemilius Vacca (the cow) and Publius Mummius Vulpes (the fox). While neither cognomen is historically known, both served their purpose within the tale, adding symbolic allegorical weight to the narrative.

Regarding agnomina, these were often titles bestowed due to a historic conquest by an ancestor, like Africanus, as mentioned before. In Femina, a young praetorian guard bears the name Asiaticus, likely earned through a progenitor’s conquests in Asia Minor. Titles like Germanicus and Britannicus—both well-established parts of the Claudian family—are both used in my novel. Furthermore, in a future novel (based on my writings 40 years ago), Parthicus, the title agnomen was granted to a Roman who defeated the Parthians. As mentioned in Swan and Nightingale, the heroine of Femina earned a female agnomen, Scythica, for a victory over the Scythians.

Women

The naming of women, particularly in the early Republic, wasn’t very creative—they were usually known by their family name, like Julia, Antonia, or Octavia. As you can imagine, this could be tricky in a family with many daughters. Sometimes, they were referred to as Major (the Elder) and Minor (the Younger) or simply numbered—Prima, Secunda, Tertia, etc. (George Foreman might have been onto something). It’s not necessarily sexist, since many male praenomina like Quintus (Fifth), Sextus (Sixth), Septimus (Seventh), and Decimus (Tenth) were also ordinal numbers used as names.

In later Rome, women sometimes had feminized versions of both their nomen and a family cognomen. For example, Vipsania Agrippina (from her father Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa) distinguishes her from Julia Agrippina, her daughter. In my short story Swan and Nightingale, Junia Bruta is a feminized version of Junius Brutus.

Additionally, cognomina could derive from different sources. In the alternate reality, Femina, the daughters of Hesperian Praefect Manius Domitius, are named Domitia Fadilla and Domitia Faustina. In my novel Restitutor Reipublicae, though fantasy, it’s tied closely to history. Two cousins, daughters from the Valeria Messala lines, were both named Valeria Messalina at birth, following tradition. However, after Empress Valeria Messalina fell from grace, they changed their cognomina to distance themselves from scandal, adopting Valeria Flaminia and Valeria Sabina, drawing their new cognomina from their maternal lines.

Slaves and Freedmen

In ancient Rome, slaves were largely given a single name based on their master’s preference. Sometimes, it was based on a physical trait, sometimes on geographic origin—like Spartacus (though historians debate this). Among the educated, particularly the Greeks, they often took on historical or mythological names, such as Pallas, Narcissus, Achilles, or Xenophon. When freed, slaves frequently adopted the surname and praenomen of their master. For example, when Emperor Claudius freed Narcissus, he became Tiberius Claudius Narcissus. Another prominent freedman, Pallas, took the name, Marcus Antonius Pallas, as he was owned by Antonia, Emperor Claudius’ mother and the daughter of Marcus Antonius. I carried that tradition into Femina, keeping the name for the Emperor’s secretary as Tiberius Claudius Narcissus, presumably a descendant of the same Narcissus.

By the time of Femina, in my alternate reality, slavery had been abolished for centuries. But in Restitutor Reipublicae, when the time traveler arrived in the past, slavery was prolific. In addition to the freedmen Narcissus and Pallas, who figure prominently in the second and third books of Restitutor Reipublicae, I needed additional slave names.

In the second book of Restitutor Reipublicae, the title character becomes friends with two slaves on an estate. Using the -rix suffix to add a Gallic flavor, I named them Ambiorix and Orgetorix. When freed by their master, Lucius Valerius Messala, Ambiorix adopted the name Lucius Valerius Ambiorix to fully honor his former master. At the same time, Orgetorix chose Marcus Valerius Orgetorix to reflect some independence in his choice of praenomen.

Another member of the Valerian household was the cook Valeria Niobe. She explained that her birth name was Eirene, but as a prideful child, she earned the nickname Niobe. When freed, instead of electing to use her birth name, she adopted Valeria Niobe. To quote from my working draft: “Do I look like an Eirene to you? It means peace,” she laughed. “No, I chose my freed name to be Valeria Niobe. I suppose I could have been Valeria Eirene, but I doubt that would suit me.” The naming convention led to an opportunity for character development.

Another name I selected for a seductive slave was Salome, alluding to the historical temptress. The name immediately gives her an air of seduction—the dance of the seven veils and all. If she were freed (no spoilers here), she would take on the name Claudia Salome. The choice of Salome effectively conveys her seductive nature without needing much elaboration.

Knowing the naming practices allowed me to tie the story to historical facts. During the excavation of Pompeii, archaeologists discovered the famous House of Vettii, where two brothers, Aulus Vettius Conviva and Aulus Vettius Restitutus, were among the wealthiest men in Pompeii and former slaves. They gained their wealth through the wine trade and owned their own business. In my story, set 30 years before Vesuvius erupted, my protagonist was in Herculaneum and encountered Aulus Vettius, a Pompeiian vineyard owner, with two slaves, Conviva and Restitutus. By reverse engineering the naming convention, I deduced the master’s name. At this time, the brothers would be in their youth, perhaps learning grape horticulture from their master, so that 20+ years later, they would be free, own their own business, and become wealthy.

Outright Nicknames

With the somewhat lack of diversity in Roman names, nicknames have been used for narrative clarity. In my novel Femina, my protagonist acquires a nickname Penthesilea, alluding to the Amazon queen. In I, Claudius, Robert Graves uses several nicknames, Castor for Drusus Julius Caesar Helen for one of the Juliae. I do not doubt part of his motivation for using these historically undocumented nicknames was for narrative clarity, as there were at least five Drusi in the novel and countless Juliae. Furthermore, he employed his own diminutives Julillia and Agripinilla, which I’m sure was more for clarity than history.

I wondered when authoring this article if there was a historical basis for using nicknames outside the official cognomina. Then I realized it was staring me right in the face. Gaius Caesar Germanicus was the most blatant example, better known to us by his nickname Caligula—little boot (caliga).

The lesson here is definitely to use nicknames, especially for clarity and character development, but just remember to give your character a proper “legal name,” adopting the traditions I outlined.

Bending the Rules

In the later empire, Roman naming conventions changed. The distinction between praenomen, nomen, and cognomen became increasingly blurred, with names from one category often finding their way into another. This comingling of names became more pronounced as the empire evolved. In my short story The Decline of Rome, set in the fifth century, I depicted a real Roman general named Flavius Aetius. In this case, his praenomen was Flavius, which traditionally served as a nomen in earlier periods, reflecting the changing conventions.

Even in earlier periods, such as the Republic, nomina sometimes found their way into cognomina or agnomina, reflecting lineage or accomplishment. A famous example is Publius Cornelius Scipio Africanus Aemilianus. He was the adopted grandson of Scipio Africanus and bore the agnomen Aemilianus to preserve the lineage of his natural father, Lucius Aemilius Paullus Macedonicus—as you might have guessed, he won a victory against the Macedonians.

I put a twist on this tradition in my short story Swan and Nightingale, where I gave Sanquinia’s classmate the name Lucius Aemilius Cornelianus. This reversal of Scipio Aemilianus’s name—flipping the order of the nomen and agnomen—shows that even in earlier Roman times, naming conventions could be manipulated to emphasize different elements of lineage and identity.

Final Thoughts on Roman Names

Okay, now that you’ve selected a nice three-part Roman name, how do you write the narrative? You can’t use Quintus Caecilius Scipio every time you refer to him, and what about dialogue? If you look at how history reflects on Roman figures, it’s all over the place: Emperor Tiberius (praenomen), Augustus (agnomen), Caesar (cognomen), Claudius (nomen), and Caligula (nickname). This is where I sometimes sacrifice clarity for accuracy. For example, in Femina, Scipio is always referred to as Scipio. Even Papiria, who is a close friend, never refers to him as Quintus, not even in dialogue. In reality, just like today, Romans might address friends solely by their praenomen. However, with such a limited number of first names, it could become confusing—is she referring to Scipio or Quintus Racilius, another officer? The exception for me is Phoebe, who calls him Skip—a shortening of Scipio. I wrote her with the idiosyncrasy of automatically shortening her friends’ names to a single syllable.

Since literary conventions are all over the place, you can use this as an opportunity for character development. For example, the title character’s childhood friend turned love interest is Titus Flavius Sabinus. In Femina, I refer to him in the narrative as Titus, reflecting the intimacy and familiarity between him and Papiria. However, he also appears in Swan and Nightingale, where he’s a merchant interacting with Sanquinia, the main character. There, I refer to him by his cognomen, Sabinus, reflecting the less personal relationship.

Before we leave this section on Roman names—and congratulations if you’ve made it this far—I’m going to vent once more about Maximus from Gladiator. Maximus Decimus Meridius. After reading through my explanation of Roman naming conventions, you should have noticed that everything about this name is misattributed. Decimus should be his praenomen, Meridius his nomen, and Maximus his cognomen. In reality, he should have been Decimus Meridius Maximus.

I wouldn’t stop there. Personally, for authenticity, I would have picked a nomen that is known in history. As I mentioned, there are lists of hundreds to choose from. I mean, come on, Meridius belongs in Disney’s Brave, not a Roman piece. The effect is that the movie feels like the director and writers didn’t do their homework.