The citystate of Venice was a republic by default. None of its ruling families was able to eliminate or terrorize its rivals. So the aristocrats agreed to share power but only among themselves. Their idea of a republic would be our idea of a country club. The club—the Grand Council–had 450 members; and the rest of Venice’s population amounted to 140,000 waiters and caddies. (But the club members were good tippers.)

However, even the Grand Council did not govern Venice. The club’s steering committee and executive board managed the day to day affairs of the mercantile empire. There was also the club president: the Doge. The Doge was elected for life, but the election process would have bewildered a Byzantine.

It was as much a lottery as an election. First, 30 members of the Grand Council were chosen by lot. from this group, 9 were chosen by lot. Those 9 members selected 40 members of the Grand Council; and from the 40, then 12 were chosen by lot. The 12 would select 25 members; and a lottery would pick 9 of them. They would elect 45 members, and then a lottery would choose 11 from them. The 11 would choose 41 members–who actually would elect the Doge. Oh, the Doge had to receive at least 25 out of 41 votes.

And you thought that our Electoral College was stupid. Yet, this convoluted system served Venice for five centuries, from 1268 to 1797.

Furthermore, this bewildering process did enrich our vocabulary. In the electoral lottery, each member received a wax ball which had to be broken open. If his wax ball contained a piece of parchment with the word “lector”, the lucky member proceeded to the next stage of the election. The word for these wax orbs was “ballotes.”

That does sound familiar.

Trivia literally means “three roads” in Latin. Seven roads led to a Roman education. The scientific routes were arithmetic, astronomy, geometry and music. The literary paths were grammar, rhetoric and logic. Those three roads–the Trivia– were not as esoteric as they seemed. If you were begging Nero for your life, you would want to be grammatical and eloquent.

However, as the Roman Empire disintegrated and was inundated by barbarian invasions, a well-rounded education became irrelevant. The Goths, Vandals and Huns really did not care about proper Latin grammar, and they had felt that brute force had its own logic. Yet, arithmetic remained important; barbarians liked to count what they stole. And music was still esteemed; the Germans always thought that they liked music, although a nation of Wagner fans obviously has more patience than pitch.

But even literacy would eventually revive in the Middle Ages. Someone had to write the place cards for the Round Table. However, the classical standards of literacy had become irrelevant. The Latin language that once linked all of Western Europe had either fragmented into the pidgin dialects of French and Spanish or had been completely eradicated by unappreciative barbarians like the Angle-Saxons. Latin standards for grammar really could not apply to different languages. Rhetoric was too estoric for a society that settled debates with a broadsword. Logic actually could be dangerous; the Medieval Church suspected it led to heresy.

So, by medieval standards the Trivia had become meaningless, irrelevant and questionable. Today, grammar, rhetoric and logic have regained some respectability; but the term “trivia” has not.

Mercy was the stock and trade of the Roman Empire.  True, an Empire of mad Caesars, blood-crazed mobs and well-fed lions would not seem very charitable or lenient.  (You could ask a Carthaginian if there were any left.)  However, in its original Latin, mercy had nothing to do with virtue.  It meant “trade.”  The Latin word “merx” proved remarkably versatile, the root for market, merchant, mercenary and even the name of a God.  Fleet-footed and sleight-of-hand, Mercury was the patron of traders…and thieves.  Merx also provided France a way to say “thank you.”  Finally, and unintentionally, merx became the English word for clemency.

Let’s begin this mercurial odyssey.  The Romans introduced “merx” to Gaul but it hardly made a good first impression.  After all, at Roman insistence, the Gaulish traded their liberty, land and livestock in exchange for the right to keep breathing.  For four centuries, merx meant supplying the local garrison with wine and pornographic pottery.  Beginning in the fifth century, however, the word was reinvented, “new and improved” by a software company called Christianity.

Its sales force understood the principles of marketing.  Prospective converts needed an incentive if they were to trade Jove for Jesus.  So, the missionaries offered their customers a mercedes.  No, it was not a deluxe, German chariot, but it was a miracle of marketing.  The word mercedes , in fact, was a variation of merx, but its meaning had been embellished and burnished.  A mercedes was more than a mere trade; it was a bargain, a reward, a blessing!

Those missionaries made a compelling sales pitch, guaranteeing morality and salvation.  All that paganism could promise was provocative theater. The Gaulish realized which religion was the mercedes.  In the fifth century, the conquering Franks came to the same conclusion and traded in Wotan.  Since mercedes was synonymous with reward or blessing, the French began saying it to express appreciation.  They did abridge it to two syllables-”merci”-but the French were never long on gratitude.

The English learned “mercy” from the Normans, and the lesson was in both Latin and French.  The Norman conquerors included bishops as well as barons.  The new prelates of England were bound by the tenets of Christianity, and the Church still promised “mercedes.” However, after six centuries in the Dark Ages, the Church really wasn’t feeling chipper.  In this bleak 11th century perspective, the world was sinful, and mankind was unworthy of God’s mercedes.  Such blessings were an undeserved favor.  Of course, the Norman clergy were eager to terrorize their conquered congregations, promising eternal damnation unless the English proved abjectly servile.  Even then, their hope of salvation was slim, dependent upon the generosity of Heaven.  Any fate other than Hell was an act of mercedes.

Living under the Normans, the English already had a familiarity with Hell.  The Normans were descended from Vikings who had overrun France.  Over a century, they had acquired a façade of French culture, although the Norman idea of Christian conduct was limited to shaving.  Now, the new masters of England, they made no attempt to endear themselves to their subjects.  On the contrary, the Normans routinely terrorized the English to teach them their place-with the livestock.  The battered and cowed English became accustomed to abuse and degradation. 

Then, the unexpected occurred in the 12th century.  It might have been during Lent or in the wake of the Chivalry craze.  An English servant had just finished his debasing drudgery (perhaps licking the stables) and now expected to receive a slap or a kick from the Norman lord or lady.  Instead, the Norman muttered “merci.”  The servant kept waiting for some affliction but nothing happened.  The Norman repeated “merci” and waved the Englishman away.  The amazed and relieved servant had never before heard the word “merci” but he could guess its meaning.  The Norman was saying, “I won’t hurt you.” 

By the 13th century, the distortion of mercedes and the misinterpretation of merci had converged into our meaning of mercy.  So, from Roman greed,  medieval gloom and Norman arrogance, we derived an expression of virtue.  Whether or nor mankind is inherently sinful, we are habitually ironic.

Let’s solve a mystery. How can a club be both a social organization and a weapon? It actually is a case of mistaken identity that began in the Middle Ages. Old English and Old Norse are both Germanic languages. In addition to this lingual similarity, the Vikings could always make themselves understood. When a horde of warriors is sacking and slaughtering, you can usually interpret its mood and intent. One particular form of Viking expression was the “klubba”, a blunt, heavy weapon.

When a Viking wielded his club, his British victims felt a clump. In Old English “clump” literally meant lump or mass, but the word had several uses. It could refer to an accumulation or cluster of objects; in that context, we still refer to “a clump of dirt” or “a clump of trees.” Unfortunately, a clump could also describe the mass of wood in the Viking arsenal, or the lumps it caused. Since club and clump had similar sounds and overlapping definitions, the words eventually became confused and interchangeable. Clump acquired a heavy, creepy context, while a club could be an innocuous collection.

England in the late-17th century was a wonderful time for debauchery, and the diction was as lax as the morals. When people, bound by a common interest or vice, gathered together, these associations now were called clubs. Three centuries later we’re stuck with that mistake. If there had only more regard for proper English, your insurance agent would be a member of the Rotary Clump.

With their effusive nature, the Vikings gave our language such words as slaughter, wreck, kidnap and-of course-club. In rare instances, however, our Viking vocabulary does not pertain to a crime. Consider the word window. It is from the Old Norse term vindauga and means “wind eye.”

But how did vindauga become our prevalent word for a scenic hole in a wall?

Of course, modern Scandinavians are renowned for furniture, but their Viking ancestors never showed any flair for interior design. There was no medieval Ikea. The Viking expressed his aesthetics by what he stole. In the ninth century the Norsemen so enjoyed looting England that they decided to seize the entire country. They nearly succeeded, overrunning Northern and Eastern England. But for King Alfred rallying the English in a last-ditch battle (and earning himself “the Great”), today Lundholm might be the capital of Anglemark.

The Vikings had been thwarted but they still controlled almost half of England. They could enjoy it and settle down. The Vikings acquired English wives–often over the bodies of English husbands–and began to assimilate. With varying degrees of sincerity, they converted to Christianity. (Odin and Thor had let them down.) This domestication was aided by the similarity between Norse and Old English.

For instance, the Angle-Saxon lived in a hus, walked through a dor, over a flor and into a rum. The Viking then stormed that huis, kicked in a dyrr, stomped the florr and into a ruim. Translation was hardly needed. When there were distinct differences in the vocabularies, the Norse sometimes adopted the English word. The Vikings found the English weall easy to breach but irresistible to say. However, the Norse were not so accommodating over what to call the scenic hole in the weall.

The Angle-Saxon called it an eyethurl, which means “eye hole.” Perhaps the Norse found it difficult to pronounce or lacking in poetry. They insisted on calling the disputed aperture a windauga, and bullies do have a certain power of persuasion. Eastern England called it that, and western England probably thought it wasn’t worth a fight.

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The candidate has always been conscious of his image.  In the days of the Roman Republic (509 B.C.-27 B.C.), long before there were press releases, the aspiring politician announced his campaign for public office by putting on his very best-whitest-toga and proclaiming his virtues in the Forum.  There was a term for this spectacle, “candidatus” meaning clothed in white.  Unfortunately, Roman politics were so tumultuous that “candidates” increasingly found it safer to wear armor than togas.  Indeed, by 100 B.C. and for the remaining five centuries of Rome’s dominion, civil war was the most common method of election.  By the Middle Ages, the idea of a “candidate” had lapsed into Latin obscurity. 

Seventeenth century England revived the idea.  The growing power of Parliament attracted ambitious men.  Many were tantalized by the prospects for social-climbing and the opportunities for graft.  The Puritans wanted to impose their principles on everyone else.  All of these aspiring megalomaniacs were vying for seats in Parliament.  Whether this new occupation was a career or an affliction, it still required a name. 

Fortunately, the Renaissance had revived literacy, and some English scholars remembered the term “candidatus.”  Of course, the term was not meant literally.  At the time, the only white clothing would have been shirts, which also served men as their pajamas and underwear.  (The Roman practice of hygiene had yet to be revived.)  The idea of publicly parading in only a shirt would have disqualified the Puritan politicians.  Candidate now was a generic term.

The scholars had also revived the Roman word for white: candidus.  People like John Milton always flaunted their erudition, and so they would speak of a candid cloud.  Ironically, “candid” soon began its evolution, first mixing with other synonyms for white and then acquiring its distinct definition.  To phrase it as etymological formula:  Candid=white=shining=clear=open=frank.  This evolution proved surprisingly quick.  By the end of the 17th century, candid had assumed its current meaning.  So, the similarity between the words “candid” and “candidate” is not an accident: it just is an oxymoron.

The voter was not always treated like an idiot.  On the contrary, in Ancient Greece the epithet was applied to those who didn’t vote.  Idiot is derived from the Greek word, idiotes, meaning private citizen.  In its broadest and snobbiest definition, it applied to any citizen not in the ruling class.  Of course, in a democracy-like Athens– every citizen was in the ruling class.  (However, not everyone was a citizen: the women and slaves learned that.)  From the Athenian perspective, an idiot was that myopic, apathetic soul who did not participate in the city’s democracy. 

Indeed, it is hard to imagine anyone who could witness the birth of Democracy and yet be oblivious to it.  There was as much drama in Greek politics as in any amphitheater.  Combining politics and theater, the Greeks had created the art of rhetoric.  Pericles and Demosthenes treated the public like an audience, flattering, moving and dazzling the citizens.  And the citizens were expected to argue back and debate the issues.  Think of the topics that those Athenians decided: building a fleet, the construction of the Parthenon, war with Sparta.  (The latter was not Athen’s most brilliant decision: imagine Meryl Streep starting a fist fight with Vin Diesel.)  Yes, the Athenian citizens probably discussed zoning ordinances for chariots, too.  Even classical Athens had its mundane matters.

Anyone so indifferent to this vital and dramatic process deserved contempt.  The apathetic citizens were neglecting their rights and self-interest, abandoning their role in the democratic state.  The word idiot became their stigma.  Twenty-five centuries have broaden the word’s application but not improved its meaning.  Of course, democracy and idiots are the not our only political legacy from Greece.  We also have inherited a term for anyone whose politics differed from yours.  The Greek word for fool is moron.

Excursions once offered short trips to death.  In antiquity, invasion was the most common form of tourism.  If the residents of a besieged city preferred not to be souvenirs, they would attempt an “ex cursio.”  The Latin phrase means to run out, and its purpose translates to a surprise attack. 

The excursion would rush forth from the city gates and hurl itself upon the enemy, who theoretically would be routed.  Of course, the enemy was rarely so accommodating.  Although ex cursio was a Latin term, it was not a Latin intention.  The Romans had created the empire by doing the besieging.  From their perspective, excursions simply made good target practice.  By the end of the first century, the Mediterranean world had succumbed to the Roman choice of death or aqueducts.