The other Melsonby hoard

The Melsonby Hoard has hit the news.

The find was unveiled this week, having undergone years of cleaning, conservation, and analysis following its excavation in 2022.

It apparently comprises Iron Age feasting equipment (a large decorated cauldron is mentioned) and copious quantities of harness fittings and vehicle parts, which the archaeologists have attributed to four-wheeled wagons, rather than the expected two-wheeled chariots.

We are informed that the material “could rewrite Iron Age Britain”. Sensational stuff! A statement from Historic England explains that the find “alters our understanding of life in Britain 2,000 years ago.” And one science journal claims that it “challenges centuries-old ideas about wealth, power, and identity in ancient northern Britain”. Quite significant, then.

Oddly, the BBC relegated the story to its Newsround web site for children, but other news outlets seem to have taken the discovery more seriously, even if equally melodramatically, with liberal use of superlatives.

Surprising?

The find is undoubtedly exciting, and some of the metalwork seems awe-inspiring. But is it about to “rewrite Iron Age Britain”?

Forty-odd years ago, I was fortunate to be in on the ground floor, when the real rewriting began. As an archaeology undergraduate at Glasgow University searching for a suitable subject for a dissertation (and keen to avoid Agricolan Scotland, which was flavour of the day in the 1980s), I selected the pre-Agricolan period, when the emperor Vespasian’s governors were coming to grips with northern England, the rich lands of the Brigantes, in the early to mid AD 70s.

Royal capital of a wealthy nation

We have always known something of the Roman interactions with the Brigantes during the AD 70s. The historian Tacitus chronicled the internecine squabbling that necessitated Roman intervention on behalf of the beleaguered Queen Cartimandua. Archaeologists and historians had sought Cartimandua’s capital around York (site of the future Roman fortress) or further south on a low hilltop at Barwick-in-Elmet. (See map, above, from my 1983 dissertation.)

As I embarked on my undergraduate research, the sprawling archaeological site of Stanwick immediately caught my attention — a massive earthwork complex extending across 350ha, which had been selectively excavated in the 1950s by Sir Mortimer Wheeler (amongst whose assistants was a certain Leslie Alcock, who became Professor of Archaeology at Glasgow University in 1973).

Here is the plan I drew for my dissertation (with Barwick inset at top-left for comparison). Incidentally, Melsonby lies barely 1km beyond the bottom righthand corner of the earthworks.

Stanwick was then generally accepted as the headquarters of Cartimandua’s rebel consort Venutius, who (so the story went) fled north to avoid the Romans. Amongst the rich material already found there was a hoard, mainly of harness fittings but including a sword and scabbard, the so-called “Stanwick Hoard”, uncovered in 1843 at — did you guess where? — Melsonby. But it seemed to me, particularly after discussions with the Durham archaeologist Perce Turnbull (now deceased), that the enormous, apparently wealthy site (around which Perce generously drove me at sometimes alarming speed, with the gearbox of his Morris Minor grinding and screaming atrociously) was not Venutius’ base, but could only be the royal capital of Queen Cartimandua herself.

Quite apart from the contents of the original Melsonby hoard (the “Stanwick Hoard”), the imported Roman material discovered on the site by Turnbull in 1981 surely hinted at this conclusion. (I well remember that my one and only conversation with Professor Leslie Alcock, during the five or six years I spent in his Department of Archaeology — the only time I ever entered his spacious office — concerned his disagreement with my reinterpretation of the site, which he took to be disrespectful to the work of Wheeler.)

It amuses me to reflect that, in my unpublished 1983 dissertation, I was probably the first to identify Stanwick as Queen Cartimandua’s capital. It is true that Turnbull, in 1982, had described Stanwick as “a major social and economic centre, which probably owed its success, if not its very existence, to the enormously increased opportunities for external trade which must have been afforded by the proximity of an expanding Roman world”. But it took several years before archaeologist Colin Haselgrove (if memory serves me correctly) started to talk in terms of Cartimandua’s royal seat. Even in his 2016 book, The late Iron Age royal site at Stanwick, North Yorkshire, he still defended Wheeler’s interpretation — Wheeler had “valid enough geographical reasons for placing Venutius at Stanwick” — while acknowledging that “there is no site in northern England more obviously qualified than Stanwick to be the seat of a ruler who had a treaty with Rome”. (I still wonder why he balks at naming Cartimandua.)

The new Melsonby hoard is a wonderful find, without question, but hardly unexpected, hardly surprising, and it won’t lead to a “rewrite” of Iron Age Britain. It is frankly baffling that, in this day and age, archaeologists should talk in terms of “challenging the idea that ancient northern Britain was a backwater”. That idea died forty years ago.

Gallienus and his battle cavalry

The emperor Gallienus ruled the Roman empire for fifteen years, from AD 253 until his murder in AD 268, and yet he is hardly known outside academic circles. To put his achievement into context, both Claudius and Nero each ruled for thirteen-and-a-half years, Commodus only twelve.

Admittedly, Septimius Severus reigned for eighteen years, Trajan managed eighteen-and-a-half, Hadrian almost twenty-one, and Antoninus Pius nearly twenty-three.

But the emperors of the third century were generally more ephemeral. Elagabalus reigned for four years; Gordian III, five-and-a-half; Philip the Arab, four-and-a-half; Decius, barely two. In this company, fifteen years is an impressive tally. And yet, for a long time, Gallienus was belittled by scholars.

A good or a bad emperor?

From Edward Gibbon’s Decline and Fall (1776) until Theodor Mommsen’s Die Provinzen von Caesar bis Diocletian (1885), Gallienus was berated as “chaotic and dissolute”. But then, quite abruptly at the outset of the twentieth century, he was suddenly hailed as a brilliant military reformer who had created a rapid action unit of “battle cavalry” to defend the hard-pressed frontiers. So, was this new characterization of Gallienus justified?

Careful sifting of the ancient Greek sources by Léon Homo in a 1903 essay had certainly rehabilitated the emperor’s besmirched reputation to a large degree, but for Alfred von Domaszewski, author of the influential Rangordnung der römischen Heeres in 1908, Gallienus became “that most wondrous of emperors”.

From that time onwards, scholars were convinced that Gallienus was a military genius who had overhauled the Roman army system. This was the gist of the 1976 dissertation by Lukas de Blois, which remained for a long time everyone’s go-to book about Gallienus. Even into the new millennium, we still read about Gallienus’ sweeping military reforms. One writer has been so bold as to subtitle his book “the apogee of Roman cavalry” in a reference to the emperor’s newly created “battle cavalry”.

How had this happened? And — more importantly — was it true? These are the questions that I address in my forthcoming book Phantom Horsemen.

More Roman military diplomas

I have just received my copy of Roman Military Diplomas VI, hot off the University of London press, in which another 179 diplomas are catalogued (nos. 477–655), continuing the series begun in 1978 by the late Margaret Roxan (Roman Military Diplomas 1954–1977, nos. 1–78). (In a break from tradition, the pagination has not been continued from previous volumes, and begins at p. 1.)

Margaret passed the baton to Paul Holder in 2002, owing to her failing health, when Roman Military Diplomas IV was imminent. It is hard to believe that the previous volume of the series, Roman Military Diplomas V (nos. 323–476), appeared as long ago as 2006, but I understand that there were difficulties in arranging publication of the new volume.

Besides a description and transcription of each individual diploma, the usual additional material has been included.

First, a table of “Diplomas in RMD VI”, in which the diplomas are arranged in date order and run from 7 March AD 70 (no. 477, a complete sealed example of a Legio II Adiutrix diploma, pictured below but currently lost) to 7 January AD 252/253 (no. 655, a corner fragment of tabella I of a Praetorian diploma).

Next, the “Revised chronology of the diplomas published up to RMD VI”, integrating nos. 477–655 in their proper places. (Holder says there are 840 listed; I haven’t counted them.) As before, RMD numbers are prefixed with a † symbol, to differentiate from the original CIL XVI diplomas.

There are 14 pages of “Further Notes on the Chronology”, highlighting any issues raised in the interim regarding previously published diplomas. In particular, Holder notes that there is a new “last positive date” for an auxiliary diploma; namely, AD 206, from AE 2012, 1960 (not included in this volume, which catalogues only those diplomas reported up to 2007).

The end matter includes the usual indices, and a complete concordance with AE (and with the diplomas of the Römisch-Germanisches Zentralmuseum, already published by Barbara Pferdehirt in 2004) has been added. Unfortunately, only four diplomas are illustrated, one of which also appears as the cover image (no. 639, damaged witness list on tabella II).

I very much look forward to perusing this volume at my leisure, and sincerely hope that a suitable publisher can be found for Roman Military Diplomas VII.

Caledonia, land of cold and rain (deuxième partie)

The scene shifts from the little Roman fort to the home of the Caledonians, a dark broch (precursor of the tower house) standing proud on its own rocky peninsula. Despujol’s graphics are fabulous (p. 16).

The young Caledonian champions, Cirig and Fel, argue over the correct course of action (p. 17). “My daughter will be yours Cirig, if you bring her back to her people”, says Galam, the chieftain.

“Leta is able to escape on her own”, counters Fel. “I’m sure she would consider our help insulting. In any case”, he continues, “she has only herself to blame”.

But Galam knows that there are other allies he can call upon — allies to be cultivated by the crone, Isla. “My stones will determine the next sacrifice”, she says ominously (p. 18).

Conversing with the enemy

Back in the little fort, although the sentries are on high alert, they report that “All is quiet”. Meanwhile, despite losing 4 pints of blood, Leta has made a miraculous recovery, thanks to a poultice of Cretan dittany; but the medic is keeping her bound and gagged, “because she has formidable claws and fangs and threatens to rip my throat every time I approach her!” (p. 19)

Against his advice, Lucius the centurion unties her, whereupon she wrestles him to the ground and would surely have strangled him, if the medic hadn’t intervened (pp. 20–21). It transpires that, conveniently, Leta is fluent in the language of the Romans, which she learned during two years of captivity. “You’re not getting away from here”, promises Lucius, for the girl is now tied to the fence outside (p. 22). “We shall see”, she replies. Lucius explains that it is the Roman mission to halt tribal warfare and pacify Caledonia, but Leta is defiant: “Whatever our tribes do is none of your business!”

Days pass (p. 23), and Lucius comes to realize that, even if you capture a wild animal, it’s impossible to tame it. Over a meal, he tries to convince her that Roman peace benefits everyone (p. 24). Again Corbeyran’s prose soars like the seagulls that flit across Despujol’s drawings. (Je suis née sur cette terre. Elle m’a donné la force de la tempête et la douceur de la brise. Elle m’a façonnée. Les miens m’ont appris tout ce que je devais savoir pour vivre en harmonie avec mes semblables, les collines, la mer et les dieux. Et toi, tu juges notre façon de vivre sans rien connaître. Pourquoi devrais-je t’écouter?) Leta remains unconvinced. “If you’re treating me to a meal in order to convince me of the benefits of Roman civilisation, so that I will persuade my father, let’s get it over with”, she laughs. “You may as well lock me up in a cage!” As night falls, Lucius duly complies (p. 25).

At this point, Corbeyran’s story-telling starts to step up a gear. So far, Caledonia could be an untold episode from Tacitus’ Agricola. But gradually, misbegotten creatures of the night creep into the narrative. A single arrow announces the arrival of a group of Caledonians, but they stand off as if waiting (pp. 26–27). Just then, two giant lizards cross the rampart, snatching soldiers left and right in their wicked jaws. Lucius calls for Leta to be released and seizes her as a human shield, yelling “Tell them to stop or I slice your throat!” (pp. 28–29)

Leta cries out in Gaelic: caomhain mi, caomhain iad “Hell dogs! Spare me, spare them!” The creatures depart, but Lucius has questions for Leta: “From what hell did they emerge and who commands them?” Calling for a map, she explains that the answers lie on the “Island of Death” offshore from the Caledonians’ broch.

To be continued ...

Caledonia, land of cold and rain (première partie)

I have begun reading Caledonia. Book One: The Ninth Legion, a new bande dessinée by Corbeyran (scénario) and Emmanuel Despujol (dessin). (Thank you, Santa!) Naturally, Corbeyran’s text is in French, so I present the following précis in order to make it more accessible to Anglophone readers.

It opens by night (p. 3), with a woad-striped crone chanting Gaelic on a bonfire-lit beach (thighearna nam marbh “Lord of Death, receive our gifts, so that our alliance may last forever!”). She despatches five young Caledonians into the large scaly hand of a mysterious forest dweller (p. 4). (Hold that thought for fifty pages).

Grey daylight, and a Roman column is marching through a defile in the Scottish mountains (p. 5). These are men of the third cohort of the Ninth Legion. Riding at their head, the newly-arrived centurion grumbles, “We’re making an infernal noise!” The hard-bitten optio shrugs: “Believe me, we’ve already been spotted by everything that has a sense of smell, two ears, and two eyes, from leagues around”.

The optio has seen the world and battled on various frontiers, but he has never met more ferocious adversaries than the Caledonians. The centurion is unconvinced: “I hear that blood flows in their veins, and I conclude that they are only men. If they are human, they will die”. (“We will die, too”, mutters the optio. “Just a matter of time”.) And sure enough, at that precise moment, a rocky avalanche heralds a flank attack by the savage Caledonians, gloriously depicted (pp. 8–9) by artist Emmanuel Despujol (and beautifully coloured by his daughter Juliette). After a hard-won victory, the Romans trudge off through the icy February rain.

The little fort

It is March and the unnamed centurion rests, binds his wounds, and writes up his report (p. 11). Men move about the tented enclosure (p. 12). Corbeyran’s graceful prose (Les dieux qui habitent ces contrées et ont façonné ces paysages ont été bien inspirés. Ils sont à la fois d’une grande beauté et offrent de multiples possibilités de cachettes à nos adversaires. Les Caledonii savent utiliser le relief du terrain à leur avantage. Chaque creux, bosse, faille, fossé, chaque arbre, chaque fourré constitue un allié solide sur lequel ils peuvent compter) cries out for a lavish landscape view. But the plot forges ahead.

A young woman — Leta, daughter of the chieftain Galam — has been captured but remains badly wounded (p. 13). The men are exhausted, fifteen were killed in the latest skirmish and five wounded. The disgruntled medic sees them as his priority, “but”, says the centurion, “the prisoner must not die”. The two men bicker (pp. 13–14). “I can put her out of her misery” growls the medic. “Her life is worth more than yours”, spits the centurion. “With such a bargaining chip, we can get Galam to lay down his arms!” “You are not only a bad commander, but also a dreamer, and I don’t know which is worse”, mutters the medic, at which the centurion lashes out with the back of his hand, warning him that next time he will use his blade.

Leaving the infirmary tent, the centurion runs into the optio, who reveals to us the centurion’s name (p. 15): it is none other than Lucius Aemilius Karus! Against the optio’s advice, he has ordered the men to their action stations. “They need rest” objects the optio. “If they are killed, they will have eternal rest,” replies Karus. “But if they defeat the Caledonians, they will live and be able to sleep victorious!” However, I have an uneasy feeling that his final words — “sacrifices are sometimes necessary” — might prove to be true ... literally.

To be continued ...

Life in the Roman army

Earlier this year, from February until June 2024, the British Museum hosted an exhibition entitled “Legion: life in the Roman army”. (Tickets were priced at £22.) Richard Abdy, curator of Roman and Iron Age coins at the museum, has written a 300-page book to accompany it (available in hardback from the British Museum book shop for £40).

It seems a little odd for the project to have been entrusted to someone who describes himself as “peripheral to Roman army studies”. However, it presents an interesting opportunity to see how good a job has been done by those people who would describe themselves as “central to Roman army studies” in communicating their knowledge to Mr Abdy.

He credits, amongst others, David Breeze and Simon James for having “hacked through various drafts of the entire book”, while others “provided enthusiastic support and advice” or “valuable advice and insight”. Has this support network proved successful?

At the outset, we should give Abdy credit for his writing style. He can turn a good sentence and has an ear for a pithy phrase (Trajan’s Column and the Marcus Column are “frozen filmstrips of Rome”, Lucius Verus is “the hairiest of those hairy Antonines”, and the Roman army is a “citizenship machine”, though this last one rests on Le Bohec’s observation that “l’armée a fonctionné comme une machine à fabriquer des citoyens romains”). But readable prose doesn’t guarantee sound content. In short, Abdy lacks authority.

Real soldiers

It is an intriguing conceit, to attempt to wrap a discussion of “life in the Roman army” around the lives of two Roman soldiers from Egypt (Apion and Claudius Terentianus), but ultimately unsustainable, given the paucity of evidence. After introducing the two characters, they recur only sporadically. That’s natural, given that only two letters from Apion survive (BGU II, 423 and 632), and ten letters from Terentianus, five in Latin and five in Greek, in a cache (the so-called “archive of Claudius Tiberianus”) discovered at Tebtunis (P. Mich. VIII, 467–471 and 476–480).

Readers cannot know this, because of Abdy’s peculiar reticence, here and elsewhere, to cite primary evidence. This is perhaps a symptom of having drawn facts from secondary publications (Le Bohec’s L’armée romaine sous le haut-empire, cited in its 1994 English translation, is a favourite, but he also leans on David Breeze’s slim The Roman Army volume) rather than (apparently) studying the sources at first-hand.

Some readers may find it useful to know that fig. 1.2 on p. 28 (“Letter of Apion. Egyptian Museum of Berlin, P. 7950”) is BGU II, 423. At least fig. 1.20 (p. 46) is labelled P. Mich. VIII, 468, but there is no indication that this is the famous letter in which Terentianus asks his father to send him caligae cori subtalares (“under-the-heel leather sandal-boots”) and udones (“socks”), which might usefully have been cross-referenced to the paragraph on footwear on p. 167.

Curiously, Abdy claims (on p. 53) that “Terentianus expected to wear out two pairs of shoes a month”, but the Latin in P. Mich. VIII, 468 is not at all clear. (Does Terentianus actually wear calcei, “shoes”, twice a month, and would prefer to have hard-wearing caligae, the soldiers’ hob-nailed sandal-boots?) Equally, his throwaway comment about Terentianus’ “felt socks” (p. 66) requires explanation; the poet Martial, for one, seems to think that socks were normally woollen (Epigrams XIV, 140). Incidentally, for all clothing-related matters, Graham Sumner’s Roman Military Dress (2009) is unaccountably absent from Abdy’s bibliography.

Real pay

It is quite clear that many men will have enlisted in order to benefit from food and board and regular pay. Abdy, as a coin specialist, is naturally attracted to the last of these. However, his frame of reference is a peculiar one. It seems overly simplistic to accept that “The Bible suggests that a fair day’s wage for a day’s fair labour was a denarius” (p. 21), even with the caveat that the vineyard work in question was “sporadic and seasonal”, since evidence from Egypt consistently shows that day-labourers made do with closer to a sestertius (one-quarter of a denarius) per day, and might expect to work, at most, 250 days per year. This casts the auxiliary soldier’s 1,000 sestertii per year in a different light. Compare the foundation charter of the colony of Urso in southern Spain, which set down annual salaries for each magistrate’s staff, including 300 sestertii for clerks and 400 for messengers, and 1,200 for an educated scribe (ILS 6087, section 62). This (more effectively, I think) puts the contemporary legionary pay of 1,200 sestertii into perspective.

For Abdy, the veteran legionary was a man of means, since he was “eligible for a retirement lump sum worth around a decade’s pay” (p. 260), a fact that he illustrates with the Didcot hoard (not known to have belonged to a soldier, it should be noted). Readers need to have a good memory, though, for the evidence was given over a hundred pages earlier, where we read that “an ordinary legionary received a praemia (discharge bonus) of 3,000 denarii” (p. 128, based on Cassius Dio, Roman History LV, 23.1).

Illustrated artefacts

The book is lavishly illustrated in colour on heavy-grade paper. There is a picture of everything from the exhibition, and much else besides. Coins feature prominently, from the museum’s own collection, and casts of Trajan’s Column (provided by the National Museum of Romanian History in Bucharest), identified by Cichorius’ scene numbers. A map has been specially prepared, showing “the Roman Empire at its greatest extent, c. AD 117” (though its greatest extent was actually eighty years later under Septimius Severus); confusingly, both Hadrian’s Wall and the Antonine Wall (neither of which existed in AD 117) are included, and boldface numerals represent the number of legions in each province “c. AD 200” (i.e. under Septimius Severus). Why not just map the Roman empire in AD 200? (Incidentally, I noticed an odd no-man’s-land at the junction of Cappadocia, Assyria, and Syria.)

The main strength of the exhibition, in my opinion, was the opportunity to see the various items face-to-face. For example, the wooden “practice post” from Carlisle, often depicted in discussions of Roman military training, is disconcertingly large (broken at the base, it still stands a shade over 5 feet tall with a one-foot-diameter disc at the top, surely representing a human assailant), while the diplomas (I counted four on display) are beautifully delicate. (The training post is figure 1.28 on p. 52, and only one diploma has all four sides illustrated as figure 0.5 on p. 21.)

It is difficult to gain a sense of scale from the book illustrations, although dimensions are given in the captions. For example, the sheer size of the well-known Carvoran modius or grain measure cannot be appreciated from the printed image (fig. 8.2, occupying half of p. 247), although the caption states that it stands 28.6cm tall. By contrast, the turricula or dice tower found at Vettweiss-Froitzheim seems enormous in fig. 7.13, which occupies the whole of p. 219, although shorter than the grain measure, at 25cm.

These latter two items perfectly encapsulate the ecclecticism of the exhibition, since neither (like the Didcot hoard, above) is particularly military and couldn’t really be said to represent “life in the Roman army”. It is almost as if the curator has taken the opportunity to assemble as many eye-catching items as possible. Certainly, it’s difficult to justify the inclusion of the crocodile-skin outfit from Manfalut in Egypt, here labelled as “armour or religious costume” (fig. 5.4 on p. 150). Surely no self-respecting Roman soldier would ever have worn such outlandish gear.

Some random idiosyncracies

A two-page timeline lists key dates, beginning with 27 BC (“Augustus founds the Roman principate (empire)”), though AD 142 is probably too late for Antoninus Pius ordering the advance into Scotland, and “c. AD 180–192” for Roman marines slaughtering the Colosseum crowd (for 12 years?) is surely mistaken! Abdy has decided to draw matters to a close in AD 238, with the death of Maximinus Thrax (“the first ‘soldier emperor’”), though the army he discusses continued in existence until the reforms of Diocletian and Constantine.

If a timeline is of questionable utility in a book about “life in the Roman army”, so too is a list of “Rulers of the Roman empire”, in which most emperors (not all) are labelled as having had an “offensive military reign” (Augustus, Claudius, Nerva (!), Trajan, Septimius Severus) or a “defensive military reign” (Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus), or having had a “military career before accession” (Tiberius, Vespasian, Titus, Hadrian) or “military activities widely criticised” (Domitian, Caracalla, Maximinus Thrax).

The five-page glossary (pp. 282–286) is oddly unbalanced and doubles as a who’s-who. We learn about Arminius, Arrian, Julius Civilis, Julius Caesar, Marius, and the writers Galen, Josephus, Juvenal, Pliny (Elder and Younger), Suetonius, Tacitus, and Vegetius. “Apion, son of Epimachos, also known as Antonius Maximus (b. c. AD 130s)” merits an 11-line description, and “Terentianus / Claudius Terentianus (AD 90s–after c. AD 136)” thirteen lines, but these are Abdy’s main characters. Couldn’t the descriptions have been given in the text? After all, the index shows that Apion recurs on pages 20–21, 26, 34–37, 48–49, 67, and 98. Similarly, Terentianus recurs on pages 19, 21, 46–47, 60, 66, 109, 186, 221, 222, 258, and 260. Is that not sufficient? (In this connection, it is surprising that Abdy doesn’t actually quote any of the correspondence that tells us so much about his two protagonists.)

The glossary also includes definitions of the Augustan, Flavian, Antonine, and Severan periods, along with the “First Jewish Revolt” and “Second Jewish Revolt”. There is a handful of geographical terms (Batavians, Dacia, Misenum, Parthia, and Sarmatians — could these not have been shown on the map?), the main coin denominations (aureus, denarius, sestertius — the as and dupondius are not mentioned), and some basic English (cuirass and governor!).

Some random misunderstandings

While browsing, I jotted down some questionable facts. Caesar was responsible for the establishment of named legions long before Augustus (p. 16). It is a misnomer to characterize military diplomas as “military retirement diplomas”, as this was not their function (p. 19 and elsewhere). The term numerus does not imply “a unit even lower in status than the auxiliary cohorts” (p. 58) — the elite equites singulares Augusti were a numerus. Hamian archers are not “Arabian” (p. 140). And it is not particularly helpful for Abdy to refer to hard-to-find publications (such as the companion volume to the 2021 Nero exhibition) rather than to the primary sources themselves (e.g. p. 143 for Nero depicted as cavalry commander).

All in all, I wonder if it might not have been a better idea simply to issue a standard exhibition catalogue?

A life with the Roman army

A hotel in Croatia I recently stayed in had a face-in-the-hole photoboard in the reception area. The theme was in keeping with the nearby Roman remains — a Roman legionary of sorts. Of course, I had to have my photo taken.

This wasn’t the first time I had appeared as a Roman soldier. Almost exactly forty years ago, I was persuaded to don an ill-fitting set of “lorica segmentata” armour and an uncomfortable pair of hobnailed sandals (uncomfortable, as they’d been made for someone else’s feet) in fulfilment of my part of a bargain.

Bargains are very Roman. Dozens of ancient altars were set up in fulfilment of a bargain with a particular god or goddess; the dedicant expressly votum solvit libens laetus merito (“fulfilled his vow willingly, gladly, deservedly”), usually abbreviated to V S L L M, but very occasionally written out in full (e.g. AE 1934, 280).

In summer 1984, as a recent graduate student embarking upon the study of the Roman army, I had made a bargain with Chris Haines, or rather Lucius Flavius Aper, centurion of the Ermine Street Guard. I had become rather interested in ancient artillery (and was even then eagerly awaiting the appearance of my first “proper” academic article, which discussed catapults en passant) and I knew that the Ermine Street Guard had built their own catapult. In fact, the only reconstructed catapult then in existence, apart from Erwin Schramm’s classic reconstructions built for Kaiser Wilhelm, on display at the Saalburgmuseum.

I suggested to Chris that I should visit him in Gloucestershire to see his catapult in action. He suggested that I should accompany them on a tour of France, Germany, and Belgium, the only proviso being that I should make up the numbers in a couple of displays. My votum was duly solvit.

As I recall, I never got a chance to see the catapult up close, it being jealously guarded by ESG “regulars”. But I did get to see (for the first time) the Saalburgmuseum (where we slept on the floor of the principia forehall), the Römisch-Germanisches Zentralmuseum in Mainz (now in a different location under a new name), and (if memory serves) the Rheinisches Landesmuseum Bonn (now extensively remodelled).

This photo, snapped forty years ago, shows that the Ermine Street Guard had a better grasp of Roman armour than today’s Croatian hospitality industry. Naturally.