When is a siege not a siege?

Archaeology is full of mysteries. The best we can expect of scholars is that they set aside personal prejudice and weigh up the available evidence, presenting it in a way that permits logical analysis. But there is a major caveat in this last phrase, because it’s the contemporary logic that we must apply, not our preferred twenty-first-century logic. And this is where the sheep diverge from the goats.

Fifteen years ago, I devoted a whole series of articles in the magazine Ancient Warfare to this very phenomenon. The series was entitled “The Debate”, because each article presented the available evidence to illuminate a particular topic, and assessed the ongoing debate about how that evidence should be analyzed.

For “The Debate” in December 2011 (in Ancient Warfare vol. V, issue 6), I took as the theme the Roman military operations at Burnswark in south-west Scotland (known as Birrenswark in the older literature), where the upstanding remains of two camps are imprinted on the landscape.

The article (available here) was called “Hillfort under attack: Roman siege warfare or training exercises at Burnswark?”, because these were the two explanations that had been put forward in the ongoing debate. (I say “ongoing debate”, but it has always been a little one-sided, as proponents of the “training exercises” theory insist that all evidence favours their case.)

From antiquarians to archaeologists

Over a century ago, in 1914, Francis Haverfield, the pre-eminent Romano-British archaeologist of his day, had voiced the opinion that “the well-known and remarkable earthworks at Birrenswark have long been explained as Roman siege-works round a native hill-fort” (though he failed to name those authorities by whom it had “long been explained”).

A year earlier, the site had been visited by the German archaeologist Adolf Schulten, who — fresh from his eight seasons of excavations at the elaborate Roman Republican siegeworks of Numantia (see here) — immediately confirmed Burnswark as the site of a Roman siege. (It should be mentioned, however, that it was his belief in a circumvallation, disproved soon afterwards, that prompted his analogy with Caesar’s siege of Corfinium in 49BC, a comparison that is still occasionally mentioned to this day.)

Only a decade later, Haverfield’s pupil R.G. Collingwood, investigating the site in 1925, confirmed that “the siege theory gives the only possible explanation of the camps and their relation to the hill-fort”.

In the swinging sixties, anything goes

Then, at some point in the 1960s, the peculiar idea took root — popularized by Roy Davies in a 1972 paper entitled “The Romans at Burnswark” — that the only siege at Burnswark had actually been a practice siege!

When I was researching my PhD in 2001, I identified a lecture delivered in 1963 by Kenneth Steer (Secretary General of the Royal Commission on the Ancient and Historical Monuments of Scotland) as the first time this idea was mentioned. “It is at least arguable”, Steer pronounced, “that the camps were simply training-quarters for troops engaged in storming native fortifications”.

Indeed, Roy Davies’ PhD thesis (entitled Peace-time routine in the Roman army, Durham 1967) — for which he began research in 1963, the very year of Steer’s lecture — has a chapter on “Manoeuvres”, in which he admitted that “the theory that Burnswark may not in fact be the scene of a siege carried out in time of war was suggested to me by Mr G. Jobey”, an archaeology lecturer at Newcastle University who had been excavating there in 1965 and 1966.

For the next forty years, the “practice siege” theory held sway, despite the fact that — unlike other Roman army manoeuvres — there was not a single jot of evidence to support the existence of such a thing.

For example, Gordon Maxwell gave it prominence in his 1998 book A Gathering of Eagles, from which this illustration (right) is taken. Here we see the north rampart of the South Camp, where the author has depicted catapults mounted on mounds in the open area outside the camp.

Siege or no siege?

In 2003, I published a paper — “The Roman Siege of Burnswark” (available here) — in which I restated the case for a genuine episode of warfare. I rather foolishly imagined that this might have put the entire matter to bed. But I hadn’t reckoned with the argumentative energy of those who had set their minds and staked their reputations on the “practice siege” theory.

That is not to say that my research went unheeded. In 2009, for example, Nick Hodgson appealed to “the convincing demonstration by D. Campbell that there is no reason to believe that the siegeworks at Burnswark were not intended to function in earnest”.

But while the “training exercises” proponents insist on having the last word, I find their dogmatic belief in a “practice siege” curious. Even if we suppose for a moment that such a phenomenon ever existed, how would we tell it apart from a genuine siege?

A misconceived argument

Whenever anyone claims support for the “practice” theory, discussion always comes back to the “Three Brethren”. These are the earthworks positioned in front of the three north-facing gateways of the South Camp (depicted on the plan above).

In 1925, Collingwood pronounced them “emplacements for artillery bombarding the hill-fort”, which he (erroneously) called ballistaria. These were a particular hobby-horse of Collingwood’s, an obsession that he bequeathed to his student and collaborator, Ian Richmond. They were keen to find such “gun-platforms” in any camp or fort that they happened to be investigating. (I disproved five of them in a 1984 paper.)

The “Three Brethren” struck Collingwood as particularly suitable for this function, as his 20th-century logic told him that artillery should be thrust forward and elevated as far as possible. But to a Roman, neither of these characteristics appears to have been at all desirable.

Advancing artillery beyond the safety of the camp was foolish and reckless, while elevating it above ground-level was only necessary if its purpose was to shoot at the parapet of high fortifications. We can see this from the ancient technical manuals. Any self-respecting Roman engineer would have constructed a siege-tower for this purpose. But in the case of Burnswark, we may add the clinching fact that the “Three Brethren” are too small and precarious to be used as “gun-platforms”.

Maxwell’s illustrations (above and right) cleverly show a solid mound, carefully constructed from layers of turf, with a large consolidated surface area to support his catapult with a crew of four or five men. In reality, the mounds appear, on the contrary, to have consisted of piled up earth measuring some 10–12 feet (3.5m) in diameter at the top, which is a tight fit for a 2-pounder ballista, with no spare room for the crew to work effectively. (How did they even get the catapult up there to begin with?) In the case of this one-armed onager, it is unclear how the rear of the machine would be supported, far less operated.

Back in 2003, I gave a talk to the Trimontium Trust in Melrose on this subject, in which I plotted the trajectory of a missile from a 2-pounder Roman stone-throwing catapult located safely behind the rampart of the South Camp, where it ought to be. I demonstrated that the hillfort of Burnswark was well within the range of such machines, without having to position them precariously on mounds dangerously exposed outside the Roman defences.

The cross-section view of the terrain at Burnswark also demonstrates very clearly the danger posed to the Roman camp by an enemy located on the hilltop. The gateways were especially exposed, in this regard, and required robust protection. In fact, we know of a genuine Roman description of such robust defences being employed to deflect heavy and destructive objects rolled downhill against Roman fortifications. There is even an illustration of this on Trajan’s Column.

But the “training exercise” proponents object on principle to any contrary argument. David Breeze cannot disprove my interpretation of the “Three Brethren”, so he simply asserts that “this, of course, is based on the assumption that Burnswark was the location of a siege”. Thus, any suggestions may be swept aside on the grounds that Burnswark is a “practice siege” — a classic case of circular reasoning. Alan Wilkins likewise claims that “the design of the Three Brethren and their position immediately in front of the three gateways is the most important evidence that this is not a real siege”. For him, the catapult balls and copious quantities of sling bullets are “the types of missiles that might be expected at a training camp”. There is no replying to this level of debate.

How rumours start

In 2011, Rebecca Jones published a book entitled Roman Camps in Scotland. I recently acquired a copy (thank you, Ruth and Ruairi) and was surprised by her discussion of Burnswark (pages 154–156). It wasn’t her characterisation of the “practice siege” theory as the most likely interpretation, as I fully expected this. Rather, it was her allegation — in the context of the “Three Brethren” — that “he [meaning me] has accepted the possibility that they are ‘ballistaria’!

This is quite impossible, for two reasons. First, I have never wavered in my scepticism of Collingwood and Richmond’s “gun-platforms”. Over forty years ago, I demonstrated that the variety of archaeological features that they wished to identify as “artillery platforms” were no such thing. The “Three Brethren” fall into this same category.

And second, more importantly, in my 2003 book on Greek and Roman Artillery 399 BC–AD 363, I explained the meaning of the word ballistarium: “for a long time scholars interpreted this as an ‘artillery platform’, but it was probably a storehouse or workshop for catapults”. So, definitely not a large pile of earth defending a camp gateway!

A book by any other name

In 1994, I wrote a somewhat critical review of Yann Le Bohec’s L’armée romaine sous le haut-empire, which had recently appeared in an English-language version. (The review is buried in a long-forgotten edition of Liverpool Classical Monthly.)

The original book was published in 1989, and apparently appeared in a second edition in 1998, a third edition in 2002, and a fourth in 2018 (all unbeknown to me). These later versions don’t seem to have been reviewed anywhere.

Having already purchased the original (twice) — and having struggled to enjoy Le Bohec’s book about the third-century army —, I am understandably reluctant to buy the new one, which (in paperback) retails for around £32 (€40).

Imagine my surprise, then, on finding (in my favourite online lending library) a 2004 Spanish version, El ejército romano, with “revisión científica” by the historian (mostly prehistorian, it seems) Francisco Gracia Alonso of Barcelona University. Could this be Le Bohec’s third edition?

Textbook or manifesto?

In 1989, L’armée romaine sous le haut-empire wasn’t just a book about the Roman army. Rather, it was a book about Le Bohec’s vision of the Roman army. These turned out to be two different things.

Here, in this edition, Le Bohec still promises to follow “a principle that we shall call ‘totality’”. (Incidentally, I have translated all quotations from El ejército romano for convenience.)

In fact, I found, thirty-odd years ago, that this wasn’t the comprehensive handbook that Le Bohec’s globalité (‘totality’) suggested. The question is, has anything changed in this (let’s call it the third) edition?

(And if you protest that this is all very academic, as Le Bohec’s fourth edition might be a completely new book, please remember that there will surely be enough people still reading the third edition, Spanish or not.)

Archaeology, but not as we know it

One of my original criticisms was about the lack of archaeological discussion, or even an appreciation of the contribution of archaeology. Unfortunately, this shortcoming has not been addressed.

Actually, Le Bohec has a peculiar idea of archaeology, summed up in his opening comment, that “excavations provide us with more than just inscriptions”. But for him, inscriptions are definitely the highlight, along with monumental sculpture, which is also subsumed under “archaeology”. (Later in the book, he remarks that “archaeology has revealed some interesting reliefs”, in reference to Trajan’s Column!) Great importance is also accorded to aerial photography, chiefly by Père Poidebard (whose 150th birthday is coming up soon — couldn’t he think of someone more recent?).

However, admittedly, a new paragraph has been added, with the revelation that “Recent work has drawn attention to a previously overlooked reality: soldiers need not only weapons, but also a range of items that constitute military equipment”! This has, at least, prompted Le Bohec to excise his original reference to Paul Couissin’s vintage Les armes romaines of 1926 (though it still appears in his bibliography) and replace it with Michel Feugère’s Les armes des Romains, a book that (as I pointed out elsewhere) has its own problems.

Having introduced the subject of military equipment, Le Bohec has added a paragraph to the “Tactics” chapter, explaining that “legionaries and auxiliaries possessed equipment that was much more similar than previously thought, although it did exhibit great diversity”. So ... the same but different.

Otherwise, archaeology is only deployed, as it was in 1989, in a facile attempt to gauge the size of the Praetorian Guard by providing a “decisive argument” (p. 29 = 1989 p. 21): the praetorians cannot have been as numerous as a legion, because their fort in Rome is smaller than a legionary fortress!

And archaeology is briefly mentioned in the section on sieges. But it is symptomatic of this idiosyncratic book that the original perfectly-judged footnote referring to the work of Adolf Schulten on the siege-works at Masada, and the comments of archaeologist Sir Ian Richmond based on aerial photographs taken by the RAF, have been replaced by a reference to a 1995 book by a French historian: Mireille Hadas-Lebel’s Massada.

Changes, but not for the better

Le Bohec displays a pride in French scholarship. We can see that in his preference for French publications over more pertinent non-French publications. That’s perhaps understandable. But references like “Carcopino, Mél. P Thomas, 1930” are not very helpful for Spanish (or, for that matter, any non-French) readers.

But this example serves a dual purpose.

It is one of the many niggling inaccuracies that permeate the book. The reference accompanies the statement that “Auxiliaries served twenty-five years in the time of Augustus, twenty-six from the middle of the 1st century onwards, and twenty-eight from the time of Caracalla”. Any moderately well-informed editor would immediately have realized that this is a description (admittedly, somewhat garbled) of the terms of service not of auxiliaries, but of fleet personnel.

(The 1930 Carcopino article, incidentally, is his publication of the military diploma of 30 April AD 166 that became CIL XVI, 122.)

Another peculiarity is the tendency to present insufficiently explored ideas as facts. For example, in one of the few newly inserted paragraphs, four sentences are added (on p. 17) on the subject of military diplomas, essentially repeating what already exists on p. 14 (= 1989 p. 10, where diplomas were first mentioned, with a blanket reference to L’Année épigraphique, as if each volume of that journal were packed with diplomas), although the citation of “M. Roxan, Roman Military Diplomas” has been updated to reflect the availability of “4 vols., 1978–2003”. (Six have now been published.)

However, Le Bohec takes this opportunity to repeat his peculiar belief that discharge from service entailed the issuing of an epistula missoria (no evidence is provided) before the lex data (the edict preserved in the military diploma) was enacted. (He has perhaps muddled up the handful of ‘discharge certificates’ that Nesselhauf gathered in 1936 in the Appendix to CIL XVI, which are quite obviously distinct from diplomas and nothing to do with them. But nor are they epistulae. The mystery remains unsolved.)

Addenda?

There has certainly been an attempt to mention more recent publications, even if their content is not reflected in the text. New footnotes appear, for example, in the Introduction, flagging up Le Bohec’s 1998 article about Onasander (but not C.J. Smith’s paper from the same year), C.R. Whittaker’s Les frontières de l’empire romain (but not the English translation), S. Perea Yébenes’ Collegia militaria (sensible for Spanish readers), M.A. Speidel’s Die römischen Schreibtafeln von Vindonissa (which are not discussed anywhere in the book), and the Mons Claudianus ostraca graeca et latina volumes I–II (likewise; incidentally, a third volume appeared in 2000).

But the main text seems rarely to have been altered. The paragraph that previously discussed the peregrini as spies and assassins who occupied the castra peregrina in Rome has been redrafted and now denies the existence of these men, but includes instead a class of “displaced soldiers” who “do not have Roman citizenship and correspond to the Latin term peregrini”, which all seems rather odd.

All of this gives the impression of a book that has been tinkered with, rather than revised.

No corrigenda?

Near the beginning, Le Bohec’s complaint that “researchers occasionally rely upon erroneous information” seems deeply ironic, given that the same mistakes that I noted thirty years ago (and there were many) are still there and the whole book now feels curiously outdated. To name a few examples, Le Bohec’s auxiliaries still wear leather tunics “sometimes covered with metal plates”, his trierarchi are still “undoubtedly” the same as centurions of the fleet, we are still told that the equites singulares “constituted a reserve and a training school for non-commissioned officers”, and the emperor Antoninus Pius still enjoys “a great reputation as a general”. None of these errors has been corrected.

Likewise, although he continues to scold those who “enjoy using Latin terms for any reason — and, naturally, most of the time for no reason at all — the precise meaning of which they do not know”, his own usage (which, as I charitably observed in my 1994 review, “occasionally lapses”) remains uncorrected.

The discussion of the three-element Roman name still includes the praenomen “Caius”, although (as I explained here) no such name ever existed. Readers are still (mis)informed that the trecenarius took his name from having commanded the 300 Praetorian speculatores. And the word vallum (“rampart”) is still translated as “palisade of timber”. More examples could be given.

But it is tedious to go through all of this again, and a little depressing.

To do list

Whatever is in the new edition of the book, I truly hope that any outdated bibliography has been excised. When the subject is soldiers’ epitaphs, we really shouldn’t be sent in search of Jean-Jacques Hatt’s 1951 book on La tombe Gallo-romaine or Jean-Marie Lassère’s mammoth 1973 paper in Antiquités africaines. There simply must be something more appropriate by now.

Le Bohec’s temptation to cite his own (rather specialized) 600-page tome on La Troisième Légion Auguste on the subject of dating inscriptions may be understandable. But perhaps the likes of Lawrence Keppie’s 1991 book Understanding Roman Inscriptions might better fit the bill?

We can only hope that the fourth edition will bring “a readable, informative and well-balanced work that will be of interest to scholars as well as general readers” (as one reviewer of the first edition rashly claimed).

The Rest is Controversial?

I am often preoccupied by the question of how we know what we know — and the related question of whether we might unwittingly be misled by an ill-informed source.

This came to mind today, as I was listening to a podcast recommended by my (non-archaeologist) son. It is called “The Roman Conquest of Britain: To the Ends of the Earth”, and forms part of The Rest Is History, in which historians Tom Holland and Dominic Sandbrook (according to the blurb) “interrogate the past and attempt to de-tangle the present”.

Their jolly approach to each topic makes the whole enterprise very entertaining.

On a more serious note, their methodology rests on the assumption that, for any given subject, there will be a body of agreed facts that have been handily gathered together in an easily accessible textbook. Can we trust that they have chosen the right book? Does this matter? Is there a danger that misconceptions might thereby be given a new lease of life amongst an unsuspecting audience?

This particular episode seeks to cover events in Britain from AD 69 until AD 84, a period that ought to be familiar to Romano-British archaeologists and historians (and let us be clear at the outset that neither presenter falls into either of these categories). It is also a period close to my heart, as aspects of it were discussed in my book Mons Graupius AD 83 (2010), and (long before that) in my undergraduate dissertation in 1983.

In assuming the role of “expert” for this episode, Holland relies on David Mattingly’s An Imperial Possession (2006), which at one point he describes as “a brilliant book”. (It is definitely an interesting take on the subject, and one that sticks in my mind for its repeated use of the quaint word “specie” where coinage would surely have sufficed, and also for its author’s refusal to provide the usual footnotes to signal where fact becomes theory.)

Rome and the Brigantes

Holland introduces the character of Cartimandua, pro-Roman queen of the Brigantes, whose wide territories encompassed northern England, from coast to coast. (In fact, we met her here last March.) Listeners are informed that she resided in “an extraordinary stronghold in north Yorkshire”, which (I feel) conveys the wrong impression of Stanwick. The great ramparts (see picture) which Holland mentions (“four miles long in length”) were surely a prestige project, as they would have been impossible to defend effectively.

Incidentally, full marks to Holland for presuming that Stanwick was Cartimandua’s capital, an identification that Historic England, as custodians of the site, still warily tiptoe around (but then, they also recommend Cartimandua: Queen of the Brigantes as further reading, a book that left me singularly unimpressed). For what it’s worth, Mattingly dodges the issue as well.

Holland then explains that “ten years earlier, Venutius and Cartimandua had had a massive bust-up”. (Venutius, by the way, was the queen’s consort.) In Holland’s words, “Cartimandua had kicked him out after he’d gone to war with her; the Romans had come to her rescue; but Venutius was still lurking there on the margins, keen to make a come-back”. For ten years? “And he’s all the more aggravated as Cartimandua has massively sassed Venutius by having an affair with his armour-bearer, a man called Vellocatus”.

Certainly the last bit happens to be true (as far as we know), but the entire falling-out was surely a matter of months, not years, and may (or may not) have been precipitated by the queen’s infidelity. There is no need to imagine Venutius going to war for some unspecified reason, and certainly not ten or twelve years earlier. Of course, Holland is not alone in accepting this bizarre sequence of events. He probably found it in Mattingly, but any one of the rival modern accounts carries the same unlikely narrative, up to and including Richard Hingley’s Conquering the Ocean (2022), which is the last Roman Britain textbook I read.

The reason for the confusion is that the Roman historian Tacitus — he is the sole source of information for these events — records the whole thing under AD 69 in his Histories (which he was writing around AD 105), and then gives a similar account, but with slightly different details, under the mid-50s in his Annals (which, confusingly, he wrote a decade or more later).

Few historians have bothered to question — or even investigate — this glaring coincidence.

The Annals account — written later, but describing an earlier period — relates Cartimandua’s role in surrendering the renegade Caratacus to the Romans in AD 51, and since Tacitus admits that he has briefly departed from his chronological scheme here, it is reasonable to assume that he simply wished to round off the Cartimandua episode by including the events of AD 69, which already appeared in the Histories.

This is basically Stephen Mitchell’s explanation, which he published in Liverpool Classical Monthly in 1978 and which I gratefully incorporated into my 1983 dissertation (and would still stand by today). It has the enormous benefit of removing that awkward decade-or-more of limbo to which Venutius is consigned, only to reappear as Cartimandua’s husband again, and fall out with her again, requiring the queen’s rescue by the Romans again. And I was gratified to see that the Tacitus scholar Herbert Benario at least noted (in the same year as my dissertation) that “it has been suggested that these two narratives refer to the same sequence of events, which are properly placed in the year 69”.

Coming back to the podcast, “Venutius is really furious”, Holland continues, “and he takes full advantage of the turmoil in AD 69 to have another crack at Cartimandua, to finish off his ex-wife”. Or, in my opinion, a first crack at her. So much for Cartimandua and the Brigantes.

Agricola

The second half of the podcast concerns Julius Agricola, the most famous governor of Britain and the subject of a biography by Tacitus, who happens to have been his son-in-law.

Holland’s discussion of this biography is very interesting, although I wouldn’t necessarily agree with Sandbrook’s summary of it, that “the mission which the emperor Vespasian has given him [is] the conquest of Caledonia”. After all, he was still sorting out the mess in northern England, and Vespasian (who died in June AD 79, right at the start of Agricola’s third season) may never have heard the news that Agricola had finally encountered new peoples in his drive north into present-day Scotland.

Holland is sure that the emperor Titus similarly shared this desire to conquer Scotland (although it is during Titus’ reign that Agricola calls a halt at the Forth–Clyde isthmus — even Mattingly concedes this). Be that as it may.

Incidentally, Holland’s suggestion that the name Caledonia means “hard men, hard land” (probably actually “rocky land”), and that the inhabitants are “orange-haired” (properly “reddish golden”, the same adjective used to describe the Golden Fleece), at least gives Sandbrook the opportunity to affect an amusing Glaswegian-style accent.

It all makes a jolly splendid chat, and we probably shouldn’t get too worked up by Holland’s shaky grasp of the archaeology (Inchtuthil, for example, is definitely not “the best preserved legionary fortress to be seen anywhere in the Roman empire” since it’s entirely buried underground).

Or his inaccurate but stirring version of the Battle of Mons Graupius as a two-day affair — “shennanigans with chariots zipping up and down”, and then, on the following day “the cavalry finish them off after the legions have cut them to pieces” (the legions famously took no part in the one-day battle).

The podcast format, of course, requires a more relaxed, informal discussion of history, but the original model, Melvyn Bragg’s In Our Time, ensured that the listeners received top-notch information by involving three knowledgeable academics in each episode. Of course, for the Roman conquest of northern Britain, there’s a very good book that any interested listeners can turn to!

A Spanish disquisition

In May 2024, quite out of the blue, I received a message from a Spanish researcher named José Antonio Magdalena Anda, offering me a copy of his 2022 book El emperador Galieno y la supervivencia del Imperio romano (“The emperor Gallienus and the survival of the Roman empire”).

The book duly arrived, a weighty tome of 482 pages based (apparently) on the author’s doctoral thesis submitted to the Universidad Nacional de Educación a Distancia in Spain.

I’m afraid that, sadly, Spanish is not one of my languages, and the book lay unread on my shelf. A year later, my own book about Gallienus appeared: Phantom Horsemen, a considerably slimmer volume than Señor Magdalena’s.

All of this came to mind today, when I discovered that Dr Magdalena had reviewed my book in the Spanish journal Studia Historica, Historia Antigua (Vol. 43, 2025).

An invaluable book

Dr Magdalena is broadly complimentary, favourable even. He uses words like “rigorous” (rigoroso) and “skilful” (hábilmente), and recognizes that Gallienus’ battle cavalry was based on “mere conjecture and a biased interpretation of the few available sources” (meras conjeturas con una interpretación sesgada de las pocas fuentes disponibles).

He concludes his three-page review with the verdict, el libro de Campbell constituye una muy valiosa aportación a los estudios historiográficos sobre Galieno (“Campbell’s book constitutes a very valuable contribution to the historiographical studies of Gallienus”).

He continues: La obra ofrece datos sólidos y argumentos convincentes para avanzar en la investigación histórica, por lo que considero su consulta imprescindible para los especialistas (“The work offers solid data and convincing arguments to advance historical research, which is why I consider it essential for specialists to consult”).

Essential reading? Who wouldn’t be happy with an endorsement like that?

And yet ... Dr Magdalena claims that I have made “certain omissions and glaring errors”. Let’s look at them.

The reform of the legionary command

Dr Magdalena’ criticism centres on the replacement of senatorial legionary legates (the legati legionis) with non-senatorial prefects (praefecti legionis) drawn from the equestrian order. This act was masterminded by Gallienus — so the story goes — and forms a major plank in his supposed military reforms. I have begged to differ.

It is, I think, an important part of my book. Gallienus has been credited, in modern scholarship, with five military reforms. My main purpose was to expose one of these as a fiction — the creation of a battle cavalry —, but the reader is entitled to know that all five are false. Dr Magdalena thinks, on the contrary, that I have gone beyond my remit; that my book has “lost its guiding thread”.

His complaint stems from my statement that, in 1883, the scholar Hermann Schiller cited three prefects supposedly put in charge of legions by Gallienus, and my observation that, to this day, only six such men are known. Dr Magdalena accuses me of “denying the very evidence of the change” (i.e. from legatus to praefectus), citing his own book as proof (but without any page reference — I think it might be the table on p. 280).

It would be instructive to look at those examples of men supposedly installed by Gallienus in pursuit of his alleged reforming agenda (“from 260 onwards”, says Dr Magdalena).

Third-century prefects

Schiller already gave us three men, starting with Valerius Marcellinus in AD 267, although his two other examples fell after Gallienus: Aurelius Superinus (under Gallienus’ successor, Claudius II), and Aelius Paternianus (some decades later, under Diocletian). I pointed out that he could have added Publius Aelius Aelianus (undated under Gallienus). Also Aurelius Frontinus (inscription pictured here), but he is another later example under Claudius II. The sixth man whom I mentioned is Aurelius Montanus, attested in the final months of Gallienus’ reign.

Dr Magdalena has a much longer list, running to seventeen items. From this evidence, he assures us that, under Gallienus, “the change began by affecting six legions stationed on the Danube front and in Africa”, and notes that they are “specifically the legions that remained under Gallienus’ control after the rebellion of Postumus”.

Readers might wonder how on earth I managed to miss seventeen of Gallienus’ legionary prefects. But all is not as it seems. The late Brian Dobson long ago observed that there was a habit, as early as the second century, of shortening the title of the post of praefectus castrorum (legionis) (“prefect of the (legionary) camp”, the legion’s senior equestrian officer) to praefectus legionis. For example, Marcus Porcius Iustus calls himself interchangeably by the two titles in CIL VIII 2587 and AE 1942–43, 37 (AD 180–181).

Several of these praefecti are known to us. One example is Marcus Cocceius Severus, who was promoted from primuspilus legionis VIIII Hispanae (“chief centurion of the Ninth Hispana legion”) to praefectus legionis X Geminae (“prefect of the Tenth Gemina legion”), demonstrating the normal advancement of senior centurions to the post of praefectus castrorum. A similar progression can be seen in the career inscription of Marcus Apicius Tiro, who was primuspilus legionis XXII Primigeniae then praefectus legionis XIII Geminae.

Another man, named simply Donatus, oversaw the completion of a building project at the legionary fortress of Potaissa in AD 257 or 258, during the joint reign of Valerian and Gallienus. Dr Magdalena presents him as the first of his seventeen equestrian legionary commanders. But he was most likely another praefectus castrorum, and cannot, in any case, represent a reform enacted (according to Dr Magdalena) in AD 260.

Also doomed to failure is his contention that the reform extended to the African legion, the Third Augusta, as this is based on a certain Aurelius Syrus, another man who is, in all likelihood, the legion’s praefectus castrorum. (Note that the inscription can only be dated broadly within Gallienus’ sole reign, and not “260–263” as claimed by Dr Magdalena.)

Turning to the others, it is difficult to say for certain, but Marcus Aurelius Dionisius, whose undated sarcophagus came to light in 2010 at the fortress of Aquincum, was probably another praefectus castrorum. Likewise Marcus Aurelius Veteranus, the praefectus legionis XIII G Galleniana who erected an altar to the health gods in deepest Dacia. Although Veteranus wasn’t sure how to spell his legion’s epithet (Gallieniana, “Gallienus’ own”), it at least dates him to some point within Gallienus’ sole reign (and not necessarily “260–262” as claimed by Dr Magdalena).

As for Titus Flavius Victor (Dr Magdalena calls him Victorinus), I deliberately omitted him because the inscription (CIL III 3426, now lost) is known only from a rather unclear sixteenth-century handwritten transcript (from which several letters must be missing). Although it appears to mention a prefect of the Second Adiutrix legion, it is undated (despite Dr Magdalena’s confident dating of “268–269”) and may be much later than Gallienus.

Permanent change or temporary measure?

So far, we have three prefects commanding legions very late in Gallienus’ reign — the three already mentioned in my book: Publius Aelius Aelianus, Valerius Marcellinus, and Aurelius Montanus — and another three who are later than Gallienus — again mentioned in my book: Aurelius Superinus, Aurelius Frontinus (unless he, too, was a praefectus castrorum), and Aelius Paternianus (inscription pictured here). That’s six. Dr Magdalena would like to throw in another four (named above) who, in all likelihood, were actually praefecti castrorum serving under a legatus legionis, and a fifth who remains problematic but is, in any case, likely to be much later than Gallienus. We’re still six short of Dr Magdalena’s seventeen.

Notice, incidentally, that his claim that Gallienus enacted his reform across the legions under his direct control crumbles to dust under this cursory inspection. On the contrary, it looks very much as I stated in my book, that the replacement of senatorial commanders by equestrians was desultory, temporary, ad hoc — a response to unforeseen circumstances, rather than a blanket policy — and certainly not a “military reform”.

It only remains to consider the other six men listed by Dr Magdalena. For one thing, they’re all later, much later, than Gallienus. One of them, Aurelius Victor, belongs to the First Pontica legion, created by Diocletian at some point in the period AD 284–288 and probably (like Severus’ Parthica legions) placed under the command of prefects from the start. It is likely that other legions under Diocletian were similarly placed under the command of praefecti. None of this proves, as Dr Magdalena claims, “the effective removal of senators from legionary command” by Gallienus!

In actual fact, the opposite case is all but proven by five of the six men whom I identified in my book. All of them are scrupulously specific that they are agens vice legati (“acting in place of the legate”). We may definitely draw two conclusions from this. Firstly, these prefects are keen to emphasize that they had been entrusted with additional responsibility, over and above the usual duties of a praefectus castrorum legionis. And secondly, they confirm that this role was usually entrusted to a legatus, in the normal course of events. We may legitimately infer, then, that the legate was absent or otherwise unavailable, necessitating the transfer of his role to the prefect. We may also infer that, once normality had been restored, the command would return to a legate.

This must have been the case right up to the accession of Diocletian in AD 284, since the last known praefectus legionis agens vice legati is Aelius Paternianus (mentioned in my book), who served under Carinus (inscription pictured above, where the emperor’s name has been defaced).

The last legionary legate

On a related point, it is often asserted that (in Dr Magdalena’s words) “the last senatorial legates are dated under Valerian and Gallienus”, providing the oft-quoted terminus of AD 260 for the alleged transfer of all legionary commands to equestrian praefecti.

The same point was made by Byron Waldron, in his recent review of Phantom Horsemen (in Classical Review Vol. 75), where he stated that “Davenport has shown that in the 260s Gallienus ceased to appoint tribuni laticlavii and legati legionis, preferring to appoint equestrians as praefecti legionis”. In support, Waldron cites a lengthy section of Caillan Davenport’s 2019 book A History of the Roman Equestrian Order, specifically pages 534–545, where it is claimed that “no senator is ever again attested as a legionary legate after the reign of Gallienus” (p. 536).

Notice that Davenport commits himself only to the period after the reign of Gallienus. And his discussion is, in any case, marred by his belief in Gallienus’ field army and his assumption that its equestrian officers were earmarked for rapid promotion. Here, it is sufficient to note that there was no field army, and thus, no special promotion of its officers.

Waldron seeks to rebut my thesis, that legati legionis could still be found after the reign of Gallienus, by discrediting the testimony of Aurelius Marcianus, which I cite in my book. This man’s heirs, who erected his tombstone — his wife, his nephew, and his colleagues —, knew that he was serving as stator legati legionis (“groom of the legionary legate”) when he died in AD 270 (long after the time of Gallienus).

Dr Waldron thinks that “the fact that Marcianus had been serving since 244/5 problematises the chronological significance of the title”. (In passing, we may note that Marcianus had not been serving since 244/5 — the inscription is unclear but seems to suggest 12 years’ service, which places his enlistment in AD 258.) But more importantly, Dr Waldron seems to want Marcianus to have been appointed to his post before the reign of Gallienus, and to have retained an outdated and incorrect title when the legate was allegedly removed and replaced with a prefect.

Dr Waldron appeals to the evidence of the Second Parthica Legion, which he describes as “always led by praefecti”. However, its commander under Severus Alexander describes himself as praefectus legionis vice legati (“prefect of the legion in place of the legate”), suggesting that this is another example of an ad hoc temporary measure. (Why would the commander of a legion that was “always led by praefecti” specify that he was deputizing for a legate?) Moreover, inscriptions from around the same time mention a stator legati legionis (“groom of the legionary legate”) and a librarius officii legati legionis (“scribe on the staff of the legionary legate”).

Dr Waldron’s claim is that men who had, once upon a time, been attached to a legate would continue to emphasize that attachment even after the legate had been replaced by a prefect. (Worse than that, men who had only ever been attached to a prefect, he suggests, would nevertheless call themselves the legate’s men.) It sounds far-fetched to me. On the contrary, none of this special pleading can alter the fact that, in AD 270, when Marcianus died, he was serving on the staff of a legionary legate. Not a praefectus legionis, but a legatus legionis. During the reign of Aurelian. So Gallienus had not banned them.

Nevertheless, Dr Magdalena is strictly correct when he writes that “the replacement of the legati by the praefecti is a fact proven epigraphically” — after all, it did happen eventually —, but it is perfectly clear that he is mistaken to date this event to the reign of Gallienus.

It is a pity that researchers are still constrained by their belief in Gallienus’ supposed ban on senatorial legates, since it informs their interpretation of the evidence. Any mention of the staff of a legatus legionis is blindly dated to the pre-Gallienic period, although it is clear that the terminus should actually be AD 284.

Asterix and the game of words

When I was aged 13 or so, I received a rather well-used ex-library copy of Astérix aux Jeux Olympiques at Christmas. (Asterix, the indomitable warrior whose raison d’être is to foil Caesar’s conquest of Gaul in 50 BC, needs no introduction.)

I had already shown an interest in the Romans and the intention was perhaps to encourage me in my French studies. If so, I’m afraid it had an opposite effect, as Goscinny’s French witicisms were beyond my comprehension. (I did enjoy Uderzo’s pictures, though.)

The book, apparently the twelfth to appear in the Astérix series, was published in 1968 to tie in with the Mexico Olympics, and the English translation (which I only acquired many years later) appeared in 1972, on the occasion of the Munich Olympics.

Incidentally, one of the many topical gags that passed me by is the one concerning substance qui donne des forces supplémentaires (“artificial stimulants”), banned at the Olympic Games for the first time in 1968. This neatly ties in with the Gauls’ refusal to take their magic potion and the disqualification of the entire Roman team for trying to use it instead.

Is that name funny?

I remember, firstly, being completely flummoxed by the characters’ names. I realized that Astérix and Obélix were simply the typesetting characters of the same names — they do not change in the translated volumes. Panoramix the druid seemed straightforward (his English name Getafix always struck me as rather near the knuckle, although translator Anthea Bell claimed that it “did not necessarily imply an allusion to drugs”) and it didn’t take me long to decipher Idéfix the dog’s name (one of the few characters whose English name, Dogmatix, actually matches his French one and his canine character).

But I could make neither head nor tail of the chieftain Abraracourcix, which I thought must be something to do with Abracadabra (not, perhaps, part of the everyday French vocabulary) — it turns out to be the French phrase à bras raccourcis (literally “with shortened arms”), which means something like “with fists flying”. The English translators (the talented Anthea Bell along with Derek Hockridge) decided to highlight the chieftain’s physique rather wittily with the name Vitalstatistix. (The German version, Majestix, focuses on the first of the chieftain’s traits: “majestueux, courageux, ombrageux”.)

Nor could I understand the bard’s name Assurancetourix, which was a play on the phrase assurance tous risques, meaning comprehensive car insurance, and nothing to do with music or poetry. By contrast, the far wittier English version, Cacofonix, fits his character as a tone-deaf musician perfectly. (The German version, Troubadix, at least suggests his role as a troubadour.)

Do French puns translate?

Much of the humour was quite incomprehensible to me. The panel depicted here (from Jeux Olympiques p. 17) demonstrates one of Goscinny’s many idiomatic jokes that soared over my teenage head and left me none the wiser.

The bard has decided to compose une marche olympique (“an Olympic march”), setting up a joke based on the French phrase rater une marche (“miss a step”), so that, when the bad-tempered blacksmith (the bard’s usual foil) thumps him, Asterix presumes that he has actually tripped over. But the phrase il dû rater une marche literally means “he must have bungled the march” (i.e. the Olympic march that he was composing).

Bell and Hockridge, always excellent at finding a way to render Goscinny’s humour in English, had the bard deciding to compose “an Olympic hymn” instead, mindful of the fact that the French play on words would not work in English. The two bypassers then ask, “What’s the matter with hymn”, to which the reply is, “I think he’s singing flat”.

Many similar jokes sadly passed me by, such as the greeting Quel bon vent, les enfants?, a French idiom meaning “What brings you here, boys?” (though the literal translation, “What good wind?”, inspired Bell and Hockridge’s version, “What’s in the wind, boys?”).

Can we even understand French humour?

Likewise, when the galley transporting the Gauls to Greece (to take part in the Olympic Games) arrives at Piraeus, the Gauls, in party mood, sing À Lutèce on l’aime bien, Nini Peau d’sanglier! (“We like it in Paris, Nini Boar-skin”), parodying a well-known French bordello song about a prostitute (“Nini Peau d’chien”) in order to create the air of footloose unattached men on vacation.

The English version avoids the slightly unsavoury feel by having the Gauls sing “When father papered the Parthenon”, parodying the comedy music-hall song “When father papered the parlour”, during which all sorts of mishaps ensue, thus suggesting the amateurish unpreparedness of the Gauls.

Later in the volume, the disheartened Romans in charge of their depressed Olympic team sing Ah, le petit vin blanc, qu’on boit sous les colonnes (“Ah, the nice white wine that we drink beneath the columns” — the words of the popular 1940s song are actually sous les tonnelles, “beneath the arbours”), a reference that was naturally unknown to a British teenager. (Bell and Hockridge aptly substituted “There is a taberna in the town ...”.)

Near the start of the book, when the champion Roman athlete runs into Asterix and Obelix in the woods (p. 9), he insults Obelix by calling him Le gros (“fatty”). “Honestly, Asterix, once and for all, do you find me fat?” asks Obelix, to which Asterix replies Tu es un peu bas de poitrine, using an idiom (literally “low in the chest”) that — again, unknown to my teenage self — equates to our euphemism “big-boned”, commonly used to avoid offence. (Later on, the chieftain introduces Astérix and Obélix as le petit, et le grassouillet réjoui — “the little one, and the chubby cheerful one”.)

Equally, on p. 28, when the Roman centurion realizes that the Romans have no chance competing against the Gauls (whom he thinks will use magic potion), he uses the phrase Vous cassez pas la tête, les gars; c’est cuit pour nous (“Don’t break your head, lads; it’s cooked for us”), which, as any French reader would know, means “Don’t bother, guys; it’s over for us”. But I didn’t!

The champion Roman replies du balai (literally, “of the brush”), making a sweeping gesture with his hand that reminds us of the running gag throughout the book, that — as a legionary subject to military fatigues — he always carries a broom and sweeps up wherever he goes (see below). The phrase means something like “let’s clear off” (Bell and Hockridge go for a different pun, with “They’ll make a clean sweep of us!”). Incidentally, I can’t help wondering if Cornedurus wasn’t based on the young Arnold Schwarzenegger, who won the Mr Universe contest in London in 1968.

More funny names

The Roman names in this volume — traditionally adjectives with -us endings — were quite unintelligible to me. I thought I must be missing something in the centurion’s name, Tullius Mordicus, but I was entirely ignorant of the French adverb mordicus, “stubbornly” (and, indeed, the Latin one, “by biting”). I must admit that neither seems a particular apt name for this character.

But the muscular champion athlete whom he looks after has an even more obscure name: Cornedurus, i.e. corne d’urus (“auroch’s horn”). In place of these rather unpromising names, Bell and Hockridge devised the wonderfully memorable Gaius Veriambitius and Gluteus Maximus for the odd couple.

However, I definitely had absolutely no chance with the Roman wrestling champion who appears on p. 30 (aptly named Pugnatius by Bell and Hockridge). His original name, Chaussetrus (i.e. chaussette russe), refers to a Soviet military foot-rag worn instead of a sock!

I also missed the subtle pun on p. 5, where a legionary who has never heard of their champion athlete is criticized: Tu es un bleu, Deprus! (literally, “You are a ‘blue’, Deprus”), using the French idiom for a ‘rookie’. But, of course, the homophonic bleu de Prusse is the colour “Prussian blue”. (This wouldn’t work in English, but Bell and Hockridge manage to retain the colour-based pun with “You’re pretty green, Bilius”, alluding to the phrase “bilious green”, a Dickensian favourite.)

By chance, this was the first Astérix volume to feature Agecanonix, 93-year old veteran of Gergovia and Alesia. I could see that his name had something to do with age, but I wasn’t sure what. It is, in fact, a play on the phrase âge canonique, meaning “venerable age” (perhaps implying the age of retirement?), which is neatly captured by the English version, Geriatrix. (I love the fact that, in the German version, he is Methusalix.) However, elsewhere, it seems that Goscinny simply made up amusing names that might apply to any Gaul.

Or to any Greek, for that matter. Once the Gauls are in Greece, their guide, Mixomatos (the French for myxomatosis, renamed Diabetes in the English version), shows them around Athens, recommending various establishments run by his cousins (a joke at the expense of Greek nepotism) — the chariot service of Scarfas (“Scarface”, renamed Kudos in English), the bureau de change of Calvados (which Bell and Hockridge changed to Makalos, with its punning financial overtones), the hotel of Plexiglas (whom Bell and Hockridge renamed Phallintodiseus, a comment on the condition of some holiday accommodation). Finally, (in the panel depicted below) he directs them to the restaurant of yet another cousin Fécarabos (an almost indecipherable reference to “fairy Carabosse”, the evil sprite from the ballet Sleeping Beauty, and better renamed Thermos in the English version).

There is some more witty repartee as one Gaul remarks (above) that his amphora is non-returnable; “keep it”, comes the reply, “it will make a nice souvenir”. This, at least, was recognizable to my teenaged brain. (Note, in passing, the decorated amphora, based on the well-known Munich example in which the man (Oedipus) is seated and the sphinx stands to address him.)

English puns work just as well

But I completely missed the puns about the rich diet of the Roman team versus the austere diet of the dedicated Greek athletes: their coach offers the excuse that the Romans are des décadents (“decadent”), so the Greek athletes threaten décader as well (perhaps “to become decadent”, a verb invented by Goscinny). In their 1972 version, Bell and Hockridge extend the pun by having the Romans “declining” (as in The Decline and Fall of Rome), so that the Greek athletes could “decline to eat this muck!”

The Greek athletes, who are supposed to be on a diet of figs, olives, raw meat, and water, demand increasingly inappropriate foodstuffs: Des brochettes! Du vin! (“kebabs, wine”) and finally un boeuf burdigalais — this is another tricky one: un boeuf is an ox, while the adjective Burdigalais refers to Bordeaux, so it may be a reference to the regional dish known as boeuf Bordelaise, a stew cooked in a rich red wine sauce. (Bell and Hockridge went with “How about a mammoth steak?”)

The French puns — all unrecognized by a barely Francophone teen — tumble over each other in their sheer quantity. When the Greek official visits the Roman team, who have given themselves over to licentious feasting, Tullius Mordicus announces, couchez-vous à table, mon vieux. Lá oú il y en a pour une trentaine (“Sit down at table, old chap! There’s space for 30”), alluding to the Sacha Distel hit song, Quand il y en a pour deux, il y en a pour trois (“If there’s space for two, there’s space for three”).

Most disappointingly, I missed the succession of clever puns that accompany the entry of the various Greek teams, none of which I understood at the time.

Le défilé des Thermopyles (literally “the procession of Thermopylae”, referring to the athletes from that town) is also a pun on the Pass (défilé) of Thermopylae, scene of the famous battle in 480 BC.

Ceux de Samothrace, sûrs de la victoire (“Those of Samothrace, certain of victory”) is only funny if you’ve heard of the Louvre’s famous winged statue known as La Victoire de Samothrace, while Goscinny shows pure genius with ceux de Milo sont venus aussi (“Those of Melos have come also”), a reference to the Louvre’s armless statue known as La Vénus de Milo. Next, Ceux de Cythère viennent de débarquer (“Those of Cythera have just disembarked”) surely alludes to the painting Embarquement pour Cythère by the French artist Watteau, while ceux de Marathon arrivent en courant (“Those of Marathon arrive running”) is an obvious reference to the race of the same name.

Ceux de Macédoine sont très mélangés (“Those of Macedonia are very mixed”) recalls “Macedoine”, the mix of finely diced vegetables that was standard fare in school dinners of the 1970s, and les Spartiates sont pieds nus (“The Spartans are barefoot”) must be poking fun at chaussures Spartiates, a type of French strappy sandal. Finally, the sole member of the Rhodian team, a giant boxer, is introduced as un colosse, alluding to one of the famous “Seven Wonders of the Ancient World”, the Colossus of Rhodes.

In their English-language version, Bell and Hockridge managed their own spin on two of these puns — “The men from Thermopylae are the first to pass by” and “The Marathon team has had to come a long distance” — and added some of their own (amongst which “the competitors from Attica are mysteriously eleusive” is particularly highbrow, in its reference to the Eleusynian Mysteries). Of course, they retained the Colossus from Rhodes!

Meet the authors

The book ends on a happy note, as always. Asterix wins the palm of victory but gratiously presents it to the Roman champion Cornedurus, so that he can save face at Rome.

After an interval of fifty years, I’m only sorry that I missed so much of Goscinny’s wit. I was even unaware that the volume includes a rare self-portrait, in the bas-relief frieze behind two Greek administrators (depicted here). At the time, I did not read Ancient Greek, so I had no idea that the characters are labelled Goscinny (on the left, saying “Despot!”) and Uderzo (on the right, saying “Tyrant!”).

The lava lamp of language

At a recent dinner party, the conversation turned to the evolution of language. Not in any profound philosophical sense, but simply observing that languages change slowly over time, sometimes quite radically, and expressing wonder and puzzlement that this should be so.

Most people are aware, even if only vaguely, that the English language has evolved over centuries from “Ye Olde Englishe” of the Anglo-Saxons, as found, for example, in the tenth-century Exeter Book (illustrated here).

Ye, of course, is an amusing misspelling of “Þe”, where the Old English letter Þ should be pronounced as a hard “th” (and note that the word “olde” has never been spelled thus, except in jest, while “English” only very occasionally attracted a final “e” and more often omitted the final “h”).

We can all agree that Old English is, to all intents and purposes, unintelligible to the non-cognoscenti. Consider the final four lines on the lefthand page, above (Exeter Book, folio 112v), relating the riddle of the bookworm, which begins “Moððe poρd fρæt”, meaning “A moth ate words”. Could you have guessed that?

Anglo-Norman-Scandinavian?

And even when the language evolves into what lexicographers call Middle English, around 1150 or thereabouts, it is still pretty difficult to decipher. We have seen this with the fourteenth-century Wycliffe Bible, even though it has at least developed a more modern-looking word order.

Try reading Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, written around 1390 (the opening lines of the prologue are pictured here): “Whan that Aprílle with his shouris sote and the droughte of Marche hath percèd þe rote ...”. Peter Ackroyd, in his Retelling, renders this as “When the soft sweet showers of April reach the roots of all things ...” (he has decided to omit Chaucer’s “drought of March”).

Other modern languages experienced their own trajectories. Pictured here is the ninth-century Canticle of Saint Eulalia (“Cantilène de sainte Eulalie”), written in Old French, the Frankish equivalent of our Old English.

It is clear, from the opening line, that this is neither Latin nor French. It reads: “Buona pulcella fut eulalia” (“a good beautiful-girl was Eulalia”), “Bel auret corps bellezour anima” (“a beautiful body had she, and a more beautiful soul”). No modern French speaker could comfortably decipher this.

Like English, French passed through a Middle phase (the language of Rabelais and Montaigne), before becoming the Modern (or “classical”) French language that Cardinal Richelieu’s Académie française began to purify and preserve from the seventeenth century onwards.

Latin spoken by barbarians

We are probably all familiar, to some extent, with how this evolution occurred in the West, at least in its broad principles. Waves of migrating peoples — Germanic Saxons, Franks, and Goths, Scandinavian Normans — put their own stamp on an existing Latin-based language.

Italian had a similar transformation, via the late vernacular “Vulgar Latin”, into what is best described as Medieval Latin, as found (for example) in the Placiti Cassinesi (“Monte Cassino Decrees”), written in the 960s (one is pictured here).

“I know that these lands [kelle terre], which are contained by these boundaries [kelli fini], for thirty years have been possessed on the part of Saint Benedict”, it reads, in a language that cannot be described as either Latin or Italian.

As each city-state developed its own version of Italian, it was the Florentine of Dante Alighieri (a younger contemporary of Chaucer’s) that prevailed, after the foundation of the philological Accademia della Crusca in Florence in 1583.

Here is the opening page of the Divina Commedia from an edition published in 1472, thus closely comparable to the edition of The Canterbury Tales pictured above. This is the Italian equivalent of Middle English.

“Nel mezo del camin di nostra vita” (“Midway upon the journey of our life”, in Longfellow’s translation of 1867), “mi ritrovai per una selva oscura” (“I found myself within a forest dark”), “che la diricta via era smarrita” (“For the straightforward pathway had been lost”). A curious mix of Latin and proto-Italian.

What about Greek?

I still find it charming when — despite all of this evidence for the tortuous development of western languages — friends and colleagues learn, with surprise, that modern Greek-speakers are just as likely to be challenged by the Odyssey of Homer as we are. Surely they can simply read it?

The Greeks, of course, suffered no early influx of Franks, Saxons, or Normans to alter their language. And though the Byzantine empire of the seventh and eighth centuries was beset by Slavs and Bulgars in the west and Islamic Arabs in the east, their language was unaffected, continuing to hark back across the millennia to Classical Greek. The writings of Anna Komnena, for example, from around 1120, are perfectly intelligible to a classicist.

Ironically, having survived the medieval rise of Sunni Muslim power in the Levant, the death knell of the Byzantine Empire was sounded in the west, with the depredations of the unruly crusader armies in the thirteenth century. The Peloponnese fell into Frankish hands (becoming known as Morea) and the rising power of the Ottoman Turks finally consigned Byzantium to oblivion in 1453.

Tò Χρoνικòν τoû Moρéως (“The Chronicle of the Morea”) is a poem written in the 1300s in mainland Greece. It begins, “I am going to tell you a great tale; and if you are willing to listen to me, I hope it will please you” (in lines 1–2 of the Bern Burgerbibliothek manuscript pictured here).

It is difficult for the layman to appreciate, but scholars characterize the Chronicle’s Greek as plain and simple, based upon the oral vernacular rather than the Greek classics. But more than that, the writer (apparently a Frank who had settled in the Peloponnese) employs novel forms of words and erratic grammatical tense-switching — the Greek equivalent, perhaps, of the Canticle of Saint Eulalia.

Sadly, while Greece languished under Ottoman rule for centuries, her language deteriorated under Turkish influence and fragmented across highlands and islands. Local dialects diverged in disparate areas: Pontic, along the southern Black Sea coast, and Mariupolitan, along the northern; Cappadocian, in central Turkey; Cycladian, amongst the eastern islands; and Cretan, not to mention the mainland of Attica. Meanwhile, the western isles had fallen under the rule of the Venetians, who renamed Kerkyra as Corfu, for example, and it is interesting that the first standard grammar of Modern Greek to be attempted was written by the Corfu-born Rome-resident Nikolaus Sofianos in the 1540s, though it wasn’t published until 1874.

The eventual liberation of Greece from Turkish rule is an extraordinary story, but from the linguistics point of view, it is sufficient to observe that it was not until the 1850s that a Modern Greek language based on spoken Greek was proposed, and the debate over the katharévousa (“purefying”) was only brought to a conclusion in 1976.

It is unsurprising, then, that ancient Greek, though perfectly intelligible to Anna Komnena in 1120, is now as alien to a modern Athenian as Chaucer is to us.