The Wall Read online

  An agricultural, stock-rearing society, the Celtic kingdoms of northern Britain and Ireland arranged their year around four turning-points. At Imbolc in late February ewes began to lactate in anticipation of lambing, providing much-needed sustenance at the end of a long winter. Up on the hillforts, great bonfires were lit, kings spoke to their people, and rituals and prayers were offered up to the gods. Beltane in May was the signal to drive flocks and herds up to the high summer pastures, while Lughnasa in August celebrated the first fruits of the year’s harvest. At Samhuinn in October the animals were led from what were called the summertowns back down to the wintertowns in the valleys.

  These festivals still flicker on, sometimes in heavy disguise. For example, Halloween is the modern name for Samhuinn, and some of its ancient paganism still peeps out of hollowed turnips and pumpkins. With a candle inside to give the appearance of life, they represent the skulls of the dead who used to walk the Earth on Samhuinn Eve.

  The festivals no doubt served a practical purpose for the native kings. On and around their hillforts they received their rents, mostly food renders, from their people or their local lords. Some of this would have been sold to Roman quartermasters, but much of the remainder was consumed. Julius Caesar and other writers remarked on how the Celts loved to feast, to eat and drink huge quantities at certain times of the year. The Tain Bo sings of such occasions, and there is a description of a Gaulish king setting up a vast feasting-place, more than a mile square, so that his people could come to enjoy his bounty. They were expected to drink and feast for several days. In a Gaelic phrase, the king wished to be seen as a river to his people.

  Not until the fourth century AD do the shadowy names of Votadinian kings appear on any sort of historical record, but there is no doubt that they had power long before. Some time around 250 BC large numbers of people from the Tweed basin and north Northumberland were moved into the foothills of the Cheviots. Probably as a result of overpopulation, and no doubt unwillingly, farmers were resettled in the upland valleys of the eastern ranges. And it seems that they all trekked into the hills at the same time. The remains of terracing and the results of soil erosion can still be seen.

  The location of the frontiers of British kingdoms are often little more than informed guesswork by historians, but in the case of the western neighbours of the Votadini, Roman generals supplied some welcome help. The Selgovae occupied the hill country between the lines of the modern north–south roads, the A68 in the east and the A74 in the west. These ancient routes were taken in AD 79 when the Governor of Britannia, Gnaeus Julius Agricola, led the legions north in an invasion of Scotland. A pincer movement around the Selgovae was consolidated by a legionary fort at Trimontium, at the foot of the Eildon Hills near Melrose, and by a string of forts at the mouths of the valleys on the western side.

  TROUSERS AND TOGAS

  When he began to consolidate his invasion of Gaul, Julius Caesar realised that he would have to bring the provincial aristocracy into the centre of Roman political life. The Senate still exercised real power, but when Caesar promoted Gauls to its ranks, they were derided as ‘trousered senators’, wearing their distinctive Celtic leggings under their senatorial togas. It was more than a cliché. Celts lived in an equestrian culture and adapted their clothes to the needs of horse-riding. Togas are useless in the saddle. The movement of a pony will chafe the tender insides of even the most manly thigh if it is not protected by leggings or trousers. Neatly fitted clothing, not a flapping toga, is what is needed when a pony canters or gallops. The heat of a Roman summer is, however, another matter and perhaps the Gaulish senators sweltered – if the whole jibe was not a metaphor. Behind it lies the divide between Roman and provincial, town and country. The great general who led the legions into the north of Britannia in AD 79 came from Frejus (Forum Julii) in southern Gaul, the region called Provence, from ‘Provincia’, and he was called Agricola, ‘the Farmer’.

  The name Votadini is difficult, likely to mean something like ‘the People of Fothad’, perhaps a divine ancestor. Selgovae is much less opaque. It is derived from the Celtic-language root seilg and it means ‘the Hunters’. Perhaps that is how the Romans felt at Crawford, now on the line of the A74. Hemmed in by unfamiliar hills, they were the hunted. The name may point to a long tradition. Much of the territory of the Selgovae was later known as the Ettrick Forest, a huge royal hunting reserve in the Middle Ages. Little trace of the kings and their kingdom can be found on the ground, but at Lyne, near Peebles, there was a large Roman fort. Its characteristic playing-card shape is particularly well defined. Lyne was probably a coria, a hosting-place for the Selgovae, and the fort was positioned like a huge police station, keeping an eye out for trouble.

  In the same area, hut platforms from the first century BC have been found. Their shape too is characteristic and very different from the rectilinear Roman camp. Roundhouses could be large: with a diameter of more than 30 feet in some cases, they were sometimes home to large, extended families. The circular walls were built from stone or turf and the heavy timbers to support the conical roof were keyed together to form a rigid tipi shape. Thatch or turf could certainly keep out the worst of the weather, but the fact that there were no windows, only a door, meant that, although they were snug enough, roundhouses were also very dark. A central hearth supplied some light, heat and a means of cooking. But if there was no wind to create an updraught, the interior could be very smoky. In a medium-sized roundhouse, modern experiment has shown that the smoke hovers at about 1.5 metres, making sitting pleasant enough – although standing up could be eye-watering until the door was reached. Modern anxieties about sparks from the fire catching in the thatch have proved unfounded. The smoke creates a cone of carbon monoxide at the apex of the roof, and all rising sparks are immediately extinguished before they can reach the thatch. The reality was that, like nineteenth-century Highland crofters still living in their ancient blackhouses, the Celtic peoples of northern Britain lived and worked in the open air whenever they could and went indoors only to sleep or when it grew dark or very cold.

  The Selgovan kings were dangerous. With an intimate knowledge of a difficult landscape, and the ability to melt away into its wastes and bogland, they were a hard enemy to pin down. Roman commanders much preferred to fight in the open where the disciplined ranks of the professional legionaries were unmatched in Europe. But the Selgovan warbands are unlikely to have obliged. In any case they were almost certainly horse-warriors.

  Direct confirmation of this comes from the Roman fort at Vindolanda, 15 miles west of Corbridge and just south of the line of Hadrian’s Wall. The site is an archaeological treasure-house – but not because quantities of conventionally precious objects have been found. In the early 1970s Vindolanda’s director, Robin Birley, began to discover letters written by Romans, most of them dating towards the end of the first century AD. Wafer-thin leaves of wood, about the size of postcards, were preserved in the peaty soil around the fort and, after close examination, faint traces of writing were found on them. These letters are unique and invaluable, absolutely authentic voices from 2,000 years ago. Informal, everyday, sometimes mundane, sometimes exotic, they also offer some insight into the lives of the native peoples who lived around Hadrian’s Wall. The Vindolanda letters and lists will be much more fully dealt with in later chapters.

  EAGLE POWER

  As the king of birds, the eagle is a powerful, almost majestic symbol. But there is another reason why eagels are revered. Eagles live a very long time: some hen-birds in European aviaries are recorded to have reached age AD 100 or more. As the standards of Roman legions, eagles were adopted by the Republican General, Gaius Marius, when he campaigned in the east. The Persians venerated the great birds, and the Romans imitated them. The heirs of imperial pretensions carried on the tradition. Napoleon’s regiments were led by eagle standards, and the Kaisers and Tsars borrowed the bird for their coats of arms – along with Caesar’s name.

  On one of the letters, Hateri
us Nepos, a cavalry officer, stationed in the north some time around 100, left a record of a census he undertook. It mentions a previously little-known people, the Anavionenses. They lived to the west of the Selgovae, in the valley of the River Annan – clearly the names are cognate. Another officer made a report on the military capabilities of native warriors:

  . . . the Britons are unprotected by armour. There are very many cavalry. The cavalry do not use swords nor do the wretched Britons mount in order to throw javelins.

  The word Brittunculi is used; it means ‘the wretched Britons’ or, more colloquially, ‘the nasty little Brits’. And another document found in the peaty soil of the fort turns out to be a petition intended for presentation to the Emperor Hadrian. He was expected to visit Vindolanda in 122. It sheds more light on how the Roman colonists treated the nasty little Brits. The petitioner complained that he had been beaten even though he was a transmarinus, someone from overseas. The clear implication is that it was acceptable to beat a Brit, and that some mistake had been made in his case.

  None of this should be surprising. Barbarians/natives in virtually every empire have been similarly dealt with. More informative is the emphasis on cavalry. Archaeology has discovered the remains (usually the metal parts of bridles) of a good deal of native horse-gear, some of it high quality.

  Since the outset of the first millennium BC, and probably much earlier, horses had been domesticated in Britain. But perhaps they should really be thought of as ponies. Skeletal remains show riding horses as very small by modern standards, sometimes standing no more than thirteen hands high. Even though first millennium BC people were also small and light (and, according to the Vindolanda reports, not in the habit of wearing heavy kit on horseback), they would still have looked big on their mounts, legs dangling well below the horses’ bellies. This mattered less than it might now, because of different riding styles and tack. Stirrups had not yet been introduced in the west, and horsemen were consequently in the habit of using their legs to grip the flanks of their little ponies.

  Sophisticated bitted bridles were developed in Gaul in the fourth century BC and these allowed warriors precise and rapid control over their ponies. Nimble, very fast over short distances and hardy, these shaggy little beasts belied their appearance. They could turn on a sixpence and halt in a moment. This sort of athleticism, and the bond of heightened sensitivity which often developed between rider and horse (sometimes a wish can be anticipated and, before any signal is actually given, a pony will move as its rider wants), could be a matter of life or death in close-quarter cavalry warfare. By fiddling their feet, ponies could get a warrior out of trouble and, by turning quickly, allow him to deliver a telling back-handed blow. These were fighting techniques honed over centuries and 1,500 years later could still be seen when the descendants of the Selgovae, the Brigantes and their neighbours – the Border Reivers – saddled up their ponies and sallied out to raid and fight.

  The Vindolanda record of very many cavalry is puzzling. It claims that the nasty little Brits had no swords and did not throw javelins while mounted. Like the Huns who invaded Europe in the fourth and fifth centuries, perhaps they were expert mounted archers. But it is unlikely. The Huns rode with stirrups and, able to manoeuvre their ponies using only their legs, they could use both hands to fire deadly volleys at packed ranks of infantry and then ride off quickly. It may be that the Celtic cavalry of Britain used their ponies as transport, to ride to the battlefield like modern dragoons and then dismount and fight. Or it may be that the Vindolanda reports are wrong. Not every written Roman source is to be implicitly trusted.

  The discovery of native horse-gear, with its expensive emphasis on precise control, argues against the notion of dragoons. They would not need it. More archaeology supports the view that the warbands of the north fought on horseback. Their shields appear to have been small. Not the large, slightly curved, rectangular infantry shields carried by Roman legionaries, but small ones used for parrying blows, able to be handled on horseback while gathering reins in the same fist. There is even some Roman corroboration for this alternative view. When describing Agricola’s great campaign in the north and the battle at Mons Graupius in AD 83, Tacitus remarked:

  . . . whereas it was awkward for the enemy with their small shields and enormous swords – for the swords of the Britons, having no points, were unsuited for a cut-and-thrust struggle and close quarters battle.

  This is because they were cavalry sabres. Known as spathas, these slashing swords had fearsomely sharp edges, at least at the beginning of a battle, but sometimes no point. They were designed for use by a mounted warrior and were best against infantry where a height advantage, even on a small pony, could be decisive. Archaeologists have found examples specially weighted towards the tip of the blade, and they could be devastating in a downward cut. It is at least interesting to note that the most famous Celtic sword in history was known as Hard Dunter or, more brutally, Basher. These are good, if free, translations of the Old Welsh ‘Excalibur’.

  The puzzlement over weaponry from the observer at Vindolanda may be less significant than the simple observation that there are very many cavalry. The native warbands were almost certainly feared by Roman commanders, and did not deserve the sneer behind the report.

  Like their reiving descendants, the natives both reared and raided cattle. Herds were a key indicator of wealth in Celtic society. The Tain Bo and other Irish sources talk of raiding as though it were almost an institution. The warrior-cult of the Fianna was widespread. Literally meaning ‘the Soldiers’, these were bands of young aristocrats who spent a period, a rite of passage, roaming the countryside on horseback, living in the open. Sustaining themselves by plunder and rustling, they were easily recognised by terrified farmers because they wore their hair in a traditional style – the ceudgelt – which was the Druidic tonsure. Cut across the crown of the head, from ear to ear, it showed a high, shaved forehead with flowing locks allowed to grow long behind. Celtic priests cut their hair in the same way.

  Once again, it is Roman writers who supply most of the sources for even a sketchy understanding of the Druids and Celtic religion. In fact writing was expressly forbidden. All Druidic lore was painstakingly committed to memory. Prodigious passages were learned and had to be available for immediate recall. When the Druids perished, so did much of native history.

  THE GORSEDD

  Edward Williams was a dreamer. In 1792 he took a group of his Welsh friends to Primrose Hill in London and created a stone circle. In fact he laid some pebbles on the grass. It was the setting for a revival. The first Gorsedd was inaugurated, and the ancient order of Bards existed once more. In 1819, in the back garden of the Ivy Bush Hotel in Carmarthen, the Druids reappeared – at the National Eisteddfod. Wearing strange costumes, they performed ceremonies invented by Williams and presided over by the Archdruid. At the Gorsedd of 2000 at Llanelli, the Recorder, James Nicholas, was stranded after the ceremonies had ended, his car having been removed. Wearing long white robes, white leather boots, a head-dress of oak leaves and carrying a staff, he was forced to catch a bus. His fellow passengers laughed and then heartily applauded the old man. Daft though the kit and the ponderous Victorian ceremonial might be, the Gorsedd had been central to the rescue of the Welsh language and a real sense of Welshness. And the bus passengers in Llanelli knew that.

  There were many gods; one count has 400 in the Celtic pantheon. But most are mentioned only once and the inference must be that there were many local cults, many gods of a particular place, the genii loci. Along the line of Hadrian’s Wall, shrines and dedications to the native deities, Belatucadros and Cocidius, have been found. Their nature is uncertain but both appear to have been war-gods. Cocidius may have been widely revered, and the site of the Roman outpost fort at Bewcastle was also known as Fanum Cocidii, Cocidius’ shrine or sanctuary.

  The Celts’ contract with their gods differed from the Romans’. The altars raised at Newcastle in 120 were in thanks for a safe s
ea voyage. Generally for the Romans the gift of the gods came first and the thanks second. With the Celts this sequence worked in reverse. Often seen as malign, difficult trouble-makers, their gods needed gifts or a sacrifice before any important enterprise was undertaken. What was called propitiation can be seen at a shrine on Hadrian’s Wall. At Coventina’s Well, near Chesters Fort, thousands of coins and other metal objects were thrown in over a very long period. Even in the first century AD it was already a very old practice. Many caches of prehistoric metal have been retrieved from lakes, wells, bogs and other watery places. Often these were weapons, and the most famous deposit was Sir Bedivere’s hurling of Excalibur into the lake – where it was of course caught by an arm clothed in white samite. The habit of propitiation remains longstanding, and in Western Europe coins are still thrown into fountains and wells – for luck.

  The role of the Druids in Celtic society appears to have been central, so important that the Romans determined to destroy them. They seem not merely to have been priests. Citing all sorts of flimsy pretexts (a revulsion at the human sacrifice supposedly common in Britain sits ill from a culture which routinely slaughtered thousands for public amusement in the Colosseum and other arenas), Roman historians described a sustained campaign against the Druids. In AD 60 Suetonius Paullinus led an assault on the island of Anglesey, known to the Celts and the Welsh as Mona. Probably a shrine and almost certainly a redoubt of Druidic power, it lay within the territory of the Ordovices. When the XX Legion formed up on the mainland side of the Menai Strait, even seasoned veterans paused at the sight which greeted them. On the opposite shore, the warriors of the Ordovices waited, but not quietly. Their warhorns blasted, men jeered, but more terrifying, wild, black-haired women, their bodies streaked with ash, carrying torches, leapt into the water and capered around the beach, screaming curses at the Romans. Behind the ranks of warriors, a circle of Druids stood, their arms aloft, imploring the sky-gods to descend and destroy their hated enemies.