The Wall

by Alistair Moffat

  In any event Paullinus prepared for battle with the troops he had and, fatally, Boudicca allowed him to choose his ground. The legions formed up in a defile somewhere near Towcester, on the line of Watling Street. The tactics were familiar, the outcome predictable. After a volley of javelins had fatally slowed the charge of the warbands, the legionaries fell into the flying wedge formation and tore into the disorganised ranks of the British. They drove them back into their baggage train, no doubt swollen with loot, and the battle turned into a massacre. Boudicca fled and probably committed suicide soon afterwards. Paullinus scoured the countryside for fugitives, allies, even neutrals. Roman vengeance was terrible, and smoke rose on every horizon as the soldiers punished southern Britain for daring to rebel.

  It was, to paraphrase a more recent general, a close-run thing. In the calm after the fire and sword, the legions were showered with honour; the XIV Gemina added Martia Victrix to its name, while the XX became Valeria Victrix. In Rome it was decided that further conquest would bring tighter control and a more certain peace. It did not. There would be frequent spasms of warfare in Britain for almost sixty years.

  GLADIATORS

  Perhaps one of the most common and potent symbols of ancient Rome, gladiators and the public games they appeared in were a bloodthirsty but fascinating phenomenon. Professional fighters were first seen at funeral games, celebrations mounted in honour of dead soldiers. Caesar widened out this tradition, and games were mounted to gain favour with the Roman mob. Augustus had 5,000 pairs of gladiators fight in eight separate series of games. Not just any weapons and armour were used. There were four sorts of combatants. Most alike were the Murmillo and the Samnite who wielded short swords (a gladius in Latin, hence ‘gladiator’), wore visored helmets and protected themselves with oblong shields. Perhaps the most recognisable was the Retiarius. With little armour, he used a net and a trident. The Thracian had a broad-bladed scimitar and a round shield. Sometimes slaves, sometimes free men, all gladiators were expensive and, contrary to Hollywood convention, the baying crowds often voted to spare their lives. The Colosseum was the largest venue in Rome, and Domitian ruled that gladiatorial games could only be mounted by the Emperor. In 325, Constantine banned them.

  The chaos of the summer of AD 60 was followed by a winter of retribution of a different sort. Boudicca’s army had been largely made up of farmers. It is very likely that little seedcorn had been sown in that fateful spring, and only a meagre harvest was ripening in the fields. But calm and common sense did eventually arrive in the shape of Julius Classicianus, the new provincial procurator. His was a pivotal role. As chief financial secretary in Britain, responsible for the management of taxation and the imperial estates, Classicianus reported directly to the Emperor and his chancery. The previous incumbent had been Decianus Catus, and it was his greed and incompetence which in part goaded the Iceni into open revolt. When Boudicca threatened London, he wisely fled to Gaul.

  In contrast to Paullinus’ lust for vengeance, Classicianus preached moderation. He was himself of Gaulish origin and may have been able to understand and talk to British aristocrats in a language which was cousin to Old Welsh. There were also clear political motives. How could the imperial procurator raise tax revenues while Paullinus’ legions continued to terrorise the countryside? After the recall of the Governor to Rome, Classicianus was joined by someone who had not seen the savagery of Boudicca’s warriors or the baleful remnants of their atrocities. Petronius Turpilianus shared the procurator’s view that Britain badly needed a period of calm, a time for recovery. Tacitus did not approve, and in The Annals he sniffed:

  Publius Petronius Turpilianus, neither provoking the enemy nor provoked, called this ignoble inactivity peace with honour.

  As the wounds healed, the Governor and procurator began to rebuild – both civic buildings and political trust. They knew that the role of the British kingdoms had to be absolutely central in the new province. Basing their administrative structure on their old territories, Turpilius and Classicianus reinvented them as civitates. It was continuity of a sort. Towns were founded as centres for commerce and local government, and the native aristocracy was encouraged to become magistrates and councillors at the likes of Durnovaria (Dorchester, capital of the Durotriges) or Venta Icenorum (Caistor by Norwich, capital of the Iceni). Whether through exhaustion and a weary compliance, or a genuine acceptance that Rome was not going to go away, these administrative arrangements began to take. In 67 the XIV Gemina, the legion which had defeated Boudicca, was withdrawn. The British garrison shrank to three legions, enough to hold what had quickly become a peaceful province. There was never to be another rebellion in the south.

  It was different in the north. Old enmities simmered. It was almost two decades since the Brigantes had been divided between the pro-Roman Queen Cartimandua and the independent-minded Venutius. Surprisingly he had not ridden to Boudicca’s side in AD 60, and perhaps he and his wife had reached some accommodation. But in 69 resentments reignited. Cartimandua renounced her marriage to Venutius and replaced him with a younger man, his own armour-bearer, Vellocatus. Unmistakable echoes of melodrama sounded around the Pennines as this soap-opera subplot played out. Shamed and insulted, Venutius rose in rebellion once more against his headstrong queen. This time he called for help from outside. North of the Brigantes lay the lands of the Selgovae and the Novantes, and it seems that their captains led warbands down the hill trails to Brigantium.

  LATIN OR ELSE

  In the fifth century BC Latin was a dialect of Italic spoken by a very few people around the small and insignificant town of Rome. Other languages and dialects were much more widely spoken in the Italian peninsula. Greek was common in the south and Sicily; Lepontic, a Celtic language, in the north, the Po Valley and as far down the Adriatic coast as Ancona. Osco-Umbrian was a much larger speech community and it stretched down the centre of Italy from Arezzo to Calabria. Politics changed all that. As Rome gained dominance, so did its language. But Latin did not obliterate local dialects entirely. When Italy reunified in the middle of the nineteenth century abrupt regional differences still existed – so much so that a standard Italian (based on Tuscan) had to be imposed by the government. But even now, even in Tuscany, dialect is still strong. The small town of Pitigliano has its own dictionary and, without it, those who imagine they are fluent in Italian discover that they are most certainly not.

  International politics also promised to help the rebels. The increasingly unstable and psychotic Emperor Nero had been forced to suicide. Rome was reeling in a bitter civil war. In 69 there were no less than four emperors. Venutius will have followed the ebb and flow, and he knew that the provincial armies all over the Empire were involved in supporting different candidates. There would be confusion and uncertainty amongst the depleted garrison in Britain. Now was the time to summon his northern allies and strike.

  The provincial Governor, Vettius Bolanus, sent troops to support Cartimandua and her young consort, but all they could manage was a desperate rescue. Venutius had made himself undisputed king of Britain’s most populous realm. Rome now had a powerful enemy in the north.

  Once Vespasian had established himself as Emperor, he turned his mind to Britain. After his campaigns in the 40s with the II Augusta, he understood the strategic situation well. The north could not be left like a wolf prowling outside the fold, able to strike at any time. Another veteran of British warfare was appointed Governor; Petilius Cerialis had suffered defeat by Boudicca’s warriors and been forced to make an ignominious retreat. He was not likely to underestimate the Brigantes.

  What greeted Cerialis on his arrival in Britain in 71 was not encouraging. After a few years of relative peace, discipline had slackened amongst the legions and there appears to have been a mutiny. Having brought the newly formed II Adiutrix and stationed them at Lincoln, Cerialis led the IX Hispana up the north road. At York they built a legionary fortress in a bend of the River Ouse. In the first century AD the tide washed up from the Hu
mber as far as York, and the small liburnae (sixty-man patrol ships) could supply the army base from the sea. If a long campaign was anticipated, this sort of ready access was more than usually important.

  As important as geography and logistics, politics also placed the IX Legion at the bend in the Ouse. It looks as though York lay between the kingdom of the Brigantes and the territory of the Parisii. Occupying much of the old East Riding, the Parisii were recent immigrants from Gaul (and their cousins gave the French capital its name). It is not known whether or not these neighbours were hostile to each other, but the site of the new headquarters at York seems to have been a version of the old Roman dictum of divide et impera, divide and rule.

  York grew into an impressive citadel. Much of the Multangular Tower at the west corner of the fortress is still upstanding and other massive foundations recall an imposing symbol of imperial power. At least three emperors came to York and none will have felt out of place. It was a good place to locate a garrison, and the city has a long and distinguished military history.

  Cerialis appears to have struck north-west into the Pennines. Near what is now called Scotch Corner, Venutius’ warbands and his allies mustered at a huge hillfort at Stanwick. The outer perimeter measured almost 8 miles in length, and even an inner ring of defences was more than a mile in circumference. The Brigantes were overrun.

  SIN! DEX!

  Roman soldiers still drill on British parade grounds. Centurions and optios still roar the Latin equivalents of Left! Right! That is, sin for sinister (left) and dex for dexter (right). No records of legionaries marching to these commands exist, and the Roman re-enactors who bark them admit that they are improvising. But little else is done without regard for the finest degrees of historical accuracy. Their gleaming uniforms are faithfully reproduced and the result of astonishing cost and commitment. For example, a chain-mail shirt takes 800 hours to make, and the more common sort of armour to protect the abdomen, the lorica segmentata, is also very expensive. At summer events along Hadrian’s Wall and elsewhere in Roman Britain, several groups of re-enactors can be seen. They drill, form a testudo, charge, fire arrows at targets, and their cavalry soldiers show feats of genuine horsemanship. There are six or seven groups in Britain but each has only twenty or so members at most. What would be most impressive is a combined force – close to a legionary double century. But this is apparently impossible. The different groups do not get on well, each one sniffing at the others’ lack of attention to detail, commitment and, well, general Roman-ness.

  In the ditches of the old hillfort, archaeologists have found the remains of broken beliefs and failed gods. Below the ramparts guarding the gates several skulls were uncovered. Unrelated to any skeleton and probably older than AD 71, the date of the battle for Stanwick, they formed part of a ghost-fence. To turn back the ranks of hard-bitten legionaries, Venutius’ Druids had set up rows of skulls on the stockade. Their magic would surely be strong. No man would dare to cross the fence they made. As the legionaries stormed the gates safe under the testudo, the IX Hispana will not even have noticed what was staring hollow-eyed down at them.

  By tracking Cerialis’ marching camps across the Stainmore Gap and down into the Eden Valley, archaeologists have traced his advance north. At Carlisle, on a low rise between the Caldew and the Eden, another navigable river, the IX and the XX built a legionary fortress. From its ramparts they could see the distant shores of Galloway, the territory of the Novantae and the Selgovae. Allies of the Brigantes, their help from outside, some of their warbands probably fought in the hopeless rout at Stanwick.

  The XX Valeria Victrix were under the command of a young man soon to become famous, Gnaeus Julius Agricola. He already knew Britain well and had fought with Suetonius Paullinus in the Boudicca rebellion. This was also Cerialis’ second tour of duty, but neither had ever come as far north as Carlisle and the Cumbrian Mountains. Their intentions were governed by imperial policy. In the reign of Claudius, a successful and glamorous general, Domitius Corbulo, had led his soldiers across the Rhine and beyond the limits of the Empire. Whatever the compelling strategic motives, Claudius would have none of it. There would be no freelancing, and Corbulo was quickly recalled. Conquest was an exclusively imperial prerogative, and from that time on no general could extend the frontiers of Rome without an express commission to do so. Cerialis and Agricola knew that very well, and if they were tempted to seek retribution across the Solway and in the Southern Uplands, they resisted it.

  Recent historians of Roman Britain have argued that Vespasian had encouraged Cerialis to push northwards as far as seemed logistically sensible. Perhaps the Emperor’s own knowledge had persuaded him that a conquest of the whole island would settle all strategic issues. As ever at the beginning of a new reign, the prestige of military success at the edge of the world would do no harm. It is difficult to be sure what happened when the legions reached the Tyne–Solway isthmus in AD 73.

  Often archaeology is all that remains of the historical record, and rickles of stones and the humps and bumps of earthworks rarely have much to say about individuals, their motives and actions. But the movement of Roman armies across the landscape can be accurately tracked by following the line and type of marching camps dug by the legionaries. Aerial photography can pick up the location and outline in great detail, often when nothing much can be seen on the ground. It has been suggested that Cerialis did indeed march up the north road from Carlisle, probably on the line of what is now the A74. Some believe that he penetrated as far as the Firth of Tay. This assertion is not merely a facet of one of those entertaining and occasionally vicious academic squabbles, it touches on a very important issue. Either Cerialis or Agricola (when he became Governor of Britannia) was responsible for the Gask Ridge frontier system, a line of forts and watchtowers linked by a road which ran north-westwards from Doune, near Stirling, up the Allan Water valley, along the ridge and ultimately to Perth. It was almost certainly designed to divide the territory of the Venicones in Fife and Kinross from the Caledonians of the Eastern Highlands. Its greater significance was that it was a first. If Cerialis ordered its construction, it predates similar arrangements in Roman Germany. The Gask Ridge may have been the first frontier.

  Whatever the reality, Cerialis’ initiative cannot be proved, at least not until a definitive archaeological find changes the picture. All the watchtowers and forts are the right sort of shape and style to suit the period but no certainly datable objects such as coins or inscriptions have been discovered. By contrast it is absolutely confirmed that Agricola was on the Gask Ridge in 79 and the story of the construction of its frontier system will wait until he and his legions arrive.

  Meanwhile, Cerialis was recalled to Rome in 73 and another battle-hardened general replaced him as Governor of Britannia. Julius Frontinus turned his energies to the west. Having seen that Cerialis had contained the problem of the Brigantes, the new commander-in-chief wanted to secure all of Britain to the south of them. Wales had never ceased to resist. The Silures had defeated a legion and were clearly highly capable warriors. For the first time the legions marched into their territory to build a mighty fortress. At Caerleon on the Usk (now the northern suburbs of modern Newport), a site was chosen which could be serviced and supplied from the Bristol Channel. Interestingly the present place-name is derived from Latin. Caerleon is a flattened-out rendition of Castra Legionis, while the Roman name was Celtic in origin. Usk is from Isca, which means ‘water’ as in the sense of river and is cognate to Esk, of which there are several in the north; it is also related very distantly to uisge, the root of ‘whisky’.

  Frontinus attacked the Silures. Their fierce independence had glowed undimmed since the first invasions. The new Governor led the II Augusta, the men who stormed Maiden Castle and subdued the West Country, out of their new base and into the fertile cornlands of the Vale of Glamorgan. The campaign appears to have been successful and there are reports of forts being built in mid Wales. Cavalry squadrons patrolled the nor
th, the territory of the Ordovices and the Deceangli. At last, it seemed, the West had been won.

  TOURING THE PROVINCES

  At Caerleon the amphitheatre is well preserved. Built conveniently near the legionary fortress, its customers, at least in the early days, will have been mostly soldiers. Touring companies of actors, acrobats and wrestlers will no doubt have tailored their material to suit. Mime appears to have been popular, a universal language without words, with actors wearing masks to signify stock characters. Multilingual audiences will have understood everything. For the rough-and-ready sense of humour of the soldiers sitting on the tiered seating, this will have been ribald, knockabout stuff: adult pantomime. Troupes of travelling acrobats, like those who sent the Emperor Claudius a golden crown, and musicians may also have been on the bill, but one of the most puzzling entertainments was boxing. Sculpture and illustrations of boxers show not gloves on their fists but a pair of brutal, thick knuckle-dusters. Around their forearms and wrists were wound iron-studded thongs; blows landed with this equipment will have been devastating – teeth, skin and bone flying. The face of a defeated boxer would have been a pummelled mess of shattered cheekbones and severe cuts. The mystery is – why did they do it? Equally matched professional boxers (unequal matches would have been short and less entertaining) would have had very brief careers, having literally knocked lumps out of each other.

  Agricola had departed with Cerialis in AD 73 and become Governor of Aquitania, a province in south-western Gaul. His tenure pleased the Emperor and, in 76, Agricola was given the great honour of a consulship. It was no less than he might have expected. In the chaos of the Year of the Four Emperors, Agricola had been quick to pledge his support to Vespasian – even before he had emerged as a claimant to the imperial throne. There were family reasons behind this gamble. One of the four emperors, Otho, had sent his fleet to harry the Ligurian coast of north-western Italy. In the confusion and the fighting, Agricola’s mother had been killed. And Vespasian trusted him for another reason: he was a man largely untouched by the poisonous politics of Rome. Agricola’s family came from Frejus (Forum Julii) in Provence and his cognomen (Agricola, ‘the Farmer’) spoke of the bucolic virtues of the provinces.