From the safety of thousands of miles away, we have been witness to the terrible tragedy that has befallen the good people of Sendai, Japan on 11 March 2011 (1).
Even a nation used to earthquakes and a people drilled from birth to deal with the problems of tsunamis – it is after all a Japanese word – could not have prepared them for the sheer scale of
devastation brought by the events of that dreadful Friday. Thirty feet high waves racing ashore at 40 ...
Dinner with my Facebook Friend, Author Steven Saylor
The capital of The Lone Star State is still drying itself off after a dousing by the saturated tentacles of Hurricane Hermine, which blew in from the Gulf of Mexico the night before. Over a foot of rain had fallen, flooding the creeks and blocking several roads, even causing loss of life. As I drive down Mopac I quietly congratulate myself for having chosen Wednesday rather than Tuesday for the meeting at one of Austin’s most popular eateries.
Chuy’s – pronounced ‘chew-ees’ – is an eccentric but archetypal Austin restaurant chain.(1) It is the 1950s diner re-invented for Tex-Mex cuisine. Its garishly coloured walls decorated with bold framed paintings contrast with shiny chrome wheel trims, which hang at angles from the ceiling. A wall of T-shirts for sale bear slogans like ‘Keep Austin Weird’ and ‘University of Tex-Mex’. There’s even a shrine to Elvis Presley in the entrance. The atmosphere inside is loud but friendly. Regular guests find the wait staff often remember what you ordered the last time you visited. A well-known local hot spot Chuy’s in Barton Springs Road shot to international prominence in 2001 when the twin daughters of President George W. Bush were arrested there for underage alcohol offences.(2)
I settle in to a booth in the basement of the low ranch-style building. The seats are covered in deep red vinyl and feel bouncy like an old Detroit gas-guzzler. The waiter brings chips and salsa. I ask him to bring the house red sauce and creamy jalapeño. I order a Corona – I know the brewery from a trip I made to Guadalajara, Mexico. I eschew a glass in favour of consuming the chilled beer directly from the bottle and wait slightly nervously but excitedly for my dinner guest.
I am here to meet Steven Saylor, The New York Times bestselling author of novels set in Ancient Rome.(3) His books have graced my bookshelves for several years and, as he is in Austin, he has gracefully agreed to join me for dinner. Steven Saylor arrives precisely on time at 7.45pm. I see him looking for me and I wave to him. He had alerted me that he liked to dress casual. He’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt with an attractive print of hand drawn Greek keys, squares and diamonds, and neatly pressed shorts. His youthful face is framed by short grey hair and a neat goatie. We shake hands and he makes himself comfortable. The waiter reappears and my guest orders a Modello Negro. Steven studies the large format menu. It is chilli season in Texas and Chuy’s is known for offering dishes spiced with the fiery green fruits. He orders tres verdes enchiladas, and for myself I order my favourite Elvis Presley Combo No. 2 (one chicken, one beef and one cheese enchilada with trimmings).
Steven is in Austin on one of his regular sojourns from Berkeley, California where he spends most of his time. He chose BookPeople, Austin’s largest independent bookshop, for the international launch the previous Wednesday of his latest novel EMPIRE.(4) It continues the story told in ROMA of the Pinarii, an ancient clan whose fortunes rise from the time of the foundation of the city to the death of Julius Caesar. As the republic dies with him and is replaced by the imperial system under Augustus, EMPIRE charts the Pinarii’s waning fortunes, through the succeeding decades down to Trajan and Hadrian when the Roman Empire reaches its zenith. Three years in the making, at the book signing Saylor admitted his writing was influenced by his feelings about the final days of the presidency of George W. Bush.
We talk about his childhood. Steven grew up in a small town north of Austin, Texas. He describes a happy period in his life and days at school where there were only twenty-five students. His brother, older by a year, moved to University of Texas at Austin and the following year Steven joined him. He chose history and archaeology and indulged his interest in the arts, as well as the nighttime attractions that the live music capital of the world had to offer. He met his life partner in Austin and they moved in together. He describes these days fondly. As a student he lived frugally, getting by on a small income. I reflect on the similarities and differences between his experience in Austin and mine at university in far away Birmingham, England.
Dipping into the chips and salsa he explains his life took a dramatic turn when Ronald Reagan became president. Steven and his partner decided they could no longer stay in Texas and they set off for San Francisco, California. There he decided to become a writer. He had written short erotic stories but it was when he submitted a story to a popular sub-culture magazine that his fortunes changed. The editor liked his writing and offered him a full time position on the magazine’s staff. Though it paid poorly, Steven now had access to other professional writers from whom he could learn his trade.
The entrées arrive. Our waiter disappears and then we find we have no silverware. I go in search of two sets. Returning with them I find him using a stake to 'ventilate' his steamy hot enchilada to cool it down. Steven explains Chuy’s used to assign the duty of packing each knife, fork and spoon in its sanitized envelope to a blind person. I confess I did not know that. We tuck into our food. It tastes good. We talk about writing. Steven smiles when he explains that the purpose of writing erotica is to get a response from the reader. He earned $100 for his first published story. The challenge in writing fiction in general he says is “to move the characters from room to room”. Writing as Aaron Travis he published several stories and novels.(5) They were released by small publishers and quickly gained a following. He smiles when he says original copies now go for fancy prices on eBay. He hopes to republish these early works in a single special edition e-book. He had hoped his partner might help, but so far it has remained a dream. I suggest it would make an excellent project for an intern with desktop publishing skills and he’s sure to find one in Austin or Berkeley.
The conversation is interrupted when Steven’s mobile phone rings. He apologises and answers. “I’m with Lindsay,” he says to the caller, “my Facebook friend”. The call ends and we continue our conversation. I suggest that I am almost a complete stranger, but he counters that that is not the case. We had met at the book signing and before that he had been able to see my other Facebook friends, many of whom we share, and they vouched for my character.
Mention Facebook to most people over 40 and you get a dismissive shrug of the shoulders and a comment to the effect it’s what their kids do in their bedrooms, wasting too many hours in pointless babble. The online social media behemoth has grown to 500 million users worldwide, which Wikipedia notes “is about one person for every fourteen in the world”.(6) Yet the complaint of those of Gen X and the Millennials is that the ‘oldies’ are taking over the site. The truth, as in all things, is probably somewhere in between. For the maturer social media user Facebook is gaining favour as a way to connect with family, work colleagues and old school friends, but some of the early adopters have been notables of the world of literature looking to connect with their fan base. It was, in fact, through Facebook that I met Steven Saylor. I had seen him on the site and asked to 'friend' him. He kindly wrote a personal note in reply and accepted my request.
I had known Steven for his book Roman Blood (1991). In it he introduces Gordianus the Finder, a private eye who lives in the heady days of the late Roman Republic.(7) M. Tullius Cicero employs the gumshoe to solve a crime and find the murderer of the father of Umbrian landowner Sex. Roscius. This compelling mystery is based on a true story of 80BCE. In it we are introduced to members of his unusual extended family and Bast, the pet cat. Through it we see Rome from street level, warts and all, its lowlifes and celebrities. It is his ability to bring Rome to life in readers’ imaginations that caused The Sunday Times of London to write of his The Judgment of Caesar (2004) “Saylor evokes the ancient world more convincingly than any other writer of his generation”.
We discuss the challenges of writing about the ancient world. I tell him that before I wrote my first book, a biography of Drusus the Elder, stepson of Augustus, I had tried writing about the same events as fiction. I quickly learned that writing good fiction is hard. We use many of the same research sources – Michael Grant’s several works (EMPIRE is dedicated to the great historian), and the excellent online resources Livius (written by Dutch historian Jona Lendering) and Lacus Curius (managed by Bill Thayer). Then there are the many ancient sources such as Cassius Dio, Livy, Suetonius and Tacitus. Fascinating to me is to understand how differently we use them. Livy (to whom ROMA is dedicated) he says is “great for stories, but light on descriptions of place”. (For how the city looked he highly recommends the Ancient Rome in 3D by Google). As a teller of tales, he reinterprets the great sweep of events as a backdrop and places his fictional characters amidst them. To tell my stories, I mine the sources for tiny details and try and make sense of them, assembling them objectively into a continuous narrative. Steven comments that he could not possibly keep all the tiny details in his head while writing the fictional story. He also comments on the differences in the American and British traditions of historical fiction. British readers are fascinated by war. Indeed, recent years have seen a boom in war stories of all periods, from Roman through Saxon, from the Crusades to the Napoleonic. He observes that there is nothing to match this outpouring in American fiction.
I reflect on this revelation and have to agree. America has the towering talents of Steven Pressfield, Michael Curtis Ford and Nicholas Nicastro, for sure, but they are few in number compared to their counterparts on the other side of the Pond. The first works of military historical fiction I read as a boy were Alfred Duggan’s Winter Quarters (1956), Rosemary Sutcliff's Eagle of the Ninth (1954) and Wallace Breem’s Eagle in the Snow (1970), all of which left profound impressions on me. My bookshelves carry the tomes of Bernard Cornwell, Conn Iggulden, Ben Kane, Anthony Riches, Simon Scarrow, Harry Sidebottom and John Stack. Steven confesses he does not understand Roman military affairs all that well and the army only plays a minor role on the periphery of his stories. I reflect on the many days I wore replica Roman armour come rain or shine in the fields of Britain, and the unique perspective being a re-enactor gives me as an author, especially for Ancient Warfare magazine.
The devil is in the detail, we both agree. He tells me how he tried to establish precisely what stood atop Trajan’s Column for his scenes set in Trajan’s Forum. One source he read emphatically said it was a nude statue of the emperor. He searched yet he could not find the conclusive evidence. He closely studied images of coins but they were too small to be clear, save for a certain pose, which Steven dramatically displays with a balletic extention of the right arm and twist of the body without rising from his seat.
The waiter returns to collect our plates. Steven has eaten only half his meal and asks for a box. The waiter offers desert, but Steven refuses pointing to the creamy jalapeño dip with a smile and says, “that was my desert”. While the waiter goes away to make up the bill, we talk about movies. Steven is a connoisseur of epic movies and owns a collection of both the famous and the obscure.(8) I share my frustration over the liberties producers and costume departments take with their historical productions. Steven laments HBO’s decision in its landmark series ROME to mess with recorded history and even mix-up characters. He says Cicero was “a missed opportunity”, Brutus was “interesting”, but he fails to understand the “sociopathic Octavian”. (The future Caesar Augustus as a sado-masochist? Not likely.) He was disappointed by the depiction of Antony as “a playboy”. The character of Caesar was “good” but why, he asks, did “they cut short his story?” Yet the genre is enjoying a renaissance. 2010 would see three epics hit the silver screen, he said. One was already on the circuit. I had brought a PAL format Region 2 DVD of the British-made film Centurion, which I say he can borrow. It is on limited release in the USA, but he politely declines my offer saying he would prefer to see it on the big screen in Berkeley in the next week or two. Epics really have to be seen on the big screen.
While we are waiting for the bill, I ask him if he will sign my copies of his books. He agrees. I note that I was surprised to find he wrote the preface to Rome at War (2005). As he inscribes his name, he tells me he was thrilled to be asked to do so, noting its contributors included the prolific Adrian Goldsworthy – who lives in Penarth, South Wales, not far from the place of my birth, I inform him. As he signs each volume, he tells me he has just reread his own books and, happily, “would not change much”. He studies the cover art of each book in turn. I ask which is his favourite book? I expect him to say “I love them all equally” but he surprises me by singling out The Venus Throw (1995) for its storyline, mix of sex and characters. He also admits his least favourite cover is the paperback of The House of the Vestals (1997). It shows a central character who looks more like a monk in a habit than a Roman of the first century BCE. He suggests the face looks like a younger Steven Saylor as he puts the book up beside his face. He had been told at the time that it was important to put a woman on the cover as “women's pictures sell books”. That being the case, he asks rhetorically, “why is there not a single woman shown here?” It does seem odd, to be sure.
The idea for ROMA came from his British publisher. They asked him for a “big book”. Steven decided to write a story of the city covering 2,000 years of its history. He started with the foundation of the city in the Bronze Age but quickly realized one book would not contain the sprawling story. ROMA covers 800 years. EMPIRE takes the story further another 130 or so years. A third volume, which he has researched, will likely take the story of the Pinarii to the time of Constantine the Great. The fortunes of the Pinarii will continue to be bleak, it seems, in the sequel. Current events do influence how an author writes, he says. For him, the truth is “the USA is lost, it's down to the Chinese now to pull us out. Our goal is to survive like the Pinarii in EMPIRE”. It is a grim and sobering thought.
But the sequel to the ‘big book’ will have to wait. His next project takes him back to Gordianus. He had the idea for a prequel, describing the life of the man as a 19-year old and connecting him somehow to the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. A friend suggested that as a teenager he should get laid at each of the sites. Steven won’t tell me quite what he has decided to do, but it sounds like the young man will have the time of his fictional life. I wonder how much of the young Steven Saylor’s own experiences will be the inspiration for that character’s.
I offer to pay for dinner. He refuses, dips into his wallet and presents a $20 banknote. The bill, my credit card and the cash remain on the faux-marble laminate tabletop with its chrome trim until the waiter comes by. I insist that I pick up the bill. He remarks I should never offer to pay for an author's dinner: “I was a poor student,” he says, “the instinct for a free dinner remains. The author will always take a free meal but it will be hard to get him to pay for one.” He’s joking. Or at least I think he is. I recall a famous nineteenth century writer who was so impoverished that he stood outside restaurants in Paris reading the menus and letting his imagination flavour his morsels of stale bread.
We leave the restaurant at 10.25pm. Illuminated by the light of the neon sign, we hang around outside avoiding the puddles, and chat for a little longer about Facebook, and parallels with each other's lives. I sense it is time to part. He will be returning to California for the rest of his book tour. He says he will be back in Austin in spring of 2011, and I note that my own book will be launched on 23 March. We agree we should plan to meet again. He wishes me well. We shake hands and then, like his Roman gumshoe Gordianus the Finder, he disappears into the city shrouded in darkness.
EMPIRE: The Novel of Imperial Rome by Steven Saylor is published by St. Martin’s Press. Eager for Glory: The Untold Story of Drusus the Elder, Conqueror of Germania by Lindsay Powell will be released May 2011 by Pen and Sword Books and is available to pre-order now. Go to http://www.Lindsay-Powell.com for details.
Chuy’s
1728 Barton Springs Road, Austin, Texas, USA
Chips and Salsas (House Salsa, Red Sauce, Creamy Jalapeño)
So the war that lasted longer than World War Two ends in a quiet withdrawal. The President of the United States reported tonight to the American people that the last of the 100,000 combat troops have finally left Iraq.(1) Over recent evenings TV news reports have shown US troops in armoured cars and covered trucks arriving in Kuwait, whooping and hollaring at the prospect of going home.(2) It is a fitting arrival point given that the first Gulf War was fought to drive Saddam Hussein’s army from this small nation state. Many troops will not actually be home for long, but be rapidly redeployed to Afghanistan where a second even more vicious war continues to rage. Moreover some 50,000 non-combat troops will also remain in Iraq for another year to support the security forces.(3)
I won’t argue the rights and wrongs of the war – that is for historians better acquainted with the facts to deliberate upon – but the image of the soldiers driving cheerfully down dusty roads reminded me that this is also the 1,600th anniversary of the departure of Roman troops from Britannia’s shores. The date of AD 410 is etched into the nation’s chronological DNA as a key turning point. I recall as a child seeing a painting in a history book recreating that scene of evacuation. The last of the Roman legionaries boards a swift bireme, while in the distance, oars slice into the English Channel whisking away the Latin occupier’s army. British natives look on from the shoreline with a mixture of anxiety and fear as they realize they are on their own to face the onslaught of Angles and Saxon invaders. Others shrug their shoulders and say ‘good riddance’, asking ‘whatever did the Romans do for us?’ Thus the sun sets on four centuries of classical civilization and the isle of Albion slips inevitably into the primitive Dark Ages.
The significance of the date – AD 410 – is this was the year the Emperor Honorius replied to the Romano-British aristocracy’s plea for help against invasions from invaders from across the sea. ‘Defend yourselves - you are on your own’ (I paraphrase) was the message in his rescript.(4) The emperor of the West had quite a few problems of his own and needed all the manpower at his disposal. With an economy in crisis, illegal immigrants flooding into the country, a government struggling to ensure the security of its citizens – the parallels with our own time are seductive – the emperor needed all available able bodied soldiers to hold together what remained of the Western Roman Empire.
It is an emotive image – and largely fictional. Yes, Honorius did write that rescript and many Roman troops did leave Britain. Less clear is if it was a mass evacuation. Moreover the army of later Britannia that responded to Honorius' call and bade farewell to its island home of four hundred years was not the same army of 45,000 troops that had landed in AD 43 under Emperor Claudius’ general Aulus Plautius.
After three hundred and sixty seven years of direct Roman rule Britannia was not even a single province. The affairs of Romano-British society had become increasingly complex and a single civil administration in Londonium (London) could no longer cope so the province was split into smaller regions, first two, then four, with devolved powers.(5) The dioceses of the Christian church aligned with the civilian administrative boundaries.
Britannia had grown wealthy, thriving on trade in its native commodities – iron, lead, gold, wheat, leather and woollen goods. The aristocracy had invested their profits in villas with all mod cons – under floor heating, en suite baths, rose gardens and the finest silverware. Native Britons had learned to speak the Latin language and to wear the toga and use the bathhouse, unaware, as Tacitus wrote cynically in his Agricola, these were the trappings of their slavery.(6)
In retrospect the Romans pulled off a major transformation over just a few generations. Urbanisation was the cornerstone of Roman civilization. Soon after the invasion, the old Iron Age British tribal aristocracies and their retainers were relocated to market towns laid out in grid-iron pattern by military surveyors and given constitutions enabling them to run their own affairs. Never far away was the army. The Roman army played a central role in spreading Roman culture and values. It built the roads and bridges, laid out the towns, and generally showed how seductive the Roman way of life was. The men of the legions even provided the province’s police force and in the remoter areas centurions acted as judges and juries in disputes. Male Britons could enter service with the Roman army, first as auxiliary soldiers, and on completion of their term, would receive citizenship, which their sons could then inherit. As Roman citizens they could enter the legions and enjoy all the benefits of the far-flung empire.
The transformation was remarkably successful. Recent evidence from Caerleon, which I visited a couple of weeks ago, suggests that it was made a regional administrative capital in the third or fourth century. Just south west of the legionary fortress, close by the amphitheare, the remains of a massively large building have been identified.(7) The structure is truly huge. Geo-physical surveys of the area below Priory Field that sweeps down to the meandering river Usk have revealed that the amphitheatre alone could fit comfortably in the building’s open courtyard. Two trenches will be dug this summer to determine the age and attributes. My guess is that this was where the bureaucrats of Britannia Prima worked, scratching on slithers of wood or scrawling on pages of papyrus as they managed budgets, double-checked tax revenues, enforced the petty rules of officialdom, and exchanged endless communications with their counterparts in Corinium (Cirencester). Caerleon, then known as Isca, was no backwater, despite being a couple of days' ride from Londonium.
The population of Roman Britain was very diverse. Recent work by Carol van Driel-Murray suggests that auxiliaries transferred from other parts of the Empire – Belgium, The Netherlands, Germany, the Balkans among them – brought their families with them.(8) These military communities retained their ethnic identities for much longer than is commonly thought. The forts along Hadrian’s Wall probably had quite distinct 'feels', despite the outward similarity of their buildings. Many of those much-maligned barbarians who arrived in the fourth century from over the North Sea – Saxonici – were actually in the employ of the Roman army as mercenaries serving alongside Roman units. The Roman army of the fourth and fifth centuries was a multi-national, multi-ethnic defensive force, something like today's blue-helmeted UN soldiers.
Remarkably Roman civilization in Britain did not end suddenly when Honorius’ reply was delivered. There was no ‘Fall of Saigon’ moment. In many cases, the towns and their civil administrations muddled on for several decades. Some towns were abandoned. Intriguing evidence from Silchester, Hampshire, uncovered by the University of Reading, suggests that townsfolk decided as a community to quit Calleva, their fortified city with its roots stretching back to the old Iron Age nation of Atrebates.(9) The working hypothesis suggests that when the going got tough, this city of traders decided it was time to relocate further west or south. But other places like Camulodununm (Colchester), Londonium and Viroconium (Wroxeter) saw occupation into the later fifth and sixth centuries.
Since its arrival the Roman army had been a powerful dynamo in the British economy. The army needed supplies, some levied, others paid for. These salaried troops also spent their pocket money in the local economy. Sutlers always followed the army wherever went, almost regardless of the danger, but as forts were built, civilian communities rapidly gathered outside the walls providing goods and services for profit to off-duty soldiers. Many came from far afield, including Africa as remains from York show.(10) The withdrawal of military units was as devastating to the local economy as decisions to close army bases are today.(11)
Just as there are still some 50,000 non-combat troops remaining in Iraq to train local police and army, in Roman Britain armed militias continued to defend the long circuits of walls that surrounded many towns. For several decades after some semblance of Roman life continued. Crucially, when the main Roman administrations fractured and finally failed, the mints ceased to produce coins, which were needed to pay for the militias or hired mercenaries. Where cash was in short supply the economy reverted once again to one based on barter. Yet, Roger White argues in Britannia Prima: The Romans in the West of Britain that life continued much as before in parts of Wales and the West of England where a bastion of Roman culture endured for another century.
What was once popularly called the 'Dark Ages' historians increasingly call ‘Late Antiquity’.(12) In parts of the British Isles, the Germanic hosts were not so much invaders as immigrants. In other parts, such as Scotland and North Wales, Roman culture had never completely replaced the aboriginal Iron Age British. Old ways persisted and the passing of Rome was not so much missed as went almost unnoticed.
But Britain was forever changed. Even as ruins, many of the towns and cities founded to promote Roman civilization continued as seats of government for the new ruling warlords. Roads built by the back-breaking toil of legionaries still connected the scattered communities. Latin continued to be a lingua franca even where the Celtic tongue was spoken, not least as the language of the church. No longer pagan, its people were now largely Christian.
When allied troops were ordered to invade Iraq to oust Saddam Hussein and seize his weapons of mass destruction, the country was ruled by a minority led by a brutal tyrant. In war the allies were successful. Tragically, unlike the Romans who arrived uninvited in Britain but had a paradigm for post-war development, modern leaders had no plan for peace in Iraq. The land that had been the cradle of civilisation was thrust back to a time closer to the Stone Age. The ensuing years were tragic for the liberators, moreso for the liberated.
So to the present day. American and British troops leave Iraq a changed place. Its future as a sovereign secular democratic nation is uncertain; but as President Obama reminded us, the responsibility for Iraq’s security is now in their own hands. We must hope that they will be up to the challenges that face them, and that the sacrifices in blood (3,000 American and 200 British lives) and treasure ($3 trillion) made to re-establish a free Iraq, were not in vain.(13) The descendants of the great civilisation of Mesopotamia might find hope in the example of Britannia in Late Antiquity. The descendants of those Romano-Britons who witnessed the withdrawal of the legions 1,600 years ago lived through great changes, much of it violent and harsh, but in time they created a strong and vibrant nation that went on to change the world.
"Defence of the West: a Late Roman Command in Western Britain Re-instated" is the subject of the 2010 Annual Caerleon Lecture presented by Dr Roger White of Birmingham University. The Lecture will be held at the Junior School Hall, Endowed School,Caerleon, on Thursday 23 September 2010 at 7.00pm. Afterwards ticket-holders will be invited to drink the legion’s health with a glass of wine in the National Roman Legion Museum. Members of the Ermine Street Guard will parade the vexillum, the legionary flag. For information go to http://www.museumwales.ac.uk/en/whatson/?event_id=4542 .
Lindsay Powell is a historian and the author of the groundbreaking book, Eager for Glory: The Untold Story of Drusus the Elder, Conqueror of Germania. He divides his time between Austin, Texas and Wokingham, England. See his website at http://www.Lindsay-Powell.com
References
Roger White, Britannia Prima: The Romans in the West of Britain, The History Press, 2007
‘Armour made from bullet-proof custard’. How could I resist reading an article with that headline? After all, it contains references to two of my favourite things! Under that headline The Daily Telegraph reported this week that a newly developed gel used in combination with Kevlar material can absorb high energy projectiles like bullets more effectively than many more layers of Kevlar alone.(1) It promises better protection for soldiers and law enforcement officers who will also benefit from lighter and more comfortable body armour. The connection with custard is, apparently, the way the material responds at the molecular level when struck. I can’t say I’ve intentionally hit custard before (it’s never been in my bowl long enough to be subject of a physics experiment) and I don’t own a gun, but the article got me thinking about the quest for the ultimate body armour.
Crafting the best body protection for men at arms has absorbed armourers for thousands of years.(2) The collections of the Royal Armouries in the UK and USA, for example, are filled to the rafters with helmets, cuirasses, arm- and leg-guards from a thousand years and more, graphically illustrating the consummate skill of craftsmen working in cloth, leather and metal.(3) The history of arms and armour mirrors the development of human societies, sadly so often predicated upon making war. In recent years it has been a rich vein for documentary makers. Ancient Discoveries, Ground War, Warriors with Terry Shappert and Weaponology have all attempted to explain to the general public the evolution of the soldier’s tools of trade through the ages.(4)
The subject certainly has a wide and fascinated following. Like many of my blog readers I’ve been involved with the re-enactment – a.k.a living history – world for several years. The men and women who spend their spare time and weekends researching, rebuilding and displaying ancient warfare play an important role in deepening our understanding of the subject in consort with mainstream archaeology and classical scholarship. Many appear on TV documentaries for the BBC, History or Military Channel speaking as experts on Celtic, Greek or Roman or Mediaeval arms and armour often assisting the presenters to oversee scientific tests under controlled conditions. More often than not – to everyone’s surprise but the re-enactors’ – the hi-def slow-mo photography reveals that the old armourers knew a thing or two about materials, design and fighting techniques, or at least enough to give the men fighting on their side an advantage over their opponents in the defensive equipment stakes. In rebuilding and using them re-enactors gain great insights into the advantages and shortcomings of a wide variety of arms and armour. Modern designers of defensive equipment might consider consulting with re-enactors of period warfare to pick up some ideas.
Sometimes it seems the more we advance the more we go backwards. Police engaged in conflicts with rioters from Canada to South Korea look much like their ancient forebears wearing helmets and their extended neck guards, body armour with padded shoulder and groin protectors, and leg guards, not to mention their shields in either circular hoplon-style or rectangular Roman-inspired scutum. They might improve their effectiveness by studying Greek and Roman military doctrine to optimise the use of their equipment. In another juxtaposition of ancient and modern times, watching a BBC America news report last week about British troops in sun-scorched Afghanistan I was struck by the image of a young squaddie in action behind a wall of sandbags or rubble in his characteristic ‘washing bowl’-style helmet, stripped of combat fatigues but for Kevlar body armour and athletic shorts (presumably because of the fierce heat), looking for all the world like a warrior from the army of Alexander the Great.
Students of ancient warfare know that metal plate was not always the first choice of the warrior of old. Ancient craftsmen well understood the weaponry of their times and how they were used. Almost counter-intuitively the citizen armies of Athens, Corinth and the other Greek-speaking poleis often wore cuirasses made of layers of linen glued together. This stiff matrix, cut and stitched into sections, was assembled into a linothorax to protect the shoulders, chest and abdomen.(5) Clearly the men who wore one believed it effectively fended off glancing blows from the curved kopis or falling arrows and, amazingly, recent tests of reconstructed material by the University of Wisconsin-Green Bay do actually prove the effectiveness of this linen laminate. The wearers were also practical men: compared to bronze alternatives these relatively lightweight cuirasses must have been a considerably more comfortable option standing under the midday sun on an exposed Greek plain. Indeed, the same university experiments also showed that sweating actually helped to conform the laminate to the soldier’s body making movement easier too.
Equally ingenious, the Iron Age Celts of Central and Eastern Europe are credited with inventing chain mail, which assembles rings of bronze or iron into shirts capable of withstanding slashing blows from a sword.(6) The skill of these ancient craftsmen is all the more amazing when one sees specimens of chain mail close up, many rings being 1cm or smaller in diameter often containing tiny rivets to attach the flattened overlapping ends. Always open to copying a good idea when they saw one, the practical Romans realised the benefits of this high technology and quickly adopted it for their own legions in the Second and First Centuries BC.
Roman armourers had a few tricks of their own. Soldiers in Augustus’ army did not only wear chain mail. It co-existed with an apparently home grown Roman solution. Laminated or articulated segmented plate armour – lorica segmentata as it is often called – appeared around the time of Drusus the Elder’s campaign in Raetia and Noricum in 15BC to judge by fragments found at Dangstetten and depictions of troops on the Arch of Cottius in Susa dated to 14BC.(7) Certainly by the time of the combat missions in Germania (12BC-16AD) it was in widespread use. Made of overlapping plates of iron or steel riveted to leather straps and buckles, it offered the wearer upper body protection from sword blows and spear thrusts, while allowing a wide range of rotational movement. It would also be a mistake, however, to imagine only legionaries in segmented armour since auxiliaries may also have worn it, Trajan’s Column notwithstanding. Uniformity of arms and equipment was somewhat less rigidly imposed in the Roman army than popularly imagined.
I’ve often been critical of film and TV depictions of Roman soldiers and generals wearing leather (or worse still leatherette) body armour, but a fascinating new book written by Raffaele D’Amato and illustrated by Graham Sumner has led me to have to change some of my preconceived notions. The use of linen, felt, padded cloth or leather for the subarmilis, an arming doublet with a fringe of strips (pteryges) around the arms and waist worn by officers of the rank of centurion and above, is well known. Their more general use as body armour is not.
In Arms and Armour of the Imperial Roman Soldier 112BC-AD192 (Frontline Books, 2009) D’Amato and Sumner show there is compelling evidence that fabrics and leather were used with or in lieu of bronze or iron for cuirasses and other defensive kit.(8) The authors cite Plutarch who in a passage about Crassus’ defeat at Carrhae distinguishes between rigid metal and flexible organic body protection.(9) They also show examples of quilted tunics depicted on an inscription from Urso in the Cordoba Museum, leather fragments from Vindonissa, and point to leather, felt or linen corselets or jerkins shown on Trajan’s Column. (10) Sumner’s depiction of Favonius Facilis of Legio XX Valeria Victrix in a whitened leather corselet instead of the usual iron chain mail shirt is striking if not controversial.(11) If the authors are right, many of the muscled cuirasses worn by Roman emperors and generals represented on statues, such as the iconic Augustus from Prima Porta now in the Vatican Museum, may have been leather after all – boiled, embossed and decorated with appliqués of bronze attached, and optionally with details picked out in colour.(12)
By the time gunpowder and the musket ball had become ascendant on the Eighteenth Century battlefield, metal plate had all but disappeared to be replaced by colourful jackets of wool. In the Twenty-First Century ceramics, exotic fibres, gels, plastics, even nanotubes are finding their way into the defensive panoply of the modern soldier with his drab camouflaged man-made fabrics. Yet even the best materials we can produce today are not without problems. Recently the US Army recalled 44,000 combat helmets as a resulted of a Justice Department investigation into an Ohio-based military contractor.(13) Army officials said tests had shown that the helmets would not protect a solider against a rare but “worst case scenario” of being hit by multiple gunshots at a specific angle. It was a point disturbingly demonstrated in a recent TV documentary which showed that a single shot with a semiautomatic rifle aimed at one of the new design German Stahlhelm-inspired helmets from about 20 feet away would penetrate right through, front and back, leading the presenter to conclude that armour plays as much a psychological role in boosting the soldier’s sense of invincibility as much as any actual protection it might offer.
The craftsmen of old understood and exploited this psychological aspect to judge by the amount of decoration on the helmets and body armour of ancient world soldiers. Just as the British soldier of the Eighteenth Century looked resplendent in his red coat, tricorn hat and white breaches, so the Greek hoplite cut quite the image in his horsehair crested Argive or Corinthian helmet, decorated linen cuirass and painted shield. Like peacocks attracting a mate they also sought to intimidate and warn off rival suitors.
The modern battlefield, like its ancient antecedent, is a dangerous place. It is ironic that in the English language an instant cure-all should be called a ‘silver bullet’. Real world bullets can and do kill. Perhaps in the final analysis, there can be no defensive armour that can be guaranteed to completely protect the wearer from all weapons, nothing like the one given to Bilbo Baggins made out of mithril, a silvery metal stronger than steel but much lighter in weight, and crafted by the elves in the mythical world of the Lord of the Rings.(14) Perhaps armour is more about psychology than protection after all. But that should not stop the attempt to create the ultimate armour. May the men and women in white coats perfect their recipe for bullet-proof custard. The men and women in khaki who defend our freedoms deserve the best protection our modern-day armourers can make. Just as in the ancient world, their lives depend on it.
Lindsay Powell is a historian and the author of the groundbreaking book, Eager for Glory: The Untold Story of Drusus the Elder, Conqueror of Germania. He divides his time between Austin, Texas and Wokingham, England. See his website at http://www.Lindsay-Powell.com
References
Raffaele D’Amato and Graham Sumner, Arms and Armour of the Imperial Roman Soldier 112BC-AD192, Barnsley: Frontline Books, 2009.
The volcano with the unpronounceable name once again spews dust into the atmosphere threatening to close travel by air to and from the UK.(1) But one thing Eyjafjallajökull will not be able to stop is the British election.
Britain goes to the polling booths on 6 May to elect its members of parliament (MPs). It is an unpopular time to be a politician.(2) The national scandal in which many MPs allegedly claimed for embarrassingly frivolous expenses means many have stood down this time. But there is a lingering sense that those elected to serve have demonstrated more of a sense of entitlement than of dutiful service to the public; and an instinct that the politicians are not being straight with the electorate on the tough decisions that lie ahead. Voters are always smarter than the politicians and pollsters assume and large numbers of voters appear to still be undecided at this late hour.
Compared to the USA, election campaigns in the UK are short affairs. Perhaps it is true that candidates turned representatives never really stop electioneering, but the actual canvassing and door-to-door leafleting lasts just four weeks in England, Northern Ireland, Scotland and Wales. What made this year’s campaign different from all the others, however, were the US-style TV debates, and on account of that Icelandic volcano, I was able to watch two of the three live. Whereas before the debates the pundits had predicted a two horse race (Conservatives vs. Labour), the first debate catapulted the leader of Britain’s third largest party (Liberal Democrats) into pole position. The last four weeks in the run up to this election have been uncharacteristically exciting, not least because no-one knows the likely result. There’s even talk of a ‘hung parliament’ where no one party has enough seats to lead outright and rivals will horse-trade to form a very unBritish coalition government of the sort more associated with Germany, Israel, Italy and New Zealand.
I have been lucky to have already posted my vote as an expat. On Thursday my compatriots will get their chance to mark their one ‘X’ with the chinagraph pencil on the voting paper in the privacy of the wooden voting booth, to fold it once and push it into the open slot of he ballot box on public view in the polling station. (3) No electronic voting here and no hanging chads to cause miscounting – just a black cross on a piece of paper, each one counted by hand while the candidates and their representatives watch closely.
It is not so different to the way ancient Athenians voted using two pebbles, one white the other black, dropping one into a jar to vote for or against a candidate. Similarly, the registered citizens of the voting tribes of ancient Rome entered their pens to cast their votes. Voting in elections defined Athenian democracy and the Roman republic and it was taken very seriously.(4) When, in 65BCE Marcus Tullius Cicero stood for election he took his responsibilities to heart and canvassed for votes as politicians do today, and then some. In a letter to his friend Atticus he wrote “for myself I shall take the greatest pains to carry out all the duties of a candidate”.(5) Then as now a man in politics needed friends and especially friends with connections. In another letter he advised,
take pains to get on your side the young men of high rank, or retain the affection of those you already have. They will contribute much to your political position. You have very many; make them feel how much you think depends on them: if you induce those to be positively eager who are merely not disinclined, they will be of very great advantage to you.(6)
Of course such support brought with it obligations. The tragedy for modern representative democracies like Britain is how few people eligible to actually turn out to vote, feeling they have no stake in the outcome, with many feeling their vote will be “wasted” if they vote for the “wrong candidate”. The only wasted vote in my opinion is one that is not exercised. I don’t necessarily believe in mandated or compulsory voting – that is a matter for the citizen’s conscience – but a democracy in which large groups of voters do not participate through apathy, indecision, or protest does not serve the interests of the body politic well. Of course voters can only pick from those who have stood for election, and the voters may not actually not like any of the candidates standing in their constituency. Sadly it is not a new problem either. “In the general opinion,” write Cicero,
this premature canvass of his [rival] is not unfavourable to my interests; for the voters generally give as a reason for their refusal that they are under obligations to me. So I hope my prospects are to a certain degree improved by the report getting about that my friends are found to be numerous.(7)
Cicero was ably helped by his brother Quintus who actually wrote a book about winning elections called Commentariolum Petitionis (‘the little handbook on electioneering’).(8) Many modern-day candidates would do well to read it. And to those who win, perhaps you will take another leaf out of the book of the conscientious Cicero and remember who voted for you and why.
As far as the voters go, we really do get the government we deserve. Someone will win – would you not rather have a say in who gets to decide your future, because, for sure, there are some very tough decisions to be made ahead? So, dear reader, if you or one of your friends or neighbours have no intention of voting, quote them the words of old Cicero “tell him I shall not be annoyed if he doesn’t come to my election”, then smile, tell them to disregard it and get a move on swiftly to the local polling station.(9)
Right about now I should be entering Canadian airspace on my flight back to Austin – except I am still on terra firma in England, grounded by dust from a volcano I had not before heard of with an unpronounceable name. Since 18 April a cloud of volcanic particulate has spewed out of the ground and settled over most of northern Europe in a cloak of menace that governments have wisely decided represents a threat to air travel. It is a reminder of how little control we have of the world in which we live when the Magna Mater decides to assert herself.
Understandably those of us unable to complete our travel plans, numbering in the hundreds of thousands, are frustrated. Yet mankind’s sense of ability to control the natural world is a relatively new phenomenon. For most of humankind’s existence we have lived in awe of the world rather than in contempt of it. The volcano in Iceland’s Eyjafjallajökull
(it translates as "(the) island-fells glacier”) reminds us to be aware of how little control we have of the great forces that shape our world – quite separate from climate change a.k.a global warming.(1) In the ancient world, people had an innate sensitivity to places, seasons and weather to the extent that that they personified them as spirits and gods. Every forest, mountain and river had a life force that was owed respect. A newcomer to the place sought to placate the spirit of place – what the Romans called the genius locus – to avoid trouble. In the ancient world even city dwellers knew better than to upset the gods when taking a trip out to the country.
Progressively over the centuries that connection with nature, and with it, the respect for it, has diminished. The application of science – civil engineering, mechanics, hydraulics – has perhaps emboldened us into thinking we are masters of the world rather than its curators. We are apt to forget, perhaps that the measurement of a phenomenon – it even has a name, 'metrology', not to be confused with the science of the weather – only gives the observer insight but not control of it. Observation helps us better understand the natural world. The Romans were aware of the immense power of volcanoes – they knew Etna in Sicily was a dangerous place – and they explained it as the location of Vulcan’s forge.(2) Vulcan even had his own special day, the Volcanalia on August 23. (What god does not like a sacrifice and devotee a party?) Where we have the advantage over the ancient world is the substantial body of knowledge we have amassed from observing the world and making sense of it. The burghers of Pompeii for instance were not aware that the mountain they lived beneath, and the source of the bounties they enjoyed from its fertile soil, were volcanic.(3) Had they understood geology they would have known that the devastating earthquake of 5 February 62CE was a forewarning of the catastrophic eruption of Vesuvius on 24 August 79CE.(4) Today Vesuvius is covered with high tech instruments and sensors to provide advance warning, yet the local modern inhabitants of the bay area live almost with an ancient world mindset.
So, back to the volcano. We can watch from a safe distance at the cloud of smoke and ash, but bottom line, we cannot stop it. As our jet planes continue to be grounded we might take a moment to reflect on the awesome power of nature. I do not know precisely when I will get back home to Austin, and for safety’s sake I support the travel ban. Yet I am sure I will when the geologists, meteorologists, air traffic controllers and government ministers – and not forgetting the genius of Eyjafjallajökull – decide the time is right.
Lindsay Powell is a historian and the author of the groundbreaking book, Eager for Glory: The Untold Story of Drusus the Elder, Conqueror of Germania. He divides his time between Austin, Texas and Wokingham, England. See his website at http://www.Lindsay-Powell.com
Twenty-years ago this week the hated Berlin Wall was breached.(1) East Berliners climbed upon the concrete barrier and chipped away with hammers and axes taking chunks out of the wall that had divided the East from West Berlin, brother from sister, mother from son. Almost in a blink of an eye the entire country of which East Berlin was the capital disappeared, and with it a major bastion of communism. What is not widely known – with apologies to Spike Milligan(2) – is the story of ‘Berlin Wall: My Part In Its Downfall’.
In 1982 I was a student working as an intern with the company, as Fate would have it, which has been my employer for the last twenty-seven years. Barely in my twenties I availed myself of the opportunity to buy an InterRail card that entitled students under 26 years old to travel the railways of Europe for 30-days basically free. With my pass tucked in my pocket, I packed my rucksack and headed off on an adventure.
First stop was Brussels, the capital of the emerging European Union, though it was still called by its less aluring title European Economic Community. I was fortunate to have a friend who had settled there and rented a flat. From Belgium I travelled to The Netherlands and spent a happy time exploring the Rijksmuseum, Ann Frankhuis and other sites in Amsterdam, the modern port of Rotterdam, the touristic Delft among other places; then on through Germany via Bremen and Hamburg to Denmark. There I stayed in one of Europe’s best youth hostels in Copenhagen, saw the mermaid, and took the train to see the Viking ships at Roskilde. Heading south I went to Celle and Hannover and it was there that I met my friend from Brussels who had been joined by his brother from Athens. We had set ourselves a bold mission – to go and visit the Deutsche Demokratische Republik (DDR) – East Germany.(3)
In 1982 the Cold War was still years from thawing. Visiting the DDR seemed almost to be an act of provocation to my idealistic travel companion. We went in his car bearing its ‘EUR’ number plate which indicated the owner was an employee of the European Commission and, clearing passport control, we crossed over the border heading east to Berlin. Traffic had to follow a narrow corridor formed by a motorway and was not permitted to make any detours. We arrived in West Berlin and were amazed by the bright lights and round the clock lifestyle of the city. I recall we attended a performance of Mozart’s Die Zauberflötte and the Queen of the Night’s exquisite voice, which hit the high notes precisely each time, I am sure still ricochets in the opera house there.
We arrived in the city of lights and were amazed that it lived up to its reputation as a city that never slept. Next day we went to the Brandenburger Tor and saw through its columned archway the figures of people looking back at us. These were the faces of the enemy, my friend pointed out! Dividing the city was the high concrete wall, die Mauer, and we took a trip to a section that had an observation platform. It was early evening and I recall looking across the expanse of no-man’s land with its mercury lamps, traps and armed guards peering back at from drab green-grey Trabis. “Behold the Workers’ Paradise”, I recall an Canadian standing beside me saying sarcastically. From the platform it was clear that there were few bright lights in the Hauptstadt der DDR: when the sun set, it was clear, good communists went home to rest ready to face the next day with renewed fervour for the creed of Lenin.
It was then that my friend convinced me that we had to cross over to the other side and see this Workers’ Paradise for ourselves. Next morning we drove to 'Checkpoint Charlie'. On the Allied side we were encouraged to leave items that might be considered contraband or subversive by the East Germans, which included newspapers and cassette tapes. My bold friend, however, was intent on playing his part in shaking the state. In his glove compartment he had a copy of that great organ of counter-communism, Time magazine. This he did not want to remove. So the barrier was lifted and we crossed through No-Man’s Land. The red carpet had been kept firmly in its protective brown paper wrapping that day and our welcoming reception was a brooding guard in a drab grey uniform that looked like army surplus from 1945. He inspected the car and quickly found the Time magazine and other items he did not like. We were called in turn to be interviewed – I hesitate to use the word 'interrogated' – by the man in his plain drab office. My friend was jubilant, but I was anxious. I had not read any books by John Le Carre but I felt inspired to write my own at that moment.
We were finally ‘released’ and permitted to enter the country. First stop: a petrol station. The DDR needed hard currency and for visitors enticed them with cheap petrol, with which we filled our tank. Already I had the sense that Berlin was stranded in a time warp. Its brown grey buildings seemed unchanged since the Russians had taken it street by street in the closing weeks of the Third Reich. We went to the main square and noticed that the public buildings were still pock marked by shrapnel and shells. It was as if the government wanted to constantly remind its citizens of the war. There was a monument to the victims of Nazism guarded by tall, skinny, but emotionless East German soldiers in their oddly flared helmets and jack boots. I watched as visiting off-duty American soldiers studied their adversaries cockily: West meets East, I thought, the enemy looks into his opponents’ eyes: but what does he see?
We ate a not very good lunch at the Volkskammer, a stark modern building quite out of place with its surroundings. I recall drinking a glass of flat, dark and sickly sweet Club Cola while listening to a pianist who, curiously, was playing an electronic organ made by a well-known Japanese manufacturer. We went to the see the astonishing collection of ancient sculptures on display at the 'Pergamon Museum'. What stands out in my memory is not the Pergamon Altar, but my friend looking at his change. The DDR used aluminium for its low denominations and to a westerner, it seemed almost like toy money. Contemptuously my friend threw his handful of next-to-worthless coins up in the air. They cascaded across the polished floor with a tinny sound. The few visitors to the museum looked on in horror - as did I.
.
We also attended an exhibition that presented the life and times of the Prussian leader Frederick the Great whose palace, Sans-Souci, had been surprisingly renovated by the authorities. A man heard us talking and engaged us in conversation. I recall that, even allowing for my O-level German, I understood him describing how the DDR was confidently rediscovering its pre-20th century history, and how Socialism was not far removed from National Socialism – lofty concepts to comprehend in a language that I had learned only by studying the life of the fictitious Familie Ehlers. For myself, I was ever fearful for the presence of the Stasi, the state secret police: I really did not want to be trapped in this awful city for the rest of my life, and urged that we go.
The Deutsche Mark had to be exchanged into the local Ost-Mark currency at some preposterous rate, and you were not permitted to take the money out of the country. The trouble was there were few places we could spend it. Fortunately for us, nearby was a shop for tourists - the only shop for tourists. It was while standing in the shop browsing, ironically enough, at imported western goods, that I became aware of a presence. Standing beside was a lanky boy in his teens wearing demin jeans and a jacket. I was struck by his mop of blond hair and spotty face. He had seen me carrying a German-English dictionary – and he wanted it. It was a special dictionary, about seven inches long by half an inch that opened like a fan. Its ‘pages’ were blades that were printed both sides and which could be separated but pushed back together to be tucked into a pocket. The boy looked agitated. He offered me his pen knife. My friend was excited. “Give it to him,” he urged. “Go on!” I was terrified I was being watched by the Stasi. The boy persisted and would not go away. My friend kept saying “it will help bring down communism”. I relented and gave the boy my dictionary. In an instant he disappeared. My friend was very pleased and congratulated me on my good judgement. Secretly I was terrified that I might not be let out of the country that night.
In the evening we bought tickets to see Beethoven’s Fidelio at the historic StaatsOper. Historic because it was an old opera house, but also because Adolf Hitler had attended performances here. Our German marks bought us the best seats in the house and a programme each. I recall trying to read its explanation of the opera. It told how Beethoven’s work showed the corruption of capitalism and the heroism of the proletariat – it was amazing that the classical period German composer should have had the foresight to anticipate the values upon which the DDR was built: sehr klug. The performance was magical, but I recall that it was the voice of the lead singer visiting from West Berlin that had the best voice.
It was dark and wet when we left East Berlin and returned to the bright lights of the city’s decadent sister. As we drove back next day through the southwestern part of the country along Hitler’s almost traffic-less Autobahn in its now pot-hole ridden state, I wondered about that blond boy who had my dictionary. Eventually we reached the border with the Bundesrepublik and I gave a sigh of relief. As we put the miles between us and the DDR, I felt increasingly sure that in some small way my act of subversion would lead to the overthrow of the enemy state, that I had struck a blow for the West and thrust an, albeit, very small dagger into the thorax of the heartless communist state.
Last week I wrote about an interview I did with author Steven Pressfield over twitter. This week twitter brought a story from The News of Portsmouth, England. "Whatever happened to all the Neros?" (1) revealed that the curator at the Roman Palace at Fishbourne (2) and eminent professors from Bournemouth University are going to scan and reconstruct the portrait bust of a young man they usually associate with the British King Togidubnus, which was found at the site in 1964. The new hypothesis is that the bust is in fact the young Nero before he became the terrible and decadent tyrant. If the identification is right, this makes it one of the few in the world of Nero at that tender age.
At first reading I took the story at face value. Then I saw a smaller inset picture and I realised the academics have made a simple, but understandable mistake - and one that turns the new hypothesis on its head (pun not intended). I know because I am writing a biography of Nero Claudius Drusus, so I wrote to Elise Brewerton the writer of the article at The News thus:
I am writing from Austin, Texas where your story* reached me via twitter.
I know Fishbourne from the time I lived in the UK and having performed there as a visiting Ermine Street Guard member. I am also familiar with the broken portrait bust. The suggested identification of the bust as Nero is intriguing, but I must question its comparison with the bust referred to in the article and the inset picture captioned as "The head of Nero in Musee de Louvre, Paris". It most likely isn't.
The bust in the Louvre is identified as Nero Claudius Drusus (often better known as Drusus the Elder). The bust is made of Parian marble, dated to ca. 9 BC–2 AD and came from Athens:
Iam writing a biography of the life and exploits of Drusus the Elder and his wars of conquest in Germania (12BCE-9BCE) for publication by Pen and Sword Books Ltd. I have been confused myself more than once by the recurrence of the same name. There were several men bearing the name Nero Claudius Drusus within three generations: to avoid confusion, theyare labelled by historians Drusus I (or the Elder), son of Tiberius Claudius Nero and Livia Drusilla; Drusus II or Julius Caesar Drusus, son of Drusus the Elder's brother Tiberius (and the future emperor) and Vispania Agrippina; Drusus III (known as Germanicus on account of his father's victories in Germania), son of Drusus the Elder and Antonia Minor (Marcus Antonius' daughter). The full name of the boy Nero who became emperor was Nero Claudius Caesar Drusus Germanicus. It is very easy to be confused!
I fear that Dr Rob Symmons, curator of archaeology at Fishbourne, may be confused by the name. It would be a pity for the distinguished team of Dr Symmons and Bournemouth University lecturers Dr Miles Russell and Harry Manley to run scans on the Fishbourne head and recreate the damaged parts of the face, testing the theory that it could in fact be the emperor, when the bust they are comparing it against is a completely different Roman.
Finally, just to correct a typo: the Iron Age British client "King Togidubnes" is correctly spelled Togidubnus or Togidumnus (he used to be called Cogidubnus).
It may all be in the head and I am willing to be proved wrong, but I think that this one time I am right.
Twitter confuses a lot of people. I mean what can you possibly say of any significance in 140 characters? I have to confess I’m really not that interested in whether you are brushing your teeth or drinking a cup of coffee right at this moment. Yet, having published my first tweet in June at the Writer’s League of Texas Agents’ Conference (1), I have published no fewer than 630 of the missives, which suggests I have found a use for it. I mostly post URLs to news stories and opeds that deal with archaeology, ancient history and related events and it seems that others like that formula since I have in excess of 150 followers. Among them are bloggers, students, business people and at least four published authors.
I am particularly proud that one of my followers is Steven Pressfield (2). He is a fascinating and accomplished author who appears frequently on The History Channel whenever the subject is the Spartans or the Three Hundred at Thermopylae. Mr Pressfield is the author of several must-read books, including The Legend of Bagger Vance (which was made into a movie), Gates of Fire (the literal translation of the Greek place name Thermopylae), The Virtues of War (about Alexander the Great) and Killing Rommel (a copy of which I bought on my last trip to the UK). He draws on his experience of soldiering, copy writing and other odder jobs in other walks of life. His style of storytelling is gritty, realistic and memorable. It is a style many, including myself, try to emulate.
His most recent book is his autobiographical The War of Art. In it he explains his philosophy of writing which is defined by a warlike state of mind. It was his ideas in The War of Art that led to him being invited to take part in a live twitter ‘litchat’ (3) last Friday. What's a 'litchat'? Imagine a crowd of fans with a celebrity at the stage door asking questions using text messaging, and you get an idea of the format. What follows is an edited version of the questions and answers Mr Pressfield and I exchanged (with apologies to the others who were present).
I joined the conversation a few minutes after it had started so it took me a moment to get the MO. People were asking about his The War of Art and his ideas about writing using a 'hashtag' to connect to the discussion. That cracked, I considered how professional interviewers Melvyn Bragg and Charlie Rose would begin a conversation with a celebrity. It came to me. I dived in with my question on pragmatics – after all, Mr Pressfield had been in the USMC.
“How do you structure your working day?” I asked boldly, not expecting an answer.
It came just moments later. “Just like a job: four hours, usually in the AM.”
I was taken aback.
Asked how he approached his writing, Mr Pressfield replied “I write ‘em first, then do the research.”
I liked that answer – and said so. “That's a great approach,” I remarked. “It frees creativity, then [you can] nitpick with the fact checking: I must do that.” (The limit of 140 characters in a tweet means you have to write cryptically like a headline writer.) Feeling more comfortable with the format, I saw my chance to ask another question.
“What other periods of history or events fascinate you?”
“Most of my stuff is set in ancient Greece,” he said, “but my newest is WWII. I love history of all periods.”
“I was just wondering if your recent blogs hinted at a novel set in one of the contemporary military campaigns.”
“Very astute, Lindsay!” he said, which was a pleasant surprise. “My next is a war story set "fifteen minutes into the future.” (There’s the scoop – and you read it here first.)
One of the audience asked about his style of writing and Mr Pressfield explained “going deep is the only way, at least to me. Losing yourself in it.”
I had read about that phenomenon. “Losing oneself in one’s work is called ‘flow’ by author Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (howzat for a name!).” It is the feeling you get when working on a task and it is so absorbing you lose all track of time.
He was asked who were men of the past he would want to meet and replied “Thucydides or Plato, my all-time faves.” I chipped in suggesting Tacitus or Suetonius, to which Mr Pressfield replied “ah, the Romans. They're next!”
“I certainly hope so,” I piped. “(Romans are my time period), so many stories to tell.”
Returning to the craft of writing and the black art of getting published I asked “what role do you see for literary agents going forward? Do you have one?”
“They're even more important today,” he said. “I have a great one: Sterling Lord. I’m a big partisan for agents.” “Partisan”: it was an interesting choice of words.
My own experience has been mixed and I felt compelled to say “but for aspiring writers, they can represent another barrier to being published. For mine (non-fiction) I went direct.”
“That's true,” he said. “Sometimes it’s harder getting an agent than finding a publisher. Congrats to you, Lindsay!”
I was chuffed by the compliment from the Maestro. “You are very kind. I appreciate the compliment ” Feeling emboldened, but with nothing more than curiosity behind my question, I asked, “would you ever consider a collaborative work, or are you happier writing solo?”
My question went unanswered in the flurry of last minute questions. It was 5pm.
“Hey, thanks, everybody ... gotta sign off now,” he said. “This was fun. Hope it helped a little. Excellent questions!” And then it was over.
He said he was heading for the library.
It had been a wonderful moment of connection: an established master of his craft and his fans, all chatting in 140 characters or less, no exceptions.
Thank you for being an inspiration to me, Mr Pressfield! Maybe one day we can collaborate on something together…?
Follow Steven Pressfield on twitter at @SPressfield. You can follow me on twitter at @Lindsay_Powell and read about my book at www.Lindsay-Powell.com
As the summer fades from memory and the autumnal rains and winds blow in, the arguments continue to rage across the world for change. There's hardly an aspect of life, private or public, that's not affected:
Reform of the health care system led to heated tempers and absurd accusations across the US;
Reform of the political system came in the wake of the MPs’ expenses scandal in the UK;
Reform of the financial system dominated talks among the G20 countries to prevent another global meltdown;
Reform of military strategy in Afghanistan as casualties mounted among nations contributing combatants, especially Germany and Italy.
And that mother of all challenges, which still eludes us: reform of global energy usage and carbon emissions before the icecaps melt completely and the ocean's water flood our low lands.
The problem is not everyone agrees with the diagnosis of the problem under consideration and just as few agree on the reform(s) needed. There is, of course, that pesky issue of vested interest that all too frequently gets in the way. Invariably, reform means taking away resources or privileges someone else has prior claim to or taken for their own. And when it comes down to it, old habits die hard. Do you really want to cycle to work or give up that vacation trip to Maui to reduce your carbon footprint?
All reformers, regardless or place or era, have encountered obstacles to change. It seems that in the great sweep of human history there is always someone who wants to stand in the way, to rain on the populist’s parade. Readers of my blog know I take a long view of the affairs of mankind, drawing on examples from history, especially of Greece and Rome, for comparisons with our own time. Ancient Athens had Theseus(1), Solon(2) and Kleisthenes(3). Sparta had Lykourgos(4). Rome had a great many reformers: the Gracchi brothers(5), Appius Claudius Caecus(6), Marcus Livius Drusus(7), Julius Caesar(8) and Caesar Augustus(9). Gaius and Tiberius Gracchus and Caesar saw their lives cut short on account of their ambitious reforms.
Closer to our own time, there have been formidable individuals willing to seek change. Take Thomas Paine(10), for instance. A couple of weeks ago I was standing as a groundling in Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre in London. I had tickets for the opening night of A New World by Trevor Griffiths(11). This entertaining play charted the life of a Norfolk-born schoolteacher who turned out to be one of the world’s great thinkers and reformers. He was a key figure in the American War of Independence and French Revolution. His talent was to formulate ideas and express them in words common people could understand. As the author of Common Sense (1776) and The American Crisis (1776-83) he helped propel the movement to oust the British from the Thirteen Colonies. He was feted by Benjamin Franklin (who he had first met in 1774) and Thomas Jefferson.
Of course, the American Revolution succeeded and produced a new world republican form of government, but one that Paine did not always support. His Rights of Man attacked monarchies and hereditary government. His Age of Reason of 1794 argued against organised religion. His Agrarian Justice of 1795 argued for a minimum wage. Yet he died in obscurity in 1809 and only six attended his funeral in New York. (At least he was not assassinated). While he has since become a hero of the United States he remains in the country of his birth a traitor (12).
All this proves to show that change is easier to say than do. History shows that it usually takes many attempts over decades to affect real and lasting change: abolition of slavery in Britain and the US; acceptance of racial equality; granting of votes for women; and decriminalising consenting gay sex – and there’s so much more yet in need of reform. Reformers often articulate change that is popular, but in enacting the reform they often find they are walking a lonely path. It takes an individual of great courage and immense personal resources to go the journey – a hero, in fact. But in the end great ideas that mean change for good do take hold.
Let’s just hope that all that talk of reform today isn’t just hot air – and that we have the mettle to change.
A New World plays at Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre, London until October 9, 2009.
” Feeling emboldened, but with nothing more than curiosity behind my question, I asked, “would you ever consider a collaborative work, or are you happier writing solo?”