The Knights of Evesham

13th Century knights in battle, from the Morgan Bible (c.1250)

Over the last couple of years, I’ve been trying to assemble a list of all the knights and other men attested as being present at the Battle of Evesham, fought between Simon de Montfort and Lord Edward, son of King Henry III, on August the 4th 1265.

Many of these men are listed in literary accounts as having been killed or captured in the fighting, or having played some part in the battle. Others are mentioned in the subsequent official enquiries that sought to identify rebels who had sided with Simon de Montfort, and in some cases named the battles in which they had participated.

The annotated list below comprises all the names I have so far been able to track down in records and literary sources, together with whatever biographical information I could find about each man. I’ve restricted the list solely to those specifically mentioned as having been at Evesham, rather than being rebels more generally. Some are listed as ‘unconfirmed’, largely because I’ve been unable as yet to verify evidence cited by others.

Because of the nature of the sources, we have a far better idea of those who fought for de Montfort that day. Those on Edward’s side are harder to identify; I’ve included here only those specifically mentioned by name. There are a few more unconfirmed as well.

I should stress that not all those listed were knights - several were certainly squires, serjeants or junior vassals. In fact, only about half of those on the Montfortian list can be identified with confidence as knights, although many more were likely to have held that distinction.

If anyone knows of further evidence for men present at the battle, please do let me know using the link at the bottom of the page. This list is a work in progress!

Abbreviations: CPR = Calendar of Patent Rolls. Cal Inq Misc = Calendar of Inquests Miscellaneous. Cor Reg Roll = Coram Rege Rolls. Other primary sources given by name. ‘Cox’ is The Battle of Evesham, a New Account by Dr David C. Cox (2019); ‘Knowles’ is The Disinherited, 1265-1280: a political and social study of the supporters of Simon de Montfort and the resettlement after the Barons’ War, C.H. Knowles (1959).

Monfortians (confirmed)

  1. Arden, Thomas de. Lord of Rotley, Warwickshire. Tenant and vassal of Peter de Montfort. Also held the manor of Pedemore, and lands and tenants in Crudworth, Minneworth, Moxhull, Esthendmore, and Overton. Lands confiscated after Evesham and granted to his cousin, Thomas de Ardern of Hanwell. Cal Inq Misc 930: “Thomas de Ardena, taken at Evesham, had the manor of Rotteleg… which Thomas received because he had seisin of the manor before the Exaltation of the Cross.” In 1272, went on pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostella with Peter de Montfort Jr.

  2. Argentein, Giles de. Lord of Wymondley in Hertfordshire and Melbourn in Cambridgeshire. Son of the crusading knight Richard de Argentein. Fought in Poitou and in Wales, where he was briefly captured by Llewelyn ap Gruffud. One of the twelve baronial members of the governing council of 1258. Constable of Windsor in August 1263, and after Lewes appointed to the governing baronial council of nine. Cal Inq Misc 816: “Giles de Argentein was against the king at Evesham. He has land, a water mill, rents and services… in Flicham… which the earl of Warenne seized.” Cal Inq Misc 819: “Sir Giles de Argentem was at the battle of Evesham with his force.” Pardoned in February 1266 and recovered his principal estates at Wymondley, Halesworth, Melbourn and Newmarket.

  3. Astley, Thomas de. Lord of Astley, Warwickshire. Steward to Simon de Montfort. Married firstly Joane de Blois, secondly Edith Constable of Melton Constable, Norfolk. CPR Jan 12th 1266: “Grant, by way of grace and humanity, to Edith late the wife of Thomas de Estleye the king’s enemy killed in the battle of Evesham, that, out of the lands late of the said Thomas in Estleye, Brouton, Cotes, Lilleburn, Crek, Wiliby, Wetinton, Heham and Copeston, which the king lately gave to Warin de Bassingburn… she shall have all the lands late of her husband of the said towns of Wileby, Wetinton and Heyham… for the maintenance of herself and her children for her life, by the title of a free tenement, rendering yearly to the said Warin and his heirs 1 mark at Midsummer.” College of Arms MS: “And in this battle there fell together with Earl Simon… Sir Thomas of Astley…”

  4. Balliol, Guy de. Lord of Cavours, or Cavers, in Scotland. Served as de Montfort’s standard-bearer. Son of Henry de Balliol of Cavours, Chamberlain of Scotland. Brother of Alexander de Balliol and nephew of Eustace de Balliol. (Miracula Simonis de Montfort: “Guy Bayselle”) Melrose: “that bold knight, Guy de Balliol, carrying Simon's standard… a valiant Scottish knight… he was killed.” Guisborough: “And there fell with him in a small area of ground… lord Guy de Baylloff… and many other nobles along with a great number of people.”

  5. Basset, Ralph, of Drayton. Lord of Drayton in Staffordshire. Brother in law of Roger de Someri. Appointed keeper of the peace in Shropshire and Staffordshire on 7 June 1264. Held Shrewsbury for de Montfort in June 1265. Cal Inq Misc 739 (Leics): “The manor of Ketelby and Holewelle was in the hand of Ralph Basset who was killed at Evesham.” (Miracula Simonis de Montfort: “Ralph Basset of Draycote”); Wykes: “Peter de Montfort, Ralph Basset, and other renowned men, were slain amid the mournful destruction of the English army.” Cal Inq Misc 848: “Sir R. de Tibetot seized the manor of Colston Basset after the battle (conflictum) of Evesham…This manor before the troubles (ante perturbaeionem guerre) belonged to Ralph son of Sir Ralph Basset, who was killed at Evesham in the battle.”

  6. Beauchamp, John de. Baron of Bedford. Held the castle and barony of Bedford, the manor of Beauchamp, Essex, one messuage in Hendon, Middlesex, and one messuage in Ickleton, Cambridgeshire, the manors of Hawnes, Stotfold and Willington, lands in Wotton, Bromham and Barford in Bedfordshire and Lincelade in Buckinghamshire. Inherited the title on coming of age c.1264-5, after the death in 1262 of elder brother William, who in turn had inherited it from their father William, Baron of the Exchequer, Sheriff of Bedfordshire and Buckinghamshire, hereditary Grand Almoner at the Coronation of King Henry III, who died in 1260. Cal Inq Misc 936: “John de Bello Campo of Bedeford was a rebel and was killed at Evesham.” Wykes: “…And who could contain their tears at the death of John de Beauchamp? These two contemporaries excelled in the elegance of their bodies, but could not rightly be excused by their age.” (Miracula Simonis de Montfort: “John de Beauchamp of Bedford”). Rishanger: “…John de Beauchamp, who on the same day had first raised his flag; and many others and squires too, rendering their bodies to the earth of the same lamentable plain, and were brought to heaven as blessed souls, as we believe.”

  7. Becard, John. Possibly from Burton Leonard in Yorkshire. Household knight of Roger de Quincy, Earl of Winchester, and granted by him the annual rent of 100s from the Abbey of Thame, Oxfordshire. Son Peter Becard based in Yorkshire where he later held half a fee of Lord Edmund. CPR Nov 1st 1268: “John Becard, killed when against the king in the battle of Evesham...”

  8. Berham, Henry de. Lord of Barham Court, near Canterbury, and Teston, on the Medway near Maidstone. Son of Gilbert Fitz Urse de Bereham and Lucy de Ocholte. Married Joan de Saxonhurst on 24 July 1255, in Kent. Paid an aid on the lands he had inherited from his father at Barham on the occasion of the knighting of Prince Edward, in 1254. Cal Inq Misc 1024 “Henry de Berham and Richard, his brother, were against the king at the battle of Evesham with Sir Henry de Monte Forti; the land of the said Henry de Berham in Berham is of the yearly value of £20, William de Apelton holds it in the name of wardship of the said Henry’s heir; the land of the said Richard in Byerton is of the yearly value of 40s. and the said Richard holds it. The lands of the said Henry and Richard were never seized into the king’s hand.”.

  9. Berham, Richard de. Brother of the above. Cal Inq Misc 1024: “Henry de Berham and Richard, his brother, were against the king at the battle of Evesham with Sir Henry de Monte Forti”.

  10. Birmingham, William de. CPR Feb 4th 1268: “whereas the king lately gave to Roger de Clifford the lands late of William de Birmyngeham, killed against the king in the battle of Evesham, and Roger de Somery, lord of the heir of the said William who held those lands of him…” Cal Inq Misc 631: “Half the manor of Dorton was held by William de Bermingham… Rents last Michaelmas… were paid to lady Isabel de Bermingham through Alexander reeve of the manor. The said William was killed at Evesham because he was against the king.” Cal Inq Misc 633: “William de Bermingham held the manor of Hoggeston in demesne. He was killed at Evesham on the side of Sir Simon de Monte Forti. The manor is worth £10 a year. Sir Roger de Clifford is in seisin and his bailiffs received the Michaelmas rent of 26s. 3d.” (Miracula Simonis de Montfort: “William of Burmugham”).

  11. Bluet, Ralph. Lord of Hinton Bluet in Wiltshire. Younger brother of William Bluet, both former wards of Simon de Montfort from c.1243. William Bluet given respite from knighthood in 1253, 1256 and 1258. Cal Inq Misc 866: “Sir Ralph Bluet was a rebel (cursor contra regem). His land of Henton is worth 6 marks a year. The Michaelmas rent, viz. 15s. 6d., was collected by the reeve on the feast of St. Bartholomew last and spent in harvesting. The land is in the hand of Sir Edward.” Mention at an assize of 1280 on ownership of tenements in Hinton Bluet that “Ralf Bluet was killed at Evesham against the king.” (Feet of Fines Somerset Record Society, vol 44).

  12. Bohun, Humphrey de, the Younger. Lord of Brecon, Lord of Kimbolton, Baron of Kington. Eldest son and heir of Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Hereford and Essex. Married firstly, by February 1248, to Eleanor de Braose, daughter and co-heiress of William de Braose, Lord Abergavenny, and Eva Marshal. Gained Lordship of Brecon, Hay and Huntington, Kington, and Haverford in Pembrokeshire. Served with his father in Gascony in 1253 and then with Lord Edward in Wales. Disputed inheritance of de Braose lands with Roger Mortimer in 1259. Represented Simon de Montfort at Mise of Amiens January 1264. Fought at Lewes in May 1264. Constable of Winchester from July 1264. Married second wife Joane de Quincy before September 1264. Commanded de Montfort’s Welsh infantry at Evesham. Cal Inq Misc 610: “Sir Humphrey de Booun, the younger, was at Evesham with his men (cum posse suo) aiding Sir Simon de Monteforti.” Cal Inq Misc 927: “Humphrey de Boun, taken in the battle of Evesham, had land and rent in Budiford and Brome...” College of Arms MS: “Sir Humphrey de Bohun was captured as he fled and taken to Beeston, where he was kept under close arrest until he died in prison.” Died in captivity at Beeston Castle 27th Oct 1265. Buried at Combermere Abbey. Chronicle of Llanthony Abbey: “The aforesaid Humphrey… was taken prisoner in the battle of Evesham… and he was sent to the castle of Bystone, near Chester, in which castle he died on the vigil of Saints Simon and Jude next after the said war, in the custody of the king, while his father was alive, and he lies in the abbey of Cumbremere.”

  13. Bolesdun, Humphrey de. Cal Inq Misc 860: “Humphrey de Bolesdun was a rebel and was killed at the battle (in duello) of Evesham. He held land worth £10 a year in Trente of Sir Humphrey de Boun in chief. Roger de Mortimer now has seisin and took the last Michaelmas rent...”

  14. Boyton, William de. Lord of Boyton and Newton, Suffolk, both held in chief of the king. Also held lordship of Langford in Norfolk. CPR Jan 7th 1266: “Grant, by way of grace and humanity, to Agnes late the wife of William de Boyton;, the king's enemy, lately killed in the battle at Evesham, that of the lands late of the said William in Langeford, Boyton and Newenton, which the king has given to William Belet… she shall have the manor of Neuwenton, extended at… 18s. a year, and 25s. and 3 quarters of oats yearly of the rent of the villeins of Langeford, for the maintenance of herself and her children, for her life, by the title of a free tenement.” Lands granted to William Belet for five years in lieu of redemption fine, with wardship of de Boyton’s son and heir William. Son William held the manor under Edward and Edward II, and was a knight of the shire for Suffolk.

  15. Burdeyt, Robert. Cal Inq Misc 771: “Robert Burdeyt was in the service of the earl of Leicester at Evesham. He had 6 virgates of land in Lowesby worth 60s. He received the Michaelmas rent himself, viz. 15s.”

  16. Caleye, or Cailly, Thomas de. Family seem to have come from Buckenham in Norfolk. Cal Inq Misc 837 (Hundred of Gildesbury): “Thomas de Caleye was killed in the battle of Evesham (Hevesliam), being with the earl of Leicester. The earl of Gloucester seized his lands, &c. in Crec, Cotes and Lilleburn. The earl’s bailiff, Roger Querdeliun, received from Crec 6 marks of Michaelmas aid, from Cotes £5. 4s. and from Lilleburn £3. 4s..”

  17. Chenduit, or Chendut, Ralph de. Lord of Woolhampton in Berkshire, possibly as a tenant of Robert de Ferrers. Possibly also of Hemel Hempstead in Hertfordshire, where Ralph de Chenduit, about 1235, had a suit with the Abbot of St. Albans respecting free warren. Cal Inq Misc 624: “Sir Ralph de Chendut, knight, was at Evesham against the king and Sir Edward. His lands and rents in Wolamton are worth 5 marks a year and Ralph de Grenham received Michaelmas rent therefrom.”

  18. Colesworth or Culworth, Richard de. Lord of Culworth and Sulgrave in Northants, Borham in Essex, etc. Son of William de Culworth, formerly sheriff of Northants and Essex. Brother of Hugh de Culwurth, who was later in the garrison at Kenilworth and at Dover with Eleanor de Montfort. Cal Inq Misc 617: “Sir Richard de Calewrthe, taken at Evesham in arms against the king, had a carucate in Ellentone worth 10 marks a year. William de Diddewrthe seized it after the battle.” CPR Feb 4th 1266: “Grant to Erneburga wife of Richard de Culwrth, the king's enemy, that of the lands of the said Richard in Culewrth Sulegrave, Suldhorn, Gyvele, Borham and Evesham; she shall have the manor of Evesham, which is said to be of her inheritance, for the maintenance of herself and her children, until the king ordain otherwise.”

  19. Crammavill, Henry de. Lands in Kent. Crammavill family held South Hall in Rainham in demesne, also a mesne tenancy of the honor of Peverel of Dover at Gravesend, in Stifford and Thurrock, probably Grays Thurrock. Cal Inq Misc 609: “Henry de Cramarvill of Eddeworth was at the battle of Evesham (Everesham) against Sir Edward, and was taken prisoner there.”

  20. Cranesly, Thomas de (or Cransley, or Cronesley). In the retinue of Henry de Hastings. Cal Inq Misc 772: “Thomas de Cronesleye was killed at Evesham. He had 7 virgates of land and a mill at Wytherderleye worth 100s. Sir H. Lestrange received the Michaelmas rent… at the feast of the Nativity of St. Mary.” Cal Inq Misc 843: “Sir Thomas de Cranesle, knight, was with Sir H. de Hastinges at the battle of Evesham. It is believed that he is dead.”

  21. Crepping, Walter de aka Crespigny (Paris), or Despigny (Westminster). Held land in Colne and Crepping of Bury St. Edmund's abbey, and other lands as a tenant of Richard de Clare. Appointed steward of the king’s household after Lewes. College of Arms MS: “And in this battle there fell together with Earl Simon… Sir [Robert] of Crepping and several other knights whose names were not known…” Paris: “Besides the earl, there fell, in that battle twelve knights banneret; namely… Walter de Crespigny…” Westminster Annals: “Walter de Despigny…fell in the battle…”

  22. Crevequer, Robert de. Baron of Chatham and Lord of Leeds Castle, Kent. At inquisition post mortem for his father Hamo de Creuequer and his ‘sometime’ wife Maud de Averenches, 47 Hen III (1263), Robert is aged 24 and more. Cal Inq Misc 1024: “Sir Robert de Crevequer was with the earl of Leicester… at the Battle of Lewes, at Winchester, at the Battle of Evesham, and elsewhere.” Knighted by Simon de Montfort before the Battle of Lewes, according to Gervase of Canterbury. After Evesham, lands forfeited to Roger de Leyburne, then exchanged in 1268 for the manors of Trotiscliffe and Fleet. By 1278 Robert had relinquished his remaining share of the Barony of Crevequer. In 1316, his Inquisition Port Mortem states that Robert died seized of Penmeyn and Lessemeyn in the Cantred of Ros and the lands of Prestalton and Maylorseysenek.

  23. Curzon, Henry de. Held Kedleston and possibly Croxhall as tenant of the de Ferrers Earls of Derby. Also held land at Bentley, as tenant and vassal of Henry de Hastings, who held neighbouring Polesworth. Cal Inq Misc 644: “The same bailiffs seized the land of Henry de Cursun in Chadclesdene, worth two marks a year… He was taken at the battle of Evesham, but afterwards made his peace and recovered seisin.” Cal Inq Misc 928: “Henry de Corsoun, taken in the battle of Evesham, against the king, held a moiety of Benetleye worth 13s. 4d., and he had in Scliotesbroke 16s. 6d. of yearly rent. Nothing was due this Michaelmas. He held of the fee of Moubray.”


  24. Dene, Fulke de. In the retinue of John FitzJohn. Cal Inq Misc 835 (Hundred of Corby): “Fulk de Den was at the battle of Evesham (Hevessham) with Sir John son of John and was killed there. His land in Dene, worth £6, was seized by Sir Edward’s bailiffs. Sir Nicholas de Den, Fulk’s father, now holds it.”

  25. Despenser, Hugh. Son of the steward to Ranulf Earl of Chester. Accompanied Richard of Cornwall to Germany in 1257. Named associate executor of the will of Simon de Montfort in 1259. Justiciar of England from 1260 (succeeding Hugh Bigod) and Constable of the Tower of London. Swore the oath of mutual aid with the Commune of London in March 1264. Fought at Lewes May 1264. Summoned to Parliament in December 1264 as Baron Despenser. Cal Inq Misc 772: “Hugh Despensarius was killed at Evesham. He had Huclescot and Donigton worth £15, and his wife is put in seisin by the king.” Paris: “Besides the earl, there fell… Hugh Despenser justiciary of England…” Wykes: “Hugh Dispenser, cut down among his fellow soldiers, died after being stabbed with a deadly dagger.” Buried in Evesham Abbey. Wife Aline Basset held the Tower of London until surrendering it in August 1265.

  26. Devereux, William. Lord of Lyonshall Castle, with many other manors of Herefordshire, Shropshire, Cambridgeshire and Somerset. Mother was Isabel de Cantilupe, sister of the Bishop of Worcester. Fought in Welsh wars and Gascony. Married daughter of Hugh Bigod, Earl of Norfolk. Second marriage to Maud/Matilda Giffard. Fought for the king at Lewes, returned home with other Marcher Lords. Switched to de Montfort’s side in early 1265. Killed at Evesham (Miracula Simonis de Montfort: “William Devereus”). College of Arms MS: “And in this battle there fell together with Earl Simon…Sir William de Evereux… and several other knights whose names were not known…”

  27. Doye, or D’Oye, Robert. Servant of justiciar Hugh Bigod in 1260. CPR Oct 3rd 1260: “Robert Doye and John his brother” granted “wardship and marriage of the heirs of Robert, lord of Hautham, and the wardship of their lands.” Cal Inq Misc 739, Hundred of Kalehelle, Kent: “Sir Robert Doye was at the battle of Evesham. After the battle of Lewes, he seized a tenement of John de Bernefeld called Bernefeld, which he held until the battle of Evesham...” CPR 18 Oct 1267: “Pardon to Robert Doy, in consideration of the laudable service of Gocelin Doye, his father, to the king and his ancestors, of the king’s indignation and rancour of mind conceived towards him by occasion of the disturbance had in the realm; and of all trespasses done by him in that time.”

  28. Dyve, John de. Lord of manors of Deddington, Oxfordshire, and Wicken, Northants, granted to Osbert Giffard after his death, and Ducklington, Oxfordshire, granted as dower to his widow Sibyl. In 1273 John’s son Henry de Dive, married to Edelina Corbet, sued Giffard for the return of his lands (Cor Reg Roll). Cal Inq Misc 853: “John Dive was at the battle of Evesham with the king and the earl of Leicester. The manor of Dochelinton was his. It is worth £16 Michaelmas rent, 2 marks, 3s. 8d… Sir William de Valence seized it after the battle of Evesham. John came to the battle by the king’s command.” Osney: “There were slain with him that very hour the most noble and valiant men… John of Dyve”. Robt of Glouc: “sir John Dive thereto… And many a good man slain in that field”.


  29. Elsefield, Gilbert de. Lord of Elsfield in Oxfordshire. Lands in Wiltshire, Warwickshire, and West Parley in Dorset. Opponent of William de Valence. Knight in the household of Hugh Despenser. Accompanied Richard of Cornwall to Germany in 1257. Cal Inq Misc 656: “Sir Gilbert de Hilesfeld was a rebel and was killed at Evesham. He held the town of Perley in the hundred of Craneburn worth 6 marks a year. Sir Thomas de Clare received all the profits. The Michaelmas rent amounted to 9s. 8d, which Sir Thomas received.” Osney: “There were slain with him that very hour the most noble and valiant men… Gilbert of Elsfield…” Robt of Glouc: “sir Gileberd of Eisnesfelde, And many a good man slain in that field.”

  30. FitzGriffin, Laurence. Cal Inq Misc 614: “Laurence, son of Griffin, of Bedford, was openly with the earl of Leicester at the battle of Evesham. He had lands, &c. in Bedford worth 10s. a year…”

  31. FitzJohn, John. Lord of Shere and Shalford, Surrey, Fambridge, Essex, Whaddon, Steeple Claydon, Quarrendon, and Aylesbury, Bucks, Cherhill and Winterslow, Wilts, Potterspury and Moulton, Northants, and Moreton Hampstead, Devon. Son of John FitzGeoffrey, leader of baronial opposition under King John, who died in November 1258. Received his father’s lands while still a minor by payment of £300. Knighted in 1264, either at Gloucester or London. Osney: “Nor was there on the earl’s side any man of valour, value, or fortitude who escaped death, aside from Sir John Fitz John, who was protected by the grace of God, and assisted by the judgement of Sir Roger de Clifford.”

  32. Fitzneil, Robert. Lord of Salden manor near Mursley in Buckinghamshire Also held Iffley in Oxfordshire and other lands in Bedfordshire. May have been a member of Despenser’s household. Cal Inq Misc 633: “Robert son of Neal held the manor of Salden in demesne with part of Muresley. He was on the side of Sir Simon de Monte Forti, and was killed at Evesham. The manor is worth, with the aforesaid part of Muresleye, £20 a year. Sir John de Grey is in seisin and his bailiffs received the Michaelmas rent...” Lands granted to Walter de Merton 28 October 1265. Died before 15 September 1266, when his widow Grace was awarded a year’s protection.

  33. FitzNigel, Robert. Cal Inq Misc 292: “the manor of La Hyde, late of Robert son of Nigel who was killed at Evesham.”

  34. Forester, Henry the. Cal Inq Misc 844: “Henry the forester (Forestar) of Braybrok was in the battle of Evesham with Sir Thomas de Cranesle. His land in Braybroc and Clipston is worth 21s. The earl of Gloucester’s bailiff has seized it and received 2s. in Martinmas rent.”

  35. Hardreshull, or Hartshill, Robert de. Lord of Hartshill Castle in Warwickshire, also Pultenheche and Paxton. Fought in the retinue of Henry de Hastings. Cal Inq Misc 718: “Sir Robert de Hardricheshull was at the battle of Evesham with Sir Henry de Hastinges and was killed there. He had land in Great Paxton worth £10. After his death Henry de Whaddon took seisin…” Cal Inq Misc 926: “Robert de Hardredeshull, killed at Evesham against the king, held the manor of Hardredeshull, worth £20. of the fee of Chester. Michaelmas rent, £4. 7s.” “Grant, by way of humanity and grace, to Margaret late the wife of Robert de Hardredeshull, the king's enemy, killed in the battle of Evesham, that of the lands of the said Robert in Pultenheche and Paxton which the king lately gave to Matthias Bezille…” John de Hartshill, Robert's brother, died in 1276 seised of the manor.

  36. Hastings, Henry de. Lord of Ashill and Grissing, Norfolk; Blunham, Bedfordshire; Aston Flamville, Nailstone and Burbage in Leicestershire; Fillongley in Warwickshire; steward of the Abbey of St Edmundsbury; lord of other estates inherited from the earldom of Chester, including Pembrokes in Tottenham. Swore the oath of mutual aid with the Commune of London in March 1264. Possibly knighted by Simon de Montfort on the eve of the Battle of Lewes. Fought at Lewes May 1264. Taken prisoner at Evesham. Robt of Glouc: “Sir Henry de Hastinges… was then taken.” College of Arms MS: “Prisoners taken were Sir John fitz John, Sir Henry of Hastings, Sir John de Vescy, Sir Nicholas of Segrave, Sir Peter de Montfort the younger, and Guy de Montfort.” Imprisoned in Beeston Castle by Lord Edward (Annals of Chester); still in prison ‘of Thomas de Clare’ in February 1266 (CPR), but later fights at Chesterfield in May 1266 and leads the defence of Kenilworth June-December 1266 before joining the Ely rebels. Died before 1269.

  37. Hoyville, Hugh de. In 1257 he went to Germany in the retinue of Richard of Cornwall. In January 1258 ‘Hugh de Hyvyle’ was exempted for life from being put on juries or assizes or from being made sheriff against his will, ‘at the instance of the queen’ (CPR). Hugh de Hoyville was killed at Evesham (Miracula Simonis de Montfort: “Hugo de Hopvile”). Philip de Hoyville, either his son or brother, is listed as a ‘knight’ in the garrison at Kenilworth in August 1265.

  38. Malteyn, William. Cal Inq Misc 936 (Hundred of Pershore): “the same John [de Chirchull] has in the same town 22 acres on lease of William Malteyn who was outlawed for felony a year ago in the county. None the less the said William was in the battle of Evesham with Sir Simon earl of Leicester.”


  39. Mandeville, William de. Identity unclear. Wykes: “Whose heart would not grieve over the death of the young nobleman William de Mandewille, brother of the lord John, son of John, who was taken prisoner in the same battle within sight of his brother?” Possibly William de Mandeville of Bratton, son of Ralph de Mandeville of Highworth and Bratton in Wiltshire. Alternatively may have been a son of John FitzGeoffrey, and therefore younger brother of John FitzJohn as suggested by Wykes, who took the name de Mandeville.

  40. Maners, William de or Manners. CPR Feb 25th 1266: “Remission, at the instance of Edward the king's son, to Baldwin de Maner, son and heir of William de Maner, of the king's indignation and rancour of mind conceived against him for trespasses done by his father in the disturbance had in the realm, and also because his said father was killed against the king in the conflict of Evesham; and restitution to him of his father's lands to hold in fee with any other lands and other goods which he may purchase hereafter.” Cal Inq Misc 831, Hundred of Wayland, Norfolk: “Sir William de Maneriis was killed at Evesham on the side of Sir S. de Monteforti. He held a manor ( extent given) in Kerbroc [Carbrook]. Peter de Risinge, the earl of Gloucester’s bailiff, received the Michaelmas rent, 23s. from the reeve of the manor and paid it to the earl’s superior bailiffs”

  41. Marmion, William. Lord of Winteringham, Coningsby and Tanfield. Opponent of Peter of Savoy in Sussex. Swore the oath of mutual aid with the commune of London in March 1264. Fought at Lewes and captured Giles de Ashby. Cal Inq Misc 833: “Sir Simon de Monti Forti was at the Battle of Evesham…William Marmyun was with Sir Simon at the same battle. He married the relict of Sir Robert de Mars, who held the custody of the manor of Esseby of the king. Gilbert de Clare seized the said manor which is worth £12. and received 60s. at Michaelmas.”


  42. Monmouth, Henry de. Lord of Morden in Herefordshire. Close Rolls 1268-72, p.450: “Henry de Munemuth, against us in the battle of Evesham; slain… during the aforesaid battle.”

  43. Montfort, Guy de. Younger son of Simon, Earl of Leicester. Possibly knighted in London May 1264. Fought at Lewes. Captured at Evesham. College of Arms MS: “Prisoners taken were Sir John fitz John, Sir Henry of Hastings, Sir John de Vescy, Sir Nicholas of Segrave, Sir Peter de Montfort the younger, and Guy de Montfort.” Taken as prisoner to Beeston Castle (St Werburgh’s), then moved to Windsor and later Dover. Rishanger: “Guy de Montfort was imprisoned at Dover, and escaped.” Later travelled to Italy, where he fought for Charles of Anjou, and gained the title Count of Nola. Murdered Henry of Almain, the king’s nephew, at Viterbo in March 1271. Died in prison in Sicily c.1291.

  44. Montfort, Henry de. Eldest son of Simon, Earl of Leicester. Born November 1238. Knighted by Lord Edward in 1260. Sent with baronial deputation to the Mise of Amiens. Sacked Worcester and fought at Gloucester in February 1264. Swore the oath of mutual aid with the commune of London in March 1264. Fought at Lewes May 1264. Constable of Dover and Warden of the Cinque Ports. Wykes: “Henry de Montfort, his firstborn and heir, perished in front of father by the sword.” Melrose: “It was he who struck the first blow in the battle; the blow was returned, and he was the first of the many who fell there and died, for he was pierced by several mortal wounds, inflicted by various hands.” Rishanger: “Henry, the first-born son of the earl… and many others and squires too, rendering their bodies to the earth of the same lamentable plain, and were brought to heaven as blessed souls, as we believe.”

  45. Montfort, Peter de, the Younger. Son of Peter de Montfort. College of Arms MS: “Prisoners taken were Sir John fitz John, Sir Henry of Hastings, Sir John de Vescy, Sir Nicholas of Segrave, Sir Peter de Montfort the younger…” 28th June 1267, pardoned by Henry III for “all trespasses at the time of the disturbance in the kingdom.”

  46. Montfort, Peter de. Lord of Beaudesert Castle in Warwickshire. Grandson of Walter de Cantilupe. Prolocutor (speaker) of Parliament. Swore the oath of mutual aid with the commune of London in March 1264. Constable of Hereford Castle. Sent to negotiate treaty with Llewellyn ap Gruffud at Pipton July 1265. Killed at Evesham August 1265. Paris: “Besides the earl, there fell, in that battle… Peter de Montfort…” Osney: “There were slain with him that very hour the most noble and valiant men… Peter de Montfort, and his eldest son…” Wykes: “Peter de Montfort, Ralph Basset, and other renowned men, were slain amid the mournful destruction of the English army.” Rishanger: “Peter the elder de Montfort was beheaded with contempt.”

  47. Montfort, Robert de. Son of Peter de Montfort. Robert of Gloucester: “…and sir Robert, that were sons to sir Peirs de Mountfort; These, and many more, were taken there in the murder.”

  48. Montfort, Simon de. Earl of Leicester and leader of baronial rebellion. Steward of England. Swore the oath of mutual aid with the commune of London in March 1264. Led baronial army at Lewes May 1264. Died in battle at Evesham. Osney: “he was slain there in a most shameful and unheard-of way. For they cut off his head, his hands, his feet, and his virile member, which is horrible to report, and cast lots upon them as upon his arms, as if they would carry them off by lot.” Wykes: “Simon de Montfort died, not only beheaded but also with his arms and legs cut off and cut into small pieces. When only his trunk remained a very vile band of footsoldiers, who envied him above all for his deeds, and, filled with the most vile kind of rage, cut off trophies from his corpse.”

  49. Motun, Robert. Held manor of Peckleton, or Peyclinton, Leicestershire of the Earl of Leicester. Cal Inq Misc 772: “Robert Motun of Peyttelton was killed at Evesham. His land in Peyhtelton is worth £9. William Bagot received the Michaelmas rent, viz. 23s. 4d.” Wife named Juliana. CPR Jan 12th 1266: “to Juliana late the wife of Robert Motun, the king's enemy, killed at the battle of Evesham, that out of the lands of the said Robert in Peklinton which the king lately gave to William Bagod… she shall have [land] for the maintenance of herself and her children for her life.”

  50. Normanvill, Ralph de. Possibly from Empingham in Rutland. Father (?) Ralph went on a pilgrimage to Santiago in April 1259 (CPR 1258-66) and died before May following, probably on the journey. Alternatively, may have held lands in Stainforth of the Percys, or Napton in Warwickshire. Son Adam de Normanvill paid Agnew de Vesci £277 to redeem his father’s manor of Thrybergh in Yorkshire. Cal Inq Misc 804: “Ralph de Normanvile was killed at Evesham. His house, lands, &c. (extent given), in Stainton are worth £4, 4s.”

  51. Otterden, or Ottringden, Ralph de. Of the household of Robert de Crevequer. Cal Inq Misc 1024: “Sir Robert de Crevequer was with the earl of Leicester, and with the said Sir R. was Sir Ralph de Oteringedene one of his household at the siege of Rochester castle, at the Battle of Lewes, at Winchester, at the Battle of Evesham, and elsewhere.”


  52. Passelow, or Passelewe, or Parslow, John de. Lord of Drayton Passelew, Buckinghamshire. Cal Inq Misc 633 (Bucks): “John Passelewe held Drayton in demesne. He was captured on the side of Simon de Monte Forti at Evesham… The earl of Gloucester is in seisin and his bailiffs took the Michaelmas rent…”

  53. Roule, Roger de. Lord of Doverby in Cumberland and Quorndon in Leicestershire, perhaps as a tenant of Hugh Despenser. CPR Jan 28th 1271: “the lands late of Roger de Roule in Dovannesby [Doverby, Allerdale, Cumberland], killed against the king in the battle of Evesham, which the king on that account gave to Richard le Norreys his yeoman, which are worth 20 marks yearly and more, and are extended only at 10 marks yearly...” Melrose: “Roger de Rewle, a companion of the Guy [de Balliol] whom we have mentioned, and who also, like him, was killed.” Guisborough: “And there fell with him in a small area of ground… Sir Roger de Roule, and many other nobles along with a great number of people.”

  54. Sandwich, Ralph de. Master of the great wardrobe. CPR Nov 28th 1266: “Pardon to Ralph de Sandwico, taken in the conflict at Evesham, of the king’s indignation and rancour of mind conceived towards him by occasion of the disturbance in the realm; on the mainprise of W. Bishop of Bath and Wells, the chancellor, Henry Malemayns, Geoffrey de Percy and William de Faukeham for his good behaviour.”

  55. Segrave, Nicholas de. Lord of Segrave in Leicestershire and Stowe and Chaucombe in Northants. Father Gilbert killed on campaign in Gascony in 1254. Swore the oath of mutual aid with the commune of London in March 1264. Fought at Lewes May 1264. Cal Inq Misc 638: “Nicholas de Segrave was at the battle of Evesham with Sir Simon de Monteforti, and was taken there.” (Miracula Simonis de Montfort: “Roch de Segreve”). Robert of Glouc: “verily sir Nicole De Segrave was then taken.” Lands restored, went on crusade with Lord Edmund in 1271. Died in 1295. Married to Matilda de Lucy (or Maud), sister of Geoffrey de Lucy.

  56. Soudan, Stephen. Marshal of the royal household under de Montfort in 1265, and granted two robes. Held lands in Kent. Cal Inq Misc 1024: “The earl of Leicester sent after Sir Stephen Soudan in the king’s name after the battle of Lewes, and the said Sir Stephen was made marshal of the king’s household, and so stayed with the king until the battle of Evesham; afterwards Sir Roger de Leyburn seized his lands, and by the king’s gift received redemption therefor…”

  57. Spetchley, Richard de. Cal Inq Misc 936: “Richard de Spechesleye was against the king and perished in the battle of Evesham. He had in Spechesley 2 carucates of land worth £4. 9s. Michaelmas rent, 13s., which the collectors received. He had also a windmill which paid annually 16 quarters of mastin.” Cal Inq Misc 804: “Richard de Speschele in Wulingham was killed at Evesham. His house, lands… in Wulingham are worth 7s. 6d. No Michaelmas rent.”


  58. St John, Roger de. Lord of Stanton Saint-John, Oxfordshire, and Lagham in Surrey. Roger de St. John attended the Parliament at Oxford in 1258. Westminster: “Roger St. John, Walter de Despigny, William of York, and Robert Tregos, all very powerful knights and barons, and besides all the guards and warlike cavalry fell in the battle…” Osney: “There were slain with him that very hour the most noble and valiant men… Roger of St. John…” Cal Inq Misc 904: “The manor late of Roger de Sancto Johanne in Lageham and Wilestede, taken possession of by Sir G. de Clare, earl of Gloucester, is valued at £30 with a Michaelmas rent of 66s. 8d.”

  59. Tregoz, Robert. Son and heir of Geoffrey Tregoz, lord of Billingford in Norfolk and Tolleshunt, Blunteshale and Torpingho in Essex. Nephew of Baron Tregoze of Lydiard Tregoze in Wiltshire and Lord of Ewyas Harold in Herefordshire; “aged 24 on St. Benedict's day last, 40 Hen. III (1256)”. Cal Inq Misc 690: “Sir Robert Tregoz held the manor of Toleshunte of the king in chief, one hide of the abbess of Berkingh, one hide of John Fillull of Kelleveden, and 60 acres of the abbot of Cogeshal. The Michaelmas rents from the manor of Toleshunte … Sir John de Ardern received.” Westminster: “Walter de Despigny, William of York, and Robert Tregos, all very powerful knights and barons… fell in the battle…”

  60. Trussell. Richard de. Lord of Billesley, Warwickshire, also Milverton and Allenhall, Warks. Both Richard and his younger brother William de Trussell supposedly fought at Lewes in 1264 and then at Evesham. Cal Inq Misc 844: “Sir Richard Trussell was killed in the battle of Evesham. He had two manors in the hundred, Thorp Maleshors and Merston. Sir Robert Pikot seized both.” Cal Inq Misc 929: “Richard Trussel, who was killed at Evesham, had the homage of an escheat at Mulverton and Margery his mother’s sister had all the rent by way of dower.” (Miracula Simonis de Montfort: Richard Trussel). College of Arms MS: “And in this battle there fell together with Earl Simon…Sir Richard Trussel…”

  61. Trussel, William de. Brother of Richard de Trussell. Robert of Gloucester: “Sir William Trossel… And many a good man slain in that field.”


  62. Uffington, David de. Lord of Didcot, by marriage to the widow of Andrew le Blunt, and held land in Caldecott. In the retinue of the Bishop of London, joined de Montfort together with his step-son, Robert le Blunt. Sent by de Montfort as an envoy to the King of Scots. Held prisoner by Osbert Giffard after Evesham but escaped or was released and joined rebels at Ely. Later operated as an outlaw in Epping Forest, stealing animals worth 10 marks from Didcot, until pardoned in 1267. Cal Inq Misc 188: “David de Offinton, taken at Evesham, held land in Caldecote. He is Sir Osbert Giffard’s prisoner.”


  63. Vescy, John de. Baron of Alnwick, with estates in Northumberland and Yorkshire. Succeeded to the title while underage after his father’s death in Gascony in 1253. Swore the oath of mutual aid with the Commune of London in March 1264. College of Arms MS: “Prisoners taken were Sir John FitzJohn, Sir Henry of Hastings, Sir John de Vescy, Sir Nicholas of Segrave, Sir Peter de Montfort the younger…” Wounded and taken prisoner at Evesham. Took the severed foot of Simon de Montfort and gave it to Alnwick Abbey. Raised a new rebellion in the north in 1267. Rebellion crushed by Lord Edward after siege of Alnwick. Pardoned and later a close friend of Lord Edward; joined him at Acre in 1271.

  64. Wyville, or Wideville, Robert de. Lord of Sproxton and Stonton Wyvill (11 miles SE of Leicester), held of the Earl of Leicester, besides lands in Northants and Leicester. According to Cox, mentioned as having been at Evesham in History and Antiquities of the County of Leicester. Held prisoner as of 13th Oct 1265. Cal Inq Misc 770 (fragmentary): “… taken in the battle of Evesham, held the manor of Staunton Wyville, worth… Michaelmas rent 37s 4d.”

  65. York, William of. Lord of Oxenhall in Gloucestershire, Holme Lacy (Hamme) in Herefordshire, etc. Married to the sister of Walter Giffard, bishop of Bath and Wells. CPR Jul 7th 1264, given safe conduct together with several marcher barons and other royalists ‘coming to the king’; probably a royalist at that time. CPR May 17th 1265, William de Ebroicis promised restitution for lands pledged to Roger Mortimer for the ransom of Adam le Despenser, taken at Northampton. Sheriff of Hereford in June 1265. CPR Oct 12th 1265: “Grant for life at the instance of W. Bishop of Bath and Wells, the chancellor, and for the laudable services of his ancestor, to Maud late the wife of William de Ebroicis, who was killed at Evesham; sister of the said bishop, of the manors late of the said William, of Hamme, Oxenhale, Frome and Wileby, with the rents of Ballingham, Guting and Heynton, Trompiton and La Fenne, with the meadow of Jarchull, to hold as of the value of 60l. of land a year, with wards, reliefs and escheats.” Westminster: “Walter de Despigny, William of York, and Robert Tregos, all very powerful knights and barons… fell in the battle…”



Monfortians (unconfirmed)

 

  1. Arundel, William of. Listed among the dead at Evesham in the Miracula Simonis de Montfort. Otherwise unknown; possibly a misspelling or duplication?

  2. Basset, Ralph of Sapcote. Lord of Sapcote, Leicestershire, held of the honour of Leicester. Summoned to Parliament 24 December 1264. Member of the de Montfort affinity, often acting with Thomas de Astley. Basset stood surety for the earl's Jewish debt in 1243, and accompanied de Astley and Lord Simon to Gascony. Cal Inq Misc 929: “Sir Ralph Basset of Sapecote was with the earl of Leicester under arms….” Those mentioned alongside him (Astley, Hastings, Segrave) are specifically said to have fought at Evesham, so it seems likely that Basset of Sapcote did too. Following Evesham, his lands were confiscated and granted to John de Verdon. In September 1267 he contracted to ransom them under the dictum of Kenilworth, he was required to pay a ransom of 1000 marks over two years to regain them.

  3.  Birteley, Gilbert de. Probably a knight of Durham, maybe connected to Gilbert de Umfraville. Supposedly killed at Evesham, according to a note in Bain ‘Calendar of Documents relating to Scotland’, IV, 354.


  4. Boseville, John de. At Evesham, according to Knowles, citing Rishanger / MS Dodsworth 40 (Bodleian) f228.

  5.  Bracey, Robert de. Lord of Madresfield in Worcestershire. Listed in Langridge and Kyte, Simon de Montfort: the Fatal Hours (2015) as a participant at Evesham. Cal Inq Misc 936: “Robert de Bracy was at one time with Sir John Estormy, who was with Sir John son of John, so his land was taken into the king’s hand. He had in Aston three parts of a carucate worth 18s. No Michaelmas rent.” Later served as knight of the shire for Worcestershire. Inquisition 20 January 1316, found to hold three knights fees at Warnedon, Madresfield and Braces Leigh, Worcester.


  6.  Breton, Matthew le. At Evesham, according to Knowles, citing MS Dodsworth 40 (Bodleian) f227.


  7.  Cornard, Richard of. Killed at Evesham, according to Cox, citing Rotuli Selecti.


  8.  Darcy or D’Arcy, Norman. Cal Inq Misc just says he was ‘a rebel against the king’. According to Cox, mentioned in Worcester Annals as having been at Evesham. Lord of Nocton and three other manors in Lincolnshire, son of Philip Darcy. Inherited from his father Philip in July 1264. “Sir Norman, his son, aged 28 and more, is his heir, and was married many years ago.”


  9.  Marshall, William. Baron Marshall of Hingham in Norfolk. Grandson of the elder brother of the famous William Marshall (i.e. he is great-nephew to the Marshall). Given title to his lands in 1242. Served as Deputy Marshal of Ireland. Married first, Pernel Ortiay, second Elizabeth de Ferrers, daughter of the Earl of Derby by his second wife (i.e. sister of Robert de Ferrers 6th Earl of Derby). Served in Wales 1260. 1263, commissioner looking into offences against the Provisions of Oxford. One of the Baronial representatives at the Mise of Amiens. Keeper of the Peace for Northamptonshire 1264. At Northampton in 1264, assembling the community in the Cow Meadow and addressing them on behalf of the Earl of Leicester. Taken prisoner with the fall of the town,  released after the battle of Lewes. Died in 1265, possibly killed at, or died from wounds suffered in, the Battle of Evesham. Oct 17th 1265: “Grant to Alan Plugenet, for his services to the king and Edward, of the manor of Haselburg late of William le Mareschal, the king’s enemy.” June 4th 1266: “Grant, by way of grace and humanity, to Elizabeth late the wife of William le Mareschal… that she shall have [lands in] the manor of Chaddeston… Norton and Wytlebury…for the maintenance of herself and her household, for life.”


  10.  Newton, or Neuton, Robert de. Killed at Evesham, according to Knowles, citing CPR 1258-66 314 (?) / MS Dodsworth 40 (Bodleian) f227.


  11.  Pembridge, Henry de. Lord of Pembridge. Cal Inq Misc 936: “Henry de Penbrugge was against the king.” Sheriff of Hereford in 1255. Supposedly captured at Evesham and imprisoned at Wigmore. Made peace with King Henry on November 16th and had all his forfeited lands returned, except Pembridge, which remained in Roger de Mortimer’s hands.


  12.  Sackville, Jordan de. Lord of Buckhurst in Sussex by c 1250. By 1255 he was in possession of Emmington in Sussex. Supposedly captured at Evesham and imprisoned, but later pardoned (ref Feet of Fines Essex, I. 74).

  13.  Sepinges, Robert de. Listed among the dead at Evesham in the Miracula de Simonis de Montfort. Otherwise unknown; possibly a misspelling or duplication?


  14.  Verons, or Perons, William de. Listed among the dead at Evesham by Robert of Gloucester. Otherwise unknown; possibly a misspelling or duplication?.


  15. Willey, Andrew de. Killed at Evesham, according to Cox, citing Public Record Office fine rolls.


  16.  Wortham, William de. Held land at Wortham in the Hundred of Hartesmere in Suffolk, besides estates in Bedfordshire and Norfolk. He was an associate of Bishop Robert Grossetest, and his sister Hawise was damoiselle to Countess Eleanor de Montfort. He departed Countess Eleanor’s household at Odiham with a present for Earl Richard at Kenilworth in March 1265. Mentioned in several sources as having been killed at Evesham, without cited evidence. Cal Inq Misc 611: “William de Wortham had the wardship of the heir of Richard le Bretun in Stondon and the earl of Gloucester seized it after Evesham.... Sir Philip Basset now has seism by the king’s order.”



Royalists (confirmed)


  1. Apeldurfeld, William de. Knight of Gilbert de Clare’s retinue. Fought for de Montfort at Lewes and then for Lord Edward at Evesham. CPR: “Whereas the king, by charter, pardoned G. de Clare, earl of Gloucester, and those of his household who were against the king's enemies in the battle of Evesham; their trespasses in the conflict of Lewes, and elsewhere, and William de Apodorfeld (Apildorfeud in the margin), knight of the said earl, at the time of the earl's aid to the king… the said William is not to be occasioned contrary to the said pardon.”


  2. Bassingbourne, Warin de. Held lands in Cambridgeshire and Limerick, Ireland. Robert of Gloucester: “…their foes fled soon, thickly, many a one. Sir Warin of Bassingbourne, when he saw this. Began forward to prick, and to shout on high, ”Turn, traitors! turn, and bear in your thoughts. How vilely at Lewes ye were to ground brought…”


  3. Brun, Richard le. Of Gilbert de Clare’s retinue. Fought for de Montfort at Lewes and then for Lord Edward at Evesham. CPR 1270 ‘in the conflict of Lewes; as elsewhere, and Richard le Brun was with the earl (de Clare) on the king's side in the said battle (of Evesham)…’

  4.  Clare, Gilbert de. Earl of Gloucester and Hertford. Commanded the central division of de Montfort’s army at Lewes, but turned against him early in 1265. Joined Lord Edward at Wigmore or Ludlow in summer 1265, and commanded the right flank of his army at Evesham. CPR: “Pardon to G. de Clare, earl of Gloucester and Hertford, Thomas de Clare and John Giffard, and their households; in consideration of their aid to the king and Edward his son at the conflict at Evesham…” Wykes: “Then came the Earl of Gloucester, surrounded by a company of active soldiers of the second line, rushing in on the opposite side of the melee...” Guisborough: “[Edward] ordered his army into three divisions: he and his men on one side, the Earl of Gloucester on the other…” CPR: “Whereas the king, by charter, pardoned G. de Clare, earl of Gloucester, and those of his household who were against the king's enemies in the battle of Evesham; their trespasses in the conflict of Lewes, and elsewhere…”


  5.  Clare, Thomas de. Younger brother of Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester. Acted as Edward’s custodian at Hereford in May 1265 and conspired in his escape. CPR: ““Pardon to G. de Clare, earl of Gloucester and Hertford, Thomas de Clare and John Giffard, and their households; in consideration of their aid to the king and Edward his son at the conflict at Evesham…”


  6. Clifford, Roger de. Prominent marcher lord, aided Edward’s escape from Hereford in 1265. Osney: “Sir John Fitz John… was protected by the grace of God, and assisted by the judgement of Sir Roger de Clifford.”

  7.  Edward. Son of King Henry III. Guisborough: “When [Edward] heard that Earl Simon was coming towards Kenylworth, to join up with the army of his son, and to become stronger, he went forth to meet him on the third day at Evesham.”


  8.  Giffard, John. Baron of Brimpsfield. Fought for de Montfort at Lewes and then for Lord Edward at Evesham. CPR: “Pardon to G. de Clare, earl of Gloucester and Hertford, Thomas de Clare and John Giffard, and their households; in consideration of their aid to the king and Edward his son at the conflict at Evesham…” CPR: “Pardon to John Giffard, for his aid at the conflict at Evesham to the king and Edward his son for all traspasses and excesses…”


  9.  Giffard, Osbert. Cousin of John Giffard of Brimpsfield. Fought for de Montfort at Lewes and then for Lord Edward at Evesham. CPR: “Pardon to Osbert Giffard, in consideration of his strenuous aid in the conflict at Evesham against the enemies of the king and of his son Edward, of all the trespasses and excesses which he did in the realm of England by occasion of the late disturbance in the realm until this day…”


  10.  Horforton, Richard de. Cal Inq Misc: “who was in the battle of Evesham with Sir Edward.”


  11.  Keleshale, William. Cal Inq Misc: “Robert le Chamberlayn… was no enemy, open or secret, of the king, but supported him with mind, soul and counsel, for he sent to Evesham William de Keleshale, with horses and arms, his best and favourite esquire who sided (stetit) with Sir Edward and the earl of Gloucester”


  12.  Leyburne, Roger de. Held lands in Kent. Defended Rochester Castle against de Montfort over Easter 1264. Aided Edward’s escape from Hereford in 1265. Lanercost: “But the king was saved by a certain baron of the marches, named Roger de Leyburn” (rex vero salvatus est per quendam baronem de marchia, Rogerum de Leyburne nomine.)

  13. Maltravers, William. Knight of the household of Gilbert de Clare. Fought for de Montfort at Lewes and then for Lord Edward at Evesham, where he joined the ‘death squad’ tasked with killing the earl, and then aided in dismembering his body. Robert of Gloucester: “William Mautravers (thanks have he none) Cut off his feet and hands, and his limbs many a one…”

  14.  Mohaut, Adam de. Guisborough: “The lord Adam de Mohaut recognised [the king] by his voice… and delivered him to his soldiers to take care of him.”


  15. Mortimer, Roger. Baron of Wigmore. Guisborough: “[Edward] ordered his army into three divisions… Roger de Mortimer bringing up the rear.”


  16. Ridware, Adam de. Probably of Hamstall Ridware, nr Lichfield. Supposedly killed by his own side after failing to wear the identifying red cross. Miracula: “On the part of Lord Edward there fell Hugh de Troia, knight, and Adam de Rid[mark], and a few others.”

  17. Tracy, William. Cal Inq Misc: “for the strenuous aid to himself and Edward his son, of Gilbert de Clare, earl of Gloucester and Hertford, in the battle of Evesham; against the king's enemies… and whereas William de Tracy before the battle of Evesham; and at the time of the said aid, was a knight of the earl and an adherent of his against the king's enemies… the king has likewise pardoned him of such trespasses…”

  18. Troyes, or Troia, Hugh de. Possibly a household knight of Lord Edward, possibly French. Served in the royal garrison of Gloucester Castle after its capture by Edward in late June 1265. Joined Edward’s army on or just before the day of battle. Supposedly killed by his own side after failing to wear the identifying red cross. College of Arms MS: “On Sir Edward’s side fell Sir Hugh de Troyes, Sir Adam de… and a few others.” Miracula: “On the part of Lord Edward there fell Hugh de Troia, knight, and Adam de Ridmark, and a few others.”



Royalists (unconfirmed)


  1. Berkeley, Thomas de. Son of the staunch royalist Maurice de Berkeley. Born c.1245. Supposedly at the battle, according to 17th Century ‘Berkeley Papers’ (by John Smythe of Nibley), although we are not told on which side! Served with the royal army at the siege of Kenilworth in 1266 and was recompensed by the king for loss of a horse (Liberate Rolls).

  2. Bigod, Hugh. Former justiciar, and brother of Roger Bigod, the lukewarm Montfortian Earl of Norfolk. Joined William de Valence and John de Warenne in their landing in Pembrokeshire in spring 1265, and then probably joined Edward’s forces. Wykes: “…Hugh Bigot, who a little before had taken the county of Pembroke with a vigorous band of warriors without resistance, increased [Edward’s] army.” Not specifically mentioned as participating in the battle, but likely to have been present.

  3. Cheney, William de. Probably a household knight of Lord Edward. Served alongside Hugh de Troyes in the garrison of Gloucester Castle July-August 1265, and left with him to join Edward’s army before Evesham. As Hugh fought and died in the battle, de Cheney was probably there too, although unconfirmed.


  4.  Pauncefot, Grimbaud. lord of Great Cowarne. Captured after the fall of Gloucester in late June 1265, and defected to Edward’s side. Robert of Gloucester: “Then Grimbald Pauncefot turned to sir Edward anon. And was made knight, and bore arms against sir Simon; But never after was there such good word of him as was before.” Probably fought at Evesham, as that would have been the sole opportunity for him to ‘bear arms’ against de Montfort.

  5. Valence, William de. Earl of Pembroke. Landed with a force of men in Pembrokeshire in the spring of 1265, marched east and probably joined Edward at Ludlow. Wykes: “…William de Valence… who a little before had taken the county of Pembroke with a vigorous band of warriors without resistance, increased [Edward’s] army.” Not specifically mentioned as participating in the battle, but likely to have been present.

  6. Warenne, John de. Earl of Surrey and Lord of Lewes. Together with William de Valence, landed with a force of men in Pembrokeshire in the spring of 1265, marched east and probably joined Edward at Ludlow. Wykes: “…the Earl of Warrene… who a little before had taken the county of Pembroke with a vigorous band of warriors without resistance, increased [Edward’s] army.” Not specifically mentioned as participating in the battle, but likely to have been present.




Who was Ralph de Monthermer?

He may be one of the lesser known figures in medieval English history, but for drama and romance, and a vivid insight into knighthood and aristocracy in the 13th-14th Century, the story of Ralph de Monthermer has few equals.

He first appears in historical accounts as a squire of Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester and Hertford and one of the leading magnates of Edward I’s England. After the earl’s death in 1295, he fell in love with and secretly married his widow Joan of Acre, the king’s daughter. ‘When notice of such a foolish deed came to the Lord King,’ says the chronicler William Rishanger, ‘he, burning with exceeding fury, caused him to be arrested and imprisoned at Bristowe’ (Bristol Castle).

Joan got to put her case to her father in July 1297. According to John Trokelowe, a monk of St Albans, one of the leading nobles present ‘thundered into the ears of the Lord King’ that the marriage was dishonourable, as so many great men sought his daughter’s hand. Joan herself then answered: “It is not considered disgraceful or shameful for a great and powerful earl to join himself in lawful marriage with a poor woman of low rank; so, on the other hand, it is neither reprehensible nor difficult for a countess to promote an able young man.” Her answer, Trokelowe says, ‘pleased the Lord King, and thus his indignation and that of his magnates was soothed.’

Arms of Ralph de Monthermer.

Source: Wappenwiki.

King Edward subsequently ordered Ralph released from prison, and recognised his union with Joan. Within the year, Monthermer had been granted by right of marriage the title Earl of Gloucester, thereby transforming him into one of the most powerful magnates in England. He went on to provide distinguished service in the wars in Scotland, fighting at the battles of Falkirk and Bannockburn and the sieges of Stirling and Caerlaverock. A verse description of the latter conflict provides a brief resume of his experiences: ‘[He] achieved his love / After great doubts and fears / When God gave him deliverance / For the Countess of Gloucester / For whom he had endured great sufferings (...) Yet he made no bad appearance / When arrayed with his own arms / Yellow with a green eagle / His name was Rauf de Monthermer.’

Beyond the basics of the story, however, Ralph’s background remains obscure. Most modern accounts describe him as a squire of the Earl of Gloucester, but as far as I can tell no contemporary source uses the equivalent period term (armiger, scutifer, or valletus). Instead he is described by chroniclers simply as a ‘soldier’ (milite), or ‘servant’ (serviente). Even by the late 13th century, terms for men at arms, squires and military servants could be rather interchangeable, so all we can be sure about was that Ralph was not a knight; he was later knighted by the king at Joan’s request. Nor was he wealthy; Trokelowe calls him ‘a certain soldier, elegant in form but thin in substance’ (quendam militem, elegantem forma sed tenuem substantia).

Contemporary sources nevertheless provide a few clues to his origins, although not entirely straightforward ones. Walter of Guisborough calls him ‘a simple soldier named Radulph de Montermere, a native of the bishopric of Durham, who had served with [Joan’s] husband, the earl’. Rishanger introduces Ralph as ‘a simple man, in the service of lord Eymer,’ for whom Joan had ‘procured, before their betrothal, military arms’ [i.e. knighthood]. The Chronicle of Bury St Edmunds, meanwhile, says that Joan married ‘a youth called Ralph, born in the Marches, surnamed Mowhermer.’ This seems rather contradictory at first glance; how could Ralph be a native of the Bishopric of Durham and born in the (Welsh) Marches? How could he have been in the service of both Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, and Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke?

As the quotes above suggest, medieval scribes were characteristically uncertain about the spelling of Ralph’s name; it appears elsewhere as Mowhermer, Meinhermer, Moynhermer, Monte Hermerii and Monte Hermery. The man himself appears to have spelled his name Rauf de Mehermer, or so it appears in one of his own legal records. His entry in The Complete Peerage suggests a relation to an obscure Northumberland family named de Mesnilhermer. They are mentioned in the Book of Fees of c.1242 as holding the manor of Tunstall, of the Barony of Bolam. The name probably derives from Ménil-Hermei in Normandy, and the Northumberland Plea Rolls of the era provide a familiar-sounding range of spellings: Meynhermer, Meinnildhermer, Menullhereman, Meisnil Hermeri, Mesne Hermer, Mesnill Heremeri and Meysnehermer. In 1198 a William de Mesnilhermer witnessed a contract at Finchdale Priory, only a few miles from Durham. So the northern connection mentioned by Walter of Guisborough may have a firm origin; or, perhaps, Walter just knew of the Durham family and assumed a link.

But Sir Ralph also seems to have connections with another knightly family, and one closer to the Welsh Marches. The Bluets held the manor of Lackham in Wiltshire, besides other estates that included Raglan and Hinton Bluet, held of the Earls of Gloucester. A certain John Bluet is described as a cousin of Ralph de Monthermer, and successive generations of Bluets were named Ralph. Could his mother, perhaps, have been the daughter of a Bluet, and Ralph himself named for his grandfather? At least two men named Bluet, one a knight, appear in the service of Joan de Valence, Countess of Pembroke, during the 1290s. Her son Aymer de Valence, who became earl on his father’s death in 1296, often spent time with the household. He was probably at Goodrich Castle, close to Raglan, during at least one of Joan of Acre’s visits in 1296-97. So perhaps we have links here with both the Marches and with the ‘Lord Eymer’ mentioned by Rishanger? Could Ralph originally have taken service with Gilbert de Clare, overlord of his mother’s estates, and subsequently transferred his allegiance to Aymer de Valence?

(Incidentally, I did wonder whether his name might relate to Gilbert de Clare’s manor of Merthyr Mawr, on the coast of Glamorgan. The place is spelled as Martelmaur in the earl’s inquest post mortem, and elsewhere as Merthirmimor and Matthelemaur; the similarity is tempting, but the consistent ‘hermer’ ending of the Northumberland family’s name, and the note in Guisborough, would seem to weigh more heavily!)

The Complete Peerage claims that Monthermer was 63 at the time of his death, in April 1325, which would have made him 35 or so when he married Joan in 1297. The reference provided is the Itineraria of the 15th Century antiquarian William Worcester, page 81 in the Naismith edition of 1778. That particular edition, however, has only the note “1325: Radulphus Monthermer comes Gloucestriae obiit… in conventu Sancti Francisci apud Sarum sepelitur.” The original manuscript (now available online) does not feature the ellipsis: nor does it appear to mention an age of death.

More contemporary sources, meanwhile, describe Ralph as a youth or young man (iuvene) at the time of his marriage to Joan. The Latin term was rather elastic, but probably would not have been used to describe a man in his mid thirties. Perhaps, then, de Monthermer was somewhat younger than that. Without a firmer source for his date of birth or age at death, however, we cannot be sure.

A suggestion, this time repeated in the Dictionary of National Biography, that Ralph was of illegitimate birth also appears to rest on dubious foundations. The source is a note in the Annales Londienses about the funeral of John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, in 1304. Those attending include: Comes Gloucestriœ, J. Bastard qui dicitur, Radulfus Heanmer, comes de Warewyk et dominus Hugo de Veer, Henricus de Percy, cum eorum militibus interfuerunt. But the ‘J. Bastard so called’ is a separate person to the Earl of Gloucester who precedes him in the list, and was probably an illegitimate son of John de Warenne himself.

Monthermer’s distinctive arms, or à l'aigle de vert, membres et becquez de gules, appear in several heraldic rolls of the period, and were adopted as part of the arms of his descendants. The Complete Peerage mentions that the same arms were borne by the Lyndsey family of Northumberland, although they do not appear on earlier rolls and may postdate Monthermer. The Mesnilhermers do not appear to have left any record of their own device. The Bluets, however, seem to have changed their arms c.1297 to a red spread eagle, sometimes with two heads, on gold. Could the newly-ennobled Ralph de Monthermer have adopted a variant of his mother’s family arms? By c.1312 a Walter de Bluet was using three green spread eagles and a chevron on a gold field, although by then he could have been adapting the arms of his famous relative.

From these scraps, it might be possible to reconstruct a speculative background story for Ralph de Monthermer. He was perhaps born around 1270, and would therefore still be a ‘young man’ when he married Joan. His father was named de Mesnilhermer and came from a Northumberland family holding lands in the Bishopric of Durham; he moved south and took service with the Earl of Gloucester, marrying the daughter of one of the earl’s tenants, Ralph Bluet. Their son was named for his maternal grandfather, and when he came of age, he too entered the service of Earl Gilbert, as a ‘simple soldier’, or man at arms in the mighty de Clare retinue.

Ralph might first have encountered the earl’s young wife Joan of Acre during his service with Gilbert de Clare, although presumably from a distance. At some point, he seems to have transferred to the retinue of Aymer de Valence, son of the other great magnate of the southern Marches, the Earl of Pembroke. Later, he rejoined the household of the Countess of Gloucester, now a widow. Joan requested that Ralph be knighted by her father the king, and soon afterwards the two of them were married in secret.

The marriage, or at least the betrothal, may have happened by January 1297. On the 29th of that month the Calendar of Close Rolls records an order, drafted at Castle Acre in Norfolk, “to take into the king’s hands for certain reasons… all the lands, goods and chattels of Joan, countess of Gloucester and Hertford, in England and Wales and in the marches of Wales.” The king’s official is warned “not to omit to do this as he loves himself and his things and wishes to escape the king’s wrath, certifying the king without delay as to how he has executed this order.”

Edward, however, does not seem to have believed that his daughter was legally married at this time. On March 16th he was still trying to arrange a match between the widowed countess and Amadeus, Count of Savoy. Only in late July, during a trip to St Albans to try and reach an agreement with his own rebellious barons, did the king finally accept the facts. The first Parliamentary Writ referring to Ralph de Monthermer as Joan’s husband is dated July 31st. Two days later, both Ralph and Joan did homage to the king at the royal palace at Eltham, and were pardoned and granted possession of their lands and titles in return (as Rishanger says) for the service of fifty soldiers in Flanders, “and the Lord King afterwards loved him very much.”

Whatever the truth might be about the origins of Ralph de Monthermer, he was certainly an able man, skilled in warfare and presumably very charismatic too. He was also, of course, very lucky. His romantic escapade with the king’s daughter could very easily have come to a sudden and bloody conclusion. He perhaps owed his survival to Joan’s powers of persuasion, and her courage in confronting her wrathful father and his arrogant nobles. But the situation in the kingdom at that precise moment may have helped too: with King Edward facing an uprising by his most powerful magnates, the chance to place the Earldom of Gloucester in the hands of a relative nobody, a young man who owed his marriage and his life to the king’s good graces, and with no connection to the great houses of the nobility, must have weighed heavily in Monthermer’s favour. He would go on to repay that favour in full, up to and beyond his wife’s death in 1307, remaining to the end a stalwart defender of both Edward I and Edward II. But that, of course, is another story.

Ten Things Medieval England did not have...

A few years back I listed Ten Things the Romans Didn’t Have, a collection of common misconceptions about the ancient world. More recently I’ve been reading about and researching the Middle Ages in England. This was new territory for me, and I soon realised that many of my assumptions and preconceptions were far from accurate.

Medieval people, of course, lacked many of the things we take for granted today – they wore shoes without heels and clothes without pockets, knew nothing of tomatoes or potatoes, and until the very end of the era had to copy out all of their books by hand.

Such is well known. But certain other things or concepts that we might associate with the era are likewise absent from the medieval scene. The list below outlines ten of the more interesting missing aspects or misconceptions that I’ve come across, with a focus on England in the 12th-14th Centuries in particular. Some of them, of course, are more debatable than others: while the past remains unchanging, our idea of past – history, in other words – is always being rewritten…

1. Constant Warfare

Nowadays the word medieval is often considered synonymous with brutality, violence and war. Sure enough, England in the Middle Ages could be a dangerous place, as the frequent legal records of murders and violent crimes attest. But these very records also show that the kingdom during this period was not a lawless place either. And open warfare was far from a common occurrence.

Between the Norman Conquest and the Wars of the Roses, England was largely at peace; the kings of England preferred to export their military endeavours to Wales, Ireland, Scotland or France instead. The few outbreaks of actual warfare – the ‘Anarchy’ of the mid 12th Century, the Barons’ Wars of the 13th and the various rebellions against the king in the 14th-15th Centuries, among others – tended to be relatively small in scale and limited in duration. Pitched battles were very rare, lasted only a few hours at most, and seldom involved more than a few thousand men.

The majority of the population of Medieval England, then, would probably never see a battle or encounter an army on campaign. They were more likely to die of disease or by accident – by falling down a latrine, perhaps, which was a surprisingly common form of death – than to meet their end on a battlefield.

Medieval warfare - not such a common occurence. From the Life of Edward the Confessor, c.1250-60.

2. Unrelenting Filth

To the modern mind, medieval also connotes dirt. Again, there is some truth in this: the people of the Middle Ages lived much closer to the soil, to animals and natural functions, and to each other, than we do today. Conditions for the majority could be fairly unsavoury: a royal letter of April 1345 states that “in the city of Carlisle the air is so corrupted and tainted by dung and manure heaps and much other filth put in the streets and lanes that the men dwelling there… are stricken with a dreadful horror.” But, like the legal references to violence, descriptions like these are the exception, not the rule. In this case, the Bishop of Carlisle was being ordered to have the mayor and bailiffs remove the dirt from the streets!

Medieval bathtime. From Aldobrandino of Siena’s Le Régime du Corps, c.1265.

For the most part, medieval people were quite capable of washing and keeping themselves, their clothes and their surroundings clean. While they may not have known about germs, they believed that dirt – or rather miasmas, the bad smells produced by filth and decay – caused disease. Medieval physicians extolled the health benefits of regular bathing – in a heated tub for those who could afford, it, or a river or stream for those who could not – while the prevalence of laundresses in towns, noble households and accompanying armies on campaign attests to the frequent washing of underclothes.

Larger towns and cities (of which London was the only one of any real size) would surely have had a repertoire of stinks and sights to offend the eye, but it would not be until the early modern period, when the old medieval drains and sewers were overwhelmed by a massively expanded population, that London became truly noisome. Even then, it was no match for the reeks and pongs that accompanied the Industrial Revolution. Anyone hoping for a dose of Historical Filth would be better off setting their time machine for the 18th or 19th Century than the medieval era!

3. Undrinkable Water

Medieval people drank a surprising quantity of wine and ale (and later beer, first brewed in the 15th Century). This was because they liked it, and they believed it was good for them – ale in particular was a good source of nutrients, and wine was believed to strengthen the blood. But this did not mean that they did not drink water too, or that water was avoided or thought to be unhealthy or dangerous.

In fact water was drunk widely, by all parts of society. Medieval people understood when rivers and streams were stagnant, and knew where to find good drinking water. Monasteries, many towns, and the city of London, had conduits to bring fresh clean water for drinking and washing.

The chronicler Orderic Vitalis relates that the soldiers of William the Conqueror fell victim to dysentery after drinking the water in England. But this was more probably the result of deliberate poisoning of their water supply, or the unsanitary conditions of an army on campaign in a foreign land, than any problem with the water itself!

Meanwhile, there is some evidence that drinking water on its own might be seen as penitential. Hermits and anchorites, and the religiously abstemious, might chose a diet of bread and water as a demonstration of asceticism. One royal household injunction from the late 15th Century even punished defaulting servants by relegating them to the ‘water board’, or ewery – a table in the hall where only water was served, instead of wine or ale.

4. Enormous Horses

Horses were everywhere in the Middle Ages. They were the most common form of transport, and were being used in plough teams for the first time in the period too. Most significantly, the horse was the mount of the knight; the spurs were almost as much a symbol of knighthood as the sword. English knights may have preferred to fight on foot in the later 14th and 15th Centuries, but otherwise the knight was a mounted warrior, trained and exercised in horseback combat, and battles were usually fought from the saddle.

We might assume, therefore, that the knight’s warhorse (charger, or destrier) was a massive beast, something like a modern carthorse. Recent archaeological excavations, however, have turned up hundreds of remains of horse bones from the medieval era, and these suggest that the horse of the period was rather smaller than those we are familiar with today. 13-14 hands appears to have been the most common size for a medieval horse, about 4ft 8 inches to the withers: in modern terms, these would be classed as ponies.

13th Century mounted retinue, from The Book of St Albans, c.1250

However, we should not imagine knights riding miniature chargers either. Medieval illustrations suggest that the size of a ‘horse’ could vary considerably, and doubtless the warhorse would have been at the upper end of the size range.

A modern breed like the Andalusian or Lusitano, of 14-15 hands, might appear similar to the medieval destrier. These horses would not have been tall, but they were powerfully muscled, fast, and (most importantly in a battle situation) very agile. We should remember, too, that such things are relative; anyone living in a world where the average horse was 13-14 hands tall would consider an animal of 15 hands, standing 5ft to the withers, to be very large indeed.

5. Unnatural Ageing

People in the past tended not to live as long as people today. Average life expectancy in medieval England, for boys of the landowning class, was only 31.3 years. However, statistics like this are highly misleading; life expectancy at birth is distorted by very high levels of infant mortality. If someone managed to survive infancy, and avoid fatal diseases, accidents, or death in childbirth, their chances of a long life were very much greater. And many people in the Middle Ages lived into their 60s and 70s, or beyond.

So medieval people did not expect to drop down dead at the age of 32. They aged at a normal and natural rate too; while a medieval farm labourer of 30 might have appeared rather more weathered than the average 30-something in Britain today, they would not have looked, or been considered, ‘old’. Women in their 30s and 40s were still having children, and men were liable to be summoned for military service by their lord or king until the age of 60. The average tournament combatant in the early 14th Century was just over 30, while the age range went up to the 50s.

In fact, some medieval people lived very long lives, and continued an active career until the end. The famous William Marshall, reputedly the greatest knight of his age, fought in the Battle of Lincoln in full armour at the age of 70. John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, remained an active campaigner into his late 60s, while Sir John de Sully maintained that he had fought at the Battle of Najera aged 87. But perhaps we should take this last claim rather more lightly – few people of the era had their date or even year of birth recorded, and many were unsure of their exact age: de Sully was supposedly 105 years old in 1386!

6. Perfect Privacy

No privacy, even for kings… Merlin and the barons address King Uther Pendragon, from L'estoire de Merlin, in the Lancelot-Grail of 1316.

Today we regard privacy as a basic human right. In the medieval period, however, being alone was seldom considered valuable or desirable. Until the later medieval period even the grandest palaces and castles had relatively few rooms, and those rooms often had multiple functions. Halls were used for dining, entertaining and also for sleeping, bedchambers were also meeting rooms, living areas and audience chambers. Those of even the highest rank shared beds with friends, servants and family members, with no sexual connotation at all. Private space was almost unknown.

The medieval nobility in particular were seldom alone; servants and retinue members followed them everywhere, as a sign of their status and prestige. The greatest lords were even accompanied to the toilet by a servant: one late 12th Century etiquette book instructs the servant to stand and not kneel while engaged in this task!

One occasion on which people of the Middle Ages might have found themselves in uncomfortable solitude was while they were at prayer, although even then they may have had others sharing their silent vigil. The few people that chose remain apart from others for extended periods usually did so as a religious penance or while in mourning. The solitary hermit or anchorite was a recognised medieval figure, but their solitude was seen as a gesture of unworldly denial, not a desire for privacy.

7. Universal Piety

The majority of people in medieval England were religious to a degree most of us today would consider extraordinary. Aside from a small Jewish community between the 11th and late 13th Century, everyone in the kingdom was supposed to be a Christian, to attend church on Sundays and to confess and receive Holy Communion at least once a year, usually during the period of Lent preceding Easter. Christianity permeated every moment of life from birth to death. The time of day was told by the canonical hours, and the date by reference to the nearest saint’s day or religious festival. Belief in miracles and the power of prayer was commonplace, and held to be self evident.

However, we should not assume that everyone believed equally or without question, or that all were pious in exactly the same way. “There are many today who do not believe that God exists, nor do they think that a human soul lives on after the death of the body,” wrote Peter of Cornwall, Prior of Holy Trinity Aldgate, in his Book of Revelations (c.1200); “They consider that the universe has always been as it is now and is ruled by chance rather than by Providence.”

Sadly there is no way of telling how many people Peter was talking about. But his complaint was not as unique as we might think, and there are several other anecdotal accounts of medieval parishioners deriding saints and miracles and refusing to believe in hell. Trials of people accused of heresy in the 14th Century exposed several whose beliefs seem closer to atheism by modern standards. Medieval people may have been very religious on the whole, but they were not stupid, and were as capable of scepticism, doubt and enquiry as we are today.

8. Powerless Women

The image of the medieval damsel sitting placidly at a tower window awaiting the arrival of a handsome knight owes much to the imagination of 19th century romantic novelists – inspired, to be fair, by writers of chivalric romances, who were also keen to stress feminine passivity. In reality, however, women of the Middle Ages were often considerably more active and assertive than we might think. Medieval England, of course, was a place of extreme inequality: women were subject both to oppressive legislation and wildly misogynistic popular notions, many of them derived from church teachings or classical traditions. For many, life could be hard and unpleasant. Legally, socially and even spiritually, however, women often had influence and authority, both direct and indirect, and were quite capable of using it.

Women of the rural lower classes, when not pregnant or raising children, were expected to work alongside men in the fields. Many held land or took up trades, whether assisting husbands or fathers, or independently; women seem to have had a near monopoly on brewing ale, and appear in our sources as millers, carters, musicians and even blacksmiths. In towns, women could engage in trade, and own and manage businesses and workshops. Court records show considerable litigation by and on behalf of female clients, and many cases involving disputes between women too, some of them violent.

Medieval woman defending castle.

Woman defending a castle, Smithfield Decretals, c.1300-40.

While women of the upper classes were often married very young, surrendering all their property to their husbands, and derived their status from the male members of their family, they too could exercise independent power and authority. As widows, or in the absence of their husbands, they could give and receive homage for their estates. In times of war they could hold more active posts as well: the formidable Nicholaa de la Haye was constable of Lincoln castle, and led its defence for King John in the first Baron’s War. Margaret de Ferrers, dowager Countess of Derby, also held the hereditary title of Constable of Scotland, while her aunt Margaret de Lacy, Countess of Lincoln, was one of the wealthiest landowners of her age; she was fiercely litigious as well, showing a keen determination to hold on to all that she possessed. If she spent any time sitting placidly at a tower window, she was more likely awaiting the arrival of her lawyer.

9. Burning Witches

Contrary to popular belief, nobody was ever burned simply for being a witch in medieval England. The practice of hunting down and executing supposed witches was largely a product of the early modern period: the first English law against witchcraft dates to 1542, and the ‘witch hunting’ mania peaked during the Elizabethan and Jacobean era of the 16th-17th Century. During the Middle Ages, by contrast, many churchmen were not even sure that ‘witchcraft’ existed.

There were cases of ‘sorcerers’ being tried and executed in medieval England, although these were criminal trials for the malign effects of the alleged black magic. In all cases, the punishment was death by hanging – as it remained throughout the early modern period as well. Burning was reserved, under English law at least, solely for the crimes of treason and heresy.

So while there were occasions in continental Europe, particularly France and the Rhineland, of supposed witches being burned at the stake, the only similar incident in medieval England was the execution of Margery Jourdemayne in 1441. She had been accused of plotting with the Duchess of Gloucester to kill the king by magical means, and was burned on a pyre at Smithfield on a charge of ‘treasonable witchcraft’ and heresy.

10. Dragons

Dragons are so much a part of the fantasy version of the Middle Ages that it seems a shame that they existed only in imaginary tales and chivalric romances, and in the pages of medieval bestiaries. Sadly, however, there were indeed no dragons in medieval England…

Or were there?

Around 1307, a monstrous reptile emerged from the River Stour and began terrorising the town of Bures in Suffolk. Described by Benedictine monk John de Trokelowe as “a dragon, vast in body, with a crested head, teeth like a saw and a tail extending to an enormous length,” the terrible beast killed and devoured a flock of sheep and a shepherd, before it was assailed by local men armed with bows. Their arrows bounced off its scaly hide “just as if they had hit a brazen plate”, but eventually the monster was forced to retreat into a nearby swamp.

Dragon from Li livres dou trésor, early 14th Century.

Was the Bures Dragon merely a crocodile that had escaped from a royal menagerie? Perhaps so. Less easy to explain would be the fire-breathing dragon which allegedly attacked the Essex village of St Osyth in 1170, burning the surrounding area. Or the flying dragon which passed over Leicester in 1389, breathing fire as it flew. Or, indeed, the five-headed monster witnessed by an abbot from Tournai in 1113, which apparently rose from the sea off Christchurch in Dorset and flew over the town, destroying the church, many houses, and even attacking a clergyman who was trying to escape in a boat.

The people of medieval England were, it seems, often as fascinated by the idea of dragons as their distant descendants of the 21st Century - and just as capable of making up stories about them.

Further Reading:

  • Harris, Stephen; Grigsby, Bryon L. Misconceptions About the Middle Ages. Routledge, 2010.

  • Prestwich, Michael. Armies and Warfare in the Middle Ages: The English Experience. Yale University Press, 1999.

  • Hartnell, Jack. Medieval Bodies: Life, Death and Art in the Middle Ages. Profile Books, 2018.

  • Swabey, Ffiona. Medieval Gentlewoman: Life in a Gentry Household in the Later Middle Ages. Psychology Press, 1999.

  • Clark, John. The Medieval Horse and Its Equipment, C.1150-c.1450. Boydell Press, 2004.

  • Falk, Seb. The Light Ages: A Medieval Journey of Discovery. Penguin, 2020.

  • Woolgar, Christopher Michael. The Great Household in Late Medieval England. Yale University Press, 1999.

Getting Medieval

13th Century warfare, image from the Morgan ‘Crusader Bible’, c.1244-1254

As with so many things over the last few years, my plans and priorities have changed considerably since 2019. Back then, shortly after completing my ‘Twilight of Empire’ novels, I was planning a new series set a century later, during the period leading up to final collapse of the Roman Empire in the west. But soon I found that the project was proving to be almost as vast as its theme, and I needed to strike out in a different direction. I still intend to write my ‘fall of Rome’ series one day, but lately I have found myself entirely consumed by a different period of history altogether.

Image from an Italian manuscript, c.1230-1240

My fascination for the medieval world goes back almost as far as my love of the Romans. (A while ago, in fact, I was idly imagining a meeting between the two). But recently I’ve taken the opportunity to immerse myself in it entirely, while working on the first of a trilogy of novels, due for publication early next year.

The setting for these new books is the mid 13th century – arguably the highest point of the Middle Ages, a time of chivalry and heraldry, castles and tournaments. Also a time of great violence and political upheaval in England, when the most brutal passions of all levels of society were unleashed.

The conflict known today as the Second Barons’ War, when Simon de Montfort and a cabal of rebel noblemen challenged the power of King Henry III, forms the background to the events of the novels. Featuring two of the bloodiest and fiercest battles in English medieval history, as well as the kingdom’s longest and most bitterly-contested siege, the war provides a vivid setting for tales of action and adventure. But as with most civil wars, the lines between friend and foe, loyalty and treason, were often dangerously uncertain. And from that uncertainty, characters take shape and stories grow.

Before writing about a new historical period, of course, I have to understand it. Not just the events of the day but the people of day as well: what they wore and ate, how their ordered their time, what they thought and believed, and how they might have expressed those beliefs. My research into the world of 13th century England has led me to material far richer and deeper, far bloodier and darker, than anything I might have assumed from a casual acquaintance. I have read everything I could find on subjects ranging from warfare to health care, religious observances to ideas of the cosmos. I have discovered how to shoe a horse, unmake a stag, shoot a trebuchet and cheat at a tournament. It’s been a tremendous journey of imaginative exploration, and still I feel that I’m only just beginning.

Image from the Queen Mary Psalter, c.1310-1320

Battle Song, the first novel of the trilogy, is due for publication on the 30th of March 2023 – still quite a long wait, but for all the glacial pace of the publishing world, time is moving very fast these days. And with a new publisher (Hodder & Stoughton), a new editor and a new publicity department behind me, I’m looking forward to launching the new book into the world.

And perhaps, a few years down the line, I’ll find my way back to the fall of Rome once more…

 

Twilight's End

(This was a post I originally wrote back in 2019 for my publisher’s website, but I came across it recently and thought I may as well share it here. The last year hasn’t quite turned out the way anyone expected, but my closing points here remain the same!)

cover cropped 2.jpg

After six books, and close to three quarters of a million words, the ‘Twilight of Empire’ series is at an end. The publication of the sixth and final novel, Triumph in Dust, brings to a conclusion the story of the series’ protagonist, Aurelius Castus, and his adventures in the Roman army of the 4th century AD. Needless to say, it’s a strange feeling.

I began writing the first book of the series, War at the Edge of the World, back in 2012. Back then I had no idea whether the series would continue, or even if the first story would be published. But I already knew very clearly what I wanted to write about; the germ of it had been in my mind for nearly a decade by that point, and I had been researching and planning it for almost that long before I set down the first words. The central character came to me at once: an honest man in a corrupt world, battling his way upwards through the ranks of the army, against a multitude of foes. The historical setting followed soon afterwards: I wanted to begin in Britain, and the Emperor Constantine was first acclaimed at York following a campaign against the Pictish barbarians. Constantine’s rise to power had the epic sweep and geographical reach that I needed, and by hitching my fictional soldier Castus to the juggernaut of Constantine’s reign I had all the historical momentum my story would need.

IMG_3071.JPG

Even so, I knew it would not be easy. Threading an individual life through the meshes of complicated historical facts – the later Roman Empire is not known for its simplicity – and trying to create a picture of the past as true to life and to history as I could manage was often fantastically difficult, but the successes were all the more rewarding for that. And, most of the time, what I came up with was pretty close to what I’d intended in my original conception of the story.

Along the way I got to discover far more than I would have thought necessary, or even possible, about all kinds of aspects of the historical era, from naval warfare to battlefield surgery, toxicology to necromancy, dining customs to fortune-telling, and inheritance law to the grisly details of ancient torture techniques. Minor characters opened up new avenues: Castus’s long-standing assistant Diogenes gave me a chance to explore (often with tongue in cheek) the strange world of late antique philosophy, while writing from the perspectives of Castus’s wives, Sabina and Marcellina, and the Empress Fausta opened a window to the experiences of women in the elite world of the imperial court. The rise of Christianity, while challenging for the resolutely traditionalist Castus, provided plenty of rich material with which to work. My one regret is that I never found a reason to send Castus off to Egypt, which would have been fascinating to research, although I added a few Egyptian snippets to the backstory of another minor character, the eunuch Luxorius who appears in the fourth and fifth books.

Mask stack.jpg

Castus’s adventures have taken him from the barbarian wilderness of Britain and Germania to the city of Rome itself, and from the battlefields of Italy to the banks of the Tigris and the Euphrates. In the course of the six books – covering over thirty years of history – he has risen from an ordinary footsoldier to become one of the foremost generals of his age. It seems a fitting end. At one point, a year or two ago as I contemplated the approaching end of the series, I considered writing some prequel stories about Castus, covering some of the events of his early life mentioned in the novels: his troubled youth, and his escape from home to join the army, perhaps his early experiences of warfare in the east and on the Danube.

IMG_4133.JPG

But I decided that, in fact, I preferred Castus to begin as he first appears, in the opening pages of the Prologue of War at the Edge of the World, a ‘bull-necked young soldier of II Herculia’ standing in the reserve ranks before the Battle of Oxsa; one man among many, undifferentiated by name or character, like a figure in a frieze or a wall painting. I had always intended him to be representative of a certain sort of man, the unknown common soldiers who built the empire and raised the emperors into the spotlight of history, while remaining in the shadows themselves, and it seems fitting that he should spring into fictional life like this.

So Triumph in Dust will be the final novel, and I will not be revisiting Castus again (or so I tell myself…) Already I’m planning new books, featuring a cast of new characters and a new and slightly different historical setting (although it might be some time before I exhaust the enormous potentials of the ancient Roman world). But I like to think that the fictional people we write about, and read about, have a sort of life and resonance beyond the page, and beyond the stories in which they appear. So no doubt Aurelius Castus will stay with me, wherever my imagination might lead me next.

Triumph-new-quotes.gif

The Unravelling of Roman Britain

The departure of the Roman legions - a traditional view. From Cassell’s History of England, 1909 edition

The departure of the Roman legions - a traditional view. From Cassell’s History of England, 1909 edition

Surprisingly, for a rather obscure episode of ancient history, the end of Roman rule in Britain has been in the news quite a bit in recent years. This is largely because of perceived similarities to the current situation in the UK, and the ongoing attempts of the Westminster government to disentangle itself from the European Union. But, leaving aside such comparisons if possible, what do we actually know about how and why Britain left the Roman Empire?

In the first half of the 4th century, life in the Diocese Britanniarum was apparently pretty good – at least for the wealthier inhabitants who left most of the material traces we use to determine these things. Roman Britain was firmly woven into a vast and complex empire stretching all the way to the Tigris and the upper Nile.

Compared with the Gallic provinces, devastated by civil war and invasion during the chaotic 3rd century, Britain was wealthy, stable and secure. But this very prosperity was perhaps deceptive. The growth of massive country villas – most of those that survive today date from this period – with their luxurious bath suites and polychrome mosaics, might suggest that wealth was increasingly pooling in the hands of a small elite class of landowners. The simultaneous decay of infrastructure in many towns and cities could indicate that this wealth was not trickling down to all levels of society.

This situation – rosy for some – seems to have suffered a major setback in the late AD360s. The specifics are hazy. The contemporary historian Ammianus Marcellinus writes of a ‘barbarian conspiracy’ of Picts and Scots, overwhelming the defences and plundering the provinces, combined perhaps with a breakdown in military discipline and major civil unrest. Recent historians have tended to question the whole narrative of ‘barbarian invasions’, which often appears as a convenient deus ex machina to explain why certain otherwise obscure things happened in late antiquity. But whatever the cause, the security of Britain does appear to have suffered, and quite possibly the confidence of the people of the province in the stability of imperial control suffered with it.

Gold solidi from a hoard of 159 coins found near St Albans. They were all minted between AD388 and 408, with the majority featuring Honorius, the presiding emperor at the time that Britain was parted from imperial control. Details from the Portable …

Gold solidi from a hoard of 159 coins found near St Albans. They were all minted between AD388 and 408, with the majority featuring Honorius, the presiding emperor at the time that Britain was parted from imperial control.

Details from the Portable Antiquities Scheme.

From the 370s onward, there are signs that overall quality of life in Roman Britain was declining steeply. The abandonment and downgrading of both villas and urban areas in this period suggests a reduction in economic and social complexity that to some extent is matched elsewhere in the Roman west, but in Britain appears to have been particularly rapid. While direct evidence for hostile activity is scanty, the number of buried coin hoards from towards the end of the 4th century could be taken as an indication of social unrest. Attacks on coastal areas by Saxon or Pictish raiders, while probably not too extensive, would have contributed to a sense of vulnerability among both wealthy landowners and provincial citizens alike.

Exactly what happened at the dawn of the 5th century to trigger the subsequent upheavals is unclear, but the results would be catastrophic. In AD406, the troops based in Britain – who had possibly not been paid for some time, and may have resented demands for manpower from a hard-pressed imperial government in Italy – threw off the authority of the Emperor Honorius and elevated a soldier named Marcus as their new Augustus. This figure, a historical blank beyond his name, did not last long. Shortly afterwards the Britons overthrew Marcus and elevated in his place one Gratianus, who appears to have been a town councillor of some kind.

Gratianus too was destined for a very brief and ignoble rule. Early in AD407, news reached Britain that, in the dead of winter, a force of Vandals, Alani and other barbarians had breached the frontier on the Rhine and were rampaging across Gaul, heading for the Channel coast. This invasion may not have been as large or as destructive as contemporaries, and generations of subsequent historians, believed. But, after only four months in the purple, Gratianus too was tumbled from precarious power, and his place taken by yet another army officer, who bore the impressively imperial-sounding name Flavius Claudius Constantinus.

Gold solidus of Constantine III, minted at Lyon. The reverse shows him trouncing a fallen barbarian.

Gold solidus of Constantine III, minted at Lyon. The reverse shows him trouncing a fallen barbarian.

However, if the people of Britain hoped that their martial new Augustus would secure the shores against invaders, they would soon be disappointed. His eyes on a bigger prize, Constantine III (as he is known today) instead collected up most of the mobile troops remaining in Britain and crossed to the continent, determined both to drive out the barbarians and to extend his rule over the western empire. This, incidentally, is probably the best candidate for ‘the departure of the Roman army’, a scenario much beloved by Victorian and Edwardian artists. But we should not imagine shiploads of Italian legionaries sailing from the British shores: the small British field army, a recent innovation, contained units from Gaul and apparently from Syria, while the frontiers of Britain were largely defended by locally-raised troops and Germanic mercenaries, many of whom probably stayed put. It does appear that the garrisons of several coastal forts, from Portchester and Pevensey to the Kent coast, were moved to the continent around this time, however, as they later turn up in a list of the Gallic field army units of c.AD420.

‘The Romans Leaving Britain’, by John Everett Millais (1865)

‘The Romans Leaving Britain’, by John Everett Millais (1865)

With their newly-minted emperor and most of his troops off in Gaul defeating the barbarians (in fact he appears to have made treaties with them instead), securing the Rhine frontier, and then battling Honorius’s generals, the citizens of Roman Britain found themselves with little adequate protection against their own worrisome foes. Later chronicles mention Saxon and Irish raids during this period, which would have been almost unopposed with the coasts now thinly defended at best. It was due to the “negligent government” of Constantine III, the historian Zosimus writes, that “the barbarians were emboldened to commit such devastations.”

Not surprisingly for such a fractious people, it did not take long before the Britons had had enough of Constantine III. Zosimus tells the story in passing: “The Britons therefore took up arms… for their own protection, until they had freed their cities from the barbarians who besieged them… In a similar manner, the whole of Armorica, with other provinces of Gaul, delivered themselves by the same means; expelling the Roman magistrates or officers, and erecting a government, such as they pleased, of their own.” [Zosimus, New History, 6.5.3]

So this was not a rebellion against Roman rule in general, but against the rule of an ineffectual usurper, who was at that time caught up in fighting a civil war in Spain and dealing with yet further barbarian incursions on the Rhine. Those doing the rebelling, whether an elite clique of wealthy landowners or some – perhaps more egalitarian – commune of citizens, apparently set up their own government in place of the one they had overthrown, and their rebellion spread across the Channel to Armorica (Brittany) as well. Such grassroots uprisings were not uncommon in the Roman west; the rebels even had a name: bagaudae. But a well known and much-discussed note a little further along in Zosimus’s narrative suggests that there was something more going on here.

“Honorius,” Zosimus writes, “sent a letter to the cities of Britain, counselling them to look to their own defence.” The context for this comment is obscure; it comes in a passage describing the actions of a Gothic army at that time (summer AD410) rampaging around northern Italy, who had for a time besieged the emperor Honorius inside the walls of Ravenna and who were shortly to sack Rome itself. What did this have to do with Britain? The mystery has led several historians to conclude that Zosimus’s Greek text should actually read Brouttía or Bruttía (Bruttium, the toe of Italy) rather than Brettanía (Britain). But Bruttium is 500 miles away from Ravenna, and the Goths were marching in the opposite direction; why would Honorius be warning cities so far away, that were in no conceivable danger? Attempts to explain the name as Raitía (Raetia, roughly modern Switzerland) instead collapse on similar grounds.

Ivory consular diptych of Anicius Probus, AD406, portraying the Emperor Honorius in martial guise. In reality, the young emperor had no experience of war.

Ivory consular diptych of Anicius Probus, AD406, portraying the Emperor Honorius in martial guise. In reality, the young emperor had no experience of war.

There seems, in fact, little reason not to relate this odd note to the passage shortly before in Zosimus’s history about the Britons taking up arms and throwing off the government of the usurper Constantine III. The letter, which was perhaps a rescript, or response to a petition, was addressed to ‘the cities of Britain’, which suggests that there was at that time no single leader or governor controlling the island, and that Britain had fractured into a network of individual power bases, perhaps centred on larger fortified towns like St Albans, Cirencester or Silchester; several of these, we might assume, had got together and addressed a petition to the emperor in Ravenna, requesting that he send troops to defend them and to re-establish proper imperial control over their island after the rule of the usurpers. Honorius, however, had his hands full dealing with Italy, and could offer only vain platitudes.

What seems clear from this interpretation is that Honorius was not telling the Britons that they were no longer Roman. This (in)famous letter was not a declaration that Britain was no longer part of the Roman empire. Nor, it seems, did the Britons themselves (or, at least, those who wrote to the emperor) want to cease being citizens of the empire, or for imperial rule over Britain to come to an end. Instead, these are rather desperate expedients by people whose options are limited and whose time is running out, trying to shore up the remains of a social and political structure and hoping that some lucky accident will deliver a way out of their malaise.

 But there was no way out. By AD416 Honorius’s resurgent generals had crushed the rebellion in Gaul and ended the fighting in Spain, bought off the barbarians and executed the usurpers. But their military control did not extend beyond the Channel. The Rhine frontier remained too vulnerable, and Spain too fractious, for any concerted westward expeditions, and while the ‘cities of Britain’ may have come to believe that Roman rule would return to them some time soon, in the event it seems that no imperial military reinforcements, or any restored Roman civil government, ever set foot on the island after AD410. A handful of churchmen made the trip, concerned only to protect the Christian congregations of the island from pagans and heretics; that too was a losing battle.

Surviving Roman fortifications at Portchester, a coastal fort originally built in the later 3rd century. The regular Roman garrison was probably withdrawn c.AD407

Surviving Roman fortifications at Portchester, a coastal fort originally built in the later 3rd century. The regular Roman garrison was probably withdrawn c.AD407

Roman Britain had been an integral part of a vast interconnected empire, which brought wealth, technology, cultures and peoples from across Europe, North Africa and the eastern provinces. Once those connections were severed, urban infrastructure and local economy withered and died. Post-Roman Britain became a backwater, a landscape of abandoned settlements, crumbling buildings and subsistence agriculture, ruled over by feuding warlords. Trade links with continental Europe survived only in some places, and small amounts of Roman coinage found its way across the Channel too – some of it ended up buried in hoards, presumably to keep it safe in times of crisis.

As the beleaguered western empire staggered on through the violent 5th century, the Britons addressed plaintive requests to the Roman government and army to aid them in their distress. ‘The barbarians drive us to the sea, the sea drives us upon the barbarians,’ one letter, recorded by the churchman Gildas, groaned. ‘By one or other of these two modes of death we are either killed or drowned.’ But the Romans had their own problems, and could do nothing for distant ex-provinces any more. Within another century, most of what was once Roman Britain had fallen into the hands of Germanic rulers from across the sea, perhaps former warband leaders employed as mercenaries, now kings of a new Anglo-Saxon domain.

This, then, was the end of Roman Britain. Not a single violent upheaval, one gust of wind blowing out the lamps of civilisation, so to speak, but rather a slow fade of control and influence. The few short years of truculent rebellion, from 407 to 409, were followed by decades of decline, despair, and a steady unravelling of social, political and economic structures that saw Britain sink into a period of stagnation that would last for centuries.

It is quite possible that those living at the time of the slow sundering did not even known it was happening, and many of them would perhaps not concede for decades, even generations, to come that they were no longer Romans, and that the richly cultured empire they had once inhabited was gone for good.

FURTHER READING

For the latest scholarly views on the end of Roman Britain, the 2014 collection of conference papers AD 410: The History and Archaeology of Late and Post-Roman Britain (edited by F.K Haarer) is available in pdf format from the Archaeology Data Service.

The Fates of Fausta and Crispus: an ancient murder mystery?

crispus and fausta.jpg

It is one of the most mysterious episodes in later Roman history, a puzzle that has never been solved. In AD326, a year after the culmination of a civil war that had given him total power over the Roman world, the Emperor Constantine condemned his son and heir Flavius Crispus Caesar and his wife Flavia Maxima Fausta (the Caesar's stepmother) to cruel and unusual execution. No official explanation was ever given for what happened.

Just as the deaths of these two prominent individuals were immediately hushed up by the imperial authorities, so the details of their lives were also erased, quite literally: their names were chiselled from monuments, and the historian Eusebius rewrote his major work to omit the glowing references to Crispus in the first edition.

In the absence of an official story, rumours bred, and many of these are mentioned by later writers. Gregory of Tours claims that Fausta and Crispus were plotting treason together, while Eutropius suggested that Crispus had paid for an illegal astrological reading. Orosius maintained that Crispus was killed because he favoured the heretical Arian sect, while Evagrius claimed that the executions never happened at all.

Several ancient historians allude to a sexual connection between the pair; Zonarus agrees with the 5th century churchman Philostorgius that Fausta falsely accused Crispus of raping her, and was put to death in turn when the truth emerged. Many recent commentators have followed this line, but it does not explain why neither victim was ever pardoned, nor their reputation restored.

Whatever crime Fausta and Crispus were alleged to have committed, Constantine must have believed it to be heinous, and never forgave either of them. Clearly the deaths were connected, and unusual: Ammianus Marcellinus tells us that Crispus was killed at Pola (modern Pula, Croatia) – by coincidence or sinister design, the same unimportant town in Istria was later chosen as the execution site of another Caesar, Gallus, who was killed on the orders of Constantine’s heir Constantius II.

Sidonius Apollinaris gives ‘cold poison’ as the cause of Crispus’s death; he and several others mention that Fausta died in an overheated bath. There are strong hints of conspiracy and treason, and suggestions that the emperor’s mother Helena had some influence over events, but beyond that all is conjecture. Why, for example, was Crispus poisoned in Pola, of all places? Was he taken there as a form of exile, after being condemned in Milan, or even in Rome? Was he trying to escape a death sentence, or was he, perhaps, travelling to join Constantine at the time he was apprehended? Neither poisoning nor boiling in a bath were usual Roman execution methods: did the pair die by suicide, hoping to escape imperial justice, or perhaps just by accident? Or was this a case of 'judicial murder'?

Modern scholars have little more to go on, and have been able to offer only tentative theories about what might really have happened. David Woods, in his paper ‘On the Death of the Empress Fausta’ (1998) suggests an attempted abortion as a likely cause for Fausta’s end. But as Jan Willem Drijvers puts it, “in the case of the executions of Crispus and Fausta, historians should admit that they have a mystery which will never be solved.”

For a long time, it was not even clear when the deaths happened. We know that both Crispus and Fausta were dead by the end of Constantine’s vicennalia year, the 20th anniversary of his acclamation: that would be July 24th AD326. Crispus, apparently, died first, and we know he died at Pola. We also know, from the date of a law of Constantine’s recorded in the Theodosian Code, that the emperor was still in Milan on July 6th, but he had arrived in Rome for the vicennalia celebrations by the 18th at the latest. Lars Ramskold, in his 2012 paper ‘Constantine’s Vicennalia and the Death of Crispus’, cites what could be a vital piece of evidence for the chronology of the events of AD326: a bronze dynastic coin recently found in Rome, celebrating the vicennalia and showing the head of Crispus, which was probably minted in the city after Constantine’s arrival. If so, the coin proves that Crispus must still have been alive – or was believed to be alive – on July 18th. Bearing in mind the amount of time a message would have taken to reach Rome from Pola, and the information that he was dead before the 24th, we can narrow down the possible time frame for the young Caesar’s execution to a matter of days. Fausta, then, must have been killed almost immediately after the receipt of the news; most likely, she died in Rome, where she would have been accompanying her husband for the forthcoming celebrations.

The deaths of Crispus and Fausta, together with the battles of the civil war that preceded them, form the dramatic centrepiece of my novel Imperial Vengeance. In composing the story, I tried to make the best sense of the scraps of evidence we do possess, and to devise a scenario both historically plausible and dramatically engaging. It’s almost certain that the version of events I present in the novel is a long way from what really happened – it does, after all, involve several fictional characters – but I was determined to create something that followed the course of known history to the very limits of available knowledge, and then to use those limits as a guide to invention. To create a fictional version of what happened, in other words, that at least could have been true. I leave it to the reader to judge how effective my attempts at ‘re-imagination’ have been!

 

IMPERIAL VENGEANCE (Twilight of Empire V)

- now available in paperback (Amazon UK)

 

"Aethiops quidam e Numero Militari" - Black Africans in the Roman Army

A black legionary cornicen on the northern frontier, c.AD200. Illustration by Pavel Šimák.

A black legionary cornicen on the northern frontier, c.AD200. Illustration by Pavel Šimák.

The question of whether black Africans served in the Roman army comes up with surprising frequency on social media. It’s a contentious topic, related to various contemporary debates about ethnicity, multiculturalism, and the representation of history. Often these discussions generate considerably more heat than light, but as I was recently asked about an African centurion who appeared in my first novel, War at the Edge of the World, I though I might share a few thoughts about one of the few scraps of evidence we possess for the ethnicity of Roman soldiers.

In AD208, towards the end of his life, the elderly and gout-afflicted emperor Septimius Severus came to Britain for a last campaign against the rebellious peoples north of Hadrian’s Wall. Two years later, with no clear victory in sight, he died at York; but in the months before his death he apparently experienced several grim omens. The Historia Augusta, a much later account of various imperial lives, preserves an unusual anecdote from the emperor’s stay in the north:

 

"After inspecting the wall near the rampart in Britain… just as he [Severus] was wondering what omen would present itself, an Ethiopian from a military unit, who was famous among buffoons and always a notable joker, met him with a garland of cypress. And when Severus in a rage ordered that the man be removed from his sight, troubled as he was by the man's ominous colour and the ominous nature of the garland, [the Ethiopian] by way of jest cried, it is said, “You have been all things, you have conquered all things, now, O conqueror, be a god.” "

(Post murum apud vallum visum in Brittannia… volvens animo quid ominis sibi occurreret, Aethiops quidam e numero militari, clarae inter scurras famae et celebratorum semper iocorum, cum corona e cupressu facta eidem occurrit. quem cum ille iratus removeri ab oculis praecepisset, et coloris eius tactus omine et coronae, dixisse ille dicitur ioci causa: Totum fuisti, totum vicisti, iam deus esto victor.)

(Historia Augusta, ‘Septimius Severus’, 22.4-5)

 

The Historia Augusta is generally regarded today as only partially reliable at best, but even if the event is fictitious, it must at least have been believable. This suggests that it may indeed have been possible to encounter a black soldier serving in the Roman army in northern Britain in AD210, although we can gather from the emperor’s reaction that it would not have been a common occurrence! 

The Roman empire was both cosmopolitan and multi-ethnic, drawing in people from every territory within and adjacent to its domains, and in most cases turning them into citizens. This was certainly true of the army, just as it was of the aristocracy; for centuries, Rome had been absorbing the ruling elites of conquered nations and ‘rewarding’ them with access to the senatorial order.

Severus himself was a product of this cultural and political cross-pollination. Born in Leptis Magna, in today’s Libya, his family were of Punic (Carthaginian/Lebanese) background, and had gained Roman citizenship long before. His wife Julia Domna was Syrian, and a family portrait of c.AD200 shows the couple with their two sons – the second son’s face was obliterated some time later after his brother Caracalla murdered him and tried to erase him from history. The portrait shows Severus with a darker or ruddier complexion than his Syrian wife and son.

Severan Tondo.jpg

But the Romans had different ideas about ethnicity and geographical origins to those most common today, and often we have no way of distinguishing different ethnic groups, still less different complexions, from literary evidence. The ethnic marker Afer (‘African’), for example, which appears on tombstones, refers strictly to people from the region around Carthage, in modern Tunisia. The Roman term for someone of black African origin was Aethiops – ‘Ethiopian’. So while Severus could be described as an African, we can see from the anecdote about the black soldier in Britain that he could not have been Aethiops himself.

A Romano-Egyptian mummy portrait from Fayum, 2nd-3rd century AD

A Romano-Egyptian mummy portrait from Fayum, 2nd-3rd century AD

As the term suggests, the principal route of entry for black Africans into the empire would be via the Nile valley and Egypt. Alexandria, in particular, was famously cosmopolitan and multi-ethnic, and had a black population long before the arrival of the Romans. The 4th-century historian Ammianus Marcellinus describes the Egyptians of his own time as ‘swarthy and dark of complexion’. However, not all black Africans came from Egypt; Ammianus also mentions, in passing, that tribes of Aethiopi lived near Auzia in the province of Mauretania Caesariensis (modern Sour el-Ghozlane, in Algeria): there were trade routes across the Sahara into North Africa at the time, and historians have only recently begun to study the possible cultural and ethnic connections in this area.

However, for all the evidence of black Africans living throughout the Roman empire, we should not believe that ancient peoples were necessarily ‘colour blind’, or free from prejudices about ethnicity. On the contrary; it seems that many Romans were distinctly prejudiced against black people in particular. Black Africans were seen as exotic, and perhaps threateningly alien, and they are seldom if ever mentioned in Roman literature without some negative connotation. Most disturbingly, the historian Appian claims that the military commander Brutus, before the battle of Philippi in 42BC, met an ‘Ethiopian’ outside the gates of his camp: his soldiers instantly hacked the man to pieces, taking his appearance for a bad omen – to the superstitious Roman, black was the colour of death.

This brings us back to the story in the Historia Augusta about Severus meeting the black soldier in Britain. Like the funereal cypress garland he carried, the soldier’s appearance seemed to the emperor an intimation of his own approaching demise. To be scrupulous, we should perhaps note that the text does not clearly refer to the man as a soldier – he was Aethiops quindam e numero militari: 'an Ethiopian from a military unit'. Nevertheless, he was most probably an enlisted man – 3rd-century evidence from Dura Europos on the eastern frontier and Lyons in Gaul suggests that military men could have additional roles as actors or entertainers (scaenici), but the term scurrus famae may simply have meant that he was well known among his fellow soldiers for his sense of humour!

Some historians have suggested that the Ethiopian could have been serving with the Numerus Maurorum Aurelianorum, a ‘Moorish’ unit stationed at Burgh-by-Sands near the western end of Hadrian’s Wall in the later Roman era. This too is plausible, although the unit is first attested in Britain in the mid 3rd-century, so we do not know if it existed, or was anywhere near Hadrian’s Wall, back in Severus’s day.

North African light cavalry in action, as portrayed on Trajan’s Column in Rome, cAD110

North African light cavalry in action, as portrayed on Trajan’s Column in Rome, cAD110

But there may have been plenty of other routes for a man of black African origin to find himself in a military unit in the north of Britain in AD210. Detachments of legions and other forces were often sent from one province to another, sometimes over great distances, and we have evidence of men apparently recruited in North Africa turning up in Britain in the later second century.

The legions II Traiana and III Augusta, based in Egypt and Numidia respectively, appear to have been used as a pool for reinforcements throughout imperial history; they alone would have contributed to a wide ethnic diffusion through the army more generally. And then, of course, there are the auxiliary forces, raised from inhabitants of the frontier provinces and given citizenship on discharge.

The irregular North African light cavalry who appear on Trajan’s Column may have a rather idealised appearance - and it is not entirely clear what the sculptor intended their ethnicity to be, beyond generically 'African' - but they certainly imply that, for all the prejudices of the metropolitan Roman, the army was far more accepting of diversity!

Our evidence would suggest, then, that the black African centurion Rogatianus who appears in War at the Edge of the World, himself a recent transfer to Britain, would probably not have been so unusual in the Roman army of the early 4th-century AD. But our vision of the ancient past is necessarily fragmented and partial; history, the method we use to try and assemble those fragments and reconstruct what they might have shown, is constantly changing. Fiction provides one way of trying to imagine what the past might have looked like, in all its unexpected variety. So whether it’s the colour of Roman soldiers, or just the colour of Roman tunics, the debates will no doubt continue.

A Biblical scene from the 6th-7th century Ashburnham/Tours Pentateuch; the figures are dressed in typical late Roman style.

A Biblical scene from the 6th-7th century Ashburnham/Tours Pentateuch; the figures are dressed in typical late Roman style.

How Christian was Constantine?

 
head.jpg

In AD312, so the legend goes, the Roman emperor Constantine saw a vision in the sky on the eve of battle: a Christian emblem and the message ‘Conquer with this’. In reality, it almost certainly didn’t happen that way, but Constantine nevertheless became the first Roman emperor to convert to the new religion, and his promotion of the faith led to a transformation of the ancient world. In my Twilight of Empire series of novels, I try to show how this religious and cultural transformation might have appeared, seen through the eyes of a man far from keen on the changes.

But was Constantine genuinely a committed Christian, or was he using religion for his own ends? Ever since the historian Jacob Burckhardt first suggested it in the 1850s, many have considered that the emperor’s conversion might have been motivated by cynical opportunism and ambition for total power, rather than by genuine spiritual belief.

 

The evidence for this view takes three main parts. Firstly, Constantine was not baptised until he was on his deathbed, which might suggest a certain ambivalence about the faith beforehand. Secondly, long after the supposedly crucial date of AD312, Constantine’s coins continued to display images of traditional Roman gods – Jupiter, Mars, and in particular the sun god, Sol Invictus. Thirdly, Constantine apparently made few moves to suppress or abolish traditional beliefs, and even constructed new temples in his city of Constantinople, where a statue depicted him wearing the radiate crown of Sol.

The first of these objections can be dismissed fairly easily. In early Christianity, deathbed baptism was quite common. It was, at the time, the only way of ridding oneself of sin – a one-shot soul-cleanser. For a man in Constantine’s position, obliged to take many morally dubious decisions (to say the least) while conquering and ruling a vast empire, it made sense to delay baptism as long as possible. Apparently, the emperor originally intended to have himself baptised in the River Jordan, just like Christ himself. In the event, he fell ill and died before he reached the Holy Land; but once he had finally undergone baptism he dressed himself in a simple white tunic and lay down to await death, content that he would enter heaven in a state of complete purity.

It is true, meanwhile, that Constantine issued many coins with pagan images and motifs. After AD305, when he first seems to have adopted Sol Invictus as his personal deity and protector, images of the sun god are most common. But his coins also show Mars, Hercules and Jupiter. Would a convinced Christian have allowed such a thing?

Bronze coin issued by Constantine in AD317. The reverse shows the sun god Sol Invictus, referred to as 'Companion of the Emperor'.

Bronze coin issued by Constantine in AD317. The reverse shows the sun god Sol Invictus, referred to as 'Companion of the Emperor'.

Interestingly, images of Sol disappear from Constantine’s coinage after AD319, and, following the final defeat of his last rival, the eastern emperor Licinius, in AD324, non-Christian imagery vanishes from the coinage altogether. It was the battle of Chrysopolis in that year, rather than Milvian Bridge twelve years previously, which really saw Constantine’s religious beliefs come to the attention of the world.

Christianity in the early fourth century was far from being a majority faith in the empire; perhaps only about 10% of Romans followed it. So it is perhaps unsurprising that Constantine continued to support certain aspects of the traditional religions, particularly during times of civil war, when a more vigorously anti-pagan policy could have provided ammunition for his enemies. But a letter to the eastern provinces, quoted by the biographer Eusebius and apparently written after the defeat of Licinius, makes it plain what Constantine thought of the old beliefs: “With regard to those who will hold themselves aloof from us, let them have, if they please, their temples of lies: we have the glorious edifice of truth…”

There was nothing all that ‘unRoman’ about Christianity by this stage. The traditional polytheistic customs of the Roman past had been declining in influence for decades, replaced by a multitude of new cults and philosophical beliefs, many of eastern origin, that tended towards a monotheistic outlook. The Christian hierarchy had been thoroughly Romanised, and by the early 4th century there was little cultural and no ethnic difference between a Roman Christian and a follower of more traditional beliefs.

Nor was it unusual for an emperor to identify himself with a particular god. Both Diocletian and Maximian, the senior emperors of the ‘tetrarchy’ that had preceded Constantine, had done just that: Diocletian named himself Iovius, the ‘man like Jupiter (or Jove)’, the living image of the king of the gods; his colleague Maximian was Herculius, the ‘man like Hercules’. Constantine seems initially to have adopted the sun god Sol Invictus in the same way – especially after his supposed vision of Apollo in Gaul some time in AD309-310. Ten years later, perhaps, he may have come to see Christianity as a more powerful version of Sol worship – from the Sun God to the Son of God, we might say, in one easy step!

Whatever Constantine’s own beliefs might have been, few people would have noticed an immediate difference after the Battle of Milvian Bridge. It was only during the final campaign against Licinius that we hear of Constantine praying before battle, ordering his troops to carry a Christian standard (in opposition to the pagan images still apparently used by Licinius) and even, according to the later writer Sozomen, purging the army of the rituals and the iconography of traditional religion altogether.

While certain of Constantine’s acts following his victory over Licinius – dismantling temples and apparently even melting down cult statues for coinage – may have had a financial motive, many of the emperor’s other religious and social measures appear to have been driven mainly by his own personal religious belief. Constantine, it seems, wanted a single unified religion for the empire, with himself at its head; the schisms and heresies of the church apparently pained and confused him far more than the ongoing beliefs of the traditionally-minded. "For while the people of God, whose fellow-servant I am,’ he wrote in the same letter quoted above, ‘are thus divided amongst themselves by an unreasonable and pernicious spirit of contention, how is it possible that I shall be able to maintain tranquillity of mind?

In his public declarations, then, Constantine appears to have been quite certain about his commitment to Christianity. He not only convened several church councils to decide knotty problems of dogma, but also composed the enormous speech known today as the Oration to the Saints; this would have taken a full two hours to recite, and probably served no political purpose at all – we can only pity the courtiers and ministers who had to listen to it! Meanwhile, in his reply to the Donatists after the Council of Arles in AD314, Constantine wrote that "I myself must be judged by Christ" (qui ipse judicium Christi expecto).

But while we can say with some confidence that Constantine at least believed himself to be a committed Christian, certainly after AD324 and probably before that too, working out what sort of Christian he might have been is a lot more difficult. The oration I mentioned above is rather confused in some aspects, and suggests that the emperor’s faith might have been quite unorthodox. Identifying himself with Christ, just as Diocletian and Maximian had identified themselves with Jupiter and Hercules, would have been seen as deeply heretical and perhaps blasphemous. But with Constantine ruling supreme over the Roman empire, and promoting Christianity with such vigour, it is unlikely that any of the bishops and other clerics that gathered around him would have taken it upon themselves to try and ‘correct’ the emperor’s beliefs!

The hand from the colossal statue of the emperor Constantine in Rome; originally it would have held a sceptre, probably featuring a Christian monogram.

The hand from the colossal statue of the emperor Constantine in Rome; originally it would have held a sceptre, probably featuring a Christian monogram.

DIOCLETIAN'S PALACE, TWILIGHT TILL DAWN

I was in Split, on the Dalmatian coast of Croatia, to visit the remains of the Roman palace – or fortified villa – built by the Emperor Diocletian at the beginning of the 4th Century AD. The previous evening I had gone to bed early, intending to get up soon after dawn and visit the ruins before the crowds gathered too thickly. In the event, however, I was woken a lot earlier. It was 3am, a hot night, and sleep had deserted me. Instead I got up, got dressed, and went out.

Over two hours until sunrise, and the narrow alleys of the medieval town were a labyrinth of pitch darkness and moonlight, deserted except for the occasional slinking cat. Stepping from the central alleyway I arrived at the Prothyron, the monumental entrance of the palace, with the colonnaded Peristyle before it. The effect was eerie and deeply impressive. In the warm darkness the open space appeared enclosed, like the interior of a vast basilica. My camera is not the greatest, but I took a picture anyway: the grainy result gives only a vague impression of the scene.

3.30am

3.30am

Later, after a stroll along the deserted seafront below the buttress walls of the palace, I returned to the Peristyle. It was shortly after 4am, and the sky was filling with light, the stone of the colonnade and the palace façade glowing with a premonition of dawn.

4.15am

4.15am

I remained there for another hour, as the daylight increased. By 4.30am the sky had grown pale, although the sun would not rise for another half hour. Already, though, the first other visitors had wandered through the square, taking pictures just as I was doing. Street sweepers appeared, and the owner of the Luxor Café unlocked the doors to begin preparations for the day’s business. Soon the guided tour groups would begin pouring in from the surrounding alleyways, the costumed ‘Roman soldiers’ would take up their positions, and the square would fill. It was enough: I returned to my apartment by 5am, and slept.

Later that day I went back to the palace. As the bells rang noon from the medieval campanile built onto the front of Diocletian’s Mausoleum, the emperor himself appeared - or rather, a man dressed in a loose approximation of imperial costume - flanked by guards. Before a sea of tourists, he recited a brief address in Italianate Latin, and coaxed a shout of acclamation from the crowd. Not the most authentic of displays, perhaps, but it served as an entertaining postscript to my pre-dawn visit.

Diocletian's Palace, Split, Emperor Appearance

 

(Anyone wanting a better idea of what an actual Late Roman emperor looked like might refer to this missorium, or ceremonial silver dish, dating from c.AD388 – the Emperor Theodosius, his two co-emperors and his guards are shown larger than life, under the arches of a Prothyron quite similar to the one in Split):

Theodosius Missorium

(One of my favourite anecdotes about Diocletian comes from the historian Aurelius Victor, who writes that the retired emperor, following his abdication in AD305, was begged by his former co-ruler Maximian to resume control of the empire, which had spiralled into chaos. “If you could see the cabbages I have grown with my own hands,” Diocletian replied, “you surely would never judge that a temptation!

The site of the ex-emperor’s veg patch has never been found, but perhaps lies somewhere in the vicinity of his palace at Split. Excavations in 2007 revealed that the sea, rather than lapping at the façade as formerly believed (or even flooding into the vaulted halls beneath, as some imaginative tour guides still claim), actually lay a short distance south-west of the palace itself. The excavators suggested that the space between palace and shore might have been filled by a hippodrome, or racetrack; common enough in imperial complexes of the era. However, the palace on the Palatine Hill in Rome has a sunken garden shaped like a hippodrome. So might it be that the seaward portico of the palace at Split looked out over just such a formal garden, and rather than watching chariot races from his front terrace, the old emperor Diocletian instead gazed down proudly at ranks of his own plump cabbages…?)

 

Further Reading?

There’s a very informative article on the Palace available here.

For a more scholarly survey, try this academic paper (by the same author).

 

"Snails for the boys" - On the road with Theophanes of Hermopolis

Theophanes Carriage

 

Some time in early March (Phamenoth in the Egyptian calendar), around AD320, a man named Theophanes set off from the city of Hermopolis in the Nile valley on a journey to Antioch in Syria, capital of the eastern provinces of the Roman empire. Theophanes was probably a lawyer, and he was travelling to Antioch to visit the office of Dyscolius, the vicarius (deputy) to the Praetorian Prefect of the East. We don’t know the reason for his journey, but it may have been connected with a property dispute between different towns in the Hermopolis region. His round trip would take him nearly six months, but Theophanes travelled in style, staying at imperial guesthouses, bathing regularly, meeting and dining with friends and officials along the way. As a man, he is otherwise completely unknown, but his journey allows a fascinating insight into the daily life of a middle-class Roman traveller of the early 4th century AD.

We know about Theophanes today because a record of his trip, together with some letters of introduction to the officials he would meet along the way and an inventory of household possessions, was discovered in Egypt, in a cache of preserved papyri. The main document is a simple itinerary with a list of travel expenses – a dry compilation of facts, presumably compiled by his secretary. But, deciphered and studied by the historian John Matthews (in The Journey of Theophanes: Travel, Business and Daily Life in the Roman East), this basic account provides a way of reconstructing these few months in Theophanes’s life.

The document was written on the back of an official Latin petition, or subscriptio, stating the names of the reigning Caesars (junior emperors) of the day, which gives us an approximate date. Papyrus was valuable, and this would have been the equivalent of office scrap paper. The eastern empire at this point was under the rule of the Augustus Licinius, the great rival of the western emperor Constantine: fortunately, this is the exact period covered by my ‘Twilight of Empire’ novels.

Theophanes was not travelling alone, of course – wealthy Romans of his day seldom went anywhere unaccompanied. Notes in the account mention several members of his travelling retinue, most or all of them probably slaves. A man named Silvanus served as his phrontistes, or household manager, while another named Eudaimon dealt with his daily finances. There was a messenger (dromeus), appropriately called Hermes, and another named Horos. Two Egyptian slaves called Piox and Aoros seem to have acted as general helpers and baggage handlers. These, and perhaps other slaves, were collectively called paidia – ‘the boys’ – and there are frequent references to special provisions of lower-quality rations allocated to them.

Various friends and travelling companions come and go – somebody called Antoninus appears to accompany Theophanes for part of his journey. At the fortress of Babylon in Egypt (near modern Cairo) Theophanes pays for wine for ‘a Pannonian soldier’, and on the last leg of his journey, from Laodicea in Syria to Antioch, he is accompanied by ‘six Sarmatians’: these men are probably also soldiers, perhaps a military escort provided by the local governor. On that day Theophanes covered an extraordinary 64 miles, so perhaps he had joined a military group in a ride through the night to reach his final destination.

                                 Scenes of everyday life in Antioch, from the 5th century Yakto mosaic.

                                 Scenes of everyday life in Antioch, from the 5th century Yakto mosaic.

Other stages of the journey were less hectic. As an important civilian travelling on official business, Theophanes could apparently make use of the imperial post-carriage service, or cursus publicus, and stay at the network of mansiones, inns or guesthouses, along the route. This allowed him to move very rapidly: he covered distances of between 16 and 45 miles daily, averaging 32 per day. Matthews estimates that he would have used two carriages and probably a wagon as well to transport himself, his staff and his travelling baggage.

The most interesting aspect of the accounts, however, are the smaller items that Theophanes pays for along the way. He makes regular visits to the baths, taking his own bath-salts (nitron) and even soap (sophonion). He eats well – daily bread of differing quality, fruit, and the typical Roman three-course meal, sometimes with the herb-flavoured white wine called absinthion, drunk as an aperitif. He frequently buys lunch or snacks for his companions too – ‘olives for lunch with Antoninus’ at one point. At Pelusium, on his journey home, the account mentions ‘snails for the boys’ – whether this was a rare treat, or all that was available, is unclear!

All of the monetary sums are given in drachmae, an obsolete Greek currency at the time but still used as a financial unit, like the Roman denarius. Theophanes’s daily transactions – or those of his slaves and treasurer – were probably carried out in nummi, the silver-washed bronze coins in common use at the time. One nummus was worth 50 drachmae, so a loaf of refined bread would have cost two coins, an amphora of good wine fourteen. With average expenditure at 75 nummi per day, Theophanes’s money-men would have had to carry substantial quantities of heavy coinage about with them.

Some of the expenses relate to special occasions. At Antioch Theophanes buys ‘gourds for the wedding of Pellios’. At Ascalon he not only pays for tickets to the theatre and odeion, but also buys a gilt statue of the emperor (Licinius, presumably) for dedicating in a temple, while at Ptolemais he commemorates his daughter’s birthday – probably with another temple dedication. Interestingly, bearing in mind the date, there is no mention of Christianity in these documents; Theophanes’s religious world is still resolutely traditional. The snow-chilled water (chiones hudor) he pays for at Byblos was perhaps a luxury in the summer heat, while it’s tempting to imagine that the ‘wine jar in the form of (the god) Silenus’ that he buys at Tyre was the 4th-century equivalent of a trashy tourist souvenir!

We don’t know whether Theophanes’s trip was successful or not. He spent over two months in Antioch before making his way home to Egypt. Whatever he was doing has left no other trace in the historical record, and compared to the momentous events shortly to convulse the Roman world – the climax of the ongoing civil wars between Licinius and Constantine – his journey may seem of little importance. But these documents give us a narrow window into the everyday experiences of the era, and the lives of those multitudes who lived through a period of profound change, albeit distracted by their own affairs. And for a novelist trying to reconstruct the world of the early 4th century in fiction, they are an invaluable resource.

 

BIBLIOGRAPHY

John Matthews. The Journey of Theophanes: Travel, Business and Daily Life in the Roman East. Yale University Press, 2006

 

 

 

Knights vs Romans?

Knights Vs Romans

Comparing the armies of entirely different historical periods or cultures, and trying to work out which would win in some anachronistic clash of arms, is generally a fairly futile pursuit. Military forces develop in response to the specific needs of their day, and rely on the available technology of their era. Nevertheless, this hasn’t stopped people trying to imagine the results, and while some of these fantasy confrontations are more fanciful than others (Vikings vs. Ninjas?), the idea of a battle between Imperial Rome and the knightly warriors of the Middle Ages has long been a recurring topic for internet historians, armchair strategists and wargamers of all sorts.

Putting aside the obvious objections, therefore: if we imagined that a Roman army and an army of Medieval Europe were somehow sucked through a rent in the space-time continuum and compelled to fight a battle, is there any way of guessing who might come off best?

To try and answer the question, we’d first have to decide on some representative forces. The Roman army of the 2nd century BC was very different to that of the 4th AD, just as the armies of the 10th century differed greatly from those of the 15th. But the Roman empire was vast, far larger than any medieval state; a single legion with its auxiliaries could have outnumbered the average force deployed by a king of the earlier middle ages. So we’d need to choose opponents of a similar size, a suitable era, and of which we have a fairly detailed description.

Even so, the match would be difficult. The Roman army was based on the heavy infantry legion, developed to beat opponents who mainly fought on foot. The armies of the medieval era, on the other hand, were centred on the heavily armoured aristocratic knight, usually mounted before the 14th century, and supported by a range of foot soldiers. To make our imaginary clash more equitable, we’d have to choose opponents that had in some way adapted to fighting outside their tactical comfort zone: Romans who went up against a largely mounted enemy, versus knights with some experience of battling largely infantry foes.

For the Romans, then, I’ve selected the force described by Lucius Flavius Arrianus – better known today as Arrian – in his Acies contra Alanos. Arrian was a Roman senator and governor of Cappadocia, of Greek origin, and his Greek account details the composition and tactics of an expeditionary force he led, or intended to lead, against the invading Alanic horse nomads in AD135. Arrian appears to have led two legions, five cavalry units and around ten cohorts of auxiliaries, three of which may have been of double size. On paper his force possibly numbered about 19,000 men, but few units were ever at full strength; 15,000 seems a more likely figure, of which 8000 were legionary infantry and around 2000 cavalry. Eight of his auxiliary cohorts included a mounted component, and at least three also included archers. Crucially, his army also included an artillery section of catapults and ballistae; the late Roman writer Vegetius suggests that each legion may have had 55-65 of these machines.

                     Roman cart-mounted bolt-shooting ballistae, shown on Trajan's Column (AD113)

                     Roman cart-mounted bolt-shooting ballistae, shown on Trajan's Column (AD113)

As a suitable medieval force to oppose the might of Rome, I’ve chosen the Anglo-Welsh army led by King Edward I of England against the Scots in 1298. The English had been beaten the year before by a Scottish army that included large numbers of infantry pikemen fighting in blocks called schiltrons – perhaps the closest medieval battlefield equivalent to an ancient infantry array. Numbers for Edward’s army are harder to establish with any great accuracy, but he probably had around 2500 cavalry – most of them fully armoured knights and men-at-arms. This time, however, he was better prepared to deal with the Scots schiltrons, and his knights were supported by around 12,500 infantry, many of whom were archers from Wales and northern England.

             English longbowmen in training, from the Luttrell Psalter of c.1325

             English bowmen in training, from the Luttrell Psalter of c.1325

Arrian’s tactics are far more defensive than the usual Roman style of fighting against opponents on foot. He first selects a suitable location with high ground on either side to prevent outflanking moves by the mobile enemy, then draws up his legions in a strong line eight ranks deep, forming a wall of shields with the light troops on the flanks and the archers and artillery at the rear. Even trained cavalry horses will not generally charge against a solid wall of infantry, and Arrian intends to hold his position and break the impetus of the Alanic assault with volleys of javelins, arrows and artillery projectiles. Once the Alans are in disarray, the infantry will open lanes and allow the Roman cavalry to charge through them and drive the enemy from the field.

Medieval tactics of the 13th century were also fairly simple, and relied on the power of the charging mounted knight. Knights were formidable warriors, trained since childhood in combat and accustomed to regular exercise in hunting and the mock battles of the tournament, even when they were not on active campaign. Edward’s horsemen would be dressed from head to foot in mail, with full helmets and plate limb defences, and armed with lances, swords and shields; some were also mounted on armoured horses. But at Falkirk, the most important aspect of the English army was the bowmen: rather than charge directly against the Scots infantry, Edward ordered his archers to shower them with mass volleys of arrows, only sending in his knights and mounted men-at-arms when the enemy formations had frayed and gaps had opened in their ranks. The combination was deadly – but how well would it have worked against Arrian’s Romans?

Rome had faced large numbers of archers before, and large numbers of mounted cavalry too. The Parthians had beaten a Roman army at Carrhae in 53BC using massed archery to wear down the legionaries, followed by horseback charges, just as Edward did against the Scots. But the Romans had learned from their mistakes, and managed to defeat the Parthians, and later the Persians, several times in open battle. The disciplined ranks of Arrian’s armoured legionaries would perhaps have stood up to archery much better than the Scots levy pikemen at Falkirk. Besides, the Romans had archers too, and every legionary carried one or more heavy javelins as close-range missile weapons. They also had artillery, of course, although with the catapults positioned behind the infantry lines it would have been difficult to use them as sniper weapons, as the Romans sometimes did, and pick off the leaders of the enemy horsemen. Arrian does not mention caltrops (tribuli) – spiked obstacles strewn on the ground to cripple men and horses – perhaps because he intends to send his own cavalry forward through the front lines. If this was not an option, the Romans may have used caltrops as well to break up any advancing enemy.

                  Roman caltrops from the 1st century BC, found at the battle site of Alesia in France.

                  Roman caltrops from the 1st century BC, found at the battle site of Alesia in France.

We don’t know for sure whether the bows used by Edward’s archers in 1298 were as powerful as those of the following century, but they may have had a draw weight of more than 100lb. These bows would have shot much further and harder than the smaller bows used by the Romans; only Arrian’s artillery could have matched their range. But while the 100 or so Roman ballistae could each release around 3 bolts a minute, Edward’s thousands of archers could shoot an arrow every seven seconds. If the English were supplied with unlimited ammunition, they could feasibly keep on pelting the Romans with arrows until the legionary formation broke, as the Parthians had done at Carrhae. The arrow storm would perhaps not kill too many of the Romans directly, but with the effort of keeping their shields raised against the missiles the Romans would have little strength to do much except defend themselves.

If the Romans could maintain their formation and withstand the withering volleys from the powerful English bows, they could also hold off any charges from the mounted knights. However, their offensive capability would be gone: if they attempted a charge on foot, they would be cut to pieces, and their cavalry would be of little use: the medieval warhorse was far larger than anything known in the ancient world, and the Roman cavalrymen would stand little chance against the knights in open combat.

                            Knights doing what they do best... From the Maciejowski Bible, c.1250

                            Knights doing what they do best... From the Maciejowski Bible, c.1250

However, even with their ranks frayed the Romans would still have presented a formidable obstacle to Edward’s battle-winning knights. Barring a sudden lucky charge, the English horsemen would be unlikely to get close enough to the legionary ranks to force a gap in their line. Any individual knight who managed to brave the storm of missiles, the caltrops and the javelins and break through the wall of shields would be swiftly surrounded, brought down and battered to death with blunt instruments: the Romans’ favoured way of despatching armoured opponents.

On the face of it, the battle looks like a stalemate.

At this point, therefore, we have to consider the skill of the opposing leaders. Edward I was reputedly one of the best military commanders in Europe (even if he said so himself), while we have, unfortunately, little idea of the true martial abilities of Flavius Arrianus. Once battle was joined, maintaining discipline and morale would be as important as tactics. A Roman commander like Julius Caesar, Domitius Corbulo or the Emperor Trajan could well have motivated his troops to withstand a lengthy battle of attrition, and perhaps found a way to take the fight to the enemy. Edward was clearly an exceptional leader of men, and perhaps could have inspired or cajoled his knights into a mass frontal attack against the odds. But with their forces so evenly matched, it would take either luck or a crafty bit of generalship to force anything more than a lengthy and very bloody stand-off.

With this kind of consideration in mind, we can appreciate that warfare of any era is far more than a simple comparison of strengths and tactics. Victory is seldom a matter of calculation, but relies on an unquantifiable balance of skill, morale, discipline and plain luck. It’s worth bearing in mind, too, that while the armies of 2nd century Rome and of 13th century Europe were supremely effective in their day, both evolved to face changing threats and to reflect changing societies. And while a single battle may decide a conflict, to gain a true idea of the military capabilities of a past society, we’d need to look at the larger picture. The true strength of the Roman military lay not so much in its legions, as in the vast supply and logistics network that allowed the legions to keep on functioning during lengthy campaigns. The Romans may have lost battles, but they seldom lost wars.

 

 

DID THE ROMANS HAVE MAPS?

I’d originally intended to include maps in my list of Ten Things the Romans Didn’t Have, but then realised that it’s not quite that simple, and the subject deserves its own post.

Picture the command tent of a Roman general on campaign, his subordinate officers gathered for a briefing. It’s difficult to imagine this scene without a map being present somewhere; how else is the general to explain his plans? Perhaps the map is drawn on a scroll, unrolled upon the table. Perhaps it’s much larger, and fixed to a frame – the general maybe has a stick, to point out the important details… Maps are so much part of our idea of strategic and tactical planning, it’s hard to see how an army could have operated without them.

And yet, the Romans apparently did just that for a large part of their history. The Latin language has no word for what we would consider an accurate scale map – mappa just means a sort of posh table napkin. Ancient literature has several examples of Romans – even high ranking ones – becoming completely lost while trying to get from one place to another, and having to rely on local guides. In one instance, shortly before his famous crossing of the Rubicon, Julius Caesar lost track of his army while travelling by night.

But this did not mean that Romans had no conception of the shape of the world around them. Far from it – late Roman mosaics from Ammaedara in North Africa and Madaba in modern Jordan show large-scale pictorial landscapes with the coastlines and the names of the cities gorgeously illustrated. But these landscapes are not maps – they are decorative rather than functional. Nobody could navigate their way around the islands of the Mediterranean using the Ammaedara map – for a start, some of islands appear more than once!

Nevertheless, the Romans were capable of visualising large spaces in a more schematic way. The so-called Forma Urbis, or ‘Severan marble plan’, was an enormous map of the city of Rome, inscribed onto marble panels and originally erected on one inside wall of the Temple of Peace, close to the Forum. Its original purpose is rather obscure, but it may have been connected to the office of the Praefectus Urbis, or prefect of the city. Fragments of it survive today, and allow us to guess what the complete plan might have looked like. The level of detail is extraordinary – even the internal walls of houses are plotted, which must have been a gift for potential burglars – and would perhaps have been enhanced by coloured paint in situ.

One of the surviving fragments of the marble plan of Rome.

One of the surviving fragments of the marble plan of Rome.

But even this plan is not drawn to an accurate scale, nor was it ever altered. In fact, it may have been as decorative in its intention as the mosaic landscapes of Ammaedara and Madaba; the ‘real’ city map, if there was one, was perhaps transcribed onto papyrus or vellum sheets and regularly updated.

The closest thing to a larger-scale map in the ancient world was the itinerary, a sort of route guide to major destinations, noting the stopping places and the distances between them. Using one of these lists, an ancient traveller could follow the excellent Roman road network from one end of the empire to another, with a good chance of arriving in the right place. Luckily, several of these ancient itineraries survive today, giving us a good idea of how people in the Roman world might have planned their journeys. One of the most famous even survives in illustrated form, albeit as a medieval copy. The Peutinger Table, as it’s commonly known, shows a plan of road routes and cities across the world, from Britain to India, although the furthest western section is lost.

Section of the Peutinger Table, showing northwest Europe, the Rhine, northern Spain and the south coast of Britain

Section of the Peutinger Table, showing northwest Europe, the Rhine, northern Spain and the south coast of Britain

The dimensions of the Peutinger plan appear strange to us today. It’s possible that the original was displayed on the wall of a public portico, perhaps in Rome: at least one such ‘world plan’ is known from ancient literature. This would explain why the lay of the land has been oddly stretched and folded, to fit a long narrow space.

The late Roman writer Vegetius mentions that written itineraries had a military function too:

[The general] should have itineraries of all regions in which war is being waged written out in the fullest detail, so that he may learn the distances between places in terms of the number of miles and the quality of roads, and examine short-cuts, by-ways, mountains and rivers, accurately described.

Some of these itineraries appear to have been pictorial, although Vegetius implies that this was a rare thing by his day:

Indeed, the more conscientious generals reportedly had itineraries of the provinces… not just annotated but illustrated as well, so that they could choose their route when setting out by the visual aspect as well as by mental calculation
Vegetius, De Rei Militari, III.6

We do have an example of this sort of ‘illustrated itinerary’, or what might approximate one, from a military context. A fragment of leather shield cover discovered at Dura Europos in Syria (dated to c.AD257) shows a part of the Black Sea coast, with the towns along the way, and even an oversized ship to provide a ‘visual aspect’ to the scene.

dura map.jpg

So can we call these ‘illustrated itineraries’ or itineraria picta ‘maps’? Probably not, in the modern sense. The view they give of the world is abstract, like a diagram. The London Underground map might provide a good analogy. Fine for tracing a route from point to point, but not much use for determining actual distances or the relation of one place to another. Anyone leaving the main arterial roads would have found their itinerary fairly useless.

Nevertheless, for the Romans these itineraries clearly sufficed, and, as Vegetius points out, they were used as we would use more accurate scale maps today. They would enable a Roman general to plan his campaign strategy, sending his troops to certain destinations and giving him a good idea of how long they might take to get there.

What about tactical maps? Obviously an itinerary would be of little use with that. But we should remember that, in an age before long-range weapons and motorised transport, most battles took place in a very limited area. The average battlefield was only a few miles square. If the general wanted to explain his tactical plan to his officers, he could very easily have taken them out of the gloom of the command tent and onto some suitably prominent place, and simply pointed at the features of the landscape that would play a part in the coming battle!

Romans and Slaves

Roman slaves

In the Roman world, slaves were everywhere. Everybody owned slaves. Even slaves owned slaves. To us, reducing another human being to a commodity seems one of the most heinous of crimes, but in all Roman literature, even into the Christian era,  there are few, if any, suggestions that it was wrong.

Slaves, Kyle Harper claims in Slavery in the Late Roman World (Cambridge University Press, 2011), were ‘the ancient equivalent of domestic appliances’, and he provides evidence of slave ownership in households across the social spectrum, from the super-rich to the comparatively poor. If this seems implausible, we might consider how many households today, living in comparative poverty, still own a car, a cooker and washing machine, a television and computer, and central heating. In ancient Roman society, slaves performed all these functions. To the Romans, they were essential for civilised existence; in fact, slave ownership was the very mark of freedom itself.

According to John Chrystostom, a man who appeared in public without a single slave thought himself ‘laughable’. The free Roman citizen was expected to be accompanied by slave attendants everywhere, even into the bath. Libanius mentions that women bathers would gossip if they saw someone enter the baths unaccompanied. Some very wealthy individuals, claims the Roman historian Ammianus Marcellinus, might turn up at the baths with up to fifty slaves in their retinue. Slaves accompanied free Romans wherever they went, from the moment of waking throughout the day and the night too. They were the constant shadows of everyday Roman life.

 A wealthy Roman lady goes to the baths. Her two female slaves carry boxes of oils and lotions, and towels. The two male attendants might also be slaves - based on their 'barbarian' hairstyles - or perhaps even eunuchs. Mosaic from the Villa Romana,…

 

A wealthy Roman lady goes to the baths. Her two female slaves carry boxes of oils and lotions, and towels. The two male attendants might also be slaves - based on their 'barbarian' hairstyles - or perhaps even eunuchs. Mosaic from the Villa Romana, Piazza Armerina, Sicily. cAD320

‘It is astonishing,’ writes Harper, ‘how often a slave will unexpectedly appear in a late antique scene.’ He cites a story from Augustine’s Confessions, about a young man who set out to rob a silversmith in Carthage; he took his slave with him to carry the loot. Clearly even thieves in the Roman world did not like to risk being seen carrying things around in the street… Even Christian priests had slaves, so they would not have to demean themselves by performing ‘shameful labour’.

This attitude is perhaps surprising to modern sensibilities. In our contemporary society, hard work is seen as virtuous; the adjective ‘hardworking’ is often used to connote goodness and moral worth. The work ethic is deeply engrained in almost all of us. Yet, for the Romans, the opposite seems to have been the case: they had a sort of anti-work-ethic. To perform any sort of manual labour, the sort of thing a slave might do, was to appear similar to a slave oneself, and to incur the shame of slavery. A Roman woman who did her own shopping or cooked her own dinner might have been mistaken for a slave; a commentator on the Psalms suggests that it is ‘shameful’ even for a free woman to breast-feed her own child. The same might be thought of an educated Roman man who had to dress himself in the morning, pour his own wine or write his own letters (Romans usually dictated their letters to slave secretaries, and the same secretaries would read the replies out loud. Romans had not, it seems, mastered the art of silent reading.)

Wealthy Roman families could own hundreds of slaves, even thousands of them. When in AD408 the young Christian aristocrats Melania and Pinianus renounced worldly possessions to take up the ascetic life, they freed eight thousand slaves, and that was after the rest of their family (the prominent Valerii) had taken their share. For poorer families, or for individuals, one or two slaves had to suffice. Kyle Harper mentions Egyptian papyri that document several poor households clubbing together to buy a slave between them. Soldiers, too, might own slaves, while others would be owned in common by their units. The 4th century Christian cavalry trooper Martinus – later St Martin – was thought unusual in owning only a single slave. In a rare demonstration of charity, Martinus shared his domestic chores with the slave, even cooking their meals and cleaning his own boots on occasion.

While slavery in the later Roman world was in some ways easier than it had been – imperial legislation had outlawed many of the harsher mass punishments of an earlier time – it was still an unenviable fate. Slaves were regarded as not wholly human, and could be punished and abused at the will of their owner. The Roman historian Ammianus Marcellinus mentions a slave being given 300 lashes; 30-40 seem to have been considered moderate. Fugitive slaves could expect to be branded, or forced to wear iron collars detailing their offence. TMQF, the brand might read – tene me quia fugi: ‘Arrest Me I Have Fled’. One known collar reads ‘I am the slave of Felix the Archdeacon. Hold Me Lest I Flee’ – proof that churchmen too owned slaves. Another, from North Africa, reads adultera meretrix: tene me quia fugitivi de bulla regia – in Harper’s translation, ‘I Am A Slutty Whore. Hold Me I Have Fled From Bulla Regia’. Under Roman law, it was impossible for a slave to be raped: slaves had no legal humanity, and it was considered only a crime against the owner’s property. For the owners themselves, almost anything was permitted, and by late antiquity the Roman state had lost its monopoly on violence.

But for all this, Roman slavery differed in an important respect from the horrors of plantation slavery in the 18th-19th centuries. Roman slaves could be freed, and once free they could become Roman citizens, equal (in almost every respect) to those around them. Some freed people could amass great wealth and rise to high status. By the later Roman era, almost every family must have had slave ancestry, even the most prestigious. This too seems incredible, especially considering the very brief and apparently rather cursory ceremony required to turn a slave chattel into a free and legal human being.

In the earlier Roman era, there were a variety of manumission rituals, but Harper demonstrates that, by Late Antiquity, the usual method was the alapa – the ‘slap’. The slave owner simply slapped the slave on the face, perhaps two or three times; when this act was performed before witnesses and a magistrate, freedom was the result. According to the churchman Basil, it represented ‘the final act of violence the slave would have to bear before freedom’; the poet Claudian writes that this ‘happy’ blow would free the slave from the threat of the lash. It seems that this slapping ritual was often performed in public, at the opening of the games. The sixth-century ivory diptych of the Consul Anastasius appears to show slaves being freed in the amphitheatre with a blow on the head in just this fashion.

        Detail from the ivory diptych of Anastasius, AD517.

 

       Detail from the ivory diptych of Anastasius, AD517.

Oddly, the ritual of the slap seems to have carried over into both the confirmation ritual of the Catholic church and the medieval ceremony of knighthood. According to some sources, a slap or blow (the same word, alapa, is used) was given to the candidate for knighthood, perhaps symbolising the last violence he might suffer before demanding redress. Later, the blow with the hand seems to have turned into a tap with the flat of a sword blade. It is perhaps amusing to consider that when the Queen of England knights some deserving worthy by tapping a sword lightly upon their shoulders, she is unknowingly re-enacting the ancient Roman ritual of freedom from slavery!

TEN THINGS THE ROMANS DIDN'T HAVE

        Galley slaves clash with vambraces: Ramon Novarro in the title role of the classic 1925 'Ben Hur'...

 

       Galley slaves clash with vambraces: Ramon Novarro in the title role of the classic 1925 'Ben Hur'...

There were plenty of things the citizens of the Roman empire did not have that most of us take for granted today. Potatoes, for example, or tomatoes, or universal suffrage. They rode horses without stirrups, and sweetened their food with honey as they had no sugar.

But there are still a lot of mistaken ideas about things the Romans had or commonly did. Historical novelists, of course, generally try to avoid falling into such traps, but it’s surprising how often I’ve had to think twice about some detail or other of the world I’m describing. So many notions about ancient or other historical societies are deeply rooted, and hard to dislodge. So here are ten things that the Romans (probably) did not have – I say probably, as our ideas about the past are constantly being updated!

 

1. Galley slaves

Despite the famous scenes in old films like Ben Hur and Cleopatra, Roman galleys were not rowed by chained slaves. Roman oarsmen were paid professionals, and those in the navy were enlisted in the armed forces. Galley slaves did exist, but not until centuries later; medieval ships of both the Christian and Islamic Mediterranean powers used them extensively. In fact, the French were still using chained prisoners to row their galleys until the eighteenth century.

 

2. Forearm ‘handshakes’

This is another Hollywood favourite. The manly clasp of forearms turns up all over the place, but has no basis in historical fact. Romans shook hands in the same way as we do, although perhaps not as frequently; it was a gesture of fellowship, used to agree deals and treaties. The handshake even appears on Roman coins, symbolising trust and mutual concord. It was also, apparently, part of the wedding ritual. It was probably not used as a casual greeting, though: Romans preferred to embrace, or even kiss, when they met, just as people in Mediterranean societies do to this day.

 

3. Desks

It might be hard for us to imagine doing without the humble desk: military commanders sit behind them, scribes and scholars write at them. No office is complete without one. But it seems that the Romans had little use for this particular item of furniture - writing was not an elite activity, and the few pictures we have of Roman-era scribes taking down dictation appear to show them balancing a tablet on their knee or holding it in their lap. A lectern would perhaps be useful for writing on a scroll, but they only became widespread with the rise of the bound codex in later centuries, while the writing desk as we know it - with all its subsequent connotations of authority and officialdom - was more probably an innovation of the middle ages.

 

4. Ineffective armour

The Roman army was one of the most heavily armoured in antiquity. For good reason: Roman armour was very effective at keeping its wearer alive and relatively unharmed. The most famous type, of course, is the banded iron cuirass known to historians as the lorica segmentata, although mail and scale were probably more common, especially in the later era. Despite this, one would think from many depictions of ancient warfare that body armour had the protective qualities of a knitted jumper. In practice, it was almost impossible to cut or stab through armour with a hand weapon. Tests carried out on sections of mail armour (medieval, but the technology was the same) suggest that a penetrating blow would need far more energy than could be delivered by a sword or spear. A cavalry lance or heavy javelin might break through; an arrow from a powerful bow shot at very close range might puncture it. But against the majority of weapons a Roman soldier would encounter on the battlefield, his mail or scale or banded armour would prove very good protection indeed. When the Romans themselves encountered armoured opponents, they were more likely to try and batter them to death with blunt implements. An effective method, although not perhaps such a photogenic one.

 

5. Highly flammable oil

Battle scenes in films about Roman and medieval warfare commonly feature great balls of fire. True enough, the Romans did use incendiary weapons: combinations of pitch and naptha, or just dry straw set alight. These weapons were even used at sea; a graffito of the 1st C. BC shows a naval galley with a firepot suspended over the ram. The Romans also knew of natural petroleum: asphalt or seep oil. But the ‘oil’ of the ancient world, used in lamps and in food, and by bath-house masseurs, was derived from olive oil and was not particularly flammable. Covering something in it might make that thing very slippery, but would not cause it to burst into flames.

 

6. Tireless horses

Like most pre-industrial societies, the Roman empire relied on horse power. Roman horses were comparatively small by modern standards – 13 to 14 hands, pony size, being the probable average – but they were doubtless hardy beasts. But, like all horses, Roman mounts needed considerable quantities of fodder and water, and plenty of rest. There were instances in Roman history of very long journeys accomplished very rapidly, but this was only possible because the Romans maintained a system of posting stations along major roads, where horses could be rested and exchanged. The state messenger service – cursus publicus – could cover fifty miles a day, or much greater distances, using this relay system. The messengers probably did not actually ride the horses, but travelled in light carriages, with the teams being regularly replaced. Cavalry forces, unless they brought large numbers of remounts, could not match this speed. So unless Maximus Decimus Meridius availed himself of the imperial posting system, it’s very unlikely he could have ridden his horse all the way from the Danube to Spain in anything less than a couple of months!

 

7. Drums

Drums are so much a part of our conception of historical armies, it’s hard to imagine that the Romans did without them. In fact, the drum as we know it today was pretty much unknown in the Roman world – the closest instrument they possessed was a sort of big tambourine, like the Sicilian tamburello. Some sources suggest that the Romans thought drumming to be somehow effeminate, and associated it with certain eastern religious sects. So how did Roman armies keep in step when they marched? Possibly they used flutes, like the Greeks, or primitive bagpipes – but it’s highly likely that they didn’t march in step at all…

 

8. Minutes

In a world without clocks, Roman timekeeping was often a rather haphazard affair. The day and the night were divided into twelve hours each, but the length of these hours fluctuated depending on the season. There were sundials, of course, to show the approximate time in daylight, and waterclocks, commonly used in courts to measure the length of lawyer’s speeches. But the smallest increment of time measurable by a waterclock was a quarter of an hour. How did Romans talk about shorter periods of time? The idea of the minute runs so deeply in our thinking – we talk of things taking ‘a few minutes’, tell people to ‘wait a minute’, or give something ‘a minute’s thought’  that it’s hard to imagine a world in which small increments of time could not be considered. Novelists writing about the ancient world often get around this by having their characters measure time in heartbeats – I do it as well, although I have no idea whether anybody has ever really counted their own heartbeat in this way!

 

9. Chunky leather wristbands

The bane of conscientious historical reenactors, the leather wristband, or vambrace, is another of those anomalies that seem to have been invented by Hollywood, and to have bound themselves onto popular conceptions of the ancient world. They probably originated with a gold or silver armbands, called armillae, awarded by the Roman army as decorations of valour. These are often shown on Roman tombstone images. However, in film and TV depictions from the 1930s to the present day these wristbands reach incredible proportions. Often they are reinforced with buckles, studs, bit of fur, or even metal plates. Why? One theory is that artistic directors needed something to hide the visible pale mark left by a watch strap on an actor’s wrist. Possibly so – but I suspect it’s more likely that somebody decided they look tough and somehow ‘ancient’, and the idea has proven too attractive to shake off ever since.

 

10. Orgies

Orgies, like bloody gladiator duels and people reclining on couches eating grapes, are among the quintessential aspects of the popular ancient scene. There are fairly obvious reasons for this. Even the comparatively prudish Victorians were nervously fascinated by Roman sexual license, although they usually drew a discreet veil over what might have been going on among the flower garlands… The Romans themselves had a pretty robust attitude to sex, as their literature and poetry attests. But in an age without any effective contraception, and when childbirth was often fatal, unbridled sex could never have been commonplace. While sex in itself was not considered immoral, Roman society had an obsession with self control, and to give in to lust was to lose control of oneself and become bestial, uncivilised, even unmanly. The sexual excesses of various emperors and other notables, as described by Roman historians, are probably intended as examples of bad moral practice; many of them are almost certainly exaggerations. As with so many things, we shouldn’t take the evidence of Roman literature too literally!

 

 

 

 

Italy, October 2014

A few pictures from Italy, taken during my research trip for "BATTLE FOR ROME".

The Battle of the Milvian Bridge

The battle of the Milvian Bridge, fought 1703 years ago today - 28th October 312 - is often considered one of the most significant clashes in Roman history. Constantine’s victory over Maxentius gave him control of the western empire, and of the city of Rome itself. In the traditional view, as depicted in Guilio Romano's huge fresco in the Apostolic Palace of the Vatican, the battle represents the triumph of a Christian emperor over the pagan gods of old Rome.

And yet the battle is more famous for something which probably did not happen. The so-called ‘Vision of Constantine’, a heavenly apparition sent to the emperor by the Christian God on the eve of battle, supposedly convinced him to convert to the new religion, and laid a path for the spiritual transformation of the empire over the following century. But this vision is not mentioned in the earliest accounts of the battle at all. Two imperial panegyrics given shortly after the event make no reference to celestial manifestations, the pagan historian Zosimus ignores the story, and the Christian writer Lactantius claims instead that the emperor was visited by God in a dream, and instructed to mark the shields of his troops with ‘the heavenly sign’.

It was the churchman Eusebius who first supplied the story of the emperor’s vision. Constantine, he claimed, had witnessed ‘with his own eyes the trophy of a cross of light in the heavens, above the sun, and bearing the inscription 'Conquer by This’. It is not entirely cynical, I think, to relate this anecdote to the solar apparition that Constantine reportedly saw in Gaul two or three years earlier, described at the time as a sign from the sun god. It does not seem unlikely that the Christian emperor of later years chose to reinterpret this older vision, and install Christ in the place of Apollo.

Maxentius has long had a bad press. His reputation was blackened by his opponents at the time, and Christian historians cast him as a satanic figure and a persecutor of the faithful. In fact, he was not particularly opposed to Christianity, and the influential congregations of North Africa were still crediting him as their saviour from persecution some years later. Ironically, while Maxentius's army at the Milvian Bridge was drawn partly from the heavily Christianised populations of Africa and southern Italy, Constantine's troops came from northern Gaul, the Rhine frontier and Britain, where the new faith had won little ground. An impartial spectator at the battle, asked to identify the 'Christian' army, might well have chosen that of Maxentius.

The site of the battle is not known for certain, but very probably lies on the plain of Tor di Quinto in the broad loop of the river north-east of the bridge (which still stands, although better known for the padlocks left on its railings by amorous couples!). The plain is occupied today by military and police training facilities, and crossed by the Via Flaminia Nuova and Tangenziale Est, while modern apartment blocks loom from the red bluffs of the heights above it to the west.

I visited the area a year ago today, researching my forthcoming book, Battle for Rome, but beyond a rough appreciation for the topography I could gain little sense of that long-distant clash of arms. Imagination, as always, made up the deficit!

 View eastwards from Via Castiglione del Lago, across the plain of Tor di Quinto - the probable site of the battle of Milvian Bridge - towards the Tiber and the Apennines. 28th October 2014.

 

View eastwards from Via Castiglione del Lago, across the plain of Tor di Quinto - the probable site of the battle of Milvian Bridge - towards the Tiber and the Apennines. 28th October 2014.



How 'accurate' is historical fiction?

 The Ludovisi Sarcophagus (mid 3rd century AD): an accurate depiction of ancient warfare, or just a dramatic one?

 

The Ludovisi Sarcophagus (mid 3rd century AD): an accurate depiction of ancient warfare, or just a dramatic one?

Novelists who write about the past are often asked about the importance of historical accuracy in their work. This is perhaps a strange question; history, after all, is not an exact science. The past no longer exists, so how could we measure the accuracy of our view of it? Instead, history is a method of attempting to understand the fragments left to us of the past, a set of tools and parameters for interpretation and speculation.

But, of course, this isn’t really what the question is about. ‘Accuracy’ (for want of a better word) in historical fiction is all about accordance with the sources, paying attention to details and not veering off into fantasy. It is about the construction of a plausible view of the past that fits with what we know and does not contain jarring anachronisms.

Put like this, the question is much easier to answer, for me at least: ‘accuracy’ is extremely important. One of the most fascinating aspects of historical fiction is the constant collision and interplay between the novelistic imagination and the raw matter of the past. Individual stories take root from the greater story of past events, and are constantly fed by it. Beyond the story itself, the structure that will get the characters from prologue to dénouement and hopefully carry the readers along with it, there is the accumulation of supporting details.

Historical research provides the furniture of my character’s world, the clothes they wear and the food they eat. It provides the thoughts in their heads. It is a liberation, not a chore. The more I know of the period I’m writing about, the more comfortable and confident I feel about imagining the bits I don’t know. And, of course, it’s those gulfs of the unknown, and the bridges we build to cross them, that makes the exercise so rewarding.

But can we take ‘historical accuracy’ too far? In this age of the internet, the raw matter of history is available to all, the sources and the speculations about any era easily accessible. So should novelists spend less time worrying about ‘accuracy’, and more on telling a unique and engaging story?

Writers of a previous generation were certainly less concerned about historical rivet-counting. Rosemary Sutcliff’s Roman novels are powerfully evocative works of imagination, but at times could have historical purists wincing. Wallace Breem’s novel Eagle in the Snow concerns the fall of the Rhine frontier in the 5th century, but his Roman army seems largely transplanted from the days of Hadrian. Both Alfred Duggan and George Shipway wrote novels of the Roman past which have stood the test of time, although by the standards of modern scholarship they may default on the details.

Breem’s portrayal of the barbarian hordes menacing the Roman frontier, however, may have been inspired by own experiences with the North West Frontier Force in British India. Shipway’s painstaking narration of Suetonius Paulinus’s army on the march through Britain on the eve of Boudica’s revolt perhaps draws on his time as a cavalry commander and staff officer, again in India, in the 1930s. And Alfred Duggan’s service in the Norwegian campaign during World War II doubtless fed into his descriptions of military life in a another era.

All of these writers brought to their work a sense of authenticity: the grit and sweat and tedium of army life, the reality of combat, the sense of adventure in strange and distant lands in a time before television, the jet engine and the internet shrunk the world.

It is this sense of authenticity, I believe, that people are looking to find when they ask about ‘historical accuracy’. Not the sterile checking of facts, but the sensation of a real world, complete in all its details. Whether we achieve this by personal experience, imaginative empathy or a painstaking immersion in the minutiae of history, it should be the desired end of all our research.

Authenticity will always trump ‘historical accuracy’. Because history is changing all the time.

 

This piece originally appeared as a guest post on Lynsey James's blog.

The Roman Army of Constantine - Part One

 The late Roman army on the march. Scene from the Arch of Constantine, Rome, AD315.

 

The late Roman army on the march. Scene from the Arch of Constantine, Rome, AD315.

Between AD284 and AD337 – the era of emperors Diocletian and Constantine, and the setting of the “Twilight of Empire” novels –  the Roman army not only fought a series of bloody civil wars, but defeated every known enemy on the frontier and expanded the empire for the first time in a century. Clearly the legions of the later empire, when properly led, were a formidable force indeed. But this army appears in many ways quite different to the more familiar force of the earlier empire, portrayed on monuments like Trajan’s Column in Rome, and (albeit without a great degree of authenticity!) in films like Gladiator, Centurion and The Eagle. How did this change happen, and why?

As with most large and complex organisations over long periods of time, the development of the Roman army from the 2nd to the 4th centuries shows signs of both evolution and revolution, besides continuity. Nevertheless, by looking back at the army of an earlier era, we can perhaps identify the seeds of future developments.

During the 1st and 2nd centuries AD, the Roman army transformed itself from a strategically and tactically aggressive force of conquest and expansion, into a microcosmic military society based in permanent fortresses on the frontiers, adapted for small-scale local defence and periodic large-scale punitive campaigns. Already, though, emperors like Trajan, Hadrian and Marcus Aurelius were calling on smaller detachments of troops – called vexillations – to make up or reinforce field armies in more wide-ranging campaigns across the empire.

It was during the Marcomannic wars of the later 2nd century, when the empire for the first time was invaded by large numbers of Germanic barbarians, that this use of mobile detachments really seems to have gained primacy. By combining smaller bodies of men from different legions, Roman commanders could create strong and flexible ‘offensive’ field armies without depleting the ‘defensive’ strength of the legions on the borders, maintaining security over a wide stretch of frontier while allowing for rapid reaction against incursions and reprisal strikes into barbarian territory.

But this system would be tested to breaking point in the years that followed. The ‘crisis of the third century’ saw the Roman empire beset by barbarian invasions, civil wars, plague and economic upheaval. At Abrittus in AD251, the emperor Decius was slain and his entire army destroyed by invading Goths. Less than a decade later, the emperor Valerian was defeated and taken captive by the Persians, and his troops annihilated or enslaved. These disasters could have been catastrophic for the security of the empire, and it is a testament to the strength and flexibility of the Roman military system that the army maintained itself through the decades that followed, before emerging in a new and quite different form by the century’s end.

 Roman troops at an imperial address. Relief from the Arch of Galerius, Thessalonika, cAD298

 

Roman troops at an imperial address. Relief from the Arch of Galerius, Thessalonika, cAD298

 

It was the emperor Diocletian (AD284-305) who, building on the reforms of his predecessors, established this new-style army. At its core was the comitatus, or imperial retinue, made up of select bodyguard troops. One of these accompanied each of the four emperors of the Tetrarchic system. The comitatus was reinforced on campaign by detachments from the frontier legions – often drawn from the heavily militarised Danubian provinces of Pannonia and Moesia – and new cavalry units called equites. These regular troops were frequently supported by large bodies of barbarian ‘allies’, serving under their own chiefs or kings, perhaps as part of a treaty arrangement with Rome. Galerius had a Gothic contingent during his Persian campaign, while Constantine would later make use of Frankish and Alamannic auxiliaries.

A papyrus from Oxyrhynchus in Egypt gives details of Diocletian's field force, c.AD298; it included troops from two Moesian legions, IV Flavia and VII Claudia, commanded by an officer (praepositus) called Julianus, together with another paired detachment from legions XI Claudia and I Italica. An inscription from Mauretania, meanwhile, probably dating from the emperor Maximian’s campaign of the same year against a rebel group called the Quinquegentiani, records a dedication to ‘Deo Invicto Mithras’ (the invincible god Mithras) constructed by men of the seventh and tenth cohorts of II Herculia.

Some of these legion detachments must have covered vast distances in the service of their emperors. While the two cohorts of II Herculia were on campaign in north Africa, other men of the same legion are recorded in the Crimea, while others seem to have accompanied the junior emperor Galerius on his Persian campaign of AD298. The inscription of a soldier called Aurelius Gaius records a lengthy military career that spanned the empire, from the Rhine frontier to Mauretania and from Mesopotamia and Egypt to the Danube. Gaius even claims to have served in ‘India’ – probably the region of Berenice on the Red Sea, entrepot for the Indian Ocean trade.

In time, these mobile detachments acquired a semi-independent status, losing their connection with the parent legion. They became referred to as 'legions' in their own right, some of them using variations on the old legion name: II Italica Divitensis, which seems to have formed part of Constantine’s army in Italy in AD312, were probably formed from a detachment of legion II Italica based at Divitia on the Rhine. Tombstones from Aquileia in Italy mention a unit called the Moesiaci, also known as prima italicae moesiacae, clearly formed by men of I Italica from Moesia. By the later fourth century both the ‘Moesiaci’ and 'Divitenses' appear in army lists as regular legions.

 Tombstone of an unknown soldier of the Moesiaci legion, from Aquileia. It dates from AD352, but gives a good impression of the appearance of an early 4th century legionary: crested 'ridge' helmet, oval shield and spear, patterned tunic, and perhaps…

 

Tombstone of an unknown soldier of the Moesiaci legion, from Aquileia. It dates from AD352, but gives a good impression of the appearance of an early 4th century legionary: crested 'ridge' helmet, oval shield and spear, patterned tunic, and perhaps a muscled breastplate.

 

The appearance of the Roman soldier, on both imperial monuments and individual tombstones, changes radically during this period. A mobile force would perhaps be a more lightly equipped force, but it was also cut off from the traditional legion armoury at home base. This might explain the shift from segmented armour, for example, which required skilled craftsmen to repair, to the more versatile mail, scale and even musculata (breastplate) type armours. The institution of state-run armouries (fabricae) at centralised locations by Diocletian may have been an attempt to give these mobile new armies the supply of armour and weapons previously provided by the legion fortresses. A different type of armour too, perhaps - the ‘ridge’ helmet may have been more cost-effective to build on a production line; constructed of several plates riveted together, they could also have been stronger and more durable than the traditional helmets, which were hammered from single sheets of metal.

Changed equipment suggests a change in battlefield tactics too - the late Roman 'fulcum', or shield-wall, may have developed from the old testudo (‘tortoise’), but appears to have been largely a defensive formation. Longer swords and round or oval shields may have been a response to the need for a more flexible combat style. Rather than the destructive javelin-volley followed by fast aggressive sword-charge that typifies (perhaps even defines) the military style of the earlier empire, we have a variety of considerably more static tactics, coupled with increased and sustained missile potential - a tactic of endurance and attrition, rather than the delivery of a sudden killer blow, perhaps reflecting both the increased sophistication of Rome's enemies and the increased frequency of civil wars.

But amid all this change, there was continuity, and perhaps more than appears immediately obvious. Equipment probably didn't alter suddenly - the traditional pilum (heavy javelin) was still in use into the late 3rd century and perhaps, under a different name, later. The familiar rectangular shield seems to have survived in some places into the 260s, and even the distinctive ‘lorica segmentata’ may not have died out as rapidly as once thought - fragments found at Leon in Spain and Caerleon in Britain date from the later 3rd, perhaps even 4th centuries, so perhaps it was still in use in the era of the tetrarchs.

All armies are responses to the particular military needs of their era. The Roman army repeatedly proved itself able to adapt and to survive - in doing so, it demonstrated a flexible response to military and political necessity. Just as the Roman empire, and the world surrounding it, changed almost beyond recognition over the centuries, so did its army.

In Part Two of this article, I will go on to discuss the changes to the command structure in the legions of Constantine's era.

The Roman Army of Constantine - Part Two

 A late Roman military commander and two soldiers, from the 'Great Hunt' mosaic in the villa of Piazza Armerina, Sicily. Early 4th century AD

 

A late Roman military commander and two soldiers, from the 'Great Hunt' mosaic in the villa of Piazza Armerina, Sicily. Early 4th century AD

While the later 3rd and early 4th centuries saw the development of a newly organised Roman army, the essential building blocks of the Roman legion remained much the same. It was in the structures of military command, however, that the greatest changes took place.

In the earlier empire, legions and other military units were traditionally led by men of the aristocracy. Legions were commanded by legates drawn from the senatorial order, while the lower aristocracy of the equestrian order supplied the cohort and cavalry commanders and the legion tribunes. During the chaos of the mid 3rd century, these aristocratic officers were withdrawn from military positions. Instead of the senatorial legati, legions were now commanded by officers with the title of either praepositus agentes vice legati, or just praefectus legionis (‘Prefect’), initially drawn from the equestrians but later from men promoted from the ranks.

Smaller units of the legion were still commanded by centurions, although by the later 3rd century these officers seem to have acquired the additional title of ordinarius (centurio ordinarius is recorded as a transitional term), and this term later came to supplant the original one. Greek documents from the eastern (‘Byzantine’) empire still record the existence of the centurion (κεντυρίων or kentyrion) and ordinarius (ὀρδινάριος) in the 6th century.

With the demise of the old equestrian legion tribunes, centurions were able to take up a wider range of command positions. The legionary detachments of the new field armies were led by praepositi, once an ad-hoc title for any small-unit commander, but now formalised as a command position for senior centurions in the field armies.

In the earlier legions, the senior centurion ranks were primus pilus (‘first file’, approximately) and praefectus castrorum, but these positions seem to have been phased out in the last quarter of the 3rd century. Instead, we see a greatly expanded centurionate, with a number of different grades in a hierarchy that still remains largely obscure. But while the old primipilate offered veteran centurions the chance to move up to higher command positions, the new army of the tetrarchy developed an alternative means of advancement, the schola protectorum, or Corps of Protectores.

 A Roman commander - possibly the emperor Constantine - with two bodyguards probably from the Corps of Protectores. The winged figure of Victory flies overhead. From the Arch of Constantine, Rome. AD315.

 

A Roman commander - possibly the emperor Constantine - with two bodyguards probably from the Corps of Protectores. The winged figure of Victory flies overhead. From the Arch of Constantine, Rome. AD315.

The first Protectores appeared under the emperor Valerian (AD253-260). Initially a title of high honour for senior officers close to the emperor, by the end of Gallienus's reign centurions were holding the title, and by a few decades later the Protectores were apparently organised as a bodyguard corps attached to the imperial retinue, or comitatus (protectores divini lateris, or 'protectors of the sacred flank'). The schola protectorum functioned as a promotional mechanism to move veteran soldiers and centurions into command positions. Admission carried the honorific grade of ducenarius, which signalled an elevation above the centurionate and allowed field command in the imperial comitatus. Newly appointed men would therefore gain this title upon first joining the corps and ‘adoring the purple’: in a rigidly hierarchical empire, this ritual of kissing the hem of the emperor’s robe signified that an officer had moved into the inner circles of power, and was perhaps destined for higher things.

Inscriptions dating to the early 4th century provide some evidence of this new, and rather more meritocratic, system of promotions. Florius Baudio, formerly ordinarius of II Italica, served and died in Italy as a Protector, while Aurelius Firminus, a former Protector, rose to become Prefect of Legion II Adiutrix. The future emperor Galerius reportedly served as a scutarius (guard cavalryman, probably), then Protector and Tribune before attaining the purple. Protectores, it seems, were expected to fight, and often die, in the service of their emperors: the Protector Valerius Valentus ‘fell in civil war in Italy’, while 30-year-old Viatorinus died ‘in barbarico’ during a battle with the Franks.

The subordinate ranks of the legions of Diocletian's day were probably quite similar to those of the earlier empire. We still find optiones (centurion’s deputies) and tesserarii (watch officers) right though later Roman history. One of the senior centurion or veteran positions, drillmaster or campidoctor, seems to have taken a similar role to the old primus pilus or praefectus castrorum. There were sometimes several of these men in a unit, and they also functioned as front line soldiers. Later papyri and inscriptions, plus the writer Vegetius, mention several other ranks or roles that may have appeared around this point, or some time later. Flaviales and Augustales, for example, could have been centurion grades, or (perhaps more likely) senior soldier grades; the former is most probably Constantinian. Better attested positions, perhaps dating from the later 3rd century, would include actuarius (legion quartermaster, approximately), adiutor (clerk or record keeper) and draconarius (the bearer of the ‘windsock’ draco standard).

 A Roman centurion, or ordinarius, identifiable by his broad-headed staff, beats a slave or labourer. From a mosaic in the villa of Piazza Armerina, Sicily. Early 4th century AD.

 

A Roman centurion, or ordinarius, identifiable by his broad-headed staff, beats a slave or labourer. From a mosaic in the villa of Piazza Armerina, Sicily. Early 4th century AD.

By the middle decades of the fourth century, new units had developed in the imperial field armies: the auxilia palatina and the scholae. The latter appear to have been elite cavalry formations, perhaps intended to replace the old Praetorian Guard and equites singulares (‘Horse Guard’), which had been disbanded by Constantine after his victory at the Milvian Bridge in AD312. The former comprised a new front-line infantry force, perhaps developing from the irregular units of semi-barbarian troops (called numeri) of earlier centuries. These new auxilia are first attested on a tombstone from Nakolea in Asia, recording a soldier of the numerus Iovi Cornuti Seniores, who would have enlisted c.AD329. Perhaps significantly, the man was a Roman citizen, born in Singidunum on the Danube; the auxilia seem to have lost their ‘barbarian’ origins earlier in the century.

These units appear to have used a new and different structure of ranks, perhaps adopted from the cavalry. Centenarius was the equivalent rank to the old centurion, although perhaps of higher status. Biarchus and circitor also appear as subordinate positions. It would seem that these new ranks were never adopted by the traditional legions, however. One or two crossover posts used by both legions and auxilia - vicarius, for example - probably appeared later in the 4th century. Ducenarius (Greek δουκιναρίους), which began as an honorific title for centurions promoted into the Protectores, was apparently adopted (by at least c.350) by the auxilia and scholae to denote a senior unit commander.

By the end of the fourth century, the structure of the Roman army had once more metamorphosed: the units of the imperial field armies now gained a special exalted status as comitatensis troops, with an elite core of legions and auxilia called palatini. The remnants of the older legions, and the few remaining cohorts of old-style auxiliaries dating from the earlier empire, were left on the frontiers and given the lower grade of limitanei. The Corps of Protectores changed too, becoming a sort of officer training cadre for younger men of the wealthy classes (protectores domestici) and barbarian noblemen, many of whom went on to higher command positions. This later army, recorded in a document from the late 4th or early 5th century called the Notitia Dignitatum, still preserved many of the old titles and organisational structures from the Tetrarchy and the centuries that preceded it, and was to survive until the final collapse of the Roman empire in the west.

 

Further reading

 

A.D. Lee, War in Late Antiquity: A Social History. (2007)

A.H.M. Jones, The Later Roman Empire, 284-602: A Social Economic and Administrative Survey. (1964)

Alexander Sarantis (ed), War and Warfare in Late Antiquity. (2013)

Ancient Warfare Magazine, Volume VI, Issue 5: ‘The Armies of Diocletian’.

J.R. Hepworth, Studies in the Late Roman Army. (Durham University PhD thesis, 1963)

Martinus Johannes Nicasie, Twilight of empire: the Roman army from the reign of Diocletian until the Battle of Adrianople. (1998)

Patricia Southern, The Late Roman Army. (1996)

Ross Cowan, Roman Legionary, AD284-337: The Age of Diocletian and Constantine the Great. (2015)

Simon James, Rome and the Sword: How Warriors and Weapons Shaped Roman History. (2011)

Vegetius, de rei militari (‘Epitome of Military Science’), translated by N.P. Milner. (1996)