British Museum picspam: the Vindolanda tablets
At the end of my last post, I left us at the fort of Housesteads on Hadrian's Wall. Now we're moving along the road a bit to the fort of Vindolanda, one of the most famous Roman sites in Britain, and one of its richest archaeological sites. There are ongoing excavations, which I've volunteered at twice, and it was the highlight of my summer both times! It was also the resting place of one of the most incredible finds ever to come out of Roman Britain.
Vindolanda isn't actually on the Wall; it formed part of the earlier Stanegate frontier, but continued in importance after the Hadrianic period. Even after the end of Roman Britain (traditionally dated to AD 410) and the withdrawal of the army, the site wasn't completely abandoned, and excavation has shown that people were living there well into the post-Roman period. But the Vindolanda tablets are still its most celebrated treasure, as they give an unparalleled glimpse into the lives of the people on Rome's northern frontier.
Some time not long after AD 100, the Ninth Cohort of Batavians, the current auxiliary garrison of the fort, were preparing to transfer. Standard procedure was to demolish the fort at the time of withdrawal, and at Vindolanda, at least, there was also a mass clearout of the administrative buildings. On the road in front of the praetorium, the commander's house, a bonfire was built and a lot of unwanted paperwork was thrown on it. The Batavians moved out, their successors - the First Cohort of Tungrians - moved in, and a new fort was built over the site of the old one, sealing the surviving letters in a waterlogged, anaerobic layer which preserved them until they were rediscovered again in 1973. And it's not just the Batavians' letters which have survived; there are also surviving correspondences from the later garrisons.
Contemporary letters are one of the most fascinating ways of looking into the Roman world. Some, like the personal correspondences of Cicero and Pliny the Younger, were published by their authors for posterity, but others survived by accident. Letters written on papyri have been found in other parts of the Roman Empire, but until the recovery of the Vindolanda letters, no writing tablets had actually been found. And then they wouldn't stop being found! Since then, some similar tablets have also come to light at Carlisle, but the Vindolanda ones remain the most famous.
The tablets are made of alder and birch wood. Very few of them aren't much bigger than a postcard, and some of them are smaller! The handwriting used on them is a sort of long, spidery cursive used for scribbling quick notes and memos, and written in ink made from carbon and gum. Most of them are, naturally enough, concerned with military matters, but there are also plenty of domestic ones, as well, giving us a sneak peak into the lives of real, ordinary people two thousand years ago.
This is one of the ones from the Tungrians: a daily report on the strength and state of the garrison. The translation on the card says:
"18 May, net number of the First Cohort of Tungrians, of which the commander is Julius Verecundus [Me: no relation! ;)] the prefect, 752, including centurions, 6 of whom there are absent: guards of the governor 46; at the office of Ferox?; at Coria [Me: modern Corbridge] 337, including centurions 2 (?); at London centurion 1 (?); ... 6, including centurion 1; ... 9, including centurion 1; ... 11; at (?) ... 1 (?); ... 45; total absentees 456, including centurions 5; remainder, present 296, including centurion 1; from these: sick 15; wounded 6; suffering from inflammation of the eyes 10; total of these 31; remainder, fit for active service 265, including centurion 1."
This is an fascinating look at the deployment of troops on the frontier, with just a fraction of the garrison on base, the rest currently deployed elsewhere, on leave, or sick. Another interesting thing is the mention of some of the men having an inflammation of the eyes, which seems to have been quite a common complaint in the Romano-British army. Oculists - specialist eye doctors - were common, and not just with the army: their identifying stamps have been found even in Ireland.
"15 May, report of the 9th cohort of Batavians. All who ought to be at their stations are there, as is the baggage. The report was made by the optiones [Me: the optio was the centurion's deputy] and the curators. Arquittius, optio of the century of Crescens, delivered it."
The above tablet is another report, though of a different type than the previous two. Instead of a routine check of personnel and equipment, this is the scrap of an intelligence report:
"...the Britons are unprotected by armour (?). There are very many cavalry. The cavalry do not use swords nor do the wretched Britons mount in order to throw javelins."
A memo on the fighting habits of local Britons. It contains the derogatory term Brittunculi, translated here as "wretched Britons". Sneering at non-citizens was something Romans did rather well, and it goes to show that occupying soldiers have been making up patronising names for the locals since... well, always.
(Also, if the cavalry don't use swords or javelins, what the hell do they use?)
Another example of less-than-gallant attitudes towards foreigners is found in this formal complaint from (presumably) a local merchant:
"...he punished (?) me all the more until I should declare my goods to be worthless or pour them down the drain. As befits an honest man I implore your majesty not to allow me, an innocent man, to have been beaten with rods and, my lord Proculus, I was unable to complain to the prefect because he was detained by ill-health and I have complained in vain to the beneficiarus [Me: an officer who seems to have been involved in customs and tax work, and a sort of district policing] and the (?) rest of the centurions of (?) his unit, I accordingly implore your mercifulness not to allow me, a man from overseas and an innocent one, about whose (?) good faith you may inquire, to have been bloodied by rods as if I had in some way committed crimes."
Poor guy. :(
And now, wrangling some time off: "I, Messicus..., ask, my lord, that you consider me a worthy person to whom to grant leave to Coria."
This seems to be the standard formula for requesting leave: there's another request from Vindolanda which uses pretty much the same words. There's no specification of how long Messicus wanted leave for: the card suggests that there might have been a standard length, or that it would be up to his superior to decide once he'd seen where the soldier wanted to go. Coria (Corbridge) was a bustling and prosperous frontier town, and no doubt a good place for getting some local colour (albeit in a Roman setting).
A letter from one Sollemnis to his brother (or, maybe, an old messmate) Paris: "Sollemnis to Paris his brother, very many greetings. I want you to know that I am in very good health, as I hope you are in turn, you neglectful man, who have sent me not even one letter. But I think that I am behaving in a more considerate fashion in writing to you...to you, brother,...my messmate. Greet from me Diligens and Cogitatus and Corinthus and I ask you that you send me the names...Farewell, dearest brother (?). (Back) To Paris...of the 3rd cohort of Batavians [Me: not the 9th, then? Hm.], from Sollemnis."
Haha. I like this one. "You haven't written in ages, you dozy git. Oh, well. Say hi to the guys for me!" The name of the recipient, Paris, is an unusual one in Roman Britain, and Alan K. Bowman in his book Life and Letters on the Roman Frontier: Vindolanda and its People suggests that he may actually have been a slave to someone in the garrison. But who knows? And it certainly not the only example of correspondence between the inhabitants of the fort and their friends and family. Someone else got a letter that indicated that it came with a package of socks and underpants. Personally, I like to think that that one was from someone's mum, knitting them for her boy in case he got cold up there on the frontier. :)
And it's not just the soldiers and/or slaves who were writing to each other. We've got letters from Flavius Cerialis, the prefect of the Ninth Cohort of Batavians, and the commanders of other forts, including Aelius Brocchus, who commanded at a place called Briga (unidentified). But better known is the correspondence between Cerialis' wife Sulpicia Lepidina, and Claudia Severa, the wife of Brocchus. Two letters from Severa to Lepidina survive, including the renowned birthday invitation, one of the most famous of the Vindolanda tablets:
"Claudia Severa to her Lepidina, greetings. On the 3rd day before the Ides of September [Me: 11 September], sister, for the day of the celebration of my birthday, I give you a warm invitation to make sure that you come to us, to make the day more enjoyable for me by your arrival, if you are present. Give my greetings to your Cerialis. My Aelius and my little son send you their greetings. (2nd hand) I shall expect you, sister. Farewell, sister, my dearest soul, as I hope to prosper, and hail. (Back, 1st hand) To Sulpicia Lepidina, (wife) of Cerialis, from Severa."
This one is particularly fascinating for so many reasons, as it lets us in on the lives of the women of these military bases, and how they coped with life on the frontier, which, if Severa and Lepidina are anything to go by, was to make friends with the other commanders' wives, write to each other, and meet up if possible. The other letter from Severa details her trying to arrange a meet-up at Coria. Girls sticking together, even on the frontier!
The birthday invitation is also of interest, as it is the earliest known example of a woman's handwriting in Latin. Most of the letter was dictated by a scribe (whose handwriting can be recognised in Brocchus' letter to Cerialis), but the farewell in the second hand is Severa's own: a personalised greeting to her friend.
And also on the domestic front:
This one is a line from Book 9 of Virgil's Aeneid (line 473), apparently part of a writing exercise, perhaps by a child of Cerialis and Lepidina. Virgil was apparently well used for exercises. It's not the only copying of Virgil from Vindolanda, either. There's also a copy of the Aeneid's very first line, and there's also a bit from Virgil's Georgics.
And that's just a selection of the tablets. There are tons more: accounts, inventories, recommendations, New Years greetings, requests for money, complaining about bad roads, medical prescriptions... you name it. And the all paint a vivid picture of life at Vindolanda: a rare picture of the Romans as they were, rather than as how they liked to portray themselves. Short of time travel, this is the closest thing we have to meeting real people from the past; ordinary people living ordinary lives. And that's real history.
Vindolanda isn't actually on the Wall; it formed part of the earlier Stanegate frontier, but continued in importance after the Hadrianic period. Even after the end of Roman Britain (traditionally dated to AD 410) and the withdrawal of the army, the site wasn't completely abandoned, and excavation has shown that people were living there well into the post-Roman period. But the Vindolanda tablets are still its most celebrated treasure, as they give an unparalleled glimpse into the lives of the people on Rome's northern frontier.
Some time not long after AD 100, the Ninth Cohort of Batavians, the current auxiliary garrison of the fort, were preparing to transfer. Standard procedure was to demolish the fort at the time of withdrawal, and at Vindolanda, at least, there was also a mass clearout of the administrative buildings. On the road in front of the praetorium, the commander's house, a bonfire was built and a lot of unwanted paperwork was thrown on it. The Batavians moved out, their successors - the First Cohort of Tungrians - moved in, and a new fort was built over the site of the old one, sealing the surviving letters in a waterlogged, anaerobic layer which preserved them until they were rediscovered again in 1973. And it's not just the Batavians' letters which have survived; there are also surviving correspondences from the later garrisons.
Contemporary letters are one of the most fascinating ways of looking into the Roman world. Some, like the personal correspondences of Cicero and Pliny the Younger, were published by their authors for posterity, but others survived by accident. Letters written on papyri have been found in other parts of the Roman Empire, but until the recovery of the Vindolanda letters, no writing tablets had actually been found. And then they wouldn't stop being found! Since then, some similar tablets have also come to light at Carlisle, but the Vindolanda ones remain the most famous.
The tablets are made of alder and birch wood. Very few of them aren't much bigger than a postcard, and some of them are smaller! The handwriting used on them is a sort of long, spidery cursive used for scribbling quick notes and memos, and written in ink made from carbon and gum. Most of them are, naturally enough, concerned with military matters, but there are also plenty of domestic ones, as well, giving us a sneak peak into the lives of real, ordinary people two thousand years ago.
This is one of the ones from the Tungrians: a daily report on the strength and state of the garrison. The translation on the card says:
"18 May, net number of the First Cohort of Tungrians, of which the commander is Julius Verecundus [Me: no relation! ;)] the prefect, 752, including centurions, 6 of whom there are absent: guards of the governor 46; at the office of Ferox?; at Coria [Me: modern Corbridge] 337, including centurions 2 (?); at London centurion 1 (?); ... 6, including centurion 1; ... 9, including centurion 1; ... 11; at (?) ... 1 (?); ... 45; total absentees 456, including centurions 5; remainder, present 296, including centurion 1; from these: sick 15; wounded 6; suffering from inflammation of the eyes 10; total of these 31; remainder, fit for active service 265, including centurion 1."
This is an fascinating look at the deployment of troops on the frontier, with just a fraction of the garrison on base, the rest currently deployed elsewhere, on leave, or sick. Another interesting thing is the mention of some of the men having an inflammation of the eyes, which seems to have been quite a common complaint in the Romano-British army. Oculists - specialist eye doctors - were common, and not just with the army: their identifying stamps have been found even in Ireland.
"15 May, report of the 9th cohort of Batavians. All who ought to be at their stations are there, as is the baggage. The report was made by the optiones [Me: the optio was the centurion's deputy] and the curators. Arquittius, optio of the century of Crescens, delivered it."
The above tablet is another report, though of a different type than the previous two. Instead of a routine check of personnel and equipment, this is the scrap of an intelligence report:
"...the Britons are unprotected by armour (?). There are very many cavalry. The cavalry do not use swords nor do the wretched Britons mount in order to throw javelins."
A memo on the fighting habits of local Britons. It contains the derogatory term Brittunculi, translated here as "wretched Britons". Sneering at non-citizens was something Romans did rather well, and it goes to show that occupying soldiers have been making up patronising names for the locals since... well, always.
(Also, if the cavalry don't use swords or javelins, what the hell do they use?)
Another example of less-than-gallant attitudes towards foreigners is found in this formal complaint from (presumably) a local merchant:
"...he punished (?) me all the more until I should declare my goods to be worthless or pour them down the drain. As befits an honest man I implore your majesty not to allow me, an innocent man, to have been beaten with rods and, my lord Proculus, I was unable to complain to the prefect because he was detained by ill-health and I have complained in vain to the beneficiarus [Me: an officer who seems to have been involved in customs and tax work, and a sort of district policing] and the (?) rest of the centurions of (?) his unit, I accordingly implore your mercifulness not to allow me, a man from overseas and an innocent one, about whose (?) good faith you may inquire, to have been bloodied by rods as if I had in some way committed crimes."
Poor guy. :(
And now, wrangling some time off: "I, Messicus..., ask, my lord, that you consider me a worthy person to whom to grant leave to Coria."
This seems to be the standard formula for requesting leave: there's another request from Vindolanda which uses pretty much the same words. There's no specification of how long Messicus wanted leave for: the card suggests that there might have been a standard length, or that it would be up to his superior to decide once he'd seen where the soldier wanted to go. Coria (Corbridge) was a bustling and prosperous frontier town, and no doubt a good place for getting some local colour (albeit in a Roman setting).
A letter from one Sollemnis to his brother (or, maybe, an old messmate) Paris: "Sollemnis to Paris his brother, very many greetings. I want you to know that I am in very good health, as I hope you are in turn, you neglectful man, who have sent me not even one letter. But I think that I am behaving in a more considerate fashion in writing to you...to you, brother,...my messmate. Greet from me Diligens and Cogitatus and Corinthus and I ask you that you send me the names...Farewell, dearest brother (?). (Back) To Paris...of the 3rd cohort of Batavians [Me: not the 9th, then? Hm.], from Sollemnis."
Haha. I like this one. "You haven't written in ages, you dozy git. Oh, well. Say hi to the guys for me!" The name of the recipient, Paris, is an unusual one in Roman Britain, and Alan K. Bowman in his book Life and Letters on the Roman Frontier: Vindolanda and its People suggests that he may actually have been a slave to someone in the garrison. But who knows? And it certainly not the only example of correspondence between the inhabitants of the fort and their friends and family. Someone else got a letter that indicated that it came with a package of socks and underpants. Personally, I like to think that that one was from someone's mum, knitting them for her boy in case he got cold up there on the frontier. :)
And it's not just the soldiers and/or slaves who were writing to each other. We've got letters from Flavius Cerialis, the prefect of the Ninth Cohort of Batavians, and the commanders of other forts, including Aelius Brocchus, who commanded at a place called Briga (unidentified). But better known is the correspondence between Cerialis' wife Sulpicia Lepidina, and Claudia Severa, the wife of Brocchus. Two letters from Severa to Lepidina survive, including the renowned birthday invitation, one of the most famous of the Vindolanda tablets:
"Claudia Severa to her Lepidina, greetings. On the 3rd day before the Ides of September [Me: 11 September], sister, for the day of the celebration of my birthday, I give you a warm invitation to make sure that you come to us, to make the day more enjoyable for me by your arrival, if you are present. Give my greetings to your Cerialis. My Aelius and my little son send you their greetings. (2nd hand) I shall expect you, sister. Farewell, sister, my dearest soul, as I hope to prosper, and hail. (Back, 1st hand) To Sulpicia Lepidina, (wife) of Cerialis, from Severa."
This one is particularly fascinating for so many reasons, as it lets us in on the lives of the women of these military bases, and how they coped with life on the frontier, which, if Severa and Lepidina are anything to go by, was to make friends with the other commanders' wives, write to each other, and meet up if possible. The other letter from Severa details her trying to arrange a meet-up at Coria. Girls sticking together, even on the frontier!
The birthday invitation is also of interest, as it is the earliest known example of a woman's handwriting in Latin. Most of the letter was dictated by a scribe (whose handwriting can be recognised in Brocchus' letter to Cerialis), but the farewell in the second hand is Severa's own: a personalised greeting to her friend.
And also on the domestic front:
This one is a line from Book 9 of Virgil's Aeneid (line 473), apparently part of a writing exercise, perhaps by a child of Cerialis and Lepidina. Virgil was apparently well used for exercises. It's not the only copying of Virgil from Vindolanda, either. There's also a copy of the Aeneid's very first line, and there's also a bit from Virgil's Georgics.
And that's just a selection of the tablets. There are tons more: accounts, inventories, recommendations, New Years greetings, requests for money, complaining about bad roads, medical prescriptions... you name it. And the all paint a vivid picture of life at Vindolanda: a rare picture of the Romans as they were, rather than as how they liked to portray themselves. Short of time travel, this is the closest thing we have to meeting real people from the past; ordinary people living ordinary lives. And that's real history.