A History of Ancient Britain (53 page)

But 2,000 years ago they bore messages as effectively as do texts on mobile phones today. Celtic coins used images, pictures to tell people who was in charge. When there was a change at the top,
there would have to be a new image. The coinage recovered from Silchester is even more important because it features the written word as well. In the last decades of the first century
BC
, the mass of people living in Britain had never seen writing before. For such marks to start appearing on coins would have been truly radical.

If the cosmopolitan port of Hengistbury Head had been a shock to the locals during the first half of the first century
BC
, then the impact on the senses felt by native
Britons on first encountering Calleva would have been of a whole different order of magnitude. These would have been people who, for the most part, were familiar only with roundhouses and field
boundaries. Occasionally they might have visited a hill fort but by the end of the first century
BC
those were in sharp decline. So to leave their farmsteads and villages
and arrive at a city – a full-blown, planned city of interconnecting streets lined with houses, shops and workshops, and home to hundreds of people – would have left them wide-eyed and
speechless with sensory overload.

Wonders though they surely were, pockets of early British uptake of Roman mores would have been few and far between in the decades after 54
BC
, limited to the south-east.
Two foreign dynasties had been established and their impact had been made visible on the coins and with the creation of at least one Romanised city. Elsewhere Celtic life continued as it always
had.

Perhaps in the territories to the north and west Rome was a talking point, fuel for gossip and speculation. Caesar’s efforts had secured a foothold on Britannia
– had opened a door through which Roman ways began to seep like rising water. In some ways it was a decades-long phoney war that followed. An aggressive and acquisitive Empire, brooding just
across the water, had made its presence felt and its intentions clear. In most of the British Isles, though, life continued as normal. Farmers sowed their crops and then harvested them. The sun
rose and set, illuminating roundhouse doorways in the morning and setting them into shadow in the evening.

Rome had, anyway, rather bigger business to attend to elsewhere. Around the time the foundations of Calleva were being laid in Hampshire, Rome installed Juba II as client king of the territory
of Numidia, in north Africa. By then the 500 years of the Roman Republic were over and Rome had her first emperor. Caesar had been assassinated in 44
BC
and his will named
his grand-nephew Octavius as his adopted son and heir. Octavius was first supported and then challenged by Caesar’s friend and ally Mark Antony – who had also taken the dead man’s
lover, Cleopatra, for his own. Matters were settled by the climactic sea battle of Actium in 31
BC
. Defeated on water and then on land at Alexandria, the doomed lovers took
their own lives.

From the moment in 27
BC
when Octavius was named Augustus, meaning great or revered, by the Senate he was Emperor in all but name. Augustus it was who placed Juba II on
the throne – the throne of his father, Juba I – and then made him the gift of a wife as well. Cleopatra had had three children by Mark Antony: sons Alexander Helios and Ptolemy
Philadelphus, and a daughter, Cleopatra Selene.

All three were descendants one way or another of Ptolemy I, best friend and one-time bodyguard of Alexander the Great. Augustus had adopted them following their parents’ death and raised
them in his own household. Egypt had been Alexander’s gift to Ptolemy and the Ptolemaic Pharaohs his legacy. Cleopatra Selene, child of immortal legends, was given in marriage to Juba II and
then disappeared from history for ever.

The Roman territory of Judaea, roughly equivalent to modern Israel and Palestine, was ruled as part of the neighbouring province of Syria until 40
BC
when it was made a
kingdom again. Herod the Great was the Roman placeman on the throne, eventually controlling a territory that also included Galilee, until his death in 4
BC
. When he died the
Romans honoured his wishes that his kingdom be split between three of his sons. Archelaus was
granted Judaea, Philip was gifted a portion of the northern territory and Herod
Antipas, who in time would have a role to play in the executions of John the Baptist and Jesus Christ, ruled Galilee.

Antony and Cleopatra, the birth of the Roman Empire itself were unwitting steps towards the creation of a religion that would change the world. With such events, and more besides, unfolding
elsewhere in the Empire, the fact that Britannia was not always at the top of the agenda is perhaps less of a surprise.

Eventually, though, the eyes of the Empire turned towards Britain once more. The softly, softly policy of leaving territories under the control of sympathetic client kings, which had been a
feature of Roman business practices in the later years of the Republic, was less attractive to the emperors. In
AD
9 three whole legions – 15,000 men – were
wiped out in a battle east of the Rhine in Germania. It was a jarring blow for imperial morale. Until that moment the advance of the Empire had seemed natural and limitless, almost preordained.
After the German disaster Roman minds began thinking about security, about tightening the nuts and bolts holding their demesne together. In Britain the situation was exacerbated by civil strife and
unrest among the tribes.

Augustus thought about invading on three separate occasions but never actually put any plans into action. Emperor Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus (better known to history as Caligula, a
soldiers’ nickname for him, meaning little shoe) came close in
AD
40 and went so far as to assemble an army on the coast of Gaul.

Accounts of what happened next are dominated by later Roman writers who sought to portray Caligula as a madman; and he is variously reported as ordering his men to attack the waves, or to
collect seashells. It seems more likely his preparations were rather more measured and sensible and modern historians and archaeologists have credited his efforts with laying much of the groundwork
for the successful invasion by Claudius three years later. Archaeological investigation of the foundations of a lighthouse Caligula ordered to be built at Boulogne, for instance, in advance of the
departure of his landing craft, has revealed it was used as the blueprint for one later erected at Dover.

After Caligula, Claudius was a new Emperor in need of a success to thrill and impress the citizens of Rome. He also needed to underline the difference between himself and his immediate
predecessor. By
AD
43, in short, Britain’s card was marked.

Given that the eventual invasion of
AD
43 is such a landmark in British history it is a surprise to learn no one seems to know for certain where
the four Roman legions, under the command of the distinguished senator and general Aulus Plautius, actually came ashore. Richborough, in Kent, is a popular choice but wherever it was, the force
that splashed onto the British beaches nearly 90 years after Caesar’s men departed had come to stay.

Despite all the years of client kingdoms there was still a spirited resistance from at least some of the Kentish tribes. Elsewhere too, beyond the territories of those friendly towards the
Romans, there was much blood to be spilled. The whole of the south-east was subdued within a matter of weeks, but the rest of the invasion was to be the stuff of years, lifetimes, and the Romans
likely knew it from the start. It was now, with the invaders bent upon nothing less than total conquest, that the already ancient and venerable hill forts of the south were pressed into service one
last time.

As warriors the forts had probably grown old and drowsy. By
AD
43 southern Britain had enjoyed a century or more of relative peace and the forts were mostly given over to
trade, to ceremony and to worship. But at the sound of the carnyx, the great howling war trumpet of the Celts, they roused themselves as best they could. Legend would later have King Arthur asleep
beneath a green hill, ready to rise and ride out whenever he was needed. As the legions advanced, 500 years before his time, it was the hills themselves that briefly reared up in defiance.

Archaeological evidence recovered from some of the hill forts of Dorset reveals the reality of the last stands. Hod hill fort was the spiritual home of the Durotriges tribe. Excavation close by
the north-east entrance found the remains of a young woman buried in a pit. This was interpreted as a ‘foundation’ burial – something like an offering to the gods in hope of good
fortune for the settlement. Similar burials, though of young men, were found in pits inside the hill forts of Maiden Castle and also South Cadbury, in Somerset. Many other people had been buried
within Hod hill fort over the years. Excavation found another within part of the ramparts and a dozen more, including infants, within pits dotted across the sites. Squares of postholes suggested
either raised grain stores or perhaps platforms used for the excarnation of the dead. Hill forts were places that mattered to their tribes in profound ways, made as they were, to some extent, of
their own flesh and blood.

Inside Hod was evidence of as many as 200 roundhouses, as well as a tracery of ‘streets’. Excavation suggested work was under way to strengthen
the defences
even as the Romans advanced towards them. Two buildings surrounded by a small enclosure may have been the compound of the chieftain. There the archaeologists found the iron tips of numerous Roman
ballista bolts fired from mechanised crossbows. By concentrating their fire on the home of the leader, the attackers likely hoped to weaken morale. The tactic worked. The defenders, by pitiful
contrast to the artillery ranged against them, had amassed pits filled with rounded stones to launch from their slings. The fact that they had lain unused – together with few signs of
fighting – suggested the people of Hod showed little resistance. Soon the Romans had underlined their dominance by building their own fort inside the tamed ramparts.

The peoples of the west and north faced a dreadful choice. If they were to roll over in the face of the aggressors, accept a future as part of the Empire, then they risked losing an identity
that had been thousands of years in the making. But if they chose continued independence and defied Rome, if they stood behind sharpened stakes planted on the rounded slopes of their hill forts,
they risked losing their lives.

Hod had come under attack from the Second Legion, commanded by Vespasian – a general in
AD
43 but later Emperor. He had earlier taken Maiden Castle, again in the
face of muted resistance, as well as several other hill forts to the south. The brutal efficiency of Vespasian and his ilk survives in the bones of some of those Britons cut down to make way for
the future. Sometimes there are the iron heads of ballista bolts still imbedded in spines. Bones from hands reveal defensive wounds, likely caused by desperate attempts to grab the sword blades of
Roman attackers. It was not just Celtic men who felt the sharp edge of Roman aggression either. Savage wounds to the backs of the skulls and leg bones of women reveal they were cut down while
trying to run away.

When the famous English archaeologist Sir Mortimer Wheeler excavated Maiden Castle between 1934 and 1937, he was convinced he had found evidence of a bloody clash between Romans and defenders.
There were traces of burning at the hill fort’s complex eastern entrance, huge collections of sling stones and, most sensationally of all, victims of the horror: ‘Men, women, young and
old, were savagely cut down, before the legionaries were called to heel and the work of systematic destruction began . . . the survivors crept forth and, in darkness, buried their dead . . . in
that place where the ashes of their burnt huts lay warm and thick on the ground.’

It was all fabulously dramatic stuff and since Sir Mortimer was a born
storyteller, gifted with the ability to enthral the general public with a subject that might
otherwise have passed them by, his version of events became a staple of archaeology for years to come.

More recently Niall Sharples of Cardiff University, has disputed some of Sir Mortimer’s interpretation. While he agreed the fort’s defences had probably been damaged by the Romans
after they had gained access to the place, he was less convinced by other parts of Sir Mortimer’s account.

Examination of the burials suggested that, rather than being hurriedly laid to rest under cover of darkness, the bodies had been buried in an existing cemetery and in line with the usual
funerary practices of the inhabitants. According to Sharples the evidence of burning was more likely to have been caused by peacetime metal-working than by any wholesale destruction of the
interior. Furthermore he believed the ‘arrows’ that were cited as evidence of Roman attack were of a type that predated the Roman conquest of Britain.

This sort of re-evaluation of evidence is what the science of archaeology is all about – how the subject continues to advance our understanding of the ancient past. In this instance,
however, the older, and undoubtedly more exciting, version of events at Maiden Castle in
AD
43 seems to have won out.

Work on the skeletons by specialists Rebecca Redfern from the Museum of London and Andrew Chamberlain of Sheffield University appears to indicate they went into the ground in the aftermath of
something ‘catastrophic’. They said the fact that the dead had been given formal burial, and in an existing cemetery, was no reason to dismiss brutal conflict as the cause of death.
‘Examination of the human remains found overwhelming evidence for targeted blows to the head and body, assault injuries and overkill,’ they wrote. ‘Skeletal evidence for trauma
was identified in adolescent and adult individuals, suggesting that both sexes and older sub-adults were exposed to and/or engaged in martial activity during the Late Iron Age. The organised burial
of these members of the Durotriges tribe suggests that we should not assume that formal burials in the Late Iron Age excluded victims of the conquest . . . we consider that large-scale conflict was
a major contributor . . . that the majority of the individuals buried at Maiden Castle were most likely killed during the Roman invasion of Britain in
AD
43.’