Today we have the fourth and final part in our Ancient Everyday blog series on Time in the Roman World.
I hope you’ve enjoyed all the posts thus far, and that you’ve learned a little something with regards to how the Romans tracked the years, developed the calendar, and numbered and named the days and weeks.
In Part IV, we’re going to look at how the Romans told time.
The time of day is something that most of us obsess about, whether we want to or not. Almost everyone has a watch on their wrist, or a mobile phone in their pocket to check the time whenever they want.
But what did they do to tell the time in ancient Rome? How did they divide the hours of the day? How did they keep their appointments whether with one’s hairstylist, fuller, patron, or with Caesar himself?
Let’s have a look…
In ancient Rome, the day was divided into twelve hours of night, and twelve hours of day.
Because of this, a daylight hour was not the same length as a nighttime hour, except during an Equinox! For example, a daylight hour in mid-winter was about forty-five minutes long by our reckoning, and in midsummer, it was about one and a half hours long.
Time was told in relation to the hour of night or daylight. For instance, midnight was the sixth hour of night, and midday was the sixth hour of day.
Time was expressed in terms like ‘first hour’. E.g. ‘I’ll meet you at the temple of Venus and Rome at the first hour’ (after sunrise).
If you were invited to someone’s home on the Caelian Hill for a late night party, they might tell you to be there at the ‘eleventh hour’, that is two hours before sunset.
Midday was known as meridies, and this is where we get the notion of A.M. and P.M.
A.M. stands for ante meridiem (‘before midday’), and P.M. stands for post meridiem (‘after midday’). Another thing the Romans did for us!
But what if you were out at a late night orgy, or drinking and gambling in the tabernae of the Suburan slums? What if you woke up late and your whole sense of time was thrown off. How would you be able to tell what time it was, and whether you missed that all-important meeting with your patron?
If someone else wasn’t around who could tell you what hour of daylight it was, you could always go and check a clock.
Yes! The Romans did indeed have clocks, or horologia.
Horologia could come in two forms. They could be solaria (shadow clocks or sundials) or they could be clepsydrae (water clocks).
Solaria were apparently introduced to Rome sometime in the third century B.C. They were by no means perfect for telling the time as they needed scale adjustment for latitude, required seasonal corrections, and most obviously, relied on sunshine, so they could not be used at night.
I’m guessing that solaria in the far-away province of Britannia might have been more finicky than one on the sunny shores of the Mediterranean Sea!
Perhaps the most famous of solaria in ancient Rome was the one erected by Emperor Augustus on the Campus Martius in 9 B.C.
The Solarium Augusti as it was known was basically a giant sundial that used an Egyptian obelisk brought from Heliopolis, in Egypt, as the gnomon or staff of the sundial. Augustus dedicated this solarium to the Sun, making it the first solar dedication in the city of Rome.
Today, you can see the obelisk in the Piazza di Montecitorio.
Waterclocks, or clepsydrae, were also used in ancient Rome and across the Empire.
Now, these also needed seasonal adjustment, but they could be used at night because they didn’t require sunlight. This made them especially useful in military camps for keeping the hours of the watch through the night.
A clepsydra was usually a vessel with holes for the outflow of water. As the water emptied, it measured time, sort of like an hour glass with sand.
Of course, like watches and clocks today, clepsydrae came in varying levels of quality and accuracy, as well as extra features.
One had to keep an eye on the water level in the smaller vessels that made up some clepsydrae, as once the water ran out, it would stop working and have to be set up again. This might be akin to having to wind clocks every so often.
However, there were more elaborate clepsydrae that had a constant supply of water, and this would allow for twenty-four hour operation.
An example of this high-end ‘time piece’ is the Tower of the Winds in the Roman Agora of Athens, also known as the Horologion of Andronicus, which was built in the first century B.C.
So, there you have it.
I hope you’ve enjoyed this four-part Ancient Everyday series on Time in the Roman world.
I have to say, I’ve found it very interesting and even learned some new things myself.
There will be other installments of Ancient Everyday in the future, and much more!
So, thank you for reading, happy Summer, and we’ll see you next time…
We’re back in the Roman world for the third part in this mini Ancient Everyday blog series about, you guessed it: Time.
In the last two posts, we looked at how Romans tracked the years, as well as the evolution of the calendar in ancient Rome.
Today, we’re going to take a brief look at the Roman days and weeks which, in addition to many things, are one of their legacies to us.
The Roman days of the month were not numbered serially as they are today. They were numbered in relation to three specifically named days. It was from these three specific days that the other dates were counted retrospectively.
So, what were these special days, you might ask? They were the:
(the Kalends – first day of the month, and origin of our word ‘calendar’)
(the Nones – the ninth day before the Ides, or the fifth day of the month; seventh in a 31-day month; originally, the Nonae corresponded with the first quarter moon of the lunar month)
(the Ides – the thirteenth day; or the fifteenth day in a 31-day month; the Ides originally corresponded with the full moon of the lunar month)
So, those are the ‘special’ days in the Roman month. But how did they count the rest?
This is where it gets complicated…
The day was numbered or named by its place so many days before (ante diem) the Kalends, the Nones, or the Ides of the month.
But! The day immediately before one of the three named days was called pridie.
If you ever try to read Roman dates, you will also notice that they are always abbreviated.
In ancient Rome, the official Calendar was drawn up by the pontiffs (priests) who ensured the inclusion of the dates for religious festivals – and in ancient Rome, there were many of those! These festivals would be indicated by a letter or abbreviation representing a particular celebration beside the date.
So, those are the days of the Roman calendar, but what of the weeks? Did they have the exact same weekdays that we do? Or rather, do we have the same ones as the Romans?
Early on, the Roman week was eight days long. The eighth day was a market day, or nundinae.
The market day was a day of rest from agricultural labour, a time to take the produce or livestock to market.
To confuse things a little more, the period of time between market days was known as a nundinum.
The eight-day week did not last however.
The seven day period that we are familiar with was used at first in the East, especially by Hellenistic astrologers.
In Rome, the earliest reference to a seven day week is supposedly from the time of Augustus (27 B.C. – A.D. 14). This was eventually officially adopted by Emperor Constantine in A.D. 321.
Finally, what were the names of the days of the week in ancient Rome?
Well, they were named after the gods and planets, and to this day the names used in the various Romance Languages preserve the Roman tradition. Beginning with Monday, they are:
Dies Lunae (the day of the Moon)
Dies Martis (the day of Mars)
Dies Mercurii (the day of Mercury)
Dies Jovis (the day of Jupiter)
Dies Veneris (the day of Venus)
Dies Saturni (the day of Saturn)
Dies Solis (the day of the Sun)
There you have it, the Roman days and weeks!
The legacy of the Romans never ceases to amaze me.
Next week is the fourth and final part of this Ancient Everyday blog series in which we will be looking at how the Romans told the time of day.
Until then, thank you for reading!
Welcome to the second part in this mini, Ancient Everyday blog series about Time in the Roman world.
Last week we took a brief look at how the Romans tracked and organized the years. If you missed it, you can read it by CLICKING HERE.
This week, we’re going to take a look at what is perhaps one of their greatest legacies – the Calendar.
Now, the Romans did indeed do a lot for us – you can check out this wonderful series hosted by Adam Hart-Davis to learn what the Romans did for us – and it goes without saying that we take a lot of it for granted today.
The calendar ranks right up there, and even though we take time for granted, it is actually something that we are constantly aware of. Quite the conundrum, if you ask me!
The word ‘calendar’, as well as the names of the months we still use today are of Roman origin.
However, the calendar went through some reform before it got to the version we are now familiar with.
The original Roman calendar, known as the ‘Calendar of Romulus’, was an agricultural, 10-month year. There were ten irregular months with a total of 304 days from March to December.
The names of these months originated then, and the gap of missing months accounts for the period of time in which no agricultural work was carried out. This was also a lunar cycle, so there was a degree of ‘seasonal drift’ compared to the solar cycle.
It is believed that the change to a 12-month calendar occurred in the sixth century B.C.
In the year 153 B.C., January was made the first month of the year, named after Janus, the god of doorways and new beginnings.
But until Julius Caesar’s calendar reform, the Roman year was 355 days long, divided into 12 months. Four of these had 31 days (March, May, July, and October), seven months had 29 days, and February had 28 days.
Here are the names of the months on the Roman calendar:
Ianuarius (the month of ‘Janus’)
Februarius (the month of ‘Februa’, purgings or purifications)
Martius (the month of ‘Mars’)
Aprilis (uncertain meaning)
Maius (uncertain meaning)
Iunius (the month of ‘Juno’)
Quinctilis (the ‘fifth’ month – renamed ‘Iulius’ in 44 B.C. after Julius Caesar)
Sextilis (the ‘sixth’ month – renamed ‘Augustus’ in 8 B.C. after Emperor Augustus)
September (the ‘seventh’ month)
October (the ‘eighth’ month)
November (the ‘ninth’ month)
December (the ‘tenth’ month)
Notice how some of these names are a legacy of the 10-month agricultural Roman calendar year?
There is apparently some evidence for ‘intercalation’, that is, the addition of days to adjust the year. This included the addition of 22-23 days every other year in February.
The act of intercalation was the domain of the pontiffs of Rome, but it was not accurate, and by the time of Julius Caesar, the civic year was about three months ahead of the solar year that was in use.
Caesar extended the year 46 B.C. to 445 days to remove the discrepancy.
So, from January 1st, 45 B.C. he made the year 365 days long with the months at their current numbers. Quite the legacy, no? He also introduced the leap year.
Thus, was the Julian Calendar born.
Today, the most widely used calendar is the Gregorian Calendar. However, the Gregorian calendar is basically the same as the Julian Calendar except for some small changes.
In 1582 Pope Gregory XIII omitted 10 days from the calendar year to adjust the discrepancy between the Julian calendar and the solar year. He also ordered that 3 days be omitted in leap years every 400 years.
So there you have it! A very brief look at the evolution of the calendar from ancient Rome to the one we use today.
Next week, in Part III of this series, we’ll be looking at the days and weeks in the Roman world.
Thank you for reading!
This week on Writing the Past, we’re going back in time from the Middle Ages to ancient Rome once more.
I thought it might be fun to do a short series of Ancient Everyday blogs about something that concerned our ancient ancestors as well as ourselves. It’s something that, across the ages, we all wish we had more of: Time.
This isn’t going to be a philosophical series of posts on time, but rather a look at the practicalities of time and how ancient Romans organized it.
In this first post, we’re going to look at how years were counted and tracked in ancient Rome and across the Empire.
Today, dating is something we take rather for granted, but at times during the Roman era, there was a lot of thought put into this and the development of a system around it.
Early in the Roman Republic, the years were usually dated by the names of the Roman Consuls, the highest rank for an elected Roman official, and the pinnacle of the Cursus Honorem, the tried and true path of public offices for anyone seeking political success.
Two consuls served at once and, conveniently, they served for just one year, so that could be readily used as a method of dating. The lists of consuls were called fasti, and they exist from about the year 509 B.C.
This practice of dating using the names of Roman Consuls stopped in about A.D. 537 when Emperor Justinian I (the ‘Great’) switched to the regnal years of the emperors.
Prior to that, there were other ways in which the years were tracked and counted.
Sometimes years were dated from the founding of the city of Rome – ab urbe condita was the wording used. Rome is generally thought to have been founded in the year 753 B.C., so the years would be counted from that point on.
I wonder how widespread this dating was, compared with the use of the fasti. There were even more dating systems across the Empire, systems which had a local flavour; say, for instance, years counted from a particularly big event in the history of a certain place etc.
From the late 3rd century A.D., the practice of counting years by indiction, or indictio, was also used. This was the announcement of the delivery of food and other goods to the government. So, basically, indictio referred to the tax assessment which took place, at first, in five-year cycles, but in a fifteen-year cycle from about A.D. 312.
Indictio was also often used to date the fiscal years in the Empire which tended to begin on the first of September.
It’s thought that the general population may have tended to know the indictio years better than the consular years. This isn’t surprising as we’re all aware of the dates when the government slashes at our purse strings!
The Christian reckoning of years using B.C. and A.D. (for Anno Domini – ‘Year of the Lord’) in the Julian and Gregorian calendars was introduced in the mid-sixth century by the monk Dionysius Exiguus of Scythia Minor. In this reckoning, there is no year ‘0’, but rather 1 B.C. is immediately followed by A.D. 1. Nowadays, there is a movement toward using B.C.E (Before Common/Current Era) and C.E. (Common/Current Era).
Whichever method of dating you prefer today, it seems that the Romans had a variety of methods to choose from.
Were they as obsessed with time as we are today? I suspect not. But it was something they grappled with on certain levels.
Either way, ancient dates are likely less reliable before Julius Caesar’s calendar reform of 45 B.C.
I suppose we should thank the gods for circa, that is, ‘approximately’!
Thank you for reading!
If you are curious and want to check out a list of the consuls of Rome, you can do so by CLICKING HERE.
Come back next week for the next Ancient Everyday in this series on Time in which we’ll be looking at the Roman calendar and months.
On my recent journey through Devon and Somerset, I had the chance to revisit two of my favourite places – the Iron Age hill fort of South Cadbury Castle, and Tiverton Castle which we looked at last week.
This week I want to introduce you to a castle that is new to me – Nunney Castle in Somerset.
Unlike South Cadbury and Tiverton Castle, I had never been to Nunney Castle before. In fact, I had never heard of it until I was doing a bit of research for the trip and stumbled across a short listing in an old book of castles I have.
Somerset is not really known for its castles. Manor homes, Iron Age hill forts, and monasteries, yes, but not Medieval castles as most people imagine them to be.
That’s why I was so happy to find out about Nunney, and subsequently insert it on the itinerary after a visit to the small (smallest in England!) city of Wells where I used to work.
However, before I get into the specifics of my visit to Nunney Castle, we should, as is our habit here, look at a bit of the history of the site.
Nunney Castle was first built by the knight Sir John de la Mare (1320-1383) under a royal licence granted to him in 1373 by King Edward III.
You see, Sir John, like other knights of the time, was a veteran of the English forces fighting in France during the 100 Years War, and it was with the small fortune he had amassed there that he was able to pay for the building of Nunney Castle.
He did rather well for himself, and after his service in the war, he became High Sheriff of Wiltshire in 1374, High Sheriff of Somerset and Dorset in 1377, and also attained the title ‘Knight of the Shire’ in both Wiltshire and Somerset. The latter was the formal title for members of parliament representing a county in the medieval Parliament of England.
The castle that Sir John built was an ideal stronghold for serious defence, in addition to being a symbol of his power in the area.
It was built on what is called a ‘four-lobed plan’ and encircled by a moat, with machicolations and battlements running around the top. On each of the four towers, there were conical rooftops. Some believe that the design of Nunney Castle was heavily influenced by French castles which Sir John would have encountered while fighting across the Channel.
It has been pointed out that the design of Nunney is similar to that of the Bastille in Paris, particularly the machicolations.
After 1560, Nunney Castle passed into the hands of another family when it was bought by Richard Prater, a rich Londoner and Catholic who allowed Nunney to be used as a refuge for fellow Catholics during the Civil War.
However, as with Tiverton Castle, it was besieged and ruined by the Parliamentarians during the war.
It wasn’t until about 1926 that Nunney Castle came under state guardianship and cleared of plants and rubble.
I have to admit I was extremely curious about Nunney when we set out from Wells on a sunny, windswept day in Somerset.
Nunney is about fifteen miles south of Bath, and from Wells it was a fourteen mile drive, by way of Shepton Mallet.
This was a small corner of Somerset that was unfamiliar to me. The drive was lovely, the road weaving over hills, through farm and pasture land, and around clumps of forest. With puffs of white cloud racing across the blue, sunlit sky, there was a kind of odd light as we went. It was almost too bright and colourful!
When the sat nav voice told me to take a hard left and then a hard right, we found ourselves on a narrow country road. As ever, I hoped I wouldn’t meet a tractor head-on!
We continued on through the forest-flanked lane for a mile or two until we came to a tiny village. This was Nunney.
I expected to see the castle looming over the rooftops, but I saw no such thing. I drove farther into the village until we came to Castle Street and parked. Still no sign of the castle until I got out of the car, and took a few steps to the end of the short lane.
There it was, moat and all, jutting out of the village like a stone swamp monster.
Nunney Castle really is a beautiful piece of architecture, said to be ‘the most aesthetically pleasing castle in Somerset’.
And it’s true, though there aren’t that many medieval castles in Somerset. Still, I was impressed with the apparent strength of its walls and the sheer, squat size of it. It’s also quaint, though that may be due to the fact that it’s closely bordered by private homes that come almost to the edge of the moat.
Some villages have small parks or gardens in their midst, but Nunney has a castle! What a view out of your window as you have morning coffee!
My eyes were drawn immediately to the moat, the black and green water a bit of a warning to those who might get too close. You certainly wouldn’t want to fall in there!
Once you cross the bridge, on the spot where the drawbridge would have been, you are even more struck by the high walls, the curve of the four large towers, and the remains of the castle’s various levels.
Ignoring the detritus of chips and candy no doubt left by bored local teens who hang out in there, I stepped into the middle of the ruins and looked up.
It was as if the castle came alive then.
The fireplaces on the side walls began to crackle, and the voices of sentries upon the battlements snaked their way down the curving stairs of the towers. Somewhere above, the residents dined where pigeons now flutter back and forth from one tower to the other.
I was glad we had the place to ourselves, and I suspect that if any of you do visit Nunney Castle (did I mentioned there is no charge for entry?), you will find the same.
It’s quite special when you have an historic site to yourself.
I enjoyed exploring it slowly, taking photos and trying to imagine what it was like in its full vigour. This was a little difficult, surrounded as it was by the sleepy village homes, structures that were not there in the castle’s heyday when Sir John was bound to protect the villagers about his keep.
Now it’s as if the villagers’ homes protect the castle, huddled close about it, keeping it secret and safe.
After exploring the interior from the ground level, I went back outside and walked around the perimeter of the walls.
It was hard to imagine the Parliamentarians bombarding the castle in such a sleepy place; it’s easy to breathe calmly at Nunney Castle now.
I suspect it was not the same for Richard Prater, his family, or the Catholics who had taken refuge within when the cannon had been turned on these pale stone walls.
In all, the short visit to Nunney Castle was a real treat and I would recommend it if you are in Somerset and looking for a quiet break away from the busier tourist destinations.
It’s worth the drive to explore this little-known site in the heart of this beautiful county.
Thank you for reading.
As many of you will know, I recently returned from a weeklong vacation in Devon and Somerset. This was a combined family adventure and research trip for some upcoming books.
Needless to say, I had a wonderful time and have returned to the big city relaxed, inspired, and ready to hunker down and write the next book. I also want to share some of my lovely experiences with you, to introduce you to some of the places that came alive for me.
The first destination was Tiverton Castle in Tiverton, Devon.
This castle holds a special place in my heart, but before two weeks ago I had not been back for 15 years.
For a long time, I’ve been daydreaming about a return visit to this lovely castle tucked away in Devon, between Exmoor and Dartmoor.
When our car pulled up, it was like being welcomed by an old friend after too long an absence.
Before I talk about my experience revisiting this castle, we should discuss the history of this place. After all, that’s what this blog is all about!
Tiverton Castle may not be one of the titans of tourism in Britain, but it is no less deserving of a visit, and if you are up for it, a stay within its walls.
There has been human habitation around Tiverton since the Stone Age, but the town itself really peaked financially with its thriving wool trade in the 16th and 17th centuries.
However, I want to focus on the castle itself, for it has a long and varied history that is both fascinating and tragic.
Prior to the Norman Conquest of 1066, the land upon which Tiverton castle would later be built formed part of the estates of the Saxon Princess, Gytha, the sister-in-law of King Canute, and the Mother of King Harold. After the Conquest, the lands came into the possession of William the Conqueror (King William I) and his heirs.
In 1100, when Henry I came to the throne, he began granting land to some of his followers for the purpose of building castles. It was at Tiverton that Henry I commanded Richard de Redvers to build a castle overlooking the important crossing point of the River Exe. This early fortress was probably completed around 1106.
Richard de Redvers’ son, Baldwin, became the 1st Earl of Devon and the manor of Tiverton continued to be held by six successive earls until 1262 when the male line died out. The last earl was succeeded by his sister Isabella, a widow, who assumed the title of Countess of Devon and was one of the richest heiresses in the land. When Isabella died, Tiverton went to her cousin, Hugh de Courtenay.
The Courtenays are thought to be largely responsible for the bulk of the building at Tiverton Castle, the medieval remains of what we see today.
It’s believed that the family originally came to England in the entourage of Eleanor of Aquitaine.
In 1335, it was King Edward III who made Hugh de Courtenay Earl of Devon at Tiverton Castle, and it is believed that Hugh was responsible for building the curtain walls with towers at the corners, and the living quarters on the west side by the river.
The Courtenays held Tiverton Castle for about 260 years until, during the Wars of the Roses, the castle and title were lost to the family as some of them were staunch Lancastrian supporters.
With the death of Richard III at the Battle of Bosworth in 1485, however, it was Henry VII who reinstated Sir Edward Courtenay as Earl of Devon at Tiverton Castle. In about 1485, his son, William Courtenay married Princess Katherine Plantagenet, the daughter of Edward IV, and sister of Henry VII’s queen, Elizabeth.
Katherine had something of a sad life – she was also the sister of Edward V of England and Richard of Shrewsbury, Duke of York, both of whom are rumoured to have been killed in the Tower of London by their uncle, Richard III. If you’ve read Shakespeare’s play, you’ll know all about this.
Princess Katherine was the most famous resident of Tiverton Castle. She lived there for many years, after outliving her own children, and when she died in 1527, she was buried (at her request) in St. Peter’s Church next door.
During the years of the English Civil War, more building was done at Tiverton Castle, which was held for King Charles I.
It was widely acknowledged that Tiverton held great strategic importance at this time, and so this led to the only occasion in which the castle faced an enemy attack. The Parliamentary army, under the command of Sir Thomas Fairfax, commenced bombarding the castle with cannon and gun.
It was a lucky cannon shot that hit the drawbridge chain, allowing the Parliamentarians to rush into the castle and church to plunder. Few lives were lost in the siege, but for one woman who was hit by a cannon ball in the round tower while holding her child. The child survived.
I’ve glossed over the rich history of Tiverton Castle, opting to give you some of the highlights. There is much more to it, but I feel that a visit to the castle itself is the only way to do it justice.
After the Civil War siege, Tiverton Castle was under the ownership of various families over time. Today, it is owned and lovingly cared for by Angus and Alison Gordon who give a warm welcome to any visitors to the castle.
Over time, the Gordons have become family friends, and Tiverton Castle a place that we will return to when we are in need of an escape.
The atmosphere at Tiverton Castle is peaceful and welcoming. There is no sense of ‘preciousness’ there, but rather of admiration and appreciation of the history of the place.
Among the colourful, richly-scented gardens, the ruins of the castle built by the Courtenays rise like silent sentries from the past, each with a story to tell. As I wandered about, it was as if I could hear fires crackling in hearths, laughter in the great hall, the tears of a princess, or the pounding of cannon balls against thick walls.
This little castle has a rich story to tell.
Solo visitors, historical societies, school groups and anyone else with an interest in history will be well-rewarded with a visit to Tiverton Castle which also has a brilliant collection of Civil War era arms and armour, as well as a well-preserved tower complete with medieval garderobe (toilet). You can even try on a replica of a Civil War helmet. I found it to be quite comfortable!
If you do get to Tiverton, also be sure to step inside the Church of St. Peter’s next door which has a dazzling array of ‘kneelers’, a 500 or so year old organ, and a wonderful set of bells that chime throughout the day. If you get to the church, be sure to ask the warden, Bill, where the tomb of Princess Katherine Plantagenet is thought to be. Tell him I sent you.
We spent three nights in the self-catering accommodation at Tiverton Castle, and I have to say that it was probably the best part of our vacation. Not only are the accommodations well-appointed and clean, they are beautiful and add to the magic of actually staying in a castle.
I can’t say how wondrous it felt waking up to the sound of bells and birdsong at Tiverton Castle, rather than the usual rumbling of an underground and the sirens of the city.
For two days we roamed the castle gardens, sat beneath the ruins, and admired the collections of artifacts within (which also include one of Napoleon’s deaths masks!). We also used Tiverton as a base to strike out and explore Exmoor a few miles to the North. There is also Dartmoor to the South.
The time at Tiverton Castle went all too quickly for my liking, and now that I’m back in my office cubicle far away, I find myself daydreaming about those lovely ruins and the way the evening sunlight warmed them and set the garden colours ablaze. When I look out my dirty window now, I remember the clear, open leaded glass of the Castle Lodge window, the heady scent of wisteria, and the sound of birdsong flowing into my senses as I sipped on a glass of Chianti.
If only we could remain on vacation indefinitely…
So many castles and manor homes tend to be cold in their welcome, sometimes institutional in their display and the way visitors are ushered through their ancient halls.
But Tiverton Castle is in a class all its own, as far as I’m concerned. The gates are open here, and once you pass beneath the grand arch and into the grounds, you can leave the outside world behind and lose yourself in the past with ease.
I know I look forward to doing so again…very soon.
As the Summer holidays are upon us, this is the perfect time to arrange a visit or stay at Tiverton Castle. I can’t recommend it enough!
Go to the website here: http://www.tivertoncastle.com/
If you’re looking for a nice getaway, or a base from which to explore the southwest, be sure to look at the list of self-catering properties on the website too. They are all lovely and, well, you get to stay in a castle!
Be sure to tell Mr. and Mrs. Gordon that Adam Haviaras sent you. I swear, you won’t regret it.
If you’re looking for something to read while there, you might also be interested to know that historical fiction author, Michael Jecks, has set his Templar series novel The Traitor of St. Giles at Tiverton Castle. You can check out Michael’s books here: http://www.michaeljecks.co.uk/
Cheers, and thank you for reading!
Every so often I like to take a break from reading fiction to enjoy some primary sources. This isn’t just for research. I like the primary sources, especially those in the Celtic and Arthurian realm.
Some of my favourite sources are the medieval Welsh tales assembled in what is known as the Mabinogi (or, Mabinogion), translated by Lady Charlotte Guest in the mid-19th century.
Some of the stories in the Mabinogi are retellings of the later medieval romances. However, some of the earlier tales, those known as the ‘Four Branches of the Mabinogi’, are believed to be more ancient tales from the days of the Celtic heroic age.
These ‘Four Branches’ are the most interesting to me and are a true escape into a world of magical beasts and enchanted realms. They are also believed to have been teaching texts for young Welsh princes of the day, intended to show them the characteristics of good, kingly rule and behaviour.
The Four Branches of the Mabinogi, which are tied together by the character of Pryderi, include the following tales:
Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed
Branwen, Daughter of Llyr
Manawydan, Son of Llyr
Math, Son of Mathonwy
Of the four branches, Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed is my absolute favourite. I have never tired of reading it since I first studied it in university. Not only is it full of magic, love, battles, monsters, and tales of honour and betrayal, but it’s also a perfect illustration of Celtic archetypes. We’ll go over a few of these, but first, here is the story in brief:
Pwyll, a mortal man, is a Prince of Dyfed who comes into contact with Arawn, King of Annwn, the Celtic Otherworld. The two become friends and switch places for a year so that Pwyll can help Arawn defeat a foe in his own world. Pwyll succeeds and becomes ‘Head of Annwn’. While he was away, Arawn ruled justly and fairly in his place, and Pwyll’s subjects ask him to continue the good rule, which he does.
Then, one day while Pwyll is out with his men, he is sitting on a magical hill when he sees a woman on a magical horse that cannot be caught up to. This is Rhiannon, a maiden from the Otherworld. On a third attempt to catch up to her, she stops for Pwyll whom she has been seeking. They are to marry, but their marriage is delayed by another suitor to Rhiannon, Gwawl, who tricks Pwyll into giving Rhiannon to him. But Rhiannon saves Pwyll from himself by giving him a magic bag which he uses to capture Gwawl.
Pwyll and Rhiannon are married, and after a while, they finally have a son. But on the night of his birth, the boy is taken from them. The frightened servants conspire to blame Rhiannon, and accuse her of eating her child. Pwyll, as a ruler, must assign a punishment to his wife for this, and orders her to carry visitors to the castle upon her back while telling them what she did. The land suffers after this.
Luckily, Teirnon, a man loyal to Pwyll, finds the child when the monstrous hand that is taking his horses also leaves a baby. Teirnon slays the hand and saves the baby whom he and his wife foster. After some years, Teirnon realizes that the child resembles his lord, Pwyll, and so he and his wife take the child back to his parents, thus redeeming Rhiannon, giving Pwyll back his heir, and restoring the land once more.
This is a highly abbreviated version of the story, and if it does spark some interest, you should definitely read it. Pwyll makes a good read while curled up next to your hearth fire.
Of all the tales in the Mabinogi, this one feels like the neatest, if that makes sense. It has three sections – Pwyll in Annwn; Pwyll and Rhiannon; and the disappearance of Pwyll and Rhiannon’s son, Pryderi.
The number three and the occurrence of things in threes is a strong archetype in Celtic tradition.
Patterns of the number three occur in the number of Arawn’s dogs, and the number of times Rhiannon appears to Pwyll before she stops, for instance.
Magical animals are also common in Celtic tales; Arawn has three white hounds with red-tipped ears, and Rhiannon rides a magical white horse that cannot be caught. She is also followed by magical birds wherever she goes.
The character of Rhiannon is one of my favourite things in Pwyll – her magic, her beauty, her strength. I also love her portrayal as the goddess Epona, who also rode a white horse, was accompanied by birds, or foals, and carried a magical bag that symbolized her role as a fertility goddess.
The theme of contact between the natural world and the Celtic Otherworld is also strong.
Pwyll meets Arawn in the forest, meets with Rhiannon who is from the Otherworld, and then there is the otherworldly monster that steals their child. There is a constant fluidity between the two worlds in the Four Branches of the Mabinogi.
The archetype of the magical hill is one that is strong in Celtic myth. Pwyll is sitting on a magical hill when Rhiannon appears to him. Hills were said to be gateways to the Otherworld. This reminds me of Glastonbury Tor which was believed to be a gateway to Annwn.
In the second part of Pwyll, we see the themes of the feast and the rival suitor where Pwyll’s judgement is tested. With the help of Rhiannon and her magical bag, another archetype, the marriage of the mortal and otherworldly being comes to fruition. This too is a common theme.
But there are more trials in the form of the demonization of Rhiannon which symbolizes the loss of the goddess’ power and the subsequent weakening of the land as Pwyll remains powerless to do anything but punish his wife in the face of the loss of their son.
The finding and fostering of the lost child is also common to Celtic literature, and when Teirnon returns the child to Pwyll, Rhiannon is released from her bondage and the land blossoms once again.
Those of you with an Arthurian bent like me will spot the similarities right away in the fostering of Arthur with Sir Ector, and his teaching by Merlin. And when Guinevere is demonized in Arthurian tradition, Arthur falls into despair and the land suffers.
What is interesting in this tale is that Pwyll’s deficiencies are repaired by his contact with, and subsequent learning from, stronger figures than himself, namely Arawn, Rhiannon, and his loyal subject Teirnon. As the story progresses, we are witness to Pwyll’s growth in wisdom, courtesy and generosity – the things that make a king truly great.
The Celtic archetypes in this tale and others help to bridge the gap between the natural world and Otherworld, to educate the hero, and light the hero’s way to effective sovereignty.
If you have never done so, I recommend that you read the tales contained in the Mabinogi, especially Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed. Let them envelop and transport you to that time long ago when goddesses emerged from the woods and Fairy lords befriended their mortal counterparts.
I hope you find these tales as entertaining and educational as I have.
Thank you for reading.
You can download a FREE electronic version (all formats) of the Mabinogi at the Project Gutenberg website by clicking HERE.
You can also read a bit more about the Mabinogi on the Camelot Project web pages.
“Muse, sing of Artemis, sister of the Far-Shooter, the virgin who delights in arrows…”
(Homeric Hymn IX)
It was early January in Attica, Greece, a few years ago. I remember it clearly.
I drove out of Athens on a grey day that could dampen anyone’s post-holiday spirits.
The New Year had come and gone, copious amounts of food and wine having been consumed. A new adventure was needed.
My destination on that rainy day? – The Sanctuary of Artemis at Brauron.
I drove the forty two kilometres from Athens to Brauron, passing dark, rocky mountains and hills covered in deep green foliage. Greece is a very different place in the winter. This was another one of those journeys in which I didn’t know what to expect.
I had never heard of Brauron, or of an Attic sanctuary of Artemis, Goddess of the Hunt, protector of young girls and women in childbirth.
The car splashed its way over tiny roads and through villages lost to the outside world. As I drove past, a few heads poked out of windows to follow my progress as if in some eerie back-woods movie setting.
Finally, I came to my destination. I parked the car on the side of the road and stopped for a moment to listen to the pattering of the rain on the roof. I wiped my foggy window and could just make out a set of grey columns standing sentry in the rain. I put on my rain gear and jumped out.
The gate to the site was open and no one was at the booth. So I walked into the sanctuary.
My initial reaction was one of sadness. I don’t know why, but the rain seemed fitting then, as though the gods wept for something.
This is a place of great antiquity.
Supposedly, Brauron has been inhabited since the early Mycenaean age. Legend has it that the sanctuary of Artemis was established by none other than Iphegeneia, the daughter of Agamemnon, King of Mycenae.
Iphegeneia is brought to Aulis in this painting:
Here is a brief summary for those of you who do not know her story. The Greek army, led by Agamemnon, was stuck at Aulis because of bad weather which prevented them from setting out for Troy.
This was said to be due to an offense done to Artemis. Calchas, the high king’s seer, told Agamemnon that the only way for the goddess to be appeased and for the winds to abate was for him to sacrifice his own daughter, Iphigeneia, to the goddess.
The young girl was brought to Aulis under the pretence that she was to marry the hero Achilles, and when she arrived, Agamemnon did the unthinkable.
Euripides opens his play Ipheigeneia in Tauris. Iphegeneia speaks:
“Child of the man of torment and of pride
Tantalid Pelops bore a royal bride
On flying steeds from Pisa. Thence did spring
Atreus: from Atreus, linked king with king,
Menelaus, Agamemnon. His am I
And Clytemnestra’s child: whom cruelly
At Aulis, where the strait of the shifting blue
Frets with quick winds, for Helen’s sake he slew,
Or thinks to have slain; such sacrifice he swore
To Artemis on that deep-bosomed shore.
For there Lord Agamemnon, hot with joy
To win for Greece the crown of conquered Troy,
For Menelaus’ sake through all distress
Pursuing Helen’s vanished loveliness,
Gathered his thousand ships from every coast
Of Hellas: when there fell on that great host
Storms and despair of sailing. Then the King
Sought signs of fire, and Calchas answering
Spake thus: “O Lord of Hellas, from this shore
No ship of thine may move for evermore,
Till Artemis receive in gift of blood
Thy child, Iphegeneia. Long hath stood
Thy vow, to pay to Her that bringeth light
Whatever birth most fair by day or night
The year should bring. That year thy queen did
A child – whom here I name of all most fair.
See that she die.”
So from my mother’s side
By lies Odysseus won me, to be bride
In Aulis to Achilles. When I came,
They took me and above the altar flame
Held, and the sword was swinging to the gash,
When, lo, out of their vision in a flash
Artemis rapt me, leaving in my place
A deer to bleed; and on through a great space
Of shining sky upbore and in this town
Of Tauris the Unfriended set me down;
Where o’er a savage people savagely
King Thoas rules. This is her sanctuary
And I her priestess. Therefore, by the rite
Of worship here, wherein she hath delight –
Though fair in naught but name. …But Artemis
Is near; I speak no further…”
(Iphegeneia in Tauris; Euripides; c.413 B.C)
Even in translation, the words Euripides gives to this tragic girl are powerful and moving.
Thankfully, the goddess Artemis is said to have substituted another sacrifice for Iphegeneia, and taken her far away to be a priestess in her temple at Tauris, in the Crimea. She spent years there away from her mother, Clytemnestra, and her brother, Orestes. She also lived knowing her own father had been ready to end her life.
The Trojan War played itself out, and Agamemnon made his way home to be murdered by Clytemnestra and her lover Aegisthus. About seven years later, Orestes, the son of Agamemnon, returns from Athens and with encouragement from his sister, Electra, kills his mother and her lover.
Orestes is pursued by the Furies for his deeds, but then Apollo orders him to go to Tauris in order to take the wooden cult statue of Artemis and bring it back to Athens. Euripides tells how Orestes goes to Tauris and eventually sees his sister Iphegeneia there. They are reunited and she helps him to take the statue and together they return to Attica where she establishes the Sanctuary of Artemis.
Here, the Goddess Athena speaks to Iphegeneia before she leaves Tauris:
“…Iphegeneia, by the stair
Of Brauron in the rocks, the Key shalt bear
Of Artemis. There shalt thou live and die,
And there have burial. And a gift shall lie
Above thy shrine, fair raiment undefiled
Left upon earth by mothers dead with child.”
(Iphegeneia in Tauris; Euripides)
Iphegeheia is said to have spent the remainder of her days at Brauron.
The cult of Artemis at Brauron died out after the Mycenaean age but was re-established from the 9th century B.C. on. Eventually, the cult of Artemis was brought to Athens. After that, there was a procession every four years from the Temple of Artemis Brauronia on the Athenian Acropolis to Brauron, in honour of the goddess and her priestess, Iphegeneia.
But what was the purpose of the sanctuary at Brauron besides being a place to honour of the goddess?
It seems that the sanctuary also functioned as a sort of orphanage or fostering place for young girls who served the goddess from about five to ten years of age. They performed rituals which included sacred dances in which they acted like bears. In fact, the girls were called arktoi, or ‘the bears’. This odd tradition of the bears is said to commemorate the slaying of one of Artemis’ sacred bears by one of the girls’ brothers. The Arkteia was a service to the goddess in which young girls would transition from childhood to puberty and marriageable age.
At Brauron, Artemis was worshipped as a protector of girls and women in childbirth. Women who survived childbirth dedicated a set of clothes to the goddess. The clothes of women who died in childbirth were, in turn, dedicated to Iphegeneia.
I imagine a lot of hope springing up in this place, but also much sadness.
Once you cross the 5th century bridge into the sanctuary, you come to the unusual p-shaped stoa which has what are thought to be dining rooms or, more likely, rooms for the girls living within the sanctuary. Inside, you can still see places where their sleeping pallets might have been and holes carved into the marble where the door posts rested.
The stoa is known as the ‘Stoa of Bears’.
I walked along the paving slabs on that rainy day, peeking into the small rooms and wondering at the children who would have been there. Were they peasants or nobility? Were their parents killed by war or plague? Were they sent there in fulfillment of a vow? Who did they have left in the world?
It must have been a frightening prospect to leave the safety of the sanctuary as well. What must a young girl have thought when she turned ten and knew that her time had come to perform the sacred dance one last time before going out into the world. Ancient Greece was not so kind a place for girls or women. They were seen as vessels to be kept indoors.
A good thing they had Artemis to look over them, and to see them through childbirth.
The stoa courtyard was overgrown with sodden grass when I was there, and the ruins of the small Temple of Artemis were minimal.
As I made my way through the site, I eventually came to a small cave-like recess that was supposed to be a shrine to Iphegeneia, that sad daughter of Agamemnon.
The rain stopped here, and the skin prickled on the back of my neck.
For how long had this first priestess of Brauron been honoured here? Ages, it seemed.
I let my imagination go in the sanctuary and could hear the laughter of little girls playing, or their lonely cries upon their straw pallets. I could see them mimicking the bears for which they were named, and hear the sound of their voices raised in song to Artemis, their protectress.
From Brauron’s beginnings as a sacred site, each of those little girls likely stood where I was standing and remembered Iphegeneia and her plight. I thought of how they must have wept at her sad story and perhaps felt better about their own lives that led them to that place in the green hills of Attica.
The Sanctuary of Artemis at Brauron is a very special place.
When I crossed back over that classical bridge and made my way back to the car, I turned at the gate and looked back through the driving rain one last time.
Usually, when I leave an ancient site or sanctuary, I feel uplifted and at peace.
Not so with Brauron.
Upon leaving Brauron, my heart was in turmoil, and it still is when I think back on that place.
It’s place of conflicting emotions wrapped in myth and legend.
It’s a great comfort in some ways to know that this was a place where young girls were protected, watched over by their patron goddess who saved the first priestess – this, in an ancient, male-dominated world of war and superstition.
On the other hand, as I turned my back on the dark columns and sodden earth of the sanctuary, my sole, sad thought was for Iphegeneia whose father was so determined to sail for Troy that he was willing to perform such a heinous and tragic act.
Thus do myth, legend, and history combine to shape our view of the places of the past.
Thank you for reading.
The name conjures images, doesn’t it? Oh yes – more so than Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, the full name of the Roman emperor we know as Caligula.
Caligula definitely has more power, largely due to the stories behind the name, stories of extreme debauchery, sadism, insanity and horror.
You might envisage John Hurt in the television drama of Robert Graves’ I Claudius, his mouth bloody after eating the baby which he had put in his sister’s belly, believing himself to be the god, Jove.
Or, perhaps more disturbingly, the image of Malcolm McDowell cavorts into your thoughts amid flashes of naked bodies and the bloody bits and pieces of Caligula’s victims in the infamous, star-clad film originally scripted by Gore Vidal, Caligula.
These are the images that we have of Caligula today. They’re built on ancient sources and popular culture that described the reign of this most disturbing of Roman emperors.
But is the portrayal of Caligula as an insane, perverted, and brutal emperor accurate? Is it fair?
Caligula had an interesting life as a boy. He was with his father, the Roman hero Germanicus, and the army along the northern frontier camps. Among the men of the Legions, it’s said, he got his nickname. ‘Caligula’ is a diminutive version of the word for military, hobnailed boots called caligae. He became ‘Little Boots’ because of the smaller pair of caligae he wore around the camp.
Was Caligula a cute little boy? Odd to think after all the rumours. The troops seemed to have adopted him.
His life took a turn for the worst though, leaving him one of the sole survivors of his family.
There were rumours that Tiberius or Livia, Augustus’ empress, may have been responsible, more or less, for killing Caligula’s family, including his hero father, Germanicus. However, most now seem to agree that this was unlikely, that it was due to natural causes in the East. Another rumour was that Germanicus was poisoned by Gnaeus Piso, who was put on trial for it.
Either way, ‘Little Boots’ ended up spending a lot of time with his great uncle, Tiberius, on the island of Capri. This island is where the Emperor retreated in his advanced years, and it’s rumoured that much depravity took place there, and that Caligula learned that behaviour.
Oddly enough, the first six months of Caligula’s reign as emperor were said to be good and moderate. He fell seriously ill around that time, however, and afterward the chroniclers speak of a young man who believed himself divine, and who became the most cruel, extravagant and perverse of tyrants. Did the illness alter his mind in some way? We may never know.
I’m not an expert on the reign of Caligula and, in fact, it seems that few people are.
Caligula’s reign as Roman emperor is one of the most poorly documented in Roman history.
Since that is the case, it seems understandable that countless generations would cling to the tales told by Suetonius so many years after Caligula’s death: that he had sex with his sister on a regular basis, that he made his horse a consul, and that he forced senators’ wives to have sex.
If you can make it up, it probably fits the historical and pop-culture bill when it comes to Caligula.
The other side of the argument says that all of the salacious tales were invented, pure fabrications created by Caligula’s, and the Julio-Claudian’s, enemies.
Perhaps. But must not there be some basis in fact?
Certainly, the senatorial and Praetorian conspirators behind the assassination of Caligula (he was the first emperor to be assassinated) needed to justify their actions.
Some believe that Caligula had tried very hard to increase the power of the Emperor and further minimize the Senate. This would make him a lot of enemies – enemies who would write the history of his reign long after his death.
There is real power in writing after the fact – which is why we must approach any source, modern or historical, with a degree of caution.
Even our views of the most famous and popular (even well-documented) figures of history can be flawed. History is written by the victors, or at the least by the survivors. Everyone, especially emperors, had enemies, even if they were ‘good’ or ‘bad’ rulers.
Popular media, such as film and fiction, can reveal to us certain aspects of historical people, but we must take everything with a grain of salt. We have to accept that what we are reading or seeing might be based on subjective sources that had a particular goal in mind.
However, learning how a generation of people viewed a particular person (even though the stories may not be true) can also be useful. Their hatred, love or fear etc. must have come from somewhere!
Was Caligula as mad as they say or as we believe? Perhaps.
His depravity has made some good storytelling over the centuries. I suspect that some of it is true. But, like all good stories, things have been elaborated on for sheer entertainment value, especially when the man himself was safely dead.
I highly recommend Robert Graves’ I Claudius if you have not already read it. It’s a modern classic, as is its television dramatization starring John Hurt and Derek Jacobi. It’s a wonderful piece of fiction, if not entirely accurate.
On the other hand, if you have the stomach and libido for it, the film version of Caligula is a terror-filled, pornographic representation of Caligula that brings all of the most salacious tales of him to life. A warning: this film is not for the faint of heart.
But let’s get back to an original source…
We should end with a quote from Suetonius who seems to be one of the main sources of all the tall tales that have been passed down the ages:
“…he (Caligula) could not control his natural cruelty and viciousness, but he was a most eager witness of the tortures and executions of those who suffered punishment, revelling at night in gluttony and adultery, disguised in a wig and a long robe, passionately devoted besides to the theatrical arts of dancing and singing, in which Tiberius very willingly indulged him, in the hope that through these his savage nature might be softened. This last was so clearly evident to the shrewd old man, that he used to say now and then that to allow Gaius to live would prove the ruin of himself and of all men, and that he was rearing a viper for the Roman people and a Phaethon for the world.” (Caius Suetonius Tranquillus; Lives of the Twelve Caesars)
As I said, history is written by the survivors, and as it is, history remembers Caligula as a sadistic, incestuous maniac who thought he was a god, who made his horse a senator, cared nothing for the power of the senate, and went to war against the god Neptune. The damning list goes on and on…
On the other hand, he undertook several public building projects and expanded the Empire’s borders in North Africa.
But, in the end, Caligula was murdered by the Praetorians who immediately made Claudius the next emperor.
Will we ever know the true nature of Caligula?
Probably not, but this certainly is an instance in which the history, true or not, is highly entertaining and shocking.
Thank you for reading.
What are your thoughts on Emperor Caligula? Was he as vile as portrayed? Or was he the victim of malicious gossip?
For those of you who want to read a bit more, check out this interesting article on the BBC website by CLICKING HERE.