Kirsten's Scribbling Corner

A mixed bag

2009-08-02T12:58:00.000-07:00

I'm so sorry for not updating this thing all month! We've had some trouble trying to get our BT account set up in the new place, and we've still not got Internet yet, so I'm lugging my laptop to the university library in order to get the Net at the moment.

In other words, this is another non-blog. It sucks, really. I think the only times I've really blogged this year are to explain why I haven't been blogging. This last month has been no different. Stuff's been happening, and I've not really had the Internet, or the will, to blog. :(

It's been a mixed bag, as I've said. My maternal grandfather, Kenneth MacLeod, passed away two weeks ago. I'm doing better than I was when my Granda Campbell passed away back in October. I never really knew my Granda MacLeod very well, but it's still very sad. He went peacefully, though, and I'm glad for that. I'm also glad my mum and my gran have been able to stay strong through it.

One of my flatmates is also pissing me off majorly at the moment. I don't want to get started, since she's been giving me a big enough headache already, but basically she seems to be making it her business to be as thoughtless, inconsiderate, and bloody infuriating as she possibly can be. It's just little to medium things, but they are coalescing into a mountain of irritants. My other flatmate feels the same way, though, so I'm glad it's not just me.

In better news, I've passed my exams! So that's me through to Honours. I'll be doing Joint Archaeology and Celtic Studies, and I can't freaking wait! Our field school also begins this month, and tomorrow I'll be away to Forteviot in Perthshire with the uni to spend the next three weeks learning how to excavate properly/survey/etc. The big excavation site seems to be the Neolithic enclosure(s?), but there's also surveying of other archaeological features, so it should be very fun, and very interesting! I hope I can keep you all updated on it, but I have no idea if we'll have Internet access at the place we're staying. If not, I'll give you a full update after I get back on the 23rd. And the Vindolanda report. I haven't forgotten about that, either.

So... see you when I see you, I guess!

Just to let you know...

2009-06-21T16:09:00.000-07:00

Sorry for my absence. I got back from Vindolanda a couple of weeks ago, but as you can see, I haven't made the report yet. Why not? Well, for a start, I got caught up in the chaos of moving flat, and also, I couldn't find the cable that lets me upload photos from the camera to the computer - and what fun is a post on Roman stuff without pictures of said Roman stuff? As a result, I've not been quite up to speed with blogging and emailing.

Now tonight's the last night in this flat, and I'm burnt out from last minute packing. Apparently about sixty per cent of my stuff is books. I've got more bags stuffed with 'em than anything else. Where did they all come from?!

Anyway, I'll try to update properly at some point this week. I'm hoping Tuesday. Just as soon as I've actually got an even surface to sit on that isn't cluttered with bags.

And I'm absolutely knackered, so it's an early night for me, I think. Bye for now!

From the front

2009-05-30T14:18:00.000-07:00

Greetings, bloggers. Marcus Valerius Laevinus here, writing on behalf of my - er - benevolent author, Kirsten. She wishes it to be known that she's currently on temporary transfer to Vindolanda again. (Jupiter Greatest, you'd think soldiers' barracks were actually interesting, the way she goes on about them!) She's staying the night with a friend near Segedunum, then she'll be heading for her posting in the morning. So she'll be away for a week or so, and you can expect a full report when she returns.

Tch. All right for some, isn't it? Bloody writers. They do nothing at all for ages, occasionally decide to make a living hell for innocent folks like myself just because they can (apparently it's called "conflict" and "plot development"), then they up and grant themselves leave whenever they bloody well feel like it. A bit like tribunes, when you think about it.

She also said something about doing what I was told while she was away, or she'd do something nasty, like "slashing" me with Cathal. I don't know what that means, but I'll wager my last pair of woolly socks it's not pretty.

Valete.

Character meme fun!

2009-05-28T18:26:00.000-07:00

This is how I was procrastinating during the exam period. "Post-processual theory? ...After I've cleared out my hard drive, I think... ... ooh! What's this? A daft questionnaire I saved from somewhere on the Internet? I must fill it in."

Sad, eh? But I just love these things. Ideal for the procrastinating writer. You can put your MCs in stupid situations and claim it's "character development". ;) So, while I run around some more to sort out Honours/flat/summer stuff, here's one I did earlier. For best results, put names in a hat and number them at random! :D (I know, I know, technically three of them aren't characters I made up, but just go with it.)

Choose ten of your OCs, then answer the questions.

1) Aedán mac Fionn - Gairea's cousin, a novice Druid

2) Sargaid ní Illan - Chief Druidess of the Epidii tribe; Gairea's mentor

3) Gaius Decius Crassus - Marcus' tentmate and best friend

4) Marcus Valerius Laevinus - a legionary of Legio XX Valeria Victrix

5) Garnat son of Talan - sister-son and heir of Calgach of the Caledones

6) Gairea ní Machar - novice Druidess and seer

7) Cathal mac Comgall - champion of the Epidii tribe

8) Calgach son of Brude - King of the Caledones tribe

9) Gnaeus Julius Agricola - Governor of Britannia

10) Tuathal mac Fiacha - an exiled prince from Eriu

1. 4 invites 3 and 8 to dinner at their house. What happens?

Ouch! That would be awkward! It'd be fine if it were just Marcus and Decius - they're best mates, after all - but throw Calgach into the mix, and a heated argument à la "What Have The Romans Ever Done For Us?" is in full swing before the starter is even cleared away. I definitely don't see Calgach staying for pudding. He disapproves when the Romans make a dessert. Har har.

2. 9 tries to get 5 to go to a strip club. What happens?

*snort* Well, I'm sure Garnat likes the boobies as much as any other (straight) guy, but I don't think he'd go with Agricola - on principle. Might suspect some sort of devious Roman trap. An attempt to lull him into a false sense of security. Or something. ;)

3. You need to stay at a friend's house for a night. Who do you choose: 1 or 6?

Er... I think I'll stay with Aedán at his mentor's house. Wouldn't fancy staying at Gairea's place, truth be told. You could cut the atmosphere in that house with a knife. When people aren't arguing with each other, they're glaring silently at each other across the room.

4. 2 and 7 are making out. 10 walks in. What is their reaction?

"MY EYES! THE GOGGLES DO NOTHING!" Or some first-century variation thereof.

(Actually, that would probably be my reaction, too. Cathal/Sargaid?! Do you realise I'll be stuck with that image for the rest of my life now?)

5. 3 falls in love with 6. 8 is jealous. What happens?

Well, that would depend on who he was jealous of: Decius, or Gairea. ;) Some sort of divide and conquer strategy would have to be implemented, as well as Calgach's much-vaunted gift of the gab if he is to win the object of his affections away from the other one, in the style of Cyrano de Bergerac. ;)

6. 4 jumps you in a dark alleyway. Who comes to your rescue: 10, 2, or 7?

Marcus? Why are you jumping people in dark alleyways? Does the army not pay you enough? *shrug* Well, I guess in this situation, Cathal would be the one to rescue me. He's always looking for an excuse to lay the smackdown on Marcus. And I think he'd relish being some sort of Marvel superhero. :)

7. 1 decides to start a cooking show. Fifteen minutes later, what is happening?

Anarchy. Aedán can't even make porridge without burning it. Stick to learning genealogies, okay, Aedán?

8. 3 has to marry either 8, 4, or 9. Whom do they choose?

Well, I'm sure Decius loves Marcus, just not sure he loves him that much! Who'll be the best man, then? Lol! Anyway, Decius is always looking for advancement, so Calgach and Agricola are the better options. Agricola's already married, so by process of elimination, that brings us to Calgach (who must have succeeded after all in wresting him away from Gairea in question five!) OMG a Caledonian king marrying a Roman legionary in a civil ceremony? And here I thought Marcus and Gairea were supposed to be the epic, star-crossed lovers in this book!

9. 7 kidnaps 2 and demands something from 5 for 2's release. What is it?

Kidnapping Sargaid? Good luck with that, Cathal. Anyway, he'll probably demand something outrageous off Garnat. Maybe that they switch places so Cathal can be Calgach's heir and nephew instead.

10. Everyone gangs up on 3. Does 3 have a chance in hell?

About the same odds as a snowball, I reckon. And that's when he is sober.

11. Everyone is invited to 2 and 10's wedding except for 8. How do they react?

Wow, Sargaid! Your ability to pull younger men in this meme is unprecedented! Ahem. Anyway, Calgach would probably feel a bit snubbed. Surely the King of the Caledones merits an invitation to the wedding of a Chief Druidess and a prince. He'll probably show up anyway, just to make a point of it.

12. Why is 6 afraid of 7?

'Cause he ate Agricola! ('Cause 7 ate 9 - geddit?? Oh, never mind...)

13. 1 arrives late for 2 and 10's wedding. What happens, and why were they late?

Oh, Aedán could get lost in his own bedplace. Probably got lost on the way to the wedding. And no doubt his lateness would hold up the whole damn thing - he's likely one of the novices needed to help out with the wedding sacrifice!

14. 5 and 9 get roaring drunk and end up at your house. What happens?

Hm? What was that? I thought I heard someone buzzing the doorbell.... No, must just have been my imagination. *turns up volume on iPod* Heheheh. Suckers.

15. 9 murders 2's best friend. What does 2 do to get back at them?

She'd do it the good old-fashioned Druid way: she'd curse the hell out of him!

16. 6 and 1 are in mortal peril and only one of them can survive. Does 6 save themself or 1?

Oh, Gairea would do the noble thing and sacrifice herself for Aedán. She is the heroine, after all. Not to mention she'd probably end up getting done for something tantamount to kin-slaying, anyway, even if she did survive.

17. 8 and 3 go camping. For some reason they forgot to bring along any food. What do they do?

Find some local farm to raid. Decius has plenty experience of nabbing food from conquered farms, and hey, Calgach's the king, right? They'd just end up giving it to him later as tribute, anyway. ;)

18. 5 is in a ~~car~~ chariot crash and is critically injured. What does 9 do?

Agricola would save him himself and get him to the finest Roman physicians - then, when Garnat is recovered, use his gratitude to make an alliance and take over the Caledones that way! Mwahaha!

19. The quiz is over. Tag someone.

I'm not going to bother tagging. I'll just let this meme run free in the wild...

Checking in...

2009-05-22T15:01:00.000-07:00

Well, that's the exams over. They went from "meh" to not that bad.

And second year's over too, come to that. All in all, it's been a pretty crappy year. The holidays are a bit of a relief. Anyway, I've got a couple of new books to read, and Fawlty Towers DVDs to watch, so I can relax now.

Anyway, not been up to much else. Went to see Star Trek the other week: my God, that was a good film, and I don't even much like Star Trek. I think we're probably going to end up seeing it again, as well. :)

Oh! And we've got a new flat! The lease doesn't start till the end of June, but we're looking forward to it. It's nicer than our current one, and it's not on a main road this time. Still just a short walk from the uni. And we've got a living room this time! It's only a three bedroom flat this time: we're losing a member. Marion's moving in with some friends she's doing courses with. That's why we ended up flat-hunting again. We can't afford to pay the rent with only the three of us. But it's all good. Looking forward to the new place!

And Alyson's now vice president of the Classics society at the uni. I foresee many lols next year. :D

And that's it from me tonight. I'm away to enjoy being exam-free. Back soon.

A hiatus

2009-05-06T15:23:00.000-07:00

Yeah, you've probably figured already. Just to let any and all readers of my 'umble blog know that I'll be on hiatus over the next couple of weeks for the exam period. My first one is tomorrow. :( Last one is on May 21, so I'll be back then.

And that's why Winsome Celtic Lady in my photo space has been replaced by Studious Pompeii Lady. She fits the occasion more. ;)

See you soon!

Books for Summer

2009-04-26T18:02:00.001-07:00

Forgive me, fellow bloggers, I have been somewhat remiss in my own blogging this month. I've had a bit of a writing spurt this spring. Hopefully it'll last through summer. :)

Anyway, in... er... honour of that image of "Pictish" warpaint in my last post, I've prepared a post on Pictish body art, but I don't want to put it up till I'm back at the flat with my books and have some reliable quotations. ;)

But I just had to share the booky goodness I've found whilst looking for historical fiction. Here's a selection of titles coming out over the next couple of months. Looks like there's some good summer reading to be had here!

Claudius by Douglas Jackson is, according to Amazon.co.uk, being released on July 16. Set during the Roman invasion of Britain in AD 43, its protagonist is Rufus, keeper of the emperor's elephant. Quite like the look of this one! Jackson has already released one Roman historical novel, titled Caligula.

Warrior Daughter by Janet Paisley is to be released on June 4. The product description has this to say: "Illuminated by the great Celtic fire festivals, Warrior Daughter is inspired by the historical Scathach, a fierce warrior woman of the first century AD and forerunner to the equally ferocious Boudicca." Hmm. I'm not sure I believe that Scáthach was a real person, or that she had any particular link with Boudicca, but I'm looking forward to this one nonetheless. I love mythology-inspired novels, and it's always fun to explore when the characters might have existed. And Scáthach is pretty cool! (Though is it just me, or does that spear on the cover look more like a Roman pilum than anything else?)

Also being released on June 4 is The Silver Eagle by Ben Kane, the second in his Forgotten Legion Chronicles set in the first century BC, detailing the parallel adventures of a brother and sister. I've not read the first one yet, but I think I'll keep an eye out for it. I'm easily tempted by atmospheric covers with Roman soldiers on them. :)

Moving out of this blog's typical sphere of interest is Margaret Elphinstone's The Gathering Night, set, according to this page on her website, in Mesolithic Scotland and will be released on May 21. Regular readers of this blog know that my obsession is for all things Roman and Celtic, but I've got a passing interest in this time period, and since our knowledge of the early hunter-gatherers who inhabited Scotland is so slight, it sounds like the perfect time and place to let the imagination take flight! I expect shell middens will show up. ;)

And, yes! Ruth Downie's third Medicus mystery, Persona Non Grata, is coming out some time in July (July 7 on Amazon.com, and July 16 on Amazon.co.uk, which is remaining pretty tight-lipped about it). I really enjoyed the first two, featuring army doctor/reluctant detective Ruso, and looking forward to getting my hands on the next one (whenever that does happen).

And speaking of Roman whodunnits, I seriously need to get back up to speed with Lindsey Davis' Falco books. I leant my copy of The Silver Pigs to my mum, and she got hooked immediately. And when my mum likes a series, she will just plough through it (she read all of the Aubrey-Maturin books in a month). Now she's further on with the series that I am, and Mum likes to talk about the books she reads. So I need to catch up before she gives away any major spoilers! :)

Well, those are the books. Now I just need the cash to buy 'em with. *cries*

A mini rant

2009-03-31T15:35:00.000-07:00

Hello, bloggers! My God, but it's been a long time since I've been online. Let's not even go into why I've been away. All I'll say is that uni assignments were involved. A lot.

Anyway, the Easter holidays have started, so now I can get back to doing important things, like writing and blogging, and... er... revising. Yeah. And what better way to announce my triumphal return than with a good ranty post? Be warned, I'm not in a particularly good mood today, so that might leak into this post... All right, it's not really a rant, just a minor eruption of frustration...

You may - or then again, you may not - have heard of the film being made by Neil Marshall right now: Centurion, apparently an action/adventure set in AD 117, based on the legend of the Ninth Legion. I've not heard much more than that, but there is one screencap circulating on the Net, featuring recent Bond girl Olga Kurylenko as Pictish warrior woman, Etain:

I could roll my eyes at the zomg!Pictish warrior babe cliché (Keira Knightley has apparently started a trend), or headdesk over the name blatantly picked at random from a Celtic mythology book, or even the panda mascara effect (I'm pretty sure the women of second century Caledonia weren't acquainted with Max Factor). But actually what had me gnashing my pedantic teeth was the blue face-paint in this still. Seriously? Seriously?

Film people, have you even opened a book on Pictish artwork? Considering the most enduring legacy of their civilisation is that self-same artwork, don't you think their body art might possibly have been of a similar calibre? Considering that their entire bloody civilisation is named after their custom of painting themselves (we assume). What do you call that? Really? Are we to infer that the Picts employed three-year-olds to design their battle paint? Gah.

I'm hoping the overall film will be better than its make-up artists suggest, but I'm already looking forward more to Kevin Macdonald's proposed Eagle of the Ninth adaptation. Apparently Jamie Bell is going to be Esca. I think he could play it well. I'll be interested in seeing who they get to play Marcus. And Uncle Aquila. :)

Will be back in the next couple of days, perhaps even with a post on Pictish art. ;)

Filial impiety?

2009-02-07T13:52:00.000-08:00

I realised something the other day. A whole bunch of my characters have Dad issues. Quickly now:

Marcus Valerius Senior was an alcoholic whose gambling addiction and subsequent debts effectively destroyed his family, all of which culminated in a confrontation between Marcus and his father, and the consequences still weigh with Marcus throughout the book. Gairea's father Machar, meanwhile, is an uncompromising traditionalist who believes that daughters from good warrior families don't hang around in groves performing rituals, and they certainly don't go around having prophesying in public - so you can imagine there's some friction there (for friction, read: eventual disowning). Tuathal has a hard time keeping the lid on the fear that when he does get back to Eriu, he'll never be as great a king as everyone says his father was. And I'm pretty sure that Domitian, though his ebul influence is only felt from afar and never appears in the book itself, has some inferiority issues regarding his dad.

In book two, Aneirin resents his father for surrendering to Lollius Urbicus and allowing the Damnonii to become a puppet kingdom, leaving him to inherit, not only his crown, but the mess Ceretic made during his reign. Eilwen's father is conspicuous by his absence, which compromises her honour-value. Aurelia is torn between struggling to respect her father as the paterfamilias demands, and resenting him for not only marrying her to a man he knew was a bad lot, but also refusing to sue for a divorce on her behalf when her husband's abuses became unbearable.

In book three, there's Caracalla, who, y'know, tried to assassinate his dad in front of two armies. Gaius is worried that he'll never be as good a soldier as his father was. And as the youngest of three brothers, Cairpre was overshadowed by the older two and was... well... never his father's favourite, as Conaire died before he was really old enough to prove himself as a warrior, which has a big impact on his life as a warrior now.

Erk. What does that say about me? The classic tenet of writing is to write what you know, right?

Only I don't have any proper issues with my dad. Really, if I was writing what I know, the only Dad issues my characters would have would be his insistence on singing the most terrible songs ever written (mostly godawful '70s-'80s fare)! In fact, I'm happy to say that I get on very well with my dad and we're very close. So why is this theme so prevalent in my books?

The only thing I can really think of is the emphasis on genealogy in both Roman and Celtic culture. In Roman culture, most obviously, you've got the authority of the paterfamilias, and in both cultures, especially Celtic, people were identified by a patronymic, so you could say that their father formed a fundamental part of their identity. I've also realised that a recurring theme throughout the trilogy is ancestry - how people view/identify with/react to their ancestors, which is, as far as I can see, a strong thread in both cultures, so is this just a more immediate version of that theme? Since it's such a strong part of the culture - is that what makes it such a rich mine for psychological drama?

Maybe that "write what you know" thing is a load of rubbish, after all. Let's face it, it's not like I really know what Caledonia in the early centuries AD was like. :P

Or maybe I should talk to a therapist. One that isn't my dad. :)

Tortured protagonists

2009-01-28T18:23:00.000-08:00

I shouldn't make those promises. Something always comes up and stops me. Anyway, here's another wordy and barely coherent... er... treatise on the art of writing. :P

First: a confession. I'm a sucker for tortured protagonists. The more personal demons they have to grapple with, the better. The hero of my first novel, Finn, was one of those tortured, brooding types. Even now, in my historical trilogy, there are two main characters who seem to have arrived in Britain with more emotional baggage than any other sort: Marcus from book one, and Aurelia from book two, and these two are going to be my main case studies for this post.

I think I like the tortured protagonist because I enjoy watching them having to overcome these mental obstacles before they can get down to the business of saving the world/fighting the Romans/whatever. Protagonists might get burdened with these demons as the story progresses - for example, Luke Skywalker finds out that Darth Vader is his father in The Empire Strikes Back, which gives him something to struggle with for the rest of that film and Return of the Jedi. Other authors, and this is something which seems to be occurring more and more frequently in modern fiction, will introduce a character who is already burdened with prior angst. It's a fairly effective way to produce a main character who's more mysterious and compelling than ordinary John Doe living an ordinary life in an ordinary suburb.

The main pitfall with the pre-afflicted protagonist, however, is that it can slow the story down. Personally, I've got a fair tolerance for this, but I think I'm probably in a minority. So often an author gets so busy establishing that yes, this character is troubled, that they bog the beginning (or even the whole) of the book in angst. I did the same thing in the old fantasy series. The protagonist, Finn, liked to brood. And I do mean brood. Almost every page of that book was choked with his italicised emo thoughts. And that is the common problem, when the author overdoes it in their attempt to engage the reader's curiosity and keep them on tenterhooks. This results in laborious, undefined angst that more often than not tests the reader's patience, especially if the angst is pretty clichéd and they can see where the hints are pointing a mile away. So, how to deal with this?

One obvious solution is to explain the reason for the angst from the get-go. I did this in the fantasy book, with a prologue which showed the event which so affected Finn, so from chapter one, the reader was able to understand why he was so tormented and brooding. Considering the amount of time he brooded over it, I think this was probably the best approach, as the reader could understand just why he thought and acted the way he did. This approach is also probably a good one if the reason for a character's angsting is fairly predictable. It's an approach I'm trying with Aurelia, for example. In the first few chapters it's hinted that she's scared of men, especially in terms of strength and sexuality. Not terribly hard to work out what's happened there, I don't think, so I can get it out in the open quite early on. In Aurelia's case it seems to be working okay: it's an easy way for the reader to sympathise with her (though more on this later), and by understanding what form her demon takes, they can better appreciate her courage when she enters the decidedly macho-male environment of the Wall; not only that, but takes it in her stride. It also allows her other secrets and "issues" (for want of a less contemporary term), all linked to her ordeal, to be unravelled gradually.

But let's assume you want to keep all your cards to your chest, and keep the reader guessing all the way up to the Big Revelation, as I do with Marcus. Well, first, it's probably best to have angst that isn't immediately obvious, so you can drop subtle hints here and keep the reader guessing. The key word here, of course, is "subtle". If the angst is too obvious, or the hints are too heavy-handed, then that might result in skipping on the reader's part, or, in the worst-case scenario, wall-hitting.

The best way, I've found, is to break up the angst, or keep it to a minimum. It was harder with Finn, since brooding was very much a part of his character, but with Marcus and Aurelia, it's somewhat easier. Although they're both troubled, they're also looking ahead to their new lives, Marcus to the honour of helping to conquer the rest of Britain, Aurelia to use her tribune husband's tenure abroad as a way to find her footing again and clear the air of scandal that surrounded her in Rome. (Or more accurately, perhaps, now that they've run all the way to the very edge of the world, there's no choice but to turn round and face their demons face-on.) Wallowing in self-pity isn't very Roman, after all, so both they, as well as I, are very determined not to brood. Focusing more on the fact that they're both looking forward and wanting to overcome their personal demons is probably a more effective way to garner reader sympathy, and (hopefully) lend their setbacks and lapses more emotional impact, especially when the stakes raise and it becomes vital for them to overcome their demons in order for them to fulfil their roles in the story.

The second way is to have things happen. Angst can make for good drama; Shakespeare managed to turn Hamlet's angst into one of the greatest dramas of all time, after all. But I'm not Shakespeare, and I'm prepared to bet that you aren't, either. A good novel needs a balance of angst and action. I'm proud to realise with hindsight that this was something I got right with Finn: no matter how much of his spare time he might have spent brooding in the corner, he was also the first one to take up his trusty sword when there were baddies to dispatch. The same applies to every protagonist, I think: there's a time and a place for brooding over whatever's gnawing away at your soul, and a time for action. Marcus knows he has to put his angst on hold while he's fighting the Caledonians, and Aurelia knows that hers can wait till she's solved the mystery of her husband's disappearance.

Another way is simply to introduce some humour to lighten up the situation. Marcus and Aurelia both have their senses of humour intact, to varying degrees, no matter how scarred they may be, and I think this is true to life. Marcus, for instance, retains a fairly dry, self-deprecating brand of humour, and Aurelia can still make the odd quip when the occasion calls for it. Character-wise, it adds another dimension to them, acting sometimes as a ward against the angst, and narrative-wise, it breaks down the chunks of angst into easily digestible, bite-sized pieces. ;)

Another point is that the angst shouldn't be arbitrary, and though it can lend itself to reader sympathy, that's not the main reason it should be there. I've read too many books where the author seemed to think that simply assigning their MC a tragic past and thus making the reader go, "Aaaw, poor baby" that was somehow all they needed to do to maintain the reader's sympathy. Well, a dark and mysterious backstory might be good for engaging initial interest, but there's no substitute for strong characterisation. If a main character does have an angsty/unhappy/dark past, it should be pertinent to the story and the character, should affect their perceptions, both of themselves and everything/everyone else out there, and it should act as any external conflict does: to test the character to their limit and show their strength. This is something I've come to see more and more with Aurelia and Marcus. Their problems all serve to affect their relationships with other characters, their perceptions of themselves, and provide an internal obstacle for them to surmount before they can realise their true strength. Angsty pasts and personal demons are fine with me, but I'd personally rather read about a character who has the strength to overcome those demons in order to do what they have to: rather than a character I pity, I'd rather have a character I can respect.

It lives (again)

2009-01-23T17:44:00.000-08:00

Geez, it's been a while since I've posted on here. Hopefully I can get a proper post up this weekend. I'm thinking something about either prophecies, or characters with heavy emotional baggage.

Anyway, where've I been? Settling back into uni, mostly. I finally dropped Latin (yaaay!) and transferred to Classical Civilisation. This semester it's Imperial Rome, and looking good so far. It was also a flimsy excuse to buy a shiny new copy of the Annals. (Tacitus fangirl - how sad can you get?)

I've also been crashing out before nine o'clock at night, which is totally weird for me, since I'm the sort of person who can usually stay up pretty much all night. So I've not really been getting much apart from uni work done. D'oh.

In other news: I've volunteered to help school kids at an ancient technology workshop that the Hunterian Museum is organising. Which is fine... except for the fact I'm terrified of small children. Yeah... this is going to go well...

And in Archaeology we've actually started doing practical work! This week it was an introduction to topographical survey, which meant we spent up to two and a half hours outside, in the freezing cold, trying to do a plane table survey of the grassy area outside the Archaeology building. Can you say, "Brass monkeys?" Not fun. I couldn't feel my fingers by the end. I suppose I should consider that my proper introduction to archaeological practice. ;)

And isn't it encouraging to know that there's at least one archaeology student in my class who doesn't realise that a dead body isn't an artefact? What are we in - second year?

What time's that? After 2 am. Wow, that's the first time in over a week I've seen that time on the clock. We in the flat have just had a fun evening taking the mickey out of Braveheart, so I think it's bedtime for me. :)

Will be back at some point this weekend with something more substantial. Promise.

Happy New Year!

2008-12-31T22:36:00.000-08:00

Hoping your 2009 is safe, happy and healthy.

Who's made a New Year's resolution? I really shouldn't - I never keep them - but I've resolved to write at least a thousand words a day, every day, this year. I think I'll last... oh... till Saturday. :)

And because I can't resist, here's the resolutions my characters would make. Let's see who can keep theirs. ;)

Book I

Marcus: I think it's time to bury the hatchet with my dad. He has been dead for more than two years. Ouch.

Gairea: To finally find out what these recurring dreams of mine mean. Oh, and I have a habit of falling in love with unsuitable men. I should probably knock that on the head.

Agricola: Come on. Guess.

Calgach: I will not make big speeches. I will not make big speeches. I will not make big speeches...

Cathal: *measures size of right foot, then size of the footprint in the Epidii kingstone* Eh? What? I missed that; I was... sort of busy.

Tuathal: I dunno. Get the kingship of Temair back from my daddy's murderer, I suppose. I should probably check with Mum...

Tacitus: You know what? I think I'll start writing history books. That should fill my spare time.

Book II

Aulus: (sheepishly) Should probably tell Kirsten exactly what's happened to me north of the Wall...

Firmus: Need to stop impulse buying. And commissioning altars. Any more, and the Hunterian Museum will have no more room for 'em.

Eilwen: I will smile. Or laugh. Or - I don't know - do something cheerful.

Aneirin: I should get up off my arse and figure out what my loyalties are.

Aurelia: Get a husband who doesn't divorce me/die suddenly/disappear in suspicious circumstances. One with a bit of stamina.

Cinioch: To gain the respect of at least one person in the world.

Seithved: I should de-skeleton my closet...

Book III

Aelius: Make sure that when I go boar-hunting, I never end up alone with my main political rival.

Cairpre: Nothing special. Escape a hostile king and a famine. Find land to settle for me and my followers. Found an influential Gaelic kingdom. Fulfil a prophecy made by my great-great grandmother. You know, the usual.

Septimius Severus: Well, I'll try not to die before slaughtering everyone north of Hadrian's Wall, but I'm not making any promises...

Caracalla: I WILL RULE THE WORLD. I mean... I'll help my dad fight the Maeatae and the Caledones. And look after my brother. Yep. That's totally it. Mm-hm.

Gwenllian: Maybe I should try to be more tactful...? Ah, bugger it, it will never work...

Gaius: Try not to get crushed between those two royal brats' quarrels. Easier said than done, though...

Plot: I promise, I'll try to be less like Star Wars.

Happy New Year!

Merry Christmas!

2008-12-24T14:23:00.000-08:00

Yule. Dies Natalis Solis Invicti. Whatever you happen to celebrate.

Wishing you all the best for the season. Hope you have a great day!

(Yeah, that's our dog, and that's what he'll put up with for biscuits. My mum's idea, not mine.)

I'm home for the holidays and we're all ready for Christmas over here chez Campbell. Mum's been playing Christmas carols all day and thanks to a website Iona found, we've been singing them in every language from English to Japanese. :) The lights on the tree are blinking away, and the presents are all wrapped and piled up under the tree. Plus we're halfway through It's A Wonderful Life, with a ready supply of tissues to hand - though that's strictly for my cold. Honest. :)

Nooo! The money's gone!

Sorry. Real-time posting.

Anyway, after it's finished, we'll be watching another traditional Campbell favourite - A Muppet Christmas Carol. Love that film. :)

Merry Christmas!

Multiple PoV: some musings

2008-12-17T19:45:00.000-08:00

Io, Saturnalia, everyone!

Like I said - somewhere - NaNo gave me a few ideas for some long-winded writing posts, and since my first semester exams are over, I'm taking a break from mooching around the flat with my friends, Christmas shopping, playing video games, and watching Doctor Who repeats, to write one of them. My review of Gillian Bradshaw's Dark North mentioned the issue of PoV, so this particular topic has been shifted into first place.

I don't at all mind reading books which are told from a single PoV, but when I'm writing, unless I'm writing in first-person, I tend to use multiple PoV. My plots tend to big, sprawling things, and by using more than one character as the reader's eyes, I can flesh out the many plot threads better than I could with a single PoV. The Ancestor Crown, for example, could theoretically be told entirely from, say, Marcus' PoV. The main plot is still there, and the reader still gets the adventure, the character development and all that, but it would also miss out a lot of important subplots. Like Calgach's struggle to unite the tribes, Agricola's dealings with certain Imperial intrigues, the Druidic wheeling and dealing that Gairea is in the thick of, and the Epidii politics that Cathal deals with. These themes would all be touched on, but not in such great depth. Giving all these characters a voice allows the entire story to sprawl out (and boy, does it sprawl) and allows me to do the main subplots better justice.

It also, I think, helps the credibility of certain plot twists. Let's take, for instance, the second book. If the entire thing was told from Firmus' PoV, we'd have the major revelation of "You know that woman you bought down the slave market? Actually the sister of some tribal king, the descendant of a major Caledonian rebel, and she was passing information about the movements on the frontier to her clansmen because her brother has some crazy idea about reviving their ancestor's confederacy" all at once. Possibly a wee bit too much shockgasp! material to swallow in one go? With so much backstory and baggage attached to that particular subplot, it makes more sense to have Eilwen's PoV in there as well, so this barrage of information isn't coming completely out of left field, to the reader, anyway.

This approach might be something of a double-edged sword: if you're going for suspense you might not want to throw all your cards on the table like that. And I do have a good few subplots where the enemy/culprit isn't revealed to the reader until it is to the characters. The trick my own approach is in dropping just the right hints in just the right places. With a bit of careful handling, you can still maintain the suspense. Then again, the approach makes for its own sort of suspense. For example, in Book Three, I know that Aelius and Gaius are eventually going to meet each other again on opposite sides of a war - but when? And how? The suspense is heightened as the reader waits for their stories to converge.

And, of course, giving more characters a voice is an advantage when it comes to characterisation, as it allows the reader to see more facets of a certain character than they might otherwise. This a particular advantage when it comes to villains/antagonists. Take Cathal. Again, if I told AC totally from Marcus' view, the portrayal of Cathal would be limited to his most dominant traits: his aggression, his arrogance, his ambition, and his hatred for all things Roman. It barely makes it to two-dimensional, but by including Cathal's PoV, I can let the reader see other facets to his character, like his genuine loyalty to his tribe, his moments of integrity (yes, it does exist!), and his relationships with his fellow warriors. I like to give at least some of the antagonists their PoV, and write them from the principle that everyone is the hero of his/her own story, which balances out their good and bad points a bit more.

And, of course, letting the reader into the minds of several characters gives them a better chance to find one to find at least one like. I always try to make my characters as interesting or appealing as possible, but it's a fact of life that you can't please everyone, and there are inevitably going to be characters who I love to bits, but who just won't work for another reader. Some are likely to find Calgach, the cunning and world-wise king, a more appealing guide than Gairea, the troubled teenage girl, and vice versa. It's all a matter of taste, and introducing more PoV characters gives the reader more opportunity to find one to their liking.

Well, there's the why. It's the how, though, that really gave me pause during November.

When using multiple PoV, the two main techniques are third person limited and omniscient PoV (some authors do use first person, though, but in my experience many of them don't give their PoV characters distinctive enough voices, so I don't think it works quite as well). My own preference is third limited, because omniscient sometimes disconcerts me when I've just got settled into one character's mind, only to flit to the next one. It's just a matter of preference, and both ways have their pros and cons.

Since I use third limited, the technique I went with in AC was to identify my main characters (Marcus, Gairea, Calgach, Agricola and Cathal) and tell their intertwining stories a chapter at a time. But, looking ahead, I've realised that there's a problem with this. My general rule of PoV is that a scene should be told through the eyes of the character who has the most at stake, to get the most emotion out of it. But then I thought ahead to the big set-piece of AC, which is the Battle of Mons Graupius. All five of my designated drivers are present for it, and it presents a huge turning point in each of their individual stories. So, whose head should the reader be in for it? The answer is: everyone's. But my chosen technique doesn't allow for it. By confining each character to their own chapter, I'd be splitting the battle into several sections, rather than making it flow as a whole, and that could slow the pacing. This was what first got me thinking about changing my technique. Maybe it would be better - overall, not just for that particular scene - if I let each PoV intertwine throughout each chapter, rather than segregating them as I have been doing. It definitely lend more fluidity to the narrative, and the more I think about it, the more I'm realising that this could apply to several events in all of the books, not just Mons Graupius.

I've also been thinking about being less strict with whose PoV I use. This came when I wrote a chapter in Cinioch's PoV during NaNo. He was never meant to be one of my windows, but the chapter just felt right when it was written in his PoV. It also showed Cinioch's motivations, rather than telling them. With this mind, I looked around and realised that it wasn't just my main characters who could contribute to the story: some of the secondary characters could also provide crucial insights at certain points in the story. Tuathal, Sargaid, Verecunda, Aulus, Seithved... I never intended any of them to have a PoV, but I'm realising that there are certain points where their input might be more valuable even than my main characters', and again, offer a little window into their heads, too. I gave a friend the first couple of chapters of Book Two to read during NaNo, and she remarked that Edarnan came across as weak, because at the ideal opportunity he didn't act on a subject that he professed was important to him. As the writer, I already knew that Edarnan didn't act right away because he had a long-term plan, but it occurred to me that sprinkling in a little of his PoV at certain times would strengthen his characterisation in the eyes of the readers and allow enough of a look into his head to know exactly why he's not acting when he should.

So I'm thinking about relaxing my "one character PoV per chapter" rule, and mixing them in together a bit more. It might make the separate stories flow together a bit better, and maybe allowing more than one person a look-in during a chapter will do the thing proper justice.

I don't know yet. I'm only just turning to this technique, and still need to experiment a bit. I'll let you know how it goes.

Book review: Dark North, by Gillian Bradshaw

2008-12-08T17:47:00.000-08:00

Insert your own likely spoiler warning here.

Let me just start off by saying that I'm so, so glad to see Iron Age/Roman Scotland being used more as a setting for novels. There were some pretty intriguing and not-too-greatly-documented events and characters, so it makes the ideal writer's playground. The Flavian invasion of the first century AD has gained some popularity with writers, and in Dark North, Gillian Bradshaw takes on the Severan invasion of the third.

The year is AD 208, and the Emperor Septimius Severus has arrived in Britain to deal personally with the troublesome tribal confederacies in the north: the Maeatae and the Caledones. Among the ranks of soldiers drafted over from the Danube frontier is Memnon, an African scout in the numerus (roughly, "unit") of Aurelian Moors. As the book opens, we meet Memnon playing an elaborate practical joke on the legionaries of the Second Legion Parthica. When said joke embarrasses the legion, infuriates the Emperor, and has the Imperial spies doing the rounds, Memnon's prefect, Rogatus, decides to get him out their way by sending him north, partly to save his hide and partly to punish him, to make an initial report to the unit's new garrison, Aballava (Burgh by Sands). Not too thrilled at this prospect, Memnon is assigned to a travelling party whose members are also bound northwards. Most of them are soldiers, but it also includes two members of the Imperial staff, the freedman Castor and Athenais, a secretary to the Empress Julia Domna.

Despite his introduction as a troublemaker, Memnon soon proves to be quite heroic, when the party is ambushed by Maeatae raiders and Castor and Athenais are captured. While the tribune in charge is all for retreating, Memnon breaks away and goes after the raiders by himself, spurred on by memories from his past. He succeeds, not only in rescuing the two from torture, but also in besting the Votadinian chieftain Fortrenn (pedantic quibble time: Fortrenn is actually a genitive form, the reconstructed name being *Fortriu, but I managed to live with it). After putting the fear into Fortrenn and his warriors, Memnon frees the two prisoners and they make their escape. Despite the anger of the tribune, he earns a hero's reputation amongst the soldiers, though because of his memories, he's not quite so glad about it. He also gains in Athenais and Castor two good friends at court.

Meanwhile, he and his unit move into Aballava alongside a resentful cohort of Frisian auxiliaries, and begin to scout the countryside in preparation for the war. But it soon becomes clear that it's not only the Maeatae that they should be worrying about, as, thanks to Castor and Athenais, he learns of the strife and intrigue within the Imperial family. The Emperor's two sons, the vile Antoninus (aka Caracalla) and the not much better Geta, are constantly vying against each other, and as they use their father's war for their own nefarious purposes, many lives become endangered: Castor's, Athenais', and even Memnon's, when the intrigues involve his numerus. In addition to this intrigue are Memnon's adventures on the frontier. Whilst on campaign, he is cornered by a group of warriors, but with his bravery and wit he gains the respect of the Caledonian chieftain Argentocoxus, and spends some time as his guest/prisoner. This allows him a glimpse into their culture, which ultimately humanises them to his eyes. When he escapes and returns to the army, his outlook begins to change. His years in the army have led him to love the Empire, but as he learns more about the power struggles within the Imperial family from Castor and Athenais, he becomes increasingly disillusioned with the people at the head of it. As the war rages on and the intrigues become more dangerous, Memnon and his friends will need all their wits to survive.

The novel is told entirely from Memnon's PoV, so it's a good thing that he's such an engaging and lovable hero. Bradshaw strikes a good balance between his good humour and his troubles, his practical jokes and his diligence as a scout. His past and the fears it has spawned in his mind are present, but never veer into draggy angst, as they might easily have done, and his personality means that there are plenty of humorous moments in between the intrigue and danger of the plot. There were a few times where I think Bradshaw let him get out of trouble a wee bit too easily, but luckily, he never turns into a full-blown Gary-Stu, remaining a very human protagonist. As well as the tribes and the Emperor's sons, he also has to deal with the prejudices of his fellow soldiers, who believe a black man to be an unlucky omen (despite, y'know, the Emperor being African), and of the tribes, who have never seen an Ethiopian before, and fear him to be a demon. Usually racial tension in historical novels of this period deal more with the Roman v. Gaul/Briton/German/Goth/etc. theme, so it was interesting to read about a form of racism (white/black) which is much more virulent in our own time. People, and, sadly, their prejudices, never seem to change.

Memnon is, I think, the best-developed character of the book, but there are others characters I grew fond of, like the unconventionally brave Castor, the intelligent and capable Athenais, and Rogatus, the hard-bitten old prefect with a heart of gold. I even got quite attached to Dozy, Memnon's trusty gelding. Historical figures such as Severus, Julia Domna, Caracalla, Argentocoxus and his wife, also get small parts and cameos.

The novel's plot stays faithful to Cassius Dio's account of the Severan invasion (scroll down to paragraph eleven), including all the major events and utterances reported. Bradshaw also uses an anecdote from the, admittedly unreliable, Historia Augusta, albeit, as she points out in her author's note, one that might just be plausible. The world-building is sound, especially in the details of the Roman army, even if there were a couple of times where the narrative strayed a wee bit too close to an info-dump. Bradshaw does a good job in portraying the possible tensions between legionaries and auxiliaries, and even between auxiliary cohorts. I'm no expert, but the details of the cavalry, the horse training and care, all seemed pretty authentic, too. I should maybe add that Bradshaw's identification of the Maeatae as a confederation of Lowland tribes (Votadini, Novantae, and Selgovae) might be disputed by those who favour their location to be in Fife or further north, but since Dio describes them as living "next to the wall that divides the island in two", I'm inclined to agree with her.

The fact that the novel is seen completely through Memnon's eyes was perhaps its greatest weakness. He receives most of his information about the court intrigues second-hand through Castor and Athenais, who are in the thick of it, and maybe telling parts in their PsoV could have made the dangers more immediate and intense. For instance, Caracalla's cameo portrays him as rude, but not necessarily dangerous: we learn that mostly from the information passed to Memnon. Giving his friends their PoV would have enhanced the suspense of the novel, and fleshed out the historical cameos a bit more, as well as the complicated emotions created by the sorta-love triangle that develops between the three of them.

That said, Dark North was still highly entertaining and exciting, and I finished it in a couple of sittings. Bradshaw's other book about Roman Britain, Island of Ghosts, is definitely on my TBR list.

From the Rostra...

2008-11-28T13:57:00.000-08:00

Wow, it feels like a long time since I posted on here. Not really had much time/energy/will to blog these last few weeks. Just an update, then.

It's a clichéd phrase, but it has been a bit of an emotional rollercoaster. I went back to my mum and dad's for the first week for the funeral. I think it was both heartbreaking and relieving for us all when that day finally came, to be honest. I went with most of the family to see him at the funeral home the day before, and while it was hard summoning up the courage to walk into the room, in the end I'm glad I did. I still wish I could've said goodbye to him before he passed away, but going to see him managed to balm that particular wound a bit.

And I'll tell you something, there's no girl braver than my sister Iona. We were both reading bidding prayers at the funeral service, and though she was sobbing her heart out, she still managed to say her piece, up there in front of everyone. I'm so, so proud of her. If she can do that, then she'll have no problem singing in front of those sold-outs crowds at Budokan when she becomes a chart-topping singer. :)

The funeral was on the 5th, so as part of the wake we bought some fireworks. There were a lot of folk in the scheme setting them off, but ours were by far the best. That was a nice send-off for Granda, we all agreed. :)

Then, on the Saturday just after that, Father Conway, who was a great pal of my granda's and did the funeral service, also passed away. Needless to say, we were all stunned. Like my dad said, it's almost like they were waiting on each other.

Going back to uni after that was a bit strange. I stayed with my family for the rest of the week, and when I got back to uni I had a good bit of work to catch up on (and still do), had to get extensions on the deadlines for my first essays, and ran into a whole new set of assignments from my all subjects. The first week wasn't too bad - though with hindsight, I think I was still just wandering about in a daze, but last week was awful. My moods were all over the place, I was struggling to balance the immense workload, and didn't seem to have the mental strength to very much about it. I missed a good few lectures and tutorials and just getting further and further behind. That's when it all became too overwhelming for me and I broke down and ended up blubbing down the phone to my dad at half two on Friday morning, and going back home for the weekend.

Dad had intended that I take it easy, but no, as our dog, Sirius, became ill, and when we took him to the vet's on Saturday it turned out that he had prostatitis and kidney stones - lots of them, so they'd have to operate. Now, Sirry's ten years old (human years), one of his legs had to be amputated a couple of years back, and all that weekend he seemed so weak and in so much pain, so we... weren't optimistic. I think that at any other time, we all would've coped with the worry much better, but not this weekend. After what had already happened, we didn't feel we could bear another loss. To know Sirry is to love him: he's the loveliest, sweetest-tempered thing in the world, and the delight of all the primary school kids in the village. When they were making their Nativity set last Christmas, they painted in another special star - Sirius, the Dog Star, of course! So, yes, he's a big sook, but adorable with it, and none of us wanted to see him go. Not now, anyway. Not on top of everything else.

Good news, though. He pulled through. And he's back to hopping about like a mad thing, demanding cuddles and begging for food. In other words, he's back to his old self.

And I'm doing all right, too. It catches up to me at times, but I'm trying to get myself back into my normal routine. The workload is still huge, and it feels like I've spent every night typing out essays on Hallstatt D1, castles and burghs, total excavation versus problem-orientated excavation, Cicero's godawful letters, and a whole lot more, but I only have two left to write. Then, of course, it's exams. :( I'm still lagging behind in my work a bit, but I'll hopefully be able to bring myself back up to speed for the exams. Oh, well. *fingers crossed*

I've decided I'm going to slowly, reluctantly, let Latin slip by the wayside. I'm not going to stop working at it outright, but I am going to focus more on the subjects that matter most to me, those being Archaeology and Celtic. I'm glad, really, that we've only got a week of lectures left. I do like doing the Pliny, but our tutor for that part of the course - while a lovely, zany woman the rest of the time, when she's teaching Latin she's more like that centurion in Life of Brian...

I'm also trying to navigate the uni's new Student Absence Policy. It involves submitting various forms online, but - get this - for "significant absences" they want some sort of written proof. Well, that's all very well if you're ill, you can a medical certificate, but what the fuck are you supposed to give them if a family member's died? What the fuck do you want - a death certificate? Directions to the grave? I guess a meeting with Irish Advisor is in order. Ah, well. It's not like that's a bad thing, or anything. :)

There's good news, too, amidst this tale of woe. First... *drum roll*... guess who's going back to Vindolanda in the summer? And guess who's managed to drag her flatmate and fellow archaeology student Sara into coming with her? :D We decided we wanted to do a few weeks digging at an interesting site before we had to do the uni field school at Forteviot, Palace of the Rain and the Post Holes and Not Much Bloody Else. (Seriously, I've been to one of the post-season seminars they have. Cows, rain and post-holes. That's pretty much Forteviot. Not surprising, really, since the site was pretty much washed away in a flood at some point in antiquity.)

But, yeah. Vindolanda. Apparently it's the barracks this time. :)

And OMGfangirlsquee - the Doctor Who Exhibition is coming to the Kelvingrove Museum in March. Me and Alyson descended into a mad display of geekish joy.

Alyson also bought a Labyrinth poster the other day. It's pretty cool, but David Bowie's eyes follow you unerringly around the room...

Anyway, that's pretty much it. Just thought I'd post an update now that I'm feeling up to it, and while I've got some breathing space between assignments and studying. Trying to get back to normal, and that includes blogging. NaNo - which I'll be glad to reach 25K of by Sunday night; it gave me a good distraction during the first half of the month, but I've had to pretty much abandon it the last couple of weeks - has given me some ideas for writing-related posts, so I should be returning gradually over the next few weeks. :)

A hail and farewell

2008-10-31T14:31:00.000-07:00

My granda, John Campbell, passed away last night. He went peacefully, surrounded by my gran, my dad and my aunts and uncle. They said he was prepared, and that he spoke to everyone before he went. The parish priests came to the hospital, more as friends than priests, and gave him the last rites, which comforted him so much. He was the most devout man I know. I don't share his faith, but I'm glad they could give him that comfort before he passed.

I still can't quite believe it. My granda has been there all my life, and he was such a solid, strong presence. Like my dad, I thought he was immortal. He was such a good, honest, generous-hearted man, who didn't have an enemy in the world, and who worked so hard for years so his children wouldn't have to. And he was such an unflagging spirit, even till the end. My dad told me that when he went to visit him at the hospital, lying there on the life support, my granda, though he was barely conscious, he lifted off his oxygen mask and said, "Son... what wis the Celtic score?"

It was 3 - 1 to Celtic, so that must have made him happy.

I've been at my gran's house for most of the day with most of the family. She's heartbroken, but bearing up incredibly well. She's a strong woman, but I can't imagine how this is for her. But one of the last things my granda said was that he wanted us to all stick together, so that's what we're going to do. His family meant everything to him.

Goodbye, Granda. I'm sorry I couldn't be there when you passed, but I'll remember you and love you all my life. The Campbell family isn't complete without you.

The good, the bad, and the ugly.

2008-10-26T11:42:00.000-07:00

The news:

Thursday's Latin test... did not go well. (shrugs) There wasn't much hope of me passing it, but it's still a bit disappointing.

On the other hand, only one Cicero letter left to do! Woo-hoo! We do, however, have to translate part of his godawful Catiline speech (why God why are we being made to prepare "unseen" translations? Doesn't that render the very word "unseen" moot?). Then, finally, we can move onto Pliny.

I've managed to get my flatmates hooked on Cadfael. Three of us are Hugh Beringar fangirls. We're not odd. At all.

On a similar note, I'm well and truly addicted to historical whodunnits. I got one from Waterstone's the other day which was set in medieval Glasgow. No way I could resist that. :) It's called The Harper's Quine, by Pat McIntosh. I've not started it yet, but I'm all set to dive in tonight! :) Also waiting on Dark North by Gillian Bradshaw to arrive with those books I ordered for uni. It's not a whodunnit, but it is set during the Severan campaigns in northern Britain. :)

Talking of which, Uncle Gaius from the Severan novel has established himself as a main character. So it's Uncle Gaius no longer, rather Gaius Cocceius Marcellus, optio of the century of Gavilius, Legio II Parthica. Put in charge of the century when Gavilius is suddenly killed, helping invade his mother's homeland, and fighting against his nephew, the lad he practically helped his sister raise after her husband died.

Why do they do this to me?!

The Archaeology section in the uni library is also a treasure trove. I was looking - rather unsuccessfully - for some books about Iron Age Hallstatt culture - my essay subject. Most of the books on the Iron Age in Germany and Austria, however, are in German, and since I only did half of Higher German, I don't think they'll be of much help. I did find the Roman Britain section, however, which... er... distracted me from my search. They have books on Roman London! :) As for Hallstatt, I've still got my books and notes from first year Celtic Civ., so I should be okay. And Sara's doing Level 1 Celtic Civ. this year, so I can get links to decent websites from her.

And it's now only six days till NaNo! Woot! I'm dying to get started! I'd better start stocking up on snacks. Chocolate, hot chocolate, lemonade, grapes and tangerines all help me write... :)

Tomorrow night is also the first meet for the Glasgow NaNoers, so I'll be going along. Can't wait.

Also have my Hallowe'en costume to get together. I'm going as one of the Furies of Mona. So I'll need wild hair (well, I already have that, lol!), a black robe, blue face-paint, and a lot of fake blood. >:) Sara's going as a vampire - with plenty of body glitter. And if you don't get the joke - well - you're the lucky one.

Ooh, I love Hallowe'en, as much as Christmas. >:) It's the dookin for apples I like best. Also have to get our Hallowe'en movies together. I've already got Sleepy Hollow - the Tim Burton version - and I want to get Hocus Pocus, too. :D

I should have a proper post up soon, something Hallowe'en/Samhain related. I don't know what, but I've got a few ghoulish ideas. Mwahaha.

Latin, Latin, and more Latin

2008-10-15T15:38:00.000-07:00

(Update, 16/10/08: All is not lost! An email from an unnamed student (though I know who, 'cause she told me), has reminded the lecturers that there are noobies. We now have vocab to learn, and apparently the translation will have a glossary, so my phantom state should only be for the next week or so. :D)

That's my current workload for uni. Let's break this down. I have four Latin classes a week: two translating letters, one doing an unseen translation, the other doing grammar. We have three different lecturers, and get work to do from each of them. Usually this is averages out at two letters a week, one passage for unseen, and one grammar worksheet.

In short, I have far too much bloody Latin work to do, and it's impacting the rest of my subjects, because I don't have the time to do extra studying for them.

Then there's the problem with the class. Last year, there were two Level One classes: one for absolute beginners, like me, and another, for people who had already done Latin at A Level or whatever. Those continuing into Level Two - from both classes - have been put in the same class, and it's made the whole thing very uneven, because we have the noobies and the advanced students doing the same work, the latter having at least two more years of Latin. What's more, the lecturers seem to have forgotten that there are noobies in the class at all, so we're sort of left floundering.

And what's more, our first test is next Thursday. It's worth twenty per cent of the overall grade. We're not allowed dictionaries. While I understand the logic behind this, it's put the noobies at a bit of a disadvantage, because the course we were on last year focused mostly on the grammar with little variation in vocabulary, and left us overly dependent on the dictionaries in that regard. In other words, while the advanced students have their three or so years' worth of vocab, us noobies are screwed. Because last year's course book sucked big time - and I hear this year's first years are using a different textbook.

Even that I could've dealt with, if we hadn't just been told this yesterday. The test in in a week's time. In other words, I've got about a week to learn at least a year's worth of vocab.

Worse, they're still giving us this massive amount of homework, so I'm barely able to find the time to learn any. If they'd just cut down on the amount of work they're giving us - like, for instance, not having us prepare the unseen translation, 'cause it's supposed to be - y'know - unseen.

So, I've so much work to do for Latin, I can't do the studying I need to do to pass this test, which is going to drag my overall score down. And that, in turn, is going to drag my grade point average down, and I'll need to get a good one to get into Honours.

To compensate for a bad Latin mark, of course, I have to get good ones in Archaeology and Celtic. But I don't have time to study for them, because I have all that sodding Latin work to do, and no sodding time to study the other two.

Did I mention I'm hoping to do a Joint Honours in Archaeology and Celtic Civilisation? Y'know, the two subjects I don't have time to study for. They're putting all these links and recommended reading lists online, and I have no. bloody. time.

Now let's add the essays onto that. I have the test next week, so I'll be trying to study for that this week. I have a Celtic essay due November 6, a Latin one due November 10, and an Archaeology one due November 11. Then there's this mysterious assessed worksheet we have to do for Archaeology, which was allegedly supposed to be given out during our first tutorial (three weeks ago). It's due in the end of October. We were given a worksheet to do during that tutorial, but I have a very vivid memory of my tutor saying that it wasn't an assessed piece. So I need to find out just what the hell is going on there.

The best one was one of my flatmates, who also ranted at length with me about the Latin situation, and about having no time to do any work... then promptly announced she was going out for the evening.

Uh-huh.

So it looks like I'm pretty much going to be a phantom online from now until November, if I'm to have half a chance of scraping a pass from my subjects.

How long is it till December? Seriously, I'm glad I only have to do Latin this term. I have the feeling I'll be dropping it after Christmas. Which sucks, because I love learning it, only the department is a complete fucking shambles.

See yous when I resurface.

Atchoo.

2008-10-04T13:49:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I have a cold. It sucks. My head feels like fluff, and I can't just curl up in bed 'cause I have work to do. Uni's keeping me busy, so I haven't been online as much as I'd like. :(

It's official: Cicero was a prat. I'm not surprised they had him murdered. Anything to shut him up. In the first letter we were set to translate, he spends half of it in high dudgeon because one of the consuls didn't ask him his opinion in the Senate first. He was only second. Shock bloody horror. And what with him having saved the republic single-handedly. Wash, rinse, repeat. Honestly, I was reaching the point (and I don't think I was the only one) where I was biting back a cry of, "Oh, just get over yourself, will you?!"

Seriously, I can't wait till we're done with Cicero and onto the letters of Pliny the Younger. At least he acknowledged that there were other people in the world apart from him. ;)

And NaNo's less than a month away now! Eep - I can't wait! Got a few bits of research to do before November starts - mostly about London, since a few chapters take place there, and other minutiae. And I think I need to start compiling a serious family tree. (sighs)

It's - what? - only October 4. Aargh, I can't wait! Bring it on, November!

See you later. I'm away to peruse various blogs and websites... then I think I'll go to bed. I'm feeling seriously crap. Night!

Well, I've done it.

2008-09-27T05:40:00.000-07:00

I've gone and offered up my soul to NaNoWriMo. And I'm pretty sure I've got at least two essays to do in November. I must be insane. Now I just need to work out which plotbunny I'm invoking for November. I'm a bit far in with Ancestor Crown to make it my NaNo, but then there are the other two books in the trilogy. Minus the odd snippet or two from later on, in "linear" terms, Book Two only has the first chapter written, and Book Three only has a sentence. Hm...

'Course, there are other plotbunnies, like that one I got the other night that featured monks on Iona. And Vikings. >:)

Now I should get going. I vowed to revise Latin this weekend, since this week's lectures proved just how much I managed to forget, and I want to fit in at least a couple of hours before the Prima Vista's Crap Saturday Evening TV marathon starts.

Excerpt: Will of the Gods

2008-09-23T15:57:00.000-07:00

Well, uni started again yesterday. So far it's looking great, even better than last year. I'm so excited about Archaeology, and Latin'll be great (once I'm back up to speed with my grammar - erk!). Even Celtic doesn't look as bad as I'd feared. I was a bit worried they were going to get strung up on "Oh noes the English came and messed everything up!" but the first couple of lectures have assuaged that fear. It actually looks really good, or will be once I've got my Gruffudd ap Llywelyn separate from my Llywelyn ap Gruffudd. (headdesk)

Anyway, I'm still running around trying to sort out various odds and ends (bills, forms, bloody student loan letter that hasn't arrived, books for uni, etc.) so I'm cheating a bit with today's post and throwing up a nice long excerpt from my first NiP, The Ancestor Crown. Well, hey, I haven't put up one in a while, and it was either that or a moan about the Maeatae and why they're giving me a migraine. So... er... enjoy. (As ever, this is a rough draft version, and concrit is very much appreciated.)

A slight warning: there are a couple of expletives. I don't think there's any more than two, but I know some people are more offended by language than me.

Backstory: Late summer, AD 82. A daring night attack by a force from the allied tribes upon the camp of the Ninth Legion resulted in a desperate rescue attempt by the Twentieth. During the pursuit, legionary Marcus Valerius Laevinus went to the aid of an officer, but was captured by a band of tribesmen. Now, he wakes to face his captors.

-

If there was one thing that Marcus knew for sure, it was that Fortuna had no love for him.

He awoke to the sound of voices, and the soft lap of water - beneath him? But he wasn’t rocking, so he couldn’t be on a boat. Slowly, he realised that he was lying on his side with one cheek pressed against a rush mat. Beyond that, it was impossible to make out anything but the pain. Everything hurt. Every joint in his body was afire, and a heavy ache hammered his skull. His hands were behind his back, but when he tried to move them, rope cut into his wrists and he groaned in pain.

Where was he? He strove to remember, but all that came to him were dim blurs of memory. There had been so many warriors - and Vitulus, with no helmet - and a girl with red hair... then that older warrior had come at him and - yes - now he remembered. But nothing was clear after that. He should be dead. Surely he should have been killed. He had no idea what had happened next, all his mind could grasp onto were snatches of grey sky and wind-scoured hills, with the thundering of hooves and barbarian voices all around him.

A leaden chill settled in his gut then as he realised the truth. He was a prisoner. His eyes flew open, but the fog in his mind seemed to be affecting them, so all he could make out was the blurred flickering of a hearth. He thought he might be inside some building - the air was close, with a heady, herbal smell. The voices he could hear were coming from outside, but though he strained to make out their words, he couldn’t make any sense of the raucous speech.

Panic lanced through his stupor, and the blood pounded in his ears, the pain in his head beating rhythmically. He tugged at the ropes binding his wrists, but whoever had tied them had known what they were doing, and he was rewarded only with sharp burns. Fear rose like bile in his throat, but it was soon shot down by a bolt of urgency. He had to find some way to free his hands, then a way to escape.

And Vitulus. What had happened to him? He’d lost sight of the senior tribune when that warrior charged at him. He could be lying nearby even now, bound as he was. He had do something, couldn’t just lie here...

With a groan, Marcus pushed himself to his knees, but instantly wished he hadn’t as the sudden movement sent the blood rushing to his head. The wattle walls of the hut tilted crazily before him and he fell back, cursing. But there was no time to waste. If Vitulus was here, then he had to find some way to free them both and escape.

“And how, pray, would you go about that?”

He started, his heart leaping into his mouth at the sound of the voice. He’d thought he was alone. It took a moment for the shock to subside before he realised that the words had been spoken in Latin.

Blinking to clear his vision, he looked up. The speaker was a woman, and old, though it was hard to place her age. The face framed by those white braids was austere and deeply lined, yet her shoulders had only a slight stoop to them, and the dark eyes now appraising him were clear, with a direct gaze that possessed a depth so profound he felt suddenly humbled. Somehow, it was that which let him know what she was, even before he noted the white robe, or the polished knife at her girdle, or the oaken staff around which one bony hand was curled.

His throat went dry, and his back stiffened. For the first time, he realised that his weapons had been taken, and his armour with them. They’d left him with nothing. And now here he was, bound and helpless in the presence of this Druid crone.

She regarded him with what could only have been amusement. “Oh, come now, Roman. There is little need for that.”

“Where am I?” he demanded, in the fiercest tone he could muster. “Where have you brought me?”

“You are in my house. And that, for the present, is all you need know.” Though speared through by a thick, barbarous accent, her Latin was faultless, almost better than his own. “Now, come -” he thought he saw the shadow of a smile - “answer me. How do you intend to go about this escape of yours?”

Marcus’ mouth opened, but the crone’s words had shocked him into speechlessness. How could she have known exactly what he had been thinking at that moment?

“Who are you?” The question was out, sharp-edged, before he could stop it.

“I am Sargaid, Chief Druidess to Nechtain mac Cathair, King of the Epidii tribe.”

Instead of making things clearer, all that did was set Marcus’ head to reeling as he tried to pick out a name from that collection of guttural syllables. And the Epidii. Had he heard of them before? If only this bloody headache would stop, then he could think...

“Have you a name, Roman?”

He hesitated, wondering if he should lie, but then decided that in his current predicament, that probably wouldn’t help him any.

“Marcus Valerius Laevinus.”

“Well, Marcus...” She drew her knife. Marcus froze, but she only smiled at him in that thin, ambiguous manner. “If I untie your hands, do you give me your promise that you will not attempt anything foolish?”

What was he supposed to say to that? He nodded, mutely. Sargaid ushered him into a sitting position, and cut his bonds. As he rubbed his wrists, now branded with deep red welts, the Druidess moved away, paused to stir something in the cauldron above the fire, then bustled off to busy herself with an oaken chest at the other side of the hearth.

Marcus glanced around. The only way out of the house was the narrow doorway on the other side of the hearth. He looked up, hoping to see a smoke-hole or some weakness in the thatch, but all he could pick out was a dizzying arrangement of smoke-darkened rafters. For all that the occupant was a Druid, it was no different from other native houses in Britannia, except maybe a bit bigger, and the furs and hangings that decorated it were finer than those in most. Nothing very remarkable.

Then his eyes fell on a human skull, yellowed with age, that grinned down at him from one of the posts. He jumped.

“That one was a chieftain of the Creones before you were even born,” Sargaid told him. “A warrior of the Epidii gifted his head to me in gratitude for the gods granting him a successful raid.”

Privately, Marcus thought there must be easier and less grisly ways to say thank you, but said nothing. Sargaid was a Druidess, after all, and her kind had a morbid interest in these things. He sent another uneasy look towards the skull. If anything, it only served to remind him into whose clutches he had fallen. He didn’t quite manage to suppress a shudder.

“You’re lucky,” Sargaid went on, as she rummaged in the chest. “If things had gone differently, your skull might have ended up decorating Cathal’s house in just the same way.”

Trying, and failing, to keep that image at bay, he asked, “Was he the warrior I killed?”

“No, the one you killed was Domhnall of Clan Moireach. Cathal is the one who would have killed you, if not for my intervention.”

He frowned. Was he supposed to be grateful?

“Why did you keep me alive, then?”

“I confess, I don’t know.” Marcus opened his mouth to protest, but she went on, “It was the gods who delivered you into our hands, but their reason for doing so remains unclear, even to me.” She chuckled suddenly. “Though I must admit, most of the warriors feel you made a poor exchange for that polished young tribune they had before.”

“Then why don’t you just kill me and be done with it!” he snapped, the heat rising in his face. In truth, he wasn’t sure he wanted to face the sort of the death the Druids inflicted on their victims, but anger made his blood burn with recklessness.

Yet Sargaid was unperturbed by his outburst. She merely lifted her shoulders. “If that is what the gods will, then so be it. But I have the feeling you are not meant for the Otherworld just yet. So, in that case, will you allow me to tend your wound?”

Marcus blinked. “What wound?” A fresh pang burned through his skull, and he raised his hand to the place where he had been struck, only to realise that it had been bandaged.

“That wound.”

He shrugged, reluctant to have a Druid any closer to him than was necessary, but he couldn’t see what else he could do. So he allowed her to replace the moss press to the wound and tie on a new bandage, but he refused the cup she offered him, despite her assurances that it would ease the pain. His head still hurt to Tartarus, but he had too much experience of Druid potions.

That done, the Druidess stood and returned the chest to its original place.

“He got away,” she said suddenly.

He blinked. “Who?”

“The tribune. He slipped the grasp of Cathal’s warriors and ran.”

Marcus supposed he should be glad. He had, after all, done the noble thing and saved the life of a tribune. But at that moment, all he could do was curse both Vitulus and himself for their stupidity. He wondered, bitterly, who was the bigger fool: Vitulus, for ending up in danger in the first place, or himself, for blundering into it after him?

“I did my duty,” he said flatly. And now he was paying the price for it. He wondered if the rest of his contubernium knew what had happened to him. With a sinking heart, he realised that they probably didn’t. No doubt they thought he was dead.

Maybe it was better that way. A heroic death in battle rescuing a senior officer - even if that officer was Vitulus - was better than the truth.

Sargaid must have sensed something of these thoughts, too, for her voice was almost gentle when she next spoke. “It was a brave thing you did. You could have left him to die.”

A bitter noise escaped his lips. “Could I?” The thought hadn’t even occurred to him. He thought about Vitulus now. No doubt he’d been shaken, but by now he was probably recovered, and back to strutting around the camp like the spoilt little prick he was. Marcus clenched his fists, and forced himself to swallow his sourness. “He was a tribune. He needed help. I had to give it.”

“Then you have more honour than many,” replied Sargaid. “I know many men who would have baulked at such a prospect, even if it were their duty. It took courage, and the gods commend courage.” She flexed her fingers on her staff, studying him contemplatively. “What was your legion, Marcus? The Ninth?”

“No.” He shook his head, wondering what had prompted that question. “The Twentieth.”

“Ah, yes.” Sargaid’s voice was very quiet. “The boar.” She turned away and looked into the fire for a long moment, and Marcus could only wonder what she saw there, in the heart of the flames. Despite the warm fug of the peat-smoke and the soft glow from the rushlights, a chill crawled down his spine.

“Druidess Sargaid,” he said at last, unable to take the not knowing any more. “What am I doing here? I’m not well-born enough to make a good hostage, and I’m only a legionary; I can’t give you any information. Why have you taken me prisoner?”

He’d asked her straight; now she’d have to answer him straight.

But Sargaid only heaved a sigh, and turned to face him. For a moment, he thought he saw a troubled shadow cross her face. But the moment passed, and he saw nothing.

“I have told you already; I have no answers yet. I did not expect anything like this. This is the will of the gods, and I do not hear them as I once did. Gairea is their chosen messenger.”

He frowned. “Who?”

“Gairea ní Machar, my apprentice. She is a ban-fhàidh - what you would call a sibyl.” For an instant, her voice regained that subtle hint of private amusement. “You met, I believe, but were never introduced.”

He thought back, and remembered the girl from the clearing. Red hair. White gown. Eyes full of shadows. He remembered only too well.

His feelings must have shown in his face, for Sargaid said briskly, “Come, now. She’s not that terrifying, surely. She’s a gentle girl, and harmless.”

Marcus said nothing. He had a dim recollection of gentle, harmless Gairea aiming a dagger at his throat, but decided it wasn’t worth the correction.

“What now, then?” he asked. “What’ll happen to me? Do I have to wait till you’ve read all the signs before I get to know if I live or die?”

Sargaid was grave. “Just so. This was not something I had foreseen, and it may be that your presence amongst us will have consequences that will reach farther than we might imagine. For now I can only counsel patience.”

“Patience!” he echoed, incredulous.

“Have patience, and when the time is right, the gods will reveal all. Then, Marcus Valerius Laevinus, shall we know what fate they have decided for you.”

Getting back into the swing of things...

2008-09-17T16:47:00.000-07:00

My birthday was great. Didn't do anything in particular, since in recent years I've discovered I can't really be bothered organising a big do when all I really want to do on my birthday is stay in with my family and my prezzies. I had planned to do something for my eighteenth last year, since, y'know, it was my eighteenth, but I got so caught up in the last minute preparations for uni I forgot all about it. (sigh) C'est la vie.

Anyway...

My prezzies rocked this year. Not many fiction books this year, but I got a whole stack of cool non-fiction ones, including Ancient Rome on Five Denarii a Day by Philip Matyszak and The Roman Conquest of Scotland: The Battle of Mons Graupius AD 84 by James E. Fraser. Suffice it to say, not once during my adolescence did I have to accuse my parents of the old cliché: "You don't understand me!!" ;)

Also got a translation of Apicius' famous cookbook. It's not the 1000 Classic Student Recipes, I give you that, but it's... er... interesting. Sadly, some of the ingredients - flamingo, parrot, ostrich, etc. - are a bit hard to get on a student's budget. Maybe I could manage the milk-fed snails, though, at a stretch... ;)

We didn't manage to make it down to London to see the Hadrian: Empire and Conflict exhibition on at the British Museum, so I also got the big book o' Hadrian published to accompany it. I've only flicked through it so far, but it looks pretty much like it has everything you could ever want to know about Hadrian and his empire. Not to mention it's chock-full of shiny photographs, mostly of Hadrian and his famous beard. Or as she's most commonly known, Sabina, heh-heh...

(coughs) Sorry. Rubbish joke, I know.

That's the only thing about that Hadrian book; it makes me want to write angsty Hadrian/Antinous stuff. And I really, really don't want the distraction. Not a month and a half till NaNo, at any rate (yes, Gabriele, I'm going for it this year!).

They also got me an Indiana Jones hat, which I love, just for the lols. Lookit (and please 'scuse the blurry photography):

Ah, shut up and stop laughing at the back there. Don't worry, I've already been warned. At one of the first lectures on archaeological practice last year, the lecturer put the poster for Raiders of the Lost Ark up on the overhead and said, brutally, "It's not like this."

Still, maybe I'll get a whip next year. Then again, maybe not.

The best present, though, was from my sister, who, because she is made of sugar and spice, awesome and win, got me the complete box-set of the BBC dramatisations of Cadfael. Because apparently I'm now an addict of historical murder mysteries, after years of thinking that whodunnits just weren't my thing. And I remember seeing bits of Cadfael when it was first on, when I was about eight. The Raven in the Foregate is the one that stuck with me for some reason. I never managed to eradicate the image of the priest's body in the mill-wheel...

Anyway. I won't bore you any more with listing what I got for my birthday. This was only meant to be a quick post to let you know I'm slowly getting back into the swing of things. When you've not blogged for a while, it's easy to lose the habit. So expect my usual moans about writing and stuff to make their return soon.

And uni starts again on Monday. It's Freshers' Week at the moment, and you can tell who the first-years are. They're the ones at Hillhead Station laden down with bags of free stuff. Sara and Marion actually went up to the uni the other day to infiltrate Freshers' Fair and get free crap themselves, though the stuff I got last year wasn't even good free crap. If I remember rightly, I got a whole bag full of toothbrushes from someone last year. But apparently the lure of "free stuff" is too great...

I've got course enrolments tomorrow (or today, rather, since it's 2.20 in the morning here), and Friday, and I should probably use the weekend to brush up on my Latin. I need books, too. Aargh...

The good news is that this year, none of my lectures are before midday, and I no longer need to get up at half-six in the morning to get the half-seven bus into town. (I say that, but I probably will get up that early, anyway.)

Well, I should probably go. It's half two in the morning, and I've already had one of my flatmates in here to relate the saga of her "fucked-up love life" to me. Hooray. The usual routine is back.

See you later!

Internet! Internet! dances about

2008-09-13T13:51:00.000-07:00

Yes! At long last, we finally have the Internet. Hooray! *waves streamers*

We also finally have a full house here in the Prima Vista (our name for our flat; don't ask), and it's still a blast. Though we did have a bit of - er - drama the other night, though we did manage to avoid an all-out argument. What happened? you ask. Well, Sara and Marion managed to get themselves locked in Marion's room. At half eleven at night. Which meant that Alyson and I, the ones with out common sense still intact, were left with the responsibility of getting them out whilst they sat in there, claiming to be panicking whilst they giggled away. Needless to say, Alyson and I were not impressed. First, we broke several kirby grips trying to pick the lock, then Sara calls out our landlady at half-past twelve. She can't get the lock unstuck, either, despite more attempts to pick it, then a vain search for some WD40. By this point, me and Alyson are just about ready to erupt, so we look out the Yellow Pages for the locksmith pages, but then decide we don't really feel like calling out a complete stranger at half one in the morning. So we let the landlady out then went to bed. We warned the two stooges, of course, who complained a bit ("What if we need the toilet?" "Tough!"), but eventually quietened down. So Alyson and I say goodnight to each other and stalk off to bed.

In the morning we managed to get a locksmith out, after calling about five, who, although their adverts claimed to be twenty-fours hours, didn't seem to be open at half nine, but warned the captives that they were paying the £85 fee. When the locksmith comes out, he laughs, but me and Alyson are still pretty pissed off from the night before, and when Sara and Marion finally do get out, they're very, very quiet.

Still, by the afternoon, all was forgiven, but not forgotten - they ain't living that one down, ever. >:) But I've been told I'm getting a chocolate cake by way of an apology, so it's not all bad. :) We just warned them not to try locking the door again, or we'd knock it in and get 'em.

Welcome to the Prima Vista. Please leave your sanity at the door.

But it's okay, we're all friends again, all eejits and cold-hearted bitches together. ;)

And after my advisor meeting I'm continuing all my subjects from last year. Still think Level Two Celtic Civilisation looks a bit meh, but I need it if I want to do a Joint Honours with Archaeology and Celtic. I'll just have to knuckle down and do it, but it'll be worth it. The Honours courses look great. :)

And what about the writing, since - y'know - this is why I set up this blog in the first place. Well, I've been reading up on the Severan invasion of Caledonia in detail, and it looks like the third book is going to be even more of a sprawling mess than the first. (sighs) I managed to create some serious conflict... completely by accident. I had a minor character, Aelius' uncle Gaius, who I was trying to get rid of. So I decided to stick him in the army, and the first legion that occurred to me was for some reason the Second Parthica. Then, when I started the reading for the Severan novel, it turns out that the Second Parthica was probably involved in the Severan campaigns along with the British legions. Which would mean that Aelius would, effectively, be fighting against his uncle, his only living relative. Not to mention that while the family farm is being burnt down by Dacian raiders and Aelius is being pretty much press-ganged by some Druids, Gaius will be in Italy or Britain, so he'll most likely think Aelius is dead until he learns the truth about the identity of "Argentocoxos"...

Ooh... can't you just feel that conflict smouldering? ;) I think Gaius might even become a main character at this rate. And to think I was just trying to stop the plot from being too much like Star Wars...

...but that's another moan for another time, I think.

Like I said, sprawling mess.

And it's only an hour and twenty minutes till my birthday! Woo-hoo! See you later, and I'll try to get back into the blogging spirit soon...

Nope, still not up yet...

2008-09-04T13:11:00.000-07:00

...but we should be getting set up on the 11th, so I should be back in the blogosphere soon. *fingers very crossed*

I'm staying over with my family tonight (wow, that's weird to say), so I can use my laptop to get the Net. :)

Still having a blast. One of our party isn't moving in till Monday, but we're still having a ball. Still watching kids' TV, and getting far too into it. Alyson, one of my flatmates, has a new Xbox 360, so Sara and I've been watching her play Assassin's Creed and mocking. The game, that is, not her. Don't get me wrong, it's a good game, but ever since I introduced them to Mystery Science Theater 3000 via Teenagers from Outer Space, all we seem able to do is mock every movie/video game we put on.

We're sane. Really. Honest. Yep.

Last night we quoted our way through Muppet Treasure Island and Hercules. And sang all the songs. Because obviously that's compulsory. ;) Then we MST'd the last half hour of Van Helsing. Because that's also compulsory.

Nothing much else to post, but here are a couple of pics. Here's my room:

And a slightly blurry close-up of the window-ledge, which now serves as a bookshelf for my keepers. All neatly ordered by height... er...

And here's my bed, with its SERIOUSLY PINK duvet cover. Honest, it didn't look that bright in the catalogue. Yep, there's more books crammed into the nightstand. And a Tonberry plush. Alyson has a Moogle and Sara has a Cactuar, so we managed to unite the trinity of cute Final Fantasy creatures. Ultimate Geek Flat a-go-go!

And my desk. Yup, with more books. And my DVDs. And my various video games. I was donated the family's Wii upon moving out. Yay!

And a shot of my laptop, where the magic happens, under the watchful gaze of a Roman sentry. That's Marcus, my little guy from Vindolanda, btw. He's now been joined in his vigil by Zidane from Final Fantasy IX, Auron from Final Fantasy X, and Teddy Cadfael (well, what would you call a toy bear in a monk's habit?).

Oh, and speaking of Marcus...

OMG WTF SPQR super-special-awesome plot twist! Who knew Marcus had an identical twin brother in the legions? That's Steve, and he belongs to Alyson. As she remarked, "Wow, you can totally tell we visit the same places."

So, see you when I see you! I''ll be up at the uni again on the 9th for a meeting with my advisor ~~(my lovely, good-looking, Irish advisor!)~~ so I'll drop in the library then for some more catching up.

Oh... and it's only ten days till my birthday! (bounces off walls)

Good to be back (sort of)!

I'm alive!

2008-08-25T05:58:00.000-07:00

...Hello, birds! Hello, trees! I'm alive...

Ahem.

We're having much more of a to-do getting the Internet in the flat set up than I thought we would. No, it's not up yet. I'm writing this from the university library. Hopefully we'll get it sorted out once and for all over the next couple of weeks. *fingers crossed*

Not been writing much, either. Shockgasp. I had an urge to play some Final Fantasy X, since I hadn't in a while. So I opened a new game and started to play. And kept playing. And kept on playing. That's the thing about those FF games; they're great, but they tend to suck you into a void of levelling up and insane plot twists. So that's what I've been doing. Thankfully, I think I've managed to extricate myself from it for now, and I've written the first sentence of the Severan novel. Go me. "It was the prickling of hairs on the back of his neck that first let Aelius know he was being watched." Whee, could I get any more cliche? I also have to do a bit of research on Roman Histria, since that's where the book begins. Histria and Tara. It takes a wee while for the focus to shift back to Scotland. Just as soon as Sinnoch and Maelchon rescue Aelius from the smouldering ruins of his farm and tell him, "Ever heard of the Taexali? No? Well, you're their king now."

Anyway, I'm not on my computer so I can't upload any pics of the flat yet. But I can tell you it's an absolute ball so far! Between mocking video games mercilessly and spending four hours - I kid you not - watching cheesy 80s' music videos, we're having the time of our lives. Oh, yeah, and that whole cooking/housework thing. Heh. This morning we were all up to watch CBBC. Yeah, you read that right. You have to wonder just how much drugs these presenters are on. And I will forevermore have nightmares about being kidnapped by one of those creepy monks from Raven. That is all.

So I'm off to have a wee swatch at your blogs and see what I've been missing. Just wanted to let you all know I'm still breathing. :)

See ya when I see ya!

Happy Lughnasadh!

2008-08-01T12:38:00.000-07:00

Looks like I spoke too soon on the 50k front. Word count last night at midnight stood at 20,625. Ouch! Not even at the halfway mark. Didn't get much opportunity to write this last week. Real life's a bitch. >.<

Still, that's more than I get written most months. Think I might give it another shot this month, see if I can beat my own record. Mwahaha.

Anyway, the lease on the flat started today. My dad was working today, so I didn't have anyone to help me move my stuff in, but I went over to get my keys from my landlady and pay my first rent. Hurray! I'm so, so excited! :)

There have been a couple of, er, hiccups, so it's just going to be me at first. The others aren't coming up till later. Doesn't matter too much, since it means I've got a week or so to get things sorted out as I like them (for a while, at least), not to mention it means I've got first pick of the rooms. I think I might have the one with the double bed and the armchair, the one that isn't facing onto the main road. :)

I'll be moving in proper on Sunday, so it'll be quite a hectic weekend as I get my things packed and sorted. I'm dreading looking under the bed. I think the plotbunnies I kicked under there have been there for so long they've cross-bred with the dustbunnies. Not to mention it's going to be difficult finding a box big enough to hold Cathal's ego. ;)

So, on that note, I wish you all a very happy Lughnasadh! This was a Celtic harvest festival sacred to the god Lugh, the traditional date being July 31/August 1. Incidentally, August 1 is also the birthday of the Emperor Claudius, who was born at Lyon in France in 10 BC. At that time, Lyon was known as Lugdunum - "the fort of Lug(h)". Nice little coincidence, that. :)

So, happy Lughnasadh, and I'll be back when I've got the broadband in the flat set up.

Random musings - mind's all over the place right now

2008-07-23T09:46:00.000-07:00

And so the writing crawls on. There's a chance I might actually make the 50k, or damn near it in any case. I've found that if I just write and don't waste time himmin and hawin, I can write about a thousand words in an hour. The quality of the writing done in that hour leaves a lot to be desired, of course, but I'm forcing myself not to think about that just now.

I spent an hour the other night trying to find the right name for a bloody horse, which meant first I had to hunt down our Gaelic dictionary and flick through it for ideas. Stupid Epidii. It's not enough I have to find names for all of you, I have to find names for your precious horses, too.

Speaking of the Epidii, it's something I've been wondering about for a while. They seem to turn up in quite a few novels set in this sort of time period. They feature in Rosemary Sutcliff's Eagle of the Ninth, Jules Watson's books, and of course, my own WiP. I wonder what makes them in particular so interesting. It must have something to do with Argyll. I know I first decided on the Epidii for Gairea and Cathal's tribe because I love that part of Scotland. Not to mention the name "Tribe of the Horse" has an appealing "Riders of Rohan" vibe to it. :)

Also wondering about certain names. To accent or not to accent? In purest Gaelic form, the name of Gairea's cousin should properly be written Áedán, which I don't personally have a problem with, but to an eye unused to Gaelic spelling, it may look a bit like acute-overkill. The spelling Aedan, without the acutes, is also perfectly valid, but since I like languages, I prefer putting in accents where they should be. I just wonder which variant of the name is more appealing to a non-Gaelic speaker. Here are different variants I've seen:

Áedán

Aedan

Áedan

Aedán

Which one do you prefer?

I'm also thinking I might post up an excerpt in the next few days. A snippet I've already written and read over, of course, not something out of the rubbish I've written this month. It's been a while since I've posted one, so watch this space. :P

And it's nine days till I move out! Wow.

See you later!

Yet another writing update

2008-07-17T09:17:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm slowly inching my way forward with the writing. It's a bit of a wrench, I admit, since I've forbidden myself from looking back and editing anything. And, since I'm a terrible perfectionist and obsessive self-editor, I hate pressing forward and knowing I've left an unedited mess in my wake. >.< I expect I'll spend most of August tearing everything I've written in July to shreds and rewriting it all over again.

Things are finally beginning to heat up now that Calgacus has travelled to the Novantae capital and found that their king is just as keen as him to see the Romans ousted. Enjoy it while it lasts, mate, they won't all be as easy as that. Especially not your ex-foster-brother up in Orkney.

Truth be told, I have more trouble with the Calgacus POV than I do with anyone else's, and I think that's because I haven't got as good a grip on him yet as I do the others. I haven't found out yet what makes him tick. As I see it, MCs have two journeys: an external one, and an internal one, interconnected. The external one is the quest, the journey to save the world (or whatever). The internal one is how the external journey affects the character: what do they discover about themselves? What inner demons do they have to battle? What, in personal/spiritual terms, do they get out of it?

With regards to my four other POVs (Marcus, Gairea, Cathal and Agricola), I have both the external and internal quests established. With Calgacus, I only have the external quest. I know he wants to unite the tribes to resist Rome, out of both a genuine desire for the freedom of his people - and also that dark little part of himself that likes being the king of the strongest tribe in Caledonia and doesn't really fancy the idea of giving up his leadership to any Roman governor. That in itself provides a demon for him to grapple with: knowing that his motives maybe aren't entirely as noble as he makes out.

But what else? What does he hope to gain - personally/mentally/emotionally/etc.? What will he discover about himself? What other flaws and demons are hindering him in his endeavour? These are the questions I still need to answer.

I think it's probably harder when you've created a character who has already proven themselves, as my Calgacus has. In TAC, he's already established himself as a great warrior and statesman, king of the most powerful of the northern tribes. It's not the same situation as with, say, Gairea, whose story involves her realising her potential and proving herself. Agricola, too, although with twenty years of military and political experience behind him, is still working now towards the high point of his career. I suppose the formation of the Caledonian confederacy will be the high point of Calgacus', with a trip and a fall at the end (ie, the defeat at Mons Graupius).

In short, I still don't know how he's going to grow as a character, and until he does, his chapters feel flatter than the other characters'.

Maybe... maybe, having already established his skills and reputation, his bid to unite the tribes will test all of them to the limit. Like, "Okay, so you're good. But are you really good?" Has he allowed himself to believe all his own hype? Perhaps his first attempt an alliance with the Novantae (which is beaten by Agricola), will lose him credibility with the other tribal leaders, and he'll be forced for the rest of the book to re-prove himself? Will he be stalked by self-doubt for the rest of the book, begin questioning his own convictions, ever contemplate surrender?

What is it, in the end, that compels him to make the disastrous decision to face Agricola in a pitched battle? Arrogance? Desperation? A need to vindicate himself?

Buggered if I know, that's all I'm saying. But we shall get to the bottom of it, yesss, preciousss, we shall...

And now it's onto the next Marcus chapter. Marcus is a strange combination of wry, self-deprecating humour, angst, and hormones, and a lot of fun to write. :)

In other news, it's a long way off, but the ending continues to look more and more solid. I think it's going to be good - when I finally get there. I'm a bit surprised at some of it, but it all makes sense, and wraps things up very nicely, while leaving the way open for the Antonine novel. :)

More random causes for celebration

2008-07-10T16:06:00.000-07:00

I promise, I should be back with a proper post before too long, but in the meantime, here are some things which have been making me hyper today:

So, yeah, the Antonine Wall's now a World Heritage Site. Hurray! And, according to this, there will be an Antonine Wall Centre opening at Glasgow University next year! Woo-hoo! I knew the Hunterian Museum was revamping its Roman exhibit, but I didn't realise they were giving it its own little niche. It'll be good to see all the stuff again; all they've kept on show at the moment are the distance slabs and the altars (including, of course, those dedicated by my favourite centurion, lol).

And, after a good couple of years of hiding, I think the ending of The Ancestor Crown has finally revealed itself to me! Without giving away too much, it'll involve much blood, sweat, and tears. Mostly mine. And several of the main cast will be... er... going into the west. Yeah. Because the days of the Eldar are past and... oh, wait... that's wrong... But several of them are definitely westward-bound. And the general outcome of Marcus' story is not what I expected at all.

And, also, last week's post on prosthetics in antiquity is up on The Celtic Myth Podshow blog as a guest post. It's a site I'm quite fond of, as it's a good place to find Celtic-related links, amongst other things, and Gary, one of the owners and presenters, was dead nice in asking to borrow my post and sprucing it up nicely on his site with pictures. So, of course, I like it even more now! :) (Still can't believe that anyone but me actually pays attention to the drivel that appears on this blog, but that's another story.) My baby words, all growed up and out there on the big, bad Internet all by themselves. (wipes tear)

And my computer's all set up, so I'm finally ready to get back to typing. Last time I looked, Calgacus was stuck in a curragh on a very choppy Firth of Clyde, and feeling decidedly sea-sick. I should go and put him out of his misery.

And that's me for now! I think I'll just go and dance for glee some more. I'd offer you all some virtual Falernian wine, but it looks like the cast drank it all at that party the other night. ;)

Woo-hoo!

2008-07-08T17:44:00.000-07:00

Unesco have announced the good news: the Antonine Wall is now officially a World Heritage Site! Hurray! I've come to the conclusion that the headache I had this afternoon must have been the cast of the Antonine novel having a celebratory party. :)

Let's hope the relevant authorities now do the monument it deserves, eh? There'll be quite a bit of work to do.

And my new laptop arrived this morning! Double hurray! It's all clean and pretty and shiny... and I need to upload all my files before I can get back to my writing. Damn. Oh, well, at least I know what I'm doing tomorrow.

And the worst of the PMS is finally over, so I feel up to writing again. :)

A quick update

2008-07-06T17:18:00.000-07:00

Just to let you all know what I've been up to since I last posted.

My writing challenge... isn't going too well. I was on a roll that first day, but then on the second and the third, I didn't get very much written at all. In fact, I haven't actually written anything since Friday. :(

Part of the reason is that my new computer hasn't arrived yet, so I have to wait till my sister's not using hers before I can type up anything.

Another part is that I suddenly had a meltdown of the "OMGWTF I SUCK" variety. It's still not quite assuaged yet. I've written angry little notes to myself, telling me that my characterisation is about as flat as two-day-old Cola, my dialogue is terrible, my world-building sucks, my descriptions suck, and the only thing I've got going for me is my plot, and that's because I got it from Tacitus. It's going to be a while before I feel even halfway competent again.

Friday was my cousin's wedding, so I wasn't going to get anything written then anyway. It was a lovely day, though. She looked absolutely gorgeous, and the church service was lovely (even if I felt completely disoriented 'cause I didn't know any of the hymns, or those wee replies they give to the priest during Mass - can you tell I'm not religious?). She got some glorious sunshine for her big day, too, between two days of pouring rain. :) The only thing I can really complain about was the inept piper. I mean, bagpipes are bad at the best of times, but when played by someone who can't... (shudder)

Then disaster struck (for me, that is, not anyone else). Halfway through the afternoon, I realised my period had started, taking me completely unawares. (Yeah, sorry for the TMI, folks, but I need to moan about it to someone.) Worse than that, I didn't have any towels on me. Even worse than that, I was wearing very white trousers. >.< I ended up spending the rest of the evening with my bum anchored firmly to my seat, resisting all efforts by various relatives to get me on the dance floor.

PMS also struck bad this month. That night I cried for about an hour and a half non-stop after a horrible, horrible plunge in self-esteem. I have a lot of self-esteem issues, which I can usually handle, but tonight, for some reason, they just overwhelmed me all at once. It was probably the PMS, only I don't remember it ever affecting me quite so badly before. I felt better in the morning, but it was still horrible. Yeuch.

So... yeah. PMS also tends to wreak havoc with my ability to write, so even if my new computer does come this week, I still don't think I'll be doing much writing. Looks like an editing week for me. I can edit that crap I wrote on the first couple of days. ;) I'm dreading looking at it.

And in other moan-related news, I was very... dissatisfied with the series finale of Doctor Who. And for most of the episode, it was absolutely great. I loved it. It just sort of copped out at the end. The whole thing with Rose's happy ending just seemed a bit too nicely wrapped up in a pretty bow. I thought her story had been pretty neatly tied up at the end of the second series, anyway. It was so sad, but it was satisfying. It felt complete. I thought her ending in this episode rang a bit false, just shoved in there to placate the Rose fans. (I'm not active in the Doctor Who fandom, but I have a friend who is, and she claims the Rose fans are "batshit insane".)

That's not my biggest gripe, though. That's reserved for the send-off they gave Donna. I mean, wtf? Maybe it's just a personal thing, but I really can't abide following something - a book, or a TV programme, or whatever - getting to know a character and follow their development and growth, only for them to lose their memories at the end and render all that growth null and void. What was the point? Why bother? Why were her insecurities all laid bare in this last episode and then overcome, only for her to forget it all and regress into the person she had been before? Like I said, it's a personal peeve, but for me, the whole "protagonist loses all memory of the storyline at the end" thing ranks way down there with "...And it was all a dream."

Grrrgnash. And I'd absolutely loved this series, too. :(

And elsewhere... OMG why the hell can't the Irish sources agree on anything? Bloody Book of Invasions. Bloody Annals of the Four Masters. Bloody Book of Ballymote. Is it asking too much for a rough agreement on when Cairpre Riata might've lived? The dates I've garnered together range from AD 165, c. 200 - 220, 258 - 274. In short, no one can seem to make up their bloody minds. And was he the son of Conaire Mór of Da Derga's Hostel fame, or Conaire Coem? Can you make up your minds there? No? Oh, bloody hell.

Ach, tae hell wi' it. He's going in the Severan novel. Stupid, manipulated, politically-slanted genealogies. If you can make stuff up, so can I. Nyaaah. >:(

I shall return when the Feminax kicks in.

I challenge... er... myself.

2008-07-01T16:05:00.000-07:00

I thought, since I'm just bursting with inspiration after my time at Vindolanda, and since I've really got nothing to do all July, I'd set myself a writing target. I've not been writing much since my exams, so I thought I'd go for something which would make up for that and kick-start The Ancestor Crown into the exciting stuff.

I've decided to aim for 50,000 words, the target count for NaNoWriMo. (Of course, in July I've got one day more than NaNo participants.) I hope to meet it by midnight, July 31. That averages out at 1613 words per day (once I've rounded up, that is).

Today's word count: 1648.

Let's hope I can keep it up. Wish me luck!

Ancient prosthetics 101

2008-06-30T10:55:00.000-07:00

Regulars to the Scribbling Corner might be wondering if they're on the right blog. Don't worry, you are. :)

I mentioned in my post on character names that Aelius, the Roman protagonist of my Severan novel, will later gain the epithet “Argentocoxos” (Silver Foot), the name of a Caledonian referred to once in passing in Cassius Dio’s account of Septimius Severus’ campaigns in northern Britain. The big question was: how do I get from “Aelius” to “Argentocoxos”? It was going to have to be a nickname of some sort, but why was Aelius going to end up being called “Silver Foot”?

The answer turned out to be one of those things that occur to me just as I’m dozing off. “What if,” I thought, “Aelius ends up losing a foot and having a fake one put in its place? Made of silver? Like that guy from that Irish myth, only with a foot. Yeah... Zzzz...”

That seemed fair enough, and I promptly fell asleep. But then, in the cold light of day, I started reassessing it. Knowing next to nothing about medical history, I wondered, did they even have prosthetic limbs in the third century AD? And if they did, were they likely to be made out of silver? So I’ve spent the last week or so doing a bit of research on the history of prosthetic limbs, in order to come up with an answer. D’you want the short version or the long version?

Tough. You’re getting the long version. :)

Our earliest recorded description of a prosthesis is to be found in the Indian Rig Veda, which may date back as far as c. 3500 BC, but whose present form is conventionally dated to about 1700 - 1100 BC. One of the hymns mentions the warrior Vishpala, who loses a leg in battle and has an iron one made to replace it so she can re-enter the combat. The second millennium BC is also when we begin to find artificial body parts appearing in the archaeological record, the earliest examples of which are the artificial toes discovered with two Egyptian mummies. The oldest of these dates from 1295 BC, and at least one - the wooden and leather “Cairo toe” - appears to have been a functioning prosthetic, rather than a cosmetic touch.

Prosthetics also appear in the classical world, in literature and mythology, and also in archaeology. The bronze “Roman Capua Leg”, dating back to c. 300 BC, was, until the discovery of the aforementioned Egyptian toes, the oldest example we had of an ancient prosthetic. Classical historians also offer historical anecdotes of people with artificial limbs. For example, Pliny the Elder tells us, in the seventh book of his Natural History, of Marcus Sergius, the great-grandfather of Catiline, who, during the Second Punic War (218 - 201 BC) had his right arm amputated after sustaining injuries and had an iron hand created so he could return to battle.

So, we know the Romans had prosthetics. Unfortunately, we don’t know whether the Celtic-speaking peoples did. I think, however, it’s reasonable to assume that they did on some level. It’s interesting that the two documented examples I’ve already mentioned - Vishpala and Marcus Sergius - were warriors. I wonder if, in history, it was the warriors who were the most likely to want artificial limbs. The prostheses of Vishpala and Sergius would certainly have been as cosmetic as they were functional, if indeed they were functional. I suppose, especially for a warrior, a truncated limb would be a visible admission of weakness.

That brings us to the Celts. Given the nature of their culture, I imagine their healers must have been used to dealing with body parts which had got mangled in battles and cattle-raids. And with the Celts being as aesthetically aware as they were, I imagine there must have been some chieftain or other at one time who decided to go for a shiny fake hand or leg to show off to his clients. Unfortunately, we don’t have any records of Celtic prosthetics in archaeology or any historical documents. We do, however, have some myths which suggest that artificial limbs weren’t unknown in the Celtic world.

The first, and most obvious, is the Irish figure Nuada Airgetlám - “Nuada of the Silver Hand” (Welsh correspondent: Nudd Llaw Eraint). According to legend, Nuada was the first king of the Tuatha Dé Danann, who lost his hand (or his arm, depending) in single combat, and had to relinquish his leadership. Dian Cecht, the god of healing, made for Nuada a silver hand which functioned as a normal one. This was eventually replaced by a real arm made by Dian Cecht’s son Miach (which drove the god to kill his son out of jealousy) and Nuada was restored to the kingship.

Another example can be found in the legend of the Breton/Cornish Saint Melor. The story goes that the uncle of the young prince Melor decided to make a grab for the throne, and, in an attempt to eliminate a potential rival, intended to have the boy murdered. He was dissuaded from actual killing, however, and instead had Melor’s right hand and left foot cut off (wow, nice). These were replaced with prostheses made, respectively, from silver and bronze, which grew as Melor did and functioned, like Nuada’s silver hand, as if they were made of flesh and blood.

Of course, these are legends, so the parts about the artificial limbs working like normal ones should really be taken with a pinch of salt. Nuada’s hand was, after all, made by the god of healing himself, and Melor was a saint, so obviously the hagiographer had to fit some miracles into the boy’s tragically short life. What’s noticeable about these stories, however, is that it’s the abilities of these metal limbs that are remarkable, not existence of the limbs themselves, which could be taken to mean that the Celtic-speaking peoples knew about prosthetics. Saint Melor belongs to the post-Roman Early Historic period - ie, in a time which has had experience of Roman surgical practice - but it’s a general assumption that the Irish myths, although written down during this same period, represent oral traditions that go back long before. It seems reasonable, therefore, to suggest that the Celts had some form of prosthetic know-how. And as far as Aelius is concerned, given that most of the prostheses referred to above were made out of metal, a silver foot is possible, from both a historical and mythological standpoint.

Which throws in a whole new plot point. Aelius will be vying for a Caledonian kingship, and an amputation will prove to be an obstacle. One of the stipulations in the Irish law tract Cóic Conairi Fuigill - “The Five Paths of Judgement” - is that a candidate for the kingship must be free of any physical blemish. This can be seen in the legends of both Nuada and Saint Melor, where their disabilities are enough to disqualify them. A real life example of this law in practice can be found in (of all things) the Bechbretha - a tract on beekeeping - in which it’s written that King Congal Cáech was put out of the running after being blinded by some bees.

So perhaps, although Aelius’ eligibility to the kingship is put in doubt after his amputation, it’s this silver foot which helps to preserve it. After all, I doubt Dian Cecht would have gone to the trouble of making that silver arm if it wasn't going to reverse Nuada's fortunes at all! I’ll see how it goes.

Whew! All that for the sake of a name. Now I just need to work out why Aelius is going to lose that foot. Frostbite? Gangrene? Freak hunting accident? Or perhaps that should be “accident” with the inverted commas?

I’m so nice to my characters, aren't I?

References:

- Early Medieval Ireland, Dáibhí Ó Cróinín, Longman publishing, 1995
- BBC News article on the Egyptian toes
- History of Prosthetics, by the University of North Carolina
- Pliny's account of Marcus Sergius, from the Perseus Digital Library
- my lecture notes on Early Historic kingship (they'll do)

Vindolanda, week II

2008-06-26T16:52:00.000-07:00

Finally, I'm back with the second part. This should've been up before now, only I've not really been in the mood for blogging at any length these last couple of days. Anyway, without further ado, here's week two of my fortnight at Vindolanda.

After the first Thursday, I had two days off. Friday wasn't very exciting; I went into Haltwhistle - a very charming, ever so "English" town - and stocked up on supplies at Sainsbury's, then mooched around the cottage for the rest of the afternoon. Saturday was more interesting. Rested now, I decided to go out and take in some of Hadrian's Wall. The couple who owned the farm and cottage where I was staying very kindly offered to drive me into Haltwhistle (in fact, they drove me to and from Vindolanda every day; they were absolutely lovely) where I caught the Hadrian's Wall bus out to Carvoran (or Magna, as it was once known). I had a dauner around the Roman Army Museum and its haunted gift shop. Well, how else do you explain the avalanche of books that rained down on me even though I'd barely touched one of them? Lol! I bet it was the ghost of a Roman soldier who was once garrisoned at Magna. Would explain the hostility towards me, a rogue Caledonian on the wrong side of the Wall! ;)

So, after that minor embarrassment, I started on the short (but ultimately steep walk) to Walltown Crags, where, perched on the ridge, you can find - not the remains of Milecastle 46, as I originally put - but in fact Turret 45A (thank you, Harry, for pointing out my mistake), and a very well-preserved stretch of Hadrian's Wall itself. Here's the turret; it was just one in a system of watch towers strung along the Wall. It would have been a couple of storeys high and manned by a few soldiers, perhaps just a contubernium or two, I'm not sure...

The part of the Wall still standing here really is impressive. Say what you like about them Romans, they knew how to build stuff. At Walltown Crags, part of it was still standing at about two metres high.

But, I think what's most compelling about Hadrian's Wall is how closely it follows the topography of the Stanegate ridge. It must have had a profound effect on the Caledonians who watched it being built, this edifice that dominated the horizon, rising and falling as the land did. I wonder what the Iron Age equivalent for "OMGWTF!?" was. ;)

Here it is, looking east, rising towards the milecastle:

Imagine the manpower involved in building that thing. And imagine the jaws of Hadrian's staff hitting the ground as he outlined his plan for a bloody big wall stretching from sea to sea.

Anyway, I stayed up there for a while, taking in the views south - where you can get brilliant views of the South Tyne Valley - and, of course, north. It was glorious sunshine, and I'd brought a packed lunch with me, so I settled myself down next to the milecastle and sat there munching my Danish, perched on the very edge of "civilisation". Looking north from there, it was possible to see just why they chose the ridge for the ultimate frontier. Miles of empty land, stretching away north to the shadowy line of hills in the far distance...

Of course, sitting there by myself, I was very much a sitting target for the plotbunnies who happened to be lurking in the area. While I sat and gazed northwards, I encountered a few tense Roman sentries, Dux Fullofaudes (nope, I don't know what he was doing there either) and some die-hard Picts scaling the precipice. The effect might have been more phantom-like if it had been the dead of night, rather than high noon. But you know what plotbunnies are like; they'll risk anything to snag an unsuspecting author. ;) Anyway, after telling the various characters I'd think about their proposals, I managed to make my escape, 'cause my bus to Housesteads was due. They complained, but I think I managed to get away before any of them stuck seriously.

So, yeah, Housesteads (Vercovicium). Yet another Roman fort, just to the east of Vindolanda, and situated quite awkwardly, I thought, on the side of the hill. I mean, it was quite a step up the via principalis, and the slope puts the praetorium, the commanding officer's house, at quite a wonky angle. But, hey, those Roman builders knew what they were doing, and it's stood the test of time, so what do I know?

Anyway, I was on the via principalis - that is to say, climbing the slope, when I was caught behind a very slow-moving group of posh people, so I had to listen to them. For an insufferable smart-arse, I have an odd aversion to listening to other people trying to be clever. Ah, life's little mysteries. The best part was when one of the women remarked, "It looks very Roman, doesn't it?"

You don't say.

After looking around Housesteads - more lovely Roman stonework! - I'd intended to go on to Carrawburgh/Brocolitia to have a look at the mithraeum. Unfortunately, I'd had a bit of a mix-up with the bus timetables earlier in the day (ie, my timetable was telling fairy tales), so I'd lost a good couple of hours, and didn't have the time. Ah, well. Next year, maybe. :)

After Saturday, it was back to the daily grind. After one week, they tend to switch people about from one part of the site to another, to let them get a wider view of the site. This week, I ended up working on the east wall of the other granary, right next to the headquarters building (principia). It was pretty much the same idea as the previous week: we were to get down to the road level and see if we could find the wall. In order to do so, we first had to clear away the backfill from previous excavations carried out in the 30s (I think). Which meant that for the first two days, what bits of bone and pot we did find were out of context, and had simply been overlooked first time round. Still, if it's gotta be done, it's gotta be done.

The previous week, I'd noticed, there had been quite a few students involved; this week, there were less students and a good few retired couples who had been coming for the last few years. I met one couple who had come down from Edinburgh: the husband was an ex-Latin teacher and had, as a student, excavated at Birrens under Professor Anne Robertson, so at tea-break we chatted about Roman Scotland, the Antonine Wall and the Gask Ridge. Then I had a smart-arse moment when I corrected another guy on something to do with the Inchtuthil nail hoards. I don't think he took too much offence, though; he came over to talk to me the next day. Then there was the other guy who asked me if I'd broken all my nails yet. Cheeky sod.
I got on all right with pretty much everyone, though there was that time when someone asked me what I was doing at uni and I told them: Archaeology, Celtic Civilisation, and Latin. A woman I was working alongside - an otherwise perfectly nice woman - paused and said to me earnestly, "You do know the Celts didn't speak Latin, don't you?" (facepalm)

I'd had a bit of a cold over the weekend, and on Tuesday, I felt too lousy to go out. So I sat around the house, moping and thinking, "Bet this is the day they find something amazing." Still, I felt a bit better in the evening, so I figured I'd see how Wednesday went before deciding whether or not to go home early.

Wednesday morning was all right, though I still felt a bit light-headed, and you could follow me around the site with the help of the trail of used snot-rags that fell out of my pockets. Most of the backfill had been cleared out of one section, where a buttress had been uncovered, leading us to hope that there was more wall to find. So, while I cleared away the last of the dirt to get down to the road surface, another guy's taking a pickaxe to the rubble and dirt to find the wall. Unfortunately, after hours of back-breaking work on his part, all that turned up was another robber trench. Turns out the stone-robbers of antiquity had done a pretty thorough job on this side, though for some strange reason they'd left that single buttress standing there by itself, and given us all false hope. >:( It wasn't all bad, though. Now that most of the backfill had been cleared from the road, I and the couple who were excavating just along from me were now on the surface where artefacts could be found proper. They found a nice little coin, which was bagged up and taken away to be cleaned at the lab.

By the end of lunchtime, I'm feeling rotten again. Guy next to me is still having no luck, and he remarks to me, "You know what? I'm going to build a time machine, go back in time and wait for those stone-robbers with a gun, then I'm going to come back and excavate again, and the wall will still be here!" I offered to help. Damn, inconsiderate stone-robbers.

It gets to about four o'clock, and suddenly, I have this splitting headache that comes out of nowhere. I'm convinced now that I'm not going to make it through another day and I'll be spending this evening packing my stuff. Then, I'm brushing up some soil, when something suddenly pops out from where it was wedged between two cobblestones. I pick it up and look at it. It's a die, a bit brown but otherwise in perfect condition. Now, for most of that week, the backfill layers had turned up things like ballpoints and batteries, so when I pick up this perfect little die, I decide it has to be modern. I'm about to chuck it away, when the guy next to me, obviously desperate to be away from the Robber Trench of Doom, suggests he'll go and show it to Andy anyway, for a bit of a joke. So I give it to him and get on with my sweeping. Then I realise he's taking his time, so I glance up, and Andy and Beth are taking a hell of an interest in it, and some of my fellow volunteers are coming over, too. Andy shouts across to me, but the wind's in my ears and I can't hear him. I clamber out of the trench and the shout comes: "Kirsten, it's Roman!"

For a moment, I'm speechless. "R-Roman?"

"100% Roman," says Andy.

Roman die, made of bone, with the number dots incised. By now, my 100% Roman die is attracting a lot of attention, a lot of people oohing and aahing and running for cameras, myself included. Andy jokes that he reckons it's one of the commanding officer's dice. Turns out that dice are pretty special little finds. And I found one. On my first ever dig. I'm grinning like an eejit right now as I type this. :D

And here it is, my star find. The zoom on my camera isn't all that great, but if you click on the photo here, you should be able to just make out some of the numbers on the faces visible:

My personal favourite find of the fortnight. It earned me a thumbs-up from Andy, who told me, "Kirsten, over the next few years, you'll go on hundreds of digs, but you'll be hard-pressed to better that." My headache seemed to disappear after that. Talk about a miracle cure. :)

On the phone that evening, my mum said, "Now you'll have to bring in a character who likes dice." I laughed and agreed, then I realised if I did, I ran the risk of creating a Romano-British Ryuuji Otogi. And I really don't want to have that on my conscience. ;)

So I stayed for the Thursday after all. I didn't really find anything else that day, though we managed to uncover most of the road surface in our section, with some really frantic trowelling and shovelling during the last twenty minutes. More than anything else, I just wanted to prolong my time with the folks on the dig. It was quite a sad moment, really, when the time came for us to tidy up and sit on the granary walls for the end-of-the-week speech and group photo.

Here's my trench, with the buttress and a bit of road:

And here's the group, flocking to the arse-parking spot at the end of the day:

Of course, that was the day for buying rubbish from the gift shop for the folks back home. The Vindolanda shop has a rather droolworthy stock of books on Roman Britain, though amongst them I found The Wall: Rome's Greatest Frontier, by a familiar name, Alistair Moffat. I haven't entirely forgiven that Before Scotland travesty, so, it was with morbid curiosity that I flicked open The Wall to a random page. First thing I saw was yet another rant which added up, more or less, to, "Waaa! No one studies the people who lived on the sites of the forts before they were kicked off their land by that ebul Roman army!" (As Andrew pointed out to me, if there are British settlements beneath the forts, they're underneath up to eight or nine layers of Roman occupation, and several feet of stratigraphy, which makes studying their inhabitants kinda difficult, to say the least.) So I... didn't buy that one. I did, however, buy myself a little beanie Roman legionary. Guess what I called him. C'mon, guess.

And that, as they say, was that. I had a brilliant time getting in and involved in a real dig, and I'll definitely be going down again in the future. And plotbunnies ran unchecked across the South Tyne valley. I noticed that on the very first evening, when I went out for a walk with my dad. Everywhere we looked, there were bunnies scampering across the roads and through the fields. Big, epic ones that sat there and refused to budge, and little, shy ones that were there for a moment, then hopped out of sight before you could get a good look at them. Sure, they looked cute, but I recognised them for what they were! I'll be writing all July. :)

I'm back from Vindolanda!

2008-06-22T12:09:00.000-07:00

Kirsten Campbell, to all her blogger friends, greetings. :)

I'm finally back from digging in the dirt at Vindolanda. Well, actually, I got back on Friday afternoon, but this is the first time I've been sorted and recovered enough to sit and down and type up this little account of wot I did on my holidays. I tell ya, it wasn't easy spending a fortnight without the Internet, especially when I was needed to look up certain bits of trivia. One evening I had to phone home because I'd been struck by the urgent, inexplicable need to know when Marcus Junius Brutus was born (85 BC, btw).

In short, I had an absolutely brilliant time. Being lectured on archaeological practice is fine and all, but it's nothing compared to actually getting in there and getting your hands dirty (figuratively and literally!). A great experience, along with (mostly) great weather and great people.

But you probably want some more detail than that. Detail, and pictures. :)

So... um... yeah. Vindolanda. Celtic name meaning "white field", Roman auxiliary fort, pre-Hadrianic Stanegate frontier, famous writing tablets, etc., etc. The current excavation project is trying to ascertain, according to the Director of Excavations, the learned and fantastic Andrew Birley, whether the fort walls really did form a great divide between the garrison inside the fort, and the population living in the vicus - the civilian town outside, with excavations focused on a section of the vicus, and on the granaries in the central range of the fort. Must say, this was what really got me interested, as the soldier/civilian split is a theme which pops up more than once in my books.

Me, I was working on Andrew's team around the granaries, where they've uncovered a nice stretch of the via principalis, the main street of the fort, and, to quote Eddie Izzard, a "series of small walls". And a very nice series of small walls, it is, too (where the later stone-robbers haven't made off with parts, of course). Feast your eyes on the pretty, pretty Roman stonework (the tags have something to do with soil sampling, I think), here -

- and here (black bag leaning against the buttress is mine):

The first day (Sunday), I was working on the via principalis. After a morning of de-turfing (aaargh), I managed to uncover a couple of paving stones, and also the cobbles of the earlier metalled road beneath the paved surface. During the course of the day, I managed to find my first shards of pottery and glass, and the first of many, many nails. Nails turned out to be a regular fixture over the two weeks, scattered willy-nilly through the rubble layers. Honestly, it's like they just chucked them about when they were done with them. And I'm not even talking wee nails here; I'm talking those big, mean Roman ones with the square heads ("Jesus nails", as Andrew called them).

Actually, my very first find, almost as soon as I put trowel to soil, was a fossil, which no one cared about, so I was told I could either throw it away or take it home with me. So I stuffed it in my bag and brought it back with me. I was kind of surprised to find it there, since in stratigraphic terms, a fossil shouldn't be above a Roman road. I'm guessing, since it was in with the rubble, that it came from the quarry on the hill.

So, after the first day - after all the physical labour, fresh air and sunburn - I fell into bed around half seven, woke up again about half ten, then back to sleep again about eleven. Then it was up at cockcrow (literally - for the first week, there was a cockerel who made it his business who sit under my window about five in the morning and crow incessantly till eight) for day two.

Spent the second morning dislodging more stubborn rubble with a pickaxe, then after lunch, me and another girl, Miranda, were whisked round to the back of the granaries to start getting rid of more rubble in order to get down to the road surface. Over the course of the week, this area gave up loads of nails, bits of bone (we decided we must have uncovered the equivalent to at least one cow!) and charcoal, as well as a few shards of Samian pottery (the people in the next trench found some very nicely decorated bits) and some bits of greyware (standard army pottery). Miranda also unearthed an interesting wee anomaly:

See those two slabs of stone lying parallel on the left? They definitely appeared to be there on purpose, though, as Andy pointed out, they tend to be associated with the ramparts of a fort, and shouldn't've been lying in the middle of the road like that. Verrry interesting and, silly me, I forgot to go and see on my last day if they had made any headway in finding out what they were doing there. Damn.

On Tuesday, I finally met the Dutch students who were staying on the same farm as I was. They were working in the vicus group and were dead nice, though one of them was a bit quiet. Either he just didn't have as much English as his friend, or I scared him. My ugly mug has that effect on people. See:

Ergh!

Lol.

Anyway, on the Tuesday I unearthed my first find which merited its own individual bag. Oh, yeah! It was the first of three arrowheads I found in the trench that week. I asked Alex, one of the supervisors, if it was Roman, or more likely to belong to the post-Roman period of occupation that the granaries saw. He said it was hard to tell straight away from the typology, but it was probably Roman. Yay! A Roman arrowhead! I didn't expect to find anything like that. :)

That was in the morning, and in the afternoon it was back down to earth to uncover more nails and bone. Managed to find the near-entire shoulder blade of something bovine, but it was so spongy it came apart almost as soon as I touched it. :( Spent the rest of the afternoon shovelling rubble, trowelling soil, and wheeling my barrow up and down the spoil heap. I'm quite an indoor sort of person, but I actually relished all the physical work, aching muscles and cramping hands, and all. I think the sense of anticipation stopped it from being complete drudgery. You never know what'll come out of your next trowel-ful; you'll see something small and round-edged peeking out from the dirt and you'll stop and think - to steal yet another joke from Eddie Izzard - "Is that a bit of grit? Is that a piece of money? Or is that the treasure of the Sierra Madre??" For me, it always turned out to be a bit of grit. I didn't find any coins (though others did), and I definitely didn't find the treasure of the Sierra Madre. ;) Though I did rack up some cool little finds over the course of the fortnight, mwahaha.

On the Wednesday morning, before excavations started at ten, I went for a short walk to find the Chesterholm milestone, one of the only Roman milestones in Britain still standing in its original place. I found it easily enough. It's very weathered and you can't read anything on it any more, and standing there by itself in the shaded corner of the field, it looks like something that would transport you back in time if you touched it, in a sort of Romano-British Outlander, lol. It actually gave me an idea for a daft time-travel comedy along those lines. :) Here it is, anyway:

And I just couldn't resist taking a photo of this place here, next to the milestone. It looks like the sort of place you'd expect to see some Hobbits having a picnic! :)

That day, we were joined by Andy, who was trying to find more of the granary wall while we carried on with the road. Turned out most of the stretch had been pretty much taken away by later stone-robbers, leaving one of those damned robber trenches. I had a good laugh that day, though, 'cause when Andy found out I was at Glasgow, he regaled me with tales of "Mad Bill" Hanson, one of my professors, who apparently starts foaming at the mouth if you suggest the possibility that not all extramural settlements were necessarily called vici. (If Professor Hanson should at all chance to read this, I'd like to make it clear that I didn't say any of this. I just listened.) Apparently, things can get a bit intense in the Romano-British field of archaeology! ;) Anyway, I spent the day listening to Andy and Alex nattering, and occasionally talking myself. I'm not sure what impression I give from this blog, but I can actually be quite shy, and it takes a while for me to realise that it's okay to talk to someone, that they're not going to eat me. ;)

Andrew also mentioned the possibility of there being the traces of round huts under our stretch of road, built during the Severan period (208 - 212, or thereabouts) to accommodate African soldiers while they fought against my lot, as he put it. I made a mental note to include some round huts in my Severan novel. ;)

Thursday, I made another friend. A feline one. I don't know what it is, but cats like me. One tried to follow me into one of the university buildings once, and I'm the only one our Cleo actually likes (my "familiar spirit", we call her). This one, I met on the path outside the Vindolanda site. It was balancing on a fence some way away, but when it saw me, it came over and started mewing and rubbing itself against me. I stayed and talked to it for a few minutes, then I went on my way. And it followed me. And kept on following me. Down the path, and then up again, until I was beginning to worry it'd end up trailing me into the excavation site. And it did the thing Cleo does, where she follows me, then goes on ahead for a little bit, then stops to wait. I'm still trying to work out what it is about me that they like. Anyway, we seemed to reach some unspoken agreement, because the cat eventually stopped trailing me and sat on the path, watching me leave. Weird. And here's a picture of him, with the fort wall in the background. He was a nice cat. I'm sorry I never found out his name.

Thursday was one of my best days when it came to miscellaneous rare finds. In fact, that was the day Alex remarked, "Kirsten, you're on fire today!" My first find was this half of a pair of Roman tweezers:

I also found two more arrowheads; here's a nice close-up of arrowhead no. 2:

- and this thing, which might either have been part of a bronze bracelet, or part of a post-Roman penannular brooch (two examples have already been recovered from the granary sites):

I also recovered these small finds:

From left to right, they are: a hobnail from the sole of an army boot, a boar's tooth (the guy in the next trench found a tusk!), and a "T-clamp", used in hypocaust construction. Not a bad little haul! :D

Needless to say, after Thursday's success, I was all flushed and excited by the time it came to pack up early in order to switch over with the group in the vicus and take a look at their excavation site. Their supervisor, Justin, talked us around the trenches, which have turned up the traces of a metalworking workshop, amongst other things, judging from the brooch-mould they found. Earlier on, a small altar-stone was also turned up at the edge of the vicus site, and it's a baffling little find. It's not that it's untranslatable; it's illegible. They put a couple of photos of it up in the excavation hut, and it really is impossible to read. I thought I could make out an E, but that was about it. It looks like it was carved by someone with only the vaguest idea what the Roman alphabet looked like!

Anyway, I think this is the ideal place to pause, since I'm getting tired, and Blogger's freaking out about the number of photos I'm trying to upload. Stay tuned for week two, in which I visit Hadrian's Wall, ridicule some posh people (strictly in my head), am accosted by plotbunnies, and uncover my most exciting find (possibly ever).

Btw, in other news, when I got home the other day, I found out that my exam results are out. I passed them all! Hurray! I've cleared the first hurdle! Also, I got a letter from the university, letting me know that I've been awarded the Weston Robertson Memorial Prize, for distinction in my Celtic class. I was over the moon, especially (I admit it) when I found enclosed a cheque for £60. Now, what's that catchphrase? "Screw the rules, I have money!" ;)

Glad to be back! I'll be over to snoop around your blogs and see what I've missed soon!

I'm away to dig up Roman stuff!

2008-06-06T23:16:00.000-07:00

Salvete, mei amici Bloggeri. Or something.

Well, I'm finally packed up, and the day has finally arrived! That's right, this is the day I cross Hadrian's Wall to join the diggers at Vindolanda! Can't actually describe how excited I am; let's just say, it's a good thing I'm typing this, 'cause last night the only thing I could say was, "Wheeee!"

Um... yeah.

Anyway, I can't stay long; I've got to catch my train to Carlisle (or should I say, Luguvalium?) in a couple of hours, and there's still one or two bits and pieces I need to look out. Just wanted to let you all know that I don't know when/if I'll have access to the Internet, but when I do, rest assured, I'll be over here to let you all know how I'm getting on. I've got the camera with me, too, so there'll be pictures, even if I don't get the 'Net while I'm down.

Oh, yeah, and the voices in my head are finally returning (yeah, I totally identify with Yugi Mutou!), so I might very well get some writing/editing done while I'm away. Hoping I'll soak up some inspiration while I'm down there. Knowing my luck, though, I'll unearth a whole herd of plotbunnies while I'm digging away. (Do plotbunnies move in herds? Or packs? Or marauding vigilante groups? I'll never know.)

Anyway, that's me signing off for now. Missing you already. :)

Valete.

The Ugly Duckling? I think not...

2008-06-04T15:50:00.000-07:00

Woo-hoo! The cygnets have finally hatched! This year, we have a swan couple nesting on our side of the dam bank, and I was getting a tad worried, 'cause they've been there since April, and there was no sign of any babies, even though the female was sitting diligently on the nest all through May. Good news, though, the babies have finally hatched - five of them! - either yesterday evening, or sometime today. The parents brought them round to show us. :)

Aren't they cute? They seemed healthy enough, cheeping away as they swam around in circles. :)

We've always had a good rapport with the swan families around here. They've been known to come up to the garden in the summer, demanding food. Here's this year's Daddy Swan, affectionately named "Bonzo", paddling on the patio with a couple of tacky gargoyles, and an even tackier pharaoh (Mum's acquisitions; she has a fixation on tacky garden ornaments):

Oh, aye, summer's definitely here! The cat's taking every opportunity to sunbathe on the lawn, and the dog's had his annual haircut (a necessary evil). And it's now only three days till I go down to Northumberland to get digging (well, it's past midnight now, so two days, then!) I've got to pick some things up in town tomorrow (today, rather), then that'll be me all set! Can't bloody well wait! :)

Character names

2008-05-30T16:31:00.000-07:00

Naming characters can be tricky business. Once you've got your naming scheme(s) sorted out, you want to find the right one for each character, the one that fits. And I don't like to start writing about a character without having their name fixed firmly in my mind; I know of some writers who use placeholder names if they can't think of the right one straight away, but I'm a fussy oddball who can't. I don't really know what it is, maybe it's because the name is the first bit of the character's identity that the reader usually comes across, and until I know their name, a character feels like a bit like a stranger to me. I'm not sure.

'Course, my work is done for me when it comes to historical figures, like Agricola, Calgacus, or Septimius Severus, whose names I already know. It's naming the fictional characters where the fun starts, especially the main ones. Let me bore you with the workings of my odd mind...

Marcus Valerius Laevinus: Well, "Marcus" was a no-brainer, really. I wanted a simple, recognisably Roman praenomen for my protagonist, and Marcus is a name I happen to like. His nomen (family name) and cognomen (er... other name) came to me after trawling lists of Roman names. I think I settled on "Valerius" because the hero of my earlier fantasy novel was called Finn Valarian, so the sound just struck a nice chord with me. "Laevinus" came after looking for a cognomen which went with Valerius; I just chose the one I liked the sound of best.

Gairea ní Macháir: Gairea's name didn't come to me as easily as Marcus'. The original story I came up with was a simple little love story (I was a right wee romantic back in primary school), so when it came to naming the female lead, I went through my big book o' world mythology, looking for a name from Celtic myth which had connotations of forbidden love. So at first I tried calling her Gráinne. But nooo... apparently she thought it didn't fit (fussy besom), so I chopped and changed letters about until I came up with "Gairea". And I think it suits her better. An un-traditional name for a very un-traditional young woman! Then, once I'd named her father Machar, I got her patronymic.

Cathal mac Comgáill: Cathal's name is perfect for him, and completely by accident, too! I chose it for the sound - it has a noble sort of ring, I think - and didn't pay much attention to its meaning. But when I looked it up, and realised it meant "battle-mighty", I got a pleasant surprise. After all, if there's one thing Cathal keeps reminding everyone of, it's his 133t fightin skillz. :P

Sargaid, meanwhile, got her name completely by accident. I was trying to type the Irish name "Saraid", and somehow managed to get a "g" in there by accident. However, I actually preferred this new name. I like the earthier, more ancient sound of sar-gayd to sa-rad.

Other characters just got their names pinched from other sources: for instance, "Brigionus", the name of one of Marcus' messmates, is a name filched from the Vindolanda letters.

Eilwen daughter of Ygerna: Sometimes, even if I don't immediately know what a character's name is going to be, I somehow know what it begins with. For Eilwen, I knew I wanted a Welsh name beginning with E. "Eilwen" is a recognisably Celtic name. There are some wonderful long and complicated names to be gleaned from Welsh mythology, but for my main characters, I want names which are easily accessible, and "Eilwen" is a simple enough name, which an elegant ring to it which suits her. The standard form of naming in Dark Age British cultures was the patronymic, but since no one knows who Eilwen's father is (oops), I've gone with her mother's name instead. In the Severan novel, she's also remembered by her Roman legal name, Cocceia Eubia. That was the standard naming form for a freedman/woman: the nomen of the former master with their slave name (often Greek) forming the cognomen ("Eubia" was nicked from Aurelia Eubia, a possible freedwoman from Roman Britain).

Marcus Cocceius Firmus: All right, this is an historical name, but I thought I'd throw him in here, since this is one of the rare instances of the name helping to shape the character. My Oxford Latin Desk Dictionary defines the Latin adjective firmus as "firm; strong; steady; valid; bold", which covers his main good points very nicely. He's steadfast, courageous, and self-disciplined. With a name like that, it was hard not to come up with a good, strong protagonist. If the Antonine novel has a hero, it's Firmus. :)

Edarnan son of Gede : This was another one who wanted a name beginning with E. When it comes to my leading Caledonian male characters, I tend to use Pictish names. "Eddarrnonn" is a Pictish name, which might possibly be rendered as *Edarnan/Etharnan. "Edarnan" is a bit easier on the eyes than "Eddarrnonn". It sounded, to me, at least, like the sort of name which would suit a noble, idealistic, capable young man. Which Edarnan is. At the start, anyway. His father's name, Gede, is another Pictish name.

Lucius Aelius Victor is new around here; he's the protagonist of the Severan novel (and will later gain the nickname Argentocoxos - "Silver Foot"). Having grown up as a horse farmer, with family roots in a Moesian veteran community, I wanted a straightforward, down-to-earth name for him. "Lucius" is another common Roman praenomen. I chose "Aelius" as his family name because it's not extravagant, and also due to his background. I wanted his father's family to have been granted Roman citizenship during the first half second century, so I went with Aelius, the nomen of the Emperor Hadrian, and therefore the name the new citizen would have adopted at this time. His cognomen, Victor, was also pinched (I'm a kleptomaniac when it comes to names, lol) from a recently discovered altar dedicated by an Aelius Victor. I liked the sound of the name, and not to mention, the name "Victor" gives him something to live up to, what with him becoming a war-leader and all. Mwaha. (I'll have to find a good reason for the Argentocoxos nickname, for that's what it's going to be here, but that'll come to me when it comes to me.)

So there you have it. There are a number of factors which I take into consideration when naming my characters. Usually I tend to go for names I like the sound of, but there are also names which reflect background and character. It's all about finding the name which fits the character.

...And I have no idea what the point of this post was. The fact that I've finally managed to nail down the names of some characters who were eluding me, and also that's it's three in the morning, might have something to do with it. :)

Well, that's it.

2008-05-29T16:08:00.000-07:00

That's the exams over. And my first year at uni, come to think of it. Lordy, where did it go? Freshers' Week feels like it was just the other week.

Anyway, I'd intended to get back into the blogging spirit tonight, but I'm too tired to write up on anything of note, and I'm feeling a bit down/frustrated/anxious, since I managed to completely fuck up my second Archaeology exam.

Yeah, you read that right. I fucked up one of the exams that meant the most to me. 'Cause I'm an idiot.

However, according to the coursework grades for the second semester unit, at the moment I'm standing at a B1, so hopefully, hopefully I can still salvage a pass. If not, there's always the re-sits.

I'll be back when I've stopped being furious with myself.

Voyage of the Damned

2008-05-19T13:27:00.000-07:00

Well, that's three out of four exams over and done with, and I've got a bit of respite until the last, which isn't till the 29th. Now I've recovered a bit, I thought I'd take the opportunity to let you all know what I've been up to. Other than the aforementioned exams, and the revision which goes with them, I've been mulling over which subjects to take in second year. Second-year Celtic Civilisation looks a bit rubbish, so I might drop it. I don't know yet, though.

In general, I've been completely frazzled. In fact, I've looked pretty much like this:

And also, a couple of weeks ago, my mum decided it would be fun for us to go on a trip on the Waverley paddle steamer. So we booked it... and discovered the eighth level of Hell while we were at it. First of all, we booked the shorter trip, not the full-day one, so before setting foot on any steamer, it involved a three-hour coach journey up to Oban. This was actually the best bit of the day, as the route takes you up along Loch Lomond and then Loch Awe-side, so the scenery is very pretty. I even worked out where Sargaid's crannog is as we drove along.

After getting off at Oban, we caught the steamer at the harbour. It already looked packed with the folks who had got on at Glasgow for the all-day trip, and there were two coach-loads of us to pile on. Piling on was a nightmare in itself: there was no queue; everyone just gathered in a crowd and filtered on, and there were no considerations given to the disabled passengers. Once on, we found out that the boat was totally overcrowded: it was overcast when we got on and soon began to rain, so everyone bolted for the observation cabins. Meaning we spent a good half-hour wandering around just looking for somewhere to sit (we didn't find one). Me and Iona, my sister, eventually took refuge in the engine room for a while, as it was the only place which was warm!

I'd thought our trip was just going to be a couple of hours, out then back to Oban, but then Mum dropped the bombshell that we were in it for five whole hours. And because the weather was bad - and 'cause this is the west of Scotland, after all - the mist came down, so the sightseeing part of this "sightseeing cruise" was rendered kinda... ironic. So basically we were stuck for five hours, looking at rocky islands looming out of the mist, punctuated by the occasional announcement from the captain/skipper/whatever he was calling himself. Actually, he was the worst cruise announcer person-thingy ever: "If you look over to port, you'll see... oh, wait, it's disappeared behind the headland, sorry."

There are no words.

So, four hours stretch into eternity, until I'm beginning to think this is the Flying Dutchman rather than the Waverley, threading our way up and down the sea-lochs of the west coast (which, incidentally, all look the same in the mist) until we reach the main attraction: the Gulf of Corryvreckan, between the islands of Jura and Scarba. It's the third largest whirlpool in the world, and when it's going full-tilt it can be heard about ten miles away. It's been classified as one of the most dangerous stretches of water in the UK (author George Orwell was nearly drowned in it), and I have the sneaking suspicion that the trip had been scheduled so that we hit it at low tide, when it's less dangerous. For one, we passed a group of people kayaking their merry way through the currents, and for another, we saw... absolutely nothing. I was expecting something, considering the thing has several myths attached to it. Nope, we passed through the strait without seeing anything of note. On reflection, I did see a large circular patch of placid water - placid! - which me and my dad agreed must have been it, but it wasn't whirling at all. And it wasn't just us; there was an atmosphere of chronic anticlimax as all us watchers finally let go of the railings, which we had been clutching with white knuckles in anticipation, and sloped back to the still-overcrowded observation cabin, soaked through and numb with the cold.

Another hour and a half, and we finally get back to Oban. There's then a mad dash to get the hell off the boat and back onto the coaches. Unfortunately, the torture wasn't over yet. The family up the back had obviously taken advantage of the bar on board the Waverley and so we spent the next three hour enduring their singing and constant to-ing and fro-ing to the coach toilet. Then they brought out their food, and after a combination of nothing to eat all day but one tasteless muffin, and a rough sea, my tummy barely managed to endure the smell of ten or so packed lunches at once. I did get a laugh once, though, 'cause at one point a lassie behind me shouted, "Oh, look out that window! You can see a stag!" To which the guy across the aisle from me shouted back, "Aye, and if you look over there, you can see the whirlpool!"

So, all in all, that trip amounted to about twelve hours which I could have spent doing something constructive. Like watching paint dry.

A note, then, to all aspiring sightseeing cruise arrangers: either schedule your trip to a famous natural attraction to a time when there's actually something to see there; or, if that's too dangerous, and there's nothing to see when it's safe - don't include it in the soddin' itinerary.

(NB, There was nothing worth photographing, so I went looking for pictures of the Corryvreckan in full throttle, just to see what we missed. Apparently, this. Now I feel vengeful.)

And now I've shared the pain, I can now concentrate on wiping it from my memory-banks forever. :P

On a more cheery note, after about four years, I've finally caught up with Yu-Gi-Oh!. It was my regular Saturday morning thing when I was about fourteen to fifteen, until the Powers That Be decided to start skipping about ten episodes at a time, making the second series impossible to follow. I wasn't impressed, especially when they skipped over the second half of a story arc dealing with the backstory of my favourite damn character. We got as far as "zomg, the creepy kid who trapped us in this virtual reality world is claiming to be the biological son of my abusive adoptive father, he's brainwashed my little brother against me and seems to know everything about me - what's going on?!" Next week, they skipped ahead about thirty episodes to the very end of the damn series. I was like, "But... it's all finished... and now he's blowing up his own island... and now he's going to build theme parks for underprivileged children... what the hell?"

But Iona got the second series on DVD the other week, so I got to fill in the gaps there, and thank God for YouTube. Thanks to it, I got to see the resolution of that story arc (a showdown with the abusive adoptive father, resulting in the AAF turning into a huge red demon thingumajiggy, and a narrow escape). And I saw the end of YGO! as a whole. The Pharaoh got his memories back, and passed on to the afterlife. Fair dos, and good riddance. >:)

Then, of course, I went and watched Yu-Gi-Oh!: the Abridged Series straight after that. Because that's compulsory. ;)

So, between all that, I've not been writing very much, though I finally have names for Eilwen's sister and Edarnan's wife. So that's good. :)

And now I'd better tie things up here. My computer's needing fixed, so I've been writing this on my sister's, and she's wanting it back. Hope to be back in swing tomorrow! I'm missing you all!

The deed is done.

2008-04-30T07:47:00.000-07:00

The deposit's paid. The contract's signed. The lease starts on August 1.

Yep, this little birdie is flying the nest. :)

The admin should be sorted out once and for all by the end of the week. It's a good flat, decent rent and bills, and just a few minutes' walk from the university. And it's going to be four of us sharing. I can't wait.

Should be back later, once I've stopped dancing about with excitement!

Book review: Ruso and the Demented Doctor, by R. S. Downie

2008-04-26T14:01:00.001-07:00

Spoiler-free. I wouldn't want to ruin anything.

Yep, I've finished it! :)

Ruso and the Demented Doctor (Terra Incognita in the USA) is the sequel to R. S. Downie's brilliant Roman Britain whodunnit, Ruso and the Disappearing Dancing Girls, which I reviewed on Monday. I bought the second book at the first opportunity, and fairly raced through it.

This second Medicus Investigation finds army doctor/accidental detective Gaius Petreius Ruso and his slave Tilla travelling north with a detachment of the Twentieth Legion to the fort of Coria (Corbridge). After the mystery of the murdered barmaids in the first book, Ruso, to his annoyance, has gained a bit of a reputation as a sleuth and is being pestered by people wanting him to find out who poisoned their girlfriend's cat. A temporary posting at a frontier fort should get him away from that sort of thing, right?

'Course not.

It doesn't take long before Ruso realises that something's not quite right at Coria. A mysterious antlered figure known as the "Stag Man" causes an accident on the road, and a trumpeter has been found murdered - decapitated. Worse, the head is missing, and the officers in charge at the fort are determined to keep that under wraps from the locals. Thessalus, the fort's resident doctor, has already confessed to the murder, but he's not in complete possession of his marbles. So, Ruso finds himself once again roped into solving a mystery, this time to clear the name of a brother doctor. Or rather, mysteries. There's more than one sinister going-on at Coria, and, as a sign outside the infirmary helpfully reminds everyone, "DAYS TO GOVERNOR'S VISIT IV." As those days are crossed off, Ruso must help Thessalus, unravel the mystery of the murdered trumpeter, the spectre of the Stag Man, and all the other nefarious incidents along the way. Can this nightmare get any worse for him? With Tilla reunited with a former boyfriend, you bet!

If anything, Ruso and the Demented Doctor is even better than its predecessor. Almost immediately, Ruso and the reader find themselves in the thick of the mystery, and what a mystery it is. Darker than the previous one, and even more tantalising. Again, Downie seamlessly weaves her story in with what little known history we have for this particular patch of Romano-British history, conveying very convincingly the tensions of the pre-Hadrian's Wall frontier: the tensions between legionaries and auxiliaries, soldiers and native Britons, traditionalist Britons and more Romanised Britons, tensions which all serve to drive the story. The fantastic sense of time and place from the first book is back, and Downie brings the tense frontier to life as well as she did the fortress of Deva in Dancing Girls. One of the details I really liked was the inclusion of the "Aemilia" ring which was found at Corbridge; it was nice to see something like that, one of those little things you remember reading about, making an appearance. The research is very present, but worn lightly, and splashed liberally through with the dry humour from the first book.

Ultimately, though, what makes the book a success are the characters. Ruso and Tilla are still on top form after their first outing, and the development of their often rocky relationship is the one of the most engaging threads in the book. They're turning into quite the double act! New hints and insights into their backstories also emerge as Tilla meets up with old family, friends and enemies, and as Ruso tries to connect with Doctor Thessalus. Some endearing old favourites from the first book return - there was a moment where I held my breath over the fate of wee Albanus the clerk. I'm sorry Valens, Ruso's colleague from Deva, wasn't in it more, but when he was it was very enjoyable to see the continuation of the saga of him and the Second Spear's daughter! :) You'll be hard-pressed, too, not to feel some affection for gentle, deranged Doctor Thessalus, who swings between comic in his mad talk about fish and blunt triangles, and utterly heartbreaking.

I raced through it (well, so far as coursework allows me to race through a book), and came out the other end utterly satisfied. A vivid, totally absorbing read filled with memorable characters, and my favourite line out of any book I've read in recent months:

'They make a shambles and call it peace,' said Ruso, misquoting a famous historian.

In other words, I'm very much looking forward to further adventures of Ruso and Tilla, and dying now to meet Ruso's stepmother. I just wish I hadn't devoured it so quickly now.

I'll just... wait over here, then.

Waiting patiently. Yeah.

Fifty questions for Marcus

2008-04-23T15:24:00.000-07:00

A meme I stole from Crystal. I decided to make one of my characters answer it instead of me. Let's face it, they all live more interesting lives than I do. Maybe later I'll post my own answers. Maybe.

Anyway, folks, meet Marcus Valerius Laevinus, protagonist of my Flavian novel, The Ancestor Crown, Roman legionary and silversmith, and (fictional) progenitor of the kings of Dál Riata. He's not shown up on this blog very much, mainly because he's a co-operative lad and doesn't give me much cause for headaching, so I suggested he might like to let the nice bloggers meet him. He was a tad reluctant, but I ~~threatened~~ convinced him. >;)

So, Marcus, tell us a bit about yourself...

1. How old will you be in 3 years?

Twenty-two. Huh. Is that all?

2. Do you think you'll be married by then?

Well, actually, I can’t get officially married for another twenty-three years. (shrugs) Maybe I’ll be attached, though. Then again, considering these Caledonian girls... doubt it.

3. What do you look forward to most in the next 2 months?

Conquering the Novantae tribe. All right, I suppose that’ll take a bit longer than two months. So... er... contributing to conquering the Novantae, then. Hopefully if I can help win a bit of glory for the Emperor Titus, I can consider my debt to him fulfilled.

4. Who was the last person you called?

Called? How d’you mean?

5. Have you ever played a team sport?

Er... does formation drill count as a team sport?

6. Who was the last person to text you?

...Text? Is that like writing? If so, Vindobarus’ mother said salve to me in her last letter to him. I’ve not really got anyone left to write to me.

7. Who was the last person you hugged?

My little sister, Secunda.

8. What were you doing at midnight last night?

(grimaces) On sentry duty at the southern gatetower. In the rain. You know... for a change.

9. Parents separated/divorced/married?

(shrugs) Still married, I suppose. Do you think marital status during life applies in the Underworld?

10. Last time you saw your dad?

Two years ago, just before he died.

11. What happened at 9:00 a.m. today?

9.00 am... that’s - what? - about the third hour? Then I’d be on the training ground, having the shit beaten out of me by Centurion Celer. (smiles wanly)

12. How many states have you visited?

Are states provinces? All right, just say they are. Then, as well as my native Italia, I’ve passed through Gaul, and Britannia, of course.

13. If you could be anywhere right now, where would it be?

Anywhere that isn’t Caledonia. Gods, even Viroconium would be better. It’s somewhat civilised, at least. I’d say I’d rather be back home, but that would be a lie.

14. Do you prefer shoes, socks, or bare feet?

In Caledonia? Shoes - army boots, that is - and socks. Thick woollen ones. Vindobarus’ mother knits them for the whole contubernium.

15. Are you a social person?

(shrugs) I muck around with the lads when I’m off-duty, though I tend to stick with my contubernium mates. I think I’m sociable enough, though I’ve heard the odd complaint that I have a tendency to think too much.

16. What was the last thing you drank?

That cheap wine I got from one of the traders outside the fort. No idea what it was supposed to be made out of, but it did the trick.

17. Favorite ice cream?

(blinks) Ice what?

18. What is your favorite dessert?

My mother used to bake these incredible honey cakes with raisins. They were my absolute favourite when I was a boy. I blame her for my sweet tooth. (sighs) I’ve ever tasted anything quite as good since.

19. Whats your favorite color?

Silver, I think. Silver and grey. They’re such subtle colours, I always think.

20. What Jelly do you put on your PBJ?

(blinks) I’ll be honest, I’ve no idea what jelly is, and no idea what PBJ stands for, either. Publius Bruccius Januarius?

21. Do you like coffee?

Do I like what?

22. How many glasses of water a day do you drink on average?

I don’t know... I don’t really drink water by itself, except for the odd swig from a flask when I’m on the march. I water down my wine, though. Honestly, though, I don’t really keep track of how much I drink.

23. What do you drink in the morning?

Well-watered wine. After Celer has sniffed my breath during inspection, of course. I once made the mistake of having a quick drink before. Let’s just say... it wasn’t pretty.

24. Would you rather kiss someone with or without a tongue ring?

Without. Definitely without.

25. Do you sleep on a certain side of the bed?

You're joking, right? Have you seen regulation army bunks? You barely get a side to yourself as it is. You have to sort of scrunch yourself up or lie as thin as possible, and you pay for it in the morning, believe me. Especially when you’re scheduled for route march.

26. Do you know how to play poker?

Nope. Can you play knucklebones?

27. Whats so good about Fridays?

That’s Dies Veneris, right? Nothing, really. (pauses) Or is that some sort of Nazarene code? Sorry, I don’t really go in for these obscure cults.

28. Any plans to visit the green monkeys on GoofyAuctions.com?

...See, this is why I try to stay away from the local beer.

29. Do you eat out or at home more often?

I generally eat in the barracks with my messmates, but the ovens are outside, under the rampart, so I suppose we do have to cook out! When we were still down at the fortress, though, there were a few bars and eating houses we liked. They did some decent Roman-style meals. Don’t think I’ll ever get used to Caledonian cuisine, though. I don’t care what you dress it up with, porridge is still porridge.

30. How big is your TV?

...Tell me that’s not British slang for what I think it is.

31. Ever stolen a street sign?

(sly grin) I might’ve stolen the odd sign or two in my time. And swapped them about in the middle of the night. But that was long before I became a responsible legionary of the Twentieth Valeria Victrix. Honest.

32. Do you keep a piggy bank?

No. All my savings (such as they are) are in the strongbox under the fort shrine. I wonder where that’ll go when we’re on campaign. Hm.

34. Have you ever been in an ambulance?

Don’t know that word, sorry. (squints) Is it something to with walking?

35. Do you prefer an ocean or a pool?

Well, I did like the sea where I lived. You know, the Tyrrhenian. But I’m not overly fond of the sea around Britannia. It’s wild and choppy and I lost count of the times I was seasick on the crossing from Gesoriacum. And I can’t say I like pools in Britannia very much, either. The natives tend to worship every single one, and in Caledonia that usually means there’s a Druid lurking nearby...

36. Do you prefer a window seat or an aisle seat?

(blinks)

38. What is your favorite thing to spend money on?

What happened to number thirty-seven? (shrugs) Anyway, I tend to buy food. Other than equipment and things, there's not much else you can spend a legionary’s wage on, once the various vultures have had their pickings. I’m glad I’m not one of those poor sods who has a family to support.

39. Do you wear any jewelry 24/7?

Do I look like a Caledonian warlord to you?

40. Do you speak any other language?

I speak Oscan, know a few words of Greek, and in my time in Britannia I’ve learned a few words of British dialect. Just enough to get by. You know, the obligatory words for “wine”, “beer”, various swear words, and, of course, the right things to say to the local girls.

41. Can you roll your tongue?

Yes. (demonstrates)

42. Who is the funniest person you know?

(grins) Most intentionally funny: my best friend, Decius. Most unintentionally funny: Tribune Vitulus.

43. Do you sleep with stuffed animals?

(frowns) No...

44. What is the main ring tone on your phone?

The main what on my what?

45. Do you still have clothes from when you were little?

(shakes head)

46. What is the color of your bedroom wall?

Sort of damp clay colour.

47. Do you shut off the water when you brush your teeth?

...Who came up with these questions?

48. Are you crushing on someone right now?

No...

49. Do you currently hate someone?

My centurion, Gaius Manlius Celer. All right, while most centurions get the job due to their ability to be complete bastards, Celer is worse than most. He’s infamous throughout the Twentieth. He once cornered me in the bathhouse and... made me an offer I had to refuse. He’s never missed an opportunity to make me pay for it since. (smiles weakly)

50. Why do you take surveys?

Kirsten made me do it. I think she likes making me suffer.

Book review: Ruso and the Disappearing Dancing Girls, by R. S. Downie

2008-04-21T14:46:00.000-07:00

Not particularly spoiler-ridden, I don't think.

(A quick note: this book, the first Medicus Investigation, seems to have been operating under several code names. It has also been published in Britain as Medicus and the Disappearing Dancing Girls and in the USA as Medicus: A Novel of the Roman Empire. Judging from some reviews on Amazon.co.uk, there has been some confusion.)

I'd like to thank Sarah Cuthbertson for introducing me to these books via a post on her blog. Thank you, Sarah!

Britannia, AD 117. Gaius Petreius Ruso is an army doctor newly stationed at Deva (modern Chester), the fortress of the Twentieth Legion, and he's not having the best time. His family is deeply in debt (thanks to his home improvements-happy stepmother) and it's up to him and his brother to get them out of it. Britannia is a cold, miserable corner of the Roman Empire, and Deva is in the middle of refurbishment. Ruso is looking forward to the wage bonus rumoured to be accompanying the ascension of the Emperor Hadrian, a possible promotion, and some peace and quiet to write his Concise Guide to Military First Aid. Not that he's likely to get it. The chief administrator of the fortress hospital is away and his colleague Valens is sick after eating some bad oysters from Merula's bar. As it turns out, the oysters aren't the only sinister things about Merula's. The body of one of the bar's prostitutes is dredged from the river, and another of the girls has gone missing. Ruso is determined to have nothing to do with trouble, but does anyway. In between dealing with Priscus, the megalomaniac chief administrator, a house full of puppies, and - of course - the mysterious slave girl he impulsively bought from her abusive trader, Ruso finds himself inextricably drawn into the mystery of the disappearing dancing girls. It isn't easy, though: if anyone knows anything, they aren't telling, and it's only a matter of time before Ruso's investigations put him in danger...

I can hear you all thinking, Not another Roman detective series!. But don't worry, Ruso isn't a simple Didius Falco clone, and this is a strong debut from Downie, which bodes well for further books in the series. In her hands, the fortress of Deva becomes a lively army base populated by a whole cast of colourful and memorable characters; from reluctant detective Ruso - world-weary, humane and exasperated with just about everything, and Tilla, Ruso's slave and patient with high British ideals and a penchant for brewing up potions and placing curses, to good-humoured Valens and the oh-so-literal clerk Albanus.

Downie deftly weaves the historical details into the story without making them overbearing, handling the themes with both humour and empathy. The Roman slave trade is a main thread in the story, laying the foundation for the mystery and Ruso's fraught relationship with Tilla. I also liked the incidental details concerning Ruso's medical career. Too often I read books where a character has a potentially interesting job but it never really becomes a part of the story. Ruso, however, is very much a Medicus, and fascinating little snippets of Roman medical procedures (including cataract surgery!) abound without ever having to resort to info-dump. Downie's sense of place is brilliant, too: she brings Deva and its inhabitants to life, especially the fortress hospital, realm of the overweening penpusher Priscus, a place humorously reminiscent of any NHS hospital today! :) The Britannia of Ruso has a distinctly frontier feel to it, too, and the many relationships and tensions between the Roman soldiers and the British tribespeople are also vividly portrayed.

If I have a criticism of the book, it's that the mystery itself took a while to take off. But even then, I can't really complain, as Ruso's other myriad woes, which mostly take up the first part of the book, are engaging enough for me not to mind. When Ruso is increasingly entangled in the sinister goings-on, the pace picks up and the story hurtles towards a gripping climax, which ties up the mystery thread nicely but promises the reader they haven't yet found out all there is to know about Ruso and Tilla.

I'll be honest, I'm not much of a murder mystery reader, but the Roman Britain setting and, above all, the characters of the book reeled me in. Ruso is my favourite kind of protagonist: the hero-despite-himself, and I'll be looking forward to seeing how he and Tilla fare in further investigations. The strong characters, vivid setting and lively mystery all combine to make a thoroughly enjoyable read. In fact, I finished it just this morning and then went straight to buy the sequel, Ruso and the Demented Doctor (US Terra Incognita), as soon as my lectures were over for the day. I'm only on chapter nine so far, but already it's promising to be even better than the first. :)

Back to life, back to reality.

2008-04-13T08:37:00.000-07:00

Holy moly, it's been a while, hasn't it? Been a rather unsettled week or so over here, what with the holidays ending and uni starting again. Only a month and a half till I finish first year. Where has the time gone? It feels like yesterday I could barely wait for it to start.

'Course, that means that it's only a month till my first exam omgwtf.

Ahem.

I spent the last few days of the hols doing work that I really shouldn't have put off for so long but did anyway, and the end result was me having to pull yet another all-nighter on Monday in order to get my Archaeology essay finished off. I will be seeing the Loch Glashan crannog in my nightmares for many months to come. >.<

Anyway, I must have fallen asleep mid-bibliography, 'cause the next thing I knew, it was eight in the morning, and I hadn't had my bath, or got the essay polished off (heh!) or printed. By the time I'd got all that done, I'd missed my bus so I had to fork out for a taxi. Now, I don't like doing that at the best of times, since a taxi into town from my bit usually costs me a wad o' money I don't really have. Ah, the joys of being a jobless student. :) But I shell out and book it anyway.

After my rather draining morning (the printer naturally decided to play up when I was trying to get the essay printed), I actually got a nice surprise. I'm sitting in the back of the taxi, numbering the pages of my essay, and the driver asks me what I'm doing at uni. So I tell him I'm doing archaeology, and also mention I'm going down to Vindolanda (less than two months now!!). "Aaw," he says, "I'd love to do something like that." He says he loves watching all the archaeology programmes, and I agree, saying I'm in it for the Roman stuff. From there, we had a long, long, geeky natter about the Antonine Wall, the invasions of Scotland in general, Mons Graupius and Agricola, the Teutoburg Forest, the siege of Masada, Roman army tactics vs. Caledonian downhill charging, redcoat tactics at Culloden vs. Scottish downhill charging, the Roman army in Britain, the Ninth Legion, and David Gemmell. It was great, and he seemed as glad as me to have someone to talk to about it all. :)

That kept me in a good mood for the rest of the day, which is just as well, as I might well have been in a terrible one otherwise. Aside from general essay-related stress, I was expecting a message which never came. I'd met a friend from school on the bus home on Monday, who's at college in Wales, and we got talking. He mentioned he was meeting up with another friend on Tuesday night, and invited me along too, said he'd give me a call later that evening. Well, he never did. Not on Monday night, and not on Tuesday either. By the time I came out of my Archaeology lab at four, I decided it obviously wasn't happening. I got a bit annoyed - honestly, if you don't want me there, don't invite me in the first place - but I shrugged it off and decided I wasn't going to lose any sleep over it.

Hahaha. I don't know what the hell happened, but I didn't lose any sleep on Tuesday night. I dozed off about half six when I got home - naturally enough, seeing as I'd had - what? - about two hours sleep the previous night. But somehow I still managed to sleep all evening - with a barely remembered half hour up for tea, all night, and well into the next morning. I think it was about nine when I woke up on Wednesday. And the thing is, I did it again on Thursday. Not quite on the same scale, but I still managed to oversleep. It's a bit odd, seeing as I'm usually the sort of person who can function perfectly on about three hours of sleep. I think I might book myself in for a blood test; I was quite anaemic in school, and as a result constantly exhausted. Can't be bothered with that again.

Of course, however, Mum and Dad got all worried, asking me constantly if I was all right. I felt a bit blegh on Thursday night and mentioned this to my dad. Big mistake. I love my dad and we're close as anything, but having a father-daughter chat with him is often a frustrating experience. Suffice it to say, he's a psychoanalyst, and Freudian at that, so even when I say truthfully that nothing's bothering me, he's convinced I'm repressing something. And he keeps picking at it - "Are you sure?" - in this not-convinced-at-all voice, until I get exasperated, which just encourages him to pick at it all the more. (headdesk)

But enough of my moaning. Good news is, Tuesday's archaeology lab was great - it involved reconstructing a hunting scene from Palaeolithic Germany based on the deer bones and the topography. And in Latin we've moved on to Catullus' poetry. We've been told we're not actually doing any of the ahem invective (even though we've already translated part of Number 16, heheheh), so we got our first sparrow poem. Yaaaay. Me and my friends had a laugh trying to work out whether his girlfriend kept her pet sparrow in her lap, her bosom, her "inmost part", or her asylum. We decided "lap" was probably the most likely. ;)

And this Tuesday I have my last Celtic essay to hand in, and my last Latin test. Then it's the best part of a month just to study for the exams, which should be fairly straightforward, if I start at a reasonable time.

Oh, and btw, watch The Last Legion, all of you! I got it out of Blockbusters purely for the MST3K value, which is the only way to go. I couldn't even work up any righteous geeky indignance at the myriad historical inaccuracies because I was too busy "lol"ing. Still can't quite get my head around the thought of Excalibur, sword of the just, being kept safe in Emperor Tiberius' playboy villa on Capri! Or the fact that you find Excalibur in said playboy villa by poking Julius Caesar in the eyes. Roflol.

Credit where credit's due, though. There was a lovely little moment where the filmmakers tried to pretend they'd actually done some research by having the "legionaries" form testudo during the final battle. (gigglesnort)

Well, I'd better go. Hopefully normal blogging services will be resumed this week. I'm missing you all.

Oh dear. This is just too tempting to pass up.

2008-04-02T13:38:00.000-07:00

For a while now, I've been playing about with the idea of including a subplot dealing with the foundation of the kingdom of Dál Riata, as well as the emergence of the Pictish "nation", in my books. After all, the surviving records are dubious, the genealogies heavily manipulated. What's one more piece of fiction thrown in there?

The plotbunnies suggested that in my universe the first kings of Dál Riata could be descended from my Marcus and Gairea, whose stories are centred around Argyll in The Ancestor Crown. After all, what on earth is that boar doing carved on the rock at Dunadd when the totem of the Iron Age Argyll-folk seems, etymologically, to have been the horse?

It just so happens that my Marcus is a soldier of the Twentieth Legion Valeria Victrix, whose emblem was a boar.

Then, while I was checking over my OS map of mid-Argyll for Iron Age settlements, I came across the most interesting little place name on the isle of Seil, just off the coast of Argyll. Rubha mhic Mharcuis: "Headland of the son of Mharcuis". Mharcuis is a Gaelic rendering of - you guessed it - Marcus. (It's also the Gaelic for "marquis", but with the mhic in there I think here it probably means "son of Mark").

I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable, non-Roman-related origin to the name. Nevertheless, it gave me a slight chill.

Something else to play with, I think. :)

Terminology in historical fiction

2008-03-30T12:44:00.000-07:00

Well, I had made up my mind to post about something else, but this particular topic has been giving me some cause for head-scratching the last few days.

If you read this blog regularly, you'll know that I'm writing a series of novels set during the Roman invasions/occupations of Scotland. Since Scotland was never settled (ie. no set-plan towns or villa systems were ever established) and remained a military frontier zone throughout Rome's occupation of Britain, most of my Roman characters are involved with the army in some way. And if you pick up a book on the Roman army, you'll find it full of neat, specialist words and terms. I guess that if I ever manage to get my books written and - Mithras forbid - published, I suppose my target audience would be people who were interested in this particular period and place, and so might be familiar with a lot of these terms already. But what about my readers who aren't? How do I strike a balance to make the terminology user-friendly for anyone who might happen to read my books?

I could just use the Latin terms, and throw together a handy glossary at the end, but I know I would get annoyed if I had to break off from the story regularly to flick to the back of the book and look up unfamiliar words. I dislike books where the author overuses italicised Latin terms in order to make themselves look more knowledgeable. I mean, do you really need to call it a gladius when the word "sword" will do just fine? Unless, of course, you're making a comparison between Roman and Celtic swords, or something. And do you really need to call that cloak a sagum?

But I do think that economical use of proper terms can lend authenticity to a book. The question is: which ones are best left as they are, and which are better translated, however roughly? Writing is, after all, about communication, and frustrating the reader is hardly going to help you.

As a general rule, if there is a word which has a direct rendering in English - like legionary, auxiliary, centurion, or legate - I'll use that. Other words I translate for simplicity's sake. Take those terms for the roads and gates inside a Roman fort. "Main street" is a fairly loose but serviceable translation of via principalis, but the other roads were the via praetoria and the via decumana - which can't really be translated into English (okay, I suppose they can, but "praetorian street" and "street of the tenth" aren't very helpful, and, in the case of the latter, don't make much sense). The four gates of a fort were known as the porta praetoria, the porta decumana, and the porta principalis dextra/sinistra - literally, the "main gate right/left". Translations which don't really fit into English syntax. Since not all Roman forts faced the same way, I decided to use simple directional names - "west gate", "north gate", etc. - and refer to the via praetoria and the via decumana as the "north street" or the "south street" as appropriate. I figure the reader needs to know in which direction a character is going more than they do the proper Latin name for the road they're on.

And it's not just Latin terms. Since my Caledonian social structure is based roughly on the model given in early medieval Irish law texts, there are certain specific phrases used. But since most of my Caledonians are not Goidelic speakers, and because I'm writing a story, not a dissertation on Celtic society, I've used approximations. So I substitute fine for "family" or "kin-group", and tuath, which has more territorial connotations, for "clan". I treat the tribal units (Epidii, Caledones, etc.) as roughly approximate to the provinces of Ireland, which were made up of a number of tuatha.

They're tricky terms to approximate, but it works for my book.

Then there are those terms I've chosen to leave in the original. For example, if there isn't an English equivalent for a term of Roman army rank, in some cases I'll give a simple approximation - eg. "standard-bearer" for signifer - but mostly I tend to use the original Latin, as with optio or tesserarius. They don't lend themselves well to an English translation (optio literally means "choice" (ie., "chosen man"), and tesserarius means something along the lines of "man with a tile/tablet"), and I'm not too fond of trying to substitute in modern army terms, so I just leave them the way they are. I don't actually italicise them in the prose, simply because I think they would look a bit odd next to non-italicised legionaries and centurions.

Some terms I'm not too sure about, however. For instance, Firmus of the second book is a pilus prior centurion: the most senior in the cohort (my invention; the altars don't specify which rank of centurion he is). I'm still not sure whether I should refer to him as the pilus prior, or maybe use an approximate phrase like "senior centurion" or "first centurion". Bloody Roman army.

So, I know more or less which phrases I'm translating and which I'm leaving as they are. The new question is: how do I intergrate those foreign words into my book? I don't want the reader to have to stop and look up a glossary in the middle of a crucial scene, nor do I as a reader like an author halting the action in order to explain what a certain term means. The smoothest way to do it is through context, whether this be dialogue or demonstration. Remember the writer's golden rule: show, don't tell. This is especially true, in many cases, for historical fiction. After all, if my reader wanted to be educated on the Roman army, then they'd have picked up a non-fiction book on the Roman army in the first place. It also disrupts the PoV flow.

For example, in the first chapter of The Ancestor Crown, I introduce my Roman MC, Marcus, and his contubernium. A contubernium was a unit of eight men who shared the same barrack-room, or the same tent whilst on campaign. Counting now, I use the word seven times throughout the course of the chapter, but I never pause the story (such as it is) to explain, "oh yeah, this is what that means". By the end of the chapter, there's enough information and context for me to trust the reader to work it out: eight Roman soldiers sharing a barrack-room.

The same goes for the Old Irish word fidchell. With phrases like "fidchell board", "fidchell pieces" and characters sitting down to play fidchell, I think the reader can tell it's the name of a board game. Which is just as well, really, since we don't know much more than that!

On the other hand, the word "optio" has cropped up in my last two excerpts, and I'm not sure how successfully I've managed to get across what an optio is in them. I know that he is the centurion's second-in-command, but I'm not sure if the context fully gets that across.

Dialogue can also provide a context. For example, the Druidess Sargaid tends to refer to Gairea by the Gaelic ban-fhàidh, but most other characters use "seer", and Marcus also uses "sibyl", so the non-Gaelic speaker shouldn't have much trouble with meaning. Pronunciation is another matter! ;)

I'm not really sure how to sum this up; I was just trying to sort out my thoughts. I suppose it comes down to balance. Too many foreign terms can become awkward and irritating, especially when the author feels the need to pause the action to explain their meaning, but a few well-placed ones can really enhance the atmosphere and authenticity of the story. It's a matter of working out what those are, and how I can slip them in so the readers barely notice.

And now I'd better go. I've got a book to write, and I need to find out why Gairea's brother Leathan has suddenly decided to start acting like a first-class mentula. ;)

An award, and some hills and rain.

2008-03-29T08:38:00.000-07:00

I've finally managed to get this post up, at long last.

I'd like to thank Gabriele for very kindly awarding me this. :) By accepting, it seems I also have to award it to ten more bloggers. Well, there aren't as many as ten blogs I read regularly - my online life, it seems, is about as deficient as my real one :P - but here are the ones I do, so here you go:

- Gabriele (yes, you're getting it again!)
- Crystal
- Sarah
- and Celedë.

But truthfully, all my friends and acquaintances on the Blogosphere deserve it. You know who you are. :)

Hope you're all having a good weekend so far. It's an afternoon for staying and doing nothing over here. My dad drove me out to Auchendavy farm a couple of hours ago so I could get a better idea of the lie of the land. Just the Campsie Hills - nothing very special - but it's nice to know exactly what my characters are looking at. Sadly, there's nothing to see, fort-wise, any more. No sign of Firmus, Eilwen, or Scaurus either - I think they were hiding from the rain that came on as soon as I got out of the car! ;) What a bleak, boring old posting the Antonine Wall must have been. God only knows what those Syrian archers along the road must have made of it!

Anyway, that's all I've got for now, but I might be back later. Something on the radio today gave me an idea for a post, but for now, have a good Saturday!

Excerpt: Medionemeton

2008-03-25T18:42:00.000-07:00

I hope everyone had a happy Easter. I know I did (apart from the snow - wtf?). Won't be looking at chocolate again for months, I can tell you! :)

And now, here's another excerpt. I think I might start making this a regular fortnightly thing. I'll see how that goes. It's hard to find decent-sized snippets which form independent scenes and give some idea of character.

And it's mine. Well, the words are, at any rate.

Again, this excerpt is from the Antonine novel, and takes place in AD 162. Eilwen daughter of Igerna, a princess of the Taexali tribe, has been captured by bandits, along with her escort, on her way to marry King Giric of the Caledones. The bandits turn out to be Romano-British slave traders, who take them south. At the fort of Medionemeton on the Wall of Antoninus, Eilwen is purchased by the centurion Marcus Cocceius Firmus, who's looking for a secretary.

I'm not too sure about the description of Medionemeton in this one. At this point, Eilwen has never seen a Roman fort before, so the description is quite full. (Yeah, if you hadn't realised already, I like describing stuff. A lot.) I just wonder if it's maybe too much of an info-dump as to what the average Roman fort looks like. Please let me know what you think. About that, and about anything else you notice.

And because I like sharing this stuff:

- "Medionemeton" is another name from the Ravenna Cosmography. It's used here as the name for the fort at Auchendavy, purely because I like it. It's Celtic in origin, meaning "middle grove".

- Due to farming and the building of the Forth and Clyde Canal, the limits of Auchendavy can't be fully traced, though we do have some rough measurements. As far as I know, no internal buildings have actually been identified apart from the bathhouse, so I was given a little freedom in my portrayal of the interior. I decided to make it fairly standard, though. The modern road seems to bisect the fort along the line of the via principalis. From tombstone evidence recording non-combatants, a vicus might be presumed. There are some possible Roman features just to the west of the defences, so I decided to place the vicus there in the book.

So now, without further ado...

-

Cailtram’s cries were still echoing in her ears as she followed Firmus through the western gate. As soon as she passed into the fort, she instantly lost her bearings. It was like stepping into another world. The four turf ramparts corralled a hive of activity utterly different from Din Brenin, crammed with long timber barracks and workshops set on either side of a gravelled street which cut a straight line through the fort. As she trailed Firmus up the street, she was assailed by a kind of ambience she had never felt before: as stolid as the ramparts, as rigid as the lines of straight-edged buildings. Industrious and yet, at the same time, austere. Unlike the houses of the royal fort, the buildings of Medionemeton had been built strictly for serviceability, and so the only decoration to be seen was the coating of whitewash on the walls, and the occasional scrawl of graffiti. The air was thick with the smells of men and animals, of sweat and smoke, hot metal and manure, leather and meat; and, over the clamour from the workshops, voices competed to be heard in a coarser form of Latin than Eilwen had been taught, rattling off orders and curses and small talk until the jumbled snatches of conversation became a dull roar against her hearing.

And all the voices were male. For the first time, she realised she had stepped into a world which was completely masculine. All around her were men wearing the red tunics and studded leather belts of legionaries, some in segmented cuirasses, others in mailshirts. Most of them pushed past her, bumping her shoulders, knocking her aside as unconcernedly as if she hadn’t been there at all, though they all stopped to show deference to the centurion.

There were no villagers inside the fort, and Eilwen was suddenly, acutely aware that she was the only woman in sight. That fact didn’t seem to have escaped the notice of the off-duty soldiers who loitered in the verandahs of the barrack-blocks. They watched her with interest as she passed; a couple shouted out lewd remarks until Firmus turned and sent them a look that made them wither. There was nothing Eilwen could do but gather what was left of her dignity around her and straighten her shoulders, masking her fear with careful aloofness.

It seemed an interminable journey along the street, until they reached a second one which branched away to the left, running up to the northern rampart, where another guard tower looked towards the hills. Below that, the great wooden gates were securely shut, shutting out the north.

Firmus was talking to the two guards who stood with their javelins crossed over an narrow archway leading away from the main street. Tearing her eyes away from the northern gate, she realised that the timber buildings had been replaced by a line of stone-built buildings whose whitewash could not disguise their military grimness. After a brief exchange, the guards stood aside to allow Firmus through the archway. Eilwen followed, avoiding their eyes.

On the other side of the gateway was a square courtyard hemmed in by a colonnade. There was a well in the centre, but that was all. Apparently Roman plainness was not restricted to the façades of buildings.

The centurion had turned, and was watching her look around. “I take it you’re not used to this sort of place?”

“Not really, no.”

“This is the headquarters building,” he told her. “You’ll be spending most of your time here, though I’ve made arrangements for you in the praetorium - that’s the building next to this one.

“Now, come, I’ll show you where you will be working.”

He strode across the courtyard, through the colonnade and into a wide chamber with a dais raised against a wall hung with notices written on wooden tablets. They looked like lists of names - rotas, perhaps - but there was no time to examine them as she was led to the back of the building, where a curtained doorway was guarded by two fully-armed legionaries. Eilwen had noticed the bored slump of their shoulders, but they instantly straightened when Firmus came near. He stared them down for a moment, and Eilwen sensed their discomfort before he said coldly, “Keep it like that, men.”

“Yes, sir,” they muttered, chastened.

“Good.”

“Centurion!” Both Firmus and Eilwen turned to see another soldier leaving the room next to the curtained door. Like the centurion, he was clad in a mailshirt, though the crest on his helmet was coloured black and white, and ran from front to back. He stopped in front of the centurion and saluted smartly. “Back already? What did you get? Oh - hello, who’s this, then?” He saw Eilwen, standing just a few paces away, and his gaze raked over her with undisguised appreciation. He met her eyes and grinned. She despised him at once.

“Put your eyes back in, Scaurus. This is the new clerk.”

Scaurus dutifully turned his attention back to Firmus. “How much did you pay for that one, sir?”

“Enough,” was the reply. Eilwen wanted to hit them both, but reined in her anger and clenched her fists at her sides. Likely, she would be dead before she could lay so much as a finger on either of them.

“Well, make sure you get your money’s worth, sir,” said the one called Scaurus. “I know I would.”

His tone reminded her of the innuendoes of Lossio and his lackeys, and of those soldiers outside. A chill went through her as she glanced at the centurion. He wanted her for her literacy, but what was to stop him dragging her to his bed if he so wished?

I will kill him, she thought wildly. If he touches me, I will kill him. She would not leave the fort alive if she did, but she had not been coerced to marry one man, only to be forced into the bed of another. She could compromise herself only so far.

"Thanks for the advice," came the dry response. "Now, what news have you got for me?"

Eilwen was forgotten in an instant as Scaurus replied, “Nothing. Completely vanished into thin air.”

Firmus exhaled. “I’ll have to send another message to the legate, then.”

“That you will. I don’t envy you that, sir, and no mistake.”

Eilwen listened silently, wondering what on earth they were talking about.

“Quite,” Firmus replied. “Well, I’d better get it over and done with. On your way, Scaurus. The watch is due to be changed soon; make sure Latinus’ lot are on the eastern tower. There’s been a cock-up with the rota.”

“What’s new?” asked Scaurus grimly. “Justus doesn’t have a damn clue what he’s doing. Thank the gods you’ve got the help in now, that’s all I can say, sir.”

“Yes.” Firmus nodded, glancing at her. “I’ll show her the office now.”

“And I’ll track down Latinus.”

“Yes. Dismissed, optio.”

“Sir.” Scaurus saluted, and strode away towards the exit, for which Eilwen was glad.

Firmus spared a moment to make sure the two guards were still standing to attention, then he gestured briskly to her and showed her to the next room down from the one out of which Scaurus had appeared, at the end of the building. He stopped outside.

“This here,” he said, “is the main regimental office. As my secretary, this where you’ll be spending most of your days. Understand?”

“Of course,” she replied tersely. “I am not stupid.”

He gave her a measured look. “I hope not. Now, before you actually pick up a stylus, I’m afraid there’s something I need you to do for me first.”

“And what’s that?”

By way of an answer, he swung open the door, and Eilwen looked inside in dismay. The room was plain enough, as was to be expected, with a desk pushed against the wall below the single window, and a three-legged brazier shoved into one corner. But in complete contrast to the starkness of the rest of the fort, this room was in disarray. The surface of the desk was hidden beneath a chaotic jumble of scrolls and tablets, some of which even littered the floor. The scroll rack looked as if it had been stacked by someone who had had only the slightest idea where everything was supposed to go before giving up entirely. There were even dark spatters across the flagstone floor where an inkpot had fallen.

“It’s a sty,” she exclaimed. “I’ve seen threshing floors more ordered than that!”

“Don’t hold back, please,” Firmus countered, with a bitter smile. “Your trader should have warned me of your tongue.”

The mention of Lossio made her temper flare, but she willed it into submission. She eyed the cane the centurion held under his arm. If she weren’t careful, she might find it used on her. She knew the reputations of these Roman officers.

They stared at each other, each taking the measure of the other. So far, Eilwen had avoided looking directly at this man who had been arrogant enough to buy her in a marketplace, trussed like an Imbolc ewe. He was about forty, she judged now, and wore his centurion’s crest as if it were natural for him. Indeed, he had the austere look of a man who had been born to the position, with a face full of stark contours, the line of his jaw roughened with stubble. Deep furrows shadowed a stern mouth. Beneath the rim of his helmet, his dark eyes were seamed at the edges with hard lines. They studied her thoroughly, and she had to will herself not to flinch.

Now, she thought. I must tell him now. If his was the main regimental office, then he must be the commanding officer of this fort, and thus her only hope of help. If she told him the truth now, she would be able to help Cailtram and the others before Lossio could leave Medionemeton. If she could make him believe her...

Then what? If she somehow managed to convince this officer of her true identity, what would happen to her? It was only then she truly realised who she was dealing with. Romans. Not warriors of the winterland, bound by oaths and codes of honour, but invaders who used whichever trick they could to further their aims. Was she simply putting herself in greater danger? It was unlikely she would simply be released. More likely that they would hold her for ransom.

And that was provided they would set her free at all. Nausea crawled up her throat. Dear gods, why hadn’t she thought of this before? Had she really allowed her panic to blind her so much? If this centurion believed she was the sister of one of the northern kings, it was far more likely that she would find herself being escorted south to Londinium in chains before this day was even out. Had she really misjudged so terribly? They wouldn’t release her; they would keep her as a hostage. They would use her as a weapon against Cinioch, use her to gain control of the Taexali. Romans never used brute force where they could use their version of diplomacy.

Oh, gods. What have I done? She had trapped herself, and she had doomed the others, too. She remembered Cailtram’s agony, Anis’ terror. In her panic, she had made slaves of them all.

Sickened, she made herself look at Firmus again. He was still appraising her, as if he hadn’t noticed her terror. It had not shown, then.

"Let’s see...” He looked down at the wooden tablet, her receipt of purchase. The thought made her feel ill. “Now, Eubia -”

“Eilwen,” she interrupted.

“What?”

“My name is Eilwen,” she repeated. She didn’t care what Greek frivolity Lossio had written down on that tablet. She remembered the blank uniformity of the fort buildings, the men in the same garments. She would not become part of that. She may have lost her freedom, but she would not lose herself.

“Fine.” He shrugged. “Eilwen it is. Now, Eilwen,” he went on, businesslike, “I’ll need you to set to and get that sty tidied up as quickly as possible. Looks like I have a message to send to the legate today; I’ll be needing you to copy it for me.”

She had trapped herself, and no one but her was going to save her. It would take time, however, until she could think of a way to extricate herself from this predicament. Until then, there was nothing to do but raise her chin and reply in the most pleasant voice she could affect, “Yes, centurion.”

A slave she may be, but she would die before she ever called Marcus Cocceius Firmus “master”.

I has a trillojee. :)

2008-03-19T07:06:00.000-07:00

I don't know if LOLCats actually have a picture for this. Shame.

I think I might just have a trilogy on my hands now. The third one ambushed me this morning.

What happened? Well, I was bewailing my lack of a decent Roman villain in either the Flavian or Antonine novels. Suffice to say, I'm writing novels in which the main storylines concern the Caledonians fighting Roman imperialism and all the nasties that implies. And all the properly villainous characters are... Caledonians. Not the usual situation, I grant you.

Agricola pretty much refused to be a baddie (at least until the seventh season), and since Emperor Domitian never actually appears, he doesn't really count. In other words, the Roman "villain" in The Ancestor Crown is the concept of imperialism, rather than an actual person. It's a different case to that of the Severan invasion, where we have Septimius Severus ordering an actual, recorded policy of genocide. Which would make Severus, and those two sons of his, rather suitable villains. The situation for the Caledonians would be more dire than that of the Flavian invasion. Instead of "We're all going to be enslaved!" it'd be, "We're all going to be slaughtered!" Good novel material there, I thought.

But I left it alone, and went back to mulling over my current two books; in particular, about how to tie up the Antonine novel. Now, if my MC Eilwen, a royal blood-carrier of the Taexali, does go on to marry Centurion Firmus, any children of theirs would theoretically have a claim on the throne of the Taexali through her. The scenario came to me then: a descendant of theirs (an older child or a grandchild) comes to Caledonia at the time of the Severan invasions, makes a successful bid for their birthright and ends up as a leader against Severus. Naturally, this character would be torn between their Caledonian and Roman blood, and leave room for much internal conflict. ;)

It's the bare bones of a story, right there. A continuation of both the stories of Roman-Caledonian warfare, and the family lines established in the first two books.

Then, in a moment of pure inspiration (er...), accompanied by comedy angelic singing, it hit me: what about the historical figure Argentocoxus? Like Calgacus, all we have of him is his name (and the fact that his wife had a chat with Empress Julia Domna about their sex lives), so this is the novelist's ideal opportunity! Maybe this hypothetical descendant of Eilwen and Firmus' goes on to become a Caledonian war-leader, and becomes known as Argentocoxus! Eureka! It all fits together.

And not only would it continue the overall plot, but also this tradition of funny phallic-sounding names! Cocceius Firmus, Argentocoxus... you get the idea... Lol!

I love the writing process. The only problem is... oh dear God not another one please not another one!

Shakespeare manga!

2008-03-17T12:10:00.000-07:00

These have been kicking about our house for a while now, but since they're either in my sister's room or my mum's, it's hard to get a hold of them. What I have seen, however, I'm rather impressed with. There seems to be two series of them now, one the "Manga Shakespeare" published by Self Made Hero, and a "Manga Edition" series by Wiley.

Seriously, I wish we'd had something like this when I was at school. We were just given the books and made to read the plays out in class. It was bloody godawful. I was lucky because I'd read those Stories from Shakespeare-type books they publish for youngsters, so I knew a lot of the stories already, but most of my classmates didn't, and in English there was nothing worse than having to read aloud that (let's be honest) difficult language without having come across it before, and trying to get the gist of what was happening at the same time. These manga editions, however, give a visual of the setting and characters alongside very decent abridgements, which, I think, would be a good thing to have alongside the main text in a classroom. Both series include introductions and plot summaries, and the Manga Shakespeare versions also include a visual dramatis personae at the beginning of each, as well as a short section on the life of Shakespeare himself. The Manga Editions also separate the story into its Acts. They would definitely make good side-reading for pupils, and maybe even get the more reluctant readers interested. But most importantly, they emphasise that these stories are timeless, and that they were written to be enjoyed!

And, of course, the wide range of genres that manga incorporates means that just about any Shakespeare play can be adapted. Some of them have been given a modern setting, but others, like Richard III and Julius Caesar, have kept to the original.

They've got a range of titles available at the moment. The Manga Shakespeare line has Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, Richard III, The Tempest, and A Midsummer Night's Dream.

The Manga Edition series, meanwhile, has Macbeth, another R&J and Hamlet, and Julius Caesar.

Of the ones I've looked at so far, I think the Manga Shakespeare Romeo and Juliet is among the best, and it's not even one of my favourite plays. The adaption is well done, and the artwork is lovely. I like the transition from 16th century(?) Verona to modern Tokyo, and the Capulets and Montagues being two rival yakuza families.
Shakespeare seems to transport very well to Japan. Akira Kurosawa's film Throne of Blood was an adaption of Macbeth set in the Warring States era of Japan, and that worked very well, too.

The Tempest and Midsummer Night's Dream also have gorgeous art which heighten the fantasy themes. The Macbeth adaption, naturally enough, looks like it would appeal, as a manga, to those who're into Trigun and Battle Royale and the like. I'm quite disappointed with the artwork in Hamlet, though. It's a bit plain and flat, and I don't think it really does justice to the overall atmosphere of the play. I think it might have benefited better from the dark, gothic style of artwork used for Richard III. I'm not actually that familiar with Richard III as a play - I know the story, vaguely, but never actually read it - but I think I'll read this version, on the strength of the art alone.

At the moment I'm reading Julius Caesar. As a manga it's fairly decent, and again, the play has been adapted well. What I like about this one is that it puts distinct faces to the conspirators; I remember when we read it in school I lost track a bit of the mention of two Brutuses (Marcus Junius and Decius), two Cimbers (Metellus and Publius, brothers), and the two Cinnas (one's a conspirator, the other is an innocent bystander who gets mistaken for the conspirator and is murdered by the mob).

It also made me realise we need some Roman manga. How about a version of The Twelve Caesars? I think that would work nicely. :)

Crappy "history" book

2008-03-15T15:16:00.000-07:00

Warning: Prepare for a long, long rant. I would try to be more civil, but I’m too irritated.

My mum bought this a few months ago: Before Scotland, by Alistair Moffat. One of those “narrative histories”, about geographical Scotland before it became political Scotland. In the beginning, it’s actually rather good. Informative, even though there’s naturally a lot of conjecture, and entertaining.

Then we get to chapter seven: “Caledonia”. And not only does it stop being entertaining, but it is often inaccurate and, in some parts, totally invented.

In essence, the entire chapter is one long, righteously indignant rant. You know the sort of thing: the old chestnut about the poor, downtrodden Scots (or Caledonians, in this case) and their nasty invaders. Personally, I like my history books to take a step back from this sort of thing, but I wouldn’t even mind it so much, if it didn’t go on for pages before we even start getting into the actual history of the matter. Moffat might have raised some good points, but I’d already lost interest. We’re five pages into the chapter before we hit anything resembling “history”, in which time Moffat has given us a full rant about the nature of Roman atrocities, of which this is only a taster:

“...the Romans came to what is now Scotland, they saw, they burned, killed, stole and occasionally conquered, and then they left a tremendous mess behind them.”

Hell, yeah! To plunder, to slaughter, to rape, they give the lying name of “empire”, and where they make a desert they call it... oh, hang on a minute...

But that’s just it. Tacitus has already covered Moffat’s main bullet points, and far more eloquently. At least he didn’t kick off on a side-rant about how it’s a “national disgrace” that universities used to insist on a knowledge of Latin rather than Gaelic, which Moffat claims is “native to Scotland”. Given that Gaelic came later and replaced whatever was spoken before that, not only is the above statement wrong, but surely, according to tradition, Gaelic is as much the language of the invader as Latin is. But don’t let history get in the way of your patriotism, by no means. And if you want to promote an interest in Gaelic language and culture, a worthy enough cause, surely your energies would be better spent being out there promoting it.

Oh, and a word in your ear, Mr. Moffat, you don’t “decline” amo, amas, amat; you conjugate it.

But I’m a persevering sort, so I press on. Turns out the opening rant was the least of it...

“The Romans left us nothing of any enduring cultural value.”

Well, apart from the sanitation, the medicine, education, wine, public order, irrigation, roads, the fresh water system and public health...

Oh, you mean in Scotland? Well, why didn’t you say? Why that “us” in there? Am I to infer that this book is intended purely for Scottish people? That’s rather exclusionist, don’t you think? Not to mention we get the mention of the “slaughter of 10,000 of our ancestors at the battle at Mons Graupius”. Ten thousand of whose ancestors? Of Scottish people’s ancestors? Does that include all those people who have been born and raised in Scotland and consider themselves Scottish, who are of European, African, Asian, Chinese, etc. descent? Wow, I didn't realise Calgacus had such extensive contacts.

But let’s extricate ourselves from these sticky areas, and get onto the history part. Inaccuracies, inventions, and pure wishful thinking abound. History enthusiasts at this point may wish to light their flaming torches and get out their sporks.

First, and what should have made me put the book down right then and there, was the mention of Vespasian’s involvement in the original invasion of Britain “as a military tribune”. Wtf?! Vespasian was not a tribune in AD 43; he was the legate of the Second Legion. Hell, even Wikipedia got that one right.

We get a bit on Ptolemy’s tribal map, and for some inexplicable reason Moffat starts getting excited about the Caitt, the “Cat People” from where we get the names Caithness and Clan Chattan. He says, “The Cats may have fought the Romans at Mons Graupius...” Um... maybe... but if you’re going strictly by Ptolemy’s map, there are no Caitt included, and they don’t appear in writing until the Early Historic period, as a kingdom of the Picts.

Then we finally get onto Agricola and his earlier career in Britain, in particular his stint as a tribune during Boudica’s revolution. According to Moffat, “Nothing, however, could have prepared the young Agricola for what he and the XXth Legion saw when they reached the Menai Straits.”

Hold the phone. Where, in the Agricola, does it say that he was attached to the Twentieth Legion? Where does it say he was at Anglesey? There’s a mention of him being invited to share Suetonius’ tent, which implies he was campaigning with him (and makes me want to write Suetonius/Agricola slash, following on from my last post), but Tacitus never explicitly says that his father-in-law fought at Anglesey at the time of Suetonius’ attack. He did stage another attack during his own governorship, but that was almost twenty years later.

We’re then treated to a long description of the battle of Anglesey, which is largely irrelevant, seeing as this is supposed to be a book about Scottish history, but apparently we must never pass up a chance to describe in detail examples of Roman ebulness. Anyway, we get a wonderful description which is pretty much ripped straight out of the Annals, including “black-clad women... Like Furies...” Seriously, if you can’t think up your own similes, at least include quotation marks. Then we get the following: “Behind the warriors were Druids and their ghost fences, rows of skulls facing the legions across the water.” Say what? Where did the skulls come from? Archaeology? The Annals? No, didn’t think so. Stop trying to pass your own imaginings off as fact. This is a history book, not a work of historical fiction.

Well. Allegedly, anyway.

And because Moffat is the type of historian for whom everything must have ritual significance, we get delightful descriptions of the “sacrilege” carried out upon Eildon Hill North and Burnswark Hill. Them ’orrid Romans built forts and camps near these “sacred” hillforts. I agree with him that the Roman presence at Eildon was a very deliberate one, targeting a place which seems to have retained some sort of importance, religious or secular. But Burnswark? Moffat states that by the time the Romans got their grubby paws on it, “like Eildon Hill North it had probably become a fire-hill, used four times a year to mark the Celtic festivals”. Really? How fascinating. Where in the archaeology does it tell us this? And apparently, “Archaeologists believe... that missiles were first fired in anger at the Selgovae defending the long perimeter.” Actually, that theory has been abandoned for quite some time now, but we shall draw a veil over that. After all, a bitter siege makes a better story than legionaries using a mouldering old ruin for artillery practice.

But there’s a lot of this sort of thing. We get things which “probably” or “must have” happened without any decent proof. After the withdrawal from Newstead in c. AD 100, “the enmity between the Selgovae and their eastern neighbours almost certainly spilled over into something more incendiary.” Did it, indeed? What enmity is this, exactly?

And when we get to the Battle of Mons Graupius, Moffat just can’t resist comparing it to Culloden. The parallels are so obvious, didn’t you know? Seriously, I’d be very disappointed if Calgacus was anything like Bonnie Prince Charlie. I like to think the Swordsman actually knew what he was about. (Oh dear, I’m such a Campbell.)

So after Moffat has waxed lyrical on the clans at Culloden (Clan Chattan get another mention, of course), finally we get onto Mons Graupius. And here we get the romantic vision of the Celtic warriors of yore, all woad tattoos and carnyxes. Moffat asserts out of nowhere (though I should be used to this by now): “Some of the warriors in Calgacus’ army will have been drunk.”

Well, it was you who said they were “our” ancestors! Sorry, couldn’t resist. Hey, maybe that’s why they lost. Like the Gododdin. Hmm...

And, of course: “Tacitus does not mention naked warriors at Mons Graupius but it is very likely that there were some.”

Because God forbid we should dispense with old stereotypes now.

And so it goes on. Until we get to the end of Trajan’s reign (AD 117) when, according to Moffat, the Selgovae and the Novantae joined with the Brigantes in rebellion:“Between 115 and 120 warbands mustered, rode out of the Pennines and attacked and destroyed the legionary fortress at York.”

Nothing like this is mentioned in any of our historical sources: all we have is a token mention that by the time Hadrian became emperor, the Britons couldn’t be kept under Roman control. There’s certainly no suggestion anywhere that York was destroyed. This, however, does give Moffat the excuse to give the obligatory story of the “annihilated” Ninth Legion, despite the fact that the legend has pretty much been disproved, and despite the fact that earlier in the chapter he mentioned the legendary disappearance of the Ninth Hispana and the "likelihood that it never happened". But here he says, “it may be that remnants survived and that they were sent on to European postings”. In actual fact, it seems nowadays that the legion as a whole went over to Europe, switched with the Sixth Victrix. What's with the continuity glitch?

And so on. To tell the truth, that was when I finally gave up. If I want to read historical fiction, I’ll look in the fiction section of Waterstone’s for it. And if I want to read an historian with an axe to grind, who isn’t above spinning the odd tall tale, I’ll read Tacitus.

*sporkity spork spork*

Oh, and happy Ides of March to you all. Don't go to the Senate, and don't turn your back on your best friend. ;)

This week's oddities

2008-03-13T14:47:00.001-07:00

I got the results for my Latin test. A2! And for my Celtic essay, I got an A3. Since the question was especially horrible, I'm extremely chuffed! :D I'm still waiting for my marks for my Archaeology tutorial worksheet, but in general, I'm happy to say that my first two terms at uni have been rather a success! :D

Not that I'll be resting my brain much over the holidays. I've got a big Latin translation to do, another essay for Celtic, and one for Archaeology. Luckily, the folks in the Arch. department aren't looking for much over 1500 words, and the question I've chosen for Celtic is much less general than the last one (religious belief in Dark Age Britain, focusing on the writings of Adomnán). So it'll be mostly about that saint guy... I forget his name... :)

Oh, yeah, and here's an irritating little oddity I came across in the Department of Classics yesterday. My tutor hadn't shown up to unlock the room for our tutorial, so I hung around in the hallway, looking at the wall maps. One of said maps claimed to be of The Roman Empire in the Flavian Period. So why the hell were Hadrian's Wall and the Antonine Wall marked on it?! Flavian period: AD 69 - 96; Hadrian's Wall was built in 122, the Antonine Wall, c. 140.

I think I should leave a post-it on the map next time I'm in the building.

Edit: And while we're on the subject of the Flavians, I was listening to Utada Hikaru, when up crops the lyric, Hitori demo tsuzukeru to kimeta mission. My baffled reaction was, "What was that about Domitian?"

Damn Flavians - they're taking over my head! Get 'em out, get 'em out!

Elsewhere, as I read the Life of Saint Columba again for this essay (all of it this time, not just the good bits :P), I came across the account of a priest called Findchan "who was greatly attached to Aed, in a carnal way".

...How the fricking hell did I miss that one? Dark Age cleric/warlord slash? Hellz yes! Thank you, Adomnán, for making my week! :)

Excerpt: Antonine novel, chapter 1

2008-03-10T14:53:00.000-07:00

(gasps as she comes up for air)

S'cuse my non-presence, but it's been a busy time for me. I've got two essays coming up (to do over the Easter holidays :( ) and that involves a lot of reading. Also had a Latin test on Tuesday (the horror!) and I've got a sore back which came out of nowhere. Joy. But now I've managed to disentangle myself from that darned thing called real life, and I'm putting up - well, the title says it all, really. :) It's a full chapter, and thus a lot longer than I would have chosen for an excerpt, but it goes together as a whole, I think. This is that little snippet I quoted in that meme I did a few weeks ago, this time in context. I'm not very confident about my ability to write a decent battle scene, so I'd love any concrit anyone has to make.

First, some historical notes I think I should make:

- The date of withdrawal from the Antonine Wall remains controversial, and it's possible that some forts were occupied as outposts after the Wall had fallen into disuse as a frontier. After a lot of reading, I've decided to set the novel in AD 162 - 163.

- Marcus Cocceius Firmus (no, that's not a Roman porn name!) was a real person, and we know about him from the dedications he made at the fort of Auchendavy (see here). He was also the subject of a very interesting article by Eric Birley, who suggested, amongst other things, that Firmus was from the province of Lower Moesia on the Black Sea, and had been a member of the Emperor's Horse Guard before going on to become a legionary centurion. A soldier called Lucianus is attested on a tombstone at Auchendavy; Scaurus and Bassus are fictional names.

- For the most part, we don't have names for the Antonine forts like we do for the ones on Hadrian's Wall, so I've pinched names from Ptolemy's map and the Ravenna Cosmography (bah) of the seventh century. I've equated Ptolemy's Alauna/Alavna with the fort at Ardoch, which seems to have been occupied as an outpost during the Antonine period (c. AD 142 - 163). Pexa is a name from the Cosmography, and I've stolen it for the fort at Camelon - the "transit fort" of this chapter.

Anyway, enjoy (or don't)! And I'll be off to catch up on what I've missed the last week or so!

Edit: Contains violence, blood, etc. I know some people like to be warned about these things.

-

Chapter 1

AD 162

Marcus Cocceius Firmus was not a man who jumped at shadows. Of his forty years, twenty-one had been spent in military service, the last nine as a centurion of the Second Legion, manning the Wall of Antoninus, the frontier which was not only the most northerly in the Empire, but also the bitterest. Where the rain struck like a slaver’s flagellum and the winds howled down from the grim highlands like the shades of the uncounted Romans who had perished amongst those northern mountains. Where the natives could change their allegiances in a heartbeat and give a spear in the night where they had given grain the day before. In the four years Firmus had been stationed on the Wall, he had had plenty of time to get used to that. He had the medals, and the scars, to prove it. He trusted in his gods and in his sword, and countered the volatility of the frontier with his own strict discipline. If there was one thing he disapproved of, it was cowardice - in his men and, especially, in himself.

But this stretch of the northern highway made even the most hardened of frontiersmen baulk. It was a solitary ruin of a road, built by long-dead legionaries in those days when the Flavian emperors had deemed the wilds of Caledonia a worthy prize, its paving now uneven and its surface only sparsely metalled. Now it provided the only tenuous link between the Wall and the lonely outpost forts in the north, threading through hilly wildernesses and narrow valleys like the one Firmus and his century were now passing through.

Firmus’ hands tightened on the reins of his horse as the road approached the mouth of the glen, where the hills drew in sharply and the woods that cloaked their slopes crawled close to the roadside. Beyond that, the road twisted out of sight as it entered the pass. Not long now, he assured himself. Not even three miles until they reached the old monument that commemorated the building of the Wall, and then, finally, the Wall itself.

Good. It was a day’s march from the fort at Alauna and evening was already falling. The setting sun was a swathe of flame to the west, stretching the shadows. And then there was the hush which usually fell with the dusk in these lonely places, that silence against which the noise of the century on the march - the heavy stamp of iron-nailed boots, the clop of hooves, the rasp of armour plates and metalled belts - seemed uncomfortably loud. Over it, Firmus could not hear those subtle noises in the undergrowth that might betray a hidden foe. It was in these steep-sided glens that one had to be doubly on their guard, where a lone Roman patrol might be taken unawares, where the painted northmen had the advantage.

Marching next to the horse, Firmus’ optio, Lucius Villius Scaurus, cast a glance around and said in a low voice that only Firmus could hear, “Evil place, sir. I’ll be glad once we’ve cleared the hills.”

Silently, Firmus agreed. It did not matter how close they were to the Wall; they had never truly reached safety until the last man had passed into the transit fort and the gates had closed behind him.

Never taking his eyes from the road in front, he replied, “Nor I, Scaurus. Now, before the pass closes in, I want you to pull back and bring up the rear - at least until we reach the monument.”

“Sir.” Out the corner of his eye, he saw Scaurus salute, then take a step to the side to allow the rest of the century past.

Firmus scanned the road ahead, convinced that he had taken the correct precaution. The closer they drew to the wooded slope at the end of the valley, the heavier the stillness became. His horse was unusually restive, muscles tensed beneath him.

No, he realised, it was not just the dusk. It was not his soldier’s caution. The quiet was too dense. Too watchful. Too patient.

His hairs at his nape prickled in warning.

The first he knew of the attack was the spear - the high whine, the lash of air as it sliced past, barely a handspan in front of his face. His horse reared, screaming, and he pulled sharply on the reins, digging his legs into its flanks to avoid being thrown off. Still clinging with his left hand, he reached across with his right and wrested his sword from its scabbard. A war horn shrilled from the cover of the woods, in the same instant that a cry of “Picti!” went up from behind. Firmus turned his head, just in time to see a pack of blue-skinned wildmen burst, howling, from the trees.

The century descended into a commotion of shouts and curses as packs were thrown to one side, swords drawn and shields ripped from leather coverings as the men hastened to draw themselves into organisation. Spears whistled, followed by thuds and clatters and cries of pain. Another one missed Firmus by a hair’s breadth: he felt the wind rip through his helmet crest in its wake. Cursing, he swung himself from the saddle, snatching his shield from where it hung against the horse’s flank, and tossed the horse’s reins to the standard-bearer behind him.

“Here, Bassus, take these and get behind the line!” Without waiting for a response, he turned and shouted, “Shields together, men! Close the ranks - give them no opportunity to break through. Optio! Get those men into position!”

“Yes, sir!”

As the legionaries to the fore formed a tight wall of shields, staunch against the surge of Caledonians flooding down the slope, Firmus raced to take his place on the right flank, pushing stray soldiers into position where necessary, his heart pumping with the panic he couldn’t afford to show. Damn it all! Where had the wildmen all come from? There had to be at least sixty of them.

He had barely taken his place when there was a shout, and another volley of spears arced raggedly towards the Roman line.

“Raise shields!” he ordered.

The shields went up in a flash of scarlet and gold, a mere heartbeat before the missiles struck home. Firmus felt the thud of a barbed iron point into his own; with a quick movement, he brought it down, wrenched the weapon from the wood and launched it back into the screaming mob. At the same time, the swiftest of the Caledonians thundered into the Roman line. The air resounded with the clash of swords and shouts of men. Over the rim of his shield, Firmus saw the first tattoed warrior throw himself at him: a wall of woad-dyed muscle swinging a huge sword. The blade came down; Firmus reared back and felt the blow glance against his shield. In retaliation, he struck out with his left arm and rammed the boss of his shield into his assailant’s gut. With a scream, the man crumpled, and Firmus stabbed down, into his throat. Gurgling, the warrior slid out of sight, but through the spray of blood Firmus caught sight of another one coming at him, snarling at him in that gods-forsaken tongue.

The legionary beside him suddenly lurched forward with a cry, a spear rammed between two cuirass plates. His killer dived forward to meet the Roman pushing forward to meet him, sword slashing dangerously in the narrow space given. Firmus was forced to angle his shield away from his body to defend himself, and the warrior bearing down on him needed no more encouragement. With a shout of triumph, he raised his sword in both hands and cut downwards in a vicious arc. Unable to cover himself with his shield in time, Firmus could only brace himself and bring up his sword to parry. The blades met with a ringing clash. The blow came with such strength that Firmus felt the shock of it travel up his arm. A sweat broke out on his forehead, and, grimacing, he willed his muscles to hold.

The barbarian gave a bellow of frustration and swung his weapon again. Firmus had only a single breathless moment in which to stab out, forcing his opponent to leap back, out of the way of his sword point. But he had to time to be relieved: the warrior quickly gathered himself and leaped forward, face flushed and twisted with battle-rage, sword-arm raised to deliver another blow. There was no time even to contemplate the force of that blow; Firmus’ eyes caught the twitching of the muscles in the barbarian’s wrist in the heartbeat before the blade came down. Summoning his own strength, he stabbed out. He felt his sword go in, between the ribs, shattering bone. The Caledonian stopped short, face transforming from rage to disbelief. Firmus kicked the sagging body back, freeing his sword and loosing a spatter of blood. He was rewarded with a moment of disruption as the warriors behind sought to avoid their dying comrade.

But the respite was short-lived. Even as the warriors collected themselves and turned their attention back to the Romans, they were suddenly shoved aside by another striding through their midst with the gait of a man wading through a river, bellowing in a strident voice. His grey eyes suddenly caught sight of Firmus - of his centurion’s crest and medalled harness - and the battle-fury in his face gave way to something almost gleeful. Firmus, too, had time to note the gold torque around this one’s neck, the jewelled brooch pinning his cloak, the fine mail shirt, and the sleek sword in his hand.

“Ah! Centurio!” The man pronounced the Latin word as if it didn’t fit in his mouth, then, spewing something in the Caledonian tongue, came at him in a whirl of gleaming blade and flashing gold. Firmus, legs braced apart, the balls of his feet staunch on the ground, met his sword, and they collided in a screech of metal on metal. Firmus saw his assailant snarl at him over the crossed swords and his own lip curled in response. There was a moment where the blades simply strained against each other, unable to gain an advantage; then Firmus suddenly yielded, letting his sword drop before punching out with his shield. As his opponent reared back to avoid it, he thrust out, but the Caledonian shoved his silver-studded buckler in the sword’s path. Firmus spat out an oath, but was given no opportunity to follow up his strike as the barbarian’s sword struck at him again, with greater fury than ever, barely leaving him time to parry. Jupiter Greatest, but this one had the strength of a bull!

Their swords clashed again - and again - the Caledonian’s blows growing ever more furious as he tried, and failed, to force him to give way. Firmus was holding his ground - but only just; his breath was coming sharply now and sweat stung his eyes. With every clash, he could his sword-arm protesting.

No! He must hold fast. Where he had previously been aware of the ebb and flow of the fighting around him, the iron-smell of the blood, the curses and screams in each language, he brought his consciousness down to a single needle-point of concentration. On the warrior before him, and nothing else.

Jupiter... Mars... Apollo... he sent up a silent prayer with every blow... Hercules... Diana...

A spear came out of nowhere, burning a line of pain into his arm. He cried out; at the same time, the warrior with the torque suddenly changed the angle of his sword stroke, levelling it at his legs. He had no time to retaliate, could only stumble out the way of its path. But the momentum carried him further than he intended, separating him from his men. Separating him from the shield wall. In a moment, the space where he had been swarmed with barbarian warriors.

His attacker, grinning now, pressed forward to claim his victory.

“Centurion!” Out the corner of his eye, Firmus saw a flash of black and white crest as Scaurus fought his way towards him. “They’ve breached our front shields in two places; the ranks are in danger of disintegrating!”

Firmus deflected another blow from his Caledonian friend. “Then I will be there as soon as I can.” Another parry. “Return to your position” - and another - “and tell them I said to hold until then.”

“Sir!”

In that instant, all of Firmus’ fear for his men, the reminder that they were depending on him, made him forget about his own anxiety. Time to end this ridiculous fight with this gaudy peacock.

Fired with a new determination, he feinted to the left. The Caledonian brought his shield down to ward off the sword, but Firmus saw his moment, seized it, and struck the shield away with the edge of his own. Before his opponent could grasp what had happened, he threw all his strengh into one thrust, and the point of his sword plunged into the fellow’s gut. The warrior let loose an unearthly scream, and Firmus stabbed again, this time in the groin. Blood soaked his arms as he pulled his weapon free and got out of the way of that huge body as it fell, face-down against the broken paving stones.

The warriors who had paused to watch their leader battling the Roman centurion were now thrown into a panic. In the confusion, Firmus dispatched one of them cleanly, and that decided them. They began to fall back, shouting to each other as they retreated. Within moments, he heard the cry taken up throughout the barbarian ranks, harsh voices suddenly full of fear. More warriors were now beginning to break away from the main body, and the ones that remained were terrified, unsettled enough now for the Romans to retaliate properly. And it was up to Firmus to give them the order.

His throat was dry, but he shouted so the men would hear. “Augusta!”

“Augusta!” The answering shouts were scattered at first, but more voices quickly took it up. The battle cry of the Second Legion. The signal for attack.

Cutting his way through to his men, Firmus shouted, “We’ve got them on the retreat, lads! Shields together, don’t give them any quarter!”

With a shout, the century pressed forward, boots trampling blood-soaked turf. Like Firmus, the men had found their strength again, and the barbarians who didn’t retreat were simply trampled beneath their advance. The Caledonian horn blared again from the trees, the raw-throated voice almost frantic as it sounded the retreat. The fragile order amongst the enemy finally broke and, hollering, they began to tear away, back up the slope towards the fringe of trees. The few die-hard fellows who remained quickly met their deaths at the end of the Romans’ swords.

When it became clear that there was nothing more to be done short of pursuing the survivors into the woods - not an option he wanted to take - Firmus raised his sword-arm. “Hold!” As the century came to a breathless halt, he stood silently, listening as the crashing in the undergrowth died away and the strains of the war horn gradually shivered into silence until the sounds that remained were the ragged breathing of the men, the moans and curses of the wounded and dying around them.

Suddenly aware of how exhausted he was, of the pain in his every muscle, Firmus let his breath out in one long, loud sigh, watching the trees for any flickers of movement.

“They gone now, centurion?” asked the young legionary next to him.

Firmus turned to him, and felt a smile break through the ebbing battle-tension. He clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I think so, Lucianus. I think so.”

There was no time for celebration. The century would be badly shaken from the ambush, and though the enemy had retreated, there was nothing to stop some of the braver or more foolhardy of the survivors rallying together and giving it another shot. And all around them lay strewn the bodies of Romans and Caledonians alike. They would have to decide how to deal with the dead and injured and make their way as quickly as possible to the Wall.

“Right, all of you, listen here,” he said loudly. “It was well fought, lads, and you’ve done me proud. But we need to get away from here as fast as we can possibly make it. That means no time for gloating.” He nodded to Scaurus. “So to begin with, optio, I want a tally of our casualties.”

“Yes, sir.”

“As for the rest of you, I want you all to set to and help the wounded. If there are any Caledonians still alive, kill them.”

“What about our dead, sir?”

Firmus paused, chewing on the corner of his bottom lip as he considered the question.

“We’ll have to leave them,” he said eventually. “When we get to the transit fort, I can report this and we can request a recovery tomorrow. But right now, I want to concentrate on getting the living away from here. Now, let’s get going.”

He joined his men in scouring the battleground. The more bodies he turned over to check for signs of life, the more disconcerted he became at the number of Romans amongst them. Raids were a fact of life on the northern frontier, it was true, but they rarely resulted in these casualties. Usually they were small bands of cattle-thieves, or one of those wandering groups of young warriors who had simply become too confident. This one was different. The numbers had been greater, the ambush too well staged. Something wasn’t right here.

He retraced his steps to the body of that gaudy young warrior he had killed. Now that he had time to examine his opponent’s trappings properly, it was obvious that he had been someone of some status. Although trampled now, his cloak was edged with fine embroidery, and the bronze hilt of the sword had been set with amber.

No, something definitely wasn’t right.

Squatting down, he unhooked the torque from the corpse’s neck and turned it over in his hands, frowning as he examined the exquisite coils, the symbols incised into the terminals. Not something one usually found around the neck of any cattle-raider.

His thoughts were broken as he heard footsteps, and turned to see Scaurus approaching. He was holding his helmet in the crook of his arm and dragging one hand through his sweaty hair.

“Well?” he prompted.

“Seventeen dead, centurion,” Scaurus said grimly. “Twenty-six are injured, and four of them are unlikely to last the night.”

“We’ll get them to Pexa and see what the medics can do for them there.” Firmus’ voice belied his disquiet. Love of Diana! That left less than half the century in good condition.

There was a leather flask of water strapped over his shoulder. He unbuckled the strap and took a long swig from it before proferring to Scaurus. Over the optio’s shoulder he watched as the men busied themselves with supporting injured comrades, making makeshift bandages out of torn garments lifted from the corpses, and passing out the shoulder packs in preparation to move out. He would examine the injured himself and make sure they were all properly assisted before giving the order to march.

“What of Bassus and the standard?” he asked.

“Oh - safe.”

“Well, that’s something, then.” He tapped the torque thoughtfully against his palm.

“I thought you said we had no time for gloating, centurion,” quipped Scaurus.

He smiled wryly. “Just a curiosity.” He attached it to his harness. “I intend to show it to the commander at Pexa.”

Scaurus gave a low whistle as he examined it. “Classy piece, isn’t it?”

“Exactly.”

“You don’t think this was a random attack, then?”

Firmus shook his head. “There were too many of them, too well placed.” He glanced towards the hills. “It was almost as if they were lying in wait for us.”

“They’re getting bolder,” Scaurus agreed.

“I’ll need to report this to the legate in Isca,” Firmus said. “The governor must be informed. He had hoped that last year’s unrest would have died down by now. If anything, it’s increased.”

“We’ll need to warn the outposts, sir,” said Scaurus. “If the Venicones are -”

“These weren’t Venicones.”

“No?” Scaurus frowned. “How can you know that, sir?”

“Look at the tattoos.” In his time of the Wall, Firmus had come to realise that one could identify a Caledonian’s tribe by his tattoos. Each tribe had its own totems and symbols, and the telling symbol for the Venicones was the hound. Every Veniconean warrior Firmus had ever encountered had the image of a hound tattoed where it could easily be seen. And looking at the corpses around them, there wasn’t a single one in sight. In fact, Firmus didn’t recognise any of the symbols decorating these warriors. They weren’t Venicones, or Damnonii who had strayed too far east. The realisation sent a new chill through him.

He looked back, towards the north. Dusk was falling now, bruising the sky with purple, and the northern end of the glen had already disappeared into shadow. It was colder now, too, and Firmus shivered. He looked back at Scaurus, and saw his own discomfort mirrored in his optio’s face.

An ambush that appeared to have been planned; warriors sporting unfamiliar tattoos...

What in the name of the gods was going on?

The leading ladies

2008-02-29T13:45:00.000-08:00

Well, it's certainly been an estrogen-centred week over here, what with my little talk on the Hilton of Cadboll stone, discussion of Pictish matrilineal succession(?), a lecture on women's place in early medieval Ireland, and Thursday's tutorial, which had us looking at women in Irish literature. I suppose it's no big shock, then, that all my character developing energies this week have been focused on my female MCs (and not-so-MCs).

I think one of the potential challenges in creating strong, vital female characters in historical fiction is the restricted role women have traditionally been assigned in various cultures, and a history-conscious author will always want to adhere, or at least give some flavour of, the roles and conventions present within their chosen society. Fierce warrior women like Boudica seem to have been the exception rather than the rule. But I don't think "active" necessarily has to mean "charging around with a sword". And physical strength isn't the only kind there is. After all, history is full of strong female figures who never lifted a weapon in public.

So, with that in mind, I examined the roles and personalities of my various female characters more in depth, making sure they fit their societies (of course, I get a bit of leeway when it comes to the early Caledonians!) and yet still remain - I hope - vital, interesting, and engaging. I'm a bit leery of describing characters rather than portraying them, telling rather than showing, but I'll give it a shot. I'll be interested in seeing what you make of them.

First and foremost, and who's already shown up here in an excerpt, is Gairea ní Macháir (hope I've got that genitive right *cringe*), the most prominent female character in The Ancestor Crown and my only female PoV. By birth, Gairea is the daughter of Machar, one of the most respected warriors of Dun na Nighinn, and so her position in the clan is at first linked to his. Unfortunately for her, however, she was born with the second sight (I can hear you all groaning. Stop that.) and has spent all her childhood surrounded by the rumours that she's a changeling, or a bansidhe. By nature, she's restless and unconventional, and feels trapped by society's ground rules even as she tries to respect them. At the start of the book, however, she has a particularly harrowing vision of what's to come, she is approached by Sargaid, the Chief Druidess, who offers to train her as a seer, so she won't end up descending into madness and a horrible death. She readily agrees and joins the Druid order, but as a direct link to the Otherworldly powers, she's also potentially a valuable pawn to those hoping to cultivate such powers (I'll say no more here). Her relationship with the Epidii champion Cathal mac Comgáill ends badly. It's then that she decides to turn her back once and for all on the warrior aspect of her upbringing and make Druidism her life. She finds newfound confidence in herself, realises she now has the capacity to take control of her own future and becomes much more decisive, though at heart she is still a painfully sensitive creature (bad things to come). Her feud with Cathal and also her relationship with Marcus Valerius Laevinus are significant threads in the story. In the end, she becomes pivotal in the outcome of the battle of Mons Graupius, when her spider-senses (lol) warn her of Agricola's reserve cavalry. With that knowledge, it's up to her to deliver the warning to Calgach of the Caledones, which means making a long and difficult journey from Ioua to Mons Graupius (Bennachie). Which wouldn't be so much of a problem, if she wasn't four months pregnant. Which is she more willing to risk, the life of her baby, or the thousands of Caledonians she has seen dying at Mons Graupius? Unfortunately, I don't even know what's she's going to choose; it looks like I'm going to have to wait before I get to that part of the book. Since Tacitus-muse is rather adamant that I stick to his version of events, the eventual decision isn't so much a matter of plot development, but of character.

I like Gairea; she's probably the easiest character for a modern character to relate to, and she grows into a powerful priestess without falling too much into the Mists of Avalon clichés. Female druids are mentioned a lot in the classical histories, so there's not much of a problem there, but as a character whose story involves her - intentionally and unintentionally - breaking the rules, I can get away with slightly more with her than I can with others. Time to look at the other women of The Ancestor Crown who remain in their social bracket, but are no less strong for it.

There's Morwen, who isn't a main character but has a lot of presence. She is the sister of Calgach and the mother of his heir, Garnat. Which means, essentially, that she has had to raise her son with an eye for being the next king - a daunting task, I'd imagine. Also, since Calgach's wife has been dead for several years, she is the one who runs the royal household, including the organisation of all feasts and the like. Considering the strategic importance of feasts etc. to leaders in these times, Calgach's success is partially - and probably significantly - down to Morwen's ability to keep such functions running efficiently. She is also the one who he leaves in charge of his fort, and by extension the tribe, when he starts travelling around Caledonia in his bid to unite the tribes. Which means that Morwen will be the one in danger when Agricola marches on the Caledones' fort in the aftermath of Mons Graupius. I'm sure she'll handle things with her usual level-headedness and wit, though. It's nice to have faith in your characters. :) In a similar vein is Moireach, Cathal's mother and the leader of the clan. She and her son balance things out between them: Cathal takes charge of all the martial aspects, the warrior-training, the cattle-raiding etc., while she busies herself with the day-to-day running of Dun na Nighinn. I have a feeling she and Cathal might end up at loggerheads later along the line, though. I'll be interested in seeing how that pans out. (Let's face it, Cathal is at loggerheads with everyone.)

Other women who have small parts are Agricola's wife Domitia - their married love is one of the nicer parts of the book - and their daughter Julia. I was particularly impressed with Julia when she wandered into my head: she's plucky, sensible, and more than a match for that husband of hers! I'm a bit disappointed she's not going to be in it more. Then there's Eithne, Tuathal Teachtmar's scheming mother, who is using her son in her game of revenge against the kings who killed her husband and sent her into exile (Agricola and Domitia privately refer to her as an Hibernian Agrippina). Another one I'm sad to leave as a cameo.

And just when you thought it was all over...

The Antonine novel (which needs a proper title before I end up calling it Nice Ditch, Shame About the Wall) has its fair share of female leads. My favourite is Eilwen, the younger princess of the Taexali tribe, and the result of her mother's - er - indiscretion with some anonymous at Beltaine. As a result, in the eyes of her half-brother Cinioch, king of the Taexali, she's another blemish on the façade of the royal clan. Still, royal blood is royal blood, and she's very well aware that she's a pawn in her brother's power plays. Like Gairea, Eilwen has been Druid trained, but in the more practical aspects such as diplomacy and lawkeeping. As a member of the king's immediate kin-group, she has a place on his council and intends to make that her vocation, though she knows she might just as easily be compelled by Cinioch to enter into an advantageous marriage contract. Since tribe and kin is everything to her, she resigns herself to this, and doesn't hope for anything more than the reality of her life, which includes not pursuing a romantic liaison with the warrior Edarnan (just as well, really). She faces life head-on, and knows how to endure the bad as well as she does the good. That takes some strength of character. Cinioch finally does offer her to another tribal king in order to form an alliance: he and Eilwen are descendants of Calgach, and Cinioch hopes to eradicate the shame of the defeat at Mons Graupius by imitating their ancestor and driving the Romans out of Caledonia once and for all. Eilwen, understanding his motives, grits her teeth and bears it with minimal complaint. On her way to her new husband, however, she and her escort are ambushed by slave-traders and end up on the wrong side of the Antonine Wall. But while this situation is terrifying at first, Eilwen, by a lucky chance, strikes gold. She is bought by Firmus, a centurion in command at one of the principal forts on the Wall. She ends up at his secretary, and finds herself in the ideal position to do a bit of espionage that may benefit Cinioch's cause, especially when she finds the means to get the messages to him. Firmus, however, is dealing with a mystery which is linked to Eilwen's capture, so she finds herself co-operating with him even as she double-crosses him, which tears at her conscience, especially since Firmus turns out to be a fair and decent man (he's absolutely smitten with her as well).

Eilwen is probably one of the most vulnerable characters in the book, with a deep-set inferiority complex brought about by her childhood, even though her exterior is deceptively composed and confident, if waspish and sarcastic. Because she's used to the contempt of her brother and older sister, she's incredibly suspicious of kindness, something which baffles Firmus. She's also one of the saddest characters, in that most of what she works towards rebounds upon her, and she's betrayed by Edarnan, the one person of the Taexali she thinks she can trust. In the end, she takes the only life open to her: to stay with the centurion and leave Britain with him when he retires, end up as his freedwoman and either keep working for him or marry him. There's a promise of happiness for her there, however: she gets to start a new life away from Caledonia, and she loves Firmus very much, even if she's not in love with him.

Also linked to Eilwen's story is Edarnan's wife, who only took shape recently and doesn't really have a name yet. She's ambitious, especially after becoming pregnant, and schemes with Edarnan to overthrow Cinioch. She knows full well that Edarnan still loves Eilwen, however, and that he intends to rescue her from her servitude on the Wall and take her as his second consort (stealing from Irish law here). Understandably enough, Wife isn't too thrilled at the thought of this - especially since Eilwen's children would have a stronger claim to the throne than hers - and schemes to have Eilwen gotten rid of as well.

The Roman Aurelia is another influential figure in the book. She's a young Roman matron on her third marriage, and has come to Britain with her tribune husband to get away from the rumours that surround her after the mysterious deaths of her first two husbands. When her husband disappears in mysterious circumstances on the Antonine Wall, she decides to risk travelling north to investigate the truth herself, not an easy task since she's a single woman against several garrisons of grizzled war veterans, and eventually finds herself thrust into the inter-tribal politics beyond the Wall. As the daughter of a senator, Aurelia has secretly gained a wealth of political skills, which she finds herself actively putting to use in her search for her husband, and slowly comes to realise just what she is capable of. I don't have quite as good a grip on Aurelia yet as I do on Eilwen, but I know she's going to be incredibly important. On the surface, she's quite a withdrawn, compassionate and demure sort, but she can be incredibly manipulative and/or sometimes authoritative, depending on the situation. Oh yeah, and she's a secret Mithraist. "Wtf?!" I hear you say. Well, because Juno, Isis, Cybele et al. turned out to be pretty deaf to her pleas when she was trying - and failing - to conceive a child with her first husband, and so she appeals to the soldiers' god instead to help her in her search. Like Gairea, she's an unconventional one, except she's just more private about it. ;)

And those are just the ones who have books already. I'm already being pestered by that Pictish huntress for a book, and I wouldn't mind writing something one day about Cartimandua, or Chiomara of the Galatae. So many interesting figures, so little time...

Tuesday's moan

2008-02-26T14:50:00.000-08:00

The beginning of The Ancestor Crown desperately needs a jump-start. It's just so bloody slooooow. Chapter eight, and what's happened so far? Agricola has got orders from Emperor Titus to consolidate southern Scotland; Marcus and his cohort have just set off to join the rest of the legion at the mustering point; Calgach has decided to give support to the Novantae; and Gairea has just agreed to join the Druid order.

World-building is taking up a lot of room, I've noticed. I don't know why I'm surprised; I wrote fantasy before this and it was the same with that. And each character has their own separate storyline alongside the main Romans-invading-Caledonia thread. That means a whole individual set of issues for each (apart from Agricola, who seems suspiciously angst-lite), and plenty of secondary characters to introduce and flesh out. As if the main characters didn't demand enough attention as it is.

I'll see if things speed up within the next few chapters. If not, I'll have to knuckle down and see what I can do to give the beginning some impact.

Pictish art and culture: the Hilton of Cadboll stone

2008-02-23T11:20:00.000-08:00

Here's a long post for the weekend.

Thursday's Celtic tutorial was very good. Half of us were to do small, five-minute presentations on an example of Pictish sculpture and we all had a discussion of Pictish symbolism. It was interesting, and we also got a bit of a laugh out of it.

I chose the Hilton of Cadboll stone for two reasons. The first, because it's one of the most exquisite examples we have of Pictish art; the second, because it might contain some clues regarding Pictish culture, social and material.

Hilton of Cadboll is a Class II stone, that is, that the designs were carved onto a dressed stone, rather than simply carved onto a handy boulder. Class II stones also usually bear crosses and other Christian images, and this is true for the Hilton of Cadboll. Unfortunately, the cross side of the slab was defaced in order to be used as a gravestone. (For more on the history of the stone's location and movement, see here, from where I also stole the picture.) The reconstruction drawing on the GUARD site is notable because the cross is not of the "Celtic" style. This suggests that the slab may date from the eighth century onwards, as it was the English kind of Christianity endorsed by King Nechtan in 710, rather than the Celtic Christianity of Iona.

Looking at it, it's obvious that the stonemason who crafted this slab was extremely talented. Craftsmen were held in high regard in early mediaeval Ireland, and I imagine sculptors must have done extremely well for themselves in Pictish society. It's unlikely that our talented mason simply came up with this remarkable piece of work just for fun, rather he was probably commissioned by some high-ranking individual. He (or maybe even she?) might well have been a client of this individual.

Now, let's have a look at the images.

Hilton of Cadboll bears two of the most popular of Pictish symbols. At the very top can be seen two connected circles with a Z-rod slashed across the join. The Z-rod has been interpreted in many ways (perhaps a broken spear, perhaps a thunderbolt, etc.), and occurs commonly with the connected circles. Like most of the Pictish symbols, this one is impossible to interpret with any certainty. The panel below the circles and Z-rod is a panel bearing a V-rod superimposed upon a crescent shape - another distinctive Pictish symbol. The crescent is most obviously interpreted as a lunar symbol, but since it's turned over that way, I think that's probably unlikely. It does, however, appear over one hundred times in Pictish art, so it's evidently significant. Perhaps it's an emblem - of the Pictish royal house, the Picts' symbol for themselves (if they actually had any idea of themselves as one cohesive nation), or maybe a symbol representing a mythological ancestor or a deity... we really have no way of knowing. Below the crescent are two circles, unconnected, and again, they're impossible to interpret.

The sides of the slab are bordered with interlacing scrollwork of the type you would expect to find in, say, the Book of Kells. This typically Gaelic design is indicative of the influence that Scottish culture had on the Picts. Birds can be seen entwined with the knotwork: I think the animal motifs would have especially appealed to the Pictish sculptors, who really liked their animals. :) Also, interestingly, on the very bottom panel and also within the crescent symbol, there is a pattern that includes a variant of the triskele, the triple spiral, which is a common feature of La Tène art (a style considered almost synonymous with Iron Age Celtic culture). In this respect, by combining the knotwork and the triskele, the Hilton of Cadboll stone is very "Celtic" in its design.

Now, finally, let's look at the centre panel of the stone, which is the most interesting by far. Here's a nice close-up of it (pinched from here):

As you can see, it depicts a hunting scene: there are two men on horseback armed with lances, and the two sleek hounds in the bottom-left corner seem to have chased down a young deer. The animals, as usual with Pictish art, are beautifully realised (more so than the humans, who always look a bit cartoonish). Perhaps the Picts' attention to detail in their animal figures reflects something of their pre-Christian beliefs?

The mounted figures also bear small circular shields. Small shields, circular and square, seem to have been a very Pictish thing; they appear elsewhere on Pictish sculpture (like at the Brough of Birsay), and Tacitus mentions the small shields of the Caledonians at the battle of Mons Graupius in the first century. In this respect they are at odds with the typical longer shield of Celtic Europe (of which the Battersea Shield is a good example). The figures also give us a clue as to how the Picts looked. The riders' hair is roughly shoulder-length, and looks like it's been tied back with a little "bob" at the end. Interestingly, the trumpeters in the top-right don't seem to have the long hair. Perhaps this was limited to warriors (if that's what they are) - a sort of Pictish equivalent to the top-knot of the samurai? Or maybe they've just got it tied up so it doesn't get in the way while they're hunting. Also, we should note that all the men, including the trumpeters, are dressed in tunics, with what looks like some sort of short cloak or mantle over that, effectively banishing the stereotypical notion of the naked Pict. ;)

While the riders and the musicians are detailed in themselves, they're obviously not what we're supposed to be focusing on in this scene. The main figure on this panel is the one in the top-left, whose horse is noticeably larger and finer than those of the other two riders. What's striking about this rider, however, is that she's a woman. Looking at her, it's obvious that she's the focus of the picture, the one who seems to be leading this hunt. And she's clearly a woman of some status. For one, the hunt has always been a pastime of the wealthy. Secondly - it's hard to make out - but she seems to be wearing a large brooch of penannular style at her breast, and brooches appear to have been a recognisable symbol of status in early medieval Ireland. It's likely that the sculptor has exaggerated the size of the brooch to emphasise that it's there, that this woman is important. She certainly looks like a noble lady: she's sitting very primly side-saddle (as does the goddess Epona in Celtic sculpture, by the way), and is wearing a long dress or skirt beneath a long outer garment, probably a cloak. It looks like it might be pleated, or those might just be the folds of the material. Her hair is long and looks almost like it's been curled or crimped. That doesn't really mean anything in itself, but it could be that curled hair was fashionable among the Pictish nobility (for example, a slab at the Brough of Birsay in Orkney depicts a line of three warriors, and their leader has noticeably curly hair). It's a thought. I'm throwing it out there. :)

So, what does this tell us about Pictish society? Well, nothing really, but it does leave room for some intriguing speculation. One of the most unique aspects of the Picts is their alleged and hotly debated system of matrilineal inheritance, which leads onto the question of women's place in Pictish society. (Edit: Carla Nayland has posted an article on Pictish matrilineal descent here.) Celtic women in general seem to have had a better deal socially than their classical counterparts, though it's hard to say exactly how much. The Hilton of Cadboll woman, however, seems to be very well appointed. She's clearly got class and status, and seems very much to be leading the hunt. Also, if you look carefully, it seems that there is another horse hidden behind hers. We talked about it in the tutorial, and most of us thought that the rider of the hidden horse is probably the lady's husband - which, if that is the case, very much suggests that the lady is the dominant partner in this relationship! The limelight is firmly on her. That doesn't necessarily mean that the Picts exalted the feminine above all, but it does hint that Lady Hilton of Cadboll is an important figure in her own right, that she doesn't require the image of her husband next to her to affirm her rank. Perhaps she was the one who commissioned the slab in the first place? Also significant is the mirror and comb symbol that appears next to her. This rather common symbol is usually assumed to have something to do with women, and since it appears here next to a female figure, that seems to me very likely. Perhaps it stood, almost like a hieroglyph, for "woman", whose meaning in this context could extent to the title "lady"?

As for the hunting, in Dark Age societies it seems it was strategically important for the nobility to be able to entertain clients and patrons alike through feasts and hunts, etc. If we apply this to the Hilton of Cadboll slab, then perhaps it means that Pictish women had the right, not only to be involved in such activities, but to host them as well, which perhaps gave them a firm footing in Pictish politics, maybe an active role?

There are other things to consider as well. We don't know for sure what this scene really depicts. Is it celebrating the life and times of the woman and her companions? The slab was found near a mediaeval church dedicated to the Virgin Mary, which gives us two very prominent female figures being celebrated in close proximity. Is there perhaps some sort of link? (Granted, my knowledge of the Bible is quite scant, but I don't really remember anything about Mary leading a full-blown hunting party.) Given the Christian context of the slab, the scene may be from Pictish mythology (whatever that was), which the sculptor found to have allegorical similarities with Christianity. Perhaps the woman is meant to be an old Pictish divinty of some kind, bestowed by the artist with contemporary symbols of status?

Who can say for sure? Though I have a feeling our huntress may soon find herself in a book. :)

Does anyone have any thoughts on the Hilton of Cadboll slab, or Pictish symbolism in general?

(Btw, a short list of references and further reading, since I think I should:

- The RCAHMS entry for the Hilton of Cadboll stone.
- Surviving in Symbols: A Visit to the Pictish Nation, by Martin Carver (Birlinn, 1999). A good introduction to Pictish history.
- A Wee Guide to the Picts, by Duncan Jones (Goblinshead, 1998). Nice, short little book which gives a quick history of the Picts, a guide to the individual symbols and possible interpretations, and a list of where to find the Pictish stones.)

It lives!

2008-02-20T13:24:00.000-08:00

Just a rundown of the last week or so, to explain my absence.

Thursday, as I've said, saw me at the doctor's. Not good, since Thursday's a pretty full day at uni, so I missed a lot of stuff. Anyway, I had this livid, sore rash on both shoulders and over my collarbones, which was creeping towards my chest. I got a prescription for two creams from the doctor to see if they could help. The good news is: they did, within the first couple of days. :) Some patches of skin are still a bit dry, but at least the redness and rawness has disappeared, and it's not sore when I wear a long-sleeved top, wash, or generally touch the affected area.

The weekend was spent doing an essay for Celtic Civ, on the changes in Britain during the period AD 400 - 700. I made the mistake of putting off my visit to the library until the Friday, so I didn't get many of the books on the recommendation list. I did get some very decent ones, though. Unfortunately, the essay was a complete, f**king shambles, despite that virtually sleepless night I spent trying to get it tidied up. A sleepless night with bad PMS. You can imagine how that went. (grimace)

(Btw, have you noticed that almost every single book on the Anglo-Saxons has the Sutton Hoo feller as the cover illustration? By one in the morning I was sick of the sight of him.)

Good news, however, I got As for both my Latin and Celtic exams! Archaeology of Scotland won't be tested until the end of this semester.

My Archaeology tutorial yesterday was great! We're doing stuff about materials and their properties, so they had some artefacts from the Hunterian Museum out for us to look at. Lovely things like Stone Age flint arrowheads, Bronze Age socketed axeheads, decorated shards of Samian pottery, leather from a Swedish lake village... things so delicate I was almost too scared to touch them.

I haven't been writing much, unfortunately. Or reading, apart from uni books. I have been listening, though. I've fallen in love with the audiobook section of Waterstone's. My mum's just finished listening to The Children of Húrin read by Christopher Lee (talk about the voice of Saruman, lol!) They also have Seamus Heaney reading his translation of Beowulf. *drools* My sister's birthday is coming up, and I think I might get her I, Claudius read by Derek Jacobi. I got her hooked on the series - she absolutely loved Augustus! - and she liked the sound of the audiobook when I told her about it. She's not really got a lot of patience for reading long books.

As for me, I've now got all the volumes of Old Harry's Game, so I'm very happy. :)

And I've got a Latin test coming up. Better start revising all that new grammar, and I think I should check over the basics as well, just to be on the safe side. Relative pronouns were a bit bewildering at the start, but at least I've got my head round them after today's tutorial. The perfect tense, however, is going to need a lot of revision.

Anyway, that's you filled in on my misadventures. I'd better go; I have a small presentation on Pictish art to prepare. Need to find some decent pictures of the Hilton of Cadboll stone. Uni's such a drag. :)

I should be back within the next couple of days, hopefully with something halfway interesting or entertaining.

Happy Valentine's Day

2008-02-14T14:24:00.000-08:00

Hope you all had a better one than me. I spent mine alone. In a doctor's waiting room.

Anyway, I got nothing today, so I'll just leave you with this little scene from Scrubs, one of my favourites. Yes, I'm a sap. :)

And now, in honour of the occasion, I'm going to go and "play" with the love lives of my characters. Especially Cathal's. Seriously, never test your author by boasting to your armour bearer, "No woman has ever left my bed unsatisfied." That's just asking for trouble.

A writing meme

2008-02-10T16:34:00.002-08:00

Filched from Marie. I thought the questions in this one were rather interesting.

What’s the last thing you wrote?
What I'm working on now. The Ancestor Crown, a novel about the Agricolan invasion of Caledonia. Historical with some fantasy touches.

Was it any good?
I like to think so. But then, I am biased. ;)

What’s the first thing you wrote that you still have?
I think that would be the Bubble and Shell books I wrote with my cousin when we were small. They were stories about the comical misadventures of two mermaids. We tried to write at least one per sleepover and had a whole stack of them by the end!

Write poetry?
Oh God, no. I did when I was a lot younger, until I quickly realised I just didn't have it in me.

Angsty poetry?
See above.

Favourite genre of writing?
Historical, fantasy, and science fiction.

Most fun character you ever created?
You know, I think it would have to be those two mermaids. After them, I started to create characters laden down with issues.

Most annoying character you ever created?
At the moment, it's Aulus Mamilius Vitulus, a tribune of the Twentieth Legion (The Ancestor Crown). At least the rest of the cast seem to agree with me, though.

Best plot you ever created?
I would say the one I'm writing now, except I really owe it to Tacitus. I do like the embellishments I've made, however. :)
And I very much like the mystery that forms the basis of my Antonine novel.

How often do you get writer’s block?
Is that writer's block as in don't know what to write next, or do know but can't seem to invoke the muse to let me write it down? Because I don't really get the former, but I frequently get the latter. :(

Write fan fiction?
I did, for a few years. But not for about a year now, ever since the muse for my Caledonian series returned. It overpowered the fanfiction muse and locked it up in a cupboard somewhere.

Do you type or write by hand?
I prefer to type, that way I can do it quickly and get the story down while the ideas are still fresh in my head. When I'm writing by hand, I'm so busy making sure that every letter is the right size, that every i is dotted and every t crossed, that I often lose the thread of the prose before I get to the end of the first sentence. But I always make sure that, wherever I go, I have a notebook and a spare pen with me, just in case I need to scribble something down.

Do you save everything you write?
Yes.

Do you ever go back to an old idea long after you abandoned it?
Yes. The Ancestor Crown is actually an old story that I went back to after almost ten years. I was obsessed with Roman history when I was very little, especially the Romans in my locale, and when we came to do the Romans and Celts in primary school, I came up with the characters Marcus and Gairea (though they didn't actually have names at that point). I put them away for many years, focusing instead on my fantasy stuff, then, two years ago, I was thinking about the stories I'd made up when I was small and suddenly remembered them. I wrote down the first scene I'd came up with, then another, then another, spent several months reacquainting myself with the Romans and reading in-depth about Agricola and the Flavian occupation, then started reading and writing in earnest. All because I was at a loose end one rainy Sunday afternoon!

What’s your favourite thing that you’ve written?
Probably The Ancestor Crown. Though my fantasy/sci-fi effort, The Shadow of Thaya-fel, will always have a special place in my heart, despite its flaws.

Do you ever show people your work?
A select few.

Did you ever write a novel?
I started loads. To date, I've finished one. :(

Ever written romance or teen angst drama?
Not as a genre, though most of my books tend to include an element of at least one!

What’s your favourite setting for your characters?
At the moment it seems to be Roman Britain and Caledonia, though I've got ideas for the Neolithic and the Early Historic period.

How many writing projects are you working on right now?
At the moment, two: The Ancestor Crown and its semi-sequel, set eighty years later.

Do you want to write for a living?
Yes, I do. But I also want to be an archaeologist.

Have you ever won an award for your writing?
No. I've never entered anything into a competition.

Ever written something in script or play format?
(grins) Yes. When I was ten I wrote a pantomime-style script for Rapunzel. Some of my friends and I actually got to put it on in front of our class. It was a shambles, but it was a good laugh!

What are your 5 favourite words?
I don't really know.

Do you ever write based on yourself?
Not consciously.

What character have you created that most resembles yourself?
So far, the first two heroines I created (Aoife from Shadow of Thaya-fel and Gairea from The Ancestor Crown) turned out a lot like me. Studious, self-conscious, self-critical misfits. Thankfully, they both grew into their own characters, but I suppose they are quite a bit like me.

Do you favour happy endings, sad endings, or cliff-hangers?
I like mixed endings, with some happy and some sad elements. Sometimes there is a bit of a cliffhanger.

Have you written based on an artwork you have seen?
Not that I know of.

Are you concerned with spelling and grammar as you write?
Absolutely obsessed.

Does music help you write?
Very much so. The type depends on what I'm writing at that moment. Emotive, powerful vocals like Chihiro Onitsuka are a must, and I listen to film soundtracks and Celtic artists a lot. I've built up quite an extensive "soundtrack" in my head, including music for certain scenes and some character themes. :)

Quote something you’ve written.
(from the untitled Antonine novel)

The first he knew of an attack was the spear - the high whine, the lash of air as it sliced past, barely a handspan in front of his face. His horse reared, screaming, and he pulled sharply on the reins, digging his legs into its flanks to avoid being thrown off. He reached across, clinging to the reins with one hand, and wrested his sword from its scabbard. A war horn shrilled from the covering of the woods, in the same instant that a cry of "Picti!" went up from behind. Firmus turned his head, just in time to see a pack of blue-skinned wildmen burst, howling, from the trees.

Outlines and character profiles

2008-02-06T15:15:00.000-08:00

Well, it's official. I can't for the life of me do a plot outline. I am a degenerate. :)

I got thinking about this after talking with a friend (also a writer) and she told me she was doing outlines for each chapter, and had written up a profile for her MC.

I've tried - several times - but I think, essentially, I just don't have the patience for it. Since I like to have a good idea in my head of where I'm going before I start writing, it felt like I was telling myself what I already knew. And I've got a good memory for minute details, so I can hold the finer plot details in my head. Even my unfinished fantasy series - which I've not touched for three years now - I can remember every tiny twist and turn. It's the same with essays. I try to write up plans, and I never stick to them. Do my essays suffer for it? Well, judging from all the markers' comments about how well-structured they are, apparently not. :D

But will this necessarily apply to my novels? That's what I'm wondering. So far, my biggest challenge isn't keeping all the various subplots and plot twists straight, but more being able to do them all justice. Would an outline help me there any?

I wonder... maybe I was going about it wrong? Am I better doing what my friend did, and outline the story chapter by chapter, rather than all at once? Or is an overview of the plot as a whole the way to go?

And it's the same with character profiles. I tried doing them, but again got that feeling that I was just repeating to myself what I already knew in detail. Not to mention lists of character attributes and quirks look very dry and lifeless when set down on paper by themselves. I did, however, read elsewhere that "interviewing" your characters is also a good idea. I've started that with my Roman MC, Marcus, and actually having quite a fun time of it. :)

Any of you got any advice on this subject? I think it's probably a personal thing, but I can't help the feeling it's something I really ought to do.

No subject, just insensible glee. :)

2008-02-02T07:05:00.000-08:00

Well, it took a while for the echoes of my shriek of utter joy to die away, but now they have I can tell the cyberworld my news!

I got the email through this morning from Andrew Birley, Director of Excavations at Vindolanda, accepting my application to spend two weeks down there in the summer as a volunteer excavator! I have officially never been so excited to spend a fortnight getting wet, sweaty and muddy, in all my life.

*squeals happily and dances around the house before crashing into a wall*

I'll probably be back later tonight to do some non-memeing (lol, Crystal), and maybe get a second excerpt posted up - I'll see - but that'll have to wait until my family can scrape me down off the ceiling!

VindolandaVindolandaVindolandaVindolandaVindolanda...

Happy (lol) Gildas' Day

2008-01-29T16:48:00.000-08:00

So, it seems this is the Feast of Saint Gildas. That's apt, I suppose, considering our tutorial reading for this week is from the Ruin of Britain, and also because I've been feeling miserable and grumpy all day.

Side-note: I wonder how you're supposed to honour ol' Gildas. Lambast your neighbours' lifestyles over the fence and call them names? Reminisce on how things were bad in the good old days, but worse even now?

Anyway, I'm choked with the cold. There seems to be a swathe of lurgies going around right now and, true to form, I've caught one. My nose can't decide if it's blocked or runny (one nostril's doing one thing and the other's doing another), and I'm ploughing my way through the tissues. Got a sore head, and my brain has turned to mush. It didn't help, then, that for Latin I had to translate some of Augustus' Res Gestae (basically, telling the world how successful and marvellous he was). Combine formal Latin, a beginner's slippery grasp of the perfect tense, and a brain made of mush, and you can imagine that was no easy task. Plus I'm pretty sure Powell has made a spelling mistake somewhere in the book.

And I ended up falling asleep when I got home in the evening, so I'll probably be up all night now. grumble, grumble And I have to get up at six again to be at uni for nine. Hardly seems worth it, since the only thing I have on a Wednesday is my Latin tutorial, so it's in then straight back out again. I'll see if I can manage to haul myself out bed when the time comes. grumble, grumble...

On a more positive note, I got my Archaeology essay back. I got 19 out of 22, which, now I've checked the handbook, is in the A category. :D

Exam results aren't out yet, though. I'll wait with bated breath for them.

Sorry about such a moaning non-post. I've managed to slip more or less back into my routine, however, so I should be back to blogging in the next couple of days.

"Lands hitherto unknown": the Novantae

2008-01-21T15:18:00.000-08:00

Or, "Do I have a touch of Asperger's?"

Warning: boring rubbish; trying to sort out some thoughts; probably incomprehensible.

Agricola started his fifth campaign by crossing the first water and in a series of successful actions subdued lands hitherto unknown. The side of Britain that faces Ireland was lined with his forces. (Tacitus, Agricola, ch. 24)

Anyone who's read the Agricola knows that one of the problems with that little book is Tacitus' vagueness on certain points. Like, for instance, what this "first water" is. Historians argue over it - some think it's the River Annan, others the Clyde, and so forth (pun unintended). Similarly, whereabouts was he when he was facing Ireland?

I'm working towards this part in my NiP right now, so Agricola-muse and I have been poring over maps of Roman Scotland, trying to work out a route for Marcus and co. to take this year.

In southern Scotland, there are two places close to Ireland. The Mull of Kintyre (Epidium Promontorium) is something like twelve miles from its north-east coast, hence Dál Riata in Antrim and Argyll. The problem with Kintyre is, so far there's no evidence for a Roman presence, and I have a problem imagine Agricola's army squashed together at the tip of that promontory.

The Rhinns of Galloway (Novantarum Peninsula) are the other possibility, and the one I've decided to favour. They lay within lands of the Novantae tribe, who seem to have inhabited roughly the Dumfries and Galloway area. In my own take on the original narrative I have Agricola, having already built his Forth-Clyde frontier, now embarking on a mission of consolidation, which brings him to the Novantae. He's already thinking about invading Ireland one day, so the handy Novantarum Pensinsula is an added incentive. ;)

The good news, there's traces of Roman activity in Dumfries and Galloway. Not a lot of it, but some intriguing bits and pieces. So I'm trying to map out a possible route for the invading Roman army, and a seat of power for the Novantae themselves. Hey, they need to defend something.

So, with my handy Ordnance Survey Roman Britain and Ancient Britain maps to hand, I start looking. This is where anyone without a map of Galloway to hand is liable to get lost, so I'll describe it as carefull as possible.

A known Roman road makes its way northwest/southeast through Nithsdale, but in the Dumfries area there are a couple of marching camps to the southwest of this road at Fourmerkland. Continuing further SW from Fourmerkland, there are another pair (the map has two) at Shawhead. It definitely seems there was some sort of incursion this way.

Even further SW, at Glenlochar in the Castle Douglas area, is an interesting little collection of fortifications: a good-sized (8.3 acre) Flavian-dated fort, along with six marching camps (the largest measured is around 33 acres, so it's a good size). The fort was also occupied in the Antonine period, so maybe a couple of camps are contemporary with that, but I'm willing to bet there are some Flavian camps in that collection, continuing this apparent march SW. (It's so difficult to date these things precisely, especially the Flavian installations in Scotland). The placement of a fort here, I think, deserves some attention.

Going even further SW, we reach a trace of Roman road and the fortlet of Gatehouse on Fleet, which has good views up the valley of the Water of Fleet. Whether by accident or design, this fortlet isn't far from the rather interesting hillfort of Trusty's Hill. The hillfort shows signs of vitrification, and is also one of the few sites in southern Scotland to show Pictish-style carvings (probably later than this period, but interesting nevertheless).

It's this little bit of road that's interesting, as there are few traces of Roman road this far west, and roads were pretty much built by the army for the army. Was it built as my hypothetical expedition made their way SW, and the rest of the traces lost? Well, we'll see. What traces there are seem to be pointing west...

Now, the next point on the OS map is the marching camp at Glenluce, almost directly west of Gatehouse of Fleet. Glenluce is practically on the point of Luce Bay, which opens onto the Solway firth. And from Glenluce, there are more traces of a Roman road - arcing its way NW, seemingly from Glenluce towards the modern town of Strangaer, at the head of Loch Ryan.

And that's it. That's the points of Roman presence in Galloway. What's interesting is the Roman road - a definitive indication of a Roman presence if ever there was one. So the next question I asked myself was, why does it head where it does?

Well, the Rerigonius Sinus of Ptolemy's map of Britain is generally equated with Loch Ryan, a sea-loch. Ptolemy also mentions a place called Rerigonium as one of the "towns" of the Novantae, and the name seems to mean something along the lines of "royal place". Take that together, and it suggests a "royal place" situated around Loch Ryan. Incidentally, the name "Ryan" does actually come from the Gaelic rí or righ for "king".

Now, looking at the map, Loch Ryan faces north, a natural harbour with easy access to the Firth of Clyde, Kintyre, and Ireland, and I believe there is a ferry service between Stranraer and Ireland. Stranraer is a harbour town, naturally enough, and I imagine there would be good trading opportunities for the Novantae via Loch Ryan. And if you controlled that lucrative little trading node... well, I imagine you'd be an authority within the tribe. There is a further hint to this in that, on the Ancient Britain map, the most significant hillforts of the Novantae are to be found directly on the coast.

So, if Rerigonium can be equated roughly with a settlement at Stranraer, or thereabouts, supervising a nice little trading point, then there's no wonder there's a Roman road heading straight for it. Loch Ryan and Luce Bay also serve to form the Rhinns of Galloway, so if Agricola managed to take over "Rerigonium", then his access to the Novantarum Peninsula would be unhindered, leaving him free to line up his armies facing Ireland. From there I can bring in the Irish prince (Tuathal Teachtmar for the purposes of this book), and give him an easy route to Argyll from Loch Ryan.

(There are also a couple of stray marching camps further north, near the coast at Girvan. Hmm... a "special detachment", maybe? The plotbunnies, they multiply...)

Well, that's how I spent my Sunday! Sad, innit? On the other hand, I've got a decent idea where I, and my characters, are going now!

You can all wake up now. XD

I'm back!

2008-01-16T15:42:00.000-08:00

Well, my exams are over! There were only two after all - the first Archaeology module won't be tested till the end of this semester - but the build-up was excruciating. I'm sure some of my other uni-related posts have conveyed very clearly that when it comes to all things academic, I'm a nervous wreck. I was on the verge of tears on Sunday night, before my Celtic exam, convinced I was going to fail. It wasn't as bad as all that, after all, though I did managed to forget most of the quotes I'd made a point of revising on Sunday. Isn't that always the way? >:(

Finished off with Latin this afternoon. Went to pieces over that, of course. You should've seen me sitting in a café in Buchanan Galleries at lunchtime, freaking out because I'd not properly revised third declension adjectives.

Needless to say, not a sodding one turned up in the exam.

It was actually quite a good exam, I actually managed to keep my head during it, and I hope I've managed to rack up some marks. I finished with a good half-hour to go, so I also got plenty of time to check over my answers. I wasn't the only one, either.

It was good to meet up with my friends again, now that they're back up from England.

Oh, and my books for this semester are coming in now. For Celtic Civ. I have to read History of Wales, Early Medieval Ireland, Picts, Gaels and Scots (which I've read anyway), The Mabinogion, and Early Irish Myths and Sagas. Best reading list ever, lol!

Book review: Farewell Britannia: A Family Saga of Roman Britain, by Simon Young

2008-01-11T09:33:00.001-08:00

Spoiler: The Saxons totally take over at the end. ;)

Julius Caesar invaded Britain in 55 BC, but no invasion was successful until the Emperor Claudius' in AD 43. Roman rule lasted until 410, when the Emperor Honorius, faced with the chaos in the eroding Western Roman Empire, withdrew the British legions and told the people to look to their own defences. In Farewell Britannia, historian Simon Young fills in the centuries in between with a fictionalised study of Roman Britain, as witnessed by the members of an illustrious family, the Atrebates, descended from the royal house of the tribe of the same name.

The first story concerns Commius, the Gaulish chieftain who travelled to Britain to communicate to the British Celts on Caesar's behalf and who founded the British Atrebates. Other chapters deal with events such as the Claudian invasion, Boudicca's uprising in c. 61 AD, the Great Barbarian Conspiracy in 367, etc. These major events, however, are kept to the periphery of the narrative as Young delves into the most obscure - and more fascinating - details of Romano-British life. Every story, even if it is fictional, has a real name, inscription, or artefact at its heart, and while the Atrebates' family tree is a mish-mash of the historical and fictional, every member's name can be found attested somewhere in Roman Britain. There are "big names" to be found, such as Togidubnus, Gratian, and Lucius Artorius Castus, but equally the reader comes across lesser-known names such as Claudia Severa and Silvius Bonus. The chapters that deal with a disgraced official's suicide, or the infanticide of slave children, while fictional in themselves, still have that grain of truth at their heart. Young builds stories around tiny scraps of evidence, such as the probable theft of the Vyne Ring, Claudia Severa's birthday invitation to Sulpicia Lepidina, whilst filling out each tale with a wealth of historical detail.

Young vividly evokes the atmosphere of Roman Britain, and his erudition on the subject lends that atmosphere an added feel of authenticity. His author's notes in themselves, headed with what he terms "curiosities", are fascinating to read. Some figures, such as Julius Agricola and Magnus Maximus do not appear, but their absence is explained and understandable.

Of course, I've got some quibbles (don't I always?). Although the Atrebates are the reader's guides into Roman Britain, none of them are particularly endearing or engaging, so it was hard to feel any affinity for them. This is more than made up for in detail and atmosphere, but if you're picking up Farewell Britannia expecting to read it as an historical novel, watch your step. While no doubt true to their time and place, the characters of Farewell Britannia don't have the same warmth and memorability as, say, Rosemary Sutcliff's. This is, all things considered, a history book, albeit fictionalised, so the best bet is to read it for the history and approach the fictional aspect as you would approach a well-done docu-drama.

And I could have done without having to read "[York]" or "[Colchester]" in square brackets like that whenever Eboracum or Camulodunum was mentioned. It jarred what was otherwise a very smooth, atmospheric narrative, and was also unnecessary, considering the book contains a map with all relevant place names, ancient and modern.

And, for the love of Nodens, Mr. Young, it's Rosemary Sutcliff, not Sutcliffe. Grrrgnashsnarl...

Despite those minor points, this is one of the best evocations of Britannia I've read to date. Highly recommended, especially for people who have even a passing interest in Roman Britain.

Zomg! I got tagged!

2008-01-02T16:51:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Gabriele for tagging me with this meme.

1. Link to the person that tagged you and post the rules on your blog.
2. Share 7 random and/or weird things about yourself.
My variant is that rather than say 7 random/weird things about yourself, say them about a historical figure of your choice. (Let’s be generous, semi-historical, for all those interested in more or less mythical figures).
3. Tag 7 random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs.
4. Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

All right, and I choose... (drum roll)... Saint Columba. Ha! I flummoxed you all! Thought I was going to choose a Roman, dincha? Sorry, I've been reading the Bridei Chronicles.

I love Columba. I think he was the least saintly, most Machiavellian chancer ever to get a sainthood, but that's what makes him so interesting. I've got a couple of vague ideas for books set in the Early Historic period; maybe he'll show up in one.

Anyway, I'm not really sure how many of these can be considered proper facts, but at least they're entertaining! :)

1. Columba (or Columcille - "Dove of the church") was an Irish prince of the Uí Néill dynasty, a descendant of Niall of the Nine Hostages, born at Gartan, Donegal, on 7 December 521. Apparently, his mother Eithne was visited during her pregnancy by an angel, who told her she would bear a son of beautiful character who was destined to lead many souls to Heaven, blah blah. Believe that if you will. Considering Columcille was supposed to have been a foul-mouthed old sod, I can't help but wonder if the angel was given the wrong address! :D

2. Columba was the most distinguished student of Saint Finnian, but was accused, pretty much, of copyright infringement. The psalter in question is traditionally associated with the Cathach of Saint Columba. Things got a teensy weensy bit out of hand, culminating in the Battle of Cúl Dreimhe. For his part in it, Columba was banished, at the age of forty-two, and charged to convert as many souls to Christianity as had died in the battle. So off he went.

3. Columba and his followers landed first on Mull of Kintyre, but since Ireland was still in sight, they went further north until they landed on Iona. The local Druids protested - since, y'know, they were already there - but Columba and co. succeeded in chucking them off and setting up their famous monastery.

4. Columba's missionary regimen was... vigorous. He plunged into Pictland, converting people left, right, and centre. He visited King Brude, son of Maelchon, and did some miracle-making there. In a dramatic showdown, he trounced the king's Druid and foster-father, Broichan, more than once duels of magic and wills. On the more realistic side, it's very possible he converted Brude to Christianity while he was at the Pictish court.

5. One of the "miracles" attributed to Columba by Adomnán is how he cured one of his followers, Lugne Mocumin, of a nosebleed by - get this - pinching his nostrils shut.

6. Columba also helped to invent Scotland's tourist trade by meeting the Loch Ness Monster (if you believe this kind of thing). One day, while he and his followers were kicking about Pictland, they met some Picts burying a man who, they said, had been killed by a monster in the River Ness. Columba scoffed and, just to show how fearless he was, he sent Lugne - the nosebleed guy - to swim across the river to fetch the boat. Halfway across, Lugne was attacked by Nessie, who had been lying at the river bed and who'd obviously decided she could manage one more. Columba made the sign of the cross and told it to back off. So it did. Needless to say, the Picts watching the proceedings were immediately converted. I suppose the monster came back once she was sure Columba was gone. ;)

7. Columba died on 9 June 597. Unlike most saints, he didn't die a horrible, messy death at a young age, but quite comfortably at the age of seventy-five (good on him, I say). Before his death, he blessed the island of Iona and did some prophesying. He was praying in the church at midnight when he died. And - since this story wouldn't be complete without a miracle - his friend Diarmaid saw the church fill with light.

Anyway, hope they were interesting, at least. I'm tagging Jack and Crystal next. Have fun!

Happy New Year!

2007-12-31T17:06:00.000-08:00

I'd like to wish everyone all the best for the new year. Have a very happy, healthy 2008. Hope everyone has had a great Hogmanay! (raises glass of Irn-Bru)

And remember those targets I set for myself? Well, I... didn't meet them. :( Revisions with the plot ended up with two having to be pushed quite a bit back, and as for the others - turns out I didn't have enough time to write as I'd wanted, and when I did have some time, I was a procastinating bugger. 'Nuff said. Still, I got some edits and revisions done, and managed to work out some kinks in the plots of all my NiPs. So it's not all bad. :)

So my New Year's resolution is not to be a procastinating bugger.

Aye, right.

XD

Dumb Britain

2007-12-29T16:44:00.000-08:00

Hello, everyone! I thought I should break my radio silence, but I couldn't think of anything substantial to post. Hope everyone's recovering from Christmas! I've been amusing myself with my new DVDs and my obligatory Private Eye annual. This year, I also got a book of the entries from PE's Dumb Britain section - which reveals the silliest answers given on quiz shows up and down the country. Some of them might just be down to nerves; some are just plain dumb. Here's a selection of my favourites, hope they give you a laugh. Remember - these are all real.

Presenter: When the twins Romulus and Remus were abandoned, they were suckled by which four-legged animal?
Contestant: The minotaur.

Presenter: What G was the complex knot severed by Alexander the Great in the fourth century BC?
Contestant: Granny.

Presenter: What type of weapon was a claymore? Was it (a) a mace, (b), a sword, or (c) a dagger?
Contestant: Well, I know it can't be a mace, as the police have only started using that.

Presenter: Complete this well-known saying: "Beauty is in the eye of the..."
Contestant: Tiger.

Presenter: In Shakespeare's play A Midsummer Night's Dream, who was king of the fairies?
Contestant: I'm not very good at history.

Presenter: Who wrote Treasure Island?
Contestant: Robinson Crusoe.

Presenter: What did Roger Bannister do in under four minutes in 1954?
Contestant: Orbit the earth?

Presenter: In which country are the ruins of the ancient city of Troy? Is it (a) Tunisia, (b) Italy or (c) Turkey?
Contestant: I think this is when all those years doing A-level Ancient History will start to pay off. (pause) Well it's not Turkey...

Presenter: King Robert I of Scotland was popularly known by what other name?
Contestant: Bob.

Presenter: Who said "Kiss me Hardy?"
Contestant: Was it his girlfriend?
Presenter: No, it was a man who said it.
Contestant: Was it Stan Laurel?

Presenter: Above the entrance to which place do the words "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here" appear?
Contestant: A church?

Presenter: What travels at 300 million metres a second?
Contestant: A cheetah.

Merry Christmas!

2007-12-25T15:51:00.000-08:00

Just a quick word to everyone to wish you all a Merry Christmas/Sol Invictus/whatever you're celebrating. Hope you've had a good day! I know I have. Currently regretting eating so much Christmas dinner and cake, have watched the Doctor Who special, and now settling down for I, Claudius. God, I love men in togas. ;)

Anyway, here's a Christmas card of sorts. I don't think there was anything in the Nativity story about giant cats terrorising Bethlehem, but... er...

Hope your Christmas is/was a good one, and wish you all the best for 2008.

Kirsten's Scribbling Corner

A mixed bag

Just to let you know...

From the front

Character meme fun!

Checking in...

A hiatus

Books for Summer

A mini rant

Filial impiety?

Tortured protagonists

It lives (again)

Happy New Year!

Merry Christmas!

Multiple PoV: some musings

Book review: Dark North, by Gillian Bradshaw

From the Rostra...

A hail and farewell

The good, the bad, and the ugly.

Latin, Latin, and more Latin

Atchoo.

Well, I've done it.

Excerpt: Will of the Gods

Getting back into the swing of things...

Internet! Internet! *dances about*

Nope, still not up yet...

I'm alive!

Happy Lughnasadh!

Random musings - mind's all over the place right now

Yet another writing update

More random causes for celebration

Woo-hoo!

A quick update

I challenge... er... myself.

Ancient prosthetics 101

Vindolanda, week II

I'm back from Vindolanda!

I'm away to dig up Roman stuff!

The Ugly Duckling? I think not...

Character names

Well, that's it.

Voyage of the Damned

The deed is done.

Book review: Ruso and the Demented Doctor, by R. S. Downie

Fifty questions for Marcus

Book review: Ruso and the Disappearing Dancing Girls, by R. S. Downie

Back to life, back to reality.

Oh dear. This is just too tempting to pass up.

Terminology in historical fiction

An award, and some hills and rain.

Excerpt: Medionemeton

I has a trillojee. :)

Shakespeare manga!

Crappy "history" book

This week's oddities

Excerpt: Antonine novel, chapter 1

The leading ladies

Tuesday's moan

Pictish art and culture: the Hilton of Cadboll stone

It lives!

Happy Valentine's Day

A writing meme

Outlines and character profiles

No subject, just insensible glee. :)

Happy (lol) Gildas' Day

"Lands hitherto unknown": the Novantae

I'm back!

Book review: Farewell Britannia: A Family Saga of Roman Britain, by Simon Young

Zomg! I got tagged!

Happy New Year!

Dumb Britain

Merry Christmas!

Internet! Internet! dances about