The Shieldmaiden’s Honour is done and dusted, ready for release. I’ve moved it a week ahead, so it’ll be available for purchase a week from now. About time, then, to show off the map created for the book.
It’s the coasts of the English Channel and the North Sea this time: the marshes of the Ikens, and the swamps of Frisia, beyond the Empire’s borders – Netherlands and Belgium, from the dunes of Southern Holland to the Charcoal Woods of Wallonia.
Busy day today – finished proof-reading of the final manuscript of “The Shieldmaiden’s Honour“, and reached a one-third point in the first draft of Madron’s last story, “The Shieldmaiden’s Throne” – soon out for pre-order. It’s some two weeks until the “Honour’s” release, so it’s about Ttime for the traditional Locations post.
This time, Madron ventures into lands we haven’t seen yet in the Song of Britain: the muddy, damp, mosquito-infested marshes of Lincolnshire and Holland. Accordingly, the locations are almost all new – at least until we’re back in the more familiar territory of Frankia.
RATH – Ratae Corieltauvorum, Leicester
The capital of the Corieltauvi, as strategically placed then as it is now, in the middle of Roman Britannia. By 5th century, like most cities on the island, declined into near-abandonment.
LINDOCOLN – Lindum Colonia, Lincoln
The seat of a Bishop and a likely capital city of the Flavia province, Lindum Colonia was once one of the four great cities of Roman Britannia. The artificial canal linking it with the sea was one of the greatest feats of Roman engineering, and its remains can be seen to this day.
A landscape ancient already in Roman times, of bog causeways thousands of years old, clumps of trees hiding old forts, and salt pans worked by the slaves of Roman landlords.
FLEVUM CASTRUM – Velsen, Netherlands
Though not named in the book, the fort in the dunes is based on the fairly recently discovered Roman fortress of Flevum. This oddly shaped fortification was first built in Caligula’s times, perhaps as base for the future conquest of Britain, far north from what would later become the Imperial Limes.
One of the two oldest cities in the Netherlands, guarding a crucial crossing over a branch of the Rhine, Nijmegen’s position was as important in the days of the Empire as it would be in 1944 during the ill-fated Market-Garden operation.
TRAIECT – Traiectum ad Mosam, Maastricht, Netherlands
Return for a brief visit to Traiect – suffering even further decline from the last time we’ve been here. Now on a border between Salians and Ripuarian Franks.
Tornac – Tornacum, Tournai, Wallonia
Childeric I was the second and last king to be buried in the Salian Franks’ first capital city, Tornacum. His son Clovis would eventually move his seat of power further south, to Paris – and from there proceed to conquer what would later become France.
While travelling around Europe, there are several ways one can immerse oneself in the remains of everyday life of Ancient Rome. The most obvious is to go to Pompeii – or one of the less well-known excavated cities like Italica near Seville or Ostia near Rome. But however well-preserved these ruins might be, they will always be just ruins – and sometimes, to get the full picture of what life of a Roman citizen was, especially on the more remote frontiers, you have to visit a reconstruction.
One such reconstruction we saw this year is on the edge of an ancient German town of Xanten – known to Romans as Colonia Ulpia Traiana, one of the largest and most important Roman settlements in the province of Germania, second only to CCAA (now Cologne). In its heyday, it was home to more than 10,000 former legionnaires and their families.
Of the original city, very little remains beyond some foundations. You can find better preserved ancient ruins even elsewhere in Germany, not to mention France or Spain. But this isn’t why you come to Xanten. The main attraction here are the full-scale, full-colour reconstructions of several Roman structures, set within the original city grid. Most interesting of all – a Roman guesthouse and tavern.
I write a lot about such places in my books. It’s an easy and useful fiction plot device – a chance meeting at a roadside mansio, conspirators plotting in a guesthouse, a feast thrown in the harbour tavern; but it’s often difficult to visualise what, actually, such a tavern would look like. It’s too easy to fall for medieval or fantasy tropes – you know the sort: a large wooden house with a thatched roof, filled with drunken barbarians sitting by the long tables, while a buxom barmaid brings them tankards of ale… But that’s nowhere near what the real thing looked like. If anything, a high class guesthouse like this looked more like a traditional Japanese ryokan, both in materials used, and in the overal mood and layout of the place.
There are the well-known bars and taverns of Pompeii to use as inspiration – but these are urban facilities, from the heart of the Empire, and some four hundred years too old for my needs; the Xanten guesthouse stood on the Empire’s edge, on the Rhine – the city was a base for the Rhine navy, and had substantial harbour – facing the barbarian forests on the other side of the river; this was the sort of place where weary merchants, envoys on official business and other travellers passing through the frontier would mingle together over goblets of Rhenish wine. Or, if you had a few more solidii in your purse and didn’t care for the company of others, you’d have your meals brough from the kitchen t to the private dining room, the triclinium, with the view of the garden, after which you’d pray at the convenient local shrine and head for the lavishly decorated bathroom.
All of this can be explored at the Xanten guesthouse, and it is a real treat. Best of all, the common dining hall functions as a restaurant serving Roman food – back after nearly two millennia! (unfortunately it was not yet open when we were there) After visiting the tavern, your next stop has to be the brand new, fascinating museum, housing among other artefacts, the flat-bottomed Rhine merchant barges, dug out of mud virtually intact.
I’ve been to many magnificent ruins in my life: I’ve been to Pompeii and to Rome, I’ve been to Caerleon and to Housesteads – but the Xanten guesthouse was the one that probably gave me the best insight into an average citizen of the frontiers of the Roman Empire. I can’t recommend it enough.
In 1653, in a small Wallonian town of Tournai, builders excavating a cellar at the back of Saint Bryce’s church, across the river from the ancient city centre, came upon an immense hoard of gold, jewels and other treasure – among them, still resting on the finger bones of the individual buried with this unbelievable wealth, a golden ring with the inscription: Childerici Regis.
Here was the tomb of Childeric I, the first historical ruler of the Salian Franks – and father of Clovis I, the first king of all Frankia. Here was proof that Tournai – which started out as Tornacum, a backwater Roman settlement on the road to Cologne, and ended as a somewhat backwater Belgian town on the border with France, was the birthplace of modern France, of the Carolingian Empire – of Europe itself. For the French, it was the equivalent of discovering a tomb of Uther Pendragon, King Arthur’s father – if King Arthur was real, and all the treasure within intact.
The most famous, and mysterious, of all the treasure were the 27 gold-and-garnet (the Franks loved garnet) “bees” or “cicadas”, which would have been sown into the king’s garments – the clothes having rotted away, they “bees” remained in place around the skeleton. These were, according to some, tribal symbols of the Salian Franks – which, over the centuries, have evolved into the fleur-de-lys symbol of French kings – and were taken up as crest by Napoleon.
The treasure, having survived twelve centuries under ground, did not survive the next two. After a long odyssey, during which it found itself in Vienna, then in Paris, in the chaos of mid-19th century France, the treasure was stolen from its keeping place in National Library – and unceremoniously melted for its gold and jewels. Little of it remained, including two of the bees – and some copies of sword and equipment thankfully made soon after the discovery.
I visited Tournai earlier this year – along with a number of other places in Belgium and Netherlands where parts of my books take place, and it was a strange, exhilarating feeling to walk the town’s streets in the footsteps of Childeric, Clovis and Queen Basina (spoiler alert – I return to Tornacum and Frankia in “The Shieldmaiden’s Honour“). Today it’s a sleepy border town. Oddly enough, there’s barely any mention of its ancient royal past anywhere. The most prominent and celebrated monument is its enormous, looming Romanesque cathedral – the seat of the first Bishop of the Franks, Eleutherius – a medieval bridge gate over the Scheldt, and the town square; I can’t imagine an English town behave in such a way – one only needs to visit Tintagel or Glastonbury to know how many “Childeric Fries”, “Clovis Herbal Teas” or “Basina’s Roman Spa” should there be in Tournai, to bring in the tourists. I guess a real king is not as profitable as a legendary one…
It’s two weeks until release of “The Shieldmaiden’s Pride” – the adventures of a young half-Iute girl in eastern Britannia at the fall of the Empire… It’s been a while since I spent such a significant amount of story time in Londin and its immediate neighbourhood. All the familiar places and faces are coming back – some, perhaps, for the last time…? But with so much focus on Britannia Maxima, I can dive into this part of the island in more detail, and visit some regions that until now have only been mentioned in passing.
WERLAM – Verulamium, St. Albans, Hertfordshire
The capital of Catuvellauni, and a city which at times wished to rival Londinium for primacy over the entire province. It grew to renewed prominence when relics of St Alban were ‘found’ here by Germanus of Auxerre, and the modern town grew around the mighty cathedral that holds them.
DORCIC – Dorchester-on-Thames, Oxfordshire
A tentative name, one of the few proposed for the fortified town guarding an important crossing on the upper Thames, future Dorchester’s main claim to fame is that it’s purported to be the original settlement of the Gewisse tribe, who would later come to rule Wessex, and eventually all of England. It boasts some of the earliest Saxon settlement remains outside the coastal areas.
SPINIS – Speen, Berkshire
Now a tiny village in Berkshire, it was once the place where the Ermine Way, the main highway from Corinium to Londinium, met the road from Aquae Sulis.
A confusingly similarly named cluster of settlements in what is now Cambridgeshire, strewn along the road to Lincoln astride the borders of Britannia Maxima and Britannia Secunda.
BELGIAN WENTA – Venta Belgarum, Winchester
Once a capital of the Belgian civitas, it suffered severe decline after the end fo Roman rule – only to be rebuilt as the capital of Wessex, and the heart of Anglo-Saxon England, centuries later.
CLAWSENT – Clausentium, Southampton
We last saw Clawsent when young Ash visited it searching allies against Aelle, in the Saxon Might. It hasn’t changed much since then – still a backwater harbour, dreaming of its ancient glories. It will remain thus until the Saxons build a new market town of Hamtun, on the other side of the estuary – later renamed Southhampton.
LEMAN – Portus Lemanis, Lympne
A Saxon Shore fort, a navy base, and the second largest harbour of ancient Kent after Dover, though the current village of Lympne has little in common with its predecessor except the name.
The three great cities of Western Britannia, surviving the longest against the Saxon onslaught of later centuries. We know they were sometimes grouped together as one powerful cluster, since they are recorded to have all been lost to Ceawlin’s West Saxons after the Battle of Dyrham in 577.
“The Shieldmaiden’s Pride” – Book One of the new trilogy, The Song of Madron – is now in the final editing and proofreading stages, with the release scheduled for July 1st – but I can’t wait to show off the maps that will be in the book. Keen-eyed readers will recognise I used one of the earliest maps from Saxon Might as base for this one, but with added detail and some changes in political geography in the 25 years since the period of that book.
In “The Shieldmaiden’s Pride”, the story returns to mainland Britain, as seen by the natives of this land. The characters journey through the island, from hillfort to fortress, from town to villa – so it’s a good moment to run through some of the real-life villas of Roman Britain that have popped up throughout the series so far, and that will appear in the next book.
THE SAXON SPEARS:
ARIMINUM – Beddington Park, London
QUINTUS NATALIUS’s VILLA – Crofton, Orpington
THE SAXON KNIVES:
WORTIMER’S VILLA IN ROBRIWIS – Cobham Park, Kent
Rhedwyn ruled a settlement of Iutes and Britons here for a while, when the villa‘s grounds were confiscated during Wortimer’s brief exile.
CATUAR’S VILLA IN NEW PORT – Brighton, Sussex
A small villa to which the Regin Comes moved from his palace in Bignor as his wealth and importance diminished. Later, Rex Aelle took it for residence, when setting up the South Saxon capital in New Port.
THE SAXON MIGHT:
EADGITH’S VILLA – Newport, Isle of Wight
The half-ruined villa on Wecta, from which Eadgith ruled the small Iute colony.
THE CROWN OF THE IUTES:
MUTUANTON VILLA – Barcombe Mills, Sussex
The white-washed palace on the hill near Mutuanton, where Aelle kept the Briton nobles hostage.
MUTUANTON ISLAND VILLA – Beddingham Sussex
The ruined villa in the marshes, where the Saxon force kept in check the Briton army on the hill fort.
THE SHIELDMAIDEN’S PRIDE:
SOUTH SHORE VILLA – Southwark, London
Recently discovered near the London Bridge, I used this lavish mansio as basis for the South Shore ‘entertainment’ villa.
PUBLIAN’S VILLA – Rutland, near Peterborough
DORCIC PRAETOR’S VILLA – Wittenham Clumps, Dorchester-on-Thames
Another villa only mentioned in the story – the Praetor of Dorcic prefers to live here, in the remains of a hill fort across the river from the town he governs.
Yes, it’s that time of the pre-publishing cycle when I write a post about all the locations used in the upcoming book, The Crown of the Iutes.
A large part of the Crown takes place in the already familiar corner of Britannia – Londin, Cantiaca, the land of the Regins. But the central story takes our heroes, and the reader, back to Gaul – and to the new, to them, lands beyond the River Liger (Loire).
Nothing remains of the Roman castrum built on the shores of the Vienne, where now a medieval castle rises upon the grey cliffs. In 5th century, Mexme, a disciple of St Martin’s, established a hermitage here, which soon expanded into a monastery around which the new town grew.
An ancient ford, with a small village and a temple attached, would have likely remained anonymous until the establishment of the medieval abbey if it wasn’t for the battle fought between Euric’s Goths and Riothamus’s “Britons”, part of the tumultuous events of 470-472, the final Roman attempt of securing Gaul.
“How many times have you seen ‘Beautiful Dreamer’?”
“That’s all? (…) I always played it while I was home.(…) Don’t you think the movie’s really nice? It’s always the day before the school festival. Could there be anything better?”
Urusei Yatsura 2: Beatiful Dreamer is probably my most watched anime of all times – alongside Takahata’s Omoide Poro Poro. One of Mamoru Oshii’s (he of Ghost in the Shell) earliest feature films, it takes the simple surrealist gag comedy setup of the original TV series and uses it to create a masterpiece of the genre, in the same way Groundhog Day took Bill Murray’s and Harold Ramis’s dead pan slapstick and transformed them into a buddhist essay on passing of time.
Much like in Groundhog Day, the characters of Beautiful Dreamer start off trapped in a single-day time loop within tight geographical confines of Shimo-Tomobiki. But unlike Groundhog Day, their situation is not altogether unpleasant, and once they realize their predicament, most of them accept that there’s little they can do but enjoy the eternity. Because the day they’re trapped in is the day before the school festival: arguably, the best day in the otherwise unenviable life of a Japanese student. Crucially, not the festival itself; the actual event, often little more than a wearisome chore for the organizers, can never match the anticipation, excitement, hard work and the sense of companionship of the days leading up to it. No wonder, then, that it’s this festival-eve that’s used to create what eventually turns out to be a beautiful dream, custom made for the beautiful dreamer, Lum.
But one cannot live in a dream forever. Not least because even the best dream eventually reveals its flaws. Characters that don’t fit the narrative are forcibly removed; the repeating drudgery threatens the very fabric of the oneiric reality; and eventually, those forced to relive the perfection day after day threaten a rebellion in the perpetual paradise. The beautiful dreamer must wake up – and grow up.
The few sentences in Yoshihiro Mori’s We Couldn’t Become Adults which open this post might seem just a throwaway scene, serving to show off the ‘quirkiness’ of the protagonist’s elusive love interest. But if you have seen Beatiful Dreamer as often as she – or I – have, you’ll know this scene encapsulates the entire movie, and through it, an experience of an entire lost generation. Mori’s protagonist, Sato, a 40-something late Gen-X ‘creative’, wasted his years in pursuit of something he was promised in his youth, but what could never be real. Stuck in the same repeating loop of anticipation as Lum’s classmates, never reaching a fulfilment, he withers away, as all around him the world moves on, for better or worse.
Foreshadowing the experience of Western Millennials, Japan’s late Gen-Xers grew up in the rubble of a better past and unfulfiled promises. There is a post-apocalyptic quality to the Lost Decade, something I find eerily familiar, having spent my childhood in similarly post-apocalyptic Eastern Europe of late 80s and early 90s. The promise made to Sato’s generation – and to so many after them, all over the world – was of finding something better, something more exciting than the salaryman-with-kids drudgery of their parents. A life that is ‘not ordinary’, to quote the movie’s often repeated line.
Unless you’re one of the very lucky very few who managed to build a succesful life out of their ‘not ordinariness’, the only other way out of this self-inflicted loop, like in the Beautiful Dreamer, is to wake up – and grow up. What counts as plot in Mori’s movie is book-ended by two realizations: the first – that even Sato’s oddball of an anime-watching girlfriend, Kaori, “dropped out” of the loop and moved on to have an ‘ordinary’ life. And the last – that this is fine. At the end, there is neither optimism or pessimism to be found in the movie’s ending – just an acceptance of reality as it is. A dream was only a dream. And, to break with another Gen X cliche, there is no Matrix to emerge into on the other side, just a little more of the same old.
It’s far from a perfect movie; if not for the mention of Beautiful Dreamer, I probably wouldn’t be moved to write about it to such an extent. But to me, it provided that rare moment in art, when two pieces compliment each other, each providing a commentary on another and helping to understand one another’s message, even if one of these is a movie I’ve seen literally countless times before.
There’s Sussex, Essex, Wessex and Middlesex. There’s East Angles, split into Northern Folk and Southern Folk – and, once, there were even Middle Angles. There are counties and kingdoms with such undoubtedly English names as Surrey and Mercia. Why, then, in the middle of all this Germanic toponymy, is Kent not called something like “Jutland” or “East Jutia”?
Etymology will tell us that the name “Kent” comes from the Briton word for “edge” or “corner”, which in turn gave the name to the Iron Age tribe of Cantii. In Latin, it was variously rendered as Cantia, Cantium or Cantiacum. The Germanic settlers called it Centrige and Kentland. But etymology is not the same as explanation. After all, Sussex is not called “Reginland”. Essex is not “Trinovantia”. Norfolk is not “Ikenware”.
Something happened in Cantium that was different from everywhere else. The myths and what little history we have written about the beginnings of “Anglo-Saxon” settlement in Britannia tell us that it all started there – with Hengist and Horsa, and his Jutes landing on the Isle of Thanet. It’s a convenient legend, but we know there is some truth in it. More, probably, than in the legends of Aella and his son Cissa conquering the southern provinces with his three ceol-fuls of Saxon warriors, or in the muddled origins of the Western Saxons, jumping about from the Welsh marches to Winchester and Salisbury with little regard to geography and chronology.
My books are a fiction, based on guesswork. Until we find some ancient copy of the lost Chronicles of the Kingdom of Kent, all we have to go on are those less precise tools of a Dark Age historian: myths, archaeology, toponymies and etymologies. After all, the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle was written in Wessex, hundreds of miles away and centuries after whatever events in Kent made it keep its Briton name when all the land around it took new names from the Saxons. It is a wonder that any rumour of what happened made it to the chronicle, even if only in form of a brief snippet of a legend of Wortigern and the two brothers.
That there was no “invasion” we know from archeological record. No great battles as described by the chroniclers, and no brutal conquest, wiping out entire native population. But I’d like to think there was something more to Kent’s good fortune. I’d like to think – and it is what I propose in my books – that Kent was a unique experiment in the early history of England. That in Kent, the Germanic settlers and the Briton natives not only lived side by side in peace, but dealt with the difficulties of that age of chaos together, that they shared the burden of the time of upheaval that ravaged the rest of Britannia, and the Empire beyond. That the reason why Christianity was welcomed first, and with such ease, in Kent – while other Anglian and Saxon kingdoms resisted and sometimes reverted to paganry – was because the Romano-Britons of Kent, the native Christian population, were not subdued and quashed by their new rulers, and did not turn to imitate them with the same eagerness as those under the Saxon rule. That they were allowed to live and rule in their towns even as the Jutes settled the countryside around them, allowed to keep their Latin names, with only small modifications to accomodate the Jute tongue: Dover for Dubris, Lympne for Leman, Rochester for (Du)Robrivae Castrum – and their capital, a Burgh of the Cants. Compare that with what little remained of the old names in the land of Saxons: gone is Noviomagus Reginorum (Chichester), no trace remains of Anderitum (Pevensey) – and we can barely guess whether their main harbour of Novus Portus was at Brighton or Shoreham. And, most importantly, unlike any other tribal pagus in southern Britannia, they were allowed to keep their ancient name: the Land of Cant.
It is, I repeat, only a guess; a neat setting for a work of fiction. But I feel like it’s as decent explanation as any for why, to this day, the most south-easterly county of England is called Kent, rather than, say, Jutrey. And at the very least, it makes for a good story.