Forensic Sleuthing: Equine “CSI” in An Ancient Roman Fort

Forensic Sleuthing: Equine “CSI” in An Ancient Roman Fort
By Deb Bennett, Ph.D.
A Glimpse of Life at Vindolanda: Nineteen hundred years ago, a Roman soldier named Messicus stood
guard duty upon the ramparts of a timber-built fort in what is now northern England. It was a fine, clear
day in early summer, with a light breeze promising to freshen as the day progressed. Early-morning sun
lit the eastern sky, but glistening dew still whitened the prospect of meadowland, bracken-fen, and small
fields of ripening wheat and barley that Messicus could see as he gazed to the north. Some hundred feet
below him and clearly visible lay a long stretch of the most important east-west highway of the region:
the ancient Stanegate Road.
Left: This stone guard-tower at
Vindolanda is a reproduction of the
one upon which Messicus once stood.
Grey stone and crenellated parapet
brood under shifting sun and cloud.
Scanning the top of the valley ridge a
mile away, Masclus could spot enemies long before they reached the
Roman fort. Below: Horses atop the
ridge behind the fort. Today, you can
go trailriding from stables near
Vindolanda. From a distance, these
modern riders look just as a Roman
mounted patrol would have looked.
The Road formed the reason for the
existence of the fort that Messicus called
Vindolanda. From this stronghold, the
Romans could monitor traffic and, more
importantly, collect tolls and taxes from
merchants, freight-haulers, and travellers.
From the middle of the first century A.D.,
when Roman armies under the Emperor
Claudius had first penetrated Britain, the strategic as well as the economic importance of the Road had
been obvious. Thus, in about the year 85, Roman soldiers under the command of officers and engineers
erected a fort surrounded by a strong wooden palisade – in appearance not unlike the cavalry forts of the
Frontier West. With imposing and well-guarded gates at all points of the compass, and capable of
housing as many as 1,000 men, Vindolanda became a place of lasting importance in the Roman
occupation of Britain. Through some eight phases of rebuilding – the last three of which were in stone
— Vindolanda was continuously manned for more than four hundred years.
North is to the right in
this air photo view of
Vindolanda. Village
buildings huddle against
the fort’s western wall.
In Messicus’ time the
whole construction
would have been in
timber; this view
represents the scene a
century later, when fort
and village had largely
been rebuilt in stone.
In Messicus’ time, Vindolanda was home to a “part mounted” unit, the Ninth Cohort of Batavians –
Belgian soldiers under the command of one of their own princes, a man whose Latinized name was
Flavius Cerialis. Like many noblemen, Cerialis’ favorite pastime was hunting, and Messicus knew that
Cerlialis had ridden out before dawn that very day with a dozen huntsmen drawn from his company.
Their absence caused Clodius Super, the Duty Centurion, to shift Messicus to a guard post overlooking
the front gates. Of this he was glad, for it was easier by far than labor with the construction detail, the
sound of whose iron shovels, axes, saws and hammers came up distinctly from below. “Hurry up, you
unmentionable slugs!” shouted the beefy Clodius from beneath his red-crested helmet, and Messicus,
turning his eyes once again to scan the Road, winced in sympathy with his messmates.
As the sun rose higher, traffic on the Road began to move. Messicus could pick out Saco the drover with
his team of mules, bringing in a wagon-load of goat-hides, wagon axles, tools, and – more important to
Messicus and visible at the back of the wagon – several barrels of Celtic beer. There too was Lucco, the
regimental swineherd, cane in hand, prodding his charges across the Road to forage for tasty acorns in
the woods which lay beyond. Messicus could hear the grunting and squealing of the pigs, the lovely
continuous bubbling of the stream splashing in the valley below, and, from behind him, the metallic ring
of hammer on anvil as Taurinus, the regimental blacksmith, commenced work for the day.
Though it seemed a peaceful morning, Messicus nevertheless squinted his eyes to scan for enemies on
the horizon. The Romans’ most dangerous foes, the unconquerable and warlike Scots, lived to the north.
To create a buffer against attack, all the terrain within sight of the fort had been designated as a prata
territoria or “military zone”. Patrolled by scouts on foot and horseback, this area also served as grazing
ground for the large herds of cattle, sheep, and goats maintained by the Roman army.
From his guard tower on the fort wall, Messicus
could also survey the flat parade-ground which lay
to the west. There, immediately after dawn muster,
Masclus the Captain of Cavalry had ridden out with
a troop for morning maneuvers. Though he could
not hear them, Messicus could see the 60-man
squadron forming up, splitting, and re-joining in a
dozen different well-drilled patterns. They vaulted
on and off their horses’ backs and, one by one, they
galloped past a row of cow-skull targets fixed on
poles, hurling lances and firing arrows, honing their
warlike skills. Indeed, it was the Batavians’ prowess
on horseback that had so impressed the Romans that
they had offered them the chance to enter the
Roman army as auxiliaries – with the inducement
that, after the normal 25-year period of enlistment,
those who survived could become land-owning
citizens of the Empire.
Shifting his gaze to a point closer by, Messicus let
his eyes run along the wattled rooftops of the village
that huddled near the western ramparts of the fort.
Smoke rose from fifty-odd huts and long, barracksstyle buildings, as women – many of whom were
the common-law wives of enlisted men – lit
morning fires. Women and girls, calling cheerfully
to each other and bearing clay pots and jars, headed
Gravestone of a Roman cavalryman named
uphill toward the temple precinct, intent on drawing
Flavinus. A soldier of special prominence, he goes
water from the bubbling springhead that supplied
to battle armed with a sword but carrying a unit
the whole village. Messicus could smell the day’s
standard. Only the bravest and most experienced
rations — beef and barley — stewing in the pot with
cavalrymen carried these symbols; it was thought
disgraceful to let one fall. His well-trained horse,
vegetables and seasoning, but to pick out this
guided without a hand on the reins, rides down the
pleasant odor required him to ignore the stench
cowering enemy. Flavinus probably did not serve at
reeking from a point right under his nose — the
Vindolanda but rather at a nearby fort at Stanwix.
deep ditch surrounding the fort. Half-filled with a
You can see this tombstone on display at Hexham
sluggish flow of water and some ten feet deep, the
Abbey, near Vindolanda.
ditch was primarily intended as a defensive
earthwork. But as the village inn, the brothel, and
the officers’ guest lodge and their kitchens — as well as the tannery, the slaughterhouse, the gluemaker’s premises and the butcher shop — all backed up onto the ditch, it became a convenient place to
dump refuse of every description. Old shoes, offcuts from leather hides, dead dogs, used bedding and
floor matting, broken cooking pots and crockery, spoiled food, and the knackered carcasses of cattle,
pigs, sheep, and goats all piled up in the ditch, there to putrefy. Truly, mused Messicus, any traveller on
the Stanegate Road would know that he was approaching the fort miles before it actually became visible.
Three Romans on horseback pursue a doe with the help of a dog pack in full cry. The rider in the lead is a
man of high status as shown by his embroidered white tunic and the quality of his horse and harness. The
bearded man in the middle is the “whipper-in”, a professional huntsman. From a fourth century Roman
floor mosaic.
The sharp sound of brazen trumpets drew Messicus’ thoughts back to his duty. Instantly coming to stiff
attention, he observed the return of the Commandant Flavius Cerialis and his hunting party. The quarry
this day had been Red deer – the European equivalent of American elk – and the chase had evidently
been a long one: the dog-pack, tongues lolling, straggled far behind the mounted hunters. Even Cerialis’
magnificent part-Oriental stallion — a gift to him from Neratius Marcellus, Governor of Britain –
looked blown. But the wide-spreading rack of antlers sagging from beneath a leather tarp strapped over
a stout pack-mule told Messicus that the hunt had nevertheless been successful: there would be venison
in the officers’ mess tonight. Messicus knew that as summer turned to fall, Cerialis’ quarry would shift
from deer to wild boar.…in winter it would be a campaign against the marauding wolf pack whose
tracks could be seen in the snow….while in the spring it would be the daintier pleasures of hawking
doves or netting geese and swans.
Vindolanda’s massive wooden gates creaked on their iron hinges as guards swung them wide to admit
Cerlialis and his retinue. Their horses’ hoofs clattering on the stone-paved street, the riders advanced as
far as the Commandant’s residence. Brass bits and metal-studded leather harness jingled as the men
dismounted, while the dogs, finally catching up, crowded around. “Ho, Candidus,” Messicus heard the
commandant shout to a house-slave. “Go and find Alio, our regimental veterinarian, and bring him here;
my horse has strained a leg in the exertions of the hunt. Brave boy,” he said, turning to run his hand
along the magnificent curving neck of the flame-red stallion, “like a good Roman soldier, you don’t
yield to anything.”
Vindolanda Today: The wonderful stallion would yield to nothing, that is, except unconquerable time:
Messicus, Alio, Lucco, Candidus, Masclus the Captain of Cavalry and Flavius Cerialis himself are all
long gone. We are back in the present, and I am standing on the bare and windy hilltop that the Romans
called Vindolanda in conversation with the one man on earth who knows most about the history of this
place, Dr. Robin Birley. Together, we are looking down into a hole dug into black soil. The hole is
fifteen feet wide by twenty feet long and about twelve feet deep. Over a period of summer months, it has
been dug entirely by hand, by trained volunteers under the direction of Dr. Birley and his son,
archaeologist Andrew Birley. It is my first visit to
Vindolanda, and Dr. Birley is explaining to me
that, due to the high water-table at the site, the
excavation pit must be pumped dry every
morning before digging can commence.
Excavation is uniquely important here because in
many Vindolanda sites, a fortuitous combination
of Roman building techniques and heavy,
mineral-rich clay soil create anaerobic conditions
which seal buried artifacts against decomposition
just as effectively as if they had lain for two
millennia in a deep freeze. Thus, from
Vindolanda come many normally perishable
objects: thousands of leather shoes – thrown
away one at a time of course, since they were all
hand-made; an eight-man campaign tent made of
goat hides; iron nails, tools, and horseshoes still
largely un-rusted; rope; wicker baskets; beads,
jewelry, coins, and statuettes of brass and silver;
wooden posts; woollen textiles; the crest from
the Centurion’s helmet – even a wig made from
plant fibers.
The most important perishable artifacts to come
from Vindolanda are, however, its world-famous
tablets. Discovered by Robin Birley’s team in
1973, and written upon short sections of smooth
wooden lathe in an ink composed of lampblack,
blood, and spit, the Vindolanda tablets represent
some of the oldest original written material in the
world. Comprised of both military documents
and private correspondence, they reveal in
unparalleled detail many facets of the Roman
Today the symbol of Vindolanda, this bronze pole
Army and its civilian tail. Thus, although the
finial was probably the signum or “troop logo” of a
opening section of this article is a “novelization”,
vexillation of cavalry who were once stationed there.
all the names are those of real people who lived
or served at Vindolanda during the first decade of
the second century. Excavations there have likewise uncovered artifacts from the second, third, and
fourth centuries, some of which are pictured in this article. It would be difficult to find an archaeological
site anywhere in the world where a visitor can get so rich a feel for life in the ancient past.
Sleuthing the Bones: Since my initial visit in 2002, I have been privileged to return each year in order
to perform research on the most voluminous and common of all Vindolanda remains: bones. An army, it
is said, runs on its stomach – and Vindolanda certainly bears this out. I invite the reader to do the math:
if the average population of fort and village were only 500 people, how many beeves per year would it
A reproduction of
Flavius Cerialis’ parade
chamfron which shows
how impressive it must
have looked when it was
new. The actual artifact
is also visible, mounted
on the wall behind the
mannequin.
take, at minimum, to keep them alive? How many pigs, sheep, deer, fowl, and goats? Fifty? Two
hundred? I then ask you to remember that this site was occupied not for one year or ten, but for nearly
four hundred years – almost twice the length of time that the United States has been in existence.
Figuring only fifty slaughtered cattle per year, that comes to 20,000 head….
Where Were the Stables? Throughout its long history, Vindolanda was almost always home to cavalry.
The “part-mounted” Batavian regiment comprised about 800 infantrymen along with 240 cavalrymen.
Each cavalryman would have owned at least two horses plus either a mule or donkey. Given these
figures, it is somewhat surprising that to date, no building within the bounds of the Vindolanda fort has
definitely been identified as a stable.
Skulls of four equines that were all alive in the year 100 A.D. The skull at left was the magnificent stallion of
Flavius Cerialis. They are set up on their occiputs to distinguish horses from mules. In horses, the angle
(indicated) between the occiput and the forehead is wide open, and thus the skull will stand on a table
without falling forward. In mules and asses, the angle is narrower and the skull will fall. It’s pretty easy to
tell which of these skulls belonged to a Roman mule.
One reason it hasn’t been found may be that we have the wrong picture in mind: perhaps the horses were
not stabled within any permanent building, but rather under tents – not unlike the “mare motels” so
characteristic of California. Or perhaps they were corralled by platoon in remudas; damage to the front
teeth of one horse shows without doubt that it was a “rail rubber”, which implies not only that it was
kept in an enclosure with wooden rails, but that it was confined there for long periods of time.
Even if a permanent stable building is located at Vindolanda, it is unlikely to be big enough to have
housed all the horses; there would not have been room within the fort to pen a herd of over 700 animals.
It is more likely that most were kept under round-the-clock guard in the grasslands of the prata
territoria, with only a select few living within the walls of the fort. Vindolanda, like every other Roman
installation, served as a remount depot for the courier service – and we know from the sheer number of
written tablets that correspondence into and out of Vindolanda was a daily occurrence. Courier horses
may thus have been held at the ready within the fort, and the Commandant’s remuda would have been
housed within the bounds of his residence there. Evidence for the existence of at least some stabling is
implied: one Vindolanda tablet finds the commandant ordering a centurion to provide well for guests of
rank, should any arrive in his absence; he admonishes him “to be sure that their horses are well housed.”
Other evidence for the presence of horses inside the fort is more concrete: concentrations of straw and
bracken bedding, along with the inevitable manure heap.
No regimental tack room has as yet been
located, with its precious contents of
scordisci, the “four horned” saddles
commonly used by the military. Perhaps
the saddles, which were expensive, all left
the fort upon horses’ backs. A few broken
bronze and iron bits have turned up, along
with sections of harness and a parade
chamfron that perfectly fits the skull of
Cerialis’ stallion. The skull itself was
found in Cerialis’ residence – the old boy
must have liked the horse so much that he
was moved to keep a trophy of him after
his demise; but the Commandant’s house
was not a normal burial-ground.
Where, then, are the remains of the
thousands of other equines that must have
died in the service of the Romans and the
nearby villagers? The remains of only a
dozen have turned up in various buried
ditches. The conclusion must be that the
horse burial-ground lies somewhere
outside the walls.
They Eat Horses, Don’t They?
Was the carcass disposal area very far
afield? There’s one good reason for
doubting it: horse carcasses, like those of
cattle, are heavy. If an animal’s flesh is
going to be eaten, it is much more
convenient to walk the animal to the
butcher shop than to drag its carcass there.
This horse lived during the reign of the Emperor Septimius
Severus, about a century after Cerialis’ time. Cupping and
side-to-side scratching on the occlusal surfaces of the
incisor teeth indicate that this animal was a “rail rubber”. The
bad habit does not seem to have shortened his life: the
infundibulae are completely worn out of all teeth, and even
the “dental stars” are almost gone, indicating that this stallion
or gelding was in his mid-teens when he died.
We can shed some light on this question by
comparing horse and cattle bones. Roman
cattle were raised for three purposes: for
draft oxen, vital to hauling wagonloads of
grain, heavy timber and other stores; for
milk; and to slaughter for beef. The Roman
butcher did not use a saw; instead, bones
show the chop-marks of heavy cleavers.
Carcasses were disarticulated and meat was subsequently prepared either as joints for roasting, or, much
more commonly, scraped from bones to make shredded beef for stews.
The Romans wasted absolutely nothing. Besides red meat,
a slaughtered beef provides other edible parts: tripe,
sweetmeat, organ meats, and bone marrow. Among
thousands of Vindoanda cattle bones, there are dozens of
near-complete skulls, but fewer than ten unshattered
humeri, radii, femora, or tibias – bones containing the
most marrow. Bone marrow, a concentration of fat and red
blood cells, can be obtained by stewing “soup bones”.
Quicker, however, is to smash the fresh bones and scoop
out the nutritious marrow with a long-handled spoon.
While cattle bones were almost always smashed, horse
bones in the Vindolanda collection are almost always
whole. Does this indicate that the Romans disliked the
taste of horse marrow? And there’s another odd fact:
whereas cannon bones, pastern bones and coffin bones of
cattle are very numerous, those of horses are quite scarce.
Where did they go? There is a possible answer for both
questions: the limbs of horses have longer sinews than
those of cattle, and long sinews had special value to the
Romans as a source for bowstrings. So, when a horse was
slaughtered, its forelimbs were cut off just above the point
of shoulder and its hindlimbs were cut off through the
stifle joint. The butcher’s boy then toted the limbs down
the village avenue to the bowmaker, who stripped out the
sinews. His slave then took the lower parts of the limbs to
the regimental gluemaker, who threw them into the
rendering pot.
Did the Romans slaughter horses for table meat? The
evidence from both Continental and British sites is that
they occasionally did, but horse meat was not a top menu
selection. My belief is that, after disjointing, shredded
horse meat from the upper haunch, shoulder, and neck may
have been incorporated into the “beef”-barley stew which
was the daily mess of the common soldier. Horse meat may
also have been, then as now, the food of choice to sustain
the commandant’s hunting pack.
Close examination of the proximal end of this hind cannon bone
shows that the horse or mule from which it came had developed
bone spavin, which typically creates rough, prickly-looking bony
growths in and around the articular surface. The distal end of
the bone – the surface that would have formed the ankle joint
— bears a deep chop-mark made by the sharp cleaver of the
regimental bow-maker.
This pair of thoracic
vertebrae directly
underlay the “cantle” of a
Roman saddle. Did poor
fit, overweighting, or bad
riding technique induce
the exostosis visible on
this specimen, causing
the vertebrae to
pathologically fuse
together? Whatever the
cause, upon the animal’s
demise his backbone was
unceremoniously
chopped apart, as the
cleaver marks on the right
side of the specimen
show.
Andrew Birley’s 2007 excavation crew hard at work in a room that was once a workshop in the village
precinct. Visitors, on the far side of the fenced barrier, are welcome to talk with the archaeologists. You
can visit Vindolanda and even join an exacavation crew -- go to www.vindolanda.com for details.
One thing we know for certain – Roman horses were not slaughtered in large numbers, and they were
not raised for slaughter. While there is hardly a hog in the Vindolanda collection older than two years –
and many suckling piglets – there are zero remains of juvenile horses, or even of young ones less than
six years old. The same goes for the cattle; most were slaughtered relatively young, and there is always
some veal as well. By contrast, the youngest horse or mule in the collection is 6 years old, and the oldest
is well past 20. It is clear from this that the Romans valued horses and mules primarily for work, and
that they arrived at the butcher’s premises only after age and infirmity had ended their useful working
life. Following the practice of nearly all cavalries at nearly all times, the Roman army did not requisition
immature horses younger than 6. At the same time, it’s doubtful that old horses were used by the
cavalry; more likely, once a horse became too old or too unsound to be of service to the Army, it was
sold to a villager. Many cavalry horses must have died in battle or out on maneuvers, far from the fort.
The Future at Vindolanda – and You: Fascinating though forensic investigation is, it could not go on
without hardworking volunteers who help to dig each year’s excavation pit, and scientists who donate
their time and expertise to help clean, preserve, identify, sort, catalog, photograph, and publish the finds.
For me, each year’s visit is an exciting adventure during which a new horse, mule, or donkey may
appear – or some other species that will shed light on how the Romans and the native British people
lived and interacted with animals and their environment nearly two thousand years ago.
Every bone has a story to tell, and it seems that each year I return, for every question that is answered
many new ones arise. But there is one more person vital to this story – you. Vindolanda is a place where
anyone can visit. Located in one of the least-populated, wildest, and most scenic parts of Britain, each
year Vindolanda welcomes thousands of visitors from all over the world. If you come during the
summer months, you can see the excavation pit in full swing. You can come up close, ask questions, and
talk with the excavators. You can walk over some four acres of stone buildings, the foundations of which
have been stabilized for permanent public display. Nearby, you can hike along Hadrian’s Wall, another
huge stone fortification built by the Romans in the second century. You can dine at one of the many cozy
pubs which now dot the length of the Wall across northern England. You can spend hours in the Roman
Army Museum seven miles from Vindolanda and take in “The Eye of the Eagle,” a virtual tour by air of
many Roman sites along Hadrian’s Wall. At Vindolanda itself there is yet another excellent museum
which displays all the most spectacular items from years of excavation. Donations and entry fees paid
by visitors are the main source of support for ongoing research at this wonderful place which has
revealed so much about horses in Roman times. There’s no doubt that in years to come, you will
certainly find me there.
Vindolanda website: www.vindolanda.com, gives information on travel and where to stay, visitor hours
and seasons, admission fees, and glimpses of the outdoor and indoor exhibits.
Recommended reading: “Vindolanda: Extraordinary Records of Daily Life on the Northern Frontier,”
2005, by Robin Birley. Available through the Vindolanda on-line bookshop.