An internet sleuth who describes himself as just a “person off the street” has made a discovery that could possibly push the timeline of written language back by tens of thousands of years, according to a study published Thursday in the Cambridge Archeological Journal.   

Ben Bacon, a furniture conservator based in London, U.K., was recently admiring European cave paintings of animals and other figures posted online that had been etched some 15,000 and 40,000 years ago during the Paleolithic Age when an idea struck him.

The cave paintings include markings of dots and lines, which have evaded archeological explanation for decades, Vice reports.

But according to Bacon, “the first known writing in the history of Homo sapiens,” came in the form of a prehistoric lunar calendar.

“I think that the cave paintings fascinate us all because of their beauty and visceral immediacy,” Bacon told Motherboard in an email. “I was idly looking at Palaeolithic paintings one night on the Web and noticed, purely by chance, that a large number of animals had what I took to be numbers associated with them.”

Excited about his hypothesis, Bacon enlisted archaeologists from Durham University and the University College London to help codify his theory.

Bacon set out to decode the markings, focusing on the lines, dots, and  Y-shaped symbols that appear in hundreds of the cave paintings.

Since the paintings were discovered 150 years ago, some researchers had previously posited that the numerical notation was “designed to count the number of animals sighted or killed by these prehistoric artists,” Vice wrote. “Bacon made the leap to suggest that they form a calendar system designed to track the life cycles of animals depicted in the paintings.”

Apparently, all it took to decipher the meaning of the mysterious etchings was some fresh eyes.

“It seems to us unnecessary to need to convey information about the numbers of individual animals, the times they have been sighted, or the number of successful kills,” the researchers noted as their premise for their departure in thought.

“It seems far more likely that information pertinent to predicting their migratory movements and periods of aggregation, i.e. mating and birthing when they are predictably located in some number and relatively vulnerable, would be of greatest importance for survival,” they added. 

Bacon notes that the paintings never exceeded 13 lines and dots, which would add to his theory of a lunar calendar.

“It follows that knowledge of the timing of migrations, mating and birthing would be a central concern to Upper Palaeolithic behaviour, the distribution and timing of which was fully dependent upon these resources,” the researchers wrote.

It would then make sense that the lunar calendar was not tracking time in terms of years, but the seasons optimal for survival.

Researchers tested their theory by compiling a database of more than 600 line-and-dot sequences without the Y symbol, as well as some 250 sequences with the Y. They explored “whether the number of markings and the position of <Y> in sequences was random or ordered.”

Their hypothesis held up.

And although the team anticipates arguments and blowback from their seemingly staggering findings, the discovery, Bacon told Motherboard, shows that our Paleolithic ancestors “were almost certainly as cognitively advanced as we are” and “that they are fully modern humans.”

“Their society achieved great art, use of numbers, and writing,” he said, and “reading more of their writing system may allow us to gain an insight into their beliefs and cultural values.”

historynet magazines

Our 9 best-selling history titles feature in-depth storytelling and iconic imagery to engage and inform on the people, the wars, and the events that shaped America and the world.

subscribe today

When a Christian encounters the name “Judas,” he or she instinctively thinks of Judas Iskariot, the apostle who betrayed Jesus Christ to his persecutors in the new Testament. When a Jew encounters the name, he or she is just as likely to think of the hero behind the holiday of Hanukkah, Judas Maccabeus.

Judah the Hammer

As with Jesus, the heroic Judas’ most familiarly known moniker is based on Greek, the language of his Hellenistic adversaries. The third of five sons born to Mattathias of the Hasmonean family, priest (cohen) of Modein—the others being Eleazar, Simon, John and Jonathan—his Hebrew name was Yehuda HaMakab, or Judah the Hammer.

Judah was originally a cohen in his own right and the circumstances that thrust him into the military limelight were tragically avoidable. After the death of King Alexander III (the Great) of Macedon in 323 BCE, his vast empire was partitioned into three regions, Macedonia under his direct successors, Egypt under the dynasty of his General Ptolemy and the Seleucid kingdom, based in what is now Syria, administering western Asia, including Judea.

For almost two centuries the Seleucids, like the Persians whose power they had displaced, were content to let the many cultures under their aegis practice their customs and religions without interference, just as long as they swore fealty to the Seleucid king. During that time, however, the art, science and philosophy of Hellenic civilization that Alexander’s heirs brought with them was embraced to differing degrees by subjects either genuinely attracted by them or hoping that doing so would be to their political or social advantage.

That included a good many Jews, who began to mix aspects of their traditional religion with that of their polytheistic rulers. Stricter advocates of the Ten Commandments, including Mattathias, found such theological compromises intolerable and made no secret of it.

Training An Army

Still, the Seleucids—including Antiochus IV Epiphanes (“God Manifest”) when he ascended to the throne on September 9, 175 BCE—continued a policy of laissez-faire, until a series of intrigues, bribery and corruption among the Judean governors and an unsuccessful coup attempt against him led Antiochus to impose Hellenism on all his subjects in 168 BCE, as a measure toward achieving cultural unity.

In regard to Judea, that included forcing the Jews to abandon their dietary laws, work on the Sabbath, and cease circumcising their sons. He also ordered the syncretic Jews to install graven images of Hellenic gods and goddesses in the Second Temple of Jerusalem and had a citadel for a garrison to enforce the new policy.

If Antiochus thought his assimilationist acts would eventually lead to greater homogeneity and thereby more loyalty among his subjects, he would soon learn how wrong he was. In 167 BCE, when a Jewish Hellenist arrived to replace Mattathias as priest of Modein, Mattathias killed him and the Greek soldier accompanying him, destroyed the Greek altar they had brought and then took to the nearby hills with his sons. There they began enlisting and training fellow pietists to form an army to oppose the Seleucid forces.

When they were in towns engaged in their clandestine efforts to gather forces in town, they devised a cover for their subversive activities by playing a game with a spinning top whenever a Greek or known Jewish Hellenist passed by. That top, or dreidel, has been a part of the Hanukkah tradition ever since.

As rebel forces grew, they began what the Seleucids undoubtedly would have labeled a terrorist campaign, striking out from town to town destroying Hellenistic altars, forcing Jewish boys to be circumcised and killing Hellenized Jews.

As Seleucid forces were dispatched to hunt down the rebels and resecure their control over Judea, Judas seems to have come to the fore as a military leader, organizing his followers into a small but growing and disciplined army. Sometime between the springs of 166 and 165 BCE Mattathius died, but his sons carried on for him with a series of dramatic events that raised the Hasmonean revolt to a higher level.

Hit And Run Tactics

At the Battle of the Ascent of Lebanon Judas led a night attack that scattered a column of Samaritan warriors marching to join a Syrian army and personally defeated and killed their commander, Apollonius. Soon afterward, at Beth Horon, Judas and his fighters ambushed the Syrian force in a pass, sending it and its commander, Seron, fleeing.

Then, in September 165, while another, larger Seleucid army commanded by Gorgias was scouring the region for the rebels, Judas and a large detachment slipped into the main camp at Emmaus, overwhelmed its defenders and helped themselves to enough much needed arms, armor and supplies to equip a viable army. By now Judas was being called Makebet (the Hammer), a sobriquet that was later applied to his brothers and ultimately to all of his military followers.

At this point the Hellenized Jews and Judas’ pietists made an attempt to restore peaceful coexistence, but negotiations broke down and Antiochus sent more troops, led by his regent, Lysias into Judea. At the same time, he led an expedition against another, greater threat to his kingdom, the Parthians.

As Lysias moved on Jerusalem he was intercepted by Judas’ still-smaller army at Beth Zur, north of Hebron. What little is known from the biblical accounts suggest that Judas reverted to hit and run tactics, striking at Seleucid units and disengaging before reinforcements could reach them.

The Hammer’s well-practiced skills at guerrilla fighting wore down his opponents while denying Lysias the chance at a decisive blow.

For their own part, the Jews chalked up the Battle of Beth Zur as the decisive victory that directly preceded their retaking of Jerusalem and the cleansing of the Temple, but it was only one of two coinciding factors behind the Maccabean triumph. The other was the arrival in the Seleucid camp that November news that Antiochus had died of disease while campaigning in Armenia, leaving a nine-year-old son, Antiochus V Eupator, as his successor. As regent to the kingdom, Lysias needed to disengage and march his troops back to the royal capital of Antioch to secure the succession. The Hasmonean revolt could—and would—have to wait.

The Hanukkah Miracle

So it was that on the 25th day in the Hebrew month of Kislev (approximately December) of 164 BCE, Judas Maccabeus led his makeshift army into Jerusalem, leaving the Seleucid-built fortified citadel known as the Akra and its garrison of Greeks and Hellenized Jews unmolested but isolated within the city. He focused instead on cleansing the Temple, removing the Hellenistic idols and relighting the candles.

It is here that the sole divine miracle of Hanukkah (“dedication”) appears in the story. With only enough oil to light the Temple for a single day, the Maccabees made do with what they had, but the flames burned through eight nights until more oil was found to keep it lit.

As important as the Temple’s rededication was, Judas’ labors were by no means ended. He faced the responsibilities of administering the lands under his control while anticipating an inevitable backlash from the Seleucids, starting with a long—and unsuccessful—siege of the Akra. Indeed, once Antiochus V was firmly on the throne, Lysias returned to Judea with an army estimated at numbering 50,000 infantry, 5,000 cavalry and 30 war elephants.

Political Troubles

After briefly besieging and taking Beth Zur, he met Judas in open battle at Beth Zechariah. The Jews had no more than 20,000 fighters at hand, but the fourth of Mattiathus’ sons, Eleazar Avaran, thought he recognized Lysias’ war elephant and, hoping he could win the battle by killing the enemy commander as brother Judas had done at the Ascent of Lebanon, he charged into the enemy line and mortally speared the elephant—only to perish when the beast toppled on him. Beth Zechariah ended in victory for Lysias and a personal tragedy for Judas, though he was able to recover from the defeat with most of his army intact.

Lysias next laid siege to Jerusalem, but 163 had been a fallow year and food was a limited commodity for both sides. In addition, political troubles were again brewing in Antioch. Therefore Lysias and Judas negotiated a deal: Lysias signed an agreement to lift Antiochus IV’s anti-Jewish laws, restoring freedom of worship to Judean Hellenist and pietist alike. The corrupt High Priest Menalaus was executed and a more acceptable successor sought out. The Jews in turn lifted their siege of the Akra but retained their arms as Lysias returned to Antioch.

What followed showed that Judea’s woes were not over. Soon after Lysias’ homecoming, the 11-year-old Antiochus V was overthrown and put to death, along with his regent, by his cousin, Demitrius I Soter. Among his first acts in a kingdom surrounded by enemies was to send another army, led by Bacchides, Governor of the Western Regions, to reinstate political control over Judea and install a new high priest, Alcimus, who appealed at least to the moderate pro-Seleucid Jews. Bacchides was then recalled and another commander, Nicanor, took charge as military governor of Judea.

Nicanor and Judas agreed to a truce, with Nicanor even offering Judas a deputy’s position in the government but it did not last long. Mobilizing their forces, the two leaders skirmished at Caphar-salama, a Jewish victory that killed 500 Seleucid troops and compelled Nicanor to withdraw behind the walls of Jerusalem.

While he was there, rumors broke out of Nicanor blaspheming in the Temple and threatened to burn it if Alcimus did not help him to find and arrest Judas. This only raised local rancor and enlistments in the Maccabees’ ranks.

Forging An Independent Kingdom

In late winter (probably March) of 161 BCE Nicanor took to the field again and engaged Judas at Adasa, near Beth-Horon. Once again the loss of a commander decided the battle, in this case the death of Nicanor early in the fighting, after which the Seleucid soldier broke and fled.

News of the disaster at Adasa was accompanied by reports that Judas, a skilled diplomat as well as warrior, had been feeling out the possibilities of alliance with a new power that had been appearing in the Middle East: the Roman Republic. In 160 BCE, while Demetrius led an army east against a rebellious satrap, Timarchus, tyrant of Miletus, he ordered Bacchides back to reassert Seleucid rule over Judea with 20,000 infantry and 2,000 cavalry.

As he marched toward Jerusalem, Bacchides rounded up and massacred pietist Jews in Galilee, probably to set an example for the rebels and as a means of committing Judas to defend his land and people by meeting him in open battle. If that was his stratagem, it worked. As he approached Jerusalem in Nisan (April) of 160 BCE, Bacchides found himself confronted on the flat but uneven terrain of a plateau between Elassa and Berea, near present-day Ramallah, by a comparable force of Maccabees.

Bacchides deployed his forces in classic Seleucid style, with a phalanx of spearmen flanked on both sides by cavalry and a skirmish line of archers and slingers up front. The governor-general himself commanded from the right-flank cavalry, a custom with which Judas was well aware.

The biblical accounts describe the Battle of Elasa as being fought from “morning until evening,” suggesting that both the commanders and their soldiers were evenly matched. At the later stage of the fighting, however, Judas sent all of his cavalry against the horse on the Seleucid right, in man attempt to settle the issue once more by slaying his counterpart.

Bacchides, however, seems to have anticipated such a move and was prepared to exploit it. As Judas’ smaller cavalry unit attacked, the Seleucids gave way in what seemed to be disorder. As the Jews plunged deeper into the Seleucid right, however, Bacchides’ horsemen wheeled about, regrouped and countercharged.

At that critical moment Judas’ cavalrymen found the cavalry from the Seleucid left cutting off their escape route, having galloped behind the infantry line to complete the trap. Although flanked and disintegrating, a great number of Maccabean warriors went down fighting—including their commander. Unlike Eleazar’s, Judas’ remains were somehow recovered and given a proper burial ending with a quotation from King David’s lament to King Saul: “How the mighty have fallen!”

Regrouping from this defeat, Jonathan withdrew across the Jordan River while Bacchides tried to consolidate Seleucid rule. The latter ventured after Jonathan, but their next clash, fought on a Sabbath day, cost him about a thousand casualties. He then set about fortifying the Akra, Jericho, Emmaus, Beth-horon, Beth-el, Thamnata, Parathon, Tephon, Beth-zur and Gazara, but the countryside around those cities and towns remained unsafe for any Greeks or Hellenists and when the general returned to Antioch he found himself being summoned a third time, this time by the Jewish Hellenists. After several further defeats at Simon’s hands Bacchides contacted Jonathan and the two worked out a renewed treaty, with pledges of enforcement, then withdrew for home for the last time.

The story was not quite over and both Jonathan and Simon would be killed in the process, leaving John the last Hasmonean brother standing, but between 160 and 142 BCE Judea was an autonomous element of the Seleucid kingdom and in 141 it became an independent kingdom that in 139 BCE forged an alliance with the Roman Republic…but the consequences of that fateful decision constitute another story.

Remembering a Great military leader

The last great military leader of native-born Jews until the resurrection of the state of Israel in 1947, Judas Maccabeus is credited with preserving traditional Jewish monotheism against both the seductive power of assimilation and the might of an empire…especially when Hanukah rolls around.

Historically, he has found comparison with rebels taking on the odds worldwide throughout the centuries that followed, from Christian Armenian Vardan Marmikonian to Scotland’s William Wallace and Wales’ Owain Glyndwr, to American general George Washington and Haitian revolutionary Toussaint l’Ouverture.

Centuries’ worth of literary, musical and visual artwork has been hammered out in memory of Judas and his brothers. That said, one of the greater metaphoric stretches when it came to drawing historical parallels was Thomas Morell’s libretto to George Frederick Handel’s oratorio, Judas Maccabeus, when it was first publicly performed on April 1, 1747. There, it is the Jacobite Scots Highlanders under Charles Edward Stuart, aka “Bonnie Prince Charlie,” who are cast as the villainous Seleucids and the metaphoric “Conqu’ring Hero” is William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, whose victory at Culloden on April 16,1746 is praised for “saving” Hanoverian Britain…but whose draconian follow-up indelibly stamped him in Scottish memory as “the Butcher.”

Trust William Shakespeare, however, to catch the irony that others either failed to notice or chose to ignore. In Love’s Labour Lost, Judas is listed among the “Nine Worthies,” but still gets heckled just for having the same first name of that other Judas.

Being an inspiration for wireless technology isn’t the kind of heroic achievement that most Viking rulers could claim credit for in their ancient sagas. Yet, centuries after his death, King Harald “Bluetooth” Gormsson has conquered the world — not through military conquest, but through Bluetooth technology named in his honor.   

Who Was Bluetooth?

Bluetooth, who lived somewhere between 910 A.D. and 987 A.D., is believed to have earned his dental epithet from having a dead tooth which was likely bluish or gray in color. As it was Viking custom to give people bynames sometimes based on physical appearances, the name stuck.

Bluetooth united the kingdoms of Norway and Denmark. He was proud enough of this achievement to mention it on a large rune stone, known today as one of the Jelling stones, which stands as both a memorial to his parents and a monument to his own legacy.

Yet Bluetooth was destined for further fame still. IT developers chose his unusual moniker to represent their trademark for technology enabling the short-range wireless connection of electronic devices.

Although his name is literally present everywhere around the globe today, the man himself — or what remains of him — is missing. Where is King Harald buried, and why is it such a mystery?

The Lost Tomb of Bluetooth  

The final resting place of Harald Bluetooth has eluded researchers for many years and has given rise to much debate, in part due to the Vikings’ propensity for travel.

After uniting Scandinavian territories and introducing Christianity to his realm, Bluetooth came to an ignominious end after he was overthrown by his son, Sweyn Forkbeard. German medieval chronicler Adam of Bremen alleged that Bluetooth was wounded in his final battle against his son and died in 986 after retreating to a location believed to be in present-day Poland.

Some historical sources allege that Bluetooth died in a Viking fortress called Jomsborg on the Baltic Sea, but no researchers have been able to firmly pinpoint where Jomsborg was located or whether the place even existed.

While Forkbeard went on to embroil himself in further conflicts and became the first Danish king of England, his ill-fated father fell into obscurity. Adam of Bremen asserts that Bluetooth’s loyal troops transported his body back to Denmark and buried him in Roskilde, where he had built a church and a settlement. While a majority of Danish kings are indeed buried in Roskilde, no one has proven conclusively that Bluetooth’s grave is located there.

Pagan or Christian Burial?

Complicating matters further, the manner of Bluetooth’s burial is also disputed. Although born a pagan, Bluetooth eventually embraced Christianity. Opinions differ on whether Bluetooth would have been buried according to Viking traditions – in a burial mound and surrounded by his possessions – or in a Christian manner, such as in a church vault or churchyard.  

Swedish archaeologist Sven Rosborn, former director of the Malmo City Museum, believes that Bluetooth is buried in Wiejkowo, Poland. In view of the king’s Christianity, Rosborn surmises that he would have been interred in a churchyard.

In spring 2022, Polish researcher Marek Kryda claimed to have discovered the possible location of Harald’s tomb in Wiejkowo using LIDAR (light detection and radar technology). His theory is that Bluetooth is buried in a pagan-style mound beneath a 19^th century Catholic church.

Both researchers have focused on Wiejkowo as the king’s likely burial site due to the discovery of a 10th century golden disc, known as the Curmsun disc, which bears an engraving of his name and was originally found in the church there.

Still An Unsolved Mystery

Despite the recent buzz in news headlines about Wiejkowo as Bluetooth’s final resting place, it is one of many theories that remains unproven, according to Peter Pentz, Viking expert and curator at the National Museum of Denmark.

Pentz described Kryda’s theory as “difficult to assess,” noting there is no evidence as yet to suggest that the mound in Wiejkowo “is a burial mound and, if so, whether it could contain a buried Viking and in this case, King Harald.”

Given the king’s conversion to Christianity — which historical evidence shows had a profound influence on his reign — Pentz is inclined to believe that Bluetooth’s burial was conducted in a Christian manner rather than in accord with Viking traditions.

“Personally, I would probably expect that, in light of the significant Christian marking of the Jelling Stone’s inscription, he was given a Christian burial in a church — perhaps in Roskilde, Zealand, as one of the written sources claims,” said Pentz, adding that it is only a theory. “There are many possibilities.”

historynet magazines

Our 9 best-selling history titles feature in-depth storytelling and iconic imagery to engage and inform on the people, the wars, and the events that shaped America and the world.

subscribe today

Known as the “Hurrian Hymn to Nikkal” or “Hurrian Hymn No. 6,” this is the oldest complete song known to humankind. Discovered in an excavation in northern Syria in the 1950s and written in cuneiform in the Hurrian language, the song is believed to date to at least 1400 B.C.

The song contains prayers to Nikkal, the Semitic goddess of orchards and wife of the moon god, and is meant to be accompanied by a type of stringed instrument. The following is a recent interpretation by the Norwegian experimental folk collective Heilung.

historynet magazines

Our 9 best-selling history titles feature in-depth storytelling and iconic imagery to engage and inform on the people, the wars, and the events that shaped America and the world.

subscribe today

An ancient Canaanite war goddess’s carved limestone head was unearthed after 4,500 years when a Gaza Strip farmer came across it while plowing his property, according to Palestinian archaeologists. The sculpture, found in the Qarara area east of Khan Younis, dates from the Bronze Age and depicts the goddess Anat, so revered for her fierce character that she was adopted by Egypt’s warrior pharaoh Ramses II as his special patron.

The statue, which stands about 8.7 inches tall, is now on display at Qasr al-Basha, a local museum in Gaza, where it was unveiled to the public for the first time this week.

“What caught our attention is the inscription of the snake on the head, which means it is very important,” said Nidal Abu Eid, the farmer who made the incredible discovery, according to NBC News.

The Canaanites lived in what is now Israel, Palestine, Lebanon, Jordan and Syria about 4,000 years ago, and are mentioned frequently in the Bible, often as enemies of the Israelites.

Anat, arguably one of the most famous of the Canaanite deities, is among the few ancient goddesses known for her fiery demeanor despite being also depicted as a goddess of love and sexuality. Portrayed as ferocious in battle, she was described by ancient sources as hacking her enemies to pieces, wading through gore on the battlefield and impaling enemies with arrows from her powerful bow. Depictions of Anat are reputed to have influenced the persona of the Greek goddess Athena.

Worship of Anat spread to Egypt, where the goddess became associated with royalty under the reign of Ramses II, famed for his military campaigns and climactic struggle against the Hittites at the Battle of Kadesh. Ramses II was so fond of Anat that he named his daughter, his dog, and even his weapons after her. He was frequently depicted with the goddess in art.

historynet magazines

Our 9 best-selling history titles feature in-depth storytelling and iconic imagery to engage and inform on the people, the wars, and the events that shaped America and the world.

subscribe today

For centuries Armenian residents of the Transcaucasian stronghold of Kars watched invaders come and go—until its final betrayal

The very mention of the world’s great fortresses often inspires admiration—Masada, the Alamo, Gibraltar. Such names recall battles synonymous with heroic resistance and national pride. The history of Kars, however, is one of continual strife, humiliating treaties and the final betrayal and embarrassment of a proud people.

The origin of the name Kars is itself a matter of continuing dispute—is it Kars, Qers or Qars? Is it of Armenian, Georgian or Turkish origin? The fortress lies just west of the Turkish-Armenian border on the Akhuryan (or Arpachay) River, between the Black and Caspian seas and south of the Caucasus Mountains. The great historical empires of Persia, Ottoman Turkey and Russia intersected in the region. Also claiming ground here at various times were the Armenians, Byzantines and Mongols.

Coalescing around this hub of empires in the 4th century BC was the Kingdom of Armenia, which in ad 301 became the first state in the world to adopt Christianity as its official religion. With the later rise of Islam to the south and east, the kingdom became increasingly isolated and vulnerable.

In the 9th century, with the threat of Muslim invasion ever present, the Armenians built the first fortifications at Kars, on the rocky heights overlooking the regional capital. Byzantine forces seized the stronghold in the mid-11th century, only to relinquish it a few years later to the Seljuk Turks. Kars changed hands several times between the Turks and Georgians until 1387, when feared Mongol conqueror Timur (better known in the West as Tamerlane) wrested the city from its cowed defenders and incorporated it into his empire. Turks retook the city in 1585, declared it neutral and destroyed its fortifications. It remained under Ottoman rule in the 18th century when Sultan Murad III rebuilt the stronghold to block Persian encroachment in the region, touching off the 1730–35 Ottoman-Persian War.

Although not as comprehensive as the earlier military outworks of James of St. George or Sébastian Le Prestre de Vauban in Western Europe, the Ottoman fortifications were imposing. An abundance of existing basalt enabled the construction of a massive structure whose walls were as solid as concrete.

Perched atop a sheer height hundreds of feet above the adjacent valley, Kars citadel was built on a concentric plan with two ringwalls, the lower one backed by an inner wall 36 feet high and nine feet thick. The walls stretched for nearly 2 miles around the rocky summit, punctuated at intervals by 220 circular and square towers. These bastions allowed defenders to pour enfilading fire on any attackers managing to scale the heights. Unlike Western European castles, the parapets of Kars were not crenelated, and no moat was necessary.

Kars’ principal defensive feature was its lofty vantage. A single narrow road ascended to its gates. Attackers would either have to advance up that narrow defile or scale the heights before charging the walls. A secondary kill zone lay between the walls, designed to isolate any attackers who succeeded in breaching the outer defenses. In the age of ballistae and catapults, Kars was virtually impregnable. While the garrison was heavily fortified, however, the town below remained virtually defenseless.

In late 1734 Nader Shah Afshar—the last notable Asiatic conqueror, known as the “Sword of Persia”—took the Ottoman-Persian War into Transcaucasia when he claimed the region and led an 80,000-man army against a 140,000-man Ottoman force. The Persian army had field artillery but no heavy siege guns, a distinct disadvantage when it came to reducing fortified strongpoints like Kars.

Nader hoped to draw the Turks out of Kars by threatening neighboring cities. When Abdullah Pasha Koprulu did finally march out to meet him, Nader split his army, leading an advance guard of 15,000 men forward while the balance of his force followed within striking distance. On June 19, 1735, the armies clashed near Yeghevard. Despite being outnumbered more than 5-to-1, Nader quickly captured the Turkish artillery and routed the enemy troops, who fled with Persian cavalry close on their heels. Leaving upward of 50,000 dead and wounded comrades on the field, the survivors took refuge within the walls of Kars. A shrewd Nader then gathered the Turkish wounded and sent them back to the city along with the beheaded remains of their commanders, including Koprulu. That strategic one-two punch served to overwhelm the city’s medical facilities and demoralize its garrison.

Flush with his victory in the field, Nader shifted his full attention to Kars. However, his troops not only lacked siege artillery, but also were novices at siege warfare. So instead he had them blockade the city and cut off the garrison’s water supply. Thus avoiding a long, potentially costly siege, the Persian commander subsequently used Kars as a bargaining chip in negotiations with Constantinople. In the final settlement he allowed the Turks to keep the fortress in exchange for the Armenian city of Yerevan. Kars was thus saved from destruction and thereafter marked the border between Ottoman Turkey and Persia.

In 1744 Kars was the locus of a rebellion against Nader’s rule led by Safi Mirza, a pretender to the Ottoman throne. Nader raised another army and marched on the city, reaching it on July 23. This time he brought along a siege train and encircled the city with forts and trenches. Again, however, he eschewed costly direct assaults in favor of cutting off the garrison’s water supply. But the Turks had learned from experience and managed to keep water flowing. On October 9 Nader broke off the siege due to a sudden illness. After recuperating, he returned in June 1745 and encamped near Yerevan.

That summer a 140,000-strong Ottoman army led by Grand Vizier Yegen Mohammad Pasha marched out from Kars to engage the Persians, who were encamped some 10 miles away on the battlefield where they’d fought a decade before. On August 9 the armies met and fought a daylong battle. Nader routed the Turks, and the next day his troops encircled the enemy, blocking their escape route to the castle. Pinned in place for more than a week, the panicked Ottoman soldiers ultimately mutinied and killed Yegen Pasha before fleeing in disarray back to Kars, leaving some 28,000 dead and wounded on the field, compared to 8,000 Persian casualties. As he had done a decade earlier, Nader sent the Ottoman wounded into the city, overwhelming caregivers and damaging morale. He then extended an olive branch, vowing to spare the inhabitants if they surrendered. As all of Anatolia was threatened, Sultan Mahmud I wisely capitulated. Kars had again dodged a bullet, and the Persians went home. Two years later Nader was assassinated by his own officers, and Persia never again threatened the Ottoman empire.

By the 19th century the widespread use of gunpowder weapons had significantly eroded Kars’ defensive value. Not entirely, though, for even if attackers were to bomb the citadel into rubble, they would still have to storm the heights to take the fortress. Given the strength of its walls and daunting elevation, Kars remained a key stronghold in the border region. Though Ottoman military leaders recognized its strategic importance, their defensive forces were stretched thin—from the Caspian Sea to the Mediterranean, and from Egypt to the Persian Gulf. The Turks constructed new works below the citadel, while largely assuming its natural defenses would deter aggressors. A series of 19th century wars with Russia would expose the folly of that assumption.

In 1807 the Turks repulsed one Russian army, but the latter returned in 1828, this time led by Ukrainian-born Lt. Gen. Ivan Paskevich, an experienced and adept field commander. After a three-day battle, during which the Russians pummeled the fortress walls with artillery, the attackers captured Kars and its 11,000-man garrison. The occupation proved short-lived, however, for Russia returned the citadel to Turkey a year later amid peace negotiations.

In 1854, at the outset of the Crimean War, the Russians again knocked at the door. With an imperial army gathering in Georgia, Turkey’s European allies became alarmed Transcaucasia might fall into Russian hands, putting Istanbul and the Black Sea straits at risk. Even discounting that threat, the fall of Kars would imperil the Allied siege of the Russian fortress of Sevastopol. As the timid provincial governor, Zarif Mustafa Pasha, seemed neither willing to emerge and give battle nor capable of holding the capital against a determined attack, it seemed only a matter of time before Kars fell.

In August 1854 Field Marshal FitzRoy Somerset, Lord Raglan, commander of all Allied forces in Crimea, dispatched Maj. Gen. Fenwick Williams and an “advisory team” to stiffen Kars’ defenses. (In the Victorian era the British would notoriously repeat the pattern, sending inadequate forces to near hopeless situations in distant corners of the empire—notably Lord Chelmsford in Zululand in 1879 and Maj. Gen. Charles Gordon at Khartoum in 1884.) Williams arrived at Kars in late September 1854 to find a demoralized conscript garrison of 17,000 Turks armed with obsolete weapons and manning crumbling defenses. Pushing aside Mustafa Pasha, Williams took command and virtually single-handedly worked a military miracle over the next six months, reinforcing the fortifications and whipping the Turkish garrison into fighting shape. In the process he discovered his Turkish troops were not bad soldiers—just badly led.

Rather than cower within the citadel walls, Williams extended the defensive works until the city itself was ringed with eight forts and redoubts interconnected by trench lines that provided interlocking fields of fire. Thanks to his efforts, for the first time in its history Kars comprised a truly fortified city, as opposed to a lone citadel overlooking a city.

The anticipated Russian attack came in June 1855 with some 25,000 troops and 96 guns led by Gen. Nicolay Muravyov, who probed the defenses before mounting a siege. Muravyov had no heavy siege guns, and his supply line back to Georgia was vulnerable, but that didn’t matter. His primary objective was to relieve Allied pressure on Sevastopol. Over the next three months Russian troops overran the fortress’ outer defenses and established a foothold on the heights, but they were unable to push into the city itself. Kars’ British-trained Turks fought with a ferocity that surprised the attackers.

The siege continued into fall, by which time the defenders suffered from cholera and were dangerously short of supplies. Williams cut rations repeatedly and sent dispatches begging for help, but the British high command turned a deaf ear to his entreaties. Finally, on September 6 the Ottoman commander in Crimea, Omar Pasha, pulled 45,000 troops from the line at Sevastopol to go to Kars’ relief. Had he done so any earlier, it might have proved a devastating blow to the siege of the former, but Sevastopol fell to the Allies three days later.

Omar Pasha landed on the Black Sea coast north of Kars in late September, about the time Muravyov launched an all-out assault on the city. The starving defenders managed to repulse the seven-hour assault while inflicting nearly 7,000 casualties on the attackers. But Omar Pasha dallied, spending his army’s strength on attacks against secondary targets that failed to tilt the strategic balance.

By late October the garrison at Kars was beyond desperate. The first snow had fallen, and supplies were nearly exhausted. The Ottomans landed yet another army on the Black Sea coast, this one under Omar Pasha’s son Selim Pasha, but he too marched away from Kars, in an effort to save western Anatolia. By then Muravyov was so confident of success that he detached a small force to deal with Selim Pasha, stopping the latter’s advance on November 6.

Finally, on November 28, having abandoned all hope of relief, Williams surrendered his surviving British and Turkish officers and men to the Russians. On entering Kars, the victors were horrified at the conditions they found. Unburied victims of starvation and disease lay stacked in the streets, the survivors simply too weak to bury them.

Many others died over the coming days. In the final weeks of the siege only Williams’ iron will and the city’s mighty fortifications had held the enemy at bay. The British general’s after-action report praised his men: “They fell dead at their posts, in their tents and throughout the camp as brave men should who cling to their duty through the slightest glimmering of hope of saving a place entrusted to their custody.”

Following the siege the combatant nations honored their respective heroes. In recognition of Williams’ remarkable stand, Queen Victoria created him 1st Baronet of Kars. On the winning side Emperor Alexander II was so pleased with the results that he pinned medals on the deserving Muravyov, as well as the emperor’s own brother Grand Duke Michael, the regional governor general, whom Allied officers derided as “frightened as a rabbit on the battlefield.” Alexander also authorized Muravyov to change his surname to Muravyov-Karsky, allowing his family to forever tout his triumph. While the capture of Kars hardly made up for the loss of Sevastopol, it served to assuage Russian pride.

More important, Kars again became a diplomatic bargaining chip in peace negotiations, the Russians returning it to the Ottomans in the 1856 Treaty of Paris. That is, until the next round of fighting, which came amid the 1877–78 Russo-Turkish War. In November 1877 Russian forces under Gens. Mikhail Loris-Melikov and Ivan Lazarev again captured the fortress from the hapless Turks. This time, however, in the 1878 Treaty of San Stefano, they kept it along with other chunks of Ottoman territory.

Under Russian sovereignty the city became the provincial capital of the Kars Oblast (province), marking the southwestern edge of Romanov territory. When the Russians imposed Eastern Orthodox Christianity on the region, thousands of Muslims fled across the border into Turkey, including 11,000 from Kars alone. In a reverse migration, Christian Armenians and Greeks streamed into Kars from Ottoman territory, setting the stage for the next great struggle.

In November 1914 Ottoman Turkey entered World War I on the side of Austria-Hungary and Germany, largely to reclaim territory lost to Russia, including Kars. Within weeks an Ottoman army invaded Transcaucasia. Though it lost at the Battle of Sarikamish in January 1915, it nevertheless regained Kars in the 1918 Treaty of Brest-Litovsk. Once again the Turkish flag flew over the embattled city and its restive, largely Armenian population. Ottoman troops occupied the city on April 25, 1918, but at war’s end the Allies ordered Turkey to return to its prewar borders, an arrangement formalized in the 1920 Treaty of Sèvres.

Unwilling to cede territory to the Soviet Union, the Allies recognized Armenia in the treaty as an independent republic. Tasked with ensuring the peaceful transfer of Kars from Turkish to Armenian control, British Col. Alfred Rawlinson deemed it an impossible assignment that “could only have been carried into effect by the permanent occupation of the [region]…by considerable forces of European troops”—something that was never going to happen. The United States refused to accept a proffered League of Nations mandate over Armenia to keep the peace, setting the stage for yet another round of warfare.

The transfer of Kars was anything but peaceful. Armenian troops roamed the countryside committing atrocities against Turks, while the city’s Ottoman military governor refused to accept the treaty terms, proclaiming a provisional Turkish government over the region. The Ottomans weren’t strong enough to back the claim and were ousted in April 1919 by a joint British-Armenian force. The troops entered Kars and arrested all Turkish officials who had not fled, sending them into captivity on Malta. A month later Armenia named Kars capital of its Vanand province. Once again it was a besieged city, not in the classic sense, but as the target of an insurgency against Armenian rule with the backing of the new Turkish nationalist government under Mustafa Kemal Atatürk.

Turkey launched a full-scale invasion of Armenia in September 1920. Four divisions under Brig. Gen. Kâzim Karabekir crossed the border and bore down on Kars. Having expected the assault, the Armenians had upgraded the city’s defenses, starting with the ancient citadel on the heights. They optimistically pronounced it “impregnable,” figuring Kars could withstand any siege long enough for an Armenian relief force to arrive. It was not to be.

On October 30 the commanding officer at Kars threw open the city gates and allowed the Turks to walk in. The Turks in turn marched thousands of bewildered officers and enlisted men out into captivity. Though doubtless glad to be alive, the Armenians bore the shameful knowledge they had not fired a single shot. It was an unprecedented act of treason as well as a military fiasco, although it went little noticed in the West, in which Gibraltar and Verdun were historical measuring sticks for “holding the fort.”

One top Armenian army general committed suicide rather than face the shame. “Kars fell, but it was not defeated,” the city’s civil governor said. “It became the victim of our criminal negligence.” In the subsequent humiliating 1920 Treaty of Alexandropol, Armenia gave back Kars and all the other Turkish territory it had received in the Treaty of Sèvres.

The city made one more notable appearance on the stage of history. Soviet forces occupied Armenia in 1921, imposing a treaty on Turkey that established the border between Turkey and the Soviet Union’s three Transcaucasian republics. Signed in Kars on October 13, the treaty left the fortress in Turkish hands—one of few concessions the Soviets made to a weakened Turkey. A century later the Treaty of Kars remains an object of Armenian scorn.

Though the present-day historic fortress is a popular tourist attraction among foreign visitors, its dark history remains largely unknown in the Western world and is celebrated neither by the Turks nor by the Armenians. Like the city’s former Armenian Holy Apostles Church—which was converted into a mosque in 1993—Kars fortress stands as a monument to a turbulent past. MH

Richard Selcer is a Texas-based author and professor of history. He has published 13 books and taught for more than 40 years. For further reading he highly recommends The History of Armenia: From the Origins to the Present, by Simon Payaslian, and The Sword of Armenia: Nader Shah, From Tribal Warrior to Conquering Tyrant, by Michael Axworthy.

This article appeared in the December 2021 issue of Military History magazine. For more stories, subscribe and visit us on Facebook.

Archaeologists in Turkey have discovered an iron mask worn by a cavalryman in ancient Rome’s army circa 1,800 years ago.

While excavating near the site of the ancient city of Hadrianopolis, a team from Karabük University unearthed a large fragment of a special face mask worn only by Roman cavalry. The mask likely dates from the 3rd century A.D.

Researchers believe the mask indicates the presence of a Roman military garrison on the dig site, which contains the remains of a fortified building.

Elite Roman cavalry troopers wore ornate masks while on the march and participating in tournaments, known as hippika gymnasia, according to the ancient Roman historian Arrian of Nicomedia. These tournaments combined entertainment with military drills. In some cases, games took place in the form of mock battles among the troopers.

Gilded or silvered masks of iron, bronze or other metal alloys were typically attached to the warriors’ helmets, serving as marks of prestige while also offering Roman riders facial protection and outward visibility.

Men of Roman cavalry units were often recruited from “barbarian” tribes; Rome’s Germanic cavalry auxiliaries proved particularly fearsome in battle. One of the most famous Roman cavalryman was the Germanic leader Arminius, who turned against his Roman masters and led a revolt in modern-day Germany, defeating Roman legionaries in the climactic Battle of the Teutoburg Forest.  

Roman cavalrymen cultivated a particularly close bond with their horses. Archaeological research has revealed that the soldiers and their horses shared the same lodgings. Horses were kept indoors in rooms beside those of their owners; there were no separate stables.

Cavalry units were a mainstay throughout Rome’s history and their role in warfare became more prominent over time. Germanic cavalry auxiliaries played a key part in Julius Caesar‘s victory at the Battle of Alesia in Gaul in 52 bc. In addition to lances, Roman cavalry troopers wielded a type of long sword known as the spatha. MH

From its beginnings the island known today as Great Britain has been the target of successive invaders. Before the Normans invaded in 1066, parts of the British Isles had been ravaged by Scandinavian raiders known as the Danes, Norsemen or Vikings. Before those raiders came Germanic invaders—mainly the Saxons, Angles and Jutes—and before them landed the legions of the Roman empire.

There to meet each of these onslaughts was an ancient tribal people known today as the Celtic Britons, among the fiercest of whom were the Picts. In the second century the latter faced down the Romans, forcing the legions to stop short of what would become Scotland and build the defensive Hadrian’s Wall, spanning the width of the island from the North Sea to the Irish Sea. Half a millennium later the Picts clashed with Angles at the 685 Battle of Dún Nechtain, an engagement some historians believe forged the roots of present-day Scotland.

The Picts inhabited the north and east of what today is Scotland. While much of their history went unrecorded, many historians suggest they were not a homogenous people, but a confederation of Celtic tribes that banded together only when threatened by a common enemy. In most cases those enemies were carrying both crosses and swords.

The Romans called these ferocious northern Britons “Picts,” from the Latin picti (“painted”), a possible reference to the tattoos worn by warriors the legions encountered. Unfortunately, there is no record of what they called themselves. Germanic invaders used the term “Pict” as a pejorative to describe any of the various clans north of the Forth–Clyde isthmus. Thrown into direct contact with the hostile clans were the Angles of Northumbria, a kingdom spanning present-day northeast England and southeast Scotland.

Starting with the earliest Roman invasion, Christian missionaries ventured into the wilds of Pictland in an effort to convert the polytheistic people. Though they had some success, many early missions resulted not only in apostolic failure, but also in the death of the proselytizers. The legions’ efforts to subdue the Picts by force were equally unsuccessful.

Christianity took hold among the southern Picts sometime during the 412–52 reign of Pictish King Drest (or Drust). Widespread conversion dates from the mission to Pictland of Irish abbot and evangelist Columba (or Colmcille) in 563. He arrived amid the c. 554–84 rule of Bruide mac Melcho (also known as Bridei I), who had united many of the northern and southern Picts.

Columba was an apostle of Celtic Christianity, a form of Catholicism popular in Ireland and Wales, and may have personally converted Bruide. While many of the Picts were Christianized by the time of Columba’s death at his Inner Hebrides abbey of Iona in 597, many also, or still, followed their old beliefs. Despite their differences, the Picts remained united in times of trial and came together to face the ever-increasing encroachment onto their lands by the Northumbrians.

In 685 Britain remained far from united. What would become England largely comprised the Germanic kingdoms of the Angles, Saxons and Jutes. Among the largest was the Angle kingdom of Northumbria, which bordered Pictland on the north, the Brittonic kingdom of Strathclyde (or Alt Clut) on the west and the North Sea on the east. South and east of Northumbria lay the Angle kingdom of East Anglia and the Saxon kingdoms of Mercia and Wessex. West of them dwelled the Celtic Welsh. Pictland was home to the Picts and other Britons, as well as the Gaelic Scots.

From its foundation as a unified kingdom under the reign of Aethelfrith (593–616) Northumbria often warred with the Mercians to the south, Britons to the west and Picts to the north. Its unification came at the edge of a sword as the Angles subdued the native Britons in one battle after another, culminating with the Battle of Catraeth in 600, a clash commemorated in Welsh verse. Cross-border raids continued under successive Angle kings, always with the goal of expanding the kingdom and enhancing their power.

While Edwin (616–33) was the first of the Angle kings to be converted, Northumbria fully embraced Christianity under Oswald (634–42). Commissioned by the Irish apostle Aidan, monks went to all corners of the kingdom and north into Pictland to convert the pagan Angles and lapsed or unsaved Picts to Celtic Christianity. A split came with the 664 Synod of Whitby, when Oswald’s brother and successor, Oswiu, committed his kingdom to following certain Roman Catholic traditions, adding a religious rift to the extant border tensions.

There were marked differences between the cultures of the Northumbrians and the Picts. The Picts, whose society was based on distinct clans, traditionally came together only during times of crisis, dispersing once the danger had passed. Such major decisions as going to war were made in council, clan leaders mutually agreeing on what action to take and then leading their respective forces. Each was accountable to his own people.

Like the Saxons, the Angles of Northumbria had forged a society in which one man, the king, made all military, political and religious decisions, usually without the input of his people. He could spend money and assemble an army at will. Given such sweeping authority, successive Angle monarchs had seized territory from the Mercians, Britons and southern Picts, taking on one group at a time and then subjugating the defeated populations. It is far easier to fight a war of attrition when one divides and conquers, subduing one clan at a time.

To face the ever-increasing threat from Northumbria, the Picts adopted their enemy’s leadership structure and joined forces under a centralized monarchy. To thwart Angle ambitions, the northerners realized they had to present a united front, as well as a command structure in which one person could make instant decisions, rather than consult a host of often argumentative advisers. That was the valuable lesson they had learned from the Northumbrians—a lesson that would soon come back to haunt their Angle nemesis.

By 670 Northumbria had seized large swaths of southern Pictland. That same year Oswiu died, leaving his son Ecgfrith as his successor. Ecgfrith in turn gave his 9-year-old brother dominion over the southern half of the kingdom. The Picts exploited the transition to launch attacks aimed at retaking their land. The revolt was short-lived, as the following year a force of Northumbrian cavalry rode north, soundly defeated the Picts and re-established Angle rule.

Adding insult to injury, Ecgfrith demanded tribute, dismissing the various Pictish leaders as puppets who would do his bidding. One of those supposedly subordinate chiefs was Bruide mac Beli, and underestimating him was something Ecgfrith would come to regret.

In the wake of their failed rebellion the Picts deposed their king, Drest mac Domnal, in favor of Bruide mac Beli (also known as Bridei III). The son and grandson of Pictish kings, Bruide didn’t consider himself subordinate to anyone. Indeed, within a decade of his accession to the throne he carried out energetic domestic military campaigns against Scots along the west coast and in the northern Orkney Islands. As he flexed his muscles, the Pictish king chafed under the puppet role to which Ecgfrith had consigned him.

Despite his objections, Bruide continued to send a token tribute to the Northumbrian king in the form of cattle and grain, but only to buy himself time to consolidate his power and unite the Picts. By 685 the tributes had stopped, and Pictish raids into Northumbria had increased. Pushed to the brink, Ecgfrith—against the advice of his council—mobilized a force and marched into Pictland to quell the uprising once and for all. His all-consuming desire to put Bruide in his place clouded Ecgfrith’s judgment, prompting him to launch his campaign against the Pictish king with what in hindsight seems a less than sufficient force. While the exact size of Ecgfrith’s army is unknown, chroniclers claim his cavalry numbered around 300, though he surely would have had infantry as well.

Rough estimates place the number of Pictish forces in the thousands.

Thanks to the English Benedictine monk and chronicler Bede the Venerable (673–735), who wrote from a Northumbrian monastery a half century after the decisive clash between Ecgfrith and Bruide, we know the exact date of what is known variously as the Battle of Dún Nechtain, Nechtansmere, Dunnichen or Llyn Garan. The Angles and the Picts crossed swords on May 20, 685. Beyond that, details are hard to come by. With no written records from the Picts and scant accounts from the Northumbrians, some sleuthing and inference is required to piece together the events of the battle.

One possible source of information regarding the Dún Nechtain fight is a 7½-foot-tall carved standing stone in a small churchyard in Aberlemno, Scotland. One of five such Early Medieval stones in and around the namesake village, Aberlemno 2, as it’s designated, bears an ornately rendered Celtic cross on one side and what appears to be a battle scene on the reverse. Depicted in three rows, the warring figures, both on horseback and afoot, bear spears, swords and shields. Though weathered by time and nature, most of the horsemen appear to be wearing Anglo-Saxon helmets. Though evidence suggests helmets were uncommon at that early date, some scholars have hypothesized the helmeted figures represent Ecgfrith’s cavalry. While debate continues over whether the scene depicts the Battle of Dún Nechtain, one argument in favor of such a conclusion is the stone’s proximity to present-day Dunnichen, just 4 miles to the south.

Much of the evidence for Anglo-Saxon arms and armor has been recovered from period graves. Ecgfrith’s cavalrymen would have carried an assortment of weapons—including spears, swords and knives—and may have worn coats of mail. Each likely would have borne a round wooden shield made of alder, willow or poplar with a central iron boss. If the men did wear helmets, they would have been skullcaps made of iron and leather with long nose guards, like those depicted on Aberlemno 2. Foot soldiers would have been similarly outfitted and armed.

There is some evidence Bruide had cavalry as well, though unlike the large warhorses ridden by the Northumbrians, the Picts would have been astride the smaller native ponies found up north. Mounted Picts and their infantry counterparts would have been armed much the same, with spears, swords, knives and axes. As mail was expensive, few, if any, of Bruide’s warriors would have worn it, preferring instead heavy overshirts or coats of boiled leather. Helmets were equally scarce.

Bruide realized the Northumbrians were better armed, better trained and led by professional soldiers. His Pictish troops, while all experienced warriors, were not used to fighting as a cohesive unit under one commander. Fiercely independent, his men would need to hold together if they were to win.

Fortunately, in Bruide they had a confident, shrewd and tactically savvy commander.

The Pictish king knew his men would not prevail were they to go toe to toe with the Angles. Bruide needed to get Ecgfrith to fight on his terms, in an area where the Northumbrian cavalry would be of little use. He picked the high ground of Dún Nechtain to make his stand. Bypassing the hill was a narrow path flanked on either side by marshy Nechtain Mire—a natural bottleneck. Bruide’s challenge was how to lure Ecgfrith into the trap.

While keeping his main force concealed behind the summit, the Pictish commander sent out skirmishers to harass the enemy and then fall back. Ecgfrith, in his overzealous desire for a quick kill, urged his forces forward in pursuit. Time and again the Picts feigned retreat, drawing the Northumbrians ever deeper up the narrowing path. The ruse had worked.

As the Northumbrians reached the base of the hill, Bruide struck, trapping them between the Picts to the front and the marshes to either side. The only way out was the narrow path behind them. Too late Ecgfrith realized his mistake. With few options, he sent his cavalry on an uphill charge, hoping to break the Pictish line. Ranks of spearmen repulsed the charge, forcing the Northumbrians back downhill. Bruide then led a countercharge with his own mounted men. Reeling on their exhausted mounts and mired in the surrounding marsh, the Northumbrians were hard-pressed to defend themselves.

By the time the fighting ended, Ecgfrith and most of his men lay dead, the overconfident king likely among the last slain. While some Northumbrians managed to escape, those falling into Pictish hands were either killed outright or sold into slavery.

The Battle of Dún Nechtain was more than just another clash in the seemingly endless cycle of war between the Anglo-Saxons and Celts. That single battle broke Northumbria’s grip on the region and secured the lands of the Picts, Britons and Scots—for a time. It also drove Roman Catholic missionaries and adherents from the north, allowing Celtic Christianity to flourish.

Bruide reigned over a peaceful and secure Pictland until his death in 693. Through his boldness and with his gains he’d established roughly what constitutes the present-day border of Scotland and England. MH

Dana Benner is a frequent contributor to Military History. For further reading he recommends The Makers of Scotland: Picts, Romans, Gaels and Vikings, by Tim Clarkson; Scotland: A History From Earliest Times, by Alistair Moffat; and The Anglo-Saxons: A History of the Beginnings of England, 400–1066, by Marc Morris.

This article appeared in Military History magazine. For more stories, subscribe and visit us on Facebook.

In 1936 Adolf Hitler’s Schutzstaffel—the dreaded SS—began transforming a medieval castle abbey associated with Germany’s first king into a Nazi worship center. The shrine to the Führer and National Socialism was in the scenic town of Quedlinburg, amid the northern foothills of Saxony’s Harz Mountains.

A region of dark crags and misty mountains well known for its folktales of witchcraft and demons, the range gained an even more chilling reputation when, in his play Faust, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe called it a gathering place of evil spirits. The SS seizure of Quedlinburg Abbey from its congregation ensured the region became an epicenter of Nazi occultism. The twisted transformation that unfolded would see a battle for a church, a hunt for a missing royal skeleton, ghostly candlelit ceremonies in an ancient crypt and the transformation of a medieval church into a temple of Nazi terror.

A legendary king

Since the death of Heinrich der Vogelfänger (Henry the Fowler) in 936, the details of his life have fallen into obscurity. The first king of a unified German state, Heinrich was popular in his day for having waged wars against Eastern European neighbors. Despite being married to a devout Christian, he refused the traditional church anointing of his coronation.

German poets, playwrights and nationalists have since romanticized Heinrich in their works. The rugged king—known to have been an avid hunter—has a leading role in Richard Wagner’s famed opera Lohengrin, appearing in all three acts. The seat of Heinrich’s power was the mountain town of Quedlinburg, where, like many German rulers, he established his imperial residence in a hilltop castle. After his death, the widowed Queen Mathilde founded an abbey church adjoining the castle and dedicated to St. Servatius. The famed king was said to have been buried within a shadowy rock-hewn crypt beneath the abbey.

Heinrich rose again to the forefront of German national consciousness in 1936 when circumstances brought him to the attention of the notorious Heinrich Himmler.

Formerly a frustrated Bavarian chicken farmer, as Reichsführer-SS—head of all internal and external police forces—Himmler was among the most powerful members of the Nazi elite. He oversaw the regime’s infamous mass atrocities, including the political purges, concentration camps, forced labor, medical experimentation and genocide. A racist extremist, he had fantasized about conquests against foreigners since his youth as an agronomy student in the early 1920s. A former Catholic, Himmler became obsessed with mysticism and created his own neo-pagan religion. His interest in both racial supremacy and mysticism prompted his fascination with Heinrich and Quedlinburg Abbey.

A Propaganda “GodSend”

In a secret report dated Oct. 24, 1935, Hermann Reischle, head of the SS Race and Settlement Main Office, informed Himmler that July 2, 1936, would mark the millennial anniversary of Heinrich’s death. “The thousand-year anniversary within the coming year is, from a propaganda standpoint, virtually a godsend for us,” Reischle wrote.

Himmler instantly recognized the king’s legend could be adapted to Nazi narratives—for example, Heinrich’s unification of Germany, wars with Eastern countries and rugged Nordic attributes. Himmler referred to the king as the founder of Germany’s first “Reich” and a “Führer personality.” “He had the knowledge that the German people…must look beyond their own clan and their own space so as to align themselves with greater things,” Himmler said of Heinrich in his address at the 1936 millennial ceremony. “His ‘Slav wars’ found the first step beyond the Elbe for German colonization.…We present-day Germans perceive his meaning with complete clarity.” Himmler also used the king’s myth in an attempt to validate genocidal SS policies. “He had the courage to create unpopular politics and had the wherewithal and the power to see them through.”

Himmler’s obsession with Heinrich—whose first name he shared—grew to such an extent that SS members claimed Himmler viewed himself as the mythical monarch’s reincarnation, asking associates to address him as “King Heinrich.”

Himmler was quick to stake his claim on Heinrich’s burial place. He created an SS task force to manage affairs at Quedlinburg Abbey and the crypt beneath it. In 1936 members’ initial job was to inspect and prepare the place for the millennial event, dubbed the Heinrichsfeier—“Heinrich’s celebration.”

The task force had a ceremonial staircase constructed outside the abbey to accommodate marchers and divided the town into 10 sections for organizing the marches. Meanwhile, crews comprising some 14,000 men sorted out an estimated 11 miles of cable to accommodate broadcast media. Hitler Youth leader Baldur von Schirach “consecrated” flags representing Germany’s children. Chief SS propagandist Gunter D’Alquen described the event:

“The streets were decorated with touching care, the houses painted and wreathed, when on July 2, 1936, the long column of guests of the Reichsführer-SS, Heinrich Himmler, first went out through the streets of the town to the old royal courtyard.…Ascending to the castle among the closely packed files of men were the soldiers in black, and the sun shimmered in their bare weapons and polished steel helmets.”

Stealing the Church

The widely publicized ceremony drew many figures who would soon become notorious—Reich intelligence director Reinhard Heydrich, the “Butcher of Prague”; Robert Ley, head of Germany’s central slave labor organization; Wilhelm Frick, Hitler’s minister of the interior; August Heissmayer, concentration camp inspector and head of SS-Totenkopfverbände (Death’s Head) squads; Karl Wolff, Himmler’s chief of staff; Hans Frank, the eventual governor-general of Nazi-occupied Poland, and many others. The SS and Quedlinburg city officials made enthusiastic plans for annual Heinrichsfeiern. Yet a yearly festive ceremony was not enough for the obsessed SS leader.

Himmler wanted the cathedral transformed into a Nazi shrine. Laying the groundwork, he attacked Christianity in his 1936 speech, claiming it was a harmful foreign influence on Germany. His views found their way into the media, and Nazi publications expressed support for the pagan transformation of the abbey. A propaganda rant published in a 1938 edition of the newspaper Der Mitteldeutsche alleged Christianity had “falsified the cathedral.…It was made into an un-German expression of compassion.…But does this world ever progress through compassion and mercy?”

The SS formally notified the mayor of Quedlinburg that certain “VIPs” found the church crypt in “unworthy condition,” incapable of producing a “feeling of inner holiness.” The SS obtained loans at special rates from Dresdner Bank—the official Nazi Party bank, which drew funds in part from confiscated Jewish property—to finance a massive reconstruction. The total budget available amounted to 250 million Reichsmarks, of which an estimated 13 million was spent before the end of World War II. Forced laborers from concentration camps performed the construction work. 

The SS stripped the cathedral interior of Christian imagery and draped the walls with royal blue cloth. They tossed the altar and pulpit into an outdoor courtyard and replaced the central stained-glass window with a transparent one emblazoned with a Nazi eagle. Urns containing soil samples collected from all regions of Germany lined the sanctuary. Himmler demanded that wooden shields decorated with medieval runes be hung on the walls. In fact, these were local “house marks” used in the town as property symbols. Black SS flags stood out from the walls, while candles and stark lighting created visual drama. Himmler envisioned a red granite stone altar depicting King Heinrich and bearing heraldic symbols. He also planned to install “Heinrich stations” in a perverse imitation of the Catholic Stations of the Cross.

“This is no longer a church in an ordinary sense—this is a temple, a fest-hall of a strong, almighty creator,” D’Alquen wrote in a tribute published by the Völkischer Beobachter, the Nazi Party newspaper.

There was only one problem with the new shrine—it was missing its idol.

The King Is Missing

While preparing for the 1936 ceremony, Himmler’s Quedlinburg task force came to the rude realization that King Heinrich—by then styled as Germany’s “first Führer”—was not actually buried in the abbey crypt. On the opening of the vault SS officials were bewildered to discover only the sarcophagus of Heinrich’s beloved wife and queen, Mathilde. In the spot where the legendary king was thought to have rested, the Nazis found only an empty shaft.

At the conclusion of his 1936 address Himmler was forced to admit to captivated attendees that the great king everyone had come to honor was not actually there:

“And finally I must lay bare a truth that is heart-wrenching and shameful for our people—the bones of the great German Führer no longer rest in their burial place. Where they are, we do not know. We can only ponder over it. It could be that his loyal troop of followers took his holy body to a dignified but unknown place—or it could also be that the sinister, unquenchable hatred of political dignitaries scattered his ashes to all the winds.”

The king’s empty resting place was outfitted with a wrought-iron grille and oak wreaths, framed by iron chandeliers and overseen by rotating pairs of SS guards in an “eternal watch of honor.” The crypt became the focal point of “hours of reverence”—a worship service mimicking Catholic Holy Hours before a tabernacle complete with candlelight and meditation. Members of the Hitler Youth and the League of German Girls often participated in these ceremonies, and SS recruits swore “blood oaths” in the crypt.

Meanwhile, Himmler ordered his minions to find the king’s missing corpse. An article in the SS newspaper Das Schwarze Korps declared the SS would “sieve every inch of soil” to locate the royal remains.

Scrambling to please their impatient leader, SS troops found themselves performing amateur archaeology work. They first tore up the abbey floors in search of the king’s tomb, creating debris and unearthing a variety of skeletons, including the remains of a small child and other unidentified individuals.

During the search for Heinrich’s lost body the SS also cracked open the sarcophagus of Queen Mathilde, thinking perhaps the couple might have been buried together, but the coffin contained only the queen. Running out of ideas, the SS began to excavate a portion of the town cemetery, a move that upset local citizens.

It was not the first time Himmler had ordered coffins pried open in search of noble remains. In 1935 he’d become fascinated with another Heinrich—the duke known as the Lion of Saxony—and demanded to view the ruler’s bones. However, when that coffin was opened, Himmler was horrified to behold a slight skeleton with hip damage instead of the mighty, leonine figure he’d anticipated. According to a 2000 article in Die Zeit magazine, German authorities investigating that exhumation in the 1970s determined the Nazis had accidentally opened the coffin of the duke’s wife.

With Himmler looming over them, the desperate SS “archaeologists” searching for Heinrich the Fowler were hard-pressed to solve the problem of the missing king. The search became ever more frenzied as the 1937 festival approached. Just in time, in a seeming miracle, the SS men announced they had found a decorated royal corpse they were certain was King Heinrich’s.

The SS as “Crypt Keepers”

The SS organized an elaborate reinterment ceremony in 1937. Placing the body within a massive carved stone sarcophagus decorated with runes, they held a midnight ritual in the candlelit crypt accompanied by suitably austere organ music.

“Now King Heinrich has his eternal peace,” declared a July 8, 1937, article in Das Schwarze Korps. “An old sacrilege is expiated! An old shame is absolved! According to his wishes, the king lies to the left of his beloved wife, and no one will ever again dare to disturb his peace! We are proud and happy with our work.”

Yet no discovery had been made. The bones buried in the stone sarcophagus did not belong to the fabled Heinrich. Not until after the war would that well-guarded secret be revealed.

The townspeople of Quedlinburg had lived in isolation for centuries, and those living there in the 1930s were displeased with the upheaval the SS brought to their community. The anger and resentment engendered by the confiscation of their abbey and destruction wrought by subsequent Nazi “renovations” were further exacerbated by the SS excavations in the town cemetery.

In June 1937 local authorities announced they wished to “entrust” the abbey to Himmler as a “sanctuary of the German nation,” a move enthusiastically supported by the mayor. But many citizens, particularly the cathedral’s Protestant congregation, strongly opposed such a designation and sent letters of complaint to Third Reich officials.

On December 18 the Reich Ministry for Religious Affairs claimed the congregation had “no legal jurisdiction” over the building. A subsequent SS order further stipulated, “Members of the cathedral congregation are no longer allowed to enter the crypt. The keys to the crypt and the treasury will be received by Himmler.”

In response the congregation sought assistance from Protestant authorities, including church representatives in Berlin. Leading their efforts was Pastor Rudolf Hein, who wrote the following impassioned letter on Jan. 28, 1938:

“[The] community of Quedlinburg, to which a portion of the church community belongs, reacts with deepest outrage to the fact that the Reichsführer-SS wants to take ownership of the cathedral. We ask the General Church Council, in the interest of our cathedral community and the entire Protestant Christian community of Germany, to put up the fiercest resistance against this.”

The letter, cosigned by sacristans and the abbey bookkeeper, was a bold stand against Himmler, as signatories risked severe punishment for defying the Nazi state. At a meeting on February 5 the church council resolved never to surrender control of the abbey to Himmler. However, the very next day an SS officer demanded the keys to the sanctuary, underscoring that disobedience would be tantamount to “resistance to government authority.” The congregation understandably surrendered the keys.

The SS punctuated its victory by raising the Nazi flag from the cathedral tower, its central swastika illuminated at night by the beam of a spotlight. Members of the congregation were subsequently placed under surveillance. The police even attended church services, parsing the pastor’s sermons for incriminating statements.

Congregants held their last Christian service in the cathedral that Easter. Pastor Hein vented his outrage in his diary. “On April 8 I had to conduct a wedding at the lower altar by rearranged church pews strewn halfway in the central aisle,” he wrote. “I felt like I was in a junk room.…They have made it into a den of thieves.”

Afterward, the congregation was expelled, and entrance to the cathedral required special permission from the SS. Such restrictions did not end opposition to the cathedral’s Nazi makeover, however.

Uncomfortable with the site’s Christian origins, Himmler set about rewriting its past. He had the uniformed SS men who guided tourists and curious foreigners around the abbey present a Nazi version of its history. On Aug. 14, 1939, the cathedral was visited by an ecumenical group of some 120 tourists, including 20 Swedes. According to a contemporary SS report the tourists asked a “flurry of questions” about why the pulpit and crucifixes had been removed.

When the SS guide launched into a speech on Nazi mythology, some tourists challenged and heckled him, while others declared they were interested in architecture, not in being “converted to paganism.” The guide lost his composure when an elderly woman in the group removed and cleaned her false teeth inside the crypt, an “indecent act” for which the woman was reprimanded. For his trouble, the guide was relieved of his duties.

Liberation—And The Truth

Though Himmler had intended the Heinrichsfeiern to be annual events, they ended with the outbreak of war in September 1939. Regardless, the SS continued to oversee the abbey and town, and bodies of prisoners from the nearby Langenstein-Zwieberge concentration camp were later trucked to Quedlinburg for incineration in the local crematorium. Not until April 11, 1945, was the camp was liberated, by troops of the U.S. 8th Armored and 83rd Infantry divisions. According to an April 20 article in Stars and Stripes, the gaunt prisoners alive to greet their liberators had been surviving only on water and potato peels.

The cathedral itself survived the war intact, with only minor bomb damage to one of its towers. Himmler had cached its relics and treasures, and several of those—including illuminated manuscripts and various liturgical objects—were in turn stolen from their hiding place by U.S. Army Lt. Joe T. Meador. The items were eventually traced to Meador’s heirs and, following a series of lawsuits, returned to Germany in 1991.

Pastor Hein reassumed control of the cathedral, which was re-sanctified on June 3, 1945. After the war Quedlinburg became part of East Germany, whose communist government frowned on religious services and kept parishioners under surveillance.

On Feb. 25, 1948, experts opened the stone sarcophagus the SS had venerated as the resting place of Heinrich the Fowler. On forensic examination the skeleton inside turned out to be that of a woman. The unidentified remains were reinterred weeks later in a different location, and the sarcophagus was later removed. While some theorized the bones might have belonged to a prioress of the medieval convent, most experts concluded that, due to the obvious gender of the skeleton, the Nazis had deliberately used a counterfeit. The only certainty is that an unknown woman had received the burial of a pagan king.

This article appeared in the November 2020 issue of Military History. For more stories, subscribe and visit us on Facebook.

It was perhaps the slowest heist in history.

After being held in Babylon for two years, the body of Alexander the Great, entombed in what amounted to a temple on wheels, began its labored procession west for his final burial.

Yet the fight for exactly where that burial would take place had just begun.

The demise of Alexander in 323 B.C. left a power vacuum across his empire. With no successor named, a mad scramble for control of the vast territories ensued.

“His body becomes the heritage of the empire,” historian Tristan Hughes told Dan Snow on the latter’s podcast, History Hit. “Whoever control[ed] possession of Alexander’s body h[eld] great sway in this new post-Alexander world.”

Perdiccas, a general within Alexander’s army and regent of the Macedonian empire after Alexander’s death, sought to cement his own power and ordered for Alexander’s funeral procession to make its way to Central Anatolia, where Perdiccas was then stationed.

Thus, the game was afoot.

Warring factions, namely Perdiccas’ archrival Ptolemy — the governor of Egypt — had no intention of ceding power so easily and hatched the audacious plan of stealing the gold-plated sarcophagus right out from under Perdiccas.

In contact with General Arrhidaeus, the head escort of the funeral carriage, Ptolemy colluded with the general to have the procession turn south towards Memphis, Egypt, once it reached eastern Syria — most likely near modern-day Aleppo.

The body of Alexander the Great had officially been hijacked.

However, what originally aided the kidnappers — the slow-moving funeral procession pulled by 64 mules — also hindered them.

“It was not long before Perdiccas received word of the cart’s new course and sent a special light-armed task force in pursuit,” writes Hughes. “It’s purpose: to retrieve the carriage and its precious cargo — by force if necessary.”

The task force managed to intercept the procession south of Damascus, but Ptolemy had already foreseen this happening and marches with a large, heavily armed force to meet the funeral carriage when it reached the Syrian city to give Alexander the Great’s body the heavily PR’ed spin of giving it the “welcome it was worthy of.”

Perdiccas’ smaller army, unable to force the carriage to go back north, eventually returned to the general corpse-less.

Alexander’s body was ultimately interred in Memphis, yet the battle for the body had just begun — sparking the First War of Successors.

Norse lore tells of fearsome warriors dedicated to Odin, so furiously eager for battle that they bit their shields and fought naked except for wearing skins of bears or wolves. Called berserkers (Berserkir), they inspired the English word “berserk,” meaning to be “frenzied” or “recklessly defiant.”

Although they allegedly served as “bodyguards and shock troops,” these legendary fighters remain shrouded in myth. Peter Pentz, curator of Danish Prehistory at the National Museum of Denmark, shed some light on the mysterious warriors in an interview with Military History. 

The berserkers, according to Pentz, are known from written medieval sources and not from the Vikings themselves—unless one interprets some Viking depictions as berserkers. The primary documentary evidence for berserkers is found in the writings of Icelandic historian Snorri Sturluson, who lived circa 1200. Sturluson referred to the berserkers as “Odin’s own men,” saying that they “went to battle without coats of mail and acted like mad dogs or wolves.  They bit their shields and were as strong as bears or bulls. They killed people, and neither fire nor iron affected them. This is called berserker rage.” 

Bare naked or ‘bear’ naked?

“Snorri seems to have combined both possible interpretations of the word berserkr: they were “bare”—[as in] went to battle without coats of mail—and bear-like at the same time—were as strong as bears,” Pentz explained.

Nakedness on the frontlines was, according to the National Museum of Denmark, “a good psychological weapon” which caused the warriors to be feared because “they showed such disregard for their own personal safety. In addition, the naked body may have symbolized invulnerability and was perhaps displayed to honor a war god. The berserkers were thus dedicating their lives and bodies to the battle.”

Unlike in popular myths, however, the berserkers—despite doing battle in the nude—were not entirely without bodily protection. “Wolfskin and bearskin actually do offer some protection against swords and spears. But they [berserkers] definitely are described as being in some transcendental state of mind, rage (Berserkirgangr),” said Pentz. “It has been suggested that the Berserkir idea actually was an initiation ritual and if so, the nakedness might make sense.”

The berserkers’ association with bears was no coincidence. Pentz said the Vikings admired the strength of those formidable beasts. “Wolves and bears and dogs were admired and feared predators for all the Vikings,” he said. “It is evident from the sources and depictions.”

Fans of Vikings as depicted in pop culture might expect that ancient berserker warriors in the buff would have adorned their bodies with some savagely gorgeous tattoo art—however, Pentz said, it is completely unknown whether the Vikings actually practiced tattooing. 

“This we don’t know. There are a few comments from travelers mentioning a kind of body art, painting or tattoo. However, we have no proof,” said Pentz. “The Vikings would certainly have been capable of tattooing, but if they really did tattoo, we do not know.”

Elite warriors 

According to Pentz, the berserkers could be considered the Viking equivalent of Special Forces.  “If we are to believe the written sources, some Berserkir actually functioned as elite forces,” he said. “For instance, there were Berserkir acting as bodyguards for the king Harald Finehair.”

Despite rumors circulating on the Internet, it is doubtful that the berserkers used drugs to work up battle energy.

“Well, the theory that they used drugs—mushrooms—was launched as late as the 18th century. Today it is believed that the Berserkirgangr—if a reality at all—was self-induced ecstatic rage,” said Pentz. “However, we know that some Viking people, like the Völva, had drugs in their repertoire. Both Völvas and Berserkir can be considered as shapeshifters, and drugs play a role in shapeshifting shamanistic practices in other parts of the world. But it [the drug theory] is basically a myth.”

Berserkers would have been armed with typical Viking weapons including swords, axes and spears. Like other males in Viking society, they would have trained for battle and gone on raids as early in life as possible—“from childhood,” Pentz said, if sagas are to be believed.

Yet the practices of the berserkers began in ancient ritual practices long before the Viking Age. “The most massive evidence of contemporary Viking warrior ethos comes from the rune stones, commemorating Viking Age masculine achievements. However, the warrior idea—I think—developed through the period. In the beginning the warrior was linked to cult, and especially the relation to the ultimate warlord, Odin,” Pentz said. “However, at the end, the Viking warriors seem to have transformed more into ordinary ‘soldiers’ like warriors in their contemporary societies, such as among the Franks. The Berserkir clearly have their origins before the Viking Age and likely linked to cult.”

Scars of honor

It seems logical to assume that berserkers, fighting on the frontlines wearing next to nothing, would have been more prone to battle scars and injuries than other Viking warriors. Yet, if a berserker was left with severe injuries or became disabled as a result of fighting without armor, they would not have been looked down on in Viking society, but instead regarded with admiration.

“It seems that injuries and defects were regarded with respect,” said Pentz. “For instance, the god of war, Tyr, lost his hand, but his abilities as a warrior were not reduced. Odin lost an eye, but he had the capacity of seeing more than anyone else. Heimdall [watchman of the gods] lost his ear, but afterwards he could hear grass growing.”

Berserker brides

With so many Viking stories concentrating on male warriors, it might seem impossible that women would have any role in berserker lore. Yet surprisingly, according to Pentz, women are mysteriously referenced in berserker legends. “Actually, the term ‘berserkir brides’ is mentioned in the medieval texts,” he said. “What it covers is absolutely uncertain, but some [sources] say female Berserkir. Others say giantesses.”

Whatever their place in berserker legend, it is certain that Viking women—like Viking men—had high admiration for military arts. Warfare was in fact a fashion statement for Viking ladies—females commonly adorned themselves with pieces of weaponry, military symbols and battle trophies as jewelry.

“Viking women wore pieces of weapons, military gear and jewelry imitation weapon gear, but they also wore jewelry commemorating military expeditions such as reworked Irish and English fittings and pins,” Pentz said. “Miniature weapons may have protected the wearer symbolically, and as a whole the ‘military’ jewelry reflects the ideals of the Viking society.”

Pentz stressed that much of what is known about the berserkers is tenuous at best. Yet traces of the “bear warriors” live on today in historical objects. Artifacts at the National Museum of Denmark hint at a connection with the mysterious berserkers. “We have some depictions of dancing warriors and bears,” said Pentz. “These could be interpreted as Berserkir.” MH

Archaeologist, historian, author and broadcaster Simon Elliott is an expert on Roman military history. A trustee of the Council for British Archaeology and ambassador for the Museum of London Archaeology, he has written numerous books on Roman themes and has appeared on the BBC, the National Geographic and Discovery channels, and other broadcast media. Elliott often conducts archaeological fieldwork and is co-director of a Roman villa excavation in Maidstone, Kent, U.K. His latest book, Roman Britain’s Missing Legion: What Really Happened to IX Hispana? investigates the fate of a legion that vanished from written history in the second century.

What intrigued you about Legion IX Hispana?
I have always been fascinated about all things ancient world, and particularly with classical Greece and Rome, and latterly have been fortunate to become a full-time historian, archaeologist and broadcaster. That gave me time to focus attention on some of my favorite themes from the period, and one that really jumped out was the fate of the “lost legion,” IX Hispana. This allowed me to tackle historical writing from a detective perspective, trying to track down details about what really happened to the legion, and that seriously appealed to me.

Why has the story retained its appeal?
Because it remains truly one of history’s greatest mysteries. How do you lose 5,500 legionaries?

How did you approach the mystery?
Well, that was one of the issues, actually. There is more than one theory about its fate.

In fact, I was able to develop no fewer than four hypotheses about why IX Hispana simply disappeared from history. These were that it was lost in the north of Britain, lost in the south of Britain, lost on the Rhine or Danube, or lost in the east.

In the conclusion I then determined that, based on all of the available data to date, the legion was most likely lost in the north of Britain—just as [novelist] Rosemary Sutcliffe had speculated in her wonderful children’s book The Eagle of the Ninth.

What support have you found for your theory?
The available hard dates fit with the legion being lost in the north of Britain. It is last mentioned in contemporary history in AD 82, fighting in Scotland; last mentioned in epigraphy in York in 108, on a gate inscription; and then replaced in 122 in York by another legion. So IX Hispana must have left by then, and it is never recorded again.

‘The legion’s last mention, in AD 82 in contemporary history, is by Tacitus, when he recounted its near annihilation at the hands of the natives of the far north of Britain’

What was the most challenging aspect of writing this book?
Unusually for me when writing a history book, the main issue I had here was separating fact from fiction, given there had been so much coverage of the legion’s fate in popular culture, including two Hollywood movies, a BBC TV series and a Doctor Who episode.

Did you learn anything surprising?
Yes, the fact that an entire Roman legion was lost in the east fighting the Parthians in AD 161. Given that it isn’t named, it became a serious candidate for the lost ninth legion.

What military lessons do the exploits of Legion IX Hispana convey?
I would say the lesson to learn is one of historiography for the historian. Most people assume that the legions of Rome were usually the victors in any battle, and their exploits the stuff of legend, but in the story of the ninth there are numerous examples of it actually not living up to the ideal. For example, the legion’s last mention, in AD 82 in contemporary history, is by Tacitus, when he recounted its near annihilation at the hands of the natives of the far north of Britain.

What impact might your book have on the history of Roman Britain?
It has certainly attracted a lot of attention, and the introduction of the “lost in the south” option, whereby IX Hispana was caught up somehow in an insurrection in London around the time of the accession of Hadrian in AD 117, is definitely new.

What will you be working on next?
The next book—my twelfth—is called Legacy of Rome, through The History Press. It examines in detail how the world of ancient Rome is still to be found all around us, in every aspect of our everyday lives. MH

This post contains affiliate links. If you buy something through our site, we might earn a commission.

Who Really Won the Battle of Marathon? by Constantinos Lagos and Fotis Karyanos, Pen & Sword Military, Yorkshire, U.K., and Havertown, Pa., 2020, $34.95

In this reappraisal of one of history’s most decisive battles Greek scholars Constantinos Lagos and Fotis Karyanos have done admirable research. Almost a third of the book is taken up by the bibliography and notes, while the illustrations are impressive.

Herodotus devoted only a dozen or so lines to the pivotal events that September 490 BC—after all, he was a cultural rather than military historian. Yet the resulting paucity of firsthand information hardly inhibited subsequent writers from placing their own interpretation on events that day.

The six miles of gently curving shore at Marathon, on the east coast of mainland Greece, is where the Persian fleet landed. As to the Persian army—of which Herodotus only writes the “foot soldiers were many and well supplied”—its size has occasioned much conjecture across the centuries. Authors Lagos and Karyanos suggest between 20,000 and 25,000 men, facing a similar number of Athenians and Plataeans.

Thanks to a wealth of new information, it is known the Persians controlled the greater part of the plain, while the Greeks occupied the slopes of Mount Agrieliki. The mount remains largely untouched, the authors noting that “a visitor is able to go where one of the brightest pages of world history was written 2,500 years ago.”

If the Greeks were to triumph, it was essential they first neutralize the formidable Persian cavalry. This they accomplished by luring the horsemen onto marshland. Though by late summer the marsh looks to be dry land, the Persian horses churned up the ground, dissipating the charge, before coming under attack by Greek archers. The Persian dead numbered some 6,400, and the Athenian dead just 192.

The legendary runner who carried news of the battle to Athens at the close of that fateful day was most likely named Pheidippides, whom Herodotus mentions only as a “day-runner.” According to Plutarch and Lucian, he spoke the words, “Joy, we win!” and promptly collapsed, his feat later commemorated by the Greek marathon of athletic events.

—David Saunders

This post contains affiliate links. If you buy something through our site, we might earn a commission.

The White Monument at Tell Banat, Syria, may be the world’s oldest organized war memorial, archeologists say.

Excavated in the 1990s, the site has not been touched since the Tishrin Dam, built on the Euphrates River, submerged the ancient White Monument in 1999.

It is unclear when the nearly 73-feet-tall mound was first constructed, “but it underwent modifications over the centuries. It took its final form at some point between 2450 and 2300 BC, when steps were built into the mound’s sides, making it appear like a step pyramid. Human bones were placed into these steps, representing around 30 individuals—both adults and younger people, ranging in age from around 8 to 20,” according to The Art Newspaper.

It was not until recently that Anne Porter, assistant professor of Near Eastern archaeology at the University of Toronto, Canada, and lead author of the research paper published in the journal Antiquity, re-examined the evidence from the 4,000-year-old artificial mound and made several exciting discoveries.

Due to the organization of the bodies and the composition of the mound itself, Porter and her team of archaeologists now have reason to believe that the dead were members of an army, and that the mound served as a unique memorial to those killed in battle.

“It was not until we recognised that there were patterns in those bone deposits that the elements fell into place. And that was pretty exciting,” said Porter.

“They were presented as if they had certain functions in an army,” the archeologist continued, “but you have to be careful with burials — people in the past used the dead to tell stories and paint pictures, so it’s difficult to be sure that what we see was how it actually was.”

The skins of Kunga, donkey-like animals often used to pull chariots, were also found buried in the mound. Other remains were buried alongside egg-shaped pellets, indicating that those men may have been foot soldiers.

And while similar sites dot across Syria, the White Monument differs in that it was carefully assembled as a tribute to war dead.

“Ancient people honoured those killed in battle, just as we do,” said Porter. “We do not know whether they were the victors or the losers of that battle. We do know that they took the bodies of the dead from some other place, perhaps long after the event, and interred them in a huge mound that was visible for miles around.”

Archaeologists excavating the grave of a Roman soldier in Thessaloniki, Greece, were surprised to discover a 1,600-year old sword, damaged in a pagan ritual, among the grave goods.

The iron spatha sword indicated that the deceased was a member of an auxiliary cavalry force in Rome’s imperial army. The prominent place of his arch-shaped grave—on the present-day site of the Sintrivani basilica—suggests that he was a high-ranking officer.

The unknown soldier in Thessaloniki was buried with other military objects, including a shield boss and a spearhead. His sword proved the most attention-grabbing find. The long spatha blade, a weapon typically used by cavalrymen, had been folded in a pagan ritual commonly known as “sword killing.”

In various regions throughout ancient times, swords and other weapons were believed to possess their own unique spirit and were often individually named. Perceived as animate objects, these weapons therefore had to be “killed” to unite them with their owners in the afterlife. Therefore, so as to “release the spirit” of a weapon upon its owner’s death, swords and spearheads were often bent in half or in circular form. Sometimes these “killed swords” were bent around burial urns.

This custom was practiced by many ancient peoples including the Greeks, members of Northern European tribes, the Celts and later the Vikings. The ceremonial destruction of grave goods was not uncommon in the ancient world—objects were sometimes destroyed as offerings during burials or to prevent their reuse.

However, the evidence of this pagan ritual is highly unusual given the grave’s location on the site of a former Christian chapel, according to researchers. Project co-researcher Errikos Maniotis told LiveScience that “Romans didn’t practice [the sword killing ritual], let alone when the new religion, Christianity, dominated, due to the fact that this ritual [was] considered to be pagan.”

The officer is believed to have been an auxiliary cavalryman. Auxiliaries in the Roman army were often recruited from “barbarian” tribes, such as from regions in Northern Europe. These auxiliaries proved powerful but often dangerous allies prone to treachery against Roman forces. One of Rome’s most famous auxiliary officers was the Germanic tribesman Arminius, who used his military education to wage war against his former Roman masters.

The evidence of the sword ritual at the burial site indicated that although the unknown officer had “embraced the Roman way of life and the Christian religion, he hadn’t abandoned his roots,” according to Maniotis, who added that researchers hope the find will “shed light” on the “presence of the community of foreign mercenaries” in the area. MH

On the heels of his popular debut volume Trees, Roland Ennos chronicles humans’ relationship to those trees. The Age of Wood: Our Most Useful Material and the Construction of Civilization begins far back in the evolutionary record, up among the branches and trunks, where primates found it useful to construct nests for snoozing and resting their big brains. As protohumans climbed down and took to ground-dwelling, stick-based toolkits expanded their reach to include materials like stone, whose durability causes those items to dominate the archeological record. Only the rarely preserved wooden artifact, like the 450,000-year-old Clacton spear, found at Essex, England, belies the ubiquity of a material for tools and weapons. An enduring mystery dating to Ice Age Europe is the precise utility of the “baton de commandment”—decorated scepter-like rods of wood or antler with a hole drilled at their wider ends. Ennos, who teaches wood biomechanics, dismisses the popular theory that users employed these implements to straighten projectile shafts. He convincingly posits that, combined with cordage, the hole directed a spear in the manner of the Mayan atlatl throwing stick.

Human exploitation of wood accelerated through the better-known ages of bronze and iron. Metal tools allowed more ingenious woodworking, a step on the path to invention and the rise of civilization. Wood from trees felled to clear acreage for farming helped transport and process agricultural products, nourishing empires. Rome lived on Egyptian grain imported on large wooden ships. Such vessels, exemplars of the Age of Wood, waged war and commerce for roughly 2,000 years. Briton Ennos keenly grasps their impact on his homeland’s history. First bringing waves of invaders—Romans, Saxons, Vikings, Normans—to the island, the shipping tradition propelled British colonization worldwide.

Securing suitable trunks large enough for mast-making proved trying once the empire exhausted its native old-growth forests. The American colonies, though, proffered arboreal resources in abundance. The Crown claimed ownership of all mast-worthy white pines, prompting the 1772 Pine Tree Riot in New Hampshire, antecedent to the Boston Tea Party. Once the Revolution began, rebel warships flew the Pine Tree flag.

Humans still work wood, but the Age of Wood technically ended when fossil fuels, notably coal, supplanted it as the pre-eminent industrial-age fuel. Newer substitutes—wrought iron, steel, cement, and plastics whittled away the economics of wood use. Advances in engineered wood still influence architecture and furniture design, but Ennos argues entertainingly that wood in its natural state, the forest, now is paramount in humankind’s relationship with wood for both environmental and psychological reasons. Any trivia hound will find this book highly engaging, but its appeal goes deeper. Like fishing, hunting, and gardening, fashioning artifacts of wood no longer is essential to survival but seems engrained in human DNA. The ur-material in all its sensuous permutations—bonfire, treehouse, driftwood—transfixes us. —Citizen archaeologist Doug Dupin’s family name derives from the French phrase meaning “from the pines.”   

This story contains affiliate links. If you buy a book through this page, we might get a commission. Thanks!

When Athens sent a massive invasion fleet against Syracuse, it could not have anticipated the merciless Sicilian vendetta that followed

Athens invaded Sicily in 415 BC with soaring hopes and bold—albeit ill-defined—ambitions. Two years later the tattered remnant of its army was in full retreat, desperately seeking respite from the enemy it had intended to conquer. Bloodied, fearful, starving and plagued by continual assaults that thinned their ranks and destroyed their morale, the exhausted troops fled onward. There was no longer any thought of victory—only escape.

Harried by enemy cavalry, the Athenians sought refuge in the southern part of the island. With ebbing strength, few provisions and little water, they rushed to the Assinarus River, both to quench their desperate thirst and in hopes of crossing it to safety. There they found death rather than deliverance. All order was lost as they reached the river.

Plunging into the water, many struggled to be first across, while others drank greedily. Little did they know their crafty enemy lay in wait on the opposite bank. Attacked from the front and behind, scores died on the points of javelins or entangled themselves hopelessly with the baggage, stumbled and drowned. Surging down both banks, the enemy butchered many others with swords, fouling the water with gore even as desperate fellow Athenians continued to drink.

The most glorious Hellenic expedition undertaken during the 431–404 bc Peloponnesian War perished there in bloody mud. Its generals were executed. Any who escaped the slaughter were condemned to toil and misery in Sicilian stone quarries or sold into slavery. The disaster was so devastating and so complete that Athens could scarcely believe it had happened.

To fully understand the reckless daring of Athens’ invasion of Sicily, one must examine it in context, assessing its risks, murky motivations, dubious goals and problematic execution.

The backdrop to the Athenian invasion of Sicily is the Peloponnesian War. Six years into an armistice with Sparta, which had suspended open hostilities, the ecclesia—the Athenian assembly—ratified the decision to undertake the expedition. The Peace of Nicias was meant to last a half century, its signatories having sworn to uphold it. Yet the underlying causes of the war remained unresolved, and the respective parties never did strictly observe the agreement. Experience suggested conflict would likely erupt again.
In retrospect, it seemed foolhardy to undertake to conquer Syracuse, a city-state that rivaled Athens in population, size and wealth. Regardless, the ecclesia voted to send a fleet west across the Ionian Sea.

Nicias, the statesman-general and treaty namesake, warned his fellow Athenians against taking such an unnecessary risk. After all, the peace was precarious, and Athens’ many enemies stood ready to exploit any division of forces. It was better to secure the possessions they had, Nicias argued, before grasping for more. Yet the statesmen were unmoved. Instead, they fell under the sway of the imperialist upstart Alcibiades.

Hungry for glory and ambitious for power, he magnified the potential rewards and downplayed the risks of the expedition. Nicias’ pleas grew more desperate after the ecclesia, against his will, appointed him a commander of the venture. Aware that blame for a defeat would fall on him, he elaborated further on the dangers and requested untold numbers of men, ships and materiel, hoping to deter the others and convince them of the impossibility of the mission.

Yet his speech had the opposite effect. Those advocating war took his warnings as sound advice and voted to supply Nicias with all the men and materiel he had proposed. Thus an expedition of moderate size and limited liability bloated into vast force, the loss of which would be an unprecedented catastrophe.

The justifications for this enormous undertaking were lacking. It was true the allied Sicilian cities of Segesta and Leontini had appealed to Athens for protection against the threat of absorption by the larger, ethnically Dorian city-state of Syracuse. The ecclesia claimed the treaty bound them to come to their allies’ aid, yet the sincerity of such motivation seems dubious. Athens surely hoped to benefit from its military investment; Sicily, particularly Syracuse, held fair promise of plunder and would represent a valuable addition to Athenian possessions. The Athenian historian and general Thucydides confirms profit was Athens’ true motivation. Of course, the allied Sicilian envoys were not so indelicate as to speak openly of plunder. Instead, they stressed their fall would further enable the Syracusans to one day assist the Peloponnesians in destroying Athens.

War hawks in the ecclesia floated more immediate versions of this distant scenario: A pre-emptive attack on Syracuse would deny the Peloponnesians both a military ally and Sicilian grain. But it wasn’t a defensive mindset that drove Athens. It thought more of acquiring such advantages than of denying them to others. Further, Sicily was not the limit of Athenian ambition. Imperialist statesmen desired the conquest of Italy and North Africa, and indeed the rule of the whole Hellenic world.

Further muddling the invasion plans was the ecclesia’s decision to place it under tripartite command, with Nicias, Lamachus and Alcibiades sharing joint control. The statesmen likely believed that three such different commanders—the conservative and cautious Nicias, the reliable veteran Lamachus and the eccentric firebrand Alcibiades—would balance one another’s strengths and weaknesses to better ensure success.

In the end, however, the conflicting strategic purposes and divided command only undermined the tactical coherence of the invasion of Sicily, spelling doom for most of the officers and men tasked with carrying out the dangerous mission.

The fleet that sailed from the Piraeus was grand. One hundred thirty-four triremes carried 5,100 Athenian and allied hoplites, 480 archers, 700 slingers, 120 other light troops and 30 horsemen and their mounts. Carrying food and supplies were 30 cargo ships, with 100 small vessels to attend them. While the fleet looked impressive in its home harbor, its sufficiency when measured against the foe had yet to be determined.

The Athenian fleet skirted more than 800 miles of the Ionian coast without losses or delays. When it reached the southern Italian port of Rhegium, the three commanders met to discuss how to proceed. Of course there was division of opinion. Discouraged by lack of local support, Nicias recommended settling the quarrel between Segesta and the Syracusan-backed forces, then sailing by the coastal cities to impress locals with the might of the Athenian fleet. That done, the ships should sail for home.

Such a timid course was anathema to Alcibiades, whose reputation and ambitions were closely bound with the expedition. He had wanted a war and considered it disgraceful to depart without accomplishing anything of importance. He proposed dispatching heralds to entice more Sicilians to revolt against Syracusan hegemony, thus making allies who could provide the expedition with grain and reinforcements. An alliance with Messana (present-day Messina), with its favorable location and excellent harbor, was particularly desirable.

The old warrior Lamachus thought both plans foolish. This was the moment of greatest opportunity, he argued. While Syracuse remained unaware of the fleet’s presence, the Athenians should sail directly to the city and attack. The result would terrify the Syracusans and perhaps shock them into surrendering. After failing to persuade the others, however, Lamachus backed Alcibiades, and the decisive moment was lost.

Alcibiades did not receive the warm reception he’d anticipated at Messana, and the Athenians spent the rest of the season in a largely fruitless attempt to secure allies in Sicily, managing only to force their way into Catana and establish a base of operations there. Beyond a reconnoiter of the harbor at Syracuse and sack of the inconsequential city of Hycarra, the Athenians accomplished little before winter descended.

But something of great importance to the fate of the invasion and the larger war did occur: The ecclesia recalled Alcibiades to Athens on allegations of sacrilege and oligarchic conspiracy. The state trireme Salaminia soon arrived to escort him to trial. But Alcibiades, suspecting an unfavorable outcome, jumped ship in Italy. Soon returning to Greece, he turned traitor, helping the Spartans plot against his native Athens.

Meanwhile, Nicias and Lamachus discovered they lacked sufficient cavalry for victory in Sicily. Any force sent out to forage or plunder faced harassment by hundreds of enemy horsemen and the risk of being cut off and destroyed. Absent the protection afforded by mounted troops, the hinterlands were inaccessible to invaders afoot. Catana had become a snare rather than a stepping stone, the Athenians more like the besieged than the invaders. They would come to grips with Syracuse, but an overland march was too risky. They resorted to subterfuge.

By spreading misinformation, the Athenians tricked Syracuse into deploying its forces overland toward Catana in hopes of dislodging or destroying the invaders. As the Syracusans approached the city, however, the Athenians sailed by night down the coast unopposed, landing and establishing a camp on the shore of the Great Harbor, south of Syracuse, before its defenders could return. Battle was joined the next day. While the Athenians easily routed the inexperienced Syracusan infantry, they were unable to press their advantage for fear of the enemy cavalry.

As the Athenians could hardly pass the winter on the beach so near Syracuse, they sailed back north to Catana. Pinning their hopes on receiving requested money and cavalry from Athens, there they waited, wasting months, while the Syracusans revamped their command structure and fortified their city. Athenian reinforcements (comprising some 250 horsemen and 30 mounted archers) arrived in the spring, bringing with them the funds to secure 400 more mounts and riders from their Sicilian allies.

With their bolstered cavalry, the invaders finally had sufficient protection to extend their fortifications, forage and meet the enemy on open ground. Lamachus must have rejoiced. At last the Athenians could prosecute the war they should have launched immediately on arrival.

But the Athenians were not alone in receiving reinforcements. The Syracusans had notified Sparta of Athens’ vulnerability. Further prompted by the rebel Alcibiades, the Spartans declared the Peace of Nicias broken. They resolved to send a Peloponnesian fleet to aid the Sicilians and prepared to invade Attica.

In the summer of 414 bc the Athenians seized the heights of the Epipolae—a cliff and raised plateau north of Syracuse—their first step in an effort to choke off the city from the surrounding countryside. They began the circumvallation by building a round fort dubbed the Circle, which would anchor walls being built northward to the sea and southward toward the Great Harbor. The tide of war seemed finally to have shifted in the Athenians’ favor.

Fearing enclosure, the Syracusans began building a counter wall outward from the city to cut the Athenian lines. Thus began a strange war of walls in which each side sought to outbuild the other while mounting skirmishes and raids to disrupt the other’s efforts. The Athenians won the first contest and demolished the Syracusans’ counter wall. The defenders immediately set to work on another, this one supported by an adjacent trench. While the Athenians also took these fortifications with a swift, determined assault, it came at a high cost. Lamachus was killed. With his death the last embers of initiative and military expertise in the Athenian command perished. Nicias, timid by comparison, was left in sole control.

Reports of the approaching Peloponnesian fleet under the Spartan commander Gylippus failed to spur Nicias sufficiently to complete the circumvallation. Though the Athenian line in the north remained short of the sea, he dawdled, and the window of opportunity closed. The Peloponnesians’ arrival drastically altered the situation, robbing Nicias of both his psychological and numerical advantages.

Landing at Himera, Gylippus marched overland with 700 sailors and marines, 1,000 hoplites, and 1,000 allied Sicilian light troops and cavalry. He arrived at the critical moment, as the wall was so near completion the Syracusans had contemplated surrender. The Spartan’s appearance breathed new life and hope into the defenders. Battle raged on the heights as the Athenians strove to complete their works while the defenders sought to disrupt them, raising yet another counter wall. After a number of hard-fought clashes, the Syracusans built past the Athenian line, delivering the city from the danger of encirclement. Athens had lost the war of walls.

Nicias’ position was grim. Eluding the Athenian fleet, the Peloponnesian ships had sailed safely into the Great Harbor. Meanwhile, Syracuse had been outfitting and training its own fleet. The combined Spartan-Syracusan naval force posed an existential threat to the deteriorating Athenian navy, its ships waterlogged and its allied crews deserting. Gylippus successfully recruited his own allies across the island, pressing them for any reinforcements that could be spared in order to hammer victory home. As Syracusan hopes soared, Athenian morale plummeted, and their indecisive commander became even more cautious and despondent.

That winter Nicias dispatched a letter to Athens expounding the difficulties in Sicily. The situation was so critical, he argued, the ecclesia must either recall the fleet or massively reinforce it. Citing a kidney ailment, he also asked to be relieved of command.

Athens responded with convulsive energy. Nicias would not be relieved, but he would be reinforced by an auxiliary fleet under Demosthenes. Pouring reinforcements into Sicily, the Athenians had within two years committed more than half of their military assets—almost 45,000 men and 216 ships—to this one campaign. When the final reinforcements arrived, the Spartans were encamped just 13 miles from their walls, and the Athenians’ tribute-paying allies were on the verge of revolt. Athens was straddling a thin line between daring and madness.

When Demosthenes arrived in Sicily in the summer of 413 BC, the Athenian situation had not improved. Frustrated on the Epipolae, Nicias had moved his base of operations to Plemmyrium, at the south entrance to the Great Harbor, where he’d built three forts. He’d also transitioned to a naval strategy, planning to take to the offensive in the harbor. But the Athenian ships had not fared well against the Corinthian and Syracusan fleets. The Syracusans relentlessly attacked by land and sea, thwarting the Athenians on the heights and taking the forts at Plemmyrium, which housed most of the fleet’s supplies.

Resolving not to succumb to Nicias’ lethargy and lose the momentum of his arrival, Demosthenes launched an immediate attack on the Syracusan counter wall. When the assault failed, Demosthenes, driven by the pressure of the moment, decided to attack the Syracusan fortifications on the Epipolae by night. Hampered by darkness, unfamiliar terrain and confusion, the attack turned into a disaster. Though the audacious commander had struck swiftly with all the power at his disposal, his efforts fell short.

Demoralized by his failure, Demosthenes recommended withdrawing the invasion force, astutely concluding its military strength would be better used at home than in a hopeless struggle to subdue Sicily. Yet now it was Nicias—evidently more concerned for his own reputation than about military results—who adamantly opposed departure. Not eager to return home bearing responsibility for a wartime disaster, he preferred death at the hands of the enemy than by a judicial sentence in Athens.

Arguing Syracuse could not bear the strain of the siege much longer, he persuaded Demosthenes to remain. But as enemy reinforcements continued to flood into Syracuse, Nicias at last agreed to sail away. At that critical juncture, a sudden lunar eclipse convinced the superstitious Nicias to delay another 27 days.

Determined not to let the Athenians slip the noose, the Syracusans began to seal the mouth of the harbor with moored boats. Observing their efforts, the Athenians prepared every ship they had left for a breakout attempt. To motivate his men, Nicias appealed alternately to their patriotism, self-interest, glory, pride, wives, children and gods—as if trying to conjure a spell that would bring success. The respective fleets joined battle with great zeal. With little room to maneuver, the harbor became a tangled mass of colliding ships whose crews and marines fought across the decks almost as if they were on land.

Ultimately, the Athenian fleet was routed. Waiting anxiously ashore, the Athenian army watched as trireme after trireme slipped beneath the debris-strewn surface. Surrendering to panic and despair, surviving crews grounded their ships and fled into camp.

The Athenians’ only hope lay in an overland retreat, but again there was a delay. Duped by misinformation from the enemy not to march by night, lest they be ambushed, the Athenians spent another day ashore packing up what could be carried. The Syracusans used the time to occupy strategic points along the possible escape routes. On the third day after the naval battle the Athenian army departed. Leaving bodies unburied and ignoring pleas from the sick and wounded to be taken along, the 40,000-strong army marched out thinking only of survival.

By the time Nicias encamped on high ground to muster the Athenian army’s remaining strength for the next stage of their grueling march from Syracuse, Demosthenes and the 6,000 men of the rearguard had already surrendered.

When informed, Nicias offered his enemies a handsome bribe if they would allow the remainder of his forces to proceed unharmed. The Syracusans met the proposal with howls of derision and showers of missiles. The watchful enemy thwarted Nicias’ subsequent attempt to escape in darkness, and the Athenians passed another unpleasant night with no provisions or water to ease their weariness. The next day they pushed on. They would not escape.

Thucydides’ account of the Athenian invasion of Sicily ends with a sorrowful reflection: “Few out of many returned home.” MH

Justin D. Lyons is an associate professor of history and government at Ohio’s Cedarville University and a frequent contributor to Military History. For further reading he recommends History of the Peloponnesian War, by Thucydides; A War Like No Other, by Victor Davis Hanson; and The Peloponnesian War, by Donald Kagan.

This article appeared in the May 2021 issue of Military History magazine. For more stories, subscribe here and visit us on Facebook:

While romanticized portrayals of Vikings might suggest they charged recklessly into battle, archaeology suggests the ancient raiders were slightly more scientific in their approach to warfare—for example, honing their tactical skills with board games such as hnefatafl. Known as “the King’s Table,” hnefatafl was played on a checkered board or cloth that has similarities to chess—yet it encompasses a more aggressive and versatile style of gameplay.

“In hnefatafl one player had a king, centrally placed on the board, defended by warriors. The other player had pawns positioned around the edges of the board. The first player won if he got his king to one of the four corner squares,” explained Dr. David Caldwell, president of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, in an interview with Military History.

One unique feature about hnefatafl is that—as in wartime—attack and defense alternates between players. During each game, one player defends a centrally located position, while the other player attacks. Thus the game experience is completely different depending on which role a player takes. Roles can be reversed to give players a greater breadth of experience, allowing one to think from an opponent’s point of view and practice offense and defense.

“People think that games were for leisure, but they were not. They were a way of practicing strategical and tactical warfare,” according to Viking expert Dr. Charlotte Hedenstierna-Jonson of Uppsala University in a March 2019 lecture. “There is a very important connection between martial life and gaming.”

Traces of the board game have often been found in Viking burial sites, including ships. The game has usually appeared in the graves of men with other evidence suggesting their identities as warriors or leaders. In the early 2000s, the game pieces were found among 40 male Viking warriors from Sweden buried in Estonia; the leader of the group, signified by his “ring sword,” had been buried with hnefatafl “king” piece placed ceremonially in his mouth. The game’s presence in male graves “suggests that there was a recognized connection between [board games] and the warrior ideology of elite men,’” according to historian Helene Whittaker in Atlas Obscura.

Yet the Vikings did not attribute a grasp of military strategy to men only, according to archaeological evidence. A famed tomb called Bj 581, excavated at Birka, Sweden, contained the remains of an especially “mighty warrior”—interred on a lofty height next to a military garrison and marked with a boulder, the tomb of the deceased was filled with a rich array of battle gear, including a double-handed axe, fighting knife, lances, a sword, two shields and two bridled horses. Clearly the grave belonged to someone whom the Vikings felt deserved recognition in the art of warfare. Historians had always presumed this “professional warrior” was male—however, thorough forensic examinations confirmed it was actually a woman.

The woman, like other Viking war chiefs, was buried with a hnefatafl game. The game included 28 pieces, among them a “king” and three dice. The corpse appears to have been entombed in a sitting position. The strategy game had been placed on her lap. The inclusion of the game in her grave suggests that, like many of her male contemporaries, she had made “strategic decisions, that she was in command,” Hedenstierna-Jonson, leader of the research team investigating Bj 581, told The New York Times in 2017.

Game pieces were often made of expensive and fine materials, including whale bone, glass and amber. Despite this opulence, Caldwell suggests the game was more common than one might imagine. “Games like hnefatafl and chess may have been introduced amongst the elite but there is a plenty of evidence that they ended up being played by all ranks in society,” he said.

Caldwell estimates that hnefatafl probably first appeared in Scotland during the Iron Age. A double-sided game board, scratched on slate, was found at Jarlshof in Shetland at the site of a former Viking settlement. Scandinavian influence found its way into Scotland’s culture through settlements in the Orkney, Shetland, Caithness and Sutherland regions, as well as the Western Isles. The famous Lewis chessmen discovered in Scotland may have been used to play hnefatafl.

“We reckon that many of the Lewis pieces were used for hnefatafl as well as chess,” said Caldwell. “In hnefatafl there was a need for a king, pawns and other warriors to defend the king.”

The Vikings also left a strong military mark on Scotland—including a warrior ethos and approaches to battle.

“Much of the equipment, including ships, and weaponry used by medieval Scots, especially in the Western Isles and West Highlands, derived from Viking prototypes,” Caldwell told Military History. “Medieval society in those parts of Scotland was heavily militarized, and that was probably a way of life ultimately derived from Viking times.”

Anyone curious to try hnefatafl will be relieved to know that the game still exists in replica form and is available to purchase. Rules come with game sets and are also available online. MH

Queen Tomyris of the Massagetae glared as her soldiers dragged in the battered corpse of Cyrus the Great, slain founder of the Achaemenid empire. She had rejected his proposal of marriage to avoid war. In the subsequent vicious campaign to repel the Persian invaders, Tomyris had lost Spargapises—her son and commander of her army—and a third of her troops and had made a mortal enemy of the empire to the west. Persia, on the other hand, had lost its monarch.

Days before battle in 530 BC the queen of the nomadic Iranian tribal confederation had warned Cyrus not to march his army into her dominion northeast of the Caspian Sea. Following her son’s ignominious defeat at Persian hands, she flew into a rage and sent Cyrus one last letter, vowing to give him more blood than he could drink. Her army of the steppes defeated the Persian horde in a battle unusually violent even by ancient standards. After the field quieted and the surviving Persians fled west, she ordered her men to find Cyrus’ body.

Soldiers brought her his corpse as servants waited with a wineskin filled with human blood. Thrusting the head of the lifeless emperor into the gore-filled bag, Tomyris hissed, “Thus I make good my threat and give you your fill of blood!”

Herodotus’ account of Queen Tomyris is hardly the first story of a woman who led her nation in war. Ancient Egyptian stone monuments relate that Queen Hatshepsut, an 18th Dynasty ruler who came to the throne in 1478 bc, sent armies north into the Levant. The biblical Book of Judges recalls the generalship of Deborah, a judge from the tribe of Ephraim, who defeated a chariot-equipped Canaanite army in Israel’s Jezreel Valley around 1125 bc. A generation after Tomyris defeated Cyrus, the Persian emperor’s grandson, Xerxes, had as one of his trusted naval commanders the brash Queen Artemisia of the Persian satrapy of Caria.

Perhaps the best known among ancient warrior queens was Egypt’s legendary Cleopatra. She ascended to the throne in Alexandria in 51 bc at age 18 to rule Egypt jointly with her younger brother, Ptolemy XIII.

Three years into their joint reign Ptolemy’s courtiers orchestrated a palace coup and drove Cleopatra into the Sinai. There the queen amassed a force of some 20,000 mercenaries and marched her army west toward Alexandria. Cleopatra’s brother met her with an equal force at Pelusium, a fortress east of the city. Protected by the fort’s brick towers, Ptolemy’s army blocked Cleopatra’s path to the capital. The Egyptian king waited for his sister’s army to disintegrate in the desert.

It was then one of history’s twists jarred the plans of both siblings. The appearance in Alexandria of Julius Caesar, conqueror of Rome, forced Ptolemy to leave his army and return to his palace. Hoping to please Caesar, Ptolemy had had the general’s exiled chief rival, Pompey, slain. When Caesar arrived, he was presented with Pompey’s head, but the grisly trophy instead appalled the Roman.

Meanwhile, Cleopatra took action. In one of history’s more dramatic entrances she first stowed away on a small boat to Alexandria, then had a stout follower stroll into the royal palace toting his queen in a bedroll. Emerging from cover in Caesar’s quarters, a coquettish Cleopatra persuaded the general to arrange a reconciliation with her brother. But Caesar’s announcement Cleopatra would return to rule with Ptolemy triggered anti-Roman riots in the city, and the general and his two understrength legions found themselves besieged in the palace for months. Cleopatra undoubtedly gave Caesar political advice and shared local insights. She also engaged in an affair with the general and by the fall of 48 BC was pregnant with his son.

The spring arrival of Caesarian reinforcements forced Ptolemy to lift his siege and march east toward Pelusium. Seizing the moment, Caesar moved his legions up the Nile, concentrated his forces and destroyed Ptolemy’s army on the riverbanks. While fleeing the Roman wrath, Ptolemy toppled from his barge into the Nile. Weighed down with armor, the teenage king sank and drowned.

Caesar’s victory left Cleopatra de facto sole ruler of Egypt. In a strategic alliance she supplied Caesar with war materiel, while he gave political protection to the 22-year-old queen, expectant mother and war leader.

Caesar’s 44 BC murder set off a civil war between his assassins and his avengers, tribune Mark Antony and Caesar’s nephew, Octavian. Cleopatra took a fleet of warships to support the avengers, only to see the vessels delayed by a storm and arrive too late to help.

Meanwhile, Gaius Cassius Longinus, one of Caesar’s assassins, marched a dozen legions against Egypt. Cleopatra threw together a hasty home defense, but Cassius was diverted north by the arrival of Antony and Octavian in Greece. The Caesarian victory at Philippi in 42 BC ended the republican threat to Cleopatra’s kingdom.

In the wake of the campaign Antony, who ruled Rome’s eastern provinces, summoned Cleopatra to meet him at Tarsus. Clad as a goddess, she arrived with barges loaded with riches from her kingdom and seduced Antony. He moved to Alexandria, and Cleopatra bore him twins.

Antony and Cleopatra ruled Rome’s eastern provinces for a decade as king and queen, god and goddess. Antony provided generalship and troops, while Cleopatra supplied money, weapons, ships, food and military intelligence. She accompanied Antony on the first leg of his disastrous campaign against Parthia and dispatched a relief column to protect the remnants of his army as it limped home.

In the spring of 32 BC, as tensions between Antony and Octavian flared into war, Cleopatra stockpiled ships, funds and weapons for her lover’s next campaign. She then accompanied Antony to Greece, where they held together a restive coalition of eastern allies and Roman legions.

Octavian’s navy gained control of the sea, trapping Antony and Cleopatra in western Greece. Isolated from her Egyptian base of support, Cleopatra likely encouraged Antony to regain naval superiority in a decisive battle or, failing that, to break out to Alexandria. Antony sallied forth against Octavian’s fleet in 31 bc and was soundly defeated at the Battle of Actium. Fleeing in one of the warships, Cleopatra led a squadron home and prepared to defend Alexandria once again.

Yet the tides of war had turned against Antony and Cleopatra. Antony sailed back to Egypt a broken man, and his armies melted away. Cleopatra prepared to move a fleet from the Mediterranean to the Red Sea and escape east, but hostile locals burned her ships and cut off her retreat.

In the summer of 30 BC Octavian marched into the Egyptian capital. Cleopatra hid in a tomb built for her. Some accounts suggest she deceived Antony into believing she was already dead by having a messenger tell him she had killed herself. Bereft of options and believing his lover to be dead, Antony fell on his sword. Cleopatra survived to bury him, then met with Octavian, who promised leniency. When she learned he instead intended to take her to Rome in chains, Cleopatra committed suicide by poison.

Elsewhere in the world in the time of the western Roman empire other women proved effective rebel leaders. Around 40 AD the Trung sisters of northern Vietnam led a rebel army against the invading Han empire, staging hit-and-run raids for three years before the Chinese captured and beheaded the duo.

Twenty years later Boudica, queen of the Iceni tribe in eastern Britain led a bloody revolt against the Roman occupation. Her rebel army burned the Roman settlement at Londinium, site of present-day London, and sacked several other towns before being overwhelmed. Boudica reportedly took her own life.

Laws of succession during the Middle Ages did not always result in men assuming military leadership. In the Caucasus in the late 12th century Queen Tamar of Georgia fought off revolts led by her ex-husband and defeated neighboring Muslim armies. In the mid-1400s Queen Manduhai reunited the warring Mongols and led armies to restore the glory of Genghis Khan’s empire.

During the 15th century Wars of the Roses Margaret d’Anjou, Lancastrian queen of England, rallied soldiers to the standard of her mentally broken husband, King Henry VI. The Renaissance and Reformation also produced their share of warrior women. In 1484 Italian countess Caterina Sforza led a column of horsemen to capture Rome’s fortress of Castel Sant’Angelo while seven months pregnant.

A century later Elizabeth I of England sent armies to the Netherlands, France and Ireland. Most famously, in the summer of 1588 the queen’s navy, led by Sir Francis Drake, defeated the Spanish Armada in the English Channel.

In the 1620s, two decades after Elizabeth’s reign, Queen Njinga of Ndongo (present-day Angola) came to power as an adept diplomat and warrior. By the late 16th century west Africa was a bustling hub of the slave trade. Having established dominance over the central Atlantic coast, Portuguese officials and Jesuit missionaries moved south toward the lands of the Ndongo. At first the relationship between the Portuguese and the Ndongo king seemed amicable.

However, in 1618 the Portuguese governor allied with local Imbangala tribes, fierce mercenaries who raided neighboring lands and practiced cannibalism and infanticide. A Portuguese-Imbangala army stormed the Ndongo capital the following year, driving its leaders from the coast. Around 1624 Ndongo King Mbandi died under suspicious circumstances after naming his young son as his heir. Not to be denied, Mbandi’s aggressive sister, Njinga, had her nephew killed and declared herself ruler.

A Roman Catholic convert, Njinga at first tried to negotiate with the governor and continued to supply Portuguese merchants with slaves. Clashes ensued after Njinga set strict limits on the trade and officials complained of the queen’s willingness to harbor runaways. The discord prompted Portugal to back the claims of a rival. War raged between the two factions until 1628, when Njinga’s army was driven from the Ndongo capital.

Withdrawing to Matamba in the African interior, Njinga assembled a coalition of Ndongas, Matambas and Imbangalas. An adept politician, she adopted the ways of the warlike Imbangala, reportedly participating in ritual sacrifice and drinking human blood. Completing her transformation into a war queen, she merged Ndongo and Imbangala units into an effective fighting force of light troops and even adopted European innovations, often fielding a company of matchlock musketeers.

Over the next dozen years Njinga’s forces raided Portuguese coastal settlements. Then, in 1641, Portugal lost the key port of Luanda to a Dutch expeditionary force. Sensing her enemy’s weakness, Njinga allied herself with the Dutch and intensified the war. From 1643 to ’48 she led her forces to a string of minor victories, marred by a defeat resulting in her sister’s capture.

In 1648 the Portuguese retook Luanda and drove inland. Njinga again retreated into the Matamba interior, knowing the Portuguese could not operate that far from their coastal bases. While she continued to mount guerrilla raids, neither Njinga nor the Portuguese could force a decisive battle.

In time Portuguese emissaries reached out to Njinga for peace talks, with the primary interest of maintaining the lucrative slave trade. The exiled queen negotiated a treaty that required Portugal to return her sister and render military assistance when called on. In return Njinga supplied the Portuguese with slaves, granted them a concession to hold trade fairs, reconverted to Christianity and allowed missionaries to enter deep into Matamba lands.

Njinga died at age 82 in 1663, a symbol of resistance to colonial Europe. Her corpse, put on public display clad in jewel-encrusted robes and clutching bow and arrow, was mourned as a national hero.

The 18th century produced a succession of notable female war leaders. Amid the 1740–48 War of the Austrian Succession Empress Elizabeth of Russia joined forces with Austrian Queen Maria Theresa to battle Prussia’s Frederick the Great. Elizabeth’s niece-in-law, Catherine the Great, seized the Romanov throne from her husband in a military coup. By the time of her death in 1796, Catherine had captured a warm-water port on the Black Sea, expanded her nation’s frontiers along the Danube and established Russia as the dominant power in Eastern Europe.

The modern era has witnessed a panoply of warrior women. In the 19th century rebel queens Rani Lakshmibai of India and Yaa Asantewaa of Ghana’s Ashanti people battled the British empire, albeit unsuccessfully.

During World War II women fought as frontline ground troops and military aviators in the forces of the Soviet Union, while Resistance movements throughout Nazi-occupied Europe relied on women as both support personnel and combatants.

A wave of democratization following the war saw the popular elections of such women as Indira Gandhi, who led India through the 1971 Indo-Pakistani War. In 1982 Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, the famed “Iron Lady” of Britain, led her nation to victory over Argentina in the Falklands War. And the list goes on.

Among modern female war leaders, none played for such high stakes as a plump Israeli grandmother named Golda Meir. Born in Kiev, the present-day capital of Ukraine, and raised in Milwaukee, Meir immigrated to what was then Palestine after World War I and worked her way up the ranks of the Jewish political establishment. A committed Zionist, she worked strenuously to end the British mandate and was among the signatories of Israel’s 1948 declaration of independence. After stints in the Knesset and Israeli cabinet, Meir served as foreign minister during the 1956 Suez Crisis and informally advised the government during the 1967 Six-Day War. Two years later she was elected Israel’s first female prime minister.

Years of war had hardened Meir to the reality of life surrounded by enemies. “Are we supposed to sit here with our hands folded, praying and murmuring, ‘Let’s hope that nothing happens?’” she responded to one interviewer. “Praying doesn’t help. What helps is to counterattack. With all possible means, including means that we don’t necessarily like.”

Meir remained Israel’s prime minister in September 1973 when intelligence reports painted an ominous picture: Syria and Egypt were calling up reserves and moving armor and infantry to Israel’s borders. At 3:45 on the morning of Oct. 6, 1973, Meir’s intelligence chief informed her a reliable source in the Egyptian high command had disclosed Egypt and Syria would attack Israel that very day—Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish calendar.

Israeli Chief of Staff David Elazer recommended a preemptive air strike against Syrian and Egyptian airfields, a strategy that had proved successful in 1967. Under a cloud of fighter-bombers, he argued, Israeli armor and infantry could then roll back the invaders.

Meir fully appreciated Israel’s precarious position. Only 109 miles separated the Syrian border from Tel Aviv, the Israeli capital. To counter as many as 800,000 Arab troops on two fronts, the Israel Defense Forces (IDF) could field only 135,000 active-duty troops. It would require the quick mobilization of 250,000 reservists to hold the battle lines. On Yom Kippur, though, those reservists would be praying in temples and at home with their families. It would take time to form them into combat units.

A preemptive air strike might level the playing field. As prime minister, however, Meir had to think beyond the war’s opening salvos. Israel depended on the United States for ammunition, aircraft and replacement parts, and U.S. Secretary of State Henry Kissinger had privately warned her a preemptive strike would ignite strong anti-Israeli sentiment and make it difficult for President Richard Nixon to render military aid. Kissinger insisted Israel not attack first, even in the face of grave danger.

Haggard from stress, Meir duly ordered her commanders to refrain from a preemptive strike, though she did immediately mobilize active-duty troops. The IDF would have to hold the line as best it could until reservists fell in and the United States came through with replacement weapons and ammunition.

Later that morning sirens blared in Jerusalem’s empty streets as word of Syrian air strikes spread. Meanwhile, Egyptian engineers threw bridges over the Suez Canal, and T-55 tanks, covered by Soviet-built surface-to-air (SAM) missiles batteries, rolled across and smashed into the Bar-Lev Line, a thin chain of fortifications along the east bank. To the north Syrian tanks blasted a path toward the Golan Heights, the plateau overlooking northern Israel.

For a few days Israel’s survival hung in the balance. The IDF lost a quarter of its tanks and an eighth of its fighter-bombers. Cracks appeared in the Bar-Lev Line, as the Syrians made inroads along the Golan Heights. If either Syria or Egypt broke through the IDF’s thin shell, the Israeli heartland would be wide open to attack.

Meir spent several anxious days as chief diplomat, strategist and cheerleader. Chain-smoking and gulping a gallon of coffee each day, the 75-year-old boosted the badly shaken spirits of her defense minister and veteran general, Moshe Dayan. Rattled by Syrian gains in the north, he sought permission from Meir to ready Israel’s nuclear arsenal for deployment. The prime minister refused. The battle would be fought in Sinai and on the Golan Heights. The war would be won—or lost—with the support of Israel’s friends. There would be no nuclear option.

Shadowing Meir as she reviewed reports with Dayan, the defense editor of the Israeli newspaper Haaretz wrote, “It was strange to see a warrior of seven campaigns and brilliant past chief of staff of the IDF bringing clearly operational subjects to a Jewish grandmother for decision.”

Absorbing severe losses, Israeli attack aircraft managed to snuff out the deadly SAM batteries and begin picking off Egyptian tanks from the air. In Syrian skies Israeli F-4 Phantom jets pounded Damascus, while on the ground IDF Centurion and Patton tanks drove Syrian troops back behind their start lines. Meir’s “no first strike” strategy paid off, as Nixon sent waves of cargo planes into Tel Aviv’s Ben-Gurion Airport bearing 28,000 tons of ammunition, spare parts and supplies from U.S. arsenals.

As IDF spearheads crossed the Suez Canal, Kissinger warned Meir the United Nations would insist on a cease-fire. Again, she tempered military judgment with the eye of a statesman, realizing that to humiliate the Egyptians would only ignite their thirst for revenge. Meir deemed it best to reach an accord with Israel’s enemies.

On October 29, less than a month after the war began, IDF commanders in the Sinai met their Egyptian counterparts beneath a tent stretched across the guns of four parked Israeli tanks. In its welcome shade they negotiated the withdrawal of Egypt’s encircled Third Army on terms that permitted Egypt’s President Anwar Sadat to save face and, in time, negotiate a lasting peace with Israel. Four years later Sadat visited Jerusalem and shared a few peaceful moments with his former enemy, the 79-year-old grandmother from Milwaukee who led her nation to victory.

This article appeared in the November 2020 issue of Military History magazine.

In 378 Goth cavalry stormed a Roman force at Adrianople (present-day Edirne, Turkey). According to 4th century Roman historian Ammianus Marcellinus, the Goths inflicted “enormous losses” on the legionaries, moving St. Ambrose, archbishop of Milan, to bemoan “the end of all humanity.”

Two years earlier the Goths—loosely allied Germanic tribes facing pressure from the Huns—had received permission from the Eastern Roman empire to cross the Danube and settle in Thrace, on the European side of the Bosporus. But relations between the Goths and their Roman hosts deteriorated, and the newcomers were soon in open rebellion. In summer 378 Eastern Roman Emperor Flavius Valens called on the Western Roman empire for more troops. Meanwhile, he gathered an army at Adrianople and prepared for action.

Valens was still waiting for reinforcements when the Goths went on the offensive. On August 6 scouts reported the approach of some 10,000 Goths seemingly intent on encircling the Roman army and cutting its supply line. Two days later Valens, confident of numerical and military superiority, led 15,000 men on an 8-mile march north over exposed, difficult terrain to intercept the Goths.

Arriving outside the enemy camp that afternoon, the legionaries were dehydrated and tired from their long march. The nomadic Goths had literally circled their wagons, massing their main body of warriors, mostly infantry, out in front.

In a bid for time, the Goths sent envoys. Meanwhile, they lit grass fires upwind of the Romans, creating smoke to further torment the legionaries. What Valens didn’t know was that thousands of Goth horsemen were riding down on the field.

Without orders Romans rushed to the attack, gaining little ground before being repulsed. The fighting spread, prompting the cavalry on Valens’ left to charge the Goth wagons. At that moment disaster enveloped the Romans, for the Goth cavalry appeared on the field just as their foot soldiers were beating back the undisciplined attack. The riders fell on Valens’ left wing and shattered it, while Goth infantry swarmed the enemy center. Pressed on all sides, the legionaries recoiled into such a tight formation they lost their ability to swing a sword.

“Every attempt to stand firm failed,” British historian Charles Oman wrote, “and in a few minutes left, center and reserve were one indistinguishable mass. Imperial guards, light troops, lancers, auxiliaries and infantry of the line were wedged together in a press that grew closer every moment.”

Goth horsemen poured arrows into the mass and then charged, wielding swords and spears, as their infantry broke the Roman line. Two-thirds of the Roman army—including Valens and 35 tribunes—were slaughtered.

“The Goth,” noted Oman, “had become the arbiter of war, the linear ancestor of all the knights of the Middle Ages, the inaugurator of that ascendancy of the horseman which was to endure for a thousand years.” MH

This article appeared in the September 2020 issue of Military History magazine. For more stories, subscribe here and visit us on Facebook: