This is the book for which the word ‘magisterial’ was coined. Except… Except magisterial, to my ear at least, now carries some undertones of something worthy and a little dull, and Peter Brown is never, ever dull. Never, not through 700 odd pages. And this is a view, with all the clarity of a pin-hole camera, of a an odd age indeed: when Roman antiquity was struggling into the middle ages, the Empire kicking and struggling and, above all, money gathering against the dawning of the light. The subtitle gives the subject: wealth, the fall of Rome and the making of Christianity in the West, 350-550 AD, but gives no hint of the wealth and wit of the insights within. You want strange new worlds: read this book. What’s particularly interesting – and an unspoken rejoinder to Gibbon’s thesis – is how even an officially Christian Empire remained, at its tax gathering, money raising heart, determinedly, stubbornly pagan. This is history at its best. Even if the subject doesn’t grab you, read it, for Peter Brown’s ability to bring the past and its people and cultures to life is without peer.
Book review
Adventures in Bookland: Ecgfrith, King of the Northumbrians, High King of Britain by NJ Higham
Professor NJ Higham is probably (no, definitely) the foremost academic expert of the history of the kingdom of Northumbria. (In one of those peculiar coincidences, he is Emeritus professor of History at the University of Manchester but, just to cause confusion, the University of Manchester has another eminent professor who is also called NJ Higham – and Nicholas is the Christian name for both of them. The other NJ Higham is the Richardson Professor of Applied Mathematics.)
So imagine my delight when, reading Professor Higham’s latest book, I found…me! Yes, I was referenced and footnoted, and not just once but multiple times. It turns out that the great man has read the book on the history and archaeology of Northumbria that I co-wrote with Paul Gething, the director of the Bamburgh Research Project, the ongoing archaeological investigation of the castle and its surroundings. Turning to the back of the book, not only is Northumbria: the Lost Kingdom in the bibliography, but so are Edwin: High King of Britain and Oswald: Return of the King!
All I can say is that I wish this book had come out before I began writing the Northumbrian Thrones. It is quite the most rigorous and thorough treatment of the kings of Northumbria’s ascent to dominance, and the perfect foil to Max Adams’ book The King in the North. Where Adams treatment is poetic and anthropological, pursuing the limited evidence by recourse to cultural parallels even if they are far removed (an approach that suggests much that is intriguing but one that establishes very little), Professor Higham’s book is much more restrained, not seeking to push the evidence beyond what we know but, by bringing a lifetime of scholarship to bear, Professor Higham extracts every last bit of inference from what we do know, creating the fullest possible picture of the kingdom of Northumbria in its heyday. Indeed, for the period of Northumbrian dominance, this book is now the definnitive work, overtaking Professor Higham’s own magisterial The Kingdom of Northumbria AD350-1100.
Adventures in Bookland: The Invisible Cross by Andrew Davidson
I really did not think it possible to shed new light on the First World War – the most written about conflict in history – but, in this remarkable book, Andrew Davidson does just that. For three years, Colonel Graham Chaplin of the 1st Cameronians served on the front line, making him, so far as we can tell, the longest-serving frontline officer of the war. Most every day he wrote to his wife, Lil, whom he’d married a year before the war’s outbreak, and whom he left pregnant with their first child when he sailed to France as part of the British Expeditionary Force.
There have been many collections of soldiers’ letters home. What sets this one apart is how Davidson puts Chaplin’s letters into context. Each chapter begins with Davidson telling the reader both what is happening in the wider war and in the particular battles being waged by the 1st Cameronians. This is followed by Chaplin’s letters covering the same time period and then the terse entries from the battalion war diary, mostly written by Chaplin as well. It’s the contrast between these three that brings home the long grind of war fighting and war waiting to the reader. Chaplin’s letters, which seldom mention the war directly, begin with the breezy confidence of the professional soldier confident of quick victory. But as victory recedes, and Chaplin is passed over for promotion, the letters become passports to sanity, a dialogue with a normality that the war is slowly erasing.
Many parts of the experience of fighting industrial war can be glimpsed between Chaplin’s lines, but what comes across most clearly is the sheer toil of it: the combination of labour, boredom, fear and constant lack of sleep that slowly saps his strength.
With officers killed even faster than the ranks, Chaplin expected to be promoted out of the line. But his querying of staff orders at the Battle of Loos led to his promotion being held back, so he fought on, marching with his men to and from the frontline trenches, fighting through the battles of Mons, Armentières, Loos and the Somme. Writing on 4 August 1917, Chaplin said, “Today is the third anniversary of the war – it seems like the third century to me.”
To the relief of this reader, in 1917 Chaplin was finally promoted out of the front line. He survived the war, living out the rest of his life with his wife and children, and seldom spoke of the war. How can anyone speak meaningfully of such a conflict? Here, long after his death and through the careful editing and contextualising of Andrew Davidson, Chaplin does so.
Adventures in Bookland: India Conquered by Jon Wilson
Question: how long does a guilt trip last? Answer: 504 pages. Let this reviewer nail his colours to the mast: he is a child of empire. His father’s family worked for, kowtowed to and adopted its name from the British. We were condescended to and condescended in our turn. And we ended up here. But, like the rest of the subcontinental diaspora, and the people of India and its surrounding nations, we’ve gotten over it. Ploughing through Wilson’s work, it would appear the author hasn’t. Not that Wilson doesn’t know his Marathas from his Mughals: there’s much of interest in this long telling of Britain’s involvement in India. What lets it down is the refracting lens through which Wilson views everything. The British are invariably portrayed as rapacious, violent and fearful, trembling in cantonments for fear of the brown-skinned hordes without. But those occasions when India’s ‘native’ rulers, killed people in their thousands are either passed over or excused. One begins to suspect that the author may have transposed a morbid revulsion at UKIP voters into his reading of the past. So his portrayal of 18th-century Englishmen bears close comparison to today’s media reports of the people who voted for Brexit. At the same time, every possible mitigating circumstance is accepted for the violent actions of anyone with brown skin. For instance, when a group of 120 men of the East India Company are mutilated and killed in the most brutal fashion, we learn that this was ‘an attempt to reassert the status of Indians against a group of people who had walled themselves off from local society’. Now, I’m not that keen on gated communities myself but I’m not sure that makes it all right to chop someone into pieces.
Wilson is concerned to destroy the idea of the Raj as a planned and organised imperial enterprise but, seriously, who actually holds such a view? The Raj was, from the beginning, a bootstraps and banana leaf enterprise, responding to circumstances rather than following a plan. Yes, Wilson succeeds in his enterprise, but the opponent he is tilting at is mostly filled with straw.
The myopia continues throughout the book: British bad, Indians good. In the end this is a book not so much about the chaos of empire as the guilt of empire.
Oswiu: What Writers Think – no.3 in a short series
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James Aitcheson does, supremely well, what I hope to do in my own books: employ a profound knowledge of the history of the time he is writing about to make the actions of the men and women of the time understandable to modern readers. His Sworn Sword trilogy looks at the aftermath of 1066, and how William really conquered England, while his latest book, The Harrowing, represents a huge departure from the somewhat hackneyed norms of historical fiction writing, giving a determinedly downbeat and realistic portrayal of the impact of the Conquest on ordinary people. He’s also an excellent speaker – my boys were rapt when he spoke at the Battle of Hastings re-enactment last year and James will be there again this year. If you’re going, make sure you look out for him.
This is James with the boys:
And with me:
So I was delighted when James agreed to read Oswiu: King of Kings before publication – and even more pleased by what he thought of it. Here’s what he said:
In Oswiu, the concluding instalment in his Northumbrian Thrones trilogy, Edoardo Albert takes readers back to seventh-century England: a shadowy and turbulent era when Britons and Anglo-Saxons, heathens and Christians, contested for political and spiritual supremacy.
Albert writes with great passion; his love for this period of history shines through at every stage. His research is worn lightly, and yet his depiction of early medieval life has a strong ring of truth. In particular the post-Roman landscape of northern England, littered with roads, walls and other crumbling relics of the imperial past, is vividly described: a constant reminder that power is transitory and that even the mightiest empires must fall.
As regards the eponymous Oswiu, king of Bernicia, Albert paints a credible picture of a man struggling with the many burdens of rulership: weighed down by expectations of what a good king should be; plagued by threats to his power both at home and abroad; and overshadowed (as he has often been in history) by his celebrated elder brother and predecessor, Oswald.
Dynastic rivalries, shifting allegiances and pagan mysticism combine in this atmospheric novel, evoking a volatile world in which life is uncertain, authority and respect are hard-won, honour is all-important, and divine forces hold sway.
There. I couldn’t have asked for better. Thank you, James and remember, if you’re going to see the 950th anniversary re-enactment of the Battle of Hastings on 15 and 16 October, look for James in the book tent.
Adventures in Bookland: The Buried Giant by Kazuo Ishiguro
Well, that didn’t work, did it.
It must have been his agent. Maybe it went something like this.
“Hey, Kaz, you keep telling me it’s all very well getting all the literary prizes and stuff, but where’s the dosh – and then you go and write A Pale View of Hills. I mean, that’s not exactly going to get them running to the bookshops, is it?”
“It should have, Pete, it should have.” Kaz puts his head in his hands, long fingers reaching over his scalp. “I need the money, I really do. You can’t eat the Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa International Literary Prize.”
“Hist fic!”
Kaz, without looking up, wishes his agent, “Bless you.”
“No, I didn’t sneeze. Hist fic. It’s what everyone’s reading today – and it’s got literary balls too: I mean, Hilary Mantel won the Booker and she’s made a shed load of money from TV and theatre. That’s the way to go, Kaz.”
Kaz looks up, peering through the slats of his fingers. “You think so?”
“I know so. Get some Tudors and doublets in your next book and you’ll be quids in.”
“Hm. No, that’s been done. But what about… Anglo-Saxons and Britons?”
“Nah. That won’t work. How about Romans?”
“What if I put in a dragon, and a giant, and a meditation on the meaning of love and loss.”
“Maybe lose the last.”
“No, no, I can see it now. The mythological shall be a commentary on the actual, and the potential of love and the failure of imagination.”
“Right, Kaz. If you say so. Just make sure you get the dragon in. And the giant.”
“Will do. But the giant is metaphorical, of course.”
“Kaz…”
Adventures in Bookland: Northumberland by Gemma Hall
This is the second Bradt Slow Travel guide we’ve used, after their guide to the North York Moors by Mike Bagshaw. In common with the first, it provides a wealth of detail, digging deep down below the guide book surface and, in the process, revealing an author who really does know the area well. As I know Northumberland pretty well myself (four books, many magazine articles and frequent trips), I was looking for something detailed to provide some new perspectives on the county. Hall’s book does do this, particularly with respect to wildlife and walking – her love for both shines through – but, with a three year old whose legs stop working after walking for five minutes, we unfortunately weren’t able to follow the suggested walks on this visit.
I would rate the North York Moors guide as slightly better, but I think that’s largely because the author’s interests mapped more closely onto my own. But for any visitor to Northumberland, this is now the stand-out guide to the area.
Adventures in Bookland: Empires of the Sea by Roger Crowley
The world was strange five hundred years ago. The unity of medieval Christendom had ruptured, breaking apart a thousand years of cultural understanding (even if that had not translated into any lasting peace between the warring European states). Meanwhile, the old bulwark against the advance of the armies of Islam, the impregnable walls of Constantinople, had finally proved pregnable in 1453. Each new Ottoman Sultan had to prove his legitimacy through war and conquest – hence the inexorable drive towards a century and more of conflict.
The Ottomans were originally a nomadic people. Naval warfare was something new to them. But, in the 16th century, they learned fast. Land conquests had made the Sultan master of the Black Sea. Now, he sought to rule the White Sea too.
Standing in his way were the Venetians, the Genoese and the Spanish, under their Habsburg kings, Charles I and Philip II.
The struggle for the Mediterranean was one conducted through generations, with fathers and then sons and even grandsons engaged in the conflict. And it was a brutal conflict, its brutality exacerbated by the demands of the chief engine of this particular naval war: the galley. In the shallow, generally calm waters of the Mediterranean, these oared sailing ships, with their ability to ram and run fast under the pull of the oars, were the most potent vessels, but their potency was earned through human misery: the men pulling the oars. For most sides in the conflict, the chief source of oarsmen was slaves. Slave-taking expeditions became a constant menace, particularly to the southern European states. All sides took part in the trade, but the Ottoman armed forces were predicated upon slavery for their most feared troops, the Janissaries, were slaves, children taken from their, usually Christian, parents, converted to Islam and then raised as soldiers.
Crowley takes this fearsomely complex war and relates it well, breaking down the long struggle into a number of key battles while not neglecting the longer-term diplomatic and economic factors that also played into the war. But, in the end, it came down to four great battles, three island sieges and a concluding naval battle: the siege of Rhodes (1522), when the Ottomans succeeded in expelling the Knights of St John, the successors to the medieval Hospitallers, from the island; the siege of Malta (1565), when the knights held, just, to their new base; the siege of Famagusta (1571), in which the Ottomans took the last Venetian stronghold on Cyprus and, by their barbaric execution of the defenders, inflamed Venetian passion to such an extent that the Republic forwent trade for war and became one of the chief instigators of the Holy League that faced the Ottomans in the great naval battle of Lepanto (7 October 1571).
Four great battles in one long war. That the Sultan did not rule the White Sea as he did the Black was down to these men, men like Cervantes, who fought at Lepanto and counted it his most glorious deed, Don Juan of Austria, commander of the Holy League, who danced a galliard on the poop deck of his ship before battle began, Jean de Valette of the Knights, who fought at the siege of Rhodes and then commanded the Knights during their defence of Malta, and many others. Remarkable men for a remarkable conflict, and one that deserves to be better known. Hopefully, Crowley’s excellent book will serve to make that happen.
Adventures in Bookland: Postcards from the Front 1914-1919 by Kate J Cole
Postcards were the Snapchat of their day: (almost) instant messages sent with accompanying picture to reassure the receiver of the good health of the sender. For soldiers serving in World War I on the Western Front, they provided quick communication with home; often scribbled on breaks from marching, postcards were the counterpoint to the considered letter. Cole shows the pictures chosen by soldiers serving, as well as reproducing the messages, thus serving to confirm the notion that the British are obsessed with the weather: seemingly every postcard includes a comment on whether it is wet or dry, hot or snowing, while generally eschewing any mention of the actual war. This highlights the stoicism and restraint of the men (and women) of the time: a nurse, serving in a field hospital taking casualties from the Somme, in her first postcard home after the start of the battle, writes about the weather (naturally), asks after her mother’s health and sends thanks for letters received. Not one word of the casualties filling the hospital. Of course, this may in part have been because all postcards were censored, but the overwhelming impression is of brave men and women seeking to protect their loved ones at home from the full reality of war.
The two best chapters follow a pair of nurse friends and two serving brothers through their wars, setting their postcards against the events which they faced. Although I began this review by saying postcards were the Snapchat of that time, it’s hard to believe we would respond with the same understated bravery if ever we were to face such trials.
The book concludes with three useful appendices on researching First World War postcards, including what can be gleaned from the censors’ mark and the army post mark.
(Review first appeared in issue 32 of History of War magazine.)
Adventures in Bookland: The Harrowing by James Aitcheson
James Aitcheson made his name with his Sworn Sword trilogy of novels set in the years after the Conquest, which followed the fortunes of one of William’s knights. In this standalone novel, he puts his previous hero, Tancred, aside to look at the aftermath of defeat from the point of view of the English and, in doing so, makes a huge step up as a writer. As a scholar of the period, there’s never been any doubting the historical accuracy of Aitcheson’s work, but in the taught prose of The Harrowing, he proves himself completely as a writer.
Five refugees from the reiving Normans, who are laying waste the north to snuff out any possibility of future rebellions, come together, fleeing through a brutal winter towards hope of sanctuary. The story follows them through their flight, as well as telling the tale of what formed and made them all: fleeing noblewoman; servant; warrior; priest; and bard. In line with his historical training, there’s always been an anti-heroic theme to Aitcheson’s novels, but this goes further: in its bleak depiction of small-scale battles and large-scale despoiling it presents a far truer picture of the nature of medieval warfare than the action fantasies – the male equivalent of chick lit – that generally get published under the label of historical fiction. In fact, The Harrowing was so good that not even it being written in the present tense – one of this reviewer’s pet literary hates – served to diminish it. Highly recommended.
(Review first published in History of War magazine, issue 32.)