Catuwalos: A 'Past Life' in Iron Age Yorkshire

Content warning: the following story contains depictions of death, violence, and grief.

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“Fight me, Cad!” said the young boy, stick in hand.

“Too scared to run at me yourself, Briog?” I said in a ready stance.

The boy smiled and ran at me. I flourished my own stick and countered. Briog turned back around and struck. I parried and struck him lightly on the shoulder.

My grandmother and grandfather sat on stools by the entrance to our roundhouse playing a game of strategy with glass game pieces.

“Catuwalos!” my grandmother called, “finish up! I want the goats milked before your father and uncle get home!

Briog and I caught our breath as we stood in the middle of the drove way. Our field of battle was silhouetted by numerous grave barrows and the tall peaks of our neighbors’ roundhouses.

“Aw, Mamm-cu! Can we have another bout?” I asked.

“Yeah, just one more!” Briog implored.

My grandfather chuckled into the game board, shaking his head.

“I have given you three already!” she replied with an intimidating gentleness, “And it’s time Brigacos got back to his family as well. Both your fathers will need you!”

We had been bested; training was over for today.

“It’s alright, Cad,” said Briog, “My Mamm said I had to be back soon so I could sweep out the house before they’re back.”

“Farewell!” I said to my best friend.

“Until tomorrow,” said he.

I went to enter the roundhouse as my grandmother ominously cleared her throat.

“Where do you think you are going, Catuwalos?” she said.

“To put away my sword!” I said, pointing to my stick.

“Hurry on, then, little chief. Your father should be back soon.”

“Yes, Mamm-cu.”

I ran inside. On the far northern wall were all our bedspaces separated by wicker screens. In the center was a bubbling cauldron set over a large cookfire. The smoke drifted up towards the roof and hung there. In the air hung the scent of cinders and stewing meat and barley, the comforting smells of home.

Off to the side near the door, my mother was sitting at a loom taking advantage of the midday sun filtering in through the doorway. The threads she was working on were stretched along the smooth wooden frame with stone weights. She was straightening the weft of the textile with a comb made of cow bone. My mother’s belly was also swollen with what Mamm-cu said was to be my new sister, or that’s what she said the spirits told her. My older sister, Dewei, sat next to her intent on her spindle.

“Hi, Mamm!” I said as I ran around the house to my bed.

“Hello, little warrior,” she said with a chuckle, “did you and Briog have fun?”

“Yes, Mamm! We were almost even, too, but Mamm-cu said I must milk the goats before Tadau gets back,” I said with a pout, putting away the stick.

“That’s good, Cad! But you should always listen to Mamm-cu, she knows things.” She said with a smile, even while looking intently at her work as she carefully combed another thread into the warp.

“That looks pretty, Mamm,” I said.

“Thank you, dearest. Now run along!” she said sweetly.

I obliged. I ran back outside and around the roundhouse. In the back of our croft against the low earthwork boundary was a small livestock pen for our few goats. I spent the next hour milking them.

As I brought the wooden bucket of milk around front to be made into butter, I heard the thundering of hooves and the shouting of men. My eyes brightened.

“Leave that with me,” said Mamm-cu, “I will take care of it. Be ready for your father and uncle.”

I quickly placed the bucket by her feet and stood at the edge of the drove way. A few men on horseback rode past, followed by a great herd of cattle. Flanking the group were my father, uncle, Briog’s father, and the other leading men of the village on their own proud mounts, iron-tipped spears and shields slung on their backs and iron swords in their ornate scabbards hung at their sides.

“Tad!” I called.

My father smiled to me through his bushy black moustache and said, “Come along, Catuwalos! I want to teach you how to sort the herd!”

I ran along on my short legs, “Coming, Tadau!”

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Music filled the air. Beer and mead exchanged hands as laughter rang through the center of the village. A whole pig was roasting on a spit in front of someone’s roundhouse, the aroma was intoxicating. The harvest festival was in full swing, and soon the year would end. This was to be our first year as men.

“Catuwalos! Come, my friend!” said Briog, stretching his great arm around me and the other passing a horn of beer.

I smiled and accepted it, “Bricagos! Who would have thought us to make it this far?”

We laughed.

“No thanks to you!” he said, “Your schemes and antics always got us in trouble!”

He breathed, emboldened by drink, then said, “Cad, we’re friends. I had something I needed to ask…”

I smiled wickedly, emboldened by my own, “You know I am not of that persuasion, Briog. Maybe you should ask…”

He punched me in the shoulder, “No! Wise arse! I meant to ask about your sister!”

“Guencen?” I said, “She’s too young!”

“No!” he shouted, then he whispered loudly, “Dewei.”

I laughed loudly as he stared, “You fool! It took you too long. She asks me about you! I’ll ask my parents to introduce you once you have your sword.”

“Cad!” he squeaked, “this is great news!”

He then looked to the side and said, “Cad, look over there…”

My eyes followed his. There I saw a girl looking back at me from the other side of the roasting pig with a shy smile. She quickly looked away.

“Is that Guenddolen, Matugenos’ daughter?” I asked.

“I think so.”

“Isn’t her mother the village catoptromancer?”

“Probably… You should go see her.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

I took a moment, sheepishly looking in her direction. I exhaled deeply and handed my horn back to Brigacos, “Keep this for me.”

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The festival had come to a halt. The pig was mostly carved, and its meat devoured. Sunset was falling and the leading men gathered everyone around. Next to them stood their wives and mothers and fathers.

My father began to speak, “For generations, these hills and the valley have been our home. This village stands thanks to the eighty and three families whose hard work and dedication have kept us safe and fed. The men and women here have clothed us, provisioned us, built and furnished our homes, and fought for our land with their own flesh and blood. Today, we welcome two of our boys into manhood. May the village be witness that you are now men, and may your ancestors watch on in happiness that their progeny continues to protect their land and see it prosper.”

The villagers hollered and cheered.

Briog’s father stood forth, holding a sword in a bronze sheath made in the continental style, and said to him, “Come, my son, and become a man.”

Briog went to his father. They embraced and Briog was given the sword. Briog then stood by his father.

Then my father spoke again and said, a tear welling in his eye, “Come, my son, and become a man.”

I was given an equally resplendent weapon and welcomed to the fold.

Then Guenddolen’s mother stepped forth, holding a bronze mirror.

“And now, as is tradition, it is time to welcome my daughter to womanhood. Come, my child, take your place with us.”

Guenddolen gave me a happy glance before joining her mother. Her mother noticed and nodded to my father, who stood there proud. The mother and daughter then embraced as she was given her mirror.

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We sat surveying the damaged earthwork from our horses. I kept one hand on the reins while reaching for my spear.

“Did we chase them off, Cad?”

“No, Briog. Those cowards in the next valley have broken the boundary. They mean to take our land and our waters. They’ll be back with more men and iron.”

Briog smiled, “Then we should ride back and get the men! Set an ambush!”

“My thoughts exactly…”

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My horse brayed in pain. It was just a flesh wound, but the spear thrust was too close to my own leg for comfort. My own spear had been broken on the shield of an invader, but I had thankfully felled him with my sword. It would be difficult to continue from horseback with only a sword, so I dismounted and sent my horse in the direction of the village. The battle was nearly over.

“Cad!” Briog called. His own mount had been felled from under him and he walked with a limp.

“Stay there, Briog! I’ll work my way to you!”

An enemy horseman began to charge me, but I saw Briog’s spear hurl into the man’s chest, killing him.

“Keep fighting, Cad, I am coming!”

When our forces clashed, half of the enemy force had been routed or wounded. This was the contingent who could not flee and attempted to make a last honorable stand. Victory was close at hand, but not without our own losses. We were lucky that no one was dead, but nearly two dozen were wounded.

An enemy warrior approached me sword in hand seeking glory. I deflected his blow with my shield and he deflected mine. He finally delivered a shallow flesh wound on my shoulder with his sword, but when he overextended. I caught his arm with my shield and delivered a deep laceration on the upper bicep of his sword arm with my own blade. He fell, screaming in pain. I ran past him, hoping to meet up with Briog.

Briog was descended upon by the last remaining enemy warriors. The rest of our men could only look on in horror as he engaged with one man, but another snuck up from behind, striking him over the head with a sword.

“No!” I shouted.

We descended upon the remaining enemy host, revenge in our hearts.

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The pit was dug. His father insisted we build a grand barrow next to the resting places of his grandparents.

“A warrior’s death deserves a warrior’s barrow.” he said solemnly.

Not an eye in the village was dry, for no such victory came without cost. We were safe again, but it was time to mourn.

Our wounds were nursed after the battle, then we began the final preparations. A chariot was built in the way of the ancestors, and two old horses were brought and sacrificed over the pit. A feast was held, and the best portion of pork was reserved for Briog.

Dewei kept close to me as we gathered around the pit, her two young boys hung close to her, and her infant daughter nursed at her breast. She would not speak, but I could tell that she wanted us nearby.

Guenddolen nodded to me. As his sister-in-law, Briog’s father asked her to say the words and do the rites, as befitting a woman of her lineage. Guenddolen’s mother watched on proudly from the crowd as she commenced the ritual as instructed.

“Brigacos, hear us! Today we bring you back to the earth. There, may you join your forebears and watch over us. Bring his chariot.”

The chariot was brought. I, along with the other men, disassembled it and laid the wheels, body, and yoke flat on the ground next to the bodies of the horses in the pit. His body, wrapped in a cloth shroud woven by his mother and placed crouched on his shield, was laid in the body of the cart with his head pointed north and his face angled to see the rising sun. We then brought five new spears and arranged them by him in the proper way. A fire was built next to Guenddolen. The men brought her his sword and she took it from its scabbard.

“May the spirit of your sword find rest with you.” She said.

She heated the sword over the flame as we prayed, then she was given a hammer and proceeded to bend the blade around until it was nearly folded in half. She let the sword cool and then placed it in the cart. The bronze plates of his scabbard were then pried apart from the leather and placed next to the sword.

“May you enjoy your portion of the last feast.” She said.

A small ceramic pot -handmade by myself- containing a joint of pork from his funeral feast was placed within the pit.

He was ready.

Guenddolen was given a broken spear.

“May we now give you the honorable blow you deserve, instead of the cowardly one they gave to you.” She said.

She then thrust the spear into Brigacos’ body. She was then given the butt end of the spear and she threw it into the grave. Then, each of the family members were given spears, including me, were given broken spears. One by one, we stabbed his body, pouring our grief into the thrust, and then threw the butt end into the grave.

Then it was my turn.

“Don’t worry, my friend, I will watch them for you.” I said, thrusting the spearhead into his chest.

Then, Dewei took her turn. She handed me her infant and then took a broken spear. Her eyes watered as she took a breath in, aiming the spear downward.

“I love you,” she said, thrusting as hard as she could into his heart.

The family and I then stepped away. The men of the village began pouring the earth over him. Before the rest barrow was built, Guenddolen took a piece of pyrite from her leather pouch and set it over where his body would be. She said a silent prayer to the spirits and then let the men continue building the barrow.

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“When do you leave?” Gwenddolen asked as she worked at the loom.

“Tomorrow morning. It is time to move the cattle again.” I said.

“Will it be long this time?”

“I don’t think so, they just need to be brought to the new pasture. Dewei and her children should be coming to help you around the house and keep you company.”

“Bless that woman,” she said, “what about Guencen?”

“Her husband is ill; she’ll be at home with him.”

“Perhaps I will pay her a visit, then. I might know of something that could help.”

“That would be good, I know they would appreciate that.”

“So where are the little ones? Dinner should be ready soon.”

I listened to the sounds of mock combat outside, I smiled.

“Brigacos’ eldest is teaching our son to spar. Our daughter is over at Dewei’s place, I believe, learning to spin thread.”

Guenddolen smiled, “Then all is good, as long as they are all back before dark that is. Say, husband?”

“Yes, dearest?”

“Would you care to go outside for a game on your grandparents’ board before you go? I have been itching to play it again.”

“To beat me at it again, you mean?”

She turned from the loom and smiled deviously.

I replied with a smile, “You’re on.”

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This short story is inspired by the archaeology of Iron Age Yorkshire, particularly the Arras culture of the East Riding. For context, I have an MA in Iron Age and Celtic Archaeology, so when the past lives challenge came around, I saw the opportunity to give European protohistory some love. The persona of Catuwalos was then born and the preceding story styled as a short series of defining memories of this fictional individual. Catuwalos was styled as the son of a leading man of a village and then was groomed for leading as well, but of course this is not necessarily an occupation as it is a way of life.

Much of what we know about the Arras culture comes from their burial practices, as well as whole settlements and adjoining cemeteries such as those at Wetwang and Garton Slacks and Pocklington. While funerary practices in most of Britain at this time consisted of excarnation or occasionally cremation, this region is known for an isolated practice of inhumation, or burial. Some notable practices from this region that influenced this story include weapons burials, shield burials, chariot burials, and the burials of women arranged in similar fashion to the men in many instances.

Little is known about daily life from this period, but I used some inspiration from the exhibits at the Hull and East Riding Museum, Yorkshire Museum, and British Museum as well as my knowledge of life and economic activities as well as activities inferred from the burial practices of the Arras culture. Diverse theories about gender roles in the Iron Age (with a few creative liberties where evidence was lacking) were also used to help the setting come alive. Overall, the Arras culture was agrarian in character, but certain burials like the Queen’s Barrow and the Lady’s Barrow at the site of Arras indicate that women held wealth and potentially status as well as potentially their own ritual spheres in life, such as mirrors and divination. I thus found it prudent to portray a society that was to some degree heterarchical in structure.

The rituals depicted are inspired by archaeological surveys from England and France, with some liberties taken to promote dramatic tension. One academic source that that provided the most inspiration was the works of Melanie Giles, whose 2015 paper “Performing Pain, Performing Beauty: Dealing With Difficult Death in the Iron Age” especially expounds on the theater of grief and violence on objects and people in Iron Age funerary practices.

In this short format, this historical fiction can only touch upon the intricate nuances of European Iron Age peoples, but I hope it succeeds in spurring interest on the period. History at its core is human, and everything that survives from the past tells a story.

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