Archaeology is a fascinating subject. Personally, I've been hooked since the day
'Time Team' began - there's nothing in the world half so relaxing as watching
other people digging. Recently, several of us here at the University have become
really quite enthusiastic over the whole thing, and last month, we decided that
we would mount our very own archaeological investigations here in Crumbling St
Agnes. And so it was that Dickie Thomkinson, Percy Peasmore, and my good self
set out, bearing our equipment (three deckchairs and a spade) to see what we could
discover of the ancient history of our home village. The tedious Bailey tagged
along too, of course - but then we needed someone to carry the deckchairs and
spade.
What a thrilling time we had of it! What finds we made! And how we enjoyed watching
Bailey dig as we dozed in the sun! Doubtless the reader is breathless with
anticipation - fret not, gentle reader, for here is the full catalogue of our
treasures.
Roman Coin
This remarkable coin turned up just a few inches below the topsoil in the University
grounds. It shows the head of the great Julius Caesar himself, and must have
been dropped on his very first visit to these islands - the coin is in mint
condition and the date clearly legible. We have long suspected that there had been
a small Roman settlement hereabouts, but it is thrilling and gratifying to find
such incontrovertible evidence on our very first dig!
A coin of this sort would have been, say, a weeks wages for the average foot-soldier
of the Roman Army. A centurion, however, would have earned considerably more,
and would also have had a useful second income from dice-games with the non-commissioned
officers; it was the custom, in those days, to let the centurion win, otherwise he
might invoke the custom of decimation, whereby every tenth man was made to
do arithmetic until he died of exhaustion. A Centurion of the IX Augustan Legion once
went home to Rome alone, having decimated his legion to extinction for no better
reason than a stomach upset that put him in a bad mood.
Roman Wall Plaque
Imagine our excitement when we unearthed this! A genuine Roman wall-plaque - true,
one corner is missing, but the inscription is as crisp and legible as it
must have been the day it was cut. Unfortunately, none of us knows Latin, so
there's been a good deal of confusion over the meaning. Dickie inclines to the
view that it's something to do with a cave, but I don't really see how it can be -
the nearest caves are miles away. Personally, I'm pretty sure that cave,
in Latin, means beware - we used to use the expression keeping cave
to mean 'keeping a lookout' at school. And canem looks to me like a sort
of short-hand for cane 'em; on the evidence, therefore, I'm quite sure
that this is the name-plaque from a schoolmaster's house. Bailey, on the other
hand, thinks it means 'beware of the dog', but he's an idiot and knows nothing.
Bronze-Age Brooch
This beautiful bronze enamelled brooch is late Bronze-Age, and is our most
exciting find to date. From the quality of the workmanship, which is quite superb,
we can safely assume that this was the property of someone of high rank, perhaps
even a Celtic chieftain. A brooch of this type would have been used to fasten the
chap's toga, or loin-cloth, or whatever it was they wore in those days. The most
astonishing thing about this find, though, is that the brooch is absolutely
identical in every respect to the lapel-badge worn by modern members of the
Crumbling St Agnes Monday Night Rotary Club! It really is incredible to think that
supposedly primitive Bronze-Age savages had rotaries, and it seems to me that,
following our discovery, the history books will have to be rewritten. It's
wonderful to think, too, that the emblem adopted by our forebears some two and
a half thousand years ago is still in use, unchanged, today. It really does
boggle the imagination.
Hideous Fossil
At two hundred and fifty million years, this is our oldest find to date. This
ghastly-looking creature is called a trilbylite, or a tribalite, or something
of the sort. Who on earth gave it a name like that I can't imagine, since there
were no humans alive at the time. This repulsive animal scuttled about on the
sea-bed apparently, and attacked more or less anything that moved. Obviously, it
died when the rock fell on it, and it subsequently became a fossil. We took this
revolting object
to the museum in town to have it dated. The man in the fossil department told us
it was two hundred and fifty million years old. When we asked him how he knew
that, he said he could tell from the kind of rock the fossil was in. However, we
were rather surprised at this dating, because Percy was almost certain the whole
planet was only a few thousand years old. Anyway, we thought it would be wise to
get a second opinion, so we trotted downstairs to the geology department and asked
the man down there how old the rock was. Happily, he said the rock was about two
hundred and fifty million years old, so it was smiles all round. Then we made the
mistake of asking him how he knew the age of the rock, and he said he could tell
from the type of fossils in it. It's the very last time I mess about with fossils,
(or experts, come to that). On top of all that, the fossil itself is quite revolting,
and I've been having bad dreams ever since we found it. It may be a triklybite to
the fossil experts, but it just looks like an enormous woodlouse to me.
Unidentified Figurine, Which May Or May Not Exist
The ever-mendacious Bailey assures me that he unearthed this tiny figurine while
Dickie, Percy and I were dozing. I haven't seen the wretched thing myself, and
frankly, I don't believe it exists. I think this is just another of Bailey's
excuses to include a photograph of a scantily-clad female. Heaven forbid that
the lady wife should see this - I'll be walking the corgis from now until
Christmas. Be that as it may, Bailey claims that this piece is early Saxon at the
very latest, and depicts the Saxon's goddess of song, Aguilera. I can't
actually prove that it's untrue, but I don't believe a word of it. Mind
you, the more I look at it, the more I can't help feeling that the piece does
have a certain charm about it. It has legs, for example, which is a good
deal more than can be said for the lady wife.
Ritual Object
Goodness only knows what this is. We can't fathom it at all. It's obviously very
old though - absolutely covered in rust. Clearly, this is from the iron age; if
it's rusty, it must be iron, and if it's iron then it's obviously iron-age. QED.
Presumably it would have been used in some arcane religious ceremony known only
to the peoples of that time, whenever it was. Percy thinks it may be an iron-age
television aerial of some sort, but I'm not absolutely certain that they had
television in the iron age. I'm pretty sure it came later; I'd check this up with
the History Professor, but unfortunately that's Percy. On balance, we've decided to
follow standard archaeological practice and label it as a 'Ritual Object'.
Well, that's all we have at the moment. However, rest assured that investigations
continue, and digging will re-commence the moment Bailey's back gets better. We
will post details of each and every exciting new find here, as and when it comes
to light. Archaeology is a very exciting field, and should the reader
feel inclined to rush out and start digging in the garden - well, come and
practice on my garden first. I'm too busy walking the blasted corgis for gardening.
This remarkable coin turned up just a few inches below the topsoil in the University
grounds. It shows the head of the great Julius Caesar himself, and must have
been dropped on his very first visit to these islands - the coin is in mint
condition and the date clearly legible. We have long suspected that there had been
a small Roman settlement hereabouts, but it is thrilling and gratifying to find
such incontrovertible evidence on our very first dig!
A coin of this sort would have been, say, a weeks wages for the average foot-soldier
of the Roman Army. A centurion, however, would have earned considerably more,
and would also have had a useful second income from dice-games with the non-commissioned
officers; it was the custom, in those days, to let the centurion win, otherwise he
might invoke the custom of decimation, whereby every tenth man was made to
do arithmetic until he died of exhaustion. A Centurion of the IX Augustan Legion once
went home to Rome alone, having decimated his legion to extinction for no better
reason than a stomach upset that put him in a bad mood.
