Elizabeth M. Greene has worked closely with the Vindolanda Trust for 24 years and has spearheaded the Vindolanda Archaeological Leather Project since 2017. This book grew out of her long-term relationship with the almost 5,000 shoes excavated at Vindolanda. It is interesting and eminently readable, providing an excellent introduction to the fascinating world of Roman shoes. There are six chapters, each discussing different aspects of Roman footwear as seen through the Vindolanda collection. There are clear illustrations of the subject matter throughout. The list of sources and further reading is not overwhelming and would enable the reader to deepen their understanding of Roman shoes and their significance.
The introductory chapter stresses the value of the Vindolanda collection for the study of Roman footwear, then proceeds to the shoe as a marker of Roman status (although the evidence for patricians wearing red boots with their togas is contradictory), and the importance of appropriate footwear in the Roman world. Greene then points to further significances of Roman footwear, including its amuletic qualities. As a final point, Greene states her intention to study the lives of the people who inhabited Vindolanda through their footwear.
Vindolanda contains the layers of at least nine forts and, thanks to the wetness of the site, shows remarkable preservation of organic artefacts. Ch. 1 sets the stage for understanding the footwear from Vindolanda, its archaeological contexts, and its importance for our knowledge. There is a brief look at some other sites where Roman shoes have been found and the chapter concludes with a clear explanation of the parts of a shoe, so that later descriptions of footwear can be easily understood.
Roman footwear is known to have followed trends over time. The work of Carol van Driel-Murray show that shoes can be used as dating evidence. Several Roman footwear scholars have researched construction methods, and there is a standard typology for Roman shoes. Ch. 2 focuses on these aspects with illustrations of different-shaped soles and uppers from the Vindolanda collection. Sadly, there was not much room for a discussion of the significance of Roman hobnailing patterns.
Roman military footwear changed over time. The caliga, the archetypal, strappy soldier’s boot, disappears from the archaeological record around 100 c.e., and no examples have been found at Vindolanda. Ch. 3 is a detailed examination of the development of Roman military footwear and what it shows about army life. We see ordinary soldiers’ closed-in boots and the more expensive kind with holes punched in the uppers which were worn with coloured socks to demonstrate socio-economic status. Next come shoes worn off duty, although some of the later styles such as the Ramshaw, a third-century style of shoe, which reaches to, or above, the ankle and is cut from a single piece of leather together with the laces (42, fig. 36), were also worn as military footwear. The final section of this chapter explores the footwear found in a barrack block dating to c. 105 to 120 c.e. It discusses shoe size as a guide to age and gender, and how this revealed that women and children lived inside the fort, contradicting the belief that only men lived in Roman forts. It also looks at how the shoes were grouped within the barracks and the different styles found there.
Two themes, the role of footwear as a marker for status, and the lives of women and children in Roman forts, continue in Ch. 4. The elite women’s and children’s shoes found in the praetorium, which probably belonged to the family of commanding officer Flavius Cerialis and his wife Sulpicia Lepidina, are described, with a section dedicated to the fine, expensive ‘Lepidina Sandal’. The elite children’s shoes, although small, are styled like adult shoes and remind us of the boots that gave Caligula his nickname. Expensive women’s cork-soled shoes also feature, where the most expensive component was the cork, coming from Portugal or Spain, although one was found not to have a cork sole, but was stuffed with leather offcuts. Greene debates whether the buyer knew the sandals were fakes and paid less, or whether the shoemaker sold the fakes as genuine at a high price.
Children’s shoes from other areas of the site and of later date also show decorative touches. However, the majority of children’s footwear is of the carbatina style: sewn shoes constructed from one piece of leather that wrapped the foot and tied with laces. This type of shoe allowed room for growth, so was popular for children. The final section discusses wooden shoes, which may have been for protecting the feet from the heat of the baths. These are in an appropriate size for a young teenager, which may suggest that younger children were not allowed in the baths, or that they may have had to go barefoot in the baths. The shoes discussed in this chapter provide crucial evidence for the lives of women and children living at Vindolanda.
Wear patterns, the inclusion of iron bars that are similar to twentieth-century orthotics, and changes to hobnailing patterns show the foot health of individuals at Vindolanda. The final chapter deals with these, and also the people who made and maintained the shoes. The Vindolanda tablets provide evidence for this, including 343, which records tanned hides and sinews coming from Catterick. Twelve shoemakers are listed as working at Vindolanda (Tab.Vindol. 155). Some of these must have been more skilled than others to produce the cut-work uppers. Several of the tablets contain orders for hobnails.
The ‘last step’ details the deposition of shoes. Some were lost, and others were discarded as too worn to keep. They were preserved, thanks to the special archaeological conditions. We are reminded at the end of how important the Roman footwear from Vindolanda is because of what it reveals about its inhabitants. Clearly there is more to Roman footwear than just sandals.
