“Pila portate!”
“Pila portate!” shouted the short man wearing the most magnificent helmet.
His soldiers raised their spears, ready to drive them into any Celt who might object to the occupation of Britannia. It looked magnificent — and somehow, despite ourselves, we cheered for the Romans.
“What are you wearing on your head?” a small boy asked.
“A wolf,” replied the Roman officer. Beneath the wolf’s open jaws, his helmet and armor gleamed as if forged by Apollo himself.
“Did you kill it?”
A small pause. A tiny crack in the illusion.
“I would have, if I’d been a Roman soldier,” the officer said.
His name was Michael Garlick.
Ermine Street Guard
Garlick — also known as Macillius Metallicus — was a member of the world’s oldest Roman living-history society, Ermine Street Guard. Since 1972, a band of more or less Roman-obsessed Britons had been crafting armor, weapons, shields, and everything else required for a proper Roman legion.
Every summer weekend — and often at other times of the year — they squeezed into highly uncomfortable uniforms complete with heavy armor and steel helmets, trying to keep their spirits up while their commanding officer barked at them.
“If we don’t march in proper formation, he might hit us with his stick!” one private told me about the Guard’s highest-ranking officer, the centurion. Accuracy mattered. If the Romans had done it that way, then so would they.
I met the centurion, Chris Haines — Primus Pilus — many years ago at the Festival of History, then held at Stoneleigh Park outside Coventry. The annual event drew thousands of history enthusiasts for displays ranging from Roman Britain to the Middle Ages to World War II. The Romans were always among the most popular attractions, and that summer they had pride of place in the arena.
Crowds clustered around them with questions.
What was the tent made of?
Answer: 77 goatskins — and 700 hours of stitching.
Do the soldiers speak Latin?
Answer: Enough to understand the commands.
Primus Pilus wore a bloodied bandage on his right hand — not from battle with the Celts and Queen Boudica, but from a camping stove explosion the night before. Still, into battle they went.
Forged like the originals
All their equipment was based on archaeological finds, historical drawings, or written descriptions, and reproduced as faithfully as possible. Several members were archaeologists.
“At first, academics wouldn’t have anything to do with us,” Garlick told me. “Now they like us. We collaborate. If they develop a new theory about how something was used, we test it. We can tell them what doesn’t work in practice.”
Garlick, an engineer by profession, was fascinated by Roman ingenuity. He recreated Roman artifacts — casting objects in bronze and even building his own cornu, the curved Roman war horn. After seeing an original in a museum in Naples, he went home, poured molten lead into brass tubing, shaped and welded the parts together.
“I can’t really play it,” he admitted. “But I was told: You made it. You play it.”
He blasted a few primitive notes to assemble the troops. Not beautiful — but loud enough. The centurion bellowed Latin commands. Spears, helmets, and shields clattered. Sweat ran freely. Then the Guard marched off in formation toward the arena.
“These Romans get everywhere, don’t they?” someone remarked.
He was right. The Romans had created the world’s first professional army, and their discipline had been a major reason the Roman Empire became so vast. They invaded the British Isles in AD 43 under Emperor Claudius, eventually controlling much of England as well as parts of Scotland and Wales.
Roman soldiers trained daily — even when stationed in peaceful provinces where years could pass between battles. Because of discipline, organization, and relentless preparation, they were always ready.
“Their training is like battle without blood. Their battles are like bloody training,” an observer had written nearly 2,000 years earlier.
The display included formation drills, sword combat, and finally a cavalry charge. Applause rolled across Stoneleigh as the Romans marched back to their goatskin tents.
The soldiers were practically roasting inside their armor — especially those wearing steel plate.
“It’s like sitting in a kettle,” one of them said. “But the sandals are the worst.”
The footwear looked almost like a torture device, especially once you noticed the metal studs under the soles. Many soldiers ended the day with sore feet. Modern feet, apparently, were not as tough as Roman ones must have been. A high pain threshold seemed almost a prerequisite for joining the Guard.
“We always get bruises here and there. There’s always a little blood during training,” one soldier told me.
When they reenacted battles against Queen Boudica and her Celtic warriors, things could become particularly intense.
The fighting spirit was clearly alive. But what would the original Romans have thought if they had seen Ermine Street Guard in action?
“They probably would have collapsed with laughter,” one of them said.
Where the Ermine Street Guard stands today
Today, the Ermine Street Guard remains one of Britain’s most respected Roman living-history societies. The group continues to field roughly 30 to 50 active volunteers, with participation varying by season and event. They perform across the UK and occasionally in Europe, collaborate with archaeologists and major Roman heritage sites such as Vindolanda and Hadrian’s Wall, and have contributed expertise and appearances to historical documentaries and productions for broadcasters including the BBC. More than five decades after its founding, the Guard continues its original mission: testing Roman military equipment and tactics not only in theory, but in sweat, leather and steel.
