Who Do You Think You Are Kidding, Mr Caesar?

Invited by the fine folks at Roman Tours to spend a day in the sandals of a Roman soldier, wary though I was of the physical repercussions, I jumped at the chance.

Heading for the leafy glades of North London’s Kenwood, a family-friendly patch of Hampstead Heath, I prayed my enthusiasm for the day’s adventures with Roman Tours would trump my health and fitness failings. From a distance I head a gruff voice bark something in Latin, and soon after witnessed the spectacle of five Roman soldiers marching towards me in close formation, dressed to the nines in ancient finery, their helmets gleaming in the sun, holstered weapons clanking against worn but shiny armour.

Experiencing a sudden rush of trepidation, I hid my fears behind a mask of bravado that I’m convinced encouraged the lads to push me harder than they’d initially planned.

“That armour doesn’t look so heavy,” I heard myself saying, adding something about eating eight-mile hikes for breakfast, and topping it off with a groundless boast about my sword skills, neglecting to explain these abilities are more videogame than reality-based.

First things first: costume time. Though it wasn’t exactly scorching the day was muggy as hell, and considering how much insulation I’m already packing on my hefty form, it was no great pleasure pulling on the first layer, the tunica, essentially a thick woolly dress. After that came the sub-armourlis, a substantial leather waistcoat designed to protect the wool from wear, and insulate the professional fighting man from armour that in the winter would be cold as Santa’s beard, and in the summer, hot as Satan’s underpants.

Then came the weight, the chain mail hamarta, a 15kg top I was told would protect me from various light projectiles, if not from the lifetime of backache it had already begun to inflict. Beyond those high-fashion items, I sported such accessories as a hefty gladius sword for stabbing and hacking, a blistering pair of caligae sandals that apparently are really hot with the ladies right now, and a bronze helmet substantial enough to accommodate my watermelon head and Eric Morecambe specs. Though I couldn’t recall seeing anyone in Centurion wearing glasses, I was, I must admit, less concerned with historical accuracy than with the need to see beyond the tip of my nose.

With sweat filling my eyes, chain mail squeezing my pits and an enormous wooden shield spanking my biceps, I was given my marching orders. Shame they were in Latin, otherwise I might have understood what I was supposed to do. Still, I tried my best, parading about before bemused Kenwood day-trippers at a pace akin to the Dad’s Army theme. Falling slightly behind the others, I was treated to a burst of English from boss of the outfit Paul Harston, a.k.a. Centurio Occratius Maximi, or Gittus to his friends.

“Come on Julius,” he yelled, doing his best Windsor Davies. “It’s easier to keep up than catch up!”

A brief pause, soon after, to take on some serious weight: an authentically leaden field kit loaded with clothes, supplies, an oil lamp and model of my favourite god. Together with my armour, shield and newfound spear, I was carrying an extra 50kg, much like I did after my last all-inclusive holiday. Plus now I was marching uphill, cursing like a soldier, just not in Latin.

Fielding looks from the others as diverse as amusement, disdain and pity, my energy escaping me I attempted an hour of weapons training, chucking a spear for all my life was worth, ramming my shield against hostile invaders and receiving several bell-ringing bashes to my helmet, including one time when I nearly knocked myself unconscious with my own spear.

Toughest of all was a final confrontation with bearded wonder David Flockton, a.k.a. Marcus Aurellius Nepos, a likeable bloke by all accounts, but drop-dead terrifying with his fighting face on. Bolstered, however, by the words of Galaxy Quest’s Commander Peter Quincy Taggart, to never give up and never surrender, I battled through my knocks and against expectations, bashed Nepos on the knuckles. He seemed impressed, too, if not by my technique then by my fighting spirit, although to be honest, at that stage I was so utterly done in, the entire incident may have been a hallucination.

Regardless, I came away from the day with so much more than mild dehydration, peppered bruising and a limp. I’d learned that beyond their incredible physical toughness, the ancient squaddie, much like his modern counterpart, was disciplined, loyal, skilled and indomitable. No wonder the Roman Empire lasted so long.

Most of what I know about the Roman Empire I learned from a handful of historical epics and the collected adventures of Asterix. Do you have a favourite Roman epic?