A Testament to Survival
IT’S OCTOBER 2019, in the Time Before, and I’m standing on Hadrian’s Wall, high atop a scarp overlooking the green hills of Northumberland. Thick, scattered clouds cast shadows on a land so vast, it feels like the world will march on forever. Little do we humans know what is marching toward us.
England is a lesson on the longevity of our planet, the tenacity of our species, and our need, as human beings, to connect.
Construction began in 122 CE on this border wall, a 73-mile barrier of stones and dirt that defined the northwest reaches of the Roman Empire, erected for the express purpose of keeping the “barbarians”—in this case, the Picts, a Celtic confederation of tribes disparaged for their failure to settle down—on the other side. I puzzle over humanity’s propensity for prejudice as I hike along the wall’s undulating remnants. Everything about this scene is big, but I keep thinking of things very small.
Inside the nearby Chesters Roman Fort and Museum is a display case holding 34 hairpins that look like tiny spindles or spoons. Archaeologists unearthed them from grounds around the fort, built about two years into the making of Hadrian’s Wall. The museum, the artifacts, their preservation—nearly all of it
