The Name of the Summer-King

It is my usual practice to tell a story before drawing conclusions from it. In this instance, however, I’m going to depart from that approach – because the conclusion is rather a big one, and deserves to be highlighted up-front.

Those already familiar with my work will know that much of it consists in looking for traces of pre-Christian Celtic religion in later legends and folklore. In the western Hadrian’s Wall/Solway region, this work has achieved tangible success; in my book “The Ghosts of the Forest” I’ve been able to offer a detailed description of how the mythology of three Romano-British deities persisted into both later Border folklore and Welsh medieval legend. In the course of researching this book, I became familiar with the altar inscriptions of the Hadrian’s Wall region; a goldmine for insights into old Celtic religion, comprising a volume of solid archaeological data without equal anywhere else in western Europe. Since publishing the book, I have been dipping on-and-off into that pool of data again, looking for other potential connections – and I believe I have come across a major one.

There is an especially important god found in northern Britain, whose name occurs on 40 altars; more than any of the other Celtic gods known from the region. Inscriptions to him derive disproportionately from the central section of Hadrian’s Wall; 15 are known from the Vindolanda fort in Northumberland, and 13 from nearby Carvoran. He is named Vitiris, or Veteris.

Little is known of this god, other than his name; the inscriptions contain no explanatory text. His title appears in a few forms, either singular or in plural, as “the Veteres”; it is conjectured he may have been worshipped in triple form, as is the case for some other Celtic gods. He is in one inscription linked to another Celtic deity, who may form part of such a trinity; Mogons, a spirit whose nature is similarly unclear.

I have recently been delving into linguistics, examining the evolution of certain tribal and deity names beginning with ‘v’. This led by chance to uncovering a potential connection between the name of Vitiris and a well-known legendary figure from Wales. The tale from which the legend derives is a wonderful one, and one that has become uniquely influential in the modern era – I’ll go on to tell it shortly, but will detail the linguistic reasoning first…

There is a well-known pattern in the evolution of language between the Roman-era Celtic language (Common Brittonic) and the later Welsh, Cumbric and Breton languages, that sees an initial ‘v’ converted into a ‘gw’. This appears in many names, including some famous ones; the great early king of the island, Vortigern, becomes Gwrtheyrn in later Welsh, while the region of Venedotia is transformed into Gwynedd. A second linguistic process, similarly well-attested, sees the suffix to words disappear; an example being the famous king Maglocunos, from whose name the ‘-os’ disappears to give the later Welsh Maelgwn. Applying these widely-accepted processes to the name of Vitiris, we are led to a form of the name resembling either ‘Gwitir’, or ‘Gweter’ – and at this point we have reached a name that does recognisably appear in later mythology. One that is, furthermore, connected to the North.

There is in Welsh mythology a figure called Gwythyr ap Greidawl; an immortal warrior, whose prospective bride Creiddylad is abducted by the king of the underworld, and who embarks on a quest to retrieve her. The relevant story forms part of the encyclopaedic Welsh legend “Culhwch and Olwen”; an exceedingly difficult text that includes numerous sub-narratives preserving immensely valuable detail on Welsh mythology. The specific sub-myth connected to Gwythyr has become a very important one in modern neo-paganism; it’s one of the stories the writer Robert Graves used to support the idea of a ritual battle between the kings of summer and winter for the hand of the goddess of the earth. In this analysis, Gwythyr is the representative of the summer. Their battle reflects the transition of the seasons, and re-enactments of it form one of the key elements in modern pagan seasonal rituals. My home city of Edinburgh sees two particularly impressive celebrations built around these rituals performed every year; one at Beltane on May the first, and another on Samhain at Hallowe’en.  

Here is a version of the story, updated into modern English from the 19^th century translation of “Culhwch and Olwen” by Charlotte Guest;

Creiddylad, the daughter of Lud of the Silver Hand, and Gwythyr the son of Greidawl were to be married. Before she had become his bride, however, Gwyn the son of Nudd came and carried her away by force; and so Gwythyr the son of Greidawl gathered his host together, and went to fight with Gwyn ap Nudd. Gwyn overcame him, and captured from among his men the following; Greid the son of Eri, Glinneu the son of Taran; Gwrgwst Ledlwm; Dynvarth the son of Gwrgwst; Penn the son of Nethawg; Nwython; and Kyledyr the son of Nwython. They slew Nwython, and cut his heart from his chest; then, they compelled Kyledyr to eat the heart of his father. This act drove Kyledyr mad.

When Arthur heard of this, he went to the North and summoned Gwyn ap Nudd before him. He set free the lords whom he had imprisoned, and made peace between Gwyn and Gwythyr. The terms of the peace were these; that Creiddylad should remain in her father’s house, without advantage to either of the warring parties, and that Gwyn and Gwythyr should then fight for her hand every first of May from thenceforth until the day of doom. Whichever of them should then be conqueror would win the maiden’s hand.

Identifying the Gwythyr of this tale with the Vitiris of the northern inscriptions makes sense on both a geographical and linguistic level. The tale related above is specifically located in “the North”, and in medieval Wales northern Britain between Humber and Forth was typically referred to as “the Old North” (yr Hen Ogledd). This connection is repeated further in one of the two other incidents that refer to Gwythyr in Culhwch and Olwen; Arthur later goes on a quest to the North to obtain the blood of “the very Black Witch”, and when they arrive at her cave it is the pairing of Gwythyr and Gwyn who advise him on how to go about defeating her. The presence of multiple connections between Gwythyr and the north of Britain in the tales means a connection between him and a deity from the region is a plausible one.

On linguistic grounds too there is good reason to believe Gwythyr might derive from Vitiris. The most common current root of the name Gwythyr is the Latin name ‘Victor’. The equation of this name with Gwythyr is attested from one bilingual inscription found in Pembrokeshire. It would, however, be unusual for a Celtic deity to be given a Latin name; the gods of the native pantheon were likely already established at the point when the Romans arrived, and any subsequent additions thereto would most likely have arrived from overseas pantheons introduced by the Romans. There is no obvious overseas root for a god called Victor; the personification of victory in Roman religion was a goddess, Victoria. A native name meaning ‘victorious one’ is known – but this name is Budig, of which the more famous name Boudicca represents the female version.

An alternative etymology for the name Gwythyr, more consistent with a root in Vitiris, might derive from ‘furious one’. Gŵyth is a literary term in modern Welsh for anger, and gwythwr is attested as a word for ‘angry man’. This derivation would fit well with the name of Gwythyr’s father Greidawl, which means ‘fierce/ardent/passionate’; ‘furious one’ son of ‘fierce one’ makes an obvious logical sense. The Bardic Triads list Greidawl as one of the “Three Enemy Subduers of the Island of Britain”, implying that a martial mythology once existed around him – though the details of this have regrettably been lost.

If we do accept that the figure of Gwythyr might on these grounds reasonably originate with Vitiris, then the equation sheds a little further light on the legend of the battling kings that has given Gwythyr a measure of modern fame. As previously mentioned, none of the inscriptions to Vitiris shed any light on his character; they are simply names, shorn of context. The only iconography associated with him is on a single altar from Carvoran fort; the images shown were, on one face of the altar a boar, and on the opposite face a snake. The boar may symbolise ferocity, and the snake could represent death; they could perhaps be interpreted as symbols of the two competing kings, with the boar representing Gwythyr the warrior, and the snake representing the ruler of the land of the dead, Gwyn. If this is the case, then we have a potent piece of iconography to add to the repertoire of neo-pagan ritual theatre. It must be admitted, however, that other explanations are also possible; both symbols might be associated with Gwythyr, or alternatively could merely represent motifs important to the soldier, Deccius, who commissioned the altar.

There is one further piece of evidence to be derived from the altars, however, that is far less ambiguous; evidence deriving not from something appearing upon them, but rather from something omitted. It is the case that in no instance whatsoever is the name of Vitiris equated with any Roman god. This is quite a departure from the norm. The Romans typically sought to absorb native deities into the Roman pantheon by equating them with Roman ones; warrior gods were typically connected with the Roman war-god Mars, and we therefore might expect to see a deity named either ‘furious one’ or ‘Victor’ somewhere described as Mars Veteris. This does not happen, however; the name of Vitiris only ever appears alone.

If Vitiris and Gwythyr ap Greidawl are indeed one and the same, then there is a solid explanation for why this omission should have been made. The Romans themselves had a myth in which a goddess of the earth was abducted by the king of the underworld, and then brought back; the myth of the goddess Proserpina, whose story derived from that of the Greek goddess Persephone. This myth was connected in Roman belief to the origin of the seasons; Proserpina was obliged to return to the land of the dead for six months of the year, thus forming the winter, while the summer represented the time she spent among the living. This Graeco-Roman myth was exceedingly well-known and widespread in Antiquity, and were the Romans to have encountered a similar myth connected to the origin of the seasons in Britain it is highly likely they would have connected the gods concerned with those present in their own tale. This would result in Creiddylad being equated with Proserpina, and Gwyn ap Nudd with Dis Pater, king of the dead. In the myth of the abduction of Proserpina there is, however, no heroic male rescuer who might be equated with Gwythyr; in Proserpina’s tale it is rather her mother, Ceres, who goes searching for her. If Vitiris did indeed represent summer then there would, therefore, be no Roman deity with whom he might be equated – and the absence of any such equation from the inscriptions would have an obvious explanation.

This piece of the puzzle may well be a key one. The notion that Gwythyr and Gwyn’s struggle should be explained as representing the transition of the seasons has been questioned in recent times, and with good reason; a connection to the winter/summer transition is never specifically stated in the Welsh texts recording the story. If Vitiris does represent the origin of Gwythyr however, then his unique nature, un-paired with any Roman deity does provide some support for the seasonal connection – since such a connection provides in and of itself an obvious explanation for his un-Romanised nature. It is likely only where a Celtic deity fulfilled a function that either did not exist at all in Roman conceptions, or else instead contradicted them, that the Romans would have been unable to match that native god to one of their own. Were Vitiris primarily the male personification of the summer, then both would be the case; no male god represents summer’s heat, and the presence of such a god contradicts the Roman myth in which it is Ceres who goes to seek out her daughter. The elaborate and stunning rituals enacted at the turning of the year by contemporary neo-pagans may therefore, through this connection, gain a slightly firmer footing in fact.

It is necessary to say that none of these conclusions can be considered entirely definitive; the available evidence is scant, and it is possible that it might be accounted for by alternative scenarios. The connection of Gwythyr with Vitiris does, however, fit all the evidence available – and I would venture to say that this explanation makes a great deal more sense than any of the other alternatives thus far presented. The majority of the major native deities present in Roman-era Britain have left some mark on Welsh medieval legends; e.g. Maponos is represented by the character Mabon, Taranis by Taran, Nodens by Nudd/Lud. That a god with as many inscriptions to his name as Vitiris – 40 altars, as compared to a mere 7 inscriptions for Maponos – should disappear entirely from legendary narrative would be a little odd. We are speaking here of one of the best-attested gods of the Romano-British; his prominence in the archaeological surely implies an importance in the wider culture. A role as the lord of the summer would certainly fit the bill very well indeed – and a connection with the name of Vitiris is, for all the reasons heretofore outlined, eminently plausible. Another lost god may well have been restored to the North; another Welsh myth reconnected to lands where it has been forgotten.

If you have enjoyed this article, for more on the connections between the archaeology of the Hadrian’s Wall region and Welsh mythology do give my book “The Ghosts of the Forest” a look. It has thus far been very well-received, and offers potential origins for three further prominent figures in Welsh mythology:

Do also follow me on Facebook, X or Instagram for further updates; I have two other articles similar to this one in the pipeline, and anticipate within the next year being able to announce the discovery of a substantial temple/fortress complex currently unknown to archaeology. Many thanks for giving this piece your attention 🙂

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