Many people write and think about the Stone, and in creative ways. I experimented a little myself with writing ‘as’ the St John’s Cross / its replica in My Life as a Replica. My Glasgow colleague Dr Ewan Campbell here kindly shares his own experiment with object biography, in relation to the Stone.

This is the unlikely story of a simple Scottish lass who rose from humble origins to be the plaything of kings and the symbol of a nation. It is a story of power struggles, theft and pillage, fantasy and fairytales, abandonment and redemption, that has lasted for almost two thousand years, and continues to excite and inflame passions to this day.

We do not know her given name, but let us call her Lia, as she was sometimes later called in the ancient language of her native land. Her father was a common soldier in the army, part of the Roman occupation of northern Britain in the second century. Though not a ranking officer, he was a skilled stonemason and part of his work was to make altars and memorials. Her mother, Alba, was the strong silent type, but generous with her favours. This Roman soldier was just one of multitude of lovers, too many for her to remember. Many fall for her ancient charms and though some claim her for themselves, whether she reciprocates remains mysterious. Lia was fashioned from Alba’s womb by her father, hoping to use her for one of his altars, but a flaw in her makeup led him to cast her aside at an early age, the first of many indignities for Lia. Not long after this he abandoned both Alba and Lia, as so many soldiers of occupation do, leaving Lia unsupported. For a long period Lia was ignored, though like her mother she was the silent type and didn’t complain. Things began to look up for Lia when some Christian monks chanced on her in an old abandoned Roman fort, and, taking her as a symbol of the power of Rome, incorporated her in their new church. She served as a support for one of their holy relics, and by association, came to be respected in her own right for the first time in her life. This was a happy and tranquil childhood for Lia, and she would have been happy to remain in that church, close to her place of birth and watched over by her ever-present mother. But greater things were in store for her when the two peoples of her native land came together to form a new kingdom. She now supported not just a holy relic, but, being herself considered holy and still retaining her link with Rome, was chosen as a fitting symbol of her land for kings to be enthroned on during their inauguration. As usual Lia was uncomplaining, and the occasional warm posterior made a change from the cold metal relic she was used to supporting. The attention on ceremonial occasions was also flattering and marked her coming out from childhood to see herself as a young woman, an important figure in society. As part of her transition to adulthood she had two iron handles inserted in her sides to enable her to be carried to the inauguration site of kings. For several hundred years she revelled in the attention, with no hint of the coming catastrophe.

Then, during one of the many wars which had passed her by over the centuries, a marauding king seized her by force and carried her off to a foreign land. Separated for the first time from her mother, she suffered terribly, but in silence as usual. Further indignity followed as she was imprisoned in a wooden chair, and worse, parts of her rings cut off because some idiot made the space for her too small. Though she once again played a part in the inauguration of kings, her role had changed dramatically.  No longer was she seen as a symbol of her mother, but was presented as a sign of domination, a war trophy. This was a miserable time of life for Lia, separated from her kin, imprisoned and usually invisible. Her followers at home were outraged of course, and made strenuous efforts for her return. After the death of the marauding king, they thought they had reached agreement for her return with the king’s son. Lia dared to believe, but her hopes were dashed by some priests who claimed she was now their holy relic! All hope of returning home seemed lost, as she slowly aged over the following centuries. Many calls were made for her return, but all were ignored. Fanciful stories grew up around her – that she was Jacob’s pillow, that she was brought from Egypt by Pharaoh’s daughter, that she sailed over the sea from Ireland, that she came from the west coast of Scotland. Some even claimed she was a fake designed to decoy her captors.  None of these stories were true, but all served to mask her true origin.

Her imprisonment might have been the end of Lia’s story, but for a late fling with some young admirers of her mother. One Christmas they launched a daring raid, freed her from her prison and brought her home. This was thrilling for her of course, and she revelled in the freedom. Unfortunately, her admirers were a little rough with a woman of her age, and that old flaw which led her father to abandon her led to the mortification of her splitting in two. Luckily, another admirer, a mason like her father, put her together again expertly.  He also made some copies of her, though probably not out of flattery, but to further confuse those searching for her return. This brief sojourn in her homeland came to an end when she was found and returned to her prison, where it seemed she was condemned to see out her old age. Another twist in her saga was to come however. A politician, in a mistaken attempt to curry favour with her admirers, arranged for an official return home.  This time she was lauded with ceremony, and received a minute examination (more indignity) but also a welcome clean – her first wash in almost two thousand years! But yet again she was imprisoned, though now made visible. She was placed in a strong castle to prevent any further attempt to rescue her, but incongruously placed in a glass box with the Crown Jewels. While these were of course of similar royal status to Lia, they were certainly Johnny-come-latelies compared to her, and worse, were covered in bling. She felt decidedly dowdy and underdressed beside them. She no longer seemed to have any purpose, just an object of prurient gaze. Couldn’t they find something useful for her to do, like put her in the new Scottish parliament? She was used to quietly supporting things – perhaps resting the parliamentary mace on her would be a suitable role for her in her homeland. But that would be too controversial, her potential power needed to be controlled and emasculated by her captors. A brief sojourn back to her old prison in the wooden chair put her in her place, reminding everyone who was in charge. A new king briefly sat on her. She took some pleasure in remembering a previous sitter of his name had his head chopped off and wondered what would become of this one. But yet another change was in the offing – she would be kept in her homeland but placed in a different glass case for people to gawp at, even if she was back close to her place of birth. Would these indignities never cease? Her only hope lay in her admirers, would they finally say enough, and free her from her captors’ malign control. She can only wait, silent as always, and hope. She was good at waiting.

Text by Dr Ewan Campbell, 26 September 2023

Senior Lecturer in Archaeology, University of Glasgow

Photo of Ewan at Dunadd in 2011 by Sally Foster