Making Scythian boots, part III

The leg lining, attached with a double running stitch.  Tests show that the lining will stiffen the entire area that it's stitched into, so for flexibility and the option of tightening the boot around the ankle, the lining had to be cut off.  Extra rows of quilting within the lined area don't appear to be necessary, but could be added in the future even after the boot is constructed.

Putting stitch holes in the leather layers with just a hobby awl was much easier and faster than with the latigo sole.

Along complex curves or where clamping isn't possible, it's much easier to temporarily pin the leather pieces than to glue them, although this should be avoided when possible.

The foot is attached with two rows of double running stitches, then the leg is slid over the edge of a table to glue up the welt.

Laying the glued pieces out to dry.  Possibly just placing a large book, a plank or other heavy, flat object on the boot while it's still over the table would work best, but it's not that difficult to just arrange it so that the welt sits flush against the leg while drying.

Since the welt is likely to be a high-wear area, I attached it again with two rows of stitching.  The second edge had to be glued up by pinning at roughly two-inch intervals and squeezing glue between the pins (this photo is taken halfway through the process).

It's harder to stitch the second row because it's often hard to see the holes by looking down the boot leg.  As an alternative, one can poke the awl back into the holes and feel where it protrudes, then slide the needle down to where the awl is protruding through the leather.

The toughest part was trying to close the gap at the heel.  Because the welt is attached entirely on the outside, there's a hole where the back end of the sole, the back corners of the foot and the bottom of the welt come together.  I tried to ameliorate this by whipstitching the welt to the sole using the preexisting holes that attach the sole to the foot.  However, perhaps it would be better to put the welt between the sole and foot when they're first being stitched together, before the foot is turned rightside-out.

The finished first boot.  Although it looks okay at first glance, there are several things I don't like about it:

Firstly, the middle of the instep just before it meets the leg is too low and pinches the top of my foot painfully.  This may be the result of my tailoring in part II where I wanted to get rid of excess material around the arch.  I don't think that a softer leather would help, because the linen thread wouldn't stretch (something that must not have been apparent when the felt pattern was loosely basted together) and in any case this foot is already made from the relatively elastic part from the hide's belly.  Only a fuller cut would really help.  Possibly the curved stitch where the instep meets the leg should be cut higher.

Second, the toe is too low.  That angle in the profile is my toenail pressing against the inside.  Again, this may be because I cut away the "excess" length back in part II.  If so, it may indicate that the original Missouri River patterns were, as I first suspect, too small.  It's a very good thing that while I did mark the felt pattern with the revised lines, I didn't trim it, so it still has the pre-tailored shape.  I will have to go through the entire bootmaking process again without the extra trimming and see if I can confirm these suspicions.

Lastly, aesthetically, the brown color is too dark and the "natural" linen thread too light, making for a very odd look with the bright line cutting across the leg just above the ankle.  To achieve this kind of very dark brown, a hide would either have to be heavily dyed or smoked for an excessive amount of time.  I think that a more natural smoked color (buff, goldenrod or golden brown) would make these boots much more plausible for portraying a person of middling economic status.  Many buckskinners say that white leather was historically preferred for special occasions and that most leather would have been smoked - perhaps the Chärchän Man's white boots and red jacket were the equivalent of being buried in a formal suit today.  The fil au chinois "natural" is off-white, whereas unbleached linen and hemp are beige - however, I'm not sure where to find truly unbleached linen thread at this time.  Regular brown may be another acceptable option not because it's necessarily more correct but because it would stand out less.

In conclusion, while I have the basic steps down, it's clear that more experimentation is needed to turn out a pair of wearable boots.

Making Scythian boots, part II

The patterns are taped to the flesh side of the leather at multiple points and traced with a pen (I prefer a red rollerball pen of the kind used for proofreading).  The tape does cause slight degradation of the pattern each time it's used by pulling off some of the felt fibers, but unless you're making large numbers of boots all of the same size, this shouldn't be a problem.

I cut out both sets of uppers at once because I wanted to put the hide away and vacuum my floor, but this isn't necessarily the best order to do it in, for the following reason:

Once one vamp and its matching sole have been cut out, it's time for a final fitting.  Although felt is probably the best commonly-available material for simulating leather in test fittings, it's not perfect, and in particular it doesn't really simulate the thick leather of the sole.  When the sole approaches 1/4 inch (over 6mm) in thickness, the stitch holes are put in at an angle, emerging from the edge rather than the other side as with a thin felt sole.  Therefore when the finished shoe is turned rightside-out, the upper wraps around the sole and fits in a slightly different manner.  I soon discovered, by basting the upper and sole together, that I'd cut the felt patterns rather too long.  This is, of course, not as bad as if they'd been too short, but refitting is a pain.  I traced the excess while the shoe was still on my foot and took it apart to re-cut.

Everyone's feet are slightly different shapes.  Mine are narrow in the heel and wide across the ball.  A good fitting requires a rather odd shape.  I re-traced the altered upper onto the pattern so that the correction will be permanently incorporated into it.

Finally, it's time to sew up.  I'm using Crazy Crow's five-ply waxed linen cord in "natural," but waxed hemp would probably be more correct for Central Asia, and real sinew is ideal (.  White linen cord from a major craft chain like Michael's would probably be okay since no one will see it - it's certainly no less correct than the latigo, which will be visible.  Artificial sinew and other synthetic materials should be considered a last resort.

Speaking of latigo, it's a very tough material and difficult to pierce with the kind of awl I'm using here.  This is a hobby awl made for light applications.  I am informed by Nadeem Ahmad and Jax Reeder that an awl with a diamond cross section and mushroom handle will make putting holes in the sole much easier.

The finished foot.  Once stitching is completed, the toe is pushed inward and the entire shoe slowly inverted so that the stitching faces inward.  The insole will keep the stitching from touching your foot.  I re-cut the upper perhaps a bit too short, while the sole is still a bit too long and wide, making for an odd fit, but it doesn't yet appear so bad as to be unusable.  Luckily, a single cowhide split should yield enough material for a second pair if the first one doesn't work out.

Retailer assessment: Fabrics-Store.com

This is the first site that shows up when I search for linen by the yard on Google.  It's a U.S.-based online retailer mainly of all-linen fabrics and also linen-cotton blends, located in (or at least shipping out of) Commerce, CA.

Prices are relatively low, lower than Jo-Ann's regular prices on 100-percent linen, for instance.  Shipping rates aren't flat, but "determined by the weight and location of the order."  My order, which cost $188.37, should have totaled about 7 pounds 10 ounces/3.46kg, and shipped to southeastern Pennsylvania, was charged $28.63 in shipping and handling.

The new fabrics, even the "softened" ones, have a smooth, slightly stiff finish, which reverts to the familiar fluffy and wrinkly appearance after washing and tumble drying.  I haven't yet measured it for shrinkage.  The 5.3-ounce medium weight is indeed heavy enough for a tunic.  The 7.1-ounce heavyweight is just about heavy enough for trousers, but both are definitely summerweight if worn unlayered.

Unfortunately, to judge from reviews and customer photos, the site's own swatches don't accurately represent the fabrics' colors.  Thus, trying to choose colors that approximate those produced by historical dyes is an uncertain endeavor.

I've tried to correct the colors in my own photograph, but take them with a grain of salt anyway.

Redwood, top left, is close in appearance to linen dyed with a high concentration of madder (compare the 12.5-25 percent weight-of-fabric tests here).

I'd hoped that Blue Bonnet, top right, would resemble indigo, but it's actually more greenish than it appears here.  Perhaps one of the other medium blues would be better.

Wisteria, center, is very slightly violet.  I still think it's close enough to woad that I wouldn't complain about it.  Again, perhaps another light blue would be better.

Compared to distillatio's tests of lye water and sun-bleaching, Fabric-Store's Bleached is quite a bit lighter, being a pale ivory.  It may be that continuous washing and sun-drying could lighten linen still further, but until I see more evidence, I suspect that the Pebble color might be a better choice for a commoner's moderately bleached linen.

Ginger, bottom left, appears to be well within the ranges of walnut hull dye that I've seen images of.

I didn't get a photograph of the natural (it was in the dryer at the time), but since it is just natural, unbleached linen, that shouldn't matter.  Suffice to say it's the familiar dark greyish beige color, and not as yellow as it appears in the site photos.

Making Scythian boots, part I

Background and considerations
Central Asian peoples from at least around 1000 BCE through recent times frequently wore tall pull-on boots.  With modifications to height and toe shape, these were used by Arians, Drangians, Parthians, Black Sea Scythians, possibly Bactrians, and others at least as far east as the Altai.  Kuz'mina ascribes tall boots to the Bronze Age people of the Andronovo culture, widely believed to include the early Indo-Iranians, so it is possible that the ancestors of the Medes and Persians also wore them.

Artwork is scant on construction details, which, of course, probably varied a lot over such a wide expanse of space and time.  Black Sea Scythian boots on several artefacts from Kul Oba are shown with a strap that appears to gather the boot leg tight around the ankle.  The women's decorated boots from Pazyryk have wide bands of woolen braiding in the same location, but these don't appear to fasten or make the boot leg tighter and instead seem to be appliqued into place (strictly, the Kul Oba ankle straps aren't shown with any obvious method of fastening either).  Otherwise boots appear to have no fastening, like wellington or cowboy boots, which are a modern iteration of the same equestrian concept.  The Chärchän Man's surviving boot doesn't appear to have an ankle strap, but is seamed between the foot and leg.  On balance, I would call the evidence inconclusive.

Since I have thin heels and wide toes, my heels tend to lift out of any pull-on boots that are wide enough to fit my toes into.  I'm making some felt mock-ups and plan to tie straps around the ankles to see if they can be left as separate pieces or need to be partly stitched down.  On Medo-Persian low shoes, the strap has to be attached, since if it rides up even a little, it will be above the top edge of the shoe, and thus fail to serve its purpose of tightening the shoe around the ankle so it stays on the foot.  It doesn't seem to me that tall pull-on boots would have such a strict requirement.  On the other hand, as noted above, stitching the strap down all the way around would make it impossible to adjust, which could well result in a worst-of-both-worlds setup in which the strap impedes putting on and taking off the boot but isn't tight enough to provide good fit around the ankle.

Sergei Rudenko states that the Pazyryk women's boots are seamed at the back, which makes them sound similar to Plains moccasins.  Some Plains boot moccasin patterns may be ideal, but the ones most readily available to me are laced and in such case, I figure I might as well wing it when it comes to fitting the leg, since lace-up shafts won't fit in the same manner as pull-on ones.  The Pazyryk boot legs were open in back, but artwork seems to show that most Scythian boot legs were closed.

The commercial cowhide split I'm using is an inexpensive substitute for a fat-cured leather, but both it and the German-tanned buckskin I used for my gorytos are quite lightweight and floppy.  I expect that leather boots had linings to stiffen the legs and prevent too much sagging, and luckily, I have some lining leather on-hand.  A double layer of the outer material or a felt lining would also work.  Whatever the material, a few rows of stitching to add a little bit of quilting effect should increase stiffness, ensuring that the lining and upper behave as one piece of material.  For cold regions and seasons, a dense shearling hide might get by without an added liner or could even be the liner for a de-grained leather outer.

Soles might have been a single or double layer of soft leather, thick felt, or rawhide.  Rudenko describes one of the Pazyryk soles as "chamois" (which may mean chamois goat or just soft suede - I don't know what the original Russian word was) and another as having "a heel of thick (2mm.) rigid leather."  However, one look at the ornamented Pazyryk soles shows that they weren't made for a great deal of walking, and were likely intended just to show off while sitting or while riding side-saddle.

I'd prefer rawhide, but it works best with special processing such as de-stretching, and most of it on the market tends to be either very thin (goat hide, drumheads), too stiff (most bleached sides and boiled chew toys) or sold in costly whole sides (heavy cowhide, bison, etc.).  There are apparently rawhide soles commercially available, but I failed to find any before just ordering some latigo pieces.  Better luck next time!  Latigo is heavy wax-stuffed leather used for saddlery and other weather-resistant outdoor equipment, and the most common material for modern "hardsole" moccasins.  White latigo looks like bleached rawhide but is much more flexible.  Moccasin-makers around the Web have opined on the pros and cons of rawhide versus latigo with regards to durability, ease of sewing, comfort, traction and so on.  But either one should be acceptable for occasional reenactment use; rawhide simply has the edge as being more historical.  I wouldn't blame anyone for sticking with soft soles, though; they would be less protective, but far easier to stitch and more flexible if you prefer that.

Hemp and wool thread (used in Pazyryk felt stockings), sinew (used to attach the Pazyryk boot soles) and linen would all be appropriate stitching materials.  Artificial sinew and other synthetics would work as well.  For the final construction, I'm currently planning to use all waxed linen, since it's the only historical material I have on hand:  heavy cord for the soles, and light cord or multiple rows of thread to assemble the uppers.

Making the pattern

Assembled materials ready for measuring and cutting, including felt for the mock-up.  The spool of artificial sinew, next to the scissors, was my initial choice for assembly before I obtained some linen cord.

The first step is to find the correct size.  I normally wear a men's size 9 wide, so this is what I initially went for in measuring and cutting.  The Missouri River pattern is unfolded, laid out, and pieces of tracing paper are laid over the desired sections and weighted with various objects.  Trace with a pencil or ballpoint pen so the ink won't bleed through the tracing paper onto the original patterns.

In Plains moccasins, the topline is not a hole but just a T-shaped cut; the moccasin extends to the ankle and has a lace running through slits, and a tongue is sewn into the front.  Here, I'll be cutting away material from the topline to make that swooping seam seen in the Chärchän and Pazyryk boots.  No tongue is needed because the foot will be protected by the boot leg.

The paper copies of the original patterns are pinned to the felt, traced in ink and cut.  The felt pattern should become the permanent pattern cut for my own feet if everything goes well.

As recommended, I added a welt between the sole and upper for the first attempt, but have since decided that this made things needlessly complicated, especially since I'm going to be using insoles.  After cutting out a nicely rounded topline, I attempted to measure its perimeter with a tape measure and then cut a big rectangle for the leg.  Then I stitched it all up loosely with dental floss.

It turns out the size 9 fit FAR too small on me, being too short, too narrow, and too flat in the toe.  It may be partly that these moccasins are designed to be worn without socks or insoles, or they may just run smaller than they should, I don't know.  Add to that, a true fat-cured leather would stretch with wear.

After two more attempts, I now have a pattern that will accommodate my stocking foot and an orthotic insole comfortably, made by combining the back half of a size 10 with the front of a size 11.  In fact, it's a bit too wide now, though a good length.  I don't know if the welt running up the back was used in period, but it's one way to accomplish a flat seam without overlapping the edges and causing a raised edge that could chafe the achilles tendon.  Of course, the welt itself could prove irritating due to being an extra-thick, less flexible part, and any kind of raised seam would be.

The next step will be to cut all the stitches I've just done, do some slight final adjustments to the foot and sole pieces, and then start tracing onto leather.

Making an all-metal akinakes, part I

One thing I've long been unsatisfied with is the fact that all my attempts at making akinakai have had to have wood hilts.  Archaeologists have found a few blades with hidden-type tangs that might have comprised organic-hilted akinakai, but most of the finds I've read about from confirmed Achaemenid sites (Persepolis and Deve Hüyük, mostly) have solid iron hilts.  This is in keeping with the fact that the akinakes seems to have developed since the late Bronze Age as a one-piece casting with perhaps only a cord or leather thong wound about the grip. In the Iron Age, akinakes hilts would have most probably have been likewise forged in one piece.  One or two finds from Persepolis are grooved in such a way as to suggest that the hilts were folded around the tangs from a thin bar, while another is an iron knife with what appears to be the bottom half of an akinakes hilt made of bronze, with a groove completely bisecting the guard.  Metal has the advantage of being less delicate than wood and so the hilt can be less bulky.

Now, hot-forging anything more complex than a tanged leaf arrowhead is well beyond my skill.  However, as last year's Elamite dagger project shows, shaping with a cheap angle grinder requires very little skill, and I happen to have access to a drill press at the moment.  With care, it may be possible to fabricate a slab-tanged akinakes that looks passably like a proper one.  Since the grip will be wrapped with leather, the use of a slab tang should be less obvious.

Right.  As before, the blade and hilt are sketched onto normal paper, folded and cut, then glued onto cardstock and cut again.  I did these while still planning another wood hilt, so they are not quite as according to the current plan.  I cut off the pommel section of the hilt tracing, then traced the rest onto a scrap piece of 1/8-inch steel, and added a straight line so as to first bisect the piece so each scale can be cut out and shaped without damaging the other.  The pommel will be made from 1/2-inch bar stock.  The blade will be from the leftover 1/4x1-1/2-inch bar from last year's Elamite dagger.

Next I glued the hilt pattern to the blade, using the folding lines and the bar itself to ensure proper alignment (as you may have noticed, the hidden tang on the original blade pattern was crooked).

It would be ideal to use a large plate so that the guard can have a corresponding full profile on the blade, but this is what I have to work with, so the sides will have to be filled with extra steel bits traced from the severed wings.  A slight gap will probably remain since this bar stock thins down a bit toward the edges.  Perhaps adding lots of solder will help.

The tang will be much narrower where it passes through the pommel.  This same method was used on the Naue type II of LBA Southern Europe and while it's not accurate here, it should mean the pommel has to be filed out a lot less.

This next step ought to have been done earlier but it's not a loss yet.  I punched a couple holes in the pattern with a hobby awl to mark the rivet holes and widened them with a thin file.

That's all the work I'm doing for today.  The holes need not line up precisely, since they'll be filed wider to fit the pins - as long as a thin round file can pass through, that should be sufficient.

Making an Elamite dagger, part V

Since one grip scale bowed outward a little (probably due to unevenness of the tang rather than the scale itself) I pressed it into place with epoxy and weights, using one pin to ensure it was sitting in the correct position.

I cut up the pins with the angle grinder and gently rounded off the ends to prevent raggedness when peened.  They should protrude above the scales just a few millimeters on both ends.  If you cut them too long, you can grind them down a bit; obviously, if they're even a little too short, you have to start over.

Any old block of metal can serve as an anvil for setting the pins.  Hammer them down until they're flush with the scales.  The hammer does unfortunately leave discolored marks on the wood which need to be sanded off and a final coat of linseed oil applied.

Here you can see that the scales were a bit too short to cover the triangular ricasso.

With handling, the slick appearance and stickiness imparted by the linseed oil will dry up.  The dagger is far more comfortable to hold with the scales in place.  The leaf shape gives it plenty of blade presence; it feels like a chopping blade despite being little more than a foot overall.

Making an Elamite dagger, part IV

I rough-cut the grip scales on a band saw months ago out of a 1/4-inch maple plank from Lowe's.  A more historical material would probably be Eurasian walnut (Juglans regia, aka Persian, English, European, Circassian or common walnut).  Unfortunately the American black walnut planks I had on hand no more closely resemble Eurasian walnut than maple does.  The maple was the remnant from the same plank I cut the scales for my letter opener from back in 2015.  I sorted through the selection at Lowe's to get one with the most visible curl.

After much dawdling and working on other projects, today I finally sanded them down to the correct shape.  The most tedious part of the process is channeling out the undersides of the scales to fit into the flanges, and I failed to get a perfect fit.

To the right are some common nails annealed by gas torch, which, when cut up, will serve as substitutes for the iron pins on the original.  I think I'll be able to get two pins out of one nail, but we'll see.

While a light brown stain might have popped the grain more and given it a slightly closer resemblance to walnut, I am awfully fond of the look of pale wood on dark grey steel (similar to the bone scales that were prevalent on similar swords in the late Bronze and early Iron ages), so instead I'm going straight to the linseed oil finish.  Sufficient coats of linseed will turn pale wood golden yellow, a color similar to antique bone.