Product review: Lord of Battles forged medium spearhead

Spearheads are a dime a dozen on the reenactor market, but it's strangely difficult to find one that's quite right for our time period.  The vast majority are either too large, the wrong shape, or very expensive.  In fact, India-based manufacturer Lord of Battles' forged medium spearhead is the only one I've found in its price bracket that looks approximately right (though if you have another example, I'd be much obliged if you'd let me know!).

Judging by the finds from Deve Hüyük and elsewhere, the typical Achaemenid spearhead should be relatively small (usually less than a foot long counting the socket) and have narrow kite- or leaf-shaped blades with diamond cross sections, preferably but not always with a mid-rib.  I know of only two whose weights are published, at 196g/6.91oz. and 139.2g/4.91oz.  They may have weighed more before corrosion, but I would imagine the upper weight should be well under 300 grams or 11 ounces for an average-sized spearhead.

Lord of Battles' low prices are presumably a result of lower labor costs than in Western countries, loose manufacturing tolerances (i.e. the company will accept more pieces from workshop[s] despite pieces not being exactly what they should be) and rough finish (less labor required in absolute terms).  I say all this to explain why I think this spearhead is the way it is.

I bought mine through Kult of Athena, who list it at 11.5 inches overall, blade 6.5 inches, socket about 1 inch on the inside, weight 6.7 ounces.  The measurements of the one I received are 11.75 inches overall, blade 7.125 inches, socket 1 inch on the inside, weight almost 11 ounces.  The blade also appears to be wider and more sharply tapered.  Mine also lacks the advertised rivet hole to help attach it to the spear shaft, and the socket isn't quite circular.  Combining all this with fact that one edge is visibly concave and the centerline is curved, I'm left with a poor impression of Lord of Battles' quality control.

The size differences are minor and the asymmetrical appearance might be considered forgivable considering how cheap the spearhead is, but the weight difference (at least for someone like me) is pretty significant.  We are talking about something you affix to the end of a 6+ foot handle and wave around in one hand.  The edges are pretty thick and the point is squared-off, so thinning and slight re-profiling with an angle grinder or belt sander might noticeably improve it.  (In fact, while parts of the spearhead may indeed be forged, I suspect the blade was shaped largely by grinding to begin with.  The fact that it has a rough-ground finish doesn't help that impression.)  At this price, someone who is set up for that kind of work already might consider it a bargain, and aftermarket finishing would certainly improve its appearance.

Waterproof hot glues

IMPORTANT NOTE (3/22/21):  Since publishing this article, I have learned that pine rosin fumes have been found to cause asthma.  The process described below should always be done outdoors.  If weather doesn't permit, then postpone it.

This year I've been trying to eliminate any period-inappropriate materials from my designs.  One that's stuck with me for a long time is rubber cement, which I've used to attach leather facings to wooden scabbards.  I use it primarily because in a real military campaign you couldn't reasonably expect to stash away your scabbard every time it rained, and rubber cement is waterproof, while for a long time the only alternative that came to mind was hide glue, which isn't.  (I understand traditional hide glue is less readily water-soluble than the modern kind that I've been using, which has urea added to keep it liquid at room temperature - traditional hide glue must be kept warm to work with it.)

Anyway, I've read years ago about making varnish from pine rosin by dissolving it in alcohol.  This can be used to protect sinew wrappings on arrows from softening and coming loose.  It recently occurred to me to ask if this varnish would be sufficiently sticky to use for scabbard facings before it dried.  I was in the process of making a new letter opener, and it seemed like the right opportunity to try it out.

If you've ever touched a sawn-off stump of a pine tree, you know that pine resin is incredibly sticky and impossible to wash off with normal soap and water; you need highly-concentrated alcohol (70+ percent hand sanitizer gel works well for this purpose) or some other nasty organic solvent like acetone (nail polish remover).  Resin consists largely of rosin, the solid component, and turpentine, a natural solvent that keeps the resin liquid.  Turpentine takes a long time to evaporate out of fresh pine resin, so resin is processed commercially by heating in a still.  Those who aren't trying to collect the turpentine just cook it off in an open pot.

I ordered some rosin from Creekwood Naturals for experimentation.  This product arrives as a coarse, sandy powder.  It becomes sticky when wet, but it seems to be waterproof.

My first experiments went thusly:  I dissolved some rosin in rubbing alcohol and let it evaporate to a thick, syrupy consistency that could be painted onto a scrap of sanded poplar plank.  For comparison, I also smeared some fresh pine resin on the wood, alongside rubber cement.  On top of all three adhesives I pressed a tiny swatch of chamois, then let the substances dry.

The fresh resin took the longest to dry.  After several days, all three swatches peeled off easily.  The resin was still slightly sticky under the leather; the rosin brittle; the rubber cement, well, rubbery.

I'd heard that beeswax is often used in rosin-based pitch glues to reduce the rosin's brittleness, so my next test used a mix of alcohol-rosin varnish reduced to a syrup and a bit of Sno Seal, which is emulsified beeswax used to waterproof shoes.  This did not work out at all.  The mix took forever to dry, and wasn't sticky enough.

Giving up on emulsions, I decided to try a hot glue.  I shaved some beeswax into a metal bowl and, working by eye, added about two to three times its volume in rosin, then slowly melted the bowl's contents with a heat gun.  At first, the beeswax melted while the rosin turned into a sticky mess, but with prolonged heating and stirring with a brass rod, the mixture became uniform.  (It also released fumes that stung my eyes, and when hot enough, began to smoke.)  Then I smeared a little onto the poplar and quickly stuck the chamois swatch onto it.

I repeat:  Wow!  Once cool, the glue bonded the chamois to the wood with immense strength.  When I tried to peel it, the leather itself ripped up before the glue failed.  I can dent the glue with my nail, but it's not sticky, and even though it's mostly rosin, it more resembles very hard, dark beeswax.

It seemed perfect, but now was time for the real test.

Earlier, I'd ordered a piece of pitch glue to try to glue the wooden halves of a scabbard core together.  It was tricky.  I warmed the glue, pinched off thin bits and laid them on the edges of one half, then melted them with the heat gun and quickly pressed the halves together.  Then I had to heat each edge in turn and press it more tightly, and scrape off or press down the lumps of glue sticking out of the seam.  I also had to shoot the heat gun into the scabbard, then stick the blade in to force any inward-protruding lumps aside and keep a good fit.

When it came time to apply the facing, I melted the entire bowl of rosin-beeswax mix, let it cool to a consistency sort of like room-temperature corn syrup, and smeared it as evenly as possible on the core with the brass rod in one-inch stages.  I melted it again with the heat gun, then pressed on the leather.  When each half of the facing had been applied, I heated the whole face evenly and pressed it against a flat surface to try to smooth out the lumps of glue that had built up underneath.  The result was still somewhat lumpy.  Finally, I stitched up the facing with linen thread in a double-running stitch, and trimmed off the excess.

My heavy reliance on a heat gun does call into question the practicality of this kind of glue in period.  Trying to do the same thing over open flames might well be difficult, as may trying this method on a larger, more complex scabbard such as one for an akinakes.  Nonetheless, when the time comes, this will be what I try.

I have no doubt that this glue will prove waterproof.  Even if it becomes slightly sticky in the rain, the idea of it bleeding through the leather is inconceivable to me.  To my mind, the real test will be whether it softens after a few hours in the hot sun, for which purpose I'll have to wait for the right weather.

As for the letter opener itself:  The blade is another full-tang dagger blade from Atlanta Cutlery, with maple scales and steel pins.  I did reshape the tang to be a little more like a classic Luristan dagger, but while it affects a Near Eastern Iron Age look and I'm using it as a test bed for period materials, I don't believe this object bears sufficient resemblance to any Achaemenid-period dagger to warrant actually using it at reenactments.  (I would, however, love to be proven wrong.)

As an aside, I've bought four Windlass Steelcraft blades this year, and their geometry seems to have worsened compared to my previous purchases, with slightly thinner spines and much thicker, squared edges that will take forever to sharpen.

The scabbard, with its central ridge, straight lines down the edges (here interpreted as facing seams), and rounded tip without a chape, is modeled after those shown in Neo-Assyrian art such as the Lion Hunt of Ashurbanipal and at the Palace of Sargon II.  Its core is made from American commercial poplar (tulipwood), probably yellow poplar, which is simply the low-end hardwood we usually get in my part of the country.

Making a leather pocket, part II and last

Stitching on the bottom panel went faster than I expected, and by Noon yesterday I was able to get to work on the final steps.

The original had, as far as I can guess from the photos, eight slits on each side for the drawstring.  I spaced my markings out 7/8 inch (22mm) apart and wound up with nine on each side.  However, this was a miscalculation; since the drawstring should start and finish on the outside, the final pair went unused.  I made the slits with a fresh pointed X-Acto blade, pushed through against a wood "working" block.  Older blades tend to break at the very tip, leaving the point squared-off - even if the squaring is so tiny that it looks pointed, it's not as good at piercing.  Working by eye, I made each slit around 5/8 inch (16mm) tall and spaced 5/8 inch from the top edge.  After penciling a guideline on the rough side, but otherwise working freehand, I added the decorative piercings below the drawstring slits with a hobby awl.  They weren't very visible, so I enlarged them with a thicker round scratch awl.

The final touch is a drawstring, in the form of a German buckskin thong from Crazy Crow, of which I have several, so I selected the thickest (some of them seem much too thin for this purpose).  It may be better to replace it with something less stretchy later.  A wool or soft linen/hemp string about a quarter-inch thick might work well here, though I might worry that they would wear at the chamois.  The German buckskin has the same texture and softness as the chamois, so my guess is they should wear at each other at about the same rate.

Making a leather pocket, part I

About a year ago, I discussed a leather drawstring pocket found at Elephantine, Egypt, and compared it to a readymade bag from Crazy Crow that I thought would make a passable substitute.  I felt at the time that it wouldn't be difficult to make a more authentic replica, and since I have a few spare days, it seemed like now was the moment to go ahead with that.

Based on the dimensions of the Crazy Crow bag, a replica should be a hair larger to accommodate things that you wouldn't want to leave unattended, including a phone, passport, wallet and spare cash.  I turned the readymade bag inside-out and measured its full height at 6.25 inches (17.22cm) and width at 4.75 inches (12.06cm), and increased them to 7 and 5 inches (17.78 and 12.7cm).  Admittedly, this effort is a little undone by the fact that I'm leaving a wider seam of almost 1/4 inch (0.63cm) due to my leather being so thin.  By my calculations, a bag with a 5-inch bottom panel should have a circumference (and thus length of the walls) of 15.71 inches (39.9cm); however, it might've been a good idea to leave about an inch extra to account for all the seams.  We'll see what happens.

The material is chamois from Ace Hardware.  Although named after a wild goat from Europe, American chamois is made from sheepskin, double-sueded and tanned with fish oil in the same manner as true buff (cowhide) and German buckskin.  As noted before, this process is an approximate substitute for the classic braintanning and similar fat-cured leathers of antiquity, differing only in the fact that leathers tanned with fish oil require no smoking, and thus are paler and smell different.

Normally I would suggest feeling all the pieces of chamois and selecting the heaviest one.  However, Ace has now begun to package their chamois in plastic bags, so it was no longer possible to confidently make a selection by touch.  To make the most of the material I got, I laid out the lines around the middle, where the hide is thickest.  It seems to me just barely thick enough for this purpose.  The leftovers can be used for facing small knife sheaths, adding sand gussets to chukkas, and other light-duty uses.

The only compass I currently have isn't sized to hold a normal writing pen, so I just scraped the pencil lightly against the suede and then tried to re-draw it freeform.  As usual, the lines are drawn on the rougher side, though it bears mentioning that the difference in texture between the two sides of a double-sueded fat-cured leather is, in my experience, much less than that between the two sides of most chrome-tanned splits (which tend to have a nice suede side and an ugly, stringy one).

 

Also as usual, stitching is done inside-out, with the rougher side and its ink lines turned inward when done.  Chamois is thin enough to push the needle through without pre-piercing holes.  The original bag had a rand on only one side seam.  I started with the simpler seam, stitching with buttonweight linen thread (not multi-ply cord this time) and re-waxing as I went with a blob of Victory Brown wax that I have on hand - it's softer than beeswax, so it's easier to use for this purpose.  The original pocket apparently had a single running stitch, so I knotted the thread at both ends of the seams.

The next step, sewing the bottom seam while inserting the rand on a curve, will probably be the most difficult.  I'll work on it today and probably tomorrow as well.

All-steel akinakes by Gladush Dmitry

The akinakai from Deve Hüyük are the best examples known to me this kind of dagger designed for combat in an Achaemenid context.  They have plain iron hilts with T-pommels and very short blades which probably reached a maximum of only about 9 inches (23cm) before corrosion, sometimes having low mid-ridges.  I think they are likely one of the best choices for a middle-class soldier's sidearm.  The design would also work for a Western Scythian impression.

I commissioned this reproduction based an akinakes held at the British Museum from Gladush Dmitry, proprietor of Etsy shop Fantasycraft39, based in Kaliningrad, Russia.  Gladush will produce the same design for you on request.  The blade is heat-treated 60C2 high-carbon steel.  If you only want one for display and non-contact reenactment, a lower price is available for a mild steel blade.  Gladush and I discussed the requirements at length; he was very accommodating to my feedback on improvements.

It's vital to note at the outset that due to domestic laws in Kaliningrad Oblast, the dagger ships in two pieces, so you either have to be able to peen the tang yourself (or find a friend who has the tools and knowhow), or weld it.  I attempted to peen the tang and failed, so I wound up having it finished by a local welding shop, Weld Republic in Newtown (the proprietor, Glenn, is another fellow I had a great time working with, and his rates are surprisingly cheap).  Also, the blade cannot be shipped sharp from Kaliningrad, but the edge isn't terribly thick - it's comparable to the factory edge on an Atlanta Cutlery blade - so sharpening it shouldn't be much trouble.

After assembly.  Glenn's weld is completely invisble.

Before assembly.

You'll note that this first edition arrived with edges on the guard that weren't rounded off, but Gladush says that they can be on future daggers, at no additional cost.  Also, while the dimensions of this one are in keeping with historical examples, some buyers may wish for slightly different ones, such as a thicker blade (the British Museum example is only 5mm with the mid-ridge and pretty light, but a few others appear to have been thicker) or a different grip length depending on the size of your hand.  Again, small adjustments won't increase the price.

To improve hold on the grip, I wrapped it in 2mm hemp cord according to an instructional by Tony Drake at RAT (RAT account needed to view full-sized photos; go ahead, it's free).  This kind of wrapping would likely need to be replaced periodically as it became grimy or worked loose, but it seems tight enough to last several battles and is only a few minutes' work.  Lastly, I filled the slight gap between the guard and blade with beeswax-linseed oil to keep water from getting in and rusting inside the hilt.  I suspect a more authentic option, if you can get it, would be something along the lines of melted cutler's resin, put into the hilt before the tang is inserted.

Ceramic food bowl by Pamela Cummings

Carinated pots and bowls with wide, steep flared rims became common in West Asia in the Iron Age.  Moorey in his Deve Hüyük catalogue attributes the style's origin to the Neo-Assyrian empire.  They were made of pottery, metal, glass and even stone.  While not uniquely Achaemenid, they serve as a good example of a kind of foodware that is often found at Achaemenid sites, and thus will prove useful both as an educational display and, of course, any time you need to eat at an event that's open to the public.  Their international status should also make them more versatile for portrayals of people from elsewhere in West Asia in our time period.

I commissioned this bowl from Pamela Cummings, the Harrisburg, PA-based artisan who also made my water bottle last year.  It's primarily meant as a personal bowl for barley, stew, porridge (I've recently become a big fan of pease porridge) and other spoon foods, but it could also serve as a small common bowl for nuts or dates.  We designed it to be about the size of a cereal bowl, about 4-1/2 inches (11.4cm) across at the narrow carinated point, 6 inches (15.2cm) across at the rim, and 3 inches (7.6cm) deep on the outside.  It's based on a number of finds, both metal and ceramic, from Persepolis and Deve Hüyük.

In construction, it closely matches the water bottle.  Its walls are of medium thickness - thicker than china but thinner than, for instance, the heavier styles of American stoneware.  Also like the bottle, it's made of a faintly speckled, greyish-brown clay with a matte glaze to resemble unglazed, burnished pottery, yet meet modern food safety standards.  (If your local potter works in different types of clay, buff and terra cotta would also be acceptable colors.)  The compact, deep shape and the rim make it convenient to hold, but it has enough of a flat base to sit on a table.

Also as before, I enjoyed working with Pamela on this project, and highly recommend her work.  Her prices are also very reasonable for such important camp items.

Painted suede is a conditional go

About a year and a half ago, Todd Feinman at RAT told me about a period leather finish that could be made from one part melted beeswax and two parts linseed oil.  The oil polymerizes so that the mixture isn't sticky when cured, and the beeswax keeps the mixture flexible.

Regular readers will recall that I've long been troubled by the question of how to reproduce the crenelated decorations frequently seen on Greek depictions of the gorytos.  You could stitch on dyed leather or cloth, but that always struck me as needlessly laborious, and very difficult unless the case's main seam were opened up, so I've concentrated on finding a paint that will do the trick.  It's my understanding that the gorytos and other such gear were made from soft, sueded leather cured with fat or oil, similar to braintan, so any paint would need to be water-resistant (as braintan-type leather soaks up water like a sponge and is hard to seal) and flexible so as not to flake off.  It recently occurred to me that the beeswax-oil sealer might make a good paint binder for that purpose.

I tried it out by mixing a little melted sealer and red ochre (I didn't take measurements, but the amount of ochre wasn't enough to thicken the binder significantly), and when it cooled, rubbing it into a scrap of buckskin, scraping off the excess, and rubbing what was left in again.  A few days later, when it felt dry, I cut the scrap in half and rubbed a top coat of unpigmented sealer onto one of the pieces.  I also tried "priming" another scrap with sealer before painting it and adding a top coat, and rubbing/scraping/rubbing plain red ochre oil paint onto a third piece, which was also then given a top coat.

Yesterday I put all four pieces into a sink full of water and let them soak for an hour and a half.  The result was impressive:  None of the paint on any of the four pieces ran, smeared, or softened in water.  They had apparently sealed in all the pigment in a good-as-waterproof manner.  I even scraped the paints with my fingernail and none came off.  The plain oil paint worked just as well when rubbed and scraped instead of merely brushed on, but it cured much stiffer than the beeswax-oil paint, so between the two, I think the beeswax is preferable.  The additional top coat was not needed, though I suspect it would make the paint job more durable in the long run.  Because German buckskin is so pale, only a little paint is needed.

This technique comes with a number of caveats:

1.  I know of no evidence whatsoever that the Persians or anybody else actually used a paint like this in antiquity.  The materials would've been available, but I have no reason to think that anyone combined them and used them in this manner, other than that it would've been a great way of making those crenelated bowcase decorations.

2.  I used hardware-store boiled linseed oil.  This version has some sort of chemical additives that cause it to cure faster than the kind that would've been available in our period, which (if used as a paint binder) would've been functionally equivalent to the purer linseed oil still sold in art stores for making traditional oil paint.  In other words, if you use the more period-correct oil, you'll need to allow much more time for it to "dry."  On the other hand, it's doubtlessly less toxic.

3.  Many leatherworkers believe that linseed oil's chemical properties degrade leather fibers over time.  However, I think the paint only soaks in shallowly, so I don't think it'll prove much of a problem.

4.  The rubbing and scraping technique is useful only for producing large, simple designs.  It may be possible to apply finer oil paint designs on leather that's been glued to a hard surface and primed with drying oil; if so, that technique might be appropriate for scabbard facings glued to a wood core.