The matter of names has proven surprisingly tricky. The first issue is that there’s very little uniformity in the historical record or in the literature as to most of the names in question. For example, Rosamund’s grandfather is variously referred to as Thurisind, Turisind, Torisind, and Thorisind. These are all, most likely, approximations of his actual name, which may have included the components thauris (which probably meant “daring”) and sinþs (“path”) or sinþa (“traveler”). Likewise, Alboin’s actual name was probably something like Albwin–meaning “elf friend.”
This famous ring is part of the Apahida Treasure, held by the National Museum of Romanian History. The inscription names its presumed owner, Omharus, whose name has been otherwise lost to history. He’s speculated to have been a 5th century Gepidic king who received this ring and other costly treasures as a Roman federate. We don’t know what his name would have been in his native tongue, but it probably incorporated the element harjis (“army”).
All this begs the question: is it a problem if a character has come down to us with a distorted name?
The Gothic language is a real challenge for me, especially since I am not a linguist and have no background in Germanic languages. Still, I think the judicious use of Gothic adds a certain flavor to the writing, especially when describing concepts of cultural significance or when use of an English-language term feels especially anachronistic. Of course, the use of Gothic as the language of the Gepids is not without its own issues to take into consideration–a topic I’ve addressed elsewhere.
I am currently working on a scene in which Rosamund witnesses the “blooming of the the Tisza”–a natural spectacle which sees millions of long-tailed mayflies (Palingenialongicauda) emerge from their larval phase, mate, and die, all in a matter of hours. But as I prepared to write, I faced a quandary: what would Rosamund call a mayfly?
What language did the Gepids speak? They left no written traces that would provide an answer to this simple question. It is possible they spoke a Gothic dialect, but if so, how similar was their spoken language to the what we know of Gothic based on limited written survivals?
The Gothic alphabet, via omniglot.com
Most of what we know about the Gothic language comes from a few fragments of the Gothic-language Bible, which was first translated under the supervision of a bishop named Ulfilas. (Incidentally, most of these these precious codices are 6th century copies of older manuscripts that have not survived.) Ulfilas (Wulfila in Gothic) was the son of Christian Greeks captured by Goths. He was, thus, raised with a foot in two worlds. He eventually became a priest and a missionary among the Goths, converting many of them to Christianity in the 4th century. As part of his work, Ulfilas decided to translate the Greek bible into Gothic, but first, he needed to devise a Gothic alphabet. His letters seem to draw on Greek, Latin, and Runic influences.
When writing about Rosamund’s people, I faced a threshold question–what should they be called? Today, they are commonly known in English as the Gepids, but their ethnonym has come down to us in many forms. Greek and Latin sources name them Ghpaides, Gibidi, Gibites, Gepidae, Gebidae, Gebodi, etc. The Origo Gentis Langobardorum refers to them variously as Gyppidos and Gibidos. In the Old English poem Widsið, they are the Gefðum; in Beowulf, they are the Gifðum (both names in the dat. pl.)
5th century Gepidic buckles and belt fittings from the Treasure of Apahida (via the National Museum of Romanian History)
Taken together, these variations do offer certain clues as to the Gepids’ true name. It seems safe to say that it began with a voiced velar plosive (-g-) sound, with the second consonant being a bilabial plosive (-b- or -p-). B and P seem relatively fluid in names from this period (this is likely due to phonetic shifts underway at the time). For example, the Thuringian king Bisin is named as Pisin in some sources. But even if we can guess what their name sounded like, what did it mean?
The name Rosamund remains in current usage, though my impression is that it was more popular in the past. It evokes the Latin phrase rosa mundi (“rose of the world”). In the Greco-Roman world, the rose was a significant flower. It was said to have been created when the goddess of love pricked herself on thorns while rushing to her lover–the flower’s blush evoked divine bloodshed and lust. During the dies rosationis, Romans honored the dead by placing roses on the graves of their ancestors, and various rose festivals were held during the blooming season. Roses were dichotomous symbols representing both beauty and blood, pleasure and death, remembrance and rebirth.
The symbolism of the rose took on new valences with the advent of Christianity. Coelius Sedelius, a Christian poet writing in Latin in the 5th century, used the rose to draw a metaphoric parallel between Eve and the Virgin Mary. Already in the 3rd century, Saint Ambrose postulated that roses only acquired thorns after Adam and Eve’s expulsion from Eden, the thorn itself a manifestation of Eve’s original sin. Coelius Sedelius built on this metaphor, depicting Mary as “the rose without thorn” since she was born through immaculate conception, without the stain of original sin. She became the rosa munda–the “pure rose.”
Rosa mundi, an heirloom variety of rose with a dramatic look and romantic folk history
Rosamund’s name, however, is unlikely to take its meaning from either the Latin or Marian rosa. Rather, it probably bears some connection to the reconstructed Proto-Germanic word for “horse”–hrussą. This word filtered into many later languages. In Old English, a horse was hors, in Old Saxon hros, and in Old High German ros. A cognate for “horse” in Gothic/Gepidic could explain the first element in Rosamund’s name. There’s just one small problem.
A Queen's Cup 