Re-Imagining Periphery: Archaeology and Text in Northern Europe from Iron Age to Viking and Early Medieval Period 1789254507, 9781789254501

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Re-imagining periphery – Sketching out new fairways for researching the Iron Age North
1. Dream-houses of the Late Iron and Viking Ages – The house and the self: Marianne Hem-Eriksen
2. Sticky structures and opportunistic builders – The construction and social role of longhouses in northern Norway: Marte Spangen and Johan Arntzen
3. A tale of three Tuna-sites – A classic scholarly problem enlightened by new archaeological material: Susanna Eklund and Anneli Sundkvist
4. Ultuna – A Late Iron Age gateway to Uppsala: Helena Hulth
5. The digital future of the past – Research potential with increasingly FAIR archaeological data: Åsa M. Larsson and Daniel Löwenborg
6. Searching for new central places – An experiment: Anders Andrén
7. Striking a blow for the plough layer – Exploring the importance of plough-zone finds for the interpretation of a Late Iron Age site: Kristin Ilves and Kim Darmark
8. The dating of Ottarshögen and the emergence of monumental burial mounds in Middle Sweden: John Ljungkvist and Andreas Hennius
9. What was a cooking-pit called in the Iron Age?: Stefan Brink?
10. Poetry and picturing in deep historical time: Lotte Hedeager
11. Kumbl and stafR in runic texts: Anne-Sofie Gräslund
12. Beowulf – The Scandinavian background. A summary: Bo Gräslund
13. Rebooting the Gospel for a Germanic audience – The case of Heliand: Jhonny Therus
14. Female cultic leaders and religious (ritual) specialists in Germanic and ancient Scandinavian sources: Olof Sundqvist
15. Negotiating narrative – An emic perspective on Norse reuse of ancient monuments on the Northern Isles of Scotland: Charlotta Hillerdal
16. Some thoughts about the early medieval settlement on Åland, from a western European perspective: Jan-Henrik Fallgren
17. The solidus from Slättäng: Svante Fischer

Citation preview

RE-IMAGINING PERIPHERY ARCHAEOLOGY AND TEXT IN NORTHERN EUROPE FROM IRON AGE TO VIKING AND EARLY MEDIEVAL PERIODS

edited by

CHARLOTTA HILLERDAL AND KRISTIN ILVES

Oxford & Philadelphia

Published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by OXBOW BOOKS The Old Music Hall, 106–108 Cowley Road, Oxford, OX4 1JE and in the United States by OXBOW BOOKS 1950 Lawrence Road, Havertown, PA 19083 © Oxbow Books and the individual authors 2020 Hardback Edition: ISBN 978-1-78925-450-1 Digital Edition: ISBN 978-1-78925-451-8 (epub) A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020937143

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the publisher in writing. Typeset by Versatile PreMedia Services (P) Ltd For a complete list of Oxbow titles, please contact: UNITED KINGDOM Oxbow Books Telephone (01865) 241249 Email: [email protected] www.oxbowbooks.com UNITED STATES OF AMERICA Oxbow Books Telephone (610) 853-9131, Fax (610) 853-9146 Email: [email protected] www.casemateacademic.com/oxbow Oxbow Books is part of the Casemate Group

The cover art was created by artist Christina Hillerdal, inspired by the vision of the book, artistic interpretation of which we are more than grateful for. We also would like to extend our thanks to Bridget Martin, for her work with language editing and proof-reading. The book could not have been completed without much appreciated financial support from Gunvor och Josef Anérs stiftelse.

To Frands

Contents

Re-imagining periphery – Sketching out new fairways for researching the Iron Age North Charlotta Hillerdal and Kristin Ilves

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Settlement and Spatiality 1. Dream-houses of the Late Iron and Viking Ages – The house and the self Marianne Hem-Eriksen 2. Sticky structures and opportunistic builders – The construction and social role of longhouses in northern Norway Marte Spangen and Johan Arntzen 3. A tale of three Tuna-sites – A classic scholarly problem enlightened by new archaeological material Susanna Eklund and Anneli Sundkvist 4. Ultuna – A Late Iron Age gateway to Uppsala Helena Hulth

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Field and Methodology 5. The digital future of the past – Research potential with increasingly FAIR archaeological data Åsa M. Larsson and Daniel Löwenborg 6. Searching for new central places – An experiment Anders Andrén 7. Striking a blow for the plough layer – Exploring the importance of plough-zone finds for the interpretation of a Late Iron Age site Kristin Ilves and Kim Darmark 8. The dating of Ottarshögen and the emergence of monumental burial mounds in Middle Sweden John Ljungkvist and Andreas Hennius 9. What was a cooking-pit called in the Iron Age? Stefan Brink

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79 91 103

Text and Translation 10. Poetry and picturing in deep historical time Lotte Hedeager 11. Kumbl and stafR in runic texts Anne-Sofie Gräslund 12. Beowulf – The Scandinavian background. A summary Bo Gräslund

107 117 125

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13. Rebooting the Gospel for a Germanic audience – The case of Heliand Jhonny Therus

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Interaction and Impact 14. Female cultic leaders and religious (ritual) specialists in Germanic and ancient Scandinavian sources Olof Sundqvist 15. Negotiating narrative – An emic perspective on Norse reuse of ancient monuments on the Northern Isles of Scotland Charlotta Hillerdal 16. Some thoughts about the early medieval settlement on Åland, from a western European perspective Jan-Henrik Fallgren 17. The solidus from Slättäng Svante Fischer

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157 169 179

Re-imagining periphery – Sketching out new fairways for researching the Iron Age North Charlotta Hillerdal and Kristin Ilves

Periphery is an evasive concept. For those dwelling in the commonly perceived periphery, the periphery is always the centre of the world. This book has a strong focus on the northern edges of Europe – as far away as a 9th-century missionary could imagine. However, northern research and scholars, some of whom are represented in this book, are challenging this conception over and over again. Maybe it is time to reimagine periphery? This edited volume delves into the current state of Iron Age and early medieval research in the North. Over the past two decades of archaeological explorations, theoretical vanguards and the introduction of new methodological strategies, together with a growing amount of critical studies in archaeology from a multidisciplinary perspective, have dramatically changed our understanding of northern Iron Age societies. Awareness of the profound effects of 6th-­ century climatic disturbances on social structures in northern Europe, research demolishing the perception of ideological and symbolic uniformity in the Viking Age, ever-increasing possibilities for larger-scale,‘big-data’ approaches as well as fine-scale methodological analyses in fieldwork going hand-in-hand with a re-integration of written sources and archaeological material are but a few examples of such land-winnings. This book is inspired by the life work of Professor Emeritus Frands Herschend, Uppsala University. Professor Herschend has been a leading figure in the field of Scandinavian Iron Age and early medieval studies since the 1970s, and his research has contributed greatly to advancing the discipline in terms of methodological aspects and experimental archaeology, as well as in textual studies and theoretical discourse. Frands’ research has always been innovative, creative and facilitative, but also thought-­provoking and discussion-generating. It is difficult to imagine meeting

Frands without being affected by the meeting in one way or another. More often than not, he is a source of inspiration, helping you to progress with your research in line with your vision, or even opening up new avenues. There is no problem too difficult for him to find a solution. As is pointed out by Svante Fischer in his inspired chapter, Frands is an ‘extraordinary scholar worthy of emulation and remembrance’ (Fischer, this volume). We have all met him – as a teacher, mentor, a source of inspiration, discussion partner, antagonist and friend. From the editors’ perspective, Frands is an especially cherished person. Without his intervention in seemingly desperate situations, our respective lives would have taken very different turns. For this, and for his continuous support, we are deeply grateful. In the spirit of Frands Herschend’s research, we invited authors to contribute with a conventional research paper or a daring innovative essay, pushing the boundaries towards new fields. The purpose of knowledge production is never just more knowledge, but rendering new knowledge, which in turn involves taking risks and being creative. However, this in itself is not enough when current publishing ideals, accustomed systems and platforms can discourage risk-­ taking. In a time when archaeology more and more is driven by current trends to focus on topics with short research cycles, given the need for quick gains and research impacts (cf. Frith 2020), rather than innovative thinking, it is difficult to go against the flow. With this book, we aimed to diverge from the beaten track by offering a platform for thought-experiments and more speculative scenarios to enter into ‘mainstream’ archaeology – something so characteristic of Frands’ research. Frands is a scholar driven by curiosity and not constrained by, or falling for, the ‘trend’. In his research, but also as a teacher, Frands promotes intellectual courage. He is known to be a pioneer of new methods and

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strategies, but his expertise spans many fields as he has always been driven by an inquisitive mind and a quest for new knowledge.

From dreams to solidus The aim of this book is to provide an intense and cohesive focus on the characteristics of contemporary Iron Age research, explored under the subheadings of Settlement and Spatiality, Field and Methodology, Text and Translation, and Interaction and Impact, compiling the work of leading established researchers and field archaeologists based throughout northern Europe and on the frontline of altering the conception of the northern periphery during the period in question. Settlement and Spatiality gathers studies from six researchers and professional archaeologists who, in four chapters, provide new daring insights into and ways of interpreting settlement dynamics by introducing new material, but also by exploring and re-evaluating already existing material. Marianne Hem Eriksen delves into narrative spatiality through the dreamed Iron Age longhouse, so intimately linking house and human, and representing one way of conveying lifeworlds. The longhouse is also the focus of Marte Spangen and Johan Arntzen’s chapter, which analyses this building tradition in the very north of Europe, for the first time making this material available on a large scale to an international audience. They argue for continuity in relation to a northern Norse identity, emphasizing the complexity of social and political relations in the more dispersed northern geography. This contribution reminds us of the sheer geographical extent of the northern edges of Europe. The spatial complexity of northern Iron Age societies is equally emphasized in the study by Susanna Eklund and Anneli Sundkvist on the meaning and social role of the enigmatic Tuna-places in Sweden. Defined and contextualized, the concept of Tuna-places ties these sites to the broader landscape and their place in society throughout the 6th-century environmental crisis. This study and the study by Helena Hulth are made possible by recent excavations driven by development-led, contract archaeology. In Hulth’s chapter, investigation of the small pockets of information preserved in one of the most significant Tuna-places – Ultuna – is shown to be vital in building a more holistic understanding of a site and its landscape. But more so, it reminds us of the value of investigating and contextualizing even in heavily disturbed conditions. This theme is further developed in the next section of the book: Field and Methodology. In five chapters by eight scholars and professional archaeologists, this section unites the work of academic and development-led archaeology, recognizing interlinked ties of creation of research topics and method development. Åsa Larsson and Daniel Löwenborg acknowledge the potential of

comprehensive data sets in order to ask new questions and pose new hypotheses. Digital technology has made, and will continue to make, the large amount of data produced by development-led projects available for research. As demonstrated by the Settlement and Spatiality section, this has already proven invaluable for rebuilding the premises of archaeological research and outlining a democratic ambition to make data available to all. However, wellfounded hypotheses built from decades of accumulated knowledge provide an equally strong foundation for nuancing our research questions, as well as how we tackle the landscape and its monuments, as shown by Anders Andrén in his thought-experiment for defining central places. The need for such an experiment is born out of the growing impact of agriculturally exploited land. This problem is tackled in the chapter by Kristin Ilves and Kim Darmark, where the conditions forced them to approach the plough layer as an archaeologically valuable context. By paying meticulous attention to investigating the plough layer, which is usually considered of low archaeological significance, both the particular site and the whole region were revealed to be of paramount importance within the Late Iron Age network of central places in the North. By questioning established chronology, reinterpreting typology and resampling old material, John Ljungqvist and Andreas Hennius also force us to reposition ourselves in our understanding of the landscape and to question the direction of influences between periphery and a perceived centre. The reader might be surprised to find linguist Stefan Brink’s contribution under the heading of Field and Methodology, but this reflects the interconnected nature of archaeology as a discipline. By following the Old Norse word arinn, Brink discusses sites with concentrations of cooking-pits, an often-overlooked archaeological feature encountered in most settlement sites of the period. Instead of dismissing them as mundane and of low informational value, he argues for social, and possibly ritual, significance, which in turn leads to a reconceptualizing of the site itself. Text and Translation, the section with chapters from four scholars, explores the significance of the written word existing in the intermedium between the oral culture of the Iron Age and a text-based medieval society. Lotte Hedeager places Iron Age mentality in a deep historical perspective, especially focusing on the dual relationship between human and animal, thereby also illustrating the internalized transformation of one belief system to another. Such transformation, expressed in physical form, is evidenced in rune inscriptions, discussed in the chapter by Anne-Sofie Gräslund. The ways of both monumentalizing and memorializing the landscape materialize the social aspects of Iron Age societies and their formulaic means of communication. Long-term memory linked to place is also central in the following chapter. By boldly relocating the stage for the epic poem Beowulf, Bo Gräslund challenges knowledge so rooted that it has

Re-imagining periphery – Sketching out new fairways for researching the Iron Age North become the truth; the previously established understanding of the Old English authorship is scrutinized and proven to be invalid. In this contribution, the interplay between text and archaeology reaches beyond mere understanding. In the discussion of another epic poem, Heliand, Jhonny Therus illustrates the process of merging pre-Christian and Christian mentalities when something as central to Christian society as the Gospel is reimagined for a Germanic setting. Interaction and Impact deals with different levels of interaction – between cultures and over time – and also challenges some widely preconceived ideas of landscape, texts and settlement dynamics. This section of the book, with chapters by four scholars, is opened by Olof Sundqvist, who dismantles the accepted dichotomy between female and male, convincingly demonstrating how women played various leading roles in ritual and religious practices of pre-Christian beliefs. Charlotta Hillerdal questions the position of the first Norse settlers on the far-away Scottish Isles, and forces us to rethink how we use the concept of Viking. Through his comprehensive landscape study, Jan-Henrik Fallgren demonstrates that preconceived ideas, especially affecting the understanding of more peripheral regions, need to be scrutinized. He points to alternative pathways, thereby offering a solution to a long-standing controversy and breaking loose from the monotonous repetition of earlier research on the settlement dynamics of the Åland Islands – an archipelago between Finland and Sweden. The book ends with a chapter by Svante Fischer, honouring one of the many facets of Frands Herschend’s research. Venturing from the find of a single gold hoard, Fischer weaves together an intriguing story spanning several centuries, crossing geographical and social borders, and revealing how a seemingly singular archaeological artefact carries all the elements of a captivating story.

Transcending tradition Archaeologists like borders. Classifications, typologies, chronologies and defining criteria are central analytical tools for working with the distant past. We all acknowledge that these are just approximations and scientific constructions; nevertheless, they affect both the way we do archaeology and how the discipline is perceived (cf. Latour 1999; see also Herschend 2015 and Witmore 2015). Arbitrary borders can become definite and in some cases very difficult to cross, to say nothing of mastering the courage to break them down. Although this book is clearly divided into discrete sections, the way we have chosen to organize them is but one of many – every chapter can with ease be interweaved in many different fashions depending on focus. Humans are not only settlement or text, but infinitely complex beings. Instead of playing on dichotomies, one would wish for the courage to freely move between analytical borders. With

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this book, we hope to encourage imaginative approaches to preconceived categories. By re-imagining the house as a conceptual space or art as poetry (see Chapters 1 and 10), the old material is reinvigorated through new hypotheses, opening up new avenues of understanding as well as research. Even the tiniest object, when approached with this kind of mindset, inspires our ability to ask what are almost unexpected questions that expand the narrative and add nuances to the story (see Chapter 17). Sometimes, the story is changed altogether. When the authority of knowledge is challenged, whole geographies can be reimagined, thereby reviving a research arena where ancient textual sources prove not to be exhausted (see Chapter 12). Similarly, excavated antiquarian material continues to prove its relevance when returned to the archaeological discourse (see Chapter 8). Once again, we see the validity of established narratives swaying. Archaeology as a discipline is in a state of perpetual renewal. Currently, the discipline is ever expanding through the inclusion of one scientific method after another; archaeology is now down to the molecular level, marking a ‘development in which it has been possible to fit smaller and smaller bits of evidence onto the timeline’ (Marila 2019, 95). The amount of data is ever growing, which is an unquestionable asset to archaeology. However, this also leads to increasing specialization, and blackboxing, which can discourage creativity and, thus, more visionary hypotheses (cf. Gero 2007; Leighton 2015). Alongside, we have forgotten the disciplinary progress that is driven by advances in field strategies. The way you excavate impacts the way you think, and vice versa. By daring to take the risk of diverging from conventional excavation methods and introducing new ways to reach the material past, the rewards are not only the production of new data affecting how we understand the past but also awareness of the role and importance of field excavation in advancing the discourse as a whole (see Chapter 7). In this respect, development-led or contract or commercial archaeology is the premier contributor to archaeological data and knowledge. However, this is rarely reflected in academic research. In practice, the discipline has not been entirely successful in bridging these two spheres of archaeology. The main reason for this is lack of platforms for communication. Much of what is produced by development-led archaeology does not reach further than the so-called ‘grey literature’ of excavation reports, often accessible only through the responsible companies and institutions (see Farace and Schöpfel 2009). Breaching contract archaeology and research has been almost a mission for Frands Herschend for decades (cf. also Herschend 2018); furthermore, he has actively, especially on his blog On the Reading Rest (active during 2011–2015), integrated the results from development-led archaeology into academic arguments (cf. Herschend 2011–2015). This is also an explicit aim of this book (see Chapters 3 and 4).

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An obvious solution to the question of integration can be identified in the ongoing digital revolution (see Chapter 5; Forte and Campana 2016, v–vi; Wessman et al. 2019). Data transformed into an open accessible format facilitates the processing of extensive data sets, which in turn opens up possibilities for large-scale comprehensive syntheses not restricted by narrow spatial resolution. Including large data sets and considering vast spatial distribution patterns opens pathways for redefining communication networks, social organization and political landscapes, thus affecting how we interpret the geographical landscape in its entirety (see Chapter 6). As well as allowing for overarching comparisons, the inclusion of large data sets also helps to reveal more subtle patterns of variation: particularities of the environmental, cultural and socio-political contexts (see Chapter 2). In particular, perceived marginal areas, such as insular and distant coastal regions, have fallen victim to generalizations and uniformizing assumptions. Taking an example from an insular landscape on the edge of Europe, using the landscape as a discursive partner rather than a backdrop and building an argument based on local conditions rather than assumed uniformity challenges accepted grand narratives (see Chapter 14). Separated in time and space, another insular region benefits from much wider contextualization in order to break free from antiquated presumptions (Chapter 15). These studies remind us of the need to always contextualize our material in local conditions. The interplay between text, archaeology and its setting is another emerging theme. Discussions on monumental rune stones and insignificant cooking-pits manage to contextualize single words in the lived Iron Age landscape (see Chapters 9 and 11), maybe bringing them closer to historical reality. A focus on female agency in cultic and religious practices draws our attention to complexity and away from simplifying dichotomies, so often used in prehistory. The lived reality of ritual is mediated through written sources (see Chapter 14). We can also see how the written word is used to manipulate mentalities into accepting a new reality to be lived (Chapter 13). These examples are also a memento of the strength of cross-disciplinary question formulations as well as investigations. Interdisciplinary research processes and performance are more dedicated to providing a comprehensive perspective on deep time and, furthermore, on issues of utmost topicality in the world of today. One such issue is climate change, and its consequences on northern environments and peripheries (cf. Hollesen et al. 2018; Britton and Hillerdal in press), which resonates strongly within northern Iron Age research – especially following the watershed moment of Bo Gräslund publishing his paper in 2007 on the climatic downturn of AD 536, and its social implications (cf. also Gräslund and Price 2012; Price and Gräslund 2015). The strength in the argument lies in different strands of evidence and how these are brought together;

data from geosciences, ice cores, dendrochronology and palynology is used in tandem with archaeological material and contemporary textual accounts, and then reflected on in a thoughtful theoretical discussion on Norse mythology. Whether or not you agree with the final conclusion, the methodological rigour is persuasive. The events of AD 536 and the following years are now something to which every Late Iron Age researcher dealing with the northern edges of Europe needs to relate (cf. Widgren 2012; Tvauri 2014; Toohey et al. 2016; Iversen 2017; Newfield 2018). There are lessons to be learned from the Iron Age climatic disaster, not least how the response of certain communities challenges our preconceptions (cf. Löwenborg 2012), and areas perceived as peripheral with marginal economies, such as northern Norway, show unexpected resilience (Gräslund 2007, 112; Naumann et al. 2014, 322–323) or are even thriving, as is the case with the Baltic Sea archipelago of Åland (Ilves 2018). Alongside economic and social dimensions, symbolic and ritual interpretations of climatic events punctuate the past as well – emotive narrative changes and previous rituals are replaced by a different repertoire (cf. Price and Gräslund 2015; Hultgård 2017, 295, 396‒415; Ilves 2019; Holmberg et al. 2020). Awareness of this is equally important in coping with the present and future challenges related to the ongoing climate crisis (cf. Hudson et al. 2012). Many of the contributions in this volume reflect the relational or relativistic aspect of geography in conceptualizing periphery, and even the North. The fluidity of a north–south border is maybe especially apparent in coastal northern Norway and other areas with evidently mixed populations, where subsistence, economy and, most probably, identity are simultaneously shared and separated (i.e. Bergman et al. 2013; Hakamäki 2016; Aalto and Lehtola 2017; Bunse 2017), and where cultural resilience of sorts could be expressed in the choice to align with one family identity over another in times of turmoil (Spangen 2009, 103). The more research focuses on perceived ‘fringe’ areas, the more evident it becomes that established models of core–­periphery relations are biased and fail to understand the central role ‘periphery’ plays in these relations (i.e. Wickler 2016; Roslund 2017; Sandström et al. 2017; Hennius 2018) and the importance of these northern networks in the economic development of Norse economies (Raninen and Wessman 2014; Ashby et al. 2015; Gustin 2016). Hence, maybe it is time not only to rethink periphery but also to redraw the maps of the Iron Age North, tracing not only the southern parts of Scandinavia but also the entirety of Fennoscandia onto European geography. This volume provides a collective summary of our current understandings of the Iron Age and early medieval era in the North. It also facilitates renewed interaction between academia and the ever-growing field of development-led archaeology by integrating cutting-edge fieldwork and

Re-imagining periphery – Sketching out new fairways for researching the Iron Age North developing field methods in the corpus of Iron Age and early medieval studies. The examples presented here show how the valuable addition of new material is still advancing the field, but also that new avenues of thinking can be opened up by a critical re-evaluation of old material – perspective is everything. In this book, many theories are taken further than their expected outcomes, and analytical works are not afraid to take risks, thus advancing the field of Iron Age research. It is our hope that this volume will encourage the reader to reimagine the North, look for nuances in prevailing narratives, ask new questions and, ultimately, aspire to new research. Charlotta Hillerdal and Kristin Ilves Virapuu, December 2019

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Newfield, T.P. (2018) The climate downturn of 536–50. In S. White, C. Pfister and F. Mauelshagen (eds) The Palgrave Handbook of Climate History, 447–493. London: Palgrave Macmillian. Price, N. and Gräslund, B. (2015) Excavating the Fimbulwinter? Archaeology, geomythology and the climate event(s) of AD 536. In F. Riede (ed.) Past Vulnerability. Volcanic Eruptions and Human Vulnerability in Traditional Societies Past and Present, 109–132. Aarhus: Aarhus University Press. Raninen, S. and Wessman, A. (2014) Finland as part of the ‘Viking World’. In J.A. Frog and C. Tolley (eds) Fibula, Fabula, Fact. The Viking Age in Finland, 327–346. Helsinki: Finnish Literature Society. Roslund, M. (2017) Bringing ‘the periphery’ into focus: social interaction between Baltic Finns and the Svear in the Viking Age and Crusade period (c. 800 to 1200). In I. Gustin, M. Roslund and J. Callmer (eds) Identity Formation and Diversity in the Early Medieval Baltic and Beyond: Communicators and Communication, 168–204. Leiden and Boston: Brill. Sandström, E., Ekman, A.-K. and Lindholm, K.-J. (2017) Commoning in the periphery – the role of commons for understanding rural continuities and change. International Journal of the Commons 11(1), 508–531. Spangen, M. (2009) Silver hoards in Sámi areas. In P. Halinen, M. Lavento and M. Suhonen (eds) Recent Perspectives on Sámi Archaeology in Fennoscandia and North-West Russia: Proceeding of the First International Conference on Sami

Archaeology, Rovaniemi, 19–22 October 2006, 94–106. Helsinki: Finnish Antiquarian Society. Toohey, M., Kruger, K., Sigl, M., Stordal, F. and Svensen, H. (2016) Climatic and societal impacts of a volcanic double event at the dawn of the Middle Ages. Climatic Change 136, 401–412. Tvauri, A. (2014) The impact of the climate catastrophe of 536–537 AD in Estonia and neighbouring areas. Estonian Journal of Archaeology 18(1), 30–56. Wessman, A.P.F., Thomas, S.E., Rohiola, V., Koho, M., Ikkala, E., Tuominen, J.A., Kuitanen, J., Pervinen, H.M. and Niukkanen, M. (2019) Citizen science in archaeology: developing a collaborative web service for archaeological finds in Finland. In J.H. Jameson and S. Musteaţă (eds) Transforming Heritage Practice in the 21st Century. Contributions from Community Archaeology, 337–352. Cham: Springer. Wickler, S. (2016) The centrality of small islands in Arctic Norway from the Viking Age to recent historic period. The Journal of Island and Coastal Archaeology 11(2), 171–194. Widgren, A. (2012) Climate and causation in the Swedish Iron Age: learning from the present to understand the past. Geografisk Tidskrift/Danish Journal of Geography 112(2), 126–134. Witmore, C. (2015) Archaeology and the second empiricism. In C. Hillerdal and J. Siapkas (eds) Debating Archaeological Empiricism. The Ambiguity of Material Evidence, 37–61. London and New York: Routledge.

1 Dream-houses of the Late Iron and Viking Ages – The house and the self Marianne Hem Eriksen

Prologue – Dreaming houses I often dream about my childhood home, and my mother’s family home. When I close my eyes, I can still see every room, every piece of furniture, the dust glimmering in a beam of light coming through my grandmother’s lace curtains. I see the silver mirror on her vanity cabinet in the upstairs bedroom, a mirror that once belonged to her mother, Anna, and that now sits on a bookshelf in my flat in Oslo. Vibrant strings bind us together across time and space, as embodied by that handheld mirror, its gleaming silver decorations of roses and leaves, the fact that the mirror once reflected the face of my great-grandmother, as it has returned the gaze of my grandmother, my mother and me. The mirror has belonged to a series of spaces – a late 19th-century apartment building in Oslo, the quiet, separate bedrooms of my grandparents in the suburbs, through life stages in flats and moving boxes, and now in my home. The mirror reflects four generations of women, our appearances, our cultural norms of beauty and vanity; it is a gendered object of female practice spanning more than a century, and it binds us, our bodies and our intimate spaces together. I am not alone in dreaming about the remembered houses of childhood, spaces where we learn about the world, go through rites of passage and are transformed (Hall 1983, 82–83). Across philosophy, psychology and architecture, it is widely acknowledged that the house can be deeply entwined with the self, with being (e.g. Jung 1963; Heidegger 1971; Marcus 1995 [1971]). Yet, I argue the house is not merely an abstract, passive metaphor for the self or the person – it is a material part of its transformations (Carsten 2018). Because the home is the primary arena for childhood development, earliest memories and identity formation, it becomes inextricably linked with household relations,

group and power dynamics, and self-narrative. Paraphrasing Gaston Bachelard, exploring the poetics of space, we carry these houses with us throughout our lives (Bachelard 1994 [1964]). And, indeed, that also means that we may dream of them (e.g. Hall 1951). What is the relevance of all this, one may interject, to the dwellings of people from the deep past? Surely we cannot preach the need for ontological reflexivity and sensitivity while assuming a universalist position of houses as psychologically meaningful, as expressions of modern, Western conceptualizations of the self. So, the question becomes: did the longhouse-dwellers of the Late Iron Age dream of houses, too? And, if so, did their dreams of houses relate to the self? Dreams are obviously not readily present in the archaeological record. I will in this chapter explore dreams about houses from Norse literature, focusing on the Icelandic sagas, legendary sagas and poems of the elder Edda, and connect them with some aspects of the archaeological remnants of Scandinavian longhouses from this period. There are clear source-critical aspects to using this body of textual material to understand concepts of houses and self in the Late Iron/Viking Ages. First, the texts are written later than the period at hand. Second, as dreams are often used as narrative devices, we cannot take accounts of dreams in literature as objective recordings of historical persons’ dreams. Unlike the anthropologist speaking to their interlocutor, we cannot ask the dreamer any questions, or grasp everyday people’s dreams – dreams retold in the works of literature are a biased selection, serving as plot points, and dealing mostly with the elite. This, however, does not render the recorded dreams meaningless. To the medieval audience, these dreams must at the very least have resonated with them and their understanding of their own past and their

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own dream-worlds. Narratives of people dreaming about their houses tell us something about how both dreams and houses were conceptualized. This chapter thus embarks on a journey into unknown archaeological territory. Although the study of dreams is an established branch of anthropology, I am not aware of any archaeological study marrying dreams and the material world. Frands Herschend has, however, explored many original aspects of houses, for example the hall room as a micro-cosmos of aristocratic society (1997), relationality between architectural spaces and ritual performances (2018), or the hall as an idea of the good in the Late Iron Age (1998). This paper should be read, then, as an explorative excursion into uncharted archaeological lands: I hope in Frands’ spirit.

Dreams and the self All people dream. Yet, dreams are historically situated and reflect historically and socially specific ideas, for example concerning ancestors, religion, gender, performance, power, otherworlds, anxiety and ideas of personhood and the self. It has been argued that every ‘unique culture shapes and is shaped by dreaming in distinctive ways’ (Lohmann 2007, 39). Some societies have especially rich and complicated dream and night realities: for instance, among the Otomi in Mexico the entire night is a house, a house of darkness. Night-time is a time and space for ontological blurriness – within this night-house, people can become animals, stones can become ancestors and so forth: ‘At night, the body is totally open to the world and can be dismembered, sacrificed, and put together again’ (Galinier et al. 2010, 830). In many societies, there is an intimate link between myth and dreaming (Kracke 1992; Ewing 2000). In yet other societies, dreams are inconsequential and nonsensical (Lohmann 2007, 41–42). Seeing as dreams are entangled with, and can be used as instruments to understand, a wide range of social practices and concepts, it is somewhat puzzling that dreams have rarely been seen as central to anthropology and ethnography (Lohmann 2007; Ingram 2015). Even though dream anthropology saw a resurgence around the turn of the new millennium (Lohmann 2007), as late as 2010 scholars critiqued anthropology for still emphasizing daytime, public practices – and thereby neglecting half of human beings’ social lives, i.e. anthropologies of the night, sleep and dreaming (Galinier et al. 2010). Perhaps this relative lack of scholarly interest is a legacy of how dreams are understood in Western modernity: as either a nonsensical, biological function or as pertaining almost exclusively to individual psychological development. Freud shaped much of the modern understanding of dreams as pertaining to the individual psyche and expressing desires of wish fulfilment – the dream as the ‘royal road to the unconscious’ (Freud

1913). Jung widened the scope with an understanding of dreams as part of the collective unconscious, as archetypes, but he still saw dreams as part of individuation and development of the self (Jung [2011]). Ultimately, dreams are in Western (post-)modernity thought to relate to the individual, their inner life and their psychological development (Spaulding 1981, 340). Yet, dreaming intersects historically situated ontology and practice on the one hand, and individual psychology and the constitution of the person and the self on the other. Societies that see dreams as the manifestations of an individual psyche, with notions of bounded individualism, such as the contemporary West, may be termed egocentric. Cultures where personhood is more flexible and fluid, and parts of the self can travel to the dreamlands, speak to ancestors, transform into animal familiars and vice versa, may be more socio-centric (Mageo 2003), although these are not rigid dichotomies. Communities stressing practices of dream-sharing, such as the transformation of individual dreams into community songs among the Xavante through performance (incidentally taking place on the house patio), demonstrate how dreams may relate both to subjective experience and to collective discourse simultaneously (Graham 1994). At least in studies springing from Western societies, research suggests that people dream in spatial terms. In particular, people’s dreams are set in and around houses (Hall 1983, 82–83; Hartmann 1996): of 10,000 dreams collected in the mid-20th century among young American adults, the most common spatial setting was a dwelling or other building (Hall 1951, 61). This chapter aims to explore the connection between the house, dreams and the self, and thereby examines whether people in the Late Iron Age and early medieval period dreamed of houses, too.

Dreaming in the Viking Age Did people in the Late Iron Age and early medieval period dream of houses? The answer to this question is unequivocally yes. Norse literature contains numerous retellings of dreams – it has been estimated that no fewer than 530 references to dreams are made across the literature (Kelchner 1935, 3). Dreams were in Norse worlds premonitions about the future, and dreaming was a form of divination and, in some cases, spirit travel. The texts reference dream interpretation as a specific skill, in which some are more skilled than others (Turville-Petre 1958). Although dreams had little, if anything, to do with individual psychology, dreams in the Norse texts may still tell us something about the character of the dreamer (Lönnroth 2002, 456). The corpus of dreams in the Norse literature was collected by Georgia Dunham Kelchner in the 1930s. Both Kelchner and, later, Lars Lönnroth, who draws on Kelchner’s corpus, classify the dreams in different ways. Kelchner sees two

1.  Dream-houses of the Late Iron and Viking Ages – The house and the self main categories of dreams – dreams about adversity and dreams about prosperity – while Lönnroth distinguishes two main motifs: ‘threatening beasts’ and ‘protective spirit/ ancestor speaks to dreamer’ (Lönnroth 2002, table 1), two motifs that also make an appearance in this chapter. Neither Kelchner nor Lönnroth, however, remark on the spatial setting of the dreams in any detail. By doing a simple quantification of Kelchners’s corpus, I find that 32 (c. 20%) of the c. 150 dreams in her compilation involve a house or its immediate surroundings (i.e. fields, outhouse, garden). It is worth noting that, when the dreamer retells their dream, they frequently indicate, for example, that an ancestor came to them in their bed, or that in the dream they went outside the house to see something approaching in the distance, implying that the starting point of the dream is within the house wherein lie their sleeping bodies. However, I have not included all dreams that are implied to take place in the house; rather, I have singled out dreams where the house or its immediate surroundings seem significant to the content of the dream. This is, obviously, not an exact science. Yet, a substantial portion of reported dreams in literary works are set in or directly involve settled space. The dreamers are both men and women but are usually the house-owners – we are not retold the dreams of servants or thralls. The motifs of house-dreams can be organized into three broad, interconnected categories: attacks on or destruction of the house, the concept of fylgja in the forms of animals and ancestors, and the future of the kin. In the following, I will discuss these three themes before turning to deliberate the complex interweaving of houses, personhood and dreams in the Late Iron Age.

Destruction of the house The first motif of house-dreams in the Norse literature is attacks on or destruction of the house. These dreams foretell death or battle, relating to the settlement in general or an individual, through approaching enemies and/or the physical demolition of the house. For example, Kostbera tells her husband, Högni, the following dreams in Atlamál in grœnlenzku, right before Högni is killed by Atli: I thought your bedsheets were consumed in flames, the fire leapt high through the house […] I dreamed a bear had come in, broke up the [posts, my translation], shook his paws so that we were afraid; took many of us into his mouth so that we were helpless; there was no little tumult or noise […] I thought an eagle flew in along the house; he will deal hardly with us; sprinkled us all with blood […] From his behaviour, I thought it was the shape of Atli.

In Harðar saga and Holmverja, before enemies try to burn them to death within their house, Þorbjörg dreams:

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[…] eighty wolves ran to the homestead with fire flaming out of their mouths; among the pack was a white bear and he seemed rather sad […]

Also in Atlamál, before the death of her husband, Gunnarr, Glaumvör dreams: I thought a spear was thrust through you; wolves howled at each end of the spear […] I thought a river ran the length of the house, roaring with violence, rushed along the benches, broke the legs of both your brothers; the water was not to be stemmed, that must mean something […] I thought dead women came here in the night, dressed in mourning; they wanted to choose you, asked you at once to their benches.

In a similar vein, Sturlu dreams that his ancestral homestead is overtaken by a landslide (Sturlunga Saga); in Hænsa-Toris Saga, Herstein dreams that his father comes to him, alight with flames, as his father is at the same moment being burned inside his house; and in Viga-Glúm’s Saga, the protagonist dreams that his enemy is approaching his house while he is unarmed – they meet on the doorstep and end up striking each other. A recurrent element in these foreboding dreams is blood. In Kostbera’s dreams above, the eagle that flies through the house (which looks like Atli) sprinkles the inhabitants with blood. In a dream told in Sturlunga saga, two women are seated in a big house, covered in blood and rocking back and forth, while blood rains in through the smoke-openings in the roof. Another dream from Viga-Glúm’s Saga tells of two women who settle new land, carrying a trough between them, sprinkling the land with blood. In an episode from Gísla saga Súrssonar, Gísli is followed by two women in his sleep – his fylgja (see below). One of them is not happy with him and repeatedly rubs him in ‘sacrificial blood’ in his dreams. Atli (Attilla), who appears as a blood-spreading eagle in Kostbera’s dream, later has a cycle of evocative dreams himself. After he has killed his two brothers-in-law, Högni and Gunnarr, as their wives’ dreams foretold, Atli begins to have eerie dreams. In the first, he is pierced with a sword by his wife, Guðrún. In the second, some reeds are growing in his homefield that he wants to keep; however, they all fall, and Atli is served a meal of the reeds, their roots blood-soaked. In the third dream, two hawks fly from his arm to the land of the dead, and he in sorrow eats their blood-filled hearts with honey. And, finally, two howling puppies slip from his arms, their bodies become corpses, and he reluctantly eats them. The entire cycle is a foreboding of the macabre events that lie in his future: Guðrún indeed takes revenge on Atli for killing both her brothers by feeding him their own sons unknowingly.

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The imagery in these dreams is violent and evocative. Blood is clearly a bad omen in these contexts, but blood’s position as a substance in between life and death – life force and sign of danger (Carsten 2011) – was not lost on the contemporary audience. In one origin myth, the Norse gods kill the giant Ymir and carve out the world from his body. His bones turned to mountains, his flesh to earth, and his blood to the oceans and rivers. Moreover, according to later written sources, blood was central to the animal sacrifices of the Iron Age, the word blóta possibly etymologically linked with ‘sprinkling’, ‘staining’ with blood (Steinsland 2005, 276). The motif of sprinkling blood in the hall during blót makes an intimate connection between the (animal) body, its life force and the house. In the foreboding dreams, the material quality of blood as a liquid that can be sprinkled, come down like rain or soak into the ground is drawn upon and evokes the reader.

Ancestors and animals – Fylgja Another recurrent theme in the foreboding dreams is animals. Wild animals in particular play a crucial role in the threatening dreams: bears, eagles, vixens, vipers and wolves all make an appearance. Human–animal transformation was part of the social reality of the Iron and Viking Ages, and the animals of the dreams relate to the entangled concepts of fylgja, hamingja and hugr. Hugr relates to a person’s consciousness, mind or intent. Those who are able to shapeshift – great sorcerers – can send their hugr out into the world in animal form while they are asleep or in a trance. In some instances, the human body lies still, while in others the human body physically transforms into an animal. Hedeager (2011, 84) stresses that shapeshifting is not a ‘symbolic’ action, but part of Late Iron Age ontology. Fylgjur (in the plural) are, rather than shapeshifting humans, doppelgängers of sorts, fetches who attach themselves to specific people at birth and follow them through life. Fylgjur can take two forms: animal or woman. Etymologically, fylgja has multiple meanings – ‘follower’, ‘afterbirth/placenta’; it may also be related to fulga, ‘skin’, ‘cloak’, ‘animal clothing’ (cf. Hedeager 2011, 82–84). Despite the etymological link to follow, fylgjur often appear before the person themselves, an aspect of the self that arrives before their human body. Fylgjur appear in dreams, but, for perceptive individuals, they can also appear in waking. A humorous example is found in Flateyjarbók, when the boy Þorsteinn comes running into the hall and trips. The householder’s father, Geitir, bursts out laughing, and, when prompted, explains that, when the boy entered, a white bear cub followed and ran in front of the boy, tripping him up. Geitir has second sight and can therefore see the fylgja in waking hours; the polar bear fylgja also led him to understand that the boy was of a more prominent family than he had been told.

Hamingja is a related but different concept: it is a guardian spirit and the embodied luck of a family/kin-group. Hamingja does not follow merely one individual through life but is passed from person to person within the kin-group at death. Hedeager argues that the animal hamingja, related to hamr, which also means ‘skin’ or ‘animal clothing’, can be the interim shape of a person’s hugr as it is sent out into the world in animal form. Davidson (1968, 128–129) points out that the type of animal one has as a fylgja or hamingja is associated with the social standing of the person, and perhaps also their character (Mundal 1974, 58–60). Significantly, ideas of shapeshifting or animal familiars are not merely literary motifs: they are found archaeologically in the animal styles, in iconographic depictions of people in animal dress (Fig. 1.1), in the co-mingling of human and animal remains in cremations, and perhaps in practices of burying animals with the dead. In this complex interweaving of fetches and shadows, guardian spirits and shapeshifters, there are two major points of interest for this chapter: first, the idea of personhood and the self was highly complex and composite in Norse society, and could include the self taking animal form, having a shadow-being follow you through the life course, and the collective personhood or luck of the kin existing in an embodied, personified form. Second, all these diverse beings were particularly present in dreams, where they would journey, often from house to house. Not only animals could be fylgjur, but so could women, in the expressions ‘ættefylgjur’, ‘kynfylgjur’, ‘draumkóna’, ‘dís’ or ‘fylgjakóna’. These beings are not attached only to one individual through life but follow a specific family and can be transferred to a new person at death. Indeed, some scholars hold that the female fylgja/hamingja are, at times, themselves dead ancestors, looking over their descendants. They also seem to some extent to be spatially anchored to the house: It is told that one night Glúmr had a dream. He thought he was standing outside the house, and looking towards the firth. He thought he saw a woman walking across the country, and coming towards Þverá. She was so huge that her shoulders touched the mountains on each side. He thought he went out of the homestead to meet her, and asked her to his house. And after that he awoke. All thought this dream strange, but he said ‘This is a great and remarkable dream, and I would read it thus: Vigfúss my grandfather must be dead, and the woman who was higher than the mountains as she walked must be his hamingja, for he was nearly always above other men in honour; his hamingja now must be seeking an abode where I am’. (Viga-Glúm’s Saga 9)

The giant woman is invited into the house by Viga-Glúm, the implication being that she will dwell there with him.

1.  Dream-houses of the Late Iron and Viking Ages – The house and the self

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Figure 1.1. Woodcut illustrations of the four Torslunda bronze dies, displaying scenes of interaction among male anthropomorphic figures and animals/anthropomorphs cloaked in animal skins. Illustration by Kongl. Vitterhets Historie och Antiqvitets Akademien 1872, in the public domain.

There is sometimes a sexual undercurrent to the concept of the female fylgja. In Gísla saga Súrssonar, Gísli is in a precarious situation. He has been outlawed when he has a dream: he comes to a hall and, as he walks in, he sees many of his kinspeople and friends by the fires, drinking. There are seven hearths, some almost burnt out, some burning strongly. Gísli says that he has ‘two dream-women’ – and one is always good to him while the other always makes bad predictions. Now, the good dream-woman approaches him. She tells him that the seven hearths mark the years he has left to live. He wakes up, and, after seven years pass, Gísli’s outlawry has caught up with him. Shortly before his death, he has a new dream. One of the dream-women invites him to her hall. The hall benches have cushions and seem comfortable. Here you shall come when you die, she says, and enjoy prosperity and happiness. However, through Gísli’s verses we see that the hall where he shall spend his death is also a place of erotic encounter (Lönnroth 2002):

‘Here, shall you lie down and breathe your last with me,’ said the Hild of the rings. ‘And here, my warrior, you shall rule over all this wealth and have dominion over me, and we shall have riches beyond gold’s measure.’ (Gísla saga Súrssonar 30)

A metaphor used in the description is ‘the wealth of the snake bed’, usually used as a metaphor for gold, but here probably also a sexual, embodied metaphor (Lönnroth 2002, 460). A sexual relationship between the female fylgja/hamingja and a male protagonist is not only expressed through innuendo. In Völsunga Saga, there is a paraphrasing of Glaumvör’s dreams told above of the women coming to collect Gunnarr ‘to their benches’: Then I thought dead women came in here; they were gloomy, and they chose you for husband; it may be that it was your dísir. [my emphasis]

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Sexuality and death are entangled in Norse mythology, in written sources, in archaeological material of phallic stones placed on burial mounds and in the Gotlandic picture stones (Steinsland 1997; cf. Eriksen 2019, 147–150). When considering the interweaving of the house and the self, a crucial point to remember is that, when people died, they expected their bodies to go to other longhouses and halls, and in some cases, to Hel’s, Freyja’s or other women’s embraces (Steinsland 1997, 102–106).

The future of the kin The final motif of house-dreams to be discussed here are dreams about the future of the kin. For example, in Harðar saga Signy dreams that a tree springs from her bed, its branches stretching out and touching every building in the settlement. In a famous dream, Ragnhilðr takes a thorn from her dress and plants it in her garden outside the house – the tree grows to reach all of Norway, and is a premonition of her son, King Halfdan Svarte. In Sturlunga saga, Gunnhilðr dreams that she is in labour in a large house, but, once she has given birth, the midwife/servant is afraid of the child, and when Gunnhilðr looks at the infant, it is a stone that sends sparks all around the house. Þorgils dreams that he is at home, looks down at his right knee, and five leeks have spring from it (Flóamanna saga). Thus, the future of the kin is also somehow caught up in the physical structure of the house: descendants appear in dreams as trees growing from the bed or the garden of the house, touching every building in the settlement or indeed the entire country. Þorgils’ dream of leeks springing from the knee deserves comment – this is likely related to the domestic practice of ‘knee-setting’, when a man accepts paternity of a child and inscribes it in the kin-group by sitting in the high-seat and placing the child on his knee (Steinsland 2005, 328). The five leeks are the five children of Þorgils’ future. To summarize, then, dreams are in Norse literature often forms of divination or spirit journeys. They can be visions of events elsewhere, and they are spatially grounded, often anchored to the house. Not only do the majority of dreams take place within the house, the dreamer being approached in bed by the dead or someone’s hugr, but significant events involve the house and its immediate surroundings as well: houses being destroyed, animals threatening the house, guardian spirits visiting the house, or else the house being the spatial anchor for the future of the kin.

Houses and personhood in the Late Iron Age The evocative, sometimes violent, dreams of houses in the Norse literature clearly connect the fate of an individual with the fate of the house. Buildings, bodies and dreams seem entwined physically and conceptually. Houses and people are two parts of one story – they construct each other and,

therefore, dreaming of one can be dreaming of the other – as in Gísli’s dream of his future as a house and a series of hearths. However, it also seems clear from the narratives above that the potential qualities of buildings and dreams to generate a sense of self or personhood seem to pertain both to individuals and to the larger kin group. An attack on an individual can clearly be dreamed as attacking or destroying the physical building, as a river that cannot be stemmed, a pack of wolves, a striking viper. Yet, also, an attack on an entire household can be dreamed as the hugr of the enemy in animal form, running towards the house with evil intent. In other words, the house of the Norse dreams is connected to the self, but possibly either the self of the head of the household or the larger, collective household.

Life cycles of houses and people The sense of houses’ fate being intertwined with the fate of the house-owner or even the wider household has some clear parallels in the archaeological material. Regarding the longhouses of the Early Iron Age, Herschend (2009, 165–169) has argued, dovetailing with the work of Gerritsen (1999), that houses were built to last for relatively brief periods – one to two generations per household. Each couple upon marriage (however that was envisaged) would build a house. Once the builders died, or perhaps one generation later, the house died with them. This also entails that, when children left their parental home, it would be to build a new house. Housebuilding was thus part of the life cycle and an important rite of passage expressed in architectural, material terms. The fact that the lifespan of the house was short, and that the posts would rot and decay within some decades, were an integral part of the idea of the longhouse as the good, as a proper house (Herschend 2009, 157). The entire weaving of the social fabric, the formation and dissolution of households are thereby expressed in spatial, architectural terms – and belonging and affinity are dealt with in terms of moving, constructing and dismantling space and built environments across landscapes. Embedded in Herschend’s and Gerritsen’s work is the notion that houses have life cycles and biographies of their own – they are built, have a use-life and they die (e.g. Tringham 1995). House-building, rebuilding and dismantling and abandonment, including artefact deposition, were ways of handling life’s events and marking key moments in the development of personhood of the kin (Eriksen 2019; Herschend 2009, 186–187). At some point in the Early Iron Age, the lifespans of houses change – perhaps earlier in the south than in central Scandinavia. Some houses, although not all, are no longer built and abandoned after a relatively short period of time – they are more often rebuilt in the same place (e.g. Herschend 2009, 216–217; Olsen and Tellefsen 2010, 110–113; Webley 2008, 36). In the period AD 550–1050, about one-quarter of the houses in the Norwegian corpus were built successively in place (Eriksen 2019, 114).

1.  Dream-houses of the Late Iron and Viking Ages – The house and the self This focus on permanence may indicate a new concern for the endurance of the architectural form and a desire to make the house a permanent institution. Could this desire be caught up with the idea of the house as a node of the essence of the kin? The house is potentially no longer linked mainly to the life cycles of one couple, but rather to the protection of the future of an entire kin group or a wider household. Here we can glimpse, as in the dreams, how central the settlement seems to be in social and political, but also material, terms. As Herschend has argued with regard to Uppåkra, the hall owners strived as best they could to preserve not only the exterior and the construction but also the floors of their dismantled halls (Herschend 2009, 157–158). It seems that the elite in particular were preoccupied with rebuilding their halls at specific nodes in the landscape, while more regular houses still in the Late Iron Age would adhere to the older model of relatively short lifespans. Perhaps, then, the most prominent houses are viewing their buildings and halls as an extension of their sense of personhood and the self, and they want to project that essence and power into the future, while ‘normal’ households see the house’s life cycle as more entangled with the personhood of the house-builders.

Burning and burying houses The significance of the physical integrity of the house to the future of the kin can also be expressed in the very real fear of attacks on, threats to and burning of houses.

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We can see in the dream corpus that the fear of fire was real. In the sagas and poetry, there are several examples of attacks on and burning of houses and halls (Sørensen 2003; Myrberg 2005). From time to time, burnt houses occur in the archaeological record; some presumably the consequence of violent events or accidents, while others may be intentional destructive acts to end the social biography of specific houses (Herschend 2009, 151–152; Eriksen 2016). This argument builds on the fact that, in some cases, the potential of expressing personhood in certain houses appears activated in particular and powerful ways. In these rare instances, the house is treated as analogous to the human body. This may, for instance, be the case at the site of Jarlsberg, Vestfold. A relatively typical byre-dwelling house with a central entrance room was built at Jarlsberg in the 500s, and may have stood for 100 years (Grindkåsa 2012). At its abandonment, a series of practices and events took place at Jarlsberg. The house burnt to the ground. Immediately afterwards, a person with male-gendered objects, including weapons and a Continental brooch, was inhumed on the central axis of the house, presumably close to where the central hearth used to be. Subsequently, the house and surroundings were overlain with burial mounds, one of which was placed so that the inhumation was located precisely under its causeway. The place was transformed from a dwelling to a burial site of monumental mounds (Fig. 1.2).

Figure 1.2. The longhouse at Jarlsberg superimposed with burial mounds. Illustration by Museum of Cultural History, University of Oslo.

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This is not the only example of a house being burnt and covered by burial mounds in the Iron Age (Eriksen 2016). While not a common practice, some houses are themselves buried after abandonment – in some cases, people returned to construct burial mounds several generations after the end of the house’s lifespan. Crucially, not all of the known examples are mortuary monuments of the dead. Some of the mounds lack any human burial. Is the mound of the destroyed house, then, necessarily commemorating an individual? Could these be commemorative practices not necessarily for one, specific, bounded human being, but acts to commemorate the entire assemblage of the house, and the fact that it has run its course and is no longer habitable? I have argued that, much as in other places, in the Late Iron Age social relationships can exist and emerge through an object or a material – at least in some instances, the longhouse is the kin, and the kin are the longhouse. They are not identical, but they are enchained. This also means that, when houses are burnt to the ground, whether intentionally as an attack or as part of the abandonment process at a site, this is as much about concluding/destroying the quality of collective personhood or agency expressed in the building as anything else.

Mundal argues that the ættefylgja, at least at times, are dead ancestors (Mundal 1974, 104–105). Particularly when they come to fetch the living to the realm of death, they come in the cloak of the dead, she holds; in one instance, a named and known ancestor appears as a fylgja. However, if the women are dead ancestors when they are fetching the living, it makes the motif of sexual encounters puzzling – I have seen no comment on this from literary scholars. Archaeologically speaking, the living and the dead were entangled in the Late Iron Age: their relationships were active, complex and, at times, ambivalent, even threatening. Biological death was not a stopping point in the relationships with an individual; the dead were ever-present and intimately bound to the realm of the living, and to the house (Eriksen 2019, 189–200). There are instances of houses being built directly over burials, wall to wall with mortuary monuments, the dead being buried in abandoned houses, and, as discussed above, mounds superimposing houses (Thäte 2007; Dahl 2016; Eriksen 2016). There is no reason to assume that a clear spatial divide between the living and dead was universally desired in the Iron and Viking Ages. This implies again that the house and the kin are enchained in significant and meaningful ways.

Houses bundling the living and the dead

Concerns for the future

Another theme of the dreams that resonates with the archaeological material is the relationality between houses and the dead. The many dreams about the hamingja and the ættefylgjur – the female beings guarding the kin, warning them of danger or collecting them at death – are interesting in this regard. Mundal (1974) points out some of the differences between the animal spirits and the female spirits: the animal fylgjur are an alter ego of a person, and will die when the person dies. The female fylgja, on the other hand, is an independent entity with her own agency, who can show herself to and speak with her human. The ættefylgjur are seemingly caught up with built environments. Viga-Glúm’s dream demonstrated how guardian spirits are bound to a particular person within the kin, and will seek out a new person when the former kin leader dies. But also, in Gísli’s dream, his draumkona shows him the future materialized as a house or hall. His future, his life, is a hall with kin and friends drinking, and his seven remaining years are the seven hearths burning along the centre aisle. The house is here the fate of the person, and the fate of the person is the house. In some cases, the ættefylgjur have their own halls. This is reflected in the later dreams of Gísli, when he is shown the hall and bed where he shall dwell in death, having dominion over his draumkona, and in Glaumvör’s dreams referenced above, where two women come to fetch Gunnarr, her husband, and choose him for their benches/for husband. Of course, Hel, the goddess of death, also has her own hall where she receives some of the dead in ‘Hel’s embrace’.

The anxiety regarding the destruction of the house, so evident in the dreams in the narratives, is likely also expressed in the deep-time tradition of depositing objects in longhouses. In the Norwegian corpus, about one-fifth of longhouses from the Late Iron Age have likely or probable instances of artefact deposition. Depositional practices are multifaceted: I argue elsewhere (2019, 163–176) that depositing artefacts and human remains in the postholes, pits, hearths and doorways of the house can be connected to people’s rites of passage, marking them through and with the physical structure of the house. Deposition can be about preventing dangerous spirits and beings from coming into the house as apatropaia – objects that ward off evil – and it can be connected to a desire to protect the future of the house and the kin, to attract good fortune and prosperity; a similar concern for the future of the house as we saw in the dreams of the future of the kin and the perpetual rebuilding of certain houses. It is tempting to connect the steadily growing archaeological material of human remains in settlements with the texts’ sense of being surrounded by the dead, and the presence of the guardian spirits or ancestors of the kin. While Anna Carlie’s seminal work on ritual deposition in dwellings lists only five instances of human remains in Iron and Viking Age houses, I have, through a current research project – Archaeology of Dwelling – compiled a database with approximately 120 instances of deposition of human remains in and directly outside houses, 500 BC–AD 1000. Among the dead, infants and children seemingly make up a particular group chosen for deposition inside and in close

1.  Dream-houses of the Late Iron and Viking Ages – The house and the self proximity to houses (Eriksen 2017). There can be diverse intentions for choosing to keep dead children intimately connected to the house – one may be that some infants were understood to be reborn ancestors. Perhaps their quality as others, coming from the realm of ancestors and the dead, made them particularly suited for deposition in and around the house, like other powerful objects. There may be a link, too, with the practices of blood-letting and bodily substances, presumably from animals, used in magical practices – as stated above, blood can be both a threat and a life force. Ultimately, I think depositions are also about relationships: relationships between the makers of objects and the people who deposit them, relationships between those who laid the objects down during the construction of the house and those who dwell there a generation or two later, perhaps knowing that their ancestors laid down a pot full of grain to ensure good harvest or a steel knife to stop the dead from entering the doorway. It can be about the relationship to a known ancestor, and her skill as a weaver, and laying down a loom weight and a spindle whorl that once belonged to her into the posthole when the house needs repair. The objects are embedded in relationships across time and space, connecting different houses, the past and the present, the living and the dead, life projects and a sense of being part of a larger collective. In turn, the house is, then, the common structure among people who may never have met but who weave their aspirations, hopes and fears into the materiality of the wattle, turf, clay and wood of their collective project, and larger self, the house.

Conclusions This chapter has been an excursion into the realm of dreaming in the deep past, an archaeology of dreams intersecting psychological and material aspects of past lifeworlds. The interrogation of house-dreams has shown the complexity of personhood and the self in the Late Iron Age. Ideas as diverse as animal alter egos, personifications of the kin’s luck or spirit journeys of the hugr were enmeshed and embodied through dreams. The house-dreams divulge entangled notions of the house and the self, as a threat to an individual or the kin is expressed as a threat to the physical integrity of the house. And the life and fate of a person can be materialized as a series of hearths and houses. Houses are inextricably and in essence linked with their inhabitants in striking and powerful ways, to the point where the house can be a person, and a person can be the house. No wonder, then, that there is clearly an anxiety related to the destruction of the house, in dreaming, and potentially in the material practice of depositing apotropaic artefacts in the dwelling. Threats to the house were threats to the kin, and vice versa; and efforts to mitigate threats could work through

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material objects and the help of dead ancestors. The housedreams thus dovetail with previous archaeological work on the life cycles of houses and people, and the treatment of the house itself as social actor. Practices of deposition, and the significance of the kin guardians, intriguingly in female form, attest to the complexity in living–dead and past–future relationships in the Late Iron Age, and the desire to at times keep the dead close. The ancestors were never far away; they could watch over the house and the descendants, tied in with the future of the kin. Ultimately, this chapter provides new insights into the conceptualization of houses as life projects tied to the fortune or essence of the inhabitants. It has allowed an exploration of modes of personhood and relationality distinct from our own, and the way these reverberated through dreamworlds and material worlds alike. By stepping outside the boxes of the conventionally known (the house as a mundane, inanimate object) and the conventionally unknowable (the dream-worlds of people in the distant past), a richer and more coherent Late Iron Age world appears.

Acknowledgements The research project Archaeology of Dwelling is supported by the Research Council of Norway, under FRIPRO Mobility Grant no. 251212. The FRIPRO Mobility grant scheme (FRICON) is co-funded by the European Union’s Seventh Framework Programme for research, technological development and demonstration under Marie Curie Grant agreement no. 608695.

Bibliography Bachelard, G. (1994 [1964]) The Poetics of Space. Boston: Beacon Press. Carsten, J. (2011) Substance and relationality: blood in contexts. Annual Review of Anthropology 40, 1935. Carsten, J. (2018) House-lives as ethnography/biography. Social Anthropology 26, 103–116. Dahl, B. (2016) Relations between burials and buildings in the Iron Age of southwest Norway. In F. Iversen and H. Petersson (eds) The Agrarian Life of the North 2000 BC–AD 1000: Studies in Rural Settlement and Farming in Norway, 93‒116. Kristiansand: Portal. Davidson, H.R.E. (1968) The Road to Hell. A Study of the Conception of the Dead in Old Norse Literature. New York: Greenwood Press. Eriksen, M.H. (2016) Commemorating dwelling. The death and burial of houses in Iron and Viking Age Scandinavia. European Journal of Archaeology 19, 477–496. Eriksen, M.H. (2017) Don’t all mothers love their children? Deposited infants as animate objects in the Scandinavian Iron Age. World Archaeology 49, 338–356. Eriksen, M.H. (2019) Architecture, Society and Ritual in Viking Age Scandinavia: Doors, Dwellings, and Domestic Space. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Ewing, K.P. (2000) Dream as symptom, dream as myth: a cross-cultural perspective on dream narratives. Sleep and Hypnosis 2, 152–159. Freud, S. (1913) The Interpretation of Dreams. New York: Macmillan. Galinier, J., Becquelin, A.M., Bordin, G., Fontaine, L., Fourmaux, F., Ponce, J.R., Salzarulo, P., Simonnot, P., Therrien, M. and Zilli, I. (2010) Anthropology of the night. Cross-disciplinary investigations. Current Anthropology 51, 819–847. Gerritsen, F. (1999) To build and to abandon: the cultural biography of late prehistoric houses and farmsteads in the southern Netherlands. Archaeological Dialogues 6, 78–97. Graham, L.R. (1994) Dialogic dreams: creative selves coming into life in the flow of time. American Ethnologist 21, 723–745. Grindkåsa, L. (2012) Boplasspor og grav fra romertid-merovingertid på Jarlsberg og Tem (lok 8, 9 og 10). In A. Mjærum and L.E. Gjerpe (eds) E18-prosjektet Gulli-Langåker. Dyrking, bosetningspor og graver i Stokke og Sandefjord, 43‒105. Oslo: Fagbokforlaget. Hall, C.S. (1951) What people dream about. Scientific American 184, 60–63. Hall, J.A. (1983) Jungian Dream Interpretation: A Handbook of Theory and Practice. Toronto: Inner City Books. Hartmann, E. (1996) Outline for a theory on the nature and functions of dreaming. Dreaming 6, 147–170. Hedeager, L. (2011) Iron Age Myth and Materiality. An Archaeology of Scandinavia AD 400–1000. London: Routledge. Heidegger, M. (1971) Poetry, Language, Thought. New York: Harper & Row. Herschend, F. (1997) Livet i hallen. Tre fallstudier i den yngre järnålderns aristokrati. Uppsala: Uppsala universitet. Herschend, F. (1998) The Idea of the Good in Late Iron Age Society. Uppsala: Uppsala University. Herschend, F. (2009) The Early Iron Age in South Scandinavia. Social Order in Settlement and Landscape. Uppsala: Uppsala University. Herschend, F. (2018) Pafnutius and Skírnir’s Journey: A Discussion of Two Medieval Plays. Uppsala: Uppsala University. Ingram, G. (2015) Dreaming. Oxford Bibliographies in Anthropology. doi: dx.doi.org/10.1093/obo/9780199766567-0120. Jung, C.G. (1963) Memories, Dreams, Reflections. New York: Pantheon Books. Jung, C.G. ([2011]) The Undiscovered Self: With Symbols and the Interpretation of Dreams. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Kelchner, G.D. (1935) Dreams in Old Norse Literature and their Affinities in Folklore: With an Appendix Containing

the Icelandic Texts and Translations. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kracke, W. (1992) Myths in dreams, thought in images: an Amazonian contribution to the psychoanalytical theory of primary process. In B. Tedlock (ed.) Dreaming Anthropological and Psychological Interpretations, 31–54. Santa Fe, NM: School of American Research Press. Lohmann, R.I. (2007) Dreams and ethnography. In D. Barrett and P. McNamara (eds) The New Science of Dreaming, 35‒69. Westport, CT: Preager. Lönnroth, L. (2002) Dreams in the sagas. Scandinavian Studies 74, 455–464. Mageo, J.M. (2003) Dreaming and the Self: New Perspectives on Subjectivity, Identity, and Emotion. Albany: State University of New York Press. Marcus, C.C. (1995 [1971]) House as a Mirror of Self: Exploring the Deeper Meaning of Home. Berkeley, CA: Conari Press. Mundal, E. (1974) Fylgjemotivet i norrøn litteratur. Oslo: Universitetsforlaget. Myrberg, N. (2005) Burning down the house. Mythological chaos and world order on Gotlandic picture stones. Current Swedish Archaeology 13, 99–120. Olsen, A.B. and Tellefsen, M. (2010) Arkeologiske undersøkelser av jernalders gårdsbosetning på Golvsengane, Myklebust gnr. 44, bnr. 6, 32, og 188, Eid kommune, Sogn og Fjordane. Bergen: Topographical Archives. Spaulding, J. (1981) The dream in other cultures: anthropological studies of dreams and dreaming. Dreamworks 1, 330–343. Steinsland, G. (1997) Eros og død i norrøne myter. Oslo: Universitetsforl. Steinsland, G. (2005) Norrøn religion. Myter, riter, samfunn. Oslo: Pax. Sørensen, P.M. (2003) The hall in Norse literature. In G.S. Munch, E. Roesdahl and O.S. Johansen (eds) Borg in Lofoten. A Chieftain’s Farm in North Norway, 265‒272. Trondheim: Tapir. Thäte, E.S. (2007) Monuments and Minds. Monument Re-use in Scandinavia in the Second Half of the First Millennium AD. Bonn: Rudolf Habelt. Tringham, R. (1995) Archaeological houses, households, housework and the home. In D.N. Benjamin (ed.) The Home: Words, Interpretations, Meanings and Environments, 79‒102. Avebury: Aldershot. Turville-Petre, G. (1958) Dreams in Icelandic tradition. Folklore 69, 93–111. Webley, L. (2008) Iron Age Households: Structure and Practice in Western Denmark 500 BC–AD 200. Højbjerg: Jutland Archaeological Society.

2 Sticky structures and opportunistic builders – The construction and social role of longhouses in northern Norway Marte Spangen and Johan Arntzen

The longhouse has been a turning point for research on prehistoric farming societies in Scandinavia for several decades. Yet no comprehensive study has been made of this house type and its context, variations and social implications in the Far North. In this chapter, we present the currently available longhouse material within the three northernmost counties of Norway. The 50 longhouses that have been excavated within the administrative district of The Arctic University Museum in Tromsø are discussed in more detail. Our survey shows both similarities to and some intriguing variations from the longhouses in other areas of Norway and the rest of Scandinavia, concerning the chronology of various house types, building details and farm layout. All these aspects are obviously related to the particularities of the environmental, cultural and sociopolitical context in the north. However, the results are preliminary, as more thorough studies are needed, as well as more excavations employing current methodologies such as mechanical topsoil stripping, to ensure representative data.

Introduction The longhouse has been the centre of attention for many researchers working with settlement archaeology in Scandinavia over the past century. Visible house grounds from the Iron Age have been discussed in Norwegian archaeology since the 1920s and 1930s (Gjessing 1929; 1930; Grieg 1934; Petersen 1933; 1936), with an increased focus on the economic, social and religious significance of the farms of which these houses were part from the 1950s onwards (Hagen 1953; Johansen 1978; 1990). While important excavations were undertaken during these early stages of research, the adoption of mechanical topsoil stripping as a survey and excavation method completely altered the prerequisites for research on longhouses. The method was

introduced in Denmark in the 1960s (Becker 1965), but only became mainstream in Norwegian archaeology in the 1980s, following the pioneering Forsand research excavations in Rogaland (Løken et al. 1996). Unlike in southern parts of the country, northern Norway did not see large-scale integration of the method until the Kveøy excavations in 2008, and, unfortunately, only a handful of similar excavations have been undertaken since then (Arntzen 2013a). Nevertheless, evidence of farm settlements of a similar character to those farther south in Norway, including the much-discussed phenomenon of the longhouse, is well known in the north. In part, this is due to the climate and other conditions, which enable structures and objects to remain visible on the surface of the ground over hundreds and even thousands of years. The size and building materials of the longhouses further aid this extended presence in the landscape. A range of structures related to agrarian settlements have similar visibility, but the longhouses will be the focus of this chapter due to their specific economic, cultural and social associations. The origins, changes, variations in and enormous longevity of this building tradition, as well as its social and economic significance, have been the subject of several recent studies in Norway, considering longhouses from the Bronze, Early and Late Iron Ages (Gjerpe 2017; Oma 2018; Eriksen 2019). All these studies, however, either focus mainly on southern Norway or on a limited time period. In the north, no comprehensive studies have focused on the constructive details of the buildings, their landscape and social contexts, or the long-term development of the longhouse as a phenomenon. Apart from the geographical lacuna, there is good reason to investigate the longhouse and its sociocultural meaning and impact in this area in particular because of the diverging cultural, ethnic, sociopolitical and ecological conditions of the settlements here compared to southern Scandinavia.

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Taking a broad chronological and contextual perspective on the development and prevalence of longhouse structures in the north, this chapter will provide a starting point for such research by introducing an updated overview of the relevant house material currently known in northern Norway, as well as suggesting some interpretations and possible strands for future investigations.

Surface visible house grounds in the north It is uniquely easy to locate prehistoric settlements in many northern Norwegian landscapes. Due to the combination of climatic conditions that result in slow soil genesis and a prevalent need for sturdy houses, as well as less area-intensive agricultural activity, gentler infrastructure and fewer invasive development projects than farther south, house grounds are often clearly visible on the surface. This includes a wide variety of house structures from boreal times to the present, comprising Stone Age tent rings, semi-subterranean circular dwellings, large and deeply dug square and rectangular house

grounds, as well as circular turf house grounds from the Early Metal Age onwards. From the Iron Age at least, the latter are associated with Sámi habitation (Olsen 1997). Various sized hearths associated with the Sámi, often dating as far back as to the Iron and Middle Ages, are also commonly encountered as surface structures. The shape, internal positioning (partly singular, partly in rows) and their placement in the wider landscape reflect different cultural and economic adaptations, such as the emergence of reindeer pastoralism in the Middle Ages (e.g. Sommerseth 2009; Hedman et al. 2015). The surface visible structures include a variation of house types from the Iron and Middle Ages in the mainly Norse/Norwegian areas (Olsen 1997). Among these is the house that is considered most typical for Germanic/Norse farming settlements, the longhouse (Figs 2.1 and 2.2). The longhouses are relatively substantial structures, though not unique in their size. Some visible Stone Age houses, such as the so-called ‘Gressbakken’ houses and some rectangular house grounds at the island Træna (Gjessing 1943, 62–65; Schanche 1994), are comparable in size and rectangular

Figure 2.1. Drone photo of the longhouse at Voland, Lofoten. Photo by J.E. Arntzen.

2.  Sticky structures and opportunistic builders – The construction and social role of longhouses

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Figure 2.2. Surface visible house ground at Grunnfarnes, Senja. Photo by J.E. Arntzen.

shape but follow other structural principles. They are therefore not easily confused with the longhouses. Landscape setting and isostatic uplift are other criteria that help to separate house types. Some of the house types found in the north consist of combined houses, forming large and even more conspicuous structures. So-called ‘courtyard sites’ from the Iron Age are found along the Norwegian coast up to Bjarkøy in Troms county. They include several oblong houses connected through shared walls, placed around and with one short wall opening up to an open space – the ‘courtyard’. Recent research interprets them as assembly sites, primarily as thing sites but probably also serving related military and ritual functions (Storli 2006; 2010). Consequently, these conglomerate house structures will not be treated here as remains of farms or fisher/farmer settlements, even if it could be interesting to investigate and compare the building details to contemporary longhouses. Over the past two decades, there has been increasing focus on the potential for settlement traces in areas of

northern Norway with more discernible soil formation, as well as more extensive agriculture. In such areas, topsoil surface stripping is necessary to identify traces of prehistoric settlements. The method has so far been used to a limited extent in North Norway, though results suggest that it could add significantly to our knowledge about settlement structure and socioeconomic variation. Recent investigations show that GPR methods may reveal new farm settlements and longhouses without the cost and inconvenience of topsoil stripping (Gabler et al. 2018, 29 and fig. 16). This development is promising for future studies of this phenomenon in its regional form, as well as in a comparison to studies of longhouses elsewhere in Scandinavia and Norway.

Studies of longhouses in Norway The initial studies of longhouses in Norway were based on late 19th- and early 20th-century excavations in the south-western sector of the country (Petersen 1933; 1936; Grieg 1934). Early discussions focused mainly on the

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structure of the individual houses. A point of debate was whether the houses were partitioned into several rooms and how and why stone was used as the main building material instead of wood. The latter was explained as a result of a change to a colder climate in the Early Iron Age than in the Bronze Age, and a lack of wood (Grieg 1934, 98, 117). Another debate focused on the presence of inner wood constructions in longhouses and whether they were a predecessor to later stave buildings (Grieg 1934, 100–101, 119). The alternative was that the roofs were carried by the outer stone walls, but excavations eventually made it clear that inner posts had been part of the supporting structure (Myhre 1975; 1980). After the introduction of the topsoil stripping method in Norwegian archaeology, the construction details of the longhouse became clearer, affirming that longhouses did indeed have internal roof-bearing posts and that walls could also be made from wicker and wood (Løken et al. 1996; Berg 1997; Helliksen 1997). In northern Norway, however, stone and turf were more common wall materials in houses well into the Middle Ages, which has been explained in the same way as farther south, i.e. because of the isolating properties of these materials and limited access to wood (Johansen 1978, 1; Urbańczyk 1992, 94; Bertelsen 2001, 113). From the mid-20th century onwards, researchers shifted attention from the singular houses and their construction details to the economic, social and religious significance of the farms (Hagen 1953; Johansen 1978). Recent studies of longhouses in Norway may be said to combine these aspects, as they include studies of the details of the house constructions, yet aim to understand the constructions in relation to social aspects such as human–animal relationships (Oma 2018), regional cultural traditions (Gjerpe 2016; 2017) and articulation of ritual and sociocultural frameworks for households and society (Eriksen 2015; 2019). Thus, the longhouse material continues to be a valuable source in exploring a wide range of sociocultural issues in the farming societies in question.

Studies of prehistoric farmsteads in northern Norway Investigations of Iron Age farms began later in northern Norway than in other regions of the country. The excavation of five house grounds at the Greipstad Roman/ Migration period farmstead on Kvaløya outside Tromsø in 1960–1961 marks the beginning of this type of research in the north (Munch 1965). The investigations were swiftly followed by a three-year campaign at Grunnfarnes, also a Roman/Migration period farmstead, on the island Senja in 1962–1964 (Munch 1973). From the mid-1960s until the mid-1970s, three important house grounds from the Viking and Middle Ages in the Salten area of Nordland were investigated, producing an artefact material with

eastern elements associated with the Sámi in a perceived Norse/Germanic context (Munch 1967; 1983). From the mid-1970s onwards, Olav Sverre Johansen investigated several farmsteads on the Lofoten Islands, partly excavating eight house grounds (Johansen 1978). His studies and his cooperation with palaeobotanist Karl-Dag Vorren still constitute the most substantial contribution to research on prehistoric farmsteads in the region (Vorren 1976; Johansen 1978; Johansen and Vorren 1986). Writing in the late 1970s, Johansen reported that there were approximately 50 recorded Iron Age farmsteads in northern Norway (Johansen 1978, 97). One criterion for recording a site as a farmstead was the presence of a ‘typical house’, meaning a longhouse. While the number of recorded longhouses has increased substantially since then, the distribution of farms of this sort known today confirms the established picture of the outer coast of northern Nordland and Troms counties as being the most attractive areas for prehistoric farming. This includes Lofoten, Vesterålen, southern and outer Senja, outer Kvaløya, Helgøy and other islands outside Tromsø (e.g. Arntzen 2012; 2013a; 2015; Jensen and Arntzen 2016). Based on artefact material from excavated Iron Age burials as well as surveys of surface visible burials and farmsteads, it was originally suggested that Germanic impulses, including the longhouse tradition, arrived in northern Norway during the Roman period through migrating settlers from the south-western coast of Norway (Gjessing 1929; 1930). Although a generally accepted hypothesis for 40 years, the shift in the 1970s away from migration as a dominant explanation of cultural change led to research focusing on internal developments leading the way (Myhre and Myhre 1972). Palynological data, though scarce, has since the 1970s been interpreted as indicating grazing and cereal production in northern Norway reaching into the Late Neolithic (Jensen 2012). Firm multidisciplinary evidence of agrarian settlements appears only during the last millennium BC (Sjögren and Arntzen 2013). Though generally similar to farmsteads farther south, the northern Norwegian Iron Age farms lack some features that are seen as typical of this kind of settlement, especially in the Rogaland area. The northern Norwegian farms seldom have leading fences for cattle from the byre to the grazing lands or a fence between inland and outland areas, and visible clearance cairns or headlands are rare (Johansen 1978, 106–107). It must be emphasized, however, that, when larger excavation units and/or topsoil stripping have been used, both clearance cairns and headlands do occur, although they are not visible on the surface (Arntzen 2012, 186; 2013b). The variation in farmstead structure and layout obviously reflects landscape use and economic adaptations. Pollen investigations show that cereal production was part of the farms in the north, too, but extensive grain cultivation

2.  Sticky structures and opportunistic builders – The construction and social role of longhouses has been difficult to maintain, and agriculture was mainly based on animal husbandry (Vorren 1976; Jensen 2012). Both this and other factors related to resources, culture and society are likely to have influenced not only the farm layout but also the way singular houses were structured. While the longhouse has been seen as emblematic of Norse farm settlements, in opposition to the round and semi-subterraneous turf houses that are generally considered to be indicative of Sámi settlement, it should be kept in mind that house structures vary considerably in size and form within Norse contexts, too, depending on function and location. Thus, it is not viable to define specific house shapes as

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unanimously representative of one cultural or chronological context without further investigation (Olsen 1997, 192).

Longhouses in northern Norway Based on the Norwegian database for cultural monuments, Askeladden, we have compiled an overview of recorded visible house ground sites with longhouses in the three northernmost counties of Norway. To keep the list representative even for areas with which the authors are less familiar, we have made as few manual additions and corrections as possible. Askeladden is made for and used daily

Figure 2.3. Map of surface visible longhouses in northern Norway, based on the online database Askeladden, with one well-known but unrecorded house added in Kvikstadvika, Bodø. Map by J.E. Arntzen.

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by heritage management authorities and is not specifically geared towards research. This meant that querying the database for sites with longhouses required broad search terms and rigorous manual evaluation and filtering. Our results exclude sites without exact location data and present data at the site level, rather than the single house level. One site can consist of up to 12 house grounds, and others of only one. The inconsistently detailed data present in the Askeladden database has made it impossible to give a definite number of houses per site, but it is possible to give a reliable picture of the geographical distribution of sites with longhouses. The total number of localities is 133, of which 94 are situated in Nordland county, 35 in Troms county, and four in Finnmark county (Fig. 2.3). With the exception of a few sites in the Salten region and one in southern Helgeland, all longhouses are located

on the coast. Furthermore, the regions of Vesterålen and Lofoten contain 46 and 29 sites respectively, making up more than half of the total. Moving north, the island of Senja in Troms hosts 17 sites, with 19 sites distributed farther north, between the islands of Kvaløya and Loppa, just across the border to Finnmark county. The three other sites in Finnmark are included because of their morphological traits, but these should be treated with caution considering their geographical distance from the central areas of the longhouse settlement. This precaution is also relevant for some of the northernmost sites north of Kvaløya. In addition to the above-mentioned, it is worth noting that only 10 sites lie south of the Salten area, making the already mentioned Lofoten and Vesterålen regions the midpoint of this site type’s geographical distribution, with a gradual decline in number both north and south. To some extent,

Figure 2.4. Map of excavated longhouses in northern Norway. Map by J.E. Arntzen.

2.  Sticky structures and opportunistic builders – The construction and social role of longhouses this may be because of the frequency of investigations in different areas. Bearing in mind the clear limitations of the data presented above, we have chosen to focus the rest of this study on the house grounds that have been investigated further and where more information about chronology and construction details is available. A common definition of the longhouse is a house that is at least twice as long as it is wide (Trier 1969). We have diverged somewhat from that in our overview, as we have included all houses that have been understood by excavators as longhouses, even if the length/width ratio strictly speaking is less than 2:1. A total of 50 such houses within the administrative district of Tromsø University Museum have been excavated (Fig. 2.4), i.e. within the current counties of Finnmark, Troms and Nordland north of the Saltfjellet mountain range. Of these, 12 houses are not longhouses in the strict sense, but they have been perceived as such by excavators. Seven houses have insufficiently reported measurements to suggest a length/width ratio, leaving us with 31 houses with a confirmed length/width ratio of 2:1 or more (see Table 2.1 for details). The excavations have been performed within 22 different archaeological projects (Table 2.2). Only four projects involved large-area topsoil stripping, six were limited to trenches of varying layout, while seven were fully manual open-area excavations. In addition, a hybrid approach was employed for six of the projects, where a mechanical excavator was used to remove the top turf layer, while the rest of the excavation was performed as manual open area. Considering that the projects span from 1960 to 2017, there are unavoidable discrepancies concerning methodology and documentation. The quality of the latter is highly variable, and the same goes for building details. We have therefore focused on some key features in the houses that should be comparable between the projects regardless of the methodology employed.

Longhouse chronology in northern Norway The present material is limited, but the chronological distribution retains some significance (Fig. 2.5). A recent study of the investigated longhouses from the Late Iron Age in the whole of modern-day Norway found that most of the houses were dated to the Merovingian period or the Viking Age, with an emphasis on the latter. This is due, of course, to the chronological framework of the study (Eriksen 2015, 52, fig. 3.3). In the northern Norwegian material of excavated houses, most are from the Early Iron Age, with a total of 26 houses. Of these, four are dated to the pre-Roman Iron Age (500–1 BC), one to the Roman Iron Age (AD 1–400) and two to the Roman Iron Age/ Migration period, while 19 date to the Migration period (AD 400–550). Collectively, this constitutes 52 per cent of the excavated houses. The Late Iron Age material amounts to

17

only 26 per cent, with 13 houses dated to the Merovingian period (AD 550–800) or the Viking Age (AD 800–1050). In comparison, a relatively high number – six houses, or 12 per cent – are dated to the Early or High Middle Ages (AD 1050–1300). So far, only three houses are dated as early as the Late Bronze Age (1700–500 BC), while two investigated houses have insufficient datings to establish their phase of use. It is notable that all three houses from the Late Bronze Age and three out of four houses from the pre-Roman Iron Age stem from excavations utilizing mechanical topsoil stripping and that all projects took place after 2006. None of these houses have had any surface visibility, suggesting that the earliest period of the longhouse presence in northern Norway in particular is under-represented because of methodological bias. Since longhouses during the Migration period were predominantly built with stone and turf (Table 2.3), leaving them visible above ground until the present, it is not overly surprising that a relatively large amount of them would be recorded and investigated. We do not dismiss that the high number of longhouses in the Migration period reflects an actual increase in farm dwellings in the north during this time (cf. Sjøvold 1962, 118–121), but the total number of houses in our investigation is too low to provide statistically significant data and determine to what extent the increase reflects reality or visibility and preservation conditions. Assuming the relatively high number of houses dating to the Migration period reflects a reality, this may be due to a distinct drop in farm settlements in the subsequent Merovingian period. This could be related to the much-discussed catastrophic event of AD 536–540, when at least two large volcanic eruptions led to devastatingly bad climate and harvests for many years in a row (Gräslund 2007; Gräslund and Price 2012). It has been claimed that northern Norway was less affected by this crisis, possibly because of a varied subsistence pattern, where fishing and other marine resources were as important as, and less affected by, the crisis than land-based agriculture (Bertelsen 1983; Johansen 1990; Gräslund 2007, 112). However, there seems to be a significant decrease in both object finds and graves in northern Norway in the transition from the Early to the Late Iron Age (Sjøvold 1974; Holand 1989), though these estimates are hampered by some source critical issues (Johansen 1990, 36‒47). Pollen evidence, though relatively scarce, also suggests a drop in agrarian activity in northern Norway during the Merovingian period (Sjögren and Arntzen 2013, table 5). Despite some discussion about what effect the catastrophic event in the mid-6th century had on society, it is evident that it led or added to an agricultural change in Scandinavia, and possibly a short- or long-term crisis. This must have affected northern Norwegian farms as well, as these based their subsistence at least partly on cattle and, to some extent, crops. This subsistence pattern was culturally, as well as economically, important. The

Locality

Vestvatn

Eiterjord

Eiterjord

Arstad

Skålbunes

Skålbunes

Skålbunes

Hunstad

Hunstad

Pettvik

Moland

Moland

Moland

Moland

Moland

Moland

Liland Nedre

Borg

Borg

Borg

Bøstad

Ekren

Ekren

Ekren

Stauran

Stauran

Kveøy

Kveøy

Kveøy

No.

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

House 3

House 2

House 1

House 3

House 2

House 1

House 2

House 3

House 1

Borg III

Borg I:2

Borg I:1

House 1

House 6

House 5

House 4

House 3

House 2

House 1

House 1

House F

House D

House 1

House A2

House A1

House 1

House 2

House 1

House 1

House ID

PRIA

PRIA

LBA

MA

VIK

RIA

PRIA

ND

MER

MA

MER/VIK

MP

MER

VIK

MER

MP

MP

VIK

RIA/MP

MA

VIK

VIK

VIK

PRIA

MP

VIK

MA

MA

MA

Dating

23

11

12

?

14

13

10

11

17

40

83

67

16

32

14

14

24

32

34

12

5

>20

14

10

20

42

ND

ND

13

Length (m)

7

6

7

9

6

6

5

5

10

5

9

8

7

9

6

8

9

10

9

5

7

7

5

5

6

ND

ND

7

Width (m)

3,3:1

1,8:1

1,7:1

ND

2,3:1

2,2:1

2:1

2,2:1

1,7:1

8:1

9,2:1

8,4:1

2,3:1

3,7:1

2,5:1

1,8:1

2,6:1

3,2:1

3,8:1

2,4:1

ND

>2,8:3

2,2:1

2:1

4:1

7:1

ND

ND

1,9:1

Ratio (L/W)

Clay (?)

Turf(?)

Turf(?)

Turf

Turf

Turf(?)

Turf(?)

Turf(?)

Sand/turf

Turf

Turf

Turf

Gravel/turf

Stone/turf

Stone/turf

Stone/turf

Stone/turf

Stone/turf

Turf

Turf

Turf

Clay (?)/Turf

Turf?

Clay (?)

Turf

ND

ND

Turf(?)

Wall material

Rounded

Straight

Straight

Rounded

Straight

Straight

Straight

Straight

Rounded

Rounded

Rounded

Straight

Straight

Rounded

Rounded

Rounded

Rounded

Rounded

Straight

Rounded

ND

Straight

Straight

Rounded

Straight

ND

ND

Rounded

Short walls

2(?)

3

3

1(?)

3

3

3

3

3

1

3

3

3

ND

ND

1

ND

ND

ND

ND

3

3

3

3

3

ND

ND

ND

ND

Ailes

2

ND

ND

2-3(?)

2

ND

ND

ND

ND

2

5

4

ND

ND

ND

3

ND

2

ND

ND

2

>2

2

ND

ND

ND

ND

ND

ND

Room no.

Table 2.1. Overview of excavated longhouses included in present study. Table by J.E. Arntzen.

ND

ND

ND

3

1

ND

ND

ND

ND

1

2

1

1

ND

1

2

ND

ND

ND

ND

1

ND

2

ND

3

4

ND

ND

ND

Hearth no.

1

ND

1

ND

ND

ND

ND

ND

ND

ND

5

2

ND

ND

ND

ND

ND

1

ND

1

ND

ND

2

ND

1

3+

ND

ND

ND

Entrance no.

(Continued)

Living/byre

Utility (oven)

ND

ND

Dwelling/byre

ND

ND

ND

ND

Dwelling/byre

Living/byre/hall

Living/byre/hall

ND

ND

ND

Utility

ND

Living/byre

ND

ND

Dwelling/byre

ND

Dwelling/byre

ND

ND

Living/utility/ byre?

ND

ND

ND

Room types

18 Marte Spangen and Johan Arntzen

Locality

Sandsøy

Sandsøy

Hofsøy

Grunnfarnes

Grunnfarnes

Grunnfarnes

Grunnfarnes

Grunnfarnes

Grunnfarnes

Grunnfarnes

Grunnfarnes

Greipstad

Greipstad

Greipstad

Greipstad

Greipstad

Dypingdammen

Sandvika

Tussøy

Finnbyskjæran

Eidet

No.

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

House 1

House 1

House 1

House 1

House 1

House V

House IV

House III

House II

House I

House XXI

House XII

House XI

House X

House VII

House III

House II

House I

House 1

House 2

House 1

House ID

ND

MER

MER

LBA

MP

MP

MP

MP

MP

MP

MP

MP

MP

MP

MP

MP

MP

MP

RIA/MP

LBA

MP

Dating

17

20

21

10

20

13

15

8

17

36

ND

20

ND

14

ND

15

15

15

35

12

25

Length (m)

8

8

9

4

8

9

10

5

8

8

ND

10

ND

8

6

8

9

8

10

5

6

Width (m)

2,1:1

2,5:8

2,3:1

2,5:1

2,5:1

1,4:1

1,5:1

1,6:1

2,2:1

4,5:1

ND

2,1:1

ND

1,8:1

ND

1,9:1

1,7:1

1,9:1

3,5:1

2,4:1

4,1:1

Ratio (L/W)

Stone/turf

Stone/turf

Stone/turf

Turf(?)

Turf

Stone/turf

Stone/turf

Stone/turf

Stone/turf

Stone/turf

ND

Stone/turf

Stone/turf

Stone/turf

Stone/turf

Stone/turf

Stone/turf

Stone/turf

Stone/turf

Turf(?)

Turf(?)

Wall material

Table 2.1. (Continued)

ND

Rounded

Rounded

Straight

Straight

Straight

Straight

Straight

Straight

Straight

ND

Straight

Straight

Straight

Straight

Straight

Straight

Straight

Rounded

Straight

Straight

Short walls

ND

ND

2

3

3

2

2

3

2

2

ND

ND

3

3

ND

ND

ND

3

ND

3

3

Ailes

2

ND

2

ND

ND

ND

ND

ND

ND

2+

ND

ND

ND

ND

ND

ND

ND

2

ND

ND

ND

Room no.

1

ND

1

1

1

1

1

ND

2

3

ND

ND

ND

ND

ND

ND

ND

2

ND

ND

ND

Hearth no.

1

ND

3

2

2

ND

ND

ND

ND

2

ND

ND

1

ND

ND

1

ND

3

ND

ND

ND

Entrance no.

Living/byre

ND

Living/byre

Living/byre

Living/byre

ND

ND

ND

ND

Living/byre

ND

ND

ND

ND

ND

ND

ND

ND

ND

ND

ND

Room types

2.  Sticky structures and opportunistic builders – The construction and social role of longhouses 19

Tromsø

Troms

16

17

Tromsø

Karlsøy

Loppa

Troms

Troms

Finnmark

20

21

22

Tromsø

Torsken

Troms

15

Tromsø

Tranøy

Troms

14

Troms

Harstad

Troms

13

Troms

Kvæfjord

Troms

12

18

Skånland

Troms

11

19

Vestvågøy

Hadsel

Nordland

Nordland

Vestvågøy

Nordland

9

10

Vestvågøy

Vestvågøy

Vestvågøy

Nordland

7

Nordland

Vestvågøy

Nordland

6

Nordland

Bodø

Nordland

5

8

Bodø

Nordland

4

9

Beiarn

Beiarn

Nordland

Nordland

2

Bodø

Nordland

1

3

Municipality

County

Loc. no

Eidet

Finnbyskjæran

Tussøy

Sandvika

Dypingdammen

Greipstad

Grunnfarnes

Hofsøy

Sandsøy

Kveøy

Stauran

Ekren

Bøstad

Borg

Borg

Liland Nedre

Moland

Pettvik

Hunstad

Skålbunes

Arstad

Eiterjord

Vestvatn

Locality

40

13

55

92

93

93

71

140

64

41

74

49

46

226

Farm no.

73909

156341

57150

115182

27784

7932

63341

4

33

188

170

168

163

29

144991, 148885, 135/138 156824, 156827, 156829 47438 10

113104

18939

149443

27597

159838

159838

17989

74126

NA

NA

90776

66030

7924

17783

Askeladden Id

1964

1975

1972

2013

2017

1960

1962

1976

2014

2008

1988

2012

1973

1999

1984

1973

1974

1988

1992

2006

1968

1966

1964

Manual, trenches

Manual, trenches

Mechanical topsoil stripping, large area Manual, open area

Manual, open area and trenches Manual, open area and trenches Manual, open area

Manual, trenches

Mechanical topsoil stripping, large area Mechanical turf stripping/ manual, open area Mechanical topsoil stripping, large area Mechanical topsoil stripping, large area

Mechanical turf stripping/ manual, open area Mechanical turf stripping/ manual, open area Manual, trenches

Manual, trenches

Mechanical turf stripping/ manual, open area Mechanical turf stripping/ manual, open area Mechanical turf stripping/ manual, open area Manual, trenches

Manual, open area

Manual, open area

Manual, open area

Excavation Methodology year

1

1

1

1

1

5

8

1

2

3

4

3

1

1

5

1

6

1

8

6

1

2

1

Munch and Munch 1964; Bratrein 1994

Johansen 1978

Binns 1983

Arntzen 2015

Arntzen forthcoming

Munch 1965

Munch 1973

Johansen 1978

Cerbing 2016

Arntzen 2013

Urbanczyk 2002

Niemi and Arntzen forthcoming

Johansen 1978

Solli 2006

Munch et al. 2003

Johansen 1978

Johansen 1978

Svestad 2002

Chruickshank 2002

Arntzen et al. 2008

Munch 1983

Munch 1967

Munch 1967

Total Literature house no.

Table 2.2. Overview of localities with excavated longhouses in northern Norway. Table by J.E. Arntzen.

20 Marte Spangen and Johan Arntzen

21

2.  Sticky structures and opportunistic builders – The construction and social role of longhouses lifestyle such farming entailed would have been affected by bad harvests, potentially leading to many of the farmsteads being abandoned. There are several other possible explanations for the abandonment of Early Iron Age longhouses. It has been suggested that the introduction of sails in Scandinavia in the 8th century caused a significant rise in the demand for wool, eventually resulting in a reorganization of farmland (Jørgensen 2012; Stylegar 2016). Pollen analyses and radiocarbon dates from graves in south-western Norway suggest that farms thought to have been abandoned in the mid-6th century were, in fact, in use well into the Viking Age, though we have less evidence of houses from the later time period (Myhre 2002, 179–180). The abandonment of Early Iron Age longhouses may be related to a shift in land ownership from many small farms with mixed farming in marginal areas to larger and more centrally located farms that took over the marginal areas for sheep pastures (Stylegar 2016).

It has been thought that the livestock that was kept indoors in the longhouses in northern Norway consisted mainly of bovines, as sheep could be kept outdoors all year round (Johansen 1978, 108–109). This is probably a too-generalized view when discussing farm settlement in the wide chronological perspective included here. The north Norwegian longhouses rather appear to be related to sheep husbandry from the Late Bronze Age onwards (Jensen and Arntzen 2016). We have limited representative zooarchaeological material, but a study in the 1980s of an Iron Age farm mound in Andøya, Vesterålen, indicated sheep or goats to be the dominant domestic animal from the Roman Iron Age to the Viking Age (Jørgensen 1984, 115–117). As sheep (or goat) bones are introduced in graves in northern Norway only in the Late Iron Age (Klokkervoll 2015), this may indicate an increase in the economic importance of these animals. It would not be surprising if the introduction of sails changed both economic and political structures, as well as the farm and estate structures, in the decidedly maritime and boat-dependent societies of the north. It has been assumed that houses in the north, as farther south, became more specialized between AD 1100 and 1300, so that byre and living quarters, as well as other functions, were separated into singular houses instead of being gathered in one longhouse (Simonsen 1980; 1991). However, it has been noted in previous studies that longhouses seem to occur later in the north than elsewhere in Norway and Scandinavia (Olsen 1997, 191; Solli 2006; Mikalsen 2008). There is still a somewhat surprising number of longhouses in our material that date to the Early and High Middle Ages. Various explanations have been proposed for the prolonged use of longhouses in northern Norway. It has been suggested that this building tradition was maintained longer on the largest and wealthiest farms because the massive houses were seen as admirable symbols of wealth and power, possibly at a time when traditional power relations in the north were in play. The placement of the medieval longhouse

Figure 2.5. Chronological distribution of the excavated longhouses in northern Norway. LBA=Late Bronze Age, 1700–500 BC; PRIA=Pre-Roman Iron Age, 500–1 BC; RIA=Roman Iron Age, AD 1–400; MP=Migration period, AD 400–550; MER=Merovingian period, AD 550–800; VIK=Viking Age, AD 800–1050; MA= Early and High Middle Age, AD 1050–1300.

Table 2.3. Overview of wall building materials in northern Norwegian excavated longhouses in different time periods. Dating

Clay (?)

Clay (?)/Turf

Sand/Gravel/Turf

Stone/Turf

Turf

LBA PRIA

NA

3 2

RIA RIA/MP MP MER

2

1

1

14

2

2

4

1

1 2

1

2

1

2

MA

3 3

ND

1 2

1

2

21

19 5

1

VIK

Total 3

3

MER/VIK

Total

Turf(?)

1 1 1

7 2

1 10

10

6 2

4

50

22

Marte Spangen and Johan Arntzen

Borg III on a hilltop seems to have few advantages other than making it more impressive, though it does not have the size and luxury finds that characterize the wealth and power of the previous chieftains in the larger longhouses at Borg. Instead, it mimics the previous grandeur in terms of the house position and outward appearance, placement and orientation (Solli 2006, 265–266; cf. Andreasen 1981). Another more pragmatic reason for the prolonged use of the longhouse building practice in northern Norway is the practicality of building and maintaining one large house with supporting and isolating stone and turf walls instead of the series of smaller houses that became common on farms farther south where wood was more abundant. As agriculture in the north was limited and subsistence was based more on husbandry and fishing than grain cultivation, farms would also have different needs for specialized buildings. The boathouse was probably the most important separate house (see below; Mikalsen 2008, 68–69; Wickler and Nilsen 2012). Furthermore, the combination of climate, available building materials and the peripheral status of the north may simply have resulted in somewhat slower changes in cultural practices, including building techniques. Even in Vågan, the first urban site in northern Norway, there is a relative delay in changing building practices, with stave constructions with outer walls of earth and stone being the predominant housing style until the 13th century. Only in the 16th century are houses in Vågan built from wood alone, without isolating or supporting stone and turf walls (Bertelsen 1991, 237–241). This is also the century when notched wood building began to be imported to the north from southern Norway (Henriksen 2008). The lingering of a long-lasting building tradition is not unique to northern Norway, as there are also examples of longhouses from the Middle Ages in peripheral areas of southern Norway (Martens 1973, 19–20, 73–74; Eriksen 2015, 51–52), perhaps due to some of the same reasons.

Longhouse morphology in northern Norway The categorization of the material discussed here follows traditional divisions, which first of all define longhouses according to the number of aisles. For 19 of the longhouses presented here, this information is not available. Of the houses for which the information is available in reports or publications, one house, or possibly two, have only one aisle. Both houses, the somewhat uncertain no. 26, Stauran 3, in Skånland, southern Troms (Urbańczyk 2002), and no. 20, Borg III, Lofoten (Solli 2006), date to the Middle Ages. While the length of the Stauran 3 house is not recorded, Borg III is certainly a longhouse at 40 m in length and 5 m in breadth, a ratio of 8:1. Five or six houses where this is recorded have two aisles. As the oldest longhouses in northern Norway are dated to

the Late Bronze Age, after the three-aisled houses were introduced around 1500 BC, this fundamental difference in construction is not related to overall chronology. Somewhat surprisingly, the dates of the two-aisled houses cover the pre-Roman Iron Age, the Migration period and even extend into the Merovingian period. As expected, based on evidence elsewhere in Scandinavia, the number of aisles is not related to the size of the house, as exemplified by the Greipstad house II (no. 42) being 36 m long, while several three-aisled houses are quite short, the shortest longhouse (with a length–width ratio of min. 2:1) being 10 m long and 4 m wide (no. 47, Sandvika 1). Thus, the choice to build with two or three aisles was rather related to function or cultural preference. Kristin Armstrong Oma has argued that the initial change from two-aisled to three-aisled houses was related to the secondary-products revolution, when people began to keep sheep because of their milk and the wool. This meant the animals had to be handled more often, which in turn made it preferable to house the animals indoors. This was easier in three-aisled longhouses, which consequently made this building style increasingly popular (Oma 2018). Another indication of a change in economic adaptation is that the two-aisled Bronze Age houses feature significant amounts of cereal grains in postholes, whereas three-aisled houses do not (Oma 2018, 54). Yet, the two-aisled houses have also been interpreted as housing both humans and animals in separate spaces (Oma 2018, 93–94). Examples in our material are no. 22, Greipstad II (Munch 1965, 26); no. 48, Tussøy (Støren 1978, fig. 46); and possibly no. 29, Kveøy 3 (Arntzen 2013a). Hence, the choice of building two-aisled houses into the Late Iron Age in northern Norway may have more complex reasons than variations in animal husbandry. Of the 50 houses in our material, 23 are recorded as having three aisles, of which 12 are dated to the Early Iron Age. Frands Herschend has defined two main types of threeaisled longhouses in the Early Iron Age based on the number of entrances and entrance rooms. This indicates the number of rooms the house is divided into even when partition walls cannot be identified. He concludes that one house type is typical for South Scandinavia and the other for central Scandinavia, which in his opinion includes the building style along the northern Norwegian coast (Herschend 2009, 13, 27, fn. 1 and fig. 1A–C). The South Scandinavian type is described as having one entrance room with a door on each side through the long walls of the house. The entrance room divides the house into a dwelling room on one side and a byre on the other. The central Scandinavian house, on the contrary, has two entrance rooms farther towards each end of the house. The entrance rooms separate a dwelling room from a storage room at one end of the house and a byre from a storage room at the other end. The dwelling and byre in the middle of the house are separated only by a wall, not a room (Herschend 2009, fig. 1A–C). This type of house will consequently have a total of four entrances.

2.  Sticky structures and opportunistic builders – The construction and social role of longhouses

23

Figure 2.6. Selected plan drawings of excavated longhouses in northern Norway, with arrows showing recorded doorways. Illustration by J.E. Arntzen.

24

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None of the houses in our material have this number of entrances, though no. 19, Borg I:1, has five recorded entrances (Herschend and Mikkelsen 2003), and no. 17 Arstad may have more than three (Munch 1983). Most often, only one entrance is recorded (seven houses), though two entrances are nearly as common (five houses). Three entrances were found in two or three investigated houses (Fig. 2.6). In a surprising amount of houses, entrances are not recorded at all, presumably because they were not discernible during excavation. Similarly, the actual number of entrances may well have exceeded what has been noted during investigations of the houses. In some cases, such as Kveøy 3, Kvæfjord (no. 29), the noted partition into two rooms suggests there was at least one more door than the one that was recorded during the excavation. Thus, the number of rooms can suggest a number of entrances for the houses that do not have any information about this. It is interesting that so many of the houses that have recorded entrances feature only one such entrance. Some of the houses discussed here have also been included in Marianne Hem Eriksen’s study of Late Iron Age houses, where she defines nine categories of relevant houses in modern-day Norway (Eriksen 2015, 61–64, 84). Eriksen’s analysis includes the northern Norwegian houses from the Late Iron Age, but it may be interesting to see how her categories correspond with material from other time periods. The present study has not gone into detail that allows a direct comparison, but we note that seven houses in our material fulfil most of her criteria for type 1, having a width/ length ratio of 4:1 or more and being between 20 m and 83 m long. These houses are chronologically dispersed, with four dating to the Migration period, one to the Merovingian/ Viking period, one to the Viking Age and one to the Middle Ages. The criteria of wood constructions in Eriksen’s type 1 is hardly relevant as all the houses in the northern Norwegian material are built from stone and/or turf, apart from three, which may have been wattle and daub (Table 2.3). A total of 18 houses would fit her category 2, being more than 15 m long and having a length–width ratio of less than 4:1. These houses are also from all time periods, with no clear chronological difference. As mentioned above, this suggests that the house types and chosen building style have more to do with functional and cultural criteria than chronology and geography (cf. Olsen 1997, 192).

House types, definitions and social organization Written sources indicate several house types in Norse contexts in the Iron and Middle Ages, partly related to the social status of the owner. In Rigstula, different terms are used for the houses of the earl (salr), the farmer (hǫll) and the thrall (hús). In other sources, it seems both salr and hǫll label houses or rooms used by the elite for social gatherings. Lars Lönnroth has stated that hǫll is employed exclusively

for such rooms used by the king (Lönnroth 1997, 33–34; cf. Gansum 2008, 203), while Lydia Carstens notes that both terms may be used in the same text and even about exactly the same house. The difference is that salr is more often used in poems and hǫll in prose texts, suggesting that the former was an older term, while the latter is used more frequently from the 12th century onwards (Carstens 2015, 23). In the 13th century, it is repeatedly mentioned in, for instance, Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar that the king had banquet halls built in different parts of the country, including in Steig (modern-day Steigen, Nordland) (cf. Brink 1997, 242–243). Carstens argues that, when the term hǫll was introduced in the Viking Age, probably from the British Isles, it came with a new conceptualization of this room, not only as a centre for ‘worldly dominance and power’ but as a universal ‘centre of the world’ directly associated with cult and economy. Furthermore, written sources state that only the king was allowed to build such a hǫll – or salr (Carstens 2015, 23–24). The words langhús and skáli appear to be used for similar rooms for social gatherings on the farms of chieftains on lower levels or big farmers (Lönnroth 1997, 33–34; cf. Gansum 2008, 203; Carstens 2015, 24). In addition, early medieval written sources use the terms hǫrg and hof, which indicate ritual activities (Olsen 1966; Brink 1997, 260). How these house types are to be identified in an archaeological record represents a typical source critical dilemma in how to combine things with texts (Andrén 1997), especially when applying terms from early medieval texts on archaeological material going back into the Early Iron Age or even the Bronze Age. The discussions above indicate that a straightforward division of archaeological finds into specific linguistic categories is complicated because the use of different words may have varied over time. In addition, it may be that the definitions reflect different conceptualizations of houses, rather than their physical attributes. Several researchers have nevertheless attempted to define the hall in archaeological terms. Frands Herschend lists the following archaeological characteristics of a hall: (1) they belong to big farms, (2) they consist of one room with a minimum of posts, (3) they are singled out by their position on the farm, (4) their hearths are not used for cooking and do not facilitate a handicraft, and (5) the artefacts found in the houses are different from those found in the dwelling part of the main house on the farm. In Herschend’s opinion, the hall is an expression of social, political, military and ideological changes in the Early Iron Age, leading to a centralization of power and systems of dependencies in a feudal fashion (Herschend 1993, 182–183, 191). Thus, hall buildings are highly indicative of a specific sociopolitical order and cultural context. The hall in Early Iron Age southern Scandinavian farms is a separate house, but, in some cases the hall may also be a separate room in a longhouse that, from the 5th century onwards, was particularly associated with economic and

2.  Sticky structures and opportunistic builders – The construction and social role of longhouses military leadership (Herschend 1998, 16). The large house at Borg in Lofoten is a prime example. In the Viking Age house phase, an entrance room at Borg separates an ordinary living space from a room characterized by the mixture of luxury goods and handicrafts that was typical of the southern Scandinavian ‘embryonic hall’ in the Roman Iron Age. This room is consequently interpreted as a hall room (Herschend 1993, 190; Herschend and Mikkelsen 2003). Apart from the iconic house at Borg in Lofoten, none of the longhouses discussed here can be defined as hall buildings or can be said to contain space that seems designated for a similar function according to Herschend’s definition. The lack of identified halls or hall rooms in other longhouses in northern Norway is in great part a question of what can be said to be based on the archaeological material available, with particular regard to the low use of mechanical topsoil stripping within the region, as this method has produced much of the evidence of hall buildings in other parts of Scandinavia. If taken to be representative, however, the lack of hall buildings or rooms may indicate that all the farms known to us today were inferior to Borg. It may also reflect that power relations were different, or enacted in a different way, in northern Norway compared to societies farther south, or that other types of buildings or rooms could be a hall, or serve the same purpose as a hall. In previous research, central farms have been deduced from other and more visible remains, such as large gravemounds, large boathouse remains, and from the courtyard sites described above (Storli 1984). Recent research indicates that the latter are not spatially related to singular chieftain farms but situated in outland between several farms. This underlines the communal use of these structures, probably related to an early thing institution, including ritual and military aspects (Storli 2006; 2010). Similarly, there may be reason to consider large boathouses not only as an expression of chieftain power and the presence of a large farm but possibly also as related to a communal military organization, a predecessor to the medieval leidang (e.g. Stylegar and Grimm 2005). That does not deny that such structures indicate places of central power in the North Norwegian landscape on a larger scale. Such central farms may be assumed to have had ‘hall functions’ even if houses are not recorded or do not follow the archaeological criteria listed above.

Longhouse geography in northern Norway As mentioned, the general distribution of longhouses known today does not change the impression that, on an overall scale, Bronze and Iron Age farm settlements were mostly placed on the outer coast in northern Nordland and Troms counties (cf. Johansen 1978, 97). The 12th-century source Rimbegla claims that the Malangen fjord was the border between the Sámi and the Norse population (Þa er fjordr er

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Malangr heitir, hann skilr Finnmork vid bumenn, cf. KLNM 4, 281), but archaeological finds indicate that there was a farming population farther north, along the outer coast on the large island Kvaløya from the Bronze Age onwards, and later in the Iron Age, also north of this, in Karlsøy municipality (Jensen and Arntzen 2016). In addition, there are examples of Germanic-/Norse-type burial monuments in the north-eastern sectors of Troms county, on the islands of Spildra, Arnøy and Vorterøy (Nilsen 2014; Bratrein 2018, 57, 177–178). In the early phases of research, the conditions for growing cereals were considered to determine a northern limit for the northern Norwegian farm settlements (Fjærvoll 1961; Sjøvold 1962; Munch 1973; Støren 1978). This limit has fluctuated over the centuries, with the climate in the Iron Age and medieval period presenting more favourable conditions for cereal growth in northern Troms, while the northern limit in the 16th and 17th centuries appears to have been the Malangen fjord, south of Tromsø. In the 18th century, on the other hand, the cereal ripened even in Alta in Finnmark (Fjærvoll 1961; Bratrein 2018, 54). Cereal production north of the Arctic Circle has, however, always been marginal, and the crops exceedingly vulnerable to yearly climatic variation. As pointed out by Audhild Schanche, the postulated northern limit for cereal growth does not explain why favourable areas in the inner fjords of southern Troms do not have traces of a Norse Iron Age settlement (Schanche 1989, 174). Instead, she suggests that a territoriality based on ethnicity maintained the inland, inner fjords and also inner areas of larger islands along the coast as primarily Sámi areas in the Iron Age, explaining the lack of typical Norse graves and farm settlements here (Schanche 1986; 1989). On a large scale, the farmstead and longhouse material presented here seems to confirm the distribution of Norse settlements in the areas outlined by Schanche. It should, however, be noted that, in many areas, Norse and Sámi settlements have existed relatively close to one another, for instance on the larger islands, where it appears that the coastland was used by Norse farmers, while inland had a hunting-gathering Sámi population (Schanche 1989). Furthermore, the contact between the Norse and the Sámi in the inland areas is well documented in historical sources in terms of Norse trade with and taxation of, or collection of tribute from, the Sámi, as well as signs of intermarriage between the two groups (e.g. Hansen 1990; Storli 1994; Hansen and Olsen 2014). It has been argued that, as long as these activities were the privilege of the regional chieftains in the north, i.e. before the consolidation of the Norwegian Kingdom in the Early Middle Ages, the described border between the Sámi and the Norse settlement areas was maintained partly because the Norse had an interest in the Sámi continuing their subsistence based on hunting and fishing. Products from these activities were then incorporated

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into the Norse redistributive chieftain economy as highly sought-after goods, such as furs (Hansen 1990). At the same time, the coexistence of the two groups on a local and regional scale must have led to a variation of cultural adaptations within both groups. Studies of depositions and burials in northern Norway in the Iron and Early Middle Ages reveal that border areas had population groups that included both Sámi and Norse cultural traditions in their social practices, underlining the ethnic complexity of the region (Spangen 2005; 2010; Bruun 2007). Still, the persistent main ethnic boundaries in the north are definitely broken only in the Middle Ages, when Norwegians settled in larger numbers in what was previously ‘Finnmork’, Sámi land. This is probably related to a shift in how the two cultural groups interacted, as the Norse population had been Christianized and incorporated into the Norwegian Kingdom, removing them culturally and socially from the Sámi population. At the same time, new trade systems and markets for fish appeared, giving an economic incentive for establishing fishing villages along the northernmost coast (Bertelsen 2011). This is not to say that Norse chieftains had not held an interest in the predominantly Sámi areas before this time. The island Loppa, just across the border to Finnmark, stands out as the northernmost example of a typical Iron Age Norse farm settlement, with burial cairns, boathouses and a total of three longhouses, one of which was partly excavated in 1964 (Munch and Munch 1964; here no. 50 Eidet, Loppa). The house is situated on an isthmus some distance from the other structures on the island. The original excavation revealed one entrance and a hearth, as well as a few iron fragments and charcoal features. In 1994, a small bulk sample containing sandy soil mixed with humus and charcoal was retrieved from a new test pit in the house ground (Bratrein 1994). The sample was radiocarbon dated to 1230±255 BP (GX-20314). The original report states that the calibrated date is AD 790, which is the median of the then calibrated dating span. This Viking Age date was later reiterated in both popular and academic literature. However, the calibrated age range within 2σ is AD 261–1278 (calibrated by the present authors using Calib 7.10 and the Intcal13 calibration curve; Stuiver and Reimer 1993; Reimer et al. 2013). Considering the uncertain context and poor quality of the sample, the standard error of 255 years and the lack of control samples, the house cannot be concluded to be from the Viking Age. Graves on the island do testify to Norse presence during this time period, but we have chosen to list this house’s age as ‘not determined’ until further investigations can be performed. During the same 1994 campaign, a larger sample was retrieved from a charcoal layer in a test pit in one of the other longhouses on the island (Mevær/Bekkevoll, Bratrein 1994). This was radiocarbon dated to 1895±65 BP (GX-20315) and calibrated to AD 10–320, suggesting the site already

had a Norse settlement in the Early Roman period. A new calibration by the present authors gave an age range of 41 BC–AD 314 within 2σ. This house is not further investigated, and therefore not included in our general overview, but it presents interesting evidence for the endeavours of the Germanic/Norse inhabitants in the Far North. Loppa Island is situated 3 km off the mainland in a very strategic position for controlling the fairway along the coast (Bratrein 2018, 177). While some archaeologists see the island as the northern limit for the general distribution of Norse settlement traces (Storli 2018, 16), others have defined it as a Norse satellite settlement (Olsen 2011, 29). Historian Håvard Dahl Bratrein interprets this presumed permanent Norse settlement not as an ordinary farm but as a military and administrative outpost (Bratrein 2018, 57, 93). These aspects do not necessarily have to be mutually exclusive. There are signs of Norse activity farther north-east in Finnmark, with Norse weapon burials on Sørøya, Ingøy, Magerøy and Lille Tamsøy (Bratrein 2018, 57). In the overview of surface visible longhouses (Fig. 2.3), we have included another three possible longhouses in Finnmark, but, as mentioned, these need to be treated with caution because of their geographical and cultural contexts. They will have to be investigated further to conclude whether they really represent the kind of settlement traces that interest us here.

The local context of longhouses in northern Norway Our investigation for this chapter has not gone into detail for all the excavated longhouses, but, unsurprisingly, they are often found together with other house types within the farmsteads. These different houses served specific purposes for the same household; hence, the combination of different houses is crucial for understanding the economic, cultural and social context of the singular farm. Other factors that affect the composition of houses are local climate, topography, soil conditions and other resource availability. These aspects still need to be studied further in northern Norway, but one house type is clearly an integral and crucial part of any coastal farm in the north: the boathouse (Nilsen 1998; Storli 2006; Wickler and Nilsen 2012). The boat was enormously important both to the singular farms and in a broader sociocultural perspective. It is no surprise that northern Norway holds the majority of known prehistoric boathouses in Scandinavia. In other sectors of the Norwegian coast, research has focused on the possible military function of large boathouses in connection with the royal levy (leidang) system (e.g. Stylegar and Grimm 2005), which has been a topic even in the north. In our areas, however, there is also a large amount of smaller boathouses, most likely related to household fisheries in both Norse and Sámi contexts (Wickler and Nilsen 2012). Both on a household and a larger social scale, the importance of fisheries

2.  Sticky structures and opportunistic builders – The construction and social role of longhouses and hunting marine mammals can hardly be exaggerated and include trade in marine products such as whale oil and walrus ropes from the Iron Age onwards, with the Sámi as crucial suppliers (Henriksen 1996; Nilsen 2017). Workshop or storage buildings are common both in the Late Bronze Age and through the pre-Roman Iron Age in south-western and western Norway (Løken 1998, 173; Diinhoff 2005), and there is also some evidence for such buildings on the northern Norwegian farms. The pre-Roman farm at Kveøy (loc. 13) consisted of at least two houses, where one (house 2) is a locale for production of some kind (Arntzen 2013a, 27). The basis for this interpretation is the small size of the building and the remains of a poorly preserved oven feature. A better-preserved clay-built oven was also documented in the same area, although not related to visible house remains. Macrofossils of barley could hint at some grain-related activity. At Hunstad outside of Bodø (loc. 5), six buildings were documented in addition to the two longhouses included in our main material (Chruickshank 2002). Two of these were square semi-subterranean pit houses, dated to the transition between the Viking Age and the Early Middle Age. They measured 4 × 4 m and were constructed with a large posthole in each corner and lined with smaller postholes along the walls. A robust stone-lined fireplace in the corner of one of the houses suggests some special function – Chruickshank proposes a sauna. Based on evidence from Iceland, Milek (2012) argues that this type of building functioned primarily as women’s work rooms for all stages of woollen textile production. This interpretation is strengthened by geoarchaeological evidence. This unfortunately does not exist for Hunstad, but architecturally the buildings are very similar to Milek’s material. Such constructions may also be present at the Stauran farmstead (Urbańczyk 2002). This type of pit house has previously been interpreted as part of other industries, and it has been speculated as to whether they were occupied by slaves (Sørheim 2016, 193). Despite similarities, there is reason to believe there have been differences in agricultural structures between the north and the south in the past, as in more recent days. This can be seen reflected in language use. While the ‘farm’ term (No.: gård) in the south defines an entire property, this has been applied only to the farm houses in the High North. When including the farmland, people would rather use terms such as -ground, -field, -mound, -plain or -seat (No.: jord, eng, voll, slett(a) and set(e), respectively), for instance in compound place names such as Håkenjorda. During the Middle Ages, farm settlements were also called -vær, which today is associated with fishing villages (Bratrein 2018, 56). This may indicate a more extensive understanding of what terrains and resources constituted each economic unit in the north, with the houses as a defining focus for farming versus non-farming settlements. This is transferable to a past situation where the conspicuous longhouse must have been

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a telling indicator of the type of settlement it represented, while such aspects as the lack of fences on northern farms as opposed to those farther south may reflect a more varied resource harvesting, and thus a more extensive and inclusive landscape view.

Sticky structures and opportunistic builders Building a longhouse is not a simple matter, and the presence of this type of house in northern Norway from the Late Bronze Age onwards must indicate close contact with longhouse-building people farther south. While the migration theory was largely dismissed in the 1980s, when focus turned to internal social development of ethnicity among groups on the coast and inland according to the contact networks they related to and the increasing cultural differences this entailed (e.g. Odner 1983; Jørgensen and Olsen 1988), it cannot be completely refuted that internal developments in the coastal population were combined with migration up along the coast (Arntzen 2013b). By the Iron Age, however, the longhouse was a well-known and internalized building style even in the north, carrying with it strong social and cultural associations, seen from both the outside and the inside. We may call this a ‘sticky structure’: a framework for social agency that held cultural connotations that could not easily be changed by individuals but that continued to shape social and cultural preferences. This kind of active materialization of social and cultural structures has proven to be valid for built environments, but also for the wider landscape perception and organization (e.g. Bourdieu 1970; 1977; Schanche 1989; Herschend 2009). On the other hand, such ideally conceptualized structures have to be adjusted according to local conditions and practical preconditions and needs, creating some room for individual initiative within the social structure (Giddens 1984). Transporting the longhouse building tradition to the Far North is in itself a Late Bronze Age innovation that, on the one hand, carries on a well-established building- and lifestyle, and, on the other hand, entails a re-articulation of this ancient tradition based on regional and local circumstances. This would to some extent create ‘hybrids’ of the known longhouse (cf. Bhabha 1994). The variation in our material indicates that there was room for individual initiatives in adapting both the building style and the layout of farmsteads to topography, weather conditions, economic pivot and social context – perhaps to a larger extent here than farther south in Scandinavia, though recent research also indicates a fair amount of variation in house types farther south (Eriksen 2015; Gjerpe 2017, 112). As discussed, further studies are needed to describe the variations in northern longhouses and farmsteads in more detail. What seems clear is that the longhouse building tradition was not only adopted because of the introduction of farming,

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which could never have been the sole basis of subsistence for any household in northern Norway at the time anyway. Instead, hunting and fishing, as well as exchange and trade, and – for some – taxation of the Sámi and exchange of valuable hunting products with them, were the economic foundations for a Norse population in the north. This also influenced where in the landscape they settled (Storli 2018, 25). This does not mean that cereal growth was unimportant; on the contrary, access to barley is likely to have been essential to maintain a ‘correct’ lifestyle within the Norse community, which had to include the brewing of beer for ritual and social occasions (Steinsland 2005, 276–278). Thus, the introduction and maintenance of the longhouse should most definitely be seen in relation to the development of a Norse identity in the north, especially in terms of a social organization based on redistribution and personal power relations. These relationships were sustained by mutual interest in exchange, but also the interwoven social and cultic aspects that were expressed in, for instance, drinking rituals. For the higher level of society, these drinking rituals would be

performed in a salr or hǫll of some sort, while we can assume that similar meetings and rituals were performed on farms further down the social line in their langhús or skáli houses. There is evidence that the same kind of rituals were performed together with Sámi people involved in this exchange system: an Old Norse loanword in North Sámi for gift is skeanka, which originally meant to pour a drink (Schanche 2000, 333). This could relate to Early Iron Age contact between the Norse and the Sámi, where Norse drinking rituals were part of the social interaction in a committed exchange of goods between two equal parties (Bratrein 2018, 67–68). This seems to have turned into a more asymmetric relationship during the Viking Age and especially after the Christianization of the Norse in the Early Middle Ages. Still, a poem from the 12th century expresses a good relationship between the saga character Sigurd Slembe and the Sámi in Ofoten in South Troms, as drinking parties were apparently held in the Sámi huts when he stayed with them during a winter when they were building him a boat (Chapter 6 of Saga of Sigurd, Inge and Eystein, the Sons

Figure 2.7. Drone photo of the 2017 excavation of the longhouse at Dypingdammen, on Kvaløya outside Tromsø, with a view towards the open sea in the West. Photo by J.E. Arntzen.

2.  Sticky structures and opportunistic builders – The construction and social role of longhouses of Harald). This indicates a specific northern Norwegian variation in the correct context for such social gatherings and rituals that may well have affected conceptualizations of the Norse lived environment, too. The longhouses can be expected to be found in areas with a variety of subsistence options in accordance with an acceptable Norse lifestyle but with local adaptation to allow for the particular conditions in northern Norway (Fig. 2.7). This is not a new thought, as it has long been observed that the farms in the north on a macro scale are placed close to marine resources, while on a micro scale close to farming resources (Johansen 1982, 47). However, previous conclusions are based on limited material, and further study of the local and regional placement of the now-known longhouses in northern Norway would be of great interest. The excavated houses are widely distributed in the region. There is a degree of coincidence in which houses have been investigated, as this has depended on research interests related to specific farms or local areas, as well as development projects that have initiated legally required investigations. However, the fact that many longhouses in the north are easily visible on the surface would make a more comprehensive study of their features and placement possible without necessarily having to enrol in major excavations. More archaeological studies that can provide information about chronology and building details are of course also needed. Among interesting questions are the internal ranking of different types of longhouses, the variation in functions, resource base and local power base, consequent variations in household size and structure, and how these various factors influenced the choice of building style. The surprising longevity of two-aisled houses into the Migration and Merovingian periods should be investigated further, as should the occurrence of longhouse-like structures in the Far North of Finnmark, whether these represent (attempted) farming and, if so, in what time period and cultural context. The lack of hall buildings is another topic worthy of a more thorough investigation, though we suspect this is related to the methodological bias presented by the limited use of topsoil stripping. This underlines the difficulty of discussing the sociopolitical organization of the prehistoric farming societies in the north without more investigations of this kind. As discussed above, the fact that longhouses appear to have been common in the north well into the Middle Ages may have several reasons. It may be related to practical aspects such as climate and building materials, to a strong local tradition that did not allow for rapid change, or to a nostalgia for a past grandeur and a social order that was about to become extinct. Considering how the longhouses so clearly reflect a very specific social organization, it could be questioned whether the medieval longhouses are not just nostalgic remnants. They may actually tell us that the regional power networks and social organization continued to affect the political order well into an era where written sources insist that the Norwegian king had taken control of

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these landscapes. The houses themselves may have helped to preserve certain social relations. Perhaps the lingering longhouses are expressions of an actual prolonged resistance and persistence rather than just shadows of the past.

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3 A tale of three Tuna-sites – A classic scholarly problem enlightened by new archaeological material Susanna Eklund and Anneli Sundkvist

The meaning and social role of so-called Tuna-places in Sweden has long eluded scholars. Many high-status archaeological sites, such as boat-grave cemeteries and ‘ting’-mounds, are connected to a Tuna-name, a place name very common in central Sweden, but the question of their significance in Iron Age society remains unanswered. A century of academic discussion has resulted in broad consensus in defining the word itself as ‘enclosure’, but, despite consensus on the etymology, it has brought us no closer to a clear understanding of the Tuna-sites from an archaeological perspective. Archaeologically, they belong in the Iron Age, even though some have older roots and others remain important well into the Middle Ages. For a long time, the archaeological excavations carried out at Tuna-sites were research excavations, limited in size and resources. However, during the past two decades, several Tuna-sites have been excavated through contract archaeology. This has resulted in the opening of larger areas for excavation and the possibility of detailed archaeological analyses using several sources of evidence. In this chapter, we will focus on three newly excavated sites: Ultuna – a site including graves and votive finds of exquisite quality; Gilltuna – a fenced farm with long continuity; and Tortuna – a site with two generations of cult buildings on a settlement. These sites are discussed in relation to other Tuna-sites, and their interpretation is an attempt to study the Tuna-sites in a broader landscape context (Fig. 3.1).

or goddess, for example Frötuna (Fröya/Freya – Vikstrand 2001, 80, with references), Ultuna (Ull – Vikstrand 2001, 183–184, with references) and Torstuna (Thor – Vikstrand 2001, 151, with references). There are several examples where the Tuna-name has been given to the parish, for example Tortuna, Romfartuna, Jämmertuna and Dingtuna in the county of Västmanland, and Skepptuna, Frötuna and Estuna in the county of Uppland. The scholarly discussions have raged for over a century (see, e.g., Holmberg 1969, with references; Vikstrand 2013, 80–84, with references; Engström 2014, with references), from two main perspectives: the place name and the archaeology. The meaning of the word seems to be clear: tuna is the plural of tun, meaning enclosure or enclosed area. Corresponding words are ‘town’ in English, and ‘Zaun’ in German (Vikstrand 2013, 80). Another unproblematic fact is that the name is settlement-connected. Archaeologist Bo Gräslund has discussed the plural form of the name as a sign of more than one farm – ‘the farms by the tun’ (Gräslund 2004, 27–28). The plurality also seems to be accepted by philologists (cf. Vikstrand 2013, 79–84). Besides the sacred elements connected to the name, there is a variety of other combinations related to the Tuna-names, for example Fituna (‘fi’ = fä, old Swedish word for cattle) and Eskilstuna (St Eskil’s Tuna). However, these might be later additions, constructed from an original Tuna. In addition, several parishes in present-day Sweden bear the Tuna-name without other elements.

Background The name: ‘Tuna’

Tuna in the archaeological record and research

There are about 120 tuna place names in Sweden, most of them in eastern Middle Sweden (Engström 2014, 196). Some of these place names include the name of an Old Norse god

From an archaeological point of view, a strikingly high number of rich archaeological finds in the Mälar Valley are connected to Tuna-places. For example, apart from Valsgärde (Ljungkvist 2008) and Old Uppsala (Nordahl 2001),1 all of

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Figure 3.1. Frands Herschend has been involved in many of SAU’s projects throughout the years, developing new field methods and helping out with interpretations. Photo by Susanna Eklund.

the boat-grave cemeteries in the counties of Uppland and Västmanland are situated close to a Tuna-place: Ultuna (Hulth 2010; 2013a; 2013b; 2014a; 2013b), Vendel (Stolpe and Arne 1912), Tuna in Alsike parish (Arne 1934) and Tuna in Badelunda parish (Nylén and Schönbäck 1994a and b). Several cases of gold artefacts found close to Tuna-places (Vikstrand 2013, 81–84, with references) further stress the connection between the place name and Iron Age high society (for further discussion, see, e.g., Holmberg 1969, 9–25; Vikstrand 2013, 79–84; for further discussion about the research history and the connection between the Tuna-places and rich archaeological finds, see Engström 2014, 196–202). Twentieth-century research has discussed the Tunaplaces in connection with centrality and exercise of power – religious, judicial, social, economic or military power (Holmberg 1969; Engström 2014, 196–197, with references). However, from the early 1980s onwards, it was believed that all Tuna-sites probably did not have similar functions in society; rather, it was likely that chronological and regional differences existed (Hyenstrand 1982, 82). The discussions have continued into the 3rd millennium, with increased focus on the Tuna-farms as possible social arenas (Fernstål 2004, 60) and as farms with collective land

ownership (Runer 2006, 170–173). Still, the significance and roles of the Tuna-farms in Iron Age society is shrouded in mystery, partly due to a lack of solid, archaeological material. Until the early 2010s, no farm or settlement connected to a Tuna-place had been fully excavated. Following the lack of archaeological material, the focus of discussions on Tuna has been on place names. With the results from the large-scale excavations in Gilltuna, Ultuna and Tortuna, we finally have a larger archaeological material. For the first time, we are able to analyse the Tuna-places using archaeology as the main source.

The three sites Swedish contract archaeology The excavations of the three sites were possible thanks to the Swedish system of contract archaeology, which is regulated by the Historic Environment Act (Swedish: Kulturmiljölag, no. 1988, 9502). Anyone who wants to carry out construction work that affects ancient remains must apply to the county administrative board, and, if permission is granted, pay for the archaeological excavation. The company, museum or

3.  A tale of three Tuna-sites – A classic scholarly problem enlightened by new archaeological material trust that is to carry out each excavation is decided by the county administrative board. Ultuna, Gilltuna and Tortuna were excavated by Societas Archaeologica Upsaliensis (SAU), an archaeological trust founded in 1998 by academic staff from the Department of Archaeology and Ancient History at Uppsala University. The purpose of SAU is to perform research-based contract archaeology and to promote archaeological research at Uppsala University.

Ultuna – Haven and aristocracy Ultuna3 is situated by the River Fyris, about 10 km south of Old Uppsala. The site stands out in many ways: the name, the location and the remarkable archaeological finds. The combination of a good location for a harbour, a large number of rich burials and the first element in the place name Ulltuna underlines the strategic importance of the place. Import materials and other aristocratic elements indicate that Ultuna is highly relevant in the discussion of the region’s power structures and contact networks during the Late Iron Age (AD 550–1050). The Ultuna area has been well known as an archaeological site over the centuries. In 1672, Olof Rudbeck excavated a number of mounds mainly dated to the Viking Age (AD 750–1050). Through the spectacular finds of the first known Merovingian period – which in Sweden is defined as the Vendel period (AD 550–750) – boat burials, which were excavated in 1854 and 1855 (Almgren 1905), Ultuna received international status. Several more or less professional grave surveys took place from the second half of the 19th century until the 1950s (Hulth 2014a, 10–11; 2014b, 7–11). However, from 1959 until 1993, no archaeological investigations were undertaken in Ultuna, and many ancient remains were probably lost when the area was developed into what is now the Swedish University of Agricultural Science (Hulth 2013b, 5–6). The knowledge of Ultuna’s ancient remains, especially the settlements, has therefore been fragmentary. However, during the past decades a number of excavations have taken place (e.g. Hulth 2013a; 2013b; 2014a; 2014b), which have shed new light on Ultuna. The excavations have resulted in a variety of remains and finds of varying natures and dates. The oldest dating is from the Early Bronze Age, around 1600 BC, with occasional hearths at the shoreline. There was also a regulated cooking-pit system, with 45 regularly laid pits along a line, approximately 200 m long (Hulth 2013a, 18). The dates mainly fall from c. 800 to 400 BC. The permanent settlement at Ultuna was not established until the end of the Migration period (Hulth 2013a, 59). Based on the number of graves and known settlement remains, it is likely that the site flourished in the Vendel and Viking periods. This corresponds to medieval conditions when Ultuna, with 10 farms, was one of the larger villages in the county of Uppland (Hulth 2013b, 7, with references). However, only parts of the settlement have

35

been excavated, and many of the excavation trenches have been limited in size. Ultuna’s ritual character in the Late Iron Age is reflected in different ways. In 1900, a deliberately smashed boat containing 16 arrowheads placed in a distinct pattern was excavated. A gold foil figure (Sw guldgubbe) was found in the upper layer of the same grave (Almgren 1905; Lindqvist 1958) and has been interpreted as a sacrifice (Ljungkvist 2006, 181). Of special interest is the cultural layer that was excavated in 2008 (Hulth 2013b, 28–29). The layer, which was near the spot where the boat was found more than a century earlier, was 0.3–0.5 m thick and contained a rich material of animal bones. Osteological analysis indicated that the bones had been openly exposed. A similar layer from Borg in the county of Östergötland was interpreted as containing sacrificial pieces of meat (Lindeblad 1997, 34–35). Chronologically, the Ultuna layer was formed by deposits from c. AD 650–1000 (Hulth 2013b, 66). The dating was based on radiocarbon analyses as well as several Vendel period and Viking Age artefacts. The types of objects, such as miniature weapons and iron rings interpreted as amulets (see, e.g., Bratt 2003, 32–33, with references), indicate that the layer was a sacrificial site attached to a courtyard (cf. Lindeblad 1997, 32–35). Some of the arrowheads from the layer are contemporary with the boat. Fragments of the settlement connected to the ritual cultural layer were found next to the site (Hulth 2014b). Several longhouses and pit houses from Vendel and Viking times were excavated there (Hulth 2014b, 30–44). A nearby cemetery consists of about 30 visible graves, but more are likely to be hidden beneath modern lawns and buildings. The grave goods from excavated graves in Ultuna indicate eastern contacts, for example Baltic ceramics, and distinguish Ultuna from Valsgärde and Old Uppsala (Hulth 2014a, 45, with references). On a number of levels, the Ultuna material indicates a special site that developed into an aristocratic settlement during the Vendel period (Hulth 2013a, 9).

Gilltuna – A millennium of farms Gilltuna (Sundkvist and Eklund 2014) was excavated in 2010. The settlement consists of approximately 4 hectares with generations of one or two farms, from the establishment in the final centuries BC to the abandonment around AD 1000 (Sundkvist 2014b, 178–187). The land, situated in the western outskirts of Västerås, used to belong to Lundby parish, but is now part of the city of Västerås. The Gilltuna farm is close to the border of the parishes, within sight of the village of Dingtuna, which was the thingstead, the site where the thing assembly was held, of the Tuhundra district during the Middle Ages (Holmberg 1969, 267). In all, 33 longhouses and two pit houses were identified. Cultural layers, fences, groups of hearths and 19 wells all contributed to the picture of a large, intensively used settlement with a long history. This was later confirmed

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by radiocarbon dating that was performed on samples from the buildings and some of the 19 wells. A number of datable artefacts were found, most of them by using a metal detector. The Late Iron Age is prominent in the find material, consisting of, for example, several brooches or parts of brooches, two Arabic silver coins and several horse spikes from the Late Iron Age. The animal bones collected mainly from cultural layers and larger features consisted of a number of species of domestic animals but also moose and fish (Bäckström 2014, 154–155). Gilltuna was an Iron Age village (cf. Fallgren 2006, 95, with references, for the definition of ‘village’ in this context) consisting of two farms established in the Late pre-Roman Iron Age. The site was in use for over 1000 years. During this long period, the village was reorganized several times, with individual farms being abandoned and re-established in other locations within the area. The long-term settlement continuity throughout the Iron Age is what really distinguishes Gilltuna from the average farm in the region, where many settlements were abandoned after the Migration period (Göthberg 2007, 441–443). Gilltuna shows no signs of having been an aristocratic manor. Despite Arabian silver coins and brooches, the find material in general is average.

No house on the site can be clearly distinguished as a great hall (cf., e.g., Herschend 1997), which is usually considered as the dwelling for the ruling family as well as a building of social and ritual importance. For a very long time, the central parts of the Gilltuna village consisted of an enclosed farm on a large (c. 42 × 42 m) tun, i.e. a fenced yard. The first house in the large tun seems to have been built in the 1st or 2nd century AD (Sundkvist 2014b, 181). By the 5th century, there was still a farm in the fenced area – in the tun – but the settlement was reorganized during the Migration period, leaving the old tun, but not the Gilltuna site, abandoned. Based on radiocarbon dating results, the tun was redeveloped as a farm around AD 600. During the remainder of the Late Iron Age, the site consisted of one farm inside and one south of the tun. Until the first century of the Viking Age, the layout of the tun was similar to that of the Early Iron Age. The largest house of the site was situated inside the tun enclosure. Later, the fence was moved, the plots rearranged and the main building of the southern farm became the largest on site (Fig. 3.2). This structural change is interpreted as the loss of importance of the tun and the enclosed farm. Around the turn of the millennium, Gilltuna

Figure 3.2. The settlement in the central tun around AD 750–850. Enclosed by a stone wall and a post-built fence. Within the tun, there were clusters of buildings from the entire history of the tun. Several generations of houses have been built in the same plot. There is a group of hearths from the Early Iron Age and open ‘empty’ areas (Sundkvist 2014a, 35–36).

3.  A tale of three Tuna-sites – A classic scholarly problem enlightened by new archaeological material was abandoned or moved somewhere outside the limits of the excavation area. The position of the medieval farm is yet to be determined.

Tortuna – Work and worship The Tortuna Tuna-site (Sundkvist and Svenman 2019) was discovered when SAU conducted an archaeological excavation c. 100 m east of the Tortuna parish church in the county of Västmanland. Tortuna church dates back to the 1200s. From the 15th century onwards, the thing of the Yttertjurbo district was held outside the church, but the old thingstead, Tingshällarna, is situated c. 500 m to the north-west. The location of the first church of the parish is unknown. However, an 18th-century source (Grau 1904 [1754]) points to an area close to the land that was to be developed in 2015. Construction work in the same area in the 1950s had resulted in the discovery of human bones. At the time, no archaeology was carried out, but a general interpretation was that the human remains might belong to burials in an earlier, unknown cemetery. The fieldwork began in the summer of 2015. Although limited in extent, the excavation results were remarkable, resulting in the discovery of a Migration period hall-building (5th–6th century) (Celin and Sundkvist, 23–26), an Iron

37

Age farm (4th–7th century), a Late Iron Age ritual site (6th–11th century) (Sundkvist et al. 2019a, 102–108) and an Early Christian graveyard (11th–13th century) (Sjöling 2019, 26–28). The full size and structure of the settlement is unknown. The building remains were covered by extensive cultural layers, littered with animal bones. Large amounts of metal finds, including buckles, weapons and more than 20 amulet rings, were found by using a metal detector. Buildings include both dwelling houses and at least two ceremonial buildings. Most of the metal artefacts were found close to these buildings, which were surrounded by the thickest cultural layers. A total of six buildings were identified, including two possible pit houses. Remains of a fence, radiocarbon-dated to AD 420–580,4 in the area investigated suggest that the major part of a farm and a tun is situated outside the excavated area. Remains of a kiln, probably used for a foundry, were found in the tun (Fig. 3.3). Some artefacts and radiocarbon-dated bones from the cultural layers widen the chronology by adding a Viking Age horizon. The site was used for ritual purposes centuries after the farm was moved or abandoned. It is also possible that the metal workshop, which dates from the 6th or 7th century and was overlaying one of the houses, belonged

Figure 3.3. Tortuna’s tun, with a wooden enclosure and houses, and to the south the ritual area.

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Susanna Eklund and Anneli Sundkvist

9

8

7

6

5

4

3

2

1

0

Gilltuna

Tortuna

Ultuna

Tunby

Vendel

Sollentuna

Alsike

Fornsigtuna

Strategic location

Parish name

Thingstead

Terraced houses

Large mound/ boat grave

Exposed

Enclosure

Intensely used

Ritual finds

Metalwork

Frötuna

Figure 3.4. Significant traits for the nine Tuna-farms included in the study.

to a post-settlement phase and might be part of the ritual area (cf. Lindeblad 1997, 34–35). But it cannot be excluded that the workshop was in use when the site was still a farmstead. We have evidence that Tortuna was most probably a fenced farm, although only parts of it were excavated. Remains of a fence, which was partly dug down into the ground, were found during the excavation. This action left a groove that, together with some postholes, forms a fence. The entire western side was excavated as well as fragments of the northern and southern parts, just close to the wall of the trench. The length of the western side of the enclosure is 36 m (Sundkvist 2019b, 75). While the main building of the Tuna-farm of Tortuna is elusive and remains to be discovered, more is known about the cult area. The evidence suggests that it was used for at least eight decades, possibly surviving the transition to Christianity. Two of the nearby Christian graves were dated to the 11th and 12th centuries respectively, while radiocarbon-dating results of the bones from the cultural layers from or close to the cult area overlap in time with the oldest of the graves. The large deposit of amulet rings and other potential votive finds, such as two Thor’s hammers

and several weapons or parts of weapons, indicate a Tunaplace of ritual significance.

Similar but different Ultuna, Gilltuna and Tortuna were all excavated through contract archaeology. Therefore, the investigations differ in size. While the Iron Age farms of Gilltuna were fully excavated, only a small fragment of the Tortuna archaeological site was revealed. Ultuna has a complicated history, with major construction works carried out in the mid-20th century destroying large parts of the complex (Hulth 2014b, 8). Several of the Ultuna excavations covered small areas, and some consisted of narrow cable trenches. Despite these source-critical issues, we think that it is important to try to compare the sites to shed further light on the Tuna problem.

Continuity What really ties the sites together is the long continuity of human activities. Ultuna dates back to the Bronze Age, and several prehistoric periods are represented in the material, although we do not have traces of a permanent settlement

3.  A tale of three Tuna-sites – A classic scholarly problem enlightened by new archaeological material dating before the Migration period (Hulth 2013a, 59). Gilltuna was founded during the pre-Roman Iron Age. The site has no chronological gaps, but the farms were moved and some areas were abandoned while others were brought into use. Tortuna was established in the 4th century, but it is not clear whether the farm survived the so-called ‘6th-century crisis’ (Gräslund 2007). The site has been used for cult purposes from the Late Iron Age to the present day (Fig. 3.5). An important observation is that the Tuna-sites deviate from the general pattern of a major restructuring of the settlements that takes place in the transition from the Migration to the Vendel period, more specifically the 6th century AD. At that time, the decline can be discerned in several parts of Sweden, for example in Östergötland (Hedvall 1995) and Uppland. Many of the old Iron Age villages on the lowland clay soil were abandoned during the Early Vendel period, and a reduced number of farms and villages were relocated to ridges and hills on higher levels (Gräslund 2007, 112). Several researchers link this to a climate crisis in connection with major volcanic eruptions, the first taking place in AD 536 (Gräslund 2007, 105). The aerosol cloud after the eruption lowered the temperature considerably, resulting in increased water levels in lakes and bogs and reduced evaporation from the soil surface. This increased humidity may have contributed to people abandoning their settlements (Gräslund 2007, 113). However, this does not affect the Tuna-sites (Eklund 2014, 210). Admittedly, several of the investigated Tuna-sites do not lie in lowlands in clay soil, but rather in plateaus in the landscape. But Gilltuna, Ultuna and Tortuna are all situated on lowland clay soil and should therefore all have been affected by the climate deterioration. However, the sites are used throughout the crisis even though the evidence suggests some reorganization might have taken place. Despite this, it is apparent that it was important to maintain these sites.

Sacred sites A striking difference between Gilltuna on the one hand, and Tortuna and Ultuna on the other, is the religious remains that the former settlement lacks. Tortuna has an amazingly long history of worship, from the 4th century until the present day as the parish church stands only a few hundred metres from the pre-Christian votive site. The first churchyard, which has been partly excavated, is even closer. It might date as far back as the 11th century and overlaps with the Late Viking Age use of the old cult place according to the radiocarbon datings. Ultuna has no known ceremonial buildings, but there is a cultural layer with weapons and other ritual objects, parts of objects and animal bones, just as in Tortuna. Some of the sacrificed artefacts from both sites are of very high quality. Although the central area of the Gilltuna site was fully excavated, no signs of a ritual context were found. The cultural layers were not excavated by hand, and, although

39

Figure 3.5. The graph shows the establishment and the abandonment of the nine Tuna-farms included in the study.

intensive metal detecting resulted in several Iron Age artefacts, none of these can be connected to religious rituals.

Three sites in context The Tuna-farms – A systematic analysis Considering the fact that Tuna is a settlement name (Vikstrand 2013), it is not surprising that remains of Iron Age houses were found in all three sites. The excavation of the Gilltuna farm gave evidence that the same plot was reused many times. Several generations of houses were built in a limited space, surrounded by a fence. In connection with the work on the sites Gilltuna and Tortuna, a study of previously investigated Iron Age Tuna-settlements with continuity into the Late Iron Age was conducted (Eklund 2014; Eklund and Sundkvist 2019). The original study has been developed further for this chapter to include Ultuna. From the source-critical point of view, it is important to be clear that the sites were investigated for different purposes, at different times, to various extents and with different levels of ambition. The purpose of the study was to revitalize the old Tuna debate by involving the settlement archaeological material provided by contract archaeology. The study included Tunby5 in the county of Västmanland (Annuswer and Karlsson 2003), and Tuna in Vendel (broken up in the early Middle Ages; Isaksson 2002), Tuna in Sollentuna (Hansson 1942; Ginters 1960; Nilsson 2007), Tuna in Alsike (Hjulström and Isaksson 2005), Fornsigtuna (Old Sigtuna; Allerstav et al. 1991) and Frötuna (Ringquist 1969), all in the county of Uppland. Together with Ultuna, Gilltuna and Tortuna, 10 sites are included in the study. The sites have been examined partly from aspects drawn from earlier Tuna research and partly from archaeologically significant aspects. This has resulted in site-specific factors as well as traits from their surroundings (Fig. 3.4). The following variables have been pointed out by scholars for

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Susanna Eklund and Anneli Sundkvist

a long time as typical for Tuna-places (cf. Fernstål 2004, 50–54; Engström 2014, 197): • • • • • •

strategically advantageous locations – the sites are often located at thresholds to the waterways or by bays that cut deep into the landscape; signs of an early central administrative function – close to churches, and/or origin of the parish name; situated in a district with many ancient monuments such as boat graves and large mounds; confirmed closeness to an old thingstead; presence of terrace or plateau houses; well exposed, for example on a ridge.

Based on the archaeological material of the sites included in the study, the following parameters have been added: • • • • • • •

high density of archaeological features in the settlement; regulated plot, meaning that the main building had remained in the same location for several generations; long continuity through the Iron Age; presence of a fenced yard (tun) and its size; particular find materials, such as greater amounts of metal finds; the presence of metal workshops; find material of ritual significance, such as religious amulets.

All of the sites in the study were strategically located in relation to communication routes, though not always related to the waterways. They all had a long continuity in common, originating from or prior to the Roman Iron Age or Migration period. They all continue at least into the Vendel period or Viking Age, sometimes longer. At Vendel, Ultuna and Alsike, it is clear that the settlement continued into the Middle Ages. In Gilltuna, Tunby, Sollentuna and Alsike, Early Iron Age settlements are found in the vicinity, but not in the same location. However, many of the sites seem to have had their prime in the Vendel and Viking eras, based on the radiocarbon-dating results as well as the artefactual evidence (Eklund 2014, 208–210). A high density of archaeological features was obvious at some of the sites. The density indicates how intensively the site was used, and, above all, that it was important to maintain and consolidate the farm location itself. The density-calculation is based on the number of archaeological features per square metre. In order for the analysis to be comparable, the density of archaeological features from four of the Tuna-sites was compared to a test group of nonTuna Iron Age settlements, four ‘ordinary’ settlement sites: Hacksta (Lagerstedt and Lindvall 2008), Ed’s allé (Celin and Eklund 2017), Kyrsta (Onsten-Molander and Wikborg 2007) and Malma (Eklund and Wikborg 2017). To calculate the density of non-Tuna Iron Age settlements, we used the tun

area when distinguishable, or the most intensively used area of residence if the tun was not clearly marked. All selected locations are characterized by long continuity and many houses (Eklund 2014, 209). The result of the comparison indicates that the group of Tuna-sites has a remarkably high density, even when compared to other intensively used settlement sites (Fig. 3.6). To conclude, in many ways the Tuna farms are different from one another, but there are certain traits that distinguish them from other Iron Age settlements. They seem to have been more intensively used, which may indicate that these farms were used not only by the family and household but also by visitors. Thus, the farm probably played a central, administrative role in society. Furthermore, they have a long continuity and survive the 6th century when many other settlements were abandoned. This is another lead that suggests that the farms were important to the people of this dark century. Apart from the continuity throughout the Iron Age, there are numerous examples that the same plots within the settlements were used for generations of buildings (Eklund and Sundkvist 2014, 189–195), indicating that stability in the layout of these farms was desirable.

The significance of the ‘tun’ Most of the excavations in this study were limited in size, which explains why fences were found in only three of the cases: Gilltuna, Tunby and Tortuna, all of which were conducted as contract excavations. Gilltuna and Tunby definitively had large tuns, which was likely also the case with Tortuna, where the tun consists of two main components: the enclosure and the open surface inside. The use of stone walls to enclose tuns is known from some areas in Sweden, for example Öland (Fallgren 2006) and Östergötland (Widgren

Figure 3.6. The graph indicates the density of archaeological features (features/m2) inside the enclosure, or at the most intensely used area on the site. Tuna-sites in comparison with four ‘ordinary’ settlement sites, Hacksta (Lagerstedt and Lindvall 2008), Ed´s allé (Celin and Eklund 2017), Kyrsta (Onsten-Molander and Wikborg 2007) and Malma (Eklund and Wikborg 2017).

3.  A tale of three Tuna-sites – A classic scholarly problem enlightened by new archaeological material 1983). A study of the enclosures that were found in connection with the large E4 project in Uppland revealed that wooden fences were common in areas not known for their stone walls (Eklund 2007, 350). On several of the settlement sites in the project, more or less well-preserved post-built fences were found, and a relatively large proportion of these surrounded a courtyard outside a dwelling house. If stone walls are normally used to enclose fields and meadows, the wooden fences in Uppland mainly fenced the actual tun, and the enclosures measure from 300 m2 to 1250 m2 (Eklund 2007, 362). However, the ‘tuns’ in Gilltuna, Tunby and Tortuna were significantly larger, between 1500–2000 m2. The different phases of the Gilltuna enclosure were built with stone walls as well as wooden posts, but the dating of these structures is uncertain. The tun had been used for a long time, resulting in up to 40 cm-deep cultural layers within the enclosure. A large number of features and several sequences of houses were excavated, as were groups of fireplaces. From the layout of these structures, it is clear what is inside and outside the enclosure, even though no fence was entirely preserved. Within the tun, there were clusters of buildings from the entire settlement history of the tun, groups of hearths dating from the Early Iron Age and open ‘empty’ areas (Eklund and Sundkvist 2014; Sundkvist 2014a, 35–36). Concerning these open areas, Fernstål (2004) has highlighted the function of the tun as a social arena. She interprets them as a scene, public but still separate, limited but still open. Based on past research and medieval landscape laws, she discusses the yard as a zone between the farm’s outer and inner parts (Fernstål 2004, 60–61, with references), maybe a zone between public and private. Depending on the type of fence, it could hide the people, the structures and the actions on the inside from non-invited persons on the outside (Eklund 2007). The place name ‘Tuna’ indicates that the tun did distinguish these farms. Were the farms named Tuna because of the size or because of the use of the tun?

Tuna – The votive site The purpose of the comparisons was to examine the Tunafarms, hence all the examples were Tuna-places with confirmed settlements. The original selection of sites for comparison was based on Gilltuna. Tortuna and Ultuna, as well as Estuna, Frötuna and Romfartuna, all have ritual components that were not found in the Gilltuna material. Thus, to examine the ritual role of the Tuna-places, we need to add comparable sites with a ritual connection. Such a connection can be expressed in different ways. This type of feature, a cultural layer connected to ritual activities, was described as early as the early 1990s when the cult building of Borg in Östergötland was excavated (Lindeblad 1997, 32–35). That complex includes a Viking Age ceremonial building, a paved yard and a cultural layer with deposits of animal bones and amulet rings.

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Metal handicraft had been performed close to the house. The character of these types of sites is still not very well known, but obviously they occur in Ultuna as well as in Tortuna, in the latter case including buildings, amulet rings and stone constructions (Sundkvist et al. 2019a, 105–108). The connections between the amulet rings and stones and rock have been made clear by several archaeologists in the current decade (e.g. Harryson 2017; Lucas and Lucas 2017; Sundkvist 2019c), as has the connection between certain aspects of Scandinavian pre-Christian religion and rock and slabs. Another site of interest in the discussion about the ritual aspects of Tuna-places is Estuna churchyard, in Estuna parish, Uppland. Repeated but limited excavations have been carried out during the second half of the 20th century. The archaeology so far has resulted in a large number of (more than 500) Viking Age arrows and lance tips, which are interpreted as sacrificial finds due to the variation of types, the pattern of the deposits and the presence of miniature weapons (Notelid 2009, 20–21). It is particularly interesting that all arrowheads were found in a fat, dark layer that contained, among other things, animal bones. There was also a packing of stones in the trench (Notelid 2009, 13). The proximity to the church raised the issue of cult site continuity, for example the location of the early churches in pre-Christian cult sites. The place name of Estuna has been interpreted by philologists as ‘the Tuna of the dwellers of the ridge’ (Andersson 1968) or ‘the Tuna of the Aesir’, i.e. the Old Norse gods (Hellberg 1986). The archaeological material from Tortuna includes many objects of ritual significance. The area close to the present church has been used for ritual purposes at least since the 6th century, maybe longer. Parts of the excavation trench flood very quickly during rain. Some evidence suggests that a wetland, now drained, might have neighboured the old Tuna-farm (Sundkvist et al. 2019b, 110). The ritual elements of Tortuna can be summarized as follows (see also Table 3.1): • • • • • • •

a sequence of small buildings interpreted as cult houses; a fence that separates the cult area from the rest of the site; a cultural layer with potentially sacrificed items; a cultural layer with animal bones that show signs of being exposed (rodent marks); parts of weapons and amulet rings (Fig. 3.7), objects that were probably sacrificed; clear indications of metal crafts in the area; a packing of stones in connection with the majority of the amulet rings.

The ritual layers with deposited weapons and animal bones in Ultuna as well as Tortuna have been exposed for so long that they have been subjected to gnawing by dogs or pigs,

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Susanna Eklund and Anneli Sundkvist

trampling, weathering and fragmentation (Sjöling 2013, 58; Gustavsson 2019, 98–99). The human activities have probably also contributed to the high degree of fragmentation through, for example, trampling. In Estuna, animal bones were found in the cultural layer, but, unfortunately, osteological analysis has not yet been performed on the material.

Another site of interest when discussing the ritual aspects of Tuna is found in Romfartuna, district of Norbo, county of Västmanland. The church was built in the early 14th century (Alström 2010, 9). Limited archaeological excavations have been carried out in and outside the church on several occasions, revealing, for example, two Iron Age cremation graves. The church was built on a hill

Table 3.1. Ritual elements from some Tuna-sites. Estuna

Tortuna

Ultuna

Frötuna x

Sacral place name

(x)

x

Miniature weapons

x

x

Weapons

x

Amulet rings

x

x

x

x

Animal bones

x

x

x

Exposed bones

?

x

x

Cultural layers

x

x

x

Connection with/construction of stone and rock

x

x

Ritual building

Romfartuna

x

x

Vicinity of church

x

x

Parish name

x

x

Metal crafts

x?

x

Figure 3.7. Some of the amulet rings found in Tortuna. Photo by Niklas Stenbäck.

x x

x

3.  A tale of three Tuna-sites – A classic scholarly problem enlightened by new archaeological material with visible solid rock, and the cemetery was constructed from soil brought to the site (Alström 2010, 11–12). In 2018, an excavator was used to open several trenches in a field north of the church to conduct an archaeological survey (Sundkvist 2019a). The area is mentioned in an 18th-century source as the possible place of origin for the runestone (Vs20), today kept in the church, as well as the earlier location of the Romfartuna vicarage (Grau 1904 [1754]). The archaeological survey revealed cultural layers and other features dated to the Early Iron Age. The remains were interpreted as the outskirts traces of a settlement site. No Late Iron Age features or artefacts were found, but the runestone as well as some Viking Age graves a few hundred metres farther north indicate the presence of a Late Iron Age farm or settlement that is yet to be found. Furthermore, Romfartuna church seems to have been built directly on the bedrock (Alström 2010, 11; Fig. 3.8). In the light of recent research about the connection between the Late Iron Age, perhaps mainly the Viking Age, cult sites and rock, blocks and stone (cf. Zachrisson 2004, 146, with references; Bäck and Hållans Stenholm 2012, 114; Lucas and Lucas 2017; Sundkvist 2019c, 130), there is reason to question whether Romfartuna church was built on a pre-Christian cult site. Was the will to continue to use

Figure 3.8. The door to the porch of Romfartuna church, situated on a rocky hill. Photo by Anneli Sundkvist.

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an old, holy site that was well founded in the memories of people the reason for the obvious effort put into the building of the cemetery?

Conclusion The three sites that have been the main characters of this study are similar but different. They all share characteristics with other Tuna-sites concerning intensity and continuity but lack certain other aspects that traditionally have been connected to Tuna-places, such as strategic location and connection to a thingstead (cf. Eklund 2014, 207, with references). From our material, it is clear that there must have been Tuna-sites with different characters. The farm is essential, as the settlement-oriented name indicates. We have located enclosed farms at two of the sites: Gilltuna and Tortuna. The settlement structure of Ultuna is elusive, but a number of Iron Age houses have been excavated. When analysed in the context of more examples, it is clear that the Tuna-farms were important. They all have long continuity, they survived the 6th-century climate crisis and, compared to other Iron Age settlements, they were in intensive use. It is possible that they served as some kinds of assembly sites (cf. Sundkvist 2014c, 223), but to really explore the significance of the Tuna-farms more material is needed. To study the sites in their landscape context might be a way to further understand the places and divide them into different categories. Apart from being in use as farms, two of the sites have had ritual significance: Tortuna and Ultuna. Comparable sites were found when we broadened the comparative material and looked outside the settlement selection of Tuna-sites. Estuna (Notelid 2009) is an example of a Tuna-place where pre-Christian cult was carried out in what is now the churchyard. Another possible site of ritual significance is Romfartuna (Sundkvist 2019a), where great effort was put into building the church and cemetery on a rocky hill. In both these cases, the full chronology of the sites is not known, but artefacts and monuments suggest a Viking Age presence. Early Iron Age settlement remains and graves have been excavated on and around the hill where Romfartuna church stands today, but we do not know anything about the intensity of the settlement. However, our conclusion is based on what we do know, and both Romfartuna and Estuna are possible pre-Christian cult sites. In the Estuna case, there seems to be a ritual cultural layer similar to the ones excavated in Ultuna and Tortuna. Another thing that bring these sites together is the place name, especially the fact that the old Tuna-name became the parish in the cases of Estuna, Tortuna and Romfartuna. Ultuna is situated in Bondkyrko parish (‘bondkyrko’ is Swedish for farmer’s church). In this case, the name of the parish is clearly late and related to the church.

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Is it possible that Tuna-farms were assembly sites? Most of the traditional traits connected to them, such as location close to roads and waterways, are valid for assembly sites as well (Sanmark 2017, 123–130), and many gatherings of people leave traces such as high intensity in archaeological features. Assembly sites show long continuity, and this history is important as part of the collective identity (Sanmark 2017, 120, 135). Such sites, or the spirit6 of them, anchors the memory of the landscape through prestigious and named places, erected monuments, trampled paths and driveways, established meeting places and drawn boundaries. Through social use and reuse, a social context was created (Hansson 2001; Hållans Stenholm 2012). In an era of crisis, the collective memory as the bridge back to earlier generations must have been even more important. Is it possible that the observed differences between the Tuna-sites reflect different reasons for the gatherings? Some of the farms might have hosted a collective cult, open to groups outside the family living on the farm. A number of these places were important enough to survive the change of religion and became transformed into Christian cult places – churches. The religion changed but the worship continued, and the old name was transformed into the name of the parish. This definitely happened in Tortuna, and most probably in Estuna, even though the limited excavations make the conclusion more difficult to draw. Ultuna was situated too far from what was to become the centre of the parish. This was to be found in the present city of Uppsala, then the trading place at River Fyris. The farmers’ church was built there, probably because the thingstead was also situated there. And, concerning Gilltuna, if there was a ‘ritual’ Tuna-site in the vicinity of the farm, it is most probably to be found close to the nearby Dingtuna church, where the old thingstead was.

Epilogue For over a century, the Tuna-sites have attracted and challenged scholars. Even though the puzzle of their significance is yet to be solved, modern contract archaeology has provided several new pieces of evidence. As we guide the excavators to help us learn to understand the settlement history of the region, our chances of solving this classic research problem increase. In the case of Tuna, contract archaeology has already made a difference.

Notes 1

2

During the 1970s, three Viking Age boat graves were excavated in the garden of the vicarage of Old Uppsala. Two more were found and excavated in 2019, which makes it reasonable to discuss this as another boat-grave cemetery. For a full version of the Historic Environment Act in English, see the Swedish National Heritage Board: https://www.raa. se/in-english/cultural-heritage/historic-environment-laws/ historic-environment-act-1988950/.

3 4 5

6

The complex of Ultuna is further discussed in this volume by Helena Hulth. Ua 56782, 1544±31. Calibrated with OxCal v4.3.2 (Bronk Ramsey 2017), using IntCal 13 atmospheric curve (Reimer et al. 2013). Tunby lacks the plural form of the name but was included in the original comparative study because of the location in the modern city of Västerås and the characteristics as a fenced farm, just like Gilltuna. For a presentation of Genius loci, the spirit of a place, see Zsolt 2003.

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3.  A tale of three Tuna-sites – A classic scholarly problem enlightened by new archaeological material Sundkvist, A. (2014b) 5. Datering och gårdskronologi. In A. Sundkvist and S. Eklund (eds) Gilltuna – där man följde traditionen. Den första storskaligt undersökta tuna-gården. Särskild arkeologisk undersökning av boplatslämningar från förromersk järnålder till vikingatid. Fornlämningar Västerås 1252 och 1356, Västmanland, 178–187. SAU rapport 2014:4. Uppsala: Societas archaeologica Upsaliensis. Sundkvist, A. (2014c) 6.4. Det hände på tunet. Om hägnader och ‘tomma’ ytor på järnåldersgårdar. In A. Sundkvist and S. Eklund (eds) Gilltuna – där man följde traditionen. Den första storskaligt undersökta tuna-gården. Särskild arkeologisk undersökning av boplatslämningar från förromersk järnålder till vikingatid. Fornlämningar Västerås 1252 och 1356, Västmanland, 215–223. SAU rapport 2014. Uppsala: Societas archaeologica Upsaliensis. Sundkvist, A. (2019a) Aktivitetsytor vid Romfartuna kyrka. Arkeologisk utredning etapp 1 och 2. Romfartuna 30:1, 33:1, 394 och 395, Romfartuna prästgård 1:1. Romfartuna socken, Västerås kommun, Västmanland, Västmanlands län. SAU rapport 2019:17. Uppsala: Societas archaeologica Upsaliensis. Sundkvist, A. (2019b) 5.5. Hägnader. In A. Sundkvist and E. Svenman (eds) Ring, ring! Kultplatskontinuitet i Tortuna. Från amuletter till klockklang. Boplatslämningar från yngre romersk järnålder till tidig vendeltid, kultplats från yngre järnålder och tidigkristna gravar. Arkeologisk förundersökning och undersökning. Tortuna 36:1, 305:1–2, 306:1 och 320, Klockarvretarna 2:1, Tortuna socken, Västerås kommun, Västmanland, Västmanlands län, 75–77. SAU rapport 2019:19. Uppsala: Societas archaeologica Upsaliensis. Sundkvist, A. (2019c) 8.1. Amulettringar i arkeologiska kontexter. In A. Sundkvist and E. Svenman (eds) Ring, ring! Kultplatskontinuitet i Tortuna. Från amuletter till klockklang. Boplatslämningar från yngre romersk järnålder till tidig vendeltid, kultplats från yngre järnålder och tidigkristna gravar. Arkeologisk förundersökning och undersökning. Tortuna 36:1, 305:1–2, 306:1 och 320, Klockarvretarna 2:1, Tortuna socken, Västerås kommun, Västmanland, Västmanlands län, 115–131. SAU rapport 2019:19. Uppsala: Societas archaeologica Upsaliensis. Sundkvist, A. and Eklund, S. (2014) Gilltuna – där man följde traditionen. Den första storskaligt undersökta tuna-gården. Särskild arkeologisk undersökning av boplatslämningar från förromersk järnålder till vikingatid. Fornlämningar Västerås 1252 och 1356, Västmanland. With contribution by T. Engström. Further contributions by E. Almgren, J. Andersson, Y. Bäckström, U. Celin, A. Ekblom, M. Erikson, J.-H. Fallgren, M. Guinard, J. Ljungkvist, L. Sundin and J. Svensson Hennius. SAU rapport 2014:4. Uppsala: Societas archaeologica Upsaliensis.

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Sundkvist, A. and Svenman, E. (2019) Ring, ring! Kultplatskontinuitet i Tortuna. Från amuletter till klockklang. Boplatslämningar från yngre romersk järnålder till tidig vendeltid, kultplats från yngre järnålder och tidigkristna gravar. Arkeologisk förundersökning och undersökning. Tortuna 36:1, 305:1–2, 306:1 och 320, Klockarvretarna 2:1, Tortuna socken, Västerås kommun, Västmanland, Västmanlands län. With contributions by J. Andersson, T. Brorsson, U. Celin, A. Ekblom, S. Eklund, M. Erikson, R. Gustavsson, J. Ljungkvist, F. Löjdström, E. Sjöling, A. Svensson and F. Thölin. SAU rapport 2019:19. Uppsala: Societas archaeologica Upsaliensis. Sundkvist, A., Svenman, E. and Thölin, F. (2019a) 6. Tortuna 320: från romartida gård till vikingatida kultplats. In A. Sundkvist and E. Svenman, Ring, ring! Kultplatskontinuitet i Tortuna. Från amuletter till klockklang. Boplatslämningar från yngre romersk järnålder till tidig vendeltid, kultplats från yngre järnålder och tidigkristna gravar. Arkeologisk förundersökning och undersökning. Tortuna 36:1, 305:1–2, 306:1 och 320, Klockarvretarna 2:1, Tortuna socken, Västerås kommun, Västmanland, Västmanlands län, 102–108. SAU rapport 2019:19. Uppsala: Societas archaeologica Upsaliensis. Sundkvist, A., Svenman, E. and Thölin, F. (2019b) Sammanfattning och tolkning. In A. Sundkvist and E. Svenman (eds) Ring, ring! Kultplatskontinuitet i Tortuna. Från amuletter till klockklang. Boplatslämningar från yngre romersk järnålder till tidig vendeltid, kultplats från yngre järnålder och tidigkristna gravar. Arkeologisk förundersökning och undersökning. Tortuna 36:1, 305:1–2, 306:1 och 320, Klockarvretarna 2:1, Tortuna socken, Västerås kommun, Västmanland, Västmanlands län, 109–111. SAU rapport 2019:19. Uppsala: Societas archaeologica Upsaliensis. Vikstrand, P. (2001) Gudarnas platser. Förkristna sakrala ortnamn i Mälarlandskapen. Acta Academiae Regiae Gustavi Adolphi 77. Studier till svensk ortnamnsatlas utgivna av Thorsten Andersson 17. Uppsala: Uppsala universitet. Vikstrand, P. (2013) Järnålderns bebyggelsenamn. Om bebyggelsenamnens uppkomst och ålder i Mälarlandskapen. Skrifter utgivna av Institutet för språk och folkminnen, Namnarkivet i Uppsala 13. Uppsala: Uppsala universitet. Widgren, M. (1983) Settlement and Farming Systems in the Early Iron Age: A Study of Fossil Agrarian Landscapes in Östergötland, Sweden. Stockholm: Stockholm University. Zachrisson, T. (2004) The holiness of Helgö. In H. Clarke and K. Lamm (eds) Excavations at Helgö XVI. Exotic and Sacral Finds from Helgö, 143–175. Stockholm: Kungl. Vitterhets Historie och Antikvitetesakademien. Zsolt, V. (2003) Genius loci – the spirit of archaeological sites. http://openarchive.icomos.org/509/1/C1-7_-_Zsolt.pdf. Accessed 21 May 2019.

4 Ultuna – A Late Iron Age gateway to Uppsala Helena Hulth

Background Ultuna is one of Uppland’s more affluent Late Iron Age sites. Its archaeological potential is evident in its name, the location’s topography, the number of ancient monuments and the many remarkable finds. Notably, Ultuna was also counted as one of Uppland’s largest villages in medieval times (Rahmqvist 1986, 267). Located at the southern entrance to the Uppsala plain, the strategic importance of the place during the Late Iron Age (AD 550–1050) is evident in the combination of a natural harbour by the River Fyris, many weapon burials, several strong ritual elements and the sacral name Ull- combined with the administrative term tuna. Boat burials, import materials and other aristocratic elements demonstrate that Ultuna is highly relevant for the scientific discussion concerning local and regional power centres within the sphere of Old Uppsala. For different reasons, the grand variety of Ultuna’s characteristics is relatively unknown and therefore does not always feature in archaeological discussions. This scientific shadow existence is partly due to the fact that some of the site’s ancient features were early discoveries made in the late 17th century, i.e. before archaeology was even a discipline in Sweden, but primarily depend on uncontrolled area exploitation that has affected the source material and the source critical situation. The historical starting point of Ultuna’s transformation leading to this situation was its incorporation in King Carl IX’s royal estate in the 17th century. In 1848, the Institute of Agriculture was established, eventually followed by the founding of the Swedish University of Agricultural Sciences in 1977. Activities such as farming, gravel extraction and construction work have resulted in both discoveries of and major damage to Ultuna’s ancient remains. Despite Sweden having the world’s oldest law concerning ancient monuments, dating back to the 17th century, the losses to archaeology were particularly intense after 1959 as exploitation was performed without any antiquarian or archaeological

restraints. Today, only about 25 visible grave mounds and some stone settings remain on the central burial ground (Uppsala 401:1). The lack of care for archaeology in the area would be peculiar if not for the fact that the largest exploitation took place during a 40-year period when the constructor, The Royal Constructor Board, made all the decisions, without any other authority interfering. That the antiquarians’ and the archaeological researchers’ focus lay somewhere else during this time is also obvious, as this exploitation went unnoticed. It was not until the end of the 1990s, thanks to the identification of settlement remains by luck during construction work, that the situation improved. Beginning with an archive survey, a large number of archaeological excavations have taken place from 1998 onwards. These efforts show that new archaeological information can be extracted from an area like this, despite previous uncontrolled exploitation. Consequently, the excavations in Ultuna have been many and fragmentary, but, together with the old records, the new information means a significant accumulation of knowledge. The objective of this chapter is to demonstrate how fragmentary but numerous excavations during a 350-year period can help us to understand the relationship between burials, adjacent dwelling areas and ritual spaces in a Late Iron Age local centre.

The early excavations The first, 17th-century excavations in the area were undertaken by the author of the Atlantica, the baroque scientist and writer Olof Rudbeck the Elder, who came to Ultuna in the 1660s, primarily in order to contribute to the restoration of the royal manor. Rudbeck noted that there was a striking number of grave mounds on the site – approximately 700 – and he excavated ‘a bunch’ of them (Rudbeck 1679, I:183). Rudbeck was probably the first scientist who noted that Ultuna had an excellent natural harbour, formed by the

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Uppsala esker. At this time, the harbour location was not drained as it is today; instead, it was a partially water-filled meadow or fen (see Fig. 4.1). The Rudbeckian finds were cremation burials, and, from the great number of rivets, he concluded that this was the cemetery of old seamen (Lindqvist 1930, 255). There are no notes on archaeological finds during the 18th century, but in 1854 and 1855 a couple of agricultural students discovered at least two of the – later characteristic – pre-Viking Age boat graves in Ultuna (SHM 2194). Artefacts from these graves are pictured in the first monograph of Swedish archaeology (Hildebrand and Hildebrand 1873). The 14 boat graves of Vendel – which became emblematic of Sweden for that period – were found almost 30 years later, in 1881 (Stolpe and Arne 1912). It was not until 1928 that the boat graves of Valsgärde were discovered, only 3 km north of Old Uppsala, and during the following 30 years the whole grand cemetery was excavated. At the same time, in 1939, a large burial mound containing a truly spectacular ship burial was found in Sutton Hoo in England. The artefacts were similar to the finds in the

Swedish boat graves and that these burials had much in common was obvious, but the meaning of this phenomenon is still largely unknown. Though somewhat overshadowed by the finds in Vendel, Ultuna was not forgotten. In 1900, the Uppsala professor Oscar Almgren decided to undertake a new excavation in the search for more boat graves, and it began well. In the first shovel, a remarkable find appeared: a gold foil figurine of a votive couple. However, gold foil figurines are still quite unusual in eastern Middle Sweden. Professor Almgren also found the remnants of a ship consisting of more than 1000 rivets and nails, but, even though it was found in a cemetery context, there were no signs of a burial, only a dark fat layer with more ship details and unburned animal bones (SHM 11107). Among the nails were also approximately 15 arrowheads, seven of which seem to have been inserted or shot into both sides of a plank. According to the arrowheads type, the boat is dated from AD 550 to 750, most likely to the 600s (Ljungkvist 2006, 178–181). By the distribution of the rivets and nails, it can be assumed that the ship had been deliberately torn apart, and because of this, together with

Figure 4.1. Property measurement map from 1732. The nucleus of the ancient monument area is within the circle, which also marks a part of the esker with a text saying, ‘High useless sand ridge with a little spruce forest’.

4.  Ultuna – A Late Iron Age gateway to Uppsala the arrangement of the arrowheads, it has been suggested that the boat is an offering, perhaps to honour the god Ull (Ljungkvist 2006, 181).

Contract archaeology in Ultuna from 1998 to 2011 The renewed interest in the archaeology of Ultuna was coincidental. When out for a stroll, a member of staff at the Swedish University of Agricultural Sciences recognized prehistoric hearths and postholes during groundwork in the southern sectors of Ultuna. After this, the county’s government made sure that previously uncontrolled diggings

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were put to an end. The following antiquarian effort to get an overview of Ultuna’s ancient monuments (Fig. 4.2) was rather extensive, including different kinds of archaeological investigations and frequent monitoring works (see Ljungkvist 2000). As a consequence, new knowledge about the site has been built up gradually. With the expansion of the campus of the Swedish University of Agricultural Sciences from 2006 onwards, these efforts became more and more comprehensive.

The Bronze Age and Early Iron Age remains Recent excavations have established that the oldest remains in the area date from the Early Bronze Age, around 1600 BC

Figure 4.2. The Ultuna area: 1) The remains of the central burial ground Uppsala 401:1; 2) The first Merovingian boat burials found in Sweden; 3) Settlement remains found in the end of the 1990s; 4) The ‘Southern field’; 5) The Fagelbacken longhouse; 6) The ritual area; 7) The Knowledge park; 8) The ‘Barn’.

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(Hulth 2013a). The archaeological features consist of single hearths and cooking-pits, spread over vast areas. However, the most startling find from this early phase was an approximately 200 m-long row of 45 hearths dating from around 800 BC to 400 BC, i.e. the end of the Bronze Age and the beginning of the Early Iron Age (Hulth 2013b). Regularly arranged rows of hearths or cooking-pits are rare in eastern Middle Sweden, but the South Scandinavian parallels are usually defined as pit systems of cultic meaning. The systems are usually shore-bound. In the Bronze Age, with a sea level approximately 10 m higher than today, the site of the discovery formed a peninsular landscape, which indeed is in contrast to today’s field, locally known as ‘The Southern Field’ (Fig. 4.3). During 800–400 BC, the hearths were situated along the southern shore of this peninsula. They were similar in construction, including distinct kerbstones, and it is obvious that they have been maintained. Due to the exploitation pressure, all of ‘The Southern Field’ in Ultuna was claimed for exploitation; thus, practically all of it has been archaeologically evaluated, either by test trenches or full-scale excavations, which means

that the overview of this particular area is exceptionally good (Hulth 2007; 2009; 2013b; Pettersson and Svensson Hennius 2011). In contract archaeology, the extent of the excavation area is always strictly limited by the extent of the exploitation area, a fact that is often a limitation to our understanding of a site. Since no contemporary settlement remains have been found in the adjacent area, it is plausible that the hearths were used only on certain occasions. Ultunas’ Bronze Age and Early Iron Age environments are thereby different from the contemporaneous remains in the closest neighbouring area in the west, at sites of Malma and Valsätra (see also Fig. 4.2), where cemeteries and mounds of fire-cracked stones indicate sedentary settlements (Eklund and Wikborg 2016). An analysis carried out by Professor Frands Herschend (2013) argues that the hearths were constructed in sets of four. On the basis of the distribution pattern, Herschend suggests that the construction of these hearths can be interpreted as an act of formalism, and, as such, connected to seasonal family arrangements, where every family was responsible for one set each. Regardless of function, these

Figure 4.3. The row of hearths and the Fagelbacken longhouse at the southern field.

4.  Ultuna – A Late Iron Age gateway to Uppsala hearths represent a major manifestation in a landscape with few other known contemporary features, which also indicates that the Bronze Age people in this vicinity had access to vast areas of land. Regarding the question about sedentary settlement in Ultuna, another noticeable feature is that finds from the Roman period (AD 1–400) are strikingly scarce, and finds from the Migration period (AD 400–550) are few. There is a small cemetery in the southern sector of the area (Uppsala 426) that presumably belongs to the Early Iron Age, but no settlement remains from the Roman Iron Age have been found in its vicinity. A number of settlements from this period may still be undetected; though seen in the light of more than 54,000 m2 of excavation in both fields and impediments in the area as a whole, it is quite remarkable for a prehistoric site on the plains of Uppsala and the Mälar Valley not to have generated more Early Iron Age remains.

The Late Iron Age remains The material from later archaeological periods is rich in both artefacts and monuments. Some establishment of settlements in Ultuna seems to have taken place at the end of the Migration period (AD 400–550), but it intensified and peaked during the Merovingian period (AD 550–800) (Hulth 2013a and b). Nonetheless, it was not until 2009 that a complete Late Iron Age longhouse was found at a place called Fågelbacken in Ultuna, adjacent to a small cemetery consisting of 15 to 20 mounds (Uppsala 407:1). The roof-bearing construction of the discovered longhouse consisted of seven pairs of posts, and, based on these, the size of the building is estimated as 32 m in length and 8 m in width. The house is dated by two carbon samples from the house hearth. The samples were fragments from branches of birch and hazel and gave two well corresponding dates of AD 550–610 and AD 535–600.1 This early Merovingian dating also coincides with the dating of the burial mounds, which is why it is most probable that the burial ground belonged to the farm. Approximately 300 m south-east of the longhouse, in the same location as the above-mentioned context of hearths, some less well-preserved remains from the Migration period and early Merovingian period were located. The traces were found under the plough soil and consisted primarily of poorly preserved postholes and single hearths. The remains have been interpreted as a short-term settlement, perhaps preceding the longhouse. It is also possible, though, that these features represent types of buildings other than dwelling houses, such as prehistoric sheds or barns, in which case they could well belong to the same farm as the Fågelbacken longhouse. As mentioned above, the construction of knowledge of Ultuna’s archaeology has been ongoing for many years. The very first faded traces of settlement remains from the Late Iron Age were found in conjunction with the university’s

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campus development and happened to be in the centre of both prehistoric and modern Ultuna, approximately 500 m east of the ‘Fågelbacken house’. The remains consisted of some fragmentary signs of a Merovingian longhouse, though it was impossible to draw any deeper conclusions about architecture or size (Hulth 2008). The exploitation area was surrounded by modern buildings, roads and sewers. Despite this, an approximately 0.5-m thick culture layer, rich in Late Iron Age artefacts and unburned animal bones, was found less than 50 m east of the house remains mentioned (Hulth 2013a). Within the 100 m2 of culture layer uncovered were several arrowheads, two well-preserved spearheads, miniatures and other amulets such as an 8th-century horse brooch, remade as a pendant (Fig. 4.4). Among the deposits was also the highest concentration of silver dirhams found in the Uppsala region, as well as details from horse- and riding equipment, rivets and fragmented iron mounts, possibly originating from shield bosses. Another peculiar artefact in the context was a well-preserved ice skate made from a horse bone. The layer also contained artefacts of a more everyday character, such as glass beads, combs, needles, knives and scissors, whetstones, loom weights and some pottery. Particularly interesting was the rich osteological material, as it has the potential to answer questions about settlement economy, social strata and ritual activities. Unfortunately, the excavation budget allowed the analysis of only 5.6 kg from the total 17 kg of bone collected. Most of the bone material originated from domestic, meat-producing species.

Figure 4.4. Horse brooch remade into a pendant from the 8th century, found at the ritual area.

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It is noteworthy that the osteological result revealed that approximately half of the identified bones derived from young pigs (Sjöling 2013, 53). Such content is known to be more characteristic of towns than sites in a rural area, although the same proportion of pig bones has been observed in royal sites such as Fornsigtuna and Old Uppsala (Vretemark 1991, 68; Magnell 2017, 41). Other domestic species, such as cattle, sheep/goats and horses, were also identified. Since some of the soil was sieved, the presence of sweet-water fish and game birds was determined as well. Two corresponding carbon datings of bone material at the stratigraphically deepest level of the layer show that the accumulation began in the later part of the Merovingian period (AD 655–6902). Whether this layer initially was waste and debris from the dwelling or dedicated as a place for ritual deposits from the very beginning is unclear. The location and the particular and exclusive content strongly imply that at least the upper, i.e. the younger, layers of the accumulation should be understood in a cultic context. If the deposits in the lower layers were also ritualistic, the transformation of the layers’ content could be interpreted either as a sign of growth in wealth or as merely mirroring the increase of artefacts within material culture throughout the Late Iron Age. Since the layer was found close to the edge of a natural plateau, in a once-favourable position with a good view over the former harbour, it was hypothesized that this was the very nucleus of the Late Iron Age manor. It was also supposed that the ritual area ought to be situated close to a contemporary house, although this was not found at that time. Some years later, during adjacent archaeological monitoring works, several large flat-bottomed and some smaller postholes appeared (Hulth and Andersson 2013, 25‒26). By the dimensions, these were considered to be of the roof-bearing kind, but since the area was very limited (and disturbed) it was not possible to determine the ground patterns. Artefact- and carbon-dating results, however, showed that these posts once belonged to buildings from both the Late Migration period (AD 490–530) and the Merovingian or Viking period (AD 790–870). Within this investigated context there were also fragments of an antler comb with parallels from Birka, dating to the 10th century. As a consequence of the ongoing campus development, bit by bit the area around the plateau was claimed by new groundwork and it became clear that the area around the plateau had undergone major topographical changes (Hulth 2010b; Hulth and Pettersson 2012). Just below the east side of the plateau, beneath about 2–3 m of modern fill, a culture layer appeared, and a pit house from the 10th century was found some 20 m farther east. All in all, within an exploitation area of about 2500 m2 between the plateau and the 25 remaining burial mounds of Rudbeck’s once-great grave field (Uppsala 401:1), at least six Late Iron Age longhouses and two pit houses were

identified (Hulth 2010b; 2014, 58). Situated in the old core of activities, this area was actually also very intensely used in modern times, and the culture layer and the house remains would not have been preserved if they had not been covered with a substantial amount of modern fill. Largest among the identified buildings was a longhouse consisting of eight roof-bearing and mainly flat-bottomed posts, whose location indicates that the house was shipshaped. The length of the building is estimated as 24 m, and the width as between 7–8 m. An oak sample from one of the posts was carbon dated to AD 550–610,3 the Early Merovingian period. Although the area had been exposed to cultivation tests and was quite disturbed by modern cable trenches, sewers and the like, a thin floor layer of clay was also identified within the house. It is worth mentioning that the fairly well-preserved status of the ancient monuments in this area was also due to the fact that the area had been cultivated before the time of machine ploughing, although the thick modern fill cover is what allowed for good preservation. Adjacent to the houses, several levels of culture layers appeared, containing features such as hearths, cooking-pits and postholes. As expected at a Late Iron Age site, there was also a fairly high number of archaeological finds, such as iron artefacts, iron slag, copper alloy objects, pottery and slate whetstones. A grinding stone and a glass bead were found in the floor layer of the pit house. Boat rivets dominated among the iron artefacts, but there were also many metal workshops objects such as plates, fittings and rods. Among the more specific iron artefacts, amulets, a couple of stem spirals, a piece of a horse bit, some sprigs and the iron lining of a spade can be mentioned. The spade lining was found in a layer dated to the Late Iron Age, which is noteworthy as spade linings in Sweden are usually believed to have occurred during the 12th century, which means that this spade lining pre-dates all previous finds. From Russia, however, spade linings in iron are known from the 8th and 9th centuries (Myrdahl 1982, 81‒82). The copper-alloy finds consisted of brooches, buckle fragments, ornate mounts and a dress pin. Among the costume details was an iron fibula of a Finnish type from the Merovingian period (Kivikoski 1947). Seen as a whole, the artefacts discovered in this area have several parallels to nearby sites, such as Old Uppsala and Birka, as well as faraway places, such as Finland, Russia and the western parts of Europe. Additionally, an 11th-century strap end indicates influences from the Byzantine world (Hulth 2014a, 47).

An indoor burial ground excavation On the ridge slope, only 25 m south and south-east of the nucleus dwelling area, stands an old stone-silled barn built in 1864. Since earlier grave finds from the 1930s (Dnr 2231, SHM 20701; SHM 22673; Flodérus no. 29, map 1936) indicated that the eastern part of the barn was situated on

4.  Ultuna – A Late Iron Age gateway to Uppsala the remains of the great grave field (Uppsala 401:1), it was supposed that the barn could hide remaining burials. When the barn was about to be refurbished in order to be used for modern purposes, it was decided that an excavation should be undertaken inside it (Hulth 2014b). The excavation resulted in the discovery of 14 cremation burials and one disturbed stone setting. The majority of the burials did not have any outer construction other than a thin, vaulted layer of clay. This characteristic is a recently discovered phenomenon found during research on the Valsgärde burial ground. It was also observed at the contemporary burial ground Inhåleskullen, east of Uppsala (Seiler and Appelgren 2012), which was excavated about the same time as the barn in Ultuna. This feature shows that a substantial amount of cremation burials is not covered with anything more than a ‘closing layer’. The burials under the barn in Ultuna originate from the 6th to the 10th century, though mainly from the 8th century. Only one of the buried individuals, a woman, could be sex-determined. However, most of the artefact inventory consists of different kinds of jewellery, primarily some silver beads and several glass ones, and the number of these in each collection indicates that most of the burials probably belonged to women. The beads were generally of fine quality and among them was, for example, an intact bead made of rock crystal. Among the finds made during these investigations was a small bird detail of cloisonné, once belonging

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to a button-on-bow brooch, dated to AD 600, which was the second find of that kind at Ultuna. As prehistoric graves are often incomplete regarding the human remains, counting burials is a challenge. Together with stray finds and occasionally documented burials in the central parts of Ultuna, the number of graves is now 52 (the Rudbeckian ‘bunch’ is not considered). The excavation within the barn was interesting in many aspects, not least methodologically; the greatest achievement, however, is that one of the chronological gaps in the grave material of Ultuna was filled with the discovery of the traces belonging to the 8th century. It is now clear that the burials in Ultuna date from the Late Migration period (one burial) to the early medieval period, from which 17 east–west oriented inhumations have been found (the UMF archives, SHM 21624). The distribution of all of these scattered burials covers a large area, all the way from the top of the esker down to the former harbour. From a regional point of view, these burials also represent a community with a diverse social spectrum, spanning from boat burials to a large proportion of weapon burials, fairly richly furnished female burials and simple, fragmented remains of cremations.

Settlement structures Except for the settlement at the Fågelbacken longhouse, all the above-mentioned Late Iron Age remains constitute a coherent area (Fig. 4.5). Ultuna is a good example of how

Figure 4.5. The nucleus of the ancient remains in Ultuna, with an interpretation of the extension of the burial ground, the ritual area and the adjacent dwelling.

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intensely used a central Late Iron Age location may be. The settlement’s proximity to the great burial ground shows that there was no real division between the dwelling area and the burials; in other words, no difference between the dead and the living. This dense situation has also been observed, for example, in Valsgärde and in Old Uppsala (Norr and Sundkvist 1995; Frölund et al. 2015). Without being as complex as the nucleus settlement, the settlement at Fågelbacken also had a burial ground in its near vicinity. This pattern seems to be characteristic for the Late Iron Age and differs from the Early Iron Age pattern where burials and settlements seem to have been placed farther apart (Göthberg 2000, 205). The Fågelbacken settlement was situated in between the nucleus of Late Iron Age Ultuna and another contemporary Late Iron Age settlement at Malma, less than 1 km north-west of Fågelbacken. The monuments of Malma consisted of longhouses and several pit houses with strong indicators of specialized handicrafts (Eklund and Wikborg 2016). In a wider perspective, concerning the relation between the farms and settlements, this may indicate diverse economical orientations on the different sites. The archaeological picture also indicates that the settlements were fairly dense in these parts of the Uppsala plain, notably during a time when it is assumed that the population was strongly decimated due to crises caused by the global climate disturbances in the middle of the 6th century (Gräslund and Price 2012).

Conclusions Even if Ultuna for some decades faded away from the minds of archaeologists, the site was not forgotten by people studying early religions and place names. Belonging to the category of tuna-places, as well as having a sacral prefix of Ull-, Ultuna was included in the discussion. The semantic question about the tuna-places is extensive, but it is generally agreed that the tuna-places are connected with power, wealth and centrality (Brink 1996, 263–264); there also seems to be a consensus about the etymology and periods of establishments, i.e. from the Roman Iron Age to the Migration period (Vikstrand 2013, 80). Based on the archaeological evidence discussed in this article, it is probable that Ultuna was established at the end of this period, and therefore should be counted as a rather late tuna-location. The deeper meaning concerning centrality of this site can be further discussed, but it should be noted that Ultuna lies in Ulleråkers härad (i.e. an area of a certain judicial scheme, naming the holy field of Ull). For Ultuna’s part, the ritual significance of the prefix Ull- is primarily acknowledged by the sacrificed ship and, in recent years, the ritual area. More and more ritual deposits from the Early Iron Age are discovered and the question about what signifies ritual or cultic areas is important. The basis for the cultic interpretation of the layer in Ultuna rests not only upon the

content and the quality of the artefacts, but also the way the artefacts were deposited in flat positions, and not tossed around. Though keeping polytheism in mind, it is easy to become biased when arguing for a certain interpretation. However, regarding the ship offering and several of the artefacts within the cultural layer, primarily the spear- and arrowheads and amulet rings, it is very tempting to interpret these as attributes of Ull. Nor does the find of an ice skate made of bone seem to be a coincidence, based on the note from Saxo that Ull travelled over the water on an enchanted bone (Bæksted 2008, 153). When looking at other ritual contexts from the Late Iron Age, certain categories of artefacts seem to dominate depending on which god is addressed according to the place name. For example, at Ullevi in Bro, north of Stockholm, there was a high number of amulet rings (Bäck et al. 2009), and as mentioned in the Eddic poem Atlakviða, oaths were sworn at Ull’s ring (Collinder 1957). At Frösthult, meaning Freyr’s thwelft, in Västmanland, some conspicuous artefact categories included the reaping knives and short scythes (possible symbols for seeds and fertility), but there were also weapons, amulet rings and buckles (Appelgren and Evanni 2016). Further, in Estuna in Uppland, i.e. the Aesirs’ tuna, the martial elements were particularly distinct, with many arrowheads and weapon miniatures (Notelid 2009). There is indeed a strong martial content in all these locations, which is not too surprising since we, after all, are dealing with the sacrifices to the Old Norse gods. The picture emerging from the excavations at Ultuna is fascinating in many ways. One of the reasons is the more or less non-existent distance between the dwellings and burial grounds in Ultuna. There is no doubt that the few remaining mounds, of which some were investigated by early antiquarians, belong to the same burial ground as the ones more recently excavated under the stone-silled barn. When looking at the artefacts, which include a large proportion of imports, a substantial proportion of the buried population obviously came from the upper strata of society, including the warrior elite. The find material from the settlement of Ultuna, though, contained evidence from every social level. Even though the observations made by Rudbeck in the 17th century regarding the number of mounds never can be proved, it is highly probable that the cemetery once had a notably vast extension. This conclusion rests well upon the distribution of the finds as well as the location’s original Late Iron Age topography. Based upon the former extent and the distribution of burials and finds, it is likely that the burial ground along the ridge once was up to 400 m long and 180 m wide at its widest; thus, there would have been space enough for Rudbeck’s 700 mounds. In numbers, it would be very close to the largest cemeteries of Old Uppsala. Judging by its size, it is probable that Ultuna hosted an extensive village burial ground. The number of graves and distribution of settlement traces imply that the village also

4.  Ultuna – A Late Iron Age gateway to Uppsala had a vast extension stretching outside the nucleus during the Merovingian and Viking periods. Since there is no real evidence for a dense village core in later times, this spread-out settlement pattern probably also corresponds to medieval conditions. It is obvious that the people who inhabited Ultuna chose their location with great care. At the key entrance to the Uppsala plain, they organized one of the largest villages in the area, with strong martial evidence in the grave material and maritime components within the graves, as well as at the settlement, considering the number of large rivets found in cultural layers. The maritime character of the site is also emphasized by the location at the natural harbour. The remains of ritual spaces and handicraft areas indicate that Ultuna belongs to a particular category of large pre-­ Viking Age sites, strategically located in the vicinity of Old Uppsala.

Some final reflections The modern excavation phase in Ultuna spans over 20 years. As archaeologists working at that location, we often had to face the fact that we arrived too late – the ground was already dug through and whatever ancient remains had been there were gone forever. Also, in some places the original topography had undergone profound transformations owing to human activities, which made the puzzle even more challenging. Looking back at the past two decades of archaeological investigations, one realizes that there were also many advantages with a long step-by-step process; thanks to this, we gained a good overview and had time to evaluate the observations and results in order to adjust focus and methods. Usually, when an archaeological investigation is initiated, we study the registered monuments, the shore displacement, the topography and the soil character. Analysing historical maps and the early written sources are also natural parts of an archaeological investigation roadmap. Dealing with locations such as Ultuna, however, shows the importance of understanding both the relatively modern and late activities’ effect on the older layers. Within the central area of modern-day Ultuna is a great variety of buildings from different times, and, fortunately, not all of the older houses had been demolished and replaced with modern constructions. For an archaeologist working in a modern urban setting, this is a relief. The preservation conditions were found to be very different adjacent to older houses compared to younger ones, but, as it turned out, here and there were still preserved pockets of relatively undisturbed prehistoric layers. Thanks to these pockets, our knowledge about Ultuna has indeed increased. The 21st-century investigations in Ultuna thus demonstrate that ancient remains can be preserved in seemingly fully planned urban areas. They also show that archaeological information, despite

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less-favourable conditions, can be extracted by knowledge of an area’s late character, as well as recurring excavation efforts.

Acknowledgements Societas Archaeologica Upsaliensis (SAU) for their kind permission to publish the photo by Markus Andersson of the horse pendant from the archaeological report (Fig. 4.4; Hulth 2013a); and Daniel Löwenborg, PhD, Department of Archaeology and Ancient History, Uppsala University, for producing Fig. 4.2.

Notes 1 2 3

Ua-39854, 1487±30, resp. Ua-39855, 1515±30. Calibrated with OxCal v4.3.2 (Bronk Ramsey 2017), using IntCal 13 atmospheric curve (Reimer et al. 2013). Ua-36161, 1330±35, and Ua-36162, 1325±35. Calibrated with OxCal v4.3.2 (Bronk Ramsey 2017), using IntCal 13 atmospheric curve (Reimer et al. 2013). Ua-46515, 1485±30. Calibrated with OxCal v4.3.2 (Bronk Ramsey 2017), using IntCal 13 atmospheric curve (Reimer et al. 2013).

Bibliography Archive references SHM Swedish National History Museum, inventory number UMF Museum of Ancient Monuments, Uppsala University (Museum Gustavianum) SHM 2194 SHM 11107 SHM 20701, Dnr 2231 SHM 22673 UMF archives, SHM 21624

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5 The digital future of the past – Research potential with increasingly FAIR archaeological data Åsa M. Larsson and Daniel Löwenborg

The development of technical tools for digital documentation of excavations has equipped archaeologists with increasingly powerful ways to generate high-quality data. With the use of digital documentation, GIS, photogrammetry and a wide range of scientific analyses, each excavation can produce large quantities of interrelated data. These new practices provide great opportunities for knowledge production, but also huge challenges. Aggregating the vast quantities of data produced by contract archaeology is still a monumental and time-consuming task due to diverse terminologies, use of proprietary software and poor digital archival practices. With the ongoing development of national and international infrastructures that can make the data Findable and Accessible, it will be up to archaeologists to produce data that is Interoperable and Reusable (FAIR). Doing this will open up new ways to explore the potential of archaeology to study long-term changes in the landscape, the human impact on ecology and vice versa. In this chapter, we highlight the changes that have taken place over the past decades, and discuss some of the research opportunities we can anticipate with this development and what will be required from archaeologists to produce FAIR data.

Introduction Archaeology, being the study of the past through material remains, can act on both the micro and macro level, from soil compounds to fragments of objects to the monuments and sites of the landscape. Over the past 20–30 years, the computer and internet revolution has drastically altered our abilities with both approaches, from analysis of massive data to wide-ranging spatial visualization in 2D and 3D. We need to reckon with the fact that archaeology today is taking place in a very different setting than at the beginning of the last

century, with new expectations of its practitioners. We must also be mindful of the fact that our data is in large part created by humans who decide how to define and describe it, with all the inherent problems this entails (e.g. ‘funnel-beaker’, ‘stone setting’, ‘longhouse’). Researchers today have access to a lot of digital records and online databases, but often have a very flawed understanding of how they were constructed and what the source-critical factors of their content might be. As Frands Herschend has highlighted over the years, there needs to be better collaboration between research and field archaeology in order to progress both our discipline and our understanding of prehistory (Herschend 1988; 2018; Herschend et al. 1993). In this chapter, we argue that archaeologists in general, and researchers in particular, need to become much more proficient at both creating and using digital data. Analogue practices have typically involved individually crafted terminologies and publication of only non-structured data (PDF tables rather than spreadsheets) that demand time-consuming repurposing of information, which is both unnecessary and counterproductive. Publication of only the processed results as text and images, and the lack of publication of the underlying data in structured and open formats, severely limits the usability of the research and also hinders critical evaluation of the interpretations. We as archaeologists must become better at understanding the source-critical factors of the digitized information we are using; if not, the tools will master us instead of the other way around. Considering how archaeology is the study of past societies mainly through excavated, documented and organized material remains, it is rather disconcerting to realize how much text we spend on discussing how our theories affect interpretations as compared to how our methods in and outside the field do (however, see Rudebeck 2004; Bentz and Rudebeck 2007;

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Leighton 2015; Taylor et al. 2018), though surely they go together. Whereas the basic premise of modern archaeological excavation method can be said to have been established well over a century ago, the widespread introduction of excavation machines and especially of digital documentation in the latter part of the 20th century have brought in radical changes to our discipline that we are only beginning to realize (Gunnarsson 2018; Huvila 2018; Taylor et al. 2018).

New methods – A discipline in constant renewal Up until the early 1980s, Bronze Age settlements in Sweden were thought to consist mainly of huts and small houses inhabited by semi-mobile herders whose migratory way of life was seen in the prolific construction of heaps of firecracked mounds (Larsson 2009). In fact, very few house constructions, even from the Iron Age, had been identified in Sweden prior to this point. That changed with the introduction of excavator machines as a result of the increase in society’s building development in the 1970s and 1980s (Welinder 2003, table 4). This new tool, as well as providing the opportunity to excavate large areas, led to archaeologists suddenly identifying a wide array of longhouses and other constructions, as well as large complex settlements (Göthberg 1995; Göthberg et al. 1995; Streiffert 2005; Larsson 2009). It took some time for the new information to find its way into academia, but once the reports began to be published in the 1980s and 1990s our understanding of both the Bronze and Iron Age societies in Sweden underwent radical changes. At this point in the 1990s and early 2000s, digital documentation with the help of total stations and handheld GPS also meant that archaeologists could get a bird’s-eye view of both sites and entire regions far more easily. GIS software increased the opportunities to analyse the results and visualize distribution patterns of ancient sites (Löwenborg 2010; Lindholm et al. 2015). This kind of analysis is dependent on the availability of information, which preferably needs to be in a publicly accessible database in an open format with standardized terminology. Sweden has such an Open Access database of prehistoric and historic sites maintained by the National Heritage Board. Its creation is an instructive case of the problems of a record that began as an analogue product that was later digitized and whose content was originally meant for a somewhat different purpose than its current use.

actually began as early as the 17th century. The political reason for the formalized responsibility in the 20th century was mainly to ensure that property owners and developers would not damage ancient sites. In order to do this, the NHB was to supply the national mapping agency with necessary information about the locations and boundaries of legally protected sites. Not surprisingly, the record quickly became a major resource for researching macro-level social development over time for both archaeologists and other disciplines (geography, history, linguistics, etc.). To access the analogue record (Fornminnesregistret), which consisted of maps and notebooks, one would either have to visit the archive at the NHB in Stockholm, or from the 1970s onwards visit the County Board where the regional copy was kept (Fig. 5.1). As early as the 1970s, there were ambitions to computerize the archive (Jensen 2006, 41). However, this ambition did not become a reality until the turn of the millennium, when a massive digitization project was initiated, resulting in the Archaeological Sites and Monuments Information System (FMIS). FMIS was published as Open Access downloadable content in 2006 – followed by the equally public map-based search site Fornsök in 2008 (Fig. 5.2). By the early 2000s, Swedish archaeology was in the midst of a massive transformation to a digitized and computerized approach to both field documentation and research through the application of GIS, computer software and digital photos (Gunnarsson 2018, 33‒35; Huvila et al. 2018). The increased needs of society in terms of infrastructure development and industry (especially forestry) meant increased pressure on the County Boards overseeing the approval process. This resulted in more focus on surveys and landscape analysis earlier in the process, to predict and evaluate the historic environment and physical sites that could be affected (Ersgård 2009; Henriksson 2019). Combined with contract

The progress towards a digital infrastructure for Swedish archaeology Sweden has a long history of protecting ancient sites, for political and aesthetic as well as scientific reasons (Jensen 2006). Keeping and expanding a national record of sites and monuments has been the legal responsibility of the National Heritage Board (NHB) since 1942, though the record itself

Figure 5.1. The analogue record of ancient sites and monuments (Fornminnesregistret). Archived at the Swedish National Heritage Board since being superseded by the digital record FMIS in 2006, which was in turn replaced by KMR in 2018. Photo by Gunilla Edenström, Riksantikvarieämbetet CC-BY.

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Figure 5.2. In 2008, the digitized record of ancient sites and monuments (FMIS) was made publicly available online with a map interface (Fornsök).

archaeology becoming outsourced to both private and government companies, the results from these many surveys and excavations were becoming difficult to keep up with (Riksantikvarieämbetet 2014). The mere presence of the digitized record online had a ripple effect. For the first time, anyone, anywhere and at any time could see and search for different kinds of sites and monuments on a large scale. It was also easy to combine this with various other geographical and geological information available from other agencies. Macro-level analysis no longer required months of archival studies and then creating distribution maps either manually (e.g. Edgren and Herschend 1982) or by learning computer programming, which Herschend taught to interested undergraduate students in Uppsala in the 1990s. However, learning how to register and then compute the data on early 1990s software was not easy, so, although the statistical results were more advanced, very few archaeologists chose to do this. A decade or so later, the further development of technology, user interfaces and the internet had caused a revolution that we have barely acknowledged, lowering the bar for all users but also increasing the pressure to take advantage of the new tools and data. This generational upheaval is noted by Welinder in his personalized exposé of 20th-century Swedish archaeology (Welinder 2003, 135, 142 ff).

The digitization of the Archaeological Sites Record in the early 2000s and the contemporary development of software for field documentation show that new tools do not just create new types of information; rather, they create new practices, not just in terms of how to analyse the data but how to approach our field of study. The original analogue record was not specifically created as a means for archaeologists to do macro analysis. Yet, over time, in combination with political and social changes in society, this was how it was increasingly used (Sohlenius 2014). This use increased exponentially with its digitization and availability through faster internet and better user interface. Contract archaeology today is expected to include landscape analysis and macro synthesis to a much larger degree than previously, both during surveys and when reporting results from excavations. The most prominent illustrations in today’s archaeological report are not of artefacts but of maps of the area and bird’s-eye views of digitally documented features. What would take an archaeologist weeks to put together and visualize just 30 years ago can today be done in a couple of hours – or less. While registration and editing in the record was done digitally from 2006 onwards, only a relatively small number of archaeologists outside the NHB had permission to register directly to the database. All other archaeologists, whether

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at the County Boards, museums or contract firms, needed to send in a generic form to the NHB about newly discovered sites, or of any alterations to previously identified ones. Thus, it was an analogue practice despite the digital infrastructure. This procedure meant that a massive backlog developed due to the large increase in surveys done by both developers and various local, regional and national government agencies (Sohlenius 2014). It was also problematic getting information on exactly where various archaeological surveys and excavations had taken place, as more and more contract archaeological companies became established. This led to a loss of information and unnecessary double work recreating landscape analyses and archival studies (Larsson et al. 2017). The ineffective process, as well as the increased demand for digital environmental data by other agencies and developers, led to the launch of a new digitization effort by the NHB in 2014: Digital Archaeological Process (DAP) (Riksantikvarieämbetet 2015; Larsson et al. 2017). The aim of the programme was to implement an actual digital process of collecting and sharing information about ancient and historic sites, which areas had been affected by archaeological projects and the results from excavations. In late 2018, a new version of the record was launched, now called the Historic Environment Record (Kulturmiljöregistret), which, in addition to ancient sites, contains information about areas affected by archaeological excavations and surveys. In addition, there is a new online tool (Fornreg) for archaeologists to register and edit the data directly in the HER, a new integrated e-archive for the reports (Forndok) and a new version of the public online search site (Fornsök). Much of the information that was previously added manually is now generated automatically by the system (e.g. geographical metadata), minimizing risk of human error. The HER represents the journey that the computer and internet revolution has initiated in society as a whole. We are moving from using computers to do what we did with pen and paper to learning how to work and think digitally. What is still lacking in availability are the actual databases and digital documentation of features and artefacts from the excavations. The content in the reports is highly curated, often showing only part of all information gathered, and it requires re-digitization for anyone wanting to perform their own analysis, synthesize data from several sites or test hypotheses. Frequently, the data is stored in solely proprietary formats that require specific software, and which is in great danger of becoming obsolete and corrupted over time. The vast potential of the data collected by archaeologists is being undercut by the current lack of consideration for preservation and reusability. In fact, our current practices may do more harm than those of our predecessors, whose documentation is still accessible through analogue archives. There is a growing movement to counteract this, however.

Vision for today and tomorrow – What could we do with better data? Several archaeological projects, both in Scandinavia and the rest of Europe, are working on improving the infrastructure of archaeological information to make old and new data more accessible and reusable for research. The ambition is often to make data more FAIR and to enrich the content by relating it to information from other sources. Unlike analogue documentation, which can only be kept in one location and sorted into one type of system, digital data can exist simultaneously at many locations, and can be systematized in a number of ways, depending on what context is prioritized (e.g. geography, chronology, material, context). It is not even necessary to create a ‘copy’ of digital data in order to make use of it. By making data available in linked open format (LOD) through an API (application programming interface), and making sure the content adheres to a common ontology, information from different sources can be repurposed and recombined through any number of platforms and web applications. In fact, digitization allows us to transcend more than spatial barriers, as use of semantic standards in connection with API means that we can find and access documentation and collections regardless of their original language. The Swedish aggregator SOCH, which is run by the NHB, uses API to make data available from both the Historic Environment Record and a large number of Swedish museum collections and archives. This can then be freely used by any developer to create web applications to access prioritized information from any number of different sources (e.g. on churches, rune stones, artists, sites). SOCH also delivers this data to the aggregator Europeana, which does the same on a larger scale for European heritage collections. A researcher interested in finding a certain kind of object or manuscript can search in his or her preferred language and find matches in collections where the data was originally not even recorded in the Latin alphabet. Similar initiatives but for spatial documentation and structured data from archaeological excavations are SEAD (Strategic Environmental Archaeological Database) and ARIADNEplus – the European infrastructure of archaeological documentation. Their current limitations are due to both the lack of regulations for delivery of such data by contract archaeology and the lack of national repositories for data should such rules be implemented. Should repositories with API capability become established, it would be possible to link artefacts in museum collections to the contextual information and to use this to analyse, model and visualize the past to a degree not even imaginable a decade ago. For instance, it would be possible to search for data about faunal remains from a specific time period or region and to combine that with environmental data about contemporary temperatures and vegetation. Being able to link individual

5.  The digital future of the past – Research potential with increasingly FAIR archaeological data objects and features to high-resolution analytical data is still something of a utopia, as it would require both highly structured data and a developed digital infrastructure, but it would bring so many benefits that it is a goal we should aim for. Technically, it is already possible – the largest obstacle is the quality and format of the documentation produced by excavations as well as by archaeological researchers. Swedish archaeology already has a large body of documentation that is born digitally as structured data as many excavations have been documented with the same software since the early 2000s: IntraSis, developed by the Swedish National Heritage Board. Unfortunately, IntraSis is a proprietary format, and old files are already incompatible with newer versions. IntraSis was developed to ensure immediate in-field analysis, not reusability or interoperability. The same is true of a lot of other software used by contractors. An additional problem is the heterogeneous terminology used by Swedish archaeologists, even within the same organization. For this data to be truly reusable for research, the information would need to be converted into an open format that is compatible with digital archive requirements and harmonized with a common standard of terminology (interoperable). Otherwise, the combination of data from one excavation with another for analysis is impossible without considerable time-consuming effort. While variations in terminology are usually not difficult to understand by humans, machines are unfortunately still not as intuitive, a single letter being different is enough to cause problems for computation. The problem is even worse if the archaeologists used abbreviations that are not explained anywhere or if the databases lack necessary basic data because it was ‘obvious’ to the creator (e.g. which county and parish the site is located in). As archaeological information is becoming increasingly searchable and accessible through standardization, the benefits of using computational technology will keep increasing. Being able to search for specific types of finds or features from excavations, such as different types of axes, or each individual hearth or posthole, will be a great improvement. With even higher-quality information, such as relative and absolute chronology, the in-depth description of typological classification of artefacts and links to laboratory analysis, the value of excavations will keep increasing, not only to archaeologists but to researchers in other disciplines and to society as a whole. As any first-year student of archaeology is taught, finds without context are of little scientific value. The importance of context applies on a broad scale, from the benefit of higher levels of detail in terms of information and accuracy in geographical location to the detailed stratigraphic situation. Today, it is still time-consuming to make use of the results of excavations, assuming you can even find which ones are relevant for your research – for example, all the settlements from a certain area and time period that have

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been excavated. As with the introduction of FMIS, and the research that it enabled in the landscape, having efficient tools to reuse the documentation from the excavation will open up many new ways of conducting research. A great benefit will be the possibility of aggregating information to create overviews of certain aspects of the information. Considering the vast amounts of time, resources and money spent on archaeological excavations each year, we should be able to do much more regarding updating our knowledge about house typologies, settlement patterns and prehistoric demographic changes. Increased availability of data from excavations will make it possible to build and test models of human interaction with and effect upon the environment over time. Aggregated results from surveyed and then excavated areas could be used to make predictions for areas that have seen little or no previous investigations, and to provide an estimate of what could be expected to be found there. A source-critical factor of landscape analysis is that it tends to favour regions and places that have been subjected to large-scale infrastructural development since the 1980s. This risks overestimating prehistoric demographic activities taking place in those areas and underestimating those involving other regions. At the same time, current research and focused surveys in what are now deemed remote areas, for instance the heavily forested areas between the river valleys of Middle and northern Sweden, show that the apparent lack of human activity in these environments can be questioned (e.g. Lindholm and Ljungkvist 2016; Ramqvist 2007). The question is, how can we extrapolate these results to inform our understanding of unexplored areas? A large number of factors need to be taken into consideration in order to do this, which is why computer-based analysis is necessary. As only a small section of the landscape has been excavated, it is important to develop better methods for estimating what the documented information could tell us about a historic situation when said landscape was in use. When observations of, for instance, the types and amounts of identified houses from a certain chronological period can be related to the total area of the landscape that has actually been excavated, this information can tell us a lot more about the general distribution of different kinds of settlements of the period. Thus, all excavated areas become relevant, including those that yield no archaeological remains from the period of interest. If we are interested in, for example, Late Roman Age settlements in Östergötland, we should also consider excavated areas where no traces of material from this period have been encountered. It is never possible to make any direct assumptions based on negative results and the absence of features, and the issue of missing data needs to be taken into consideration. There is always the issue of later disturbances, limitations of excavation methods, priorities during excavations and much more, but it is still important

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to consider the absences in the records. Issues of representativity of the record will always affect archaeological interpretations, which is why we need more data about excavations and methodology, not less. With statistical methods comes an increased sensitivity of data quality, since errors in the information will be amplified in the results. There is hardly any risk of archaeologists becoming ‘obsolete’ with the introduction of computational methods for excavation data – the understanding and problematization of the data at our disposal will be invaluable to anyone attempting to aggregate it. In combination with qualified statistical modelling, it will be possible to estimate the margins of errors and the reliability of the results. When large volumes of data can be analysed and the complexity of the modelling questions increases, there will be an increased need to use more advanced analytical methods from computer science, compared to traditional statistical methods such as regression analysis, which has been the common approach. During past decades there has been a strong development in computer science for working with

large and complex data in order to make qualified predictions when the trends often do not fit simple linear correlations. These include methods of Statistical Machine Learning and Deep Learning, which use mathematical algorithms to train on different subsets of the information to generate the models. These techniques often include some randomization functions in the selection of subsets of the data to minimize the risk of algorithms “getting stuck” on specific paths early on during the analysis. An archaeological example of the application of such techniques was based on the archaeological information collected for the Ostlänken project (Figs 5.3 and 5.4), where the data from a large number of excavations had been collected and digitized in GIS, and thus was available for analysis (Löwenborg 2015). As a way to test these new techniques on archaeological material, a student project was designed in collaboration with the Department of Computer Science at Uppsala University (Nilsson 2016; Löwenborg 2018), testing the capacity of predictive in relation to real-life data. While this small test did show the potential of working with such methods, the test material

Figure 5.3. The corridor of the Ostlänken railway, where 165 archaeological investigations have been collected, digitized and harmonized to a shared data format that allows aggregation and analysis. Overview of the whole extent of the railroad area and the collected archaeological projects.

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Figure 5.4. Close up of an area with dense excavations near Norrköping, showing the trenches that have been excavated in this area.

in this case was too small. However, some critical aspects to consider for the further development of these methods were noted. Many issues of inherited bias in the material come from how data has been produced. This relates to how sites are selected for excavations based on heritage-management priorities, where developments are more intense, and how archaeological excavations are more extensive in areas with more remains, which leads to opening larger trenches. All this skews the material, meaning that it is far from the random sampling that many (traditional) statistical methods rely on. With more detailed and complex analyses of the material, there will be an increasing need to understand data-quality issues and to have information about how the material has been collected and documented. If models are created that extrapolate the results of excavations to the landscape, all tendencies from where archaeological excavations have been carried out will be transferred to the results and amplified in strength, unless these biases are compensated for. As the majority of excavations are due to building development,

the bulk of archaeological data comes from the type of land that is in high demand today. This means that it is far from any random sampling of the landscape, so many direct statistical approaches of extrapolation would be problematic. Instead, we need to find ways to acknowledge and include the inherited bias that has been introduced through skewed distribution of excavations in the landscape. When these biases are identified and made explicit, they can give us a better understanding of the information we have, and also ensure that they do not compromise the integrity of the models generated from this material. This will require much of future archaeologists, in terms of theoretical understanding of the prehistoric situation and land use, how cultural heritage management and excavation has been carried out and documented over time, as well as the assumptions and limitations of the modelling techniques applied. As the complexity of archaeological data continues to increase, there will be a need to strengthen collaborations with experts from computer science and similar disciplines in order to make full use of the information. However, it is

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also necessary to have archaeologists with competence in computational methods, who can understand the material and how the modelling techniques can be used in archaeology to address relevant questions. One field of research that will benefit greatly from this is the regional overview of social development over long time periods. To be able to understand how society is changing over time, the possibility of including a wide array of evidence from human activities in our analyses will significantly strengthen our interpretations. Hopefully, this can be used to paint a rich picture of the past and will help us to understand more about the complex ways humans have interacted with and affected the world we live in on both a local and global scale. This will be especially relevant when considering the social development across long periods of time, and how small-scale and longer trends of internal and external factors contribute to the reshaping of society. A striking example is the social development during the transition from the Early to the Late Iron Age, when many factors converged in complex, dynamic transitions that involved several aspects of society – agricultural, economic, political, religious, etc. – that can be linked to the disruption of social structures on the Continent during the fall of the western Roman Empire, the climatic events around the ‘cold decade’ and the Justinian plague, that all to some extent affected life on many levels in Iron Age Scandinavia (Gräslund 2007; Gräslund and Price 2012). Where individual sites often give contradictory and partial indications of such development, the possibility of studying interregional trends in settlement distributions and intra-site organization, using the full detailed documentation from excavations, will make it possible to better understand the complex processes and regional variations of such events. Through modelling of available information on houses from different periods, and predicting the total floor space, it would even be possible to estimate the population of regions in real values. If the house area is translated to people living there, through estimations of the use of houses (Herschend 2009, 45), then this could be modelled to the landscape as a whole. Even if there were high levels of uncertainty in such estimations, having at least a starting point of a demographic curve for the Iron Age would be useful for relating the archaeological record to results from neighbouring disciplines such as genetics, geology, ecology and climatology. Together, these disciplines can provide us with a better understanding about how political, climatological and epidemiological changes affected societies in the past and perhaps provide lessons for the future as well.

Concluding remarks Computational archaeology is undergoing rapid development, and there are great expectations of the possibilities

this could bring to the discipline. There are still plenty of obstacles to be overcome before the visions presented here will be a reality. Much work remains to be done in developing technical infrastructures, bringing the practitioners of the discipline together in agreeing about standards, developing standardized vocabulary and terminology, and in the use of data formats that can ensure reusability of the information. One of the main benefits if/when these digital tools are in place is the possibility of bringing contract archaeology and academic research much closer together. With a fast and efficient inclusion of data from all archaeological excavations both in Sweden and internationally, the results would be readily available for analysis and research without the need for time-consuming effort to find, parse and prepare the information. The syntheses and models created could continuously be updated with new information to refine and improve the results. This would in turn mean that contract archaeology could build upon this expanded knowledge about the past and could tailor new surveys and excavations to test and complement the hypotheses by researchers. Despite archaeology’s focus on how old materials and texts can inform us about the past, we as collective practitioners in the discipline tend to be oddly blind to the future (Högberg et al. 2017). This ‘blindness’ includes our documentation methods, the quality of which are frankly alarming, especially in this digital age. FAIR data is important for several reasons. The digital documentation created by modern archaeology must be preserved and made available for future research, just as the analogue documents in archives have been available for us to study. The accessibility of digital documentation is important both for generating new archaeological interpretations in the light of new discoveries and for understanding how the previous interpretations were formed. Analogue documentation must be digitized so that we are not limiting our analytical content to solely the past few decades of discovery. Digital technology has its problems, but a great benefit is the democratic potential in that open data can be found and accessed by anyone, anywhere – it no longer requires costly travel to central repositories. Ontologies1 can ensure the usability of data regardless of the original language, allowing for truly international collaboration and knowledge production. Rich metadata and links make the data findable outside the narrow discipline in which it was created. Technically, all this is already possible today. As is often the case, it is human practice that needs to change to make the most of the opportunity afforded us by our inventions. The digital documentation from excavations must be based on a common core terminology ensuring its interoperability. It must also be convertible into open formats that can be stored in long-term repositories without becoming corrupted, so that it is theoretically accessible

5.  The digital future of the past – Research potential with increasingly FAIR archaeological data and reusable. Finally, we need to develop our digital infrastructure further, so that all this rich, complex and important data is findable by anyone who has need of it. By doing all this, we ensure a future for the past, and the role of archaeology in society.

Note 1

The extensible ontology CIDOC-CRM is an international standard increasingly used to describe cultural heritage information to enhance accessibility and make the data machine-readable (McKeague et al. 2019).

Bibliography Bentz, E. and Rudebeck, E. (2007) Arkeologins många roller och praktiker. Två sessioner vid VIII Nordic TAG i Lund 2005. Archaeology @ Lund. Lund: Department of Archaeology and Ancient History, Lund University. Edgren, B. and Herschend, F. (1982) Arkeologisk ekonomi och ekonomisk arkeologi. Ett försök till beskrivning av det öländska jordbrukets förutsättningar under äldre järnålder. Fornvännen 77, 7‒21. Ersgård, L. (2009) UV 50 år. Lund: Riksantikvarieämbetet. Göthberg, H. (1995) Huskronologi i Mälarområdet, på Gotland och Öland under sten-, brons- och järnålder. In O. Kyhlberg, H. Göthberg and A. Vinberg (eds) Hus & gård i det förurbana samhället. Artikelde, 65‒109. Stockholm: Riksantikvarieämbetet. Göthberg, H., Forenius, S. and Karlenby, L. (1995) I en liten Vrå av världen. D. 2, arkeologisk undersökning 1991, för Alsike stad, RAÄ 16 och 178 och 261, Vrå, Knivsta socken, Uppland. Uppsala: Riksantikvarieämbetet. Gräslund, B. (2007) Fimbulvintern, Ragnarök och klimatkrisen år 536–537 e. Kr. Saga och sed. Kungl. Gustav Adolfs akademiens årsbok, 93–123. Gräslund, B. and Price, N. (2012) Twilight of the gods? The ‘dust veil event’ of AD 536 in critical perspective. Antiquity 86, 428‒443. Gunnarsson, F. (2018) Archaeological Challenges, Digital Possibilities: Digital Knowledge Development and Communication in Contract Archaeology. Kalmar: Linnéuniversitetet. Henriksson, M. (2019) Arkeologiska förväntningar i mötet med ett landskap: Stenålderns Blekinge ur ett kunskapsperspektiv. Södertörn: School of Historical and Contemporary Studies, Archaeology, Södertörn University. Herschend, F. (1988) Gräv där de stod. Om arkeologins kunskapsteori och metodiska normer. Uppsala: Societas archaeologica Upsaliensis. Herschend, F. (2009) The Early Iron Age in South Scandinavia. Social Order in Settlement and Landscape. Occasional Papers in Archaeology 46. Uppsala: Uppsala University. Herschend, F. (2018) Järnåldersarkitekter, universitetsforskare, uppdragsarkeologer och kulturmiljövården. Fornvännen 113, 34‒49. Herschend, F., Norr, S. and Reisborg, S. (1993) Klasro i Sollentuna: En gammal boplats grävd med ny metodik. Tor 25, 79‒99.

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Högberg, A., Holtorf, C., May, S. and Wollentz, G. (2017) No future in archaeological heritage management? World Archaeology 49(5), 639‒647. Huvila, I. (2018) Archaeology and Archaeological Information in the Digital Society. New York: Routledge. Huvila, I., Börjesson, L., Dell’Unto, N., Löwenborg, D., Petersson, B. and Stenborg, P. (2018) Archaeological information work and the digital turn. In I. Huvila, Archaeology and Archaeological Information in the Digital Society, 143‒158. New York: Routledge. Jensen, O.W. (2006) Fornlämningsbegreppets historia. En exposé över 400 år. Stockholm: Riksantikvarieämbetet. Larsson, Å.M. (2009) Taking out the trash: on excavating settlements in general, and houses of the Battle Axe Culture in particular. Current Swedish Archaeology 15, 111‒136. Larsson, Å.M., Smith, M., Sohlenius, R. and Klafver, T. (2017) Digitising the archaeological process at the Swedish National Heritage Board: producing, managing and sharing archaeological information. Internet Archaeology 43, doi: doi. org/10.11141/ia.43.6. Leighton, M. (2015) Excavation methodologies and labour as epistemic concerns in the practice of archaeology. Comparing examples from British and Andean archaeology. Archaeological Dialogues 22(1), 65‒88. Lindholm, K.-J., Hackwitz, K.v., Ekblom, A. and Löwenborg, D. (2015) Rethinking human nature: bridging the ‘gap’ through landscape analysis and Geographical Information Systems (GIS). Topoi 4, 94‒108. Lindholm, K.-J. and Ljungkvist, J. (2016) The bear in the grave – exploitation of top predator and herbivore resources in 1st millennium Sweden – first trends from a long term research project. European Journal of Archaeology 19(1), 3‒27. Löwenborg, D. (2010) Excavating the Digital Landscape: GIS Analyses of Social Relations in Central Sweden in the 1st Millennium AD. Uppsala: Department of Archaeology and Ancient History, Uppsala University. Löwenborg, D. (2015) Recuperating GIS data from excavations. On the use, or lack of use, of digital archaeological information. In I. Huvila (ed.) Perspectives on Archaeological Information in the Digital Society. Meddelanden från inst för ABM, Uppsala 5, 11‒23. Uppsala: Uppsala University. Löwenborg, D. (2018) Knowledge production with data from archaeological excavations. In I. Huvila (ed.) Archaeology and Archaeological Information in the Digital Society, 11–23. London and New York: Routledge. McKeague, P., van’t Veer, Huvila, I., Moreau, A., Verhagen, P., Bernard, L., Cooper, A., Green, C. and van Manen, N. (2019) Mapping our heritage: towards a sustainable future for digital spatial information and technologies in European archaeological heritage management. Journal of Computer Applications in Archaeology 2(1), 89–104. Nilsson, A. (2016) Predicting the Archaeological Landscape. Archeological Density Estimation in Ostlinken. Unpublished Bachelor’s thesis in computer science, Uppsala University. Ramqvist, P.H. (2007) Fem Norrland. Om norrländska regioner och deras interaktion. Arkeologi i norr 10, 153–176. Riksantikvarieämbetet (2014) Överinseende konkurrens och effektivitet inom uppdragsarkeologin. Stockholm: Riksantikvarieämbetet.

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Riksantikvarieämbetet (2015) Digital arkeologisk process – DAP: Samordnad information om fornminnen. Stockholm: Riksantikvarieämbetet. Rudebeck, E. (2004) Trends and problems in Swedish contract archaeology – some reflections. In G. Guðmundsson (ed.) Current Issues in Nordic Archaeology. Proceedings of the 21st Conference of Nordic Archaeologists, 6–9 September 2001, Akureyri, Iceland, 55‒58. Reykjavik: Society of Icelandic Archaeologists. Sohlenius, R. (2014) Förstudie FMIS-processen. Stockholm: Riksantikvarieämbetet.

Streiffert, J. (2005) Gårdsstrukturer i Halland under bronsålder och äldre järnålder. Gothenburg: Department of Archaeology, University of Gothenburg. Taylor, J.S., Issavi, J., Berggren, Å., Lukas, D., Mazzucato, C., Tung, B. and Dell’Unto, N. (2018) ‘The Rise of the Machine’: the impact of digital tablet recording in the field at Çatalhöyük. Internet Archaeology 47, doi: doi.org/10.11141/ ia.47.1. Welinder, S. (2003) Min svenska arkeologihistoria. Ett ekonomiskt och socialt perspektiv på 1900-talet. Lund: Studentlitteratur.

6 Searching for new central places – An experiment Anders Andrén

The discovery of so-called central places from the Iron Age is one of the most important breakthroughs in Scandinavian archaeology in the past 40 years. Currently, more than 20 central places are known, located in different regions of Scandinavia (Andrén forthcoming; see also Fig. 6.1). They vary internally, but all differ from ordinary settlements in their size, permanence, monumentality, number of found objects and traces of long-distance connections (Hårdh and Larsson 2002; Jørgensen 2009). Central places existed in southern Scandinavia from at least the 2nd and 1st centuries BC to about AD 1100; that is, for more than a millennium. In some cases, they are located very close to medieval towns, indicating some form of functional similarities to the later towns. The largest of these places cover more than 50 hectares, sometimes with thick cultural deposits, including many objects of bronze, but also of silver and gold. Usually, they consist of large halls, special ritual buildings, adjacent farms, workshops and large burial grounds, with more or less monumental appearance. The central places have been interpreted as large manors controlled by elite groups that were able to connect other functions to their manors, such as public rituals, legal assemblies, seasonal markets and gatherings of warriors (Hårdh and Larsson 2002; Jørgensen 2009; Zachrisson forthcoming). Although some central places were known previously from Old Norse sources and large monuments, such as Borre in Vestfold, Norway, Lejre on Sjælland, Denmark, and Gamla Uppsala in Uppland, Sweden, the extent and complexity of central places did not become apparent until the investigations of, primarily, Gudme on Fyn (Thrane 1993), Tissø on Sjælland (Jørgensen 2009), Sorte Muld on Bornholm (Adamsen et al. 2008), all in Denmark, and Uppåkra in Skåne, Sweden (Larsson and Hårdh 1998). These investigations led to reinterpretations of previously excavated places in Denmark and Sweden that were difficult to understand, such as Dankirke in central Jylland (Jarl

Hansen 1991), Bejsebakken in northern Jylland (Nielsen 2002), Vä in Skåne (Stjernquist 1951) and Helgö in Uppland (Clarke and Lamm 2017), and led to new discoveries, such as Västra Vång in Blekinge (Henriksson and Nilsson 2016). Furthermore, new excavations at Borre (Myhre 2015), Lejre (Christensen 2015) and Gamla Uppsala (Beronius Jörpeland et al. 2017) have added new important aspects to the varied characters of these sites, such as large halls, ritual buildings and ritual roads. Although central places have been part of Iron Age archaeology for several decades, many questions remain unanswered. Few of the places have been systematically published, which means that the characters of the particular sites are far from clear. Besides, the original number of central places is difficult to estimate. The seemingly simple question of number is important since it is decisive for understanding the role of the central places. The number of more or less similar sites is important because the interplay between central places and the surrounding landscape, as well as between the central places themselves, varies according to the distance between sites. The closeness between different central places could be one aspect in understanding whether a site was local, regional or supra regional. Consequently, it is important to develop methods for searching for new central places. In the following section, I will explore possible ways of identifying central places in one region of southern Scandinavia, the province of Skåne, in today’s Sweden (Fig. 6.1).

Central places in Skåne Currently, five sites in Skåne can be labelled central places, but they vary and clearly belong to different segments of the category of central place. Uppåkra (‘elevated fields’), 4 km south of the medieval city of Lund, was without doubt the largest central place in Skåne, comprising about 40 hectares,

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Figure 6.1. Southern Scandinavia, with central places from about 150 BC to AD 1100, and early towns from about AD 700–1050 (after Andrén forthcoming, fig. 19.10, Disir Production).

6.  Searching for new central places – An experiment with thick deposits in the central area of the site. It is clearly visible on a phosphate map of Skåne from 1934,1 being the largest visible area of high phosphate concentration in the province (Arrhenius 1934). In the central part of this place was a huge hall and a ritual building used from about AD 200 to 1000. Other farms and workshop areas – indicated by waste from different crafts – were situated around the hall. About 30,000 objects of bronze, silver and gold indicate long-distance connections with large sectors of Europe, including the Black Sea region. A gilded eyebrow that originally belonged to a helmet of the same type as found in Sutton Hoo indicates the presence of a ruling elite. Some gold bracteates and around 100 gold foil figures have also been found in Uppåkra, and other gold objects have been found in and around Uppåkra. The main seasonal market in Lund, Tre högars marknad (market of three barrows), probably originated in Uppåkra (Larsson and Hårdh 1998; Hårdh 2001; Larsson 2004; Hårdh and Larsson 2007). Uppåkra is mentioned for the first time in the Danish king Knut Svensson’s privilege of 1085, when he donated nine farms in Uppåkra (Stora Uppåkra) and Södra Uppåkra (Lilla Uppåkra) to the chapter in Lund. At that time, Uppåkra had become an ordinary agrarian settlement consisting of two villages (Skansjö and Sundström 1988). It is not known, however, whether these two villages are the direct successors of the older central place or if the landscape in and around the central place was reorganized in the 11th century, when Uppåkra ceased to be a central place. The neighbouring village, Gullåkra, actually indicates that the central place was split into several parts, and that the name of the central place was originally Åker, later divided into Gullåkra, Stora Uppåkra and Lilla Uppåkra. Uppåkra is surrounded by several settlements with names ending in -torp, which is a place-name compound usually dated to the Late Viking Age and the Middle Ages. Since these settlements are located in a fertile plain that has been cultivated since the Neolithic, these surprisingly new names have been interpreted as late divisions of a huge domain with Uppåkra at its centre (Callmer 2001). Among these settlements are Hjärup and Svarte Hjärup, which were part of the medieval parish of Uppåkra, as well as Knästorp, Hunnerup and Flackarp, with borders indicating that they were part of the domain that included Uppåkra and Gullåkra. In that case, the central place included a domain that in the Middle Ages was represented by at least nine villages and three and a half medieval parishes (Fig. 6.2, see also Fig. 6.4; cf. Callmer 2001, who proposes an even larger estate). Vä (‘holy place’) was another important central place in north-eastern Skåne. On the phosphate map of 1934, the site has the largest concentration of high phosphate in north-east Skåne, but the concentration is less extensive than at Uppåkra, indicating that Vä was a smaller site (Callmer 2001, 121). Small excavations were carried out at Vä in the 1940s. A bronze matrix for a gold foil figure was found at

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Figure 6.2. The central place Uppåkra (black), with its possible domain, consisting of Stora Uppåkra, Lilla Uppåkra and Gullåkra (grey), as well as five surrounding villages with names based on -torp. The medieval town of Lund and the River Höje å, between Uppåkra and Lund, are also marked on the map. At the coast and the mouth of Höje å, Lomma, the medieval harbour settlement of Lund, is also shown, as this place could have been a harbour of Uppåkra from as early as the Iron Age. The map is based on Dahl 1937.

the site, in addition to settlement traces, drinking vessels of fine ceramics and weaving tools (Stjernquist 1951). As early as 1674, however, two of the largest known gold bracteates were discovered in Vä (Mackeprang 1952, 163; Strömberg 1963, 63). In contrast to most central places, the central role of Vä continued during the Middle Ages. The place was a royal manor from at least the early 12th century onwards, when a large Romanesque church was erected (Græbe 1971). A few decades later, a Premonstratensian monastery was founded in Vä and connected to the church. In the 13th century, the monastery was moved to Bäckaskog, and Vä became a town. It was closed down in 1616, when its burghers had to move to the newly founded Renaissance town Kristianstad, about 6 km north-east of Vä (Thun and Anglert 1984). Vä is surrounded by two villages with names ending in -torp and one village called Nöbbelöv (‘new farm’). These three villages could have been part of a larger Iron Age domain around Vä that was later divided into several parts (cf. Callmer 2001). Haväng, situated on the east coast of Skåne, south of the mouth of the small River Verkeån, is another site that has been known for a long time, but it has recently been reinterpreted as a central place (Fabech 1998; Helgesson 2002, 68). Bracteates as well as gold foil figures were found as early as the 1780s at Haväng, which was one of the outland fields of Ravlunda (Mackeprang 1952, 162; Strömberg 1963). Later, Roman silver and gold coins as well as a golden neck ring were found at the site (Fabech 1998, 156). Metal detecting in recent years has uncovered an area of cultural deposits with many objects of iron and bronze. Directly north of the river, around the small village of Skepparp, are the

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remains of a large burial ground with erected stones and some ship-formed stone settings (Fabech 1998; Helgesson 2002, 68). The size and character of Haväng is still unclear, although names of arable fields and meadows indicate an assembly place and a ritual site as well as a gathering place for the navy. Haväng is located about 3 km north-east of the historically known village Ravlunda (‘amber grove’), which probably preserved the original name of the site. During the Middle Ages, Ravlunda was a parish and also a royal manor. Skepparp was also a royal property, as one farm in Skepparp was part of a royal donation made to the chapter of Lund sometime between 1145 and 1174 (Fabech 1998; Riddersporre 1998, 167–173). Skepparp, based on the compound -torp, is probably a late division of an original large domain called Ravlunda (cf. Callmer 2001). Järrestad (‘jarl’s place’) is situated 3 km east of the medieval town Tommarp. Excavations in 1999–2000 uncovered a central hall with a ritual building, both rebuilt several times. The layout is very similar to the central parts of Tissø and Lejre (Söderberg 2003; 2005). Very little is known, however, about the size and character of Järrestad outside this central area. The site does not stand out with a large concentration of phosphate on the phosphate map of Skåne from 1934 (Callmer 2001, 119). Besides, no objects of precious metal have been found in Järrestad. It is probable that the site was of more local importance. In the Middle Ages, Järrestad was a parish but also the legal centre of the jurisdictional district ‘Järrestads härad’. Four villages with names ending in -torp are located in the vicinity of Järrestad, and some of them might have been part of a larger older domain (cf. Callmer 2001, 119–120). Sösdala, in central Skåne, may also be labelled a central place or a large manor. The site is distinguished by the largest preserved burial ground in Skåne, with many ship-formed stone settings, and by a unique deposition of horse equipment, with parallels in south-eastern Europe (Strömberg 1961, II: 73–86, tafel 6; Fabech and Näsman 2017). Apart from these material traces, the whole village of Sösdala was donated around 1075 by the Danish queen Margarete, the spouse of King Harald Hein (king 1074– 1080), to the chapter of Roskilde. It was part of the oldest attested donation in Skåne (Karlsson 1965). Probably due to this very early donation, Sösdala never became a parish on its own, but instead was part of the parish of Norra Mellby. According to the donation, however, the manor of Sösdala consisted of the village and some adjacent farms and small villages, making it a large domain in central Skåne.

Skåne as a case study The five central places in Skåne are distinguished by several different elements, although not all elements are known from each site. Among these elements are large phosphate concentrations (Uppåkra, Vä), cultural deposits with many metal

objects (Uppåkra and Ravlunda), gold finds, such as gold bracteates and gold foil figures (Uppåkra, Vä, Ravlunda), visible graves (Ravlunda and Sösdala), theophoric place names (Vä and possibly Ravlunda), royal ownership (Uppåkra, Vä, Ravlunda, Sösdala) or a place connected to the political elite (Järrestad), medieval parish (Uppåkra, Vä, Ravlunda and Järrestad), an original name split into two or more subnames (Stora Uppåkra-Lilla Uppåkra-Gullåkra) and surrounding settlements with names ending in -torp (Uppåkra, Vä, Ravlunda, Järrestad). It is possible to find correlations between two or more of these elements at other sites in Skåne, indicating different levels or sizes of Iron Age manors in the province. In four cases, gold hoards from the Migration period have been found in villages with medieval parish churches, namely Förslöv in Bjäre härad in the north-west of Skåne; Fjärestad in Luggude härad, 8 km south-east of Helsingborg; Börringe in the interior of southern Skåne; and Hammenhög between Ystad and Simrishamn in south-eastern Skåne (Mackeprang 1952, 162–166; Strömberg 1963). If we add royal ownership in the 13th century to the first two elements, another three places can be added, namely Stenstad on Söderåsen; Södra Åsum, east of Vombsjön; and Önnestad, north-east of Vä (Mackeprang 1952, 162–166; Strömberg 1963). Apart from gold finds from the Iron Age and parish churches, these three villages were also royal manors (konunglef) according to the so-called ‘Cadastre of King Valdemar’ from about 1230 (Andrén 1983). All these examples probably represent Iron Age manors in one way or another, but this suggestion must be tested with metal detecting and excavations. It may eventually emerge that some of them were smaller manors, whereas others could have been larger central places, although this is far from clear based on the present indications. Another way to locate central places is to look at place names that, in different ways, are split into variants, thereby indicating an original larger domain, as in the case of Stora Uppåkra – Lilla Uppåkra – Gullåkra. In Skåne, several similar cases are known, such as Västra Vram – Östra Vram, Kyrkheddinge – Kornheddinge – Mossheddinge, Stora Bjällerup – Lilla Bjällerup or Norra Håslöv – Södra Håslöv. There are, however, only two cases where this element of a divided name can be combined with other indications, namely Vemmenhög and Alstad in southern Skåne. Vemmenhög, some 15 km west of the medieval town of Ystad, consisted in the Middle Ages of two large villages, Västra Vemmenhög and Östra Vemmenhög, each with its own parish church. Between the two villages are located three barrows called Vemmenhögarna, which was probably the original location of the village, as well as the legal assembly of the jurisdictional district ‘Vemmenhögs härad’. Gold from the Iron Age has been found in Östra Vemmenhög (a Roman solidus) as well as in Dybeck, which is probably a later partition from Östra Vemmenhög (three

6.  Searching for new central places – An experiment gold bracteates and a Viking Age sword with a gold decorated pommel; Strömberg 1963). Neither Västra nor Östra Vemmenhög seem to have been royal properties during the Middle Ages, and the phosphate concentrations around the two settlements do not differ significantly from other large villages on the southern plain in Skåne. This means that Vemmenhög was probably in the middle or lower range of central places. Alstad, 8 km north of the medieval town of Trelleborg, seems to represent another kind of major central place. During the Middle Ages, Alstad consisted of three villages, each with its own parish church, which was unique in Skåne, namely Västra Alstad, Mellersta Alstad/Lilla Alstad and Östra Alstad (today, Fru Alstad).2 Today, only the parishes of Västra Alstad and Fru Alstad are preserved, and Västra Alstad’s parish includes the village of Sjörup in addition to Lilla Alstad. In the parish of Fru Alstad, there is a village called Domme, and a deserted village called Skevarp was probably part of the parish as well, although this site was later incorporated into a neighbouring parish (Skansjö 1983, 50, 200). The three villages of Alstad, together with some of the surrounding -torp settlements, could represent a very large Iron Age domain (Fig. 6.3, see also Fig. 6.4). Further support for this theory comes from the phosphate map of Skåne from 1934. The largest and most distinct phosphate concentration in Söderslätt, that is the plain between Malmö and Ystad, is located around Fru Alstad (Arrhenius 1934). Gold and silver objects have also been found in Alstad. A gold finger ring from the Roman Iron Age has been uncovered in Västra Alstad, and a gold bar from the Migration period comes from Fru Alstad. In addition, a Frankish silver coin and an Arabic coin have been found in Västra Alstad and Fru Alstad respectively (Strömberg 1963, 125–132).

Figure 6.3. The proposed central place Alstad, with its possible domain, consisting of Västra Alstad, Lilla Alstad and Fru Alstad (grey), as well as three surrounding villages, two of which have names based on -torp. The medieval town of Trelleborg and the medieval royal manor of Gylle are marked on the map as well. The map is based on Skansjö 1983, 50.

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The name Alstad is disputed: -stad means settled place, whereas al- is conventionally interpreted as meaning the tree al (‘alder’; Wahlberg 2003, 371). It cannot be ruled out, however, that al- derives from the sacred compound al- referring to some kind of holy place (cf. Vikstrand 2001, 191–206). Such a general sacred name would be very fitting, with parallels in other central places, such as Gudme (‘home of the gods’), Vä (‘holy place’) and Helgö (‘consecrated island’). At least during the Middle Ages, part of the Alstad area was regarded as holy because Fru Alstad was an important pilgrimage site, with a large church dedicated to holy Mary and a still-preserved holy spring outside the churchyard (Gustafsson and Cinthio 1968). Alstad was not a royal manor (konunglef) in the ‘Cadastre of King Valdemar’ from about 1230, but, instead, Gylle was the royal manor (Andrén 1983). In 1651, however, seven farms in Västra Alstad, seven farms in Lilla Alstad and eight farms in Sjörup still belonged to the Crown (Skansjö and Tuvestrand 2007, 486). This indicates that sectors of Alstad were owned by the Crown during the Middle Ages, but that the farms were subordinate to the royal manor in Gylle. All in all, Alstad stands out as a clear candidate for one of the major central places in Skåne during the Iron Age. Judging from the phosphate concentration, it was probably smaller than Uppåkra, but of similar size to Vä. Consequently, Alstad could have been the major central place of Söderslätt, connected with Uppåkra though the old main road, which runs parallel to the south-west coast of Skåne, at a distance of 8–10 km from the sea.

Figure 6.4. Skåne, with proposed central places and Iron Age manors. The size of the dots is based on estimations of the size or rank of the specific places.

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Conclusion Skåne is a highly cultivated province that is difficult to archaeologically survey. Few ancient remains are still visible, and systematic metal detecting is too expensive and time-consuming to carry out in a legal manner. 3 Consequently, other possible ways must be explored. In this chapter, I have carried out an experiment in trying to locate new central places, of different sizes, in Skåne. A whole series of possible manors of probably varying size have been identified. Apart from these sites, I have suggested two other sites in the southernmost sector of Skåne, which previously lacked central places. Vemmenhög was probably a smaller centre, with direct access to the Baltic Sea, whereas Alstad seems to have been a large central place farther away from the sea (Fig. 6.4). Ultimately, however, only systematic metal detecting and proper excavations can evaluate this experiment.

Notes 1

2

3

The map is based on a systematic survey of the phosphate content of all arable fields used for cultivation of sugar beet in Skåne in the early 1930s. The surveyor, Olof Arrhenius, was clearly conscious of the archaeological implications of the results (Arrhenius 1934), and the map was later used in several archaeological investigations in Skåne. The parish of Lilla Alstad is mentioned in only one document from 1456, and therefore this information has been questioned (Skansjö 1983, 166). The written sources about medieval parishes in Skåne, however, are very patchy. For instance, the parish church of St Clemens in the city of Helsingborg is only mentioned once, in 1537, although excavations reveal that it was a Romanesque church from the early 12th century onwards (Weidhagen-Hallerdt 2010). Therefore, the document from 1456, mentioning the parish of Lilla Alstad, should be taken seriously. According to Swedish legislation, metal detecting is prohibited for the general public.

Bibliography Adamsen, C., Lund Hansen, U., Nielsen, F.O. and Watt, M. (eds) (2008) Sorte Muld. Rønne: Bornholms Museum, Wormianum, Kulturarvsstyrelsen. Andrén, A. (1983) Städer och kungamakt – en studie i Danmarks politiska geografi före 1230. Scandia 49, 31–76. Andrén, A. (forthcoming) Historical and social contexts. In J.P. Schjødt, J. Lindow and A. Andrén (eds) The Pre-Christian Religions of the North. History and Structures, Volume 2. Turnhout: Brepols. Arrhenius, O. (1934) Fosfathalten i skånska jordar. Sveriges Geologiska Undersökning. Årsbok 3. Stockholm: Norstedts. Beronius Jörpeland, L., Göthberg, H., Seiler, A. and Wikborg, J. (eds) (2017) at Upsalum – människor och landskapande. Utbyggnad av Ostkustbanan genom Gamla Uppsala. Arkeologerna rapport 2017:1_1. Stockholm: Statens historiska museum.

Callmer, J. (2001) Extinguished solar systems and black holes: traces of estates in the Scandinavian Late Iron Age. In B. Hårdh (ed.) Uppåkra, centrum och sammanhang, 109‒138. Uppåkrastudier 3. Acta Archaeologica Lundensia, Series in 8o, No. 34. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International. Christensen, T. (2015) Lejre bag myten. De arkæologiske udgravninger. Roskilde Museum and Jysk Arkæologisk Selskab. Aarhus: Aarhus Universitetsforlag. Clarke, H. and Lamm, K. (2017) Helgö Revisited. A New Look at the Excavated Evidence for Helgö, Central Sweden. Schleswig: Stiftung Schleswig-Holsteinische Landesmuseum Schloss Gottorf. Dahl, S. (1937) Gustav III:s skånska manöverkartor. Några förbisedda kartor i Krigsarkivet. Svensk Geografisk Årsbok 13, 91–115. Fabech, C. (1998) Kult og samfund i yngre jernalder – Ravlunda som eksempel. In L. Larsson and B. Hårdh (eds) Central platser, centrala frågor. Samhällsstrukturen under järnåldern, 147–163. Uppåkrastudier, 1 & Acta Archaeologica Lundensia, Series in 8o, No. 28. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International. Fabech, C. and Näsman, U. (eds) (2017) The Sösdala Horsemen and the Equestrian Elite of Fifth Century Europe. Højbjerg: Jutland Archaeological Society. Græbe, H. (1971) Kyrkorka i Vä. Sveriges Kyrkor 139. Kungl. Vitterhets Historie och Antikvitetesakademien. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell. Gustafsson, E. and Cinthio, E. (1968) Skånsk lantkyrka från medeltiden. Sydsvenska Dagbladets årsbok 1969. Malmö: Sydsvenska Dagbladet. Hårdh, B. (ed.) (2001) Uppåkra, centrum och sammanhang. Uppåkrastudier 3. Acta Archaeologica Lundensia, Series in 8o, No. 34. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International. Hårdh, B. and Larsson, L. (eds) (2002) Central Places in the Migration and Merovingian Periods: Papers from the 52nd Sachsensymposium, Lund, August 2001. Uppåkrastudier, 6. Acta Archaeologica Lundensia, Series in 8o, No. 39. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International. Hårdh, B. and Larsson, L. (2007) Uppåkra – Lund före Lund. Lund: Föreningen Gamla Lunds Årsbok 2007. Helgesson, B. (2002) Järnålderns Skåne: Samhälle, centra och regioner. Uppåkrastudier 5. Acta Archaeologica Lundensia, Series in 8o, No. 38. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International. Henriksson, M. and Nilsson, B. (eds) (2016) Vikten av Vång. En järnåldersplats tar form. Karlskrona: Blekinge Museum. Jarl Hansen, H. (1991) Dankirke. En myte i dansk arkæologi. In C. Fabech and J. Ringtved (eds) Samfundsorganisation og regional variation. Norden i romersk jernalder og folkevandringstid, 15–23. Jysk Arkæologisk Selskabs skrifter 27. Aarhus: Aarhus Universitetsforlag. Jørgensen, L. (2009) Pre-Christian cult at aristocratic residences and settlement complexes in southern Scandinavia in the 3rd–10th centuries AD. In U. von Freeden, H. Friesinger and E. Wamers (eds) Glaube, Kult und Herrschaft: Phänomene des Religiösen im 1. Jahrtausend n. chr. in mittel- und nordeuropa: Akten des 59. Internationalen Sachsensymposions und der Grundprobleme der frühgeschichtlichen entwicklung im Mitteldonauraum, 329–354. Bonn: Habelt.

6.  Searching for new central places – An experiment Karlsson, T. (1965) Roskilde domkapitel och Göinge. Västra Göinge Hembygdsförenings skriftserie 13, 11–28. Larsson, L. (ed.) (2004) Continuity for Centuries. A Ceremonial Building and its Context at Uppåkra, Southern Sweden. Uppåkrastudier 10. Acta Archaeologica Lundensia, Series in 8o, No. 48. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International. Larsson, L. and Hårdh, B. (eds) (1998) Central platser, centrala frågor. Samhällsstrukturen under järnåldern. Uppåkrastudier 1. Acta Archaeologica Lundensia, Series in 8o, No. 28. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International. Mackeprang, M.B. (1952) De nordiske guldbrakteater. Jysk arkæologisk selskabs skrifter 2. Aarhus: Universitetsforlaget i Aarhus. Myhre, B. (2015) Før Viken ble Norge. Borregravfeltet som religiøs og politisk area. Norske Oldfunn 31. Tønsberg: Vetsfold Fylkeskommune. Nielsen, J.N. (2002) Bejsebakken, a central site near Aalborg in northern Jutland. In B. Hårdh and L. Larsson (eds) Central Places in the Migration and Merovingian Periods: Papers from the 52nd Sachsensymposium, Lund, August 2001, 197–213. Uppåkrastudier 6. Acta Archaeologica Lundensia, Series in 8o, No. 39. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International. Riddersporre, M. (1998) Ravlunda och Uppåkra. Två exempel på försvunna storgårdar? In L. Larsson and B. Hårdh (eds) Centrala platser, centrala frågor. Samhällsstrukturen under järnåldern. En vänbok till Berta Stjernquist, 165–177. Uppåkrastudier 1, Acta Archaeologica Lundesnia, Series in 8o, No. 28. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell. Skansjö, S. (1983) Söderslätt genom 600 år. Bebyggelse och odling under äldre historisk tid. Skånsk senmedeltid och renässans 11. Lund: Gleerups förlag. Skansjö, S. and Sundström, H. (eds) (1988) Gåvobrevet 1085. Lund: Lund University Press. Skansjö, S. and Tuvestrand, B. (2007) Decimantboken 1651 för Skåne, Blekinge och Bornholm. Skånsk senmedeltid och renässans 21, Landsarkivets i Lund skriftserie 13. Lund: Vetenskapssocieteten och Landsarkivets i Lund.

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Söderberg, B. (2003) Järrestad: Huvudgård i centralbygd. Riksantikvarieämbetet, Arkeologiska undersökningar, skrifter, 51. Stockholm: Riksantikvarieämbetet. Söderberg, B. (2005) Aristokratiskt rum och gränsöverskridande: Järrestad och sydöstra Skåne mellan region och rike 600–1100. Riksantikvarieämbetet, Arkeologiska undersökningar, skrifter, 62. Stockholm: Riksantikvarieämbetet. Stjernquist, B. (1951) Vä under järnåldern. Skrifter utgivna av Kungl. Humanistiska Vetenskapssamfundet i Lund, 47. Lund: Gleerups förlag. Strömberg, M. (1961) Untersuchungen zur jüngeren Eisenzeit in Schonen. Völkerwanderungszeit-Wikingerzeit, I–II. Acta Archaeologica Lundensia, Series in 4o, No. 4. Lund/Bonn: Gleerups förlag/Habelt Verlag. Strömberg, M. (1963) Järnåldersguld i Skåne. Från forntid till medeltid 4. Lund: Gleerups förlag. Thrane, H. (1993) Guld, guder og godtfolk – et magtcentrum fra jernalderen ved Gudme og Lundeborg. København: Nationalmuseet. Thun, E. and Anglert, M. (1984) Vä. Medeltidsstaden 57. Stockholm: Riksantikvarieämbetet och Statens Historiska Museer. Vikstrand, P. (2001) Gudarnas platser. Förkristna sakrala ortnamn i Mälarlandskapen. Acta Academiae regiae Gustavi Adolphi LXXVII. Studier till en svensk ortnamnsatlas utgivna av Thorsten Andersson, 17. Uppsala: Swedish Science Press. Wahlberg, M. (ed.) (2003) Svenskt ortnamnslexikon. Uppsala: Språk- och folkminnesinstitutet. Weidhagen-Hallerdt, M. (2010) S:t Clemens kyrka i Helsingborg. Medeltida monument och människor. Under redaktion av Peter Carelli. Dunkers kulturhus, skrifter 15. Helsingborg: Dunkers kulturhus, Museum och konst. Zachrisson, T. (forthcoming) The function of the central places in Viking Age Scandinavia. In U. Pedersen, M. Amundsen and D. Skre (eds) Viking Age Scandinavia: One, Three or Many?

7 Striking a blow for the plough layer – Exploring the importance of plough-zone finds for the interpretation of a Late Iron Age site Kristin Ilves and Kim Darmark

Plough layer archaeology The archaeological excavation strategy of stripping the disturbed top soil with an excavator down to an in situ archaeological deposit and feature level, which originated in Central Europe in the 1950s, became common in Scandinavia in the 1980s and 1990s, and has, to a major extent, revolutionized archaeology, especially when it comes to settlement archaeology (Løken et al. 1996; Herschend 2018). This practice for the first time enabled archaeology to uncover large interconnected systems of features, i.e. postholes, house walls, hearths, cooking-pits, fences, wells, etc., on a scale not feasible earlier, giving a cohesive picture of the settlement structure on sites. Finds within the disturbed horizons covering these structures tended to be downplayed as having a marginal role in this endeavour. Especially within rescue and contract archaeology dealing with Bronze and Iron Age settlements, there has been a tendency to see the archaeological site as only the deposits, structures and features appearing after the removal of the topsoil (cf. Sarnäs 2008). Giving low priority to what can be viewed as stray finds after extensive destruction – in particular, of modern deep ploughing (cf. Henriksen 2016) – is certainly rational given the often limited resources available for archaeological investigation, but does not mean that the finds are devoid of information. The plough layer constitutes a context in itself, albeit one heavily influenced by later processes, which is highlighted in a recent workshop publication titled ‘The Plough Zone as Context’ (Martens and Ravn 2016). Here, it becomes evident that metal detecting has increasingly become an integrated and fruitful methodology to cost-effectively reap the benefits of this layer. At the same time, it also becomes clear that non-metal objects receive very little attention.

The assessment of finds from the plough zone, both metal and non-metal, has been ongoing from the 1960s (cf. Binford 1964, 438–439), although the results, which inevitably affect attitudes and policies, have been contradictory. In one of the most recent studies, Noble et al. (2019) did an assessment of the value of plough-zone sampling in connection to a cropmark complex in eastern Scotland. They concluded that the topsoil finds are often severely damaged, with certain find categories entirely absent, and ‘do not give a full picture of the materials that can be recovered during excavation’ (Noble et al. 2019, 553). We agree with their concern with topsoil being a hostile environment for artefacts, especially for metal objects. Our experience with topsoil sampling as a labour-intensive practice, probably only yielding a fraction of the materials once deposited, is similar to theirs. However, we wish to point out with this chapter that younger settlement phases might, at certain heavily tilled sites, be accessible only through such a laborious investigation of the disturbed layers. At the famous Uppåkra site, outside Lund in southern Sweden, the later settlement phases were almost exclusively evidenced through the plough layer (Hårdh 2010). In a similar vein, we argue that information gathered in the plough layer can play a crucial role in the interpretation of a site and by extension a whole region. As an example of this, we will present the site of Kvarnbo, in the parish of Saltvik, on the Åland Islands (Fig. 7.1), where plough-zone sampling became more fundamental for a full comprehension of the site than anticipated at the onset of the investigation.

The Kvarnbo site The site of Kvarnbo was identified at the beginning of 2012 through an infrared aerial photograph dating to the

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Figure 7.1. The location of the Åland Islands in the Baltic Sea between Finland and Sweden and the site of Kvarnbo in the archipelago, where the lighter grey areas mark the shoreline roughly consistent with that of the Iron Age. Due to the continuous shore displacement process since the Ice Age, the site that is today situated about 10–11 m above sea level was shore-bound during the Late Iron Age (Ekman 2017).

7.  Striking a blow for the plough layer late 1970s that displayed a number of anomalies, including a 45 m-long and 15 m-wide impression of a longhouse structure (see also Ilves 2015a, fig. 1). It was recognized as an important Late Iron Age (AD 550–1050) settlement site that was interpreted as a hall-farm – the first of its kind on Åland. This interpretation is based on artefacts and structural evidence coupled with the site’s location, its relation to other archaeological and historical monuments nearby – such as the largest Late Iron Age cemetery in the archipelago as well as the richest Viking Age (AD 800–1050) and early medieval settlement site just a few hundred metres to the north – and also circumstantial evidence from written sources (Ilves 2015a; 2018). On a hypothetical level, the same area has long been suggested to be central during the Late Iron Age, most notably by Matts Dreijer, the former regional head antiquarian, who even suggested that the well-known Viking Age trading centre Birka was actually situated in Kvarnbo (e.g. 1950; 1979). His ideas, however, remained largely controversial, polemic and without satisfactory empirical foundation. The site of Kvarnbo was registered as an ancient monument (Sa 14.9) before any

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archaeological investigations, following its discovery based on the infrared aerial photograph. This formerly coastal site lies in what is currently a field where, in recent times, the practice of crop rotation has been employed. Every three years, the field is ploughed. That the area has been used for agricultural practices for hundreds of years is also testified by historical maps, the oldest available of which is dated to the 18th century. The longhouse feature visible on the infrared aerial photo lies on the northern end of a very subtle north–south promontory, between 11–11.6 m above sea level. From this spot, the topography gently slopes towards lower levels in the east, west and north, down to elevations just below 10 m above sea level (Fig. 7.2). To the north, it is interrupted only by two slightly raised rocky areas, enhanced by clearance cairns. It is known that the more elevated parts of an archaeological site are more susceptible to erosion following tilling, which in turn can create protective colluvial lids on cultural layers in adjacent depressions (Sarnäs 2008, 17), thus contributing to the finds’ displacement already

Figure 7.2. Overview of the site of Kvarnbo, featuring the contours of the longhouse, test pits, the final trench and elevation levels.

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initiated by the use of various agricultural machinery (Henriksen 2016, 82–83). Mean annual soil loss is a result of rainfall erosivity, soil erodibility, slope length and steepness, and land cover type and management (Badmos et al. 2015, 612). The most vulnerable soil would be sand or silt, unprotected by vegetation and situated on the side of a mountain in a climate with frequent, heavy rainfall. The situation at the Kvarnbo site is not this extreme. However, the combination of being situated on a gentle slope, being aerated and fragmented through mechanical ploughing and left without vegetation cover during the wettest months1 creates an environment where soil is likely to disperse, enhancing the ubiquitous effect of soil creep (Wood and Johnson 1978, 349). The lack of vegetation cover promotes surface water flow, resulting in erosion (Goldberg and Macphail 2006, 73) and creating colluviums in the lower lying areas. The slope at Kvarnbo today is about 1.5°, but we have to imagine that the landscape has dramatically changed since the hall-farm was in use, among other things due to the erosion processes affecting the site. Even gentle slopes (2–3°) are suggested to be subject to erosion (Goldberg and

Macphail 2006, 77). Even though the details of the landscape might have changed, the prehistoric longhouse was situated on an elevation overlooking the surrounding areas.

Investigations Following the identification of the site, Kvarnbo was approached using a number of investigative techniques (Ilves 2015b; 2017). Fieldwalking revealed the presence of settlement traces such as fire-cracked rock and burnt clay and bone. A limited metal-detecting campaign of the site yielded finds diagnostic of a Late Iron Age upper societal strata (Ilves 2015a). A ground-penetrating geophysical survey of the site concluded that the area is difficult to assess due to pedology and agricultural use, but that certain anomalies might indicate the presence of underlying features corresponding to house structures (Viberg 2014). A limited test trench confirmed the existence of shallow remains of prehistoric features (postholes) in the area and determined a date of the end of the Merovingian period (AD 550–800). Further metal detecting of the site obtained more diagnostic

Figure 7.3. The position of test pits in relation to the final trench and the contours of the longhouse with information on plough layer depth.

7.  Striking a blow for the plough layer finds. Following these initial investigations, large-scale archaeological excavations were conducted in 2016. As a preliminary to the search for in situ archaeological features through soil-stripping, the overlying plough layer was studied through a series of test pits. The 1 × 1 m test pits, 53 in total, were systematically excavated at intervals of 5 or 10 m; four test pits, one in each cardinal direction, were positioned outside the main excavation zone (Fig. 7.3). The soil from the test pits was water-sieved through a 4 × 4 mm mesh, and all finds were collected in mechanical units of 20 cm. After test pit excavation, the topsoil was removed with an excavator, the entire trench manually cleaned, and discovered features fully or partially excavated. A metal detector was employed throughout this phase, both on the removed topsoil and the uncovered surface. The series of test pits seems to confirm the displacement of soil from the upper parts of the site towards lower lying areas (see also Fig. 7.3). The majority of these were excavated down to in situ feature level where it was clear that either the parent material had been reached or an obvious

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feature was detected. The thickness of the plough layer varied from 15 to 50 cm, with an average of c. 25 cm. In connection to the plateau of the presumed longhouse, the plough layer was relatively thin, ranging from 25–30 cm. In the westernmost part of the investigation area, the thickness of the plough layer increased considerably and reached 40 cm. At this level, the plough layer also began to shift into a culturally formed layer. Peripheral test pits excavated in all directions from the main plateau all had plough layers exceeding 40 cm (see also Fig. 7.3). Although tentative, this can be taken as evidence of the effect of colluvial processes. Another indicator of this phenomenon is the results from the different metal-detecting campaigns conducted at the site. An area of c. 24,000 m2 was detected, with varying intensity, but focusing on the longhouse plateau (Fig. 7.4). A large number of metal objects were discovered, the majority of which could be ascribed to a period later than the Iron Age. However, a number of finds diagnostic to the Late Iron Age were also recovered (see also Table 7.3 below). The general distribution of metal finds is heavily biased

Figure 7.4. The extent of the area investigated by metal detecting, positive total signals and finds of diagnostic Late Iron Age material, in relation to the final trench and contours of the longhouse.

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towards the south-south-west and north-east of the plateau, and with a removed, dispersed cluster to the north-west. The plateau itself is relatively devoid of finds, which is all the more conspicuous as this was the area on which the investigation focused. This pattern would be expected if finds have been transported from higher elevation levels to lower ones. The topsoil removal of the central area covered 1065 m2, within which a total of 288 features were discovered and investigated. The majority of these can be interpreted as postholes, but a few hearths/ovens were found, as well as few patches of cultural layer, one of which was a midden-like, bone-rich feature, and the other a compacted, trampled floor layer. What was obvious from the effort, however, was that structural elements clearly corresponding to the presumed longhouse were not easily discernible. Of the large number of postholes uncovered, only a small portion could be interconnected as parts of three separate house structures (Fig. 7.5). The postholes are generally shallow, with almost 70% having maximum depths below 25 cm (Fig. 7.6). There are, however, a few carefully stone-lined

postholes that are surprisingly robust. The majority of these are connected to a building extending beyond the northern boundary of the trench, which has several dates indicating use at the very beginning of the Late Iron Age, during the Merovingian period. The relatively good preservation of these features, reaching depths of over 45 cm, is seen as

Figure 7.6. Depth distribution of postholes from the investigations.

Figure 7.5. The features uncovered after machine stripping, proposed houses and relationship to the contours of the longhouse.

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7.  Striking a blow for the plough layer an indication of them having had some sort of protection from the harmful effects of agricultural practice on the site. Taking into account the presence of several finds diagnostic of a later period of the Iron Age at the site (see discussion below), it seems reasonable to suggest that the features have been preserved by an overlying cultural layer, accumulated during subsequent settlement phases, which has taken the damage from modern land use. Although tentative, results accounted for in Table 7.1 also indicate that older postholes are generally deeper than the younger ones, although there seems to be no difference when it comes to elevation. Thus, during the archaeological excavations of 2016, a substantial number of archaeological features were uncovered and investigated. Although only three prehistoric house structures were identified with certainty, the amount and density (0.3/m²) of postholes indicate many more and overlapping structures, many of which continue beyond the borders of the investigation. Altogether, more than 20 radiocarbon dates of mostly short-lived materials, such as cereal grains and nutshells, testify to a settlement stretching from the very beginning of the Late Iron Age to the end of the period (see Table 7.1). However, most of the

radiocarbon-dating results fall into the Merovingian period and there are only two clearly Viking Age dates, both from essentially the same feature by the south-western edge of the trench. The find material collected from the features is characteristic of Late Iron Age settlement household waste, with no distinguishable kind of specialization and/or position. It would seem that, considering only the results from the features excavated after the removal of the plough layer, there is very little basis for arguing that the site has had a prominent function, beyond being a heavily utilized settlement site during the Merovingian period. It is only when data from the disturbed plough zone is integrated into the analysis that one can safely argue for this site being of great importance, even at the regional level, throughout the entire Late Iron Age.

Find comparisons between plough layer and archaeological features Table 7.2 summarizes the main find categories collected both from test pits in the plough layer and from preserved archaeological features under the plough layer. Twelve different

Table 7.1. Radiocarbon dates from 11 postholes in relation to their depth and elevation as well as dating results from other features and a posthole (A12) investigated during the trial investigation in 2014. All radiocarbon determinations calibrated with OxCal v3.10 (Bronk Ramsey 2005), using IntCal 13 atmospheric curve (Reimer et al. 2013). Feature no. Type

Diam. (m) Depth (m)

Elevation

Lab no.

Material

14C

Stdav

Ca.2 sigma (95.4%)

34

Posthole

0.8

0.23

10.5

Ua-56598

Cereal

1354

26

AD 630–770

11

Posthole

0.65

0.28

10.3

Ua-56593

Nutshell

1246

26

AD 680–870

256

Posthole

0.55

0.3

11

Ua-56603

Cereal

1220

26

AD 690–890

55

Posthole

0.6

0.33

10.6

Ua-54776

Nutshell

1198

27

AD 720–900

254

Posthole

0.9

0.33

10.5

Ua-56602

Cereal

1280

26

AD 670–770

254

Posthole

0.9

0.33

10.5

Ua-54780

Nutshell

1195

29

AD 720–940

16

Posthole

0.6

0.35

10.3

Ua-56594

Cereal

1383

26

AD 610–675

209

Posthole

0.7

0.35

10.9

Ua-54779

Nutshell

1471

29

AD 540–645

212

Posthole

0.45

0.39

11

Ua-56592

Charcoal

1586

26

AD 410–540

211

Posthole

0.7

0.4

10.8

Ua-56591

Cereal

1581

26

AD 410–550

132

Posthole

0.8

0.48

10.65

Ua-56590

Charcoal

1798

26

AD 130–330

132

Posthole

0.8

0.48

10.65

Ua-56599

Cereal

1464

26

AD 550–645

138

Posthole

0.8

0.53

10.55

Ua-56600

Cereal

1442

26

AD 570–655

138

Posthole

0.8

0.53

10.55

Ua-56601

Cereal

1436

26

AD 570–655

0.8

0.53

10.55

138

Posthole

Ua-54778

Nutshell

1430

29

AD 575–660

A12

Posthole

Ua-50629

Burnt bone

1278

40

AD 650–870

32

Oven

Ua-56596

Cereal

1244

26

AD 680–870

32

Oven

Ua-56595

Cereal

1241

26

AD 680–880

32

Oven

Ua-56597

Cereal

1218

26

AD 690–890

72

Pit

Ua-54777

Nutshell

1170

28

AD 770–970

282

Pit

Ua-54781

Nutshell

1066

28

AD 890–1030

53

Hearth

Ua-54775

Nutshell

1097

27

AD 880–1020

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Kristin Ilves and Kim Darmark

Table 7.2. The main find categories collected from both test pits in the plough layer and preserved archaeological features under the plough layer. Find category

Total finds No.

Weight

Testpits

Features

% of total % of total

Bone

6905

4042.7

29.3%

70.7%

Burnt bone

2153

576.6

33.4%

66.6%

Burnt clay

1697

2061

58.9%

41.1%

560

791.5

20.8%

79.2%

Pottery Modern pottery

76

98.9

100.0%

0.0%

Slag

25

172.5

99.1%

0.9%

Beads

14

9.8

64.3%

35.7%

Glass

30

15.5

70.0%

30.0%

Modern glass

75

74.7

98.7%

1.3%

Stone objects

44

61.7

75.0%

25.0%

Iron objects

99

658

84.8%

15.2%

9

12.9

55.6%

44.4%

Other metal objects

find categories have been distinguished for the analysis. Organic material collected during the investigations, such as nutshells, cereal grains, pieces of charcoal, bark and organic amorphous material, has been omitted from this table due to difficulties of quantification. The test pits in the plough layer yielded just over 5000 finds, including zooarchaeological material, totalling over 3.7 kg of material. From the archaeological features, more than 6600 finds, over 4.8 kg of material, were collected. Osteological material, both unburned and burned bones representing mainly food remains, clearly dominate the material from the test pits as well as from the features, and in both contexts unburned bone material prevails. It is clear, however, that the feature investigation has yielded the majority of the osteological material from the site. The differential distribution of osteological material might be explained with expected better preservation conditions in features, which is also reflected in the degree of fragmentation between the different contexts. The same can be argued to apply to finds of prehistoric pottery. Almost 80% of all prehistoric pottery finds from the site were collected during the feature investigation, demonstrating a clear difference in distribution. At the same time, modern pottery, which has been separated as a distinct find category, has not been documented from the archaeological features, but is, not surprisingly, present in the plough layer. Similarly, sherds of modern glass were more or less absent in the context of features, but documented from the plough layer. Burnt clay, most probably representing burnt wattle-anddaub structures, is the second largest find category from the site. More than 2 kg of burnt clay daub was collected

during our investigations. When quantified, this material does not show an extremely significant difference in distribution between test pits and archaeological features, although a larger amount has been documented from the plough layer. However, while pieces of burnt clay were found from every single test pit investigated in the plough zone, fewer than 50 features had finds of burnt clay, and the majority of this material is actually connected to only one single feature, which is, furthermore, interpreted as the remains of a possible oven. Most of the burnt clay from test pits, over 70%, was derived from the uppermost mechanical layer. This means that there is a marked difference in the distribution of burnt clay both in terms of contexts and within the contexts. These discrepancies might be explained by burnt clay daub most probably representing the final phase of the settlement activity in the area, and the abandonment of houses, at least some of which were consumed by fire, after which ploughing at the site gradually has been transporting few of the finds vertically downwards. The structures prior to the last phase were probably never burnt, which could explain the relative lack of burnt clay daub in features. A very notable distributional difference between the contexts at hand is also obvious regarding slag. Almost all finds of slag from the site were made in the plough layer. Slag is admittedly a difficult find category as it cannot be unanimously tied to the prehistoric phase of the site. Likewise, iron objects, mainly unidentified fragments and nails – the majority of which at this site are from the plough layer – must be approached source critically due to the undiagnostic nature of these finds. During our investigations, the iron object finds from the plough layer, although accounted for in Table 7.2, were regarded as having a recent origin. The few ferrous finds from the archaeological features were, despite their generally undiagnostic nature, regarded as prehistoric because of their find context. Clear discrepancies also apply in the case of stone objects, such as fragments of whetstones and pieces of flint – 75% of all stone objects at the site were found from the plough zone. In this case, the explanation for distributional differences is more difficult to provide. However, it could be hypothesized that this discrepancy is related to the nature of activities utilizing stone objects as well as discarding practices of such objects, in connection to the fact that most of the archaeological features in the area investigated had severely suffered from ploughing, leading mainly to only bottom parts of the features being preserved. More beads and glass sherds identified as prehistoric were found from test pits than from archaeological features. In the case of the former find category, notable diagnostic differences emerge when the dating of the discovered beads is taken into consideration (see below). Regarding the prehistoric glass found at Kvarnbo, an imported luxury material, which is the most characteristic artefact indicating

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7.  Striking a blow for the plough layer Late Iron Age halls (Herschend 1998, 32), 70% of this material was collected from the plough zone. At least four different prehistoric beakers have been identified typologically, while the overall character and amount of sherds documented clearly indicate more types of glasses having been used at the site. No major difference in distribution between the material from test pits and features can be argued for non-ferrous metal objects collected during the excavation, the number being very small. Although, with only one prehistoric exception, the material from test pits has been considered modern, while the material from archaeological features, consisting of mostly small undiagnostic bronze hoops, is considered prehistoric for contextual reasons. However, a very compelling difference becomes evident when the results from the metal detecting are invoked. All of the diagnostic non-ferrous metal objects were collected from the plough layer and – with the exception of only one artefact discovered from test-pit excavation – during the metal-detector surveys. This find material consists mostly of jewellery – many of quite extraordinary character (cf. Ilves 2015a) – but also exotic and exquisite belt mounts as well as objects pointing towards trade, such as fragments of Islamic silver coins and a weight. A sword shape of a rare type is worthy of special mention (Ilves 2015a, 74–76). Strikingly, half of all the non-ferrous metal objects collected from the plough zone are dated to the Viking Age, while the other half includes a couple of finds dated to the Merovingian period, but with the majority broadly dated to the Late Iron Age. A similar pattern pertains to the beads that have been found from both test pits and features. In the plough layer, types belonging to the Viking Age clearly dominate over types dated to the Merovingian period. As summarized in Table 7.3, the plough layer contains the majority of the diagnostic finds from the site, almost 80%. Furthermore, it is quite clear that this layer not only contains evidence of the Merovingian settlement phase but also has several finds ascribed to the later, Viking Age phase. This presence is considerably less pronounced in the diagnostic feature finds, which correspond well with the results from the C14-datings. Thus, it is obvious that neglecting the ploughed and disturbed zone at Kvarnbo would have overlooked this later, important, phase, which actually was the object of interest. Solid artefact-based evidence for an understanding of this settlement as having a prominent position on both regional and long-distance levels would also have been missing from the records. With the results from the plough zone at hand, especially regarding the character of the finds, which include a varied set of both beaker fragments and extraordinary non-ferrous objects, the initial hypothesis of the presence of a Late Iron Age hallfarm at the site that during its final stage also included the longhouse as evident from the infrared aerial photograph can be reinforced.

Table 7.3. Distribution of the diagnostic finds from the site. Diagnostic finds

Period

N Plough layer

N Features

Non-ferrous

Late Iron Age

8

0

 

Merovingian

4

0

 

Viking Age

11

0

Ferrous

Late Iron Age

0

2

 

Merovingian

0

0

 

Viking Age

0

0

Beads

Late Iron Age

2

4

 

Merovingian

1

1

 

Viking Age

5

0

Glass

Late Iron Age

13

3

 

Merovingian

2

0

 

Viking Age

0

1

Bone

Late Iron Age

1

1

 

Merovingian

0

0

 

Viking Age

 

 

0

0

Plough layer

Features

 

Sum finds

N

%

N

%

 

Late Iron Age

24

70.6%

10

29.4%

 

Merovingian

7

87.5%

1

12.5%

 

Viking Age

16

94.1%

1

5.9%

 

Total

47

79.7%

12

20.3%

Results and discussion The Åland Islands are rich in Late Iron Age ancient monuments. Most of these are characterized by a relatively high visibility and were consequently registered already during the pioneering days of archaeology on Åland. About 450 Late Iron Age cemeteries known from Åland consist mainly of round stone cairns covered by sandy mounds. Although these are generally low and small in size, almost 11,000 burial monuments have been registered. Most of the c. 90 registered Late Iron Age settlement sites include stone foundation houses, i.e. houses with low dry-stone walls set on the outside of an inner wood-wall house structure. In many cases, the stone foundations can still be seen in the landscape. All six hill forts on Åland have surviving sequences of dry-stone wall constructions. Intensive cultivation of the limited agricultural land in the archipelago and its negative impact on Late Iron Age sites has been recognized in the case of the Ålandic cemeteries. Peripheral areas of many burial sites, which are often situated in agricultural settings, have suffered from ploughing, and the number of burial mounds is considered to have been higher than visible today. Hidden settlement

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sites in today’s farmland, however, have not been discussed to any noticeable extent within Ålandic archaeology. This is curious considering the great discrepancy between the number of Late Iron Age cemeteries and settlement sites on Åland. While some prehistoric farms may have lacked a cemetery of their own, every burial ground presumably had a farm/farms attached to it, meaning that the number of settlements must be considerably higher than those known today. As the Late Iron Age cemeteries on Åland are strongly connected to agricultural landscapes, and cemeteries are closely connected to settlement sites, there is a high possibility of several settlement sites being hidden beneath the plough layer. To date, however, only one such settlement has been identified: the site of Kvarnbo, discussed in this chapter. During our investigations in Kvarnbo, we were lucky to find diagnostic find material in connection to the area chosen for investigation from the infrared photography. It is clear that intensive agricultural practices have greatly damaged the site in question. Many structural traces have disappeared, and many are poorly preserved. The large longhouse, which motivated the research at the onset, can no longer be identified archaeologically, and in situ traces of the younger, Viking Age phases of this settlement must be considered almost completely destroyed by ploughing within the excavated area. These younger phases, nevertheless, were captured through plough-zone investigations as the cultural layers and finds belonging to the younger phases were to a certain extent still discoverable mixed into the plough layer. Furthermore, our investigation results indicate that the younger, Viking Age phases of the settlement use might be discovered in a better state, in terms of both artefacts and structures, in the surrounding depressions. While farming across hundreds of years has damaged and removed cultural layers in the topographically highest parts of the field, at the same time this activity has moved plough soil in such a way that it has partly covered and indeed protected lower-lying prehistoric layers. Unfortunately, these lower-lying areas are much less investigated, and are, furthermore, lacking proper legal protection because the spatial extent of the site has not been clarified. The interpretation of the settlement site in Kvarnbo as a Late Iron Age hall-farm is quite heavily based on the results of the plough-zone investigations, and it is unfortunate that the argument needs to rest on the combination of an infrared aerial photo and damaged archaeological contexts. This is especially so as the acceptance of this interpretation has great impact on the understanding of the social organization and settlement structure on the Åland Islands during the Late Iron Age. The establishment and maintenance of a hall-farm underpinning power throughout several hundreds of years could only have been a result of significant investments on many different levels, calling for a consolidation

of political and social legitimacy (Herschend 1993; Brink 1996; Ljungkvist 2006). This, however, contrasts with the dominating view regarding the social organization and settlement system on the islands – one of self-sustained small farms, with a low degree of internal stratification. The region has been viewed as a periphery with a very marginal level of political complexity (Núñez 1995; Tomtlund 1999). The existence of a local hall-farm motivates a revaluation of this understanding. At the same time, our investigations also illustrate how much significant and relevant archaeological information there could be in the plough zone as well as demonstrate the importance of evaluating the informational value of this zone.

Note 1

Mean rainfall in the parish of Saltvik is 548 mm, and the rainiest season is from July to November (https://sv.climatedata.org/europa/finland/aland/saltvik-337841/#climate-table).

Bibliography Badmos, B.K., Agodzo, S.K., Villamor, G.B. and Odai, S.N. (2015) An approach for simulation soil loss from an agro-ecosystem using multi-agent simulation: a case study for semi-arid Ghana. Land 4, 607–626. Binford, L. (1964) A consideration of archaeological research design. American Antiquity 29(4), 425–441. Brink, S. (1996) Political and social structures in Early Scandinavia: a settlement-historical pre-study of the Central Place. Tor 28, 235–281. Dreijer, M. (1950) Landet Åland och Fornsveriges östgräns. Åländsk odling 1950, 3–167. Dreijer, M. (1979) Det åländska folkets historia I:1. Från stenåldern till Gustav Vasa. Mariehamn: Ålands Kulturstiftelse. Ekman, M. (2017) Calculation of Historical Shore Levels Back to 500 AD in the Baltic Sea Area Due to Postglacial Rebound. Small Publications in Historical Geophysics 31. Åland Islands: Summer Institute for Historical Geophysics. Goldberg, P. and Macphail, R.I. (2006) Practical and Theoretical Geoarchaeology. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing. Hårdh, B. (2010) Viking Age Uppåkra. In B. Hård (ed.) Från romartida skalpeller till senvikingatida urnesspännen. Nya materialstudier från Uppåkra, 247–314. Lund: Almkvist & Wiksell. Henriksen, M.B. (2016) Pløjelagsfund og formationsprocesser. Problemer ved fortolkning af detektorfund fra dyrket mark. In J. Martens and M. Ravn (eds) Pløyejord som kontekst. Nye utfordringer for forskning, forvaltning og formidling, 69–88. Kristiansand: Portal. Herschend, F. (1993) The origin of the hall in southern Scandinavia. Tor 25, 175–199. Herschend, F. (1998) The Idea of the Good in Late Iron Age Society. Occasional Papers in Archaeology 15. Uppsala: Uppsala University. Herschend, F. (2018) Järnåldersarkitekter, universitetsforskare, uppdragsarkeologer och kulturmiljövården. Fornvännen 113, 34–49.

7.  Striking a blow for the plough layer Ilves, K. (2015a) Fynd efter en yngre järnåldersaristokrati i Kvarnbo, Åland. Finskt Museum 2013–2015, 65–80. Ilves, K. (2015b) De arkeologiska undersökningarna vid Kvarnbohallen år 2014. Unpublished excavation report in the archives of the Museum of Åland, Mariehamn. Ilves, K. (2017) De arkeologiska undersökningarna vid Kvarnbohallen år 2016. Unpublished excavation report in the archives of the Museum of Åland, Mariehamn. Ilves, K. (2018) The Kvarnbo hall: reconsidering the importance of the Late Iron Age Åland Islands. Journal of Island & Coastal Archaeology 13, 301–318. Ljungkvist, J. (2006) En hiar atti rikR. Om elit, struktur och ekonomi kring Uppsala och Mälaren under yngre järnålder, Aun 34. Uppsala: Uppsala universitet. Løken, T., Pilø, L. and Hemmdorff, O. (1996) Maskinell flateavdekking og utgravning av forhistoriska jordbruksboplasser, en metodisk innføring. Arkeologisk museum i Stavanger. AmSVaria 26. Stavanger: Arkeologisk Museum i Stavanger. Martens, J. and Ravn, M. (eds) (2016) Pløyejord som kontekst. Nye utfordringer for forskning, forvaltning og formidling. Kristiansand: Portal.

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Noble, G., Lamont, P. and Masson-Maclean, E. (2019) Assessing the ploughzone: the impact of cultivation on artefact survival and the cost/benefits of topsoil stripping prior to excavation. Journal of Archaeological Science: Reports 23, 549–558. Núñez, M. (1995) Agrarian colonization and settlement of the Åland Islands in the first millennium AD. Fennoscandia archaeologica 12, 113–122. Sarnäs, P. (2008) Öresundsförbindelsen och arkeologin. Fullåkerslandskapet Matjord, metod, diskussion, reflektion. Malmöfynd nr 14. Malmö: Malmö Kulturmiljö. Tomtlund, J.-E. (1999) Åland under vikingatiden. Den första glimten av vikingarnas värld. SFV – Kalendern årgång 113, 18–31. Viberg, A. (2014) Uppdragsrapport nr 241. Kvarnbo – Saltvik – Åland. Teknisk rapport, Georadarmätningar. Institutionen för arkeologi och antikens kultur. Arkeologiska forskningslaboratoriet, Auxilia. Stockholm: Stockholm University. Wood, W.R. and Johnson, D.L. (1978) A survey of disturbance processes in archaeological site formation. Advances in Archaeological Method and Theory 1, 315–381.

8 The dating of Ottarshögen and the emergence of monumental burial mounds in Middle Sweden John Ljungkvist and Andreas Hennius

The most characteristic ancient monuments of the region around Lake Mälaren, in eastern Middle Sweden, are the Late Iron Age (c. AD 550–1050) burial mounds. Many are still visible in the landscape today, often near old village sites. Many have names related to mythical heroes and kings or local folklore (Bratt 2008, 12). The vast majority of the large and monumental mounds are dated to after AD 550, to what in Continental terms is equivalent to the Merovingian period, and in Sweden is defined as the Vendel period (AD 550–750), or to the Viking Age (AD 750–1050). These mounds are often regarded as one of the major signs of the fundamental societal changes during the 6th century. During the period, there is a fundamental reorganization of the settlement structure and, in the later part of the century, increased imports, changes in burial customs and a more distinct social stratification, whereby individuals with greater wealth than others become visible in a far more distinct way (Ljungkvist 2011, 150–153). The reasons for these changes have been frequently discussed. The arguments roughly follow two different lines, one suggesting a rapid change due to external causes, especially in the 530s (Axboe 1999a; Gräslund and Price 2012; Löwenborg 2012), and another interpreting the changes as a gradual development over a long time (Näsman 1988; 2012; Pilö et al. 2018; Frölund 2019). Ottarshögen (Ottar’s mound, RAÄ Vendel 1:1, www. fmis.raa.se) in Vendel parish, some 40 km north of Uppsala (see Fig. 8.1), has been considered the earliest, or one of the earliest, excavated examples of Iron Age monumental burial mounds in the region due to a connection to King Ottar Vendelkråka, whose death has been dated to the beginning of the 6th century (Stjerna 1908; Nerman 1913; Lindqvist 1936; Bratt 2008, 109). However, the estimations of the age of this burial were made decades before modern, primarily Continental finds chronologies, and also before the

introduction of scientific dating methods. The aim of this chapter is to produce a more reliable dating for Ottarshögen based on comparisons with modern find chronologies, as well as the results from a number of recently analysed radiocarbon samples on bones from the remains of the cremation. The results of the study relate to the broader understanding of the above-mentioned societal changes in the region during the middle of the Iron Age. Furthermore, the study has implications for problems relating to find chronologies for the transitional period between the Migration (AD 400‒550) and Vendel periods (AD 550‒750).

Burial mounds and other monuments – The Uppland region in a transitional period In the province of Uppland, there are 164 burial mounds with diameters of 20 m or more (Bratt 2008, 29). The three royal mounds in Gamla Uppsala are probably the most famous. However, studies show that mounds measuring 13–15 m in diameter are unusually large and could be interpreted as markers of an elite society (Ljungkvist 2006, 160). Within a radius of 10 km of Gamla Uppsala, there are at least 50–60 additional elite-indicating large mounds measuring more than 15 m in diameter (Ljungkvist 2006, 160–162; Bratt 2008). In the area, 11 of these large mounds have been excavated. Seven of these have been dated to the Vendel period (six to the period c. AD 550–650, and one to the period c. AD 650–750), one to the Bronze Age period IV (1100–900 BC), one that is considered a Viking Age burial and two belonging, less specifically, to the Iron Age (Ljungkvist 2006, fig. 54 and associated references; Hennius et al. 2016). The predominant dating of the large mounds in this area is somewhat later than the dating of the large burial mounds farther up along the Swedish northern

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Figure 8.1. Map showing the Uppsala region and place names mentioned in the chapter. (Background map created using ArcGIS® software by Esri. ArcGIS® and ArcMap™ are the intellectual property of Esri and are used herein under license. Copyright © Esri. All rights reserved. For more information about Esri® software, please visit www.esri.com.)

8.  The dating of Ottarshögen and the emergence of monumental burial mounds in Middle Sweden Baltic coast, in the provinces of Hälsingland, Medelpad and Ångermanland. A majority of the large mounds in the northern region are considered to have been built during the Late Roman Iron Age and Migration period (i.e. c. AD 300–450), with mounds in Högom (Selånger parish) and Prästbolet (Timrå parish) offering somewhat later examples (Bratt 2008, 37–38). Of 11 excavated large mounds around Gamla Uppsala, five have been determined as male and two as female burials, while the remaining four have contradictory archaeological sex determinations. The find material in these large cremation burials is always severely damaged by the heat from the funeral pyre. But, when possible to identify, it includes a large number of animals, parts of weapons, including helmets and swords, as well as high-quality jewellery and imported luxury items. The finds from the cremation burials in the large mounds are thus comparable to objects in the Vendel period boat burials. There are indications that at least some mounds were built in a number of consecutive steps spanning several years (Ljungkvist 2013, 45–48; Hennius et al. 2016, 69–70). Constructing such mounds still involved extensive work. Calculations for the mounds in Gamla Uppsala show that the amount of soil in each one of the royal mounds constitutes several thousand cubic metres (Ljungkvist and Ekblom 2018, 100). However, this mid-Iron Age monumentalization of the landscape did not only include raising burial mounds. At Gamla Uppsala, the construction of two 700 and 900 m-long rows of standing posts, consisting of some 270 individual posts, can be seen from the same perspective (Seiler 2018; Wikborg 2018). Furthermore, a number of buildings in the royal estate, for example the great hall, were placed on terraces of soil raised 7 m high in order to create an elevated position for the settlement, situated above the low-lying agrarian fields. Recent excavations have shown that the first phase of the settlement could be dated to the Migration period (Ljungkvist et al. 2017, 99). All these building projects represent a significant investment for the community and imply the emergence of a society where a local elite not only had the wealth to be buried in richly furnished burials but also the possibility of initiating the erection of large-scale monuments.

Ottarshögen – Analysis of finds and new radiocarbon samples Ottarshögen, which is around 38 m in diameter and 6 m high, belongs to the upper magnitude of large burial mounds in the region. It is placed in the middle of a grave field that has a recorded continuity from the 5th to the 8th century AD (Seiler 2001, 104–106). The name ‘Ottarshögen’ appears as early as 1675, and a few decades later the grave was ascribed to the mythical king Ottar Vendelkråka (Lindqvist 1936, 37–57; Vikstrand 2004, 379–380). Ottarshögen became one of the

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key features in the early 20th century, when researchers, caught up in a national romantic air, related (semi-)mythological kings to individual burial monuments. On the basis of the Ynglingatal lineage, the mounds in Gamla Uppsala were suggested to be the burial monuments of the mythical kings Aun, Egil and Adils. Using a similar argument, Ottarshögen was supposed to have been raised over Ottar Vendelkråka, who, according to Ynglingatal, ruled between Egil and Adils. However, there was a discussion about whether Ottar had been buried in Vendel in Sweden or Vendel in Denmark after his death at the beginning of the 6th century (Lindqvist 1917; Bratt 2008, 12–13, with references). The excavations of the mound and its cremation burial were undertaken in 1914 under the direction of Bernhard Salin, and continued in 1916 under Sune Lindqvist (Lindqvist 1936, 37–57). On the basis of the finds, the burial was dated to around AD 500 or to the earliest part of the 6th century, and, therefore, according to Lindqvist, support an association with King Ottar (Lindqvist 1936, 234). Since then, the dating has not been thoroughly discussed or revised, even if a somewhat later dating has been proposed on the basis of the gaming pieces (Ljungkvist 2008, 272, 276). Up to now, no radiocarbon analyses or other scientific dating methods have been applied to the material, and neither has the find material been reanalysed in detail. The mound is still sometimes referred to as one of the earliest in the Mälaren region and, as such, considered to be the first of the large mounds in the region. Compared to the other mounds in the Uppland region, Ottarshögen not only has a dating that stands out but also carries features that single it out from the majority of monumental mounds in the region. The burial appeared as a cremation pit beneath a cairn, surrounded by a thin layer of burnt remains (Lindqvist 1936, fig. 38). At the bottom of the pit, a metal-bound wooden bucket was placed, filled and covered with remains from the funeral pyre. Most other large burial mounds in eastern Middle Sweden have thick cremation layers as burial deposition (Bratt 2008, table 13). The assembling of objects and bones in a pit, as in Ottarshögen, is a Migration period trait (Bennett 1987). An analysis of the bones made by Sten and Vretemark (1988) indicates that two individuals, an adult male and female, were cremated. Among the 10 litres of burnt bones were the remains of three dogs, as well as bones from a sheep, a pig, a goose and a cat (Sten and Vretemark 1988). A notable trait is the lack of horse bones, which appear in the other 13 burials in the Sten and Vretemark study (see also Bratt 2008, 78).

The finds from Ottarshögen The character of the artefacts from Ottarshögen is incoherent. The mound holds a combination of both characteristic and very unusual objects from the Migration period, but also finds that primarily have parallels in the Vendel period contexts. Among several rare finds is a solidus coin minted for Emperor Basiliscus, thus giving a terminus post quem of

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AD 475/476 (Fig. 8.2; Lindqvist 1936, 162). The coin shows extensive wear after being used as a pendant; thus, it was presumably circulating for some time before deposition. Another clear Migration period object is a glass beaker with large polished facets made in the so-called ‘Überfang’ technique (for more detail, see Näsman 1984, 61). At the same time, the gaming pieces from the mound are large, hemispherical and made from whalebone – characteristics of gaming pieces found mostly after the middle of the 6th

Figure 8.2. The solidus from Ottarshögen minted for Emperor Basiliscus, AD 475/476. The coin shows wear after being used as a pendant. Photo by Ulf Bruxe, Statens historiska museer.

Figure 8.3. The wooden bucket from Ottarshögen. Photo by Ola Myrin, Statens historiska museer.

century (Hennius et al. 2018). The metal-bound wooden bucket (Fig. 8.3) is highly interesting for the Uppland region as it has strong resemblances to copper alloy-bound buckets from Anglo-Saxon England, dated primarily to the 6th century (Cook 2004). Combs are normally good chronological markers, but the specimen from Ottarshögen is of an almost unique character, with double connecting plates; however, there are some Migration period traits (Lindqvist 1936, fig. 78). Also, a bone spoon found in the grave has its primary parallels in the Migration period graves. Interestingly, the ornamentation on both the comb and the spoon has been interpreted by Inger Zachrisson (2010, 96–98) as being of Sámi origin. In the burial, there are also remains of a belt consisting of a buckle, one T-shaped and two rectangular mounts, all made of iron with details of copper alloy and probably silver (Figs 8.4 and 8.5). Due to heavy corrosion, crusts and damage, the buckle has no identifiable diagnostic traits that can be used for typological dating. A better determination could perhaps be made if the buckle was X-rayed. However, the T-shaped mount belongs to a type with a large variety in form. Nørgård Jørgensen (1999, 114) classifies such mounts as type TR and dates these in her chronology to the period I–II or II, which in absolute dates corresponds to AD 520/30–610/20. She has also dated the rectangular mounts, defined as type VR, to the period I–II or II (Nørgård Jørgensen 1999, 114; Ljungkvist 2008, 276). The T-shaped mount from Ottarshögen has, however, a deviating shape in comparison to most other mounts of this category. There are at least two close parallels found in Scandinavia, one from Åker in Norway and a second from Larv parish in Västergötland (Lindqvist 1936, 219; Slomann and Christensen 1984). All three mounts are, in comparison to most other T-shaped mounts, characterized

Figure 8.4. The T-shaped mount from Ottarshögen. Photo by Thomas Eriksson, Statens historiska museer.

8.  The dating of Ottarshögen and the emergence of monumental burial mounds in Middle Sweden

Figure 8.5. The rectangular mounts from Ottarshögen. Photo by Thomas Eriksson, Statens historiska museer.

by being more compact and having a less triangular shape. Furthermore, they all have an attached semicircular and profiled rib, placed across the mount. Finally, the rivets are set in rows along the sides of the mount and not one in each arm as in most other T-shaped mounts (see, e.g., Nørgård-Jörgensen 1999, taf. 2:13, 76:10/11, 94:18, 141:13). The Åker find originates from the plough soil, but the finds most likely relate to a grave. It probably dates to between the late 6th and early 7th century; however, the find seems to contain objects from two different belts made in two different manufacturing techniques. One of these belts might be slightly older or contain older parts. The find from Larv was found in 1866 in the filling of a large mound called Väderkullen (RAÄ Larv 19:1, www.fmis.raa.se; Nitenberg 2019, 116). The different parts share the same manufacturing technique and, most likely, belong to the same belt. Both the buckle and the strap-end mount are of the Late Migration period types (Legoux et al. 2004, type 183). There are also Continental parallels to this type of mount, for example in Bifrons grave 39, dated to AD 525/550–565/595 (Menghin 1983, 243; Bayliss et al. 2013, 484–489). These examples and find combinations might indicate an earlier dating for the T-shaped mount from Ottarshögen than ordinary Vendel period T-shaped mounts and are thus important for a discussion of a dating for the mound. The rectangular mounts found from Ottarshögen are made out of a plate with faceted sides (Fig. 8.5). On each corner are mounted domed rivets, each surrounded by a striated ring, probably made in silver. This technological trait is very rare among the Migration period objects, but common on buttons of bow brooches, high-quality belt details and swords from the Vendel period (e.g. compare objects in Nerman 1935 to Nerman 1969). To our knowledge, the technological feature of putting a striated silver

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ring together with a doomed rivet does not appear on the Continent until the so-called ‘Ament’ (AM) phase II, i.e. AD 520/530–560/570 (see, e.g., the Krefeld Gellep 1782 sword hilt; Pirling 1979). How, then, should the belt and other objects from Ottarhögen be dated? Above, we have concluded that a number of finds from Ottarshögen are typical Migration period objects, while the gaming pieces and belt details have been partly related to the Vendel period find combinations. There are also links to older contexts from AM II, such as Bifrons 39 and Krefeld Gellep 1782. To refer to belt detail types and dates in the study by Nørgård Jørgensen (1999) is problematic as her earliest phase, which she relates to AM II on the Continent, also includes objects that do not appear on the Continent until AM III (i.e. after 560/570) (see, e.g., discussion in Axboe 1999b, 139). For example, following Continental chronologies, typical Vendel period objects, such as shield-on-tongue buckles, as well as artefacts in animal style B, do not appear until around AD 560/570, i.e. roughly corresponding to AM III. However, it has not been examined in detail whether there are more graves in Middle Sweden with parallels to Continental types related to AM II.

Middle Iron Age find typologies in the Mälaren area from a Continental perspective A more reliable dating of the discussed belt details as well as other finds related to AM II could be obtained by using a number of more modern Continental chronologies (Brugmann 1999; Theune 1999; Müssemeier et al. 2003; Legoux et al. 2004; Hines and Bayliss 2013). In contrast to existing Scandinavian studies, these chronologies are based on coin dates, dendrochronology and, more recently, substantial sequences of C14 dates (Steuer 1998; Hines and Bayliss 2013). The most typical belt of Ament’s phase II on the Continent is a predecessor of the shield-on-tongue buckle. Different variants of this buckle are often found together with shoe-shaped rivets (Shildförmige Gürtelhaften) (see, e.g., Hines and Bayliss 2013, type BU 2-d; Müssemeier et al. 2003, Gür2.6/7C). These buckles and mounts have never been found in present-day Sweden, which suggests that some types of new Continental objects were embraced while some were neglected. There is, however, another type/group of buckle(s) with associated belt mounts that is far more relevant from a Middle Sweden perspective. This buckle type is characterized by rectangular base plates with a raised, often decorated, central part, and four to six rivets in a line on the buckle plates (see, e.g., Bayliss et al. 2013, type BU4; Legoux et al. 2004, type 163; Frey 2006, type Conceveux). The belt mounts associated with these buckles are generally made in a way that harmonizes with the construction and appearance of the base plate (see, e.g., Menghin 1983, 39, 244, cat. nos 91, 92, 94, 95).

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In the Mälaren region, at least six parallels to this type of buckle have been identified from grave contexts. The construction and quality vary; for example, the advanced riveting construction is sometimes missing. However, the common denominator is rectangular mount plates with shield-tongues that are either square or have a straight backside. They are clearly different from the Vendel period shield-on-tongue with their oval back plates and curved backs of the shield. None of these buckles have been found in combination with the characteristic Vendel period artefacts, but they do occur with combs of Migration period character (see Petré 1984, 394) and parts of short tongueshaped strap-end mounts that typologically precede the characteristic dito of the Vendel period (cf. Stolpe and Arne 1912, pl. XLIII). The most exclusive of these buckles, which is associated with belt details, is from burial 30C from the burial ground 116 on Helgö (Fig. 8.6; Sander 1997). This grave seems to be the only male burial in the region where two (or three) different variants of the late Style I ornamentation can be observed. The buckle plate is decorated in animal style with close resemblance to the styles found on bracteates of type D (Axboe 2007, fig. 88). The ornament of the frame is more difficult to define, representing either late Style I

or II. A similar buckle has been found in Langenenslingen in Baden-Württemberg, Germany (Menghin 1983, cat. no. 95). Furthermore, a belt mount from the Helgö burial is decorated in a late variant of Style I ornament with parallels to, for example, a late relief buckle of the Sogn type from Norway (Kristoffersen 2002, 154). The belts from Helgö, Ottarhögen, and the other cases indicate that there is a group of objects, from various graves in Scandinavia, that are primarily related to objects dated to Aments II on the Continent. In the case of Helgö burial 30C, there are also animal-style ornaments related to gold bracteates of Style D. These bracteates have been related to Continental graves from AM II by Morten Axboe, who assumes that they were made no later than AD 530/540 and deposited around AD 550/560 at the latest (Axboe 1999b, 141).

Radiocarbon analysis from Ottarshögen Due to uncertainties of using typological dating, as demonstrated above, four samples of bones from the cremation layer have been radiocarbon analysed for this study. All samples were taken from heavily burned and calcined bones. A basic osteological determination showed that there were two samples from human bones, one possibly human sample

Figure 8.6. The buckle and a belt mount from grave 30C in grave field 116 on Helgö. Creator of drawing unknown.

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8.  The dating of Ottarshögen and the emergence of monumental burial mounds in Middle Sweden Table 8.1. Results from radiocarbon analysis from Ottarshögen. Laboratory number

Sample

Calibrated 1 Σ

Calibrated 2 Σ

δ13C‰ V-PDB

Ua-58283

Prov 1 Human

1597±25

AD 410 (15.6%) AD 440 AD 450 (11.4%) AD 470 AD 480 (41.2%) AD 540

AD 400 (95.4%) AD 540

–24.2

Ua-58284

Prov 2 Human

1590±26

AD 420 (68.2%) AD 540

AD 400 (95.4%) AD 540

–27.9

Ua-58285

Prov 3 Human?

1616±25

AD 390 (37.9%) AD 440 AD 490 (30.3%) AD 530

AD 380 (95.4%) AD 540

–25.4

Ua-58286

Prov 4 Animal?

1576±25

AD 420 (68.2%) AD 540

AD 410 (95.4%) AD 550

–27.1

14

C age BP

Figure 8.7. Results from the four analysed radiocarbon samples from Ottarshögen.

Figure 8.8. Combined radiocarbon diagram also taking account the TPQ dating of AD 476 from the Basiliscus coin.

and one undetermined sample that is, however, probably from an animal. All samples were analysed at the Tandem Laboratory, Ångströmlaboratoriet, Uppsala University (see Table 8.1 and Figs 8.7 and 8.8).

The four samples analysed show great coherence, with a difference of only 40 radiocarbon years between the oldest and the youngest sample. When calibrated, the radiocarbon samples date Ottarshögen to the 5th and the beginning of the 6th century. When combining the four samples and while also considering the TPQ dating from the minting of the Basiliscus coin (AD 475/476), the possible span for the cremation is narrowed down to AD 489–533 (cal 2Σ 95.4%; see Fig. 8.8). However, the results from radiocarbon dating need critical evaluation. Experiments have shown that there could be an ‘old wood effect’ in burnt bones related to the age of the wood used in the cremation pyre. Carbon from the wood could possibly contaminate the bones and thus, when analysed, generate dates that are too old (see, e.g., Olsen et al. 2013). At the same time, the effect of old wood is debated. When cremated bones are radiocarbon dated, the standard procedure, since Lanting et al. (2001), is to date the bio-apatite, a fraction that should be less sensitive to contamination. There are, however, still uncertainties about how this is affected by conditions during the cremation and burial ceremony (Agerskov et al. 2019, with references). Experiments

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comparing the radiocarbon dates from burned bones with analysis on carbon from the same context show that the values can differ considerably, towards both younger and older datings (Lanting et al. 2001, 251). From the burial ground at Gnista, just outside Uppsala, bones from a partly cremated individual were dated through several samples. The bones that had been exposed to intensive fire during the cremation gave results about 200 years older than the bones that showed no traces of fire (Hennius et al. 2016, 153). One striking aspect for the analyses of bone from Ottarshögen is the low δ13C values (see Table 8.1), which in each case are considerably lower than those usually seen for human bones (values in nature are usually around −18 to −24‰ (Stenström et al. 2011, with references)). The δ13C values in unburned bones vary depending on diet. A similarly low value for the presumable animal bone analysed suggests that low δ13C values are not related to diet or nutrition intake, but indicate that the bones are affected by some external factors during the cremation. Lanting et al. (2001) have noticed a shift in δ13C values due to isotopic fragmentation, indicating that considerable amounts of carbonate have burnt out. Low values for δ13C in cremation burials is also noted by Zazzo et al. (2012), who argue that this results from an uptake of CO2 in the atmosphere through the combustion in the pyre, and that it indicates the values being affected by C14 values in old wood (Lanting et al. 2001, 251; Zazzo et al. 2012, 856, 862; Olsen et al. 2013). In many cases, the old wood effect is probably limited, as we could expect an extensive use of branch wood and small trunks with low age as fuel in most cremation pyres (cf. Snoeck et al. 2014, 599). However, large burials that included a multitude of animals and other types of burial offerings might have needed a large pyre with a high temperature, meaning the extensive use of wood including larger trunks and slow-growing wood with calorific content results in a higher probability of an old wood effect.

An absolute dating of Ottarshögen – A discussion The main objective of this chapter is to produce a reliable dating for Ottarshögen based on a combination of typological dating of the finds and the results from four recently analysed radiocarbon samples. The study suggests that the most probable dating of Ottarshögen is around AD 520–530 as this best corresponds with the Continental parallels to the artefact typologies but also takes into account the results from the radiocarbon analysis. The find material from the burial has parallels to other burials in the Mälaren region and, in a wider perspective, to several Continental and English chronologies that correspond to AM II, i.e. about AD 520/530–560/570. In the earliest period, this typological dating overlaps the results from the radiocarbon analysis of AD 489–533 (cal 2Σ, with a TPQ from the Basiliscus coin

to AD 476). However, it must be acknowledged that this does not account for the possibility of old wood effect in the radiocarbon result. The study seems to confirm that the burial is the oldest example of large mounds in the Mälaren region, containing early examples and forerunners of a number of specific finds and their manufacturing techniques. The study has also shown the problems concerning find typologies for the transitional phase between the Migration and Vendel periods and a need for further refinement of existing typologies. Ottarshögen contained a number of finds clearly connected to the Migration period, as well as finds with parallels to objects traditionally interpreted as belonging to the Vendel period (post-AD 560/570), such as the belt details and/or the gaming pieces. If the existing find chronologies were firm, this would obviously place the mound in the second half of the 6th century. Unfortunately, this is not the case. There are arguments, based on the Continental parallels, for interpreting the belt details from Ottarshögen as older variations of finds that in later periods occur with a slightly changed appearance. Furthermore, there are arguments for some artefacts dating to 520/530–560/570 (AM II) – this is particularly the case with the belt details, especially in relation to animal style I in the Helgö burial. Problems in producing a reliable dating of the burial based solely on find typologies is largely related to difficulties in constructing consistent seriations of artefacts from the early 6th century and to drawing links with the Continental material. There are objects from a transition period that must be considered as stuck in a chronological limbo. Ottarshögen belongs to a phase that has been problematized since the initial creation of the Iron Age typologies and since several national discussions took place on finds and absolute dates of material culture objects from the 6th century and the end of the Migration period (see, e.g., Lindqvist 1926; Åberg 1953; Solberg 1981; Bemmann and Hahne 1994; Myhre 2005). The core problem of the discussion is the small amount of empirical data in comparison to later phases. For Ottarshögen, the belt material is central to the discussion. This material precedes the Vendel period belt combination of shield-on-tongue buckles and associated belt details. The above-mentioned burials in the Mälaren region, with buckles and the belt details related to Ottarshögen, have probably not been identified before this study. The quintessential problem is that burials, especially supposed male burials, have relatively anonymous finds in the early 6th century. This tendency is not limited to Middle Sweden; it can also be seen on Gotland (compare, e.g., the number of burials accounted for by Nerman period VI:2 with Nerman period VII:1; Nerman 1969). This pattern is not unique to the early 6th century. The same situation is valid for male burials from the 8th century. For example, boat grave 13 from Valsgärde is the only registered intact weapon burial, with shield boss and double-edged sword from the mid-/ late 8th century in Middle Sweden (see Nørgård Jørgensen

8.  The dating of Ottarshögen and the emergence of monumental burial mounds in Middle Sweden 1999, Abb. 137). As a comparison, contemporary female burials, characterized by the blue bead sets, can probably be counted in the hundreds (Callmer 2007). For some periods, the burial goods are just more simple, which means that they tend to receive less research attention, leaving a gap in our understanding of long-term changes in material culture as well as in burial rituals. The results of the study relate to the broader understanding of societal changes in the Mälaren region during the middle of the Iron Age, including indications of increased social diversity and hierarchization as well as the building of large monuments during this period. As mentioned at the beginning, the reasons for these changes have been debated: either a rapid change in the middle of the 6th century, a response to external factors, or a gradual development over a long time. The results from the study presented in this chapter, showing that the most probable dating of Ottarshögen is the first half of the 6th century, support the latter opinion. It is likely that the prosperity in the large burials should be interpreted as a continuation of the richly furnished chamber burials from the Migration period and, as such, bears witness to a long period of wealth accumulation. This is well in line with results from a number of excavated elite settlement sites, with a continuity stretching from the Migration period into the Vendel and Viking Age (Seiler 2001; Andersson and Skyllberg 2008; Hjulström 2008; Ljungkvist et al. 2017; Lamm and Clarke 2017). The spoon and the comb found in Ottarshögen are suggested to be of Sámi origin. Perhaps there is a stronger influence from northern latitudes than previously acknowledged, concerning both large burial mounds and other remains in the Lake Mälaren area. The large mounds along the northern Baltic coast mainly date to the Late Roman Iron Age and the Migration period, with some younger examples. The Högom burial pre-dates Ottarshögen by only a few decades, probably a generation, and could perhaps have influenced the construction of large mounds in the Mälaren Valley. The Vendel area is situated in the northern sector of the province Uppland, at the very end of the Fyris River system, connecting Vendel to sites such as Valsgärde, Gamla Uppsala. It is positioned close to heavily forested areas, which could be regarded as a southern continuation of the northern boreal forests. In Vendel, one of very few Vendel period cremation burials with bladed weapons has been documented: grave 39 (RAÄ Vendel 32:1, www.fmis.raa.se; Ljungkvist 2000, 174). This grave, in addition to the weapon in the shape of a seax and a set of bone arrows, also contained a set of tools, socketed axe, file and tang (Arne 1932, 9). This combination of objects is unique in eastern Middle Sweden, but not in a wider geographical context. Grave 39 has strong resemblances to the so-called ‘hunting ground burials’ in the northern sector of Sweden and Norway and might perhaps be defined as the southernmost example of this grave type (Serning 1966; Gollwitzer 1997). In northern Central Sweden, the hunting

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ground burials are often found in areas where we also find systems of trapping pits for large-scale hunting. Some of the few southern trapping pit systems are registered just some 30 km north of Vendel (RAÄ Tierp 465, 1018 and 1640, www.fmis.raa.se). This could indicate that remains at both Ottarshögen and elsewhere in the surrounding area demonstrate influence from the northern regions and, compared with eastern Middle Sweden, an earlier custom of building large burial mounds. There is still no ideal way of dealing with uncertainties concerning the dating of Ottarshögen. More data has to be identified and analysed to further develop more profound elaborations on find typologies in the transition phase between the Migration and Vendel periods and to better define the early 6th-century burials. Furthermore, it is of great importance to have more detailed investigations of old wood effects, especially in large mounds with extensive funeral pyres. It would also be valuable to combine analyses of cremated bones with other materials in burials, such as unburnt bones, wood and macrofossils. This study, however, demonstrates the potential of the research and highlights the large knowledge gaps concerning this dynamic and highly interesting period in Scandinavian pre-history.

Acknowledgements This study was funded by the Viking Phenomenon project from the Swedish Research Council (grant no. 2015-00466) and Berit Wallenberg Foundation BWS 2014.0117. Costs for radiocarbon analysis were funded by Rydebergsfonden, Institutionen för Arkeologi och Antik Historia, Uppsala Universitet. The radiocarbon sampling was made possible through the kind permission of Statens Historiska Museum, which also gave permission for publishing photos of the finds from Ottarshögen.

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8.  The dating of Ottarshögen and the emergence of monumental burial mounds in Middle Sweden Müssemeier, E., Nieveler, E., Plum, R. and Pöppelmann, H. (2003) Chronologie der merowingerzeitlichen Grabfunde vom linken Niederrhein bis zur nördlichen Eifel. Köln: RheinlandVerlag. Myhre, B. (2005) Kriger i en overgangstid. In K.A. Bergsvik and A. Engevik (eds) Fra funn til samfunn. Jernalderstudier tilegnet Bergljot Solberg på 70-årsdagen, 279–306. Bergen: Arkeologisk institutt, Universitetet i Bergen. Näsman, U. (1984) Glas och handel i senromersk tid och folkvandringstid: en studie kring glas från Eketorp-II, Öland, Sverige = Glass and Trade in the Late Roman and Migration Periods: A Study on Glasses Found in Eketorp-II, Öland Sweden. Uppsala: Uppsala universitet. Näsman, U. (1988) Den folkvandringstida? krisen i Sydskandinavien. In U. Näsman and J. Lund (eds) Folkevandringstiden i Norden. En krisetid mellem ældre og yngre jernalder?, rapport fra et bebyggelsearkæologisk forskersymposium i Degerhamn, Öland, d. 2–4 oktober 1985, 227–255. Aarhus: Universitetsforl. Näsman, U. (2012) Comments on ‘An Iron Age shock doctrine: The 536–37 event as a trigger of large-scale social change in the Mälaren valley area’ by Daniel Löwenborg. Journal of Archaeology and Ancient History 2012(4). Online logbook available at www.arkeologi.uu.se/digitalAssets/484/c_484746-l_3–k_log_jaah2012_4_ lowenborg.pdf. Nerman, B. (1913) Vilka konungar ligga i Uppsala högar. Uppsala: K.W. Appelbergs boktr. i distr. Nerman, B. (1935) Die Völkerwanderungszeit Gotlands. Stockholm: Verlag der Akademie. Nerman, B. (1969) Die Vendelzeit Gotlands: im Auftrage der Kungl. Vitterhets-, historie- och antikvitetsakademien. 2 Tafeln: die Zeichnungen von Harald Faith-Ell. Stockholm: Kungl. Vitterhets Historie och Antikvitetesakademien. Nitenberg, A. (2019) Härskare i liv och död. Social exklusivitet och maktstrategi i Vänerbygd under yngre järnålder. Gotarc Series B. Gothenburg Archaeological Theses No. 72. Västsvensk arkeologi. Göteborg: Göteborgs universitet. Nørgård Jørgensen, A. (1999) Waffen und Gräber: typologische und chronologische Studien zu skandinavischen Waffengräbern 520/30 bis 900 n.Chr. København: Det Kongelige Nordiske Oldskriftselskab. Olsen, J., Heinemeier, J., Hornstrup, K.M., Bennike, P. and Thrane, H. (2013) ‘Old wood’ effect in radiocarbon dating of prehistoric cremated bones? Journal of Archaeological Science 40(1), 30–34. Petré, B. (1984) Arkeologiska undersökningar på Lovö. Del 2. Studies in North-European Archaeology 8. Stockholm: Stockholms universitet. Pilø, L., Finstad, E., Bronk Ramsey, C., Robert Post Martinsen, J., Nesje, A., Solli, B., Wangen, V., Callanan, M. and Barrett, J.A. (2018) The chronology of reindeer hunting on Norway’s highest ice patches. Royal Society Open Science 5(1), 171738. Pirling, R. (1979) Das Römisch-Fränkische gräberfeld von Krefeld-Gellep. 1964–1965. Germanische denkmaler der völkerwanderungszeit. Serie B, Band 10. Berlin: Mann. Sander, B. (1997) Cemetery 116. Excavation at Helgö 13. Stockholm: Kungl. Vitterhets Historie och Antikvitetesakademien.

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Seiler, A. (2001) I skuggan av båtgravarna: landskap och samhälle i Vendels socken under yngre järnålder. D. 1 Text och figurer. Stockholm: Stockholms universitet. Seiler, A. (2018) Från Vision till verkställande – samhälleliga mekanismer kring stolpmonumentets tillkomst. In L. Beronius Jörpeland, H. Göthberg, A. Seiler and J. Wikborg (eds) at Upsalum – människor och landskapande. Utbyggnad av ostkustbanan genom Gamla Uppsala, 281‒292. Uppsala: Arkeologerna, Upplandsmuseet, SAU. Serning, I. (1966) Dalarnas järnålder. Stockholm: Kungl. Vitterhets Historie och Antikvitetesakademien. Slomann, W. and Christensen, A.E. (1984) The Åker find. Facts, theories and speculations. Universitetets Oldsaksamlings Skrifter. Ny rekke 5, 173–190. Snoeck, C., Brock, F. and Schulting, R.J. (2014) Carbon exchanges between bone apatite and fuels during cremation: impact on radiocarbon dates. Radiocarbon 56(2), 591–602. Solberg, B. (1981) Spearheads in the transition period between the Early and Late Iron Age in Norway. Acta Archaeologica 51, 153–179. Sten, S. and Vretemark, M. (1988) Storgravsprojektet – osteologiska analyser av yngre järnålderns benrika brandgravar. Fornvännen 83, 145–156. Stenström, K., Skog, G., Georgiadou, E., Genberg, J. and Mellström, A. (2011) A Guide to Radiocarbon Units and Calculations (LUNDFD6(NFFR-3111)/1-17/(2011)). Lund University: Nuclear Physics. Steuer, H. (1998) Datierungsprobleme in der Archäologie. Runeninschirften als Quellen interdisziplinärer Forschung. In K. Düwel (ed.) Abhandlunden des 4. Intern. Symp. Über Runen und Runeninschriften in Göttingen vom 4.–9. August 1995, 129–149. Berlin: De Gruyter. Stjerna, K. (1908) Fasta fornlämningar i Beovulf. Antikvarisk Tidskrift 18(4), 1–64. Stolpe, H. and Arne, T.J. (1912) Graffältet vid Vendel. Stockholm: Kungl. Vitterhets Historie och Antikvitetesakademien. Theune, C. (1999) On the chronology of Merovingian-period grave goods in Alamannia. The Pace of Change. Studies in Early-Medieval Chronology, 23–33. Oxford: Oxbow Books. Vikstrand, P. (2004) Skúta and Vendil. Two place names in Ynglingatal. In H. Beck, D. Geuenich and H. Steuer (eds) Ergänzungbändezum Reallexikon der Germanischen Alterturmskunde. Band 44. Namenwelten. Orts- und Personennamen in historischer sicht, 372–387. Berlin and New York: De Gruyter. Wikborg, J. (2018) Maktens och kultens stöttepelare – temasyntes. In L. Beronius Jörpeland, H. Göthberg, A. Seiler and J. Wikborg (eds) at Upsalum – människor och landskapande. Utbyggnad av ostkustbanan genom Gamla Uppsala, 349‒355. Uppsala: Arkeologerna, Upplandsmuseet, SAU. Zachrisson, I. (2010) Samisk-nordiska kontakter under järnåldern – i dräkt och personliga tillhörigheter. Samer som ‘de andra’, samer om ‘de andra’. In E. Mundal and H. Rydving (eds) Identitet och etnicitet i nordiska kulturmöten, 107‒122. Umeå: Umeå universitet. Zazzo, A., Saliège, J., Lebon, M., Lepetz, S. and Moreau, C. (2012) Radiocarbon dating of calcined bones: insights from combustion experiments under natural conditions. Radiocarbon 54(3–4), 855–866.

9 What was a cooking-pit called in the Iron Age? Stefan Brink

Some of the more enigmatic prehistoric remains of human activities in the landscape are the so-called “cooking-pits”. This archaeological material received astonishingly little interest and research from archaeologists until the past couple of decades (see e.g., Gustafson et al. 2005; Bjørkan Bukkemoen and Figenschou Simonsen 2009; Gustavsen et al. 2018; Ødegaard 2019). What normally has been done at excavations is to take a cross-section of the pit and to assemble some charcoal for dating. Today, the trend has changed, and we are beginning to understand that these cooking-pits, in some cases making up very large fields or long rows of cooking-pits, may have held significant social importance for prehistoric society, and perhaps also religious importance for cult and rituals. These pits are normally 1–3 m wide and c. 0.5 m deep, filled with fire-cracked stones, charcoal, ash and, more rarely, fragments of pottery and charred animal bones. If we are dealing with ‘cooking-pits’, as the archaeological technical term suggests, one would expect to find many more animal bones in the pit, and, when scientific analyses are undertaken, one would expect to find a lot of lipids in them. In the literature, they are, hence, normally called cooking-pits – in Swedish kokgropar, and in Norwegian kokegroper, åregroper, -gruer – but it is sometimes difficult to distinguish them from pits used in primitive iron production. Therefore, a collective term has been suggested: fire-pits (Sw eldgropar) (Nilsson 2018). Naturally, we today have a lot of C14 dating of these cooking-pits, and the bulk of them seem to fall into the period from the Bronze Age to the Merovingian period (Henriksen 1999), but there are also examples from the Late Iron Age and even the Early Middle Ages (cf. Hordaland Rapport 28/2015). The dating of the large majority of the cooking-pits to the Bronze Age and the Early Iron Age makes it somewhat problematic to link the phenomenon to

a Late Viking Age society, but we also have examples of Late Iron Age dating (see Gustafson et al. 2005). These objects in the landscape must, of course, have had a special term during the Iron Age. I think that word was arinn, which is an Old Norse word that is also found in several other similar forms. In this chapter, I present my arguments for this hypothesis.

The word arinn This word, ON arinn, occurs in a great variety of forms, especially in the Scandinavian languages, such as: Sw äril, ärel, Sw dial. ären, arne, arell, arn, ärn, OSw ærin, aren, No aare, Da arne, ODa arn and ON arinn. The meanings we find are: Da arne ‘fireplace’; No arne, åre ‘open fireplace’; and Sw äril ‘open fireplace’. In the dialects, we find meanings such as Sw arne etc. ‘slab in an oven’, ‘fireplace’, ‘the bottom of a fireplace’ (Rietz 1867, 13); No aare etc. ‘fireplace’. The Old Norse arinn m. occurs with meanings such as ‘fireplace and ‘mine, pit’, but also ‘elevation, elevated structure’ (NO, 33). The word(s) have a direct cognate in Germ. ern (also ähren, ehren, öhrn), OHG arin m. and MHG ern ‘floor, foundation’ (Kluge EW23, 231). The etymologists who have discussed these words do not agree on a common etymon, but their suggestions are PGmc *azena- (Nielsen 1976, 12), *azina- (or *azena-) or possibly *azana- (Hellquist 1948, 1444), *azena- (Falk and Torp 1903–1906, 33) and, recently, Orel (2003, 31) postulated a PGmc *azenaz, and linked the word to i.a. Hitt. ḫašši ‘herd’; Skt ấsa- ‘ashes, dust’; and to Lat. āra ‘altar’. In an attempt to clean up the diverging forms, Adolf Noreen (1903, 401) suggested that the a- in, for example, ON arinn, for an expected *erenn/*erinn with either ­i-Umlaut or R-Umlaut, is analogically formed from the dat. sg. arne.

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As regards the semantics of the words, it is interesting that, as early as the beginning of the 20th century, Meringer noted (1905, 122) that the original meaning must have been ‘Feuergrube (fire pit)’ and, from this, secondary meanings such as ‘hearth’ and ‘fireplace’ evolved. Franz Rolf Schröder (1924) followed up this line of argument with a short, but very interesting, article in which he continued and developed Meringer’s idea. Schröder believes the word arina that is found on the Norwegian runestone in By (see below) is dubious and problematic; instead, he highlights an Old Indian word Skr íriṇa ‘Loch in der Erde (pit)’, which, in his opinion, strengthens Meringer’s proposal, and he is confident that an original meaning for ON arinn etc. must have been ‘Feuerloch (fire pit)’ (Schröder 1924, 342). Ferdinand Holthausen (1954, 55) disputes Schröder’s etymology and connection with Skr íriṇa ‘pit’, hole, cavity (Loch in der Erde), but his alternative explanation does not convince. The most in-depth discussion of these words is Erik Abrahamsson’s (1936, 160–174) analysis of the Sw dial. (Bohuslän) äril (*aril) with the meanings: 1. ‘alv (subsoil)’, 2. ‘hård jordskorpa (hard soil crust)’, 3. ‘upphöjning, bank (elevation, dyke)’ and 4. ‘ugnsbotten (the bottom of the oven)’. He begins by referring to the standard etymologies of ON arinn etc., derived from a PGmc *azina-, *azena-, with a cognate in OHG arin, erin ‘Fussboden, Tenne’, and related to Lat. āra (< *āza) ‘altar for offerings’. Regarding the problems with the different forms of the word(s), Abrahamsson has a rather radical solution (he refers to Meringer, but strangely not to Schröder, which would have given him more ammunition for his hypothesis). The stem consonant in the word was not originally PGmc *z (Proto-Nordic r), as nearly all earlier etymologists have assumed, but *r, which means we do not have to consider a missing r-Umlaut, and the reason we do not have an initial and expected *e- in the words is an analogic introduction of the stem vowel afrom the dat. sg. arne (without mentioning that Noreen had already given this explanation). One reason etymologists have preferred to see *ar- and not *ar- is Sophus Bugge’s reading arina on the By runestone in Norway (NIæR 1, 104–05), a reading and interpretation which (probably) became very influential. I do not doubt Bugge’s reading, and no one seems to have read the rune in any other way (see, e.g., Samnordisk runtextdatabas), which perhaps makes Abrahamsson’s suggestion problematic, but it may be saved if we follow Schröder’s proposal. Abrahamsson states that, ‘while the R-rune on the By-runestone seems to be correctly read, the inscription’s ariṇa ought to be separated from Nordic arin(n)’.1 At any rate, the original inflexion of ON arinn should, therefore, have been: nom. sg. *erinn gen. sg. *erins dat. sg. arne ack. sg. *erin

Abrahamsson’s explanation of this (and probably also Noreen’s, if he had elaborated on his suggestion) is that dat. sg. must have been the most used case for this word, and, therefore, the a- in arne (without i-Umlaut) was analogically introduced in all the other cases. The dialect material Abrahamsson presents is also of interest to this discussion. The most common meaning for dial. *aril in Bohuslän is ‘the bottom of a bake oven’, but it also denotes ‘subsoil’, ‘crust (esp. of hard kind)’ and ‘elevation, dyke, ridge’. In the province of Värmland, we furthermore have the interesting dial. word ar m. ‘subsoil; huddle of gravel, sand or pebbles’. Another interesting word we find is a Sw dial. word in Finland, ärja f. (< *ar-iōn) ‘the subsoil, the bottom under the soil’. Abrahamsson is able to come up with many other meanings found in Scandinavian dialects, such as ‘subsoil’, ‘hard moraine gravel under the soil’, ‘stony soil, pebbles’ and ‘foundation’, words which link with the meaning we have in Germ. er(e)n etc. ‘Tenne, Hausflur, die meist mit Backsteinen’. Abrahamsson’s etymological and semasiological analyses show that the word arinn etc. has developed many diverging meanings: ‘subsoil’, ‘foundation’, ‘floor’, ‘ridge, dyke, elevation’, ‘rock or cay in the sea’, ‘hearth, fireplace’, etc., where an original meaning seems to be possible to deduce to ‘a hard, stony cavity useful for a fire’. If Abrahamsson’s analysis is correct, which I think it is, an important word for this argument is the dial. ar m. ‘subsoil’ from Värmland, and also the East Swedish (in Finland) ärja f. (< *ar-iōn) ‘the subsoil, the bottom under the soil’. The original stem should, therefore, have been PGmc *ar-, to which the suffixes -ila (in aril, äril, etc.) and -ina (in arinn, eren, etc.) have been added. The, by tradition assumed, etymon *azina-, *azena-, *azana-, for, e.g., ON arinn, should hence, according to Abrahamsson (and Meringer and Schröder), be replaced by a PGmc *arina-, where the stem *ar- must have denoted ‘pebbles, stony ground, subsoil’, etc. When Hilmar Stigum in KL (7 cols 348–51) elaborates on the theme Ildsted (fireplace) for the Viking Age and the Middle Ages in Scandinavia, he notes that, during ancient times and long afterwards, the open fireplace, åren (arinn), was common in Scandinavia, and he highlights the many excavated house foundations in Lista and Rogaland, Norway, from the Migration period and Viking Age, where they found such dug pits, stuffed with stones. I take Stigum’s word to invigorate my hypothesis presented here.

Societal dimension of cooking-pits Two occurrences really make the cooking-pits interesting from a societal perspective: firstly, newly found huge fields of cooking-pits and, secondly, cooking-pits placed in a long row.

9.  What was a cooking-pit called in the Iron Age? The first case is exemplified by the huge cooking-pit field in Lunde, Vestfold, Norway, with more than 1000 cooking-pits. A large science–archaeological project has revealed activity here c. AD 100–400 (Gustavsen et al. 2018; Ødegaard 2018, 103–105; in Ødegaard and Iversen 2017, the number is specified as 750 pits, and the dating of the 30 excavated pits is 380 BC to AD 630). The cooking-pit field at Lunde is only c. 1 km west of Tjølling church, a place name going back to an older Þjódalyng, which most probably can be translated as ‘the heath where people assemble’, hence an old communal meeting place. It is notable that another 15 cooking-pits have been found at the nearby Tjøllingvollen (Skre 2007, 397–400). What springs to mind here are huge gatherings of people for legal meetings and social interactions, for example horse racing, and, during such occasions, people had to eat – therefore, cooking-pits may have presented a solution. This remains a speculative interpretation of some of these cooking-pits, but they are certainly evocative and could be an important cornerstone in our perception of social and legal interaction during the Iron Age in Scandinavia. The second case can be illustrated by an important and imaginative analysis of an archaeological excavation of rows of cooking-pits at Stretered (Fig. 9.1), south of

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Gothenburg, in the province of Västergötland in Sweden (Nordqvist 2005). By a bank to the west of the small lake Tulebosjön, Bengt Nordqvist excavated a system of three rows of cooking-pits. The length was 250 m, and they found 132 cooking-pits and eight postholes. The dating spans from the Late Bronze Age to the Early Iron Age. What makes this excavation so special is that Nordqvist lit fires in these cooking-pits when it was dark, which gave an impression of how this might have looked on a dark evening 2500 years ago. The analysis suggests that this was a place for rituals, with fire and perhaps communal cooking and eating. Thus, in the future cooking-pits (arinn, etc.) will likely be used in many analyses of Iron Age communal gathering sites and also ritual gatherings (cf. Narmo 1996). Finally, it might be of further interest to link what has been discussed here with some often discussed place names in Sweden, such as Ärentuna, Ärnavi, Härnevi (see, e.g., Elmevik 1995; Vikstrand 2001, 304–310; and a fascinating and evocative, albeit very speculative and by modern scholarship often overlooked, article by Hjalmar Lindroth 1915), names that we consider must have played an important role in prehistoric cult and as central places. Many suggestions have been put forward about what might be hiding in the first element in these names. A theory of long standing is that we here have the name of a largely unknown goddess Hǫrn, but another suggestion is a word *ærin or *æri, to ON ár ‘(good) annual harvest’, with a proposed meaning ‘fertility god’ (Elmevik 1995). Or, why not dust off Hjalmar Lindroth’s (1915) old hypothesis of a word or name *Arnir for a snake-dragon demon watching over a buried treasure? Maybe we ought to have a look at these names anew, against the background of the above discussion; but that is another story and another chapter.

Abbreviations Da Danish Germ German Hitt. Hittite Lat. Latin MHG Middle High German No Norwegian ODa Old Danish OHG Old High German ON Old Norse OSw Old Swedish PGmc Proto-Germanic Skt Sanskrit Sw Swedish

Note 1 Figure 9.1. The row of cooking pits at Stretered (Nordqvist 2005, 17).

Sw: Då R-runan på By-stenen synes vara riktigt läst, bör ristningens ariṇa skiljas från nord. arin(n) (Abrahamsson 1936, 162).

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Bibliography Abrahamsson, E. (1936) Västsvenska ordstudier. Nordiska texter och undersökningar 8. Stockholm: Hugo Gebers förlag. Bjørkan Bukkemoen, G. and Figenschou Simonsen, M. (2009) Graver og kokegroper på Bergerjordet i Sørum. In J. Bergstøl (ed.) Arkeologiske undersøkelser 2003–2004. Varia 77, 115– 132. Oslo: Kulturhistorisk museum, Fornminneseksjonen. Elmevik, L. (1995) Härnevi och Friggeråker. Namn och bygd 83, 68–77. Falk, H. and Torp, A. (1903–1906) Etymologisk Ordbog over det Norske og det Danske Sprog. Kristiania: Aschehoug. Gustafson, L., Heibree, T. and Martens, J. (2005) De gåtefulle kokegroper. Varia 58. Oslo: University of Oslo. Gustavsen, L., Cannell, R.J.S., Nau, E., Tonning, C., Trinks, I., Kristiansen, M., Gabler, M., Paasche, K., Gansum, T., Hinterleitner, Poscetti, V. and Naubauer, W. (2018) Archaeological prospection of a specialized cooking-pit site at Lunde in Vestfold, Norway. Archaeological Prospection 25, 17–31. Hellquist, E. (1948) Svensk etymologisk ordbok, 3rd edition. Lund: Gleerup. Henriksen, M.B. (1999) Bål i lange baner – om brugen af kogegruber i yngre bronzealder og ældre jernalder. Fynske Minder, 225–240. Holthausen, F. (1954) Wortkundliches. ZvS 71, 49–62. Hordaland Rapport 28/2015. Kulturhistoriske registreringar. Settefiskanlegg Fjæra. Gnr 101 bnr 1 og 3, Etne kommune (no author). Hordaland Fylkeskommun, Rapport 28 2015. IF = Indogermaniche Forschungen. Zeitschrift für Indogermaniche Sprach- und Altertumskunde, 1–(1892 ff.). KL = Kulturhistoriskt lexikon för nordisk medeltid från vikingatid till reformationstid, 22 vols. Malmö, København and Oslo: Roskilde & Bagger, 1956–1978. Kluge EW23 = Friedrich Kluge, Etymologisches Wörterbuch der deutschen Sprache, bearb. von Elmar Seebold, 23rd edition. Berlin and New York: De Gruyter, 1995. Lindroth, H. (1915) Härnevi. Ett bidrag till frågan om beröringen mellan svensk och finsk mytologi. Namn och Bygd 3, 57–91. Meringer, R. (1905) Wörter und Sachen II. IF 17, 100–166. Narmo, L.E. (1996) Kokekamrater på Leikvin. Kult og kokegroper. Viking 59, 79–100. NIæR = Norske Indskrifter med de ældre Runer, 4 vols. Christiania, 1891–1924.

Nielsen, N.Å. (1976) Dansk etymologisk ordbog, 3rd edition. København: Gyldendal. Nilsson, M. (2018) Ur eld och vatten komna. Kontinuitet och relationer mellan halländska järnhanteringslokaler och eldgropsområden i övergången mellan yngre bronsålder och äldre järnålder. Unpublished Master’s thesis in Archaeology, University of Gothenburg. NO = Norrøn Ordbok, 4th edition. Oslo: Det norske samlaget, 1990. Nordqvist, B. (2005) Kultplatsen vid Stretered. Västergötland, Kållereds socken, Stretered 1:1, RAÄ 34, 77:2 och 85. UV Väst Rapport 2005/1, avdelningen för arkeologiska undersökningar. Mölndal: UV Väst, Riksantikvarieämbetet. Noreen, A. (1903) Suffixablaut im Altnordischen. IF 14, 396–402. Ødegaard, M. (2018) Tinginstitutionens alder i Skandinavia belyst ved arkeologi og stednavnsgransking – samsvar eller ikke? Viking 81, 89–116. Ødegaard, M. (2019) Assembling in times of transitions. The case of cooking-pits. In N. Brady and C. Theune (eds) Settlement Change across Medieval Europe. Old Paradigms and New Vistas, 185–194. Ruralia 12. Leiden: Sidestone Press. Ødegaard, M. and Iversen, F. (2017) Krokegropfelt Lunde, 1033/1 Larvik, Vestfold. Rapport. Arkeologisk utgravning. Oslo: Kulturhistorisk Museum, Universitetet i Oslo. Orel, V. (2003) A Handbook of Germanic Etymology. Leiden and Boston: Brill. Rietz, J.E. (1867) Svenskt dialektlexikon. Ordbok öfver svenska allmogespråket. Lund. Schröder, F.R. (1924) Deutsch eren. In Streitberg Festgabe, 340–343. Leipzig: Markert & Petters Verlag. Skre, D. (2007) The Skiringssal thing site Þjóðalyng. In D. Skre (ed.) Kaupang in Skiringssal, 385–403. Kaupang Excavation Project, Publication Series, vol. 1. Aarhus: Aarhus University Press. Vikstrand, P. (2001) Gudarnas platser. Förkristna sakrala ortnamn i Mälardalen. Acta Academiae Regiae Gustavi Adolphi 77. Uppsala: Kungl. Gustav Adolfs akademien. de Vries, J. (1962) Altnordisches etymologisches Wörterbuch, 2nd edition. Leiden: Brill. ZvS = Zeitschrift für vergleichende Sprachforschung, 1–100 (1852–1987).

10 Poetry and picturing in deep historical time Lotte Hedeager

During most of his academic career, Frands Herschend has explored the interface between material culture and text in the Scandinavian Iron Age. During his wide-ranging and influential production, he has been seminal to the development of historical archaeology as a discipline in its own right, often with a linguistic approach to material culture. Text and Translation is the backbone of his scholarly work. In this chapter, I want to pay tribute to Frands by approaching Text and Translation through a comparative analysis of poetry and picturing in a deep historical setting. The chapter draws on epic poetry, from the Rig Veda, the Edda and the Bible, in order to explore the grand iconographic styles of the Scandinavian past. My aim is to demonstrate how these images embody a cognitive dimension of current society by exploring picture-making and poetry as integral – and mutually dependent – parts of human life and being.

Picturing and poetry An image is a visual sign and a symbol of something recognized and therefore stored as ‘memory’ in people’s minds (Belting 2011, ch. 1). Emblematic iconographic styles can persist for generations only because they are stored and reproduced as collective memory; they draw on ‘retrospective continuity’ in a ritualized and institutionalized social system (i.e. Barth 1987; Finnegan 1992; Rowlands 1993; Goody 2010). However, societies renew themselves through forgetting as much as through memory, as Paul Connerton has demonstrated (1989; 2006). Stylistic changes demonstrate just that – on a collective scale, societies invent, transform and reject the images they live with. Some images are recognizable through generations and reproduced through centuries; those are the emblematic ones. They draw on shared cultural memory that forms the cosmological

universe through which people comprehend the world in which they live. Although images are generated as a result of deliberate choices, we are not the sole masters of our images. Images themselves exert control through a ‘colonization’ of our cognition (Belting 2011, chs 1, 3). This is the reason images both affect and reflect the changing course of human history and, implicitly, it is what gives them key importance in the typological-chronological order of things. Each of the seminal iconographic styles therefore represents their respective eras as pictorial universes, because they embody the one and only manner of presenting images at that time. Thus, they form pictures in the minds of people; that is, the world conceived and grasped as a picture. Through time, people have lived within different world-pictures that are dependent on place and era. As an example, the Western world has conformed to a millennium-long Christian era, with which the Cross is associated, and only the Bible presents us with the meaning of that image. As an encapsulation of the entire Christian cosmology, the Cross embodies what it means to be human. We do not choose the world-picture in which we live; we cannot decide to move beyond it to another relationship with the ‘being in the World’ (Mitchell 2005, xiv–xvii). If picturing and poetry are mutually related, and poetry is foundational to picturing, as Mitchell – drawing on Heidegger – has stated, pictures embrace the totality, whether in concrete or symbolic form (2005, xv–xvii). Thus, the Bible, as ‘high poetry’, opens us to the worldview of the Christian era, just as the Rig Veda and the Edda should open to us the worldviews of the Bronze Age and the Late Iron Age respectively. In oral communities, epic poetry – such as the Rig Veda and the Edda – is passed from one generation to the next by singers, priests or skalds, who undergo professional training to receive the necessary knowledge that invests them with the authority to carry on the tradition.

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Thus, their tales must be relied upon because they represent the truth (Reichl 2000).

Bronze Age poetry – The Rig Veda Although peoples at all times certainly had poetry and songs, which were anchored in myths and beliefs of their time, one of the oldest known poetic traditions is the Rig Veda, the oldest sacred literature of India and the most ancient literary document of the Indo-European peoples. It is a collection of sacred hymns that offers remarkable insight into Bronze Age cosmology and ritual practice (Griffith 2008) prior to the Arian migration to India (Bloomfield 1908, 24). The name itself, Rig Veda, is composed of two words: Rig, which means ‘praise’, and Veda, which means ‘knowledge’ or ‘sacred knowledge’. The Rig Veda thus means ‘Praise (sacred) Knowledge’ (Bloomfield 1908, 17). Philological and linguistic evidence indicates that the main part of the text was composed in the north-western region of the Indian subcontinent between 1700 BC at the earliest and 1200/1100 BC at the latest; however, the beginning of Vedic literary production might be centuries earlier, and the date for the beginnings of the institutions and religious concepts from which the Veda originates is even further back in time (Bloomfield 1908, 20). The Verdic Sanskrit text of the Rig Veda was transmitted remarkably unchanged through time. Because of the faithful preservation of the text, the linguistic stage of the Late Bronze Age had been preserved to a degree that the language was no longer immediately understood by scholars of classical Sanskrit by about 500 BC. The Rig Veda is organized into 10 books, forming the oldest of four canonical texts of Hinduism that are known as the Vedas. It is an extensive collection of more than 1000 hymns in about 10,000 verses, divided into 10 ‘circles’, or books, along with associated commentaries. The hymns are addressed to the various gods of the Vedic cosmology and they describe elaborate rituals, or schemes of priestly practices, addressed to the gods; in fact, praise of the gods in connection with sacrifice is the single dominant idea in Vedic poetry (Bloomfield 1908, 26–29, 65). The Vedic text demonstrates how the worship of personal gods develops through the personification of natural phenomena. Although the Vedic gods have no acknowledged head, there is, however, extensive evidence for the recognition of the glowing sun as the ultimate force at work in nature and the progenitor of human beings. A great number of Vedic gods have some connection with the sun, whereas the creation hymns describing the initial discovery of the sun often include a prayer with a plea that the worshipper may continue to see the sun (Doniger 1981, 177). The most widely noted characteristic of the Sun-god is that he/she surveys the whole world and sees everything

that goes on – as a watcher of gods and humans. The Sun’s capacity to see everything that people do qualifies this deity as a supervisor of justice and a strict observer of cosmic law comparable to the eye of Zeus which sees and knows all (Bloomfield 1908, 83). The Sun is ‘the eye of the gods’ and sometimes identified as ‘the Eye’. However, this image leaves an obvious question unanswered; namely, the sun’s regular daily transit from east to west. The Sun-god moves across the Sky; this is why the sun is conceived as a wheel. Like the iris of the eye, a wheel is perfectly circular. It is, however, difficult to say that the Sun-god is a wheel; therefore, the Sun-god is said to have a wheel, rather than to be one. The wheel is drawn by a horse, or a boat carries the solar disc across the Sky, or these two modes of transportation are combined, whereby the horse pulls the Sun across the sky during the day, and the boat carries the deity across the ocean through the night (West 2007, 201). The Vedic text says that ‘the Sun-god, Svitar, approaching on the dark blue sky, sustaining mortals and immortals, comes on his golden chariot, beholding all the worlds’ (Rig Veda I.35.2, cited in Bloomfield 1908, 86).

Figure 10.1. The Trundholm sun wagon (Aner and Kersten 1976, fig. 867).

10.  Poetry and picturing in deep historical time The Sun has a bright and a dark side; the Sun-deity never sets; when he/she reaches the western horizon, he/ she turns the bright side away from us and returns invisible to the east during the course of the night. This is openly illustrated by the Trundholm sun-disc (Müller 1903) from approximately 1500 BC. It, too, has a bright and a dark side (Fig. 10.1). One side is gold-plated, while, on the other side, the bronze was left uncovered. The horse is pulling the golden sun-disc westwards on a chariot, and the dark side is towards the east – as the daytime sun and the nighttime sun respectively.

Bronze Age cosmic system A group of Vedic gods are connected with the sun in various concrete ways. The Dawn is incarnated as the goddess Ushasin, and the Rig Veda makes frequent references to her as the ‘daughter of the Sun’, in some cases a variant of the personified female sun. She wears fine clothes and ornaments and, in the Vedic wedding hymns, she plays a special role as the divine model for the mortal bride. She is closely associated with the Asvins, or ‘the Divine Twins’, who are the sons of the Sun, ‘Sons of Heaven’, and brothers of the Sun-goddess. They have the most pronounced mythical and legendary character of the Vedic deities, and are ascribed as the most reliable helpers in need, for the benefit of gods and humankind. In the profane world, they are in particular known to rescue people in danger. In the Vedic hymns, they are known as the rescuer of Atri, who in turn is said to have found the lost Sun, an act that may be seen as a variant of the Creation, or merely surviving the danger of eclipse (Doniger 1981, 177). In their capacity as the most reliable helpers in need, the Asvins are the wooers when the ‘Sun-maiden’ enters into marriage with the Moon (Bloomfield 1908, 113). They circle Day and Night in their golden chariot to draw the Sun, and they are said to represent the Morning and Evening star (Castor and Pollux), the brightest stars in the constellation of the Gemini (West 2007, 227, 233). This constellation forms two parallel rows of stars and gives its name to the zodiac sign of the Twins. The constellation is best identified in the starry sky east of the three stars of Orion’s Belt and in line with an open star cluster named the Pleiades, also known as the Seven Sisters. This is one of the nearest open star clusters to Earth and one of two clusters that are hosted in the constellation of Taurus, with Orion to the south-east. It is a distinct constellation that has been recognized since antiquity. In Hinduism, the Pleiades are associated with the war god. Other prominent gods in the Rig Veda are, in addition to the Sun-god, the Dawn (and Night), the Shining Sky/Father Heaven, the Earth (Mother Earth), the Wind, the Waters, the Thunder and Rain. Thus, Bronze Age deities are closely associated with the heavenly bodies and the all-encompassing Sun-deity, together with the Moon, the Morning and Evening star, etc.

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The Bronze Age cult and the myth of the journey of the Sun was obviously anchored in a complex system of astronomic observations and cosmological knowledge (West 2007; Kristiansen 2010). This system of knowledge was further supported by the sensational find of the Nebra bronze disc in central Germany, dated to c. 1600 BC, where golden add-ons represent the Sun and the crescent Moon (or the full Moon and the Moon undergoing eclipse), 32 stars, including the seven stars of the significant constellation of the Pleiades, in addition to Orion’s Belt and a constellation of stars that might represent Gemini. Two gold arcs were added on opposite sides of the rim (one of them is lost) at angles of 82o from the centre, and evidently representing the range of sunrise and sunset points on the horizon between midwinter and midsummer from northern central Germany where it was found. A separate arch, touching the rim of the plate, was added later (Meller and Michel 2018) (Fig. 10.2). Recently, Rüdiger Krause has questioned the date of the plate by claiming that it belongs to the La Téne period between 600 and 300 BC. He argues that the astronomical knowledge that is represented on the plate belongs to the Celtic world, where the Pleiades is commonly present in iconography (Krause 2019). However, this is not a convincing argument as long as deep astronomical knowledge was indisputably present in the Bronze Age, too. According to Harald Meller, the disc was altered five times between the 18th century BC, when it was made, and the first half of the 16th century BC, when it was deposited. In its first phase, the disc was created to synchronize the sun and the moon calendars. In its second phase, the horizon

Figure 10.2. The Nebra bronze disc. Landesamt für Denkmalpflege und Archäologie Sachsen-Anhalt. Photo by Juraj Lipták.

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arches were added to predict the course of the sun between winter and summer solstice. In the third phase, the image was altered mythologically by the addition of the golden arch/ship. In the fourth phase, this image was destroyed by the perforation of the edge, while, in the fifth phase, after one horizon was removed, the disc was sacrificed in a hoard (Meller 2010, 23–73). It has been argued by Harald Meller and Kai Michel that the Nebra disk was made locally because it depicts the hemisphere from where it was found. When seen from the hill-site Mittelberg, during midsummer and midwinter the sun sets behind Brocken/Bloksbjerg, the tallest mountain (1141 m) in the entire landscape of Harzen. All in all, the most likely explanation is that the Nebra plate is an astronomical instrument to predict sun solstices, and leap days, months and years, thereby synchronizing the difference between the sun-year and the moon-year (Meller 2010; Meller and Michel 2018, 60). The plate should help solve the problem caused by the fact that years and days are defined by the Sun, while months are defined by the Moon (29.5 sun-days to the moon-month), and a moonweek is established by looking at the four cardinal shapes of the moon. The plate confirms the advanced astronomical knowledge and mathematical abilities of the people of the northern European Bronze Age, including close observation of the yearly course of the Sun based on the angle between its rising and setting points at summer and winter solstice, the moon-year and the constellation of certain stars (West 2007, 208). However, the Nebra plate is also an item of religious significance. In its third use-phase, it was altered mythologically with the addition of a golden vessel crossing the southern sky, thus incorporating the Bronze Age myth of the travelling Sun-god. The solar vessel is situated in between the Sun and the Moon in the constellation of seven stars that is identified as the Gemini. This constellation includes the Morning and Evening stars that symbolize the Asvins, the Divine Twins. According to the Rig Veda, they were responsible for universal resurrection when circling Day and Night in their golden vessel. If we are to believe the excavators, the plate was found in a hoard together with two identical swords and two identical hatchets/axes, two identical spiral arm-rings and one chicle (Meller and Michel 2018, 160–161; for a different view, see Krause 2019). The find circumstances and handling of the artefacts between 1999 and 2002, when the objects were received by the State Museum of Prehistory in Halle, allows for the possibility that one chicle has been lost, making all artefacts in the hoard deposited in pairs, except for the disc itself. The find fits well into a ritual pattern of dual depositions of axes, swords, helmets and lurs that is known throughout central and northern Europe and which corresponds to a similar religious dualism in the Indo-European religion, represented by the Divine Twins (Kristiansen and

Larsson 2005, 318, fig. 146; Kristiansen 2010; Brandherm and Horn 2016).

Bronze Age picturing and images The Nebra disc can be interpreted as a forerunner for the Sun Chariot, although it was made as an astronomical instrument and the ship-arch was a later addition. This addition refers explicitly to the cosmological narrative of the Divine Twins and the universal knowledge of the Sun-deity travelling between the realms of day and night by boat or by wagon (Kristiansen 2010). The later Trundholm sun-disc, with its elaborate spiral ornamentation in concentric circles and with its bright and dark sides, illuminates this central myth more explicitly. Here, the Sun is riding in a chariot, drawn by a horse (Müller 1903), through day and night. The fourspoked wheels both move the wagon and symbolize the Sun itself (Randsborg 2006, 63). Only one side of the disc is gold-plated; however, both sides are lavishly decorated with concentric circles and spirals in endless wave motions. On closer inspection, the patterns are not fully identical, which indicates that the two sides are deliberately created to be contrasting. The concentric circles, the recurring component of Bronze Age iconography, are linked in pairs on both sides of the disc, but in two different patterns of a forward-to-backward-one encircling ribbon (on the golden side) and a ‘mushroom-formed’ ribbon band (on the back side). By studying the numerical significance and differences between the decorative zones and spiral patterns, the disc has been interpreted as a calendar – displaying the Sun-year and the Moon-year respectively (Randsborg 2006, ch. 10; Sommerfeld 2010). The similarity between the Trundholm disc and the Nebra disc is paramount; they both reveal sophisticated astronomical knowledge, the need for a calendar to predict sun solstices and to synchronize the sun-year and the moonyear, and they both capture the essence of the Indo-European divine narrative. In addition, the Vedic characterization of the Sun as ‘the Self or Soul of all that moves or stands’ (Rig Veda I.115.I; Griffith 2008) is a widely attested pictorial image for the all-encompassing Sun-deity. It can be expressed as a circle or as concentric circles with a central point or with spokes (Bloomfield 1908, 86). Thus, in symbolic form, the myth of the all-encompassing Sun-deity’s never-ending travels between the realms of day and night is captured by the endless rotating spirals and concentric circles organized in strict geometric patterns. More than any other single motif, concentric circles constitute the very essence of the Bronze Age Sun cult with the central myth of resurrection including the role of the Moon. The symbol system of the Trundholm disc is repeated in the iconic beltplats of the Middle Bronze Age (Fig. 10.3). In the Late Bronze Age, the gold cups reveal the cosmic system and astronomical knowledge of the time: when the

10.  Poetry and picturing in deep historical time cup is turned upside-down, the form refers to the sky dome and the concentric circles form a sophisticated pattern with the Sun-god in the centre, radial spokes/sunbeams marking a calendar sun- and moon-wheel of a year (Mörner et al. 2018; Mörner and Lind 2018; Fig. 10.4). When a horsehead is added, as seen on the gold cups from Borgbjerg on Sealand (Jensen 2002, 411), the cup is turned into a ‘Sun wagon’ (Fig. 10.5). Thus, the early Nebra dish, the later Trundholm disc and the late golden cups all refer to the astronomical year with the Sun and the Moon calendar, and reveal an advanced mathematical–astronomical system that originates from the Sumerian–Babylonian culture in Mesopotamia (Mörner et al. 2018).

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Important aspects of this advanced geometrical knowledge can be recognized in ritual practices, such as barrow architecture, as Mads Holst has convincingly demonstrated (Holst 2015). Basic to all geometrical constructions is the wheel-cross structure, where geometry converted the symbolic image of the spoked wheel, providing a link between the barrow architecture and craftmanship and the cosmologically significant representation of the spoked wheel. It is argued by Holst that the role of geometry invoked a wider cosmological order and regularity where barrows and bronzes became not only a metaphorical representation of cosmic order but also an actual manifestation of it (Holst 2015, ch. 6.3). This is also evident in the ship/horse motifs on razors from Late Bronze Age Scandinavia, where the sun-horse was part of a complex cosmological system involving a number of divine agents, all of which were powerful helpers of the Sun, such as the ship, the boat, the fish and the snake (Kaul 1998; 2010). The pictorial universe of the Bronze Age continued as long as it was conceptually inscribed in people’s minds. In the end, after more than a millennium, the myth of the

Figure 10.3. Belt-plate from Langstrup, Sealand. Nationalmuseet, Denmark. Photo by Roberto Fortuna and Kira Ursem.

Figure 10.4. Gold cup from Mjövik, Blekinge. Statens Historiska Museum, Sweden. Photo by Ulrik Skans.

Figure 10.5. Gold cups from Borgbjerg, Sealand. Nationalmuseet, Denmark. Photo by Lennart Larsen.

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Sun-deity’s resurrection lost its central role, when the social and religious world of the Bronze Age gradually faded away. During the pre-Roman Iron Age, a new religious order gradually emerged, and we see it unfold most clearly after the demise of the Roman Empire in the Late Iron Age.

Late Iron Age poetry – The Poetic Edda ‘What the Vedas are for India, and the Homeric Poems for the Greek World, that the Edda signifies for the Teutonic race: it is a repository, in poetic form, of their mythology and much of their heroic lore, bodying forth both the ethical views and the cultural life of the North during late heathen and early Christian times’, as Lee M. Hollander succinctly states in the introduction to the Poetic Edda (1994). The Poetic Edda is primarily known from Codex Regius, dated to c. 1270, and another codex, called AM 748, which was written down shortly after (Lindow 2001, 14). There might have been a master copy dated to c. 1200 (Collinder 1972, 13). Both Codex Regius and AM 748 are ‘collected’ works rather than composed by those who recorded them, and it also seems clear that they were compilations of other compilations (Lindblad 1954; Gunnell 2008, 299). However, the poems undoubtedly belong to a much older pre-Christian tradition; although there is no way to tell the original dates, some of the lore goes back to the 6th century AD at least (Collinder 1972, 15). The Eddic poems were essentially works that that were presented ‘live’ by performers – they belonged to an oral tradition and were sung, spoken or chanted with varying tones, rhythms and inflections; some may as well have been performed as a play. Thus, the text itself was only a limited part of the overall ‘received’ work (Gunnell 2008; Herschend 2018). It is a fact that the mythological Eddic poems, despite their origin and date, present a fairly consistent picture of the Old Norse gods (Lindow 2001, 14), and it is beyond debate that the Eddic poems of the Poetic Edda represent the oldest form of literature from Scandinavia, composed in a strict metric form. Found all over Scandinavia, some central motifs from the accumulated layers of belief are paralleled and depicted in iconographic form from the 6th century onwards (Hauck 1983; Andrén 1993; Hedeager 2011; Pedersen 2017). This confirms that Eddic poetry was commonly known all over the Nordic area during the Late Iron Age (Schjødt 2008, ch. 4).

Late Iron Age cosmological principles As a contrast to the metric form of the Poetic Edda, the Prose Edda, or Snorri’s Edda, was written in the early 13th century as a handbook for aspiring Icelandic poets and skalds who needed to master the traditional forms of verses and the older stories since it was considered essential to ‘know’ the

old myths. Together with the Prose Edda, the texts give a reasonably coherent picture of the northern system of belief. Although pre-Christian Scandinavia had no single, organized religion, people shared a belief in the same pantheon of the Norse gods, just as they had a common worldview (Byock 2005, xvii; Andrén et al. 2006, 13). It was not an isolated orthodox structure but a way of living, simply another dimension of daily life and existence. The Edda deals with the world of the gods, the Asirs and the Vanirs, and archetypal heroes, who dealt with the gods. O∂in is the central figure in the Old Norse pantheon and ‘king’ of the Asir, not because he is the greatest hero but because he is in control of the specific magical power called sei∂ that enabled him to change shape. Everywhere in the Old Norse texts, O∂in appears in the guise of others; he crossed the boundaries between human and animal, between male and female. The description of O∂in corresponds to the archetypal shaman with his zoomorphic guiding spirits, the ravens, the wolves, the snake and the large four-legged animals (Hedeager 2011, ch. 4). Recurrently, the texts refer to the dual nature of the human mind and the idea of the ‘spirit’ which can leave the body either in human or animal form: hugr, fylgjur or hamingja. Hamr and fylgjur both mean ‘skin’ or ‘shape’, and they refer to the body as form. Eigi einhamr, which is the negative juxtaposition, describes a shape not always identical to itself, capable of alternative appearances and thus with the power to exceed the integrity of the body (Pedersen 2017). Transformation, metamorphosis and the capacity to ‘differ from oneself’ and thus become a shapeshifter (i.e. ham-shifter), in human as well as animal form, was the main structuring principle of the pre-Christian world. This was a simple fact of nature and nothing to question.

Late Iron Age picturing The Scandinavian and Germanic animal style was formed during the 5th century as a new symbolic language of signs. It dominated until early Christianity among Germanic tribes on the Continent, in Anglo-Saxon England and in Scandinavia. It was not until the Urnes style of the 12th century that the Nordic animal style ceased to develop and the Early Christian art and iconography replaced it (Hedeager 2011). The animal style is a never-ending paraphrasing of a many-faceted repertoire of animal motifs: whole and half animals, small and large animals, animal fragments and anatomically complete animals. This hybrid form of representation is, thus, far removed from naturalistic animal depictions. Rather, such animals cut across all categories by transgressing the boundaries of what is considered ‘natural’; for example, hybrid forms such as a bird with a serpent-like body or a four-legged animal with a bird’s head (Fig. 10.6).

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Also, the animal ornamentation incorporates human bodies that are cut into pieces, while other renderings have a human head incorporated onto an animal body, or human figures are composed of animal species: a hybrid man–animal creature. Apart from humans, it is possible to discern some naturalistic animal species; the bird of prey, the wolf, the wild boar and the serpent are recurring species. These animals are wild, dangerous and powerful, and all of them are considered important ‘helping-animals’ in shamanistic belief systems. The snake is, like O∂in, the shape/ ham-shifter par excellence. This particular animal embodies O∂in’s capacity for transformation and – by swallowing other animals and thus becoming a ‘double-being’ – hybrid existence. For the Iron Age, the snake motif is the single dominant figural composition and the structuring principle in the iconography. Although the Scandinavian animal styles lasted 800 years and underwent some formal changes through time, their basic principles remained fundamentally unchanged. Transformation, transgressing and shapeshifting – and the accompanying images – encapsulate the Norse belief system and the conditions for ‘being in the world’. Like the

concentric circles in the Bronze Age, which embodied the all-encompassing Sun-deity, the snake motif of the animal ornamentation embodied the all-encompassing ‘Seer’, O∂in, as it comes down to us through the Edda poems.

Figure 10.6. Half man, half wild boar. Eagles are presented on both sides of his head, and two heads form the belt buckle. Åker, Norway (Gustafson 1906).

Figure 10.7. Man ‘composed’ of animals. The ‘beaks’ of the lower animals are formed as animal heads. Vendel 1. Drawing by O. Sörling (Stolpe and Arne 1927, pl. IX).

The Holy Book and the Christian doctrine In Old Norse cosmology, humans and animals were regarded as on equal terms. Man’s capacity to ‘differ from oneself’ was an organizing principle of society. In this process, body parts were integrated into animal wholes or vice versa (Fig. 10.7). This is in stark contrast to Christianity, which is based on the concept of autonomous individuality. Man was created in God’s image and was distinctively different from all other living species or things. Power was concentrated in a singular god that needed to be supplicated through regular prayer, making man personally responsible to a superior god. Although conversion did not always happen to be a radical break with the past, the experience of social and existential disruption is central to Christian conversion for many different peoples across the world (Holbraad and Pedersen 2017, 246–253).

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Therefore, becoming a Christian involved a recast of basic concepts of what it meant to be human in addition to a new definition of reason, rationality and truth (Hacking 2002, ch. 1). To the followers of the Old Norse religion, Christianity thus represented a fundamental and incompatible concept of the very nature of humanity and the cosmos. Conversion is thereby ontological. What is a person, what is an animal, what is a thing – and what are their mutual relationships? Conversion to Christianity was therefore a drawn-out process that lasted from the 8th to the 12th–13th century. The fluid, transformative and multi-faceted spirit word of the Old Norse was only gradually turned into a centralized Christian world of singular, indivisible humans, but belief in witchcraft and magic continued well into the Reformation (Mitchell 2009) and even further. In some areas, it could still be found in the witch trials of the 17th century (Malmstedt 2018, ch. 5). Many pagan narratives were also transformed into so-called ‘folklore’, with even deeper prehistoric Bronze Age roots (Graça da Silva and Tehrani 2016).

Picturing ontological change The animal styles represented a longue durée of visual communication that expressed embodied knowledge systems and ‘pictures in the mind’ (Mitchell 2005), which corresponded well with the entangled nature of the human– animal relationship of Old Norse ontology. However, by the conversion to Christianity and the establishment of the medieval kingdoms around AD 1200, the fluidity of existence that was the overall idea in the pre-Christian system of belief officially came to an end. Man became a fixed and indivisible agent, while change became an ontological problem (Bynum 2001). The conversion process, however, began centuries earlier, when Christianity spread through western Europe and terminated the Germanic animal styles. In early Christian Italy, a gold-blade of a Lombard cross illustrates this (Fig. 10.8). Even if the familiar Germanic ‘animal’ ornamentation was formally upheld, the traditional animals were fully replaced. They were relegated to being mediators with the Other

World, be it in Lombard Italy in the 7th century or in the Scandinavian countries some centuries later. The Christian doctrine ascribed this function only to God’s son, while the unequivocal power of animals was diabolic and from now on associated only with witchcraft (Bynum 2001). The transitional period between paganism and the conversion to Christianity was considerably more drawn-out in Scandinavia than among the Germanic peoples on the Continent or in Anglo-Saxon England (Brundle 2019). During the 8th century, Christianity had been firmly established in western Europe as far north as southern Germany and the British Isles, and missionary activity in Scandinavia is well attested from 718, when Willibrord came on a mission to Jutland – however, without any documented impact. The earliest Christian burials in Scandinavia are dated to the late 9th century both in Denmark (Sebbesund and Ribe) and in Sweden, Birka and Varnhem (Vretemark 2017). Based on burial customs, burials from the 9th century have been interpreted as Christian and have, therefore, been linked to Ansgar’s missionary activities at Ribe and Birka in 829–830 and again in the 850s (Gräslund 1980, 83–84; Støvsø 2014). Nearly 400 years passed from the earliest glimpse of Christianity until the official establishment of the Church and the medieval kingdoms. During this time of syncretism, animals were upheld as the organizing element in the Nordic art styles. However, with the introduction of the Viking styles in the 8th century, a significant shift in bodily display becomes visible. At the beginning of the Viking Age, the human body could still be part of the artistic expression (Fig. 10.9). Here, the human body is depicted as an individual person while his capacity to be eigi einhamr is underlined; central to the artistic composition are two human hands belonging to two opposite animals, outlining their transformative nature. In this sophisticated manner, the artist fuses two bipolar worldviews, making a hybrid artistic creation that could be ‘read’ and understood oppositely. However, with the Viking styles in full flow, man vanished from the artistic compositions, leaving only the animals to uphold the signature of the Old Norse religion (with very few exceptions, i.e. the ‘human’

Figure 10.8. Lombard gold-blade cross with ‘animal’ ornamentation; however, humans have taken the place of animals. San Stefano grave 11–12. Petricia I Cividale, Italy. 7th century (Haseloff 1970, Tafel 4).

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Acknowledgements The author would like to thank Marianne Hem Eriksen for comments on an earlier version of the manuscript and Sofie Scheen Jahnsen for assistance with the illustrations.

Bibliography

Figure 10.9. Buckle of gilded bronze with man and animals. Vester Egesborg, 8th/9th century. © Jørgen Kraglund.

figure on the brooch from Vestervang Kirke, Sealand; see Neiß 2013, fig. 1: c–d). Thus, although animal styles were in continual use in the Scandinavian societies throughout the centuries of syncretism, as the Viking styles reveal, it is also here that we first witness the ‘ontological turn’ that recast human and non-human relations; humans and animals are now separated. This happens at the same time as the earliest attested missionary activity in South Scandinavia. From then on, the hybrid and fluid human nature of the Old Norse religion was cast into doubt, and never regained its position. Thus, the pictorial definition of human–animal relations foreshadowed the official conversion to Christianity several hundred years later (Hedeager 2019).

Conclusion – Poetry as picturing through time By approaching the grand art styles of the past through the high poetry of their era, it has been possible to demonstrate how these symbol systems formed ‘pictures in the mind’ that were impossible to get around or escape. Be it the concentric circles, the hybrid creatures or the Christian Cross, they were the prism through which the world was perceived and the knowledge system through which it was explained. In this way, ontologies were captured in picture-making of their time and, as such, the symbol systems were upheld only as long as the images were conceptually inscribed in people’s minds, always open to the act of forgetting when they no longer encapsulate their era. Such transformations from one belief system to another were often long-drawnout processes, reducing former central narratives to more marginal positions. This process is exemplified through the four centuries of syncretism, when the dual relationship between man and animal was gradually transformed into a Christian cosmology of indivisibility and human personhood.

Andrén, A. (1993) Doors to the other world: Scandinavian death rituals in Gotlandic perspective. Journal of European Archaeology 1, 33–56. Andrén, A., Jennbert, K. and Raudevere, C. (eds) (2006). Old Norse Religion in Long-term Perspective. Lund: Nordic Academic Press. Aner, E. and Kersten, K. (1976). Die Funde der älteren Bronzezeit des nordischen Kreises in Dänemark, Schelswig-Holstein und Niedersachsen. Bd 2: Holbæk, Sorø und Præstø Amter. København: Verlag Nationalmuseum. Barth, F. (1987) Cosmologies in the Making: A Generative Approach to Cultural Variation in Inner New Guinea. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Belting, H. (2011) An Anthropology of Images: Picture, Medium, Body. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Bloomfield, M. (1908) The Religion of the Veda the Ancient Religion of India. New York and London: G.P. Putnam’s Sons. Brandherm, D. and Horn, C. (2016) Die Zwei in der Drei, oder: Ein Zwilling kommt selten allein. In B. Ramminger and H. Lasch (eds) Hunden – Menschen – Artefakte: Gedekenschrift für Gretel Gallay, 99–141. Internationale Archäologie – Studia honoraria. Rahden/Westf.: Verlag Marie Leidorf. Brundle, L. (2019) Image and Performance, Agency and Ideology. Representations of the Human Figures in Funerary Contexts in Anglo-Saxon Art, AD 400–680. BAR British Series 645. Oxford: BAR Publishing. Bynum, C.W. (2001) Metamorphosis and Identity. New York: Zone Books. Byock, J.L. (2005) Introduction. In J.L. Byock (trans.) Snorri Sturluson: The Prose Edda, ix–xxxv. London: Penguin Books. Collinder, B. (1972) Inledning. In Snorres Edda, 7–29. Stockholm: Forum. Connerton, P. (1989) How Societies Remember. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Connerton, P. (2006) Cultural memory. In C. Tilley, W. Keane, S. Küchler, M. Rowlands and P. Spyer (eds) Handbook of Material Culture, 315–324. London: Sage Publications. Doniger, W. (1981) The Rig Veda, an Anthology. London: Penguin Books. Finnegan, R. (1992) Oral Tradition and the Verbal Arts. London and New York: Routledge. Goody, J. (2010) Myth, Ritual and the Oral. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Graça da Silva, S. and Tehrani, J.J. (2016) Comparative phylogenetic analyses uncover the ancient roots of Indo-European folktales. Royal Society Society Open Science 3, 150645. Gräslund, A.-S. (1980) Birka IV. The Burial Customs. A Study of the Graves on Björkö. Stockholm: Kungliga Vitterhets Historie och Antikvitets Akademien. Griffith, R.T.H. (2008) The Rig Veda. London: Forgotten Books.

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Gunnell, T. (2008) The performance of the Poetic Edda. In S. Brink and N. Price (eds) The Viking World, 299–303. London: Routledge. Gustafson, G. (1906) Norges Oldtid. Mindesmærker og Oldsager. Kristiania: Norsk Folkemuseum. Hacking, I. (2002) Historical Ontology. Harvard: Harvard University Press. Haseloff, G. (1970) Goldbrakteaten – Goldblattkreuze. Neue Ausgrabungen und Forschungen in Niedersachsen 5, 24–39. Hauck, K. (1983) Text und Bild in einer orale Kultur. Antworten auf die zeugniskrische Frage nach der Erreichbarkeit mündlicher Überliefung im frühen Mittelater. Frühmittelalterliche Studien 17, 510–645. Hedeager, L. (2011) Iron Age Myth and Materiality. An Archaeology of Scandinavia AD 400–1000. London and New York: Routledge. Hedeager, L. (2019) Christian conversion and the indivisibility of man. Iron Age iconography and the ontological turn. In C. Ljung, A. Andreasson Sjögren, I. Berg, E. Engström, A.-M. Hållans Stenholm, K. Jonsson, A. Klevnäs, L. Qviström and T. Zachrisson (eds) Tidens landskap. En vänbok till Anders Andrén, 117–118. Lund: Nordic Academic Press. Herschend, F. (2018) Pafnutius and Skírnir’s Journey. A Discussion of Two Medieval Plays. Occasional Papers in Archaeology 65. Uppsala: Uppsala University. Holbraad, M. and Pedersen, M.A. (2017) The Ontological Turn. An Anthropological Expression. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hollander, L.M. (1994) The Poetic Edda. Translated with an Introduction and Explanatory Notes. Austin: University of Texas Press. Holst, M.K. (2015) Bronze Age geometry and cosmology. In M.K. Holst and M. Rasmussen (eds) Skelhøj and the Bronze Age Barrows of Southern Scandinavia Vol 2, ch. 6.3, 51–88. Aarhus: National Museum of Denmark/Jutland Archaeological Society. Jensen, J. (2002) Danmarks Oldtid. Bronzealder 2.000–500 f.Kr. København: Gyldendal. Kaul, F. (1998) Ships on Bronze. A Study in Bronze Age Religion and Iconography. Publications from the National Museum Studies in Archaeology & History 3. Copenhagen: The National Museum. Kaul, F. (2010) The sun image from Trundholm (‘The Chariot of the Sun’) – a commented history of research. In H. Meller and F. Bertemes (eds) Der Griff nach den Sternen. Internationales Symposium in Halle (Saale) 16.–21. Februar 2005, 521–535. Tagungen des Landes museums für Vorgeschichte Halle (Saale) Band 05/I. Leipzig: Passage-Verlag. Krause, R. (2019) Falsch Zeit? Falscher Ort? Forscher-Streit um die Himmelscheibe von Nebra. STERN, 21 June 2019. Kristiansen, K. (2010) The Nebra find and early Indo-European religion. In H. Meller and F. Bertemes (eds) Der Griff nach den Sternen. Internationales Symposium in Halle (Saale) 16.–21. Februar 2005, 431–437. Tagungen des Landes museums für Vorgeschichte Halle (Saale) Band 05/I. Leipzig: Passage-Verlag. Kristiansen, K. and Larsson, T.B. (2005) The Rise of Bronze Age Society. Travels, Transmissions and Transformations. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lindblad, G. (1954) Studier i Codex Regius af Äldre Eddan. Lund: Gleerup. Lindow, J. (2001) Norse Mythology. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Malmstedt, G. (2018) En Förtrollad Värld. Förmoderna föreställningar och bohuslänska trolldomsprocesser 1669– 1672. Lund: Nordic Academic Press. Meller, H. (2010) Nebra: Vom Logos zum Mythos – Biographie eines Himmelsbildes. In H. Meller and F. Bertemes (eds) Der Griff nach den Sternen. Internationales Symposium in Halle (Saale) 16.–21. Februar 2005, 23–73. Tagungen des Landes Museums für Vorgeschichte Halle (Saale) Band 05/I. Leipzig: Passage-Verlag. Meller, H. and Michel, K. (2018) Die Himmels Scheibe von Nebra. Berlin: Propyläen. Mitchell, S. (2009) Odin, magic, and a Swedish trial from 1484. Scandinavian Studies 81(3), 263–286. Mitchell, W.J.T. (2005) What Do Pictures Want? The Lives and Loves of Images. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. Mörner, N.-A. and Lind, B.G. (2018) Astronomy and sun cult in the Swedish Bronze Age. International Journal of Astronomy and Astrophysics 8, 143–162. Mörner, N.-A., Lind, B.G. and Henriksson, B. (2018) A golden calendar from the Bronze Age. Archaeological Discovery 6, 53–61. Müller, S. (1903) Solbilledet fra Trundholm. Nordiske Fortidsminder I(6). København: Gyldendal. Neiß, M. (2013) Viking Age animal art as a material anchor? A new theory based on a head motif. In L. Gardela and K. Kajkowski (eds) The Head Motif in Past Societies, 74–87. Bytow: Bytow Museum. Pedersen, Ø.T. (2017) Eigi Einhamr – om jernalderens guldbrakteater og den åbne krop som form i norrøn visule kultur. Unpublished PhD thesis. Århus: Århus University. Randsborg, K. (2006) Opening the oak-coffin. New dates – new perspectives. In K. Randsborg and K. Christensen (eds) Bronze Age Coffin Graves: Archaeology and Dendro-Dating, 1–162. Acta Archaeologica, Supplementum 77. Copenhagen: Centre of World Archaeology. Reichl, K. (2000) Singing the Past. Turkic & Medieval Heroic Poetry. Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press. Rowlands, M. (1993) The role of memory in the transmission of culture. World Archaeology 25(2), 141–151. Schjødt, J.P. (2008) Initiation Between Two Worlds. Structure and Symbolism in Pre-Christian Scandinavian Religion. Odense: University Press of Southern Denmark. Sommerfeld, C. (2010) Die Kejrsite – Anmerkungen zur Rolle des Mondes in der Ikonographie der Bronzezeit. In H. Meller and F. Bertemes (eds) Der Griff nach den Sternen. Internationales Symposium in Halle (Saale) 16.–21. Februar 2005, 537–551. Tagungen des Landes museums für Vorgeschichte Halle (Saale) Band 05/I. Leipzig: Passage-Verlag. Stolpe, H. and Arne, T.J. (1927) La nécropole de Vendel. Monografiserien 17. Stockholm: Kungl. Vitterhets Historie och Antikvitetesakademien. Støvsø, M. (2014) Ansgars Kirche in Ribe. In R.-M. Weiss and A. Klammt (eds) Mythos Hammaburg. Archäologische Entdeckungen zu den Anfängen Hamburgs, 245–254. Hamburg: Archäologisches Museum Hamburg. Vretemark, M. (2017) Kristna Vikingar i Varnhem. Katalog till utställningen Kristian Vikingar i Varnhem på Kata Gård i Varnhem. Skara: Västergötlands Museum. West, M.L. (2007) Indo-European Poetry and Myth. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

11 Kumbl and stafR in runic texts Anne-Sofie Gräslund

Close to Åkerby church, a little more than 10 km west of Uppsala, Sweden, stand two rune stones, taken out of the church walls by Sven B.F. Jansson (Jansson 1950). According to notes in Rannsakningarna 1667–84, and as was somewhat later also described by Celsius and Peringskiöld, two rune stones were built into the church walls (UR IV:2, 346–352). Later, they were covered with plaster and were forgotten; during an inventory in 1829, it was mentioned that no rune stones and no ancient monuments were found in close proximity to the church. In connection with a survey of the rune stones in the area for publication in the corpus Sveriges runinskrifter (Swedish runic inscriptions), Sven B.F. Jansson suggested that the lost rune stones should be searched for with the help of the records from the 16th and 17th centuries. This was done and, when the stones were found, they were taken out of the wall and later placed outside the church, with the signum U 1066 (Fig. 11.1) and 1067 (Fig. 11.2) respectively (Jansson 1950, 333–334). The inscription on U 1066 is as follows: biurn : auk :: þurkil : þiR : ris(t)u + kumbl : þisi : al : iRu :: kiþbi- : a : / in English: ‘Bjôrn and Þorkell, they raised all these monuments …’.1 It has not been possible to interpret the end of the inscription. In this inscription, we meet the word/ concept kumbl, which will be discussed in this chapter. The inscription on U 1067 is as follows: (u)talfriþR : raisti · staina + þisa a-tR · styr · faþur : sin · (k)…þ hilbi · ant þira bratr hiuk run-R / ‘Óðalfríðr/Óðalfreðr raised these stones2 in memory of Styrr, her/his father. May God help their spirits. Brandr cut the runes’. Jansson is convinced (1950, 336) that the previously unknown carver Brand carved both stones: ‘it is clear from the rune forms, the ornamentation and so on’. Concerning ornamentation, I do not agree. Rather, this is an example of a workshop where several carvers collaborated, some on the inscriptions and others on the ornamentation (Kitzler Åhfeldt 2001).

In this case, two different artists seem to have made their mark on the layout of the two stones respectively. The rune animals of U 1066 are drawn in a considerably more experienced manner than the rune animals of U 1067, even if the fundamental idea of the design is the same. They are both good examples of the stylistic group Pr 1, dated to c. AD 1010–1040 (Gräslund 2006); U 1066 in particular can be regarded as ‘classical’ Pr 1. In my opinion, there are most likely two different artists behind the ornamentation of the stones, with the artist behind U 1066 producing more elegant drawing than the one behind U 1067. In this chapter, I scrutinize the examples of the words kumbl and stafR in the Swedish Viking Age runic inscriptions to determine whether this can bring us closer to an understanding of the inscription of U 1066.

Kumbl The original etymology of the word kumbl is ‘mark’. According to Elof Hellquist (1980), it has an uncertain and controversial origin and it may also mean ‘sea mark’, ‘owner’s mark’, ‘sign’ and ‘banner’, as well as, dialectically, mark on cattle. The meaning ‘grave, grave mound and cairn’ is, in his opinion, secondary and has developed from a grave mark made of wood on top of the grave (Hellquist 1980, 521). The two meanings ‘memorial mark’ and ‘grave’ have dominated in research and discussions on kumbl. Kumbl occurs in 102 Viking Age runic inscriptions in Sweden today (Klos 2009, 209–220). A kumbl was probably a clearly visible monument, consisting of more than one part. Several scholars have dealt with the word kumbl in runic inscriptions, mostly rather briefly and largely in passing. However, two works stand out: Nils-Gustaf Stahre’s dissertation Stångskäret, Kåksna och Kummelberget (1952) and Lydia Klos’ dissertation Runensteine in Schweden – Studien zu Aufstellungsort und Funktion (2009). These two authors

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Figure 11.1. Rune stone U 1166.

Figure 11.2. Rune stone U 1167.

make a more or less complete survey of the Swedish rune stone material. Concerning the technical term for production, kumbl is most commonly combined with the multifunctional verb gær(v)a, ‘make’ (57 ex.), followed by ræisa, ‘raise’ (16 ex.) (Klos 2009, 217; cf. Kitzler Åfeldt 2014, 245 and Källström 2007, 90–91). Lydia Klos makes a comprehensive and useful report of various etymological studies of the word kumbl and how the concept is used in Old Norse literature. Cecilia Ljung has studied (2016) Viking Age–early medieval Early Christian grave monuments (earlier called Eskilstuna sarcophagus or cists),3 and she lists 602 examples in her catalogue, many of them with ornamentation but without inscriptions. She has registered 16 examples of kumbl, most

of them in connection with the verb gær(v)a. Obviously, ‘making kumbl’ was the normal act. Today, kumbl is mostly translated as ‘monument’ or, even better, ‘memorial monument’ (Sw minnesmärke). A survey of the examples given in Svenskt Runordsregister (Swedish rune word register) (Peterson 2006) indicates several important things. First, the frequency of the plural form, kumbl þessi – these kumbls. Following Klos (2009, 215), there are 11 examples of the singular form and 55 examples of the plural form; to this should be added 35 examples where it is impossible to determine either way as the word has the same form in the singular and plural nominative and accusative. Another important thing is how relatively often the person commemorated on the stone died far away from their home:

11.  Kumbl and stafR in runic texts in England, in the West, in Greece, in the East, in Särkland, in Gotland or at crossroads.4 Some examples: •

•

•

•

Sö 173 Tystberga, Södermanland: A mus:kia/mes:kia : a(u)[k :] (m)an(i) : litu : rasa : ku[(m)(l) : þausi : at : b] ruþur · (s)in : hr(u)þkaiR · auk : faþur sin hulm:stain ·B · han hafþi · ystarla u(m) : uaRit · lenki : tuu : a:ustarla : meþ : inkuari / ‘A Myskja and Manni/Máni had these monuments raised in memory of their brother Hróðgeirr and their father Holmsteinn. B He had long been in the west; died in the east with Ingvarr’ (stylistic group: B-e-v + Pr 2). Sö 319 Sannerby, Årdala, Södermanland: finiþr : kiarþi : kuml : þaisi : eftiR : kaiRbiurn : faþur sin :: han uarþ : tauþr uestr / ‘Finnviðr(?) made these monuments in memory of Geirbjôrn, his father. He died in the west’ (stylistic group: Unornamented). Sm 46 Eriksstad, Vittaryd, Småland: […nui krþi : kubl : þesi : iftiR suin : sun : sin : im ÷ itaþisk ou·tr i krikum] / ‘…-vé made these monuments in memory of Sveinn, her son, who met his end in the east in Greece’ (stylistic group: Unornamented5). Dr 337 Valleberga, Skåne: A : suin : auk : þurgutr : kiaurþu : kubl : þisi ¶ eftiR : mana ¶ auk · suina B kuþ : hialbi : siaul : þeRa : uel : ian : þeR : likia : i : luntunum / ‘A Sveinn and Þorgautr/Þorgunn made these monuments in memory of Manni and Sveini. B May God well help their souls. And they lie in London’ (stylistic group: Unornamented).

All these notes on individuals deceased abroad raise the question of whether kumbl in many cases denotes cenotaphs. This supports the idea that kumbl means ‘memorial’ rather than ‘grave’. The chronological distribution of the inscriptions with kumbl demonstrates an obvious dominance for early carvings, dated to the first half of the 11th century (Gräslund 2006): at least 17 examples of the stylistic group Unornamented, seven of Bird’s-eye view, four of Profile 1, three of Profile 2 and two of Profile 2–3, while only four carvings seem to belong to the second half of the century. The onomast Jöran Sahlgren expresses his opinion on the place name Kumla, whereby it is a ‘memory of human actions. It includes the word kummel in its old meaning “minnesmärke”, “gravhög”’, i.e. memorial monument, grave mound (Sahlgren 1935, 72). Nils-Gustaf Stahre states (1952, 213–227) that kumbl very often occurs on the rune stones meaning ‘memorial mark’ or ‘memorial stone’, usually alluding to the proper rune stone but sometimes also including other erected stones which together with the rune stone make up an integrated monument. In his opinion, it may also mean ‘road mark’, ‘sea mark’, ‘carving’ and ‘rune’. On the other hand, he is very hesitant regarding the meaning ‘cairn’ or ‘grave mound’.

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In his comprehensive study of place names and early settlements within the project Kumlabygden, Lars Hellberg deals with the concept kumbl, especially the plural form. The original meaning is, in his opinion, ‘mark’ or ‘sign’. Memorial stone alludes to the rune stone and the monument often also includes other erected stones or wooden marks (Hellberg 1967, 84–91). Ancient grave marks may well have been made of wood. Björn Ambrosiani reports from Early Iron Age cemeteries in Darsgärde, Skederid parish in Uppland, examples where graves have been marked by a now-lost wooden pole, edged with stones that were identified at the excavation (Ambrosiani 1964, 64). Hellberg’s conclusion is that ‘grave memorial mark’ is a correct translation but it has to be added with ‘including erected stones’ or ‘consisting of wooden poles’, etc. The plural form of kumbl points back to the Early Iron Age when erected stones (Sw bautastenar) were common (Hellberg 1967, 91). According to the Danish scholar Karl Martin Nielsen (1953, 12), nothing speaks in favour of kumbl in Danish runic inscriptions as grave mounds. In his opinion, kumbl alludes to the proper rune stone, or, if the word has a plural form, a memorial monument consisting of one or more rune stones in connection with erected stones without inscriptions. In my opinion, kumbl should be understood as a memorial monument consisting of one or more rune stones together with erected stones and/or wooden staffs. Sometimes a grave mound/stone-setting can be included. The frequent plural form, ‘these kumbls’, is significant.

The original location of Björn’s and Torkel’s ‘all kumbls’ Of course, it is not possible to know what ‘all the kumbls’ raised by Björn and Torkel consisted of or their location (Jansson 1950). However, Jansson ventures a guess: they were once located at the cemetery immediately north of the bridge Löpsbron over Jumkilsån, c. 800 m south-west of the church. That seems a likely hypothesis. With Hellberg’s interpretation in mind, it should be a place with so-called ‘bauta-stone graves’ from the Early Iron Age; such graves could well be superposed by the typical grave mounds from the Late Iron Age close to Löpsbron. Here, there are not only grave mounds but also a system of hollyroads (Sw hålvägar), indicating that this may have been a landing place with possibilities for reloading and trade (Fig. 11.3). As Björn and Torkel raised all these kumbls at the beginning of the 11th century, kumbl could well mean stones with or without inscription or wooden poles or staves. The description of Ibn Fadlan about the funeral of a Rus chieftain near Bulgar at Volga in the 10th century should be remembered in this context: it ends with the building of a grave mound over the cremated remains; in the middle of the mound, a wooden pole was driven down on which was

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Figure 11.3. Löpsbron today; in the background, burial mounds and system of hollyroads still visible at the former landing site.

carved the name of the deceased and the name of the Rus king (Wikander 1978).

The area Iron Age Uppland, where Björn and Torkel raised all these kumbls, was in many ways a maritime society in a road-less land (Fig. 11.4). Long-distance communications and transport were dependent on waterways. Travel on land followed the dry summits of glacial eskers. Due to broken terrain, such transport was time-consuming and did not permit large loads. The heaviest cargo was carried in wintertime by sleigh across frozen rivers, lakes and marshes. As a consequence of post-glacial land uplift, Iron Age settlements continually lost immediate access to the sea. Parts of the sea-bed surfaced and became enormous wetlands: neither sea nor land. The need for an appropriate communication system must have been great (Schneider 2011). A transportation network implies communicative junctions, harbours connecting seafaring,

inland waterways and land routes. With a shoreline at 10 m above today’s level, which in Uppland corresponds roughly to AD 200, the place name Broby has a recurring relationship with the inner end of sea inlets, located where the shipping routes encountered rivers and ridges. The word bro means ‘bridge’ in modern Sweden, but had a wider meaning earlier; in addition to ‘bridge’, it also meant ‘road’, ‘landing stage for ships’, ‘jetty’. Junctions connecting seafaring with land routes were crucial. To understand the Broby places, we must see them from an Early Iron Age perspective as landing stages, intersections between land and sea where trade could be carried out. Besides, this is exactly how much of the trade in Viking Age towns such as Birka and Hedeby is imagined. Broby in Börje parish is a Broby place close to Åkerby.6 It is well known for its fine Bronze Age environment, with house foundations and mounds of fire-cracked stones, but also large mounds dated to the Vendel7 period, including the mound excavated by Olof Verelius in 1663, the very

11.  Kumbl and stafR in runic texts

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Figure 11.4. Map (above) and detail of the same (below) showing sites and monuments in the Broby-Åkerby area as documented in the Swedish National Heritage Board database Fornsök. Background map © Lantmäteriet. Maps by Daniel Löwenborg.

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first scientific excavation in Sweden (Lindqvist 1936, 33–36). The small road situated at the edge of the forest just above the contemporary waterline goes northwards. It is fascinating that this road along the western side of the Jumkilsån today is still called ‘the Norrland road’ in popular parlance. It passes the hamlets Ekeby and Ströja, where a very impressive rune stone (U 914) stands, continues up to Altuna and then down to the river at Löpsbron. The ornamentation of U 914 is stylistically executed in Pr 5, that means a dating to c. AD 1100–1130. The inscription reads inkikar lit ‘ raisa ‘ stain ‘ eftiR ‘ styþik ‘ faþur ‘ sin ‘ uk ‘ þorkel ‘ lit ‘ kiara ‘ merki ‘ at ‘ inkikuni ‘ suiru ‘ sin ‘ / ‘Ingigerðr/Ingikárr had the stone raised in memory of Styðingr/Stœðingr, her father; and Þorkell had the memorial made in memory of Ingigunn, his mother-in-law’. The stone is not signed but can, with certainty, be attributed to the famous rune carver Öpir as the ornamentation is almost identical to the rune stone U 485, Marma, Lagga parish, which is signed by Öpir. What does the rune Swedish word merki mean? The rune stone, of course. But, should it not include something more, perhaps an erected stone without inscription or a wooden pole or staff? The time has come to investigate the word stafR.

StafR The original etymological meaning of the word stafR is ‘staff’, ‘pole’, ‘boundary mark’, ‘landmark’ (Hellquist 1980, 1069). According to Svenskt Runordsregister, it means ‘staff’, ‘pole’, ‘rune staff’, ‘crozier’, and it occurs in seven Swedish runic inscriptions, three from Uppland, three from Södermanland and one from Västmanland. In addition, it is mentioned on the Forsa ring8 in Hälsingland. All examples from the rune stones fit well with the idea that kumbl consists of something more than a single rune stone. •

•

•

U 226, Arkel’s tingsstad, Bällsta, Vallentuna (pr 1). The text reads: ristu · stina · uk · staf · uan · uk · in · mikla · at · iartiknum uk kuriþi · kas at · uiri · þu mon i krati · kiatit lata kunar ik stin / ‘(They) raised the stones and worked(?) the staff also, the mighty one, as marks of honour. Gyríðr also cherished her husband: he will therefore be commemorated in weeping. Gunnarr cut the stone.’ Here, stafr means several stones and one staff. U 332 Vreta, Markim (Pr 3?): [inka · raisti · staf · auk · staina · at · raknfast · bonta · sin · han · kuam · at · arfi barn · sins · / ‘Inga raised the staff and stones in memory of Ragnfastr, her husbandman. She came to inherit from her children.’ This inscription also suggests several stones and one staff. U 849, lost, from Balingsta church: […kul auk hauk| |karþu staf en nasi auk aonutr| |raistu s… … raisti stuþiþ…is han…] / ‘Ígull(?) and Haukr made the staff. And Nasi/Nesi and Ônundr raised the stone … raised

•

•

•

… …’ In this case, stafr seems to suggest one stone and one staff. Sö 56 (Unornamented) Fyrby, Blacksta: iak · uait : hastain : þa : hulmstain : bryþr · menr : rynasta : a : miþkarþi : setu : stain : auk : stafa : marga eftiR · fraystain · faþur · sin · / ‘I know Hásteinn and Holmsteinn, the most rune-skilled brothers in Middle Earth, placed many a stone and staff in memory of Freysteinn, their father.’ Here, stafr seems to suggest several stones and staffs. Sö 196 (B-e-v), Kolsundet Husby, Ytterselö: hikifriþr · lit · r-isa · sain · þna · iftiR · ayulf · faþur · sin · auk · staf · ayulf- (k)iarþi ·· þat · ausþiki · hiuk · asur · ifnti · kina · uistr / ‘Ingifríðr had this stone and staff raised in memory of Eyjulfr, her father. Eyjulfr made this Assembly-(place) in the east(?). Ôzurr cut (the runes). Gínna/Gína made(?) (the Assembly-place) in the west(?) Q Ingifríðr had this stone and staff raised in memory of Eyjulfr, her father. Eyjulfr did this during autumn assembly, cut (killed) Ôzurr. He avenged the betrayals in the west.’ Here, stafr suggests one stone and one staff. Vs 1 (Pr 1) Stora Rytterns kyrkoruin, Rytterne: + kuþlefR + seti : stff : auk : sena : þasi : uftiR slakua : sun : sia : etaþr : austr · i · karusm · / ‘Guðleifr placed the staff and these stones in memory of Slagvi, his son, (who) met his end in the east in Garðar(?)/Chorezm(?).’ Here, stafr suggests several stones and one staff. It is also worth noting that the commemorated died in the East – death abroad is a common trait in connection with kumbl, as mentioned above.

It is common to all examples that staff is something that is erected as part of a larger whole/entirety to create a memorial monument. The translation as monument, however, may be seen more as a secondary meaning. The word staff is also included in the Gotlandic place name Stavgard, used in c. 50 property/estate names and once in the Guta Law – nobody may invoke hult or mounds or pagan gods or cult sites or stavgardar – and once in the Guta Saga with similar wording. The conclusion has been drawn that stavgardar were sites enclosed with staffs or poles or an enclosure with holy staffs or poles within it (Olsson 1984, 121). Ingemar Olsson is of the opinion (1984, 123) that stavgardar is an old word for a site with house foundations from the Early Iron Age. Karl Gustaf Måhl (1990) has tackled the problem of stavgardar in connection with the original location of the picture stones. He finds that the early picture stones (5th–6th century) are connected to cemeteries, and he publishes photos of preserved roots of picture stones close to graves in later cemeteries. The middle group, the so-called ‘dwarf stones’, dated to c. AD 500–700, has a strong connection with cemeteries but also with old stone-set roads. The late group (c. AD 700–1100)

11.  Kumbl and stafR in runic texts is of the same size as the two earlier groups combined, which is to be expected considering that the time span is much larger. Most frequent in this group are picture stones and fragments relieved in connection with cultivation. Also, cemeteries are important for the late group, and some stones are connected to roads. Above all, sites with house foundations from the Early Iron Age are an important context for the late group. They are reminiscent of the sites with kumbls, where the vicinity of Early Iron Age cemeteries with standing stones has been pointed out. The stavgard sites occur throughout Gotland. On Måhl’s map (1990, fig. 1), we can note that some parishes on central Gotland have up to three stavgard places, while some other parishes have none. Based on these observations, Måhl suggests hypothetically that the stavgard places had cultic significance and that there were three religious levels of sacrificial places, one for the Allthing (the thing site for all Gotland), one for level two – the treding9 blot – and one for level three, local blot at the farms.

The social dimension Of course, there is also a social dimension. Monuments indicating a great investment and with an ambition to be real manifestations of importance are certainly associated with high status (Williams 2013). Runologist Henrik Williams presents different angles from which the social aspects of rune stones might be studied: stone types, monument location, carving technique, ornamentation, monument status levels, runic usage, phonology, morphology as well as lexicology, including names. Obviously, many of the kumbl stones fit in as markers of high status. Archaeologist Ing-Marie Back Danielsson (2016) has another, semiotic, approach to this problem, which she exemplifies with the kumbl stones. Following her, kumbl could refer to different things: They include a rune-stone, an uninscribed standing stone, and/or a grave, as in the abode of the dead. By sharing the same name, it is implied that the different material phenomena were similar in certain respects. This resemblance can be called an iconic identification within Peircean semiotics, and this resemblance is also connected to a specific, sometimes desirable, or positive, quality […] The iconic identification is tied to a quality that can be found within, or coming from, several or multiple qualia. Within semiotics qualia are known as qualitative experiences. They refer to properties of experience in the form of sensuous qualities and feelings. (Back Danielsson 2016, 173)

She concludes (2016, 174) that the concept kuml with various meanings could have been a sensation of safety, offered during transitional periods in life and death, and in physical and celestial landscapes. The qualia of kuml were conventionalized, widespread and socially effective.

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Concluding remarks Let us now go back to the runic inscriptions. My survey of all examples of kumbl and stafR in Swedish runic inscriptions demonstrates that they fit well with the idea that the concept of kumbl consists of something more than a single rune stone. Sometimes it can mean a rune stone together with something else that has been erected, for example one or more erected stones without inscription and/or one or more wooden staffs. The term could also include a stone setting or a mound, but in my opinion never denotes a single grave.10 It is a common trait of all the inscriptions of stafR that it is something erected as part of a larger whole to create a memorial monument. The interpretation of stafR as a separate monument seems to be secondary, and there is nothing that speaks in favour of the old interpretation of kumbl as a ‘grave mound’. This could be a secondary meaning, due to the use of a wooden staff on top of the grave mound. A careful examination of the two concepts kumbl and stafR gives a lot of information about the location of the rune stones and their local environment. My suggested interpretation of Björn’s and Torkel’s ‘all kumbls’ is that they had erected stones and staffs at the cemetery north of Löpsbron, which at the same time was a landing stage, an intersection between sea and land where reloading and trade were carried out.

Acknowledgements My warmest thanks to docent Magnus Källström for discussions and help with literature and to FD Daniel Löwenborg for making the maps on Figure 11.4.

Notes 1

2 3

4

5

The catalogue numbers of the rune stones are given according to the corpus Sveriges Runinskrifter. There is a very useful updated pan-Scandinavian runic-text database/ Samnordisk runtextdatabas online (http://www.nordiska. uu.se/forskn/samnord.htm), which has English translations of all inscriptions. The translations in this article are mostly taken from that database, but sometimes from Jansson 1987. It is very interesting that ‘these stones’ are in the plural; see below. In their most elaborate form, Early Christian grave monuments consisted of a lid slab, two gable slabs and two side slabs forming a cist that stood above the ground. Simpler constructions, such as single recumbent slabs with or without head- and foot-stones seem, however, to have been more common (Ljung 2016, 250). Birgitta Johansen argues that inscriptions mentioning kumbl including a grave, in Denmark and Västergötland mean a real grave for a dead person, while in Småland and Södermanland they mean cenotaphs (Johansen 1997, 187). Unornamented is unfortunately a misleading term; in fact, it means that the runic band has no zoomorphic design.

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6

I am grateful to docent Kalle Lindholm, who drew my attention to this. 7 Vendel period in Sweden, equaling Merovingian period in general terms. 8 The Forsa ring, Hs 7, is an iron ring with a runic inscription. The oldest law-rule in Scandinavia, datable to the 9th century, hanging on a door and first documented in 1599, it mentions stafR in connection with restoration of a vi, i.e. cult place. Its function was probably as an oath ring (Brink 2008, 28–29). Cf. Magnus Källström (2010), who gives a dating on runological and linguistic grounds to the 10th century. 9 Gotland was judicially divided into three parts (Sw tredingar). 10 One exception may possibly be Early Christian grave monuments consisting of several stone slabs.

Bibliography Ambrosiani, B. (1964) Fornlämningar och bebyggelse. Studier i Attundalands och Södertörns förhistoria. Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell. Back Danielsson, I.-M. (2016) The social qualia of Kuml: an exploration of the iconicity of rune-stones with kuml inscriptions from the Scandinavian Late Viking Age. Current Swedish Archaeology 23, 157–178. Brink, S. (2008) Law and society. Polities and legal customs in Viking Scandinavia. In S. Brink and N. Price (eds) The Viking World, 23–31. London: Routledge. Gräslund, A.-S. (2006) Dating the Swedish Viking-Age rune stones on stylistic grounds. In M. Stoklund, M. Lerche Nielsen, B. Holmberg and G. Fellows-Jensen (eds) Runes and their Secrets. Studies in Runology, 117–139. Copenhagen: Tusculanum, University of Copenhagen. Hellberg, L. (1967) Ortnamn och äldre bebyggelse. Kumlabygden: forntid – nutid – framtid III. Utg. Jonas L:son Samzelius. Kumla: Kumla kommun. Hellquist, E. (1980) Svensk etymologisk ordbok. Första bandet A–N, andra bandet O–Ö. Lund: Liber Läromedel, Gleerup. Jansson, S.B.F. (1950) Några nyligen uppdagade runstenar. Fornvännen 45, 330–342. Jansson, S.B.F. (1987) Runes in Sweden. Translated by Peter Foote, photography by Bengt A. Lundberg. Stockholm: Gidlunds. Johansen, B. (1997) Ormalur. Aspekter av tillvaro och landskap. Stockholm Studies in Archaeology 14. Stockholm: Stockholms universitet. Källström, M. (2007) Mästare och minnesmärken. Studier kring vikingatida runristare och skriftmiljöer i Norden. Stockholm Studies in Scandinavian Philology, New Series 43. Stockholm: Stockholms universitet. Källström, M. (2010) Forsaringen tillhör 900-talet. Fornvännen 105, 228–232.

Kitzler Åhfeldt, L. (2001) Öpir – a Viking Age workshop for rune stone production in central Sweden? Acta Archaeologica 72(2), 129–157. Kitzler Åhfeldt, L. (2014) Setu stain, kiarþu merki, risti runaR: tekniska termer i runstensinskrifter från vikingatiden. Fornvännen 109, 243–258. Klos, L. (2009) Runensteine in Schweden. Studien zu Aufstellungsort und Funtion. Ergänzunsbände zum Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde, Band 64. Berlin and New York: De Gruyter. Lindqvist, S. (1936) Uppsala högar och Ottarshögen. Stockholm: Kungl. Vitterhets Historie och Antikvitetesakademien. Ljung, C. (2016) Under runristad häll. 1. Tidigkristna gravmonument i 1000-talets Sverige. 2. Katalog över tidigkristna gravmonument, 1‒2. Stockholm Studies in Archaeology 67. Stockholm: Stockholms universitet. Måhl, K.G. (1990) Bildstenar och stavgardar – till frågan om de gotländska bildstenarnas placering. Gotländskt Arkiv 1990, 13–28. Nielsen, K.M. (1941) Runestenenes kumbl. In G. Knedsen (ed.) Danske Studier for Universitetsjubilæets Danske Samfund, 33–49. København: Gyldendalske Boghandel Nordisk Forlag. Nielsen, K.M. (1953) Kuml. Kuml 1953, 7‒14. Olsson, I. (1984) Ortnamn på Gotland. Stockholm: AWE, Geber. Peterson, L. (2006) Svenskt Runordsregister, utabetat av Lena Peterson. Tredje, reviderade upplagan. Runrön 2. Uppsala, http://web.teli.com/%7eu13403587/rundata/Runordsregister. pdf. Rannsakningar efter antikviteter 1–4. På Akademiens uppdrag utg. under redaktion av C.I. Ståhle och N-G. Stahre. Stockholm 1962–1998. Stockholm: Kungl. Vitterhets Historie och Antikvitetesakademien. Sahlgren, J. (1935) Sockennamnen i Närke. En översikt. Årsbok för hembygdsvård, 68–72. Schneider, M. (2011) Broby – där hav möter land. Ortnamnsbildning vid kommunikativa knutpunkter i järnålderns Uppland. Fornvännen 106, 290–305. Stahre, N.-G. (1952) Stångskäret, Kåksna och Kummelberget. Studier över ortnamn i Stockholms skärgård. Lund: Carl Bloms tryckeri. Sveriges runinskrifter 1–16. Stockholm: Kungl. Vitterhets Historie och Antikvitetesakademien. UR = Upplands runinskrifter granskade och tolkade av Elias Wessén och Sven B.F. Jansson. Stockholm 1940–1958. Stockholm: Kungl. Vitterhets Historie och Antikvitetesakademien. Wikander, S. (1978) Araber, vikingar, väringar. Svenska Humanistiska Förbundet 90. Lund: Svenska humanistiska förbundet. Williams, H. (2013) Runstenarnas sociala dimension. Futhark: International Journal of Runic Studies 4, 61–76.

12 Beowulf – The Scandinavian background. A summary Bo Gräslund

Introduction From the very outset of the research, the general view has been that the epic poem Beowulf was composed by an Old English poet – a view that has always been accepted by Scandinavian literary scholars.1 The only dissenting voice has been that of the German linguist Gregor Sarrazin, who claimed early on, on linguistic grounds, that the poem must be of Scandinavian origin (Sarrazin 1888; 1897). One might imagine that an international scholarly axiom going back 200 years would be based on an open-minded examination of all the available sources. But in this instance that does not appear to be the case. Archaeologists and historians have nervously kept away, leaving it to philologists and literary historians alone to try to establish, starting from the given premise, when, where and in what contexts the poem was composed in England. In my recent exploration of the origins of the poem from a more multidisciplinary standpoint, however – Beowulfkvädet: Den nordiska bakgrunden (Gräslund 2018)2 – the conclusion I reach is that the poem could not possibly have been composed in England. In the following, I shall briefly outline the arguments I put forward in support of this view.3

Primary source analysis Possible arguments for an Old English author Strange to say, we rarely come across explicit arguments for the view that Beowulf was composed by an Old English poet, presumably because they are considered self-evident. The language is, of course, Old English, the only manuscript is to be found in England, and the poem has certain Christian elements. So, what conclusions can be drawn from these facts? Actually, only that Beowulf was transmitted and written down in England. They say nothing at all about where and when it was originally composed.

One argument sometimes advanced for the position that the poem must have been composed in England is that it cannot have come into being in Scandinavia as no corresponding epic poetry is known there (Stanley 1994). But, then, scholars are forgetting that there is no Old English epic poem on an Old English subject, despite the fact that a literate culture became established much earlier in England than in Scandinavia. In thematic terms, Beowulf is dressed in borrowed Scandinavian plumes. In fact, scarcely any early society at the same level of complexity as the Old English and Old Scandinavian ones did not have a rich oral literature, which often also included epic forms. In the Nordic region, early Eddic poems, short verse inscriptions and legendary sagas (fornaldarsǫgur) bear direct and indirect witness to a rich poetic and narrative tradition with roots going back long before the Dark Ages. Historically, it is unreasonable to believe that the flourishing princely environments of Migration period Scandinavia would not have cultivated a rich oral narrative art in verse, including epic poetry, using early forms of the common Germanic metre fornyrðirslag. From the Bronze Age at least, all the prior conditions for epic poetry were in place, in both Scandinavia and England.

Linguistic assessment (chapters 5 and 18) It is now widely agreed that a whole series of largely independent archaic features of the manuscript from around AD 1000 – metrical, lexical, semantic, syntactic, onomastic, orthographic and palaeographic – date Beowulf to c. AD 685–725. Archaic palaeographic and orthographic characteristics are also held to indicate that the poem may already have existed in written form at that time. What, then, does this tell us about where Beowulf was composed? Absolutely nothing. The only thing it says is that the poem was circulating in England at the time in question. This is because the lack of early Old English texts

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for comparison makes it impossible to trace Beowulf further back in time using linguistic evidence, even if it were older. But the suggested dating is important all the same as it effectively refutes the constantly recurring assumption that the poem was composed during the Viking Age. As Arthur Brodeur (1959, 9–30, 254–271) has observed, Beowulf has a distinctive linguistic and lexical character that clearly distinguishes it from other Old English literature. That is the opinion of Robert Fulk, too, who considers (1992, 186) that the same is true of the metre, views that are shared by Andrew Cooper (2017, 51). This explains why Fulk, in his Introductory Grammar of Old English (2014), refrains from giving examples of written Old English from Beowulf. At least a score of individual words and expressions in Beowulf are markedly Scandinavian in character. Remarkably, moreover, a large number of compound and quite a few uncompounded words in the poem are not found in other Old English texts. The word ǣppelfealu, a Scandinavian expression for the coat pattern of a horse, would, it seems, have been difficult for Anglo-Saxons to understand. The same goes for a host of Scandinavian personal names in the poem, many of which were misunderstood by Old English scribes. Working from the premise that the poem was composed in England, the final element ‑þēow of the Danish queen’s name Wealhþēow has often been given the contradictory interpretation ‘thief’ or ‘thrall’, referring primarily to a bondswoman of Celtic descent. From a Scandinavian vantage point, ‘servant’ in the sense of ‘servant for higher purposes in society’ or ‘servant of the gods’ seems a far more credible interpretation, in both cultural historical and philological terms. The same point could be made regarding Ongenþēow and Ecgþēow, the names of Swedish princes found in Beowulf. A natural explanation as to why the language and metre of Beowulf both agree with and diverge from the pattern of other Old English poetry could be that the poem was composed in an East Scandinavian dialect closely related to Old Anglian, and within a common Germanic poetic tradition.

Was Beowulf composed in writing by a Christian poet? (Chapters 4 and 10) No one would deny that Beowulf abounds in features typical of oral verse literature, and yet it is generally considered to have been composed in written form. In so far as this contradiction is even discussed, it is dismissed with the claim that the poet deliberately wrote his work using the entire arsenal of literary devices at the disposal of oral poetry. As far as I know, no study has been made which demonstrates that Beowulf, or any other early work of Old English or other Germanic poetry, came about in that way. It is no more than an assumption, whose attraction lies in its exclusion of any idea of the poem having been composed in Scandinavia.

And, as Old English secular society was almost entirely illiterate, this has led to the contradictory conclusion that this worldly poetic work was composed by a pious monk. The Christian element in Beowulf is very superficial, consisting mostly of pious sighs and exclamations and short moralizing comments. These hardly ever impinge on the historical and factual content of the poem or on the depictions of life in the hall or the battles between Danes, Frisians and Jutes, and between Geats and Swedes. Even in the passages where Christian elements are most frequent, those about the kin of Grendel and the Serpent, they do not affect the description of the social and material culture of the poem. As many scholars have also noted, Beowulf has a clear core of pagan elements and of highly materialistic and pessimistic values, to which the Christian elements are clearly a secondary addition. It is difficult, moreover, to regard as Christian a poem that lacks any real Christian message, and in which no human character is guided by Christian ideals and ambitions or given a Christian funeral. It is quite incomprehensible that the ‘author’ should have Beowulf utter pious, godly words, only to then have him cremated and buried as a pagan, or that he should put Christian words in King Hrothgar’s mouth while also describing him as the leader of the pagan cult. It is equally contradictory when ‘the Christian voice’ completely misunderstands the pagan conceptions of the soul that clearly emerge from the accounts of pagan cremations which he himself is held to have composed. The idea of a Christian author simply does not add up. These and other inconsistencies show that the story of Beowulf was originally composed in a pagan world and that the few Christian elements were added secondarily, with little reflection, to a fairly intact pagan narrative. All the indications are that, when the story was subsequently passed on in a Christian England, certain pagan elements were considered objectionable and some minor additions and corrections were made in a Christian spirit. These are strikingly limited and loosely inserted, however, and primarily occur in contexts that naturally invite moralizing comments, such as in connection with evil creatures such as Grendel, Grendel’s mother and the Serpent, and with the fates of various individuals. They were probably supplied by Christian English bards as they recited the poem to Christian audiences, possibly with contributions from a scribe. The limited Christian elements in Beowulf, then, cannot be used as an argument for regarding the poem as composed by an Old English poet. On the contrary, the conclusion that they were added secondarily to an originally pagan narrative contradicts this idea.

Was Beowulf composed as fiction?

The considerable space devoted in Beowulf to fighting monsters is sometimes taken as evidence that the story is

12.  Beowulf – The Scandinavian background. A summary fiction based on old folk belief. If that is the case, then the ‘author’ is at least half a millennium ahead of his time. Hardly any other early Old English or early Germanic literature generally fits such a description. My own view is that the poem’s monsters are only a manifestation of folk belief in the sense that they are included as folk motifs in a metaphorical depiction of reality (see further below). Another argument against the poem being fiction is that, in other respects, it contains so many verifiable historical and archaeological facts. The idea that Beowulf was composed as fiction is a baseless assumption made to fit the hypothesis of an Old English author. It has contributed significantly to the view that it is pointless to try to identify a Scandinavian reality behind the poem.

Historical framework (chapter 5) The best-known historical point of reference in the poem is Hygelac and Beowulf’s raid on the mouth of the Rhine, referred to four times in Beowulf and also in three European sources. All the indications are that this happened around AD 530. A number of Danish and Swedish princes in the poem, moreover, can be traced through Old Norse and other Scandinavian sources to the first half of the 6th century, i.e. the late Scandinavian Migration period. The surviving Old English poem Widsið consists mainly of thulas, unsorted lists of European peoples and princes which the ‘narrator’ Widsith, ‘the widely travelled one’, claims to have visited, despite a time span of several hundred years. The poem has a clear north-west Continental and southern Scandinavian centre of gravity, which fits in well with Widsith’s claim to belong to the people of the Myrgings, who appear to have lived somewhere in north-western Germany. In it, mention is made of the Swedish kings Ongentheow (Egil) and Eadgils (Adils), Helm of the Wulfings, the Danish kings Hrothgar and Hrothulf, and Scandinavian peoples such as Swedes, Geats, Danes, Heathoreams, Hælsings and perhaps Ölanders (Eowum). Virtually throughout, however, these princes and peoples appear with no context to link them together. One reference in Widsið, though, does relate to events in Beowulf, namely the report that: Hrothulf and Hrothgar ruled the longest at peace together, uncle and nephew, after they drove away the kindred of Vikings and humiliated the spear-tips of Ingeld, chopping down at Heorot the majesty of the Heathobards.

But, while Widsið talks here about a victory for the Danes, in Beowulf it is claimed that the Heathobards burned down Heorot. All the indications, then, are that Widsið records what is probably a Myrgingian tradition

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about the Heathobards suffering a defeat, and Beowulf a Scandinavian tradition about them burning down Heorot. One does not exclude the other. We can compare this with the Finnsburg episode in Beowulf and the separate Finnsburg Fragment, which appear to reflect two independent traditions concerning the same dramatic event (Amodio 2014, 323–326). Apart from these instances, Widsið contains no information whatsoever about the various historical contexts, events and social relations that fill Beowulf, other than the facts that Ongentheow led the Swedes, and Helm the Wulfings. Just as in Beowulf, there is nothing Old English in Widsið. When the Angles are mentioned, it is under the legendary Offa, long before their emigration to England. There is nothing to suggest that Widsið was composed in England, based on Continental and Scandinavian traditions circulating there; rather, it is a north-west Continental and southern Scandinavian chronicle that was transferred to England and memorized fairly mechanically there before being committed to writing. As with most other Old English poetry, the manuscript is from the 10th century and the language is Late West Saxon, with elements of older Anglian dialect. Orthography, choice of words and word forms suggest that Widsið as a text assumed its final form no later than the 8th century (Malone 1962; Neidorf 2014). Widsið has a negligible Christian colouring. Kemp Malone suggests that the tradition arose in the north-west corner of the Continent and that the first of the poem’s three thulas came into being on Funen in Denmark and was later transferred to England via Angles in north-west Germany (Malone 1962). Lotte Hedeager (2011) argues that the tradition represented in the whole of Widsið could emanate from Gudme on Funen. An Old English author, then, could not possibly have composed Beowulf based on the tradition found in Widsið, and no other relevant Scandinavian traditions are known in England. An old idea revisited (most recently in Neidorf 2017) is that the Beowulf tradition came to England with Anglian immigrants in the 5th and 6th centuries. But the earliest this could have happened is the second half of the 6th century, when Anglian immigration to England was largely at an end. What is more, no traces of such traditions have been preserved in England. Traditions involving the figures of Beowulf, Grendel and the Serpent are not found in other Old English texts, but they do occur in Rolf Krakes saga, Grettis Saga, Harðarsaga, Gullϸóris saga and even Þiðrekssaga af Bern (Hobson 2019), as well as in the work of Saxo Grammaticus – all in all, a strong indication that the poem was not composed in England, but in Scandinavia. There are no sources to support the idea that an Old English poet could have had access to the kind of Scandinavian tradition that would have been necessary to compose Beowulf.

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Material framework (chapter 6) Earlier archaeological assessments of Beowulf have generally confined themselves to a superficial comparison of its material culture with the known archaeological facts about England and Scandinavia at the time the poem is assumed to have been composed in England. To avoid circularity, however, the comparison has to be made without preconceived ideas about when and where the poem originated. The elite material and social setting of the poem is most strikingly reflected in the constant talk of rings of a prestigious character, the key element of Beowulf that inspired Tolkien to write The Lord of the Rings. In so far as anything specific is said about these rings, they consist of neck and arm rings of gold, which archaeologically are a characteristic feature of Scandinavia in the period c. AD 300–500. This is in complete contrast to England, where neck and arm rings, made from gold or other metals, are not found at any time in the Old English period, right up to the Late Viking Age. It is like two separate worlds. Equally decisively, however, neck and arm rings of this kind are entirely absent from Scandinavia during the following period, c. 550–750. Given that Beowulf is considered on linguistic grounds to have been composed in c. 685–725, the ‘author’ would thus have had no physical reference material at all for his poem, in either England or Scandinavia. So sharp is the contrast that the picture would not change appreciably if it were to emerge that the odd gold ring had managed to escape my notice in either of these areas. An equally prestigious artefact referred to in Beowulf is the coat of mail. Ring mail was used in elite circles in Scandinavia throughout the 1st millennium AD. In England, on the other hand, only one example is known, the mail coat discovered in the large ship burial at Sutton Hoo in East Anglia, from around AD 625 (Carver 1998). But, as this was found in a pagan ship burial of East Scandinavian character, together with a shield and helmet that are equally clearly of East Scandinavian origin, there is much to suggest that it, too, is from Scandinavia. The fact that no other such finds have been made in the huge number of graves from the early Old English period studied in England can only be taken to mean that coats of mail were not in general use in elite circles there before the Late Viking Age. This striking lack in England during the early Old English period of what are by far the dominant high-status objects in Beowulf – neck rings, arm rings and coats of mail – is underscored by the fact that, when such objects are referred to in other Old English texts from before the Late Viking Age, they either represent a Continental European poetic tradition or, as far as mail coats are concerned, are expressly linked to foreigners (chapter 6). The material world of Beowulf thus reflects a Scandinavian princely environment that disappeared for good in the mid6th century, entirely in keeping with the dating of the poem’s

historical content to the first half of that century. It is this narrow time frame that constitutes the ‘Beowulf Age’, not the time of King Raedwald’s burial at Sutton Hoo around 625. Like many other Scandinavian and Germanic traditions, those represented in Beowulf and Widsið were abruptly cut short by the great famine disaster in northern Europe just before the middle of the 6th century (chapter 21). An Old English poet, then, cannot have been inspired, by either personal experience or insular antiquarian tradition, to pepper this poem with rings and coats of mail. Nor could he so vividly have described sparkling gold rings in goldadorned princely halls, clinking ring mail and the powerful social magic of these materials. With their almost-cinematic tangibility, the descriptions of pagan cremations, gleaming mail coats on marching men and the drama surrounding King Egil’s death have so marked a character of eyewitness accounts that they cannot have been composed as a purely literary product long afterwards in a distant, Christian England.

First conclusion When the old dogma about Beowulf having been composed by an Old English poet, far in time and space from the events it describes, is examined for the first time from a broad archaeological, historical and philological perspective, it collapses like a house of cards. The only reasonable conclusion that remains is that the poem was composed in the areas where the story takes place; in other words, in eastern Scandinavia in the 6th century.

Analysis of the consequences Once it is clear that Beowulf cannot have been composed in England, it becomes meaningful for the first time to undertake a closer analysis of the geographical, topographical, historical and ideological information it contains.

The Geats are Gotlanders (chapter 8) The traditional view, and one also held in Sweden, is that the Geats (gēatas) referred to in the poem are the Gauts (ON gautar, Sw. götar) of Västergötland, or possibly Östergötland. And, yet, no scholar has been able to find a single word in the text to support this view. The Geats are consistently spoken of as a maritime, seafaring people who have relations with the Danes and Swedes across the water, sometimes explicitly referred to as the sea, a context that clearly points to the Baltic Sea area. The island of Öland is out of the question as the Ölanders have never been referred to as Gauts. Their only historically known epithet is ‘Önningar’, possibly represented in Widsið by Eowum. The homeland of the Geats is referred to at one point in the poem as an island, ēalond. Despite the unequivocal etymology of this word, most translators have given it quite

12.  Beowulf – The Scandinavian background. A summary different meanings, all based on the idea that the Geats are in fact Gauts living on the Swedish mainland. The only island of appreciable size in the Baltic with a people who, linguistically, could correspond to the gēatas of the poem is Gotland, with its Gutes (Sw. gutar), or Gotlanders. This ties in well with Gotland’s position during the Roman and Migration periods as a major economic, political and cultural power in northern Europe, with a material wealth reflecting independent relations with the Roman, provincial Roman, Gothic and Hunnish regions. In the poem, the Geats are referred to 21 times using the epithet Weder. Traditionally, this is translated as ‘weather’ or ‘storm’. But such an abstract tribal designation has no known parallels, in either the Germanic or the wider world. Västergötland and Östergötland are not particularly stormy provinces. One option that has been considered, therefore, is that weder could stand for ‘storm’ and hence for ‘combat’, and that wederas could then be interpreted as ‘the warriors’ and weder-gēatas as ‘Battle-Gauts’. But there is no evidence that Gauts have ever been referred to in this way. Following Sune Lindqvist, therefore, I turn instead to the meaning of the Old Swedish word weðr and Old Gutnish vädur, namely ‘wether’, i.e. ‘ram’ or ‘male sheep’. This interpretation is consistent with the common use of words for animals in tribal names the world over, including in the Germanic sphere. Above all, though, it is confirmed by the fact that the ram was the official national symbol of the Gotlanders from 1000 to 1300, and remains so to this day. There is also a reference in Beowulf to Wedermearc, i.e. ‘Wethermark’ or ‘Wetherland’, which can be compared to names such as Telemark, Finnmark and Lappmark, where the original sense of the word mark, ‘boundary’ or ‘forest’, has shifted secondarily to the ‘area’ or ‘land’ of a particular people. With its roots in Proto-Germanic *gautōz, going back to *geutan ‘pour (out)’, the tribal name gēatas is linguistically close to names such as Gauts, Gutes and Goths. The fact that gēatas has a vowel belonging to the same ablaut grade as Gauts (corresponding to PrGmc au), whereas both Gutes and Goths contain a vowel belonging to a different grade (PrGmc u), could be taken to indicate that the Geats are not Gutes. However, it is possible that the initial element weder- originally – probably as early as the Bronze Age and before vowel gradation had given rise to any clear difference – served to distinguish the Gutes from the West and East Gauts. Such is the significance of these circumstances that the difference in ablaut grade between gēatas and gutar can hardly have been evident from the outset. Linguists such as Elias Wessén and Ingmar Olsson have also pointed to a number of linguistic circumstances that indicate that this was by no means necessarily the case (Wessén 1969; 1972; Olsson 1996). But, even if it were, a vowel change could of course have occurred across 400 years of oral and written

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tradition in England. Another decisive consideration is that no Old English author has ever used the word gēatas to refer to a specific Scandinavian people. And, in any case, the poem could very well have been passed on to England by a non-Gutnish bard who pronounced the tribal name Gutes with an au ablaut form.

Gotland (chapters 8 and 14) Based on two place names in Beowulf, Earna nœs and Ronesnaes, Gad Rausing has identified eastern Gotland as Beowulf’s home (Rausing 1985). I myself have noted that, between the only possible modern-day counterparts of these names, just inland from Bandlundviken in Burs parish in south-eastern Gotland, there is a unique archaeological site which, better than any other, could represent the royal manor of Hygelac and Beowulf. It is a large complex originally consisting of four or five buildings, with a monumental approach road between the manor and a well-sheltered harbour. There are foundations here of a 67 m-long palace, one of the largest known buildings of the period in northern Europe (Nihlén 1932; Nihlén and Boethius 1933). Rising up behind the site is the enormous Littorina beach ridge, a geological formation that could correspond to the mysterious sǣweall in Beowulf. The manor was occupied from before the birth of Christ to around AD 550, when the main building was burnt down, the very fate said to have befallen Beowulf’s hall. Finds that include Roman glass beakers, Roman terra sigillata ceramics and a large number of Roman silver denarii testify unequivocally to a royal dwelling (Nihlén 1932; Nihlén and Boethius 1933). The national fortification of the Gotlanders in the late 5th century, Torsburgen, the largest prehistoric stone hill fort in Scandinavia, which was partly demolished by enemy forces at the end of the 5th century (Engström 1984; 1991), may be the site referred to in Beowulf as Hrēosnabeorh, ‘the razed fort’, and as lēoda fæsten, ‘the stronghold of the people’. Gotland’s many unique vaulted limestone cairns from the Bronze Age also seem much likelier models for the Serpent’s den than British megalithic tombs far beyond an Anglian poet’s geographical horizon.

Heorot is not Lejre (chapter 15) The royal seat of the Danish Skjöldung (Scylding) kings plays a key role in the poem. The frequently advanced idea that King Hrothgar’s hall, Heorot, corresponds to Lejre in northern Zealand is another of the many myths about Beowulf. It is inconsistent with the dating of the oldest known high-status settlement at Lejre, and with the archaeological and historical dating of the events described in the poem. As Gad Rausing has convincingly shown, a close geographical/topographical reading of the account of Beowulf’s journey to Heorot suggests that it did not take him to northern Zealand, but to the large Stevns peninsula in the eastern part of the island, the principal centre of wealth in

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Scandinavia during the Middle Iron Age (Rausing 1985) – in my view, more specifically to the area around Broskov, close to Præstø Fjord. The magnificent stone-built ‘Roman’ road at Broskov (Kunwald 1962; 1996), which is reflected in the name of the place, may be described in the poem. All the indications are that the main seat of the Skjöldungs was only relocated from Broskov to Lejre after Heorot, as the poem tells it, had been burnt down by the Heathobards.

The absence of place names No actual place names occur in Beowulf, and nothing is said about where the royal manors of the Danes and Gutes are located. The place where King Egil is killed is not named, nor is the royal manor of the Frisian king, despite the dramatic events that unfold there. This lack of clear geographical references can be seen as natural, given the well-known reluctance of Old Germanic poets and artists to be overly explicit when they could express themselves indirectly and metaphorically. The geographical reticence of the text, therefore, need not be attributed to an Old English author’s ignorance of Scandinavian geography, but is, rather, a natural result of the poem being created in a setting where audiences already knew roughly what had happened and were thus able to understand roundabout modes of expression. The absence of geographical precision is perfectly compatible with the conclusion that Beowulf was originally composed in the areas where the story played out.

Wars between Gotlanders and Swedes (chapters 16 and 22) Beowulf refers to four wars between Swedes and Geats, and hints at a fifth one preceding them. These conflicts only form a comprehensible geographical pattern once it is clear that the Geats are Gutes, or Gotlanders, and that all movements to and from them take place across the sea. Two of the wars are fought on Gotland, and two in eastern Svealand, the territory of the Swedes. The first of the latter involves Hygelac (Hugleik), king of the Gutes, who would later attack Frisia together with Beowulf. The Swedish king Egil is probably surprised in south-eastern Uppland and subsequently retreats inland. The Gutes advance in the same direction, to something referred to as hagan and freoðowong, an ‘enclosure’ adjoining ‘protected fields’, where King Egil falls, possibly close to the ancient hill fort of Broborg. The archaic introduction to Guta saga tells how, after many wars and negotiations between Avair Strabein and the king of the Swedes, the people of Gotland lose their political independence, are required to pay a tax to the Swedes and are placed under their military protection. This is not inconsistent with the tradition represented in Beowulf, according to which Beowulf helps his kinsman Eadgils (Adils), prince of the Swedes, to take control of the Swedes, and in which

nothing is said of a successor to Beowulf as king. Gotland’s position as an autonomous republic under the Swedes during the Merovingian Viking and medieval periods could very well be traced back to these events.

Ynglingatal and Beowulf (chapter 16)

The conclusion that the Geats of Beowulf are Gutes makes it possible for the first time to attempt a passable reconstruction of the material content of Ynglingatal’s severely mangled lines about the death of King Egil. It is evident that the stories of his demise in Beowulf and Ynglingatal build on a common East Swedish tradition, further reinforcing the picture of an East Scandinavian background to Beowulf.

Scilfing, Swīorīce and Swēoðēod (chapter 9)

The epithet Scilfing is applied in Beowulf to no fewer than four princes of Swīorīce and Swēoðēod. The archaeologically well-attested tradition according to which the Swedish elite, for example in a royal central place such as Uppsala (Ljungkvist and Frölund 2015) with its satellite settlement Valsgärde (Norr and Sundkvist 1995), made their splendid halls even more monumental by placing them on a skjalf, a raised, often artificial, plateau can be seen as a way of accentuating and reinforcing the myth of the Swedish kings’ close relationship to the gods Freyr, Freyja and Odin, who occupied elevated dwellings bearing names with the suffix -skjalf. The use of the designation Scilfing in Beowulf clearly goes back to a specific East Swedish tradition from the Migration period. The same goes for names such as Swīorīċe and Swēoðēod, which are not attested in England until half a millennium later.

Beowulf of Swedish descent (chapter 9) The poem is clear about Beowulf being closely related to the kings of the Swedes, through his father Ecgtheow and his kinsmen, the Swedish princes Wihstan and Wiglaf. This circumstance, often overlooked, adds a deeper dimension to the whole story and helps to explain Beowulf’s political actions.

The monsters of the poem and the famine disaster of 536–550 (chapter 21) I have attempted to show that the figures of Grendel and Grendel’s mother could plausibly go back to an originally allegorical representation of the dreadful years of famine that befell northern Europe in AD 536–550, a period of disastrous summers throughout the northern hemisphere and the likely background to the Fimbulwinter, or ‘Great Winter’, of tradition. It began with the sun’s rays being completely obscured for almost two years, an occurrence well attested in texts from Late Antiquity and probably also reflected in the Edda and Kalevala literature. The cause was a supervolcanic eruption in early March 536, probably

12.  Beowulf – The Scandinavian background. A summary in western North America, compounded by another in the tropics in 540 and a smaller eruption, location unknown, in 547 (Sigl et al. 2015; Büntgen et al. 2016; Toohey et al. 2016). In many parts of Scandinavia, the extent of human settlement and hence the population appear to have been reduced by 50–75 per cent in a short space of time, a development clearly confirmed by long-term scrub and woodland invasion of the agricultural landscape (Gräslund 2007; Gräslund and Price 2012). With support from Guta saga and Saxo Grammaticus, I read Beowulf’s fight with the monsters Grendel and Grendel’s mother, who tormented the Danes for 12 full years, as symbolic of this protracted life-and-death crisis, and suggest that Beowulf travels to Hrothgar to advise him to follow the Gotlanders’ example and have some of his population emigrate to warmer climes. With such an interpretation, Grendel, Grendel’s mother and the Serpent do not reflect primitive popular conceptions, but a Germanic intellectualism, typical of the period, which represents realworld circumstances allegorically, in a visual metaphorical guise. Another element of the myth of Beowulf as fiction composed by an Old English poet is the ‘dragon’ so beloved of many translators. In fact, there are only four references in the poem to a dragon (draca), and 16 to a wyrm, i.e. a serpent. There is much to suggest that the word draca was added secondarily in the Christian setting of England. I view the Serpent as a forerunner of the Midgard Serpent of Norse mythology, originating in the dark, serpentine bands against the backdrop of a fiery-red evening sky that are commonly seen around the world in the wake of a major volcanic eruption. All the indications are that the story of Beowulf is enacted in the aftermath of the Fimbulwinter of reality.

Sutton Hoo as a mediating link (chapter 19) The poem’s very tangible accounts of military events, material environments and pagan cremations suggest that the story found its way to England early on, through a small number of intermediaries; most probably, through the mediation of a professional bard. Only a short period of oral transmission would then be involved before the first manuscript came into being – in all, no more than five or six generations in Scandinavia and England. This would enable us to make sense of the factually credible, on-the-spot descriptions of concrete settings from 6th-century Scandinavia that are the hallmark of Beowulf, the palpable links between Beowulf and the East Scandinavian tradition in Ynglingatal and Guta saga, and the wealth of plausible geographical, genealogical, historical and other information about Scandinavia which the poem provides. The most likely point of contact in every respect between England and eastern Scandinavia prior to the Viking Age would seem to be the large ship burial at Sutton Hoo in East Anglia, from c. AD 625. In my book, I outline a

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hypothetical model of how the Beowulf tradition could have been transferred to England by a professional bard in connection with a royal dynastic marriage linking East Anglia and eastern Svealand around AD 600, most likely between King Raedwald and the daughter of a Swedish prince. The transfer of the tradition into Old English was only possible because of the great similarities between the East Scandinavian and East Anglian dialects of the time.

Origins of the poem (chapter 20) When Beowulf and his retainers return to Gotland, they bring with them a large body of oral narrative material about their journey to Heorot, the gatherings there, Beowulf’s verbal duel with Unferth, the account he himself gave at Heorot of his youthful exploits in Frisia and his journey home from there, and his metaphorical battles with Grendel and Grendel’s mother. There were many other things, too, that they had heard at Heorot, including a large number of speeches and pronouncements, not only what others had said and various stories they had heard, but also things Beowulf himself had said before. These include the traditions concerning Hrothgar’s descent, Scyld (Sköld) and his funeral, the fighting at Finnsburg and Hnæf’s funeral, and the Continental myth regarding Sigurd/Sigmund. All of these retrospective passages, which have often been misunderstood as interpolations with no literary justification, or as reflecting the carefully considered intentions of an author, more likely represent the self-evident way in which, in an oral world, Beowulf and his companions would have reported the sum total of their experiences. This also explains why some of what has been told before is retold, sometimes repeatedly. The metaphorical reinterpretations of Beowulf’s exploits as encounters with Grendel and the Serpent probably originated on Gotland. When Beowulf and his men set foot on their native shore and are about to meet the much-esteemed Queen Hygd, their conversation quite naturally turns to her polar opposite, the wicked Mothrytho/Fremu. As they recount their adventures a short time later to an attentive audience in the hall, these final reflections are also spoken of and hence incorporated into the narrative. The way in which the speakers retell everything they have been told, experienced and themselves previously spoken of is part of the natural logic of oral narrative. In contrast to the modern-day, no-frills way of reporting what we have heard and experienced in condensed summaries, in oral cultures as much as possible is reproduced in direct speech, making the story more tangible and alive. Not only Beowulf’s followers but also everyone who was present on their return and listened to them in the hall may later have retold all or parts of their stories and helped to pass them on to others. Eventually those stories were extended to include the account of Beowulf’s fight with the Serpent

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and King Onela (Ale), and of Beowulf’s death and funeral. In the latter context, earlier hostilities between Gotlanders and Swedes naturally came to mind, were recounted and became an organic part of the narrative. It is hinted at several times in the poem that Heorot will be burnt down and destroyed, with serious consequences for Hrothgar’s family. Such a dramatic event probably soon became known throughout Scandinavia and may have been inserted afterwards by East Swedish bards. The poem is not a biography of Beowulf – we are told relatively little about his life. Tolkien was right in his view that the main character of the poem is not Beowulf himself, but rather Grendel, Grendel’s mother and the Serpent. However, this is not as an expression of a particular, anti-Christian evil, but of evil in the shape of the terrible famine disaster of the time. As Beowulf is the one who will put everything to rights, he is nevertheless always the central figure. At the same time, he provides the tragic hero that is the natural requirement of every oral epic. Neidorf et al. (2019) take the view that, in literary, linguistic and metrical terms, the poem is so uniform that, just as Tolkien (1936) claimed, a single poet must be assumed. If that is the case, there is good reason to believe that the poet in question was a Gotlander on Gotland, working on the basis of traditions circulating there and shorter poems about Beowulf that had come into existence over a limited period within a uniform local poetic tradition. Any minor rough edges could subsequently have been smoothed out over hundreds of years of oral and written tradition. The Old English language of the manuscript is a late West Saxon dialect. But, as archaic linguistic features point back in time to East Anglia, Mercia and Northumbria, the story of Beowulf must have been transferred to and first transmitted in Anglian dialect, before finally being transmitted in West Saxon dialect in the south of England.

Beowulf as a historical source (chapter 20) The poem is very sparing when it comes to direct information about the internal chronology of the narrative, a feature far more in keeping with oral epic than with an author writing fiction in a structured manner. It is also full of minor contradictions that cannot be explained from the traditional perspective of deliberate literary authorship. Most of these are at a technical narrative level, and are readily understood in the light of a complex history of oral composition and tradition. Historical, topographical, genealogical and chronological contradictions, on the other hand, are relatively few and far between. For all the fanciful depictions of Grendel, Grendel’s mother and the Serpent, both the settings and the dialogue bear the definite stamp of reality and factual credibility. There is a very clear dividing line between reality and imagination, or between objective realism and what is usually regarded as primitive folk belief, but is in fact a sophisticated metaphorical account of the

struggle against the deadly famine disaster of the time. Beowulf’s youthful swimming feats in the open sea are also to be understood as metaphorical representations of sea voyages in rowed ships, which eventually, as the narrative was passed on in England, came to be misunderstood as actual swimming. The basic vantage point of the poem is clearly East Scandinavian, and it reproduces what is essentially a Gutnish tradition from just before the middle of the 6th century. There is much to suggest that Old English bards and audiences knew the poem was Scandinavian and saw no reason to introduce into it any of the many native heroic and genealogical traditions that must have been circulating at the princely courts of their day. Apart from a superficial Christian facelift – the only content that may be assumed to have been added to the poem on Old English soil – the Scandinavian pagan core of the poem seems to have been left largely intact. Thus, once the story had begun to be transmitted in England, the content appears to have become largely fixed and to have been written down early on. This is in dramatic contrast to the almost complete disappearance of the Beowulf tradition in Scandinavia, where a literate culture was established much later. We have every reason to be grateful that an Old English elite found this foreign tradition worth passing on with respect and preserving in writing. This was made easier, no doubt, by the considerable linguistic, cultural and social similarities between the elite societies of eastern Scandinavia and East Anglia at the time the poem was transferred to England. It cannot be taken for granted that the story of Beowulf that has been preserved corresponds to the whole of the original one. Passages of the original poem, both short and long, may very well have been lost during the course of its transmission. Having been regarded as a literary work of art by an English author, the poem has been deemed to be of limited value as a source on Scandinavian history. But if, in fact, it came into existence in eastern Scandinavia in the 6th century and was transferred fairly soon to England, where it was frozen and stabilized apart from a superficial Christian colouring and a misinterpretation of the allegorical thinking in the stories of Grendel, Grendel’s mother and the Serpent and of Beowulf’s swimming exploits, then a very different assessment must be made of that question. In that case, no more than a couple of generations can have passed between the poem being composed and it becoming fixed, an extremely short time compared with other Scandinavian traditions from the same period. This gives us a very different perspective on its value as a source. The reassessment of Beowulf’s origins proposed here allows us to remove the poem from the deep freeze in which it has long been kept as a historical source. But it also has consequences, of course, for the literary interpretation of the work.

12.  Beowulf – The Scandinavian background. A summary The main storyline of Beowulf unfolds over a limited period of time. Some of the shorter interpolations, such as those about Scyld’s funeral, Mothrytho/Fremu and Offa, Sigurd and Sigmund, Hama and the Brosings’ necklace, could go back to traditions that were already several generations old when they were incorporated into the Beowulf tradition. The time frame of the poem’s material culture is wider, but still relatively narrow. The value of a poetic work as a historical source hinges crucially not only on the period of oral transmission and how different written versions have influenced one another, but also on the number of times the poem passed through a succession of human minds as it was recited and committed to writing. Over the course of a century, it may have been a matter of anything from three or four to any number of times. During the relatively short period of around 150 years that I have assumed for the oral tradition of Beowulf in Scandinavia and England, it could have been recited anything from half a dozen to hundreds of times. The shorter end of that range is unlikely, and, given the poem’s accurate rendering of concrete facts about the material culture of the Migration period, so too is the longer end. I therefore imagine that the Beowulf tradition was recited between 20 and 40 times, by a somewhat smaller number of bards, before it was written down. On top of this, there were the influences that came into play in the writing down and copying of the poem. But the numbers suggested can be no more than an assumption. Although Beowulf can be attributed much greater value as a historical source than has traditionally been believed, the question still has to be considered on a case-by-case basis. Like all literature, oral poetry reflects subjective impressions, feelings and intentions that, as it is passed on, are repeatedly subject to alteration. While the figure of Beowulf and most of the supporting cast of characters can be assumed to have had a historical background, the narrative never sought to express anything other than personal perceptions of reality. Grendel, Grendel’s mother and the Serpent were not originally intended to portray actual beings, but are to be seen as metaphorical representations in allegorical form of events in the real world. It is therefore reasonable, in my view, to consider Beowulf of greater value as a historical source than other Scandinavian traditions from the same period, such as Ynglinga saga, Ynglingatal, Saxo and a number of legendary sagas. There is much to suggest that the Geats of the poem are Gutes living on Gotland, that Hygelac participated in an attack on the Swedes in which King Egil was killed, that Hygelac himself died in a raid on Frisia in which Beowulf was also involved, and that a series of wars were fought between Gotlanders and Swedes in the later part of the Migration period, the outcome of which was to the Gotlanders’ disadvantage. It is also likely that,

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at this time, the royal seat of the Skjöldungs was still in south-eastern Zealand, but that, after it had been burnt down by the Heathobards, it was relocated to Lejre in northern Zealand.

Concluding remarks Is Beowulf, then, an Old Scandinavian or an Old English poem? The question is almost impossible to answer. In that Beowulf was transmitted for a long time in Old English, it is Old English in the same sense as Vǫlsungasaga, Vǫlundarkviða, Atlamál, Hervarar saga and Hamðismál are regarded as Old Icelandic rather than Continental Germanic literature. But the actual story and the whole of its social, ideological and material world are essentially East Scandinavian. Its core as a poem is thus also East Scandinavian. Beowulf has always been viewed as an expression of a specifically Old English poetic art and world of ideas. This is only true in so far as the culture and mentality of the early Old English period were very similar throughout the Germanic world and an Old English elite could identify with the poem’s way of thinking, apart from such elements as its pagan view of death and basic pagan mood, and the special social magic of gold rings, coats of mail and goldadorned halls. The general use of the term ‘author’ is an unfortunate anachronism that obscures our understanding of the complex processes behind the creation of much early Germanic and Old Norse poetry. In the case of Beowulf, these involved the poets of eastern Scandinavia who composed individual parts of the story and the one or more individuals who combined them into a larger entity. In addition, there were all the people who recited the poem, perhaps adding to, subtracting from, correcting, misunderstanding and editing it in terms of its content and literary expression. The few individuals who were involved in writing down and copying the poem presumably had less influence on its content, form, style, message and length. Essentially, Beowulf emerges as a collective product of poets and bards in Zealand, Gotland and Svealand, a number of East Anglian, Northumbrian, Mercian and West Saxon bards and a handful of Old English scribes, all of them unknown to us by name. It is no coincidence that most Old English, Old Scandinavian and other Germanic literary works are anonymous. It is part of the very nature of oral literature. Responsibility for the question of the poem’s origins having been so seriously neglected rests primarily with the archaeological research community on both sides of the North Sea, not least the Scandinavian one to which I myself belong. The picture I have presented here could have been put forward over half a century ago. Translated by Martin Naylor

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Notes 1 2 3

Most recently by Lars Lönnroth (2017). The book can be ordered from [email protected], or be downloaded as a PDF file from https://kgaa.bokorder.se/svSE/article/3494/beowulfkvadet. For references I will often, for reasons of space, refer simply to chapters of my book.

Bibliography Amodio, M.C. (2014) The Anglo-Saxon Literature Handbook. Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell. Brodeur, A.G. (1959) The Art of Beowulf. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Büntgen, U., Myglan, V.S., Charpentier-Ljungqvist, F., McCormick, M., Di Cosmo, N., Sigl, M., Jungclaus, J., Wagner, S., Krusic, P.J., Esper, J., Kaplan, J.O., de Vaan Michiel, A.C., Luterbacher, J., Wacker, L., Tegel, W. and Kirdyanov, A.V. (2016) Cooling and societal change during the Late Antique Little Ice Age from 536 to around 660 CE. Nature Geoscience 9, 1–5. Carver, M. (1998) Sutton Hoo. Burial Ground of Kings? London: British Museum Press. Cooper, A. (2017) A Unified Account of the Old English Metrical Line. Stockholm: Stockholm University. Engström, J. (1984) Torsburgen. Tolkning av en gotländsk fornborg. Uppsala: Uppsala universitet. Engström, J. (1991) Fornborgarna och samhällsutvecklingen under mellersta järnåldern. In C. Fabech and J. Ringtved (eds) Samfundsorganisation og regional variation. Norden i romersk jernalder og folkevandringstid, 267–276. Aarhus: Jysk Arkæologisk Selskab. Fulk, R.D. (1992) A History of Old English Meter. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Fulk, R.D. (2014) An Introductory Grammar of Old English with an Anthology of Readings. Tempe, AZ: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies. Gräslund, B. (2007) Fimbulvintern, Ragnarök och klimatkrisen år 536–537 e.Kr. Saga och sed. Kungl. Gustav Adolfs akademiens årsbok, 93–123. Gräslund, B. (2018) Beowulfkvädet: Den nordiska bakgrunden. Acta Academiae Regiae Gustavi Adolphi 149. Uppsala: Kungl. Gustav Adolfs Akademien för Svensk Folkkultur. Gräslund, B. and Price, N. (2012) Twilight of the gods? The ‘dust veil event’ of AD 536 in critical perspective. Antiquity 86, 428–443. Hedeager, L. (2011) Iron Age Myth and Materiality: An Archaeology of Scandinavia AD 400–1000. London and New York: Routledge. Hobson, J. (2019) An Old Norse courtly analogue to Beowulf. Neophilologus 103, 577–590. Kunwald, G. (1962) Broskovvejene. Nationalmuseets Arbejdsmark, 149–167. Kunwald, G. (1996) Veje fra oldtid og middelalder i Beoskov. Braut 1. Nordiske Vejhistoriske Studier 1996, 13–36.

Ljungkvist, J. and Frölund, P. (2015) Gamla Uppsala – the emergence of a centre and a magnate complex. Journal of Archaeology and Ancient History 6, 1–29. Lönnroth, L. (2017) Det germanska spåret: En västerländsk litteraturtradition från Tacitus till Tolkien. Stockholm: Natur & Kultur. Malone, K. (ed.) (1962) Widsith. Revised edition. Anglistica, vol. VIII. Copenhagen: Rosenkilde and Bagger. Neidorf, L. (2014) Germanic legend, scribal errors, and cultural change. In L. Neidorf (ed.) The Dating of Beowulf: A Reassessment, 37–57. Cambridge: D.S. Brewer. Neidorf, L. (2017) The Transmission of ‘Beowulf’: Language, Culture, and Scribal Behavior. Myth and Poetics II. Ithaca NY: Cornell University Press. Neidorf, L., Madison, S.K., Yakubek, M., Chaudhuri, P. and Joseph, P.D. (2019) Large-scale quantitative profiling of the Old English verse tradition. Nature Human Behaviour 3, 560–567. Nerman, B. (1958) Grobin-Seeburg: Ausgrabungen und Funde. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell. Nihlén, J. (1932) En gård från äldre järnåldern på Gotland. Ett preliminärt meddelande. In B. Thordeman (ed.) Arkeologiska studier tillägnade HKH Kronprins Gustaf Adolf, 79‒91. Stockholm: Svenska fornminnesföreningen. Nihlén, J. and Boëthius, G. (1933) Gotländska gårdar och byar under äldre järnåldern. Studier till belysning av Gotlands äldre odlingshistoria. Stockholm: Seelig. Norr, S. and Sundkvist, A. (1995) Valsgärde revisited. Fieldwork resumed after 40 years. Tor 27(2), 395–417. Olsson, I. (1996) Gotländska ortnamn. Visby: Ödin. Rausing, G. (1985) Beowulf, Ynglingatal and the Ynglingasaga: Fiction or history? Fornvännen 80, 163–178. Sarrazin, G. (1888) Beowulf-Studien: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte altgermanischer Sage und Dichtung. Berlin: Mayer & Müller. Sarrazin, G. (1897) Neue Beowulf-Studien. Englische Studien 23, 221–267. Sigl, M., Winstrup, M., McConnell, J.R., Welten, K.C., Plunkett, G., Ludlow, F., Büntgen, U., Caffee, M., Chellman, N., DahlJensen, D., Fischer, H., Kipfstuhl, S., Kostick, C., Maselli, O.J., Mekhaldi, F., Mulvaney, R., Muscheler, R., Pasteris, D.R., Pilcher, J.R., Salzer, M., Schüpbach, S., Steffensen, J.P., Vinther, B.M. and Woodruff, T.E. (2015) Timing and climate forcing of volcanic eruptions for the past 2,500 years. Nature 523, 543–549. Stanley, E.G. (1994) In the Foreground: Beowulf. Cambridge: D.S. Brewer. Tolkien, J.R.R. (1936) Beowulf. The monsters and the critics. Proceedings of the British Academy 22, 245–295. Toohey, M., Krüger, K., Sigl, M., Stordal, F. and Svensen, H. (2016) Climatic and societal impacts of a volcanic double event at the dawn of the Middle Ages. Climatic Change 136(3–4), 401–412. Wessén, E. (1969) Nordiska folkstammar och folknamn. En översikt. Fornvännen 64(1), 14–36. Wessén, E. (1972) Die gotische Sprache und ihre Überlieferung. In U.E. Hagberg (ed.) Studia gotica. Die eisenzeitlichen Verbindungen zwischen Schweden und Südosteuropa. Vorträge beim Gotensymposion im Statens Historiska Museum, 120–129. Stockholm: Kungl. Vitterhets Historie och Antikvitetesakademien.

13 Rebooting the Gospel for a Germanic audience – The case of Heliand Jhonny Therus

The Frankish wars and sword mission against the Saxons during the late 8th and early 9th century were long and bloody affairs. Violent though the initial mission was, in order to have a lasting effect, the subsequent mission and organization had to appeal to the Saxon aristocracy on an ideological and practical level. The written sources reveal that the Church preferred a continued mission where understanding and practice were conveyed through older phenomena that the recipient people understood and were familiar with (Sanmark 2004). Heliand, ‘the Old Saxon Gospel’, was composed as part of the effort to make Christianity relatable to the Saxon nobles, and the version of Christianity it presented came to play an important role in the conversion of northern Europe. The Christianization of northern Europe during the Viking Age was a slow and reciprocal process. During the process, Christianity was mainly introduced into society from above, as missionaries both needed and targeted the aristocracy, utilizing similarities between the new and old ideas to bridge the cultural gap. The result was Christianity with a distinct Germanic flavour (e.g. Fabech 1991; Hultgård 1992; Russel 1994). In Scandinavia, where the Carolingian Empire had less influence and the power relationship between missionaries and recipients was distinctly in the latter’s favour, the process took several hundred years, and Heliand’s unique version of Christianity found fertile ground (Andersson 2005; Therus 2019). Therefore, Heliand is a key source for our understanding of the fusion of ideas during the conversion period and how the gospel could be adapted to older mentalities and social practices. It clearly shows that the blending of Christian ideas with the established structure of Germanic society, customs and religion was part of a deliberate mission strategy. The poem also shows how two distinct ideologies or mentalities could

be merged and how the gospel served as a bridge between old and new beliefs. The term inculturation can be used to describe the deliberate merging of two world views or religions. The concept of inculturation was developed by Jesuit mission scholars and its purpose was to create a deliberate synthesis between the Christian message and the core beliefs of the receiving culture (Bosman 2016, 42–43). The same idea seems to have been the governing principle for many of the Viking Age missionaries in northern Europe. This is both an educational approach and a mission strategy, as the new doctrine needed to be made intelligible and attractive to the aristocratic target group. That the inculturation approach was not isolated to Scandinavia or the Saxon mission is indicated by poems from other areas in which a similar perspective can be found, such as the Old English poem Dream of the Rood (Swanton 1996). To illustrate this, this chapter will present some examples of how Heliand managed to transform Christ into a Germanic ruler, and how the poem, even though it is a description of the life of Christ, presents a synthesis of pre-Christian and Christian mentalities. First, this chapter introduces the Old Saxon Gospel Heliand. The main clue regarding the transformation of the Christian text into a Germanic gospel is found in its structural re-composition and cultural translation. To analyse this, the chapter’s main part combines Frands Herschend’s ideas regarding the Germanic hero’s journey of civilization (1998; 2001) with Ronald Murphy’s observations regarding the structure of the poem (1992, 221–230). This will be discussed through short comments and comparisons with other poems from the same narrative tradition that are already well known to scholars of the Iron and Viking Ages, primarily Beowulf and Rígsþula as Heliand draws heavily on the same tradition as both

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poems. Beowulf depicts a virtuous champion defending the ideal society (Herschend 1998; Tolkien 2014), and Rígsþula depicts how the god Rígr creates society and its classes and describes the ideal behaviour of everyone, from serfs to earls (Larrington 2014). The god Rígr concludes by personally instructing his aristocratic offspring in the art of being a hall owner and ruler. Heliand in turn has had a formative influence on both later Christian teachings and later poems, such as The Battle of Maldon (Murphy 1989, 100).

Heliand, the Old Saxon Gospel Heliand, meaning ‘Saviour’, is a retelling of the life of Christ written in Old Saxon by an unknown monk in one of the monasteries on the frontier of the Saxon wars – Fulda, Corbie, Corvey or Werden – at the beginning of the 9th century, probably around 830–850 (Cathey 2002, 1622), i.e. at the same time and in the same monastic milieu from which many of the missionaries travelling to Scandinavia originated. Ansgar, usually connected to the main missionary effort to Sweden, can be linked to Fulda, Corbie and Corvey (Westman 1920, 61). Today, the monasteries are located in the area of north-west Germany and northern France bordering on the Netherlands and Belgium. It is likely that the author of Heliand had the four gospels, Hrabanus Maurus’ (780–856) commentary on the Gospel of Matthew and Tatianus’ Diatesseron as sources of inspiration for the poem (Bosman 2016, 4041). The, now-lost, Latin preface indicated that the work was commissioned by Ludovicus pijssimus Augustus, whom we can probably identify as Louis the Pious, Charlemagne’s son and successor (Murphy 1989, 1213; Norr 1998, 48). The poem is preserved in two manuscripts – M, the Munich manuscript, and manuscript C, the London manuscript – and in several fragments. Manuscript C is dated to the 10th century, and M to the mid- or late 9th century (Murphy 1989, 2628). The preserved text is 5983 alliterative lines long (Beowulf consists of 3182 lines), divided into 71 songs or Fitten that describe and explain the life of Jesus. The original was probably made up of 72 or 73 songs, though Cathey suggests 75 (Cathey 2002, 16–25). What makes Heliand such a rewarding source concerning the transition from a pre-Christian to a Christian world view is that it is not a direct translation of selected parts of the gospels but rather a poetically translated retelling of them set in a Saxon-Germanic context. By recounting the events of the gospels as if they had taken place in a Saxon context, the author created a unique cultural synthesis between Christianity and Germanic warrior society. Not only are the evangelical stories given a new context, but the stories were also restructured into an epic tale of a Germanic hero. The purpose of Heliand seems to be to explain the Christian principles to the Saxon nobles who had recently been converted by force. The author manages this with

surprisingly good results, usually by slightly adjusting the gospel’s focus. If Louis the Pious did commission the poem, we can assume that one motive was pacification of the rebellious Saxons. However, the text is somewhat ambiguous on this issue as the author’s insight into and sympathy for the Saxons’ situation is clear (Murphy 1989, 11–31). That the target audience is Saxon chieftains is evident from the changes and additions the author has made to the original gospel story. A clear example of this is Christ pointing out the value of being a good and just judge (song 16). The epic nature of the poem also makes it evident that it was intended to be recited or performed as a song, probably in the chieftain’s halls as well as in monasteries. Musical notations facilitating such a performance are found in manuscript M (Murphy 1992, xvii; Cathey 2002, 16). All Scandinavian social arenas, notably the thing and the aristocratic hall, as well as more mundane interaction between people were governed by rules for oral practices (see Brink 2005 for a summary of Scandinavian oral culture). This kind of language used in religious, or hierarchical, situations establishes authority and legitimacy through its connection to myth and memory (Österberg 1995, 50; Brink 2005, 105–116). The merging of ideas is most evident where the author changed the story of the original gospels. Many of these changes are the consequence of Jesus’ life being transferred to a Germanic setting and are simple ‘translations’ into the Saxon counterpart; for example, most cities are referred to as -burg – Nazarethburg, Bethlehemburg, etc. – transforming them into hill forts (Murphy 1992, xiv). Others are more complicated and originate from the translation of ideas and customs from one culture to the other. As a basis for the following analysis, I have mainly used the English translation, as well as song titles and numbers, and structural observations, of Ronald Murphy (1992),1 but in some cases I have used the original text and translations published by James E. Cathey (2002).

The journey of civilization and epic storytelling Storytelling was central to the oral Germanic society as myths and ideals were reproduced through song and poetry (Vansina 1965; Brink 2005; Therus 2019, 283–299). The epic poetry tradition was well developed and firmly rooted in aristocratic culture, and its different genres associated with specific types of composition. Therefore, in order for the Heliand to resonate, not only the setting and some of the content but also the structure had to be changed. The Germanic epic poetry has set rules for how a hero or ruler is created through a maturation process that follows a certain pattern. It is the so-called ‘journey of civilization’ (Fig. 13.1), discusses by Herschend in The Idea of the Good in Late Iron Age Society (1998) and the Journey of Civilisation. The Late Iron Age View of the Human World (2001).

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Figure 13.1. The author of Heliand has rearranged the gospel to fit the structure of Germanic epic poetry and describes the life of Christ as a Germanic hero’s transformative Journey of Civilization. The narrative structure is centred around events on three mountains, with song 38, Transformation on Mt Tabor, at the centre. The events before and after song 38 directly mirror each other. This structure is discussed in detail by Ronald Murphy (1992). The Journey of Civilization is a narrative staple and the required journey/passage rite a Germanic youth must undertake to be considered a hero on his return. This narrative journey is discussed in detail by Frands Herschend (2001).

The journey can be described as a Germanic version of the Hero’s Journey identified by Campbell (1949). As such, it is both an expression of society’s ideals and of the identity-articulating function of the storytelling tradition. This narrative structure has a distinct pattern, beginning with an initial childhood depiction in which the hero demonstrates his ability and shows that a special fate awaits him. This is followed by a journey away from home, enabling the maturation process. During the journey, the person demonstrates their good qualities in battle and emerges as an aristocratic youth who, after further travel and/or conflict, has matured and is recognized as a hero and ruler at the centre of the story. Then follows a reversed sequence of events where the hero ends the journey back home to become a mature and legitimate lord. The long process transforms the person from child to virtuous youth, and from virtuous youth to ideal ruler. During the journey, the youth takes on heroic qualities, like Sigurd or Beowulf, but it is only after the hero has returned home to his hall that he can be fully recognized

as a ruler. The final stage of the epic journey is fulfilled as the hero goes to meet his violent, but inevitable, fate and through death cements his status as a hero and role model. This transformative journey is a significant part of the epic storytelling tradition, and the author of Heliand reorganizes the gospel events to reflect this.

The structure of Heliand In order to place Heliand in the Germanic storytelling tradition, the author has considerably restructured the story of the gospels. Since the intention was also to explain Christian ideas for a non-Christian audience, important Christian and pre-Christian elements are often combined to facilitate translation and understanding. If possible, the author uses language to highlight differences and similarities. For example, the Germanic poetic staples heiti and kennings, elaborate poetic metaphors, are used extensively. When Christ is crucified (song 66), it is obvious that Jesus is nailed to a cross, but in all poetic descriptions the very

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Odinic image of him being hanged from a tree is conveyed. When it is not possible to use language to associate two phenomena, the author presents both, for example in song 68 where the Christian cave tomb is combined with a burial mound by describing the body as buried in a mound inside the cave. To put the gospel in the Germanic narrative tradition and to give it legitimacy, the most important change in the narrative is not the translation of individual events but the restructuring of the story into the proper journey of civilization and its circular movement away from home and back again. It was early noted that the storyline does not match that of the original gospels (Murphy 1992, 221–230). An important discovery was made by Murphy, who mapped the structure of the poem. He noticed that the story’s three main events take place on mountains and that song 38 (Transfiguration on Mount Tabor), where Christ’s divine nature and heavenly kinship are openly proclaimed, was the centre of the narrative (1992, 221–230), flanked by Heliand’s two semi-centres, also located on mountains: songs 15–18 (Sermon on the Mount) and song 58 (Peter’s defence of his Lord on Mount Olivet). He also identified that many of the events before and after the centre (song 38) are placed in direct mirror-image relation to one another (1992, 221–230); for example, the birth of Jesus corresponds to the resurrection, and the Sermon on the Mount to the battle on Mount Olivet. Murphy can give no explanation for the restructuring of the text. But he suspects that it might be part of the epic narrative tradition (Murphy 1992, 221–230). Murphy’s observation is correct: he has identified the circular pattern of the Germanic hero’s journey of civilization without being aware of it.

The journey, destiny and transformation How, then, does Heliand’s author present Christ as a genuine Germanic hero and ruler? As stated earlier, this is mainly signalled through the restructuring of the gospel on the pattern of the journey of civilization, but there are many other examples, such as the reoccurring references to Christ as drohtin, meaning leader of the retinue (Murphy 1989, 11–28; Brink 2008, 14). The narrative structure in Heliand follows the template for epic Germanic poetry, and Christ’s actions mirror those of Beowulf. Linguistic parallels with Beowulf also occur in Heliand, for example the use of the word mirki, i.e. dark/gloomy/murky, is used to refer to both Grendel and his mother in Beowulf and to Satan in Heliand (Vilmar 1862, 8; Murphy 1989, 5). Although there is some time between the creation of Beowulf and Heliand, both are probably a result of a society in transformation, and convey Christian ideas through their connection to the past (Gräslund 2018). The following text will present some of the instances where events in the life of Christ are placed in the narrative

structure of a Germanic lord’s or hero’s development process and are highlighted by the author to create bridges between the old and new mentalities. Through this, important events in the gospel have been translated into a version often combining both Christian and Germanic ideas and practices. The examples will be presented in the chronological order used in Heliand, which also underscores the journey of civilization, beginning with birth and childhood and how the child’s fate is signalled. This is followed by how the young Jesus sets out from home, is recognized as a warrior and potential ruler through battle and gathers a retinue. At the centre of the story, Christ’s heritage and ancestral land are presented, and he is proclaimed champion and ruler, after which the journey home begins. During the second half, Christ’s nature as ruler is enforced by showing both proper, as well as broken, loyalty between him and the warrior disciples who try to defend him on Mount Olivet. The final part of the journey inevitably leads to death, which allows Christ to fulfil his heroic destiny and travel home again.

The journey of civilization begins – Birth and childhood Christ is born in the hill-fort of Bethlehem into the family of Joseph and Mary, of old King David’s clan (song 5). This is emphasized as kinship and social status are important in order for the person to be seen as destined for the role of chieftain, as well as being economic and political necessities. In this case, a combination of Christian and Germanic traits is present, i.e. he is certainly the son of God but must still be of aristocratic lineage in order to have ruler potential. The sociogonic poem Rígsþula presents the same approach in its description of how the god Rígr creates the social order and different classes in society (Larrington 2014). Only Rígr’s patrician offspring can be given the necessary education and possess the characteristics that distinguishes the ruler from others. The childhood event that marks Christ out as special is found in song 10, where he argues with the teachers in the temple. In song 10, it is further pointed out that Christ as a child is already the ruler of all people and possesses immense power and wisdom, but that he chooses to keep it secret. It is made clear in song 10 that Christ, despite his divine nature, should not reveal his superhuman qualities. In order to be recognized as a hero and chieftain, he must first let fate run its course as both he and his fate must be recognized by others.

Christ’s baptism and first battle signal the transformation The transformation process and the beginning of the journey are officially announced as John the Baptist proclaims Christ’s arrival to Midgard and prepares the way for his

13.  Rebooting the Gospel for a Germanic audience – The case of Heliand arrival (song 11). An important aristocratic attribute is to act through agents, and the same principle is expressed in Skírnismál, where Frey sends his servant Skírne to Gerd to propose on his behalf (Larrington 2014, 57–64). The next important step on the journey takes place in songs 12 and 13, where Christ first goes through the important Christian initiation, baptism, followed by the Germanic counterpart, battle. These sections play an important role in describing the Christian and pre-Christian forms of the same rite of passage, while also illustrating that Christ has taken the initiative to continue his journey away from home. The baptismal description contains the Christian initiation and in addition a divine recognition and a declaration of kinship by the voice of God. As the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove descends from heaven, the author also adds a pre-Christian image with a divine connection. Instead of portraying the dove as hovering, as in the gospels, the author describes how the bird settles on Christ’s shoulder, thereby creating a familiar Odinic image (Murphy 1989, 79–81; 1992, footnote 52). … -uuas im an gilîcnissie lungres fugles, diurlîcara dûƀun – endi sat im uppan ûses drohtines ahslu …2 (Cathey 2002, 51–52)

With the baptism, Christ has been publicly recognized as the son and heir to the Lord of heaven, something the author considered important enough to reinforce with the Odinic image. The battle with Satan in song 13 is, structurally, a transforming event. The author uses this to make further educational points. From the short paragraphs in the gospels where the Holy Spirit transports Christ into the wilderness to fast and be tempted by Satan, the author of Heliand has composed a longer narrative. In this version, Christ is portrayed as a champion, and it is also explained, in aristocratic terms, why God sent his son to Midgard. Additionally, the author changes Christ’s character from passive to active. Christ chooses to wander into the wilderness to be tempted and challenge Satan. The author emphasizes that Christ chooses to do this alone and without companions, turning it into an envig, duel, situation (Murphy 1992, 36). The reason behind this duel is explained as a result of Satan deliberately deceiving humanity so that they became disloyal to their lord and master, God. This breach of loyalty resulted in the Fall of Man, and, as a consequence, the souls of all humans go to Hel after their death. It is to change this and bring people back to the heavenly kingdom that Christ, the best of champions, has been sent to Earth. The author of Heliand explains the conflict between Satan and God, good and bad, to the Saxons in very familiar terms. The battle between these two lords is about kingdoms, subjects and loyalty.

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he consta is môdseƀon, uurêðan uuilleon, huuô he thesa uuerold êrist, an them anginnea irminthioda bisuêc mit sundiun, thô he thiu sinhîun tuuê, Adaman endi Êuan, thurh untreuua forlêdda mid luginum, that liudio barn aftar iro hinferdi hellea sôhtun, gumono gêstos. Thô uuelda that god mahtig, uualdand uuendean endi uuelda thesum uuerode forgeƀen hôh himilrîki: bethiu he herod hêlagna bodon, is suno senda.3 (Cathey 2002, 52–53)

That it is a battle between two rulers is even more evident in Heliand’s version of how Satan tries to persuade Jesus to worship him instead of God. The author changes the passage, featured in the Gospels of Luke and Matthew, from dealing with idolatry to loyalty between rulers and companions. From the Germanic perspective, Satan offers all the glory of the world if Christ accepts a place in Satan’s retinue and recognizes him as lord. endi sprak im thô the fîund angegin, quað that he im that al sô gôdlîk forgeƀen weldi, hôha heridômos, ‘ef thu [wilt] hnîgan te mi, fallan te mînun fôtun endi mi [for] frôhan haƀas, bedos te mînun barma.4 (Scott 1966, song 13: 1100–1104)

After this confrontation, Christ has had enough and drives the frightened Satan back to his own domain, Hel. One result of the battle is that Jesus has proved to be a virtuous youth and matured into a ruler figure. The battle constitutes an important step on the epic journey and reveals something of the ruler’s nature, namely the will to civilize the world. In his role as ruler, Christ will hereafter work to shape the world into an ordered space, and his epic transformational journey clearly takes on the nature of a civilization journey. Structurally and narratively, the battle with Satan in song 13 can be compared to Beowulf’s first battle with Grendel, which also communicates Beowulf’s will to begin bringing order to the world (Herschend 1998; Tolkien 2014). This point is further reinforced by the fact that the author not only adds associations to Grendel, as mentioned earlier, but also to the serpent Niðhögg by naming Satan the ‘hate minded enemy’, which in Old Saxon is niðhugdig fîund (Murphy 1992, 37–38; Cathey 2002, 53). In song 14, the similarities between Christ and his pre-Christian counterpart Rígr in Rígsþula are highlighted. Rígr creates the social order and teaches the ideal lord, Konr, all the skills he needs. To do this, he is described as walking out of the forest to train Konr in the art of being a ruler and urging him to take possession of his ancestral lands, his óðalvöllu (Larrington 2014, 243–244). Song 14

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in the Heliand describes how Christ, after having defeated Satan, wanders out of the forest to begin acting like a lord and mentor to the sons of loyal nobles. Uuas im an them sinuueldi … … … Thô forlêt he uualdes hlêo, ênôdies ard endi sôhte im eft erlo gemang5 (Cathey 2002, 54)

Furthermore, Rígr teaches Konr to master the secret runes, something Christ also teaches his 12 warrior companions in Heliand’s first main event on a mountain.

Christ the champion gathers his retinue Christ’s new role as a lord enables him to select the 12 loyal companions who will constitute his retinue (songs 14 and 15). As disciples did not exist as a concept among the Saxons but every chieftain had warrior companions, it becomes natural for the writer to turn the disciples into such, and thus add an important ruler attribute (Brink 2008). The word most commonly used to describe the disciples in the Heliand text is degen, which can be translated as ‘knight’, ‘warrior’, etc. The disciples/warrior companions are also portrayed as being of noble families. This is not surprising as noblemen’s companions and families often contained other noblemen’s sons who, as part of their education, were raised in these environments. Turning the disciples into noblemen’s sons makes it natural for the Germanic Christ to teach them how to be good rulers and to impart wisdom, adding an extra level of familiarity between the gospel and the Saxon audience. Song 15 concludes with Jesus leading his 12 companions up a mountain for a secret council. This is the prelude to the Sermon on the Mount, the main event of Heliand’s first part. The introduction to the Sermon on the Mount (songs 15–18) constitutes the story’s first major recognition of Jesus as chieftain from a Germanic perspective. From song 16 onwards, Christ clearly takes on the role of ruler and mentor, and this becomes evident in a number of ways, mainly through the Rígr–Konr relationship between him and the companions, which not only conveys divinity and authority but also the important reciprocal relationship between a chieftain and his companions. The passage shows that the companions receive something in exchange for their loyalty. This is made clear in song 19, where Jesus teaches them the Lord’s prayer. A clear parallel to Rígsþula is that the Lord’s prayer is referred to as secret runes. The way the prayer is presented reveals much about the spirit of Heliand (see Murphy 1989, 81–93; 1992, 54–67). The relationship of mutual exchange of loyalty and gifts, in this case wisdom, between ruler and followers is characteristic of Germanic power structures and gives Christ’s authority a

more down-to-earth aspect, which is also expressed in song 22 (Herschend 1998; Brink 2008). Song 22 contains a very distinctive ruler attribute – Christ’s ability to command the life of his companions. The reverse relationship is shown in song 35, where Christ’s duty as lord towards his subjects is emphasized. When, during a furious storm, Peter is threatened with being swallowed by the sea, he cries out to his master, who is under obligation to help him. Christ saves Peter and the rest of the disciples from the storm, and this begins the process towards final recognition. Although Christ, from song 15 to song 35, acts as a ruler and hero, he lacks the final recognition. This is illustrated by his unwillingness to reveal his full powers in song 24, where his mother persuades him to turn water into wine. Christ has previously been recognized as the champion son of God and recognized as the Lord’s heir, but he is still not the legitimate ruler himself. Although Christ already has the power of a fully-formed ruler, fate and narrative structure do not permit him to use it yet. Song 37 sees Peter named as Christ’s champion and highlights the special relationship between the two. Song 37 also contains the climb up Mount Tabor and forms the introduction to Heliand’s centre and climax, song 38.

Heliand’s centre – Midgard is made into God’s kingdom In song 38, Christ is transformed during prayer at the top of Mount Tabor (see also Murphy 1992, 102–104; Cathey 2002, 204–205). Heavenly light shines from his body, and the prophets Elijah and Moses appear, who, together with God’s own voice, spectacularly proclaim the Saviour’s divine nature and lordship. The spectacular show of celestial light drowns, at first glance, the most important elements of the passage. In addition to the shimmering divine recognition, it is Peter’s statement that most clearly places Christ, and the song, at the centre of the Germanic epic story. … gôd is it hêr te uuesanne, ef thu it gikiosan uuili, Crist alouualdo, that man thi hêr an thesaru hôhe ên hûs geuuirkea, mârlîco gemaco endi Moysese ôðer endi Eliase thriddea: thit is ôdas hêm,6 uuelono uunsamost.7 (Cathey 2002, 88)

Peter speaks few lines, but the author invests them with tremendous meaning, far beyond what they have in the gospels. Foremost, the sentence states that Jesus is now ready to own his own hall and thus also that he is ready to rule his kingdom. As the passage is portrayed in the gospels, Peter’s words are a hermit metaphor with references to a post-Messianic happy existence derived from, among other

13.  Rebooting the Gospel for a Germanic audience – The case of Heliand things, the Feast of Booths, Sukkot. In short, Peter offers to raise three hermit shelters. In Heliand, the unassuming original episode turns into a Midgard metaphor. Through the three halls, suggested by Peter, the author brings forth the familiar image of noblemen’s halls in prominent positions in the landscape and the gods’ dwellings in Asgard, the top and centre of the world. This is also reflected in the narrative structure whereby song 38 and Mount Tabor are the centre surrounded by the mountains where the Sermon on the Mount (song 15) and Peter’s defence of Christ on Mount Olivet (song 58) take place. While Peter’s words allude to the structure of the world, Moses and Elijah’s presence also link Christ to the older pantheon. The two, long dead, prophets link Christ to one of the author’s educational points. In Heliand, the author never mentions that he is introducing a new faith. Rather, he accentuates that Christ’s teachings are a continuation of the old law and a return to the morality and honour advocated by the ancient heroes and law speakers (Murphy 1992, 32, 49–54, note 49, 85). On Mount Tabor, the two prophets are portrayed as ancestors, and the events on the mountain create a lineage between them and Christ. Furthermore, the events on Mount Tabor are situated in the world of men – Midgard – and the disciples are instructed to spread the word of what they have witnessed. The words thit is ôdas hêm, translated as ‘the home of happiness’ by Murphy, carry a fundamental meaning as they also mean ‘this is the ancestral home’.8 Ôdas hêm is connected to the concept of odal,9 collective ancestral land that is of great importance in maintaining social hierarchy and landownership (Zachrisson 1994). It also creates a tangible bond between the landscape and past and future generations of a family. The whole paragraph merges the idea of Asgard with that of Midgard, showing that the halls and land of God and the ancestors are situated in Midgard, the contemporary world of the Saxons, and it is the odal land of Christ. In this passage, the author manages to illustrate two essential ideas: that the world is the kingdom of God, and that Christ, as the champion of mankind, has the blessing of the ancestors and is the natural heir to the older gods. The song forms the epicentre of the Heliand, structurally as well as narratively, and, as the song around which everything turns, it shifts the narrative into the journey home.

Christ has come into his own – The journey home begins As mentioned earlier, the songs after song 38 are a reflection of the previous songs, which creates a circular narrative that frames the story as an epic that highlights the structure and dynamics of the hero’s development. Therefore, in the second part of the story the nature of Christ has changed

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significantly. After the transformation on Mount Tabor, he is no longer a young man but a mature ruler, with greater authority. This shift in quality is used by the author, who places many of Christ’s lessons and parables in this part of the story. For example, song 39 contains a call to always be loyal to one’s master, which is a mirror image of song 37, where Peter is rewarded for his loyalty. Furthermore, the shift in nature is underlined by the fact that Christ, now acknowledged as a lord, no longer hides his abilities and actively intervenes in people’s lives. The journey of civilization now requires him to actively strive to shape the world into an ordered space.

Battle on Mount Olivet – The warrior retinue bow to fate Heliand’s first semi-centre is the Sermon on the Mount (songs 15–18), where the warrior companions are selected. Its counterpart in the narratives takes place on Mount Olivet in song 58. Here, Peter defends Christ against the enemy clan that comes to capture him. The depiction of the battle demonstrates several Germanic ideals, among others the disciples’ willingness to die in defence of their master and Peter’s inability to calmly witness the capture of Christ (Murphy 1989, 95–115; 1992, 158–162). The song shows the skilful interweaving of Germanic and Christian values and emphasizes loyalty between rulers and companions. In the same song, the author uses another Germanic concept to explain how Christ’s companions survived the capture of their master: fate (Murphy 1989, 95–115). Christ lets the disciples know that he has the power to defend himself but that he allows himself to be abducted and humiliated as it is his destiny. Both the original and the Germanic Christ know that his journey is not yet complete. While the original Christ needs to die to redeem the world, the Germanic Christ, in order to be permanently recognized as an ideal and heroic figure, must meet his destiny and return to his father’s hall, which in practical terms means that he must die. Naturally, his companions understand that they cannot change fate by any means; they can only decide how to face it. As part of the mirrored journey home, and as a reflection of the conflict with Satan (song 13), the Saviour is brought before the assembly and is judged by a bishop (song 60). The first of these occurs before, and the second after, Heliand’s semi-centres. This time Christ is imprisoned and humiliated, which the author uses to paint a picture very familiar to the recently defeated Saxon audience. By stressing how Christ calmly endures insults and how he is surrendered to the Roman occupiers, very similar to the Franks, a personal bond is created between the Saviour and the Saxon chieftains whose own experiences were probably similar (Murphy 1992, 166–170). In parallel to the victorious Christ in song

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13, Christ’s calm and stoic endurance in song 60 portrays him as the victor as his honour, despite being a captive, remains intact. Another important aspect is found in the fact that Christ is delivered by his own people to the occupying power, which probably reflects everyday life during the conflicts with Charlemagne (Cathey 2002, 812). The text’s standpoint is clearly against such disgraceful practices and creates a link between Christian ethics and the pre-Christian concept of honour. It is also clear to all who are aware of the function of fate in the creation of a mythical figure that it is the antagonistic behaviour of the assembly that initiates the closing stretch of Christ’s journey toward immortality. The assembly is therefore also a tool in God’s plan. The same idea, that Christ is actively seeking death as part of a greater plan and that the crucifixion is a victory, is also present in the probably older English poem Dream of the Rood (Swanton 1996). The interaction between Germanic heroes and fate is very pervasive, and the author of Heliand chooses to highlight fate for two reasons. First, fate is an important part of the Germanic conceptual world and even the gods are subject to fate (Murphy 1989, 33–56). As expressed in Rígsþula and many other poems, the gods can manipulate events to a certain degree, but the main forces behind the creation of heroes and lords is faith or destiny. As such, it becomes an important requirement in the Germanic epic narrative. The second reason for the author to highlight fate is that it highlights one advantage Christianity has over the older religion. Christ is not at the mercy of fate; he can shape it according to his will and thus do something the old gods could not (Murphy 1989, 33–55; 1992, footnote 191). Through his literary acumen, Heliand’s author manages to merge the various ideas about fate into a comprehensible model. In order to be perceived as a legitimate lord by the Saxon nobles, Jesus is fitted into the template prescribed by the hero’s ideal and fated journey, while his power to control and change fate is emphasized. By combining these two aspects, the Christian message is emphasized as Christ, despite his ability to change fate, chooses to die for the salvation of men. By accepting or even facilitating this fate and suffering, the idea that Christ actively seeks to save his subjects is underlined. The parallels to the reciprocal relationship between rulers and subjects are clear.

End of the journey – The lord of the hall comes home The final stage of the Germanic hero’s journey is inevitable death. In order to save his people from destruction, Beowulf does battle with the dragon, which kills him; similarly, Christ dies to save humanity. Death is also the definitive sign that his destiny is complete. From a Germanic perspective, death

turns a person into a mythical ancestor and a heroic ideal used to shape the future society. In the gospels, the death of Christ is followed by a multitude of ominous natural phenomena and portents. In Heliand, song 67, they are utilized to emphasize that Christ is not only the king of men but of the whole of creation. For obvious reasons, declarations in front of witnesses were of great importance in Viking Age oral society, and through minor adjustment the author makes the various earthquakes and solar eclipses appear as spoken acknowledgements of the dead ruler from the Earth itself (Murphy 1992, 187f). That uuas sô mahtig thing, that thar Cristes dôð antkennian scoldun, so filo thes gifuolian, thie gio mid firihon ne sprac uuord an thesaro uueroldi.10 (Cathey 2002, 128)

This also establishes a parallel between the crucifixion and the death of Balder described in Gylfaginning (Byock 2005). After Balder’s death, all things and creatures, except the giantess Þökk, cry in an attempt to return Balder from Hel. By fulfilling his destiny and dying, Christ has finished the entire earthly part of the transformation journey, and for the Saxon audience it is now clear that he is a hero and ruler of epic proportions. The remainder of the story is the resurrection and the victory over death, the most important part of the gospels in our modern perspective. But the author of Heliand does not emphasize that part of the gospels. In the Saxon context, Christ has already, by dying and being transformed into an epic ideal, become immortal, as is elegantly expressed in Hávamál 77: Deyr fé, deyia frondr, deyr siálfr it sama; ec veit einn, at aldri deyr: dómr um dauðan hvern.11

(Neckel 1983)

From a Christian perspective, the resurrection is one of the main points of the gospel and the Heliand tries to pass this on; unfortunately, the final pages are missing from the manuscripts to varying extents. From what remains, we can glean that the author puts very little emphasis on Christ coming back from the dead. Rather, he articulates Christ’s journey of civilization and depicts the final stage of the journey, i.e. transformation through death, more figuratively than is usually possible. Followers of both the pre-Christian and Christian religions had a notion of the final journey of the dead, the last stage of the transformation process, which was metaphorically expressed through the burial practices. Burials can only hint at this final part of the journey, but the resurrection enables Heliand’s author to illuminate it. The London manuscript, C, contains no text after song 71, but

13.  Rebooting the Gospel for a Germanic audience – The case of Heliand the Munich manuscript, M, contains a fragment describing the Ascension of Christ (Murphy 1992, 197–198). This depicts the final part of the transformation journey, which had previously only been implied through burial rituals and monuments. By doing this the author finds an ingenious way of connecting the poem’s end to it’s beginning, turning it into a circular unit. The poem thereby highlights the journey’s end as the final step in organizing the social world. Through Christ’s death and resurrection in song 68, the goal set in song 13 has been achieved as direct contact, and a bond of loyalty has been re-established between the people in Midgard and their heavenly ruler. Satan’s power over the people has been broken. Thuo ni uuas lang te thiu, that thar uuarð the gêst cumin be godes crafte, hâlag âðom undar thena hardon stên an thena lîchamon. Lioht uuas thuo giopanod firio barnon te frumu: uuas fercal manag antheftid fan helldoron endi te himile uueg giuuarath fan thesaro uueroldi. Uuânom upp astuod friðubarn godes12 (Cathey 2002, 131)

In the early song 5, which corresponds structurally to song 68, Jesus is born and a good message is proclaimed by the heavenly host. The implied message is that the battle for the souls of men has begun, and song 68 lets us know how the battle is won. At the moment of resurrection, the author describes how Hel’s gates have been broken down and a direct connection made to heaven. From a structuralist point of view, the author’s ingenious move to show the final steps of the journey of civilization depicts how the bond of loyalty between humans and God had been reconnected. A road has between established between heaven and Midgard that enables a complete civilizing of the world. Through his innovative merging of the pre-Christian world’s basic ideas relating to death, the journey and the New Testament’s most important message, the author manages to create a unique Germanic understanding of Christianity. He also demonstrates, for his Saxon audience, how the order in the cosmos has been restored through Christ’s death and suffering.

Final words In the poem Heliand, the unknown poet-monk manages to unite two completely different cosmologies into one faith and explanatory model. He portrays Christ as a classic Germanic hero, in the model of Sigurd or Beowulf, and presents how Christ in a natural way can fulfil the function of the old ruler figures. The merging of ideas made it easy for the Germanic audience to understand how the Christian teachings could fit into Germanic society under their patronage, how Christ was

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a worthy, and legitimate, heir to the throne of Odin, and that Midgard, their place in creation, and God’s kingdom was one and the same, making hierarchy and obligations clear. We can assume that Heliand and its inculturation approach to introducing the gospel found its way, with the help of Ansgar and his missionary colleagues, to Scandinavia during the Viking Age and contributed to the very distinct mix of pre-Christian and Christian ideas and practices that are the defining trait of culture in the area during the final 200 years of the Viking Age, around 900–1100.

Notes 1

Many other interesting aspects of the Heliand are discussed by Murphy in The Saxon Savior (1989). One of the more modern works dealing with the text is Hêliand. Text and Commentary (2002), wherein James E. Cathey gives an introduction to the poem and its background as well as the Old Saxon language. Cathey’s book, like Murphy’s, contains selected passages from Heliand in the original language along with extensive comments, and they are recommended as sources for additional information. 2 ‘It was like a powerful bird, a magnificent dove – and it sat upon our Chieftain’s shoulder …’ (Murphy 1992, 35). 3 ‘He understood Satan’s feelings and angry ill-will, how Satan first deceived the earth people in the beginning through sin, how he misled the couple, Adam and Eve, with lies, into disloyalty so that the souls of the children of men would go to Hel after their departure. God the Ruler wanted mightily to change that, He wanted to grant to these people the high heaven-kingdom, and for this reason sent them a holy messenger, His Son’ (Murphy 1992, 36–37). 4 ‘The enemy then spoke to Him and said that he would grant Him all that magnificence, the high princely kingdoms, “if You will bow to me, fall at my feet and have me as lord, and pray at my lap”’ (Murphy 1992, 38–39). 5 ‘He then left the protective cover of the woods, His desert dwelling, and made His way back to the company of earls …’ (Murphy 1992, 39). 6 My emphasis. 7 ‘This is a good place to live, Christ All-Ruler, if You should decide that a house be built for You up here on the mountain, a magnificent one, and another for Moses, and a third for Elijah-this is the home of happiness, the most appealing thing anyone could have!’ (Murphy 1992, 103). 8 My translation based on Cathey, who translates it as ‘home of inheritance’ (2002, 205). 9 The Frankish version of the concept is allod (Zachrisson 1994, 219). 10 ‘What a powerful thing that was, that Christ’s death should be felt and acknowledged by so many beings which had never before spoken a word to human beings in this world!’ (Murphy 1992, 187). 11 ‘Cattle die, kinsmen die, the self must also die: I know one thing which never dies, the reputation of each dead man’ (Larrington 2014, 23). 12 ‘It was not long then until: there was the spirit coming, by God’s power, the holy breath, going under the hard stone to

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Jhonny Therus the corpse! Light was at that moment opened up, for the good of the sons of men; the many bolts on the doors of Hel were unlocked; the road from this world up to heaven was built! Brilliantly radiating, God’s Peace-Child rose up!’ (Murphy 1992, 191).

Bibliography Andersson, G. (2005) Gravspråk som religiös strategi. Valsta och Skälby i Attundaland under vikingatid och tidig medeltid. Riksantikvarieämbetet arkeologiska undersökningar, skrifter 61. Västerås: Riksantikvarieämbetet. Bosman, F.G. (2016) ‘Teach us the secret runes’. The Lord’s prayer in Heliand. Perichoresis 14(2), 39‒51. Brink, S. (2005) Verba Volant, Scripta Manent? Aspects of Early Scandinavian oral society. In P. Hermann (ed.) Literacy in Medieval and Early Modern Scandinavian Culture, 77‒135. The Viking Collection 16. Odense: University Press of Southern Denmark. Brink, S. (2008) Lord and Lady – Bryti and Deigja. Some Historical and Etymological Aspects of Family, Patronage and Slavery in Early Scandinavia and Anglo-Saxon England. The Dorothea Coke Memorial Lecture in Northern Studies delivered at University College London, 17 March 2005. London: The Viking Society for Northern Research. Byock, J.L. (2005) The Prose Edda. Snorri Sturluson. London: Penguin Books. Campbell, J. (1949) The Hero with a Thousand Faces. New York: Pantheon Books. Cathey, J.E. (2002) Hêliand. Text and Commentary. Medieval European Studies II. Morgantown, Virginia: West Virginia University Press. Fabech, C. (1991) Samfundsorganisation, religiøse ceremonier og regional variation. In C. Fabech and J. Ringtved (eds) Samfundsorganisation og Regional Variation. Norden i Romersk Jernalder og Folkevandringstid, 283–303. Jysk Arkæologisk Selskabs Skrifter XXVII. Højbjerg/Århus: Jysk Arkæologisk Selskab/Aarhus Universitetsforlag. Gräslund, B. (2018) Beowulfkvädet. Acta academiae regiae Gustavi Adolphi 149. Uppsala: Kungl. Gustav Adolfs Akademien för svensk folkkultur. Herschend, F. (1998) The Idea of the Good in Late Iron Age Society. Occasional Papers in Archaeology 15. Uppsala: Uppsala University. Herschend, F. (2001) Journey of Civilisation. The Late Iron Age View of the Human World. Occasional Papers in Archaeology 24. Uppsala: Uppsala University.

Hultgård, A. (1992) Religiös förändring, kontinuitet och akulturation/synkretism i vikingatidens och medeltidens skandinaviska religion. In. B. Nilsson (ed.) Kontinuitet i kult och tro från vikingatid till medeltid, 49–103. Projektet Sveriges kristnande Publikationer 1. Uppsala: Lunneböcker. Larrington, C. (2014) The Poetic Edda. Translated by Carolyne Larrington. Oxford World Classics. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Murphy, G.R. (1989) The Saxon Savior. The Germanic Transformation of the Gospel in the Ninth-Century Heliand. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Murphy, G.R. (1992) The Heliand. The Saxon Gospel. A Translation and Commentary by G. Ronald Murphy, S.J. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Neckel, G. (1983) Edda: Die Lieder des Codex Regius nebst verwandten Denkmälern, hrsg. v. Gustav Neckel, I. Text, 5, umgearbeitete Auflage von Hans Kuhn. Heilderberg: Universitätsverlag Winter. Norr, S. (1998) To Rede and to Rown. Expressions of Early Scandinavian Kingship in Written Sources. Occasional Papers in Archaeology 17. Uppsala: Uppsala University. Österberg, E. (1995) Folk förr. Historiska essäer. Stockholm: Atlantis. Russel, J.C. (1994) The Germanization of Early Medieval Christianity. A Socio-historical Approach to Religious Transformation. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Sanmark, A. (2004) Power and Conversion. A Comparative Study of Christianization in Scandinavia. Occasional Papers in Archaeology 34. Uppsala: Uppsala University. Scott, M. 1966. The Heliand. Translated from the Old Saxon by Mariana Scott. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Swanton, M. (ed.) (1996) The Dream of the Rood. Exeter Medieval Texts and Studies. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Therus, J. (2019) Den yngre järnålderns gravskick i Uppland. Framväxten av den arkeologiska bilden och en materialitet i förändring. Aun 50. Uppsala: Uppsala universitet. Tolkien, J.R.R. (2014) Beowulf: A Translation and Commentary. Edited by C. Tolkien. New York: HarperCollins. Vansina, J. (1965) Oral Tradition: A Study in Historical Methodology. Translated by H.M. Wright. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Vilmar, A.F.C. (1862) Deutsche Altertümer in Heliand als Einkleidung der evangelischen Geschichte. Marburg: Elwert´sche Universitäts-Buchhandlung. Westman, K.B. (1920) ‘Ansgar’. Svenskt biografiskt lexikon. Band 2, 61. Stockholm: Riksarkivet. Zachrisson, T. (1994) The odal and its manifestation in the landscape. Current Swedish Archaeology 2, 219‒238.

14 Female cultic leaders and religious (ritual) specialists in Germanic and ancient Scandinavian sources Olof Sundqvist

Old Norse sources report that female leaders, designated húsfrúar, gyðjur and vǫlur, could be in charge of religious and magical practices in pre-Christian Scandinavia. Previous research sometimes gives the impression that these cultic leaders and religious specialists belonged to a social and religious periphery. Folke Ström (1985), for example, claims that these women had a function in private cult. They sacrificed on the farm at simpler sanctuaries called hǫrgr. Sometimes, they could also sacrifice at a public sanctuary to the fertility gods, Freyr and Freyja. They were then called hofgyðjur, but lacked political power and greater influence in public life. Women’s authority did not extend beyond the threshold of the house. If women devoted themselves to rituals, they usually traded on fertility, magic and witchcraft (Ström 1985, 87). According to Ström, religious and magical practice, known as seiðr, was primarily the remit of women. He points out that it was partly ‘feared and detested’ in more established society. Men who were in favour of seiðr were subject to expressed contempt (Ström 1985, 223–224). Similar views also come from a number of other wellknown researchers, such as Magnus Olsen (1926, 254), Gro Steinsland (1985a; 1985b, 34–35), Kari Vogt (Steinsland and Vogt 1981, 105) and, to some extent, Tom DuBois (1999, 65) and John Luke Murphy (2017, 172‒175; but more nuanced in Murphy 2018, 81). If pushed, one could say that they construed a kind of stereotypic dichotomy in their description of cultic leaders and religious specialists (see Fig. 14.1). The males appeared in the public cult at the aristocratic halls located at central places. There, they devoted themselves to worshipping the war-like Æsir deities, such as Óðinn and Þórr. The women, on the other hand, performed rites in considerably more limited social environments; that is, in the private and local cult of simpler sanctuaries. If they sacrificed publicly, it was exclusively in

a fertility cult devoted to the Vanir deities, especially Freyr and Freyja. The main ritual activity for females was magic. These kinds of rites were often questioned by the elite and considered ill-fitting for men. In my opinion, there are several problems with this binary model when read against the Viking source material, not least regarding the social categories of private and public. Probably, these spheres were much more intertwined in the Viking Age context, and some activities that took place at an individual farm, especially in the magnate’s hall, belonged also to public life. There was a sliding scale between the private and public, and leadership roles related to gender could cross the boundary between them. The statement that women had religious authority only within the house could also be questioned.1 The same is true of the belief that female leaders and specialists exclusively devoted themselves to fertility and witchcraft (Sundqvist 2005; 2007; 2016). There are clear signs that women could also include ritual roles at aristocratic halls in contexts that concerned war lords with warrior bands, in Latin sources called comitatus (cf. Enright 1996). Their cult was centred on Óðinn, the god of war, death and knowledge (Nordberg 2003). One reason previous researchers have adopted the binary model may be their choice of sources. Often, they based their reasoning on the Icelandic sagas, all of which were written by Christian hands. In the medieval Church, religious leadership in public contexts was purely a male business. Females could, however, play religious roles in the private sphere (cf. Gräslund 2001, 65–69). These Christian gender roles could thus have had an impact and been projected onto the descriptions of pre-Christian religious leadership in the medieval sagas. It has also been argued that a binary division was construed in the sagas. Within a public and legal sphere, perceived as male, Christianity was adopted

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first, while within a domestic sphere, perceived as female, the pagan cult was maintained (Grønlie 2006, 297–298; cf. Murphy 2018, 81). The description of the húsfreyja in Vǫlsa þáttr (Flateyjarbók II, 331–335), and the obscure fertility rites she performs, for instance, could be an example of this. By means of highlighting completely different source categories and reinterpreting the sagas, we may also find female cultic leaders and religious specialists in public contexts, also appearing in ‘Odinic discourses’ involving war, death and funerals. In this chapter, females designated in Old Norse as húsfrúar and vǫlur will be investigated in such contexts (see also Sundqvist 1998; cf. 2003a; 2003b; 2007; 2016). A female funeral director called Angel of Death (Malak al-Maut) who appears in an Arabic text from the 10th century will also be discussed, as well as a queen in the well-known text Beowulf, since they can also be related to ‘Odinic discourses’. I will also refer to some noble ladies who appear in archaeological sources.

the concept of ‘priest’ (from Greek presbyteros, ‘the older’) was, moreover, formed and developed within a Christian tradition,4 I argued that it is better to use more neutral and wider concepts in Germanic and Scandinavian contexts, such as cultic leaders or religious specialists, in order to avoid serious misinterpretations. Today, I am more aware of the fact that this type of criticism has its limitations, since the concept of ‘priest’ could be used as an etic construction and an operational concept, completely defined by the analyst and thus more or less freed from its ordinary emic use and associations in, for instance, Christian contexts (cf. Sinding Jensen 2014). I am also more open to the existence of some kind of religious specialists in the Old Norse context, i.e. persons who by means of rites and education were initiated into a religious office. But I still think that wider and more neutral terms should be used, such as ‘cultic leaders’ or ‘religious specialists’. These concepts are well established in anthropology and the history of religions (cf. Rüpke 1996; Hick 2010; Turner 2010). The concept of cultic leader refers in the present study to a person who was temporarily responsible for certain religious functions in society, but also had other societal duties besides his or her religious tasks. The term ‘religious specialist’ designates an exclusive religious office; that is, it describes that a more intensified and permanent specialization has taken place and that the religious leader has become more or less professional. One advantage with these terms is that they could be used for both male and female leaders. In what follows, I will thus use them when returning to the argument of this chapter.

Concepts for religious leadership

Housewives (húsfrúar)

In an article published 20 years ago, I discussed the terminology used in the study of Old Norse religion when discussing religious leadership (Sundqvist 1998; cf. 2003a; 2003b; 2007). On the basis of comparative treatments, I proposed analytic definitions of the categories ‘priest’ and ‘priesthood’, and tested them on the Scandinavian materials.2 I arrived at the conclusion that common features of priests or priesthood were vague in early Scandinavia. There was only weak evidence for initiation into, or formal training for, a religious office.3 The cultic officials did not constitute a closed and hierarchical form of organization that appeared as an independent social stratum in society. Neither was there a priestly institution standardizing worldviews or ritual practices. Finally, the religious leaders did not have or perform within the framework of external characteristics or imposed taboos. Because of these circumstances and in consideration of the information provided by the literary sources that the rulers and chieftains on different levels of society were the people who performed important cultic functions at the sanctuaries, I argued that the concept of ‘priest’ could be misleading in such treatments. Since

Some primary sources, produced by people from an inside perspective, report on housewives (húsfrúar), who seem to be related to Óðinn. In the runic inscription, dated to the 11th century, from Hassmyra, in Västmanland (Vs 24), a housewife (RSw hīfroyja) is praised by her husband, Holmgautr:

Figure 14.1. The stereotypic dichotomy in description of cultic leaders/religious specialists in previous research.

Boandi goðr Holmgautr let ræisa æftiR Oðindisu, kunu sina. KumbR hifrøya til Hasvimyra æigi bætri, þan byi raðr. Rauð-BalliR risti runiR þessaR. SigmundaR vaR [Oðindisa] systiR goð. The good farmer Holmgautr had this [stone] raised in memory of his wife Odindisa. A better housewife will never come to Hassmyra to run the farm. Raud-Ballir carved these runes. She was a good sister to Sigmund. (trans. S.B.F. Jansson)

The information that the housewife ‘runs’ or ‘rules over’ the farm (byi raðr) is important. The Runic Swedish term býR

14.  Female cultic leaders and religious (ritual) specialists in Germanic and ancient Scandinavian sources could be interpreted as ‘farm, village’, while the verb rāða means ‘prevail, rule, care’ (Sw råda, härska, ombesörja) (Peterson 1994, 43; Sundqvist 2016, 368–369). It indicates that she had a leading position in a more public sphere, perhaps also outside the walls of the building. It is also mentioned that this housewife is called Oðindisa (Ōðin-Dīsa). This compound name Oðindisa, which is only evidenced here, is important for the interpretation. In the inscription, we meet the expression æftiR Oðindisu. Formally, the iō-stem should not appear with weak inflection in this case (-u) (Peterson 1981, 149). The accusative form of dis is -i. The woman’s name was probably originally Disa. According to the onomastic specialists, this may have a simple explanation. The name of the god Óðin- has been added to her secondarily, as a byname prefix (Otterbjörk 1983; Andersson 1993; Vikstrand 2009; cf. Sundqvist 2016, 368–369). The name Oðindisa indicates that she had a specific relation to the god Óðinn and perhaps that she was faithful to him also after the conversion. There are other contemporary sources that mention housewives in religious contexts. In the Austrfararvísur, dating back to the early 11th century and preserved in Óláfs saga helga, a housewife is described as being involved in a sacrifice (alfablót) devoted to the mythical beings called álfar.5 This poem describes how Sigvatr Ϸorðarson, with some companions, made a journey to Svetjud (til Svíþjóðar) c. 1018. One evening, they came to a farm called Hof (stanza 4). Whether Hof in this case refers to a place name is uncertain. It is possible that it should be interpreted as an appellation hof, i.e. a building where cultic activities took place (Fulk in Austfararvísur; cf. Sundqvist 2016, 95–110). The poem says: ‘the door was barred’ (hurð vas aptr). It also says that Sigvatr and his fellows were sent away, since the people there declared that it was ‘holy’ (heilagr) there. One could here follow Snorri’s interpretation of the expression, i.e. that the place was ‘holy’, but one could also understand this that this was a holy day. See discussion in Murphy (2018, 59–60). Snorri’s text mentions that they went to another farm. There was a housewife (husfreyja) in the doorway. In stanza 5, we read as follows: Gakkat inn,’ kvað ekkja, ‘armi drengr, en lengra; hræðumk ek við Óðins – erum heiðin vér – reiði.’ Rýgr kvazk inni eiga óþekk, sús mér hnekkði, alfablót, sem ulfi ótvín, í bœ sínum. ‘Do not come any farther in, wretched fellow,’ said the woman; ‘I fear the wrath of Óðinn; we are heathen.’ The disagreeable female, who drove me away like a wolf without hesitation, said they were holding a sacrifice to the elves inside her farmhouse. (Fulk in SkP I, 590‒591)

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When the Christian skald comes to the farm, this female stands in the doorway and tells him he cannot enter because of the sacrifice. She also states that she fears the wrath of Óðinn and that the people of the farm were heathen. The concept heiðinn, ‘heathen’, can be perceived as somewhat odd in this context. But it also appears in the skaldic poem Hákonarmál 21 (dating to c. 960): með heiðin goð, ‘with the heathen gods’. This poem is usually accepted as a pre-Christian lay, describing the native gods. Whether Óðinn in this text in some way was related to the álfar is uncertain. At any rate, this woman seems to be involved in the cult of the álfar, or at least she protects the sacred space where this cult took place in a way which can be compared to male cultic leaders and rulers, who are called vǫrðr véstalls, ‘the protector of the sacred stand’, or vés valdr, ‘the ruler of the sacred place’, in 9th- and 10th-century skaldic poetry (Sundqvist 2016, 188–189, 290–315). We also come across this in medieval prose texts about Norwegian chieftains and Icelandic goðar who took care of (inf. varðveita) sanctuaries and probably also protected them from sacrilege.6 The female in Austrfararvísur is called rýgr in this stanza, perhaps indicating that she was powerful. Snorri states as follows in Skáldskaparmál 68: ‘A woman who is very rich is called rýgr’ (Rýgr heitir sú kona er ríkust er) (Faulkes 1998, 107). When quoting Sigvatr’s stanza in Óláfs saga Helga, Snorri uses the word húsfreyja, ‘housewife’, when describing her: Stóð þar húsfreyja í durum, … (Ísl. Fornr. 27, 137).

The queen (cwēn) Wealhþēow and other noble females The Old Norse sagas report that other housewives were sometimes involved in great ceremonial banquets in western Scandinavia. These public feasts were often performed in ritual circumstances, where drinking ceremonies took place in hall buildings (Sundqvist 2016, 370–373). The most informative text on such ceremonies is Beowulf, preserved in an Old English manuscript from c. 1000, but, perhaps, as has recently been suggested, originally composed in an East Scandinavian dialect as early as the 6th century.7 This poem has been treated by Frands Herschend in several important works, where he has been able to point out its cultural historical background. In particular, his discussions on halls have been ground-breaking (e.g. Herschend 1997; 1998; 1999; 2009). According to this poem, King Hroðgar owned a hall (Old English heall or sele) called Heorot. In this hall, the retainers were seated according to social rank on the long benches. It was the assignment of Queen (cwēn) Wealhþēow to pour mead into their cups (e.g. Enright 1996; Gräslund 2018). This was done in ritual forms and according to rank.

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… Stepped forth Wealhþēow, Hroðgar’s Queen, careful of noble usage. Gold adorned she greeted the men in hall. And then the gracious woman offered the cup first to the East-Danes’ king, the guardian of their land, bade him be happy in partaking of this beer-assembly, be amiable to the people. He took part eagerly in the feast and formal cup, fully victorious king. Then her steps led here and there the lady of Helmings, to veterans and youth, to each group of them, she offered from the treasure-vessel. Until the moment came when to Beowulf the ring-adorned queen, gratified in her heart, brought the cup of mead. … Thus spoke Beowulf … I would accomplish or else fall in the fray. Fast in hostile grips I must perform heroic deeds or else my last day in this mead-hall must meet. (Beowulf 612–638, transl. Crépin in Enright 1996, 3–4).

By means of the formalized drinking ceremonies, Wealhþēow created a social balance between the king and the retinues. She was therefore called ‘weaver of peace’ (freoðuwebbe) (Beowulf 1942) (e.g. Enright 1996, 21–22; Klaeber 1950, 335; 2008, 380).8 Her daughter Freawaru also performed similar rites, as did Queen Hygd. The poem Beowulf has for a long time been rejected as a historical source and described more or less as pure fiction. The archaeologist Bo Gräslund has, however, recently published a book on Beowulf (2018), wherein he reinterprets the archaeological, historical and geographic content of the poem. His convincing analysis supports the existence of some historical elements in this text referring to eastern Scandinavia. He has, for instance, shown that the second element -þēo(w) of the Danish queen’s name Wealhþēow (cf. Ecqþēow och Ongenþēow) makes sense when set in a Scandinavian context. It should not be interpreted as ‘thief’ or ‘thrall’, referring primarily to a simple female of Celtic origin, which often has been done in previous research when relating her to an Old English context (e.g. Klaeber 1950, 440). In a Scandinavian setting of the poem, an interpretation of the second element of the queen’s name (-þēo(w)) as ‘servant’ in the sense of ‘servant for higher purposes in society’ or ‘servant of the gods’ is far more credible and appropriate in the context of Wealhþēow’s ritual actions. We have also similar names with -þēo(w) as the last element referring to noble and aristocratic people in (Late) Iron Age Scandinavia, thus also supporting an East Scandinavian origin of the poem (B. Gräslund 2018, 168–169, and his chapter in this book; cf. Brink 2003). The notion that noble females played important ritual roles during the ceremonial drinking at great hall buildings during the Late Iron Age can be supported by archaeological records in East Scandinavia. In Old Uppsala, the skeleton of a middle-age female was discovered with expensive grave goods in a boat grave (grave 36) dated to the 9th century (Nordahl 2001, 46–61).9 She was dressed in fine clothing made of materials of the highest quality. She had a rich set of jewellery and a knife with a silver-decorated

sheath. In addition, she had two oval brooches and one equal-armed brooch. Most interesting, in the light of the present study, was the small pendant of bronze. It was made in the shape of a woman holding a beaker in front of her. This type of pendant is usually called ‘valkyria’, and they have been found at several places in the Mälaren Valley. Perhaps they can be associated with eschatological beliefs, i.e. Valhalla and Óðinn appearing in the Other World (see below). They also indicate a ritual role of females, i.e. the important function of pouring wine and beer for the guests during the ceremonial meals. It is quite possible that the noble lady in the boat grave had this ritual function in the Early Viking Age cult of Uppsala. The Merovingian and Early Viking Age hall of Uppsala was situated just a few hundred metres from this grave (see Ljungkvist and Frölund 2015 and Sundqvist 2016 on the religious dimension of this hall). Ceremonial banquets probably took place in this hall. Most likely another hall was erected in the vicinity during the Viking Age, wherein the lady in the boat grave perhaps played a role during the ceremonial feasts. At Valsgärde, about 2–3 km to the north of Old Uppsala, several rich Viking Age burials of females were found. They included some expensive glass and metal vessels. Perhaps some of these vessels were used at ceremonial banquets (A.-S. Gräslund 1999). A Late Iron Age hall building was situated just beside the burial field at Valsgärde (Norr and Sundkvist 1995; Ljungkvist 2006, 70). It is quite possible that the women buried in these graves played a similar role to that of Queen Wealhþēow in Beowulf during the ceremonial banquets. A chamber grave (Bj 523) in Birka, dated to the 10th century, may lead us to a similar conclusion. In this grave, a female was buried with two drinking horns with silver mounts (Gräslund 2006). At Birka, we also have evidence of a Viking Age hall where ceremonial banquets took place (Holmquist Olausson and Kitzler Åhfeldt 2002; Carlie 2004, 172–174, 291). Grave 85 at Valsgärde contained the cremated remains of an old woman, one horse, two dogs and a cock as well as a pig jaw. In her grave, there was also a staff with a bone animal head. This animal-headed staff reminds us of the animal heads at Oseberg in Norway, where two females were buried. In the Oseberg grave, several Viking Age beast sculptures were found. It has been argued that they had a religious function (Ingstad 1992; Gräslund 2008, 78). It is quite possible that the animal-headed staff in Valsgärde 85 also had a religious function (Gräslund 2008, 77–80), and perhaps it can be related to Odinic aspects (see below). Most likely, the lady there was a powerful woman. Probably, she also played important roles in the public cult of Valsgärde. Anne-Sofie Gräslund (2008, 77) writes thus: ‘Concerning the woman in Vgde 85, in all probability a husfru, my impression is that her religious power was strong and thereby, of course, also her social status’. Gräslund supports her assumption with the animal-headed staff, but also with the bones of the

14.  Female cultic leaders and religious (ritual) specialists in Germanic and ancient Scandinavian sources various animals found there. They may have had a symbolic meaning in relation to the burial. Several scholars have discussed Beowulf and particularly the rituals performed by Wealhþēow in the hall Heorot from a mythical point of view (e.g. Enright 1996; Nordberg 2003). The rituals described there had, according to them, eschatological implications. They actually correspond with life in the mythic Valhalla, where Óðinn and his einherjar dwelled. These mythical warriors were ritually served mead by the female valkyrjur (Sundqvist 2016, 521–535). The noble warriors in the earthly halls could thus comfort themselves with the thought that, after they die on the battlefield, they will come to Valhalla, where Óðinn prepares with his warriors for the final battle of Ragnarǫk.10 Some images on runic stones and Gotlandic picture stones from the Late Iron Age may refer to this motif. On these stones, we may see a rider sitting on an eight-legged horse. He is welcomed by a lady who offers him a cup from a horn. This image has been interpreted as a mythic scene, where one of the einherjar was invited to Valhalla by a valkyrja (Nordberg 2003, 44–45). This motif can, for instance, be seen on the Tjängvide stone from Alskog parish, Gotland (see Fig. 14.2). The fact that the horse on the stone has eight legs supports this interpretation, since Óðinn’s horse Sleipnir had that shape in the Old Norse traditions. The

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motif on the stone could possibly be related to the burials of aristocratic warriors and the eschatological belief that they will take part in the final battle of Ragnarǫk. As the lady in the hall offers the warrior mead when initiated into the warband, the valkyrja gives a cup to the dead champion when being welcomed as an einheri. In my opinion, this connection between the rites of the noble women and the actions of the valkyrjur in Valhalla indicates that the practices of the human ladies in the halls had a religious context. Wealhþēow could thus be considered a cultic leader, i.e. a person who was temporarily responsible for certain religious functions but also had other societal duties besides her religious tasks. I would not rule out that the housewives or even the queens among royalties could have played a ritual role when transferring the dead warriors with their weapons from this world to the Other World at the funerary rites, as ‘the Angel of Death’ (Arabic Malak al-Maut) did in the famous Arabic text Risālah (AD 922), written by the traveller Ibn Fadlān about a group called Rus (Arabic Rūsiyyah).11 He observed the Rus’ customs when he met them on the Volga in the early 10th century. This group is often associated with East Scandinavian Vikings as the name can be related to the Finnish name for Sweden, Ruotsi. But, it can also be related to the Old Swedish

Figure 14.2. Tjängvidestenen (G 110), Alskog. Gotland. Photo by Bengt A. Lundberg. ATA, Riksantikvarieämbetet.

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noun rodher, ‘rowing’. This latter term appears in old district names in eastern Sweden, for instance in the name Roslagen, which in more ancient times was called Roden. The Late Viking Age runic stone at Adelsö, U11, for instance, mentions this name. Also, other etymologies of the name Rus have been suggested (cf. overview in Montgomery 2000).12

‘The Angel of Death’ (Arabic Malak al-Maut) Ibn Fadlān states that he was told that the chieftain of the Rus had died. They placed the chieftain in his grave (qabr) and erected a roof over it for 10 days, until they had finished making his funeral garments. Then, they asked his slave girls, ‘Who will die with him?’, and one of them said, ‘I shall’. So, they placed two slave girls in charge of taking care of her and accompanying her wherever she went. These girls were actually the daughters of the Angel of Death. Every day, the slave girl drank alcohol (nabīd) and sang merrily and cheerfully. On the day the chieftain and the slave girl were to be burned, Ibn Fadlān himself arrived at the river where the chieftain’s ship was. The ship was beached, and four planks of birch and other types of wood had been erected for it. Around them, wood had been placed in such way as to resemble scaffolding. The ship was hauled and placed on the top of this wood. People went around the boat uttering words that Ibn Fadlān did not understand. When describing the preparation of the ship where the dead chieftain and his slave girl were going to be placed, Ibn Fadlān states thus: They produced a couch and placed it on the boat, covering it with quilts and cushions made of Byzantine silk brocade. An aged woman whom they called the Angel of Death turned up. She spread the coverings on the couch. It is her responsibility to sew chieftain garments and prepare him properly, and it is she who kills the female slaves. I saw her myself: she was gloomy and corpulent but neither young nor old. (Mission to the Volga 82, Montgomery 2014, 35–36)

Then, they went to the chieftain’s grave and removed the soil and the wood. They clothed him in his new clothes and carried him inside a pavilion on the ship and laid him to rest on the quilt. Then they brought alcohol, food and his weapons, and they placed them beside him and cast in front of him a dog, which was cut in two. Also, two horses and two cows were cut into pieces and thrown onto the ship. Meanwhile, the slave girl was coming and going, entering one pavilion after another, having intercourse with the owners of the pavilions. The slave girl also performed a ritual at a construction that was made to resemble a doorframe. She was lifted by men three times above the frame, and she told them what she saw. She saw her dead parents and her kindred, and her dead master. So, they brought her to the

ship and she removed two bracelets that she was wearing, handing them to the woman called the Angel of Death, the one who was to kill her. She also removed two anklets that she was wearing, handing them to the two slave girls who had waited upon her. Then they lifted her onto the ship but did not bring her into the pavilion. The men came with their shields and sticks and handed her a cup of alcohol, over which she chanted and then drank. She was handed another cup, which she took and chanted for a long time, while the crone urged her to drink it and to enter the pavilion in which her master lay. The crone took hold of her head and entered the yurt with her. The men began to bang their shields with the sticks so that the sound of her screaming would be drowned out. Otherwise it would terrify the other female slaves, who would not, then, seek to die with their masters. (Mission to the Volga 85, Montgomery 2014, 37)

Six men entered the pavilion and all had intercourse with her. Then, they laid her down beside her master, and they took hold of her feet and hands. The crone called the Angel of Death placed a rope around her neck with the ends crossing one another and handed it to two of the men to pull on. She advanced with a broadbladed dagger and began to thrust it in between her ribs, here and there, while two men strangled her with the rope until she died. (Mission to the Volga 86, Montgomery 2014, 37)

After this, a relative of the chieftain ignited the wood that had been set under the ship. They also built a mound over the burnt ship, and placed a large birch in the middle of it, where they wrote the name of the chieftain and also the name of the king of Rus. The woman called the ‘Angel of Death’ in Ibn Fadlān’s text has been discussed in research (e.g. Price 2010; 2012; Jónsson Hraundal 2013; 2014). It is quite clear that she was some kind of funeral director performing rites in public contexts. At the chieftain’s funeral, she is the one who ritually kills the slave girl. We do not know, however, how this cultic leader/religious specialist was designated among the Rus. Ibn Fadlān decided to choose the Arabic term Malak al-Maut, which in Islamic traditions is the name of the angel who separates the soul from the body at death, and who is responsible for taking the dead at their fated time. Neil Price (2010; 2012) intimates that the Rus may have called her valkyrja, i.e. ‘the chooser of the dead’, since it is quite close to the meaning of Malak al-Maut. I agree with Price that the rites described by Ibn Fadlān in several ways could be related to valkyrjur, Óðinn and Valhalla. The chieftain is apparently seated at the communal table, feasting before the cremation, as if he was in Valhalla. The intoxication

14.  Female cultic leaders and religious (ritual) specialists in Germanic and ancient Scandinavian sources of the ritual performers could also be associated with elements of sacred frenzy and ecstasy associated with the cult of Óðinn. The ritual of stabbing and strangulation of the slave girl is also Odinic. And Óðinn and his valkyrjur can definitely be regarded as psychopomps, as is the Malak al-Maut in Arabic traditions, i.e. mythical beings whose responsibility is to escort newly deceased souls from Earth to the afterlife. However, the association between the Malak al-Maut in Ibn Fadlān’s account and the valkyrja is also complicated since the Old Norse term most likely refers exclusively to a mythical being, while Malak al-Maut in Ibn Fadlān’s account is a cultic official in the human world. Ibn Fadlān’s text has in general been highly esteemed as a source for religion in Viking Scandinavia (e.g. Duczko 2004; Schjødt 2007; Price 2010; 2012). It is usually argued that it is an eyewitness account and that it is relatively free from ethnographic clichés, evaluations and stereotyped descriptions. Indeed, it is made from an outsider’s perspective, by a Muslim, who did not understand the language of the Rus. It has been noted, on the other hand, that several details in Ibn Fadlān’s account have parallels in archaeological and narrative sources referring to Old Norse religion, such as the ship cremation ceremony, the grave goods of weapons and food, and ritual killing. Also, the obscure activities performed by the slave girl at the doorframe resemble rites made at a farm in Norway during the conversion period, mentioned in the Vǫlsa þáttr (in Flateyjarbók II, 331–335). Recently, the Arabist Þorir Jónsson Hraundal (2013; 2014) has problematized this text and argued that the ritual role of Malak al-Maut could also have been influenced by local Turkic traditions at Volga. He calls this group the ‘Volga Caspian Rus’, who were predominantly Scandinavian Vikings, but they eventually disappeared or had been integrated with local peoples by the early 11th century. The funeral ceremony described by Ibn Fadlān was, according to Þorir, influenced by the cultural milieu in which Rus subsisted for prolonged periods of the 9th and 10th centuries. It would be more appropriate, according to him, to view this ceremony as specific to the particular time and place it occurred instead of appropriating it for one determined, supposedly uniform, Scandinavian culture. In my opinion, we must take Þorir’s comments into consideration. At any rate, the similarities between Ibn Fadlān’s description and Old Norse customs indicate a connection between Rus and Scandinavians. Neil Price (2010, 133) has, for instance, stated in connection to Ibn Fadlān’s description of the funeral ritual ‘that almost every single material aspect of its procedures can be matched in the archaeological record of the Nordic countries’. Therefore, the text should be considered as a source for a female cultic leader/ritual specialist with a Scandinavian background, appearing publicly in an Odinic discourse.

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The vǫlur There is also another female candidate in Norse sources who could be related to Óðinn, namely the one called vǫlva. These females (vǫlur, pl.) appear mostly in the medieval prose texts. There is also one attestation of a vǫlva in Kormákr’s lausavísa 48 (10th century), and one later instance in Hofgarda-Refr Gestsson’s poem Ferðavísur 2 (11th century). The word vǫlva is linked with the term vǫlr, meaning ‘staff’, referring to a ritual object.13 The vǫlur are well documented in the Icelandic sources, for example in the family sagas. The most detailed description appears in chapter 4 of Eiríks saga rauða (in Eyrbyggja saga, Ísl. Fornr. 4, 206–209), where we meet a vǫlva who appears as a ritual specialist, i.e. a person who occupied a more exclusive and professional religious function. The vǫlur ambulated often with an entourage from farm to farm, and according to some texts they were paid for their performances, above the bed and board they received (Price 2002, 112–116; 2019, 72–75; Dillmann 2006, 367–369). In the sagas, the vǫlur are wise and often engaged in divinations. They gain knowledge by performing a ceremony called seiðr (sorcery or divination), which could be of benefit to individuals or society. Seiðr is also mentioned in mythical traditions, often in the context of Óðinn. In the texts, the seiðr seems to be gender specific and linked to women. The connection of seiðr to Óðinn is therefore ambiguous. In Lokasenna 24, Loki said to Óðinn: ‘Enn þic síða kóðo Sámseyo í; oc draptu á vétt sem vǫlor; vitca líki fórtu verþióð yfir, oc hugða ec þat args aðal.’ But you, they say, practiced seiðr on Samsey, And you beat on the drum as seeresses (vǫlur) do, In the likeness of a wizard you journeyed over mankind, and that I thought the hallmark of a pervert. (trans. Larrington)

In this poem, Óðinn is accused for behaving in an unmanly fashion when performing seiðr and beating on the drum as a vǫlva. The men who pursued seiðr were considered to be affiliated with ergi, i.e. ‘sexual aberration’, ‘inordinate sexual desire’ or ‘lasciviousness’ (cf. the adjective argr) (cf. Strömbäck 1935; Meulengracht Sørensen 1983; Dillmann 2006). In chapter 7 of Ynglinga saga, Snorri says the following about seiðr: ‘But this sorcery is attended by such perversion (svá mikil ergi) that manly men considered it shameful to practice it, and so it was taught to priestesses’ (Heimskringla I, Ísl. Fornr. 26, 19). The context of Lokasenna and Ynglinga saga testifies that it is the cross-gender feature of Óðinn that is questioned. At any rate, Óðinn is the master of seiðr, and some have related this aspect of him to Nordic shamanism (cf. Strömbäck 1935;

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Buchholz 1968; Price 2002; 2019; Frog 2019; critically considered by Dillmann 2006). It has been suggested in previous research that descriptions of vǫlur and seiðr contain some anomalies (DuBois 1999; Raudvere 2003). On the one hand, the vǫlur are important to society. On the other hand, they are odd and different in terms of age, sex and ethnicity. Not least, the last aspect has the function of marking deviations in the texts. One could interpret this as suggesting the vǫlur were predominantly found in marginal environments. Their activities would then have taken place in a kind of social periphery, far from the activities in the aristocratic halls. The French philologist Francois-Xavier Dillmann (2006) has a different view. He believes that the magicians in Iceland represented the ‘norm’ and that they were well integrated and respected in society. If we investigate other types of sources, in addition to the Icelandic texts, we may actually get a picture that resembles that interpretation. Archaeological finds from the Late Iron Age in Sweden and Norway indicate that vǫlur and seiðr appeared in aristocratic environments. In a rich women’s grave from Klinta, on Öland, a powerful pole was found crowned with a small house. It has been interpreted as a vǫlr-staff (e.g. Price 2002; 2019).14 In three chamber graves from Birka, objects have been detected that can be interpreted in a similar way. As the Klinta staff, they also testify to the highest social level. It has also been argued that the staff found in the rich ship grave of Oseberg, in Norway, was a vǫlr. This tomb is dated to AD 800, and it is considered to belong to a queen and her servant (Ingstad 1992; Myhre 1992). According to Neil Price, one of these females was a vǫlva (Price 2002; 2019; cf. Gardela 2016). Early Latin texts suggest that certain females played a central role in Germanic societies (see, e.g., Tacitus, Germania 8; Caesar, De Bello Gallico I, 50). Tacitus mentions that Germanic people conceived that in woman is a certain uncanny and prophetic sense, and so they neither scorn to consult them nor slight their answers. During the reign of Vespasian, there was a famous seeress of the people who were called Veleda. She was treated as a deity by many. During bitter uprisings, she performed rites in an important role. From a high tower on the River Lippe, she gave oracles and political advice to the people (Histories IV, 61–65). Also, other sources report that the seeresses had this public ritual role in Germanic society (Enright 1996).

Conclusion Thus, the binary model found in previous research, where female cultic leaders and ritual specialists were mainly limited to a private sphere, should in my opinion be modified. Some húsfruar probably functioned as cultic leaders on

individual farms in more limited social contexts, but other females, such as the chieftain’s wife or the queen, probably appeared publicly in ritual roles at the halls of central settlements. The rites led by these women were probably not limited to fertility and the cult of Freyr or Freyja, but included also military aspects, death and the worship of the Æsir-deities. These rites performed in sovereign contexts probably concerned society as a whole, for instance when a chieftain died and power had to be renegotiated. The female ritual specialists called vǫlur probably had some kind of connections with Óðinn. The archaeological evidence indicates that they not only performed rites in a social periphery but also played important roles publicly in aristocratic milieus. In general, the boundaries between the categories of private and public religion, as well as official and popular religion, can be difficult to determine in the Old Norse context. Perhaps the notion of ‘lived religion’ as formulated by North American scholars such as Meredith McGuire (2008) should be applied (cf. Nordberg et al. 2019). They have made efforts to bridge these problematic dichotomies. It includes the fundamental, common structures of religion as well as its many individual variations, among common people as well as the leaders and specialists of the religious institutions. Lived religion includes formal feastings and institutionalized cult and official rituals, as well as varied religious traditions in everyday life.

Notes 1 See, e.g., Arwill-Nordbladh 1998. On the position of females in Viking society in a more general sense, see Jesch 1996; Sawyer 2000; Gräslund 2011; Back Danielsson et al. 2012; Hedenstierna-Jonson et al. 2017; Hållans Stenholm 2019. 2 For a definition of the comparative categories ‘priest’ and ‘priesthood’, see Widengren 1969, 618–623. 3 Traces of initiation can, however, be seen in mythical accounts; see Schjødt 2008; Sundqvist 2009; 2010. 4 The Roman ‘priests’ were known as sacerdotes (sacerdos, sg.), while a Greek cultic leader/religious specialist was called hiereus (sg.), and a female hiereia. 5 The 21 stanzas that are thought to comprise Austrfararvísur, ‘Verses on a Journey to the East’, are customarily dated to c. 1018. They are all recorded in narratives of two eastwards journeys in Snorri Sturlusons’ Óláfs saga Helga: in chapters 53 and 75 of the Separate version as well as in chapters 71 and 91 of the Heimskringla version. See Fulk in Austfararvísur. Simek (2013) states that this reference to an alfablót is hardly a historical statement. 6 Ϸorbjǫrn hersir in Fjalafylki, for instance, took care of the hof sanctuary at his farm in Gaular (… at hofi því, er Ϸorbjǫrn … hafði varðveitt. Landnámabók S 368, Isl. Fornr. 1, 368). Snorri Ϸorgrímsson inherited his father Ϸorgrímr Ϸorsteinsson’s farm and the sanctuary at Helgafell in western Iceland. ‘He was now in charge of the hof and was thus called goði

14.  Female cultic leaders and religious (ritual) specialists in Germanic and ancient Scandinavian sources

7 8 9 10

11

12 13

14

(Hann varðveitti þá hof; var hann þá kallaðr Snorri goði)’. Eyrbyggja saga, Ísl. Fornr. 4: 27. See Sundqvist 2016, chs 5 and 8. On the new dating of Beowulf and its East Scandinavian setting, see, e.g., Gräslund (2018) and his chapter in the present volume. Wealhþēow is called ides Helminga, ides Scyldinga (cf. ON dís scyldinga), but never housewife. The concept húsfreyja does not appear in Old English. This and the following passage is a revised version of my own text (Sundqvist 2016, 373–375). The first element in Valhǫll and valkyrja is valr, ‘the corpses lying on the battlefield’. The term valkyrja (sg.) derives from valr and the verb kjosa, ‘to choose’, thus meaning ‘those who choose the slain’. Simek 2006, 349. On Valhǫll and Ragnarǫk, see especially Nordberg (2003) and Hultgård (2017). This description is best known from ‘the Mashhad manuscript’, which was discovered by Zeki Validi Togan in 1923. Since I am not an Arabist, I have to rely on the translation made by Montgomery (2014; cf. 2000), which is based on this manuscript. It is often called Risālat Ibn Fadlān. Montgomery calls it Mission to the Volga. As for the identity of this people, there are a number of possibilities; see Montgomery (2000); Jónsson Hraundal (2013; 2014). Recently, Leszek Gardeła (2016) has made a thorough and critical assessment of all such known staffs from the Viking Age North including archaeological, iconographic and textual sources leading to an interpretation of these staffs as ‘multivalent objects’ (2016, 219), but often with magical purposes. Cf. Heide 2006a; 2006b. Gardeła (2016, 135–170) critically treats the textual occurrences of the term vǫlr as well as other related terms, such as Old Norse stafr, seiðstafr, gandr, gambanteinn. See also Heide 2006a; 2006b; Tolley 2009, 536–544.

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15 Negotiating narrative – An emic perspective on Norse reuse of ancient monuments on the Northern Isles of Scotland Charlotta Hillerdal

The practice of repopulating ancient burial grounds is something the Viking Age Norse settlers brought with them when they shaped their new environments on the Scottish Isles in the 9th century. In the context of colonization, this can be understood as a way of legitimizing presence, linking to existing traditions and inscribing your own history on a foreign landscape – evidenced as a material reinterpretation of the past. Thus, it has been argued, the Norse manipulated the Scottish landscape to forge for themselves a place in history. However, such a secular interpretation of Norse interactions with their landscape disregards the animistic mindset of the Norse belief system, and it fails to take into consideration the very nature of Viking Age archaeological remains on Orkney. In this chapter, I argue that the burials function as active mnemonic nodal points in a sentient narrative landscape – where practice links present to past and creates memory for the future. If we allow for an emic perspective on Norse interactions in Scotland, these practices appear not so much a manipulation of landscape as an active negotiation of place with foreign entities – past and present. The focus of my discussion is the Westness burial ground on Rousay, Orkney.

Viking Age Orkney Although the earldom of medieval Orkney is very much part of the Scandinavian cultural sphere, the nature of Norse settlement during the Viking Age is still up for debate. The written sources, Orkneyinga Saga and Historia Norwegiae in particular, would have us believe that the Norse takeover of the Scottish Northern Isles was hostile and complete (cf. Smith 2001). This notion is supported by the near complete lack of Pictish place names on

the Northern Isles (Gammeltoft 2004), suggesting that the Norse influence over the land and its people was eventually quite profound. However, the archaeological material does not seem to support the idea of a forceful colonization. There is no evidence of Pictish–Norse conflict on the Isles. Instead, the changes in culture and economy are subtle, and suggest a gradual adoption of Norse architecture, material culture and, ultimately, way of life (Owen 2004, 30). One cannot help but think that the situation in medieval Orkney has been projected back onto the early settlement period (cf. Griffiths 2019), and that general preconceptions of Viking interactions have forced the interpretations. The archaeological material does not lend itself to clear breaks in tradition during the Viking Age; it has proven surprisingly difficult to find not only Picts but also Vikings in early 9th-century Orkney and Shetland (Owen 2004, 6), and a definite start date for Norse settlement cannot be identified. Recent consensus dates larger-scale settlements by the Norse on Orkney no earlier than the mid-9th century (Barrett 2003a). It seems very likely that these were far from the first contacts between Norway and northern Scotland given the short geographical distances, and the lack of violence possibly suggests already formed connections between Picts and Norse (Owen 2004, 25). However, if present, these connections left little trace in archaeology. There is very little evidence to support pre-Viking Age trade links between Scotland and Scandinavia, especially since previous interpretations of reindeer antlers being used in the manufacture of native Pictish combs have recently been disproven (see von Holstein et al. 2014; Heen-Pettersen 2019; cf. Myhre 1993, 189–191; Weber 1993; Barrett 2003a, 78–80). The introduction of reindeer antler combs can instead be

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understood as indicative of Norse settlement, and dates no earlier than AD 850 (von Holstein et al. 2014, 5). In general terms, the Norse settlement on Scotland is seen as gradual, with an initial phase of more informal settlement developing into a more formal, rapid and large-scale settlement phase following the establishment of the Norse earldom sometime in the 10th century (Buteux 1997, 262; Morris 1998, 83; Barrett 2003a, 95). This development is reflected in the accepted chronology of Orkney, where the Viking Age refers to the period of early Norse settlement pre-dating AD 1050, followed by the Late Norse period (Graham-Campbell and Batey 1998, 2). Formally, medieval Orkney remained under Scandinavian rule until 1468–1469 (Morris 1985, 210). The earliest Norse permanent activity on Orkney is evident in settlement material as well as in burials. The burials present especially clear links to the Scandinavian homeland, and have therefore been used as evidence of early Scandinavian influence. In total, c. 130 Norse pre-Christian graves have been found in Scotland (Barrett 2003a, 80), with the majority in Orkney (GrahamCampbell and Batey 1998, 54). Norse furnished graves span a century, between c. AD 850 and 950, but the majority of these seem to date from an even more narrow time period spanning the second half of the 9th to the early 10th century (Graham-Campbell and Batey 1998, 154). Although impressive in comparison to England, the relative small number of Norse pre-Christian graves has been explained by low population density in these rural areas in combination with a quick conversion to Christianity (Barrett 2003a, 80–81). Norse settlement dating to the same period is more difficult to characterize, mainly because the early settlements, which are few, all show up as Norse intrusions, or inclusions, in already established Pictish sites of some importance. These settlements clearly display a mixture of Pictish and Norse material culture, evident in architecture and spatial organization as well as artefact material (Buteux 1997, 263; Graham-Campbell and Batey 1998, 160–173). Five settlement sites on Orkney have been identified as early period Viking Age Norse (Fig. 15.1). At Buckquoy, a multi-period Pictish settlement on the west coast of mainland Orkney, the later phases of continuous occupation have been interpreted as Norse, mainly based on the differing building types, since the artefact material throughout the settlement’s history continues to be heavily dominated by finds of local Pictish type (Ritchie 1977, 174–175, 188–189). Despite the lack of diagnostic Scandinavian-type artefacts, the interpretation of Buckquoy as a predominantly Norse settlement in the Viking Age is still accepted (Brundle et al. 2003, 96), but the settlement is thought to be well integrated into the local society (Ritchie 1977; Morris 1985, 217; Brundle et al. 2003). The final activity on site was the burial of a man who was inserted into the ruins of the abandoned farmstead.

The burial, of Norse pre-Christian character, can be dated to the third quarter of the 9th century on the basis of a slightly worn coin, which makes it one of the most recent Norse burials on Orkney. This has informed the conclusion that the settlement was abandoned around AD 900 (Ritchie 1977, 192). The site at Brough of Birsay, on a small tidal island on the north-west tip of Mainland (Hunter 1997, 249–250), was first settled during the Pictish period, and evidence of extensive metalworking suggests this was a site of some importance during Pictish times, possibly with Christian connotations (Graham-Campbell and Batey 1998, 11, 164–166). As at Buckquoy, the architecture changes character during the Viking Age, when sub-rectangular Norse-type buildings replace the Pictish dwellings, although a certain level of integration is still visible in the architecture (Hunter and Morris 1981; Morris 1985, 217). The relationship between native and Norse manifests both structurally and spatially, and reveals a period of native and Norse interaction (Hunter et al. 1993, 273). This pattern is repeated at Saevar Howe, also on west mainland Orkney, with Norse-type buildings dating to the Viking Age overlaying a Pictish occupation, although an abandonment period between Pictish and Norse occupation can be identified here. The artefact material supports an interpretation of a Norse or mixed Norse–Pictish occupation during the Viking Age, displaying both Pictish and Norse diagnostic artefacts, including combs, pins and steatite vessels (Hedges 1983, 89–108). The site is dated by an Anglo-Saxon silver coin and three C14 dates (Hedges 1983, 85). Although there are many uncertainties regarding the C14 dates obtained, the Viking occupation of Saevar Howe is tentatively dated to the 9th century, although it is possible that it began in the late 8th and/or continued into the early 10th century (Hedges 1983, 108–109). The site also contains a 10th-century Christian cemetery – interpreted as Norse (Hedges 1983, 81–85; Graham-Campbell and Batey 1998, 167–168). An even more complex settlement history is revealed at Pool on Sanday, the largest of Orkney’s Northern Isles. Here, a settlement dating all the way back to the Neolithic has been found, although this earliest settlement was abandoned for a longer period of time. The site was repopulated in the 4th century AD with the establishment of a small-scale settlement that by the 6th century had developed into a thriving farming community. It appears that the settlement was somewhat in decline, although still in use, at the time when the first evidence of Norse activity can be identified, which results in a clear period of overlap between the two cultures (Hunter et al. 1993, 274–275; Hunter 1997, 250–251). Pictish- and Norse-type buildings are in use simultaneously in different parts of the site, but there is also an evident merging of Pictish and Norse building styles, and the artefact material is of mixed

15.  Negotiating narrative character (Hunter et al. 1993, 276–277, 279). Intensified activity is also visible in the palaeo-environmental record at this time (Hunter 1997, 251). Hunter et al. make the claim (1993, 275) that the Viking phase at Pool should be viewed as part of a process of continuity rather than a discrete entity of period culture. Skaill, Deerness on mainland Orkney was settled during the Early Iron Age, and contains evidence of continuous occupation into the Viking Age. The first Norse-type building on the site had been remodelled on an older house. Although the archaeological material suggests unbroken occupation, the character of the finds made the excavator Gelling doubt any continuity of Pictish traditions. However, Buteux, who compiled the report on the excavations after Gelling’s death in 1983 (Buteux 1997, 1), reinterprets this and claims there is no evidence supporting a drastic transition between Pictish and Norse culture, but, rather, that the archaeological material displays the same evidence of mixture as in the other Viking Age sites (Buteux 1997, 263). The ephemeral character of the settlement material and its inherently mixed nature make it difficult to draw any conclusions in support of Norse domination or even colonization during the Viking era. In contrast, the Norse pre-Christian graves are of a much more uniform Norse character, and indigenous material culture is a rather rare inclusion (Barrett 2004, 214). In particular, the extensive Pierowall burial ground on Westray, Orkney, is seemingly very similar to Scandinavian counterparts, even including boat burials and animal remains (Thorsteinsson 1968; Cooke 2016). Clearly, very different decisions were taken in these different contexts – how can we understand these decisions and cultural negotiations from the perspective of the people making them?

The Westness cemetery The Westness burial ground on the island of Rosay (Fig. 15.1) has been the focus of much debate due to its intermixture of Pictish and Norse graves, and for the apparent respect the Norse paid to the previous inhabitants of the cemetery when burying their dead. The burial ground was in use between the 7th and the 11th centuries and displays a mix of Pictish Christian graves, Norse pre-Christian graves and Viking- and Norse-period graves of Christian character (Sellevold 2010, 369). All graves are under flat ground with no visible markers, irrespective of grave type (Kaland 1973, 97). Grave forms, osteological evidence from both stature and pathology, as well as isotope studies, concur that the cemetery served two distinct populations (Sellevold 2010; Montgomery et al. 2014). The burial ground was discovered in 1963 when the farmer on Westness Farm buried a cow and found a rich female grave (Grave I) (Kaland 1973, 81). The area was

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previously known to contain Norse burials as a sword and shield boss had been ploughed up in 1826, and it was then noted that the field contained many graves (Kaland 1973, 83; Graham-Campbell and Batey 1998, 136). The site was excavated between 1968 and 1984 (Graham-Campbell and Batey 1998, 135). Regrettably, the excavations at Westness have not yet been fully published. A total of 32 inhumation graves have been discovered at Westness (Kaland 1980, 25), although the number is elsewhere suggested to be somewhat higher (Sellevold 2010, 369). Some graves contained no human remains and, in all, the remains of 29 individuals have been excavated (Sellevold 2010, 369–370). Of these, eight burials are interpreted as pre-Christian Norse furnished burials (Graham-Campbell and Batey 1998, 136), and 11 of the dated burials are definitely pre-Norse (Ashmore 2003, 37). No clear break in continuity can be detected between the Pictish period and Early Viking Age graves from C14 dates (Sellevold 2010, 311). The latest burial for a continuous dating sequence probably dates to the 9th or 10th century, although there are two later-date graves, one dating to the 11th or 12th century, and one to the 16th century or later (Ashmore 2003, 37). The first grave investigated at Westness (Grave I) was that of a young woman and her newborn child. It is presumed that the woman died in childbirth. The shape of the grave was impossible to determine as it had been disturbed (Kaland 1973, 94–95). This grave, one of the richest graves ever found in Scotland, included grave goods such as two well-preserved oval brooches dating to the 9th century, a string of beads, a Celtic brooch, Anglo-Saxon strap-ends and a guilt bronze mount with a lion figure in relief. The dead had also been given two iron heckles, a pair of shears, a small knife, a sickle and a long comb, and another bone object, a bronze basin about 23 cm in diameter, a whalebone plaque and an iron weaving sword (Kaland 1973, 94–95; Graham-Campbell and Batey 1998, 136). The Celtic brooch is particularly interesting as it is of Irish, or possibly Scottish, manufacture and has been dated to no later than the mid-8th century. It was thus over a century old when it was placed in the grave (Stevenson 1968). The lion relief has also been described as “remarkably Celtic looking” (Stevenson 1968, 28). Grave II was oval in shape, 1.5 m long, with equally sized stone slabs set on edge lining the grave. A slim taller rock was placed at the top of the grave – pointing towards the sea. It has been suggested that the shape of the grave symbolized a boat with a prow (stone). This was the resting place of a 30-year-old man. A shield had been placed behind his head. To his left were placed 25 bone gaming pieces, arrows, a sickle, a knife, shears and possibly a bronze weight. The grave goods suggest a 9th-century date. Iron rivets and wood remains imply the man was covered with boat planks before the grave was filled in with sand. Above

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Figure 15.1. Locations of significant archaeological sites discussed in the chapter. Modified from Ordnance Survey OpenData 2020.

15.  Negotiating narrative the man were found the remains of an elderly woman, c. 60 years of age and suffering from gout. She had evidently been left exposed on top of the grave for some time before her decomposed remains were collected and placed under the stone slab at the top of the grave. The woman was given a few gifts in the form of a loom weight, a knife sheath and a possible button (Kaland 1973, 95–96). Other oval graves similar in shape, lined with slabs and including ‘prow-stones’ pointing towards the sea were also excavated. The men and women buried in these graves had a range of grave goods including weapons – such as swords, axes, spears or arrows – shield bosses, jewellery, tools, farming equipment and weaving implements. The grave goods indicate that the dead were warriors and farmers (Kaland 1993, 315). Two boat graves were also excavated. The wood had decayed, leaving the rows of boat rivets to establish the shape of the clinker-built boats (Kaland 1993, 315), which were 5.5 and 4.5 m long respectively (Graham-Campbell and Batey 1998, 137). One of the boats had a rowlock made of deer antler on the gunwale, and a fishing implement for the fishing line on the other gunwale (Kaland 1993, 316). Both burials were made in the same way. The boats were placed in a hole dug into the ground and stabilized with stones and clay outside. A burial chamber was then created by filling the aft and fore with flat stones to create a chamber into which the dead man was placed, surrounded by grave goods (Kaland 1993, 315–316). Both men were given sets of weapons in the form of swords and shields, and arrows and axes, and one of the men also had a spear. The shield boss in the larger boat was so close to the man’s head that it can be suggested the shield was put in the boat first and the man was then placed on top of it (Ritchie 1993, 50). Both men were also provided with farming tools, such as a sickle and adze. One of them had a strike-a-light, and the other a fishing weight and a bone comb. Both men showed signs of being familiar with battle. The shield boss belonging to the man in the larger boat had been badly slashed, and the other man had evidently been shot with four arrows (Kaland 1993, 316). The Westness cemetery is located close to the Westness farmstead, which was also excavated by Kaland (1993). Although dates are consistently missing from the reports on the Westness settlement, it seems to date to the Late Norse period (Graham-Campbell and Batey 1998, 195), and thus post-dates the pre-Christian Norse graves in the cemetery. The Norse furnished burials have often been interpreted as the graves of first-generation settlers (Eldjárn 1984; Barrett 2003, 96), and from this perspective the conclusions from isotopic analyses on some of the remains from Westness become extra interesting as they indicate that none of the dead in the furnished Norse graves investigated were local to Orkney. The two men in the boat graves and a female in an oval boat-shaped grave were analysed. The results

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suggested that the two men likely came from Scandinavia, but the woman, although not local, was unlikely to be from the Scandinavian homelands; rather, her native environment was probably Ireland or eastern Scotland (Montgomery et al. 2014). Osteological analysis also showed that the men in the ship burials were considerably taller than the Pictish men buried in the unfurnished graves, with a median stature of 180 cm rather than 171 cm. The same trend could not be identified among the women (Sellevold 2010, 370–371). These results indicate the interconnectedness of the Viking world during this time period, and caution us against imagining movement as one-directional. Given the Viking Age unfurnished burials in Westness, it also becomes interesting to discuss Christianity. The traditional date of Orkney’s conversion to Christianity is AD 995, following the Orkneyinga Saga (Morris 1985, 238). However, it is increasingly accepted that the story is less straightforward than that, and that this date is probably too late. Pictish Orkney was Christian at the time of the Vikings, and there are several indications that these native institutions might have survived throughout the Viking Age (Barrett 2003b, 208; Owen 2004, 20–21). For example, Christian monuments indicative of 8th- and 9th-century ecclesiastical activity raise the possibility of continuous Christian practice, but there is also evidence of practising Norse Christians pre-dating 995, such as the remains of a wooden chapel most consistent with a Norse milieu at Brough of Deerness and an early chapel in Newark Bay (Barrett 2003b, 215, 218–219). Griffiths also interprets (2015, 232) the late 10th-century Norse settlement at Bay of Skaill as Christian. This raises the possibility of competing factions of Christian–pagan Norse in 10th-century Orkney (Barrett 2003b, 221). In all likelihood, Christian and pagan practices were contemporary (Barrett 2003b, 208). Vésteinsson (2014, 81–82), with reference to Iceland, suggests that in the North Atlantic the change in burial customs preceded other changes in normative behaviour that were, at least afterwards, seen as essential components of Christianity. Some aspects of Christianity were more appealing and meaningful than others. This is relevant for the Westness cemetery, where several burials dating to the Viking Age are unfurnished and with an E–W orientation, and thus of Christian character. Three adult males, one adult female and an infant were buried following this custom (Halstad McGuire 2016, 70). There are two ways these graves can be interpreted – either they are the graves of local Christians, and thus represent a continuation of both Pictish use and Christian practice, or they are the graves of Norse, but Christian, settlers, which means that both pre-Christian and Christian belief, or at least funerary ritual, was practised among this Norse community. Clearly, this cemetery has been the stage for mediations between different traditions. As often noted, the pre-Viking Age Pictish graves have been respected,

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but this is not the only concession to local custom and historic tradition. To their inner form, and in the ‘staging of the dead’, the furnished Norse burials are distinctly Scandinavian in their expression, but they are lacking the outer grave architecture you would typically expect from graves of this prominence. Hence, it would seem, in their external appearance, the Norse graves have conformed to the local cultural landscape.

Monumentality, liminality and performance Landscapes of power Tarlow makes the observation (2013, 622), following Parker Pearson (1999, 145), that archaeologists, being more comfortable with the secular aspects of belief in the past, still favour interpretations of religion as an ideological tool for negotiation of social elements such as economy, and tend to explain away ideology and religion as merely legitimating mechanisms functioning to ensure reproductive success and control over economic resources and their exploitation. Maybe herein lies the explanation why the grave as a sign of land ownership, or even land claim, has been favoured in Orkney Viking Age studies, instead of discussing these within the sphere of ideology and belief. Invariably, the reuse on Orkney of burial grounds, abandoned settlements and other ancient remains has been fitted into a narrative of monumentality, dominance and manipulation (i.e. HalstadMcGuire 2010; Leonard 2011; Harrison 2013a; 2013b; McLeod 2015). Even when the aspect of interaction is emphasized, the Norse are seen as an incoming elite in Orkney society (i.e. Barrett 2004) that through their interactions with existing monuments create Norse landscapes of power (cf. Leonard 2011, 64). Burial in, or next to, ancient burial monuments and burial grounds is a reoccurring phenomenon in Viking Age Scandinavia (Pedersen 2006; Stenholm 2006; Fahlander 2016; Lund and Arwill-Nordbladh 2016; Williams 2016). Often, highly visible monumental burials were chosen for reuse (cf. Thäte 2009), but reuse has also been documented in the case of flat burial grounds and/or other more invisible monuments (Artelius 2004; cf. Wickholm 2008). In certain contexts, abandoned ruined houses have also been reused for burial (Stenholm 2012, 195; see also Badou 1989). This custom was reproduced in Orkney, where the locations of many pre-Christian Norse burials seem to have been informed by Late Iron Age remains (McLeod 2015). Reuse of ancient places is usually linked to memory, ancestry and historicism. It is seen as the creation of a kind of historic narrative (Artelius 2004, 118–119; Pedersen 2006, 346; cf. Brink 2001) through the establishment of ancestral links – real or imagined. This is usually read in terms of family status and statements of ownership and control (i.e. Pedersen 2006, 351), often also linked

to claims of ‘legitimization’ (i.e. Thäte 2009, 104), thus implying that this would occur in situations where such claims may be questioned. Hence, it appears that the Norse funerary landscape on Orkney suits this narrative well, especially within a colonial framework. If Ritchie (1993, 38) is correct, and also the Norse burials in Pierowall on Westray are located in a previous Pictish cemetery, an overwhelming majority of the Norse burials on Orkney can be associated with different types of ancient remains (cf. Leonard 2011; McLeod 2015). Hence, it seems a strong case can be made for Norse land appropriation and asserting power. But what if we step away from the assumption and approach the archaeology from a different perspective? Very little in the settlement material from the Viking Age would suggest Norse dominance, so once again we are left with the graves upon which to build our argument. Pierowall and Westness, but also a number of other burials, such as the boat grave at Scar (Owen and Dalland 1999), suggest high-status elite burials. However, there are also examples, such as the rather mundane burial at Buckquoy and the two burials at Brough Road, where the dead have been inserted into active middens (Morris 1989, 123, 127, 289). Even though association with household waste has been suggested to symbolize wealth (Thäte 2007, 124–125), existing material from the Norse homelands offer little support for this explanation. It would be less contrived to suggest that the Brough Road midden burial in a ‘very poorly constructed cist’ (Morris 1989, 127), despite being accompanied by some iron artefacts and a comb, does not in any way suggest high status. Furthermore, neither the fragmentary state of the second burial – not even placed in a cist – nor the poor health conditions of both individuals (Morris 1989, 127) implies wealth. Nor are these midden-mounds particularly convincing ‘landmarks’ (as suggested by Leonard 2011, 60), despite certain associations with deep-time perspectives (or long-time use). An argument could therefore be made for varying social positions being represented in the grave material, and a priori assumptions of authority questioned. In studying burials in another Norse settler landscape, namely Iceland, Ruth Maher comes to the conclusion (2014, 95) that the burials are not ‘creating landscapes of power – but landscapes of cosmology’. This shifts the focus from power to spirituality. What if this is also true for Orkney? What the burials do have in common, despite often being placed on prominent locations in the landscape, is a lack of visibility. In contrast to their Scandinavian counterparts, Norse pre-Christian graves in Orkney seemingly have no ambition to leave a visible mark on the landscape – something that in itself speaks against monumentality. If the Norse settlers wanted to manipulate Orkney’s long-term memory, they are relying on the narrative powers of such memories rather than their physicality.

15.  Negotiating narrative

Narrative performance and place making In the oral Scandinavian Iron Age society, visual expression and communal performance were essential means of communication, and memory was materialized in monuments and natural places referencing the past. Historical narratives were thus in a very physical sense bound to place and embedded in the landscape (Brink 2001, 79–81; Jennbert 2006, 136; Pedersen 2006, 351; Andrén 2013, 270–272). Death rituals are an important element of such communal ‘narrative making’, mediating social, cosmological and historical worlds, and most notably including an important relational element where communities – living and dead – as well as entire landscapes are active participants (Jennbert 2006, 135–136, 138–139; Andrén et al. 2006, 13–14). Such practices are simultaneously conservative and transformative in the way they re-enact the narrative for every new context. The linking of land to narrative may have an even more important function in settler communities, where there is a need to create a sense of belonging to one’s new environment. The funerary ritual provides a platform where a community can anchor itself through mnemonic practices. In addition, funerals have been identified by Oestigaard and Goldhahn (2006) as one of the most important settings for re-establishing alliances and thus for creating or reinventing social structures. If this reasoning is transferred to the Orcadian context, it allows for a place like Westness to be understood as an arena for intense social negotiations and, considering the nature of the graves, it would appear that the local Pictish population was a forceful counterpart in these negotiations. In interpreting graves primarily in terms of monumentality for secular purposes such as land claims, we are caught up in the modern problem of compartmentalizing notions of matter and mind. In conceptualizations of death in particular, one can detect a tendency coloured by the Christian separation of body and soul, and the division of practice into secular and sacred spheres. If we take the Norse pre-Christian burials as evidence of pre-Christian beliefs (noting that belief is not necessarily the only reason to keep to traditional practice), we need to look beyond the grave to understand their meaning. Animistic and shamanistic elements evidenced in the Norse belief system (i.e. Gräslund 1994; Hedeager 1997; 2011; Brink 2001, 90; Price 2003; 2008; 2019; Biering 2006) suggest a fundamentally different relationship with the natural world than that displayed in a Christian, or secularized, society. Traditionally, indigenous peoples across the North built their worldview around the complex balance of relationships between human, animal and supernatural beings (Ingold 2000). Hence, we need to recognize that the Norse pre-Christian mind was interacting with a sentient world, full of other beings (see, e.g., Nordberg 2019). The dead can be counted among these other beings. The ancestors are not merely a representative of, or link

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to, the past, but active entities in the lives of the living (Gansum 2008), and ancestor cult was a significant aspect of pre-Christian belief in Scandinavia (Sanmark 2010; Gardela 2016). Graves are the dwellings of the dead, and burial grounds and graves were special places where interactions between the living and the dead were facilitated, not only during funerals but also beyond (Tarlow 1997, 137; Brink 2001, 85–86; Gäslund 2001, 226; Artelius 2004, 104–105). This means that the chronological relations between past and present are also dissolved – the past is active in the present in far more than a metaphorical sense. Hence, referencing the past through reuse and narrative alludes to much more than secular economic aspects, and includes active interaction with other beings. Thus, acts of ritual in a sentient new landscape also need to pay regard to its non-physical entities. The active, performative nature of funerary rituals has more recently been emphasized in Scandinavian Viking Age research (i.e. Price 2008; 2012). The most significant element of a burial is the performative, and not its appearance. What archaeologists encounter as a funerary display in an excavation should thus not be understood as a staging of the dead (Jennbert 2006, 135) or an arrangement of the dead as a still-life to be ‘read’ by the onlookers, and perhaps future spectators, but as the remains of a ‘mortuary drama’ (Price 2010), an active ongoing narrative, including the living and dead, and playing out in the moment (Price 2008; 2012, 25–30). The well-nigh endless variation in Norse burial practice (cf. Callmer 1991; Svanberg 2003) indicates that these may be personal narratives, unfolding the life and death of the main character (Price 2012, 36). However, these events are not only of individual concern but rather entangle a whole community, its landscape and other beings (Andrén et al. 2006). The communal and inclusive aspects of funeral rites and narrative performances are central to memorialization and the creation of historical landscape narratives discussed above. This relates to the emotional evocation or critical apprehension of place through praxis, a process that engenders a critical consciousness of place and social identity: ‘spaces where place-making is realized and subjectively negotiated’ (Swenson 2015, 483). Through these activities, place retains its definition as a historically contingent and meaningfully constituted locale (Swenson 2015, 483). These are the mnemonic nodal points in a narrative landscape (cf. Brink 2001, 80) that bind community and history, and thus are of utmost importance for establishing identities within a settler community. Price presents grave rituals that suggest ongoing relationships between the living and the dead across decades (Price 2012, 36; see also Klevnäs 2016). A similar argument is put forward by Herschend (2009, 85–125) to explain thematic Εarly Iron Age burial grounds in south Scandinavia, where communities have been participating in the performance of a narrative for generations. Similar discussions are virtually absent from Viking Age mortuary archaeology in Scotland.

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However, given the lack of visible mounds or grave markers on the Orcadian graves, an argument could be made for the performative aspect of burial being even more of a key point for the Orcadian Norse. An emphasis on the importance of performance and the active elements of ritual practice may help us understand the (generally unacknowledged) discrepancy between the interior display and the external anonymity of the graves. If we approach the Westness burials (see description above) with this mindset, certain narratives can surely become manifest; for example, the narrative hiding in the dented shield boss of an experienced warrior, or in the 100-year-old heirloom of a woman of Irish descent who was denied the possibility of passing it on to her child, or in the bones of an elderly woman left exposed on a grave, maybe destined to eventually follow the dead man she was grieving on his last journey across the sea. From this perspective, claims to land and sacral power appear much less likely.

Conclusions Arguments about Norse authority have dominated the discourse of Viking Age Orkney, despite – as we have seen – little archaeological support for such interpretations. Indeed, the settlement evidence is elusive, and the burial evidence does not easily lend itself to these conclusions. Claims of monumentality rest on assumptions, and sometimes farfetched constructions, as do claims of dominance. What is expressed in the settlement archaeology of the first couple of centuries of Norse settlement might be best described as, in the words of Buteux (1997, 263), ‘cultural ambiguity’. This period cannot be classified clearly as either Pictish or Norse due to the seemingly effortless mixture of cultural traits. This has led to uncertainty among archaeologists as to when to pinpoint the starting date of the Viking Age on Orkney. Some researchers want to explain the presence of Pictish material on Norse sites as taxation (cf. Brundle et al. 2003, 100) or loot (cf. Morris 1998, 80). Clearly, continuity of place or architecture cannot be explained through these phenomena. The absence of Pictish cultural elements in the Viking Age and Early Norse periods can also be questioned. Griffith, for example, considers the evidence for surviving Pictish traits to be rather convincing and widely recognizable on the 10th-century Northern Isles (2019, 474). As with continuity in Christian institutions, there are suggestions that, maybe linked to continuity in settlement, the Pictish system of land administration was also adopted and developed by the Norse settlers (Bäcklund 2001, 36). Thus, much more of Pictish traditions may have survived than is generally recognised. On the other hand, evidence of Norse settlement in the Viking Age might be even less prominent than currently believed. One strand of evidence for Norse settlement, most notable maybe in the case of Buckquoy, rests on architectural

changes, based on the idea that Pictish architecture did not include rectangular houses. This notion, born out of a shortage of archaeological material, has been disproven by more recent excavations (Noble et al. forthcoming). Furthermore, the very existence of a Viking Age occupation period on Buckquoy is brought into question by recent C14 dates obtained from the site (Noble, pers. comm.). A curious feature of Viking Age Norse archaeology on Orkney is the lack of correlation between settlements and burials. Not even in the case of the large grave field of Pierowall, or the Westness burial ground, where a nearby Norse occupation must be assumed, has a contemporary settlement been located. Does this mean that the Orcadian Norse made different decisions relating to death than their kin back in the Scandinavian homelands, or is it an implication of our inability to recognize Norse settlement? Despite a clear link between ancient remains and the location of Norse pre-Christian graves, common interpretations of reuse as domination seem an ill fit. A shared characteristic among these graves, even the evidently high-status ones, is that they were not marked by external grave structures. Not even the boat burial at Scar, most immediately recognizable as a Norse boat burial, was covered by a mound, but instead utilized a natural sand dune (Owen and Dalland 1999). Similarly, the comparable graves at Pierowall were, from what can be concluded, not covered by mounds either, but instead surrounded a series of natural mounds (Thorsteinsson 1968). Thus, it would seem that the unmarked Westness graves are the rule rather than the exception in Norse pre-Christian funeral expressions on Orkney. This suggests that even high-status burials cannot be used in the argument of takeover of land. In the case of Westness, reuse might even be the wrong term to use, considering no clear break between Pictish and Norse can be detected. Continuity would then be the more correct way of describing the burial practices in Westness. Linking to this, respect rather than appropriation also seems a more correct description of the Norse practices in Westness. This respect is paid towards the current population, but also towards their ancestors. If the Norse wanted to affiliate themselves with the prehistoric past, they did not do so in a forceful way. Of course, we also have to make room for the possibility that these immigrants are not colonizers at all, at least not in the traditional sense of the word, but might instead have been considered kin, or even family (cf. Halstad-McGuire 2016). If you marry into a local family, you may remain an outsider, but you will no longer be a foreigner – and your children will be part of the same native lineage that occupied the land for centuries. Their ancestors also become your ancestors. I would argue that there are good reasons to consider Orkney Viking Age society hiberno-Norse, in the case it should be considered Norse at all.

15.  Negotiating narrative Excavations of settlement sites have yielded much more extensive and coherent data on Norse occupation, economy and land,-use from the later 10th and 11th centuries onwards (Griffiths 2015, 219). Most of the major structural changes such as settlement patterns and resources exploitation, occurred around AD 1000, or even later, post-dating the Viking period. Thus, many of the changes towards a stable political geography in Orkney may be seen as parallel with the development of the Norse earldom in the Middle Ages, rather than Viking Age advances (Griffiths 2015, 219). Genetic evidence from modern populations suggests that the influx of Scandinavians was significant, but that the immigrants were still a clear minority (Goodacre et al. 2005). Thus, the genetic evidence strongly suggests that the shift to a predominantly Norse society was cultural rather than biological. Developments in language, material culture and other aspects of behaviour required decisions, both conscious and unconscious, by the descendants of both the indigenous population and the Norse migrants (Barrett 2004, 217). And it seems that the first two centuries of Norse settlement was a period of negotiation and forging place and identity. As Barrett (2004) points out, this rigid blackboxing we see in interpretations is probably a result of our preconceived ideas of how ethnicity should work, which in turn has skewed the discussion on Pictish–Norse relations to construct a problem of opposition. The theory prevails that ‘clear expressions of indigenous and Norse cultures need to be separated in either space or time’ (Barrett 2004, 111). This is probably reinforced by an anachronistic back-projecting of the known cultural dominance of the Norse in medieval Orkney. Since the cultural dominance is so complete in the 12th century, it somehow seems impossible to imagine the Norse in an equal, amicable or even subordinate or dependent situation when they first arrived to settle. However, these assumptions aside, the archaeological material suggests that the nature of interaction between the two ‘cultures’ is two centuries of mixed, fluid and, to a certain extent, probably competing identities, not necessarily constructed on ethnic terms. The transition to a Norse society was gradual and slow – although 200 years often seems short from an archaeological perspective, in the lived experience it is extensive – seven generations of people negotiating their place in society. Clearly, the choices made by these generations of living people included an increased preference for Norse buildings, things and language, which ultimately led to the seeming extinction of the ‘Picts’. However, it can be pointed out that these were times of change, and the Orkney Islands were not the only place where Pictish culture was fading. Similarly, it seems appropriate to point out that the same is true for the Vikings. The Late Iron Age Scandinavian society that we now recognize as the ‘Viking Age’ is entirely altered at the heyday of Norse Orkney: the social hierarchies, political institutions, kingships and,

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not least, religious constitutions are altogether different in medieval Norway. The earldom of Orkney might be Norse, but it is not Viking.

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16 Some thoughts about the early medieval settlement on Åland, from a western European perspective Jan-Henrik Fallgren

Åland is a large archipelago in the Baltic Sea between present-day Sweden and Finland, consisting of about 6500 large and small islands (see Ilves and Darmark this volume, Fig. 7.1), and it has been a border area and a contact zone between Scandinavian and Finnish cultural and linguistic groups for about 2000 years. Sometime at the end of the 12th or during the 13th century, the Åland archipelago, like the larger part of present-day Finland, was incorporated into the Swedish realm and became part of the Swedish kingdom until 1809, when it passed to Russia. However, since 1922 Åland has belonged to the independent nation of Finland, but it is largely autonomous (NE, ‘Åland’; Ahola et al. 2014).

Early medieval Åland There are some major unresolved and frustrating problems when it comes to Åland’s Iron Age and early historical periods, in particular whether or not there is continuity between the Viking Age settlement and the settlement known from the earliest written sources. There are various opinions today, and have been for some time, concerning this subject. However, since Lars Hellberg’s classic study of the place names on Åland in 1980, many researchers believe that the archipelago was deserted between c. AD 1000 and at least the 12th century (Hellberg 1980). Others have pointed out that at least some of the settlements exhibit continuity from the Viking Age to the end of the 13th century (Hyenstrand 1985; Roeck Hansen 1991; Edgren 1993). The fact that no coins have been found on Åland from the end of the Viking Age has also been forwarded as an important argument for the former opinion. Alternatively, the coins indicate that the Ålanders suffered a downturn in their economy due to the collapse of the earlier and important East–West trade route during this century (Heininen et al. 2014, 342). Strangely

enough, the speedy shore displacement during the Late Iron Age/medieval period that resulted in raised shorelines has sometimes been mentioned in connection with the presumed desolation, or as one of the causes of population decline. This is an odd conclusion as, in other geographical contexts, for instance the Mälaren Valley in eastern central Sweden, a speedy shore displacement that creates new usable land has always been regarded as something positive and beneficial for the contemporary agrarian economy and for the growth of the population (e.g. Hyenstrand 1974). Both osteological and palaeobotanical analyses reveal that the agrarian Viking Age economy on Åland was based on the same kind of farming practice as everywhere else in north-western Europe during this time period (see Alenius 2014); that is, an agricultural system based on cattle breeding, alongside crop growing on a minor scale. Therefore, this land elevation must have been similarly beneficial to the agrarian economy of Åland, as rightly pointed out previously by Johan Callmer (1994) and Kristin Ilves (2015). As mentioned above, the Iron Age and Viking Age agrarian economy on Åland appears to have been of exactly the same type as in other parts of north-western Europe during the early medieval period, i.e. farming based mainly on animal husbandry together with small-scale cultivation of, essentially, barley, on few and very small fields. Actually, this was characteristic for all north-western early medieval kin-based, tribal societies, stateless petty kingdoms, ranked societies, traditional societies or whatever you would like to call them, before what has been labelled the ‘cerialization’ and ‘manoralization’ of Europe occurred, when the feudal estate system was born in the late early or high medieval period (Reynolds 1994; Faith 1997; Verhulst 2002; Wickham 2010; Banham and Faith 2014; Blair 2018). These transformations began in the western part of Europe

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(Frankish) during the 8th century, but accelerated strongly only when the reformed Catholic Church, from the 10th century onwards, got a firmer grip on the political and ideological situation in Europe and, thus, could incorporate several larger kingdoms and regions into their economic and administrative system. However, these momentous changes did not arrive to the northern part of Europe until the 13th and 14th centuries (Bartlett 1994; Rösener 1994; Lindkvist 1998; Verhulst 2002; Fallgren 2006; Hybel 2012; Poulsen 2012; Lindkvist and Sjöberg 2015). Before these radical economic and agrarian changes during the early medieval period, all social contracts, bonds and agreements within kin-based, tribal societies and petty kingdoms with their gift-giving economies were confirmed and sealed by the receiving or giving of basically three different types of media: ale, livestock and women (Kelly 1988, 591–593; Charles-Edwards 2000, 68–69; 2009, 118–120; Van Dam 2005, 212; Banham and Faith 2014, 86). Neither pre-feudal nobility nor kings built their wealth or social positions through major land ownership or estates. Instead, pre-feudal lords and kings gained their social positions and economic resources through food-rent and hospitality from free clients, and these clients’ obligations to participate in war and plundering (Wickham 1992, 232–236; Faith 1997, 1–14; Bazelmans 1999; Charles-Edwards 2000, 71–80; Blair 2005, 252–254; Woolf 2007a, 120–121). And, of course, if there was access to exotic objects, such as glass vessels, silver or other precious metals in the form of foreign coins, or coins that were melted down and remoulded into prestige objects, these artefacts were also part of such socioeconomic transactions and situations, in the form of tribute, payment or fiefs by lords or kings to clients. However, absence or lack of coins or precious metals in those kinds of societies was not a problem or a catastrophe, and, above all, it would never have made people abandon their fields and farms, and neither did it lead to starvation. Early medieval people in north-western Europe did not live in a market economy. So, any drop off from the geopolitical map, or the fact that the silver trade was interrupted for the people on Åland during the 11th century, could hardly have caused any serious crisis in the agrarian economy or society at large (except, perhaps, to a few individuals). Above all, it would not have been the cause of any possible depopulation of the islands. Before feudalization, partible heritage dominated as the inheritance principle among the people in north-western Europe. This is also reflected in the most well-known early Germanic and Celtic laws, as well as in high medieval Nordic laws (Enequist 1935; Charles-Edwards 1972; Murray 1983; Scull 1993, 72; Reynolds 1994; Holst 2004, 193–198; Williamson 2013, 24). In some of the oldest laws, it appears that the eldest son usually inherits the paternal farm, while the younger build new farms in the vicinity. As long as there was space in the landscape, these kin-based villages and hamlets grew into larger units. This course of events is also

supported by several archaeological excavations of burial grounds near villages in many different parts of Europe (Herschend 1988, 50; Jørgensen et al. 1997; Ljungkvist 2000; Gräslund 2001, 118; Fallgren 2006, 96–99), as well as some types of place names such as the -ingas and -inge names (Charles-Edwards 1972). The glue that held those early medieval villages and hamlets together was, thus, kinship, and it was kinship and partible inheritance that created them (Fallgren 2019, 94–97). In the parts of Scandinavia where intensive (feudal) lordship was never introduced, and where free farmers still dominated, it is well known, from post-medieval periods up to modern times, that they consisted of groups of related people (Enequist 1935; Sporrong and Wennersten 1995; Wennersten 2000). Moreover, the layout of these villages had more in common with the prehistoric and early medieval villages and hamlets than contemporary geometrically shaped villages with common and subdivided fields (Fallgren 2006, 87–96; 2008, 72–73; 2019, 95).

Hill forts and settlement districts Due to the nature of Åland as an archipelago, the settlements have always been very scattered, distributed on a variety of islands. Despite this, one can distinguish several contiguous smaller settlement and farmland areas (bygder), naturally demarcated by water, forests and rocky areas. These areas are clearly evident in the concentrations of ancient monuments from the Late Iron Age and early medieval period, such as graves, grave fields and settlements (see Ilves 2018a, fig. 1). These concentrations correlate well with where the best farmland was situated on Åland, and where most settlements can be found on the oldest maps from the 17th and 18th centuries. The archipelago’s six hill forts1 are built next to, or on the outskirts of, each larger contiguous farmland and settlement district within the island group. Due to differences in the archaeological records within the archipelago, and the distribution of the hill forts, it has been suggested that Åland consisted of two broad polities during the end of the pre-historic period: one north-eastern polity, with a strong connection to both eastern Sweden and the coastal areas of present-day Finland, and one south-western polity, exhibiting a more local or regional character. Both polities had a set of three hill forts each. These sets of hill forts have been interpreted as reflecting organized groups with social hierarchies and conventions of conduct differentiating themselves from other organized groups, i.e. as separate polities (Heininen et al. 2014, 336–337). This, I believe, is a highly probable interpretation in many ways. One might think that these six settlement areas would be too small to constitute a political entity by themselves. The fact is that most Iron Age tribal political units and early medieval petty kingdoms were rarely any larger than these in northern Europe. Usually,

16.  Some thoughts about the early medieval settlement on Åland, from a western European perspective they consisted of a single settlement district,2 and sometimes two (Charles-Edwards 2000; Blair 2005; Drinkwater 2007; Woolf 2007a; Brink 2008; MacCotter 2008; Williamson 2013; Eagles 2018). These smaller units were usually also part of, and the building blocks of, larger entities, i.e. kingdoms, where a hierarchy of kings was the normal situation (Wood 1977, 6; Campbell 1986, 91–95; James 1989, 41–43; Wormald 2005; Yorke 2009, 79). The hill forts were always the largest and the most potent expression of social manifestations and, often, the most complex constructions within a territory in the regions of Europe where hill forts were erected and built during the Iron Age and the early medieval period (cf. Harding 2012, 269–270). No doubt, they were collective structures, which were maintained, repaired or expanded collectively at regular intervals by the people living in the area, for many centuries or more (Hill 1995, 54; Lock 2011, 359; Harding 2012, 89). In those cases where the original name of the forts is known, and does not contain a god’s or goddess’s name as a prefix, they were often named after the people, tribe, gens or kingdom where they were erected. The importance of hill forts is also highlighted by the fact that kingdoms could be named after a hill fort, or the cliff or mountain where it was erected (see examples in Fallgren and Ljungkvist 2016, 697). There are also several known early medieval examples of a special kingship, a High kingship, named after a hill fort, the fort where these kings were inaugurated, for example rí Ailig – king of Ailech, rí Temro – king of Tara, rí Caisil – king of Cashel (see Lacey 2006; Bhreatnach 2014). These hill forts thus fulfilled the role of king seats – places where the kings were inaugurated and fulfilled their role for their own people, where negotiations took place and contracts with subordinate kings or a superior king were established. Thus, the forts served as settings for the rituals of kingship rather than as regular residences for kings (Charles-Edwards 2000, 473; Woolf 2007b, 29; Bhreatnach 2014, 146; Fallgren and Ljungkvist 2016, 697). These High kingships always included several petty kingships, where the different petty kings competed to gain the higher office, or where the High kingship was itinerant between some or all of the included petty kingdoms, or was itinerant between a few of the royal lineages in the region (Charles-Edwards 1989; Byrne 2001). All this, together with the fact that hill forts often exhibit proof of communal feasting and plenty of ritual activities when excavated, demonstrates that hill forts probably always had a primary communal symbolic and ritual function for those who used and built it. During martial contexts, they could also, of course, be used as a last refuge (cf. Lock 2011; Harding 2012; Fallgren and Ljungkvist 2016). Therefore, each of the Ålandic hill forts can be regarded as symbolic manifestations for each of the six different cohesive settlement districts within the archipelago, representing six different polities/regions divided into two larger political

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units with three lesser ones in each. Perhaps they all had a common meeting point, gathering- or assembly place on the small island of Tingön, at the inlet to Kastelholm and Sund parish, as the name of the island certainly indicates. In addition to the name itself, the island is located almost at the geographical centre point of the archipelago, which would fit extremely well with what we know about those kinds of places from other regions of Europe during the Iron Age and the Early Middle Ages, for example Roma in Gotland, Uisneach in Ireland and Carnutes in Gaul. These kinds of gathering places were looked upon as the sacred centre, or navel, of the earth and constituted the axis mundi for the people gathering there (see Mac Cana 2011).

Place names, devastation or continuity? If we return to the question of discontinuity or continuity, and consider what place names can say about this matter, as noted by Hellberg (see above), it is obvious that the majority of the place names of Åland are of younger types. Above all, the many -böle and -bo names, and the numerous -by names with a person name as the first element, which are considered to have been popular during the high medieval and late medieval periods (Hellberg 1980), can be mentioned. However, thanks to new pollen investigations, which support the older ones (Alenius 2014), and a few new excavations (Gustavsson et al. 2014, 162, 183; Ilves 2015; 2017; 2018a), it is equally obvious today that there was continuous cultivation and settlement in larger sectors of the archipelago, as well as an intensified clearing of the landscape and an increase in land use during the Viking Age and the high medieval period. How can one understand this contradictory information? It is possible to understand these conflicting data at all? Well, I actually think it may be possible. First, one must accept the idea that settlements could change their original names, and that this could affect villages/hamlets in an entire region. If we extend our gaze slightly further afield to other parts of Europe, this phenomenon appears to be much more common than one might first imagine. The British Isles can serve as an illustrative example. Firstly, when the Anglo-Saxons invaded the eastern parts of Britain during the 5th and 6th centuries, they took over already existing settlements, villages and hamlets with British or Roman names, and gave them new AngloSaxon names. Furthermore, they built a few completely new settlements (Gelling 1984; 1988; Gelling and Cole 2000). The same thing happened when Gaelic-speaking people or culture spread from western Scotland to the Pictish eastern and northern parts of Scotland during the 9th century (Watson 2011 [1926]; Nicolaisen 2001; Jennings and Kruse 2009; Taylor 2011). Then, again, when the Vikings from Norway conquered and settled in the northern and western parts of Scotland during the 9th and 10th centuries (Kruse 2004; 2005; Kruse and Jennings 2005), and again when

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Danish Vikings invaded the eastern Anglo-Saxon regions and renamed a large number of villages. A large proportion of the latter were given names of the same type as the Ålandic -by names; that is, by-names with a personal name as the first element (Gelling 1988; Gelling and Cole 2000; Abrams and Parsons 2004; Edmonds 2011; Kershaw 2013). Then, after the battle of Hastings in 1066, it was time to rename some settlements again. Now, Norman, Flemish and French names were added to the ‘British names flora’ (see Mills 1992; Bartlett 1994). It is possible to line up additional examples from Central Europe, Eastern Europe, the Mediterranean, the Iberian Peninsula and others, but I shall confine myself to these few examples. What is important with these examples is to show that settlements that changed names, or had relatively young names, need not have suffered a prolonged devastation or depopulation. Instead, the new younger names were caused by conquest, changed sovereignty, migration or cultural fusion. The majority of the settlements as such, and the farmlands, have in those given examples survived several invasions, re-naming and changed lordship or sovereignty, even though in many instances the people living in the villages could have changed during these dramatic events. This is shown very illustratively in the case of Wharram Percy in Northumberland, England’s most-excavated village. This settlement began as an Iron Age hamlet around 50 BC. It survived the Roman, Anglo-Saxon, Viking and Norman conquests, but changed size and layout after most of them, and was finally abandoned in the 16th century. It is also known that the name of the settlement was amended several times (Wrathmell et al. 2012). If we return to Åland and consider when, and under what circumstances, the archipelago acquired its relatively young place names, it is obvious that it must have happened between the end of the early medieval period and the middle of the high medieval period. This is exactly the period when the Baltic Crusades were taking place. This was also the time period suggested by Lars Hellberg, although in his opinion the colonists arrived to a deserted group of islands. It is well known that both Danes and Swedes made several crusades/ raids from the 1100s onwards in the Finnish-speaking areas. The political map in the Baltic region changed gradually from the year 1147, when Bernhard of Clairvaux proclaimed that the Christians in the region should pursue war against their ‘own heathens’, and, thus, the Baltic Sea would be ‘their Jerusalem’. Germans, Danes, different orders of knights and, eventually, Swedes, all representing the Western Catholic Church, began to compete over land areas in the southern and eastern areas of the Baltic Sea, additionally encouraged by a religious-sanctioned ideology. From the east, the Novgorodians, representatives of the Orthodox Church, also beset them. These were tough times for the not-yet Christianized, eastern tribal societies and stateless kingdoms, which were not organized in larger political units

with administrative structures and therefore lacked access to any professional military apparatus. Furthermore, they were often in conflict with one another (Brundage 1961; Lindkvist 2001; Urban 2003; Hermansson 2008). The large number of young names on Åland, together with the fact that we still can detect a settlement and farming continuity from the high medieval period and before, strongly suggest that the submission of Åland into the Swedish realm was violent and involuntary. Exactly when this might have happened is, of course, very difficult to say, but it must have happened some time during the Crusades. According to legend, the Swedish king Erik Jedvardsson, together with Bishop Henrik, made a crusade to Finland in 1155. Later, Bishop Henrik became a saint and the apostle of Finland (Sjöstrand 1993, 559; Tarkiainen 2008, 79–82). However, it is certain that the Danes sent military expeditions to Finnish areas in 1191 and 1202. The first mention of a bishop in Finland is in a letter dated to the year 1209 and written by Pope Innocentius III to Archbishop Andreas Sunesen in Lund (Tarkiainen 2008; Sjöstrand 2014, 93–96). Per Olof Sjöstrand has suggested that the Swedish king Sverker Karlsson, who was married to a daughter of Andreas’ brother Ebbe Sunesen, was involved in the Danish expedition in 1202, and that the Finnish bishopric was created on that occasion (Sjöstrand 2014, 95). This is highly likely. Sverker Karlsson and the Sunesen brothers had several common projects, both in Sweden and in the Baltic region (see, e.g., Lindström 2015). Sverker’s successor to the throne, Knut Eriksson, conducted several war expeditions to Finland, and received the pope’s blessing for this in 1216, the same year he died. In 1249, Birger jarl made a crusade to the eastern parts of Finland, and, during the reign of Magnus Ladulås at the end of 13th century, a number of castles were built in Finland, and Swedish control increased considerably over this new part of the country. He also placed his brother as the duke of Finland. Perhaps it was after these events that the majority of Swedish colonists came to Åland and Finland. ‘They possessed the country with Christian men’, as is said in Erikskrönikan from the 1320s, glorifying Birger jarl and his lineage (Tarkiainen 2008). At any rate, the time period between 1202 and the beginning of the 14th century seems to me the most probable period for the Swedish Crown to attract or force people from Öland, Hälsingland, Gästrikland and probably other parts of Sweden to settle down in the archipelago of Åland. This must also have been the time period during which a large number of older settlement names disappeared, and the many place names with -by suffixes came to be. When speaking about place names with -by suffixes and villages, something must be mentioned briefly about the Swedish word and concept by. The Swedish word by has for a very long time and in everyday speech denoted the opposite of a single farmstead, i.e. a village/hamlet. Etymologically, the word is derived from an Old Norse

16.  Some thoughts about the early medieval settlement on Åland, from a western European perspective word that formed the stem of the verb bo (live/stay), with the meaning: ‘put in order’, ‘prepare to take possession of and cultivate’. Originally, the word was designed for either a farm or a village, but eventually the concept came to denote only larger settlements. This seems to have taken place during the Viking Age at the latest, since there are several rune stones in Sweden whose wording and content clearly show that the word by was used to indicate a village (Gräslund 2004, 29; Fallgren 2006, 88). Thus, all these Ålandic settlement names with the suffix -by must have designated villages/hamlets from the beginning, when they were renamed from the 13th century onwards. In historical times, there were quite a large number of villages on Åland, and even some really large villages, which strongly indicates that there existed favourable topographical and ecological conditions for the occurrence of villages from at least the end of prehistoric times (the Merovingian and Viking periods). This is also confirmed by the many large burial sites on Åland, for example at Saltvik/Kvarnbo, Lagmansby and Godby (see, further, Ilves 2017; 2019). Traditionally, the Viking Age and early medieval settlements on Åland have always been considered to consist of single farms only (e.g. Roeck Hansen 1991, 80–85; Edgren 1993, 227; Tomtlund 2005, 12). The reason the early medieval settlement has usually been seen as solely consisting of single farms is first and foremost due to a lack of knowledge of the early medieval (pre-manor) villages and their appearance, organization, structure and layout, and the way they came into being. Instead, the image of the high medieval and late medieval planned, regular-shaped village with subdivided fields has been used as a master sample of villages as a phenomenon. This, of course, is totally wrong because Iron Age and early medieval kin-based villages (pre-manor) in Europe had, as a rule, quite different layouts and structures than high and late medieval villages. Usually, but not always, early medieval villages had a more dispersed layout, where the farms in the same village were set apart from one another, and connected to one another and the commons outside the fenced lands through cattle paths (Fallgren 1993; 2006, 83–84, 95–99; 2008, 73; Wickham 2005, 470; Blair 2013). Further, common fields did not exist within these villages during those time periods. This is also evident from all early medieval Germanic and Celtic laws. Instead, each farm had its own separately fenced field and meadowland, directly connected to the farmyard of each farm, which is why a distance of between 50–200 m often was created between the farms in the same village. Another reason various researchers have thought that the settlement consisted only of single farms is that no one has made any calculation about how much the destruction by cultivation has affected the preservation of the Viking Age settlement in the archipelago. Instead, calculations have only been made by using the small number of houses left today at each separate location. Considering the fact that possible

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areas for cultivation in the archipelago are available only in limited smaller pockets between larger rocky areas, the destruction by cultivation of settlement remains on Åland must, therefore, have been very extensive (cf. also Ilves 2018a, 63).

Saltvik–Kvarnbo Finally, I want to make some comments on the area of Saltvik–Kvarnbo, where the most recent settlement archaeological excavation on Åland was carried out – in 2016 – under the direction of Kristin Ilves (Ilves 2015; 2017; 2018b). These excavations, at fields belonging to Kvarnbo, have revealed traces of a high-status farm just to the north of Saltvik’s church, dated from the late 6th century to end of the Viking period. This is also, to date, the richest settlement found on Åland, and was presumably the residence of a local chief or even petty king (Sjöstrand 1993, 544). However, this farm was not alone at the site; it must have been part of a larger settlement, a village. Just 350 m to the north, at Kohagen, there are still remains of seven excavated early medieval houses, dated to between the beginning of the 9th and the end of the 13th century (Sjöstrand 2014; Ilves 2015). Some more exclusive finds were found at the excavation. Furthermore, finds of numerous arrowheads, and the fact that these houses were burnt down, makes it tempting to put this violent event in the context of the Swedish seizure of Åland, as suggested above, and also at the time of the founding of the royal curia Saltwiik at the place, as previously proposed by Per Olof Sjöstrand (Sjöstrand 2014). Located just 50 m to the south of the elite residence at Kvarnbo is the parish church, which was built in the late 1200s. It has been established that the church was built on very thick cultural layers, containing, among others, Viking Age pottery and several pole-holes, which reveal a settlement contemporary with the one in the field of Kvarnbo and the houses at Kohagen (Karlsson 1987, 22–24; Tomtlund 2005, 23). Another area with cultural layers, also from the transition period between the Viking and the high medieval periods, can be found only about 25 m south-east of the church. A further 150 m southwest of this is an area of cultural layers from the same time periods (Sjöstrand 2014; Ilves 2015). Overall, this indicates that there was a larger settlement at the place, which covered around 700 m from north to south, and 500 m from east to west; this was undoubtedly a village. This is also supported by the existence of several burial sites, one of which is the largest registered on Åland (see Gustavsson et al. 2014), which demarcate the settlement in different directions, in the same manner as grave fields usually delimit villages from other neighbouring villages during the early Middle Ages/pre-Christian period (cf. Ilves 2017; 2018a; 2018b). When it comes to the name of this prehistoric village, it could, to my mind, have been Saltvik. There is a consensus that all other churches in Åland, except for Saltvik,

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received their names from the village or farm where they were built. However, this cannot be right. Why should the church of Saltvik not have been named for the settlement where it was erected? In 1375, Curia Saltwiik is mentioned as a former Crown possession, earlier donated to the bishop in Åbo. It has been suggested that this happened when the cathedral chapter was established in 1276 (Sjöstrand 2014). It is well known that medieval royal estates, such as curia Saltwiik, as a rule, were founded in association with conquests and confiscations of villages in the conquered areas, villages whose farms were evicted and the lands converted to larger farming units, not only in Scandinavia but throughout the whole of Europe (one single farm could never have been the basis for an estate – see Fallgren 2006, 100–114, with references). All over Europe, royal estates were often during an early stage donated to churches and religious societies, as was also the case here. After being donated to the bishopric in Åbo, curia Saltwiik eventually came to be called Boo, like many bishop estates in other regions of Sweden and Denmark during the high and late medieval periods (Ståhl 1957, 25–29; Schück 1959, 291–298; Wahlberg 2003, 39–40). Ludvig Rasmusson, the secretary of Gustav Vasa, identifies curia Salwiik as Boo. Moreover, it is well documented in many other cases that a common noun boo has replaced the original name of a farm or village with management function (see Wahlberg 2003 for the boo-names). During the 16th century, the property was alternatively called Boo and Kvarnbo. Today’s Kvarnbo is thus the same property and in the same location as the high medieval royal estate Saltvik, which apparently was formed by evicting a village that had existed for at least 500 years. Since both stone church and the royal estate, probably almost contemporary, were called Saltvik, the name should therefore originate from the old village that existed on the site for a long time. If this is correct, we have an onomastic history at the place, which begins with a village named Saltvik, and then, due to changes in ownership and political conditions, the name changes to Curia Saltwiik, and, as new ownership conditions were added, the place came to be called Boo, and finally Kvarnbo. Thanks to the fact that a church was built on the site, the original name Saltvik survived as the name of the church and the parish.

Conclusion Current archaeology and palaeobotanical research indicates that there is a clear continuity of the Ålandic settlement from the younger Iron Age up to the High Middle Ages. Still, and equally clearly, place-name researchers were right about the fact that the majority of the Ålandic place names are of a younger date, mainly of a high medieval origin. This seems quite contradictory, but this has actually been observed in several other parts of early medieval Europe, where invading people took over and colonized previously

inhabited and cultivated areas. They made them their own and, in connection with this, they changed the names of most or all of the older villages, for example when Norse people captured large parts of northern and western present-day Scotland. Similar dramatic events must have affected the Åland archipelago, with renaming of a large number of already existing settlements. With the knowledge of the character and age of the village names on Åland, this must have happened mainly during the 13th century. This is also the period during which the written sources speak of Swedish crusades to the Finnish-speaking areas in the east, and, together with a host of other historical circumstances, it is reasonable to assume that it was precisely during this period that the Åland archipelago experienced invading Swedes with accompanying name changes of settlements and of the landscape as a whole.

Notes 1

2

Only one of the Ålandic hill forts that has been excavated and dated (Viking Age; see Tomtlund 2005), but the spatial distribution of one in each of the six settlement districts indicates that they are contemporary. Bygd in Swedish; bygd and fylke in Norwegian; scir in Old English; mag and tuath in Old Irish; mag and howe in Gaelic Scottish; pays in French; gau in German; campus in classical Latin; and regio in medieval Latin.

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17 The solidus from Slättäng Svante Fischer

Introduction Over the years, Frands Herschend has taught and published extensively on the Iron Age of South Scandinavia. His focus has varied, but key topics include settlements, landscape organization, numismatics and the metrology of precious metals. This impressive output has enabled hundreds of students to rise from being mere consumers of archaeological research and emerge as independent producers of science. The merry nature of Herschend’s didactic storytelling coupled with the characteristic self-assured analytical brilliance makes him something of a postmodern William of Baskerville, an extraordinary scholar worthy of emulation and remembrance. Offer a problem and he will provide an immediate explanation, happily pointing out that the solution to the conundrum was obvious to him from the very beginning. Herschend’s published work has often been pioneering, breaking new ground for future research while serving as a steady source of reference. Above all, Herschend’s doctoral dissertation is a key monograph on the solidi and the unminted gold of Öland (Herschend 1978). It was followed by three studies on the weight of solidi and on the metal economy of the Migration period (Herschend 1983; 1991a; 1991b). Finally, there is an important paper on the weights of the gold ring hoard of Timboholm in Västergötland (Herschend 2001). These works have been great sources of inspiration to me. I have learned a lot from their author ever since he first taught me how to conduct scientific research over two decades ago. Therefore, as a small token of appreciation to a great teacher, I would like to present this study of a solidus found in a gold hoard in Slättäng in Fristad parish, Västergötland, Sweden (see Figs 17.1–3, Table 17.1).

National romanticist science – Finding gold in late 19th-century Sweden The Slättäng solidus hails from a gold hoard found in the province of Västergötland, which is quite rich in gold hoards. While its overall timeline extends over 1500 years, the story of the Slättäng solidus hoard begins in the present, only to diverge into many intertwined micro-narratives going back in time. To account for the solidus’ present state of being, one has to tell several stories pertaining to its past by asking the usual questions. Why is the find of this solidus important, and what does it mean? Why was it lost or hidden? Who found it again? Who brought it to a museum? What kind of modern society produces an archaeological find? How does society then deal with the find in terms of ideology? How is the find interpreted over time? Does our own postmodern society allow for reinterpretation? A good place to initiate the search for answers to this set of questions is to deconstruct the find circumstances in time and space. Most of the recorded Iron Age gold in Västergötland was rediscovered in the late 19th century. The famous gold filigree collars from Möne and Ålleberg are the pièces de résistance par excellence. But the gold collars are accompanied by a vast quantity of other splendid works of art from the Germanic Iron Age, such as the torques from Vittene and the many gold bracteates. The largest find in the region is the magnificent Timboholm hoard (Herschend 2001). It is safe to assume that the vast majority of gold finds in Västergötland were reported to the corresponding authorities and ended up in museums rather than being stolen or squandered. This has to do with the very peculiar kind of antiquarian conditions in Sweden at the time. Elsewhere in Western Europe, clerical functionaries came to establish an

180

Svante Fischer

Figure 17.1. The Slättäng hoard. Photo by Gunnel Jansson. Courtesy of SHM.

antiquarian tradition, notably the mid-17th-century Jesuit Jean Chiflet in the Habsburg Low Countries, the Anglican vicar Bryan Fausset in late 18th-century Kent and the Catholic Abbé Cochet in mid-19th-century Normandy. But in Sweden, archaeology and antiquarianism have always had a close relationship to the centralist government and bureaucracy emanating from Stockholm, the nation’s capital, and Uppsala, the seat of its very first university. Ever since the foundation of the independent Swedish nation state in 1523, Swedish subjects and state servants have proved themselves very willing to do as told by their superiors. The fate of the Slättäng solidus is very indicative of this. It was discovered in October 1878 by the juror and farm owner August Larsson while ploughing an old field anew in Slättäng. The solidus was found together with eight pieces of unminted gold (see Table 17.1). Larsson promptly sent the gold hoard to his superior, the provincial governor of Västergötland residing in Gothenburg, Count Albert Ehrensvärd, with a neatly written account of the find. Ehrensvärd is best described as an archetypical representative of the ancien régime (see Fig. 17.4). He would later serve as foreign minister before he retired to curate a huge library on his family estate, Tosterup in Scania. Larsson was obviously content to report

the find to a prominent dignitary such as Ehrensvärd, and he made every effort to explain the circumstances. The letter to Ehrensvärd reveals that the hoard was situated 5 cm below ground level inside a copper alloy box that disintegrated when taken out of the soil. Ehrensvärd then sent the find to the Swedish History Museum (SHM) in Stockholm, where it was given the inventory number SHM 6266. Larsson’s and most other find reports in the inventory show that the majority of all the gold in Sweden was discovered in the late 19th and early 20th centuries because wetlands and pastoral lands were ditched out and put under the steel plough (see Table 17.1). Also, the main railway lines and new roads were being built at the same time across the changing cultural landscape. This development has enabled later scholars to investigate the composition of the gold finds, as the finds are random and thus constitute a rather objective sample of the original picture. Indeed, Herschend (1978) showed that the frequency of new gold finds on Öland were, to a degree, quantifiable in relation to the growth of arable land in the late 19th century. The Late Roman solidus as an archaeological find category in Sweden thus belongs to a proto-industrial society where financial and industrial capitalism were making

17.  The solidus from Slättäng

181

Figure 17.2. The Slättäng solidus obverse. Photo by Gabriel Hildebrand. Courtesy of SHM.

Figure 17.4. Count Albert Ehrensvärd. Oil painting by Jenny Nyström. Wikimedia Commons.

Figure 17.3. The Slättäng solidus reverse. Photo by Gabriel Hildebrand. Courtesy of SHM.

inroads into the agrarian economy of the countryside. This meant movement and transfer of both people and land. It was a new migration period: approximately a quarter of the population left Sweden for a new future in America during the period 1880–1920. But there was also a sense of upward migration of the Swedish people in general, as expressed in the 1902 Swedish translation of the contemporary labour movement song, the Internationale: från mörkret stiga vi mot ljuset (‘from the darkness we ascend towards the light’) (Kristensson et al. 1980). The handwritten correspondence regarding reports, shipments and payments of the new gold finds in the SHM accession catalogue offers valuable insight into the changing class society that came out of

the post-Napoleonic demographic boom and the ensuing Industrial Revolution of the late 19th century. A new interest in the antiquarian tradition was very much part of this process. In the wake of the gold finds followed an increased preoccupation with the past. Oscar Montelius, the leading Swedish archaeologist at the time, was a frequent lecturer at labour unions and workers’ associations who felt that the country’s past was theirs (Baudou 2004). When Herschend (1978) managed to track down the find places of solidi from 19th-century Öland, he initially had a difficult task tracing the names of the finders to their respective farms. This was because commoners’ patronymic surnames changed with every generation in those days. Anders, the son of a hypothetical farmhand named Erik Johansson, would be listed in the parish register as Anders Eriksson, and so on. For his part, Herschend cleverly bypassed the problem of the lack of onomastic continuity among commoners by simply looking at landowners’ records where all the denizens on each farm were listed, regardless of age, name and status. As shown by the successive growth of accession records, the Swedish commoners’ surnames associated with the gold finds were to undergo a radical change in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. It should be noted that an increasing number of the people who reported the gold objects (as opposed to those who found them)

86

13

3

135

130

1894

1878

1910

1860

1941

Gotland

Gotland

Gästrikland

Västergötland

Öland

Öland

Uppland

County

45

24

56a–b

79–80b

61

110c

58

67

140

23

49

1919

1952

1907

1853

1853

1904

1856

1845

1939

1885

1900

75

1893

Öland

Scania

Gotland

Öland

Öland

Öland

Öland

Öland

Öland

Scania

Öland

Öland

53. 55a–b Öland

90b

1952

1955

6

Fagerlie no.

1961

Discovery

7.9

10.49

18.56

20.775

23.7

29.33

35.43

38.047

41.289

42.947

47.256

51.892

55.598

55.87

63.47

119.72

141.04

201.928

233.983

277.11

Weight (g)

1 (4.45)

1 (5.86)

1 (4.46)

1 (4.314)

1 (4.44)

6 (26.60)

1 (4.51)

8 (34.837)

2 (6.72)

1 (6.17)

1 (4.4)

1 (4.45)

10 (43.908)

11 (44.12)

11 (47.87)

1 (3.991)

1 (4.41)

13 (66.093)

6 (26.696)

47 (202.86)

Solidi (g)

3.55

4.63

14.1

11.523

5.81

2.733

23.19

3.21

34.569

11.36

43.126

47.442

5.92

11.75

12.6

24

51.53

27.575

153.46

74.25

AU 1 –

AU 3

9.037

–

AU 4

–

–

–

4.938

5.78

–

4.76

–

–

7.44

–

–

5.77

–

3

17

39.7

–

–

–

–

5.58

–

2.97

–

–

7.23

–

–

–

–

–

12

17.5

–

–

–

–

2.09

–

–

–

–

3.767

–

–

–

–

–

10

8.25

26.188 19.57 10.535

35.415 9.379

–

AU 2

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

3.6

–

–

–

–

–

8

7.62

6.78

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

3.38

–

–

–

–

–

7

5.96

6.222

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

6

3.85

6.05

–

– –

–

Add. Obj

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

6

2.22

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

1 denarius

–

7 + pieces

–

6.033 7 + pieces

–

–

AU 5 AU 6 AU 7 AU 8

Table 17.1. List of 20 mixed gold hoards from Sweden.

0.03

0.04

0.07

0.07

0.09

0.1

0.13

0.14

0.15

0.15

0.17

0.2

0.2

0.2

0.2

0.4

0.5

0.7

0.8

1

Appr. Ratio

–

1/2

1/4

1/5

1/5

–

1/8

–

1/6

1/7

1/11

1/12

–

–

–

1/30

1/32

–

–

–

6

6

5

5

5

5

4

4

4

4

4

4

4

4

4

3

3

3

3

3

Fraction Weight Group

182 Svante Fischer

17.  The solidus from Slättäng began to employ new types of more ‘bourgeois-sounding’ surnames, having replaced their old ubiquitous -son names that changed with every generation. This was a conscious break with the old tradition of individual surnames and the onset of inherited family names for everyone – not just the land-owning nobles, the university-educated priests and the urban bourgeoisie. The stage was taken over by the likes of the contemporary literary persona known as ‘John S. Chrounschough’ – the enlightened bookish countrymen – local law enforcement officers, bailiffs, jurors, schoolteachers and railway clerks, who presumptuously sought to perpetuate recently acquired learning for future generations by giving themselves new, typically dithematic surnames (Bondeson 1897; Willson 2012). New categories of common but increasingly educated people within the lower echelons of the state apparatus were suddenly able to interact with the top brass at the centre of Stockholm. Their connection to the pinnacles of power first went via the provincial governors (usually high-ranking noblemen and direct descendants of the martial and bureaucratic elite of the Early Modern monarchy, as in the case of Ehrensvärd). But there was also Riksantikvarieämbetet (the National Board of Antiquities) in Stockholm. This institution had traditionally been a fiefdom of the old nobility and bourgeoisie, with imported German surnames such as Hildebrand and clerical families with Latinized surnames such as Montelius. In terms of managing what was considered national heritage, these functionaries began to replace the provincial governors in terms of ideological importance. The influx of gold finds in the late 19th century had to be dealt with. The finds had to be recorded, weighed and measured, and rewards had to be paid by the National Board of Antiquities. All this made the state functionaries appreciate their own importance. The superiors knew to commend the zeal of their subordinates who were self-consciously partaking in the recovery of their nation’s grandiose past while making their own new surnames immortal, albeit on a diminutive scale. They felt that they were not henchmen or underlings anymore. Their newfound ability to deal with the precious past would give them a new sense of national identity while serving a higher purpose as middle management. This seems innocent enough in retrospect, but in other countries in north-western Europe, the late 19th-century antiquarian project following in the wake of economic expansion and its link to a bourgeoning sense of belligerent nationalism would have disastrous consequences. But Västergötland is, after all, merely a backwater region of Sweden and not the Third Reich. The first story of a national romanticist science emanating from the Slättäng solidus would not be complete without a so-called ‘västgötaklimax’; that is, a meagre and slightly ridiculous coda in the wake of a hyperbolic onset that also forms a dissonant counterpoint to the historicity of the find.

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In 1981, the Gothenburg television producer Dag Stålsjö, a self-taught local patriot from Västergötland with a typical dithematic ‘Chrounschough’ surname, had the audacity to air a series entitled Svearikets vagga – En historia i gungning (‘The cradle of Sweden – history off its rocker’) on state television. Stålsjö (1983) boldly claimed that the origin of the Swedish nation was in the heartland of his native Västergötland and not somewhere between Uppsala and Stockholm as was generally assumed by the central government. Stålsjö and his revisionist supporters in the autodidactic Västgöta school largely based this argument on the sheer quantity of recorded gold finds in their neglected home province, while ignoring the fact that these archaeological finds were not exactly proof of a nation state, but simply the result of the expansion of arable land and the nationalist esprit de corps of low-level state functionaries some four generations earlier. Today, this kind of parochial revisionist history would not raise eyebrows in the maelstrom of malignant conspiracies and fake news flourishing on the internet. Yet, at the time, the indignant state authorities in Stockholm and Uppsala struck back at the dissident ‘Chrounschough’ with extreme prejudice. The television series was reported to Radionämnden (the National Broadcasting Commission) in Stockholm. It was decided that a one-man assessment conducted by Herman Schück, Professor of History at Stockholm University, would suffice to settle the matter once and for all. Schück came from a family of academic scholars who had served the central government for many generations. He concluded his examination in 1983 and rather unsurprisingly confirmed that the layman Stålsjö and his adherents were unscientific. The Stockholm centralist order was vindicated with utmost vengeance. That very odd television show from Gothenburg was subsequently banned from future reruns. Undeterred, Dag Stålsjö moved on in search of Atlantis.

The Slättäng solidus in context The focus can now shift to the Slättäng solidus in relation to its various archaeological contexts, from the hoard via the solidus horizon of Scandinavia to the trimetallic political economy of the Migration period. Each individual part of a gold or coin hoard always tells its own history in relation to the whole assembly. Solidi are extremely rare in Västergötland – in fact, there are only two recorded finds. The Migration period elite in regions with very few coin finds, especially Norway and western Sweden, appear to have compensated for this dearth by hoarding gold bracteates, even if many of the gold bracteates could have been imported from more affluent areas in South Scandinavia, especially Gudme on Funen. Once again, the regional contrasts are striking. There are c. 900 known gold bracteates in Scandinavia, a figure quite comparable to the c. 1000 known solidi from all of Scandinavia. Yet there are only 15 recorded hoards that combine gold bracteates and solidi, none of which are

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in eastern Sweden or in Norway (Axboe 2004). In addition, the common D-type bracteates typical of Norway and Västergötland have yet to be found in any significant number north of Södermanland in eastern Sweden. This cannot be a coincidence. Most people who imported or hoarded Roman solidi in some parts of Scandinavia were either unwilling or unable to exchange the solidi for gold bracteates because the latter came from other regions. Somehow, various forms of gold could be considered unsuitable or unclean under certain circumstances. The other solidus from Västergötland (SHM 6361) is from the parish of Hol. Found by August Johansson, in all likelihood a farmhand, in 1879, it was sent directly to the National Board of Antiquities by the Vårgårda railway station inspector Otto Hultgren. Hultgren was a state employee and thus knew how to circumvent regional bureaucracy, going straight to the top. As Hultgren quickly dispatched the find to Stockholm, rather than to the provincial governor Ehrensvärd in Gothenburg, the Hol solidus received a more rapid treatment in the accession catalogue than the gold hoard from Slättäng. The Hol solidus is of the imp 42 cos 17 type (Kent 1992; 1994). It was struck in 441–447 in Constantinople for Emperor Theodosius II (408–450). It is very worn and fitted inside a filigree ring with a loop on top. Fagerlie (1967) noted that this was a relatively frequent configuration in areas where minted gold was comparatively scarce in the late 5th century, notably Westphalia, Norway, Medelpad and, of course, Västergötland. These objects are likely to have been inherited, and it is also quite possible that they may have transferred from the martial male gender to that of the dominant female gender. It should also be noted that the majority of the looped solidi in 5th-century Scandinavia are issues of Theodosius II (Fischer 2019). The Slättäng solidus is at least a quarter of a century younger than the solidus from Hol. It was struck in the name of Emperor Zeno the Isaurian (November 474–January 475, 476–491). When Herschend (1978) discussed the solidi of Öland, it was the combined analysis of find places and types that allowed him to draw the conclusion that the peak of the island’s import had been during the western Roman emperor Libius Severus in the 460s. Indeed, there are very few solidi for Zeno on Öland. The largest hoards containing solidi for Zeno are instead found on Helgö in Uppland, Bornholm, Scania and Gotland (Breitenstein 1944; Fagerlie 1967; Kyhlberg 1986). But there is something wrong with many of the key stylistic elements of the Slättäng solidus. What is most puzzling is that the solidus does not seem to belong to any of the western Roman types of Zeno issues described in Lallemand (1965), Fagerlie (1967) or the RIC X (Kent 1994), while most of its iconographic features resemble RIC X 910. On the obverse, one may first note the faulty reversed Z in the legend DN ZENO – PERPAVG, which would classify the legend as a Z2 (Kent 1994). This does indeed occur in the official coinage for Zeno found

in Scandinavia, but when further details are added to the analysis of the Slättäng solidus, this begins to carry negative weight, too. The obverse image of the cuirassed emperor differs from most other solidus types, as the emperor’s right side has a different ornament along the cuirass. In the case of Slättäng, there are elements of both circles and what appears to be a representation of interlace. This generally does not occur in the iconography during Zeno’s reign. The Slättäng solidus may thus be a pseudo-imperial imitation. Fagerlie (1967) has suggested that some of the frequent die-identical imitations in Scandinavian solidus hoards may reflect a late 5th-century Scandinavian minting. She particularly points to the three die-identical imitations of Honorius (395–423) from Botes in Etelhem parish in Gotland and Kåsbygård in Bornholm. I would like to add the two die-identical imitations of Theodosius’ II imp 42 cos 17 issue from Tuna Mellangård on Selaön in Södermanland and Botes in Etelhem parish in Gotland. While this idea would put the Mälar Valley around Helgö and the islands of Gotland and Bornholm in stark contrast to the unminted hoards of Västergötland, it is already clear that the Slättäng solidus does not look like these slipshod but die-identical imitations at all. The most frequent minting of imitations in the late 5th century took place in Ravenna and Rome under the auspices of Odoacer (476–492) and his successor Theodoric (493–526). It is also known that the ill-fated western Roman emperor Julius Nepos (475–480) continued to strike solidi with Zeno’s image both during his rule in Ravenna 475–476 and also later in Milan and perhaps even in Salonae (Kent 1994). It is thus possible to attribute the Slättäng solidus to a relatively competent semi-official mint or a spurious mint in Barbaricum just as well as the regular officina Gamma of the Constantinople mint. At some point, an owner of the solidus decided to assay the coin by piercing it at the border. The piercing is not intended to serve as a loophole (see Figs 17.2–3). Previously, piercings were considered evidence of secondary coin circulation in Scandinavia, beyond the Late Empire. But a well-preserved pierced solidus from the Capitoline Museum in Rome casts this into doubt (see Fig. 17.5). The coin was discovered in a hoard of 19 solidi near the St Eusebio church on the Esquiline Hill in 1875 (Molinari 2001). It thus has a proper archaeological context in the inner city of Rome. The coin is pierced but otherwise in very good condition. It has been struck for Zeno in Constantinople and then hoarded with other solidi, both genuine specimens from Constantinople and pseudo-imperial imitations from Italy. The piercings in Scandinavia, including Slättäng, could thus very well be evidence of circulation within the Late Roman Empire rather than anything else. In his doctoral dissertation, Herschend (1978) discussed the difference between unminted and minted gold hoards on Öland. He demonstrated that most of the gold hoards from

17.  The solidus from Slättäng

Figure 17.5. The pierced solidus from the Esquiline hoard. Photo by Sofia Nordin Fischer.

Öland were organized according to strict weight standards, and he returned to these weight standards in his study of the Timboholm hoard. A major contextual feature of solidus finds in Scandinavia not dealt with by Fagerlie at any great length is the variety of find combinations in so-called ‘mixed’ hoards. Solidi feature prominently in several different Scandinavian hoarding contexts, and the latter often display strong regional characteristics. Still, there are many difficulties in assessing the mixed hoards, not least since it appears that people have chosen to create mixed hoards by combining objects with very disparate chronologies. (For a view of Öland, see Herschend 1978; for Gotland, see Östergren 1981; for hoards from Denmark, see Breitenstein 1944 and Horsnaes 2013; for a supra-regional overview of mixed hoards, see Fischer and Lind 2015, table IV.) The Slättäng hoard is quite interesting in its composition: besides the solidus, it contains one certain spiral scabbard mouth together with another possible fragment and parts of a Kolben arm ring. The various gold fragments must have been assembled over a longer period. Precious objects indicative of high rank in martial affairs and domestic society have been gathered together and transferred to this hoard. Much of the unminted gold is wrinkled and ‘tired’, having been bent, twisted and cut on many occasions. The solidus is pierced and very worn. This was a hoard full of old remnants and keepsakes at the time of its final deposition. This is the case even if some objects appear sufficiently anonymous to defy Thordeman’s law (Thordeman 1949). The latter holds that all objects in a given hoard stand in a meaningful relationship to one another, but also that hoarded coinage reflects a given part of the total output of minted

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coins if the hoard belongs to a proper monetary economy. This circumstance is obviously not the case in Slättäng. Some unminted gold hoards, such as the Timboholm hoard, are intricately organized with two complementary weight standards, suggesting that there was considerable scrutiny in the handling of unminted gold at some central points in the cultural landscape (Herschend 2001). By contrast, we are forced to accept that only two known 5th-century solidi have been found in Västergötland – out of some 1000 known in Scandinavia. This dearth may have to do with the fact that the pillaging elite from Västergötland did not receive payment in minted gold, as did their peers from Helgö and the large Baltic islands. It could also be that there was something else going on. The solidi may all have been recast into other objects in Västergötland for a specific reason. The total weight of the Slättäng hoard is 141.04 g; that is, 31.981 multiplied by 4.41 g, or 31.066 multiplied by 4.54 g. From the discussion of solidus weights by Herschend (1983), one can discern that the relationship between the weight of the underweight solidus and that of the remainder of the Slättäng hoard is approximately 1/32. Had the solidus weighed a decent 4.4763 g, or even the ideal 4.54 g, the ratio would have changed with one solidus to 31.066 or approximately 1/31. It must be emphasized that the owner of the hoard would have had no problem identifying this fact. This suggests that the coin has been preserved from being melted down for a very important reason. It seems most likely that the solidus was preserved by virtue of being a solid gold weight, a meaningful part of a system of numerical literacy. A closer look at 20 different mixed gold hoards in Sweden shows that the Slättäng hoard neatly integrates itself into a coherent pattern where solidi were kept in mixed gold hoards as weights (see Table 17.1). A survey of all gold finds in Uppland, Södermanland and Gästrikland in eastern Sweden, with a total weight of 16.4 kg, revealed a proportional weight system for gold hoards with a distinct hierarchical distribution pattern in six weight groups located around minor central places, typically Tunaplace names and sites for legal assemblies around Lake Mälaren (Fischer 2005, 254–256, table 6). It should be noted that there are no solidi in weight groups 1–2, three major hoards from Södermanland that range from 12.5 kg to 0.5 kg. This suggests that major sums of gold were deliberately removed from circulation and that coinage had little intrinsic value to the largest hoard owners. The Slättäng hoard is thus not unique in itself. Mixed gold hoards are frequent in Scandinavia. What is somewhat unusual in the case of the Slättäng hoard is that there is only one coin. The first parallel to come to mind is the sole solidus in the Rångsta hoard in Gästrikland (SHM 14045) that consists of some 119.72 g of gold. The coin in the latter hoard was struck in Constantinople for Zeno’s father-in-law, Emperor Leo I, c. 462–466 or 471–473, and is of the very common RIC X 630, officina Delta type. Furthermore, the weight of the Slättäng

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Figure 17.6. The Rångsta hoard. Photo by Gunnel Jansson. Courtesy of SHM.

hoard is not exceptional. It would seem to belong to group 3, as does the Rångsta hoard (see Table 17.1, Fig. 17.6). I have qualified this group as ‘related to workshops and vassals in the hierarchy of a regional kleptocracy’ (Fischer 2005, 156). In the Mälar Valley, there are eight such hoards that have a total weight corresponding to 1/96 of the largest single hoard in that region, the c. 12.5 kg gold of the Tureholm hoard. But does the Rångsta hoard also exhibit the same pattern as Slättäng, where the coin is kept as an integer accounting for the total weight composition of the hoard? The objects in the Rångsta hoard differ to some degree: there are three finger rings, and smaller fragments of thicker rods. Still, it is very likely that the Rångsta solidus was kept in the hoard to serve as a weight given the comparative evidence in Table 17.1. The solidus from the Slättäng hoard can be used as a lens through which one can observe the past as it has been handed down to us from the 5th-century barbarian kleptocracy to the late 19th-century birth of archaeology as an antiquarian science involving all levels of state functionaries. The Slättäng solidus is important because it is located in a whirlpool of different narratives that all conjoin in the story of how a Late Roman gold coin was rediscovered in Västergötland because of the new capitalist

society that came into being with the Industrial Revolution. Our current ability to discuss the Slättäng hoard in its plethora of different aspects is in no small part due to the persistent research and analytical mind of scholars such as Frands Herschend.

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17.  The solidus from Slättäng Fischer, S. (2019) Images of Roman and Byzantine imperial dress in Scandinavia. Inspiration for the gold foil figures? In A. Pesch and M. Helmbrecht (eds) Gold Foil Figures as Part of the Imagery in the First Millennium AD. Papers Presented at an International and Interdisciplinary Meeting Organized by the Centre for Baltic and Scandinavian Archaeology (ZBSA) Schleswig, October 24th and 25th 2017, Schloss Gottorf, Schleswig, 243–261. Schriften des Archäologischen Landesmuseums, Ergänzungsreihe. Neumünster: Schriften des Archäologischen Landesmuseums, Ergänzungsreihe. Fischer, S. and Lind, L. (2015) The coins in the grave of King Childeric. Journal of Archaeology and Ancient History 14, 1–33. Herschend, F. (1978) Två studier i öländska guldfynd. I. Det myntade guldet. II. Det omyntade guldet. Tor 18, Uppsala. Herschend, F. (1983) Solidusvikt. Numismatiska meddelanden 34, 49–74. Herschend, F. (1991a) Om öländsk metallekonomi i första hälften av första årtusendet e.Kr. In C. Fabech and J. Ringtved (eds) Samfundsorganisation og Regional Variation. Norden i Romersk Jernalder og Folkevandringstid, 33–46. Aarhus: Aarhus University Press. Herschend, F. (1991b) A case-study in metrology: the Szikáncs hoard. Tor 23, 85–104. Herschend, F. (2001) Two ‘West-Geatish’ Greeks: the gold from Vittene and Timboholm. In B. Magnus (ed.) Roman Gold and the Development of the Early Germanic Kingdoms, 103–118. Stockholm: Coronet Books. Horsnaes, H.W. (2013) Crossing Boundaries. An Analysis of Roman Coins in Danish Contexts. Vol. 2. Finds from Bornholm. Studies

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in Archaeology and History 18. Copenhagen: Publications of the National Museum. Kent, J.P.C. (1992) IMP XXXXII COS XVII PP. When was it struck and what does it tell us? In H. Nilsson (ed.) Florilegium Numismaticum. Studia in honorem U. Westermark edita, 189–196. Stockholm: Svenska Numismatiska Föreningen. Kent, J.P.C. (1994) Roman Imperial Coinage, Volume X. London: Spink Books. Kristensson, K., Nyström, H. and Nyström, Ö. (1980) Från mörkret stiga vi mot ljuset. Arbetarrörelsens historia i Sverige. Gothenburg: Proletärkultur. Kyhlberg, O. (1986) Late Roman and Byzantine solidi. An archaeological analysis of coins and hoards. In B. Hovén (ed.) Excavations at Helgö X. Coins, Iron and Gold, 13–126. Stockholm: Kungl. Vitterhetsakademien. Lallemand, J. (1965) Vedrin – Sous d’or de Magnus Maximus à Anastase. Études Numismatiques 3, 109‒144. Molinari, M.C. (2001) Il ripostiglio di solidi di V secolo dall’Esquilino. Bullettino della Commissione Archaeologica Comunale di Roma 102, 121‒128. Östergren, M. (1981) Gotländska fynd av solidi och denarer. En undersökning av fyndplatserna. RAGU Arkeologiska skrifter 1981(1). Visby: RAGU. Stålsjö, D. (1983) Svearikets vagga: en historia i gungning. Skövde: Cradle Publications. Thordeman, B. (1949) The Lohe hoard: a contribution to the methodology of numismatics. Numismatic Chronicle 6(8), 188–204. Willson, K. (2012) Linguistic models and surname diversification strategies in Denmark and Sweden. Onoma 47, 299–326.