Archive for the ‘Historical’ Category

« Older Entries

Could the Staffordshire Hoard be a Votive Offering?

Friday, March 22nd, 2013

Staffordshire HoardIt was back in July 2009 that Terry Herbert got permission to metal detect over a field next to the village of Hammerwich, near Lichfield, in Staffordshire. The farmer told him not to bother as there was nothing there. Over the next few days, Herbert dug so many gold artefacts from the field that he felt completely overwhelmed and so, like any responsible metal detectorist, he called in the archaeologists. They eventually excavated over 3,500 items, which, in the words of the British Museum’s Leslie Webster, were “absolutely the metalwork equivalent of finding a new Lindisfarne Gospels or Book of Kells.” The artefacts have tentatively been dated to the 7th or 8th centuries, placing the origin of the items in the time of the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Mercia. It was probably the most significant Anglo-Saxon discovery since Sutton Hoo and, from when I first saw the items, still covered in mud, I knew that something very special had led to their burial.

As a prehistorian, I am used to the votive explanation for many hoards buried in the ground or thrown into rivers; they are gifts to the spirits or to the Gods. But it was not always like that. When I prepared my PhD thesis in 2001, I was considered radical for proposing this, flying in the face of more experienced heads who maintained that much of the metalwork had been buried for safekeeping, the owner fully intending to retrieve it later. For many academics, the idea of giving away such wealth was preposterous; they wouldn’t do it and so they couldn’t believe people in the past would do it either. Slowly, ideas changed and now much of the prehistoric metalwork found in hoards is assumed to be votive.

Anglo-Saxon archaeology is different. Dr Roger Bland, Head of the Portable Antiquities Scheme, summed it up by stating in relation to the Staffordshire Hoard: “It is assumed that the items were buried by their owners at a time of danger, with the intention of later coming back and recovering them.” Where had I heard that before? But this is not my area of expertise and so I dutifully respected those in the know and bit my tongue. However, several new discoveries have made me reconsider and maybe it is now time to suggest that the hoard may have been a votive offering after all.

Despite assurances that the field had yielded all its secrets, another 91 pieces have been discovered subsequent to the initial excavation. A treasure inquest on 4th January of this year ruled that 81 of these items were part of the original cache (they were close to the original findspot and were probably only scattered by the plough), 8 were modern farm debris, and 2 were from different deposits altogether, being some 40 and 50 metres away from the original findspot. It is these two items I want to focus on.

Little more than 2-3 centimetres in length, these two scraps of copper alloy are Anglo-Saxon harness fittings, decorated with intricate patterns of interweaving lines. They are unlikely to be chance losses; harness pieces do not just fall off a horse and two separate losses would be very unlikely. Moreover, the fact that these two items reflect the items in the original hoard suggests that people returned to the site, possibly on more than one occasion, and deposited similar material. Deposition here was a pattern, not a one off.

The original excavation found no sign of a burial mound, and while it cannot be entirely ruled out, there seems to be little signs of prehistoric burial mounds that may have attracted activity at this particular spot. But air photography and – perhaps tellingly – local folk traditions tell of a small hillock in the field, right where the hoard was discovered. During the initial excavation, a later field boundary curved at this point, as if it were avoiding or perhaps respecting something pre-existing, perhaps the hillock. Soil surveys suggest the hillock was formed from sand and clay, which would have affected vegetation growth at this spot, making it even more noticeable.

So why did people bury the hoard? A striking feature linking many of the items is that they are martial in nature. Indeed, most come from weapons, including 66 gold sword hilt collars. Even a biblical quotation on a strip of metal refers to warfare: “Rise up, Lord; may Your enemies be scattered and those who hate You be driven from Your face” and a gold cross may have been a standard to lead troops into battle. The fragmentary nature of the items within the hoard suggests they may have been war loot; the most valuable parts of weaponry plundered from a defeated foe on the battlefield. To me, this makes a votive motivation far more plausible.

Again, as a prehistorian, I am struck by the Hjortspring boat from Sweden, an Iron Age vessel full of battle gear and deliberately sunk as a war offering. Victorious warriors probably collected the loot and gave it to their war God in thanks for victory. The Anglo-Saxons might have done something similar, especially since they were not that far removed from their pagan past, when warriors would offer Odin the spoils of war if he granted them victory.

So why bury the items at Hammerwich? Possibly people interpreted the hillock in the field, albeit natural, as a barrow for a God or even for a mythical ancestor. Stories about the mound might have grown and people visited the place to show their respects, possibly seeking aid in everyday life, possibly even for a forthcoming skirmish. Like their ancestors before them, people offered the God or spirit choice pickings from any war loot if only they were granted victory. True to their word, after the battle, the victors returned and buried a bag of selected items as an offering of thanks. The site’s reputation grew as a result and others also visited, leaving smaller offering, such as the harness fittings that have just been discovered. The martial nature of these offerings matches those of the original cache, showing that the traditions associated with the mound were now widely known And, when people later came to demark the land with field boundaries, they studiously avoided the mound, making sure it remained a prominent feature in the landscape.

But this is only one possible story to explain the hoard among many others and new research, particularly on the surrounding landscape, will doubtless lead to more being told. But these latest finds, albeit only tiny scraps of copper alloy, already change what we know about the site. And, for this prehistorian, allows me to wonder with more impetus: could the Staffordshire Hoard be a votive offering? I can’t wait to find out more.

Comments (0)

Phanagoria: The Site Where History and Archaeology Meet

Tuesday, February 26th, 2013

PhangoriaArchaeologists and historians occasionally have a healthy disrespect for each other’s disciplines. Archaeologists interpret what they dig from the ground, whereas historians interpret what they read in old manuscripts. In an honest article from Jan Vansina, writing in History of Africa in 1995, the respected historian states, “most historians are simply not interested in the results of archaeology”. The same could probably be written for archaeologists about history. And yet, there is a site at Phanagoria in Russia where the two disciplines really are siblings and, like most healthy family relationships, they definitely bring out the best in each other. Let me explain.

Phanagoria is a superlative site on the Taman peninsula, a hunk of land jutting into the Black Sea. Built by the seafaring Greeks at around 543 BC, it was named for one of its founders, Phanagoras. During the fifth century BC, the town thrived on trade with neighbouring Scythians and Sindi and, by the first century BC, it had grown to become the main centre of the Bosporan Kingdom.

Such success attracts covetous eyes and Mithridates VI, King of Pontus on the southern shores of the Black Sea, was steadily expanding his territory northwards. Eventually, this included Phanagoria and it was here that Mithridates reputedly built his palace.

Such expansion of territory in the first century AD naturally attracted the attention of the reigning superpower of the day and, almost inevitably, Rome decided that the upstart Mithridates should be brought to heel, so initiating the Mithridatic Wars.

Phanagoria was not so enamoured of its new ruler that it was not above siding with the Romans and, at around 63 AD, the inhabitants of the city rebelled. Mithridates himself was not at home but his children were. Appian, a contemporary historian originally from Alexander in Egypt, takes up the story:

“Although the citadel was already held by Artaphernes and other sons of Mithridates, the inhabitants piled wood around it and set it on fire, in consequence of which Artaphernes, Darius, Xerxes, and Oxathres, sons, and Eupatra, a daughter, of Mithridates, in fear of the fire, surrendered themselves and were led into captivity.”

A heady tale but could it be true? Historians might side with the written word but archaeologists need something they can physically touch. In 2011, they got just that. Excavators uncovered a large building in the centre of the city, located at the acropolis. It had been gutted by fire. The discarded coins that littered the floor put the date for the conflagration around the middle of the first century AD. Was this Mithridates’ palace, burnt down by the rebels to capture his children? The evidence seemed good.

But archaeologists (and historians) are cautious folk. The find might have corroborated some of Appian’s story but was it enough to prove conclusively that this was Mithridates’ palace? What the excavators dreamt of was a find with Mithridates’ name inscribed across it. They got it.

Much of Phanagoria now lies underwater and it was the submerged excavation team that hit gold. Or rather stone. A marble tombstone bore the inscription “Hypsikrates, Wife of King Mithridates Eupator Dionysos, Farewell”. But before the archaeologists broke out the champagne and coincidentally invited the Russian president to visit (Vladimir Putin was an enthusiastic visitor, actually scuba-diving the site and taking home a jar as a souvenir), there was a problem. Mithridates had many wives (the first was his sister with whom he bore six children) but the woman he married in 63 AD, just prior to the insurrection, was called Hypsicratea. Hypsikrates, the inscription on the tombstone, was the masculine form of the name. So what was going on? To the historians relief, Plutarch – the Roman biographer of Pompey who fought for the Romans in the Mithridatic Wars – comes to the rescue. He tells us that Mithridates wife:

“…who on all occasions showed the spirit of a man and desperate courage; and accordingly the king used to call her Hypsikrates”.

So Hypsikrates was Mithridates’ nickname for a beloved and apparently formidable wife. And if she lived (and died) in Phanagoria, so presumably did he. Appian and Plutarch, much to the historians’ relief, had been proved right through archaeological excavation. History and archaeology, working together as two siblings should. Cue the champagne.

Comments (0)

Celebrating Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, the Last Native Prince of Wales

Tuesday, December 11th, 2012

It’s Llewelyn II Day in Wales today, celebrating the last prince of an independent Wales before conquest by England.

Llewelyn came from good princely stock, being born around 1223. He was the second son of Gruffydd, who was himself the eldest son of Llewelyn the Great, Prince of Gwynedd in north Wales and, eventually, de facto ruler over most of Wales. Unfortunately, Gruffydd was later captured by the English, along with his first born son, Owain Goch, and died whilst escaping from the Tower of London. He had made an improvised rope from bed sheets but he was not a small man and they tore under his weight. The window from which he fell was bricked-up shortly thereafter and remains so to this day. Owain Goch remained in English hands.

Following his father’s death, Llewelyn joined forces with his uncle, Dafydd, who was always agitating against the English but was kept in check with Gruffydd’s imprisonment. With his brother Gruffydd dead, Dafydd went to war against King Henry III of England. Loyally, Llewelyn supported his uncle in the savage fighting that followed. Owain Goch meanwhile was set free by Henry, having been turned against his brother.

When Dafydd died in February 1246 without leaving an heir, Llywelyn, being on the spot when it happened, seized power for himself. Moreover, after subduing and unifying much of North Wales, by 1258 the lesser Welsh princes transferred their homage from King Henry to Llewelyn. In the same year, Llewellyn declared himself Prince of Wales. In order to keep the peace, Henry III recognised the title for Llewelyn and his successors in the 1267 Treaty of Montgomery. Llewellyn therefore became the last prince of an independent Wales.

All went smoothly for a while until a new English king took the throne: Edward I. Relations deteriorated as Llewelyn sought to test the new king and refused to pay homage or make the money payments due under the Treaty of Montgomery. It was a costly mistake as Edward soon showed he was not to be trifled with. Edward took a huge army into Wales, received subservience from the lesser princes, and starved Llewelyn into submission. In 1277, Llewelyn was forced to submit to the King and was stripped of his hard won overlordship.

Relations did not sour entirely, however, and Edward now gave Llewelyn permission to marry his beloved Eleanor de Montfort at Worcester Cathedral. Llewelyn had tried to marry her some years previously but, as she was Simon de Montfort’s daughter – a man who once overthrew the kings of England and ruled via parliament in their stead (all this in 1264, long before Cromwell had the same idea) – Edward used pirates to seize her when she was sailing from France for her nuptials and imprisoned her. He was not too harsh, however, as Eleanor was his cousin. Now, in 1276, after years of painful separation, the two lovers were finally wed and a stained glass window still exists in the cathedral depicting the event. Commentators at the time declared it a true love match and noted, somewhat wryly, that Llewelyn had no illegitimate children outside the marriage. Eleanor was the only woman for him.

Even the strained relations between Wales and England were not to last. In 1282, Dafydd ap Gruffydd – Llewelyn’s younger brother – attacked Hawarden Castle, an English stronghold, in a move designed to provoke war. Buoyed by a flood of Welsh barons, and the previously turncoat lesser princes, heeding the call for unity, Llewelyn sided with his brother against the English. It was a terrible miscalculation. Edward, never known to recoil from a fight, invaded Wales for a second time but, this time, he was here to stay.

Llywelyn left Dafydd to lead the defence of Gwynedd in North Wales while taking a force south, trying to rally support in mid and south Wales and open up an important second front. Just north of where I live, at the Battle of Orewin Bridge at Builth Wells, Llewelyn became separated from his troops and met his doom. Trickery from the English has always been hinted at in dark places but Llewelyn lost both his crown and his head, which was lopped from his body as he lay dying. The severed head was taken to London and crowned there with ivy, in mock defiance of the old story of Bran and his severed head that was buried under the White Tower. Nobody knows for sure what happened to Llewelyn’s head thereafter but it may have been returned for burial at the Cistercian Abbey at Abbeycwmhir.

Llewelyn’s brother met a more grisly end. Dafydd carried on the struggle for several months, but in June 1283 was captured in the uplands above Abergwyngregyn. A special session of Parliament at Shrewsbury quickly condemned him to death. He was dragged through the streets, then hanged, drawn and quartered. Edward now took control of Wales and our freedom was extinguished.

Llewelyn’s beloved wife Eleanor had previously died in childbirth, but their daughter, Gwenllian of Wales, was captured by Edward as a baby and imprisoned at Sempringham Priory in Lincolnshire, where she remained for the rest of her life. She probably knew little of her heritage and heard none of her language spoken. We mark her sad and pitiful life on June 12th every year.

Llewelyn is now remembered by a monument at the battle site where he died (shown above). Moreover, his spirit still haunts the rolling hills of this area. History has drawn Wales and England ever closer but we still remember Llewelyn and the days when he ruled an independent Wales.

Comments (2)

Josaphat: The Christianised Buddha

Tuesday, November 27th, 2012

We are used to many of our seasonal celebrations – Christmas/Yule, Easter/ Eosturmonath, even Hallowe’en/All Soul’s Night – having a Christian gloss on far older Pagan traditions. It seems that, as Christianity was taking hold, it was easier to attract converts if you changed rather than replaced existing traditions. But this did not just happen in the West. In the East, where Christianity came up against Buddhist belief, it also tried to put a Christian gloss on the story of the Buddha’s progression to enlightenment.

Today (November 27th) is the feast day of St. Josaphat, an early Prince of India, whose story mirrors the historical Buddha in almost every regard.

Josaphat was the son of the Indian Emperor Abenner, sometime in the early first millennium AD. Christianity had recently arrived in India through the evangelization of the holy apostle Thomas but Abenner did not take kindly to the new faith and persecuted its followers.

Unfortunately for him, the court astrologers predicted that his beloved son, Josaphat, would convert to Christianity when he became a man. Enraged, Abenner tried to isolate Josaphat by building a separate place for him and banning all talk of Christ and the Christian faith in his presence. Josaphat grew with no knowledge of the cares of the world.

However, just like Siddhārtha Gautama – the Indian prince who would become the Buddha – Josaphat stole out of the palace one day and began to tour the kingdom. He witnessed for the first time such things as suffering, sickness, old age, and death, and this prompted him to reflect upon the transitory nature of life. He also met a hermit called Barlaam, who saw the youth’s potential, and tutored him in the ways of Christianity.

When he returned to the palace with his new-found wisdom, Josaphat’s father, Abenner, tried all sorts of devious tricks to turn his son from Christianity. But Josaphat’s faith was absolute. Eventually, Abenner admitted defeat and also converted, leaving the empire to his son. Abenner then turned his back on his old life and became a hermit in the wilderness. Unlike the Buddha, enlightenment for Josaphat now meant ruling a kingdom, perhaps better reflecting the position of Christ in the kingdom of heaven.

Eventually, Josaphat tired of worldly things and, like his father, retired to the wilderness, where he too became a hermit. It was many years later that his successor recovered Josaphat’s dead body and, since it smelt of fragrant flowers, declared him a saint.

The name Josaphat is revealing as it derives from the Sanskrit Bodhisattva. This Sanskrit word was initially changed to Bodisav in Persian texts during the 6th or 7th century. Owing to copying errors, this became Yudasaf in an 8th century Arabic document and, later Iodasaph in Georgia in the 10th century. Finally, it became Ioasaph in Greece in the 11th century, and then Iosaphat or Josaphat in Latin. So even the name apes after the Buddhist origin of the story.

During the Middle Ages, the story became popular in Western Europe under the title The Golden Legend and is even mentioned in Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice. But I wonder how many people hearing the story then realised its Eastern origins or that they were actually paying homage to tenets from a very different religion to their own. Interestingly, by the 17th century, the story had become a philosophical treatise on free will and the seeking of inner peace through meditation. It was almost as if Josaphat had come full circle and returned to his Buddhist roots.

Comments (0)

St Cecilia: Muse to the Rock Stars

Thursday, November 22nd, 2012

Today, is St Cecilia’s Day, patron saint of musicians and, like all good saints, also a muse, in this case, to those who write music. Brian Eno and David Byrne described in their song The River, that the flowing water gives them a tune every St Cecilia’s Day. Stalk-Forrest (an early form of the Blue Öyster Cult) called their 1970 album St Cecilia and the title track is a virtual love song to the long-dead saint. Paul Simon wrote about St Cecilia in The Coast, with a group of musicians, appropriately enough, taking refuge in her church. There is also his popular love song, titled simply Cecilia, which – by my reckoning – tells of the angst when the muse departs and then the jubilation when she returns again.

Classical composers did not neglect this saintly muse and musical works by Henry Purcell, Hubert Parry, and George Frideric Handel all dedicated compositions to Cecilia. Benjamin Britten, who wrote Hymn to St Cecilia, Op. 27, a choral piece developed from a poem by W. H. Auden, had more reason than others to dedicate a piece of work to the saint: he was born on St Cecilia’s Day in 1913.

But who was this muse so beloved by musicians ancient and modern, and would she rather listen to Handel’s sacred choral music, or the hard rock of the Blue Öyster Cult’s Don’t Fear the Reaper? Although she may have had much reason to fear the reaper, it was probably the former. St Cecilia is also the patron saint of church music in all its forms.

Cecilia lived during the 2nd century AD, possibly in Rome but more likely in Sicily, where she died around 230. Rather than being known as Cecilia, her name is likely to have been a family name, originating from the noble clan of Caecilia, which traced its lineage to Caeculus, the son of the God Vulcan. Caeculus’ mother, so the legend goes, became pregnant when a spark landed upon her. After giving birth, Caeculus’ mother left him at a shrine to Jupiter, and, despite being close to the sacred fire, his fiery heritage meant he survived the ordeal. The child’s  name, however, suggests that close proximity to the flames left some scars upon his person. Caeculus means ‘little blind boy’.

So it was that Cecilia was born to the Caecilia family, erstwhile descendants of Caeculus, although it is unlikely that she would have flaunted her descent from a Roman God. By the time she was a grown woman, Cecilia was staunchly Christian, which was still a persecuted religion in these days. She married a man called Valerian and he also became a Christian following an odd experience on their wedding night. The story has it that as Valerian went to consummate the marriage, Cecilia revealed to him the existence of a guardian angel that was sworn to kill any man who attempted to take her virtue. Valerian, perhaps understandably, wanted proof. Cecilia told him to go and be baptised into Christianity and he would be able to see the angel for himself. Valerian did, and possibly to his chagrin, he did see the angel and Cecilia kept her virtue until the day she died.

Unfortunately, that day was not far off. Both Cecilia, Valerian, and his brother – who also saw angels after his baptism – were called before the prefect, Turcius Almachius, and told to worship, somewhat ironically, at the altar of Jupiter. Naturally, they refused. Little is known of Valerian’s swift execution shortly thereafter, nor his brother’s, but Cecilia’s martyrdom was enough to make her a saint.

First, she was smothered in steam, but this had no effect. Then her head was struck with the executioner’s blade on three occasions, each without effect. The problem was that Cecilia wanted to take communion before meeting her end and, through divine intervention, it was proving impossible to kill her until she did. Accordingly, her wish was eventually granted. As she bared her neck for the killer blow, Cecilia sang songs in praise of her God and those hearing her beautiful voice knew at that moment that she would become a saint. When her body was exhumed some years later, it had not, as tradition decrees for a saint, suffered any corruption, and she even held out three fingers in honour of the holy trinity. The songs she sang at her death made her the patron of musicians and it was not long afterward that she was depicted holding various musical instruments. A church was built at Trastevere in Rome during the 5th century to honour her memory, and was later rebuilt in grand style by Pope Paschal I around the year 820, and by Cardinal Paolo Emilio Sfondrati in 1599. It still stands magnificent today.

St Cecilia: Roman noble, ever virtuous Christian, and later-day muse to rock stars; it is a heady combination. But I remember her best as Paul Simon’s muse in his eponymous song. Since Simon is a poet, and was writing when people made love not war, he did not merely compose songs after lunch, as you or I might, but he made love in the afternoon to no less than the saint herself. I sometimes wish I could reach those same giddy heights in my writing but then I don’t compose songs and, sadly, St Cecilia is not my muse.

Comments (0)

Sacred Trade: We Are All Connected

Friday, November 16th, 2012

At the end of a training session I once attended with Brooke Medicine Eagle, she arranged a giveaway ceremony to mark its conclusion. We all stood in a circle and laid something we had brought for the occasion before us. We then walked slowly to our left while the elder of our group decided what she wanted. When she had selected a suitable item, we all received what was in front of us at that moment, not knowing from whom it originated. I have no idea how traditional this ceremony is, but Brooke told me stories of native elders vying as to who was eldest (and got to choose what they wanted) and then carefully looking over each item in turn to determine its quality. Regardless of authenticity, it felt a good way to trade gifts and brought a touch of the sacred into, what can be, an otherwise mundane activity.

Although we are used to particular objects being special, the manner in which they are traded attracts less focus. Yet this was not always the case. During the Bronze Age in southern Britain, objects that came from across the channel in Brittany seemed to be particularly significant to people, often appearing in high-status graves. Archaeologists are inclined to think that people actually travelled to trade these objects and the ownership of such an item not only showed that a person had journeyed to a far off place, somewhere often likened to an other-world, but also that some of its supernatural power might have adhered to the individual upon their return. It is striking that northern cosmologies often describe the otherworld of the shamans as being reached by crossing water.

In more recent times, the kula trade of the Trobriand Islanders is a flourishing tradition where chiefs continually trade items made from shiny kula shells in order to make and maintain social relations with other chiefs. The aim is not to keep an object for an extended time – this would be frowned upon – but to continue trading and, in doing so, make more and closer alliances. It is the trade and not the object that is significant.

Items that are traded in traditional Maori networks in New Zealand carry hau, which embodies the spirit of the transaction. Hau attaches to the object and must always be eventually repaid in kind to the original owner. If the object is traded to a third-party, the hau follows and the third-party takes over the debt to the original owner. It is another means of ensuring social relationships emerge from trade.

In early medieval Eurasia, when Muslim traders were extending their influence across the region, they introduced silver currency to facilitate their trade. Most came from the Samanid empire in Transoxania, which produced  some 200 million silver dirhams, most flowing west to fuel the insatiable desire Scandinavian traders had for silver. But this did not stop some people linking their beliefs to even mercantile trade and an imitation dirham from the Khazar khaqanate had an inscription reading Musa rasul Allah or ‘Moses is the messenger of God’. The Khazar had recently converted to Judaism and this was a way of rubbing it in to their Muslim neighbours. If you wanted to take Khazar coin, you also had to accept their beliefs.

At the edges of the trading empire, coin lost its value since the people here had no use for it, and only barter for comparable goods was acceptable. The Scandinavian Rus collected taxes from parts of their territory in animal pelts and this continued into the twentieth century in the land that is now Russia. Elsewhere, the Croatian currency is still called kuna, the Slavic word for marten fur.

We have the writings of Abu Hamid (travelling between 1130-1155 and recently translated into English), for an account of the way bartering was carried out in the far reaches of the known world. When traders arrived at a designated place in the wilds of the far north, they set out the goods they wished to trade next to a mark designating ownership. They then withdrew. The local people inspected the items laid out and, if they liked what they saw, they left an appropriate number of pelts or narwhal ivory next to the items. They then sunk back into the wild. Upon returning, if the traders liked what they had been offered in exchange, they collected the pelts and ivory, leaving their goods behind for later collection. If they did not approve of what they had been offered, they removed their original goods and the transaction was closed. There was never any negotiation, haggling, or even contact between the two parties to the trade.  It is estimated that over 500,000 pelts were exchanged in this manner every year.

Trade can create social obligation, such as the kula trade or via Maori hau, it can elevate the person conducting the trade, such as the Bronze Age seafarers, or it can lock participants into a secret, almost mystical bond where the identity of each party is completely hidden from the other. The giveaway ceremony I attended seemed to encompass aspects of each, reminding me that, beyond the significance of the item, the manner in which an object comes to me is important, even sacred. It binds me into a relationship with all those who have made, owned, or carried the object before. Through the object, we are all connected.

Comments (0)

Ancient Helgö: A Fusion of Objects, Ideas, and Beliefs

Wednesday, October 24th, 2012

In recent times, the world has become a melting pot of cultures and beliefs, as people move around the globe taking their values and ideas with them. It feels a truly modern phenomenon. And yet, a small island called Helgö, situated in Lake Mälaren near to Stockholm in Sweden, suggests that the early medieval world may have seen just as much movement and mingling: of people, of objects, and, possibly, of ideas and beliefs.

A town first emerged on Helgö around the year 200 AD. Although considered remote today, the lake was once a fjord and boats could easily sail from Helgö out into the Baltic Sea. From there, routes led east into Russia, west to Britain and Ireland, and, by following the rivers through the hinterland, far south to Constantinople and even into the Mediterranean Sea. Far from being remote, Helgö was at the centre of a vast trading network.

We know that Scandinavian traders travelled widely as records recount their visits to some of these places. Dublin in Ireland was part-founded as a Scandinavian trading port, the Arab diplomat Ahmad ibn Fadlān recorded the Scandinavian Rus trading on the Volga River (and these people were so prevalent that they eventually gave their name to the country itself: Rus-sia) and, farther south, Scandinavians formed the elite Varangian guard, protecting the Byzantine emperor himself. One of the guard, called Halfdan, even carved his name in runes in the main church, the Hagia Sofia. Since the services at that time could last all day, perhaps he was bored. It is widely believed that the runes merely record “Halfdan was here”.

Wherever they went, these ancient Scandinavians traded, and this may account for the unusual collection of objects discovered at Helgö. Digging at a prosperous farm, archaeologists found the top of a bishop’s crozier originating from Ireland, a christening cup originating from Egypt, and, most curious of all, a bronze statue of the Buddha originating from the area around Afghanistan. The items (shown above) date to the 6th century AD and are striking as they all relate to religions then foreign to the occupants of Helgö.

Whilst it is possible that traders reached places as remote as Afghanistan (after all, Alexander the Great had also come this way and the statue does appear to have been forcibly removed from a larger tableau) it is just as likely that the statue was traded along the fabled silk route and picked up at a port on the Caspian Sea. But it made me wonder whether the ideas attached to the items travelled with them and, if so, what the Scandinavians would have made of these different beliefs.

In terms of ancient Scandinavian religion, much of our information comes from the Icelandic Eddas (written manuscripts) but it is unclear just how universal these Gods and beliefs were; they may have been mainly Icelandic. At Helgö, a group of images was recovered from an area of the town that may have served as a shrine depicting a man and woman facing each other, sometimes embracing, and sometimes accompanied by foliage. These may have been the Vanir, ancient nature deities of which Freyr and Freyja are the best known.

It is unlikely the traders incorporated beliefs such as Christianity and Buddhism into their religion but maybe the stories they heard about a man finding enlightenment whilst sitting under a Bodhi tree, or another hanging upon a wooden cross to find salvation for the world, chimed with their own stories of Odin hanging on the Yggdrasill tree to obtain knowledge of the ages. Maybe the traders took stories of these foreign beliefs home to Helgö and talked about them to others, keeping the crozier, cup, and statue close at hand to help illustrate their tales.

It is easy to view the early medieval world – and especially the Scandinavian contribution to it – as being steeped in war and conflict. Viking implies raiding and, for many, the word is synonymous with rape and pillage. But there is another side to their world, that of trade and exchange and, whilst we must not forget that one of the most valuable goods at the time was human slaves (the ancient trade rivalling that of more recent times), it is also possible to glimpse deeper connections of ideas and beliefs. The objects in Helgö seem to attest to this and it is almost dizzying to think of the stories that would have surrounded their journeys.

It was said in the 16th century that if one sat outside in Venice, eventually the entire world would pass by. I think the same might have been true of a small island in Sweden, 1,000 years earlier.

Comments (8)

Leif Eiriksson : The First European in America

Tuesday, October 9th, 2012

Yesterday was Columbus Day, a celebration of the first European to enter the New World. Whilst taking nothing away from his extraordinary achievement, for me, it is hard to mark an event that led to the extinction of so many people. The Taíno, for example, the indigenous inhabitants of the Caribbean, were wiped out within sixty years of the Spanish landing. Far better is the man who is celebrated today: Leif Eiriksson, a Greenlandic settler who really was the first (known) European to enter the New World.

Leif was the son of Eirik the Red, outlawed from his native Norway for manslaughter and then fleeing to Iceland to escape summary justice. Once there, he married Thjodhild, who bore him four children including Leif, before he was involved in another killing over some mystical roof beams, and was outlawed once again. This time, Eirik fled further west to Greenland, where he remained for three years until his sentence expired. He returned briefly to Iceland, telling others of this new land and enticing other settlers by calling the land Green. He then returned to Greenland, building a farm at Brattahlíð, near present-day Narsarsuaq. The colony thrived in the relatively mild early medieval period and, despite several episodes of ravaging illness, the population reached 5,000 along the western shore.

Like his father, Leif was an explorer and had already sailed to Norway, becoming a hirðman of King Olaf Tryggvason, and also converting to Christianity while he was there (a wise move as Olaf often tortured reluctant converts until they relented). In contrast, his father Eirik remained a pagan all his life and was probably party to seið rituals, as recounted in the saga that bears his name.

Leif became aware of land west of Greenland since another sailor, Bjarni Herjólfsson, had already seen sight of it. To Leif, the adventure was irresistible and he bought Bjarni’s ship in order to mount his own expedition. According to legend, his father Eirik was to join him but, when riding to the ship, he fell off his horse and, taking this as a bad omen, remained behind.

It is not entirely clear what route Leif sailed (and the two sagas recounting the journey are not consistent) but he probably headed first to Baffin Island (which he called Flat-Rock Land), then to Labrador (which he called Forest Land), and then to Newfoundland (which he called Vin- or Wine Land). Landing at Newfoundland, Leif and his crew built a small settlement, which later travellers named Leifsbúdir after him. This was 500 years before Columbus’ voyage. In the 1960’s, two Norwegian archaeologists located a Norse settlement at L’Anse aux Meadows, which may have been Leifsbúdir.

Leif returned to Greenland with some eponymous grapes and also timber, which was scarce on Greenland. The need for building wood led to many other voyages to Vinland, although nobody remained there on a permanent basis, preferring always to return to Greenland.

Of course, the land was not empty and there are accounts of interactions between Norse people and natives, who they called skrælingjar. Leif’s brother Thorvald is thought to be the first European to initiate contact and, almost inevitably, the first European to kill the people he met.

Although the Norse people do not seem to have attributed any special significance to their discovery, there is evidence that knowledge of these western isles was widespread. The German writer Adam of Bremen mentions them in his great chronicle and it is even possible that Columbus himself heard tell of them, possibly on a visit to Iceland he claimed to have made. Maybe his voyage into the unknown was not quite as unknown as all that.

Leif, now named Leif the Lucky, finally settled-down on the family farm in Greenland, which he shared with his Hebridean wife Thorgunna and their son Thorgils. He was said to have been a wise and considerate man who spent his days converting people to the new religion, much to the consternation of his resolutely pagan father. His mother had no such qualms and she built the first church in Greenland, a replica of which still bears her name: Thjodhild’s Church.

The sagas do not record Leif’s death but he handed over the farm to his son in 1025, so possibly this was his last act before dying shortly afterward. Although Leif is nowhere near as well-known as Columbus, many places celebrate his voyage to Vinland on October 9th, designating it Leif Eiriksson’s Day. The date was chosen because the ship Restauration, sailing from Stavanger in Norway, arrived in New York Harbour on October 9th, 1825, beginning a new, modern wave of immigration from Norway to the United States. No doubt, the spirit of Leif Eiriksson sailed with her.

Comments (4)

The Eleusinian Mysteries of Ancient Greece

Friday, September 21st, 2012

For nine days, from the 15th to the 23rd of the month of Boedromion (which probably corresponded to September), the Eleusinian Mysteries of ancient Greece took place. These were initiation ceremonies into the cult of Demeter and her daughter, Persephone, occurring in Eleusis in West Attica, about 18 km northwest from the centre of Athens.

The Eleusinian Mysteries centre on the abduction of the goddess Persephone by the dark lord of the underworld, Hades, who snatched her away from her mother Demeter. Rather than concentrating on the fate of Persephone, the Eleusinian Mysteries follow the anguish of Demeter as she searches for her lost child. Following a familiar theme, the myth has three cycles: death – the descent of Persephone to the underworld, incubation – the time Demeter spent in the underworld looking for her daughter, and rebirth – return from the underworld and reunion of mother and daughter. The Eleusinian Mysteries focussed especially on rebirth – the reunion – although the exact details of what went on are unknown since initiates swore an oath of secrecy, which meant nothing was ever recorded beyond a few peripheral details. Nevertheless, researchers believe the ceremonies were well-established as far back as Mycenaean and even into Minoan times. This was clearly an important theme for all ancient Greeks.

The culmination of the ceremony appears to have been entry into a great hall, or Telesterion, and, in the 5th century BC, Iktinos, the great architect of the Parthenon, rebuilt the Telesterion at Eleusis to be big enough to hold thousands of people. Relics of Demeter were held at its heart, emphasising death and rebirth but, exactly what they were, is not recorded.

The Homeric Hymn to Demeter may have formed part of the ritual. This retells the myth of her daughter’s abduction and how – because Persephone had tasted the food of the underworld – she must return to Hades for half the year, so eternally living the cycle of death and rebirth.

There is also mention of a sacrament in the Hymn, which is worth quoting in full:

Then Metaneira filled a cup with sweet wine and offered it to Demeter; but she refused it, for she said it was not lawful for her to drink red wine, but bade them mix meal and water with soft mint and give her to drink. And Metaneira mixed the draught and gave it to the goddess as she bade. So the great queen Deo received it to observe the sacrament.

Many scholars believe that drinking such a draught was an integral part of the Eleusinian Mysteries and was possibly the central rite carried out in the Telesterion. Some believe the meal or grain may have been barley infected with the ergot fungus, so providing an ecstatic state for those undertaking the sacrament. People would have experienced their own death and rebirth, possibly following Demeter as she descended into the underworld looking for her lost daughter.

The Telesterion was destroyed by the Persians after the battle of Thermopylae in 480 BC but was rebuilt by Pericles, hero of Athens, suggesting the mysteries still endured. Even when the rampaging Costoboci tribe razed the Telesterion in AD 170 – a period when Attica was under the rule of the Roman Empire – the Emperor Marcus Aurelius had it rebuilt, once again suggesting the mysteries endured.

It was not until AD 396 and the attack of Alaric the Visigoth that the Telesterion was destroyed for the last time, never to be rebuilt. By this date, Christianity had taken over much of Europe, replacing the old gods and their ceremonies.

The Eleusinian Mysteries are similar to other cults from the Near East centring on death and rebirth, and were open to both men and women. According to the Hymn to Demeter, King Celeus (the husband of Metaneira) was one of the first people to learn the secret rites and mysteries. Unusually, it seems that even slaves were admitted to the Telesterion. The only condition for all admitted – besides being able to speak Greek – is that the individual had no blood on their hands through murder. Presumably, this act distorted the progression of birth, death, and rebirth celebrated in the mysteries.

The original Eleusinian Mysteries were a closely guarded secret during the days of ancient Greece but many modern pagan groups incorporate reflection on death and rebirth as part of their Autumn Equinox celebrations. Participants are shown a sheaf of wheat or barley and told that herein lies the mystery of existence. A mystery that initiates have studied for three millennia or more.

Comments (2)

An Altar to Ocelus, the Celtic God of Protection

Tuesday, August 28th, 2012

I found this Roman altar in a church porch over the weekend when visiting the Roman town of Caerwent. The inscription reads:

DEO MARTI OCELO
AEL AGUSTINUS
OP V S L M

The letters ‘V S L M’ stand for Votum Soluit Libens Merito, so the translation goes:

God Mars Ocelus
Ael(ius) Agustinus
Op(tio) Paid His Vow

Aelius Augustinus, the man who erected the altar, was an optio in the legion at Caerleon, which meant that he had been ‘chosen’ (optio from optāre, meaning “to choose”) by his centurion to hold a position roughly commensurate with Lieutenant today. He was a cut above the common soldier and this may have been why he lived in Caerwent, possibly upon retirement from the legion.

The statement that Aelius Augustinus “paid his vow” relates to the transactional nature of Roman worship. A covenant was offered to a god whereby an individual would render some service – such as erecting an altar – in return for divine assistance. The altar does not reveal what Aelius Augustinus wanted, but possibly his survival after years of service in the legion was enough for him to erect the altar.

Aelius Augustinus positioned his altar by the south wall of a house in Caerwent, possibly one that he owned and lived in. The small indent on the top of the structure was for a sacrificial fire where people could make their own offerings. The erection of the altar thereby ensured that people would continue to honour and worship the god and was a particularly valuable gift for Aelius Augustinus to have made.

The god named on the altar was Mars Ocelus, who appears to be a fusion between the Roman god Mars, appropriate for a soldier since he was the god of war, and Ocelus, a local Celtic deity.

Ocelus only appears on three inscriptions, two from Caerwent and one from near Hadrian’s Wall – possibly made when soldiers stationed in South Wales served time on the frontier. Again, Ocelus is associated with Mars. Since the local Silurian people seemed to focus on Mars’ protective qualities, it has been suggested that Ocelus was a local Silurian deity, providing protection for his people. This would also have been a fitting tribute from a retired soldier such as Aelius Augustinus – giving thanks for surviving his years in the military.

For me, it was a delight to be able to get so close to a structure where, centuries ago, people worshipped a local Welsh god. It is ironic that it is now housed in a monument to the religion that probably ousted him from the hearts and minds of their descendants, as Christianity eventually replaced the old gods.

Comments (8)

« Older Entries