by Cat Jarman
There are a number of reasons why a bullion economy became so popular among the Vikings. First, it was a straightforward system to use: it enabled the quality and purity of silver to be easily tested and verified, and subsequently weighed out as payment. Second, this type of currency provided flexibility for a very mobile group: it was a form of wealth that could retain its value across the extraordinary distances that were travelled, while also being usable during more settled periods when you might stay in a single location for months or even a few years. Third, silver bullion could be used to avoid taxation. As a pure metal, silver was not a currency that had been issued by a ruler and would therefore not be subject to direct control by a distinct authority; this made it highly likely that it remained outside specific laws, especially in Anglo-Saxon England, and so less likely to be subject to taxation. It is easy to imagine that this would have appealed to the Vikings.
The increasing number of dirhams that have been found is showing us that the connections to the east may have been more frequent than we previously thought. But this still isn’t giving us the full picture of just how much silver ended up in Britain and Ireland through the actions of Viking raiders and traders. What about all the silver that was melted down into ingots and bullion? Isotope analysis can finally start to answer this question.
On the surface, silver ingots give no clues at all as to the metal’s origin. We can’t identify a source by the object’s designs: there is no twist of a Permian ring or intricate cast of a Frankish cup to reveal their artistic and geographical starting points. Melted down, none of that remains and until recently it was impossible to determine where the metal came from after it had been turned into a nondescript ingot. Yet, much like chemical signatures in human enamel, metals too retain traces of the environments they came from, leaving us with an opportunity to apply isotope analysis to determine their source.
In nature, silver is rarely found in a pure, native form. Instead, it is usually found in naturally occurring ores that are a combination of several minerals, like galena (lead and a small amount – up to 1 per cent – of silver). To obtain silver from such a combined ore, you would first extract the metals from other impurities through smelting and then separate out the silver through a process called cupellation. This involves heating the metal to a very high temperature, which causes the lead to be oxidised so that it can more readily be removed. However, there are always traces of other elements left – and that is good news because it is precisely these metals that can be used to look for geographical origins. To trace the source of silver, isotopes of lead are especially useful because the isotope ratios measured in a sample can correspond well with lead-silver ores in different geographical regions, meaning that it is possible to differentiate between sources of lead in for example western Europe (England/France) or central Asia.
A recent project is investigating the origins of Viking silver in England on a large scale, focusing especially on whether the silver came from continental sources or further afield. Jane Kershaw, an archaeologist at the University of Oxford who leads the project, has looked at silver ingots found in Viking hoards.[2] The preliminary results show that the main source of silver came from the east and specifically from melted-down dirhams. This means that we may have seriously underestimated the amount of the metal that has come directly from eastern spheres.
NEW DISCOVERIES
It is clear that imported eastern silver forms an extensive collection, not just from the later hoards, but also from the earliest phases of the Viking presence in England. That suggests that those who came to England in the 870s were already part of something bigger, something that stretched far beyond western Europe: a system and a network that was well established and highly functioning. Yet our knowledge of these early connections is recent and much of the evidence comes from new methods like Jane Kershaw’s work on silver ingots. To unravel the bigger picture and understand these connections, we need to follow the trail backwards both in time and space and to understand how it fits in with what we know from places like Repton.
When I next met up with metal detectorist Rob, I had a chance to look through more of the finds from the Derbyshire field that he had identified. Among several copper alloy brooches – presumably looted or given as tribute – I spotted a small face: two eyes and a broad nose, likely a fragment of a Scandinavian pendant with a human figure, maybe a representation of Odin. There were also three tiny objects: small and unassuming, with a design that seemed markedly modern, which you could easily mistake for dice from a board game. The objects are called polyhedral or cubo-octahedral weights and are multi-sided measures made of bronze. Each weight has a series of dots on the main sides – between one and six, corresponding to their physical weight. In this way the weights could be used to weigh out small amounts of a commodity, probably silver, used for purchasing everyday items. A trader would have had his or her own set, as this meant that you could be completely sure that nobody was trying to con you. And new research shows that they are likely to have been based on a weight system that had been developed in the east.
Dirhams and dinars were also minted on the basis of set weights of metal in each coin. In fact, the currencies’ origins in the pre-Islamic era stem from non-coinage weight standards that were used to measure out amounts of silver and gold. The weight of the dinar was about 4.26 grams, equivalent to one unit of weight called a mithqal, and the Islamic dirham weighed 2.275 grams: this was set down in Islamic law. At the same time in the Scandinavian homelands, a weight-based economic system was also in use, which we know about from later medieval written sources. Here the system was built around the mark, which was divided into the smaller quantities of öre, örtug and pennies. The öre appears to have weighed 24.5 grams, meaning the eight öre that made up a mark would add up to 196 grams – close to the 200 gram Permian rings found in Scandinavia.
However, it gets even more intriguing. Looking at finds from Sweden, archaeologists have discovered what seems like a combined Islamic/Swedish system because weights have been found that weigh 12.7 grams: three times the mithqal unit, and half an öre. The implications of this are extraordinary, as it implies a direct link between the two currency systems in use at the time. The reason for developing and using a weight system like this would have been to facilitate trade across different territories. It’s tempting to think that the links between the Swedish and Islamic systems were there precisely because of the eastern connections, allowing for straightforward trade across areas in which the different systems were used.
The timeline here is important. The evidence from Rob’s discoveries and from other sites in England makes it clear that these polyhedral weights were used by the Great Army, in the mid to late ninth century. For that to have happened, the weights (or at least their prototypes) must not just physically have had time to travel from the east, they must also have become part of an established system of trade. In other words, for it to make sense for the weights to be used by the Great Army, their use, design and conventions must have become both familiar and acceptable to a widespread and broad range of people.
We can’t know how much time that would have taken: the timescales are difficult to unravel. Even with related finds like coin hoards, whose burial dates can often be determined fairly precisely, it is tricky to reconstruct a full sequence of events: how did each individual item get to this particular place, and what was its history? An important consideration in using these coins for dating purposes relates to the time it takes for them to travel from the Middle East to somewhere like England. The striking date of dirhams can often be determined pretty well because different issues were produced for very short periods of time, but several time-lags need to be considered. One delay comes from the time taken for coins to move from the place of issue to their final destination, but another relates to what was often a very lengthy period of circulation, especially when they were not solely used as currency in the strict sense of the word. Because coins were so valued fo
r their silver content, they could easily be kept, saved and traded for quite some time after they had been obtained initially.
For this reason, trying to date a hoard or assemblage on the basis of the latest date on a dirham contained within it is unlikely to give you an accurate reflection of the actual date that the coins were lost or buried. While we can make an earliest possible estimate for when a coin arrived at a site, that’s not always very helpful for single finds. By looking at the distributions of different coins as a whole, though, there seems to be a general delay of around ten to fifteen years between the coins being struck and their earliest arrival in England. What we can’t yet answer is whether coins like these moved independently through a series of trade transactions without anyone making the whole journey from east to west or if specific people moved along with them.
Nevertheless, retracing the steps of individual finds and looking at the places that they might have come through might lead to more clues: starting with a better understanding of the site where Rob made his finds. The location was only about four kilometres from Repton and I had driven past it dozens of times, with no idea that the gently undulating fields hid so much new evidence. Here the road passes along the edge of a floodplain, where you can just make out a gentle slope to the right, but from this viewpoint the river is completely invisible, flowing a few hundred metres away. During the ninth century, it would have flowed right up to where the road is now. Further ahead, there is a steep escarpment on top of which you would have had a great view of anyone approaching from the north. The artefacts were found across a large open area and it’s possible to imagine how it would have made sense as a place to pull up ships; a gentle beach where land met water. The fields stretch out far and wide, and it is easy to understand how this area could have sustained a large group of people: a whole army group with its hangers-on.
Further ahead on the road a lane goes to the south, revealing dusty red soil leading away from the floodplain to the small church of Foremark, the name of what was once a village. It turns out that the clue was in the name all along: Foremark, known in the eleventh century as Fornewerke, is a name that derives from the Old Norse forn and verk, meaning ‘old fortification’. From there, looking to the south-east, you can just about make out a clump of trees that covers Heath Wood, the cremation cemetery with its Viking burial mounds. Until now its location here had made little sense but with Rob’s finds, the jigsaw pieces were slotting into place. Other place names around there are informative too, like the neighbouring village of Ingleby, an old Norse name meaning the settlement of the Angles or English. With the knowledge that there was likely a Viking camp at Foremark and a subsequent Scandinavian village, we may have found the missing link between raiders and settlers.
Nevertheless, I am more interested in the early presence and especially the link to the east. Dating the site properly has proven difficult so far, but I do at least have an identification for one of the dirhams that Rob found there. This particular quartered coin was minted in al-Muhammadiyah, also known as Rayy, in the year 768.[3] It travelled from what is now Iran to the south of the Caspian Sea: overland today, a journey of more than four thousand miles. By the time it was lost in Foremark, it was already a century old, which means that it might well have arrived there via Scandinavia. The coin demonstrates a connection between Repton and the east, but to understand what happened, I need to retrace the Vikings’ steps, travelling north, following the River Trent to where the Great Army stayed a year before arriving in Repton – a journey that was most likely made by boat.
3.
SHIP NAIL: RIVER KINGS
TORKSEY, C.872
The light is fading rapidly and you’re starting to feel the pressure. Smoke from the braziers stings your eyes, the smell of it permeating every pore of your body. Time is running out. It is your responsibility to oversee the repair of the ships and they must be ready by daybreak. The atmosphere in the camp has changed and there is a palpable sense of anticipation in the air; excitement mingling with fear among the new recruits. The traders have packed up their goods, games and laughter have been replaced by the sound of weapons being sharpened and quarrels breaking out. But right now your attention is turned to the vessels in front of you. The salty water and long journeys across the open seas have not been kind to their hulls: timbers have rotted and iron rivets disintegrated, crumbling to orange dust beneath your fingers. The ships need to be in perfect condition as there is no way of knowing when you’ll next have access to a safe port. You sigh as the boy running towards you with a handful of iron nails trips over a root and falls headlong, berate him gently while helping him pick them up from the sticky mud.
SEA STEEDS
I am in my study on a rainy afternoon, with every spare surface covered in plastic bags, boxes and reference books. This time the artefacts are those recently uncovered from the new excavations in Repton that I started a few years ago in an attempt to answer some of the unresolved questions about the Vikings. What I’m looking at is an extensive collection of iron fragments: rusty pieces of metal with only a hint of what they once were. We collect, bag and catalogue every single piece of metal we find. For most of them, we record the location in three dimensions, perhaps even photographing them in situ before they are taken out of the ground. I am specifically looking for nails with a square end. There is no shortage of candidates: in my collection there are over a hundred nails, and in the inherited collection from Repton there are an estimated six hundred. They were almost as ubiquitous then as they are today and just as in the twenty-first century, they could have been used for all manner of prosaic purposes. My attention is drawn to a small nail found two years ago, one we got excited about as soon as it came out of the ground. It is only about five centimetres in length, chunky and with a round head at one end and a square plate at the other. It’s the latter that makes it interesting because it tells me not just who was there in Repton a thousand years ago, but something about how they got there in the first place.
The origins of the Viking Age and the mechanisms behind those origins have been debated for centuries. A factor usually considered instrumental in both is the development of the Viking ship: the exceptionally well-engineered boat technology that allowed for maritime exploration and warfare on a scale not seen before in northern Europe. The first time one of these ships came to light was in 1867, on a farm in southern Norway. The Tune ship, now exhibited in the Viking Ship Museum in Oslo, is the least impressive-looking vessel on display but in many ways it is the most informative. Well preserved because of the particular soil conditions, the ship was discovered under a vast mound around sixty metres in diameter and at least four metres high.
When it was excavated by Oluf Rygh, a professor who went on to become one of the founders of professional archaeology in Norway, the methods used left a little to be desired by today’s standards. The excavation was rough and ready, lasting only two weeks: a wooden frame was fastened to the bottom of the ship and horses were used to pull it out of the ground and on to a barge at a nearby river. From there it was floated down to the Oslo Fjord where it was towed to the capital city. Unfortunately, it turned out that there was no space in the museum so it was left outside until an appropriate space could be built to house it. The ship was later dated through dendrochronology (tree-ring dating) to around 905–910, and although there is evidence that there was a burial inside it, the skeleton and most of the grave goods were lost during the excavations. The ship had been used to transport either lightweight goods or, more plausibly, people, making it suitable as a warship. While larger ships like this could travel down shallow waters for riverine manoeuvres, smaller ships would have been far more practical and more commonly used for everyday journeys.
Viking ships were unique for several reasons. The shape of the ships’ hulls, facilitated by a type of boat construction technique called clinker-building – a method where each plank overlapped the next – made them superior in stability and speed across rough sea
s. At the same time, their shallow hulls meant they were suitable for landing on beaches or travelling down narrow fjords and rivers. What’s so special is not just the physical flexibility of the hull, but also the new invention of the keel: a structural beam running the length of the ship from bow to stern, stabilising the vessel, meaning that you could rig a sail on those shallow wooden boats. The particular combination of sail and keel allowed for a reach and a speed that were unprecedented. It also made the boats more manoeuvrable at sea.
Viking ships had hugely significant tactical advantages that enabled them to travel vast distances, but also to move through shallow water. The rudder could be pulled up if necessary, so that you could escape from an enemy ship by moving out of reach. They could also quite easily be pulled onto a beach, which makes sense at locations like Foremark. Both home and away, this allowed the Vikings to make use of portage: the dragging or carrying of ships overland in between waterborne routes. This, as we will see, became a critical element of their success in eastern Europe.
Yet despite their pivotal role in the Viking invasions, these ships have left behind little trace of their presence in the places that they travelled to. In fact, to our current knowledge, no ship or boat known to have been used by the Vikings has been preserved in the whole of mainland England. There are some examples from graves in Scotland and on the Isle of Man, but these are invariably small boats, rather than the longships that we presume were used in major attacks by the likes of the Great Army. Even when boats have been found in graves, all that remains of them is usually the ironwork, the nails and rivets, because all the other, organic parts have rotted away in the ground. Bar finding a complete wreck of a Viking ship at the bottom of the sea, our best evidence for their existence in England is, therefore, the metalwork. This is why the ship nail can also tell us about their presence in places like Repton.
