Children of Ash and Elm

by Neil Price;

  By the fifth century, life in Scandinavia centred on the longhouse, a staple feature of communities there for millennia prior to the time of the Vikings. Farms kept a range of domestic animals, including cattle, sheep, and goats, as well as horses and household creatures such as dogs. During the Migration Period, as earlier, humans and animals often shared the main dwelling, the livestock housed at one end of the structure in a byre divided into stalls along the sides with a central gutter down the middle. The warmth of the animals contributed to heating the building, a trade-off perhaps with the smells of manure and wet hides. Even now, many parts of rural Scandinavia are lined with low drystone walls that once divided the fields of the Iron Age, and marked out droveways where the livestock were taken to pasture each day. In the summer, animals ranged farther afield, up into the hills and mountains.

  Barley and oats were the primary cereal crops, supplemented by small amounts of wheat. Other plants, such as flax, were also grown. It was a cyclical system, with hay from the fields feeding the animals, which in turn provided manure for the crops. In the course of the Iron Age, the simple technologies of these practices improved, leading to an expansion of the agricultural base of the region over the fourth and fifth centuries, and a steadily increasing population. The clearance of land for farming continued, with archaeological evidence attesting to the opening up of northern regions for agriculture. The most fertile soils, of course, supported the richest farms, and their products—especially a surplus that could be traded—became intimately linked to power and status.

  In more marginal areas, marine resources and hunting made up a greater portion of the subsistence economy. Fish could be dried for the winter, and sea mammals such as seals, walrus, and whales were utilised in a variety of ways. The woodlands were populated by animals such as elk (the North American moose), bear, birds, and small game that augmented the hunters’ diet and provided furs and skins.

  Authorities more than capable of coordinated organisation had been in existence in the North since pre-Roman times. Social stratification had probably developed centuries earlier during the Bronze Age, due to the ability of certain groups to control the flow of imported raw materials used in the production of the metal. These levels of social complexity would continue to increase. It was also towards the end of the Roman Iron Age that burial customs began to change and cremation became the norm for disposing of the dead, a practice that was to remain throughout the pre-Christian period until the conversion process gained traction during the late Viking Age.

  The Scandinavians’ local and regional groupings (there is no adequate vocabulary—both ‘tribes’ and ‘peoples’ seem to fall short) had long interacted with the Empire, especially farther south. During the first centuries CE, at the height of Roman power, there is also good evidence for contacts between parts of Norway and the Gallic provinces, and a degree of trade is also detectible. Roman goods, such as glasses and high-end tableware, found their way into Scandinavia. It is clear that items of status were preferred as they conveyed a new social dignity on their owners by association with the distant imperial authority. Put simply, it was thought classier to drink wine than beer or mead.

  Roman weapons have also been found, in quantity, as imports in what is now Denmark. It is a familiar strategy—in that the Empire sold armaments not to its immediate neighbours, but to those on their borders beyond, helping keep the frontier in check. That these societies were capable of relatively large-scale warfare is evident from the massive quantities of contemporary military equipment found in the bogs of southern Scandinavia. These deposits have been interpreted as offerings, presumably to supernatural powers, following the defeat of invading enemy forces. Several of these bog assemblages are composed of weapons and personal items of types characteristic of western and southern Norway, implying that this was where these particular attackers originated. It is hard to understand the exact nature of the communities that could mount such major maritime expeditions, or their exact reasons for doing so, but it seems plausible that a fairly extensive tribal or clan-based system must have developed by this time.

  Some have argued that the military units that can be perceived in these deposits had been organised along Roman army lines. Danish bog finds dating from the late Roman Iron Age also indicate that groups from Sweden were conducting raids across the Danish islands and into the Jylland Peninsula (the largest part of modern Denmark, connecting with the Continent). Links with the Empire are also attested by high-status imported objects that would have functioned as visible markers of social elevation. Of particular note is the spectacular Roman cavalry mask from Hellvi, on the Baltic island of Gotland, that was probably made in the late second century but was found in a sixth-century context. How and when this helmet, which was originally intended for use in Roman cavalry displays and equestrian games, came to Gotland is a mystery, but the fact that this object was of great antiquity by the time it was deposited implies that it must have been an especially treasured or revered item that lent status and power to its owner.

  In particular, many Scandinavians hired out as mercenary auxiliaries in the forces of the later Empire, organised along ethnic lines and thus forming units of warriors from the same point of origin. The constant movement of these potentially violent groups back and forth across the frontiers not only contributed to the importation of Roman influences in the North, but also created destabilising feedback within the Empire. Many of the ‘migrations’ ultimately had their origins in organised foreign militias and auxiliaries of this kind. A proportion of soldiers have always settled where they were demobbed (or had deserted), and the late Roman fallout was no exception.

  The broader momentum of the Migration Period in Europe, and the demographic transformation in its wake, was considerable. But what did the fall of the Western Empire really mean for Scandinavia in the long term?

  The overall picture through the Roman Iron Age and into the late 400s is one of growth in every area. It can be seen in the numbers and scale of farms and villages, in woodland clearance for cultivation, through trading connections, and in domestic economies. But this was to change. In seeking to trace the deeper origins of the social trajectories that would produce the cultures of the Viking Age, it is hard (and often unwise) to isolate individual events above processes. However, it has long been known that something unusually drastic happened to the north European world in the sixth century CE, signalled in the archaeology by a relatively sudden shift in the nature of the surviving record.

  In the late 400s and the first half of the 500s, and especially towards the middle of the century, there is a remarkably steep decline in the number of settlements, graves, and, indeed, most other markers of human activity. In many regions of central and southern Sweden, for example, there was an almost total abandonment of settlement sites that had been occupied in some cases for millennia. Well over a thousand farms were deserted on each of the Baltic islands of Gotland and Öland alone. The same is true of cemeteries, which went out of use at the same time as the settlements they served. The rich burials and elaborate material culture of the preceding century or so also disappeared. There are corresponding discontinuities of production in ceramics and many other commodities. Most significantly of all, pollen analyses show that woodland grew back over what had once been cultivated fields. There is no doubt that these places were truly given up and left uninhabited.

  Similar dislocations have been detected in the symbolic repertoire of Scandinavian art, in the rapid disappearance of styles and decorative schemes that had persisted for centuries. There is every reason to believe that much Iron Age ‘art’ was intensely laden with meaning, and thus that this was a shift in more than merely ornament and taste. Golden bracteate discs were buried in large quantities at this time, and other ritual practices sharply changed.

  Taken together, these impacts represent a clear break with an earlier way of life, a fundamental difference not only in settlement patterns and economy but in beliefs—the structure
s of the mind. It is one thing to label this package of decline as the late Migration Period ‘crisis’—but what actually happened, and what was the result? What could have caused such a deep-seated shift in the lives of the Scandinavians?

  There is little evidence to suggest that expansion in the Migration Period went too far, as scholars once believed: it was not overexploitation of resources or unsustainable population levels. In fact, the farmers of the early Iron Age had a sophisticated understanding of their environment and its potential, as could be expected. Crops were rotated; a system of infield and outfield farming had been in place for centuries along with the use of natural fertilisers; and cereal production was mixed with animal husbandry on a large scale, adapted to the northern climate. There were regional variations in these patterns, of course, relating to the possibilities afforded by local weather and topography. What worked for people in the sunlit meadows of one valley might be inappropriate for their neighbours on the other side of the hills, more often in colder shadow. Clearly, the different regions of Scandinavia followed their own trajectories, influenced not only by environmental conditions and subsistence practices but also by the flavour of local politics.

  Some scholars have suggested that progressive destabilisation was caused by warfare on the Continent, part of the factional fighting that erupted there as Roman authority declined. This pattern is familiar from more contemporary conflicts, as units long accustomed to lucrative employment and active combat find themselves adrift, sometimes turning against the same authorities who hired them, or returning home looking for trouble. Such situations risk creating a world of petty warlords and a kind of gangster culture—part bandits, part small but effective armies—undermining the work of social institutions and leaving chaos in the wake of their vicious civil engagements. In a culture that does not formally record its history, even the most profound trauma can disappear relatively quickly without leaving much material trace. However, such war bands were on the move in the North, and they must have been entering Scandinavia in some numbers. The recent discovery of a massacre site at the fortress of Sandby borg on the island of Öland is unique evidence of raiding that was probably much more commonplace. Whole systems of fortifications were constructed at this time along a maritime belt from Danish Bornholm to Gotland and also farther inland. These places were frequently attacked and burnt, and it is clear that a zone of conflict stretched from the Skagerrak to central Sweden.

  Other researchers have suggested a major role for the Huns, who originated in the Caucasus. Their European invasions under Attila in the early fifth century brought not only violence but also influences of all kinds, including artistic ones, and new trains of thought. Their impact has been considered particularly important in the sphere of religion, with aspects of Norse belief paralleled in the steppe cultures. The zenith of Hunnic power was long over by the turbulent years of the sixth century, but it is significant that their memory remained vivid even long after the Viking Age itself. There must be a reason why the Horde features so prominently in the legendary sagas.

  Another factor in the downturn is likely to have been disconnections in international trade and the mercantile economy, to which even robust systems are vulnerable if the external supply situation changes (especially if it does so relatively suddenly). Such disruptions occurred in the late fifth century and into the sixth.

  For decades, scholars have tended towards extremes in their interpretations of what was happening in the 500s, whether to see these years as a crisis of near-catastrophic proportions or else to stress resilience and continuity. This not only oversimplifies the issue, but it also assumes that similar conditions prevailed everywhere and that the communities in different areas all reacted in the same way. This was far from the case. It is also important to emphasise that the ‘sudden’ decline visible in the archaeology is dependent on sometimes imprecise dating and chronologies, and that these processes nonetheless played out over decades at least, perhaps longer. The abandonment of cemeteries may have to do with behaviour rather than demographics, and these things can be hard to read. In both settlements and cemeteries alike, one must also consider the degree to which a ‘decline’ was in reality more of a reorganisation, but there is nevertheless no doubt that some kind of major social contraction was occurring. Clearly, the Migration Period ‘crisis’ must have had multiple causes that acted in combination, and it went on for a long time.

  However, a growing body of collaborative work between natural scientists, historians, and archaeologists has revealed something else in the mix: a short sequence of events so enormous in scale and impact as to make them initially question if they could be real. It began with the environmental analysis of ice cores sampled from both Greenland and Antarctica, and the identification of significant layers of sulphate aerosols—the material that results from volcanic eruptions. At about the same time, refinements in tree-ring chronologies found that the dating of the aerosols corresponded to a short period of markedly reduced forest growth across large parts of the world. In turn, natural scientists noted that pollen data indicating woodland regression and the loss of cultivated land also matched this time period. More and more evidence accrued from multiple proxies clearly indicated either a single climate event, or perhaps several within a short number of years, that together took on major proportions.

  Initially, the findings were dismissed by historians, one calling it “the latest Great Disaster theory”. This swiftly changed. After years of patient work around the globe, volcanologists and climate modelers are now sure: in the years 536 and 539/540, there occurred at least two volcanic eruptions of almost unprecedented magnitude. The first of them may have been somewhere in the tropics, although the location has not yet been pinned down conclusively. The second was at Lake Ilopango in today’s El Salvador, an explosion so vast that the entire volcano collapsed and left only the flooded caldera that can be seen today, large enough to contain the capital city.

  It is estimated that Ilopango alone produced up to eighty-seven km3 of ejecta, a figure big enough to induce double takes in even the most sceptical authorities (yes, cubic kilometres). The sulphate emissions may have measured up to two hundred megatonnes, significantly higher than those from Tambora (1815), which was the second-greatest eruption in history. The Ilopango eruption was among the ten largest on earth over the past seven thousand years, and remember, this was preceded by the 536 volcano, so far unlocated. New research also suggests these may have been followed by a third major eruption, in 547.

  The effects were devastating, as the ejecta and sulphur dioxide aerosols reached the lower stratosphere and began to circle the globe. The sun’s light was blocked in a hazy mist that allowed no heat to penetrate, while at night the heavens were filled with wavering curtains of fiery colour, like a sunset that went on for months (Edvard Munch’s famous painting The Scream shows such skies, then a result of the Krakatau eruption).

  Scientists refer to this phenomenon as the ‘dust veil’.

  The impact was not unlike that of a nuclear winter. Trees began to wither, their growth stunted, as seen in the dendrochronological record. Unseasonal cold gripped the northern hemisphere, with snow in the summer months visible in the Norwegian high-altitude data. The weakened sunlight most directly affected plant life of all kinds, including crops, quite literally taking out the food supply. Written sources from China and India describe harvest problems and disrupted weather patterns; the environmental evidence is consistent from North America to mainland Europe. In the Mediterranean world, writers among the Goths and other militarised imperial successors described the famine, riots, and slide into civil unrest that resulted from the failed harvests in the endless winter.

  But in Scandinavia, the ecological consequences were far worse. There, the natural environmental conditions meant its people already subsisted at the limits of resilience; at the best of times, their agricultural production was acutely vulnerable to fluctuations in temperature and other climatic shifts. It s
eems clear that temperatures fell by at least two degrees, and possibly as many as three to four. Current (2019) estimates suggest a temporary temperature drop of perhaps three and a half degrees Celsius. In Norway, where only 3 percent of the land is suitable for farming in the first place, this would have been enough to render significant parts of the country uninhabitable through the collapse of viable cereal cultivation. The regression of woodland into what had once been food-producing fields shows that, in many places, agriculture itself had ceased. Acid rain caused by the eruptions may even have affected marine life, including fish catches, although to a lesser degree than the agricultural catastrophe.

  The worst of these effects went on for three years. In 2016 a team of climate scientists suggested that the long-term, cumulative ecological impact of the dust veil persisted in varying degrees for up to eighty years.

  We have seen the effects on settlement and farming patterns, the mass abandonment of dwelling sites and arable land, but what did this mean in plain terms? The farms were left vacant because the people were gone. The consequences of the dust veil quite literally killed them. Those who survived fought each other for what was left. To add to the region’s misery, it is also possible that the Justinian plague pandemic that swept across Europe from 541 onwards also reached Scandinavia; it has so far been detected as far north as Germany.

  Estimates of the population loss across Scandinavia rise as high as 50 percent—a number considered reasonable by both volcanologists and archaeologists—with tens of thousands starving to death as the major sources of food simply ceased to exist. For historical comparison, the bubonic plague (the ‘Black Death’) is thought to have ended the lives of 45–60 percent of Europeans in the mid-fourteenth century. In the Thirty Years’ War of 1618–1648, perhaps a third of the Continent’s people died. In the aftermath of both these events, it took well over a century for population levels to recover.