Vikings (28 page)

Modern dredging has significantly altered the character of the Barrow River in particular, and in centuries past there would have been a wide and deep pool close by the southern end of the great rampart – ideal for mooring ships. Taken together – a huge fortress, with central citadel and defended by rivers that also provided access to the site from the sea – these features are surely suggestive of a long port of the sort described by the chroniclers. Kelly and Maas are certainly convinced, and while their claims were initially the subject not just of controversy
but also of out and out ridicule, many of the country’s foremost archaeologists and historians are now persuaded.

A visit to the site confirms it is on a breathtaking scale – 370 yards long by 160 yards wide. In recent times the archaeological features were obscured by trees and scrubby undergrowth, but the present landowners have recently embarked upon a project to clear the site and open it up for visitors. As we stood together on the rampart, looking out across the still impressively wide and deep ditch, Kelly described how the surrounding landscape would have looked in the ninth century. Rather than the regular field systems produced by modern drainage, it would have been a combination of impenetrable forest and partially flooded marshland. During winter and spring especially any approach towards the Viking stronghold, which occupied the only naturally occurring high (and therefore dry) ground for miles around, would have been over forbiddingly treacherous terrain. Behind us lay the Barrow River and, just within sight, the point where it was joined by the Glasha. In the mind’s eye it was easy to visualise armed sentries patrolling along a walkway on top of a timber palisade constructed on the highest ridge of the rampart. Long ships would have been moored together along the river frontage, forming another formidable line of defence, while other vessels were out of the water altogether for maintenance and repair. ‘The Vikings would have spotted the location from their ships, as they sailed up and down river,’ said Kelly. ‘They were great tacticians and the strategic value of an area of slightly raised and dry ground so close to the river would have caught their eyes right away.’

He also explained how the Glasha was once the boundary between the territories of the Loigis and the Uí Failge clans. The Barrow was the border for the Uí Muiredaig and so the Vikings would have been doubly attracted to a location that
enabled them to cause mischief between three groups of belligerent clansmen, playing them off against one another for their own benefit. ‘The choice of site may have been aimed at taking advantage of rivalries between these kingdoms – a common Viking strategy,’ said Kelly.

With the locals in disarray the Vikings were able to take advantage of the monasteries situated all along the Barrow valley, sallying forth from their long port whenever they wanted while also secure in the knowledge that the enclosed interior of their fort meant they were safe, themselves and their fleet, from any kind of surprise attack.

According to nineteenth-century documents, local word of mouth held that the Dunrally fort was associated with a Viking leader called Rothlaibh, or Rodolf. The Annals of the Four Masters, also known as The Annals of the Kingdom of Ireland, record the destruction of a ‘Longphort-Rothlaibh’ in the year 862: ‘The destruction of Longphort-Rothlaibh by Cinnedidh, son of Gaithin, lord of Laighis, on the fifth of the Ides of September; and the killing of Conall Ultach and Luirgnen, with many others along with them.’

The Frankish Annals of Fulda describe the destruction in
AD
891 of a Viking fortification on the Dyle River, at Louvain, in Belgium, defended by a ditch on one side and the river on the other. Just as at Longphort-Rothlaibh, the Frankish fort was taken by locals in the autumn when, as Kelly points out, the surrounding marshland might well have been completely dried out and hence no obstacle to attack. He says that in the end, the strategic significance of the site – as exploited by its Viking builders – was the cause of its demise.

Kelly believes the chronicles are accurate and suspects that Rothlaibh – or Rodolf – may have been a thorn in the side of the local kings for as much as a decade. Kelly and Maas have also identified what they believe to be another long port, close
to Waterford harbour, and have argued that this coastal location may have been Rodolf’s main base of operations. ‘The choice of Dunrally as an inland fortified base appears to date to a late phase of activity, extending and consolidating the range of Rodolf’s forces in a fashion very similar to the manner of Vikings active on the Loire, Seine and elsewhere in the Carolingian realms,’ he said.

After the destruction of Longphort-Rothlaibh in 862, Rodolf’s name disappears from the Irish annals. But in January 863, just four months later, the Rhine valley was targeted by a Viking fleet. By 864 the Frankish King Lothar II was paying tribute to a Viking leader called Rodolf in order to make him desist from causing further havoc in the area. ‘The sudden appearance of the fleet suggests that it arrived from beyond the land of the Franks and the coincidence of the name and the timing of these events suggests that the Rodolf involved is the same man named in the Irish annals,’ said Kelly. ‘If this is so then the Frankish annals enable us to identify Rodolf as the son of Harold, a former King of Denmark who had settled in Frisia after being expelled from Denmark in 827. Harold was murdered by the Franks in 852 around the time that Rodolf’s career in Ireland began. After his return, Rodolf continued to be active in the area until his death in 873.’

Kelly and Maas are convinced that study of the Irish annals makes it plain the Vikings constructed many long ports in Ireland – at both coastal and inland locations. This tactical precaution was a game-changer. Instead of heading for home at the end of each summer, now they were able to dig in. The long ports were quintessentially Viking, making use of water and ships to protect themselves, and enabled their builders to take up residence even in the heart of enemy territory.

The long ports were of necessity large and impressive creations, but still they have proved resistant to discovery by
archaeologists. It is assumed some of the most important were eventually developed into towns, and therefore that the largest urban centres in Ireland – Dublin, Cork, Waterford, Wexford and Limerick – began life as long ports.

Any traces of the long port in a population centre like Dublin are likely to have been completely erased by the subsequent centuries of development and ironically it is those that were abandoned early on – like Dunrally – that remain to be found today. But while the precise location of Dublin’s long port evades detection, the Viking DNA of the city is all around. Walking along Grafton Street, among the buskers, mime artists and shoppers, it can be hard to accept Dublin as a city with Scandinavian roots. But having grown on both banks of the Liffey River, Viking Dublin became in time the capital of a sea kingdom. The Irish annals make plain the settlement was a focus for activity by Scandinavians from around the middle of the ninth century. The first record of an encampment there was made in
AD
841 when a long port was established close by a pre-existing Christian monastic community. The churchmen called the place
dubh linn
, in reference to a ‘black pool’ of deep, dark water on the Liffey, and the name stuck. The annals record that, having arrived in 841, the Vikings were still there the following year, having over-wintered in their ship camp. History shows they were content to retain the Irish name of the place instead of replacing it with one of their own, their more usual habit.

Firmly rooted, the place began to attract more and more adventurers and traders from back home in Norway, and since they became permanent residents they gradually became part of the political scenery as well. The bellicose Irish kings living all around them were quick to see the potential of having such warriors onside, and soon the Dublin Vikings were augmenting their income by serving as mercenaries for whichever local
monarch offered the best terms of employment.

Such activity, swords for sale, was clearly high-risk and from time to time the incomers paid the price. In 849 the High King of Tara attacked and destroyed the long port. Undeterred, the Vikings returned to carry on from where they had left off. The kings of Leinster and Brega joined forces in 902 to drive the squatters out of Dublin altogether, but within 15 years they were back once more to establish an even bigger defended settlement on the south bank of the river.

What is most impressive of all is just how populous Viking Dublin must have been, right from the beginning. According to the annals, well over a thousand Dublin Vikings were killed during the year 847 alone – 200 defenders of the long port itself, during an attack by Cerball, King of Osraige; 700 in a battle near Skreen in County Meath, against Máel Sechnaill, King of Tara and leader of the southern Uí Néill, and hundreds more at Castledermot in County Kildare. That the garrison could absorb such losses and remain in place suggests there might have been ten times that number within the defences at any one time.

Perhaps the most compelling evidence of Dublin’s popularity with Scandinavians during the second half of the ninth century is the sheer volume of identifiably Viking burials. Close to half of all the Viking burials with weapons found so far in the British Isles have been found in this one city. In 2003 archaeologists uncovered four warrior burials during excavation of a site behind the Long Hall pub on South Great George Street. The Dublinia Viking exhibition centre sits in the heart of the city, at the junction of St Michael’s Hill, Patrick Street and the High Street, and it was here that I came face to face with the best-preserved of the quartet. I say ‘face to face’ but in fact the warrior’s skull was largely absent, apart from part of the lower jaw, and it was the rest of his remains – and particularly his grave
goods – that revealed his origins.

I defy anyone to confront a human skeleton and not be stopped in their tracks, made to think. It has been well reported over the years that elephants appear transfixed by the remains of their own kind. When a herd encounters an elephant skeleton, they often stop to spend time touching and moving the bones – clearly recognising a fellow traveller and being preoccupied with the leftovers. Human bones are surely as compelling for us. A specialist had carefully laid out the Viking warrior’s skeleton for me and, though I have no expertise in the field of bone analysis, I could see that they were the remains of a large and powerful man. The long bones of the arms and legs were massively made, the ends marked by the striations left behind by powerful ligaments and muscles. The osteologist who completed the first assessment of the remains recorded the bones were noticeably thickened, suggesting their owner had cut an impressive figure. His right arm appeared especially strong, likely developed over many years of ‘rotation and swinging movements such as those used frequently in battle’.

His legs, too, bore the signs of hard and sustained physical exertion, possibly due in part to many years spent rowing – and even just balancing – aboard a ship as it made its passage through heavy seas. The same kind of mass would have been the result also of lengthy training for, and experience of, hand-to-hand fighting with sword and axe.

Close examination of his spine revealed the warrior had a congenital defect that resulted in an extra vertebra. It was a condition that would have given him back pain in later life – except that he probably lived to be no more than 25 years old. Analysis of the spine of another of the four skeletons revealed the same abnormality, giving rise to the possibility the two young men were related, brothers-in-arms.

For all that the skeleton reflected what the warrior may have
looked like, it was the things buried with him that revealed his cultural identity. Most indicative of all was a perfectly preserved comb, painstakingly carved from several pieces of antler that had then been skilfully assembled, using tiny iron rivets, to create a delicate but highly functional composite object. Both sides of the comb were decorated with patterns of incised, crisscrossing lines that had carefully been stained with a dark pigment to highlight the design. In every respect it was as quintessentially Viking as could be – a classic, telltale find. Viking men were known to be fussy about their personal appearance but, as well as keeping long hair in order, combs were used for removing nits – an important part of healthcare. Even more personal than the comb was a small bone pin found near the warrior’s right shoulder and used presumably to fasten some item of his clothing. It was a poor thing, without any real value, but the head was carved in the likeness of some small, long-eared and bright-eyed animal, perhaps a hare. The fact that it was essentially worthless, and even slightly broken while still in use, suggested it was carried and cherished as a memento of a loved one – girlfriend, mother, father, wife. That he took it to his grave is a reminder that here was not just a warrior or an adventurer, but someone’s son, someone’s lost love.

Also in his grave was a mysterious composite object crafted of iron, bone and wood. Two plates of metal were held together by tiny rivets, leaving a narrow gap between them. Fused in among it all, held in place mostly by corrosion products, was a small iron blade, so that the whole suggested nothing less than a little penknife.

Laid out on the table, bones and trinkets, the warrior seemed made more of questions than answers. Isotope analysis carried out on the teeth of all four skeletons revealed that while two had spent their early lives in Scandinavia, the other pair had likely grown to adulthood in Norse settlements in northern
Scotland. The radiocarbon dates suggested all four died quite early in the history of Viking Dublin – perhaps as part of a raiding party that went badly wrong for some of them. In any event all four young men were buried by their colleagues close by the banks of the
dubh linn
– the black pool that gave the place its name.

Since two of them seemed, at least on the basis of a shared spinal abnormality, to have been relatives, it was tempting to imagine them setting out on a great adventure together. It was an expensive business to kit out a warrior in the ninth century: weapons had to be sourced and paid for, as well as clothing and other necessities. No doubt they departed from Norway carrying not just their own hopes and ambitions but also those of the families that had helped underwrite the expense in hope of sharing in the rewards of a successful venture. But instead of returning to the fjord laden down with silver and other riches, they came to grief far from home. Theirs was a violent time and they would have understood the risks of their undertaking. No doubt they learnt brutality as part of their stock in trade and expected nothing more in return. It is nonetheless moving to think, at least, of whoever made the gift of the little bone pin carved like a hare, who waved its recipient farewell little knowing he was gone for ever.