European Archaeology as Anthropology: Essays in Memory of Bernard Wailes 9781934536902

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European Archaeology as Anthropology Essays in Memory of Bernard Wailes

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European Archaeology as Anthropology Essays in Memory of Bernard Wailes

e d i te d b y

Pam J. Crabtree and Peter Bogucki

University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology Philadelphia

Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress. LCCN 2016049885

ISBN 13: 978-1-934536-89-6 ISBN 10: 1-934536-89-X

© 2017 by the University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology Philadelphia, PA All rights reserved. Published 2017 Distributed for the University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology by the University of Pennsylvania Press.

Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper.

Contents

Figures vii Tables ix Contributors xi Introduction Remembering Bernard Wailes: European Archaeology in North America Pam J. Crabtree and Peter Bogucki 1 “Disruptive Technologies” and the Transition to Agriculture in Scandinavia and the British Isles Peter Bogucki 2 Archaeology and Language: Why Archaeologists Care about the Indo-European Problem David W. Anthony 3 Materiality of Performance and Diversity of Practice: Comparing Bronze Age Pits in Southern Bavaria Peter S. Wells 4 Archaeological Manifestations of Religious Belief in Southern Iberia from the Neolithic to the Iron Age Antonio Gilman 5 Dún Ailinne: Then and Now Susan A. Johnston 6 Ghosts of Chiefdoms Past: Kings, Complexity, and Resistance at the Edge of European History Elizabeth Ragan

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7 Socioeconomic Change in Early Medieval Ireland: Agricultural Innovation, Population Growth, and Human Health Rachel E. Scott 8 Ceremonial Complexity: The Roles of Religious Settlements in Medieval Ireland John Soderberg 9 New Archaeology from Old Coins: Antioch Re-examined Alan M. Stahl 10 State Formation in Anglo-Saxon England Pam J. Crabtree Conclusion European Archaeology in North America Peter Bogucki and Pam J. Crabtree

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Figures

1.1 Northwest Europe showing dates of earliest farming in years BCE, as well as areas of the Villeneuve-St. Germain and Brześć Kujawski Groups discussed in text 12 2.1 Geographic distribution of the major Indo-European lang uage branches at about 400 BCE 46 2.2 Central and Eastern Europe ca. 3000–2500 BCE showing the early Yamnaya culture area 56 3.1 Map showing locations of the sites of Hascherkeller and Kelheim-Mitterfeld in Lower Bavaria, Germany 77 3.2 Ceramic vessel from Pit V at Hascherkeller 78 3.3 Parts of dog mandible from Pit V at Hascherkeller 79 3.4 Complete cup and sherds of four of the other five cups represented in Pit B at Kelheim 80 3.5 Daub surface showing complete cup in situ in Pit B at Kelheim 80 3.6 Light gray cup from Pit D at Kelheim 81 3.7 Selection of ceramic handles from Pit D at Kelheim 81 3.8 Sherds from Pit D at Kelheim with pattern of carefully incised vertical lines 84 5.1 Aerial views of Dún Ailinne 108 5.2 Map showing the four largest royal sites 109 5.3 Plans of the four main Iron Age phases at Dún Ailinne 112 5.4 Reconstructions of the Rose and Mauve phase palisades as viewing platforms 114 5.5 The suggested Rose phase structure 116 119 5.6 Cross sections of the bank and ditch at four locations 6.1 Map of Scotland 140 6.2 Dunadd 145

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6.3 Stone with carved footprint, ogham inscription, and Pictish Class 1-style boar, Dunadd 145 6.4 Drawing of carved footprint, ogham inscription, and Pictish Class 1-style boar, Dunadd 146 6.5 Kildalton Cross, later 8th century CE 148 6.6 Hilton of Cadboll Class II stone, ca. 800 CE 149 151 6.7 Inauguration of King Alexander III at Scone, 1249 CE 166 7.1 Location map of the early medieval cemeteries 196 8.1 Irish sites mentioned in the text 8.2a Carns fragment count (NISP) for cattle, sheep/goat, and pigs 209 8.2b Carns minimum number of individuals (MNI) for cattle, sheep/goat, and pigs 209 211 8.3 Cattle premolar wear data 8.4 Inishcealtra NISP and MNI values for cattle, sheep/goat, and pigs 215 9.1 The Green Carpet Mosaic in situ 231 233 9.2 Antioch coin finds, 1932–39 9.3 Antioch coin finds from sector 17-O 235 9.4 Distribution of Seleucid coins, 300–223 BCE 236 238 9.5 Distribution of municipal coins, 99–23 BCE 9.6 Distribution of Julio-Claudian coins, 30 BCE–69 CE 239 9.7 Distribution of Constantinian coins, 310–336 CE 240 9.8 Distribution of early Byzantine coins, 491–522 CE 242 9.9 Distribution of middle Byzantine coins, 970–1030 CE 243 9.10 Distribution of Crusader period coins, 1101–1120 CE 244 10.1 Reconstruction of a sunken-featured building at the West Stow County Park 251 10.2 Mound 1 Sutton Hoo as it appears today 252 10.3 Harvesting taro at a reconstructed wet-land taro field in the Iao Valley, West Maui 255 10.4 Remains of dry-land field systems in Kaupo, East Maui 255 10.5 Pi‘ilanihale Heiau in East Maui 256

Tables

5.1 Time taken to move earth using a variety of implements 120 5.2 Time range estimates for digging the Dún Ailinne ditch 121 5.3 The estimated total number of posts required for each phase 122 5.4 Depth range of recorded postholes 124 5.5 Estimated time to fell a tree using stone and metal implements 125 5.6 Calculated rates for obtaining the trees for the three timber structures 126 127 5.7 Number of hours required to raise the posts in each phase 5.8 Overall time estimate for each construction phase 128 167 7.1 Early medieval skeletal samples 7.2 Prevalence of enamel hypoplasia in skeletal samples from early medieval Ireland 171 7.3 Prevalence of cribra orbitalia in skeletal samples from early medieval ireland 172 7.4 Comparison of stress indicators over time 177 7.5 Comparison of stress indicators for coastal vs. inland sites 178 7.6 Comparison of stress indicators according to land use capability 181 7.7 Comparison of stress indicators according to average ringfort density 182 8.1a Fragment Count for All Identified Species (NISP) 219 8.1b Minimum Number of Individuals (MNI) for Cattle, Sheep/Goat, and Pigs 219 8.2 Wear stage data for third mandibular molars from the Church features 220

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Contributors

David W. Anthony received his PhD from the University of Pennsylvania under the advisorship of Bernard Wailes, whose generosity as a mentor and host of gatherings was legendary. A professor at Hartwick College, Anthony has written or edited three books, including The Horse, The Wheel, and Language: How Bronze Age Riders from the Eurasian Steppes Shaped the Modern World (2007), which won the best-scientific-book prize from the Society for American Archaeology in 2010. With collaborator/spouse Dorcas Brown, he studies language and material culture, innovations in transportation (horse domestication, wheels, chariots), and the evolution of pastoralism in the Eurasian steppes. Peter Bogucki began studying European prehistory at the University of Pennsylvania, inspired by Bernard Wailes, and completed his Ph.D. at Harvard University. He was called to Princeton University to be the Director of Studies of Forbes College and then became Dean for Undergraduate Affairs of the School of Engineering and Applied Science, while continuing an active scholarly practice in the study of early European farming societies with excavations in Poland. He is the author of Forest Farmers and Stockherders (Cambridge 1988), The Origins of Human Society (Blackwell 1999), and The Barbarians (Reaktion Books 2017), and co-editor (with Pam Crabtree) of Ancient Europe: An Encyclopedia of the Barbarian World (Scribner’s 2004). Pam J. Crabtree is an Associate Professor of Anthropology at New York University. She received her B.A. from Barnard College (1972) and her M.A. (1975) and Ph.D. (1982) from the University of Pennsylvania. Her research interests include later prehistoric and early medieval European archaeology, zooarchaeology, and Near Eastern archaeology. She is the author of Middle Saxon Animal Husbandry in East Anglia (2012) and the co-author (with Bradley Adams) of Comparative Osteology: A Laboratory and Field Manual of Common North American Animals (2011). She took part in the Dún Ailinne excavations in 1972 and in the subsequent magnetometer

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and topographic survey at the site (2006–08), and she served as co-director of the 2016 program of excavation at Dún Ailinne. Antonio Gilman (A.B. [Harvard 1965], M.A. [Cantab. 1971], Ph.D. [Harvard 1975]) is an emeritus Professor of Anthropology at California State UniversityNorthridge. He studies the prehistoric political economy of the Iberian Peninsula. In 1968 he excavated at Dún Ailinne under the direction of Bernard Wailes. Susan A. Johnston is an archaeologist currently teaching in the Anthropology Department at George Washington University. She received her Ph.D. from the University of Pennsylvania and Bernard Wailes was her advisor. Her current research focus is the Iron Age in Ireland, in particular how ritual is used in the creation and maintenance of social power. Along with Bernard Wailes, she published the final report of the excavations at Dún Ailinne, Co. Kildare, Ireland, in 2007, and since then has been carrying out further research at that site. Elizabeth Ragan is an Associate Professor and Coordinator of the Anthropology program at Salisbury University in Maryland. She holds a PhD in Anthropology from the University of Pennsylvania, earned under the supervision of Bernard Wailes; and a MPhil in Celtic Archaeology from the University of Glasgow. Her research has focused on the role played by maritime trade in developing sociopolitical complexity, both in early medieval Scotland and the early colonial Chesapeake. Rachel E. Scott is a bioarchaeologist with a Ph.D. in Anthropology from the University of Pennsylvania, a Higher Diploma in Celtic Archaeology from the University College Dublin, Ireland, and a B.A. in Anthropology from the University of Chicago. Her research interests include human osteology and paleopathology, European archaeology, and anthropological and archaeological theory. More specifically, her work addresses the interrelation of biology and culture in the creation of human lives, focusing on the case study of early and late medieval Ireland. She is currently an Assistant Professor in the Department of Anthropology at DePaul University. John Soderberg is an Assistant Professor at Denison University and a Visiting Scholar at Ohio State University. His research interests include the archaeology of religion and zooarchaeology. He is author of a forthcoming article in the Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, titled “Anthropological Civitas and the Possibility of Monastic Towns in Early Medieval Ireland,” and an annual review of medieval archaeology for The Heroic Age: A Journal of Early Medieval Northwestern Europe. He received his Ph.D. from the Department of Anthropology at the University of Minnesota and an M.A. in Irish Studies from Boston College.



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Alan M. Stahl received his Ph.D. from the University of Pennsylvania in 1977, with Bernard Wailes as the archaeology advisor for his interdisciplinary degree in Medieval Studies. From 1980 to 2000, he was Curator of Medieval Coinage at the American Numismatic Society, and since 2004 has been Curator of Numismatics at Princeton University, where he teaches in the departments of Art and Archaeology, Classics, and History. Among his publications are: The Merovingian Coinage of the Region of Metz (1982) and Zecca: The Mint of Venice in the Middle Ages (2001). Peter S. Wells was educated at Harvard University (B.A. 1970, Ph.D. 1976). His special research interests are in later European prehistory and in the ways that people use material culture to communicate and to create meaning. He is a professor in the Department of Anthropology at the University of Minnesota. Among his publications are The Barbarians Speak: How the Conquered Peoples Shaped Roman Europe (Princeton University Press, 1999) and How Ancient Europeans Saw the World: Vision, Patterns, and the Shaping of the Mind in Prehistoric Times (Princeton University Press, 2012).

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Remembering Bernard Wailes: European Archaeology in North America pam j. crabtree and peter bogucki

INTRODUCTION

B

ernard Wailes (1934–2012) was a unique figure in American archaeology for over four decades. He was a British archaeologist who received all his academic training (B.A. 1957, M.A. 1961, and Ph.D. 1964) at Cambridge University, where he was a student of Grahame Clark, Raleigh Radford, and Nora Chadwick. His Ph.D. thesis was a study of E-Ware, a form of early medieval, wheel-turned pottery that is found on sites in western Britain, Scotland, and Ireland (Wailes 1963). Although his Ph.D. was never published, it has stimulated important recent work on E-Ware (Campbell 2007). Bernard joined the Anthropology Department of the University of Pennsylvania (Penn) in 1961 and spent his entire career there, retiring in 1999. In addition to his teaching and administrative duties in the Anthropology Department, he also served as Graduate Chair of the Departments of Classical Archaeology, Ancient History, and Art and Archaeology of the Mediterranean World. In the course of his career at Penn, Bernard served as a mentor and advisor for many undergraduate and graduate students, both inside and outside the Anthropology Department. Much of Bernard’s research focused on the archaeological study of the Irish royal sites. Ninth-century historical sources describe the sites of Dún Ailinne, Emain Macha, Rathcrogan, and Tara in Ireland as “royal sites” (Grabowski 1990; Johnston 2006, and this volume), but archaeology paints a

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very different picture of these sites than that based on the limited documentary information. After a short period of excavation at Emain Macha (also known as Navan Fort), Bernard began a long-term program of excavation at Dún Ailinne in 1968. The eight seasons of research at Dún Ailinne served as an important training ground for both American and Irish archaeology students. Three of the contributors to this volume took part in the original Dún Ailinne excavations, and a fourth was co-author of the final site report volume ( Johnston and Wailes 2007). In addition, Bernard’s excavations provided the most detailed archaeological data to date on the structure of these royal sites (Wailes 1990; Johnston and Wailes 2007). Although he made important contributions to the archaeology of Iron Age and Medieval Ireland, perhaps his greatest contribution was as a teacher and mentor (Crabtree 2014). Bernard taught a wide range of courses during his nearly 40 years at Penn. He was one of the very few scholars to teach a course titled Medieval Archaeology in an Anthropology program in North America. In 1973, his course helped one of us (P.J.C.) develop a life-long interest in early Anglo-Saxon settlement and subsistence. Bernard’s signature course was called the Prehistoric Background to Western Civilization (Penn’s Anthropology 532). The course was a comprehensive introduction to later European prehistory from the beginnings of the transition to farming in Greece through the end of the Iron Age. The course was a powerful corrective to the text-based courses in Western Civilization that are taught at many North American colleges and universities. These courses begin in the Ancient Near East and Egypt, follow with Greece and Rome, briefly touch the European Middle Ages, and then spend the rest of the semester on the modern world from the Italian Renaissance to the present. These courses rarely mention that when the Romans conquered Gaul in the first century BCE, they encountered technologically sophisticated people who had been practicing farming for over 4000 years. These “barbarians” gave the Romans a run for their money, ultimately ending the Roman advance into north central Europe at the battle of Teutoburg Forest (Wells 2003). The careers of the of the editors of this volume were profoundly influenced by Bernard’s Prehistoric Background to Western Civilization, and we appropriated the title for a course that we co-taught at Princeton University in the late 1980s. Bernard was interested in the big-picture questions in archaeology and anthropology, but was never a slave to theoretical fashion. He began teach-



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ing at Penn just as the processual movement was beginning (Binford 1962; Binford and Binford 1968). While anthropologists like Julian Steward (1955 [1973]:16) saw V. Gordon Childe’s work as “the heritage of nineteenth-century unilinear evolution,” Bernard recognized the value of Childe’s interest in the Agricultural Revolution and the Urban Revolution, issues that remain important to anthropological archaeologists in the 21st century. The final edition of Childe’s Dawn of European Civilization (1957) was on the reading list for Anthropology 532 in 1972, and Bernard edited a volume on craft specialization and social evolution in honor of the centenary of Childe’s birth (Wailes, 1996; see also Soderberg, this volume).

THE CONTENTS OF THIS VOLUME Nearly all the chapters in this volume were presented as papers at the 78th annual meeting of the Society for American Archaeology that was held in Honolulu, Hawai‘i in April, 2013. The session was titled “Remembering Bernard Wailes: The Importance of European Later Prehistoric and Medieval Archaeology for American Anthropological Archaeology.” Most of the participants were students of Bernard Wailes; the rest were scholars whose research was directly influenced by Bernard’s guidance. Fittingly, half the chapters in this volume discuss European prehistory, while the others deal with historic and medieval Europe and the Mediterranean. Peter Bogucki’s chapter addresses questions of how and why successful forager communities in southern Scandinavia and the British Isles adopted farming technologies in the early 4th millennium BCE. While much of the processual archaeological research in the 1960s and 1970s focused on the beginnings of plant and animal domestication, especially in the Near East and Mesoamerica, the spread of agricultural technologies is an equally important question. Bogucki argues that dairying may have been a disruptive technology that led to the adoption of farming by successful foraging populations in Northwest Europe. David W. Anthony’s chapter tackles the often contentious questions of Indo-European origins, migration, and the relationship between archaeology and language. While migration was de-emphasized as an important explanation for cultural changes during the processual era, there is no question that migration played an important role in European archaeology. New methods, including ancient DNA (aDNA) studies and strontium isotope

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analyses, can allow us to identify movements of people more directly. Anthony brings together biological studies, archaeological data, and historical linguistics to suggest that the archaeologically-known Corded Ware Culture was associated with the spread of pastoral Indo-European speaking peoples into central Europe. This is a model that Bernard favored based on the widespread distribution of the Corded Ware Culture, and he would have been delighted to see that new data, including aDNA, provide additional support for this model. Peter S. Wells’s chapter focuses on the analyses of three Bronze Age pits from southern Germany. In the past, pits were often dismissed as simply trash pits. However, Wells’s careful analysis of the contents, stratigraphy, and sequence of deposition for three Early Bronze Age pits reveals important information about Bronze Age ritual performance and practice. The work represents a continuation of Wailes’s interest in such topics at Dún Ailinne. Antonio Gilman takes up the theme of prehistoric ideology from an Iberian perspective. He argues that the lack of evidence for overt ritual practices in the Neolithic and Early Bronze Age is evidence for social solidarity among kin, without the need for a ruling class to validate itself through ideological displays. This is in contrast to the subsequent societies in which control of labor and land provided opportunities for an emergent elite to accumulate wealth and affirm their privilege through ritual displays. Susan A. Johnston also builds on Bernard’s work in her study of Dún Ailinne then and now. Johnston was the co-author of the final comprehensive site report on Dún Ailinne ( Johnston and Wailes 2007), and she subsequently led a new research program that carried out magnetometer survey and targeted topographic studies at the site ( Johnston et al. 2009; Johnston et al. 2014). In her chapter, Johnston builds on previous work, using the data from the Dún Ailinne excavations and subsequent surveys to estimate the amounts of labor that would have been necessary to construct the bank and ditch and the timber structures at Dún Ailinne. As Johnston shows, these data have important implications for our understanding of both social organization and ritual practice in late Iron Age Ireland. For many years, Bernard Wailes co-taught a course on the archaeology of complex societies with the late Prof. Robert Sharer. The course traced social, political, and economic changes in both the Eastern and Western Hemispheres from the beginnings of farming through the development of



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complex, urban societies. Bernard shared Childe’s interest in social evolution, but he argued that many of the processual models for urban origins and state formation were over-generalized and lacking in archaeological and historical specificity. In particular, he thought that many of the North American models relied too heavily on data from the Near East and Latin America and that the rich archaeological data from later prehistoric and medieval Europe could make an important contribution to broader questions of social and political evolution. In her chapter on socio-political complexity and ethnogenesis in Scotland, Elizabeth Ragan revisits the concept of a chiefdom, which has too often been seen as a transitory stage on the road to state formation. Chapters seven and eight focus on early medieval Ireland, an area of research that was of particular interest to Bernard, who always encouraged his students to make use of a range of different archaeological methods and techniques to address questions of social-political evolution. Rachel E. Scott uses data from human skeletal biology to examine the relationship between agricultural innovations, population growth, and human health in early medieval Ireland. Although popular historians often view early medieval (5th–12th century CE) Ireland as the land of saints and scholars, recent archaeological research has shown that this was a period of agricultural innovation, including the addition of new crops and the appearance of watermills and the heavy plow. Scott’s data reveal that despite the agricultural innovations of Ireland’s “golden age,” early medieval Irish populations suffered from both infectious diseases and nutritional deficiencies. These data have important implications for our understanding of the relationship between agricultural intensification and human health. John Soderberg’s chapter in this volume builds on Bernard Wailes’s (1995) argument that medieval Irish society should be seen as heterarchical rather than strictly hierarchical. Bernard used Irish historical sources to suggest that early medieval Ireland included multiple competing hierarchies— clerics, farmers, and men of art such as metalworkers and poets. Soderberg draws on data from zooarchaeology to examine the roles that monasteries played in medieval life. In the process, he problematizes the sharp distinctions that have often been drawn between secular and religious sites. Chapter nine is by Alan M. Stahl, who was a Ph.D. student in Penn’s History Department and worked closely with Bernard throughout his graduate school career. As Stahl notes in his chapter, he was encouraged by Bernard to study numismatics, a challenging field that sits in the border

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between archaeology and history. Stahl’s contribution to this volume shows how detailed numismatic studies can shed new light on the excavations carried out by Princeton University over 80 years ago at the late antique city of Antioch-on-the-Orontes. In the final chapter, Pam J. Crabtree explores some similarities and differences between the early phases of state formation in pre-contact Hawai‘i and Anglo-Saxon England, two cases that are rarely considered in the comparative study of state formation. Similar to Ragan’s chapter, this work builds on Bernard’s interest in the formation of complex societies and highlights the importance of an anthropological approach to European prehistory.

A FINAL NOTE We hope that this volume reflects the admiration and respect that we all had for Bernard Wailes. Both of us met Bernard before we were old enough to drink and worked closely with him for about 40 years. Long after our student days were over, Bernard was always willing to look over (and extensively edit) manuscripts, to write letters of recommendation and support, and to provide us with a drink, a meal, or a place to sleep. We would not be who and where we are today if it were not for Bernard Wailes. Thank you, Bernard. Rest in eternal peace.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The editors would like to express their gratitude to Jim Mathieu and Page Selinsky of the University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology. Jim, who had participated in the Honolulu symposium that yielded the papers in this book, invited us to submit a proposal for consideration by the Museum’s Editorial Board. Page expertly steered it through every stage of production with superb attention to detail and an elegant sense of design. We are also grateful to two anonymous reviewers who helped the authors sharpen their anthropological arguments.

REFERENCES Binford, L.R. 1962. Archaeology as Anthropology. American Antiquity 28:217–25. Binford, S.R., and L.R. Binford, eds. 1968. New Perspectives in Archeology. Chicago: Aldine.



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Campbell, E. 2007. Continental and Mediterranean Imports to Atlantic Britain and Ireland, AD 400–800. CBA Research Report 157. London: Council for British Archaeology. Childe, V.G. 1957. The Dawn of European Civilization, 6th edition. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Crabtree, P.J. 2014. Remembering Bernard Wailes: Archaeological Approaches to Late Iron Age and Early Medieval Ireland [2013 Farrell Lecture]. Eolas 7:92–102. Grabowski, K. 1990. The Historical Overview of Dún Ailinne. Emania 7:32–36. Johnston, S.A. 2006. Revisiting the Irish Royal Sites. Emania 20:53–59. Johnston S.A., and B. Wailes. 2007. Dún Ailinne: Excavations at an Irish Royal Site, 1968– 1975. University Museum Monograph 129. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology. Johnston, S.A., D.V. Campana, and P.J. Crabtree. 2009. A Geophysical Survey at Dún Ailinne, County Kildare, Ireland. Journal of Field Archaeology 34:385–402. Johnston, S.A., P.J. Crabtree, and D.V. Campana. 2014. Performance, Place, and Power at Dún Ailinne, a Ceremonial Site of the Irish Iron Age. World Archaeology 46:206– 23. Steward, J.H. 1955 [1973]. Theory of Culture Change: The Methodology of Multilinear Evolution. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Wailes, B. 1963. Some Imported Pottery in Western Britain, AD 400–800: Its Connections with Frankish and Visigothic Gaul. Unpublished Ph.D. thesis, University of Cambridge. ———. 1990. Dún Ailinne: A Summary Excavation Report. Emania 7:10–21. ———. 1995. A Case Study of Heterarchy in Complex Societies: Early Medieval Ireland and its Archeological Implications. Archeological Papers of the American Anthropological Association 6:55–69. ———, ed. 1996. Craft Specialization and Social Evolution: In Memory of V. Gordon Childe. University Museum Monograph 93. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology. Wells, P.S. 2003. The Battle that Stopped Rome. New York: W. W. Norton.

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1 “Disruptive Technologies” and the Transition to Agriculture in Scandinavia and the British Isles peter bogucki

INTRODUCTION

T

he delay of nearly a millennium between the establishment of farming communities in interior central Europe during the second half of the sixth millennium BCE and the transition to agriculture in Scandinavia and the British Isles at the beginning of the fourth millennium BCE has never been fully explained. What led successful foraging peoples—aware (if only from a distance) of farming practices and life—to decline to enroll in the Neolithic project for a thousand years, only to embrace it suddenly within a matter of decades or at most a century or two? A search for factors that pushed Late Mesolithic societies into the embrace of agriculture, whether they liked it or not, has not produced satisfactory results. Agricultural colonization on the model of central Europe seems unlikely on a scale that would have produced a simultaneous and widespread transformation. The goal of this essay is to investigate this question and identify internal factors that might have persuaded foragers of the value and wisdom of abandoning their economy and ethos to adopt “Neolithic things and practices” (Whittle et al. 2011:1). Early European farming was of great interest to Bernard Wailes. His students count Grahame Clark (1907–1995), under whom Bernard studied at Cambridge, as one of their academic grandparents. Clark’s 1952 book,

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Prehistoric Europe: the Economic Basis, was a staple on Bernard’s reading lists, and from it I first learned of the great Neolithic settlement at Brześć Kujawski in Poland. Although Bernard was less interested in the transition to agriculture and more about its subsequent intensification with innovations such as the plough (Wailes 1970, 1972), he clearly saw (and taught us) the big picture across the millennia. One of his early Ph.D. students was K.Peter Lade (1943–2001), whose dissertation was on the fifth-millennium BCE Rössen culture in Germany (Lade 1973). Bernard’s encouragement, as I pursued my interest in early farmers in central Europe, motivated me to get involved with research at Brześć Kujawski and to persevere.

LAST FORAGERS/EARLY FARMERS The transition from hunting and gathering to farming during the late fifth millennium to early fourth millennium BCE in northwestern Europe is a topic of lively debate. Complex, often contradictory, evidence frustrates archaeologists who seek broad patterns that yield uniform explanations. Instead, regional archaeological records reflect considerable incoherence as local foragers redefined their economies, settlement patterns, social structures, and ideologies to accommodate Neolithic opportunities. Straits and seas as boulevards of regional interaction permitted ideas and technology to spread widely but haphazardly. Commitments to new economic, social, and ideological values occurred at the level of the community or the household. Gabriel Cooney’s characterization “local worlds linked by exotic elements” (2000:232) is apt. These inhabitants of local worlds had their roots in Mesolithic societies that inhabited the coastlines and wetlands of northern Europe after the onset of temperate climatic conditions about 10,000 years ago. Although late Mesolithic life was far from idyllic due to interpersonal violence, occasional dietary stress, and other mortality factors, most groups did not have to fear mass starvation. Rising sea levels eventually gave more people oceanfront views, particularly with the inundation of the southern North Sea by the early sixth millennium BCE. Marine resources were of crucial importance (Schulting 2011), but so were freshwater fish, waterfowl, plant foods, wild pigs, deer, and aurochs. The warmth of the Holocene Thermal Maximum (ca. 7000–4000 BCE) meant that species like pond tortoise (Emys orbicularis) were abundant as far as 59°N in southern Sweden (Sommer et al.



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2007). “Persistent places” (Thomas 2008) in the landscape for living, burial, hunting, fishing, obtaining raw materials, and interacting with the spiritual world created a complex practical and symbolic geography. By Stone Age standards, life in northwestern Europe during the sixth and fifth millennia BCE was pretty good.

THE DANUBIAN WORLD Farming arrived on the doorstep of northern and western Europe during the second half of the sixth millennium BCE (Fig. 1.1). In the major watersheds of central Europe—the Danube, the Elbe, the Oder, the Rhine, the Vistula, and the Meuse—communities making distinctive incised vessels of the Linear Pottery Culture (Linearbandkeramik, LBK) are found on loess and other fertile soils. These were the first “Danubians” characterized by V. Gordon Childe (1958:106) as “perhaps the most classically neolithic in the ancient world.” Although Linear Pottery ceramics and houses appear to be similar across Europe from Ukraine to France, giving an impression of homogeneity, regional and local heterogeneity gives rise to Modderman’s (1988) celebrated characterization of “diversity in uniformity.” The place of the Linear Pottery communities in the prehistory of northcentral Europe has been discussed extensively elsewhere (for summaries see Bogucki [2014] and Whittle and Bickle [2013]). These fully agricultural populations used crops and livestock that originated from domestication events in the Near East and lived in sedentary settlements with structures that were the largest free-standing buildings in the world at the time. There is no mistaking them for direct elaborations upon precursor foraging societies, regardless of whether or not indigenous hunter-gatherers were absorbed into the Linear Pottery communities. The Linear Pottery diaspora that started in Transdanubia around 5600 BCE reached northern Poland and eastern France within a matter of centuries. It was probably a combination of long-distance colonization events and short-distance advances of the agricultural frontier, facilitated by a highly effective agropastoral economy and the warmth of the Holocene Thermal Maximum that permitted Near Eastern domesticates to find congenial conditions in central European latitudes. Cattle were the mainstay of the animal economy, used both for meat and for dairy production (Bogucki 1989; Salque et al. 2013).

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1.1.  Northwest Europe showing dates of earliest farming in years BCE, as well as areas of the Villeneuve-St. Germain and Brześć Kujawski Groups discussed in text.

Yet, this Danubian diaspora was arrested around 5000 BCE along the southern margin of the North European Plain and at the edge of the Breton Massif. It is difficult to know exactly why, but it is true that the edge of the region settled by the Linear Pottery culture and its Danubian successors corresponds roughly to the limits of the fertile riverine habitats they found so congenial in central Europe. It has also been suggested that their advance was resisted by populations of Mesolithic foragers, denser than those they encountered in central Europe, who were not so amenable to assimilation (Isern and Fort 2012). Over the next several centuries, modest advances (along with some retreats) of farming occurred along the Danubian frontier, but for the most part, the spread of the use of domestic plants and animals halted until the final centuries of the fifth millennium BCE.

THE DANUBIAN BORDERLANDS The foraging societies of the fifth millennium BCE of the Baltic and North Sea basins and the Atlantic Façade were separated from Danubian set-



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tlement in interior central Europe by borderlands of varying width. On the lowlands of the North European Plain, about 200 kilometers separated foragers from farmers. Between the Dutch-Belgian loess and the coastal lagoons and creeks of the Rhine-Meuse delta, lies a belt of sandy soils about 150 kilometers wide. These borderlands were permeable, as indicated by finds of Danubian artifacts, especially stone axes (Fischer 1982), in forager contexts. During the fifth millennium BCE, the southern margins of the borderlands were inhabited by Neolithic societies descended from pioneer Linear Pottery farmers several centuries earlier. Two of these Danubian societies are especially important. In the east, the settlements of the Brześć Kujawski Group are found along the lower Vistula in the Polish region of Kuyavia, while in the west, settlements of the Villeneuve-St.-Germain Group (VSG) are widespread in the Paris Basin, Normandy, and Brittany. Both represent local developments in the Danubian tradition of longhouse architecture, contracted burials, and subsistence economies based on a mix of cereals and livestock, including cattle, caprines, and pigs. It appears that foragers on the Baltic coast of Poland at Dąbki were in contact with farmers from the south who left their ceramic calling cards (Czekaj-Zastawny et al. 2013). At the same time, an argument can be made that the Ertebølle hunter-gatherers interacted with farming communities of the Brześć Kujawski Group in the late fifth millennium BCE in the Kuyavia region of Poland (Bogucki 2008). These contacts are reflected by antler T-axes, design motifs, and bone tool types at sites like Osłonki and Brześć Kujawski. Kuyavia was separated from the Baltic coast by just over 200 kilometers, across which flow low-energy streams, easily navigated by boat upstream and downstream. The Danubian borderland in northwestern France wraps around the western end of the area settled by Danubian farmers at the very end of the sixth millennium BCE. Normandy saw expansion of agricultural settlement during the first centuries of the fifth millennium BCE as indicated by Villeneuve-Saint-Germain settlements like Poses (Bostyn and Beurion 2003). Within several centuries, farming communities were established in Brittany and the Loire valley, with reasonably well-marked Villeneuve-SaintGermain connections. A less distinct role was played by the makers of impressed pottery connected with Mediterranean traditions presumed to have reached across southern France to the Atlantic coast (Marchand and Manen 2006). Throughout the fifth millennium, mature farming economies devel-

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oped along the English Channel and the Atlantic coast of France. Toward the end of the fifth millennium BCE, the Cerny Group in northern France, the Michelsberg culture in Belgium and the Netherlands, and the makers of Castellic pottery in Brittany provide the most likely precursors for the introduction of agriculture to the British Isles (Whittle et al. 2011). Rowley-Conwy (2014) provides an illuminating critique of how we have envisioned the interaction between foragers and farmers across northern Europe. Influenced too heavily by ethnographic and ethnohistoric accounts between technologically complex farmers and technologically simple foragers, many archaeologists have envisioned the foragers as becoming “peripheral clients” of the farmers of the Danubian core area, resisting but eventually grudgingly adopting the superior Neolithic things and practices. This traditional view is probably flawed. In northern Europe, however, the Neolithic societies of the Danubian core area and the foragers of the Baltic and North Sea basins were relatively similar in their technological foundations. Interaction between foragers and farmers was probably a two-way street. The appearance of farming on the southern edge of the North European Plain and in northern France did not trigger a widespread conversion of foragers to the agricultural way of life. Based on the current state of research, there does not appear to have been a long period of mixed or alternating foraging and farming in late Mesolithic northern and western Europe during the sixth and fifth millennia BCE. Few credible claims exist for the uptake of domestic plants and animals prior to 4000 BCE in southern Scandinavia and the British Isles. The pace and timing of agricultural uptake after 4000 BCE is still debated, but the transition to farming in northern and western Europe is generally abrupt, even if some foraging continued to be practiced during the fourth millennium BCE. This long delay, followed by a sudden uptake of agriculture, sets the transformation of foragers into farmers in northern and western Europe apart from most modern examples of foraging-farming transitions that have been studied ethnographically.

FARMING FRONTIERS IN NORTHERN AND WESTERN EUROPE At the end of the fifth and beginning of the fourth millennium BCE, “farming frontiers” emerged in the Baltic Basin and the British Isles, as well



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as other parts of Europe (Bogucki 2014:1845–52). These frontiers are not sharp boundaries nor are they borderlands. Instead, they are wide units of space and time, often lasting over 500 years and covering more than 105 square kilometers, in which indigenous foraging groups converted to agricultural techniques and values at different paces. Within these areas, many events and processes took place, including mini-diasporas of farmers and patchwork patterns of uptake of domesticated plants and animals by foraging groups. Such farming frontiers are notable for their disharmonious archaeological records during the periods in question, which frustrate archaeologists looking for uniformity in the transition to agriculture. Collard et al. (2010) define four possibilities for the manner and speed in which agriculture was introduced to Britain, which can be adapted for this essay and generalized to southern Scandinavia as well: 1. Diaspora by farmers from continental Europe ca. 4000 BCE, either through a. A single migration event, or b. Multiple local, largely independent, incursions 2. Conversion of indigenous foragers starting around 4000 BCE, either a. Gradually, over about a millennium, or b. Rapidly, within decades or centuries. Within the farming frontier concept, identifying one such process and tempo does not rule out the other three occurring either sequentially or concurrently. In neither the Baltic Basin nor the British Isles does there appear to have been massive population replacement of hunters by farmers, so the likelihood of 1a being the dominant factor can be minimized. Instead, we can focus attention on 1b, 2a, and 2b as the primary modes of the transition to agriculture in the farming frontiers of northern and northwestern Europe. Although there is no compelling evidence for a single mass diaspora of Danubian farmers from interior central Europe into southern Scandinavia or the British Isles, the possibility of multiple local, small, independent incursions over the borderland and across the straits and seas cannot be ruled out. Multiple small-scale incursions from mainland Europe to the British Isles have been proposed by Alison Sheridan (2010), widely separated in

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time and space. Radiocarbon evidence (Collard et al. 2010) and interpretations of the archaeozoological record (Serjeantson 2014) support a case for Neolithic diasporas from the Continent to the British Isles and sharp discontinuities between Mesolithic and Neolithic. Clearly, the domesticated plants and animals from the Danubian world reached Britain and Ireland in quantity, and it is likely that these often came with actual farmers attached. There was almost certainly considerable intercourse between the British Isles and the Continent through the fifth millennium BCE. At the same time, however, it is very hard to identify clear continental precursors for the pottery and material culture of the British Neolithic more broadly. For several decades, there has been considerable enthusiasm for a gradual transition to farming in the British Isles by indigenous foragers (see Thomas [2013] for an extensive discussion). Although it takes different guises, the general form of the gradual model argues for non-sedentary Neolithic peoples, essentially pursuing a mobile foraging way of life with occasional returns to marked places in the landscape, largely to carry out ritual practices. Cereals and livestock, once rare on sites from the early fourth millennium BCE in Britain, were not used daily but were consumed on special occasions. Not until much later did fully sedentary Neolithic communities emerge in Britain and Ireland, under this model. After reaching its zenith in the 1990s, the model of a gradual transition to agriculture by non-sedentary Neolithic communities in the British Isles has been undercut by the emergence of copious amounts of archaeozoological and archaeobotanical data, a profusion of Neolithic houses (especially in Ireland), and many high-precision radiocarbon dates. RowleyConwy (2011) has presented a solid case for an abrupt change—and this theme seems to be ascendant—whether it was due to the adoption of livestock and crops by indigenous people or by migration from the Continent. Bayesian analysis of the growing corpus of radiocarbon dates (Whittle et al. 2011; Wysocki et al. 2013) suggests that the “first Neolithic things and practices” appeared in the area of the Thames Estuary just before 4000 BCE due to small-scale movement from the Continent before spreading to the north and west through subsequent movement and by acculturation of the indigenous population. Data from Ireland illustrates the complexity of the problem and the need for a large number of dates on short-lived materials to characterize the transition to farming (Cooney et al. 2011; McClatchie et al. 2014;



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Whitehouse et al. 2014). The cattle bones from Ferriter’s Cove dated 4450– 4270 BCE stand in isolation several centuries before any further evidence for Neolithic activity can be dated. It is not until ca. 4000 BCE that specific evidence for Neolithic activity appears in Ireland, although for the first 250 years of the fourth millennium BCE the record is equivocal, with uncertain datings, often on long-lived materials. Around 3750 BCE, however, there was an explosion of Neolithic settlement and mortuary activity, including a period of intensive house construction (Smyth 2014) and the construction of the earliest Irish megalithic monuments, the court tombs (Schulting et al. 2012). After a few centuries of intensive activity, the Neolithic record grows dimmer during the second half of the fourth millennium. Nonetheless, the Irish evidence is also “consistent with a rapid and abrupt transition to agriculture” (Whitehouse et al. 2014:201) during the 38th century BCE. In southern Scandinavia, however, the high archaeological visibility of Mesolithic populations as well as continuities in material culture from Mesolithic to Neolithic assemblages means that there is relatively little support for migration from the Danubian world as the primary cause of the spread of agriculture. Although the possibility has been raised of mini-diasporas of pioneer farmers from interior Europe as reflected by sharp discontinuities in faunal samples (Sørenson and Karg 2012), the more widely held view is that the transition to agriculture in Scandinavia was an “inside job” in which the last hunters became the first farmers just after 4000 BCE. In terms of archaeological cultures, the Ertebølle foragers became the farmers of the Funnel Beaker culture in northern Germany, Denmark, and southern Sweden (Larsson 2013). In much of southern Scandinavia and the British Isles, current evidence suggests that the fundamental changeover from foraging to farming happened fairly quickly, between ca. 4000 and 3700 BCE. A rapid transition does not necessarily mean population change or replacement but, rather, could reflect very fast internal processes within the frontier zone. It is indeed possible, even likely, that the transition to agriculture in both these areas occurred at different paces in different places. Richard Bradley (2007) has suggested that the uptake of domestic animals and plants in southern Britain took longer than it did in northern Britain and Ireland, for example, and such geographical variation may also have occurred in the Baltic zone as well.

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We are almost certainly dealing with a mosaic of decisions in space and time about adoption and commitment to agriculture that took place at the community and household level. What I believe we see in much of the British Isles and southern Scandinavia are: (1) anomalous early hints of domestic plants and animals with precarious dating during the late fifth millennium BCE; (2) a period with firmer traces of agriculture, especially the presence of domestic cattle, starting around 4000 BCE with occasional mortuary and domestic structures; and finally, shortly thereafter, (3) an intense burst of Neolithic activity as many households adopt the use of domestic plants and animals and the construction of mortuary monuments becomes widespread. The overall impression is of a very rapid uptake of domestic plants and animals, after many centuries of awareness of their existence and a short period of tentative early adoption, often involving cattle.

WHY IT’S HARD FOR HUNTERS TO BECOME FARMERS The availability of domestic animals and plants over several centuries before their eventual uptake in the British Isles and southern Scandinavia reminds us of how difficult it is for hunter-gatherers to become farmers. Although it is not necessary to invoke massive external forces such as climate change, sea level rise, or population pressure to compel hunter-gatherers to change their ways, nonetheless, there are fundamental societal values common among foragers that prevent an easy transition to agriculture. Key among these are an egalitarian ethos that opposes property and hoarding along with the fluid and open composition of hunter-gatherer groups. Foraging societies may consist of many unrelated individuals who are not bound solely by family ties. The points made below only touch upon a much larger and wide-ranging anthropological discussion, which is explored in much greater depth in recent publications (e.g., Kelly 2013; Howell 2011; Dallos 2011). In most hunter-gatherer societies, the economy is embedded within a social and cosmic order that emphasizes interconnectedness and interpersonal egalitarianism while resisting the pursuit of acquisition. For example, Howell (2011:96) described the overriding concern of the Chewong in Malaysia as being with “the long-term reproduction of social and cosmic order rather than with short-term individual maximization of advantages.” Foraging societies are generally ideologically constrained from



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simply adopting “Neolithic things and practices” without some dramatic reduction in their concern for perpetuating the egalitarian social order. Simply being aware of agriculture does not lead foragers to enlist in it in the absence of some arrangement that undermines this characteristic social order. Examples of modern hunter-gatherer societies that are said to be in the process of adopting agriculture generally turn out to be complicated upon closer examination. Many have alternated between foraging and farming for decades, even centuries, or acquired domesticated plants through exchange (see table 1 in Greaves and Kramer 2014). For example, the Agta in the Philippines have long lived next to non-Agta farmers and have developed a symbiotic relationship in bartering forest products for cultivated resources (Headland 1987; Headland and Reid 1989), while the Pumé of Venezuela cultivate a small amount of manioc as a fallback resource that does not supplant their traditional reliance on wild foods (Greaves and Kramer 2014). It is much harder than once thought to find modern examples of pristine transitions from foraging to farming. Freeman (2012) proposes that there are two general patterns that can be observed cross-culturally in the uptake of agriculture by foragers. The first is what he calls ancillary cultivation, the casual use of domesticated resources as a complement to foraging, while the second is termed surplus cultivation, in which increasing time is devoted to farming that eventually supplants the use of wild resources. The former groups live at relatively low population densities, while the latter have larger populations and are less mobile. Ancillary cultivators persist in their foraging lifestyles, like the Pumé, while surplus cultivators cross the threshold to agricultural commitment and intensification. Ancillary cultivation systems, however, require the presence nearby of surplus cultivators, from whom farming products can be obtained in the event of crop loss. The Mesolithic societies of northern Europe during the sixth and fifth millennia BCE do not conform to either of these patterns. With very few (and often problematic) exceptions, there is no evidence for the use of domestic plants and animals before 4000 BCE in southern Scandinavia and the British Isles, even on an ancillary basis. No gradual admixture of agriculture into the foraging economy appears to have taken place. Interaction with farmers in interior central Europe does not seem to have had the symbiotic character as seen with the Agta. For over a millennium, the

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Mesolithic foragers of northern Europe simply declined to adopt Neolithic things and practices. In most respects, the Mesolithic societies of northern Europe were maritime and riverine foragers under conditions of resource hyperabundance and logistical mobility. Such conditions may act in the long term to undermine the foraging egalitarian ethos, as they seem to have done for the sedentary hunter-gatherers of the Pacific Northwest who developed complex patterns of acquisition and leadership. Farming, however, does not appear to have held an immediate attraction for Mesolithic societies, either as an ancillary resource or as a means to generate surpluses for exchange and security, despite the presence of sedentary agricultural societies not far away. By the fifth millennium BCE, the foraging economies of northern and western Europe had developed a highly successful and resilient way of life. Key to it, was a suite of high-productivity wild resources, including wild pigs, hazelnuts, and both marine and freshwater fish and shellfish. We see increasing evidence for watercraft in the form of dugout and sewn canoes. The mobility provided by watercraft had the paradoxical effect of promoting sedentism, for residential mobility was no longer required to exploit resources a distance away that could be reached by water. Bands could, thus, stay longer in residential bases, while task groups could range outward for dozens of kilometers along coastlines, across bays, and up slow-flowing rivers of northern Europe and return with canoes full of fish and game. On land, Mesolithic foragers also maximized the resources they could extract from their rich environment. Pre-agricultural manipulation of plant communities is well known from around the world, and considerable evidence exists for this practice across northern Europe during the Mesolithic (Mellars 1976; Innes et al. 2013; Bishop et al. 2015 among many). Deliberate burning appears to have been the most common activity and, based on ethnographic analogies, its primary purposes would have been to establish and maintain artificial glades for attracting game and the propagation of useful plant resources such as hazel and berries. Such activity did not cause the uptake of agriculture by hunter-gatherers, although it is compelling evidence that hunter-gatherers are acutely aware of plant succession and animal behavior. The creation and maintenance of artificial glades also could have provided attractive locations for feral cattle escaped from Neolithic communities in interior central Europe to collect and multiply (Bogucki 1995).



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Increased sedentism by Mesolithic bands along the estuaries and around the lakes of northern Europe had several key effects. The first is that people living near each other were increasingly likely to be related genetically to each other. In forager bands, this is often not the case. Cross-cultural studies of 32 modern-day hunter-gatherer bands indicate that most individuals in the residential groups studied were either genetically unrelated or at best were distant relatives, with fewer than 10% of residential groups being composed of primary kin (Hill et al. 2011). As Mesolithic bands became increasingly sedentary, however, we might expect the number of co-residential primary kin to increase, with the result that it now became more obvious who is a relative and who is not. This growing sense of being related would have had an impact on the fluid networks of sharing relationships that characterize hunter-gatherer bands. What had previously been a system of “share with whomever is in the camp” could shift to keeping more fish and game for primary kin. The second effect of this increased attachment to persistent residential bases was the development of fixed facilities for catching fish on an almost industrial scale using traps and weirs. Elaborate fixed installations for catching fish have been found from the Baltic to the Atlantic. Several are known from the Liffey estuary in Ireland, and they are ubiquitous at the submerged Ertebølle sites of the southwestern Baltic. These fixed installations permitted the maintenance of populous communities on bays and estuaries, especially when large fish catches could be preserved, through smoking and drying. Such a dramatic increase in the potential for harvesting a resource, combined with increasing sedentism, can also undermine the egalitarian, sharing ethos of a foraging society. Osaki (1990) reports on the effect of the adoption of equestrian hunting on newly-sedentary San communities in Botswana. In the traditional bow-hunting system, since every man could hunt, the sharing of meat was reciprocal, going through an elaborate pattern of distribution of different body parts. Hunting from horses using spears greatly increased the number of animals that a hunter lucky enough to have a horse could kill. Meat was still shared, but the flow of sharing became one-directional, from the hunters to the recipients, and it was unequal. The horse owners received about half of the first distribution, some of which would be sold, while the other half was distributed among the others in the band, with each recipient getting relatively little. Thus, the

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increase in hunting effectiveness made possible by using horses undermined the egalitarianism and sharing ethos of San society. We can imagine the effect of massive fish catching using traps and weirs on Mesolithic societies in a similar light, undermining the egalitarian sharing ethos of the foraging bands. Although these may have been collective activities, at some point there would be a sense of inequality between the individuals who built, maintained, and emptied the traps and weirs and those who did not. While this may have subverted the egalitarian ethos and disrupted the social and cosmological order of hunter-gatherers, it may also have created conditions for the adoption of Neolithic values of acquisition and ownership. In other words, by the end of the late fifth millennium BCE, the Mesolithic societies of northern Europe, particularly those along coasts and estuaries, were open to a change for which they had not been ready a millennium earlier. We can, thus, infer that, despite their relative technological parity, a deep ideological and cosmological gulf probably existed between the farmers of interior central Europe and the indigenous foragers of the northern and western frontiers, for the distinction between Mesolithic and Neolithic goes far beyond the economic realm. What could have undermined the forager ideology of non-acquisition and egalitarianism? Some of the Neolithic groups known to the northern foragers, like the Brześć Kujawski Group, were particularly acquisitive, while others, simply by cultivating crops and keeping livestock, had values incompatible with the hunter-gatherer egalitarian ethos. Instead, there must have been some internal factors within the Mesolithic societies of northern Europe that led them to be open to shifting from prioritizing the long-term preservation of an egalitarian cosmic and social order to short-term cycles of acquisition and ownership that characterize sedentary food producers.

DISRUPTIVE AND SUSTAINING INNOVATIONS Let us consider the possibility that Danubian domestic plants and animals alone did not offer anything attractive to the successful foragers of northern and western Europe, since they declined to embrace them for most of the fifth millennium BCE. Then suddenly, at the beginning of the fourth millennium BCE, they were adopted enthusiastically, with all this entails in terms of overturning their values of non-acquisition and egali-



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tarianism. Within a few centuries, farming hamlets could be found as far north as the Dala valley in central Sweden. What might have caused this sudden transformation? One way of looking at the problem comes from the concept of disruptive and sustaining innovations introduced by Clayton Christensen (1997) of the Harvard Business School (although much more clearly stated in Christensen and Raynor [2003]). His ideas have been widely discussed in popular literature but are often misunderstood. A sustaining innovation is one in which existing technology is steadily improved for greater value and effectiveness. Christensen cites the computer hard disk as an example. From its earliest forms in the 1950s to the present, the hard disk has become smaller and tremendously increased in capacity, but the basic idea and its applications are largely the same. While its market expands and develops, new users do not suddenly embrace it. The eventual replacement of hard drives in some applications by solid-state memory (e.g., memory sticks) is not a disruption since it does not involve new populations of users or hitherto unimagined applications. A disruptive technology, on the other hand, is not simply something that permits an existing system to be improved. Instead, it exploits a novel niche, often very small or narrow, that then expands dramatically. An example would be Alexander Graham Bell’s electric speech machine, now known as the telephone, which did not merely improve upon telegraphy but rather penetrated a new niche and attracted users other than telegraphers. It is not simply the innovation itself but rather the creation of a new market for it or the opening of a niche that has not hitherto been exploited. A disruptive innovation does not have to be a technological breakthrough but rather might be an off-the-shelf component of an existing technology that suddenly finds a novel application and willing customers. Often, it may be less effective than the technological system it disrupts. A disruptive innovation does not replace sustaining innovations. Rather, it is an alternative that initially competes and eventually succeeds. Christensen’s theory of disruptive innovations has been subject to criticism and does not apply uniformly across technological systems. Since the word “disruption” sounds “edgy” and gives the user a fashionable tone, it is used very loosely and inappropriately by people who have not taken the time to understand the core concepts. Lepore (2014) asserts that the concept of disruption is based on shaky, often anecdotal, evidence and has no

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predictive value. In particular, she objects to its application in arenas outside of business, including presumably its use in this essay. Such criticism provides a useful caution against the uncritical use of the word “disrupt” and requires one to think carefully about deploying “the rhetoric of disruption,” as Lepore calls it. At the same time, however, the Christensen theory provides a way to frame a discussion of the impact of novel technologies on the Mesolithic world in the hindsight of six thousand years, and in this spirit it is being applied here. It is important to stress that “disruptive” does not mean “unwelcome” and should not be viewed in a negative light. Indeed, a necessary criterion for an innovation to be disruptive is its enthusiastic uptake by users who may suddenly have appreciated what it can do for them or discover that they need something that they had not known they needed before. At the turn of the 20th century, the Sony Walkman® represented what seemed at the time to be the last word in portable music. No one knew that they would subsequently want an iPod®, only shortly thereafter to have that innovation itself be disrupted by smart phones that play music. A few early adopters can become evangelists for the new technology, and word spreads quickly.

DISRUPTING THE FORAGING ECONOMY To persuade the happy foragers of northwestern Europe to overturn their highly successful way of life and embrace the demands and rewards of farming would have required something like a disruptive innovation to take hold among a small subset of them and make them so much more successful that their fellow hunter-gatherers noticed. The replacement of wild pigs, deer, and fish with cattle, sheep and goats, and domestic pigs as meat sources or the replacement of hazelnuts with cereals would not have been a compelling value proposition in itself. Yet there must have been some element of the Danubian economy certain foragers seized upon that suddenly made it an attractive proposition. Was there a disruptive innovation in play here? Several elements in the Danubian economy of interior central Europe were alien to the foraging economy of northwestern Europe. One was the use of milk from domestic cattle to make dairy products such as cheese, while another, also involving cattle, was their use for traction in ploughing and hauling. You would not use deer or aurochs for these purposes. An-



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other candidate for a disruptive technology would have been the fermentation of grain into beer. While fermented beverages could have been made by foragers from honey and wild plants, the transformation of grain into liquid bread would have been something very novel indeed. These innovations also could have meshed well with industrial-scale forager practices such as fish-trapping and food preservation. When it comes to the earliest domestic animals across northern and western Europe just before or just after 4000 BCE, domestic cattle are almost always the first species present (Serjeantson 2014). Something about cattle must have appealed to foragers, but why bother raising them just for meat when you have all those deer and wild pigs? Domestic cattle would have been attractive as docile smaller versions of the fierce aurochs, but if all it involved was killing them for meat, then they may not have provided such a compelling value proposition to the foragers compared with deer and wild pigs. Sheep and goats were certainly exotic, but if they were only being used for meat, the motivation to herd them instead of hunting deer and wild pig would be minimal. Dairy production, however, presented a novel biotechnology to foragers. It would not simply represent an improved method of hunting and gathering, as foragers might have viewed cultivated plants and livestock, but rather may have been taken up by some early adopters who seized on its potential. It is unclear what products were made from milk. We can be relatively certain that the Linear Pottery farmers of central Europe produced some form of cheese through the separation of curds from whey in cow milk (Salque et al. 2013). This technology would be a prime candidate for the sort of disruptive penetration of a new bioprocess into the huntergatherer economy. Another dairy product could have been a fermented beverage like kefir (Patrick McGovern, pers. comm.). Another candidate for a disruptive technology among the Mesolithic foragers is the production of beer by fermenting grain. Surprisingly, Neolithic beer production in Europe prior to the third millennium BCE has rarely been a subject of discussion in light of the attention it has received in other parts of the Old World. The first attention was focused on the issue by Sol Katz and Mary Voigt (1987) nearly 30 years ago, when they suggested that the primary motivation for the domestication of grain might have been beer production, reviving a suggestion that had been circulating in archaeological thought for some time (Braidwood et al. 1953). Since then, the case

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for Neolithic, even Epipaleolithic/Mesolithic, brewing has been made for the Near East (Dietrich et al. 2012; Hayden et al. 2013) and China (McGovern 2009), but it is rarely taken up in Europe with reference to the first farming communities during the seventh and sixth millennia BCE. Thus, residues from pottery at Can Sadurní in Spain dated to the late fifth millennium BCE are cited as the earliest evidence for European beer (Blasco et al. 2008). It seems quite reasonable, however, to believe that beer-making was known to the first Linear Pottery farmers of central Europe, despite the current lack of hard evidence for it. Prehistoric beer is frequently discussed for its intoxicating effects and its possible role in rituals (e.g., Guerra-Doce 2015). Despite the resonance between such prehistoric use and the proclivities of modern archaeologists, it is entirely possible that the fermenting of grain was done for a more prosaic effect, namely the conversion of their cultivated crops into a concentrated source of nutrition, “liquid bread.” A more appropriate analogue might be the “porridge-beer” food system of Nubian agropastoralists from the fifth millennium BCE onward (Haaland 2012), in which beer is consumed for its contributions both to nutrition and to sociability. An important aspect of the above candidates for disruptive innovations in the late forager economy is that they are processes, not domesticates themselves or artifact types like axes or pottery. This is key for understanding their disruptive character, for they were largely novel and did not sustain earlier technologies based in categories of plants, animals, and tools. As I have suggested earlier, the actual plants, animals, and artifacts that signified Neolithic life were probably known to foragers long before they were taken up in northern and western Europe. Processes like dairying and brewing, however, are unlikely to have been passed along without personal contact, probably often repeated, and thus people needed to cross the borderland from the farming world to the foragers or vice-versa. This makes the Brześć Kujawski Group in Poland, the Rössen and Michelsberg communities of Germany, Belgium, and the Netherlands, and the Villeneuve-St.-Germain, Cerny, and Castellic Groups in France some of the key players in the transmission of technological processes that disrupted the comfortable economy of the foragers. These mature mixed-farming economies of the fifth millennium BCE, demonstrated a relatively secure agricultural life that permitted long-distance contacts. From them would have emanated the feral, rustled, and exchanged cattle that could be found



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in the glades and marshes of the borderlands and beyond. They also would have been the source of seed grain that found its way into the hands of the foragers. Finally, they would have been the origins of Neolithic individuals and groups who may have been evangelists for the new disruptive technologies as they found their way among the foragers.

EVIDENCE FOR DAIRYING IN EARLY NEOLITHIC SCANDINAVIA AND BRITAIN Lest the reader assume that this discussion is purely speculative, the evidence for an early and rapid uptake of dairying in Scandinavia and Britain early in the fourth millennium BCE is very real. Much of this research has been published since 2010 and more appears every year as the techniques for extracting and analyzing lipid residues in Neolithic pottery pioneered in the Evershed laboratory at the University of Bristol become more widely applied (Copley et al. 2005; Evershed et al. 2008). Evidence for early dairying has been emerging across southern Scandinavia and the British Isles, in many cases datable very close to the initial appearance of domestic cattle in these areas. In Denmark and northern Germany, a recent study showed that “more than half of the Neolithic vessels yielding detectable lipid residues met the established criteria for ruminant dairy products” (Craig et al. 2011:17912). Despite the fact that this residue analysis indicated that there was not a sharp cessation in the use of marine resources as indicated by earlier stable isotope studies (e.g., Tauber 1981), and thus a continuation of many Mesolithic dietary practices into the Neolithic, the researchers observed that “remarkably, it seems that dairying was practiced at coastal and inland sites as soon as domestic animals appeared in the sequence” (Craig et al. 2011:17912). It is clear that dairying can be incorporated into a hunting-fishing economy without intermediate transitional steps. An early Funnel Beaker (TRB) farmstead and ritual fen was excavated at Skogsmossen in central Sweden (Hallgren 2008). Although today the site is nearly 100 kilometers inland due to isostatic rebound of the land surface, during the fourth millennium BCE, it was within a kilometer of the Baltic coast. Analysis of several samples of pottery from the offering fen show milk lipid biomarkers (Isaksson and Hallgren 2012). Reacting to the popular idea of a gradual transition to agriculture and a “symbolic Neolithic,” Isaks-

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son and Hallgren (2012:3607) note that “this observation fits badly with the idea of displaying material attributes of TRB while keeping a huntergatherer lifestyle as it is evidence for an animal husbandry including at least some dairying.” In contrast with the southwest Baltic area, where residues suggest a persistence of a marine component in the diet alongside a rapid uptake of dairying, in the British Isles, there is widespread evidence for a very sharp decline in marine foods concurrent with the appearance of dairying at the beginning of the fourth millennium BCE. Biomarkers “confirm rejection of marine resources by early farmers coinciding with the adoption of intensive dairy farming” (Cramp et al. 2014:1). This pattern was spread throughout the British Isles, including Ireland. Among the Early Neolithic pottery samples, dairy fats made up 80% of the lipid residues, which is regarded as “strong evidence [that] now associates the introduction of the earliest pottery with the exploitation of secondary (liquid) animal products” (Cramp et al. 2014:4). Thus, it seems clear that the biomarkers for dairy production appear immediately and abruptly at the transition from foraging to farming in the British Isles. Compelling evidence for an early uptake of dairying in Ireland has been presented by Smyth and Evershed (2015). Carinated Bowl pottery from the first centuries of the fourth millennium BCE yielded significant concentrations of lipid residues consistent with milk fats. Although the introduction of farming and dairying to Ireland may have been driven more by colonization across the Irish Sea from Britain than by indigenous adoption, the evidence from lipid residues nonetheless underscores the central role of dairying in the earliest development of agriculture in Ireland just after the start of the fourth millennium BCE. The question of the earliest pottery in both these regions is intriguing. In the southwestern Baltic, it now appears that the Ertebølle pottery of the fifth millennium BCE is the westernmost extent of a “hyperborean stream” of pointed-based pottery innovation that originated in east Asia many millennia earlier and is associated with the cooking of aquatic foods (Craig et al. 2013; Gibbs and Jordan 2013). This might explain the continuity in the use of Funnel Beaker pots for preparing marine foods after the appearance of domestic plants and animals at Funnel Beaker sites. Dairying may have been another purpose found for ceramic containers, which shifted from having pointed bases for use in hearths to bottoms that permitted the ves-



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sels to stand on their own. In Britain, on the other hand, the earliest pottery seems to have a continental derivation, from cattle-using farming Neolithic societies, in which case it may have been purposively adopted to facilitate the simultaneous uptake of dairying.

A PREFERENCE CASCADE Our attention then is drawn to the tipping point, at the end of the fifth millennium BCE in northern Germany and the beginning of the fourth millennium BCE in southern Scandinavia and the British Isles, when farming abruptly replaced foraging in many localities. It was probably preceded by several centuries of quiet—and archaeologically invisible—experimentation with these processes and their early adoption by certain households. The archaeological visibility of the uptake of domestic animals and plants in northern Europe reflects the time when Neolithic practices and things were employed by enough households for a fraction of them to survive to be discovered six millennia later. A way of thinking about the abrupt transition to agriculture in southern Scandinavia and the British Isles is as a manifestation of a “preference cascade.” This term, popularized by Glenn Reynolds (2002), is the flip side of “preference falsification,” a concept developed by Timur Kuran (1995) to describe when dissenters from the status quo suppress their personal views and aspirations in the face of what they believe to be majority opinion or under authoritarian control. In the original conception of the preference cascade, as an explanation for the sudden collapse of totalitarian regimes, dissenters suddenly realize that they are not alone and that there are others with similar views. They mutually discover that more people than they thought do not support the status quo, and this knowledge then expands dramatically as others, who themselves are making a similar realization, connect with the dissenters. The result is a cascade of transformation that overturns the old order as individuals prefer a new set of values and practices. In many respects, the ideological and cosmological values of foraging societies that act to maintain an egalitarian social order might be seen as analogous to a totalitarian regime. This comparison will no doubt horrify those who study hunter-gatherer societies, yet the focus that one sees in so many such societies on suppressing individual acquisition and initiative through an all-encompassing order that sees everyone as socially and ideologically inter-

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twined seems to fit. The decision to adopt Neolithic “things and practices” could not have been made by whole communities collectively but rather required individuals or families to defect from the established order. Yet some individuals who became interested in Neolithic “things and practices” realized they were not alone. Once they discovered that other individuals and families had similar interests and motivations and preferred them to the older way, the hunter-gatherer social order began to fall apart from the bottom up. Since the Mesolithic economy would have been embedded in this all-encompassing social order, initial deviations such as largescale fish trapping and eventually disruptive innovations such as dairying and brewing can be seen as having triggered such a cascade of defections from the hunter-gatherer social order. The role of watercraft, enabling information to be exchanged between groups based many kilometers apart, was probably crucial. A new social consensus in the Mesolithic world of northern Europe, one that allowed for “Neolithic things and practices,” quickly emerged in the first half of the fourth millennium BCE.

CONCLUSION The spread of agriculture in temperate Europe did not halt for a millennium simply because expanding farmers ran into thickly-settled Mesolithic foragers. It stopped because the Danubian economy did not initially have much to offer the foragers that would convince them to change from their highly-successful and resilient economy based on high-productivity wild resources. Mesolithic people had high-productivity, storable resources in abundance, and for the millennium following the appearance of agriculture in riverine interior central Europe, they would have had no motivation to disavow the egalitarian, non-acquisitive ethos that was incompatible with the adoption of domestic plants and animals. On their developmental trajectory during the fifth millennium BCE, the foraging societies of northern and western Europe may well have been on the way to being early analogs of more recent complex foragers such as the inhabitants of the cedar longhouses of the Northwest Coast. Yet they changed course abruptly around 4000 BCE and joined the Neolithic project without being overrun by demographically-expanding farmers. The question is what finally tipped the scales in favor of an uptake of farming across northern Europe around 4000 BCE. Widespread changes in



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the late fifth millennium BCE, including sedentism promoted by watercraft and industrial-scale fish trapping, may have begun to undermine the traditional forager values. Increasing contacts across the borderlands and straits between the Danubian world and the foraging world brought “Neolithic things and practices” to the attention of foragers. By the final centuries of the fifth millennium BCE, the traditional values that had sustained the successful Mesolithic economy had been weakened, but not yet abandoned. My suggestion is that mundane elements of the Danubian economy, such as dairy production and possibly beer-making, functioned as disruptive innovations that penetrated the forager economy, bringing with them the motivation to keep cattle and grow grain. Adoption of these innovations by a critical mass of foraging households and communities triggered a cascade of agricultural uptake throughout northwestern Europe. At the same time, tensions in the Mesolithic world between tradition and innovation resulted in regional heterogeneity in the pace of the transition to food production, thus, leaving an archaeological record that frustrates archaeologists looking for clear and unambiguous patterns.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Bernard Wailes stimulated the author’s earliest interest in prehistoric European farmers over 40 years ago. Ed Zschau and the focus on entrepreneurship that he fostered at Princeton University provided the impetus to link the concept of disruptive innovations with past advances in technology. Patrick McGovern made very helpful comments on a draft of this paper that led to several clarifications.

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2 Archaeology and Language: Why Archaeologists Care about the Indo-European Problem david w. anthony

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raining in four fields (archaeology, cultural, biological, and linguistics) is still required in many Anthropology Ph.D. programs in the U.S., but linguistics and archaeology have evolved in different directions. Today most archaeologists regard linguistics as a field that offers little in the way of elucidation to an archaeologist dealing with prehistoric, pre-literate, material remains. My interest in the cross-fertilization of Indo-European (IE) historical linguistics and archaeological interpretation once was a central subject of archaeological and anthropological research (Childe 1950; Gimbutas 1963; Vogt 1964). But, during the 1960s and 1970s, archaeology became oriented toward processual systems, ideology, and agency; and cultural anthropology began to regard language as a field of active cultural manipulation rather than a passive index of cultural identity. Instead of shifting to a new relationship, the main stream of archaeological thought drifted away from linguistics, particularly in Europe. Archaeologists have found productive connections between language history, reconstructed vocabularies, comparative mythology, and the interpretation of prehistoric archaeological evidence in the Americas (Ortman 2012; Bernardini et al. 2013), Africa (Blench 2006; Ehret and Poznansky 1982), and the Pacific (Kirch and Green 2001). At relatively shallow time depths—within the last millennium before texts appeared in a region—reconstructed vocabularies and mythological themes can provide intrigu-

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ing cultural explanations for archaeological puzzles. As, for example, the Siouan Red Horn myth might provide otherwise unknowable meanings for many ritual behaviors and artifacts found at Mississippian Cahokia (Brown 2003; Emerson et al. 2016; Pauketat 2004:114–16). The greater time depth of the Indo-European language family might be one reason why European archaeologists have steered away from linguistics and comparative mythology. But Indo-European linguistics carries other heavy baggage. The 200-year-long search for the archaeological origins of Indo-European languages is a particularly sensitive subject, thickly planted with political and theoretical landmines, within the archaeology of language. The expansion of the Indo-European languages was used during World War II as a prehistoric justification for the 20th-century expansion of the ‘Aryans’ of the Third Reich (Arnold 1990; Trautmann 2005) and to advance racist theories appropriated to support fascism and genocide. Sir William ‘Oriental’ Jones, who defined the Indo-European problem in 1786, was a prototype for the Orientalists, whose essentialist attitudes toward eastern Eurasian cultures were surgically disarticulated by Said (1978) in one of the most influential books in modern anthropology. The search for the location of the ProtoIndo-European (PIE) homeland has generated dozens of candidates, many advanced by scholars who were natives of the regions championed, making the homeland enterprise seem almost comically nationalist. Finally, the expansion of the Indo-European languages seemed to require significant migrations outward from the homeland, wherever that was, and migration fell out of fashion during the 1970s as an explanation for any observed change in the archaeological record. Migration was a regular constant in human behavior, not an unusual exception; and long-distance migrations were not chaotic events, but operated according to broadly shared, repetitive, predictable patterns—amenable to processual analysis (Anthony 1990; van Andel and Runnels 1995; Burmeister 2000; Orton 2012). Nevertheless, for a long time, migration was ignored in archaeological theory. Together these historical factors steered the study of Indo-European origins toward the margins of archaeological practice. If an archaeology graduate student today does take a linguistics course, it will probably be in sociolinguistics, and the course is likely to emphasize modern language socialization, discourse analysis, or multilingualism in the modern world rather than historical linguistics (language history) or language affiliation in non-states and distantly administered



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settings within states (but see, among others, Thomason and Kaufman 1988; Hill 1996; Silver and Miller 1997; Nettle 1998, 1999; Campbell 2002). Historical linguistics is a specialized field usually housed in language rather than anthropology or history departments. It is distinguished visually by its unfamiliar system of phonological notation arranged in derivations that make sense only if you know the rules of sound change. Sounds change in the human mouth in known directions, providing each sound in each word with a plausible and implausible set of derivations, and the statistical strength or regularity of sound changes has been examined across languages mathematically (Ringe and Eska 2013). The rules of sound change are the central facts that support the comparative method (Hoeningswald 1960), the cornerstone of historical linguistics. Historical linguists used the comparative method to correctly anticipate and predict the exact sounds that would later be found in inscriptions dated to previously unknown phases of language history, not once but three times (for Hittite, Greek, and Germanic inscriptions), proving the real-world validity of the rules of sound change over long periods of time. But the visual otherness of linguistic notation distances historical linguistics from archaeology. These notational, organizational, political, and historical problems are serious impediments to Indo-European studies. But we could get past them if we could agree on a methodology for linking archaeology and language. The central methodological problem preventing the integration of linguistics with the archaeological study of text-less societies is that the data sets don’t seem to match (Saarikivi and Lavento 2012). The immaterial sounds of speech cannot be predicted from silent material artifacts—or so we believe. In reality the linkage of material culture and language is under studied and, therefore, poorly understood. Archaeologists articulate our beliefs about the language/material-culture relationship using normative statements such as “pots do not equal people,” with “pots” serving as a stand-in for any type of material culture. Actually, pots and other material culture types sometimes are good indicators of ethnicity and language (Blench 2006; Chilton 1998; Weissner 1983; Jorgenson 1980:88; Clarke 1968:363–94; Vogt 1964) and often they are not (Welsch et al. 1992; Terrell 2001; MacEachern 2000). We don’t understand the determinants that mediate the relationship. The geographic distribution of languages is subject to ecological and economic constraints (Silver and Miller 1994; Smalley

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1994; Nettle 1998, 1999; Hill 1996; Nichols 1992), as is the geographic distribution of economic types, architecture, and other material practices. In principle, the two domains, material and linguistic, could be said to exhibit at least some shared geographic constraints, but this avenue of study is poorly explored by archaeologists. On the other hand, case studies comparing tribal material culture groups and tribal language groups in Africa, the Americas, and New Guinea frequently found that material culture style zones extended geographically far beyond local language groups. Usually material culture types and styles were shared between numerous interacting but linguistically distinct local tribes (Ortman 2012; Silver and Miller 1997:79–98; Jordan and Shennan 2003; Welsch et al. 1992; Terrell 2001). Tribal material culture styles and craft traditions often seemed to function as an extra-linguistic signal of interaction, exchange, and competition between linguistically diverse people. It is possible that congruent language-and-material culture distributions were the result of recent demographic migrations and expansions, and noncongruent distributions, like those just described, evolved in long-settled regions where increasing linguistic differentiation was buffered through the maintenance of shared material signals of community (Mallory 2008:9–14). But this subject also is under studied in the current environment of separation between linguistics and archaeology. In a thorough review of the archaeological and genetic evidence for a demographic wave of expansion by Neolithic farmers in Europe, archaeologist Peter Rowley-Conwy lightly side-stepped Renfrew’s hypothesis that the Indo-European languages expanded with Neolithic agriculture, not because he thought it was wrong, but because the language of the Neolithic population was irrelevant (Rowley-Conwy 2011:433): “Most European Neolithic archaeologists do not involve themselves in the linguistic debate, probably feeling that it can contribute little to the elucidation of the archaeological record.” This was a passing comment, not meant to ignite a quarrel about the relevance of Indo-European linguistics for archaeologists, but the skepticism it articulated is widespread. So why should archaeologists who study prehistoric Europe attempt to understand Indo-European linguistics if reconstructed proto-languages can contribute so little to the elucidation of the prehistoric archaeological record? I can think of three reasons.



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THREE REASONS FOR ARCHAEOLOGISTS TO CARE ABOUT THE INDO-EUROPEAN PROBLEM Reason #1: Proto-Indo-European is eloquent and real Language can illuminate the archaeological record in unique ways. Language is what makes humans human. Vocabularies and grammars contain a rich index of cultural beliefs and practices. Processual archaeology has long been criticized for neglecting the human subject/agent, and historical linguistics could allay some of those criticisms. A reconstructed vocabulary can reconstitute the meanings and cultural models that drove individual and group behavior in the world around the speakers of that vocabulary. Rather than continuing the rather sterile debates about the location of the PIE homeland, we should shift our attention to the cultural models and meanings implied by the PIE vocabulary. They are the real prize and the reason for an archaeologist to pursue the question of PIE origins. If we want to understand what the world meant from the subjective viewpoint of a prehistoric PIE-speaking agent, we can acquire a deeper understanding from an examination of his/her vocabulary and grammar (Benveniste 1973; Watkins 1995; Mallory and Adams 2006) than from a GIS viewshed analysis— although in an ideal world we would combine both sources of information. This has actually been done by archaeologists in the American Southwest. Here, reconstructed vocabularies and place-names, oral histories referring to prominent mountains, archaeological data including artifact types and architecture, biological skeletal data, and a GIS viewshed analysis of visible horizon features were combined by Bernardini et al. (2013), expanding on earlier work by Ortman (2012), to identify in an entirely new way the origin and route of prehistoric migrations of Tewa-speaking people. Language not only can be used by archaeologists, it is a rich source of information that deepens our understanding of the archaeological record and can be integrated with data gained from other sources such as GIS. But are proto-languages real? Can Proto-Indo-European be mapped and compared with archaeological cultures or other kinds of material-culture distributions? The linguist James Clackson (2007:16, 2012:265) warned against reifying PIE. He suggested that reconstructed PIE is like a constellation, composed of elements from different eras located at variable distances,

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an illusion that doesn’t exist in the real world. This metaphor permits PIE to float across chronological periods, and it reserves the study of PIE to an academically defined domain distant from actual time or geography—and, therefore, also from nationalism. The constellation analogy is reassuring politically, but is also misleading. A constellation has no effect on anything real. Proto-Indo-European is evident entirely through the profound, systematic, and quantifiable effects it had on the world’s languages. An actual language, PIE, must have been ancestral to the daughter IE languages, whose regular derivation from PIE is demonstrable by the comparative method. We can see distinct parts of PIE through different evidentiary lenses—phonology, syntax, morphology, vocabulary, poetic conventions, and comparative mythology—and they yield aligned perceptions (Watkins 1995). A constellation would disappear if the observer moved, but PIE gets more interesting when seen through different windows. Clackson did not say that PIE never existed, but only that it evolved and changed through time and that we cannot separate its earlier from its later materials prior to the appearance of its daughter languages in texts. This text-privileged view of language is not shared by all linguists. The chronological subgrouping problem has been addressed using both traditional (Meid 1975; Lehmann 1989) and new computational methods (Bouckaert et al. 2012; Jäger 2013; Chang et al. 2015). Clackson (2007:17) himself conceded that “it may be possible to assign some absolute dates to items of material culture, such as wheels [emphasis added] or the terminology for spinning wool.” Can we regard reconstructed PIE as if it were an actual language? First, obviously, the ancient language reflected in PIE is only partially recovered, so PIE is not a whole language; it is like a partial skeleton retaining some desiccated soft tissue. The core skeleton in the case of PIE is composed of reconstructed sounds. The units of sound reconstructed for each word root are accepted as being comparable to the units of sound in the actual ancestral word, although the exact phonetic realization would have varied. The sound system of reconstructed PIE is derived from the accumulated comparisons of thousands of individual cognates and yet presents a relatively coherent phonological system. Similar units of sound identify grammatical categories that are marked in the same way with the same phonological endings and conjugations across the PIE grammatical system. PIE grammar and phonology constitute an unremarkable human language that



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falls within the observed range for known modern languages (Anthony and Ringe 2015). That is a strong indicator that what is reconstructed, while not a whole language, is the skeleton of one. Archaeologists can think of reconstructed PIE as representing the partial remains of a regional linguistic phase, like a regional phase in material culture, that contains traces of both chronological (diachronic) and geographic (dialectical) variation. The meaning of a proto-word produces more debate than its sound because meanings don’t change according to regular rules like those that control sound change. The irregularity of meaning-shift events discourages some linguists to the extent that they deny the possibility of ever recovering original proto-meanings beyond rather broad categories such as ‘something that revolves’ (Heggarty 2007:322) where other linguists would reconstruct ‘wheel.’ But most linguists argue that at least some specific proto-meanings can be recovered (Benveniste 1973; Beekes 1995; Gamkrelidze and Ivanov 1995; Fortson 2010; Koivulheto 2001; Watkins 1995; Zimmer 2009). An example is ‘axle’, which has the same specific meaning in its cognates in Sanskrit (ákșas), Latin (axis), Lithuanian (ašìs), Germanic (eax), Celtic (echel), and Greek (áksɔ:n). Comparison of the sound changes in these cognates shows that, in each daughter branch, the sounds of each cognate can be derived in regular, predicted ways from a shared PIE root *h2eḱs-, which, therefore, existed in the late PIE parent from which all of these languages evolved (Mallory and Adams 2006:248; Anthony and Ringe 2015). Note that the Anatolian languages did not preserve a word derived from *h2eḱs, so Anatolian, the most archaic of the IE daughter branches ( Jasanoff 2003), might have split away before axles were invented. The meaning ‘axle’ for the post-Anatolian root *h2eḱs- is strengthened by its inclusion in a semantic field, ‘parts of a wheeled vehicle’ (Fig. 2.1), that contains at least four other reconstructed roots with ‘established’ meanings in late PIE: two words for wheel, *Hrotós and *kwékwlos, one noun for harness pole, *h2/3éyH-os, and a verb meaning to go in a vehicle, *wéǵh-e-ti (Anthony and Ringe 2015; Mallory and Adams 2006:247–50; Gamkrelidze and Ivanov 1995:621–27; Garrett 2006:144–45). One of these, *kwékwlos, the PIE root from which English ‘wheel’ evolved, produced ‘wheel’ words across almost all of the IE daughters, but again excluding Anatolian. This root for ‘wheel’ was formed from a PIE verb *kwel-, ‘turn.’ Gray and Atkinson (2005) suggested that it was natural for people to select the verb *kwel-, ‘turn,’ as the root for *kwékwlos, ‘wheel, thing

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2.1.  The geographic distribution of the major Indo-European language branches at about 400 BCE, with the five firm PIE roots referring to wheeled vehicles and their attestation in each daughter branch indicated by symbols. Both wheel roots (*Hrotó-s and *kwé-kwl-o-s) and the axle root (h2eḱs) were attested from Germanic to Indic; Tocharian retained the crucial *kwé-kwl-o-s root.

that turns,’ so it could have happened independently many times among long-dispersed IE daughter languages. They implied that the comparative method creates proto-roots and meanings that might not have existed in any real PIE vocabulary and that linguists might be unable to distinguish ‘real’ from apparent ancestral roots, a view aligned with that of Clackson (2007). But reconstructed PIE contains at least four different verb roots in the semantic field ‘turn,’ ‘spin,’ or ‘revolve’ (*kwel-, *h2werg-, *wert, *wel-), so the motivation for a shared ‘wheel’ word based on just one of these, *kwel-, was a specific, shared cultural choice, unlikely to have occurred repeatedly and independently among the dispersed daughters. Moreover, *kwékwlos was formed from *kwel- by reduplicating the initial ‘k’ and altering the sounds around it in an unusual manner, described by Ringe (Anthony and Ringe 2015:205) as: reduplication + zero-grade root + thematic vowel + nominative singular ending. No other noun in the PIE lexicon was made from a verb in that specific way. The duplication of the initial ‘k’ was like making an English noun ‘turn-er’ from the verb ‘turn’ by duplicating the ‘t’ and



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making ‘turn-ter.’ All of the IE daughters retained this unusual bit of playful reduplication connected with other unusual elements, which together make the formation of *kwékwlos unique within the IE languages. For dozens of widely separated languages to have independently created this unique word in each case when they needed a new word for ‘wheel’ would require a coincidence of staggering improbability (Anthony and Ringe 2015:204–5; Garret 2006:144–45). The alternative explanation, that *kwékwlos was part of the undifferentiated late PIE vocabulary, is the only viable explanation for the shared phonological root, which in each daughter retained specific meanings related to wheels and wheeled vehicles. Over the last 200 years, through debates such as this, linguists have refined a body of about 1500 unique roots, not all with established or clear meanings, but all analyzable as parts of the PIE vocabulary. Mallory and Adams (2006) have collected and grouped these very usefully by subject. The PIE vocabulary tells us that its speakers had not just wheeled vehicles, but institutionalized positions of leadership (at least three different roots that later ranged in meaning from ruler/director/king to ruler/master-over and ruler/strong-one) as well as an institution of clientship (literally ‘followers’). They had a kinship vocabulary most compatible with patrilineal, patrilocal lineages. They recognized the distinction between poverty and wealth and had bards who practiced an institutionalized form of elevated poetry that praised the gifts of immortal gods and mortal chiefs (Watkins 1995). They also had a rich vocabulary for strife (Mallory and Adams 2006:277–83), including four kinds of quarrel (accusation, argument, lawsuit, and bluster/rage), a root meaning ‘restitution,’ and separate roots meaning harm, strike/wound, stab, fight, destroy, victory, defend, raid/ booty, and army/warrior group (two or three different roots presumably originally referring to different kinds of war-bands). Many of these aspects of the prehistoric past are simply not knowable through the medium of archaeological evidence. Proto-Indo-European is an eloquent source of information about otherwise entirely prehistoric, text-less societies.

Reason # 2: Proto-Indo-European can be mapped in time and space Of course, in order to associate a proto-language with archaeological evidence, we must be able to confidently locate the proto-language in time and space. The best spatiotemporal evidence comes from two sources. One is located inside the proto-language itself: reconstructed words that

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refer to faunal, floral, geographic, climatic, economic, and technological (like wheels) aspects of the environment in which the proto-language was spoken. The other is outside the proto-language: borrowed words from or shared inheritance with other proto-languages that, therefore, must have been geographic neighbors. In the case of Proto-Indo-European, words for wool, sheep, cattle, milk and milk products, and plow or ard show that PIE speakers were familiar with an agricultural economy—they were not hunter-gatherers (Mallory and Adams 2006:136–41, 164–69). Even the most archaic phase of PIE, preserved uniquely in the Anatolian IE languages, was spoken after the invention of agricultural economies. Cognates of PIE *kwerus meant ‘cauldron’ in both Celtic and Sanskrit; and with other PIE words for containers this suggests a date after the invention of ceramic cooking vessels. Indo-European cognates also referred to institutionalized social inequality as briefly described above (Anthony and Ringe 2015:210–11), and this indicates that PIE probably was spoken not only after the beginnings of agriculture, but also among people who had institutions that recognized and celebrated social inequality. The five late PIE (post-Anatolian) cognates for wheeled vehicles show that the speakers of late PIE knew about wheeled vehicles and used words created within the late PIE language community to name their different parts. Late PIE, therefore, was spoken after wheeled vehicles were invented. The invention of the wheel-and-axle principle is well dated. Wheels did not appear anywhere in the archaeological record or in inscriptions before the fourth millennium BCE, and almost all of the archaeological evidence is dated after 3500 BCE (Bakker et al. 1999; Fansa and Burmeister 2004). Late PIE, containing a not-yet differentiated vocabulary for wheeled vehicles, therefore existed as a single language community after 4000 BCE and probably after 3500 BCE. Turning to geographic neighbors, loans from PIE into Proto-Uralic and structural similarities in pronouns between the Indo-European and Uralic languages show that PIE was spoken near Proto-Uralic (Parpola 2012; Koivulheto 2001; Janhunen 2001, 2000; Kallio 2001; Ringe 1997). Proto-Uralic was a language spoken by foragers, as we can see by the absence of terms for domesticated animals (except dog) or agricultural tools or foods in the reconstructed Proto-Uralic lexicon. The Uralic languages are distributed across the northern forest zone of Eurasia, and proto-



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Uralic was spoken somewhere near the Urals by forest-zone hunters and fishers (Parpola 2012). In addition, loans into PIE from a pre-Kartvelian language show that PIE was spoken in a region bordering the Caucasus (Gamkrelidze and Ivanov 1995; Nichols 1997). The Pontic-Caspian steppes lie between the Caucasus and the Uralic forest zone, the most plausible location for PIE given these internal constraints from shared loans and/or inheritances with neighbors. The IE languages of Anatolia retained archaic grammar and phonology and lacked a clear wheel vocabulary. The absence of a wheeled-vehicle vocabulary is consistent with many other signs of archaism in Anatolian. If the language that was ancestral to Anatolian separated before wheels were invented, the archaeological correlate of that separation could be represented by the documented migrations of the Suvorovo/Skelya/Sredni Stog cultures from the Ukrainian steppes into the lower Danube valley and the Balkans about 4400–4200 BCE. These migrations were associated with the abandonment of 500–600 tells and the end of the ‘Old European’ Copper Age tell cultures of the Karanovo VI/Varna/ Gumelnitsa type, after which the steppe-influenced Cernavoda I culture appeared in the lower Danube valley (Ivanova 2007; Bicbaev 2010; Anthony 2007, 2013; Krauss et al. 2016). All other IE daughter branches are descended from a language community that remained in the steppes until after wheeled vehicles were adopted, an event that cannot be dated earlier than 4000–3500 BCE. A deeper chronology was suggested by Renfrew (1987; 2002) and Bellwood (2013) who proposed that the expansion and differentiation of the IE daughter branches began about 6500 BCE with the spread of the Neolithic farming economy from Anatolia to Greece. The Anatolian hypothesis acquired strong and independent support from Bouckaert et al. (2012), who refined methods introduced by Gray and Atkinson (2003). Computational phylogenetic linguistics borrows methods from biological cladistics to analyze the evolutionary sequence and relationships of the IE languages as if they were a mutating virus that evolved as it spread through contagion. These methods had successfully identified the origins, relationships, and relative chronologies of mutating viruses and were modified to identify the origins, relationships, and relative chronologies of mutating languages in the IE language family, an interesting but imperfect analogy (Pereltsvaig and Lewis 2015:127ff.). Bouckaert et al. (2012) assigned estimated date ranges to branch separations or splits and concluded that the best date for

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the initial split between Anatolian and the other daughters was around 6500 BCE, congruent with the archaeological dating of the migration of the first farmers from Anatolia to Greece. But the dates estimated by Bouckaert et al. (2012) for all later branching events in their phylogeny clustered between 4500–3500 BCE, implying an unexplained delay of 2000 years between the first branching event and any later IE branches. These later dates are much too late to represent any of the archaeologically dated migrations of Neolithic populations from Greece to the rest of Europe (beginning 6200 BCE for the Starčevo/Criş migration into southeastern Europe, 5800 BCE for the Cardial-Impressed migration into the western Mediterranean, and 5500 BCE for the Linear Pottery Culture (LBK) spread into northern Europe). Moreover, the dates estimated by Bouckaert et al. for the later branch separations are not congruent with any archaeologically dated expansions outward from Greece—in fact, this is a time when the Greek Late Neolithic population declined precipitously. Overall, the Bouckaert et al. phylogenetic chronology does not correlate well with the archaeological dates for agricultural expansions in Europe. In addition, Neolithic farmers belonging to cultures such as the LBK or Cardial Neolithic certainly lacked wheeled vehicles. Whereas, the speakers of late PIE, after the separation of pre-Anatolian, just as certainly possessed wheeled vehicles. Bouckaert et al. (2012) did not address this seemingly insuperable chronological problem. Other teams of computational linguists ( Jäger 2013; Chang et al. 2015) used Bouckaert et al.’s methods with different constraints and smoothing algorithms and found that the chronological aspect of the phylogeny was vulnerable to significant shifts with small changes in the algorithms applied. Chang et al. (2015), using what they saw as more realistic constraints, estimated a more recent date for the initial differentiation of PIE, after 4500 BCE, in line with the steppe hypothesis and the wheel vocabulary. Computational phylogenetic approaches to language evolution represent a new set of methods that might at some point provide archaeologists with an independent way to date the nodes and splits in the evolution of the IE daughter branches and could conceivably help to map the geographic spread of languages (if languages can be said to spread by contagion, a problematic assumption), but it is a field that began only in 2002 (Ringe et al. 2002), and Bouckaert et al.’s (2012) refinement of the method contains assumptions that are just now being tested by Chang et al. (2015).



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Traditional linguistic approaches to identifying language homelands using time-sensitive and place-sensitive vocabulary and inter-language-family loans and relationships remain central to any solution of the problem of Indo-European origins. They suggest a homeland in the steppes after 4000–3500 BCE for the post-Anatolian phase of PIE. The Yamnaya culture appeared in the steppes about 3300 BCE and introduced a new, mobile form of nomadic pastoralism that depended on a novel combination of wheeled vehicles—which carried food, water, and shelter—and horseback riding— which made large-scale animal herding more efficient (Anthony and Brown 2011). The spread across the steppes of this new economy, with the social and political innovations it required, probably was the vector for the initial spread of the late PIE language within the western steppes. The steppe solution has support also from new discoveries in ancient DNA.

Reason #3: ancient DNA, archaeology, and language In the preliterate past, languages must have spread, at least to some extent, with migrants, and, thus, the study of ancient human DNA (aDNA), which can trace the migration of people, is relevant to evaluating different models of language dispersal by comparing the sequence of language splits to dated population expansions. Because aDNA is derived from graves that are assignable to specific regional-chronological archaeological groups and from human bones dateable by radiocarbon, it can be directly linked to archaeological evidence. It can also be used to distinguish between diffusion and migration, and to specify the degree of admixture at the destination. Archaeologists can identify regional gene pools and movement between them, and the extent of intermarriage or replacement. We no longer have to use artifact styles and types as proxies for people, a correlation we knew was often spurious and un-supported, but instead can consider type/style as an independent set of variables, to be measured against biological identity in specific cases. We have never before had such a precise tool for analyzing prehistoric migrations and kinship. Since about 2005, geneticists have achieved consistently reliable results identifying aDNA from human bones. Many studies between 2005 and 2010 were confined to easier-to-recover mtDNA (which is inherited only in the maternal line, so indicates maternal ancestry), but improved methods rapidly encompassed paternal lineage indicators on the Y chromosome, permitting analysts to compare paternal and maternal lineages in ancient

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humans (Lacan et al. 2011). The autosomal nuclear genes that contain the code for a whole human genome were more difficult to recover, since the human genome is much bigger than that of our cellular mitochondria, and in ancient samples the human nuclear aDNA is fragmented into tiny microscopic pieces that must be separated from the fragmented aDNA of microbes, which also inhabit the sample (usually composing 99% of the detected DNA). Only then can the human aDNA fragments above a minimal size (now about 30 base-pairs) be virtually reassembled into their proper sequences and places on the human genome, a time-consuming procedure with a genome 3.2 billion base-pairs long. A method used in David Reich’s laboratory at the Harvard Medical School and at the Max Planck Institute of Genomics laboratory at Jena, focused on 390,000 (recently up to 1.2 million) single-nucleotide polymorphisms (SNP’s) distributed across the human genome, representing the parts that vary significantly between modern human populations (Haak et al. 2015). This selected sample of genes is obtained and analyzed much more rapidly (a median of 262x less sequencing time) than an actual whole genome of 3.2 billion base-pairs, permitting many ancient individuals to be analyzed at the whole-genome level—230 prehistoric/protohistoric European individuals in the most recent study (Mathiesen et al. 2015). The initial results challenge established ideas about European prehistory, but also open up entirely new areas of interpretation. Preliminary results from what is now the Harvard-Jena group, which shares methods and samples (Haak et al. 2015; Mathieson et al. 2015) and simultaneously from Willerslev’s team in Copenhagen, using different methods and a different sample of prehistoric individuals (Allentoft et al. 2015), agree that European Mesolithic hunter-gatherers can be divided into at least three regional gene pools. It is possible that these represent three regional samples extracted from what was, in reality, more like a cline. The western group (Western Hunter-Gatherers or WHG) occupied most of Europe, from Spain to Luxembourg, Germany, Hungary, and Croatia; while the northern group (Scandinavian Hunter-Gatherers or SHG) lived in Sweden and Norway; and the eastern group (Eastern Hunter Gatherers or EHG) lived in the forest and forest-steppe zone of Russia and extended south into the steppes (Haak et al. 2015) and perhaps into the lower Danube valley. Strikingly similar mtDNA haplogroups (U4, U5) were shared between all three forager populations, but the patrilineal Y-chromosome markers dif-



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fered regionally, perhaps suggesting that long-distance wife exchanges occurred at least occasionally, while men were less mobile. The EHG contained a strong ancestral element from an Upper Paleolithic population represented archaeologically by a 22,000-year-old individual from Mal’ta, a site near Lake Baikal (Raghavan et al. 2014), referred to as Ancient North Eurasian (ANE). The ANE genetic element was 75% of the ancestry in the sampled EHG and 40% in American Indians, so seems to have been widely spread across northern Eurasia during the Late Pleistocene (Lazaridis et al. 2016). In western Europe, the WHG had only a minor component of ANE ancestry, while skin color and some other traits separated the SHG (paler skin) from the WHG (darker skin, sometimes with blue eyes). All three European Mesolithic populations were genetically distinct from the Neolithic Starčevo-Criş/Cardial-Impressed/LBK farmers whose ancestors migrated from Anatolia to Greece and Crete about 6500 BCE (Deguilloux et al. 2012; Lacan et al. 2011). These Early European farmers (EEF), whether in Greece (Early and Late Neolithic), Spain (CardialImpressed), Hungary (Starčevo-Criş), or Germany (LBK), were very similar to each other genetically (Skoglund et al. 2012; Haak et al. 2015). All shared a common genetic origin in Neolithic western Anatolia, as represented by five individuals from Menteşe Höyük and 21 individuals from Barcın Höyük in the northwest; how representative they are of other regions in Neolithic Anatolia is not known (Mathieson et al. 2015). After their migration to Europe, most of the EEF populations remained genetically distinct from the indigenous hunter-gatherers for the first one to two thousand years of the Neolithic, exhibiting a rate of admixture with the WHG, the foragers with whom they were most directly in contact, that is now estimated to have been only about 7–11% higher (Mathieson et al. 2015:529) than the Neolithic western Anatolians, who had little or no WHG admixture (Brandt et al. 2013; Bollongino et al. 2013; Szécsényi-Nagy et al. 2015; Haak et al. 2015). The very low initial level of genetic admixture with foragers among the EEF is unexpected, given that foods and raw materials were exchanged (Bogucki 2008; Oross and Bánffy 2009; Smith et al. 2015). It suggests that the initial expansion of farming was accomplished largely by immigrants who were genetically about as different from the indigenous foragers as modern western Europeans are from East Asians. The immigrant farmers traded with the indigenous foragers, but were reluctant to exchange mates with them and so retained 90% endogenous EEF ancestry across large regions

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and many centuries of time, challenging scenarios (Robb 1993; Thomas 2006) of a border-less flow of people and ideas between farmers and foragers. In the Middle Neolithic, during the late fifth and fourth millennia BCE, EEF individuals from a megalithic grave in Spain and from the Baalberge, Salzmunde, and Bernburg cultures in Germany showed higher percentages of WHG genes, indicating that by this time—after most of the former WHG population had adopted agricultural economies—significant intermarriage between these populations began. The biggest surprise of the new genetic research was a genetic shift dated to the Late Neolithic in Germany, 3000–2500 BCE, when the Corded Ware horizon spread across most of northern Europe (Fig. 2.2). Childe (1950:133–38) and Gimbutas (1963) speculated that migrants from the steppe Yamnaya culture (3300–2600 BCE) might have been the creators of the Corded Ware culture and carried IE languages into Europe from the steppes. Yamnaya was the first steppe culture to take advantage of both wagons (for bulk transport) and horseback riding (for rapid transport), creating a new and more mobile form of pastoralism in the steppes (Anthony 2007:300ff.). But the similarities between Yamnaya and Corded Ware were rather general—single graves under mounds, weapons in the grave, prominent gender distinctions in graves—rather than typologically specific, leaving open the possibility of a diffusion of ideas rather than people. Recent scholarship suggested that Corded Ware could be regarded as an indigenous northern European development without a necessary external component (Furholt 2003, 2014). However, aDNA from Corded Ware graves provided surprisingly strong evidence supporting the steppe migration theory (Haak et al. 2015; Allentoft et al. 2015). Four Corded Ware individuals buried at Esperstedt, Germany between 2500–2300 BCE, found in typical Corded Ware graves according to body position and pottery, along with an additional Corded Ware individual buried in an atypical ritual in an older Baalberge monument at Karsdorf, exhibited genomes that were a mixture of Eastern Hunter-Gatherer (EHG) and a previously unseen Near Eastern ancestry most similar to individuals from prehistoric northwestern Iran and the Caucasus. This EHG/Caucasus ancestry, measured at 390k locations across the whole genome, was very different from the local WHG, EEF, or the admixed WHG/EEF Middle Neolithic population in western and northern Europe. The new type was very similar to the EHG/Caucasus mixture that characterized nine Yamnaya-



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culture individuals from six kurgan cemeteries in the Volga-Ural steppes, dated 3200–2800 BCE (Haak et al. 2015), obtained during the Samara Valley Project (Anthony et al. 2005; Anthony et al. 2016). The tested Corded Ware individuals are modeled as having an ancestry 79% derived from Yamnaya, 4% from WHG, and 17% from EEF (Haak et al. 2015). Moreover, an independent, even larger study of Corded Ware individuals from Estonia, Poland, and Germany found a similarly high average proportion of Yamnaya ancestry, in this case using as the steppe example aDNA from a group of Yamnaya graves in the North Caucasus steppes, which turned out to be very similar genetically to the Yamnaya from Samara on the middle Volga (Allentoft et al. 2015). The strength of Yamnaya ancestry in all of the tested Corded Ware people is surprising, given that many were late Corded Ware individuals, not first-generation migrants, and they lived 3000 km west of the region from which the Yamnaya aDNA was recovered. In addition, uniparental markers also changed suddenly as mtDNA haplogroup N1a and Y haplogroup G2a, which had been very common in the EEF agricultural population, were replaced by Y haplogroups R1a and R1b and by a variety of mtDNA haplogroups typical of the steppe Yamnaya population. The uniparental markers show that the migrants included both men and women from the steppes. The Corded Ware individuals were not the only ones to show strong steppe ancestry. Ten Bell Beaker individuals dated 2500–2100 BCE from five cemeteries in Germany and nine Únětice individuals dated 2100–1900 BCE from four cemeteries all showed 50–70% Yamnaya-like ancestry (Haak et al. 2015: S.I. 3), but they also showed a resurgence of ancestry from the WHG and EEF inhabitants. Again, Allentoft et al. (2015) found the same pattern in a separate sample of Bell Beaker and Únětice samples. This more admixed Bell Beaker and Únětice sample was almost indistinguishable genetically from many modern Europeans. After the Bell Beaker period, the genetic composition of Europe continued to the present day without another demographic discontinuity comparable in scale to the Late Neolithic transition. The steppe-derived languages spoken by the Yamnaya migrants between 3000–2500 BCE, arguably the post-Anatolian variety of Proto-IndoEuropean with the shared wheel vocabulary, also could have continued to evolve in Europe without another major break. The languages spoken by the local Middle Neolithic population must have declined with the sudden reduction in its size.

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2.2.  Central and Eastern Europe ca. 3000–2500 BCE showing the early Yamnaya culture area 3300–2700 BCE and the Yamnaya migration up the Danube Valley with related/ offshoot Makó and Vučedol sites; also the distribution of Corded Ware sites in northern Europe; and site areas sampled for aDNA in Haak et al. (2015). The oldest Corded Ware radiocarbon dates are from southern and central Poland. The Yamnaya cemeteries in the Danube Valley are after Heyd (2011), the shaded Globular Amphorae site area is after Harrison and Heyd (2007); the Corded Ware and Globular Amphorae sites in southern Poland are after Machnik (1999); and the blue dots were all Corded Ware sites with radiocarbon dates as of Furholt (2003).



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A Yamnaya migration from the steppes up the Danube valley as far as Hungary was already accepted by many archaeologists (Fig. 2.2). Hundreds of Yamnaya-type kurgans and dozens of cemeteries have been recognized by archaeologists in the lower Danube valley, in Bulgaria and Romania; and in the middle Danube valley, in eastern Hungary, with radiocarbon dates that began about 3000–2800 BCE and extended to about 2700–2600 BCE (Ecsedy 1979; Sherratt 1986; Boyadziev 1995; Harrison and Heyd 2007; Heyd 2012; Frînculeasa et al. 2015). The migration stream that created these intrusive cemeteries now can be seen to have continued from eastern Hungary across the Carpathians into southern Poland, where the earliest material traits of the Corded Ware horizon appeared (Furholt 2003). Corded Ware sites appeared in Denmark by 2800–2700 BCE, probably within 100–200 years after the first Yamnaya migrants entered the lower Danube valley. This surprisingly rapid migration introduced genetic traits such as the R1a and R1b Y-chromosome haplogroups and a substantial element of ANE (Ancient North Eurasian) ancestry that remain characteristic of most northern and western Europeans today. Furholt (2014) argued convincingly that many of the material traits that define the Corded Ware culture originated in different places and were gradually networked together, so that the homogeneous A phase began after the earliest phase, which exhibited more variety. This suggested to him that the Corded Ware culture evolved from diverse sources locally in northern Europe. The oldest radiocarbon dates from Corded Ware sites occur in southern Poland (upper Vistula) and north-central Poland (Kujavia), and this was seen as the region where the early networking of amphorae styles from Globular Amphorae and axe types from Scandinavia began. The genetic evidence shows a somewhat different picture: the Corded Ware people were largely immigrants whose ancestors came from the steppes (probably immediately from eastern Hungary), but they quickly adopted local material traits in amphorae and axe types that obscured their foreign origins. Middle Neolithic northern European populations composed of admixed WHG/EEF survived but were largely excluded from Corded Ware cemeteries, and from marriage into the Corded Ware population. Even centuries after the initial migration the Corded Ware population at Esperstedt, dated 2500–2400 BCE, still exhibited 70–80% Yamnaya genes, although individual variations in the extent of local admixture were apparent. Intermarriage with the surviving local population was more frequent during the ensuing



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Bell Beaker period. However, the resurgence is more visible in mtDNA than in Y-DNA (Szécsényi-Nagy et al. 2015), suggesting that men of the older EEF heritage were disadvantaged more than women. Corded Ware represented a non-local extreme both genetically and economically. A systematic comparison of animal bone, feature, and sherd counts from broadly contemporary Globular Amphorae and Corded Ware sites in Kujavia, Poland (Czebreszuk and Szmyt 2011:251–52) showed that Corded Ware sites exhibited the fewest in all three counts, suggesting greater settlement mobility. Settlements were more permanent before the Corded Ware migration, and remained so among the Globular Amphorae people, who continued to create more localized site-and-cemetery groups in the same landscape with the more mobile immigrants. Afterward, during the Bell Beaker period, when local genetic ancestry rebounded and the population became more admixed, settlements again were more permanent. The Corded Ware culture introduced both a large, steppe-derived population and an unusually mobile form of pastoral economy that was a regional economic anomaly, but nevertheless survived in varying forms for centuries before the regional economic pattern was re-established. A steppe language certainly accompanied this demographic and economic shift. As we have seen above, there are good independent reasons (loans with Uralic and South Caucasian) to think that PIE was spoken in the steppes. It is likely that the steppe language introduced between 3000–2500 BCE was a late (post-Anatolian) form of PIE and survived and evolved into the later northern IE languages.

CONCLUSION Integration between formerly separate disciplines has changed how archaeologists can approach the problem of Indo-European origins and dispersal. New methods in computational phylogenetic linguistics and aDNA analysis have provided two independent sources of information about the timing of prehistoric language splits and the timing and demographic strength of ancient population movements. These new sources of information have expanded the tools available to archaeologists, permitting us to incorporate language history and reconstructed vocabularies into archaeological interpretation in new ways. The combination of these data sets is already challenging purely archaeological understandings of the past.

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The connection between the Yamnaya migration that flowed from the steppes into the Danube valley beginning about 3000–2800 BCE and the Corded Ware culture north of the Carpathians was archaeologically obscured by the rapid evolution among the Corded Ware people of a new material culture. Corded Ware material culture emerged out of an experience of cultural opposition between the immigrant pastoralists and the indigenous Globular Amphorae culture, tempered by centuries of continuing co-residence in the same landscape (Machnik 1999; Czebreszuk and Szmyt 2011). The migrants retained cultural preconceptions (the importance of individual distinction and warfare), economic patterns (mobile pastoralism), and genetic traits typical of the steppe Yamnaya culture as they moved into southern Poland, but they adopted new material types and variant versions of their ancestral funeral rituals, creating a set of customs that were neither simple copies of local ideas nor simple imports of Yamnaya behaviors. Instead they created a new hybrid material culture. Analysis of aDNA shows that they included both steppe men and steppe women and that few marriages occurred with the local inhabitants for many centuries. After decades of archaeological debate and analysis by very good archaeologists, archaeological evidence alone was not sufficient to reveal the scale and demographic nature of this migration. The element still missing, from this article as well as from the new publications on phylogenetics and DNA, is information derived from the reconstructed PIE vocabulary and comparative IE mythology. These sources can inform us about the cultural models, beliefs, and institutions that guided the migrants. However, European archaeologists have not yet decided if this is an admissible source of data, for a variety of reasons outlined at the beginning of this essay. If it is an admissible source, PIE contains vocabulary that can help to explain the process of language expansion and recruitment (Anthony and Ringe 2015:210–14). Patron-client relationships extended political protection to outsiders, guest-host relationships offered reciprocal obligations of hospitality, and feasting and praise poetry enhanced the individual prestige of patrons and hosts at public events, recruiting some local people into the IE social and political world. Balancing these positive attractions were negative compulsions: youthful warbands were a predatory IE institution that threatened the livestock and families of outsiders, and restitution for their depredations was possible only by appealing to IE institutions and patrons. These institutions, while not unique to the PIE community, were



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certainly present in it, and can help to explain the eventual recruitment of non-IE people into IE communities. This essay is dedicated to the memory of Bernard Wailes, who was my first archaeological field director, my patient dissertation advisor, my frequent host, my co-author (Anthony and Wailes 1988), my guest at the first field school I directed, and my fond friend.

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Renfrew, C. 1987. Archaeology and Language: The Puzzle of Indo-European Origins. London: Jonathan Cape. ———. 2002. The Emerging Synthesis: The Archaeogenetics of Farming/Language Dispersals and Other Spread Zones. In Examining the Farming/Language Dispersal Hypothesis, ed. P. Bellwood and C. Renfrew, pp. 3–16. Cambridge: McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research. Ringe, D. 1997. A Probabilistic Evaluation of Indo-Uralic. In Nostratic: Sifting the Evidence, ed. B. Joseph and J. Salmons, pp. 153–97, Philadelphia: John Benjamins Publishing Company. Ringe, D., and J.F. Eska. 2013. Historical Linguistics: Toward a 21st-Century Reintegration. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ringe, D., T. Warnow, and A. Taylor. 2002. Indo-European and Computational Cladistics. Transactions of the Philological Society 100:59–129. Robb, J.E. 1993. A Social Prehistory of European Languages. Antiquity 67:747–60. Rowley-Conwy, P. 2011. Westward Ho! The Spread of Agriculture from Central Europe to the Atlantic. Current Anthropology 52(S4):431–51. Saarikivi, J., and M. Lavento. 2012. Linguistics and Archaeology: A Critical View of an Interdisciplinary Approach with Reference to the Prehistory of Northern Scandinavia. Suomalais-Ugrilaisen Seuran Toimituksia 265:177–216. Said, E. 1978. Orientalism. New York: Pantheon Books. Sherratt, A. 1986. Two New Finds of Wooden Wheels from Later Neolithic and Early Bronze Age Europe. Oxford Journal of Archaeology 5:243–48. Silver, S., and W.R. Miller. 1997. American Indian Languages: Cultural and Social Contexts. Tucson: University of Arizona Press (especially pp. 79–98). Skoglund, P., H. Malmström, M. Raghavan, J. Storå, P. Hall, E. Willerslev, M.T.P. Gilbert, A. Götherström, and M. Jakobsson. 2012. Origins and Genetic Legacy of Neolithic Farmers and Hunter-Gatherers in Europe. Science 336:466–69. Smalley, W.A. 1994. Linguistic Diversity and National Unity: Language Ecology in Thailand. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Smith, O., G. Momber, R. Bates, P. Garwood, S. Fitch, M. Pallen, V. Gaffney, and R.G. Allaby. 2015. Sedimentary DNA from a Submerged Site Reveals Wheat in the British Isles 8000 Years Ago. Science 347(6225):998–1001. Stark, M.T. 1998. The Archaeology of Social Boundaries. Washington: Smithsonian Press. ———. 2003. Current Issues in Ceramic Ethnoarchaeology. Journal of Archaeological Research 11(3):193–242. Szécsényi-Nagy, A., G. Brandt, W. Haak, V. Keerl, J. Jakucs, S. Möller-Rieker, K. Köhler, B. Gusztáv Mende, K. Oross, T. Marton, A. Osztás, V. Kiss, M. Fecher, G. Pálfi, E.



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Molnár, K. Sebők, A. Czene, T. Paluch, M. Šlaus, M. Novak, N. Pećina-Šlaus, B. Ősz, V. Voicsek, K. Somogyi, G. Tóth, B. Kromer, E. Bánffy, K.W. Alt. 2015. Tracing the Genetic Origin of Europe’s First Farmers Reveals Insights into their Social Organization. Proc. R. Soc. B 282:20150339; DOI: 10.1098/rspb.2015.0339. Terrell, J.E., ed. 2001. Archaeology, Language and History: Essays on Culture and Ethnicity. Westport, CT: Bergin and Garvey. Thomas, J. 2006. Gene-Flows and Social Processes: The Potential of Genetics and Archaeology. Documenta Praehistorica 33:51–59. Thomason, S.G., and T. Kaufman. 1988. Language Contact, Creolization, and Genetic Linguistics. Los Angeles: UCLA Press. Trautmann, T.R., ed. 2005. The Aryan Debate. New Delhi: Oxford India Press. van Andel, T.H., and C.N. Runnels. 1995. The Earliest Farmers in Europe. Antiquity 69:481–500. Vogt, E.Z. 1964. The Genetic Model and Maya Cultural Development. In Desarrollo Cultural de los Mayas, ed. E.Z. Vogt and A. Ruz, pp. 9–48. Mexico: Universidad Nacional Autonoma de Mexico. Watkins, C. 1995. How to Kill a Dragon: Aspects of Indo-European Poetics. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Weissner, P. 1983. Style and Social Information in Kalahari San Projectile Points. American Antiquity 48(2):253–75. Welsch, R.L., J. Terrell, and J.A. Nadolski. 1992. Language and Culture on the North Coast of New Guinea. American Anthropologist 94(3):568–600. Zimmer, S. 2009. ‘Sacrifice’ in Proto-Indo-European. Journal of Indo-European Studies 37(1&2):178–90

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3 Materiality of Performance and Diversity of Practice: Comparing Bronze Age Pits in Southern Bavaria peter s. wells

REMEMBERING BERNARD WAILES

M

y first archaeological experience in Europe was joining Bernard Wailes’s field team at Dún Ailinne in the summer of 1969, the second season of excavation at the site. It was the summer following my junior year in college. The experience of working under Bernard’s guidance at that spectacular site was inspiring (I returned for the 1970 field season as well), and it solidified my plans to specialize in the archaeology of late prehistoric and early historic Europe. In addition to teaching us much about excavating a late prehistoric site, Bernard was generous with his time in taking the team on weekend fieldtrips. We visited sites on the Dingle Peninsula and in the northwest of the country, at Navan Fort (Emain Macha) in Northern Ireland, and Newgrange and Knowth, among other sites, in the central part of the country. These fieldtrips helped me to appreciate early in my career the relationship between archaeological sites and landscape, a connection that has remained important in my thinking about the sites that I have investigated. In my teaching, I still use many photographs that I took on those fieldtrips, scanned into digital format.

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FIELDWORK IN SOUTHERN GERMANY My own fieldwork in Europe began in the summer of 1978, two years after completion of my Ph.D., at the site of Hascherkeller on the outskirts of the city of Landshut in Bavaria, Germany (then “West Germany”). I had written my dissertation on the rich burials and Mediterranean imports of the Late Hallstatt and Early La Tène contexts in temperate Europe and wanted to excavate a settlement site that would provide data on the economy of the period just before the emergence of the communities that constructed the Early Iron Age fortified centers—such as the Heuneburg in southwest Germany and Mont Lassois in eastern France—and buried their elites in rich and complex graves—such as those at Hochdorf and Vix. The principal settlement at Hascherkeller (that is, the one that was most evident archaeologically), dated to the centuries just before the flourishing of the Early Iron Age centers (Wells 1983, 1993a, 2009). A decade later I excavated at the oppidum settlement at Kelheim (field seasons in 1987, 1990, and 1991), in order to collect data on the economy of Late Iron Age communities just before the Roman conquest of southern Bavaria in 15 BCE (Wells 1993b). As at Dún Ailinne, both the sites of Hascherkeller and Kelheim yielded remains of activity from other periods. At Dún Ailinne, the excavations uncovered materials of Neolithic and Bronze Age date ( Johnston and Wailes 2007:201–2). At Hascherkeller, in four seasons of excavation, 1978–1981, we encountered remains of the Early Bronze Age, the Late Bronze Age and Early Iron Age that were the focus of the project, the Late Iron Age, the high medieval period, and the mid-20th century. At Kelheim on the Danube, we also recovered remains of other periods, notably of the Early and early Middle Bronze Age and of the high medieval period.

REUSE OF SITES The deposition of materials from different periods of time on sites, as at Dún Ailinne, Hascherkeller, and Kelheim, as well as at a great many other sites, is an important phenomenon that has received some treatment in the literature (e.g., Hutton 2011) but that merits a great deal more attention. The question of greatest interest in this connection is, does the reuse of sites occur because the places have intrinsic characteristics that make them



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attractive, or does association with past human activity on sites attract later occupants? In the case of Dún Ailinne the hilltop location with extensive views over the surrounding countryside certainly made the site an attractive place for many reasons. The settlement remains at both Hascherkeller and Kelheim are situated on fertile land close to major rivers, offering ideal conditions for agriculture and daily life. In all three cases, it is possible that visible remains on the sites made them attractive to later occupants through the “aura” left by past activity.

MATERIALITY OF PRACTICE Since the excavation results at Dún Ailinne strongly point to the site serving as a place of ritual activity (Hicks 2007; Johnston 2007a, 2007b; Johnston et al. 2014), I think it appropriate to present here discussion of features for which a “ritual” interpretation (for lack of a better term) offers the best understanding. These are three pits of late Early Bronze Age (2000–1700 BCE) and early Middle Bronze Age (1700–1600 BCE) date that we encountered at Hascherkeller and at Kelheim. But in place of the word “ritual” (since it is so fraught in archaeological practice), I am going to use the term “practice” to refer to what people did at these places. As Joanna Brück (1999) has emphasized, our modern distinction between secular and ritual developed largely during the Enlightenment of the 18th century. For earlier times, we cannot assume that anything like that distinction existed. As Stephen Wilson (2000) shows for the Middle Ages, a great deal of activity that we would consider ritual or magic today was performed as a matter of course during daily life and during special occasions. We carry out similar practices today, though we rarely notice them, since they are simply part of our regular routines. My argument is that the patterned arrangement, including deposition, of objects can inform us about widespread beliefs, practices, and behavior in the past. Each of these concepts—patterned, arrangements, and objects—is critical to the argument. By patterned, I refer to the recurrence of specific kinds of objects situated in similar contexts within a specified geographical area and at a particular period of time. A single occurrence, whether of a unique pottery style, an atypical burial, or a pit with contents very different from every other pit of the period, is difficult to interpret, because it lacks cultural context. If

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we can identify a pattern in a practice, then it is likely that some consistent theme is represented. As I have argued at length elsewhere (Wells 2012:131–54), the way that people arrange things, whether incised lines on a bracelet or objects in a burial, can tell us a great deal about the kinds of information that they are communicating and about the relationships that they understand between designs, objects, and spaces. When in archaeology we are fortunate enough to recover objects in an undisturbed arrangement, as in a burial or in a pit, we can derive significant information from that arrangement. Objects can play many roles, and these roles can provide us with understanding of past behavior. Relations between humans and objects have become a topic of great interest in many humanities and social science disciplines, including archaeology. Examples especially relevant to the issues in this chapter include Appadurai (1986), Kopytoff (1986), Latour (2005), Turkle (2007), Miller (2008), Olsen (2010), Olsen et al. (2012), Hahn and Weiss (2013); for discussion, see Wells (2012: part II and pp. 226–28). Here I highlight three aspects of human-object relations that are important to my argument. Objects communicate. Jewelry and clothing that an individual wears inform us about that person’s status, role, aspirations, and much else. The objects that people display on their mantelpieces and coffee tables tell a great deal about who they believe, or want to believe, they are and to what they aspire. In prehistoric contexts, objects placed in burials or left behind on the floors of houses can provide similar insight into the minds and ideals of the people who left them. Objects are social. They are made or otherwise acquired by persons for some specific reason, they are often used in social interactions (vessels used at meals, objects given as gifts), and they represent relationships between individuals and groups. The principal category of material discussed in this paper, pottery vessels, is very strongly and directly social, in that it was used in the course of social interactions that took place at meals and feasts and other rituals of consumption. Objects embody ideas and beliefs, and they can make statements (Gosden 2005). This aspect is universally the case, in modern times as well as in the past, and it is especially important in prehistoric contexts. In literate societies, objects still play these roles, but they are not as all-encompassing as they were before writing was adopted as a means of recording and transmitting information.



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The practice that I examine is the practice of deposition—of depositing specifically selected objects in purposefully created spaces and in carefully placed arrangements. In small-scale societies, such as those of Early and Middle Bronze Age temperate Europe, the practice of deposition was most likely a social event, attended, witnessed, and participated in by a substantial portion of the small community—if not by all members, perhaps at least adult members (on ritual performance in small-scale societies, see Hull [2014]). Most communities at this time consisted of not more than 50 people, and those represented by the materials discussed here may have been made up of only 20 or 30. It is possible, however, that some rituals were performed by much smaller groups—single individuals or just a few persons. Deposition was a dramatic performance, not unlike that of burying the dead. Following the creation of the space for the deposit, then arranging the objects in it, the deposit was finally closed, removed from the sight of the participants, as it was covered over with earth. With archaeological evidence, we cannot ordinarily reconstruct all of the behaviors that accompanied the process of deposition—the sounds, aromas, movements of persons—that probably accompanied the process. But we can assume that the final covering of the deposit, causing it to disappear from sight, was a profound and memorable event for the participants. Through consideration of the three pits that form the focus of this chapter, together with other deposits from all over the European continent, I argue that these three apparently modest deposits allow us to draw three important conclusions. First, communities were performing practices that were not directly related to subsistence, manufacturing, or trade activities and that resulted in the formation of archaeological deposits in pits, where they have been protected by the overlying soil and, thus, have maintained their integrity over the past nearly 4000 years. Second, the use and deposition in pits of particular categories of ceramic vessels indicates practices similar to those carried out both in other parts of Europe and in other neighboring regions, including the Mediterranean Basin and the Near East. The evidence from these pits in Lower Bavaria demonstrates that it was not only individuals represented in the richly outfitted graves of this period (Needham and Woodward 2008; Strahm 2010), but even communities in areas without rich graves were participating in these widespread practices. Third, though the three pits considered here all yield evidence of similar practices, there was considerable variability in the ways that these practices were performed.

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The purpose of this chapter is to compare and contrast the three pits with regard to the character of their form and contents with respect to performances carried out at these sites. Each of these pits is the subject of other, more detailed, studies elsewhere.

THREE PITS OF THE EARLIER BRONZE AGE Hascherkeller Pit V Hascherkeller is a hamlet on the northern outskirts of the city of Landshut on the Isar River in Lower Bavaria (Fig. 3.1). The archaeological site is situated at the edge of the lowest terrace above the valley of the Isar. The land is covered with a layer of loess, which no doubt attracted agricultural communities since the Neolithic Period. Within the area of about 1900 m2 excavated during the four seasons at Hascherkeller, we encountered six pits that can be ascribed to the late Early and early Middle Bronze Age, Bronze Age A2/B1 in the standard chronological scheme of the area. This rather awkward designation applies to a number of other significant finds in the region, including pottery very similar to that found in these pits (e.g., Wullinger 2004; David 2006), suggesting that perhaps the chronological scheme needs to be revised. These pits contained 129, 92, 525, 22, 170, and 108 sherds, respectively (Wells 2010:193, table 1). Here I focus on one of these pits, designed by the letter V. Pit V was different from all of the others. Already at the base of the humic topsoil, the complete ceramic vessel shown in Figure 3.2 became apparent. This was the only complete vessel from any period that we encountered during the four seasons of excavation at Hascherkeller. The pit was 115 cm in diameter at the top (at the base of the humic topsoil) and just 18 cm deep. The top 10 cm of the pit contained many sherds of pottery, including a notable number of rim sherds, and much bone, including jaws and teeth (Fig. 3.3), identified by Brenda Benefit (1983:108) as the skeletal remains of a dog. A worked piece of an antler base was also present in this top level. This shallow pit had a profile shaped like that of a flattish bowl. Pit V contained the most sherds of any of the six Bronze Age pits—525. They included the full range of variation of all pottery of this period in the six pits (Wells 2010:194, table 2). A minimum of 17 vessels are represented



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3.1.  Map showing locations of the sites of Hascherkeller and Kelheim-Mitterfeld in Lower Bavaria, Germany. Locations of the larger cities in the area are also shown, as are the major rivers and the 400 m (above sea level) contour.

by the 525 sherds, and they include forms that we can designate as cups, bowls, and jars.

Kelheim Pit B Our excavations at Kelheim have all been on the Mitterfeld, the relatively flat land in the valley bottom just north of the Michelsberg hill and between that hill and the Altmühl River (Fig. 3.1). Originally the Danube flowed here (Rutte 1981:214–18), creating a broad, U-shaped valley and depositing rich sediments that provide the productive farmland on the south bank of the much smaller Altmühl. The Danube now flows roughly parallel to the Altmühl, on the other side of the Michelsberg, and the Altmühl flows into the Danube just east of the site. During the 1990 field season at Kelheim, in the course of our investigation of the Late Iron Age settlement on the site, we encountered two Bronze Age pits, designated Pit B and Pit D, situated about 5.5 m apart. Pit B was 1.35 m in diameter at its top, bowl-shaped, and 28 cm deep. It contained 79 sherds of pottery, 22.5 kg of daub, and 9 small fragments of animal bone.

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3.2.  Ceramic vessel from Pit V at Hascherkeller. Height 11.7 cm.

Among the 79 sherds of pottery, six cups are represented, one complete, the others fragmentary (Fig. 3.4). Of the six, two are elaborately decorated with unique patterns (Wells 2016), and three bear decoration that is well represented at other sites. (The sixth cup is represented by only two sherds, neither of which bears decoration, but since such a small portion of the vessel is represented, it cannot be said that the vessel was undecorated.) The daub recovered in this pit included remains of a structure, apparently roughly rectangular in shape (Fig. 3.5). The exact shape and character of this daub structure are unclear, but significant is the fact that the complete vessel (Fig. 3.4, top left) appears to have been purposely set upon this daub surface (Fig. 3.5).

Kelheim Pit D Pit D was 2.14 m in diameter at its top, bowl-shaped, and 58 cm deep. It contained 1935 sherds, 802 g of daub, a loom weight, two spindle whorls, two small bronze objects, and numerous fragments of metal-working debris. Among the sherds are those of a cup (Fig. 3.6) that resembles one in Pit B (Fig. 3.4, upper right). The ceramic assemblage includes an unusu-



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3.3. Parts of dog mandible from Pit V at Hascherkeller. For details, see Benefit (1983:108, table 15).

ally large number of sherds with handles on them large enough to accommodate an adult index finger (Fig. 3.7). A number of sherds have on them incised horizontal lines with groups of short vertical lines between them (Fig. 3.8), which are discussed below.

The Cultural Context of the Pits and Their Contents These three pits belong to the same cultural context of the latter part of the Early Bronze Age, roughly 2000–1700 BCE, and the start of the Middle Bronze Age (1700–1600 BCE) in this region (David 2006:101, fig. 2; Gerloff 2010:607, fig. 3). It must be said, however, that at the present state of

3.4. Complete cup (upper left) and sherds of four of the other five cups represented in Pit B at Kelheim.

3.5.  Daub surface showing complete cup in situ (circled) in Pit B at Kelheim. Depth about 10 cm below the top of the pit. The string marks the diameter of the round pit along which the pit was sectioned. The gravel matrix into which the pit was dug is visible at the bottom and on the left of the photograph.



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3.6.  Light gray cup from Pit D at Kelheim.

3.7.  Selection of ceramic handles from Pit D at Kelheim, including a variety of sizes and textures.

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research, assigning specific dates to pottery of this context is not possible. The sites of Hascherkeller and Kelheim are about 45 km apart. With the exception of the two cups from Kelheim shown in Figure 3.4 on the top left and bottom left, all of the pottery in the two pits is of types and decorative patterns that are well known from other sites in the region (see e.g., Wullinger [2004] with references to other sites). At neither site were the pits clearly connected with settlement remains. No discernible occupational debris of the Early or Middle Bronze Age was recovered at either site, nor were postholes or other evidence of houses of this period. These pits show something other than direct results of domestic activity—they show particular practices that were carried out at the site of these pits, whether or not settlements were nearby.

PIT STRUCTURES AND CONTENTS AS RESULTS OF PERFORMANCES The evidence recovered from the three pits enables us to make significant observations about behavior with respect to the materials found in them on the part of those who arranged the objects. All three pits were circular at the top (at the level at which they could first be discerned at the top of the subsoil/base of the humus) and were bowl-shaped. The shape can be an important indicator of the purpose for which the pits were dug. Other investigators have suggested that shallow pits with bowl-shaped sections are often associated with “structured deposits”—intentional deposits of material that are not directly associated with human burials and not part of typical occupation debris (Richards and Thomas 1984; Thomas 1999:73; Pollard 2001:325, 328). In this part of Europe, storage pits dug for keeping grain tend to have steep sides and flat bottoms (Thomas 1999:64), very different in character from these three. The presence of the dog skeleton in Pit V at Hascherkeller indicates that this pit served a specific purpose as the burial place of a dog. Dog burials are well documented in other contexts in prehistoric Europe (Makiewicz 2000). The intact Early Bronze Age cup placed at the top of the deposit is another indicator that this is a special deposit, not a hollow on a settlement into which debris found its way. Pit B at Kelheim was quite evidently a “structured deposit” as well, but of a different kind. The unusually high proportion of cups indicates that the



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materials in this pit are not typical remains of everyday activity on a settlement. Since each of the six cups is substantially different from the other five, it appears that the people who created the deposit selected one each of six different kinds of cup available in the ceramic assemblage of the community to add to this deposit. Pit D differs from the other two not only in its overall size and quantity of pottery, but also in the make up of the assemblage of objects deposited in it. Three categories of materials represent three principal manufacturing processes carried out in Bronze Age communities—pottery production, weaving of textiles (loom weight and spindle whorls), and metalworking. Mary Helms (2012) and Vesa-Pekka Herva et al. (2014) have recently argued that the processing of raw materials to transform them into useful cultural goods during the Neolithic Period and the Bronze Age constituted a profound change in people’s relationships with the natural world and, thus, changes in their perceptions of their places in the world. Clay and water, shaped by human hands and baked by firing, resulted in ceramic vessels useful both for everyday purposes and for special practices, such as burial and deposition. Wool shorn from sheep could be spun and woven to produce textiles for clothing. Metal ore could be smelted, then the resulting metal shaped through hammering or casting, to make both tools and ornaments. The deposition in Pit D of materials representing all of these crafts may have been part of a performance celebrating the processes through which they were manufactured. Pit D also contained 23 sherds of pottery, representing at least four different vessels, that had been incised before firing with horizontal and vertical lines arranged in groups (Fig. 3.8). In those cases where the number of lines in a group could be clearly ascertained, six lines were most common. The fact that lines were clearly arranged in distinct groups, with spaces between the groups, suggests that they represented some form of notation. The lines were not restricted to one category of pottery. The four vessels represented by the sherds bearing these linear patterns range from thickwalled coarse pottery to very thin fine ware. These arrangements of vertical lines will be the subject of a separate study. The structure and contents of the three pits enable us to reconstruct the process of the performances in some detail. Four steps in this process can be identified; others may have taken place that did not leave clear archaeological evidence.

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3.8. Sherds from Pit D at Kelheim with pattern of carefully incised vertical lines between horizontal lines that encircled the vessels. Note the variety of textures among the sherds and the white filling in the lines on the sherds in the center of the photograph.

First, the pit was dug. At Hascherkeller, it was dug into the loess subsoil, at Kelheim into the limestone gravel underneath the topsoil (visible in Fig. 3.5). Second, objects were used as part of a performance. In all three, the presence of pottery associated with the consumption of both beverages (cups) and foods (bowls, large jars) suggests that some kind of practice involving feasting was part of the proceedings. At Hascherkeller, the quantity of pottery that accompanied the remains of the dog imply that a ceremony was part of the proceedings, and the pottery used in that ceremony was subsequently deposited in the pit, with the complete pot placed strategically on top. At Kelheim, in Pit B, the quantity of pottery was smaller, but we can say with some assurance that the cups represent an activity that involved specifically the consuming of beverages, with the placing of the two highly decorated vessels on the daub surface at the conclusion. Similarly, in Pit D, feasting of some kind is suggested by the range of vessel forms



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deposited in the pit, along with the objects representing the crafts of textile production and metalworking. Third, objects were arranged, not just placed, in the pits. For the majority of the sherds recovered, it is not possible to ascertain exactly how the ceramic vessels, or fragments of them, were arranged. But it is clear that in Hascherkeller Pit V, the intact cup in Figure 3.2 was set on the top of the deposit. In Kelheim Pit B, both cups on the left in Figure 3.4 were placed on the daub surface shown in Figure 3.5. In Kelheim Pit D, all of the pottery, together with the spindle whorls, the loom weight, and the two bronze objects, were placed on top of the metal-working debris at the bottom of the pit. Fourth, the deposited objects, including the vessels placed on top of the two pits, were covered with earth, thereby removing them from the visible world of the community. The fact that the Hascherkeller cup and the one cup (Fig. 3.4, top left) at Kelheim were intact when found, though they were on top of their respective deposits, indicates that they were covered along with the rest of the pit contents, thus protecting them from damage. In all three cases, the entire process was probably a series of dramatic performances before an audience of community members. To what extent the entire community participated in drinking and feasting before the deposition of the materials in Haschekeller V is unclear, but surely the interment of the dog and the covering over of the deposit was a dramatic event. In the case of Kelheim B, the presence of six cups, two highly decorated, suggests a smaller group participating directly in drinking activity, but again, the final burying of the deposit was likely a dramatic event, concluding with covering over of the ornate cups that had been placed on top. The larger quantity of pottery in Pit D and perhaps especially the unusual number of handled vessels, suggests the participation of a larger number of people in the event represented at that pit.

POTTERY AND PERFORMANCE IN THE EUROPEAN BRONZE AGE Pottery Vessels as Visual Media Each pit contained objects that were designed specifically to be highly visual in character, and their visuality was a powerful medium for use in

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communication. I have argued elsewhere (Wells 2008, 2009, 2010, 2012) that the visual aspects of prehistoric material culture are critical for our understanding of why they were made as they were and how people responded to them, and that the visual character of material culture is a largely untapped resource of information about the prehistoric past. The visual character of material culture is highly important as communication in all cultural contexts, but in societies that do not use writing it is all the more important. The role of visuality is apparent in the character of the pottery in these pits. During later periods of prehistory (Neolithic, Bronze Age, Iron Age), pottery was of singular importance as a medium to bear information conveyed by form, size, color, texture, and decoration (Wells 2012:72–98). Pottery vessels were the largest human-made objects that were part of the visual world (in the sense of Gibson 1979) of Bronze Age Europeans. From their earliest childhood, people saw pottery in their houses and felt its hardness and its texture. Pottery was the essential vehicle used in the social practice of consuming meals. The importance of pottery in people’s minds is also apparent in its role in funerary practice. While in theory all foods and liquids could be served in vessels of the same form, by the Early Bronze Age, pottery assemblages had been diversified into at least the three distinct forms that we call cups, bowls, and jars (discussion in Wells 2009, 2010). Cups are small and deep, hand-sized vessels, usually with handles, which we assume were used for drinking liquids. Bowls are more or less flat vessels with a large open mouth and sloping sides. Jars are large, tall vessels with constricted necks and small openings at the top. In the Early Bronze Age, cups often bear decoration which can be elaborate, as in the cases of the two cups in Kelheim Pit B shown on the left in Figure 3.4. Bowls are generally not decorated, though they sometimes have incised lines on the rim. Jars are often ornamented with a horizontal ridge bearing fingertip impressions, and fingertip impressions sometimes decorate the rim as well. Among these three basic forms, cups stand out as the category most often bearing complex decoration. The complete cup from Pit V at Hascherkeller (Fig. 3.2) is of a form common in the Early Bronze Age, and it bears one of two kinds of decoration of the period. Its shape is bulbous, with broadly rounded body, somewhat constricted neck, and flaring rim. The eye is immediately caught by the four deeply incised lines that run around the vessel at the shoulder, stopping at either side of the handle. (It is likely that these incised lines origi-



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nally held a whitish material, ground limestone or shell.) These lines mark a boundary between the main body of the vessel, where the liquid was held, and the top, from which the drinker would drink. They contribute texture to the vessel. Without the lines, the vessel would have an overall smooth surface, one that would not hold a viewer’s visual attention. As James Gibson (1979) demonstrated, texture captures and holds attention in a way that smooth surfaces do not. The lines serve no “practical” purpose—the cup would work just as well without them. The visual features of the cup signal a specific message to the viewer—this is an object associated with the consumption of beverages (the exact nature of which we do not know), most likely in a social setting. On different cups, the number of incised horizontal lines varies (the fragmentary cup in Kelheim Pit B, shown in Figure 3.4, bottom right, has six), but four is the most common number, as here. The other common type of decoration of cups of this shape consists of incised small triangles along the shoulder pointing downward and filled with little “pinholes” made with a pointed tool (as in the fragmentary vessel in Fig. 3.4, bottom row, middle). The complete cup from Pit B at Kelheim is considerably smaller and is roughly cylindrical in shape (the body bulges slightly in the middle) rather than bulbous. It bears a much more complex ornament than the horizontal lines on the cup from Hascherkeller V that is not represented on any other published vessel. This ornament consists of patterns of vertical, horizontal, and zigzag lines (Fig. 3.4, top left). The fragmentary cup shown in Figure 3.4, bottom left, similarly bears horizontal, vertical, and zigzag lines, but in different patterns. The complex decoration on these two cups is dealt with in detail in another paper (Wells 2016). Both of these elaborately ornamented cups present a level of visual complexity that Gell (1992) called “enchanting”—they seize and hold the viewer’s attention in a way that other, plain or more modestly ornament vessels, do not. Among the pottery sherds in Pit D, the most significant feature is the pattern of short vertical lines incised between horizontal lines that extend around the circumference of four of the vessels (Fig. 3.8). The significance of these linear patterns will be explored in detail in another paper.

Performance Practices Reflected in the Pits In all three of these pits, cups, including both small, hand-sized vessels and larger containers with handles extending from rim to shoulder, play a

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special role. In Hascherkeller Pit V and at Kelheim Pit B, they were placed on top of the other deposited materials, constituting the final visual effect of the deposition on the audience and creating a lasting visual memory as the deposit was closed with earth. As Stuart Needham has made clear in a number of publications (e.g., 2006a, 2006b, 2009; Needham et al. 2006), cups, either of precious substances or of exceptional decoration, had particular significance throughout Bronze Age Europe. Gold cups, some with handles, some without, have been recovered at Ringlemere (Kent) and Rillaton (Cornwall) in Britain. In continental Europe, gold cups of this period come from Fritzdorf (Rhineland-Westfalia) and Gölenkamp (Lower Saxony) in Germany, Eschenz (Thurgau) in Switzerland, and Ploumilliau (Côtes-d’Armor) in France. Silver cups are recorded from Saint-Adrian (Côtes-d’Armor) and Saint-Fiacre (Morbihan) in France. An amber cup was recovered at Hove in West Sussex in Britain. And shale cups are known from several sites in Britain (Needham 2009:16–17, fig. 2.1). Specially decorated pottery cups have been recovered at a number of sites in the central regions of the continent (see e.g., Gersbach 1974:242, fig. 8, 2 and motifs in Torbrügge 1959: pl. 80, 9–13). To understand the full significance of this phenomenon of small, special (whether by virtue of precious material or by unusually elaborate decoration) cups, we need to look further afield, beyond Europe. A useful object for comparison comes from far to the east and south. The scene in the top register of one side of the “Royal Standard of Ur” (around 2400 BCE) shows seven figures, one larger than the others and facing the other six, all holding cups aloft in what looks for all the world like a ritual “toast” of today (Hansen 2003). No other vessels are evident in this scene except the cups. The scene represents a ceremony of some kind, with the figure on the left considerably larger than the other six. The larger figure wears a distinctive kind of garment, while the other six all wear garments of much less ornate character. The scene includes a musician playing a lyre, indicating other media in the context of the ceremony besides the performances by the seven participants who are holding cups. Three other individuals are shown standing (as is the lyre player) and appear to be waiting on the celebrants. A final figure, to the far right behind the musician, may represent a singer, as Hansen suggests. This scene, while crafted several centuries earlier than the time that the deposits were made at Hascherkeller and at Kelheim and hundreds of



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miles away in a different cultural context, still provides a useful model for how we can think about a performance that preceded the depositing of the cups and other objects in our pits. With new discoveries and new scholarship, it is becoming increasing clear both to scholars whose studies focus on temperate Europe and scholars whose focus is on the Near East that communities in temperate Europe were in contact with communities as far away as the Near East (Gerloff 1993, 2010; Larsen 2008). The evidence of cup use throughout Europe, the eastern Mediterranean lands (Aruz et al. 2008), and the Near East indicates similar patterns of practice involving cups and performances.

DIVERSITY, PERFORMANCE AND CHANGE IN EARLIER BRONZE AGE EUROPE The most important point to emerge from this brief examination of three pits of the earlier Bronze Age in Lower Bavaria is that while they share significant features—pottery representing all categories of vessels of the time, including handled cups of different sizes and styles of decoration, they also demonstrate the diversity of the practices that led to the deposits that archaeologists recover. The idea that such features could be “trash pits” has long since been discarded as anachronistic, and both the shapes and sizes of the pits and the character of the materials in them indicate that they do not represent settlement debris that found its way into hollows. All human-made deposits, including pits, were created in the process of some purposeful behavior, and to understand why such deposits were made, we need to investigate the associated behaviors. We can understand the efforts and the materials expended in these three deposits in terms of practices (“rituals”) that were conceived and performed in the context of the major cultural changes taking place throughout much of Eurasia at this time, in social organization, political structure, local economies, and trade (overview in Broodbank 2013:345–444; see also Strahm 2010). Change requires readjustment on the part of all people affected. To situate the pit deposits considered in this paper, we can think of the importance of ritual performances in two interrelated but different ways, one mainly economic and political, one mainly ideological or cosmological. Economies were changing during the Early and Middle Bronze Ages. The systems that expanded to mine and smelt copper and tin, to transport

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the metals, to alloy them, and to fashion them into finished goods, as well as the growing trade in amber, glass, and other materials, required reorganization of the agricultural economy with the aim of producing larger surpluses to support the intensifying commercial activities. More people needed to devote their time and labor to these tasks, and more administration was required to coordinate and oversee these efforts. Leaders of communities emerged to carry out these organizational tasks. Ritual performances served social and political purposes to legitimate the increasingly important roles of leaders, as well as to represent through the manipulation of material culture (cups and other significant objects) the changes that all members of the communities were experiencing and could expect in the future. As Helms (2012) and Herve et al. (2014) have argued, the exploitation and manipulation of new raw materials during the Neolithic Period and the Bronze Age changed people’s relationships with the material world and with their natural surroundings. Digging clay for pottery and mining ore for copper and tin, involve new relationships with the earth. The fire required to bake pottery, to smelt ore, and to cast metal, resulted in transformation of material objects from one state to another. All of these practices must have involved profound rethinking about the natural forces that affected human life. The deposits may well have been part of performances intended to propitiate forces that people did not understand, but that they knew were powerful. The material remains resulting from these performances enable us to gain some insight into the ways that Bronze Age Europeans used their crafted objects to negotiate their relationships with both the natural and the social world during these times of immense cultural change.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The excavations and subsequent research at Hascherkeller and Kelheim were supported by the National Science Foundation (BNS78-07349, BNS8209930, and BNS900416402), the National Geographic Society, Earthwatch and the Center for Field Research, the Faculty of Arts and Sciences of Harvard University, Research Explorations of the University of Minnesota, and the University of Minnesota. I thank Peter Schröter, Rainer Christlein, and Bernd Engelhardt for helping to arrange these excavation projects and for their permission to carry them out, and Ingrid Burger-Segl and Petra



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Neumann-Eisele for providing the excellent facilities of the Archaeological Museum of the City of Kelheim for the processing, study, and storage of the excavated materials. The Department of Anthropology and the Imagine Fund of the University of Minnesota have been generous in providing support for my study of the objects. I thank the editors of this volume, Peter Bogucki and Pam Crabtree, for inviting me to contribute this paper, and to the anonymous reviewer for suggestions, which I have incorporated into the text. I am also grateful to Matt Edling, Managing Director of the Anthropology Laboratories at the University of Minnesota, for his help with the illustrations.

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H. Meller and F. Bertemes, vol. 2, pp. 603–39. Halle (Saale): Landesmuseum für Vorgeschichte. Gersbach, E. 1974. Ältermittelbronzezeitliche Siedlungskeramik von Esslingen am Neckar. Fundberichte aus Baden-Württemberg 1:226–50. Gibson, J.J. 1979. The Ecological Approach to Visual Perception. Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates. Gosden, C. 2005. What Do Objects Want? Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 12(3):193–211. Hahn, H.P., and H. Weiss, eds. 2013. Mobility, Meaning and the Transformation of Things: Shifting Contexts of Material Culture Through Time and Space. Oxford: Oxbow Books. Hansen, D.P. 2003. “Standard of Ur.” In Art of the First Cities: The Third Millennium B.C. from the Mediterranean to the Indus, ed. J. Aruz, pp. 97–100. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Helms, M.W. 2012. Nourishing a Structured World with Living Metal in Bronze Age Europe. World Art 2(1):105–18. Herva, V.-P., K. Nordqvist, A. Lahelma, and J. Ikähelmo. 2014. Cultivation of Perception and the Emergence of the Neolithic World. Norwegian Archaeological Review 47(2):141–60. Hicks, R. 2007. Dún Ailinne’s Role in Folklore, Myth, and the Sacred Landscape. In Dún Ailinne: Excavations at an Irish Royal Site, 1968–1975, ed. S.A. Johnston and B. Wailes, pp. 183–94. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology. Hull, K.L. 2014. Ritual as Performance in Small-Scale Societies. World Archaeology 46(2):164–77. Hutton, R. 2011. Romano-British Reuse of Prehistoric Ritual Sites. Britannia 42:1–22. Johnston, S.A. 2007a. The Larger Archaeological Context. In Johnston and Wailes, pp. 195–200. ———. 2007b The Social and Cultural Context of Dún Ailinne. In Dún Ailinne: Excavations at an Irish Royal Site, 1968–1975, ed. S.A. Johnston and B. Wailes, pp. 201–10. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology. Johnston, S.A., P.J. Crabtree, and D.V. Campana. 2014. Performance, Place and Power at Dún Ailinne, a Ceremonial Site of the Irish Iron Age. World Archaeology 46(2):206–23. Johnston, S.A., and B. Wailes. 2007. Dún Ailinne: Excavations at an Irish Royal Site, 1968– 1975. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology.



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Kopytoff, I. 1986. The Cultural Biography of Things: Commoditization as Process. In The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective, ed. A. Appadurai, pp. 64–94. New York: Cambridge University Press. Larsen, M.T. 2008. The Middle Bronze Age. In Beyond Babylon: Art, Trade, and Diplomacy in the Second Millennium B.C., ed. J. Aruz, K. Bensel, and J.M. Evans, pp. 13–17. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Latour, B. 2005. Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network Theory. New York: Oxford University Press. Makiewicz, T. 2000. Hund und Hundegräber: Archäologisches. Reallexikon der germanischen Altertumskunde 15:219–32. Miller, D. 2008. The Comfort of Things. Cambridge: Polity. Needham, S. 2006a. Precious Cups of the Early Bronze Age. In The Ringlemere Cup: Precious Cups and the Beginning of the Channel Bronze Age, ed. S. Needham, K. Parfitt, and G. Varndell, pp. 53–67. London: The British Museum. ———. 2006b. Precious Cups: Concept, Context and Custodianship. In The Ringlemere Cup: Precious Cups and the Beginning of the Channel Bronze Age, ed. S. Needham, K. Parfitt, and G. Varndell, pp. 69–73. London: The British Museum. ———. 2009. Encompassing the Sea: ‘Maritories’ and Bronze Age Maritime Interactions. In Bronze Age Connections: Cultural Contact in Prehistoric Europe, ed. P. Clark, pp. 12–37. Oxford: Oxbow Books. Needham, S., K. Parfitt, and G. Varndell, eds. 2006. The Ringlemere Cup: Precious Cups and the Beginning of the Channel Bronze Age. London: The British Museum. Needham, S., and A. Woodward. 2008. The Clandon Barrow Finery: A Synopsis of Success in an Early Bronze Age World. Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society 74:1–52. Olsen, B. 2010. In Defense of Things: Archaeology and the Ontology of Objects. New York: Altamira Press. Olsen, B., M. Shanks, T. Webmoor, and C. Witmore. 2012. Archaeology: The Discipline of Things. Berkeley: University of California Press. Pollard, J. 2001. The Aesthetics of Depositional Practice. World Archaeology 33(2):315–33. Richards, C., and J. Thomas. 1984. Ritual Activity and Structured Deposition in Later Neolithic Wessex. In Neolithic Studies: A Review of Some Current Research, ed. R. Bradley and J. Gardiner, pp. 189–218. Oxford: BAR British Series 133. Rutte, E. 1981. Bayerns Erdgeschichte. Munich: Ehrenwirth. Strahm, C. 2010. Die ökonomischen und ideellen Bedingungen der Formation frühbronzezeitlicher Eliten. In Der Griff nach den Sternen: Wie Europas Eliten zu Macht und Reichtum kamen, eds. H. Meller and F. Bertemes, vol. 1, pp. 163–76. Halle (Saale): Landesmuseum für Vorgeschichte.

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Thomas, J. 1999. Understanding the Neolithic. London: Routledge. Torbrügge, W. 1959. Die Bronzezeit in der Oberpfalz. Kallmünz: Michael Lassleben. Turkle, S., ed. 2007. Evocative Objects: Things We Think With. Cambridge MA: MIT Press. Wells, P.S., ed. 1983. Rural Economy in the Early Iron Age: Excavations at Hascherkeller, 1978–1981. Cambridge, MA: Peabody Museum. ———. 1993a. Investigating the Origins of Temperate Europe’s First Towns: Excavations at Hascherkeller 1978 to 1981. In Case Studies in European Prehistory, ed. P. Bogucki, pp. 181–205. Boca Raton: CRC Press. ———. 1993b. Settlement, Economy, and Cultural Change at the End of the European Iron Age: Excavations at Kelheim in Bavaria, 1987–1991. Ann Arbor: International Monographs in Prehistory. ———. 2008. Image and Response in Early Europe. London: Duckworth. ———. 2009. Pottery and the Visual World at Early Iron Age Hascherkeller, Germany. Journal of Field Archaeology 34:117–33. ———. 2010. Early Bronze Age Pottery at Hascherkeller in Bavaria: Visuality, Ecological Psychology, and the Practice of Deposition in Bronze Age A2/B1. Archäologisches Korrespondenzblatt 40:191–205. ———. 2012. How Ancient Europeans Saw the World: Vision, Patterns, and the Shaping of the Mind in Prehistoric Times. Princeton: Princeton University Press. ———. 2016. Unique Objects, Special Deposits and Elite Networks in Bronze Age Europe. Oxford Journal of Archaeology 35(2):161–78. Wilson, S. 2000. The Magical Universe: Everyday Ritual and Magic in Pre-Modern Europe. London: Hambledon and London. Wullinger, G. 2004. Eine Grube mit frühbronzezeitlicher Siedlungskeramik von Jellenkofen, Gde. Ergoldsbach, Lkr. Landshut: Untersuchungen zur Problematik des keramischen Überganges von der frühen zur mittleren Bronzezeit. Beiträge zur Archäologie in Niederbayern 2:9–104.

4 Archaeological Manifestations of Religious Belief in Southern Iberia from the Neolithic to the Iron Age antonio gilman

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rom a uniformitarian perspective, the archaeological study of systems of belief seems to be a daunting task. This is because the systems of belief are difficult to assess in the present. People are often incoherent: they believe in contradictory principles. They are often deceptive: they believe in one thing and tell you another. They are often weak: they believe in one thing and do another. It is hard to know what people are thinking and consequently even harder to know how their beliefs affect their social conduct. As Jon Elster (1985:460) puts it, “for these and other reasons the study of ideology is fraught with dangers and difficulties, provoking resignation in some, foolhardiness in others.” The problem for archaeologists who would wish to investigate prehistoric belief systems is even more intractable because, insofar as people make their beliefs manifest, they do so through symbols. Prehistorians face difficulties in addressing the symbolic on several levels. First, one must determine what in the material record that stands mute before us is, in fact, symbolic. This is hard to do without making indefensible distinctions between “functional” and “non-functional” traits. Second, even when particular elements (say, recurrent, non-representational motifs painted on walls) seem plausibly symbolic, one must venture to assign a referent to that arbitrary sign. This is usually done by a leap of the archaeologist’s faith. This leap is sometimes simple and straightforward (as in the speculations of goddess aficionados). More elaborate and sophisticated instances involve contextual analyses along structuralist lines but, at the moment of assigning

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concrete meaning, the leap of faith is undertaken all the same. Finally, particular, ostensibly symbolic representations may convey different meanings in different contexts or at different moments: fans of Charlie Chaplin will recall that red flags may, in an instant, change from practical warning signals to revolutionary standards. One example from the Iberian Peninsula may be illustrative. Schist plaques are perhaps the most characteristic element of the goods found in the megalithic passage graves of the Neolithic of southwestern Iberia. The ESPRIT (Engraved Stone Plaque Registry and Inquiry Tool [http://research2.its.uiowa.edu/iberian/index.php]) catalogue developed by Katina Lillios provides a comprehensive corpus of the various types of plaques. Most of them come from open contexts, the fill of poorly excavated passage graves, but some recent, better controlled finds indicate clearly that these are pendants hung around the necks of corpses. The absence of wear on the perforations through which the cord passed indicate that they were made as funerary artifacts. The most common interpretation of these items is that they are representations of a mother goddess (e.g., Gonçalves 1989). As Lillios (2004:126) points out, however, “only a small percentage of the plaques…have features that could be considered anthropomorphic, and there is nothing unambiguously female or goddess-like about them.” But why should there be, if their nature is symbolic? No one would suppose that any depiction of a divinity would be straightforwardly representational, after all. Lillios’s view is that the plaques constitute “records of the genealogical and lineage affiliation of an elite class of individuals” (ibid., 127), with “the number of registers record[ing] the number of generations that separated the deceased from a founding or important ancestor” (ibid., 145). This is an appealing notion, but as with the mother-goddess idea or any other concrete suggestion (and it would not be hard to generate many alternatives), the difficulty is that it is impossible to test at the necessary level of specificity. The problem here is, it seems to me, inherent to our situation as prehistorians. We can spin many alternative narratives about what symbols may mean, but we have no way of telling which of these stories is better than the others. We assess their plausibility according to how well they fit our preconceptions or tastes. I happen to prefer Lillios’s genealogical account of the schists better than the mother-goddess interpretation, but I recognize that this is because I prefer a narrative rooted in kinship theory to one



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rooted in diffusionism. An inability to give probative weight to our stories about what symbolic representations mean is logically inevitable given the arbitrary nature of the symbol and the absence of informants or of bilinguals that could give them meaning. George Cowgill (1993) has suggested various approaches to developing a “middle range theory” of symbolic representations. One would be to give weight to the direct historical approach so as to show, in Hawkes’s (1954:162) expression, “some real connection between this modern and that prehistoric.” Most successful examples of this strategy (e.g., Howey and O’Shea 2006) involve quite recent prehistories. The possibility of doing this for periods as remote as the Neolithic and Bronze Age that concern us here may perhaps exist in some regions, but the area with which I am most familiar, namely the Iberian Peninsula, is not one of them. The historical waves, first Roman, then Islamic, that washed over the Peninsula over the past 2200 years have effectively erased any substantial present-day survivals from the pre-Indo-European past, some figments of recent nationalist (or scholarly) imaginations aside. In Iberian popular consciousness, history begins with the Reconquista, and the archaeological record is the product of the Moors. A second approach Cowgill recommends would be to exploit apparent ideational universals: he gives as an example the broad interpretability of facial expressions or the widespread correlation of greater size and height with overall superiority or importance. I find it difficult to see how this will permit us to move beyond banalities without making new leaps of faith about the universal meanings of particular material expressions. Cowgill’s (1993:563) view that “studies such as those of some Jungians…suffer from a tendency to make unwarranted assumptions and to look at items out of context, but nevertheless may provide some leads” seems highly optimistic, to say the least. In any event, I think it is fair to say that most of what we would want to know or find interesting about the belief systems of prehistoric societies would not be accounted for by the denominators common to all of them. A third approach, the one which Cowgill adopts in practice in his concrete discussion of the belief systems at Teotihuacán, depends in effect on the notion of materialization first clearly formulated by DeMarrais et al. (1996). As Howey and O’Shea (2006:279) note: ritual practice is detectable and interpretable archaeologically because ritual practice itself is inherently structured and repetitive. Historical

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In other words, I believe that the only way in which we can address ideology in prehistory is by adopting a broadly functionalist strategy. The traditional culture-historical archaeology that still provides the overwhelming bulk of the available evidence from prehistory was particularly concerned with recovering human productions that were manifestly ideological in character. Burials, major architectural remains, artifacts that are difficult or time-consuming to make all embody overt human intentions. We may not be able to say what these things meant to the people who made them, but we should be able to evaluate what interests these things served. In the famous passage from The German Ideology, Marx (1970:3) observes that: The ideas of the ruling class are in every epoch the ruling ideas, i.e. the class which is the ruling material force is at the same time its ruling intellectual force. The class which has the means of material production at its disposal has control at the same time over the means of mental production, so that thereby, generally speaking, the ideas of those who lack the means of mental production are subject to it. In any class society, the ruling class must be a class for itself. If the rulers fail to unite in their own interests and cannot persuade commoners to support them, no force of arms will enable them to collect the tribute that they depend upon. A State Church, as Leslie White insisted, is central to long-term success: rulers must show their subjects, and each other, who is boss by materializing, as DeMarrais et al. (1996) put it, the divine sanction that supports their privilege. Indeed, most of the classic markers of the Urban Revolution enumerated by Childe (1950) involve materializations of elite hegemony. Where kinship organization prevails and the ruling ideas are administered by lineage elders and the like, we expect quite different patterns of expenditure both in scale and in nature. (Thus, the anomalous character of the Chaco phenomenon is due to the disjuncture between the large scale and organized construction of the great houses, on the one hand, and the evidently communal ideology they monumentalize [cf. Peregrine 2001].) The notion of materialization underlies, of course, the classic additive scale of religious institutions—shamanic, communal, ecclesiasti-



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cal—put forward by Anthony F.C. Wallace (1966). Discussion of the meanings of symbols in deep prehistory may be problematic, but an institutional analysis of the ideologically informed aspects of the archaeological record is entirely feasible. Most of the archaeology of southern and eastern Iberia has been documented by scholars with a normativist culture-historical perspective. As early as 1908, Louis Siret (1995), the mining engineer responsible for assembling the foundational evidence for the prehistory of southeast Spain, published a monograph on the ancient religion of the Copper Age Los Millares Culture. This complex dates (as we now know) to between 3000 and 2250 BCE and is centered in the province of Almería in the arid coastal zone of southeast Spain but extends into the better watered uplands of eastern Andalusia. There are numerous long-term settlements, often fortified, belonging to this culture. Recent research (summarized in Gilman [2001]) has made it clear that their inhabitants sustained themselves from mixed farming with some elements of intensification such as exploitation of animals for their secondary products (for plowing, for example) and irrigated garden plots. The settlements are generally small, but the eponymous settlement of Los Millares itself at 5 ha was, until recently, the largest in Mediterranean Europe during the third millennium. The Los Millares Culture sees an intensification of the collective, megalithic burial ritual that had become widespread in Iberia in the previous millennium (Chapman 1990:176–95). Los Millares and some other settlements are associated with megalithic cemeteries and there is greater differentiation between these in tomb forms, sizes, and grave goods. These include a variety of utilitarian objects, sometimes rendered in valuable raw materials (ivory sandals, copper knives, etc.), and fetishes: there is, to quote Siret (1995:48), “an invasion of a veritable army of figurines and amulets.” Motifs such as the oculi that are found on figurines recur in decorated pottery (referred to as Symbolkeramik by Georg and Vera Leisner [1943], the archaeologists who first made systematic use of the Siret corpus). Similar ritual objects are also found in settlement deposits (it is not clear in what associations), and the schematic rock art of the region includes depictions of objects and motifs similar to those found in funerary and occupational settings. The living, the ancestral dead, and perhaps the landscape are, thus, drawn together into a whole. The intensity and differentiation of these ritual expressions of communal solidarity seem to be greater in the more arid sectors of the

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Millaran sphere, where long-term investments in agriculture were critical and where the competition for control of these investments would have called communal solidarity into question. The apparently abrupt transition (Fernández-Posse et al. 1996) to the early Bronze Age El Argar Culture (2250 to 1500 BCE) brings about pervasive changes in all aspects of the record. Settlements are generally new foundations in extreme, defensive positions that limit their size to less than a hectare. There is a somewhat more elaborated metallurgy predominantly devoted to the production of ornaments and weapons destined for interment with the dead. These are now buried in single graves generally under the floors (or in the walls) of the houses. Interestingly, the occasional malefemale double burials, once thought to be husbands and wives, turn out to be as a much as century apart in date with the woman generally buried first, a possible indication of matrilineality (Lull 2000). Elite grave goods consist of weapons, ornaments, drinking chalices and other personal finery and can exhibit considerable concentrations of wealth, with differentials being generally greater in the more arid sectors of the southeast. Burials are, however, the only clearly ritual elements in the Bronze Age archaeological record of southern and eastern Iberia. The Argarics are iconoclasts (Martínez and Molina 1995:29): the fetishes characteristic of the Millaran disappear completely. In short, the Argaric and its, in many ways similar, neighbors to the north, the Bronce Valenciano and the Mancha Bronze Age, exhibit: a low level of sacralization....There is very little...that cannot be straightforwardly interpreted in, so to speak, infrastructural or structural terms. Practical utility, social display, and political competition can serve to explain the major variability in architecture and artifact assemblages, with little left as a puzzling residue requiring explanation in ideological terms (Martín et al. 1993:40). I will return to this lacuna in a moment. In southeastern Spain, remains of the subsequent later Bronze Age (1500 to 750 BCE) are too sparse and too diverse to permit a brief review of their central tendencies. At excavated settlements of this period, the sacred continues to keep a low profile, but the general absence of other evidence makes it difficult to say much of anything on these matters. In this interval, the Iberian Peninsula becomes incorporated into the ambit of Mediterra-



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nean and Atlantic trade routes (Ruiz-Gálvez 1998). In western Iberia, the “Atlantic Bronze Age” is associated with the deposition of hoards, some of which, like the Baiões hoard, with its roasting spits imported from Cyprus, clearly involve elite furnishings. Elements in the hoards recur on stelae depicting armed warriors. Such chiefly displays and sacrifices clearly are ideological affirmations of the virtue of privilege. The Iron Age exhibits a dramatic contrast to the periods that precede it in terms both of the scale of the social systems involved and of the patterns of ideological development. In the early first millennium BCE, the establishment of Phoenician colonies along the southern coast (Frankenstein 1997) and the development of a full Mediterranean polyculture (Alonso Martínez 2000) amplify elite opportunities for wealth and staple finance, respectively. That is to say, those who controlled land and labor could extract a greater surplus from their dependents and deploy it to obtain prestige goods. In southwest Spain, the palace sanctuary of Cancho Roano (Celestino Pérez 2000) constitutes a textbook case of a chiefly establishment. The site consists of a square, free-standing structure of about 2000 m² surrounded by a moat. The main structure contains residential spaces, storage rooms (some containing victuals, others valuables), and a central room with an altar. Surrounding this are series of narrow buildings with booths in which weaving and other craft activities were carried out (presumably by attached specialists). Cancho Roano was reconstructed in several phases beginning, perhaps, in the sixth century BCE and was deliberately destroyed with all of its contents in the early fourth century. There are several interesting points. One is that, although the access within the building changed over time ( Jiménez Ávila 2005), the several reconstructions maintained the central axis from the entrance through the patio to the altar-room, suggesting the continuing centrality of the sacral. A second is that the lintel at the entrance from the exterior to the patio is a recumbent stela depicting on its upper face a human figure, a sword, and a shield (Harrison 2004:257). Warrior stelae of this type are frequent in southwest Iberia and are dated iconographically (by the sorts of swords and shields they depict) to the Atlantic Bronze Age, some two centuries earlier than the earliest phase of Cancho. The new chiefly structure is, thus, placed in relation to an earlier phase of the emergence of elites in the region (that the stela is placed under foot suggests a damnatio of the predecessors), and its sacral dimension suggests a new ecclesiastical justification of tributary exactions.

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In contrast, the southeast quadrant of the Peninsula, the main area of development of the Iberian Culture, sees the first development of real towns and the aristocracy (clearly in evidence in the funerary record) develops its power through the civic institutions (Ruiz and Molinos 1998) of the competing polities to which they belonged. Archaeologically, this is apparent in the planned layout of some towns, their often massive fortifications, the construction of a variety of temples and sanctuaries (Prados Torreira 1994), and so on. These Iberian statelets, similar to those that had arisen in the 8th and 7th centuries in Italy and in the 9th and 8th centuries in Greece, leave unmistakable archaeological signatures of the construction of an ideology of civic solidarity intended to mask the increased class inequalities associated with their political evolution. The cult sanctuaries, the massive funerary monuments, the statues of priestesses and deities all speak clearly to the ecclesiastical nature of their religious institutions. In the archaeological record, inevitably, it is the “ruling ideas” that make themselves most manifest. Of course, we must suppose that, to the extent that the rulers felt the need to justify their operations, those operations faced opposition. What the elite would have considered the increasing prosperity of the Iberian Iron Age was part of a trajectory that would end in the enslavement of much of the population. Opposition to that process must have existed, but it would not have had the means to make its counterideology manifest. Such resistance as did take place may, therefore, be difficult to recognize as such. When a ruling class does not exist, however, ideological contradictions may be more apparent. Thus, in the Millaran Copper Age, the communal ideas evident in the collective burial rite and in the symbols that united the living, the dead, and the landscape needed the emphasis they received because they ran counter to the competing aspirations that led kin groups to deposit differential quantities of grave goods in their tombs. What is one to make, then, of the Argaric Bronze Age, in which archaeological evidence for ideology has a low profile? One approach is to interpret it as a sign of stability. According to Gabriel Martínez and Fernando Molina (1995:29): Argaric…social structure is better defined and accepted, its system of reproduction being regulated by social norms and established power; accordingly material symbols of status and power were not so necessary.



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Scholars such as Vicente Lull and his collaborators (e.g., Lull et al. 2011) see this stability as reflecting state-like political organization. They find support for their views in large-scale grain-milling activities and inferred surplus collection (Risch 2002) at Fuente Álamo (the only Argaric settlement with clear public buildings). The monotonous uniformity of Argaric burial practices and grave goods would reflect the imposition of ideological control by a ruling elite (Lull and Risch 1996), resistance to which is suggested by the occasional continuation of collective burial practices into the Bronze Age at some necropoles (Aranda Jiménez 2015).1 Such interpretations are highly problematical, however. The Argaric presents no evidence for the large-scale monuments and public works by which the formal fiscal, military, and ideological institutions characteristic of states impress their subjects. At the same time, evidence for the hereditary inequalities such institutions bolster is at best inconclusive (Bartelheim 2012; Gilman 2013). The Argaric occupies, rather, an interregnum between communal and civic institutions. The settlement pattern of defended or defensible hamlets speaks to a segmentary society whose separate elements engaged in intense competition. This is a social landscape of “hill fort chiefdoms” (Earle 1997:121), of which examples range from the pre-Inca Andean highlands (Timothy Earle’s case), to Maori New Zealand (Allen 2008), and the brochs of Iron Age Scotland. Childe (1946:95) characterized the latter as: an illiterate and barbarian society. A small class of war-chiefs…does now concentrate a surplus. There are too many of them to collect much in so poor a land. And having acquired it by force they expend it on armaments and objects of parade and not on reproductive works. This would also be a fair characterization of the Argaric. It is a general characteristic of such societies that they do not exhibit much in the way of sacralization. One example that continued into historical times in the barbarian periphery of Europe is the feuding clans of the English-Scottish Border in the 16th century. A visitor to one district, finding no churches, demanded: “Are there no Christians here?” and received the reply, “Na, we’s a’ Elliots and Armstrangs” (Fraser 1971:47). In the Argaric, as on the Border, survival depended on loyalty to one’s kin and the simple affirmation of kinship represented by keeping one’s ancestors under the floor of one’s house represented a sufficient ideology.

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104 NOTES

4.1 In this instance as in many others it is hard to distinguish between resistance and nonperformance, however. Authors that fail to submit their contributions on time may not be “resisting” the editor’s imposition of a deadline, they may simply be lazy or disorganized or forgetful.

REFERENCES Allen, M.W. 2008. Hillforts and the Cycling of Maori Chiefdoms: Do Good Fences Make Good Neighbors? In Global Perspectives on the Collapse of Complex Systems, ed. J.A. Railey and R.M. Reycraft, pp. 65–81. Albuquerque: Maxwell Museum of Anthropology. Alonso Martínez, N. 2000. Cultivos y producción agrícola en época ibérica. In Ibers: Agricultors, artesans i comerciants (III reunió sobre economía en el món ibèric), ed. C. Mata Parreño and G. Pérez Jordà, pp. 25–46. Valencia: Universitat de Valéncia. Aranda Jiménez, G. 2015. Resistencia e involución social en las comunidades de la Edad del Bronce del sureste de la Península Ibérica. Trabajos de Prehistoria 72(1):126–44. Bartelheim, M. 2012. Detecting Social Structures in the Bronze Age of Southeastern Spain. In: Beyond Elites: Alternatives to Hierarchical Systems in Modelling Social Formations (International conference at the Ruhr-Universität Bochum, Germany, October 22–24, 2009), ed. T.L. Kienlin and A. Zimmerman, pp. 339–54. Bonn: Dr. Rudolf Habelt. Celestino Pérez, S. 2000. Investigación, adecuación y musealización del santuario protohistórico de Cancho Roano (Zalamea de la Serena, Badajoz). Trabajos de Prehistoria 57(2):133–46. Chapman, R. 1990. Emerging Complexity: The Later Prehistory of South-East Spain, Iberia and the West Mediterranean. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Childe, V.G. 1946. Scotland before the Scots. London: Methuen. ———. 1950. The Urban Revolution. Town Planning Review 217:3–17. Cowgill, G.L. 1993. Distinguished Lecture in Archaeology: Beyond Criticizing New Archaeology. American Anthropologist 95:551–73. DeMarrais, E., L.J. Castillo, and T. Earle. 1996. Ideology, Materialization, and Power Strategies. Current Anthropology 37(1):15–31. Earle, T. 1997. How Chiefs Come to Power: The Political Economy in Prehistory. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Elster, J. 1985. Making Sense of Karl Marx. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Fernández-Posse, Mª.D., A. Gilman, and C. Martín. 1996. Consideraciones cronológi-



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cas sobre la Edad del Bronce en La Mancha. In Homenaje al profesor Manuel Fernández-Miranda, ed. Mª. Angeles Querol and T. Chapa, pp. 111–37. Madrid: Servicio de Publicaciones, Universidad Complutense. Frankenstein, S. 1997. Arqueología del colonialismo: El impacto fenicio y griego en el sur de la Península Ibérica y el suroeste de Alemania. Barcelona: Crítica. Fraser, G.M. 1971. The Steel Bonnets. New York: Harper Collins. Gilman, A. 2001. Assessing Political Development in Copper and Bronze Age Southeast Spain. In From Leaders to Rulers, ed. J. Haas, pp. 59–81. New York: Kluwer Academic/Plenum Publishers. ———. 2013. Were There States during the Later Prehistory of Southern Iberia? In The Prehistory of Iberia: Debating Early Social Stratification and the State, ed. M. Cruz Berrocal, L. García Sanjuán, and A. Gilman, pp. 10–28. New York: Routledge. Gonçalves, V.S. 1989. Manifestações do sagrado na pré-história do Ocidente peninsular: 1. Deusa(s)-Mãe, placas de xisto e cronologias, uma nota preambular. Almansor 7:289–302. Harrison, R.J. 2004. Symbols and Warriors: Images of the European Bronze Age. Bristol: Western Academic and Specialist Press. Hawkes, C.C. 1954. Archaeological Theory and Method: Some Suggestions from the Old World. American Anthropologist 56:155–68. Howey, M.C.L., and J.M. O’Shea. 2006. Bear’s Journey and the Study of Ritual in Archaeology. American Antiquity 71(2):261–82. Jiménez Ávila, J. 2005. Cancho Roano: El proceso de privatización de un espacio ideológico. Trabajos de Prehistoria 62(2):105–24. Leisner, G., and V. Leisner. 1943. Die Megalithgräber der Iberischen Halbinsel. 1: Der Süden. Römisch-Germanische Forschungen, 17. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. Lillios, K. 2004. Lives of Stone, Lives of People: Re-viewing the Engraved Plaques of Late Neolithic and Copper Age Iberia. European Journal of Archaeology 7(2):125–58. Lull, V. 2000. Argaric Society: Death at Home. Antiquity 74:581–90. Lull, V., R. Micó Pérez, C. Rihuete Herrada, and R. Risch. 2011. El Argar and the Beginning of Class Society in the Western Mediterranean. In Sozialarchäologische Perspektiven: Gesellschaftlicher Wandel 5000–1500 v.Chr. zwischen Atlantik und Kaukasus, ed. S. Hansen and J. Müller, pp. 381–414. Darmstadt: Philipp von Zabern. Lull, V., and R. Risch. 1996. El estado argárico. Verdolay 7:107–9. Martín, C., M. Fernández-Miranda, Mª.D. Fernández-Posse, and A. Gilman. 1993. The Bronze Age of La Mancha. Antiquity 67:23–45. Martínez, G., and F. Molina. 1995. Estudio preliminar. In Religiones neolíticas de Iberia, by L. Siret, pp. 9–29. Almería: Arráez Editores.

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Marx, K. 1970. The German Ideology. London: Lawrence and Wishart. Peregrine, P.N. 2001. Matrilocality, Corporate Strategy, and the Organization of Production in the Chacoan World. American Antiquity 66(1):36–46. Prados Torreira, L. 1994. Los santuarios ibéricos: Apuntes para el desarrollo de una arqueología del culto. Trabajos de Prehistoria 51(1):127–40. Risch, R. 2002. Recursos naturales, medios de producción y explotación social: Un análisis económico de la industria lítica de Fuente Álamo (Almería), 2250–1400 antes de nuestra era. Mainz am Rhein: Philipp von Zabern. Ruiz, A., and M. Molinos. 1998. The Archaeology of the Iberians. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ruiz-Gálvez Priego, M. 1998. La Europa atlántica en la Edad del Bronce: Un viaje a las raíces de la Europa occidental. Barcelona: Crítica. Siret, L. 1995. Religiones neolíticas de Iberia. Almería: Arráez Editores. Wallace, A.F.C. 1966. Religion: An Anthropological View. New York: Random House.

5 Dún Ailinne: Then and Now susan a. johnston

DÚN AILINNE: THEN

I

n 1968, an archaeological team led by Bernard Wailes began excavations at the site of Dún Ailinne in Co. Kildare, Ireland (Fig. 5.1). Bernard had participated in and then directed a series of excavations in Britain and Ireland, but this one would be the culmination of his fieldwork career. Following a stint in the British navy, Bernard had enrolled at Cambridge University, receiving a B.A., M.A., and Ph.D. in archaeology between 1957 and 1964. His subsequent research experience covered most of prehistory and early history, and included fieldwork at Navan Fort, an Iron Age site in Northern Ireland which was closely related to Dún Ailinne. Dudley Waterman, who was directing excavations there, was beginning to uncover evidence that Navan was not what it had appeared to be based on documentary sources from early medieval Ireland (Lynn 2003). Dún Ailinne was also mentioned in these same documents, grouped together with Navan, Tara in Co. Meath, and Rathcroghan in Co. Roscommon (Fig. 5.2). It was, therefore, decided to excavate Dún Ailinne and see how it compared to the emerging picture at Navan. Funding was secured from both American and Irish sources for an excavation that would ultimately run for eight years and include volunteers, students, and professional archaeologists from both the U.S. and Ireland. Before these excavations, documents beginning in the 9th century CE were the primary sources for the understanding of how these sites fit in the Irish past. Several describe Tara, Navan, Rathcroghan, and Dún Ailinne as what came to be known as “royal sites,” places for the kings of the pre-

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5.1. Aerial views of Dún Ailinne. Top: modern view, looking northeast. Bottom: view of the site under excavation, looking southwest. The date of the excavation photo is unknown, but it is probably later in the excavation period.



Dún Ailinne 109

5.2. Map showing the four largest royal sites. The modern names are used to match the text, but the ancient name of Rathcroghan is Cruachan while Navan Fort was known as Emain Macha.

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Christian period (Grabowski 1990; Hicks 2007). The words used to describe the sites (e.g., borg, ráith, and dún [Johnston and Wailes 2007:202]) suggest that, in addition to other functions, they were seen as residences, with overtones of a defensive function. Their geographical distribution, with one in each of four ancient kingdoms (Meath, Ulster, Connacht, and Leinster) suggested that they were political centers from which kings ruled over their territories. However, in addition to a reconsideration of the social and cultural context of these documents (e.g., Aitchison 1987; Mallory 1981, 1994; McCone 1990), excavations at Navan and Dún Ailinne would refocus this image. At Dún Ailinne, instead of royal occupation, the team found evidence of ritual and ceremony. On the summit of the hill at Dún Ailinne, a series of timber structures had been built, the first a fairly simple circular structure followed by far more complex timber enclosures in the next two phases (Fig. 5.3). Using terminology devised to keep track of the various phases of use at the site, these three were, respectively, the White, Rose, and Mauve phases. The White phase was composed of a circular palisade opening to the north-northeast with two arcs of timbers in the center. The Rose phase was much more elaborate, with a funnel-shaped entrance feature leading to a figure-of-eight structure, each with three concentric circular palisades. The larger palisades open to the east-northeast. The smaller palisades have an opening in that direction and can also be accessed via the southern section of the larger palisades. This arrangement is surrounded by an enclosure which opens to the east. The final, Mauve, timber structure has two concentric circular palisades also opening to the east-northeast, surrounding an open timber circle. At its center is Feature 42, a smaller, single, timber palisade. In the last phase of the site’s Iron Age use, the Mauve structure was at least partially removed and the site used for feasting. This phase, known as Flame, is indicated by a series of deposits of burned material composed of ash, charcoal, stones, and a large amount of animal bone. After this, the site was largely abandoned, though it remained significant for several centuries as a symbol of ancient (pagan) power. Bernard’s interpretations of Dún Ailinne focused on its role as an important monumental site. In 1982, he wrote an article evaluating the three best known royal sites (Tara, Navan, and Dún Ailinne) as what we might now call “central places” (Wailes 1982). Arguing that the documentary evidence shouldn’t be taken as accurate just because it was written down, he derived a model from the texts and evaluated it using the archaeological evidence.



Dún Ailinne 111

Dún Ailinne and the other sites did correspond to the documentary image in that they were significant places of largely pre-Christian date where ceremonial and ritual activity occurred. They were also sufficiently similar in certain key elements that they could be seen as versions of the same kind of site. However, they were not royal residences or forts, and they also differed in terms of their likely relationship to emerging Christianity. Further, this interpretation suggested that, if they were indeed at the top of a political or ceremonial hierarchy, then there should also be additional, smaller sites that shared key features with this group. In fact, this prediction has proved to be correct (Lacey 2011; Newman 1998; Schot 2006). As for the social and cultural context of the ritual that occurred at places like Dún Ailinne, this was seen as having significant implications for political ritual and ceremony in Iron Age Ireland. The timber structures of the Rose and Mauve phases were each reconstructed as being a form of viewing stand (Fig. 5.4), provided for spectators at ceremonies conducted in the structures’ interiors (Wailes 1990, 2007). For the Rose phase, this was suggested by the fact that the outermost of the three concentric palisade trenches in the larger circle was the deepest and the innermost the shallowest in a graded sequence, indicating that they could have supported platforms also graded in height. A similar pattern was observed for the two circles of the Mauve phase, suggesting a similar reconstruction but with further features in the center. In particular, Feature 42, defined by a circular palisade trench, showed several oddities in its design. At 6 m in diameter, it was fairly small; several preserved post sockets in the trench suggested that the posts were relatively robust for the structure’s size; it had no clear, constructed entrance; and five of nine pits arranged radially around the perimeter of the palisade trench contained evidence of posts that were interpreted as buttresses. Given these characteristics, Feature 42 was reconstructed as a central elevated platform on which ceremonial activities would have taken place, observed and perhaps participated in by those on the surrounding viewing stands. Anticipating by a decade or more what would become common in this kind of interpretation, Bernard argued that the changes that occurred at Dún Ailinne reflected significant social trends, particularly focused on political organization (Wailes 1974). These could be seen in the specific arrangement of the timber structure in each phase of building, which showed a trend from more to less open and from an outward to an inward focus.

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5.3. Plans of the four main Iron Age phases of use at Dún Ailinne (modified from Johnston et al. 2014: figs. 6 and 7).



Dún Ailinne 113

The Flame phase scatter of material is shown in relation to the Mauve phase structures, with the darker colors indicating the increasing density of material.

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5.4.  Reconstructions of the Rose and Mauve phase palisades as viewing platforms. Feature 42 is at the center of the Mauve phase structure. (From Johnston and Wailes 2007: figs. 2-13 and 2-16; reproduced with permission, Penn Museum).



Dún Ailinne 115

This, in turn, suggested an increase in the degree of social stratification. These patterns began to reverse in the Flame phase, with no evidence on the summit of built structures from this phase. This was followed by the abandonment of the site as a major ceremonial center. In the final report on the site, the analysis was cast as a struggle for power between political factions, reflected in the continual restructuring of the buildings on the hill as, in each phase, elites sought to usurp the architecture of their predecessors (Wailes 2007:25). This kind of analysis, begun in the 1970s, reflected an anthropological perspective not generally seen in British and Irish archaeology at that time period, something which made Bernard’s work both unique and innovative.

DÚN AILINNE: NOW These early excavations focused on the summit of the hill, where, logically enough (and correctly, as it turned out), it was believed the focus of activity in the past would have been. In 2006, a team from George Washington University, New York University, and the National University of Ireland, Galway, began a geophysical survey of Dún Ailinne, to expand on Bernard’s work and see what could be said about the interior beyond the summit ( Johnston et al. 2009). Conducting both a magnetometer and a targeted topographic survey, a number of significant features were identified, elaborating the Iron Age use of the site and possibly extending both the ways in which the site was used and the possible time frame of that use. First, there are a large number of other features in the interior whose date and purpose are unknown, but which show that activity at the site was not confined to the summit. Second, we demonstrated that the Rose phase structure was more complex than previously understood. The funnel that leads to the larger of the two palisades, in fact, extended well beyond the excavated area, ending in a large enclosure that circled the summit (Fig. 5.5). Third, there is a line of circular features at the southern edge of that enclosure; their function is uncertain, but they may be ring ditches, features which, in Ireland, may contain burials dating to the Bronze or Iron Ages, or to the Early Medieval period. Finally, there is a very large enclosure that pre-dates the Iron Age bank and ditch. Since there is evidence of activity at the site from both the Neolithic and Bronze Age, this may belong to one of those periods, or it may be an earlier Iron Age structure.

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5.5.  The suggested Rose phase structure, which combines the area excavated (black) with that revealed through the magnetometer survey (gray). The gaps in the circumference of the larger enclosure are areas that did not register on the magnetometer; it is unclear if they are real or a result of insufficient magnetic material in those parts of the feature. The part of the circumference shown as a dotted line was obscured by heavy gorse and could not be surveyed.

As we have continued research at Dún Ailinne, we have used Bernard’s evidence, ideas, and feedback to amplify the interpretation of the site. To begin with, there is now no question that Dún Ailinne was a significant place of ceremonial and ritual importance. Increasing evidence from Irish archaeological research, at the royal sites and in the Iron Age in general, has shown that, whatever these sites were, they were larger and more complex than other contemporary sites in the vicinity. Dún Ailinne is visually dominant on the landscape of Co. Kildare. It sits on the highest hill in the area and would have been visible for miles. Assuming the interior was clear of trees, any structures on the summit would also have been visible from the



Dún Ailinne 117

surrounding area, making statements about power and identity and providing a monumental focus for local communities. This is also supported by the fact that every aspect of creating the monument would have drawn from the knowledge and labor of a large community (or communities). Beginning with the layout of the site, a considerable amount of specialist knowledge would have been required. There are a number of possible astronomical alignments built into various phases of Dún Ailinne (Hicks 1975, 2007) implying the use of a body of observations accumulated over a relatively long time in order to orient each structure in the appropriate direction. Architectural knowledge would also have been required, some presumably possessed by average people who used it to construct houses and other buildings and some of a more specialized nature (see Prendergast [2012] for some thoughts on constructing the site of Lismullen, another Iron Age timber structure in Ireland). It may even have included the effort involved in clearing the site of any trees and other vegetation, assuming that the site wasn’t already cleared (since Dún Ailinne had been the focus of ritual activity since the Neolithic, it may have been kept clear and so would have required less work for the Iron Age construction phases). It is difficult to estimate the labor required in any particular phase, given the many variables involved. However, focusing on major structural elements only, it is possible at least to get a sense of the enormity of the undertaking, the breadth of resources (materials and people) needed and, therefore, the degree to which the construction of the site would have drawn from a wide area. The Bank and Ditch The first feature encountered as a person enters Dún Ailinne is the bank and ditch. Despite the effects of both silting and erosion suffered over the centuries, this is a still a significant structure. The bank lies outside the ditch, a configuration which is conventionally understood as non-defensive (e.g., Dowling 2006; Warner 2000), and which recalls the Neolithic ritual structures known as henges that share this characteristic (Hicks 1975; Mallory 2000; Newman 1997:176). There are other reasons than the configuration of the bank and ditch to argue that Dún Ailinne is a ritual structure, most notably the fact that no evidence for occupation was recovered from the excavations ( Johnston and Wailes 2007); but it is worth noting that the

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ideas about its defensive capabilities depend a great deal on how attackers are perceived in terms of weapons and strategy (Mallory 2000). Perhaps these two aren’t mutually exclusive. Regardless, the bank and ditch even now provide an imposing presence. To estimate the amount of material removed from the ditch, measurements were derived from a topographic survey of the existing ditch (see Johnston et al. [2009:391] for a brief discussion). The ditch cross section was surveyed at four points. Figure 5.6 shows the specific profiles obtained. A set of dimensions was also obtained from a test excavation of the ditch near the site entrance ( Johnston and Wailes 2007: fig. 3-1). The volume of material from the ditch was then calculated using an average of the ditch width and depth at these five locations and the circumference of the ditch around the summit. This is only a rough estimate due to silting and erosion (and my limited math skills), but using the available measurements, approximately 38,950 m3 of earth would have been removed to create the ditch. Excavation of the bank showed that it was of relatively simple dump construction, presumably made from the material removed from the ditch. If so, then no additional material would have been required to create the bank. The labor involved would, however, have been significantly affected by whether or not the ditch material was moved directly to the bank or whether there were other factors requiring the material to be transported to other bank sections (e.g., the organization of labor or other symbolic or ritual concerns). Estimating with any precision the labor involved in creating the ditch requires knowing a number of aspects not currently available, such as the way work was organized and how labor was perceived. Did one individual fill containers and another one empty them or were there multiple people removing earth for every digger? Were sections of the ditch created independently and then joined up or was the whole ditch produced as a single feature? Was the earth placed immediately on the bank or was it taken elsewhere? Was excess earth discarded at some distance from the site? Were people in a hurry to finish or were there other factors that impacted the rate of work, for example rituals that accompanied aspects of this labor (see Abrams [1994] for a discussion of this idea for the Maya)? Any of these could affect the time taken in a variety of ways, but all remain unknown. This estimate also suffers from a dearth of experimental work specifically relevant to this period in Ireland. Most studies of prehistoric labor have fo-



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5.6.  Cross sections of the bank and ditch at four locations. Coordinates for these locations are given in the upper corners and the scale indicated is in meters. The labels “base” and “top” indicate the beginning and end of a revetment wall, probably modern, located in some parts of the bank.

cused on moving earth with stone and bone implements, but laborers in this period at Dún Ailinne would probably have had iron or bronze shovels. The latter have been shown to have a distinct advantage over faunal implements such as scapulae in terms of moving earth (Ashbee and Cornwall

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1961:131). There is also the problem of soil type. Most studies on comparable monuments were done on chalk or gravel soils, rather than on the glacial till of Dún Ailinne, which is typically gravelly but can also be more sandy in some areas (Wailes 2007:6). This would also have a bearing on the speed with which the ditch was dug. Nevertheless, nothing ventured, nothing gained—even with all the potential inconsistencies, it is possible with the available data to get some concept of the labor involved, if only in terms of a broad range. Table 5.1 shows a compilation from the literature of the most relevant measurements of the time taken to move earth using a variety of implements.

Table 5.1.  Time taken to move earth using a variety of implements Researcher Ashbee and Cornwall (1961)

Soil type

Tools

No. people

0.14

chalk

stone, bone

1

a

Erasmus (1965)

2.05–3.62

unknown

stone, bone

1

Mercer (2008)

0.28

chalk

stone, bone

3

Startin (1982)

0.76

chalk

modern

2

1.02

gravel

modern

3

1.3

loam

modern

3 (?)

Startin (1978) a

Amount moved per hour (m3)

including transport

For the ditch at Dún Ailinne, the estimates based on modern tools are probably closer to the Iron Age than those using Neolithic variants. In this case, the available technology is probably more important than the particular set of skills required to create a ditch, which is unlikely to have been too different. Using these rates produces the ranges shown in Table 5.2 to dig the Dún Ailinne ditch. The table shows the total hours required and the number of six hour days for each estimate using the number of people in that estimate (indicated in the first column). The last column shows the calculation using that rate if there were 100 people working.

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Table 5.2.  Time range estimates for digging the Dún Ailinne ditch Ditch (38,950 m3) Total hours

No. of 6 hour days

No. of 6 hr days, 100 people

0.76 m3/hour (2 people)

51,250

8,542

171

1.3 m3/hour (3 people)

29,961

4,994

150

Rate

Calculating the creation of the bank is more difficult, and was not attempted here since not enough is known to even suggest a way to estimate it. If the earth used came directly from the adjacent ditch, this would not have added too much to the construction time of the ditch, while, if it was brought from a distance, the bank construction might have taken longer. Without knowing these factors, the addition of the bank might have doubled the construction time of the entire feature, or it might only have added a small percentage to the creation of the ditch. Regardless of these aspects, creating the bank and ditch required a significant input of labor. Depending on the number of people working, this could range from weeks to months or even longer. The Timber Structures To create the timber structures, the primary materials required would be the timbers themselves, while labor would involve the acquisition and processing of the timbers and the raising of the posts. Postholes were recovered for only a few sections of the various palisade trenches, though those identified were sufficient to indicate that the posts were likely contiguous (hence the term “palisade”). Based on comments in the excavation features log, 70–75 of the 181 postholes recorded for the White, Rose, and Mauve phases were associated with a trench or timber circle. The total number of posts required for each phase therefore had to be estimated; these estimates are shown in Table 5.3. The number of posts shown in this table was derived by using the circumference of each trench and calculating the number of posts that would fit if they were contiguous around the total circumference. No adjustment was made for the entrances in each structure, which would have been free

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Table 5.3.  The estimated total number of posts required for each phase No. posts (50 cm diameter)

No. posts (10 cm diameter)

Total posts needed

Palisade

144

720

154–730

Central arcs

(10)

(10)

Larger palisades

696

3,480

Smaller palisades

254

1,270

Funnel entrance

454

2,270

1,400

7,000

Double palisade

518

2,590

Timber circle

(27)

(29)

Feature 42

(17)

(17)

Phase

Structural element

White

Rose

Summit enclosure Mauve

TOTAL

2,804–14,020

562–2,636

3,520–17,386

of posts, partly because this number would have been small and wouldn’t have affected the total by that much, and partly because there may have been entrance features constructed over these gaps. The configuration of the entrance trenches in the Mauve phase clearly indicates this possibility, while the funnel trenches leading to the Rose phase entrance also suggests this is likely. Since there is no way to know what these features looked like and how many timbers might have been needed, the posts calculated to fill the entrance gaps were used as a stand-in for them. The same procedure was used to estimate the number of posts in the summit enclosure, the feature identified through magnetometry and clearly incorporated into the Rose phase structure; even though the character of this feature is unknown, it is likely to have been a palisade as well. Apparent gaps in this feature were also assumed to have held posts since it is unclear if these are real or not. Finally, the same method was used to derive the number of posts in the Rose phase funnel structures. The lengths of the funnel features were calculated by combining the excavation data and the magnetometry image



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(see Fig. 5.5), which shows that they extended beyond the excavated area to join with the summit enclosure. Little evidence for the dimensions of the original posts survived at Dún Ailinne, except for the timber circle in the Mauve phase. Experimental work suggests that postholes change from their original shape and so the surviving feature is only a general guideline of the original post width in any case (e.g., Harding et al. 1993; Reynolds 1994). Those of the Mauve timber circle were estimated during the excavation to have been about 50 cm in diameter, which is close to the estimate of two posts per meter in the Neolithic palisade at Haddenham, based on posts of 0.3 m diameter (Darragh 2006). To allow for the possibility of smaller posts, however, the table shows the numbers based on posts of 50 cm diameter and also 10 cm diameter to give a sense of the possible range, the lower number being chosen arbitrarily (posts smaller than this do not seem sturdy enough to have been used in a palisade structure like this). For the Mauve timber circle, there were 27 posts recorded, but it is likely that there were originally 29 posts total; the original number is uncertain due to disturbance in the southwest part of the circle. These numbers were used as the minimum and maximum. For Feature 42, the one palisade where postholes were identified for the entire trench, 17 postholes were recorded and, since these look evenly spaced around the perimeter, it is assumed that this was the original number. Taken together, even at the lower end of the range, the number of posts required is impressive, and each of these would have to have been obtained, transported, and processed. Translating this into the number of trees needed would require knowing the original heights of the posts and the kinds of trees used for them. Posthole depth was noted for 43 of the total of 181 postholes recorded for the White, Rose, and Mauve phases. The specific breakdown is shown in Table 5.4. For those postholes in Mauve, 12 are from the 20 m timber circle, and they range from 0.88–1.42 m deep. The rest are all comparatively shallow, ranging from 0.09–0.35 m deep, but only two of these are from obvious structural elements. The same is true for the Rose phase, where all of the postholes with recorded depths are between the arms of the funnel entrance. Though they are in a line, they are not obvious structural elements per se and could be any number of other things (e.g., poles holding pennants or flags, or carved posts); these are also under 1 m in depth (0.32–0.65 m). The single White phase posthole was from the central arrangement and

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Table 5.4.  Depth range of recorded postholes

Phase

No. postholes recorded

No. posthole depths recorded

White

8

1

Central arc

Rose

60

11

Lines between funnel arms

Mauve

113

1

Feature 516

0.15

1

Entrance

0.25

17

Row outside Rose structure

0.09–0.35

12

Timber circle

0.88–1.42

Context, postholes with depths

Depth range (m) 0.15 0.32–0.65

was only 0.15 m deep. Using the common ratio of 1:3 or 1:4 to estimate post height from posthole depth (Gibson 1988:106–7; Mercer 1981:149–57), the Mauve timber circle posts could have stood upwards of 3 m. For the rest of the structural features from White, Rose, and Mauve, there is no data for an estimate. However, if the posthole depths that were recorded (not including the Mauve timber circle) are any indicator of the rest from the site, many of the posts would have been fairly short, the smallest being less than a meter while the largest would still not exceed 2 m. As for the species of trees used, there is no real way to narrow the possibilities. Many species would have been available, and many of these grow to the necessary height, though oak is perhaps the most likely. This was the species used in the 40 m structure at Navan, based on recovered fragments of post (Baillie 1988). Preserved bog oaks of 10 m in length are known, and at least one at 27 m has been reported (Darragh 2006:122). However, at Dún Ailinne, there is no direct evidence for species used, so the number of trees is hard to even guess. For the Mauve timber circle, an estimate of one to three posts per tree is likely, but whether or not this is representative of the other structures is unknown. However, even if the number was more like five to six per tree, that still leaves the number of trees at the lowest estimate at something approaching 1000. Experimental data relevant to the felling of this many trees suffers from the same problems as seen with the time taken to construct the bank and ditch. Most archaeologists are interested in the use of tools that are signifi-

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cantly different from modern ones, particularly stone axes. However, Iron Age people are likely to have had bronze or iron axes, which perform differently from stone. Mathieu and Meyer (1997) have shown that bronze axes are a significant improvement over stone, and Townshend (1969) compared stone axes to steel axes, also showing metal to be more efficient. Table 5.5 shows some of the estimates from the literature using both stone and metal implements. These numbers are based on one person felling one tree. At Dún Ailinne, where iron axes are likely to have been used, those studies using steel or bronze axes probably provide a better comparison. Iron axes would certainly perform as well as bronze and maybe better, though probably not as well as steel, so in theory these could provide a useful range. However, the trees felled in the steel axe study (Townshend 1969) were also very small (none larger than 0.1 m), which accounts for the very fast average cutting rate (individual rates were not given, so the time to fell only the larger trees cannot be determined). Although the diameters of the trees used at Dún Ailinne are not known, trees below 0.1 m would not seem to be sturdy enough for use in the palisades, so it is likely that most were larger. This, therefore, leaves the bronze axe study, which used trees with diameters up to 0.4 m (Mathieu and Meyer 1997) to calculate felling time.

Table 5.5.  Estimated time to fell a tree using stone and metal implements Researcher Townshend (1969)

Diameter (m) 0.02–0.1

Time to fell per tree

Tool

1.03 min. (avg.)

stone axe

0.22 min. (avg.)

steel axe

ca. 30 min.

stone axe

Iversen (1956)

> 0.3

Darragh (2006)

0.4

118 min.

stone axe

Startin (1978)

0.15

7 min.

stone axe

0.3

20 min.

stone axe

0.6

90 min.

stone axe

≤ 0.4

20 min.

bronze axe

Mathieu and Meyer (1997)

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Since iron axes could be more efficient than bronze, this should be taken as a maximum estimate. Table 5.6 shows the calculated rates for obtaining the trees for the three timber structures.

Table 5.6.  Calculated rates for obtaining the trees for the three timber structures No. of posts

No. of trees

(0.5 and 0.1 m)

(4 posts per tree)

Total hours, with a bronze axe

White

154–730

38.5–182.5

51.3–243.3

Rose

2,804–14,020

701–3,505

233.7–1,168.3

Mauve

562–2,636

140.5–659

46.8–878.7

Phase

The number of posts is the range for each phase suggested in Table 5.3, based on diameters of 0.1 m and 0.5 m. As noted, there is no way to know the sizes of the trees used and, therefore, the number of posts per tree that could be obtained, so four posts per tree was used as an arbitrary number (one to two being likely but five to six being possible). Translating this into the number of days needed to collect them depends on how many people would have been working to fell trees, which depends on available labor and its organization (e.g., how many trees of the proper height were available, how long it would take to get to their location, or how many people could feasibly work in a particular location). Transporting the trees would have added labor; some might have been taken from the interior of the site but it is unlikely that 13 ha could have provided nearly enough trees, so they would have to have been brought from elsewhere. There is also other labor such as trimming or barking the trees and cutting them into lengths. Startin (1978:154) cites a 19th century study suggesting that this would take three times as long as felling the tree. It is also possible that the posts were decorated in some way, such as carving or painting them, which would add additional labor. The estimates shown in Table 5.6 can probably be at least tripled, and perhaps even more. Having obtained the posts, they would then have to be raised. There is little experimental evidence available to calculate how long it would take

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to raise the number of posts in the Dún Ailinne palisades. Several studies calculating the amount of time to build a timber structure are based on the use of planks and not whole posts (e.g., Darragh 2006; Startin 1978). Mytum (1986) combines the erection of the wall timbers with the addition of wattling into a single estimate (500 hours for ca. 40 posts) for the Iron Age roundhouse at Castell Henllys, so the time for the posts alone is not recorded. The only usable estimate is the very general one given by Mercer (2008:749), which is one hour to dig the posthole and one hour to erect the post. If this estimate is reasonable, then the number of posts needed can be doubled to provide the number of hours required to raise the posts in each phase, as shown in Table 5.7. Table 5.7.  Number of hours required to raise the posts in each phase Phase

No. of posts (0.5 and 0.1 m)

No. of hours to raise

No. 6 hours days (1 person)

White

154–730

308–1,460

51.3–243.3

Rose

2,804–14,020

5,608–28,040

934.7–4,673.3

Mauve

562–2,636

1,124–5,272

187.3–878.7

The table shows the total number of hours needed and the number of six hour days required if one person was working. The larger the number of people working, the lower this number would be. Combining these numbers shows the overall basic estimate for each phase (Table 5.8). As with Table 5.7, the final column shows the range for one person, and this would get smaller as the number of people working increased (for example, for 100 people shift the decimal point two places to the left). As noted, this estimate also doesn’t include time taken to transport or modify the timbers. But regardless of the specifics, it is clear from Table 5.8 that, in any construction phase, the creation of the timber structure was a significant undertaking. This analysis is based on the palisades being enclosures rather than the viewing stands suggested by Bernard (see Fig. 5.4). As noted, Bernard’s interpretation was based on the relative depths of the postholes in the Rose and Mauve phase palisades (deeper on the outer circles and shallower on the

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Table 5.8.  Overall time estimate for each construction phase Total felling Phase

time (bronze axe, hours)

Total hours to raise timbers

Total hours

Total 6 hours days

White

51.3–243.3

308–1,460

359.3–1,703.3

59.9–283.9

Rose

233.7–1,168.3

5,608–28,040

5,841.7–29,208.3

973.6–4,868.1

Mauve

46.8–878.7

1,124–5,272

1,170.8–6,150.7

195.1–1,025.1

inner) and also the spacing and size of postholes in Feature 42 (at the center of the Mauve timber circle), which suggested very robust posts that were almost contiguous. If these structures were viewing stands, then more labor and materials would have been required. However, I have doubts about this interpretation, about which Bernard and I had several spirited conversations. While I don’t discount the possibility of these structures, they seem overly elaborate. There is no direct evidence for any superstructure associated with palisades (though admittedly the survival of such evidence is unlikely since it would have been wooden) and there are other reasons why the Rose and Mauve posthole depths might have been graded. If they indicate graded post heights (which seems likely), this is a feature that doesn’t necessarily imply any superstructure; it could have been visually, socially, and/or functionally meaningful on its own. There is also nothing analogous known from Irish prehistory, though again, preservation is a problem. However, there is a considerable record of various kinds of timber enclosures from Britain and Ireland, beginning in the Neolithic, that does provide parallels for less elaborate structures (Gibson 1998; Waddell 2010). In this case, the Dún Ailinne palisades would then belong to a group of ritual sites that have a deep antiquity, something that is also echoed in the configuration of the bank and ditch (recalling a henge) and the use of the hill itself over several millennia, aspects which arguably have something to do with the site’s larger significance. As for Feature 42, if the known postholes that define it are all that were there, then the posts were not contiguous (though wattling, for example, is certainly possible). There are several gaps along the perimeter leaving as much as a meter between postholes, and so a slightly greater distance



Dún Ailinne 129

between posts. The lack of a formal, structured entrance is, thus, not necessarily an impediment to accessing this most interior of spaces, and the ability to enter it less formally from various places may have been parts of its use and/or meaning. Given its relatively small diameter (6 m), this structure could even have been roofed, though there is no more direct evidence for this than for a platform on its top. It is interesting in this regard, though, that there were several arc-shaped hollows in the ground around the outside of the Iron Age house at Pimperne in England, which in some ways resemble the features interpreted as buttresses outside Feature 42. At Pimperne, these features were argued to have been the result of roofing poles resting on the ground and occasionally being maneuvered while the roof was being constructed, causing several arc-shaped disturbances in the soil (Harding et al. 1993:98–99). There are certain significant differences between these and the features at Dún Ailinne, in particular the arc shape of the Pimperne hollows which curved around the house exterior versus the “buttress” footings of Feature 42, which are perpendicular to the palisade trench. But there is a certain visual similarity between the two, and it remains an interesting possibility.

Labor and Society The previous analysis is obviously just an estimate, and a lot of factors could significantly raise or lower these numbers. But it is still a useful exercise to attempt the estimate, if only to give some greater concreteness to the huge amount of material and labor necessary to understand what was required to create Dún Ailinne. Whatever techniques, technologies, and skills were involved, it would have taken a very large number of people and an extensive range of resources from a very large geographic area to construct a monument requiring the movement of almost 39,000 m3 of earth and the felling, preparing, and raising of, for the Rose and Mauve phases, what is likely to have been thousands of trees and posts. This, in turn, tells us something about the significance of this site for the Iron Age society which produced and used it. First, rather than thinking of this place as a “site,” we are instead prompted to consider it as the result of a long and complex process. This kind of analysis draws on ideas ultimately derived from the work of Bourdieu (particularly 1977) as applied to archaeological contexts. Broadly known as “practice theory,” it emphasizes the actions of individuals in a social context and considers the results of those actions; it

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may also consider how those actions might have been perceived, though this is less central to this kind of analysis (e.g., Baines 2006; Inomata 2006; Pauketat 2000, 2001, 2007). Considered in this way, Dún Ailinne was the result of human agency, of complex and nuanced negotiations between those who commissioned the monument, those who planned and supervised its construction, and those who did the actual labor, each with their own perspectives and agendas. Even before its use, the construction of a monument can be seen as a kind of performance, where the interaction between the various groups and individuals involved create, maintain, modify, or challenge social relationships (Baines 2006; Johnston et al. 2014). This process and the experiences and meanings it produced would be unavoidably entangled with the subsequent use of Dún Ailinne as it became a place of ritual that itself was modified and changed over time in order to express shifting social ideas. Thus, we need to consider not just the finished product but also how the creation of Dún Ailinne caused a reorientation in the community that produced it, regardless of how the individuals involved in this process perceived it. In a significant way, this society was different from the one before, as it now included the ritual place on the hill. One interpretation of how this new place might have been used involves the idea of movement through the timber structures in the context of ritual ( Johnston et al. 2014). This idea builds on Bernard’s observation noted above, of the trend through the Rose and Mauve phases of more to less open and from an outward to an inward focus, which to him suggested an increase in the degree of social stratification. We considered the effect of this structure on the actual movement of participants in ritual. From the time people would have moved within the bank and ditch (the first of the separations), there is a series of nested spaces, each becoming increasingly small and increasingly interior. For the White phase, this was a single ring, though the two arcs of postholes may also have provided for additional divisions. For the Rose phase, movement was through the summit enclosure, down the funnel entrance, and into the larger of the palisades. From there, one could then enter the smaller palisade and exit again into the interior. By the Mauve phase, movement became simpler but that is because there were fewer options. One could go into the palisade, and perhaps into Feature 42, but from there the only option was out again through the entrance. Movement was constrained: in the Rose phase, people could



Dún Ailinne 131

move through, while in the Mauve phase, one could only go within. Thus, movement was increasingly controlled. Whatever specific rituals or ceremonies provided the context for this movement, and whoever was allowed to participate or constrained from doing so, this structure makes sense in terms of the desire of particular individuals to exert influence through ritual in terms of social power. By constructing a monument of such enormous proportions—drawing on a wide community—and then using it in a ritual context to manage movement, elites at Dún Ailinne could have constructed a social context for this power. There is a body of work demonstrating that ritual movement has measurable affects on the perception of social relationships (see Johnston et al. [2014:219] for a discussion and references). By orchestrating the way people move through the spaces at Dún Ailinne, elites are prompting participants to see their social context in an equally structured way. Thus, bodily movement into increasingly smaller spaces through an increasingly controlled physical environment would have underscored, or even created, the ability of some groups or individuals to exert control over the larger society. Recent research (much of it not reflected in the 2014 publication referenced, which probably emphasizes too much the creation of political hierarchy) indicates that, rather than a centralized, hierarchical political structure, the Irish Iron Age was characterized by a much more flexible and fluid society, where elites from various social groups exerted influence in different social contexts, and no one group possessed institutionalized political power. This kind of social framework, often called “heterarchy,” probably continued in Ireland in varying ways well into the medieval period (Wailes 1995). Within such a framework, power is not a given derived from position or status, it is rather a negotiated thing which lies at the nexus of social opportunity, socially appropriate contexts, and the particular agendas of relevant groups or individuals. In order to be claimed, it must also to some extent be continuously reenacted, and this is facilitated through the ability of social actors to use recognized avenues (though sometimes in new ways) to establish their position and its appropriateness in a given context. In such circumstances, the creation of Dún Ailinne would have provided a potent vehicle for the creation and display of power. It drew on a wide area for people and resources, tying them to this place through their connections to its constituent resources and the labor provided by the surrounding communities.

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While it may have been a new physical structure, the place itself had a long history and was situated in a landscape filled with reminders of that history. Thus, the creators of Dún Ailinne drew on both the ancient and the new, weaving them together to create a place of ritual and ceremony, a locus for the negotiation of social relationships that lasted for centuries.

THEN AND NOW While this may be somewhat different from the way Bernard interpreted the timber structures on the hill, it builds on the insights he first had almost four decades ago. He showed that documentary sources should be treated just like archaeological remains, as evidence to be interpreted rather than as received truth. This is a lesson that has still not entirely filtered through the academic community. He also showed that Dún Ailinne was much more than a “royal site,” but was instead an important ritual place that had a central role to play for the community that created it. By applying anthropological concepts to its rich archaeological record, Bernard made a significant contribution to the study of Ireland’s past. Bernard followed our work at Dún Ailinne with delight and fascination (he made me send him every new magnetometer image as soon as we had it so he could examine it up close). We had talked about the possibility of estimating the labor involved in creating Dún Ailinne, though sadly he was gone before I got around to doing anything specific about it. But he would have enjoyed both the details of calculating these estimates and the intellectual challenge of trying to interpret their larger social meaning. His interest and enthusiasm were not just useful, they were downright fun to experience. I miss him every time Dún Ailinne and I are together, whether physically in Ireland or only at my computer working. In the Acknowledgements of the Dún Ailinne final report, I said the following: I would also like to thank Bernard Wailes. He did a beautiful excavation and kept tremendous records. It is a testimony to his meticulousness that it was possible, some 35 years later, to do this analysis. His insights and willingness to discuss possibilities have always been intellectually stimulating. He has also been unfailingly kind and generous with his time and patient in answering, sometimes several times over, my endless



Dún Ailinne 133 detailed questions about phases and stratigraphy. I have benefited immensely from having him as an advisor, as a colleague, and as a friend.

I can’t improve on this statement. So Bernard, thank you. Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam. May his soul be on God’s right hand.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I would like to thank the following people and institutions who assisted in various ways in both this paper and the ongoing research at Dún Ailinne: Roseanne Schot and Gerard Dowling for taking the lead in the magnetometer survey; Pam Crabtree and Doug Campana for their work on the topographic survey; Doug Campana for the section drawings in Figure 5.6; Frank Coyne, Aegis Archaeology Ltd., for the modern aerial photograph of Dún Ailinne; the Thompson family for their permission to conduct research on their land and for their fond memories of Bernard; the Heritage Council, the National Geographic Society, and New York University for funding various aspects of the research described here; and Peter Bogucki and Pam Crabtree for chairing the session in which the original version of this paper was presented. While I have already thanked Bernard in this paper, I would like to acknowledge him again here. He always supported his students and had as much interest in and enthusiasm for our work as he did for his own. Let that be his legacy that we continue to promote. REFERENCES Abrams, E.M. 1994. How the Maya Built Their World. Austin: University of Texas Press. Aitchison, N.B. 1987. The Ulster Cycle: Heroic Image and Historical Reality. Journal of Medieval History 13:87–116. Ashbee, P., and I.W. Cornwall. 1961. An Experiment in Field Archaeology. Antiquity 35:129–35. Baillie, M.G.L. 1988. The Dating of the Timbers from Navan Fort and the Dorsey, Co. Armagh. Emania 4:37–40. Baines, J. 2006. Public Ceremonial Performance in Ancient Egypt: Exclusion and Integration. In Archaeology of Performance, ed. T. Inomata and L.S. Coben, pp. 261–302. Lanham, MD: Altamira.

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———. 2000. Excavations of the Navan Ditch. Emania 18:21–35. Mathieu, J.R. and D.A. Meyer. 1997. Comparing Axe Heads of Stone, Bronze, and Steel: Studies in Experimental Archaeology. Journal of Field Archaeology 24(3):333– 51. McCone, K. 1990. Pagan Past and Christian Present in Early Irish Literature. Maynooth: An Sagart. Mercer, R.J. 1981. The Excavation of a Late Neolithic Henge-Type Enclosure at Balfarg, Markinch, Fife, Scotland, 1977–78. Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland 111:63–171. ———. 2008. The Nature of Neolithic Enclosure Construction at Hambledon Hill. In Hambledon Hill, Dorset, England, ed. R. Mercer and F. Healy, pp. 744–53. Swindon: English Heritage. Mytum, H.C. 1986. The Reconstruction of an Iron Age Roundhouse at Castell Henllys, Dyfed. Bulletin of the Board of Celtic Studies 33:283–90. Newman, C. 1997. Tara: An Archaeological Survey. Discovery Programme Monograph 2. Dublin: Discovery Programme. ———. 1998. Reflections on the Making of a “Royal Site” In Early Ireland. World Archaeology 30:127–41. Pauketat, T.R. 2000. The Tragedy of the Commoners. In Agency in Archaeology, ed. M.-A. Dobres and J.E. Robb, pp. 113–29. New York: Routledge. ———. 2001. Practice and History in Archaeology: An Emerging Paradigm. Anthropological Theory 1(1):73–98. ———. 2007. Chiefdoms and Other Archaeological Delusions. Lanham, MD: AltaMira. Prendergast, F. 2012. The Lismullin Enclosure: Design Beyond the Obvious in the Iron Age. In Encounters Between Peoples, ed. B. Kelly, N. Roycroft, and M. Stanley, pp. 15–30. Archaeology and the National Roads Authority, Monograph Series No. 9. Dublin: National Roads Authority. Reynolds, P.J. 1994. The Life and Death of a Post-Hole. In Interpreting Stratigraphy, ed. E. Shepherd, pp. 21–25. Norwich: Norfolk Archaeological Unit. Schot, R. 2006. Uisneach Midi a Medón Érenn: A Prehistoric “Cult” Centre and “Royal Site” in Co. Westmeath. The Journal of Irish Archaeology 15:39–71. Startin, W. 1978. Linear Pottery Culture Houses: Reconstruction and Manpower. Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society 44:143–59. ———. 1982. Prehistoric Earthmoving. In Settlement Patterns in the Oxford Region: Excavations at the Abingdon Causewayed Enclosure and Other Sites, ed. H.J. Case and A.W.R. Whittle, pp. 153–56. Oxford: Council for British Archaeology and Ashmolean Museum.

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Townshend, W.H. 1969. Stone and Steel Tool Use in a New Guinea Society. Ethnology 8(2):199–205. Waddell, J. 2010. The Prehistoric Archaeology of Ireland. Bray: Wordwell. Wailes, B. 1974. Excavation at Dún Ailinne, Near Kilcullen, 1974. Journal of the County Kildare Archaeological Society 15(4):345–58. ———. 1982. The Irish “Royal Sites” in History and Archaeology. Cambridge Medieval Celtic Studies 3:1–29. ———. 1990. Dún Ailinne: A Summary Excavation Report. Emania 7:10–21. ———. 1995. A Case Study of Heterarchy in Complex Societies: Early Medieval Ireland and its Archeological Implications. Archeological Papers of the American Anthropological Association 6(1):55–69 (Special Issue: Heterarchy and the Analysis of Complex Societies). ———. 2007. Excavation of the Summit Area. In Dún Ailinne: Excavations at an Irish Royal Site, 1968–1975, ed. S.A. Johnston and B. Wailes, pp. 9–25. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology. Warner, R. 2000. Keeping Out the Otherworld: The Internal Ditch at Navan and Other Iron Age “Hengiform” Enclosures. Emania 18:39–44.

6 Ghosts of Chiefdoms Past: Kings, Complexity, and Resistance at the Edge of European History elizabeth ragan

It was perhaps yet more important that I had enjoyed in my youth some knowledge of our Scots folk in the Highlands and Islands….These points of similarity between a South Sea people and some of my own folk at home ran much in my head in the islands; and not only inclined me to view my fresh acquaintances with favor, but continually modified my judgment. --Robert Louis Stevenson, In the South Seas (1896)

C

hiefdom is now a contentious term: its utility and even validity have long been questioned (Feinman and Neitzel 1984:43–44; Drennan and Uribe 1987:x–xii; Yoffee 1993:60–65), to the degree that some call it a delusion (Pauketat 2007). The concept’s genealogy is as sketchy as any early medieval king-list. We are told that the first to use the term anthropologically was Oberg (1955), who applied the label to various Central and South American societies, although it is found in “inchoate” forms in earlier works on Africa (Barker 2008:516); Carneiro (1981:38–40) credited Steward for delineating its structural forebears in the Caribbean in 1948. From the later 1950s, the work of Sahlins and then Earle established Polynesian chiefdoms as commonly referenced ethnohistorical exemplars.

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Yet genealogies leave out as much as they claim, and there is reason to suspect that the unacknowledged matriline of the chiefdom concept lies in the Highlands and Islands of Scotland. Here chief-led, clan-based societies were historically documented through the medieval and early modern periods, when they vexed the increasingly centralized state of Scotland and eventually the United Kingdom. Reviled as barbarous primitives until their military capability was decisively broken on Culloden Moor in 1746, Highland clans were Romantically rehabilitated less than a century later by the internationally admired novels of Walter Scott—who, in 1822, repaid the Crown for his baronetcy by stage-managing the first royal visit to Scotland since 1607 (Prebble 1988). This included a grand pageant where the nobles of Scotland enthusiastically embraced once-despised Highland costume and culture as distinctive markers of Scottish identity. Contemporary texts leave little doubt that later medieval and early modern Highland clans fit the classic anthropological model of a chiefly society (Service 1971:156–63): conical clans with two social levels, redistribution through feasting and chiefly support of specialist warriors and artisans, lacking a monopoly on the legitimate use of force. The only piece that may be missing is a sacral element to chiefly authority. Dodgshon (1998) and Gibson (2012) have explicitly applied this structural model to their analyses of “middle-range” polities in Scotland and Ireland, where it fits very well. Perhaps these are the cultural traits that led Robert Louis Stevenson (1943 [1896]:14) to say the people of the Marquesas reminded him of “our Scots folk in the Highlands and Islands.” A major critique of the chiefdom concept is that it is inherently evolutionary, nothing more than a stage on the path to the state (Yoffee 1993:60; DeBoer and Kehoe 1999:261). Many researchers have misused the concept in this way, but typology can usefully refer to structural configurations without implying directionality (Marcus 2008:252–53), which smacks of teleology. Few of us normally think of fish as creatures on their way to becoming humans, even if fish-like creatures were our biological ancestors. It is vain to deny, however, that the temptation to consider chiefdoms as a pass-through is strong. Our culture values “civilizations” much more highly than chiefdoms, which most of the public cannot distinguish from what we call tribes: for their grand architecture and flashy material culture; as exemplars of the ability of diverse peoples to “progress.” Is it not almost a duty to one’s subjects to argue that they were



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more complex—in ways that our society cares about—if the evidence can be interpreted that way? Yet state formation was not a common or widespread process before the modern era, and some societies resisted what from our perspective now looks like an inevitable trend. For much of a millennium, chiefly Highlanders lived cheek by jowl with the increasingly powerful Scottish state— which, most ironically, took its name from a Highland people, raising questions about ethnogenesis and the construction of sociopolitical identity as interesting as those posed by Scott’s invention of “tartanry” in 1822.

BEHIND THE PATTERNS Despite its position on the periphery of Europe, the region we now know as Scotland already had some experience of states by the mid-first millennium CE. In the late 1st century CE, the Roman military strove to incorporate northern Britain into their empire, in vain; for two decades in the mid-2nd century, the Antonine Wall, running roughly between Edinburgh and Glasgow, served as the empire’s fortified frontier; and in the early 3rd century, Emperor Severus personally campaigned in “Caledonia” with perhaps 40,000 troops (Keppie 2004:15). The Antonine Wall and Roman forts of all sizes have attracted attention and research since the 18th century, yet they merely mark—in outstanding ways, it cannot be denied—an irruption into the so-called Long Iron Age (1000 BCE–1000 CE [Harding 2012:151]), whose more subtle changes are only beginning to be teased out of a sparse archaeological record. The Roman frontier does not coincide with Scotland’s well-known Highland-Lowland divide, which essentially reflects agricultural potential (Ballantyne and Dawson 2003:32–33), since the Lowlands include not only the areas south of the Antonine Wall but the less mountainous terrain fronting the North Sea in the northeast. Roman artifacts and coins on native sites are thinly scattered beyond the Wall and do not suggest Romanization or even regular trade (Hanson 2002). Settlement types and patterns persisted across the Roman period, and while there may be distinctive types of early medieval hillforts and enclosures (Noble et al. 2013:1141–42), the novel features are not recognizably Roman. Burial traditions, principally unfurnished inhumation, also remained much the same, despite the adoption of Christianity around the middle of the first millennium CE (Maldonado

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2013:3–4). For much of Scotland, the Roman Empire appears to have been little more than a storm tide that left interesting wrack in its wake. Except in the outermost Hebrides, the broader Iron Age was largely aceramic and Scotland’s acidic soils do not favor preservation; excavation at wet sites such as crannogs (Dixon 2004:146–54) shows much of the material culture was organic and quite likely the product of domestic production. Evidence for specialist craft production before the second millennium CE is scant, limited to metalwork and stone sculpture, and generally found on high-status secular and religious sites. Elite medieval settlements in both the Highlands and Lowlands have produced modest quantities of pottery: some is from the Continent and indicates long-distance trade, but much of it was produced in Lowland burghs (Hall 1996), urban centers established from the 12th century (Tait 2008:223; but see Hall et al. 2005). By that point, the Lowlands were indisputably under state administration—but what requires reassessment is Scotland’s alleged unification under Cinead mac Alpín in 842 CE, a claim long belied by the fact that half of the kingdom was ruled by chiefs rarely more than nominally obedient to their overlord (whether that was the king of Scotland or the king of Norway), even once bound by the obligations of feudalism (Dodgshon 1998:10–13). Before we go further, let us consider the word king. Some researchers (Marcus and Feinman 1998:5; Barker 2008:515; Kirch 2010:74) would restrict this term to the leader of an archaic state. However, the word is “in the wild” from the later first millennium CE in Britain. Early medieval texts discussing areas now within Scotland variously refer to leaders as rex (Latin), rí (Gaelic), and cyning (Old English “leader of a kin”). While all of these have long been translated into later English as “king,” it is widely recognized that the size, complexity, and degree of political centralization of the groups led by these individuals vary over time and so here the term “king” cannot be restricted to state contexts. This brings us to issues regarding the interpretation of historical texts. Having embraced the view that their source materials were produced by skilled and politically astute ecclesiastics who delighted in an apt parable (Fraser 2009:3–6), early medieval Scottish historians have been radically reinterpreting their material with great relish and plausibility (Dumville 2002; Broun 2007; Fraser 2009). What was once seen as a sadly time-garbled collection of textual shreds and patches is now more intriguingly interpreted as the conflicting stories of contending heterarchical elites. Adomnan’s

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blessedly clear narrative of the primacy of Cenél1 nGabrain—from whom state-level kings of Scotland have all traced their descent, through Cinead mac Alpín—in the late 6th and 7th centuries CE is almost certainly a reflection of that kindred’s patronage of his monastery, Iona (Fraser 2004). History and genealogy are political tools, and we must be mindful of how authors and later compilers may have chosen and deployed their material to meet challenges that changed over time. This being historical archaeology, we can put names to at least some people, although when it comes to the names of peoples, it is perilously easy to think in terms of the traditional ethnic identities, shape-shifters though those identities are (Hammond 2006). The earliest ethnonyms were recorded by the Romans, and the two most important for this discussion appeared around the beginning of the 4th century CE: the Picti (“painted ones”) were north of the Antonine Wall in Britain, and the Scotti were from Ireland. There is every indication that these were coarse-grained etic identities, applied to peoples hostile to Romans, for both Picts and Scots attacked late Roman Britain, sometimes in concert. Yet their descendants made the terms their own, adopting them as ethnic and territorial names, and continuing to do so today.2 The clearest distinction between Picts and Scots appears to have been linguistic. The Scotti were Gaelic-speakers from the Goidelic branch of the Celtic languages and, after much debate, Pictish has been assigned to the Brittonic branch (Forsyth 1997). Speculation is that it diverged from its common ancestor with Welsh during the Roman occupation, when the frontier would have reduced interaction between northern and southern Britons. Origin stories for Picts and Scots were recorded in the early 8th century by Bede, the Venerable father of English history, who would have had access to Pictish and Scottic informants and texts at Monkwearmouth-Jarrow, one of the cosmopolitan monasteries in Northumbria, the northernmost Anglo-Saxon kingdom. He reported that the Picts came to Britain from Scythia, taking wives from the Scotti in Ireland on the way, while a group of Scotti called the Dál Riata migrated to Britain from Ireland. The Venerable’s word has been taken as gospel for centuries—but Iron Age immigration from Scythia3 or even Ireland is not supported by Scotland’s archaeological record. Given that there is ample historical evidence for Dalriadic naval forces that engaged in battles throughout the Hebridean archipelago, Ewan Campbell (2001) has suggested that the boundary between Brittonic and



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Goidelic speakers in the earlier Iron Age may have been the mountains of Druim Alban (“the spine of Britain”) rather than the sea, an eminently reasonable hypothesis (although cf. McSparron and Williams 2011). The Dál Riata as a people may not have migrated from Ireland, but the founder of their principal religious center certainly did. In the 6th and 7th centuries, self-exile as a peregrinus was seen as a devotional act among Irish Christians, a sacrifice of kin ties in service of their faith ( Johnston 2013:43). Columbanus, for instance, went to the Continent, founding monasteries among the Franks and Lombards in the late 6th and early 7th centuries; but a generation earlier Columba, a monastic of royal lineage, had gone to Argyll, where he was given the island of Iona4 for a monastery. Could this be the seminal model for a broader Dalriadic migration narrative, seeking to source secular as well as religious identity and status in the larger Gaelic-speaking community in Ireland? In the earlier medieval period, literacy was chiefly an ecclesiastical skill; texts from this time were largely or exclusively produced in monasteries, the larger of which might function as proto-urban centers (Hodges 2012:67) in an otherwise obstinately rural landscape. However the Picts and Scots came to adopt Christianity, we see them through that filter. This may be why these chiefs appear to lack a significant sacral element to their authority, that being the jealously guarded remit of their narrators, although at least in some cases these would have been their own kin. There was, however, one important Scottic ritual that, though it might be presided over by a Christian cleric, was not derived from that religious tradition. In the medieval period, Irish kings were inaugurated at sites considered to be the seats of their pagan ancestors. Three of the most important of these sites—Tara, Navan, and Dún Ailinne—have been excavated, revealing Iron Age enclosures associated with early Neolithic ritual monuments, suggesting continuity of sanctity if not of ritual (Warner 2004:28– 29). The inauguration rituals shared common elements (Clancy 2003:88): a mound for the king to stand on, a flat stone, a wooden rod, a tree, a horse, a garment, and liquid for anointing or drinking. The king was a rod from the tree of his kindred; standing or sitting on the stone symbolized his union with the land, and some inauguration stones had a footprint carved in them. These symbols of kingship were creatively “reinvented” and elaborated over time, allowing shifting political narratives to express continuity and permanence (Clancy 2003:90–91; Airlie 2003:124). Three sites in Scotland have traditions of similar rituals: Dunadd, Scone, and Finlaggan.

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INTERLACING LINES The alliance between the Dalriadic king Áedán mac Gabrán and Columba—perpetuated for generations by the Cenél nGabráin and the Columban familia of churches—served Church and (not) state well. The Columban connection gave the Dál Riata not only ideological support in the form of Biblical models of kingship by divine grace (Campbell 2003:50–51), but also entrée into Irish and Continental networks. Dál Riata’s participation in these can be seen at its “capital” of Dunadd (Lane and Campbell 2000). This nuclear hillfort is set between one end of an important land route across Argyll (the Crinian Canal was cut there in the late 18th century) and the Kilmartin valley, which boasts one of the densest concentrations of prehistoric monuments and rock art in Scotland. On a level just below the summit fort lies exposed bedrock that, among other inscriptions, bears a carved footprint and an ogham inscription that appears to date between the late 8th and 10th centuries (Lane and Campbell 2000:264). A lower level of the fort has produced the remains of a brooch and ornament workshop; to date more early medieval Continental pottery and glass has been found at Dunadd than any other British site (Campbell 2007:116). Particularly notable objects include a Byzantine gold-and-glass tesserae and a fragment of orpiment, the mineral used to produce the rich yellow pigment found in early medieval manuscripts. Orpiment is not found in Britain, and would have come originally from the Mediterranean or Spain (Lane and Campbell 2000:212). These “Scots in Britain” also connected themselves with Anglian Northumbria: when dynastic defeat sent the young sons of Aethilfrith into exile ca. 616 CE, Oswald the heir ended up among the Dál Riata (Fraser 2009:158), and when he reasserted his lineage’s leadership as king in Northumbria ca. 633 CE, he promptly granted the Columban familia land for a monastery at Lindisfarne. This is why Dunadd, where 7th century metalworking debris includes stamped foils decorated with Anglo-Saxon interlaced “biting beasts” and a gold-and-garnet stud, has been suggested as a crucible for Hiberno-Saxon art (Lane and Campbell 2001:245–46). This “transnational” style was applied to Dalriadic metalwork, Ionan manuscripts such as the Book of Kells, and a tradition of ecclesiastical sculpture that included the masterful ostentation of high crosses (Fisher 2001), advertising the extent of their network’s reach.



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6.2.  Dunadd. (Photograph SC 409782 © Historic Environment Scotland.)

6.3.  Stone with carved footprint, ogham inscription, and Pictish Class 1-style boar, Dunadd. (Photograph by Elizabeth Ragan.)

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6.4.  Drawing of carved footprint, ogham inscription, and Pictish Class 1-style boar, Dunadd. (SC 1431441 © Historic Environment Scotland.)



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The Picts appear to have made more limited uses of network strategies, at least through the 7th century. Their participation in the trade systems that brought Mediterranean and Continental pottery into Scotland from the late 5th into the 8th century CE appears to have been minimal and indirect (Ragan 1989; Campbell 2007:116, fig. 83), so that the few imports found on Pictish sites are likely to have passed through Dalriadic hands (Noble et al. 2013:1142). Even Portmahomack, the first Pictish monastery to be extensively excavated, though it has been called “an Iona of the East” (Carver 2004) and might have Columban connections, has not produced these wares (Carver 2008:92). The Pictish sphere of influence has been classically defined by the distribution of “Pictish” symbols and the stones they are carved on. The incised, undressed Class I stones (5th–7th centuries CE), found at a wide variety of sites, are considered an indigenous development, while the more elaborate and often explicitly Christian Class II stones (8th–9th centuries CE), clustered in fewer locations, incorporate Hiberno-Saxon elements as well (Henderson and Henderson 2004; Gondek 2006; Fraser 2008:1). One conduit for the transfer of the Hiberno-Saxon style may have been through the Church: whether Portmahomack was a Columban foundation or not, it had an 8th century stonecarving workshop, and three of the great Class II cross-slabs— Hilton of Cadboll, Nigg, and Shandwick—are sited within 15 km of the site on the Tarbat peninsula (Carver 2008:178–82, 9.1), in what would have been the northern Pictish kingdom of Fortriu.5 As among the Dál Riata, chiefly lineages patronized the Church—and its specialist sculptors, for Pictish monuments often depict secular elite preoccupations such as hunting and war, and references to that exemplary Old Testament warrior-king, David (Henderson and Henderson 2004:129–33; Gondek 2006:123–24). Marriage alliances would have been another avenue for the up-take of Dalriadic styles of display, and a plausible though speculative interpretation of various annal entries and king-lists has recently proposed an instance that may go far to explain the vexed question of Pictish “matriliny” (Clancy 2004). Two early 8th century Pictish over-kings—Bruide and his brother Nechtan—are named as sons of Derilei. Der, it seems, is feminine: “daughter of ” rather than the more familiar mac; and Clancy suggests Derilei6 was the daughter of an earlier king Bruide who rolled back Northumbrian expansion into Pictavia in the later 7th century. Bruide and Nechtan’s father may have been Dargart of Cenél Comgaill, a cadet lineage of Cenél nGabráin.

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6.5.  Kildalton Cross, later eighth century CE. (Photograph by Elizabeth Ragan.)



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6.6.  Hilton of Cadboll Class II stone, ca. 800 CE. (Photograph SC 910723 © Historic Environment Scotland.)

So here we have two men, possibly Dalriadic in their patriline and ruling over some Scots thereby, who ruled over Picts by virtue of maternal descent. If true, that explains the oddest bit about Bede’s Pictish origin myth: that the Irish wife-givers required the Picts to choose their king from “female royal race” rather than male “when any difficulty should arise” (Fraser 2009:238–39). Clerics patronized by Nechtan may have constructed a narrative that justified his rule in the face of challenges to his unorthodox descent. Still, whether this was an inspired use of genealogical resources or bald-faced fiction, the ploy might cut in unexpected directions and was now recorded for posterity through literacy.

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As these chiefly kings were routinizing their new instruments of power and consolidating ever-wider dominions through paramountcy, contacts with the Continent were increasingly channeled through the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms in the south (which were undergoing a similar process of political centralization) rather than Ireland. Dál Riata’s sea-connected network weakened, and from the 740s CE its rí was probably under a Pictish overlord. Yet we end up with a state called Scot-land, and this, probably written ca. 1200 CE: Kinadius, then, the son of Alpin, first of the Scots, ruled this Pictavia happily for xvi years. Pictavia, moreover, was named from the Picts, whom, as we have said Cinadius destroyed. For God condescended as reward for their wickeness, to make them alien from, and dead to, their heritage (Woolf 2007:93) Cinead mac Alpín, given credit for unifying the kingdom, would seem to be another elite of mixed descent: his name and his father’s may have been Gaelicized from Brittonic originals (Woolf 2007:96–97), although Cinead is said to have ruled Dál Riata for two years before coming to Pictavia. By the time of Cinead’s accession in the 840s, Dál Riata had been suffering under raids by Norse Vikings for fifty years, and during his reign Iona’s relics were divided between Kells in Ireland and Dunkeld, a new church in southern Pictavia. Cinead died at his palace in Forteviot about 25 km south of Dunkeld; ongoing excavations at Forteviot have uncovered a Pictish cemetery with distinctive square and round ditched barrows spanning the 5th to 9th centuries CE and the remains of a prehistoric ritual complex not unlike that in Kilmartin, just north of Dunadd (Driscoll 2010; University of Glasgow n.d.).

CROWNED WITH A BOSS Why the Picts were the ones who became “alien from, and dead to, their heritage” rather than the Dalriadic Scots is a fascinating although perhaps unanswerable question, since surviving texts suggest the Picts had served as paramount chiefs north of the Forth-Clyde line for over a century. If Cinead and his immediate successors were as much Pictish as Scottic, from a context where elites were able to claim ancestors on both sides of the Druim



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6.7.  Inauguration of King Alexander III at Scone, 1249 CE. (MS 171B, folio 206r; Image courtesy of the Master and Fellows of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge.)

Alban, the real question is why rulers—in the 10th century if not the 9th (Charles-Edwards 2008:170, Clancy 2011:358–62, 382–86)—chose to reject Pictish identities and embrace Scottic ones. Gaelic replaced the Pictish language as the vernacular in much of Scotland (Clancy 2011:382–86); and in the 13th century three Scottish kings were inaugurated through a ritual that involved seating them on a stone at the monastery of Scone, 15 km northeast of Forteviot, after which a Highlander recited their genealogy in Gaelic (Duncan 2003). While the chain of custody cannot be confirmed, this inaugural stone is believed to be the iconic Stone of Destiny or Stone of Scone, said around 1300 CE to have come from Ireland7 (Broun 2003:193–94). Seized as a prize of war by Edward I of England when he backed his claim to lordship over

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Scotland with military force, the Stone was taken to Westminster in 1296, where the Coronation Chair was purpose-built to mate it with the ritual of enthronement the English had borrowed from Continental elites (Binski 2003:208; Airlie 2003:125). There the Stone remained, a potent symbol of English hegemony, until it was returned to Scotland in 1996.8 It is instructive to see how the monarchs of an extensive and eventually globe-spanning state captured such sacral objects, incorporating them and their associated rituals into their own heritage much as they brought the original owners within their political fold. The kingdom of the Scots appears to have lost the “stone” element of the inauguration ritual when it lost the Stone itself. Yet the practice continued or cropped up again in the Dalriadic heartland, where it was enacted at least until 1449 CE, and perhaps later (Caldwell 2003:64). At Finlaggan on the Isle of Islay, the principal seat of the Rí Innse Gall—“King of the Isles” or “Lord of the Isles,” depending on whether the perspective was Gaelic or Anglophone—The MacDonald, chief of Clan Donald, was inaugurated with ceremonies that involved stepping into a carved footprint, “denoting that he should walk in the footsteps and uprightness of his predecessors” (Caldwell 2003:64). The chiefs of the MacDonalds and other clans were a source of aggravation, unrest, and galloglass mercenaries (McDonald 1997:154–56) for their neighbors through the later medieval period, but most particularly the Scottish Crown, since they were inclined to treat the king as their paramount rather than a head of state. While the Highlands and Islands were nominally part of the Scottish state, conditions described on the ground show its communities were functionally chiefdoms: a population of subsistence farmers and herders with a small number of specialists bound to chiefs or Church, obstinately non-urban,9 and racked by endemic lineage competition in the form of feuding and warfare. If chiefdoms are merely pass-throughs on the way to states, why did the people of the Highlands and Islands refuse ever-present opportunities to accept the benefits inclusion in a state could bring, such as reduced violence and economic development, as their Lowland kin had? It took the willingness of one Highland clan—the Campbells, who became great thereby—to play both games, chiefs in the Highlands and lords in court; the ship-mounted cannon, first used by James IV of the Scots in 1504 to bombard sea-girt Hebridean fortresses (Rodger 1997:168); and the enforcement resources of both the English and Scottish Crowns to erode the effective



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autonomy of Highland chiefs. In 1603, James VI of Scotland became James I of the United Kingdom, the first Scottish monarch to sit atop the Stone of Scone in centuries; only a few years later, his commissioners instituted a set of laws that undermined key aspects of Highland chiefs’ powerbase (Dodgshon 1998:105–7). The Statutes of Iona sharply curtailed the size of chiefly retinues; forbid the practice of feeding and quartering “idlers” at tenants’ expense; restricted trade in wine and whisky, essential for hospitality and feasting; prohibited firearms and wandering bards; and mandated that everyone with at least sixty cattle had to send their eldest son to a Lowland school to learn English. Pacification and boarding schools are strategies that states have used to great effect elsewhere since. Yet, pacification aside, it can be argued that statehood has not brought the Highlands much benefit. Certainly many of its people did not think so at the time, since they emigrated to less civilized colonies overseas in large numbers; others were evicted from their land by lords seeking economic returns from vast but environmentally challenged estates. This depopulation is attested by the countless ruins of small farmsteads encountered by any walker wandering over hills and through glens, an abandonment that, in a prehistoric context, might be viewed as evidence for societal collapse. Even today, urban centers are small and very thinly scattered across the Highlands, little more than loci for administrative (accounting for a third of all jobs in the Highlands and Islands, when health and education are included [Scottish Government 2008]) and retail services. It appears that even modest levels of complexity require significant infusions of external resources in this landscape—from tourism (providing a quarter of all jobs) and deer-stalking, if nothing else. That higher levels of sociopolitical complexity are a sign of progress, however we choose to define that term, is a proposition that should be examined rather than assumed, over long timescales and across as many measures as possible. In some situations, smaller-scale societies may be more sustainable, just as not all fish left the water for the land. Evolution makes organisms more fit for the environment they find themselves in…and nothing else. While it does seem that circumstances in the Americas shaped different forms of middle-range societies than we find in parts of Eurasia, we need to lay the ghost of past theoretical biases to rest and get beyond mere names, labels whose meanings are destined to morph with the passage of time, even if the stones we would explain do not.

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NOTES 6.1. Cenél is the Old Irish term for a patrilineally defined ramage, usually with “a chiefly agnatic group at the core” (Patterson 1994:378–79). 6.2. In March 2013, ScotlandsDNA announced that “the Picts are alive and well” after identifying a Y-chromosome marker found in 10% of Scotsmen and less than 1% of English and Irishmen (Ross 2013). 6.3. Scythia has long been seen as a baffling choice of origin for the Picts (Wainwright 1955:10–11; Hudson 2014:55), but intriguing questions are being raised by genomic evidence for a steppe origin for the overwhelmingly dominant R1b Y-chromosome haplogroup in the Celtic West (Cassidy et al. 2016). 6.4. By whom, we are not sure. This is an excellent example of how early medieval texts conflict in meaningful ways. Bede records that Columba received Iona from the Picts (Evans 2008:184). Bede almost certainly had access to sources from the Picts, who had recently turned from a Columban affiliation to an “English” Augustinian one. This aligned the Picts with Northumbria, who had done the same thing about two generations earlier. However, texts originating from Iona itself state that island was in Dál Riata (Evans 2008:189; Fraser 2009:97). Evans (2008: n. 25) suggests that Adomnán, the abbot of Iona who wrote St. Columba’s Life ca. 700 CE, may have avoided saying that it was a donation from the Dalriadic king because Pictish power was increasing at that time. In the 730s, a few years after Bede completed his history, the Picts took and burned the Dalriadic “capital” of Dunadd. 6.5. Until recently, Fortriu was considered the dominant kingdom among the southern Picts, centered on sites such as Dundurn and Forteviot, but a convincing case has been made by Woolf (2006) for locating Fortriu at the northern end of the Great Glen instead. 6.6. Might the woman so prominently carved riding sidesaddle on the Hilton of Cadboll stone be Derilei herself ? 6.7. Geological investigation of the Stone, however, suggests is was quarried from an Old Red Sandstone outcrop not far from Scone (Phillips et al. 2003). 6.8. With the stipulation that the Stone will be taken to Westminster for future coronations of monarchs of the United Kingdom, so it can continue to serve its sacral kingmaking functions (Welander 2003:257). 6.9. The Vikings founded a number of urban centers in Ireland, but though they dominated the West Highland seaboard from the early 9th to mid-13th century, no similar ports were established there.



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REFERENCES Airlie, S. 2003. Thrones, Dominions, Powers: Some European Points of Comparison for the Stone of Destiny. In The Stone of Destiny: Artefact and Icon, ed. R. Welander, D.J. Breeze, and T.O. Clancy, pp. 123–36. Society of Antiquaries of Scotland Monograph Series 22. Exeter, UK: Short Run Press. Ballantyne, C.K., and A.G. Dawson. 2003. Geomorphology and Landscape Change. In Scotland After the Ice Age: Environment, Archaeology and History, 8000 BC–AD 1000, ed. K.J. Edwards and I.B.M. Ralston, pp. 23–44. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Barker, A.W. 2008. Chiefdoms. In Handbook of Archaeological Theories, ed. R.A. Bentley, H.D.G. Maschner, and C. Chippendale, pp. 515–32. Lanham, MD: AltaMira Press. Binski, P. 2003. A “Sign of Victory”: The Coronation Chair, Its Manufacture, Setting and Symbolism. In The Stone of Destiny: Artefact and Icon, ed. R. Welander, D.J. Breeze, and T.O. Clancy, pp. 207–22. Society of Antiquaries of Scotland Monograph Series 22. Exeter, UK: Short Run Press. Broun, D. 2003. The Origin of the Stone of Scone as a National Icon. In The Stone of Destiny: Artefact and Icon, ed. R. Welander, D.J. Breeze, and T.O. Clancy, pp. 182–97. Society of Antiquaries of Scotland Monograph Series 22. Exeter, UK: Short Run Press. ———. 2007. Scottish Independence and the Idea of Britain from the Picts to Alexander III. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Caldwell, D.H. 2003. Finlaggan, Islay—Stones and Inauguration Ceremonies. In The Stone of Destiny: Artefact and Icon, ed. R. Welander, D.J. Breeze, and T.O. Clancy, pp. 60–75. Society of Antiquaries of Scotland Monograph Series 22. Exeter, UK: Short Run Press. Campbell, E. 2001. Were the Scots Irish? Antiquity 75:285–92. ———. 2003. Royal Inaugurations in Dal Riata and the Stone of Destiny. In The Stone of Destiny: Artefact and Icon, ed. R. Welander, D.J. Breeze, and T.O. Clancy, pp. 43–59. Society of Antiquaries of Scotland Monograph Series 22. Exeter, UK: Short Run Press. ———. 2007. Continental and Mediterranean Imports to Atlantic Britain and Ireland, AD 400–800. CBA Research Report 157. York: Council for British Archaeology. Carneiro, R.L. 1981. The Chiefdom: Precursor of the State. In The Transition to Statehood in the New World, ed. G.D. Jones and R.R. Kautz, pp. 37–79. New York: Cambridge University Press. Carver, M. 2004. An Iona of the East: The Early-medieval Monastery at Portmahomack, Tarbat Ness. Medieval Archaeology 48:1–30.

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———. 2008. Portmahomack: Monastery of the Picts. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Cassidy, L.M., R. Martiniano, E.M. Murphy, M.D. Teasdale, J. Mallory, B. Hartwell, and D.G. Bradley. 2016. Neolithic and Bronze Age Migration to Ireland and Establishment of the Insular Atlantic Genome. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 113(2):368–73. Charles-Edwards, T.M. 2008. Picts and Scots: A Review of Alex Woolf, From Pictland to Alba 789–1070. Innes Review 59:168–88. Clancy, T.O. 2003. Kingmaking and Images of Kingship in Medieval Gaelic Literature. In The Stone of Destiny: Artefact and Icon, ed. R. Welander, D.J. Breeze, and T.O. Clancy, pp. 85–105. Society of Antiquaries of Scotland Monograph Series 22. Exeter, UK: Short Run Press. ———. 2004. Philosopher-King: Nechtan mac Der-Ilei. Scottish Historical Review 83(2):125–49. ———. 2011. Gaelic in Medieval Scotland: Advent and Expansion. Proceedings of the British Academy 167:349–92. DeBoer, W.R., and A.B. Kehoe. 1999. Cahokia and the Archaeology of Ambiguity. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 9:261–67. Dixon, N. 2004. The Crannogs of Scotland: An Underwater Archaeology. Stroud, UK: Tempus. Dodgshon, R.A. 1998. From Chiefs to Landlords: Social and Economic Change in the Western Highlands and Islands, c. 1493–1820. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Drennan, R.D., and C.A. Uribe. 1987. Introduction. In Chiefdoms in the Americas, ed. R.D. Drennan and C.A. Uribe, pp. vii–xii. Lanham, MD: University Press of America. Driscoll, S.T. 2010. SERFing in the Scottish Heartlands: Artefacts and the Research Strategy. Scottish Archaeological Journal 32 (1):57–72. Dumville, D.N. 2002. Ireland and North Britain in the Earlier Middle Ages: Contexts for Míniugud Senchasa Fher nAlban. In Rannsachadh na Gàidhlig 2000, ed. C.Ó. Baoill and N.R. McGuire, pp. 185–211. Aberdeen: An Cló Gaidhealach. Duncan, A.A.M. 2003. Before Coronation: Making a King at Scone in the Thirteenth Century. In The Stone of Destiny: Artefact and Icon, ed. R. Welander, D.J. Breeze, and T.O. Clancy, pp. 140–67. Society of Antiquaries of Scotland Monograph Series 22. Exeter, UK: Short Run Press. Evans, N. 2008. The Calculation of Columba’s Arrival in Britain in Bede’s Ecclesiastical History and the Pictish King-lists. The Scottish Historical Review 87:183–205. Feinman, G., and J. Neitzel. 1984. Too Many Types: An Overview of Sedentary Prestate Societies in the Americas. In Advances in Archaeological Method and Theory, vol.



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7, ed. M.B. Schiffer, pp. 39–102. Orlando: Academic Press. Fisher, I. 2001. Early Medieval Sculpture in the West Highlands and Islands. Society of Antiquaries of Scotland Monograph Series 1. Edinburgh: Royal Commission on the Ancient and Historical Monuments of Scotland and the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland. Forsyth, K. 1997. Language in Pictland: The Case Against “Non-Indo-European Pictish.” Utrecht: De Keltische Draak. Fraser, I. 2008. The Pictish Symbol Stones of Scotland. Edinburgh: Royal Commission on the Ancient and Historical Monuments of Scotland. Fraser, J.E. 2004. The Iona Chronicle, the Descendants of Áedan mac Gabráin, and the “Principal Kindreds of Dal Riata.” Northern Studies 38:77–96. ———. 2009. From Caledonia to Pictland: Scotland to 795. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Gibson, D.B. 2012. From Chieftain to State in Early Ireland. New York: Cambridge University Press. Gondek, M. 2006. Investing in Sculpture: Power in Early-historic Scotland. Medieval Archaeology 50:105–42. Hall, D.W. 1996. Blind Date: Scottish Medieval Pottery Industries. Tayside and Fife Archaeological Journal 2:126–29. Hall, M., D. Hall, and G. Clark. 2005. What’s Cooking? New Radiocarbon Dates from the Earliest Phases of the Perth High Street Excavations and the Question of Perth’s Early Medieval Origin. Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland 135:273–85. Hammond, M.H. 2006. Ethnicity and the Writing of Medieval Scottish History. The Scottish Historical Review 85:1–27. Hanson, W.S. 2002. Zones of Interaction: Roman and Native in Scotland. Antiquity 76:834–40. Harding, D.W. 2012. Iron Age Hillforts in Britain and Beyond. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Henderson, G., and I. Henderson. 2004. The Art of the Picts: Sculpture and Metalwork in Early Medieval Scotland. New York: Thames and Hudson. Hodges, R. 2012. Dark Age Economics: A New Audit. London: Bristol Classical Press. Hudson, B. 2014. The Picts. Chichester, UK: Wiley Blackwell. Johnston, E. 2013. Literacy and Identity in Early Medieval Ireland. Woodbridge, UK: Boydell Press. Keppie, L. 2004. The Legacy of Rome: Scotland’s Roman Remains, 3rd ed. Edinburgh: John Donald Publishers.

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Kirch, P.V. 2010. How Chiefs Became Kings: Divine Kingship and the Rise of the Archaic State in Ancient Hawai’i. Berkeley: University of California Press. Lane, A., and E. Campbell. 2000. Dunadd: An Early Dalriadic Capital. Oxford: Oxbow Books. McDonald, R.A. 1997. The Kingdom of the Isles: Scotland’s Western Seaboard, c. 1100–c. 1336. East Linton, UK: Tuckwell Press. McSparron, C., and B. Williams. 2011. “…And They Won Land Among the Picts by Friendly Treaty or the Sword”: How a Re-examination of Early Historical Sources and an Analysis of Early Medieval Settlement in North Co. Antrim Confirms the Validity of Traditional Accounts of Dál Riatic Migration to Scotland from Ulster. Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland 141:145–58. Maldonado, A. 2013. Burial in Early Medieval Scotland: New Questions. Medieval Archaeology 57:1–34. Marcus, J. 2008. The Archaeological Evidence for Social Evolution. Annual Review of Anthropology 37:251–66. Marcus, J., and G. Feinman. 1998. Introduction. In Archaic States, ed. G.M. Feinman and J. Marcus, pp. 3–14. Santa Fe: School of American Research Press. Noble, G., M. Gondek, E. Campbell, and M. Cook. 2013. Between Prehistory and History: The Archaeological Detection of Social Change Among the Picts. Antiquity 87:1136–50. Oberg, K. 1955. Types of Social Structure Among the Lowland Tribes of South and Central America. American Anthropologist 57:472–87. Patterson, N. 1994. Cattle Lords and Clansmen: The Social Structure of Early Ireland, 2nd ed. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press. Pauketat, T.R. 2007. Chiefdoms and Other Archaeological Delusions. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Phillips, E., A. McMillan, M. Browne, and N. Fortey. 2003. The Geology of the Stone of Destiny. In The Stone of Destiny: Artefact and Icon, ed. R. Welander, D.J. Breeze, and T.O. Clancy, pp. 32–40. Society of Antiquaries of Scotland Monograph Series 22. Exeter, UK: Short Run Press. Prebble, J. 1988. The King’s Jaunt: George IV in Scotland, August, 1822, “one and twenty daft days.” London: Collins. Ragan, E.A. 1989. Fifth to Eighth Century Imports in the Celtic West: The Evidence Against Isolation. Master’s thesis, University of Glasgow, Dept. of Archaeology. Rodger, N.A.M. 1997. The Safeguard of the Sea: A Naval History of Britain 660–1649. New York: W. W. Norton. Ross, S. 2013. One in Ten Scots Men Descended from the Picts. Accessed February 22, 2015. Scottish Government. 2008. Highlands and Islands Scotland: European Regional Development Fund 2007–2013: Structural Funds Operational Programme: 2. Socioeconomic Background. Accessed February 24, 2015. Service, E.R. 1971. Primitive Social Organization: An Evolutionary Perspective, 2nd ed. New York: Random House. Stevenson, R.L. 1943 [1896]. In the South Seas: Being an Account of Experiences and Observations in the Marquesas, Paumotus and Gilbert Islands in the Course of Two Cruises, on the Yacht “Casco (1988) and the Schooner “Equator” (1889). New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. Tait, R. 2008. Burgage plot patterns and dimensions in four Scottish burghs. Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland 138:223–38. University of Glasgow. n.d. SERF (Strathearn Environs and Royal Forteviot Project). Accessed February 22, 2015. Wainwright, F.T. 1955. The Picts and the Problem. In The Problem of the Picts, ed. F.T. Wainwright, pp. 1–53. Edinburgh: Nelson and Sons. Warner, R. 2004. Notes on the Inception and Early Development of the Royal Mound in Ireland. In Assembly Places and Practices in Medieval Europe, ed. A. Pantos and S. Semple, pp. 27–43. Dublin: Four Courts Press. Welander, R. 2003. The Events of 1996. In The Stone of Destiny: Artefact and Icon, ed. R. Welander, D.J. Breeze, and T.O. Clancy, pp. 234–59. Society of Antiquaries of Scotland Monograph Series 22. Exeter, UK: Short Run Press. Woolf, A. 2006. Dún Nechtain, Fortriu and the Geography of the Picts. Scottish Historical Review 85(2):182–201. ———. 2007. From Pictland to Alba 789–1070. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Yoffee, N. 1993. Too Many Chiefs? (or, Safe Texts for the ‘90s). In Archaeological Theory: Who Sets the Agenda?, ed. N. Yoffee and A. Sherratt, pp. 60–78. New York: Cambridge University Press.

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7 Socioeconomic Change in Early Medieval Ireland: Agricultural Innovation, Population Growth, and Human Health rachel e. scott

INTRODUCTION

I

began my doctoral studies under the supervision of Bernard Wailes more than thirty years after he completed his own Ph.D. While we shared an interest in early medieval Ireland, not surprisingly, we differed in our theoretical approaches and research questions. Nonetheless, Bernard was unfailingly supportive of my work on the bioarchaeology of social identity, and his skepticism of popular trends in archaeological thought forced me to become a more rigorous scholar. However, rather than presenting some aspect of my research on identity, I want to honor his memory by applying my expertise in human skeletal analysis to a question he himself addressed (Wailes 1970, 1972, 1990): the impact of changes in agricultural practice on the population of late prehistoric and medieval Europe. Bernard’s work on early farming derived from his larger interest in the development of complex societies (e.g., Wailes 1995, 1996), as agricultural improvements often resulted in population growth, which, in turn, contributed to greater social complexity. A related consideration is whether increased agricultural production affected the health, as well as the size, of the population. Although the effects on human health of the origins and later intensification of agriculture have been documented for other regions of Europe (e.g., Krenz-Niedbała 2014; Meiklejohn and

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Zvelebil 1991; Roberts and Cox 2007), the evidence from early medieval Ireland has not previously been examined. In this chapter, I investigate socioeconomic change during the early medieval period in Ireland (ca. 400–1200 CE) by exploring the interrelation of agricultural innovation, population growth, and human health. This was a period characterized by developments in agricultural practice and technology. The faunal remains suggest a diversification in livestock rearing, marked by a decline in the importance of cattle. At the same time, cereal production appears to have expanded. While pollen cores indicate the clearance of more land for arable farming, the archaeological remains of numerous grain-drying kilns plus both vertical and horizontal watermills attest to an increase in cereal processing. In addition, paleobotanical remains record the introduction of new non-cereal crops, such as flax and legumes. Based on evidence for land clearance and on radiocarbon dates for settlement sites, several scholars have argued for a significant growth in population over the course of the first millennium CE. Yet, as this chapter demonstrates, the human skeletal data challenge this idea of a prosperous and well-fed rural populace supported by a revolution in agriculture. Markers of nonspecific stress, in particular cribra orbitalia and linear enamel hypoplasia, reveal that the early Irish suffered persistent nutritional deficiencies and infectious disease.

SOCIOECONOMIC CHANGE IN EARLY MEDIEVAL IRELAND Irish society and economy during the early medieval period were predominantly rural, agricultural, and small-scale. The vast majority of people lived with their extended families in dispersed individual farmsteads, demarcated on the landscape by roughly circular enclosures. These settlement enclosures most commonly take the form of ringforts or raths, which are defined by at least one earthen bank and ditch, but they also include stone-built cashels, promontory forts, and island crannogs (O’Sullivan et al. 2013:48–64; Stout 1997). The sheer number of early medieval settlement enclosures, estimated to be at least 60,000 (O’Sullivan et al. 2013:49), illustrates the prevalence of these dispersed farms. Notably, although nucleated rural settlements are well known elsewhere in early medieval northwest Europe, no archaeological evidence exists for such sites in Ireland (O’Sullivan et al. 2013:47–48).



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Similarly, urban centers did not develop in Ireland until the end of the first millennium CE. By the late 9th and early 10th centuries, a few of the larger monasteries—such as Clonmacnoise, Co. Offaly, and Armagh, Co. Armagh—possessed urban characteristics, including substantial populations, planned streets and districts, large public buildings and monuments, craft production, and periodic regional fairs (Bradley 1998; Doherty 1985). However, because these monasteries were not the foci of central-place markets, their status as towns is debated (Graham 1987; Hodges 1982:47–49; Valante 1998). The first settlements to conform to this economic definition of towns were founded by the Vikings at the beginning of the 10th century CE. After carrying out a series of raids along Ireland’s waterways, the Vikings established a number of port towns along the eastern and southern coasts. These settlements of Dublin, Wexford, Waterford, Cork, and Limerick then grew into centers of large-scale manufacturing and long-distance trade (Edwards 1990:172–92; Valante 2008). Individual farmsteads also engaged in craftworking and trade, though to a much more limited extent. Households likely repaired iron tools and wove textiles to meet their own needs, and they traded within Ireland for certain utilitarian items, such as iron ore and grinding stones. Nonetheless, the basis of their economy was agricultural production (Kerr et al. 2013). The early medieval Irish practiced a combination of arable and pastoral farming, raising both domesticated crops and animals: primarily barley, oats, and wheat, along with cattle, pigs, and sheep. Cattle were the most important animal domesticate and were kept mainly for their milk rather than their meat (McCormick et al. 2014). Within this framework of a mixed farming economy, a series of innovations occurred throughout the early medieval period. Analyses of a variety of archaeological materials indicate that, in an effort to create a more stable and plentiful food supply, the early Irish both exploited a wider range of resources and intensified agricultural production. The faunal remains suggest that livestock rearing diversified after the 8th century CE. Although cattle remained the most common domesticated animal, they decreased in relative number as sheep and pig increased, principally in Ulster and the West (McCormick et al. 2014:85, fig. 71). At the same time, cereal production appears to have expanded. Pollen cores from several lakes and bogs across Ireland record the clearance of woodland and the establishment of widespread cultivation by the 9th century CE (Kerr

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et al. 2009:2870). The introduction of the coulter plow in the 10th century would have allowed the tilling of heavier soils (Brady 1993). In addition, archaeological excavations have uncovered hundreds of grain-drying kilns, a necessity in the damp climate of Ireland. Radiocarbon dates on carbonized grain indicate a decline in the number of drying kilns beginning in the 8th century CE, likely due to greater use of the larger and more effective keyhole kiln (Monk and Power 2012). Dendrochronological dating of vertical and horizontal watermills also supports an increase in cereal processing in the 8th and 9th centuries. The construction of watermills began in the early 7th century, with the majority of mills built ca. 775–850 CE (Brady 2006). Last, paleobotanical remains document the introduction of new noncereal crops, notably flax and legumes (McCormick et al. 2014:46–47, fig. 45). While flax would have provided fodder, linen, and oil, legumes may have been used as part of a crop-rotation system in order to fix nitrogen in the soil (McCormick et al. 2014:48–49). Several scholars have argued that the population of Ireland grew significantly over the course of the first millennium CE (e.g., McCormick 1995; Mytum 1992:48; Ó Corráin 1972:48–49; O’Sullivan et al. 2013: ch. 9), suggesting that the changes in agricultural practice—particularly the expansion of arable agriculture—did succeed in sustaining a multiplying population. These arguments are based primarily on the pollen evidence for land clearance (discussed above) and on radiocarbon dates for settlement sites. The dates for excavated ringforts, the most common type of settlement, show that most were built and occupied later in the period, sometime during the 7th to late 10th centuries (O’Sullivan et al. 2013:64–66, fig. 3.7). Although the relative size of the population most likely did increase during the early medieval period (Monk 1998:50, n. 10; Ryan 2000), it is exceedingly difficult to determine its absolute size in the absence of any direct evidence (cf. Wailes 1990:220–21). Estimates of the total population of early medieval Ireland vary considerably from one quarter to half a million (Bitel 1996:4). Nevertheless, such calculations illustrate the small scale of early Irish society. For example, Fergus Kelly (1988:3–4) divides early medieval Ireland into 150 túatha (usually translated as tribes or petty kingdoms), each with a population of around 3,000 men, women, and children. Taken together, the agricultural innovations and population growth support the view of the early medieval period as Ireland’s “Golden Age”: a period characterized by the production of fine metalwork and illuminated



Socioeconomic Change in Early Medieval Ireland 165

manuscripts, by the role of Irish missionaries in promoting Christianity in Europe, and by a prosperous and well-fed rural populace maintained by a revolution in agriculture (O’Sullivan 1998; e.g., Cahill 1995; de Paor and de Paor 1958; Hughes 1967; Ó Cróinín 1995). For instance, Dáibhí Ó Cróinín (1995:108) observes, “The overwhelmingly agrarian nature of the medieval Irish economy, and the high productivity implied by the substantial rents and food renders, give an impression of relative prosperity. For most members of society the level of comfort was probably considerable.” Implicit in such descriptions is the assumption that the early Irish population was also a healthy one.

HEALTH IN EARLY MEDIEVAL IRELAND It has only recently become possible to discuss larger patterns of health and disease in early medieval Ireland. Twenty years ago, Catryn Power (1993) conducted a preliminary assessment of changes in Irish health and diet from the Neolithic through the early medieval period. This study was limited by its small skeletal sample of 391 individuals, of which 169 came from two early medieval sites. Recent excavations have dramatically increased the number of human skeletal remains from the early medieval period. During Ireland’s economic boom of 1995–2007, archaeological excavation occurred at an unprecedented scale in advance of residential, commercial, and infrastructural development. Between 1995 and 2004, 1,078 excavations uncovered definite or possible early medieval material (O’Sullivan et al. 2008: table 2:17). A search of the Early Medieval Archaeology Project database (Sands et al. 2008) reveals that 30 “significant” or “highly significant” cemetery or burial sites were excavated in those ten years, including several large cemeteries. Publication of the human skeletal data as part of the final reports for these sites (e.g., Carlin et al. 2008; Lehane and Delaney 2010; Wilkins and Lalonde 2009) has enabled broader comparative analysis of the human remains. In order to evaluate the health of the early medieval population of Ireland, I synthesize the data from eleven cemeteries with a total skeletal sample of 1,375 individuals (Fig. 7.1; Table 7.1). Excluded from this survey are sites with a minimum number of individuals (MNI) of less than 30 as well as larger multi-period cemeteries where the phasing is insufficient to isolate the early medieval burials. The majority of the selected sites were ex-

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7.1.  Location map of the early medieval cemeteries.

cavated in advance of road construction (Ardsallagh 1, Co. Meath; Carrowkeel, Co. Galway; Collierstown 1, Co. Meath; Johnstown 1, Co. Meath; Owenbristy, Co. Galway), the laying of gas pipelines (Augherskea, Co. Meath), or residential improvements (Ratoath, Co. Meath), and consequently their geographic distribution reflects recent economic development in Ireland. All of these cemeteries would have served rural communities, as none are associated with the larger monasteries or Viking towns. They also all produced skeletal samples comprising men, women, and children. Even though the sample from each site is not entirely representative of the once living population, the total human skeletal sample does meet the expectations for a preindustrial society: consisting of approximately 30% infants

Socioeconomic Change in Early Medieval Ireland 167



Table 7.1.  Early medieval skeletal samples Site

MNI

Adults:Juveniles

Males:Females

Reference

Ardsallagh 1, Co. Meath

30

20:10

5:11

Randolph-Quinney 2008

Augherskea, Co. Meath

176

152:24

42:35

Powers 2004

Carrowkeel, Co. Galway

130a

17:113

7:9

Lalonde 2009

Collierstown 1, Co. Meath

61

55:6

19:18

Coughlan 2009

Dunmisk Fort, Co. Tyrone

190

147:43

26:27

Ó Donnabháin 1989; Power 1989

Johnstown 1, Co. Meath

346b

155:191

63:67

Fibiger 2008

Omey Island, Co. Galway

134

96:38

31:34

Scott 2006

Owenbristy, Co. Galway

75a

47:28

26:16

Geber 2010

Ratoath, Co. Meath

49

30:19

13:10

Fibiger 2010

Skeam West, Co. Cork

61

36:25

—

Cotter 1995; Halpin and Buckley 1995:203

Solar, Co. Antrim

123

98:25

31:45

Buckley 2002

Total

1375

853:522

263:272c

a

Includes only the early medieval burials. Includes the main enclosure burials dating from the 4th to the 16th centuries CE. However, most burial activity occurred in the 5th to 13th centuries (Fibiger et al. 2008:117). c Excludes Skeam West, Co. Cork. b

and children and a roughly equal number of adult males and females (Waldron 2007). The somewhat higher percentage of juveniles (N=522/1375 or 38.0%) results from the inclusion of adolescents in this category plus the disproportionately large number of juveniles from Carrowkeel, which the excavators attribute to the partial excavation of a cemetery organized by age rather than the separate burial of children in a cillín (Wilkins and Lalonde 2009:70).

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Bioarchaeological studies of health typically record skeletal markers of “stress,” which is defined as a physiological disruption caused by environmental, nutritional, or other pressures (Huss-Ashmore et al. 1982). While stress and health are related concepts, “health” describes “a state of complete physical, mental, and social well-being and not merely the absence of disease or infirmity” (World Health Organization 2003). Bioarchaeological analyses of skeletal samples, therefore, do not examine health in the same way as biomedical studies of living groups. Nevertheless, because physiological stress negatively affects the human body, skeletal and dental indicators of stress provide a proxy measure of health in past populations (Reitsema and McIlvaine 2014:181; Temple and Goodman 2014). The following analysis focuses on two general markers of stress in the human skeleton, enamel hypoplasia and cribra orbitalia, since their prevalence in the Irish skeletal samples is usually reported in the published literature. Enamel hypoplasias are deficiencies in enamel thickness that appear on the surface of tooth crowns as horizontal lines, grooves, or multiple pits. These defects develop when the process of amelogenesis (enamel formation) is disrupted during fetal development, infancy, and childhood (until approximately 10 years of age), and they remain as permanent markers on the teeth. Although congenital anomalies and localized trauma can also impact amelogenesis, the majority of hypoplasias are caused by systemic physiological stress (Goodman and Rose 1991:281). Clinical and epidemiological studies of living populations have established the connection between enamel defects and a wide variety of stressors, including neonatal disturbances, nutritional deficiencies, childhood diseases, and metabolic disorders (Goodman and Rose 1991:282–84; Hillson 1996:165–66; Rose et al. 1985:284–85). Cribra orbitalia refers to porous lesions located on the orbital roofs. The etiology of these lesions is complex, with two main causes proposed. First, orbital porosity develops in response to anemia. Expansion of the cranial diploë to increase red blood cell production, along with thinning of the external cortex, results in observable porosities of the orbital vault. In geographic regions like Ireland that lack any of the genetic anemias (such as thalassemia and sickle-cell disease), the most common causes of anemia are chronic dietary deficiencies or inadequate absorption of vitamin B12, folic acid (Walker et al. 2009:112), or iron (Oxenham and Cavill 2010; contra Walker et al. 2009). Second, in cases of vitamin C (scurvy) or vitamin D (rick-



Socioeconomic Change in Early Medieval Ireland 169

ets) deficiency, subperiosteal hemorrhage in the orbits stimulates the deposition of porous, woven bone and increases vascularization (i.e., porosity) of the orbital surface (Ortner and Ericksen 1997; Walker et al. 2009:115; Wapler et al. 2004). For both anemia and scurvy or rickets, the underlying nutritional deficiencies are often associated with infection, intestinal parasites, or diarrhea (Walker 1986; Walker et al. 2009). Cribra orbitalia primarily affects juveniles, who are more susceptible to marrow hypertrophy and subperiosteal hematomas. Unlike dental pathologies, skeletal lesions may heal and remodel over time, so cribra orbitalia is not a permanent marker like enamel hypoplasia. However, healing and healed lesions can often be observed in the orbits of adults (Stuart-Macadam 1985; Walker et al. 2009). It is rarely possible to determine the precise cause of enamel hypoplasia and cribra orbitalia due to not only their multifactorial etiologies but also the synergistic relationship between poor nutrition and infection. Poorly nourished individuals are more susceptible to infectious disease, while infection further compromises their nutritional status by reducing the body’s ability to absorb essential nutrients (Keusch and Farthing 1986; Scrimshaw and SanGiovanni 1997). As a result, researchers consider these lesions to be nonspecific indicators of stress and commonly use them to evaluate the overall health of past populations (Goodman et al. 1984; Goodman and Martin 2002; Huss-Ashmore et al. 1982). Note that because enamel hypoplasia and cribra orbitalia form during childhood, such analyses—including the present study—employ childhood health to approximate the health status of the entire population. The interpretation of nonspecific markers of stress in terms of health is potentially complicated by the “osteological paradox” (Wood et al. 1992), particularly the problem of hidden heterogeneity in frailty. In brief, due to differences in frailty, individuals with lesions were not necessarily in worse health than those without skeletal pathologies. Since many of the visible stress indicators take time to form, individuals with lesions survived disease, malnutrition, or trauma long enough to manifest skeletal or dental changes. In contrast, those without stress markers either died quickly or were never affected (Wood et al. 1992; cf. Ortner 1991). To address this apparent paradox, recent bioarchaeological research has examined the relationship between skeletal pathologies and the risk of death (for an in-depth discussion, see DeWitte and Stojanowski [2015]). At the level of both aggregated skeletal samples (Steckel and Rose 2002a) and specific individu-

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als (DeWitte and Beklavac 2010; DeWitte and Wood 2008; Redfern and DeWitte 2011), higher rates of lesions are positively correlated with lower life expectancy. Therefore, Richard Steckel and Jerome C. Rose (2002a:586) conclude that in the majority of cases, pathological lesions do attest to poorer health and nutrition.

HEALTH OF THE EARLY IRISH POPULATION Tables 7.2 and 7.3 present the prevalence of enamel hypoplasia and cribra orbitalia in the skeletal samples from early medieval Ireland. Because several skeletal analysts scored these data, the possibility of interobserver error raises the issue of comparability. In order to compare the eleven sites, I standardized the prevalence rates to report the number of affected individuals out of the number with the observable skeletal element (vs. the number of affected teeth or orbits out of the total number present). This measure also minimized potential interobserver error in the cribra orbitalia data, as researchers tend to agree when scoring a lesion as present ( Jacobi and Danforth 2002) and cribra orbitalia almost always occurs bilaterally (Aufderheide and Rodríguez-Martín 1998:349–50; Stuart-Macadam 1989:188). However, interobserver error may influence the enamel hypoplasia rates, which can vary due to differences in the minimum severity scored (Danforth et al. 1993) and the more common occurrence of defects on the anterior teeth (Goodman and Armelagos 1985:479). Nevertheless, combining the data from many large cemeteries yields much greater interpretive power, allowing not only consideration of the health of the early Irish as a whole but also comparison of the health of local communities. Table 7.2 presents the frequency of enamel hypoplasia in terms of the number of affected individuals out of the number of individuals with observable teeth. Excluded from these rates are four juveniles with severe enamel defects associated with abnormal dental morphology: Burial 13 at Ardsallagh 1 (Randolph-Quinney 2008:21–24) and Burials 222, 310, and 370 at Johnstown 1 (Fibiger 2008:89–91). The frequency of hypoplastic defects in the early medieval skeletal samples varies greatly from 5.0% for the people buried at Owenbristy, Co. Galway, to 87.5% for those at Solar, Co. Antrim. When the skeletal samples are combined to represent the general population of early medieval Ireland, the prevalence rate for enamel hypoplasia is 25.1%.

Socioeconomic Change in Early Medieval Ireland 171



Table 7.2.  Prevalence of enamel hypoplasia in skeletal samples from early medieval Ireland Site

Juveniles

Adults

Total

Ardsallagh 1, Co. Meath

1/9 (11.1%)a

8/19 (42.1%)

9/28 (32.1%)

Augherskea, Co. Meathb

4/16 (25.0%)

13/84 (15.5%)

17/100 (17.0%)

Carrowkeel, Co. Galway

—

—

22/85 (25.9%)

Collierstown 1, Co. Meath

1/3 (33.3%)

14/43 (32.6%)

15/46 (32.6%)

Dunmisk Fort, Co. Tyrone

—

—

44/130 (33.8%)

Johnstown 1, Co. Meath

25/88 (28.4%)a

14/109 (12.8%)

39/197 (19.8%)

Omey Island, Co. Galway

5/8 (62.5%)

21/30 (70.0%)

26/38 (68.4%)

Owenbristy, Co. Galway

1/20 (5.0%)

2/40 (5.0%)

3/60 (5.0%)

Ratoath, Co. Meath

2/13 (15.4%)

3/19 (15.8%)

5/32 (15.6%)

Skeam West, Co. Cork

—

—

62.0%

Solar, Co. Antrim

—

—

87.5%

Total

180/716 (25.1%)c

a

Excludes juveniles with severe enamel defects associated with abnormal dental morphology: Burial 13 at Ardsallagh 1 and Burials 222, 310, and 370 at Johnstown 1. b Data provided by Natasha Powers, personal communication. c Excludes Skeam West, Co. Cork, and Solar, Co. Antrim.

Similarly, in Table 7.3, the prevalence of cribra orbitalia is calculated as the number of affected individuals out of the number with observable orbits. In the case of Ardsallagh 1, Co. Meath, extremely poor bone preservation prevented the calculation of a prevalence rate. Interestingly, the frequency of cribra orbitalia varies less among the skeletal samples. Of the ten sites, the people from Omey Island, Co. Galway, and Solar, Co. Antrim, possessed the highest rates at 47.4% and 49.1% respectively. The values for Augherskea and Ratoath, Co. Meath, are the lowest at around 25.0%. The prevalence for the combined samples is 36.5%. The human skeletal data, thus, challenge the assumption of good health in the early Irish population. The combined skeletal sample from the early medieval cemeteries possesses high prevalence rates of enamel hypoplasia (25.1%) and cribra orbitalia (36.5%), indicating that the population suffered

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Table 7.3.  Prevalence of cribra orbitalia in skeletal samples from early medieval Ireland Site

Juveniles

Adults

Total

Ardsallagh 1, Co. Meath

—

—

—

Augherskea, Co. Meath

1/2 (50.0%)

14/59 (23.7%)

15/61 (24.6%)

Carrowkeel, Co. Galway

—

—

20/63 (31.7%)

Collierstown 1, Co. Meath

—

—

10/23 (43.5%)

Dunmisk Fort, Co. Tyrone

—

—

7/20 (35.0%)

Johnstown 1, Co. Meatha

28/50 (56.0%)

16/65 (24.6%)

44/115 (38.3%)

Omey Island, Co. Galway

7/7 (100.0%)

11/31 (35.5%)

18/38 (47.4%)

Owenbristy, Co. Galwayb

10/19 (52.6%)

4/29 (13.8%)

14/48 (29.2%)

2/3 (66.7%)

0/5 (0.0%)

2/8 (25.0%)

—

—

21.0%

7/13 (53.8%)

21/44 (47.7%)

28/57 (49.1%)

Ratoath, Co. Meatha Skeam West, Co. Cork Solar, Co. Antrim Total

158/433 (36.5%)c

a

Data are published by orbit; using better preserved left orbit for prevalence in individuals. b Early medieval (Phase 1) data provided by Jonny Geber, personal communication. c Excludes Ardsallagh 1, Co. Meath, and Skeam West, Co. Cork.

from systemic physiological stress. Although the precise causes of these pathologies cannot be determined, the historical texts and archaeological remains suggest certain possibilities. While the annals record frequent famines and outbreaks of infectious disease, reconstruction of the early Irish diet reveals potential nutritional deficiencies. The historical texts, primarily the annals, document numerous famines and pestilences throughout the early medieval period (see Bonser 1963:59–63; Lyons 1989:52–58; Wilde 1856:44–76). For instance, the yearly records for the 8th century CE include seven famines in Ireland, as well as occurrences of baccach, bolgach, riuth fola, morbus leprae, fluxus sanguinis, and scamach (Bonser 1963:61–62). Unfortunately, despite this apparent specificity, the Irish annals are in many ways a problematic source for the history of disease. First, it is often quite difficult to identify the diseases listed in



Socioeconomic Change in Early Medieval Ireland 173

the brief entries (cf. Mitchell 2011), as illustrated by the extended debate between William P. MacArthur (1949) and J.F.D. Shrewsbury (1949) over the identification of the Irish pestilences. Indeed, scholars only agree that bolgach, which first struck Ireland in 577, refers to smallpox (Bonser 1963:83) and that the blefed of 545 CE and the “great mortalities” of the second half of the 7th century (in 664–668 and 683–685 CE) likely represent early occurrences of bubonic plague (Dooley 2007; MacArthur 1949; Maddicott 1997; Russell 1976). Second, because later copyists incorporated glosses into the text, entries often give alternate dates for the same event. As a result, the exact dating of events—especially in the early centuries—is not always known (Bonser 1963:66). Third, sometimes only one of the annals reports what appears to have been a major calamity, making it challenging to determine the extent of the disaster. Last, the chroniclers concentrated on extreme occurrences and omitted the more usual (and, thus, unremarkable) deprivations and illnesses (Lyons 1989:36). Yet even with these limitations, the annals are invaluable for documenting actual episodes of stress and for recording epidemics of acute disease that would have left no skeletal trace. In addition, they often note severe weather that would have damaged crops and animals—such as the “snow of destruction” in 1179 (Lyons 1989:58)—as well as crop failures and cattle murrains that would have resulted in scarcity, if not famine—such as the mortality of cows in 954 CE (Bonser 1963:62). More importantly, along with reporting these various types of disaster, the annals attest to the association among them. For example, the Annals of Ulster describes the year 779 as one of cattle murrain, famine, and pestilence (Bonser 1963:61). Similarly in 917 CE, Ireland suffered snow and extreme cold, the death of cattle, birds, and salmon, and great plague (Lyons 1989:52). In such cases, the death of animals or loss of crops from inclement weather or disease would have caused or heightened the famine, while famine would have contributed to the spread of human disease by weakening the populace (Kelly 1997:354). The annals, therefore, demonstrate the expected links between poor weather, crop failure, animal disease, and human illness. The high prevalence of enamel defects and cribra orbitalia in the combined early medieval skeletal sample substantiates the historical evidence for famine and pestilence, revealing that individuals buried at all of the cemetery sites experienced poor nutrition, disease, or most likely both. In particular, the frequent occurrence of cribra orbitalia suggests that much

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of the population of early medieval Ireland endured persistent nutritional deficiencies. The probable nature of these insufficiencies can be inferred from historical texts and archaeological remains that enable reconstruction of the early Irish diet. The documentary sources—especially the 7th to 9th century CE law tracts, sagas, and penitential literature and the early 12th century satirical tale Aislinge Meic Con Glinne (The Vision of Mac Conglinne)—describe the early Irish diet in great detail, not only the kinds of foods that were eaten but also the various ways in which they were prepared. The staple diet in early medieval Ireland consisted of cereals and dairy products. In addition, people ate a variety of supplementary foods (called relishes or condiments) that added flavor and essential nutrients to their meals (Kelly 1997:316–17). Oats, barley, and wheat were prepared as porridges, gruels, and breads. The thicker porridges were cooked with milk or water and then sweetened and enriched with honey, fresh or salted butter, and egg yolks. Meal, water, and milk or butter also formed a base for broths or soups to which vegetables, meat scraps, and fat were added. Breads were flat cakes of oats, barley, wheat, or rye and lighter loaves of wheat or mixed cereals. The relishes and condiments consumed with bread included salt, butter, honey, curds, soft and hard cheeses, suet and fat, fresh and salted meats (most often pork or bacon), fish, hard-boiled eggs, vegetables and herbs (cabbage, kale, watercress, seaweed, celery or parsley, wild garlic, and onions), hazelnuts, and mostly wild fruit (berries, apples, and sloes). With this fare, the early Irish usually drank water, milk (in many forms), and beer (Kelly 1997: ch. 10; Lucas 1960; Sexton 1998). The archaeological evidence corroborates the description of the early Irish diet obtained from the texts. Carbonized and waterlogged plant remains recovered from habitation sites contain barley, oats, wheat, and rye. The preponderance of barley and oats no doubt reflects their versatility in terms of growing conditions as well as their use as both human food and animal fodder (McCormick et al. 2014:47–48; Monk et al. 1998). Flax and legumes (garden peas and broad beans) have also been found at a small number of sites (McCormick et al. 2014:46). The faunal assemblages from excavated settlements are composed primarily of domesticated cattle, pig, and sheep, with cattle usually the most common (McCormick et al. 2014:66–89). The slaughter pattern for cattle confirms that they were kept principally for their milk. Farmers killed the majority of calves between one and two years of age, allowing only cows and a few bulls to reach maturity



Socioeconomic Change in Early Medieval Ireland 175

(McCormick 1983, 1992). Last, a small percentage of the food remains from early medieval sites derives from wild plants and animals (Edwards 1990:64– 66; McCormick et al. 2014:49), including birds, predominantly marine fish, and shellfish (Hamilton-Dyer 2007; Murray 2007). As a whole, this diet appears to be a balanced and healthy one, with the required carbohydrates and protein from cereals and milk products, additional protein from meat and fish, and other essential vitamins and minerals from vegetables, fruit, seaweed, salt, and honey (Kelly 1997:317). More specifically, the available foods contained the nutrients necessary to prevent cribra orbitalia. Vitamin B12 was obtained from dairy products, meat, and eggs; folic acid from grains, legumes, vegetables, and fruit; iron from legumes, meat, and fish; vitamin C from vegetables and fruit; and the vitamin D in meat, saltwater fish, and eels would have supplemented that synthesized through exposure to sunlight (Pearson 1997:2–14, 30). However, although the inhabitants of early medieval Ireland could have theoretically obtained adequate nutrition, most probably suffered some degree of malnourishment. As part of a broader survey of diet in early medieval Western Europe, Kathy Pearson (1997:14–15) notes two weaknesses that would apply to Ireland. First, foods rich in vitamin C were limited to wild berries, Brassicaceae (such as cabbage, kale, and watercress), and seaweed, making scurvy a possible cause of the cribra orbitalia in the Irish skeletal samples. Young children, who were typically fed a more restricted fare of porridge enriched with dairy products (Kelly 1997:351; Sexton 1998:84), may have been at even greater risk of vitamin C deficiency. Diagnosis of scurvy in human remains is indicated by porosity on the greater wing of the sphenoid and posterior maxilla and by periosteal new bone formation in long bones, in addition to cribra orbitalia (Brickley and Ives 2008:56–62; Ortner and Ericksen 1997). Since most of the skeletal reports used for this study did not explicitly consider scurvy, its overall prevalence in early medieval Ireland cannot currently be calculated. But at the sites of Johnstown 1, Co. Meath (Fibiger 2008:69), and Owenbristy, Co. Galway (Geber 2010:165), a few individuals—all between infancy and eight of years of age—possessed skeletal lesions more diagnostic of scurvy. Second, given the high consumption of whole grains, excessive fiber may have blocked the absorption of essential nutrients (Pearson 1997:15), contributing to the development of both cribra orbitalia and enamel hypoplasia. Significantly, the lack of vitamin C and reliance on cereals would have inhibited the absorption of iron, as ascorbic

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acid (vitamin C) enhances iron absorption while the phytates in cereal crops prevent it (Hallberg et al. 1987). The frequent occurrence of cribra orbitalia in the aggregate skeletal sample, thus, likely results, at least in part, from a combination of scurvy and iron-deficiency anemia. Moreover, due to the seasonal nature of many of the foods, it would have been difficult to eat a balanced diet throughout the year. Even the main staples of cereals and dairy products were not abundant year round. The law tracts that define the food-rent a client pays to his lord distinguish between winter and summer food. The cereals and meat owed in the winter were largely replaced in the summer by bánbiad (white food, i.e., dairy produce) (Kelly 1997:317–18). General scarcity would have characterized early spring when stores of grain and salted meat were low and fresh milk and dairy products not yet plentiful (Kelly 1997:346). In the worst years, when the cereal crops failed or cattle died from disease, famine ensued (Kelly 1997:354). When placed within the wider context of anthropological research, the skeletal evidence for poor health among the early medieval Irish is unsurprising. Bioarchaeologists have documented a significant decline in health with the origins and later intensification of agriculture in many world areas (e.g., Cohen and Armelagos 1984; Cohen and Crane-Kramer 2007). Although reliance on domesticated plants and animals can support larger populations than the collection of wild resources, it also increases the risk of malnutrition and infectious disease. Staple crops often lack essential nutrients, resulting in poorly nourished and more vulnerable populations. At the same time, agricultural practices expose people to more sources of infection, such as the zoonoses of domestic animals, parasites in irrigation ditches or in feces used as fertilizer, and contaminated food stores (Barrett et al. 1998:252–53). Given this context, one would expect that the health of the early Irish declined as the production of cereals expanded during the course of the first millennium CE. Unfortunately, as illustrated in Table 7.4, the use of the Irish cemeteries over several centuries plus the generally poor phasing of burials within this temporal span prevents the recognition of changes in health over time.

VARIATION IN HEALTH AMONG COMMUNITIES Comparison of pathology rates from the eleven cemeteries, however, does reveal spatial patterning in the health of early medieval communities.

Socioeconomic Change in Early Medieval Ireland 177



Table 7.4.  Comparison of stress indicators over time Date (CE)a

a

Site

Enamel hypoplasia (%)

Cribra orbitalia (%)

4–7th centuries

Ardsallagh 1, Co. Meath

32.1

—

5–9th centuries

Ratoath, Co. Meath

15.6

25.0

5–10th centuries

Collierstown 1, Co. Meath

32.6

43.5

5–13th centuries

Johnstown 1, Co. Meath

19.8

38.3

5–14th centuries

Skeam West, Co. Cork

62.0

21.0

6–10th centuries

Owenbristy, Co. Galway

5.0

29.2

7–10th centuries

Dunmisk Fort, Co. Tyrone

33.8

35.0

7–10th centuries

Omey Island, Co. Galway

68.4

47.4

7–12th centuries

Augherskea, Co. Meath

17.0

24.6

7–13th centuries

Solar, Co. Antrim

87.5

49.1

7–13th centuries

Carrowkeel, Co. Galway

25.9

31.7

References for the dates are as indicated in Table 1, except for O’Hara (2009) for Collierstown 1, Fibiger et al. (2008) for Johnstown 1, Lehane and Delaney (2010) for Owenbristy, Hurl (2002) for Dunmisk Fort and Solar, and Baker (2010) for Augherskea.

The enamel hypoplasia and cribra orbitalia data presented in Tables 7.2 and 7.3 indicate that the groups who used these cemeteries experienced different levels of stress. In evaluating these differences, I consider three possible underlying causes: coastal location, land use capability, and population density. When proximity to the coast is considered, the two pathologies tend to occur more often in individuals who lived along the coast—near Omey Island, Skeam West, and Solar—than in those who lived further inland (Table 7.5). This pattern is contrary to that observed in the History of Health in the Western Hemisphere Project, the largest bioarchaeological study of health to date. In an analysis of 218 pre- and post-Columbian sites in the Americas, location near the coast correlated positively with better health (Steckel and Rose 2002b:568, table 19.2). Yet several scholars have noted high frequencies of cribra orbitalia among groups inhabiting coastal areas (Stuart-Macadam 1992:161–63), including prehistoric Native Ameri-

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Table 7.5.  Comparison of stress indicators for coastal vs. inland sites Location Coastal

Inland

Enamel hypoplasia (%)

Cribra orbitalia (%)

Omey Island, Co. Galway

68.4

47.4

Skeam West, Co. Cork

62.0

21.0

Solar, Co. Antrim

87.5

49.1

Ardsallagh 1, Co. Meath

32.1

—

Augherskea, Co. Meath

17.0

24.6

Carrowkeel, Co. Galway

25.9

31.7

Collierstown 1, Co. Meath

32.6

43.5

Dunmisk Fort, Co. Tyrone

33.8

35.0

Johnstown 1, Co. Meath

19.8

38.3

Owenbristy, Co. Galway

5.0

29.2

Ratoath, Co. Meath

15.6

25.0

Site

cans from the Channel Islands in California (Walker 1986) and Jomon foragers in Japan (Temple 2010). Nutritional deficiencies probably contribute less to the development of cribra orbitalia in coastal populations, as seaweed (a source of vitamin C) and saltwater fish (a source of iron and vitamin D) are more readily available to these groups. In the case of early medieval Ireland, analysis of faunal remains confirms the exploitation of marine resources at coastal sites (Dyer-Hamilton 2007; Murray 2007). Consequently, orbital lesions are usually attributed instead to infection with parasites, especially those borne by fish and sea mammals (e.g., Bathurst 2005; Temple 2010:119; Walker 1986:351). Because similar conditions influence their prevalence and co-infection is common, the presence of parasites provides an indirect measure of exposure to other infectious disease (Reinhard 1992). More generally, Patricia Stuart-Macadam (1992:165–66) argues that the high rates of cribra orbitalia at sites located near coasts results from the heavier pathogen load characteristic of coastal areas. A greater number of pathogens would also produce a higher frequency of enamel defects, as observed in the early medieval Irish.



Socioeconomic Change in Early Medieval Ireland 179

Little paleoparasitological research has been conducted in Ireland. Nevertheless, some of the parasites that plagued the early Irish can be inferred from those found in early and late medieval contexts in Ireland and England. At the early medieval rath at Deer Park Farms, Co. Antrim, bedding in the central round house contained eggs of the whipworm, the human intestinal parasite Trichuris trichiura (Allison et al. 1999:63). In addition, Catryn Power (1997, 2012) has recovered calcified hydatid cysts of the tapeworm Echinococcus granulosus from two late medieval burials: a woman interred at Caherquin, Co. Kerry, and another woman from Cove Street in Cork City. Since the primary host of E. granulosus is the dog or other canine, these individuals probably became infected as children through close contact with domestic farm dogs. A 1st to 2nd century CE find from Cambridgeshire, England, testifies to the presence of E. granulosus in the British Isles in earlier centuries (Gonçalves et al. 2003: table XV). Archaeological contexts in England have also produced evidence for human infection with Ascaris lumbricoides, the human roundworm, in the Roman through late medieval periods and with Dicrocoelium dendriticum, a parasitic fluke of grazing mammals such as cattle and sheep, in 11th to 12th century CE Winchester. Although Diphyllobothrium latum, a tapeworm of freshwater fish, has been documented in northern continental Europe and Scandinavia during the medieval period, it has not yet been found in Ireland or Britain (Bouchet et al. 2003; Gonçalves et al. 2003; Sianto et al. 2009). Along with suffering from local pathogens, communities living along the Irish coast may have come into contact with those carried by travelers and traders. Travel within Ireland was restricted by mountains around the coast, blanket bog in the west, raised bog in the midlands, and vast stretches of woodland over other areas (Stout 1997:39). As a result, despite the historical and archaeological evidence for early medieval roadways (Comber 2001:74– 76; Warner 1976: fig. 3), rivers and seas often offered the easiest routes for travel and communication (Warner 1976: app. 2). Both long-distance trade and monastic foundations attest to movement along Ireland’s coasts and suggest that regular travel also occurred over shorter distances. The majority of sites with foreign imports are located in the south and east near to either the coast or a major river (Comber 2001:84–87, fig. 5). Though larger trade ships avoided the dangers of the Atlantic seas (Warner 1976:276), Irish monks established numerous foundations on the small islands off the western coast (White Marshall and Rourke 2000:2–5). The communities that brought their

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dead to Omey Island, Skeam West, and Solar may not, however, have had greater contact with travelers and traders than those who used the inland cemeteries. Even heeding Richard Warner’s (1976:284) caution that the land routes he maps “are not to be followed in detail,” several of the cemeteries in Co. Meath were situated close to a major road or river. A second factor that may help account for the variation in health among the skeletal samples is land use capability. Assuming land potential in the early medieval period differed little from that in the present, the eleven communities occupied areas of varying agricultural quality (Table 7.6). Based on the depth, texture, and drainage of the soil, as well as slope, altitude, and rainfall, the Irish National Committee for Geography (1979:28) has categorized the modern use range of land as wide, somewhat limited, limited, very limited, or extremely limited. While the rates of enamel hypoplasia and cribra orbitalia do not steadily increase with decreasing land potential, the communities located on better land (of wide or somewhat limited capability) seem to have maintained better health than those in more marginal zones (of limited or extremely limited capability). All of the coastal sites fall in the latter category, with the areas around Omey Island and Skeam West classified as extremely limited and that around Solar as limited. In addition, differences in land quality appear to explain some of the variation among inland communities. Of the inland sites, the two in areas of limited potential—Collierstown 1, Co. Meath, and Dunmisk Fort, Co. Tyrone—possess higher frequencies of both enamel hypoplasia and cribra orbitalia (with rates of over 30%). This rough correlation between land use capability and frequency of stress indicators suggests that agricultural limitations created food shortages for the communities inhabiting poorer zones. The lack of sufficient food would have lowered their resistance to pathogens, resulting in a higher prevalence of disease. Last, because the number of people with whom individuals regularly interact influences their exposure to pathogens, I assess whether regional population density relates to the health differences observed among the early medieval communities. Lacking any historical records of population size, ringfort distribution provides the best proxy by indicating the density of human settlement (Stout 1997:48–53). Matthew Stout (1997: ch. 6) has calculated the distribution of the thousands of ringforts in Ireland, yielding a mean density for the country as a whole of 0.55 ringforts/km2. As shown in Table 7.7, the cemeteries are located in regions of varying settlement

Socioeconomic Change in Early Medieval Ireland 181



Table 7.6.  Comparison of stress indicators according to land use capability Enamel hypoplasia (%)

Cribra orbitalia (%)

Ardsallagh 1, Co. Meath

32.1

—

Augherskea, Co. Meath

17.0

24.6

Johnstown 1, Co. Meath

19.8

38.3

Ratoath, Co. Meath

15.6

25.0

Somewhat

Carrowkeel, Co. Galway

25.9

31.7

limited

Owenbristy, Co. Galway

5.0

29.2

Limited

Collierstown 1, Co. Meath

32.6

43.5

Dunmisk Fort, Co. Tyrone

33.8

35.0

Solar, Co. Antrim

87.5

49.1

Extremely

Omey Island, Co. Galway

68.4

47.4

limited

Skeam West, Co. Cork

62.0

21.0

Use rangea Wide

a

Site

Use range classes from the Irish National Committee for Geography (1979:28).

density, from 0.12 ringforts/km2 around Omey Island in west Connaught to over 0.70 ringforts/km2 around Carrowkeel and Owenbristy in east Galway. Archaeologists have long debated whether the paucity of ringforts in Co. Meath, one of the richest agricultural zones in Ireland (Table 7.6), reflects the actual early medieval settlement pattern or the later destruction of sites (Stout 1997:62–63). If the distribution has not been altered by postmedieval destruction, then the data reveal no clear relationship between settlement density and either land use potential or the skeletal indicators of stress. On the other hand, if the data from Co. Meath can be omitted as unrepresentative, ringfort concentration appears to correlate positively with land use potential and, thus, negatively with skeletal health (as discussed above). Sites with high rates of enamel hypoplasia and cribra orbitalia—Omey Island, Skeam West, and Solar—occupied areas of restricted land use capability and of low or median ringfort density, while Carrowkeel and Owenbristy, which have comparatively lower rates of skeletal stress,

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182

Table 7.7.  Comparison of stress indicators according to average ringfort density Ringfort density (per km2)a

a

Site

Enamel hypoplasia (%)

Cribra orbitalia (%)

0.12

Omey Island, Co. Galway

68.4

47.4

0.28

Ardsallagh 1, Co. Meath

32.1

—

0.28

Augherskea, Co. Meath

17.0

24.6

0.28

Collierstown 1, Co. Meath

32.6

43.5

0.28

Johnstown 1, Co. Meath

19.8

38.3

0.28

Ratoath, Co. Meath

15.6

25.0

0.35

Dunmisk Fort, Co. Tyrone

33.8

35.0

0.35

Solar, Co. Antrim

87.5

49.1

0.37

Skeam West, Co. Cork

62.0

21.0

0.74

Owenbristy, Co. Galway

5.0

29.2

0.78

Carrowkeel, Co. Galway

25.9

31.7

Data from Stout (1997), except for Owenbristy, which is from Lehane and Delaney (2010:56).

were located in a heavily populated region with few agricultural limitations. Therefore, with the possible exception of the small number of urban centers, settlement in early medieval Ireland was not concentrated enough to adversely impact human health.

CONCLUSION The aim of this chapter was to follow an interest of Bernard’s by examining the effects of the intensification of agriculture on the population of early medieval Ireland. A series of agricultural innovations over the course of the first millennium CE resulted in a more stable and plentiful food supply that supported a growth in population. Examination of the human remains, however, indicates that this population was not a healthy one. The



Socioeconomic Change in Early Medieval Ireland 183

high prevalence of markers of nonspecific stress, in particular enamel hypoplasia and cribra orbitalia, documents persistent malnutrition and infectious disease among the early medieval Irish. The historical texts and archaeological remains suggest more precise causes for these pathologies. The annals record numerous famines and pestilences throughout the period, while reconstruction of the early Irish diet identifies possible nutritional deficiencies, notably a scarcity of vitamin C and the malabsorption of iron. Although the generally poor phasing of burials within the Irish cemeteries makes it difficult to evaluate changes in health over time, the comparison of pathology rates from different cemeteries reveals strong spatial patterning. More specifically, differences among communities relate most clearly to geographic location and land use capability, with those groups living along the coast and on land of limited potential suffering poorer health. This evidence for community variation within a broader context of poor population health highlights the influence of local and regional factors on the human experience of health and disease. Despite the large size of the skeletal sample, the present study is constrained by the cemeteries that have been excavated and the kinds of skeletal data typically published in site reports. In order to better understand the nature and causes of the variation in health among the early medieval Irish, I recommend three areas for future investigation. First, systematic analysis of the human skeletal evidence for scurvy is needed to ascertain if the prevalence of cribra orbitalia likely results from insufficient vitamin C. Second, skeletal data from more cemeteries located on islands or along Ireland’s coast would help confirm or refute the observed correlation between coastal location and compromised health. Third, comparison of the rural sites discussed here with cemeteries from the prominent monasteries or Viking towns would indicate if population density affected disease prevalence in early medieval Ireland.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I thank Pam J. Crabtree and Peter Bogucki for the invitation to participate in the SAA session and subsequent publication in honor of Bernard Wailes. Several individuals helped during the processes of data collection and manuscript production. Tadhg O’Keeffe allowed access to the human skeletal remains from Omey Island, Co. Galway, which I analyzed as part of my Ph.D. research. Natasha Powers and Margaret Gowen granted

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permission to use the unpublished skeletal report from Augherskea, Co. Meath, and Powers also shared her original data on enamel hypoplasia. Similarly, Jonny Geber provided the data on cribra orbitalia for Owenbristy, Co. Galway. Mary Valante kindly supplied the base map of Ireland used to create Figure 7.1. Commentary from anonymous reviewers for this volume and IJPP significantly strengthened my analysis. I thank them all for their assistance and generosity. Finally, in choosing a topic for this chapter, I was inspired by Bernard’s interests and mentorship, and I dedicate this work to his memory.

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8 Ceremonial Complexity: The Roles of Religious Settlements in Medieval Ireland john soderberg

INTRODUCTION

I

most remember Bernard Wailes for his wry skepticism about academic trends and conventions. At a time when V. Gordon Childe was mainly discussed in terms of unfortunate ways archaeologists once thought, he brought out a volume on Childe’s enduring intellectual legacy. Eschewing numbers and letters, his phases for Dún Ailinne became Mauve and Lemon. His excavations at Dún Ailinne also brought the Iron Age ceremonial centers of Ireland to bear on models of social complexity among North American archaeologists. His intention was not to push adoption of a North American voice in European archaeology. Rather, he strove to bring together perspectives and data that geography too frequently kept apart. This goal animated his 1995 article “A Case Study of Heterarchy in Complex Societies: Early Medieval Ireland and its Archeological Implications.” In challenging excessive reliance on elite power consolidation strategies as an explanation for rising social complexity, Bernard made a forceful argument that scholars of medieval Ireland must not simply import a palace-temple complex model when grappling with the relationships among religious and secular institutions. In part a warning against blithe importation of models derived from elsewhere, the article also made an argument for discarding an instrumental view of religion. The beginning of an alternative approach to religion appears in his observation that religious institutions are a distinct

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8.1.  Irish sites mentioned in the text.

locus of power. Rather than only dependency and collusion, he finds varying dynamics between religious and secular settlements—between monasteries and ringforts. Subsequent archaeological debate provides testament to the fact that Bernard had his finger on an essential issue with these observations on religion. Looking back after two decades, his 1995 article anticipated a surge of work on the generative possibilities of religious practices beyond simple consolidation of elite power (e.g. Pauketat 2013). Frequently such approaches have turned to “everyday” expressions of religiosity as a locus



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from which heterogeneous social meanings are built. These approaches share much with orientations on embodiment in that both call for moving past material/ideal dichotomies: sacred/profane in the case of religion and physical/mental in the case of bodies (e.g., Sofaer 2006; Brück 1999). This paper explores the connection between religion and bodies in two ways. First, while recent approaches to religious settlement in Ireland have been very effective in showing that secular agendas are pervasive, those insights typically entail deconstructing the sacred into secular components, or just ignoring it. Over the last several decades, archaeologists have become very comfortable with and knowledgeable about the practical underpinnings of monasteries, such as how they managed waste. Likewise, since the 1990s, scholarship has firmly planted monasteries within the realm of secular political strategies. They are now clearly places with latrines and affiliations with political powers. This orientation is clearly an advance over earlier ones that allowed monasteries to float free of such profanities. But, it also tends to conceptualize religious practices as only instruments of elite control. Everyday approaches to religion redress that inadequacy by emphasizing the entanglement of the sacred with mundane activities, in essence recognizing the sacred in the secular. The first section of this paper traces the impact of instrumental approaches on debates about religious settlements in medieval Ireland and the value of conceptualizing them in terms of everyday perspectives on religion. Echoing Bernard, this process involves reading religious settlements as locales from which whole populations generate meanings, not merely acquisitive elites. The second portion of the paper enacts this perspective by viewing two religious settlements from an apparently profane perspective: animal bodies. The cognitive turn in zooarchaeology over the last decade offers many case studies in connecting animal bones to human cognition and social agendas. But, this work has also tended to concentrate on animal bones in obviously symbolic settings, such as aristocratic hunting. Such work opens the danger that more mundane engagements with animals come to seem less meaningful, particularly since many in the field remain committed to purely materialist/ecological conceptions of animals. In specifically religious circumstances, that tendency can lead to a bifurcation of animals into sacred and profane: those that reflect the monastic project and those that are just a function of management strategies. If work done in recent years about the practical underpinnings of monasteries pushes the profane into the sacred,

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everyday approaches to religion urge the next turn in that process: recognizing the sacred in the mundane animal economy. The intent is recognizing animal management as equally significant for a religious settlement as components of the Eucharist or any such obvious ritual.

SETTLEMENT CEMETERIES AND THE ARCHAEOLOGY OF RELIGION The surge of excavation in Ireland from the late 1990s to the middle 2000s provided abundant proof that the early medieval landscape was suffused with religious settlements configured in a variety of ways. Debate about how to best conceptualize that diversity provides a useful encapsulation of approaches to religion in medieval Ireland. A leading focus of debate concerns a group of religious settlements that do not fit easily into standard criteria for identifying monastic settlements (e.g., Swan 1983). These sites have many of the qualities one associates with early medieval monasteries (burial, enclosure, settlement), but they lack ecclesiastical architecture, such as a church, and/or a designation in historical records as an ecclesiastical site. Appreciation of these burial-cum-habitation sites as a distinct form of religious settlement grew from research into diversity in burial practices from the Iron Age into the medieval period (e.g., O’Brien 1992, 2003). Terminology for these sites remains unsettled. Stout and Stout (2008) proposed calling them secular cemeteries. Others view this choice as neglecting the role of habitation/manufacturing at the sites and have proposed alternatives, including settlement cemeteries (O’Sullivan et al. 2014) and cemetery settlement (Ó Carragáin 2009, 2010). For general reviews and references, see Stout and Stout (2008), Kinsella (2010), and O’Sullivan et al. (2014:306–12). While these debates about terminology have provided important impetus to evaluate the coherency of monastery as a site category, fundamentally, the debates spring from divides over the social roles of religion in early medieval Ireland. Colmán Etchingham (2011:22) observed that in an earlier “more deferential age,” scholars set religion apart from secular life and the bare-knuckled political strategies of aspiring elites consolidating power. Such conceptions of religion disaggregated monasteries from profane hurly-burly. Beginning in the 1990s, scholars increasingly demanded integration of ecclesiastical institutions into a wider political economy for enacting hierarchies and centralized control (e.g., Sharpe 1992; Patter-



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son 1994; Etchingham 1999). Rejecting the sacred as a hermetic boundary around monasteries, they sought to prove that profane dynamics prevail in supposedly sacred realms. For debates about settlement terminology, that solution has led some to advocate dropping the term monastery because it connotes a settlement apart from secular concerns. Proposals to bifurcate monastery into settlement cemetery and ecclesiastical settlement result from combining an objection to “overly sacred” views of monasteries with new appreciation of the diversity of site types. But, it remains unclear why an overly sacred view would necessitate dropping the term monastery altogether. The problem with early “deferential” scholarship is not so much with the idea of a monastery but with the idea of the sacred as entirely separate from the profane. Dropping monastery does not solve that problem. It either deconstructs the sacred into ideology or leaves sacred practices as marginal. The proposed replacements for monastery provide no distinct role for the sacred. They flag three features of religious settlements: habitation, burial, and markers of ecclesiastical affiliation. The sacred is deconstructed out of the typology. The consequences of ‘desacralization’ are evident once scholars begin placing settlement cemeteries and ecclesiastical settlements into theories about the social dynamics of early medieval Ireland. Settlement cemeteries become associated with social dynamics lost to centralization. The project of monasticism becomes whittled down to institutional hierarchies and orthodoxy. For example, Etchingham (2006) proposed that settlement cemeteries result from a two-tier system of pastoral care in which sites with ecclesiastical architecture are associated with intensive pastoral activities for the upper echelon and settlement cemeteries with minimal pastoral care for the rest of the population. To the extent that the Church allocated its pastoral care resources to elites, this perspective ties ecclesiastical institutions to articulating a centralized hierarchy spanning political and religious realms. Settlement cemeteries were merely the background from which hierarchy emerges. Tomás Ó Carragáin gave greater attention to the issues discussed in Bernard’s 1995 article. He found Etchingham’s formulation too dependent on a top-down approach to how communities engage with religion (Ó Carragáin 2010:218–19). Instead, he suggested that the variation from site to site reflects different types of engagement. In this context, settlement cemeteries become emblematic of local and familial engagements that counter

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extensive hierarchies. Ecclesiastical settlements are emblematic of a more fully articulated and expansive Church hierarchy. Such a framework appears to fit well within discussions of heterarchy. Ó Carragáin’s model of the tensions between family and community burial clearly flags the existence of variation. But, the variability is of little consequence in the end. Ó Carragáin argued that shifting burial activity to ecclesiastical settlements was a manifestation of an increasingly solid hierarchy. His process is more nuanced, but the result differs little from Etchingham’s. Whatever meanings and dynamics are associated with settlement cemeteries have no defined role other than marking the dynamics of a lost era. Religion remains an instrument for advancing hierarchy. The instrumental logic is evident in Ó Carragáin’s use of Peter Brown’s 1981 model of the Western European Church. Brown usefully drew attention to the process by which Merovingian and Carolingian elites bent Church institutions to their purposes. Elites cast localized establishments not directly under royal purview as being in need of reform, a process which served to enhance royal and episcopal control. Clearly that model is relevant across Europe—Ireland included—and unequivocally there is benefit in placing medieval Ireland more firmly into that wider world. But, in medieval Ireland, both secular and ecclesiastical centralization was at best uneven. Evidence for escalating centralization is solid, particularly post-900 (McCormick 2008). But centralization is not a binary variable, either present or absent. One should not overlook the fact that in this period, the habitations of the most wealthy/powerful in Ireland were little different from those of the ordinary free person. Status distinctions certainly existed, but relative to elsewhere, the gaps among them were small. For example, Roestown (O’Hara 2009) and Baronstown (Linnane and Kinsella 2009), were high status settlements and might merit assessment in terms of medieval lordship. But, Baronstown was not Aachen or Yeavering. If an earlier era was overly deferential to the apartness of monasteries, the newer era seems overly deferential to something else. Bernard’s 1995 caution about importation of a palace-temple complex is relevant here. Ó Carragáin does not consider that Brown amended his model to accommodate anthropological theories of heterarchy. In 1996, he extended his 1981 model for the Western Church by adding discussion of the Eastern Church as in part organized around just the localized heterarchical dynamics Ó Carragáin associated with settlement cemeteries (Brown



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1996:129). Particularly, after decades of post-colonial scholarship, it seems a small step to see Brown’s East/West dichotomy as reflecting a spectrum of dynamics in the Church as a whole. If the Aachen-like dynamics are less manifest in Ireland, Brown’s later work provides a useful starting point for an alternative temple-palace complex (see Soderberg 2001). Such an argument has been made about the social dynamics of clientage. Clientage can, and should, be seen as an instrument for facilitating centralization of power. But, simultaneously, it also serves to collapse gaps between groups and bind one to another ( Jaski 2000; Soderberg 2006). Likewise, taken as a whole, Brown’s view of the whole Church implies the need for the same attention to complexity. Rather than presuming one set of dynamics was lost to another, the essential question becomes how the dynamics exist in tension with each other. Instrumental views of religion inhibit appreciation of that complexity because they leave the sacred as either sealed off from secular concerns or merely an organ for the dispersal of ideology. As scholars have grown aware of how complex the meanings associated with rituals are and how little simple consensus generally exists in any community, instrumental approaches to religion appear increasingly inadequate (see Swenson 2015). Full consideration of non-instrumental approaches to religion is beyond the scope of this article, but two tendrils are particularly important. First, deconstruction of the sacred into the secular is increasingly rare in religious studies. Returning to the connection between religion and bodies, Brück (1999) saw opposition between sacred and secular as an untenable consequence of Enlightenment rationality and its split between mind and body. In its place, she urged focus on how sacred concerns are reenactments or recontextualizations of secular concerns. Essentially, sacred becomes an intensification of secular. One result of this view is that ritual components of mundane activities have become increasingly important components of how scholars conceptualize religion (e.g., Bell 1992). As Bradley (2005:34) puts it, ritualization of everyday life is “a way of acting which reveals some of the dominant concerns of society…It is really a process by which certain actions gain an added emphasis through particular kinds of performance.” He illustrates his point with the debate over whether or not Viereckschanzen were settlements or ritual sites (2005:16–23). Once the opposition between secular and sacred is cast off, the interesting point becomes that they were both. From this perspective, the variability of the sites traditionally called

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monasteries seems less incoherent. They possessed a simple unity: all were sacred places where people live. One could say that this is the central conundrum of a monastery. A second tendril derives from research across the social sciences highlighting that ‘meanings’ (shared understandings) are foundational to the distinctive features of human communities (for accessible surveys see Rochat [2009], Baron-Cohen [2011], and Cronk and Leech [2013]). In this context, the term meaning indicates a focal point from which coordinated action proceeds. Such focal points do not signal consensus. They are common ground that affords coordination among individuals and groups. The term ‘focal point’ comes out of social science research on coordination, the classic example of which is a study asking people in New Haven, CT where they would meet somebody in New York City if they had forgotten to identify a specific location. A majority of respondents said “Grand Central” because it was where their train arrived (Schelling 1960). Such emergent common understandings derive from common bodily experience, not instilled belief. The lost commuters of New Haven did not find each other because all believed one thing about Grand Central. They met up through shared embodied experience. While early efforts to elaborate this perspective into an approach to religion exist (e.g., Watanabe and Smuts 1999), in recent years, evolutionary anthropologists and others are increasingly coming to the conclusion that Grand Centrals provide an important basis from which communities are built (e.g., Sosis and Alcorta 2003; Norenzayan and Shariff 2008; Wilson and Green 2011; Bulbulia 2012). Such is the sacred of these everyday approaches to religion. These two tendrils within research on religion come together in the following way. The constructed nature of meanings is of course a mainstay of anthropological thought. What is distinctive about these approaches is that they push the beliefs themselves to the side and focus on the process of construction as a generative social dynamic. It is the existence of the common ground, not just what it signifies, that matters. In terms of defining a non-instrumental approach to religion, ritualization is a process of creating meaning—common ground—from which communities proceed. Cognate approaches in archaeology include: Boivin (2000), Inomata (2006), Kuijt (2008), Lilley (2009), O’Sullivan and Nicholl (2010). The significance of the focus on everyday religion is that, as sites where meanings are generated proliferate, so do different social dynamics. From



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this perspective the chronology of social dynamics associated with settlement cemeteries and ecclesiastical settlements seems unlikely. If the dynamics of ecclesiastical settlements became all pervasive, what happened to the localized dynamics of settlement cemeteries? Everyday views of the sacred see both as solutions to how Grand Centrals are established, both early and late. How then do we move from seeing religious settlements as sacred places with habitation to sacred habitations? Much thought has been devoted to how human burials were significant to the performance of monasteries. But, animals also lived, died, and were buried at these sites. Just as it is legitimate to consider what meanings are built from human depositions, one can ask about the sacred implications of rearing, processing, and consuming animals. Precisely because they seem to represent the profane, farm animals are a useful means of approaching the sacred. The challenge is identifying how everyday rituals of feeding and provisioning sites create a multitude of Grand Centrals. Seeing the sacred in the animal economy requires a concept of the sacred entangled with the secular.

MONASTIC ANIMAL ECONOMIES Studies of animal economies demonstrate similar tendencies in handling the sacred as are evident in debates about the typology of religious settlements. The most prominent concern of monastic animal bone studies is defining what sets such sites apart from secular settlements. For example, Irish medieval monastic sites often had unusually high concentrations of wild animals, such as red deer, seals, fish, and birds (McCormick 1997; Soderberg 2004; Murray et al. 2004). Such distinctive features are generally interpreted as emblematic of sacred concerns, manifestations of how monks sought to distinguish themselves dietarily from profane surroundings. Their ‘meaning’ comes from how a given feature of a faunal assemblage demonstrates disjunction from the secular world by breaking with ordinary dietary routines. To be clear, this line of thinking is reasonable. Such features do in fact distinguish monasteries from other sites. But, from the perspective on religion sketched out above, what seems less reasonable is leaving the remainder of the monastic animal economy as only profane/secular. Too often, the sacred vanishes from discussion of mundane farmyard animals. Given

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a sacred/secular dichotomy, general animal management strategies are of the secular world. In special contexts, animals can be made sacred, but in general, they are left as simply profane. For example, Murray et al. (2004) drew attention to the fact that, at Illaunloughan, cattle could not have been kept in any numbers on the 0.1-hectare island, yet cattle were still a significant presence in the assemblage. They must have been reared on the adjacent mainland. The important question is how such exchange would have been fueled. If the sacred is hermetically bounded from the profane, if animals are profane, so is the fuel. For Illaunloughan, interpretation turned on the significance of an unusually high concentration of immature cattle bones (Murray et al. 2004:186; Murray and McCormick 2005). The two proffered explanations were of the secular world: early culling in response to restrictions on fodder in a marginal environment (see McCormick [1998] for further explanation) and/or ‘firstborns’ collected from subsidiary settlements as tribute. Tribute is a loaded word suggesting that the monastery was extracting wealth from the surrounding region, which evokes the same narrative as ecclesiastical settlements. The movement of animals from site to site certainly makes tribute a viable hypothesis, but it is difficult to evaluate it since no other social dynamic is available as alternative fuel to circulation. The absence is all the more striking because Illaunloughan monks are not being provisioned with the prime haunches one expects acquisitive elites to demand. In fact, if anything, the age data suggest an emphasis on cattle of minimal value. Certainly, localized familial dynamics would seem a reasonable alternative. A certain tension on this topic is discernable in the differences between the summary report (Murray et al. 2004) and the specialist report (Murray 2005). While the summary discussion speaks of tribute, the specialist report observes that the presence of very young and very old cattle “suggests that the monastic community [was] consuming cattle that were unwanted and were being killed off, i.e. surplus calves and cows” (Murray 2005:10). This statement offers a very different relationship with surrounding settlements than is implied by a freighted term such as tribute. Provisioning settlements are not surrendering high-value firstborns, but rather surplus animals that have to be discarded somehow. Likewise, the Illaunloughan age profile does not obviously indicate a wealthy ‘consumer’ site. While rearing must have occurred largely off-island, nothing in the faunal assemblage indicates any



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great social gulf from the farmyard. Ecology and social stratification are the proffered explanations for the cattle mortality profile. Yet, unlike interpretations of wild animals at monasteries, the sacred is not. Wild animals are commonly seen as part of the monastic project, but farmyard animals are only linked to secular realms with their singular social dynamic. Consequently, Illaunloughan cannot be a Grand Central. Research on faunal assemblages from settlement cemeteries remains quite nascent, but much the same pattern of interpretation seems to be emerging. Animal bones are often primary evidence for habitation at settlement cemeteries, e.g., Carrowkeel (Wilkins and Lalonde 2008). Thus far, no unusual concentrations of wild animals have been discussed, though Seaver (2010:275) noted the presence of birds, both wild and domestic at Raystown. Where the wider significance of animals is discussed, explanation has tended toward graveside feasting (e.g., O’Hara 2010:28–31). At Knowth Site M, the animal bone assemblage from the ditches showed that 70% of the cattle were killed at circa 2.5 years. Unlike Illaunloughan, these cattle are not immature surplus animals but are more prime aged. Stout and Stout (2008:77) view this evidence in connection with the few high status goods from the site and raise the possibility that burial of notables involved feasting. Significantly though, as at Illaunloughan, the faunal report itself indicates a wider array of possibilities: “What may tentatively be suggested from the evidence is that choice meat was consumed, and possibly that breeding animals were maintained for longer to maintain herd numbers, for traction, and as providers of milk” (Hughes 2008:134). This statement need not be taken only as a specialist’s unwillingness to stretch into lofty cognitive interpretation. While cattle of these ages do produce the highest quality of meat, the percentages from Knowth Site M are only marginally different from those found at Deer Park Farms and other farmsteads. Such patterns are typically interpreted in the context of herd management strategies, specifically the culling of young male cattle as superfluous to dairy production (e.g., McCormick 2014:122). Nothing here contradicts the possibility of feasts at gravesides. Rather my concern is rushing to a single social dynamic, which makes variability in the actual evidence inconsequential. Fundamentally, what these assemblages show about religious settlements is that they were fully entangled in livestock management. Yet, it remains very difficult to connect that circumstance with recent advances

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in religious studies. Often, I encounter puzzlement as to why any effort should be expended demonstrating that people in early medieval Ireland ate cattle, sheep, and pigs. Yet, the same people often have no difficulty seeing the value of discussing consumption of seals or red deer. My sense is that the difference arises from a restricted sense of the sacred. If sacred is a reenactment of secular, if these settlements are Grand Centrals, their ‘farmyard-ness’ is exactly what is interesting. It sits at the foundation of the conundrum that these are sacred places where people live and gather. Instead of the only option being tribute, seeing Illaunloughan as a Grand Central opens an array of different ways that the settlement might have been integrated into its surroundings. The sacred elements of the site become more than just a means of tricking farmers into giving away cattle (without retreating back to an era that denied that possibility too insistently). The sacred farm becomes a recontextualization of surrounding farms, a Grand Central built by the variety of people affiliated with the site. Such a perspective accords well with tales about animal economies in Adomnán’s Life of Columba. Adomnán recounts how a poor man gave hospitality to Columba for a night. When Columba learns that he has only five cattle, Columba blesses those cattle and the herd miraculously increases to 105. But he adds a proviso that the herd could not increase beyond 105 individuals, except those that “could be devoted to either the own needs of the household, or else to the use of charity” (aut in usus proprios familiae aut etiam in opus elimoysinae expendi poterat) (Anderson and Anderson 1961:366– 71). Certainly one can, and probably should, find exploitative ideology in the story. But, deconstructing it to simply that dynamic is excessive. With the concept of religion discussed above, the relevant social dynamics seem far more complex. I have recently had the opportunity to examine assemblages from two monasteries. The first is Carns in Co. Roscommon. The second is Inishcealtra in Co. Clare. What follows is a sketch of results from the analysis of these assemblages. Some may question the juxtaposition of theories about the sacred and summary of an animal bone report. Yet, such a connection seems to be exactly what new theories about religion and bodies suggest. Likewise, they raise questions about why the sacred seems a more appropriate prelude to studies of architecture and iconography. My intent is that the foregoing creates an invitation to reconsider how we articulate monastic animals with the wider monastic project.



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THE CARNS ANIMAL ECONOMY Carns is located on a ridge of high ground in Co. Roscommon filled with a sequence of monuments extending from the Neolithic onwards. The most prominent is Carn Fraich, a Neolithic cairn used as the inauguration mound for the O’Conors in the later middle ages. Other visible monuments include Bronze Age barrows and standing stones. Carns monastery is located at the opposite end of the ridge from Carn Fraich. Visible features include an enclosure and building foundations. Carns has long been associated with a reference in Tírechán’s seventh century Life of St. Patrick to Patrick spending the night in the area. Later documents indicate a monastery active throughout the Middle Ages. By the 15th century, Carns had become part of the Dominican Friary located a few miles away in Tulsk. After the Dissolution, the property passed into private hands. For a more complete discussion of the site, see McNeary and Shannahan (2010). The Discovery Programme conducted excavations at the site between 2006 and 2007 under the supervision of Brian Shannahan and Rory McNeary as one module of the Rural Medieval Settlement Project. The Carns research project, which included both sub-surface survey and targeted excavation, was designed to verify the identification as a monastery and establish a chronology for the site and an associated system of low earthen banks extending out from the monastery. With funding from the Discovery Programme, Kevin Malloy and I analyzed the faunal assemblage at the University of Minnesota (Soderberg and Malloy 2011). Shannahan and McNeary’s research extended the chronology of Carns back into the Iron Age. Magnetometry survey produced a series of concentric ditches matching those found at Iron Age ceremonial centers such as Dún Ailinne and Emain Macha. The earliest evidence for medieval activity is an ogham stone, which dates to the 5th or 6th century. As is common at early medieval Irish monasteries, a surge of activity appears between the 8th and 11th centuries. In this period, an earlier ditch was filled and a new larger stone enclosure was built. At least 18 burials occurred near the center of the enclosure. The burials represent a broad population sample, including males, females, infants, juveniles, and adults. In the 15th or 16th century, a new stone church was constructed and a domestic extension was added. No single context from the Carns excavations produced a sufficiently large sample for reliable analysis. The assemblage is considered in terms of

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stratigraphically defined groups identified by the excavators. Four produced sufficiently large assemblages for individual consideration. The most recent set is called Church and Collapse contexts (15th and 16th century). Building contexts date to the 10th and 11th centuries. Rubble contexts were stratigraphically above the buildings and appear related to a subsequent medieval occupation (assessment of the site stratigraphy is on-going and will refine the site chronology). All samples were hand collected.

GENERAL RESULTS The Carns animal bone assemblage has over four thousand identified fragments. In general, the state of preservation is good. Surface changes associated with exposure and battering prior to burial are limited to isolated bones. The edges of broken fragments are also generally not abraded. Burnt bone is rare in the Carns assemblage, with 96% of the contexts having few or no burned fragments. Both cutmarks and canine gnaw marks are a small but persistent presence in the assemblage. Taken as a whole, however, all features demonstrate intensive processing of carcasses for in-bone nutrients (grease and marrow). Figure 8.2a shows the number of identified specimens (NISP) distribution of cattle, sheep/goat, and pigs in assemblages with greater than 150 NISP. Figure 8.2b shows the minimum number of individuals (MNI) distribution for assemblages with a combined MNI of ten or higher. Allowing for divergences produced by calculation methods and biases due to small sample size, both figures show essentially a balanced abundance of cattle and sheep. McCormick and Murray (2007:103–15) have found evidence that the heavy orientation on cattle found in the first centuries of the Middle Ages begins to break down around 900 CE. They associate the change with the decline of cattle as a key measure of wealth (but see McCormick et al. 2011:74–91). The Buildings assemblage (10th to 11th century) provides support for McCormick and Murray’s identification of a shift circa 900. Additionally, the sites McCormick and Murray discuss are coastal. Carns represents an extension of the pattern inland to North Roscommon. One other general feature of the assemblage bears mentioning. The Church and Rubble features contain a high percentage of immature bones from sheep, cattle, and pig (NISP=90). While uplands are often marginal locales, such is not the case at Carns. Early modern documents indicated

8.2a. Carns fragment count (number of identified specimens, NISP) for cattle, sheep/goat, and pigs.

8.2b.  Carns minimum number of individuals (MNI) for cattle, sheep/goat, and pigs.

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that this upland was valuable pasture (McNeary and Shannahan 2010). The assemblage of immature individuals at Carns is likely to indicate culling of surplus young cattle. Unlike Illaunloughan, no evidence suggests that animal management occurred elsewhere.

Cattle Though the Carns assemblage contains few whole cattle elements, fragments from each of the major sections of the skeleton are present in the large assemblages. In general, individual elements are present in accord with their food utility (the associated amount of meat/grease/ marrow). This pattern suggests that food value is an important factor affecting retention of elements; however, the samples sizes are too small to fully parse the influences of all the factors contributing to the frequency pattern, such as post-depositional destruction, transport, collection bias, and carnivore activity. Data for making age estimates are limited, but available dentition does indicate the presence of various ages. Wear stage data for third mandibular molars from the Church features show mortality both before and after 2.5 years (Table 8.2). The mandibular deciduous fourth premolar (dP4) erupts early and the transition to P4 occurs approximately at the time M3 comes into wear. Consequently, dP4s provide a useful check on standard aging techniques. For the Carns assemblage, the premolar assemblage is also larger than the third molar assemblage. Figure 8.3 shows that the cattle deposited at Carns were both young and old. Skeletal fusion data support this conclusion as well. Detailed estimates of herd management strategies require larger samples, but the presence of a wide range of cattle suggests no separation from the basic productive processes of a farm. Sheep/Goat None of the Carns sheep/goat bones were unequivocally identified as goat. Henceforth, this category will be referred to as simply sheep. The distribution of elements is generally similar to that of cattle. Elements associated with high concentrations of nutrients are typically the most prevalent. The dental age data for the Church and Rubble samples include ten and eight M3s respectively. In both assemblages, the majority of the specimens are in the highest age categories. The bone fusion data reflect much the same pattern, although as was noted above, the Church and Collapse assem-

8.3.  Cattle mandibular 4th premolar wear data. Wear categories are for deciduous 4th premolars, based on Grant’s stages (Grant 1982). The category “P4 in wear” represents permanent 4th premolars with any degree of wear.

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blages do include a substantial number of immature individuals. Taken together, the presence of a large number of mature individuals and some very young individuals suggests that Carns had access to sheep of different ages.

Pigs The skeletal part frequency for pigs is skewed toward prime meat bearing elements of the shoulder and rear haunch, although the assemblages are too small to determine if this pattern is merely an artifact of sample size. The assemblage did not provide enough dental specimens to assess age structure in any detail, other than to observe that both very young and mature individuals are present. Other Taxa The Carns assemblage includes a total of 122 bird bones (NISP). For Church and Collapse features, birds are a substantial presence. Calculated as a percentage of the combined bird/ mammal NISP, birds are 10% of both the Church features (bird N=74) and the Collapse features (bird N=29). At Illaunloughan, the for birds from early medieval layers is 16% (bird N=577) (Murray and McCormick 2005:71). In addition to its size, one striking feature of the Illaunloughan assemblage is an early deposit of 40 Manx shearwaters (Puffinus puffinus) (O’Sullivan 2005). These seabirds are commonly found on sites along the west coast of Ireland (Hamilton-Dyer 2007:108). Though it was not possible to identify the bones to species level, the Carns assemblage contains four Procellariidae bones, a seabird family that includes the Manx shearwater. Their presence is an unusual feature of an inland site such as Carns. Hamilton-Dyer (2007:107) notes that these fish-eating birds were considered permissible fare during fasting times. Other bird taxa identified include quail, partridge, pheasant, duck, and goose. The only unequivocal evidence for human utilization of birds is a cutmark on a pheasant tibiotarsus from the Rubble features. The total number of horse specimens is 76, primarily distal limb elements such as metapodia and phalanges. No features have an MNI of more than one. Cutmarks were evident on several elements, including one mandible. With the exception of one post-medieval feature, Carns yielded only a few dog distal foot bones. The assemblage contains only two cat elements. Other identified taxa include Leporidae, rat, Muridae, deer (antler), and fish (two undiagnostic fragments).



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DISCUSSION The modern visitor to Carns finds an open upland landscape of pastoralism. The Medieval Rural Settlement Project has paleoenvironmental evidence that the medieval landscape was substantially different and supported a mixed agricultural regime with house sites and garden enclosures surrounding the Church settlement (McNeary and Shannahan 2010:132–34). The animal bone assemblage supports this conclusion. In terms of range of species, prevalence of skeletal elements, and age of animals, the Carns assemblage is typical for a medieval Irish farm. The prevalence of wild species (birds) may reflect a specifically monastic orientation, but that appears as a subtle note when considering the assemblage as a whole. The balanced prevalence of sheep and cattle at Carns is a striking feature for two reasons. First (but tangential to the focus of this paper), Carns is part of a landscape of Gaelic lordship, a space popularly associated with cattle. The Carns assemblage shows that an orientation on sheep grazing on these upland pastures was part of the landscape while O’Conor lordships coalesced. As the Rural Medieval Settlement Project demonstrated in a number of different contexts, Gaelic identities are complex and strategically assembled (Brady 2014). Second, the assemblage shows that this monastic settlement participated in the wider shifts in medieval Ireland’s animal economy.

THE INISHCEALTRA ANIMAL ECONOMY Inishcealtra is a monastic site located on an island of approximately 40 acres in Lough Derg, Co. Clare. The monastery is thought to have been established in the 6th century. From the later 10th century, the monastery was under patronage of Brian Ború and his descendants. Many of the upstanding remains on the island date to this period. The later history of the monastery is not well documented, but Inishcealtra is thought to cease as a monastery in the 13th century. During the course of the following centuries, the island became a place of pilgrimage and burial, with some ongoing habitation. Liam de Paor conducted excavations on Inishcealtra between 1970 and 1980. In addition to summaries published in Excavations Bulletins, de Paor wrote an extensive preliminary report (de Paor 1997). The report describes

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four chronological phases based on stratigraphy and artifact typologies. The first phase of in situ features is early medieval, running from the 7th century to the 10th (Phase 1). Phase 2 is later medieval, running from the 10th century through the 13th.1 This period saw a surge of building and other activity on the island, which de Paor associates with the growth of a substantial monastic community. Phase 3 is associated with later pilgrimage, burial, and habitation activity extending through the early modern period. Phase 4 is associated with modern period (18th to 20th century). The surviving Inishcealtra bone assemblage has just fewer than 1800 identified fragments, all hand collected. Given the time that elapsed between collection and analysis, the surviving assemblage is in relatively good condition. Of the total identified, only 56 specimens retained no context information. A further 102 have problematic or fragmentary context information. Data collection was done under supervision of Dr. Finbar McCormick at Queen’s University, Belfast. I reviewed the excavation documents in order to establish phasing and ran analysis of the faunal data (Soderberg and McCormick 2012). This research was supported with a grant from the Royal Irish Academy.

GENERAL RESULTS Much of the assemblage consists of unidentifiable bone fragments. These result from butchery and other carcass processing activities, but also post-excavation damage. The unidentified fragments include a large number of calcined bones. Since only eight of the nearly 1800 identifiable specimens in the assemblage show evidence of heat damage (singing, burning, or calcination), the small calcined fragments are likely to reflect either the deliberate burning of waste bone or the breaking up of fragile burnt bone after deposition. While generally faunal samples have intact context data, it is not currently possible to associate most contexts with one of de Paor’s stages. At present, approximately 40% of the identified specimens are securely phased. A portion of these are connected with the later medieval phase (Phase 2). Another group clearly pre-dates Phase 3, but existing records do not allow association with either of the earlier phases. These samples appear contextually secure and likely to move into a single phase after a thorough re-examination of site stratigraphy. In the interim, the bones from these contexts are treated as a unit (Phase 1/2).



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For the medieval assemblages (Phase 1/2 and Phase 2), cattle are the most common animals, with pigs second, and sheep/goat third (Fig. 8.4). Having pigs more prevalent than sheep/goats is unlike Carns and Illaunloughan, but not uncommon at other monastic sites, including Clonmacnoise and Iona. At this stage, it is difficult to position Inishcealtra relative to the decline in cattle posited circa 900. The assemblage from Inishcealtra Phase 2 does show a lower percentage of cattle, but it is too small to produce reliable results. Consequently, conclusions hinge on the Phase 1/2 assemblage, which has the high percentage of cattle associated with early periods. If (as seems likely based on de Paor’s report) most of the Phase 1/2 assemblage is actually dated to Phase 2, then Inishcealtra does not show a decline in cattle. Alternatively, if Phase 1/2 dates primarily to Phase 1 (pre10th century) and the current Phase 2 assemblage accurately reflects the prevalence of cattle, Inishcealtra conforms to the pattern both in terms of scale and timing.

8.4. Inishcealtra fragment count (number of identified specimens, NISP) and minimum number of individuals (MNI) for cattle, sheep/goat, and pigs.

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Cattle The complex history of the assemblage and its small size makes analysis of skeletal part frequency difficult, beyond observing that each of the major sections of the skeleton are present in the large assemblages. As at Carns, dental age data indicate cattle both above and below 2.5 years. The M3 assemblage from Phase 2 has 36% below Grant wear stage F (Table 8.2) and an even balance between dP4s and P4s (see Fig. 8.3, following Grant 1982). The skeletal fusion data likewise indicate the presence of both age groups. Sheep No elements were identified as definitely from goats in the medieval assemblages. Consequently, this taxon is referred to as sheep henceforth. For the medieval assemblages, the most common elements are upper limb bones, including the scapula, humerus, and femur. Distal limb bones are largely absent. Collection bias against small elements presumably influences this pattern, but it is interesting that pig phalanges, which are essentially the same size as sheep phalanges, are reasonably well represented, suggesting that the absence of sheep phalanges could indicate pre-depositional dispersal. Both dental development and bone fusion data suggest that individuals were generally kept to maturity. Pig The skeletal part frequency for pigs is skewed toward prime meat bearing elements of the shoulder and haunch, although the assemblages are too small to determine if this pattern is merely an artifact of sample size. Available aging data suggest a mortality peak among pigs at roughly two years old. One individual in the assemblage survived well past that age (M3 Grant wear stage H), indicating the presence of breeding stock.

Deer Cervids are 5% of the Phase 2 assemblage and 3% of Phase 1/2 (total cervid NISP=21), adding Inishcealtra to the list of monastic sites with high concentrations of deer remains. Two humeri (one from each medieval phase) are assigned to a combined red/fallow deer category. Otherwise, all cervid elements are positively identified as red deer. Both medieval assemblages have a balanced representation of antler and postcranial elements.



Ceremonial Complexity 217

All skeletal elements sufficiently complete to determine state-of-fusion are fused. No surface modifications were identified on postcranial elements. The balanced representation of postcranial to antler elements at Inishcealtra contrasts with findings from Clonmacnoise, where the red deer assemblage shifts from a similarly balanced ratio to one almost entirely dominated by antler in the period equivalent to Phase 2 at Inishcealtra (Soderberg 2004). Unlike Clonmacnoise, inhabitants of Inishcealtra maintained access to deer carcasses through the medieval period.

Other Taxa The total number of horse specimens in the two medieval assemblages is eight, with two from Phase 2 and the rest from Phase 1/2. In addition to teeth, the horse assemblage includes bones from all limb sections. All elements are fused. No cut marks or other surface modifications were present. The Inishcealtra medieval assemblages have only a single dog and cat element.

DISCUSSION Only tentative conclusions are possible given the small size of the assemblages and uncertainty about dating. But two points stand out. First, Inishcealtra extends the list of monastic sites with a substantial number of red deer elements, further supporting the hypothesis that this species has a deep connection to monasteries. Second, aside from this feature, the animal bone assemblage from Inishcealtra matches the typical pattern from any Irish medieval site. As far as the evidence extends, the inhabitants of the medieval monastery appear fully enmeshed in the herding routines found across Ireland.

CONCLUSION The full excavation reports on both sites are still under production, so making detailed assessments of either site is premature. To quote Bernard, “[we] must close, then, on a note of qualified rather than unbridled optimism” (Wailes 1995:68). But, some parameters of that assessment should be evident. Wild species are indeed a strong presence at both. Birds are common at Carns, including seabirds usually found at distant coastal sites.

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At Inishcealtra, the primary wild species is red deer. This pattern reflects something of the monastic project as distinct from society at large. The key questions to answer concern the nature of that reflection. Red deer may have elite connotations, but with Admonán’s tale about the cattle in mind, that connotation may indicate commentary as much as straightforward affiliation. Furthermore, even if one halts interpretation of red deer at simple elite affiliation, what then is to be made of the absence of red deer at Carns? Were they just not powerful enough to get deer? And, even if such were the case, does the difference in wild animals not reflect anything about differences in monastic practices between the two sites? Surely those who lived and gathered at these monasteries would have known of the difference. Equally, people must have known of their domestic animals and how little they would have differed from those of surrounding farmyards. Perhaps some of the animals even grazed together and moved among these different farmyards. Recent approaches to religion and ritualization urge recognition that such patterns would have been equally significant as those with wild animals. The performance of these religious settlements occurred with pigs as much as deer. New approaches to religion foster an emphasis on the sacralization of the whole animal economy. What does it mean to sacralize an animal economy? The initial step is no more than seeing that pigs can be just as cognitively significant as deer. The more challenging step is remaining attentive to how that significance emerges. Rituals are practices from which meanings are generated. If meanings are elaborated and curated only in special circumstances, focus on elite power consolidation seems appropriate. If the process spreads to the farmyard and resonates with a host of surrounding farmyards, focus on that single dynamic seems narrow. Bending rituals to the purpose of building exploitative hierarchies is a key process for understanding religious settlement in early medieval Ireland. But, it is a mistake to reduce it to that one dynamic. NOTES 8.1 The report identifies “a drastic change” at the beginning of the 13th century associated with the end of monastic habitation and the establishment of a parish at St. Mary’s (de Paor 1997:96). While the report dates that change to the transition from the 12th century to the 13th, de Paor also notes continuing evidence for “a community at work”

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with bone, iron, and copper through the 13th century. Bearing this evidence in mind and the fact that no absolute dates are available, the transition from the second to the third phase is here set at being after/during the 13th century, not before it.

Table 8.1a.  Fragment Count for All Identified Species (number of identified specimens, NISP) Carns

Inishcealtra

Church

Collapse

Building

Rubble

Phase 2

Phase 1/2

Cattle

241

63

95

207

75

265

Sh/Gt

223

81

92

184

32

49

Pig

79

23

29

46

52

134

Dog

4

2

-

2

1

-

Horse

17

16

2

11

2

5

Cat

1

-

-

1

-

1

Bird

74

29

-

9

-

-

Fish

2

-

-

-

-

-

Leporidae

3

4

-

-

-

-

Cervid

-

1

-

-

9

12

Rat

5

2

-

-

-

-

Muridae

1

-

-

-

-

-

Mollusc Shell

1

-

-

-

-

-

Table 8.1b.  Minimum Number of Individuals (MNI) for Cattle, Sheep/Goat, and Pigs Carns

Inishcealtra

Church

Collapse

Building

Rubble

Phase 1/2

Cattle

7

4

3

4

12

Sh/Gt

7

5

2

5

5

Pig

4

3

2

1

9

John Soderberg

220

Table 8.2.  Wear stage data for mandibular third molars from the Church features Wear Stage

Approx. Age

1

fetal

2

0–1 weeks

3

1–4 months

4

5–6 months

5

6–7 months

6

7–9 months

7

8–13 months

8

15–16 months

9

16–17 months

10

17–18 months

11

18–24 months

12

24 months

13

24–30 months

14(A)

30 months

Carns Church

Inish. Ph. 2

Inish Ph. 1/2

1

2

15(B)

30–31 months

16(C)

31–32 months

1

17(D)

32–33 months

1

18(E)

36 months

19(F)

36–38 months

20(G)

38–40 months

2

3

2

(H) (J)

1

2

1

(K)

1

2

1

(L) (M)

REFERENCES Anderson, A.O., and M.O. Anderson (eds. and trans.). 1961. Adomnán’s Life of Columba. London: T. Nelson. Baron-Cohen, S. 2011. The Science of Evil: On Empathy and the Origins of Cruelty. New York: Basic Books. Bell, C. 1992. Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice. New York: Oxford University Press. Boivin, N. 2000. Life Rhythms and Floor Sequences: Excavating Time in Rural Rajasthan and Neolithic Çatalhöyük. World Archaeology 31:367–88. Bradley, R. 2005. Ritual and Domestic Life in Prehistoric Europe. London: Routledge. Brady, N. 2014. Current Research and Future Directions in Medieval Rural Settlement in Ireland. Praehistorica 31:297–308. Brown, P. 1981. The Cult of the Saints. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 1996. The rise of Western Christendom: triumph and diversity, AD 200–1000. Cambridge, MA: Blackwell. Brück, J. 1999. Ritual and Rationality: Some Problems of Interpretation in European Archaeology. European Journal of Archaeology 2:313–44. Bulbulia, J. 2012. Spreading Order: Religion, Cooperative Niche Construction, and Risky Coordination Problems. Biology and Philosophy 27:1–27. Cronk, L., and B.L. Leech. 2013. Meeting at Grand Central: Understanding the Social and Evolutionary Roots of Cooperation. Princeton: Princeton University Press. de Paor, L. 1997. Inis Cealtra: Report on Archaeological and Other Investigations on the Island. Unpublished report for the Department of the Environment, Heritage, and Local Government. Dublin. Etchingham, C. 1999. Church Organization in Ireland AD 650 to 1000. Maynooth: Laigin Publications. ———. 2006. Pastoral Provision in the First Millennium: A Two-tier Service? In The Parish in Medieval and Early Modern Ireland: Community, Territory and Building, ed. E. FitzPatrick and R. Gillespie, pp. 79–90. Dublin: Four Courts. ———. 2011. Organization and Function of an Early Irish Church Settlement: What Was Glendalough? In Glendalough: City of God, ed. C. Doherty, L. Doran, and M. Kelly, pp. 22–53. Dublin: Four Courts Press for the Royal Society of Antiquaries. Grant, A. 1982. The Use of Tooth Wear as a Guide to the Age of Domestic Ungulates. In Ageing and Sexing Animal Bones from Archaeological Sites, ed. B. Wilson, C. Grigson, and S. Payne, pp. 91–108. British Archaeological Reports British Series 109. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports. Hamilton-Dyer, S. 2007. Exploitation of Birds and Fish in Historic Ireland: A Brief

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Review of the Evidence. In Environmental Archaeology in Ireland, ed. E. Murphy and N.J. Whitehouse, pp. 102–18. Oxford: Oxbow Books. Hughes, J. 2008. Appendix IVa: Faunal Remains 2002. In Excavation of an Early Medieval Secular Cemetery at Knowth Site M, County Meath, ed. G. Stout and M. Stout, pp. 125–35. Dublin: Wordwell. Inomata, T. 2006. Plazas, Performers, and Spectators: Political Theaters of the Classic Maya. Current Anthropology 47:805–42. Jaski, B. 2000. Early Irish Kingship and Succession. Dublin: Four Courts. Kinsella, J. 2010. A New Irish Early Medieval Site Type? Exploring the ‘Recent’ Archaeological Evidence for Non-Circular Enclosed Settlement and Burial Sites. Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy 110C:89–132. Kuijt, I. 2008. The Regeneration of Life: Neolithic Structures of Symbolic Remembering and Forgetting. Current Anthropology 49:171–98. Lilley, K.D. 2009. City and Cosmos: The Medieval World in Urban Form. London: Reaktion Books. Linnane, S., and J. Kinsella. 2009. Military Lords and Defensive Beginnings: A Preliminary Assessment of the Social Role of an Impressive Rath at Baronstown. In Places Along the Way: First Findings on the M3, ed. M. Deevy and D. Murphy, pp. 101–22. Dublin: National Roads Authority. McCormick, F. 1997. Iona: The Archaeology of the Early Monastery. In Studies in the Cult of Saint Columba, ed. C. Bourke, pages 45–68. Dublin: Four Courts Press. ———. 1998. Calf Slaughter as a Response to Marginality. In Life on the Edge: Human Settlement and Marginality, ed. C.M. Mills and G. Coles, pp. 49–51. Oxbow Monograph 100. Oxford: Oxbow. ———. 2008. The Decline of the Cow: Agricultural and Settlement Change in Early Medieval Ireland. Peritia 20:210–25. ———–. 2014. Agriculture, Settlement and Society in Early Medieval Ireland. Quaternary International 30:119–30. McCormick, F., and E. Murray. 2007. Knowth and the Zooarchaeology of Early Christian Ireland. Excavations at Knowth 3. Dublin: Royal Irish Academy. McCormick, F., T.R. Kerr, M. McClatchie, and A. O’Sullivan. 2011. The Archaeology of Livestock and Cereal Production in Early Medieval Ireland, AD400–1100. EMAP Report 5.1. Dublin: Irish National Strategic Archaeological Research (INSTAR) programme. Murray, E. 2005. Appendix 4: Mammal Bone. In Illaunloughan Island: An Early Medieval Monastery in County Kerry, ed. J. White Marshall and C. Walsh, pp. 9–13. Dublin: Wordwell.



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Murray, E., F. McCormick, and G. Plunkett. 2004. The Food Economies of Atlantic Island Monasteries: The Documentary and Archaeo-Environmental Evidence. Environmental Archaeology 9:179–98. Murray, E. and F. McCormick. 2005. Environmental Analysis and Food Supply. In Illaunloughan Island: An Early Medieval Monastery in County Kerry, ed. J.W. Marshall and C. Walsh, pages 67–80. Bray: Wordwell. McNeary, R., and B. Shannahan. 2010. Carns townland, Co. Roscommon: Excavations by the Medieval Rural Settlement Project in 2006. In Death and Burial in Early Medieval Ireland in Light of Recent Archaeological Excavations, ed. C. Corlett and M. Potterton, pp. 125–38. Research Papers in Irish Archaeology, no.2. Dublin: Wordwell. Norenzayan, A., and A.F. Shariff. 2008. The Origin and Evolution of Religious Prosociality. Science 322:58–62. O’Brien, E. 1992. Pagan and Christian Burial in Ireland during the First Millennium AD: Continuity and Change. In The Early Church in Wales and the West, ed. N. Edwards and A. Lane, pp. 130–37. Oxbow Monograph 16. Oxford: Oxbow Press. ———. 2003. Burial Practices in Ireland: First to Seventh Centuries AD. In Sea change: Orkney and Northern Europe in the Later Iron Age AD 300–800, eds. J. Downes and A. Ritchie, pp. 63–72. Brechin, Scotland: Pinkfoot Press. Ó Carragáin, T. 2009. Cemetery Settlements and Local Churches in Pre-Viking Ireland in Light of Comparisons with England and Wales. Proceedings of the British Academy 157:329–66. ———. 2010. From Family Cemeteries to Community Cemeteries in Viking Age Ireland? In Death and Burial in Early Medieval Ireland in Light of Recent Archaeological Excavations, ed. C. Corlett and M. Potterton, pp. 217–26. Research Papers in Irish Archaeology, no.2. Dublin: Wordwell. O’Hara, R. 2009. Early Medieval Settlement at Roestown 2. In Places Along the Way: First Findings on the M3, ed. M. Deevy and D. Murphy, pp. 57–82. Dublin: National Roads Authority. ———. 2010. An Iron Age and Early Medieval Cemetery at Collierstown 1, Co. Meath: Interpreting the Changing Character of a Burial Ground. MA thesis, University College Dublin. Report Published as Early Medieval Archaeology Project (EMAP) Report 4.4. O’Sullivan, A., and T. Nicholl. 2010. Early Medieval Settlement Enclosures in Ireland: Dwellings, Daily Life and Social Identity. Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy 111C:59–90. O’Sullivan, A., F. McCormick, T.R. Kerr, and L. Harney. 2014. Early Medieval Ireland AD 400–1200: The Evidence from Archaeological Excavations. Dublin: Royal Irish Academy.

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O’Sullivan, T. 2005. Appendix 4: Bird Bone. In Illaunloughan Island: An Early Medieval Monastery in County Kerry, ed. J. White Marshall and C. Walsh, pp. 15–17. Dublin: Wordwell. Patterson, N. 1994. Cattle Lords and Clansmen: Social Structure of Early Ireland. Notre Dame: Univ. of Notre Dame Press. Pauketat, T. 2013. An Archaeology of the Cosmos: Rethinking Agency and Religion. New York: Routledge. Rochat, P. 2009. Others in Mind: Social Origins of Self-Consciousness. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Schelling, T. 1960. The Strategy of Conflict. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Seaver, J. 2010. Against the Grain: Early Medieval Settlement and Burial on the Blackhill. Excavations at Raystown, Co. Meath. In Death and Burial in Early Medieval Ireland in Light of Recent Archaeological Excavations, ed. C. Corlett and M. Potterton, pp. 261–79. Dublin: Wordwell. Sharpe, R. 1992. Churches and Communities in Early Medieval Ireland: Towards a Pastoral Model. In Pastoral Care Before the Parish, ed. J. Blair and R. Sharpe, pp. 81–109. Leicester: Leicester University Press. Soderberg, J. 2001. Feeding Communities: Monasteries and Urban Development in Early Medieval Ireland. In Shaping Communities: The Archaeology and Architecture of Monasticism, British Archaeological Reports International Series 941, ed. S. McNally, pp. 67–77. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports. ———. 2004. Wild Cattle: Red Deer in the Religious Texts, Iconography, and Archaeology of Early Medieval Ireland. International Journal of Historical Archaeology 8:167–83. ———. 2006. Clientage and Social Hierarchy in Early Medieval Ireland: An Archaeological Perspective. Proceedings of the Harvard Celtic Colloquium 19: 396–433. Soderberg, J. and K. Malloy. 2011. The Animal Bones from Carns. Unpublished report submitted to the Discovery Programme. Soderberg, J., and F. McCormick. 2012. The Animal Bones from Inishcealtra, a Monastery in Co, Clare, Ireland. Unpublished report submitted to the Royal Irish Academy. Sofaer, J.R. 2006. The Body as Material Culture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sosis, R., and C. Alcorta. 2003. Signaling, Solidarity, and the Sacred: The Evolution of Religious Behavior. Evolutionary Anthropology 12:264–74. Stout, G., and M. Stout. 2008. Excavation of an Early Medieval Secular Cemetery at Knowth Site M, County Meath. Dublin: Wordwell. Swan, L. 1983. Enclosed Ecclesiastical Sites and their Relevance to Settlement Pat-



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terns of the First Millennium A.D. In Landscape Archaeology in Ireland, ed. T. Reeves-Smyth and F. Hamond, pp. 269–80. British Archaeological Reports British Series 116. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports. Swenson, E. 2015. The Archaeology of Ritual. Annual Review of Anthropology 44:329– 45. Wailes, B. 1995. A Case Study of Heterarchy in Complex Societies: Early Medieval Ireland and its Archaeological Implications. In Heterarchy and the Analysis of Complex Societies, ed. R.M. Ehrenreich, C.L. Crumley, and J.E. Levy, pp. 55–71. Arlington, VA: American Anthropological Association. Watanabe, J., and B. Smuts. 1999. Explaining Religion without Explaining It Away: Trust, Truth, and the Evolution of Cooperation in Roy A. Rappaport’s “The Obvious Aspects of Ritual.” American Anthropologist 101:98–112. Wilkins, B., and S. Lalonde. 2008. An Early Medieval Settlement/Cemetery at Carrowkeel, Co. Galway. The Journal of Irish Archaeology 17:57–83. Wilson, D.S., and W.S. Green. 2011. Evolutionary Religious Studies: A Beginner’s Guide. In Creating Consilience: Integrating the Sciences and the Humanities, ed. E. Slingerland and M. Collard, pp. 225–42. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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9 New Archaeology from Old Coins: Antioch Re-examined alan m. stahl

T

he Princeton-led excavations at Antioch-on-the Orontes were the result of years of planning and can be viewed as the culmination of a century of classical archaeology.1 In the early 1920s, the students of Howard Crosby Butler began plans for a large-scale excavation of what was considered the only one of the four grand cities of the Roman Empire to offer the opportunity for extensive exploration to reconstruct the art and life of a late antique metropolis (Antioch-on-the-Orontes 1934:vii). Another of the principal goals of the expedition was one of special interest to its chairman, the art historian Charles Rufus Morey: to contribute to the ongoing debate of the day on the relative importance of Rome versus the Near East in the development of Byzantine art. The realities of the decade of the 1930s and of the site conspired to turn the excavation from its original goals. Antioch was then within the French Protectorate of Syria, and with the concession of the right to excavate in 1931 came the participation of the Musées Nationaux de France, especially the Louvre Museum. The financial pressures of the Great Depression led to the necessity of seeking additional support from the Worcester Museum of Art and the Baltimore Museum of Art, joined in 1936 by the Fogg Museum of Art and Dumbarton Oaks. With the exception of the French, who supplied the excellent excavator Jean Lassus, the participation of other institutions was in the form of financial support in exchange for a partage of the artistically interesting finds (Kondoleon 2000:5–8). The condition of the site in the center of the ancient city discouraged even the kind of monumental

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reconstruction of the public buildings the excavators had intended: due to the repeated deposits of silt in the post-classical era, the early Byzantine levels were to be found at 7 meters below current grade, the Roman at 8 meters, and the Hellenistic at 9 to 10.5 meters. Extensive excavation was out of the question, and even sampling trenches 40 by 10 meters took the crews of 60 to 100 workers at least two months each to excavate (Lassus 1972:6). In contrast to these deep trenches in Antioch itself (excavated with the rigorous recording of stratigraphy and the context of each find), the discovery of extensive, lavish mosaics near the surface in the suburban villa district of Daphne increasingly led the excavators (under pressure from the supporting museums) away from the historic center of the site and to the peripheral, easily excavated and exported, mosaics. The succeeding decades were even harder on the realization of the excavators’ aims. The outbreak of World War II brought the excavating to an end with the 1939 season, at the same time as the region including Antioch was ceded as the result of a plebiscite from Syria to become the Turkish province of Hatay. Though the concession was extended to 1942 by the Turkish government, all of the expedition’s records and materials were transferred to Beirut for shipment to America and to France (Antioch-onthe-Orontes 1941:vii–viii). Besides the three volumes of ongoing preliminary reports that described the excavations in season-by-season format, there was little systematic analysis of the results published. Glanville Downey, who had participated in the excavation since its inception, dispensed with the archaeological findings in 12 pages of his 750-page History of Antioch in Syria (1961:24–35), which ended its account with the Arab conquest of the seventh century. While the excavations were still under way, Morey (1938) published a volume illustrating some of the most eye-catching mosaics, to be followed in 1947 by a two-volume catalogue of mosaics by Doro Levi (1947); ceramics took up sixty pages of one of the two miscellaneous volumes of finds published after the completion (F. Waagé 1948); coins comprised most of the rest. Only one work attempted to analyze the results of the excavations in terms of the progressive history of the site, and that was a self-declared failure. After having served on the Maginot line at the outbreak of the war, Jean Lassus went on to university posts in the French colonies at Hanoi, Saigon, and Algers (Le Glay 1991). In 1968, he came to Princeton to examine the records of the excavation in storage with the goal of writing a narrative of



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the development of the ‘Main Street,’ the porticoed thoroughfare running more or less north-south through the ancient and modern city. He brought with him his personal notes and consulted all of the plans and stratigraphic sections, the sequences of photographs, and the object and coin cards, but in the end found that the results were practically unusable and the task of a chronological history of construction and use of this, the best excavated section of the site, “désespérée” (Lassus 1972:7). He blamed the problem on the effects of periodic serious earthquakes on the stratigraphy of the architectural remains. In the end, he organized his publication by the chronology of excavation, rather than the development of the site. In the seventy-five years since the end of the Antioch excavations, there have been periodic attempts to use the materials in storage in Princeton (artifacts, photos, and archives) to contribute to the history of the site, but the lack of coordination of these materials and physical issues of access have produced little in the way of progress on the state of affairs described by Lassus. In the past decade, however, scholars at Princeton have been joined by specialists from domestic and foreign institutions in a physical rearrangement of the material for easier access and a coordinated effort to make the results of the excavation available for historical interpretation. One sector of the original excavation, 17-O, has been selected as a pilot project for concerted study, with all of the material re-examined and digitally photographed. The first publication on this sector has affirmed the value of the approach and the inherent materials, in tracing the transition of Antioch from Late Antiquity through the early Islamic age into the Middle Byzantine period (Eger 2013). The coin finds were probably the most complete aspect of the Antioch excavations to be published, but in a format that has been of only limited use in examining the history of the site. In 1948, George C. Miles published very summary descriptions of 2,047 Islamic coins, with little commentary, few inscriptions, and no information on measurements and weights, nor any indication of contexts; hundreds of the coins were left unidentified or assigned grossly to dynasty or century (Miles 1948). Four years later, Dorothy Waagé (1952), who had accompanied her archaeologist husband Frederick on the excavation as assistant recorder, published a catalogue describing 14,486 classical, Byzantine, and Crusader coins from the excavation. This catalogue was more complete than that of Miles, with full reporting of types and legends, and ranges for weights and die axes. In many respects it stands as a

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significant scholarly achievement, with extended commentaries on many series that had barely if ever appeared in the numismatic literature. Nevertheless, Lassus expressed his dismay that she had published these coins as if they constituted a numismatic collection, with no references to the place of discovery or correspondence to inventory numbers (Lassus 1972:7). The coins themselves (with the exception of several dozen of fine metal or unusual significance which were sent back to Antakaya) reside in the Princeton University Numismatic Collection with full information associated with each on find context as well as attribution. They are progressively being catalogued and digitized in an online database (http://www.princeton.edu/~rbsc/department/numismatics/browse%20search.html), and have served as the basis for new insights into the historical development of the site of Antioch (http://antioch.princeton.edu). To most archaeologists, coin finds are of value mainly as chronological indices of the structures and artifacts associated with the context of their discovery. The re-evaluation of the Antioch coins has provided an example of the potential of these for the overall reassessment of the excavations. The Villa of the Green Carpet in Daphne received its name from a mosaic (Fig. 9.1) found in the 1937 excavation, which has been tread upon by anyone walking from the Byzantine Collection into the Pre-Columbian wing of Dumbarton Oaks in Washington. The mosaic was dated by Levi to the fifth century, mainly on the basis of the lack of later ceramics in the context (Antioch-on-the-Orontes 1941:203, 159; Levi 1947:315; Richter 1956:62, #55; Handbook 1967:103). Underneath this elaborate mosaic was found another one, known as the Geometric Mosaic (current location unknown). Under the lower mosaic were ten bronze coins in what Waagé termed on the coin envelopes and object cards a ‘sealed deposit.’ The nine coins she identified in the field (Ca2504–2711; Ca2013) range in terminus post quem from 316 to 364 CE, making a fifth century date for the overlying mosaic reasonable. However, one of the coins (Ca2012) was small and worn, and was included by Waagé among the thousands of envelopes marked ‘illegible.’ Advances in the literature on Late Roman bronze coins, as well as hours of patient examination, have allowed that coin to be identified as a minumus of Zeno’s second reign, minted in Antioch between 476 and 491.2 The fifth century date for the Green Carpet is thus rendered extremely unlikely, as at least some time would have to be allowed for the period between the installation of the Geometry Mosaic and its superposition by the Green Carpet. The

9.1.  The Green Carpet Mosaic in situ (Photograph courtesy of the Antioch Expedition Archives, Department of Art and Archaeology, Princeton University).

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superimposition of the Green Carpet mosaic over the Geometric one is probably then to be associated with a rebuilding of the villa after the great earthquake of 526 (Downey 1961:521–26) A re-examination of the coins of the seventh century, the age of the transition from late Antiquity to Islam, is beginning to shed light on the history of Antioch during the transformation. A distinctive series of large bronzes, bearing the names of emperors from Justin II (568–578) through the joint reign of Heraclius and Heraclius Constantine (613–615) has been recently identified by Henri Pottier (2004) as a closely die-linked series of imitations, which he posits as produced during the Sassanian occupation of Syria, 610 to 630. He has rejected the likely attribution of the mint of such pieces to Antioch, which is reported in literary sources as having been captured by the Sassanians in 611 and occupied until 628 (Downey 1961:575), mainly for the reason that no examples of this extensive coinage (for which he identifies 98 distinct reverse dies) were found in the Antioch excavations (Pottier 2004:98). A re-examination of the coins held at Princeton has, however, turned up one example of his imitative series (Cb2208, found in sector 14-R in 1938, corresponding to Pottier obverse IV 7, reverse 41). Nevertheless, the existence of only one such example among the hundreds of genuine coins of these types found in the excavations does support his inference that Antioch was not the Sassanian mint and suggests that the city might not have been as effectively occupied as the documentary sources suggest.3 The greatest potential contribution of the re-examination of the Antioch excavation coins is to the understanding of the chronology and geography of activity at the site. A simple compilation of the number of coins minted in various reigns, derived from the catalogues of Waagé and Miles, presents a number of problems of interpretation for the history of the site use (Fig. 9.2). A straightforward comparison of numbers of coins found in each half century would suggest that the first centuries BCE and CE were of significantly lower coin use (or at least coin loss) than the fourth and fifth centuries. While the period of Late Antiquity is certainly well represented in the literary record as one of great activity, there is no historical reason to believe that the site was any less monetarily vibrant in the late Republic and Early Empire. The most reasonable explanation for this apparent disparity derives from an understanding of the monetary circulation of the two periods and the observable pattern of single finds of coins in archaeological contexts. The first centuries BCE and CE were charac-



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9.2.  Antioch coin finds, 1932–1939, by half century and by place of minting, from Miles 1948 and D. Waagé 1952, N=13,533.

terized by a robust circulation of silver denarii and local silver denominations throughout the Roman world; the fourth and fifth centuries saw almost no silver in circulation, so most retail transactions would have been carried out with copper-alloy coins. It is one of the general phenomena of archaeological numismatics that bronze coins far outnumber precious metal ones in single finds; only a handful of silver coins were found in the Princeton excavations, compared to tens of thousands of bronze ones, and most of these were plated counterfeits (D. Waagé 1952:vii). The apparent gap in coin finds in the earlier centuries is, thus, more likely to be an index of the kind of monetary activity and circulation in Antioch than of the quantity of it. The proportion of coins minted locally in Antioch to the total of those found as displayed in Figure 9.2 is probably indicative of historical phenomena: in the Hellenistic period, when Antioch was the capital of the Seleucid rulers, its coinage dominated local circulation (at least on the level of the type of small bronze coins found in excavation), as did the distinctive ‘municipal’ issues of the early Roman period. Though the mint of Antioch remained important in the third and fourth centuries, the lower proportion of locally minted coins in the excavation is probably indicative of a greater integration of Antioch into the circulation of the Empire. By the

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late fifth and sixth centuries, however, the proportion of local issues rises again, suggesting a move back in the direction of monetary self-sufficiency. The mint of Antioch closed at the beginning of the seventh century, and coinage was produced there again only in the Crusader period; all of the rest of the circulation at the site comprises coins issued elsewhere, mainly in Syria in periods of Muslim rule, and in Constantinople during the period of Byzantine re-occupation. The representation of finds after 600 CE is also affected by considerations exterior to the monetary activity of the site. Waagé’s catalogue contains only genuine Byzantine issues, up to around 600, and then skips to the period of the tenth-century re-capture of the town by Byzantium and the subsequent Crusader issues of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Miles, who was writing at a period of limited knowledge of Islamic coinage and at the beginning of a career in which he himself would bring the field up to the level of sophistication of classical numismatics, left many of the Islamic coins found at Antioch completely unidentified or grouped into large classes dated to periods of multiple centuries. For the pilot project of the comprehensive re-examination of sector 17-O, all of the coins were re-cataloged, the most important aspect being the attribution of the Islamic coins found in the sector by Stefan Heidemann of the University of Hamburg, which allows a much more accurate appraisal of the chronology of coin loss in that sector than for the site as a whole. Sector 17-O appears archaeologically to have been in continuous, or at least intermittent, use from early antiquity into the Middle Ages, with structures identified as characteristic of an administrative center in the classical period, a market place in late antiquity, and a site of ceramic production in the Islamic and Crusader periods; there is no construction datable to after the twelfth century (Eger 2013:117–18).4 The profile of coin finds from 17-O has some significant differences from that derived from published catalogues for the site as a whole (Fig. 9.3). The predominance of late antique coins over those of the preceding era is evident only for the period 350–400. Especially notable is the strong presence of coins from the sixth through the mid-eighth century, no doubt a result of the complete and careful attribution of the Islamic coinage. If this is borne out as the rest of the Islamic coins from the site are studied, it would suggest a continuity and even resurgence of monetary activity in Antioch in the early Islamic period, despite the lack of minting in the city.



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9.3.  Antioch coin finds from sector 17-O by half century, N=431.

The progressive cataloguing of the Antioch excavation coins into a relational database has allowed the beginning of the mapping of coin finds by geographical distribution. The distribution of coins from the early Seleucid era, those catalogued so far mainly being of the reigns of Seleucus I through Selecucus II (300–223 BCE), shows virtually no finds sectors L-10–11, M-10, and N-7–10, which were among the first areas excavated in search of what was thought on the basis of literary documentation to have been the center of a Hellenistic palace complex.5 The finds from this area (Fig. 9.4) were mainly baths and a hippodrome, with most of the datable material from Roman or later periods (Antioch-on-the-Orontes 1934:1–41; Antioch-on-theOrontes 1938:1). Among the 2,990 coins found in the 1932 season of excavation, only 12 were Seleucid, and these were all later than 162 BCE. The earliest Seleucid coins found in the city of Antioch itself cluster mainly along the street running southwest-northeast, which apparently followed the road from Laodicea on the coast to the upper Orontes and eventually to Beroea (later Aleppo) (Downey 1961: plate 11); this road would eventually become the porticoed Main Street of classical Antioch, described in literary sources as running East to West. There are also significant finds of early Seleucid coins from the excavations of the port of Seleucia Pieria (modern Samandag)

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9.4.  Distribution of Seleucid coins, 300–223 BCE, N=201.



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and the suburb of Daphne (modern Harbie), indicating activity at these two sites contemporary with the beginnings of Hellenistic Antioch. The concentrations along the Main Street and in Seleucia and Daphne to some extent represent the main sites of the Princeton excavations, but an examination of the distributions of later issues will show contrasts with these patterns. Throughout most of the first century BCE and the first three centuries CE, the mint of Antioch produced dated bronze coinages known identifying the Metropolis of the Antiochenes, referred to as the ‘Municipal Coinage,’ alongside issues in the names of kings, emperors, and the Senate (D. Waagé 1952:24–69). The distribution of finds of these coins bearing dates corresponding to 99 to 23 BCE (Fig. 9.5) is even more focused on the Main Street corridor than that of the earlier period; finds from Seleucia and Daphne are relatively less plentiful. Though Antioch was brought within the Roman sphere in 64 BCE in the course of Pompey’s campaigns against the Parthian Empire of Persia, the coinage, minted locally and identifying Roman rulers, began with those in the name of Augustus, three decades later. The distribution of Antioch coin finds of the first century of the Roman Empire (virtually all of which are local issues with Greek legends) (Fig. 9.6), while still clustering predominately along the Main Street, shows a broader distribution than that of earlier issues, with significant numbers found at 15-M (the House of Aion: Antioch-on-the-Orontes 1941:11–12) and 10-N (the Bath B and Roman Villa: Antioch-on-the-Orontes 1934:8–19), most of the construction of which was datable to the Roman imperial period. Finds from Seleucia are scarcer than in earlier distributions, while those from Daphne are focused in a central area. Coin finds from the late Roman period, the age of Constantine (310– 337), show more divergence from the Main Street axis (Fig. 9.7), with continued finds from the House of Aion sector and, especially, plentiful finds from the northern area, especially the site of the Hippodrome (7-N, 7-O, 8-N, 9-N, 10-N). Though this structure is believed to have been built in the first century BCE, the presence of so many Constantinian coins is probably to be connected with extensive repairs and reconstructions in the fourth century CE (Antioch-on-the-Orontes 1934:40). There are signs of activity in sectors within and south of the twentieth-century city and continued strong representation at Daphne; no finds of coins of the era are from Seleucia. The finds of coins of the early Byzantine era (491–522 CE) are on the whole much heavier (about 250 coins per decade) than for any of the pe-

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9.5.  Distribution of municipal coins, 99 BCE–23 BCE, N=123.



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9.6.  Distribution of Julio-Claudian coins, 30 BCE–69 CE, N=227.

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9.7.  Distribution of Constantinian coins, 310–336 CE, N=261.

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riods in the earlier maps, and show a greater geographical distributions (Fig. 9.8). The finds from the region along Main Street tend to be spread further from the street itself, and there are finds from west of the Orontes, as well as within and to the south of the twentieth-century city. Activity in Seleucia remains sparse, but there are still significant finds from Daphne. Not enough coin finds from the Islamic period of the seventh and through ninth centuries have been definitively attributed and entered into the database to allow their mapping. Antioch was re-united with the Byzantine Empire in the late tenth and early eleventh centuries, and though the coins from that period are mainly folles larger in size than is usual for stray loss and subsequent excavation, a significant number were found at Antioch (Fig. 9.9). Their distribution centers tightly on the Main Street area, extending to the southwest into the twentieth-century town more than that of previous eras; they are absent from Seleucia and Daphne. Antioch was the capital of a Crusader principality in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Though the billon denier and silver gros coinages continued until the fall of the principality to the Mamluks in 1268, only the bronze ones of the first two decades of Crusader rule, which continued the tradition of the Byzantine folles, have been mapped to date (Fig. 9.10). Their distribution shows a continuity and intensification of the concentration of coin finds along the Main Street corridor and, for the first time, heavier concentrations within the medieval and modern city than beyond it. Seventy-five years after the Princeton-led excavations of Antioch were abandoned, the re-examination of the finds and records on deposit in Princeton are beginning to add to an understanding of the history of occupation, construction, use, and abandonment of parts of the site. The coinage is significant not only as a chronological signpost for the reconstruction of stratigraphy and building phases, but in its own right as an index of comparative monetary activity across time and space. As the process of analysis and publication of the Antioch material continues, it may offer insights not only to the specific history of one of the most important settlements of the classical and medieval world, but also into the promise and process of the re-excavation of the results of earlier archaeological investigation. NOTES 9.1 It was from Bernard Wailes, in the context of a graduate seminar at the University of Pennsylvania on the archaeological sources for the transition from antiquity to the

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9.8.  Distribution of early Byzantine coins, 491–522 CE, N=750.



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9.9.  Distribution of middle Byzantine coins, 970–1030 CE, N=282.

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9.10.  Distribution of Crusader period coins, 1101–1120 CE, N=77.

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Middle Ages, that I first learned of the problematic nature of the results of the Antioch excavations. It was Bernard, as well, who first encouraged me to undertake training in numismatics as part of an interdisciplinary approach to the study of medieval history and material culture. For an introduction to the role of numismatic analysis in the British New Archaeology that Bernard imparted to his students, see the studies in Reece and Casey (1974, 1988) and Casey (1986). For more recent approaches to the same questions, see Walton (2012). 9.2 Two additional coins had been found in context with these mosaics two weeks earlier: Ca634, a fragmentary bronze tentatively attributed to Justin I or Justinian I (i.e., ca. 518–565) described as found under the Geometric mosaic pavement; and Ca825, a bronze of Zeno’s second reign, described on the envelope as above the Geometric mosaic. 9.3 In a similar way, the total absence from the site finds of the well-known bronze coinage of the Armenian king Tigranes I as Seleucid emperor in the first century BCE, which features the reverse image of a personified Antioch with the Orontes at her feet, calls into question the effectiveness of his use of the city as a capital and mint. 9.4 This sector was also the site of the discovery of a stone cuneiform building inscription tentatively datable to the reign of Nebuchadnezzer II (ca. 605–562 BCE), suggesting possible activity before the documented foundation of the city of Antioch in the early third century BCE; I am grateful to Jacob Lauinger of Johns Hopkins University for this identification. 9.5 The base map of the Antioch excavations is derived from that published in Lassus (1972: 1, plan 1); the shaded area represents the area of the city in 1932. The mapping of Seleucia and Daphne-Harbie is abstracted from the coordinates of the sectors in those areas used for the recording of finds. Coin finds represented as shaded squares outside of these areas are from excavations beyond these grids, located to show the approximate direction of those sites. For this and the following six figures, the transparency of the shading is an index of the relative representation of coins found in a given sector to the total number of such coins from the entire excavations. So, a sector colored in with 20% shading will be in the second decile of the representation of the coins in question, while one with 80% shading will be in the eighth decile. Sectors with no shading have no finds of the given coinage or were not excavated.

REFERENCES Antioch-on-the-Orontes. 1934. vol. 1 The Excavations of 1932, ed. by G.W. Elderkin. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

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Antioch-on-the-Orontes. 1938. vol. 2 The Excavations 1933–1936, ed. by R. Stillwell. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Antioch-on-the-Orontes. 1941. vol. 3 The Excavations 1937–1939, ed. by R. Stillwell. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Casey, P.J. 1986. Understanding Ancient Coins: An Introduction for Archaeologists and Historians. London: Batsford. Downey, G. 1961. A History of Antioch in Syria from Seleucus to the Arab Conquest. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Eger, A.A. 2013. (Re) Mapping Medieval Antioch: Urban Transformations from the Early Islamic to the Middle Byzantine Periods. Dumbarton Oaks Papers 67:95–134. Handbook of the Byzantine Collection. 1967. Washington DC: Dumbarton Oaks. Kondoleon, C. 2000. The City of Antioch: An Introduction. In Antioch: The Lost Ancient City, ed. C. Kondoleon, pp. 3–11. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Lassus, J. 1972. Les portiques d’Antioche. vol. 5 of Antioch-on-the-Orontes. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Le Glay, M. 1991. Jean Lassus (1903–1990). Antiquités Africaines 27:7–9. Levi, D. 1947. Antioch Mosaics. 2 vols. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Miles, G.C. 1948. Islamic Coins. In Antioch-on-the-Orontes, vol. 4, part 1, pp. 109–24. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Morey, C.R. 1938. The Mosaics of Antioch. London, New York and Toronto: Longmans, Green & Co. Pottier, H. 2004. Le Monnayage de la Syrie sous l’occupation perse (610–630). Cahiers Ernest Babelon 9. Paris: CNRS. Reece, R., and P.J. Casey, eds. 1974. Coins and the Archaeologist. British Archeological Reports 4. London: Institute of Archaeology. ———. 1988. Coins and the Archaeologist. 2nd ed. London: Seaby. Richter, G.M.A. 1956. Catalogue of Greek and Roman Antiquities in the Dumbarton Oaks Collection. Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press. Waagé, D.B. 1952. Greek, Roman, Byzantine and Crusaders’ Coins. vol. 4, part 2 of Antioch-on-the-Orontes. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Waagé, F.O. 1948. Hellenistic and Roman Tableware of North Syria. In Antioch-on-theOrontes. vol. 4, part 1, pp. 1–60. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Walton, P.J. 2012. Rethinking Roman Britain: Coinage and Archaeology. Collection Moneta 137. Wetteren: Moneta. Weber, S.H. 1934. The Coins. In Antioch-on-the-Orontes, vol. 1 The Excavations of 1932, ed. by G.W. Elderkin, pp. 76–81.

10 State Formation in Anglo-Saxon England pam j. crabtree

INTRODUCTION

I

am delighted to contribute to a volume that honors the memory of my mentor, Professor Bernard Wailes, and his contributions to anthropological archaeology. Two things in particular stand out about Bernard’s scholarship and teaching. The first was his commitment to addressing the big picture questions of human social evolution. Following the model of V. Gordon Childe (1936, 1958), Bernard was interested in such issues as the origins of agriculture and animal domestication and the rise of complex urban societies in both the Eastern and Western Hemispheres. In addition, Bernard was an advocate for later European prehistory and medieval archaeology. He argued that these disciplines, with their long histories of research and rich accumulations of data, had an important role to play in the comparative studies of cultural evolution.

PRESTIGE GOODS MODELS In this chapter, I would like to address the issue of the beginnings of state formation in early to middle Anglo-Saxon England, roughly between 450 and 900 CE. My interest in this question grows out of an attempt to understand the re-birth of towns in the post-Roman West. In England and elsewhere in Northwest Europe, particular attention has been paid to the emporia, a series of trading towns established along and around the North Sea in the 8th and 9th centuries CE. Hodges’ (1982) seminal work, Dark

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Age Economics, suggested that there was a close relationship between the rise of kingship in England and the foundation of these emporia (see also Hodges 2012). In particular, Hodges suggested that the establishment and growth of the emporia was associated with the Anglo-Saxon kings’ desires to control trade in high-status goods with the European Continent. Today, this model would be considered a prestige goods model (cf. Frankenstein and Rowlands 1978). In the more than 30 years since Dark Age Economics was first published, a number of concerns have been raised about this top-down model for state formation and urban origins in Anglo-Saxon England. First, excavations at Hamwic (Saxon Southampton) and Ipswich showed that the emporia were not just engaged in trade in high status goods. A number of craft activities were carried out at these sites, including bone-, antler-, and horn-working, as well as textile and pottery production (Holdsworth 1980; Morton 1992; Andrews 1997). At Ipswich, in particular, Ipswich-ware pottery, which was turned on a slow wheel and kiln-fired, was produced on an industrial scale (Blinkhorn 2012). Ipswich ware was distributed throughout East Anglia and to important ecclesiastical and secular sites throughout eastern England. These data suggest that the emporia may also have played an important role in regional as well as international trade. In addition, re-dating of Ipswich ware indicates that the emporium of Ipswich did not develop until the beginning of the 8th century, at about the same time as the foundation of the “wic” at Hamwic (see Blinkhorn [1999] for the re-dating of Ipswich ware). However, recent archaeological work within Ipswich has revealed a 7th-century, pre-urban occupation (Scull 2009). Similar data are available from Hamwic, suggesting a 7th-century founding and rapid expansion around 700 CE (Stoodley 2002; Jervis 2011:243). Surveys conducted on both sides of the North Sea suggest that small trading sites began to develop as early as 600 CE (Loveluck and Tys 2006). In addition, finds of coins and other non-ferrous metal objects have allowed scholars to identify a series of “productive sites,” many associated with ecclesiastical foundations, where trade and exchange were carried out, probably through markets and fairs during the middle Anglo-Saxon period (Ulmschneider 2000; Pestell and Ulmschneider 2003). As a result, most contemporary scholars would see the emporia as stations where taxes and tolls could be collected and where trade could be concentrated and controlled (Cowie and Blackmore 2008:158). They served as sources of revenue for



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the emerging Anglo-Saxon royal houses, and the ability to waive tolls was a source of royal power. In short, the archaeological data do not support the prestige goods model proposed by Hodges, and the relationship between urban origins and state formation is probably more complex and multifactorial than Hodges’s model suggests. Control over tolls and trade was just one of a number of ways in which Anglo-Saxon kings exercised their power.

THE ORIGINS OF STATE FORMATION IN ANGLO-SAXON ENGLAND I argue that the social, political, and economic changes that led to the emergence of the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms have their roots in the later 6th and 7th centuries, well before the establishment of the emporia. I further suggest that this process shows some interesting similarities to the process of state formation in Hawai‘i as recently outlined by Patrick Kirch (2010, 2012). This comparison seems particularly appropriate here since the 2013 meeting of the Society for American Archaeology took place in Honolulu, where many of the papers in this volume were initially presented. In both cases, we have access to a combination of historical information that can provide insight into agency and a rich archaeological database that can reveal long-term changes in economy and social organization. One of the main differences between the two cases is that Hawai‘i represents a classic example of primary state formation, while Anglo-Saxon England is often dismissed as an example of secondary state formation. I would suggest that this is, in reality, a distinction without a difference. In both cases, we see “complexity, hierarchy, economic specialization, [and] state religion” emerge from simpler social formations (Kirch 2012:288). Most of the anthropological discussion of state formation has focused on a small number of cases—usually Mesopotamia, Egypt, the Indus and China in the Eastern Hemisphere and Mesoamerica and Highland South America in the Western Hemisphere (e.g., Childe 1936; Service 1975). The Hawaiian data present a new and well-documented case study of state formation based on recent archaeological research. This study focuses on the initial phases of state formation, recognizing that state formation in England was a long-term process that was not concluded until several centuries later (see Mathieu 2013, 2001). The Hawaiian case is an appropriate comparandum since, at the time of European contact, Hawai‘i was not politically unified either,

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and it was not until the early 19th century that Kamehameha I unified the Hawaiian Islands into a single polity. I will briefly lay out the archaeological evidence for increasing economic specialization, social complexity, and political centralization in Anglo-Saxon England, then compare my data to the archaeological and historical evidence for pre-contact Hawai‘i. Historical sources indicate that the Roman army was withdrawn from Britain in 407 CE, never to return. By 410 CE, the Roman Emperor Honorius told the Britons to see to their own defenses. Archaeological evidence tells us that most Roman towns and cities, with the notable exception of Wroxeter (White and Barker 1998), lost their urban character in the early part of the 5th century and that Roman villas, which had supplied the cities and the army, went out of use as well. In addition, no new Roman coinage appeared in Britain, and major industries, such as the pottery industry, ceased production in the early 5th century (Esmonde Cleary 1989, 2011). Historical and archaeological data also indicate that the Anglo-Saxons initially appeared in Britain in the first half of the 5th century, although the size and the nature of the Adventus Saxonum remains a matter of debate. While contemporary historical sources for the 5th and 6th century are limited to the writings of Gildas, a Welsh cleric writing in Latin in the 6th century, archaeological excavations conducted since the 1960s can give us a picture of early Anglo-Saxon social and economic organization. Excavations of settlement sites, including West Stow in Suffolk (West 1985), Mucking in Essex (Hamerow 1993), and West Heslerton in Yorkshire (Powlesland et al. 1986; Powlesland 1999, 2000), show that Anglo-Saxons lived in small and relatively undifferentiated settlements in the 5th and 6th centuries. Most settlements include small, earth-fast buildings (the so-called “halls”) that were surrounded by a number of sunken-featured buildings or grubenhäuser that may have served as out-buildings (Fig. 10.1). Farming settlements were based on agriculture and animal husbandry. Multi-proxy faunal data indicate that the early Anglo-Saxon farm economies were geared toward autarky or economic self-sufficiency, with little evidence for specialization or surplus production (Crabtree 1990, 2010). Early Anglo-Saxon society was by no means egalitarian, and variations in the quantity and quality of grave goods included in burials would certainly indicate a substantial degree of social differentiation. However, many individuals in eastern England appear to have been buried in large folk cemeteries such as the Spong Hill Cemetery in Norfolk (Hills and Lucy 2013).



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10.1.  Reconstruction of a sunken-featured building at the West Stow County Park.

Data on political organization for the 5th and 6th centuries are limited. However, indirect evidence suggests that Britain was divided into a series of relatively small polities. For example, Green (2012) has argued that a small British polity developed in Lincoln and the surrounding areas in the 5th century. This polity fell into Anglo-Saxon hands by the 7th century. A 7th-century document known as the Tribal Hidage appears to be an assessment for the collection of tribute, probably by King Wulfhere (658–675) of Mercia. Thirty-five polities are listed in the document, and their approximate locations have been mapped by Yorke (1990: fig. 1). The document includes a large number of small polities, both British and Saxon, as well as a smaller number of large polities, including Wessex and East Anglia, that would play increasingly important roles in the politics of the Middle Saxon period. Yorke (1990:13) has suggested that after the withdrawal of Roman military power southern and eastern Britain may have lost its political cohesion and fragmented into a series of small, autonomous political units. A few larger kingdoms began to emerge by the end of the 6th century, and these changes are associated with other social, political, and economic transformations that took place between the late 6th and early 8th centuries.

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The most obvious changes from an archaeological perspective are those involving burial. As Chris Arnold (1984:280) noted 30 years ago, in the 6th century and earlier, the richest pagan Saxon graves are found in communal cemeteries. By the 7th century, the richest graves contain even greater wealth and are often found isolated from the rest of the population. The most famous of these is the early 7th-century ship burial from Sutton Hoo Mound 1 (Bruce-Mitford 1975, 1978, 1983; Carver 1998, 2005) (Fig. 10.2). Others include the recently discovered early 7th-century tomb from Prittlewell in Essex (I. Blair et al. 2004) and the 7th-century barrow burial from Taplow in Buckinghamshire. This burial was badly excavated in the 19th century, but modern conservation methods have allowed this burial to be re-analyzed. It may be the burial of a Kentish sub-king in the Thames Valley (Webster 2001). Settlement data from the late 6th and 7th centuries also point to the emergence of a new class of elites who were both socially and spatially separate from the rest of Anglo-Saxon society. For example, the buildings discovered at the site of Cowdery’s Down in Hampshire are some of the longest and widest houses known from Anglo-Saxon England. They are also

10.2.  Mound 1 Sutton Hoo as it appears today.



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distinguished by the possible presence of cruck architecture and would have required skilled carpenters for their construction (Millet and James 1983). At the top of the settlement hierarchy is the 7th-century site of Yeavering, which included a large hall and a grandstand-like structure focused on a throne (Hope-Taylor 1977; see also Frodsham and O’Brien 2005). Large, wealthy estate centers also appear for the first time in the 7th and 8th centuries. Some of these centers, such as Wicken Bonhunt in Essex, are clearly secular in nature (Wade 1980). Others, including Flixborough in Lincolnshire and Brandon in Suffolk, appear to have been monastic, at least for a portion of their existence (Loveluck 2007; Tester et al. 2014). Some of the earliest surviving Anglo-Saxon documents are charters which record grants of landed estates by the Anglo-Saxon kings. The earliest charters, dating to about 670, grant estates to the church, but 8th-century charters also record grants to lay people. These early grants reflect the close relationship between the early Anglo-Saxon kings and the Church (see J. Blair 2005). Using the early Irish historical sources, Wailes (1995) argued that Irish early medieval society (5th–9th century CE) was heterarchical, with separate hierarchies for secular land owners, the clergy, and “men of art” or craft specialists based on their honor prices (see also Johnston, this volume). Although the historical evidence for early Anglo-Saxon England is less extensive, it is probably appropriate to see the relationship between the church hierarchy and the emerging Anglo-Saxon kings as heterarchical as well. The late 7thcentury laws of King Ine of Wessex show that the same compensation was to be paid for a king as for a bishop. Barbara Yorke’s (1993) historical analyses suggest that the royal genealogies that are preserved in later historical sources such as the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle may in fact be early 7th century constructions. She suggests that they were created at a time when the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms, collectively known as the Heptarchy, were emerging from a patchwork of earlier Anglo-Saxon polities. Economic data also point to increasing intensification and specialization, probably beginning as early as the late 6th or 7th centuries (Crabtree 2012, 2014). At the most basic level, butchery techniques such as regular splitting of the long bones for marrow extraction suggest that animal products were being used more intensively. Zooarchaeological data also suggest that animal husbandry was increasingly focused on specialized commodities such as large-scale wool and pork production. Historical evidence in-

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dicates that the kings and their court were mobile, moving from estate to estate and eating their way through the kingdom. Furthermore, there is archaeological evidence for the food-rent or feorm in the form of a Middle Saxon collection center at Higham Ferrers in Northamptonshire (Hardy et al. 2007). The role of hunting changes from an activity that was a supplement to agriculture and animal husbandry in the early Anglo-Saxon period to one that was the prerogative of the upper classes by Middle Saxon times (Sykes 2010).

ANGLO-SAXON ENGLAND AND PRE-CONTACT HAWAI‘I Many of the changes that we see in late 6th and 7th century Britain have striking parallels to developments that took place in Hawai‘i before European contact in the late 18th century (Kirch 2012). As in Britain, there is evidence from Hawai‘i for the increasing separation of the elites (ali‘i) and the commoners (maka‘ainana). In Hawai‘i this also takes the form of genealogies, which were the prerogatives of the chiefs but not the commoners. The Hawaiian chiefs also ate their way through their kingdoms, as the saying that “the shark going inland is my chief ” implies (Kirch 2012:217–30). In addition, the Hawaiian case provides ample evidence for agricultural intensification, including both irrigated taro fields on Kaua‘i, O‘ahu, and parts of west Maui (Fig. 10.3) and intensive, dry-land cultivation on the Big Island and in the Kaupo region of east Maui (Fig. 10.4). The Hawaiian historical data also point to nearly constant competition between chiefs, a pattern that is echoed in the historical documents from 7th and 8th century England. Hawaiian religion also played a role in reinforcing the power and authority of the chiefs. Major temples (heiau) were located next to chiefly residences. A well-known example is the Pi‘ilanihale heiau (Fig. 10.5), located in East Maui, which is the largest heiau in the Hawaiian Islands. Built of basalt stones, it rises to a height of 15 m from a base that is 104 by 126 m. A final characteristic that played a role in Hawaiian state formation was environmental circumscription, a feature that was first highlighted by Carneiro (1970) over 40 years ago. The Hawaiian Islands were initially settled at the end of the first millennium CE, and they rapidly filled up with farmers. Agricultural intensification, including intensive wet-land and dry-land taro cultivation, increased yields leading both to population increases and to the agricultural surplus that supported the economic and political power of the



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10.3.  Harvesting taro at a reconstructed wet-land taro field in the Iao Valley, West Maui.

10.4.  Remains of dry-land field systems in Kaupo, East Maui.

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emerging chiefs. However, by the 16th century CE, all the lands available from dry-land farming on the Big Island and East Maui had been brought under cultivation (Kirch 2012:213). When the limits of agricultural intensification had been reached, the chiefs of Maui and Hawai‘i adopted a political strategy of territorial expansion. The result was increasingly intensive warfare in the 17th and 18th centuries CE. While some authors have suggested that population growth may have played a role in Anglo-Saxon state formation, I would like to suggest that political rather than environmental circumscription may have played a role. The initial Anglo-Saxon settlements are located in eastern England, and all the 5th and 6th-century Saxon settlements are located in what was the civilian zone in Roman Britain. This region seems to have suffered political and economic collapse with the withdrawal of Roman imperial power. The end of the empire brought the end of Roman taxation and the need for economic systems to support the Roman cities and the permanent installation of the Army along the northern wall. Early Saxon polities could have established themselves within the remnants of the former civilian zone based on far more extensive systems of farming. Competition between these polities

10.5. Pi‘ilanihale Heiau in East Maui.



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and the indigenous British population may have led to increasing demands on local farming populations, leading to intensification. By the 7th century, many of these small polities may have been incorporated into the seven larger kingdoms known as the Heptarchy. Leaders of these smaller polities may have become sub-kings within larger kingdoms like Mercia. However, political expansion outside southern and eastern England may well have been limited by the presence of substantial well-organized Welsh, Scottish, and British polities that had developed by the 7th and 8th centuries, leading to a degree of political circumscription. What results, instead, is the competition among the major polities, including Wessex, East Anglia, Northumbria, and Mercia that characterized the Middle Saxon period. Finds such as the Staffordshire hoard may be an archaeological reflection of the more intensive competition between the emerging Anglo-Saxon kingdoms. The Staffordshire Hoard, discovered by metal detecting in 2009, is one of the most spectacular finds in all of Anglo-Saxon archaeology. It was discovered near Litchfield in modern-day Staffordshire in what was then the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Mercia. The hoard is made up of about 4000 objects, including large quantities of items made of gold, silver, and garnet inlay. The Staffordshire hoard dates to the 7th–8th centuries CE, and most of the material is military in nature. It appears to represent booty captured over several decades as a result of battles with different groups of people. Some of the material is chopped up, possibly to be distributed by a successful war leader to his followers (Current Archaeology 2014). In a recent archaeological study of the early Anglo-Saxon kingdoms of Southern England, Harrington and Welch (2014:209) note that while “the first tranche of British settlement [in southern England] buffered against the British west…there do not appear to be any fixed boundaries.” However, two centuries later, in the 8th century, the large linear system of earthworks known as Offa’s Dyke was constructed quite close to what is still the border between England and Wales (see Hill and Worthington 2003). The situation had clearly changed. In conclusion, there are a number of interesting parallels between the process of state formation in pre-contact Hawai‘i and Anglo-Saxon England. These include agricultural intensification and increasing evidence for separation between the elites and the commoners. The intensive warfare seen in pre-context Hawai‘i is also paralleled by the kinds of conflicts that are seen in later Early and Middle Saxon England. In England, however,

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there is no evidence for the kind of environmental circumscription seen in Hawai‘i. Political circumscription may have played a more important role in Anglo-Saxon state formation.

REFERENCES Andrews, P., ed. 1997. Excavations at Hamwic, Volume 2. London: Council for British Archaeology. Arnold, C. 1984. Roman Britain to Anglo-Saxon England. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Blair, I., E. Barham, and L. Blackmore. 2004. My Lord Essex. British Archaeology 76:10– 17. Blair, J. 2005. The Church in Anglo-Saxon Society. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Blinkhorn, P.W. 1999. Of Cabbages and Kings: Production, Trade and Consumption in Middle Saxon England. In Anglo-Saxon Trading Centres and Their Hinterlands: Beyond the Emporia, ed. M. Anderton, pp. 4–23. Glasgow: Cruithne Press. ———. 2012. The Ipswich Ware Project: Ceramics, Trade and Society in Middle Saxon England. Medieval Pottery Research Group, Occasional Paper No. 7. Bruce-Mitford, R. 1975. Sutton Hoo Ship Burial, Volume 1. London: British Museum Press. ———. 1978. Sutton Hoo Ship Burial, Volume 2. London: British Museum Press. ———. 1983. Sutton Hoo Ship Burial, Volume 3. London: British Museum Press. Carneiro, R. 1970. A Theory of the Origin of the State. Science 169:733–38. Carver, M.O.H. 1998. Sutton Hoo: Burial Ground of Kings? Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. ———. 2005. Sutton Hoo: A Seventh-Century Princely Burial Ground and Its Context. Report of the Research Committee of the Society of Antiquaries of London, 69. London: British Museum Press. Childe, V.G. 1936. Man Makes Himself. London: Watts. ———. 1958. The Prehistory of European Society. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Cowie, R., and L. Blackmore. 2008. Early and Middle Saxon Rural Settlement in the London Region. London: Museum of London Archaeology Service Monograph 41. Crabtree, P.J. 1990. West Stow: Early Anglo-Saxon Animal Husbandry. East Anglian Archaeology, 47. Ipswich: Suffolk county Planning Department. ———. 2010. Agricultural Innovation and Socio-economic Change in Early Medieval Europe: Evidence from Britain and France. World Archaeology 42:122–36.



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———. 2012. Middle Anglo-Saxon Animal Husbandry in East Anglia. East Anglian Archaeology, 143. Bury St. Edmunds: Suffolk County Council Archaeological Service. ———. 2014. Animal Husbandry and Farming in East Anglia from the 5th to the 10th Centuries CE. Quaternary International 346:102–8. Current Archaeology. 2014. Rethinking the Staffordshire Hoard—Piecing Together the Wealth of Anglo-Saxon Kings. Current Archaeology 290 (31 March 2014). http://www.archaeology.co.uk/articles/features/rethinking-the-staffordshirehoard-piecing-together-the-wealth-of-anglo-saxon-kings.htm. Esmonde Cleary, A.S. 1989. The Ending of Roman Britain. London: Batsford. ———. 2011. The Endings(s) of Roman Britain. In The Oxford Handbook of AngloSaxon Archaeology, ed. H. Hamerow, D.A. Hinton, and S. Crawford, pp. 13–29. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Frankenstein, S. and Rowlands, M. 1978. The Internal Structures and Regional Context of Early Iron Age Society in South-western Germany. Bulletin of the Institute for Archaeology 15:73–112. Frodsham, P., and O’Brien, C., eds. 2005. Yeavering: People, Power & Place. Stroud: Tempus Publishing. Green, T. 2012. Britons and Anglo-Saxons AD 400–650. Lincoln: The History of Lincoln Committee. Hamerow, H. 1993. Excavations at Mucking: Volume 2, The Anglo-Saxon Settlement. London: English Heritage Archaeological Report 21. Hardy, A., B.M. Charles, and R.J. Williams. 2007. Death and Taxes: The Archaeology of a Middle Saxon Estate Centre at Higham Ferrers, Northhamptonshire. Oxford: Oxbow. Harrington, S., and M. Welch. 2014. The Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms of Southern Britain AD 450–650: Beneath the Tribal Hidage. Oxford: Oxbow. Hill, D., and M. Worthington. 2003. Offa’s Dyke: History and Guide. Stroud: Tempus Publishing. Hills, C., and S. Lucy. 2013. Spong Hill Part IX: Chronology and Synthesis. Cambridge: McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research. Hodges, R. 1982. Dark Age Economics: Origins of towns and trade, AD600–1000. London: Duckworth. ———. 2012. Dark Age Economics: A New Audit. London: Duckworth. Holdsworth, P. 1980. Excavations at Melbourne Street, Southampton, 1971–76. London: Council for British Archaeology Research Report No. 33. Hope-Taylor, B. 1977. Yeavering: An Anglo-British Centre in Early Northumbria. London: HMSO.

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Jervis, B. 2011. A Patchwork of People, Pots and Places: Material Engagements of the Construction of the ‘Social’ in Hamwic (Anglo-Saxon Southampton) UK. Journal of Social Archaeology 11 (3):239–65. Kirch, P.V. 2010. How Chiefs Became Kings: Divine Kingship and the Rise of Archaic States in Ancient Hawai’i. Berkeley: University of California Press. ———. 2012. A Shark Going Inland is My Chief: The Island Civilization of Ancient Hawai’i. Berkeley: University of California Press. Loveluck, C. 2007. Rural Settlement, Lifestyles and Social Change in the Later First Millennium AD: Anglo-Saxon Flixborough in its Wider Context. Excavations at Flixborough, Volume 4. Oxford: Oxbow. Loveluck, C., and D. Tys. 2006. Coastal Societies, Change, and Identity along the Channel and the Southern North Sea Shores of Europe, AD 600–1000. Journal of Maritime Archaeology 1:140–69. Mathieu, J. 2001. Assessing Political Complexity in Medieval England: An Analysis of Royal Buildings and Strategies. Ph.D. diss., University of Pennsylvania, Dept. of Anthropology. Philadelphia. ———. 2013. Exploring Political Landscapes and Complexity One Year at a Time. Paper presented at the 78th annual meeting of the Society for American Archaeology, Honolulu, HI, April 4–7, 2013. Millet, M., and S. James. 1983. Excavations at Cowdery’s Down Basingstoke, Hampshire, 1979–81. Antiquaries Journal 140 (1):151–279. Morton, A., ed. 1992. Excavations at Hamwic, Volume 1. London: Council for British Archaeology. Pestell, T., and K. Ulmschneider. 2003. Markets in Early Medieval Europe: Trading and “Productive” Sites, 650–850. Macclesfield: Windgather Press. Powlesland, D., C.A. Haughton., and J.H. Hanson. 1986. Excavations at Heslerton, North Yorkshire, 1978–1982. Archaeological Journal 143:53–173. Powlesland, D. 1999. The Anglo-Saxon settlement at West Heslerton, North Yorkshire. In Northumbria’s Golden Age, ed. J. Hawkes and S. Mills, pp. 55–65. Stroud: Sutton. ———. 2000. West Heslerton Settlement Mobility: A Case Study in Static Development. In Early Diera: Archaeological Studies of the East Riding in the Fourth to Ninth Centuries AD, ed. H. Geake and J. Kenny, pp. 19–26. Oxford: Oxbow. Scull, C. 2009. Early Medieval (Late 5th-Early 8th Centuries AD) Cemeteries at Boss Hall and Buttermarket, Ipswich, Suffolk. Leeds: Society for Medieval Archaeology Monograph 27. Service, E.R. 1975. Origins of the State and Civilization: The Process of Cultural Evolution. New York: Norton.



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Stoodley, N. 2002. The Origins of Hamwic and Its Central Role in the Seventh Century as Revealed by Recent Archaeological Discoveries. In Central Places in the Migration and Merovingian Periods, ed. B. Hårdh and L. Larsen, pp. 317–31. Stockholm: Alqvist & Wiksell. Sykes, N. 2010. Deer, Land, Knives and Halls: Social Change in Early Medieval England. Antiquaries Journal 90:175–93. Tester, A., S. Anderson, I. Riddler, and R. Carr. 2014. Staunch Meadow, Brandon, Suffolk: A High Status Middle Saxon Settlement on the Fen Edge. East Anglian Archaeology, 151. Bury St. Edmunds: Suffolk County Council Archaeological Service. Ulmschneider, K. 2000. Settlement, Economy and the ‘Productive’ Site: Middle Anglo-Saxon Lincolnshire, AD 650–780. Medieval Archaeology 54:53–77. Wade, K. 1980. A Settlement Site at Bonhunt Farm, Wicken Bonhunt, Essex. In Archaeology in Essex to A.D. 1500, ed. D.G. Buckley, pp. 96–102. Council for British Archaeology, Research Report, No. 34. London: Council for British Archaeology. Wailes, B. 1995. A Case Study of Heterarchy in Complex Societies: Early Medieval Ireland and its Archeological Implications. Archeological Papers of the American Anthropological Association 6:55–69. Webster, L. 2001. The Rise, Fall and Resuscitation of the Taplow Burial. Saxon (the Newsletter of the Sutton Hoo Society) 35: insert. West, S.E. 1985. West Stow: The Anglo-Saxon Village. East Anglian Archaeology, 24. Ipswich: Suffolk County Planning Department. White, R., and B. Barker. 1998. Wroxeter: Life & Death of a Roman City. Stroud: Tempus. Yorke, B. 1990. Kings and Kingdoms in Early Anglo-Saxon England. London: Routledge. ———. 1993. Fact or Fiction? The Written Evidence for the Fifth and Sixth Centuries AD. Anglo-Saxon Studies in Archaeology and History 6:45–50.

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Conclusion: European Archaeology in North America peter bogucki and pam j. crabtree

T

he essays in this volume provide an overview of the contributions of many of Bernard’s students to archaeological thought and practice in Europe. They also reflect the fact that the archaeology of later prehistoric and early historic Europe can make a significant contribution to anthropological archaeology as practiced in North America. As some concluding remarks, we would like to reflect on the standing of the study of European archaeology within the context of American anthropological archaeology.

EUROPEAN ARCHAEOLOGY IN NORTH AMERICA: A BRIEF SOCIAL HISTORY Scholars who study ancient Europe but who live and work in North America have a foot in two worlds. They are part of a European community of archaeologists as well as American academic culture, where their archaeological colleagues work all over the world as well as in North America. In Europe, there is no question that the study of the material remains of the past, whether a medieval monastery or Paleolithic handaxes, is an entirely legitimate and worthwhile pursuit. The discipline of archaeology in Europe is a big tent that includes prehistoric, classical, medieval, postmedieval, and many other regional, temporal, and topical interests. Today, many European archaeologists work in other parts of the world, even in North America, although there is no shortage of sites in their traditional areas of interest in Europe and adjacent parts of the Near East. Archaeol-

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ogy in Europe is considered a distinct discipline with cordial working relationships with scholars in adjacent fields of historical inquiry and in allied scientific disciplines. In North America, however, there is a different perception of ancient Europe and its relationship to other fields of scholarship, particularly with regards to the last 10 millennia after the Ice Age. Paleolithic archaeology, being part of the vast Old World story of human biocultural evolution, is a familiar face of ancient Europe. Neanderthals and cave paintings are standard topics in introductory courses. Old World societies after the Ice Age, however, are widely overlooked, not only in the curriculum but also in the hiring preferences of academic departments. Later European prehistory—known only through archaeology—and the early historical periods— known through a combination of ethnohistory, ancient texts, and archaeology—lie in a liminal zone among the divisions of scholarship on the ancient world found in North American universities, not fully embraced by history, classics, art history, or anthropology. On one hand, later European prehistory and early history are very close to European historical civilizations. In the Mediterranean, they are the direct precursors of Greek and Roman civilizations, while in temperate Europe, the interaction between the barbarian world and literate states is also clear. As many of the papers in this volume have shown, we can trace the continuities in spirit if not in direct tradition from prehistory into historical periods. Yet departments of history decline to include eras from which there are no texts. The interactions between barbarians and the classical world were extensive, but since the peoples of northern Europe did not speak Greek or Latin, they are as remote as the Olmecs to the interests of classicists. Art history has some common interests with archaeology, but these are largely confined to the classical world and the Near East. Barbarians need not apply, despite their abundant artistic achievements. This leaves anthropology, a discipline founded on principles of breadth and cross-cultural comparison. Archaeology has been a core subfield of anthropology since the inception of the discipline at the end of the 19th century. Early on, the results of European excavations routinely appeared in nascent anthropological journals. During the 1920s and 1930s, the American School of Prehistoric Research included Neolithic sites like Homolka in Bohemia in its research program, and the Harvard Anthropological



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Survey to Ireland excavated sites of all periods, from Mesolithic to medieval, alongside its ethnographic investigations in County Clare and anthropometric data collection. James Harvey Gaul’s 1939 Harvard dissertation on the Neolithic in Bulgaria was one of the first monographs on later European prehistory by an American (published posthumously in 1948), followed shortly thereafter by Hallam Movius’ study of the Mesolithic in Ireland (1942). Given the extent to which Americans became familiar with European geography during World War II, and the relatively rapid recovery of European archaeology after the war, one might have expected there to have been a boom in American involvement in European prehistory during the 1950s, particularly in western Europe. This did not occur, aside from the work of Movius and others on Paleolithic sites in France. Instead, American anthropological archaeology and the study of later European prehistory developed along separate lines, as anthropological archaeologists in North America either chose to work in the New World or were drawn to the areas of the Old World outside Europe. Younger Americans at the time were not drawn to Neolithic, Bronze Age, or Iron Age sites in temperate Europe. In hindsight, this seems to have been a lost opportunity, since it established in some quarters that later prehistoric Europe was alien to archaeology as practiced in North American anthropology and that there was little to be learned from the things and practices of ancient Europe. There are exceptions to this general assertion, such as Hugh Hencken and Marija Gimbutas at Harvard and Robert Ehrich at Brooklyn College, but in general the 1950s were a period of virtually no American involvement in later European prehistory. It was during this period that American anthropological archaeology was redefining itself. While Willey and Phillips (1958:2) declared that “archaeology is anthropology or it is nothing,” the emergent processual approach as articulated by Lewis Binford (1962) and others had the paradoxical effect over the long term in estranging archaeology from cultural and social anthropology. Given the turn away from classification and chronology and the prioritizing of interest in hunter-gatherer lifeways, the transition to agriculture, adaptation to changing environments, and the emergence of differences in status, power, and wealth, it might have been expected that the rich archaeological record of Europe would have been a magnet for Americans eager to explore these issues.

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With several notable exceptions, a surge of interest in ancient Europe did not take place in the early 1960s. Young archaeologists at the time gravitated to Mesoamerica, South America, and the Near East, where influential senior scholars had launched long lineages of intellectual children and grandchildren starting right after World War II. New World archaeology was dominated by archaeologists based at several key North American institutions, where there was a considerable degree of mutual support and encouragement for undertaking initiatives in the processual framework. English was the language of professional discourse. By contrast, in Europe outside the British Isles, Americans had to interact with a robust indigenous archaeological community that unwillingly switched to English only when necessary. Unlike Mesoamerica and the Near East until recently, there is no shortage of indigenous archaeologists in Europe. In fact, Europe is saturated with archaeologists. Since university education in Europe is professional education, archaeology graduates expect to work in archaeology, and there are many niches for them to occupy at universities, museums, national antiquities services, regional antiquities inspectorates, and (more recently) private archaeological firms to perform developer-funded archaeology. In the post-war economies of western Europe, most funding came either directly or indirectly from government sources, and it was generally adequate. Intellectually, archaeology in Europe during the mid-20th century was most definitely not anthropological archaeology. Traditional interests in classification and chronology were refined and given methodological rigor, but the agenda of processual archaeology was slow to arrive from North America. Migration and diffusion of cultural traits were seen as the mechanisms for cultural change during the last ten millennia. This intellectual and interpretive framework produced a stereotype in the minds of North American anthropological archaeologists, who envisioned retrograde discussions of topics like “Beaker Folk,” diffusion, and migration that were passé on this side of the Atlantic. From the hindsight of 50 years, we can only imagine the environment that Bernard entered when he came to Penn in the early 1960s, and here we have to give credit and thanks to the senior faculty in the Department of Anthropology at the time, both the other archaeologists and the faculty in other subdisciplines, who had the vision to hire a Europeanist in the first place and Bernard in particular. There had not



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been a prior tradition of European archaeology at Penn as there had been at Harvard and Brooklyn College. What motivated them to choose a Europeanist? Was it an attempt to get expand geographical coverage in Old World archaeology? Was it a desire to complement their strong community of Classical archaeologists? Remember, Penn was already unusual then and remains so today with its coupling of anthropological and Classical archaeology under the roof of the University Museum. Ward Goodenough, who was acting chair of the Anthropology department at Penn in 1959–1961 just before Bernard’s arrival, surely deserves some credit for understanding the importance of later European prehistory (Kopytoff 2006:35). Bernard’s hiring at Penn and the move of Marija Gimbutas to UCLA around the same time created some additional space for European archaeology within American anthropological archaeology in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Both foreign-educated scholars like Ruth Tringham and American-educated archaeologists like Sarunas Milisauskas took up positions at North American institutions. Americans went abroad for graduate study in European archaeology, such as Albert Ammerman at the Institute of Archaeology in London. During this time, it was sometimes easier for American archaeologists to gain entrée into the European archaeological community in eastern Europe, despite lying behind the Iron Curtain, where the availability of excess American holdings of local currency enabled wellfunded projects in Poland and Yugoslavia to be launched before these resources were depleted in the late 1970s. Sometimes contact with anthropological archaeology produced interesting and positive effects on European colleagues. Two examples from Poland spring to mind. The first is the ground-breaking study of Neolithic settlement patterns in southern Poland done by Janusz Kruk (1973) that emerged from his collaboration with Michigan-educated Sarunas Milisauskas in the late 1960s. A second is the detailed analysis of a household cluster at Brześć Kujawski by Ryszard Grygiel (1986) who had worked since 1976 with Peter Bogucki. Both of these studies had a wide impact on archaeological thought in Europe. By the 1970s, Americans were finding the European archaeological community to be welcoming, and as the excesses of the processual approach became less strident, the research interests of European scholars also expanded beyond chronology and classification to include questions of economy and social process.

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During the late 1970s and early 1980s, a robust community of American scholars interested in European archaeology emerged, in large part due to the efforts of Bernard, Ruth Tringham, and others who motivated younger students to pursue graduate degrees that derived from fieldwork in Europe or analysis of European materials. European sessions at major conferences became frequent. Much of their work took place in eastern Europe, so an annual conference colloquially called for some obscure reason “Hleb i Vino” (Slavic for “bread and wine”) began under Bernard’s patronage at Penn in the late 1970s and then alternating between Penn and Berkeley, where Ruth Tringham had moved, for several years following. Sadly, this Golden Age of European archaeology in North America did not last. Starting in the mid-1980s, the job market for Europeanists who studied later periods in departments of anthropology became saturated, and many younger scholars who had hoped to make their careers doing research on European topics were diverted to work in CRM enterprises and para-academic administrative positions or left the field completely. The Hleb i Vino meetings ended around 1985. This situation continues to this day. Now that Bernard is gone, and many others from that golden era nearing or past retirement age, what does the future hold for scholarship on ancient Europe in American anthropological archaeology? We would like to be optimistic but realistic. Demonstrating the relevance of European archaeology to anthropological archaeology in North America is an ongoing challenge. Although no one expects Europeanists to babble about “Beaker Folk” any more, the field is still dominated by New World interests. It is unlikely that Europeanists will be succeeded by others simply because they share a geographical interest. The notion of a “European line” does not exist, if it ever did. Yet there is hope. The emergence of new scientific techniques such as the study of ancient DNA, residues in pottery, and stable isotopes offers grounds for optimism. These techniques depend on rich data recovered under excellent conditions, which the archaeological record of the last ten millennia in Europe certainly offers, and important research questions about movement and social differentiation, which have always been available for study in Europe but perhaps now can finally be recognized. Moreover, these techniques and their applications are portable, so a young scholar can be hired for primarily for expertise in analytical methods and secondarily with a topical interest in ancient Europe. Finally, perhaps, along this route, European archaeology in North America can move into broad, sunlit uplands.



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BERNARD’S LEGACY Bernard was a passionate advocate for the relevance of European archaeology in the North American academic milieu. It falls to those of us who were his students and friends to make sure that this carries forward. In the end, Bernard was not one of the giants of 20th century archaeology who excavated multiple spectacular sites, published landmark books that set the agenda of the discipline, or was celebrated as a popularizer of discoveries. As Milisauskas (2011:7) notes, “histories of archaeology do not treat all archaeologists equally.” Bernard’s lifetime cumulative imprint under his own name in the annals of the field, despite the significance of individual pieces, is admittedly faint and will fade quickly with the passage of time. He was not a collector of citations or accolades. Bernard’s legacy, however, lies with the dozens of archaeologists on whose lives he had some impact, whether large or small, through advising, mentoring, encouragement, support, recommendation, constructive criticism, example, and kindness. All of the authors of the chapters in this volume were extraordinarily fortunate that their paths crossed with Bernard’s when they did. Each one has a story to tell. In Peter Bogucki’s case, his discovery of an interest in European prehistory took place during a summer program in Kraków, Poland, between his sophomore and junior years as an anthropology major at Penn. Had Bernard not been there when Bogucki returned to college that fall with his new-found enthusiasm for ancient Europe, there is no reason to believe that he would have made this area his life’s research passion or even pursued archaeology professionally. Bernard was also there at the right time and place for Pam Crabtree. After a transformative experience of encountering the Roman and Anglo-Saxon world at Winchester while an undergraduate at Barnard, Crabtree came to Penn for graduate study, where Bernard offered her a chance to work at Dún Ailinne and encouraged her interest in the Roman-Saxon transition and the beginnings of urbanism in medieval Europe. Others can tell similar stories of how their lives were transformed by Bernard’s sincere personal interest in their learning and professional development. “Sincere personal interest” is impossible to capture for posterity without further efforts by those who benefited from it. What can we do to keep Bernard’s memory alive? First, we need to continue to make the case as persuasively as possible that European archaeology is anthropological archae-

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ology, in so far as archaeology can still be said to be allied with the other subdisciplines of anthropology. In order to do this, we have to be conversant in the literature of world archaeology and current archaeological research and interpretive thought, particularly in North America. It is a matter of seeing the big picture and making connections. This is something that our colleagues in Europe rarely do. Mississippian society in North America, the prehistoric communities of Amazonia, the Hohokam and Anasazi in the American Southwest, and Preclassic communities in Mesoamerica all can stimulate our thinking about developments in later European prehistory. Being conversant in the things and practices of ancient societies around the world also gives us a common vocabulary with which to interact with colleagues. Through this engagement with archaeology as a comparative discipline in the anthropological tradition, we can show how the European archaeological record can be used to explore questions that are common interests across time and space. Second, we should honor Bernard’s memory by doing good teaching and scholarship and by being generous to younger generations of archaeologists and to anyone with an interest in ancient Europe. The authors of the essays in the volume would all list Bernard as a mentor and friend, and they all benefited from his generosity. He wrote letters on our behalf, commented on papers we wrote, hosted parties and conferences, reviewed grant proposals, and did all the other thankless tasks that go into the cultivation of young archaeological researchers. A sincere personal interest in the professional development of the generations that follow us, doing whatever we can to help younger scholars succeed, would be our most lasting celebration of Bernard’s life.

REFERENCES Binford, L.R. 1962. Archaeology as Anthropology. American Antiquity 28(2):217–25. Gaul, J.H. 1948. The Neolithic Period in Bulgaria: Early Food-Producing Cultures of Eastern Europe. Cambridge, MA: American School of Prehistoric Research. Grygiel, R. 1986. The Household Cluster as a Fundamental Social Unit of the Brześć Kujawski Group of the Lengyel Culture in the Polish Lowlands. Prace i Materiały Muzeum Archeologicznego i Etnograficznego w Łodzi—seria archeologiczna 31:43–335. Kopytoff, I. 2006. A Short History of Anthropology at Penn. Expedition 48(1):29–36. Kruk, J. 1973. Studia osadnicze nad neolitem wyżyn lessowych. Wrocław: Ossolineum.



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Milisauskas, S. 2011. Historical Observations on European Archaeology. In European Prehistory: A Survey, ed. S. Milisauskas, pp. 7–21. New York: Springer. Movius, H.L. 1942. The Irish Stone Age, its Chronology, Development and Relationships. Cambridge, UK: The University Press. Willey, G.R., and P. Phillips. 1958. Method and Theory in American Archaeology. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.