All language subtitles for Hidden.Beneath.the.Cities.S01E10.Secret.School.and.Concealed.Castle.Cemetery.1080p.DSNP.WEB-DL.DDP5.1.H.264-KHN_track3_[eng]

Archaeologists
working on a metro expansion

below the streets
of Copenhagen, Denmark,

make a surprising discovery.

19 feet below
Osterport Station,

they came across
a wood-lined square tunnel

only three feet wide
and three feet high.

In a city that's been
documented for centuries,

it seems like this tunnel
was meant to stay hidden.

But why was it built?

And what purpose did it serve?

Excavations beneath
a former dormitory

in Williamsburg, Virginia,
uncover a mysterious cellar.

The cellar contained
artifacts and everyday objects

from across centuries, including
pottery fragments, buttons,

and even jewelry, which provided
a glimpse into the lives

of the people who once
used this space.

What was
this space really for?

And how could these finds
reshape what we know

about America's early years?

In the small town
of Salo, Finland,

a landowner digging
on his property

makes a remarkable find.

Further excavation
revealed human bones,

fragments of clothing,
blade pieces,

and traces of a wooden coffin.

So who was buried here?

And what can this
burial ground tell us

about Finland's early history
of belief and identity?

Below the busy
streets of the world's cities

exists a hidden
realm of wonder.

Sprawling ancient complexes,

mysterious tombs,

top-secret military bases,

strange structures,

and lost artifacts,

buried beneath our feet
and long forgotten...

until now.

Underground marvels are exposed
to reveal what lies...

Hidden Beneath the Cities.

On the straits between
the North and Baltic Seas,

Copenhagen's journey from
a medieval fishing village

to Denmark's capital
and largest city

is one of survival
and reinvention.

Copenhagen
emerged as a Viking outpost

and fishing village.

Over the first few centuries
after that,

it grows thanks to a healthy
trade in salted herring,

and that success makes it
a target for nearby nations.

In particular, it provokes
the Hanseatic League.

That's a powerful alliance of
north German towns and merchants

who banded together to control
a lot of Europe's trade.

They repeatedly
attacked Copenhagen,

and that culminated in the
fortress's destruction in 1369.

But by the early 1700s,

Copenhagen was one of Europe's
busiest trading hubs,

with a stock exchange,
new districts,

in grand buildings
lining its streets.

However, the same ships
that brought wealth

also carried disease.

In 1711, the plague killed

nearly a third
of the city's population.

Disaster then followed
in quick succession.

A fire in 1728 destroyed
a third of Copenhagen,

and another in 1795 leveled much
of what had just been rebuilt.

In 1894,

Denmark was
a constitutional monarchy.

Copenhagen expanded
into new districts

under a municipal council, while
industry and labor movements

helped reshape it
into the modern city

of around 1.3 million people
you see today.

In 2020,
during excavations

for a new metrolink,
archaeologists reveal something

unlike anything seen
in the city before.

19 feet below
Osterport Station,

they came across
a wood-lined square tunnel

only three feet wide
and three feet high.

At first, they thought
it might date to the 1600s,

but analysis of the timber
confirmed that it had come from

a tree that was cut down
in the 19th century.

One end passes
below what used to be

Copenhagen's old
defensive walls.

And the other continues
beneath Ostbanegade,

that's a street that runs north
alongside the railway tracks.

We don't know yet if it turns
or even where it finally ends.

So far they've only exposed
about 10 feet of it.

The Osterport tunnel
is the first of its kind

ever found in Copenhagen,

and it doesn't appear
in any maps or records.

In a city that's been
documented for centuries,

it seems like this tunnel
was meant to stay hidden.

In a century marked
by political unrest,

a hidden route of this scale

may have served certain
private interests.

From 1885 to 1894,
Denmark's constitutional order

was rocked by
the provisional period,

during which the prime minister
bypassed parliament

and ruled by decree.

His actions sparked intense
political conflict

and opposition to his
conservative government.

In that atmosphere,
a hidden passage in Osterbro

might have offered officials
or confidants

discreet movements
or protection.

Is it possible that this tunnel
was a private commission?

Copenhagen had
been devastated

earlier in that century.

By British bombardment in 1807,
by bankruptcy in 1813,

and by the loss of Norway

a year later.

Concealed passage, big enough
for someone to fit inside,

may have been useful
as a protection

against unrest
or sudden violence;

almost like a safe room.

In 1853, Copenhagen
faced its deadliest epidemic

in decades; cholera killed
nearly 5,000 people.

It caused about 70% of all the
deaths in that city that year.

Overcrowding inside
old fortifications

and leaking cesspools

made the city a breeding ground
for that disease.

In the decades that followed,

Osterbro rose as
a wealthier district.

And for those who had the means,
a private, enclosed passage

could have offered refuge
from the city outside.

In a city shaped
by trade and restrictions,

the tunnel may have
offered a path

tied to the underground
economy.

In the 19th century,

sailors routinely smuggled
alcohol, tobacco, coffee,

and textiles into Denmark
from England and Germany.

And meanwhile, contraband was
flowing out towards Sweden.

So could a hidden tunnel
beneath the city

have been part of that system
of illegal trade?

After World War I,
heavy Danish taxes on alcohol

combined with prohibition
across Scandinavia

fueled a thriving black market.

By the 1920s,
smuggled spirits from Germany

reportedly supplied nearly half
of Denmark's consumption.

In that climate, a concealed
passage near Osterport

could have been built or adapted

to move goods beyond
official oversight.

Over 700 miles southwest

in the Welsh town of New Quay,

flooding in the basement
of a local shop

revealed a long
forgotten passage.

During the cleanup, the
shop's owner uncovered a doorway

leading to a tunnel
nearly nine feet high

and stretching some
50 feet toward the sea.

Some local historians
suggest it may date

to the 17th or 18th century,

when smuggling in
wine, spirits, and salt

was widespread
along Cardigan Bay.

In August 1704,
customs officers reported

some 150 men with horses
unloading salt at New Quay.

Outnumbered,
the officers fired shots,

only to be arrested
by local constables

and even dragged before court,

which goes to show how strongly
the community backed the trade.

In New Quay, the
smuggling theory makes sense,

because the tunnel's
tall enough to walk through

and it runs directly to the sea.

But Copenhagen's passage
is different.

It's a cramped shaft,
it's only three feet across.

It's way too tight to move
large contraband in bulk.

So I think we'd be
smart to explore

some alternative possibilities.

The tunnels positioned

beneath Copenhagen's
former ramparts,

the line where the city
once defended itself,

could be the strongest clue
to its purpose.

For thousands of years,
tunnels have been a tool of war;

a fourth domain alongside
land, sea, and air.

They were used to breach walls,
infiltrate fortifications,

or provide hidden escape routes.

Could Copenhagen's undocumented
tunnel belong to that tradition?

Copenhagen's defenses
began in 1167

with ramparts and a moat
shielding the town.

Over the centuries,
they were tested.

During the Reformation,
under Swedish siege in 1659,

and in British bombardment
during the Napoleonic Wars.

Through the 17th century,

Copenhagen's fortifications
were modernized and expanded.

They grew into a full ring of
ramparts, bastions, and moats

enclosing the capital as it rose

into a major commercial
and administrative hub.

With such a fortified perimeter,
the idea of hidden passages

built for protection in wartime
is entirely plausible.

The newly discovered
tunnel runs beneath

the line of
the eastern ramparts,

near the old Osterport gate,
which was dismantled in 1857.

That location and its narrow,
confined dimensions

suggest that it may have served

as an escape route
during conflict.

During World War I,

as the Western Front devolved
into a grinding stalemate,

trenches and tunnels
etched into the earth

defined the conflict.

At Vimy Ridge, over 500 miles
from Copenhagen,

an underground labyrinth became
the lifeline of the battle.

Between 1915 and 1917,

Allied and German forces dug
dozens of tunnels at Vimy Ridge.

Early on, they were used
to plant explosives

or to counter enemy mining,

with some reaching depths
of over 130 feet.

By late 1916, British tunneling
companies began constructing

13 communication tunnels,
or subways,

along the northern ridge
to move troops and supplies

to the front lines.

Inside, these subways
were fitted with power, water,

and even light rail.

They held cookhouses,
reservoirs, medical posts,

ammunition stores, and even
communication centers.

Above all, they provided shelter
from German artillery

and a relatively secure base

for operations beneath
the battlefield.

The Grange Subway
was one of the largest.

Nearly a mile long and buried
more than 25 feet underground,

it was slightly arched,
reinforced with wooden beams,

and measured 5 feet wide
and 6.5 feet high.

In the 36 hours before
the assault on Vimy Ridge,

troops and ammunition
moved through the subways

toward the front.

The Grange subway station alone

held about 950
Canadian soldiers.

And on April 9, 1917, nearly
10,000 Canadians emerged

from the tunnels within striking
distance of German lines.

They were concealed
until the last moment,

and they seized that ridge
in a surprise assault

that was a decisive victory.

I mean, it's Vimy Ridge.

That is a defining chapter
in Canada's history.

The Copenhagen tunnel
shares some similarities

with those on the Western Front,

and its position
beneath the old ramparts

adds weight to the theory
of military escape.

But the evidence
complicates the picture.

The timber lining dates to 1874,

decades after the defenses
were dismantled,

and nothing like it has ever
been found in the city.

So whether it was privately
commissioned, tied to smuggling,

or meant for something else
entirely,

its true purpose remains
a mystery, at least for now.

Copenhagen has been
bombarded, rebuilt,

and reshaped for centuries.

The city's history
is well documented,

but the Osterport tunnel
is a reminder

that it's still incomplete.

Roughly 45 miles southeast

of Richmond, Virginia,

Williamsburg embodies both
colonial authority

and America's fight
for independence.

Virginia's
colonial era stretched

from the founding of Jamestown
in 1607 to 1776,

when Virginia, along with
the rest of the 13 colonies,

declared independence
from Great Britain.

But Williamsburg's story
began in the 1630s,

when English colonists
established Middle Plantation,

a fortified settlement
between the James River

and the York River.

In 1676,
Bacon's Rebellion erupted

as falling tobacco prices,
mercantile restrictions,

natural disasters, and disputes
with Native Americans

fueled anger at the governor.

Nathaniel Bacon's followers
torched Jamestown Statehouse.

And when the fire struck
again in 1698,

the capitol was moved
to Middle Plantation.

It was eventually renamed
Williamsburg

after King William III,
and it became the center

of Britain's largest
American colony.

In the 18th century,

Williamsburg became a seat
of learning and authority.

Its main street served
as a thoroughfare

between the reconstructed
capitol

and the College
of William and Mary,

the first American college
with a full faculty,

a fraternity,
and an honor system.

But behind that image of
refinement was a darker truth:

roughly half the town's
residents were enslaved.

In the spring of 2025,

beneath William and Mary's
Robert M. Gates Hall,

formerly the Brown Hall
dormitory,

archaeologists uncover
a hidden trace

of Williamsburg's
complicated past.

Excavations uncovered
the near-complete foundation

of an 18th century structure and
a previously undocumented cellar

measuring 36 by 18 feet
with at least two floor levels.

Even the chimney base
survived intact.

The cellar contained
artifacts and everyday objects

from across centuries, including
pottery fragments, buttons,

and even jewelry,
which provided a glimpse

into the lives of the people
who once used this space.

They also uncovered
broaches, white clay pipes,

even flatware with Greek motifs,

and a glass shard depicting
the Roman goddess Minerva.

These likely belonged to the
women's students who lived here

in the 1920s and could have
fallen through the floorboards,

where they've remained
for roughly a century.

This wasn't
the first time

archaeologists have
excavated here.

Since 2012, they've uncovered
outbuildings

and other structures nearby,

hinting at steady use
in the colonial era.

Now, with a foundation and
cellar added to that record,

the picture gets
more complicated.

What was this space really for?

And how could these finds
reshape what we know

about America's early years?

Between 2012 and 2014,

excavations behind
the former Brown Hall

uncovered the partial
foundations

of two 18th century
outbuildings.

These were
interpreted as a kitchen

and a dairy or smokehouse,

the kinds of service spaces
you might expect

behind domestic buildings
in colonial Virginia.

So maybe the foundation
and cellar are remnants

of a storage space
in an ordinary home?

In front of the site,
archaeologists uncovered

a late 18th century well

that remained in use
into the 20th century.

Excavations also revealed
two small buildings,

one 16 by 6 feet
with a subfloor pit,

the other eight by eight feet.

Taken together with the most
recent discoveries,

these features suggest the land
could have been used

for storage, water access, and
everyday work at a private home.

The cellar itself was
unlined, suggesting it was dug

soon after the foundations
were laid.

Excavations also
revealed its floor

to be nearly 18 inches higher

than documented
in earlier investigations.

Features of this size and form
could be used to store food,

taking advantage of cool,
stable conditions.

Tens of thousands
of artifacts

have come out
of these excavations:

animal bone, oyster shell, and
fragments of German stoneware.

But the presence of English
salt-glazed stoneware,

first produced around 1720,

helps fix the date when
the cellar was in use.

Mixed in were glass shards, clay
marbles, and even doll parts--

the kinds of everyday items
you might expect in a household.

In 2024,
nearly 1,600 feet southeast

of the Gates Hall site,

a construction project
for Colonial Williamsburg's

new archaeology center
uncovered another cellar.

Two feet below
what had been a parking lot

since the 1960s, archaeologists
uncovered the brick foundation

of a 17th century home
measuring 32 by 24 feet.

The structure included a cellar,
and about 40 feet away,

they uncovered
a 40-foot-deep well,

which was still intact
with its cap on it.

Excavations unearthed
Chinese export porcelain,

teawares, dozens of clay
wig curlers,

leaded casement windows with
diamond-shaped window glass,

and the handle
of a silver teaspoon.

These finds indicate
that it was a household

of considerable
wealth and status.

It's believed that
the house may have been built

as early as 1660,

when the area was still known
as Middle Plantation,

and that it remains standing
into the 1720s or 1730s.

Because it predates detailed
18th century maps,

little is known
about its occupants,

but it now stands at the oldest
documented colonial structure

in the region.

At the site
beneath the parking lot,

the evidence paints
a pretty clear picture:

a brick foundation,
a cellar, and a well,

all reinforced by artifacts
from a wealthy household.

While the Gates Hall site
shares some similar features,

the presence of other
kinds of artifacts

complicates the picture
and forces us to consider

other explanations
about the site's purpose.

The discoveries also
open the possibility

that this ground was once
tied to the lives and labor

of enslaved people
in colonial Virginia.

Enslaved Africans
and their descendants

made up a significant portion
of Virginia's population,

with most living
in rural quarters

beside the fields
where they worked.

A common feature of these
dwellings was the subfloor pit

dug beneath the houses
for the storage of food,

personal items,
and other purposes.

So, given that context, could
the foundation and cellar

at Gates Hall be the remnants
of an early plantation quarter?

Subfloor pits
were once thought to be

simple storage features,
but more recent research shows

that they could serve
multiple roles,

including shrine-like spaces

that echo West African
traditions.

In those traditions, ancestors
were honored as intermediaries

between the living
and the divine.

And pits like these
may have been places

where that connection
was maintained.

Many enslaved people
on Virginia's lower peninsula

came from the Bight of Biafra--

today's eastern
Nigeria, Cameroon,

Equatorial Guinea, and Gabon.

Excavations at 18th century
slave sites have revealed pits

filled with white stones,
fossilized shells, chalk,

intact wine bottles,
and iron tools,

along with oyster shells

just like those
recovered at Gates Hall.

In West African traditions,

such items carry
deep symbolic meaning.

Among the Gates Hall finds

were fragments
of Colonoware pottery,

handmade vessels often made

by enslaved and Indigenous
communities in the U.S.

from the mid 17th
to the mid 19th century.

Viewed alongside the cellar
and nearby features,

they suggest this ground
may have once been connected

to plantation labor

and to the endurance
of African cultural traditions.

In 2021, over 100
miles northwest of Williamsburg

in Arlington, Virginia,

archaeologists uncover
a subfloor pit

used by an enslaved family,

revealing traces of both daily
life and spiritual practice.

Archaeological work
at Arlington House,

which was a mansion built
between 1802 and 1818

to serve as the first memorial
to George Washington,

identified a subfloor pit
cut beside the hearth

in the south slave quarters.

Inside were four intact
glass bottles,

most likely linked to
the family of Selina Gray,

who was the second-generation
enslaved person and maid

to Robert E. Lee's wife.

The location of the pit

and the arrangement of
the bottles suggest that

it functioned as a spiritual
or religious shrine.

All four were placed
side by side

with their openings
facing north,

a direction associated
with freedom.

Set north and east
of the hearth,

their placement may
also be symbolic.

East evokes sunrise and
ancestral homelands in Africa.

This was likely what's
called a "spirit bundle,"

made up of conjuring bottles.

These were used to ward off evil
or cast spells

or for self-preservation.

They could also entrap harmful
spirits, invoke powers,

or act as talismans
of resistance.

These were small
but powerful ways

to confront the dehumanizing
realities of slavery

and to safeguard the future.

The Arlington find
shows how enslaved people

carried Western African
traditions into new settings,

turning their quarters
into sacred spaces

of resilience and resistance.

At Gates Hall, artifacts like
Colonoware and oyster shell,

along with the unlined cellar,

suggest ties
to enslaved life, too.

Though without clear
spiritual markers,

the evidence may instead
point to other aspects

of daily life and survival.

As the investigation
of the site continues,

the researchers find out that
sometimes the smallest items

tell the biggest story.

They found nearly
50 fragments of slate pencils,

more than at any other site
in Williamsburg.

In the 18th century, reading and
writing were taught separately,

with writing usually withheld
from enslaved students.

The concentration
of writing implements

considered alongside the other
evidence strongly supports

the identification of this site
as the Williamsburg Bray School,

one of the earliest schools for
Black children in North America.

It also suggests that its
students may have practiced

literacy in ways that went
beyond the school's design.

From 1760 to 1774,
the school enrolled hundreds

of enslaved and free
Black children.

They studied reading,
sewing, and catechism,

all within
a pro-slavery curriculum

designed to foster obedience.

For those who managed
to learn writing,

it could be very helpful.

One could use it to forge
a manumission document,

which granted freedom,
or it may have helped navigate

escape routes or communicate
with sympathetic individuals.

In Virginia, ads designed to
capture self-emancipated people

sometimes describe them
as able to read or write.

Interestingly,
for decades,

the Bray School building
was thought destroyed.

Originally built on
North Boundary Street,

it was moved to
Prince George Street in 1930

and later absorbed into
William and Mary's campus,

where renovations obscured
its 18th century core.

In 2020, researchers tested
the timbers of the building,

which confirmed it dated
to late 1759 or early 1760.

This aligned perfectly
with the school's opening

in September 1760,
and proved that it had been

hiding in plain sight all along.

The foundations
beneath Gates Hall

reveal how a system built
to deny humanity

inadvertently seeded
new claims to it--

a legacy of literacy
and defiance

that reshaped the course
of the nation.

Over 60 miles
west of Helsinki,

in southwestern Finland,
lies Salo,

a town defined by its forests,
rivers, and a long history

of exchange and settlement.

The name Salo means
"woodland" or "wooded island,"

so it got its name
as a reference

to its forested terrain.

People first reached
Finland around 9,000 years ago,

drawn by rich hunting
and fishing grounds.

By the Viking Age,
the southwest coast near Salo

lay on the edge of trade routes
leading into Russia.

Local communities supplied furs,
while Swedes, Danes,

and others passed through
as traders, or raiders.

From the 12th century onward,

Finland became a frontier
between two worlds.

Sweden pressed
Catholic conversion

and political control
from the west,

while Novgorod
in northwestern Russia

advanced Orthodox influence
from the east.

By the mid 13th century,

Swedish castles anchored
the south into their realm,

while the eastern frontier
remained contested.

In 2023,
after a rainy day,

a landowner installing
geothermal pipes

on his property in Salo
notices something strange

sticking out of the ground and
decides to take a closer look.

The piece of iron
turned out to be

an ancient 12th century sword,
with a straight hilt,

a crossguard, and a three-sided
knob known as a pommel.

Remarkably, the sword's sheath
was also recovered.

An incredible find after
centuries underground.

Further excavation
revealed human bones,

fragments of clothing,
blade pieces,

and traces of a wooden coffin.

Most striking was a partially
intact leather belt

fitted with 30 bronze ornaments,
decorated with rosettes,

along with animal head buckles
and strap dividers.

All of these objects
came from a single grave,

but as excavations continued,
eight burials emerged.

It's believed there could be
dozens, even up to 200 others.

So who was buried here?

And what can this
burial ground tell us

about Finland's early history
of belief and identity?

Researchers suspect
the bones and artifacts

date to between
1050 and 1150 CE.

The site may simply
reflect Iron Age Finland's

long tradition
of weapon burials,

where elite men
were laid to rest

with swords, spears,
and other symbols of rank.

With dozens or hundreds
of graves,

perhaps this was a cemetery
where warrior identity

was reinforced
across generations.

At this time,
weapon burials reflected

the warrior ideology and
the male norms of the era.

They also signaled status,

serving as a way for emerging
elites to display power

during periods of instability,

while reinforcing authority
among the living

and sanctifying
the cemetery itself.

With the Salo Sword dating to
an age of religious upheaval

in Finland, its presence,
along with the belt,

may reflect an Iron Age
tradition of using burial rites

to assert power
at moments of transition.

In 1968, workers
digging for a water pipe

in Hattula, Finland, just over
60 miles northeast of Salo,

accidentally uncovered
an early medieval gravesite

dating to between
1050 and 1300 CE.

The Suontaka Grave,
as it became known,

contained brooches
linked to female dress

alongside two swords, including
one with a bronze hilt,

which is typically
wielded by men.

This combination puzzled
archaeologists for decades.

Some saw it as proof
of a powerful woman

who might have been a warrior,
while others argued

it was a double burial
of a man and a woman.

The individual
at Suontaka

was clearly someone
of high standing.

They were dressed in wool
garments and animal pelts

and laid to rest on
a feather blanket with furs.

Notably, the ornate
bronze-hilted sword

was added to the grave
after the original burial,

an act that may have
shown reverence

for the person long after death.

A DNA analysis in 2021
found the Suontaka individual

may have had
Klinefelter syndrome,

meaning XXY chromosomes.

The condition can involve traits
including lower testosterone,

reduced body hair,
or breast development,

which may have set them
apart in life.

This challenges
earlier assumptions

about rigid gender roles
in medieval Finland,

and may indicate that people
who did not fit

traditional categories could
still hold respected,

even honored positions
within their communities.

We don't know how
the Suontaka individual

identified in life, but
the burial shows that weapons

could symbolize status,
respect, and admiration

in ways that may not be
so straightforward.

At Salo, the sword and belt may
indeed signify warrior burials,

but they could also point to
other forms of status or esteem

within the community.

Given the broader
historical context

and other details at the site,

we may have to look
at possibilities

beyond martial rank alone.

As the researchers
continue their investigation,

they can't help but notice
that the sword

appears to have been damaged.

In Iron Age
cremation graves,

weapons were often bent, broken,
or fire-patinated.

This was a ritual killing
or destruction of the weapons,

and it was done to ensure
that the object

went with the deceased;

or it could have been done
to guard the living

from the return of the dead.

Between the 11th
and 15th centuries CE,

burial customs in Finland

gradually shifted from
cremation to inhumation.

Across Scandinavia,
this marked the move

from paganism to Christianity,

but in Finland, the process
of Christianization was slower.

That raises the possibility
that the Salo burials,

outwardly Christian in form,
concealed older rituals;

a quiet negotiation with or even
resistance to the new faith.

For much of
the Finnish Iron Age,

cremation was
the dominant custom,

often in large, below-ground
collective cemeteries

where individuals are
hard to distinguish.

But for centuries,
you have this kind of overlap

when inhumation and cremation
are practiced simultaneously,

sometimes even within
the same cemetery.

The result is a complicated
burial record,

and that ambiguity can shape

how we interpret
the inhumations at Salo.

Nearly 200 miles west
at Gamla Uppsala in Sweden,

two Viking Age boat burials
revealed the same tension--

pagan traditions
carried forward

even as Christianity
began to take root.

One boat was damaged,
but the other lay intact.

Findings included a man
buried in the stern,

a horse and dog in the bow,

a sword, a spear, shield,
and even an ornate comb.

Most remarkable though
is that in a region

where cremation had been
the norm for centuries,

the bodies and boats
were left unburned.

Boat burials were
a hallmark of pagan tradition.

The animal offerings and weapons
followed that older pattern,

signaling status
as well as belief

in the customary way
of doing things.

But the decision not to cremate
likely reflects the layering

of a new Christian influence
onto this ritual.

At Salo, that type
of hybridity isn't as clear.

Burial practices varied widely
across Scandinavia,

and while the bent sword
recalls older Finnish customs,

it may have been
an isolated gesture

rather than evidence
of a community

resisting Christianity,

suggesting the cemetery could
represent a different stage

in Finland's Christianization.

One of the strongest
clues comes not from the soil,

but from what still
stands above it.

The cemetery sits
beside a medieval stone church

dated to the 15th century.

In Finland,
once Christianity took hold,

cemeteries were moved close
to the first churches.

If burials here date to
the 11th or 12th century,

it points to a much earlier
church presence in the region

than previously thought.

So Salo may offer some of
the clearest evidence yet

of Christianity taking root
in this area.

But the question remains,
were these local converts

or outsiders tied to
the Crusader campaigns?

The Crusader era in
Finland refers to the period

when Christianity spread
under Swedish influence,

often associated with the
so-called First Swedish Crusade

in the 1150s.

Whether that Crusade actually
took place is uncertain.

There's no
archaeological evidence,

and the first written accounts
come more than a century later.

What we do know is that during
the 12th and 13th centuries,

the Swedish Crown
and the Catholic Church

carried out campaigns
that gradually expanded

their authority across Finland.

Against that backdrop,

the sword from Salo
takes on new significance.

Its three-sided oval pommel
is a form consistent

with what a Swedish crusader
would have carried into battle.

And the preliminary dating
places it right at the threshold

of that period
of Christian expansion.

X-ray analysis
revealed an inscription

interpreted as
"in the name of Jesus Christ."

Considered alongside
the weapon's form and date,

it points to a clear
connection between Salo

and the expanding world
of Christian Europe.

This is the first
confirmed grave field

in the Salo region from the end
of the Iron Age to be found

in such close proximity
to a medieval stone church.

What we know so far

points to overlapping
traditions.

Elite display, blended customs,
and crusader influence.

But who these people were and
what their burials truly reveal

about Finland's passage into
a new faith remains unclear.

Recent work
on the site has revealed

important new details.

Radiocarbon dating dates the
burial to the Crusade period,

between 1025 and 1200 CE,

falling late within
Finland's Iron Age,

which spanned roughly
500 BCE to 1200 CE.

Further investigation
of the site

has been limited by resources,

but archaeologists
hope to carry out

DNA and strontium isotope
analysis in the future.

At Salo, a sword,
a belt, and bones

trace the tension between
belief and change;

evidence of a community
in transition,

but leaving us unsure
of the status or role

these graves were
meant to express.

In southern Wales,

about 10 miles from
the capital city of Cardiff,

is the stunning Fonmon Castle.

Fonmon Castle is a
medieval fortress built in 1180

and nestled in Wales's
Vale of Glamorgan.

It was built by
the St. John family,

but changed hands when it was
sold to Colonel Philip Jones

during the English Civil War
between the Royalists

and Oliver Cromwell's
Parliamentarians.

A lot of Welsh castles
were destroyed in the war,

but Fonmon Castle survived.

It was modified later on
during the Georgian era,

but you can still find features
from the original fortress,

like defensive ditches
and slits for archers.

In 2019,
the castle was bought

by a wealthy Welsh businessman

who turned the castle
into a public attraction,

complete with historical tours,
medieval reenactments,

and a menagerie of wild animals.

In 2021, the castle's
new owner is interested

in knowing more about
his centuries-old residence

and extends an invitation
to archaeological researchers

from the nearby
Cardiff University

to survey the castle grounds.

In a field close
to an airport runway,

there appeared to be
the remnants of a farmstead.

But when the topsoil was
slowly brushed away,

something far more
intriguing was revealed.

A cluster of graves began
to emerge from the soil.

What's remarkable is that
these burial plots

were cut right into
the limestone bedrock.

41 sets of
human remains were uncovered.

There were two children,
there was one adult male,

and the other 38 bodies
were those of women.

Now, a lot of the bodies
were carefully posed

in specific burial postures.

Sometimes they were
curled up or crouching,

often lying on their side

with their knees tucked
into their chests.

But one woman was
buried differently.

Unlike all the others, she seems
to have been basically

just tossed into a ditch
with no apparent care at all.

Surveys of the area
showed ditches

surrounded the graves, which
suggested that these graves

made up a community cemetery.

Some graves contained
shards of glass and pottery.

Animal bones were also
found in the soil,

many of which appeared
to show signs

of being butchered and cooked.

So who were these people,

and why do the majority of
the remains belong to women?

Dating of the bones
is cross-referenced

with the style of the glass
and pottery found on the site,

placing the cemetery between
the 6th and 7th centuries CE.

The almost uniformly
female occupants

of the cemetery could suggest

it belonged to a local nunnery
or religious community.

The rise of Celtic Christianity
led to the establishment

of monastic learning centers
across the country.

A subatomic analysis
of tooth enamel determines

that these individuals had
a diet high in carbohydrates,

but low in meat protein, with
a complete absence of fish.

Within the context
of a religious community,

there may have been strict rules

around the consumption
of meat products.

That and the signs of hard labor
on the skeletons

align with the rules
of monastic life

within the Celtic tradition.

In this scenario,
the single male skeleton

may have been a visiting
patron or priest,

while the woman
tossed in the ditch

may have been excommunicated
and denied a proper burial.

Early medieval
monasteries were often

powerful and rich institutions.

Whitby Abbey, for example,
was one of the most important

religious centers in Britain
during the 7th century.

It was home to both
nuns and monks,

but its founder was a powerful
abbess named Saint Hilda.

Under her leadership,
Whitby greatly enriched itself

and even maintained connections

to the royal
Northumbrian family.

The women buried at Fonmon may
have had a similar accumulation

of wealth and influence,

which could explain
the fine glass and pottery

found at the site.

But putting aside the fact

it's rare to find evidence
of nunneries in Wales,

if these burial grounds

belong to a powerful
religious institution,

where are the signifiers or
markers of the Christian faith?

There's a complete absence

of religious insignias
or artifacts.

No crosses or inscribed stones
were found on the site,

which would understandably
be present

if these graves represented
ritualistic Christian burials

from this period.

Along with the rise
of Christianity,

this era in Welsh history
was marked by calamity,

thanks to a silent killer that
had arrived on its shores.

Historical records indicate

that the Justinian Plague landed
in Wales in the year 547,

killing the ruler of
the Kingdom of Gwynedd.

It's conceivable that
these people at the Fonmon site

had fallen victim to
a catastrophic epidemic.

The disease may have
overwhelmingly afflicted

the women in this community,

or perhaps these women
had cared for the sick

before contracting
the plague themselves.

The Justinian Plague
and the more infamous

Black Plague 800 years later

actually share the same
bacterium, Yersinia pestis.

Using something called
archaeogenic testing,

England's Edix Hill Cemetery
was the first site in Britain

to definitely show evidence
of Yersinia pestis.

Like the Fonmon Cemetery,

it contained human remains
from the 6th century,

and while some of the graves
contained multiple burials,

Edix Hill is not simply
a chaotic mass grave

inside a single pit.

Given the fear
of the plague,

it seems incredible that
the Fonmon community

would have engaged in funeral
meals at the burial site

of members who had died from
exposure to the deadly disease.

But the real issue
with the plague theory

is that unlike
the Edix Hill Cemetery,

there's been no reported
evidence of Yersinia pestis

on any of the human remains
at the Fonmon site.

DNA analysis may
one day change this,

but for now,
we just don't know for sure.

What does seem
likely, however,

is the well-connected
social status

of the community members
who were buried here.

The radiocarbon dating
suggests these remains

span multiple generations.

Carving their graves right out
of the limestone bedrock

would have been
a monumental undertaking,

but the people buried here
were apparently held

in high enough esteem by their
community to justify the labor.

An analysis of
the glass shards determined

that the material had originated
in what is now Egypt and Syria.

The pottery was also determined
to have come from North Africa.

So this group at Fonmon
would've had to have

considerable resources, either
economic or even just social,

in order to acquire goods
from that far away.

But how do we explain the fact
that the majority of the people

who were buried at Fonmon
are women?

It's very likely
that the women

played a leadership role
in this community.

Published in 2025, genetic
testing conducted on individuals

buried in cemeteries
in Dorset, England,

revealed a strong
maternal lineage

in that Celtic community,

with men primarily marrying
into the community from outside.

The evidence
of physical labor

found on the remains
could be an indicator

of how this family or community
built its fortune.

Even the most
compelling explanation

for the Fonmon Cemetery leaves
many questions unanswered.

But the excavation is
only half finished.

There are an estimated
80 graves in total,

so there are many more
to be explored,

which may provide
additional insight

into the people who lived here

through an important
transitional period

in Welsh history.