Original subtitles

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.