The Life Of Twice-Dead Saint Salvius

Salivius was a holy man who operated around Albi, in southern France, during the 6th century, a time when France was controlled by several infighting Frankish kings of the Merovingian Dynasty. He was an interesting figure who claimed to have seen heavenly visions (as well as actual heaven itself), and he also was said by his peers to have possessed a gift for foresight or prophecy, as well as some powers for healing. Our knowledge of this holy man comes from the writings of Salvius’ friend and fellow clergyman, Bishop Gregory of Tours (c. 539-594), whose History of the Franks serves as one of the most valuable contemporaneous sources for the history of 6th-century France.

Salvius, it was said, spent his early life studying law and dabbling in local government. All the while, however, his spiritualism was growing and his religious interests quickly began to outweigh his secular pursuits. Eventually, while he was still a young and unmarried man, Salvius suddenly decided to join a local monastery and live as a monk.

After he joined the monastery and learned its rules, Salvius quickly became a model resident of the cloister. He was reportedly an intelligent man, and given time and resources to pursue his religious studies, Salvius mastered the theology of Roman church tradition. He showed such grasp and insight for religious teachings that Salvius soon became one of the monastery’s most respected monks. When the abbot under which Salvius served eventually died, it was Salvius who was elevated as the next abbot of the monastery.

Salvius responded to his promotion in an interesting way—he used the opportunity to become a hermit. The new abbot reportedly ran the monastery from his religious cell, directing the works and charities of the institution without leaving his room. Salvius, however, was not completely isolated, for his fellow monks had to frequently go to his cell to drop off supplies and receive orders. On one such visit, one of the monks found a shocking sight in the abbot’s cell; Salvius was found seemingly lifeless on his bed. The monks, observing the body, were completely convinced that their new abbot was dead.

Upon concluding that their abbot had died, the monks prepared for a funeral. A message was sent to Salvius’ mother, who lived nearby, informing her that her son was dead and that a service would be held in the near future. Salvius’ body was soon removed from his cell and, after being dressed in the best vestments available, Salvius was placed on a bier in preparation for the funeral service, which would commence the next day.

The funeral, suffice it to say, was a dramatic event that none present would forget. According to Gregory of Tours, “the corpse began to move on the bier. Salvius’ cheeks flushed red again, he stirred himself as if he awakened from a deep sleep, opened his eyes, raised his hands and spoke” (History of the Franks, VII. 1). Seeing the dead come back to life, those in attendance at the funeral cheered that they were witnessing a miracle. Not everyone, however, was happy with the situation. Salvius—the very one who supposedly came back from the dead—was apparently quite distraught over his resurrection. According to Gregory of Tours, Salvius’ first words upon returning to the land of the living were “Merciful Lord…why have You done this to me?” (History of the Franks, VII. 1). The presumably starving Salvius then made the odd decision to immediately stop eating food and drink after his resuscitation. He reportedly kept this up for three days until, realizing God was refusing him death (as hunger and thirst was not affecting him), Salvius finally ended his fast and resumed his life as abbot of the monastery.

Once Salvius recovered from the trauma of being pulled back to the world of the living from the afterlife, he began to talk about his otherworldly experiences to his fellow clergymen. He first told his story to the monks in his monastery, and he later narrated the same tale to Gregory of Tours, who put an account of the conversation in his History of the Franks.

As the story goes, when Salvius was experiencing his first death, it felt as if the walls of his room were shaking, and an inexplicable bright light filled his eyes. He then claimed to have been visited by two angels who carried his spirit to heaven, located far away from the earth, sun, and moon. Gregory of Tours, speaking as Salvius, described the man’s vision of heaven:

“Then I was lead through a gate which shone more brightly than our sunshine and so entered a building where all the floor gleamed with gold and silver. The light was such as I cannot describe to you, and the sense of space was quite beyond our experience. The place was filled with a throng of people who were neither men nor women, a multitude stretching so far, this way and that, that it was not possible to see where it ended” (History of the Franks, VII. 1)

Salvius claimed to have heard the voice of God come from a bright and radiant cloud which floated above the heavenly city. Directly under this cloud was reportedly a large gathering of saints and martyrs. Salvius was just beginning to feel at home among these souls when a voice rang out from the cloud above, demanding that the angels bring the abbot back to earth, for the churches needed Salvius’ guidance. Gregory of Tours, once more speaking in the character of the abbot, described Salvius’ distressed reaction: “I threw myself flat on the ground and wept. ‘Alas! Alas! Lord,’ I said. ‘Why have You shown me these things only to take them away from me again?” (History of the Franks, VII. 1). Despite his pleas, Salvius awakened to find himself still alive, and, as was mentioned earlier, it took him three days of fasting to recover from his subsequent depression.

Although God wanted Salvius to return to the living, God’s wishes apparently did not include the abbot revealing secrets of heaven. After he told the monks his story, Salvius’ mouth allegedly swelled and became covered in sores. This divine punishment apparently did not recur when he retold the story to Gregory of Tours years later.

Upon returning from the dead, Salvius quickly resumed his hermit ways, once again administering the monastery from his room. Despite his like of privacy, the abbot’s monks soon began to feel something was different about their leader. It was rumored that Salvius gained the gift of foresight after his near-death (or full death) experience. Furthermore, Gregory of Tours claimed that Salvius projected some sort of healing aura, and “Time and time again those who arrived with grave afflictions went away cured” (History of the Franks, VII. 1).

Salvius, with his respect and renown growing, inevitably became a bishop. He was elected Bishop of Albi around 574, a role which forced Salvius to end his hermit ways so that he could attend councils and advise kings. Such travels allowed Salvius to meet and befriend Gregory of Tours, who was apparently left awed by some of his interactions with the holy man. In one incident in 580, Gregory claimed to have personally witnessed Salvius prophesize that doom would soon fall on the house of King Chilperic (r. 561-584). At that time, Gregory, Salvius and King Chilperic had all been at the villa of Berny-Rivière. As the story goes, the two bishops were having a friendly stroll by the villa when Salvius began to stare oddly at the king’s residence. According to Gregory of Tours, “He sighed deeply and said: ‘I see the naked sword of the wrath of God hanging over that house.’ He was not wrong in his prophecy. Twenty days later died the two sons of King Chilperic” (History of the Franks, V. 50).

There was another instance when Salvius had a prophecy of someone’s death—unfortunately, it was his own death that he could foretell. In 584, a plague hit Albi, and Salvius refused to leave the city. During the epidemic, the bishop eventually realized that he would not survive the plague, and he preemptively began organizing his second funeral. According to Gregory of Tours, “When the time came for God to reveal to Salvius that his own death was near, he prepared his own coffin, and, so I believe, washed himself carefully and put on his shroud. He died in contemplation with his thoughts turned towards heaven” (History of the Franks, VII. 1).

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Monk Reading by Jean-Baptiste Camille Corot  (1796–1875), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The History of the Franks by Gregory of Tours, translated by Lewis Thorpe. New York: Penguin Classics, 1971. 
• https://www.oxfordreference.com/view/10.1093/oi/authority.20110803100438954  

Bishop Denewlf—From The Pigpen To The Pulpit

Denewlf was a contemporary of King Alfred the Great of Wessex (r. 879-899) and lived in an undisclosed forested region of Alfred’s kingdom. Although Denewlf was an incredibly bright fellow, he was far removed from any government or ecclesiastical officials who might recognize his potential. He came from a poor family and unfortunately had no access to education. Making do with what he had, Denewlf devoted himself to a herd of pigs and lived as a swineherd in his wooded homeland.

The life of Denewlf the Swineherd changed forever when he had a chance encounter with King Alfred the Great sometime between 871 and 878. As the story goes, Alfred and his forces entered the stretch of forest where Denewlf lived at a time when Viking raiders were making one of their many incursions into the territory of Wessex. While the king and his thanes were hiding from, or setting up an ambush for, the troublesome Vikings, they happened to stumble across Denewlf and his pigs. The sources are not clear on when exactly the meeting took place, but two years in particular are likely candidates. In 871, Alfred lost a battle against Vikings at Wilton, near the Wylye River. After that loss, Alfred resorted to guerrilla warfare for the rest of the year, until he could arrange a peace agreement with the Vikings. Otherwise, 878 was a probable time for a chance forest encounter. In that year, the Viking warlord Guthrum invaded Wessex and caught Alfred so off guard that the king had to flee to the marshes of Somerset with a small band of loyalists. From there, Alfred resumed his guerrilla tactics and rallied his forces to eventually defeat Guthrum before the end of the year.

Whichever year, 871, 878, or somewhere in between, Alfred and his warriors eventually found themselves at wherever Denewlf lived with his animals. What exactly happened when they first met is unclear—perhaps they conversed after realizing he was not a Viking, or maybe Alfred simply commandeered the poor man’s pigs to feed the war effort. Nevertheless, whatever the route to the conclusion, Alfred and Denewlf eventually had a conversation. While the two talked, Denewlf’s natural intelligence became apparent to Alfred. The king was able to look past the lack of wealth and the absence of education to see Denewlf as a pool of unrefined and untrained potential. Alfred could sympathize with the uneducated—he himself was reportedly unable to read his native language until he was twelve, and he would not be confident in translating Latin until 887. Perhaps seeing something of himself in the swineherd, Alfred saw to it that Denewlf received tutors. Denewlf apparently made near superhuman progress in his learning and was appointed bishop of Winchester in 879. The Chronicle of Florence of Worcester summarized the tale well:

“This man, if report may be trusted, was, during the early part of his life, not only illiterate but a swineherd. King Alfred, when yielding to the fury of his enemies he had taken refuge in a forest, chanced to light upon him as he was feeding his swine. Remarking his intelligence, the king caused him to be taught learning, and when he was sufficiently instructed made him bishop of Winchester; a thing that may almost be considered miraculous” (Florence of Worcester, AD 879).

Bishop Denewlf of Winchester ruled his bishopric for around three decades and outlived the king who raised him from the pigpen to the pulpit. According to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, Bishop Denewlf died in 909.

Written by C. Keith Hansley.

Picture Attribution: (painting by Eugène Burnand (1850-1921).

Sources:

• The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle translated by Benjamin Thorpe in 1861 and republished by Cambridge University Press, 2012.
• Asser’s Life of King Alfred and Other Contemporary Sources translated, introduced and denoted by Simon Keynes and Michael Lapidge. New York: Penguin Classics, 2004. 
• The Chronicle of Florence of Worcester translated by Thomas Forester. London: Petter and Galpin, originally published 1854.  

The Magical Rise And Fall Of The Magician Luan Da

Luan Da was reportedly a tall, handsome man, who presented himself with grandiose flair and steadfast confidence. He had a reputation for being a man of wisdom, not only in strategy and engineering, but also in knowledge of magic and all things supernatural. The charismatic Luan Da lived in a perfect age for someone of his talents, for Emperor Wu of the Han Dynasty (c. 141-87 BCE) spent decades trying to discover the secrets of immortality with a sense of desperation unseen since the days of Shihuangdi (r. 221-210 BCE), the first emperor of the Qin Dynasty.

Luan Da first made a name for himself in the kingdom of Jiaodong, where he became a palace attendant of Emperor Wu’s half-brother, King Kang (r. 150/148-122/120 BCE). The magician eventually was rewarded with the title of “master of magical arts” in that kingdom and gained great respect among the members of the royal family, especially with the childless queen of Jiaodong, who presumably hoped the magician could help her give birth to a son. Nevertheless, when King Kang died, the queen still had not produced an heir, so noble titles were instead bequeathed to two sons born to King Kang’s concubines.

 Interestingly, instead of joining the courts of the new kings, Luan Da seemed to follow the widowed queen for several years after King Kang’s death. He may have also traveled to the domain of the queen’s brother, the marquis of Lecheng. Whatever the case, Luan Da would soon be moving away from the courts of petty kings and lords to begin a remarkable rise to great power and influence in the imperial capital.

 While Luan Da was in Jiaodong, a talented illusionist named Shaoweng had enthralled Emperor Wu with magical performances, especially by performing a trick where he seemingly conjured up the ghost of the emperor’s deceased concubine. Yet, Shaoweng made a fatal mistake in one of his performances—during a show where the magician found a mysterious note in a sacrificed ox’s stomach, the emperor realized with outrage that the handwriting on the note was that of Shaoweng. Realizing that the magician had fed the note to the ox before the fraudulent performance, the emperor immediately sent Shaoweng off to the executioners. Although the magician was indeed killed, Emperor Wu remained unwavering in his belief of magic and supernatural paths to immortality.

With the emperor’s favorite magician now dead, but his interest in magic in no way sated, it was the perfect environment for Luan Da to be introduced to the imperial court. With good reference from the former queen of Jiaodong and the marquis of Lecheng, Luan Da strolled into the capital city with his usual grandiosity and charisma. Before long, the smooth-talking and mystically-alluring magician had the emperor totally mesmerized.

Luan Da claimed to have great magical powers, and the way he said he obtained these skills was the stuff of Emperor Wu’s dreams. The magician told the emperor that he had studied under several immortals, although they apparently cut him off from their teachings because he was not of noble blood. In addition to being an acquaintance of immortals, Luan Da claimed that he had knowledge of an elixir of immortality—something that Emperor Wu was desperate to obtain. The magician also touted that he had knowledge of other supernatural talents, such as conjuring ghosts and using alchemy to create gold.

Although both the magician and the emperor wanted their partnership to go forward, the two men were cautious at first; Emperor Wu because he had recently dealt with a fraudulent magician, and Luan Da because the emperor had just executed someone in the magical line of work. The emperor and the magician both made demands of the other.  Emperor Wu wanted to see the prospective magician perform a feat of magic. Luan Da, however, wanted to be given certain protections, including a marriage to a woman of the imperial family, before he used any of the abilities taught to him by the immortals. Emperor Wu, as emperors usually do, got his way, and Luan Da was promised nothing until he could prove that he could really perform magic.

Emperor Wu’s challenge to Luan Da was something straight out of the world of Harry Potter—wizard’s chess. Sima Qian (c. 145-90 BCE), a Grand Historian and palace secretary to Emperor Wu, wrote, “In order to test Luan Da, the emperor instructed him to give a minor display of his magical powers by making some chessmen fight. When the board was set up, the chessmen were seen to rush against each other of their own accord” (Shi Ji 28). The emperor, who apparently thought it was authentic magic, eagerly brought Luan Da into his inner circle and began raining gifts and titles down on the magician.

Luan Da would become the most rewarded magician in Emperor Wu’s reign. He indeed was allowed to marry a woman of the imperial family—to Emperor Wu’s own daughter, Princess Wei, no less. He was also raised to the nobility by being named Marquis of Letong. Along with his prestigious marriage and his noble title, Luan Da was also given various other auspicious titles such as General of the First Profits, General of the Heavenly Man, General of the Earthly Man, General of the Great Way, and General of the Heavenly Way. These titles were apparently handed out in rapid fashion. Sima Qian wrote, “In no more than a few months from the time he was granted an audience with the emperor, Luan Da bore at his girdle six seals, those of his five generalships and his marquisate, and his honour awed the empire” (Shi Ji 28). The magician, of course, also obtained great tangible wealth with his titles, including a magnificent mansion, several ornate carriages, a thousand servants, and a huge treasure of gold.

Although Luan Da was living the good life, he was also facing increasing pressure. As a performer, he was expected to constantly show new kinds of magic, and, as an occult researcher, the emperor expected him to be making groundbreaking discoveries about immortals and immortality. Luan Da, however, had seemingly hit his limit with levitation tricks and ghost séances. With expectations rising and results dwindling, Luan Da decided it was time to take a sabbatical and left the capital city indefinitely.

As a pretense for his departure from the city, Luan Da claimed that he was leaving to meet with the immortals—after all, now that he was a nobleman with marriage ties to the imperial family, the immortals would surely divulge to him the highest levels of their magical knowledge. Yet, by then, the emperor was becoming suspicious. Luan Da was indeed allowed to journey off in search of the immortals, but Emperor Wu secretly sent spies to keep a watch on the magician’s every move. Those spies eventually brought Luan Da’s magical career to an end. Sima Qian wrote, “They reported that Luan Da had in fact met with no spiritual beings at all, and that the story of his going to visit his teacher was all nonsense. Since it seemed that Luan Da’s magical powers were exhausted, and since his claims in most cases were not borne out by the facts, the emperor had him executed” (Shi Ji 28). Sima Qian claimed that Luan Da was executed around the time of Emperor Wu’s campaign against Southern Yue, placing his death around 112 or 111 BCE.

Written by C. Keith Hansley.

Picture Attribution: (“Four Generals of Zhongxing” by Southern Song Dynasty artist Liu Songnian (1174–1224), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The Records of the Grand Historian (Shi ji) by Sima Qian, translated by Burton Watson. New York: Columbia University Press, 1993.

The Curious Tale Of Li Shaojun

Emperor Wu of Han (r. 141-87 BCE) was reportedly a very spiritual person who believed in all sorts of immortals, fairies and supernatural beings. As such, magicians, mystics and other claimants of otherworldly knowledge were prevalent in the emperor’s court. The fates of these men varied; some were granted great power and privilege, while others were quickly executed for fraud—and, of course, several met both fates, achieving remarkable influence before being later executed after one misstep. Yet, there were some magicians who won their renown in the imperial court and lived to enjoy their fame. Of this special group, one incredibly mysterious man stood high above his peers and even earned respect from some of his skeptical critics.

Sometime in the 130s BCE, perhaps around 133 BCE, a curious figure named Li Shaojun strolled into the life of Emperor Wu. The man was an elderly traveling magician and occult wiseman who roamed from region to region, performing all sorts of seemingly-magical deeds in exchange for shelter and sustenance from his patrons. Li Shaojun had no family, and, as far as anyone could tell, he had no ancestral ties to any region. Even his age was unknown—when asked, Li Shaojun always claimed he was seventy, but he had been making that same exact assertion for many years.

Although Li Shaojun ranked as one of the most believable magicians of Emperor Wu’s reign, he was not one for gaudy visual effects. He did not conjure ghosts, or cause inanimate objects to levitate, or do other such tangible displays of magic. Instead, Li Shaojun was more of a psychological magician, who astounded his audiences with knowledge about all sorts of information, both mundane and supernatural.

The Grand Historian and magician skeptic, Sima Qian (c. 145-90 BCE), recorded several feats supposedly done by Li Shaojun. One time, when the magician was being hosted by Marquis Tian Fen of Wuan (died approximately 131-130 BCE), the sly showman amazed the crowd by speaking reminiscently about one of the partygoer’s long-dead grandfathers. Sima Qian wrote, “he told one of the guests, an old man of over ninety, that he had gone with the man’s grandfather to such and such a place to practice archery. The old man had in fact, when he was a child, accompanied his grandfather, remembered visiting the place that Li Shaojun mentioned. With this the whole party was struck with amazement” (Shi Ji 28).

The magician brought his talent for knowing random facts about obscure objects and people to the imperial palace and used it to astound Emperor Wu. According to Sima Qian, when Li Shaojun first appeared in the imperial court, Emperor Wu tested the magician by bringing in an old, dusty bronze vessel. The emperor then asked the famous wiseman to identify it. Without pause, Li Shaojun matter-of-factly explained to the emperor that the item in question dated from the reign of Duke Huan of Qi, specifically the duke’s tenth year of rule (c. 676 BCE). Sima Qian described the scene, “When the inscription on the vessel was deciphered, it was found that it had in fact belonged to Duke Huan of Qi. Everyone in the palace was filled with astonishment and decided that Li Shaojun must be a spirit who had lived hundreds of years” (Shi Ji 28).

In addition to his specific knowledge of bygone people and archaic objects, Li Shaojun also had a reputation for being something of a prophet. In regards to many of the other prediction-based magicians, Sima Qian often bluntly accused them of fraud, or at least hinted that they were being manipulative. Yet, in the case of Li Shaojun, Sima Qian simply wrote that he “was clever at making pronouncements that were later found to have been curiously apt” (Shi Ji 28).

When Emperor Wu and Li Shaojun had become close friends, the magician reportedly began to teach the emperor about a peculiar six-step path to immortality. Step one, curiously enough, was to offer sacrifice to a fireplace until spirits came to inhabit it. With a holy fireplace in possession, you could proceed to step two—use the blessed fireplace to magically turn cinnabar into gold. After obtaining the miraculous cinnabar-gold, the third step was to have the magical metal crafted into a cup and plate. The fourth step, Li Shajun continued, was to regularly dine off of the magical tableware. This would allegedly give the emperor a prolonged lifespan, yet not immortality. Once the emperor felt his life was lengthened, he could embark on the fifth step, which was to travel to the Gulf of Bohai to search for a mythical island called Penglai.

According to popular legend, Penglai and other mythical islands in Bohai could be seen from a distance, but never reached—they were either floating in the sky or submerged under water, and if anyone ever did sail close to one of these otherworldly islands, sudden winds would blow the seekers off course. Yet, according to Li Shaojun, the emperor could reach the magical island of Penglai after having lengthened his life by eating and drinking from the cinnabar-gold plate and cup. The sixth and final step to immortality, which could be completed after reaching Penglai, was to enlist the help of the magical islanders to correctly complete a set of mystical ceremonies known as the Feng and Shan Sacrifices. With this completed, Li Shaojun promised, the emperor could become immortal.

Ironically, Li Shaojun reportedly died not long after he divulged his knowledge of immortality to Emperor Wu. Yet, the magician had such an aura of genuineness that his death did not disrupt Emperor Wu’s faith in Li Shaojun’s teachings. Sima Qian wrote, “The emperor, however, believed that he was not really dead but had transformed himself into a spirit, and he ordered Kuan Shu, a clerk from Huangchui, to carry on the magical arts which Li Shaojun had taught” (Shi Ji 28).

Emperor Wu, as may be expected, never was able to turn cinnabar into gold in his fireplace. Yet, he skipped ahead a few steps and launched numerous expeditions to find the magical island of Penglai—a goal, like the cinnabar-gold, that he was not able to achieve. In 110 BCE, however, Emperor Wu did claim to pull off his own version of the Feng and Shan sacrifices and, around 109 BCE, he had a magician named Gongsun Qing in his palace who claimed to have grown a so-called fungus of immortality. Nevertheless, no magician or magical fungi was able to stop Emperor Wu from aging—he died in 87 BCE.

Written by C. Keith Hansley.

Picture Attribution: (Album of the Yongzheng Emperor in Costumes (this time dressed as a Daoist magician), by anonymous court artists, Yongzheng period (1723—35), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The Records of the Grand Historian (Shi ji 28) by Sima Qian, translated by Burton Watson (pages 25-26 of his translation). New York: Columbia University Press, 1993.

Thangbrand Of Saxony, Olaf Tryggvason’s Murderous Priest

King Olaf Tryggvason (r. 995-1000) was not a particularly patient or compromising monarch in his efforts to make Christianity the state religion of Norway. He often brought overwhelming military power to public assemblies and forced his people to convert at sword point, then took hostages to keep them in line, and smashed representations of the Norse gods for good measure before moving on to the next pagan region. As bad often attracts bad, it is not surprising that other violent church figures found their way into the court of Olaf Tryggvason. In particular, a priest named Thangbrand was known to have been a chaotic and turbulent figure.

Thangbrand’s early history has been lost to time, but he was said to have been of Saxon origin. Njal’s Saga (c. 13th century) even claimed that he was the son of a certain Count Willibald of Saxony. Whatever his origin story, Thangbrand eventually traveled to Norway and became a court priest of Olaf Tryggvason. In Norwegian circles, Thangbrand gained a reputation of being admirable in study, but abysmal in social settings. The Icelandic historian, Snorri Sturluson (c. 1179-1241), summed up Thangbrand’s reputation as, “He was a man of great overbearing and much inclined to violence, but otherwise a good cleric and a brave fellow” (Heimskringla, Oláfs saga Tryggvasonar, chapter 73). Although Thangbrand did have some positive qualities, his negative quirks were too much for some members of the Norwegian court to bear—the king included. Therefore, King Olaf Tryggvason apparently concluded that the brave and ruthless Thangbrand was the perfect candidate to send off on a missionary trip to Iceland.

To the relief of Norwegian courtiers, Thangbrand set sail for Iceland in 997. A warrior named Gudleif (or Gudlaug) Arason was the priest’s companion on the mission, and, according to Njal’s Saga, they sailed on a ship called the Bison. The missionaries eventually landed in Álptafjord of the Eastfjord District of Iceland. There, Thangbrand continued his educated, but belligerent, ways. The Laxdæla Saga claimed, “He preached the Christian faith with both fair words and dire punishments” (section 41). He did succeed in converting several significant figures in Iceland, such as Hall of Sida, Gizur the White and Hjalti Skeggjason, yet Thangbrand’s antics created more enemies than friends. The Saxon priest became an extremely unpopular figure on the island, and witty skalds in Iceland started to write unflattering verses at Thangbrand’s expense.

Unfortunately for the Icelanders, the priest was in no way a forgive-and-forget Christian, and he lashed out at the poets in an extremely unpriestly way—murder. Virtually every source on Thangbrand claims that he killed at least two people in his short stay on Iceland. The Islendingabók of Ari the Learned (c. 1068-1148) claimed that Thangbrand killed two or three of the people who lampooned him, while Snorri Sturluson proposed it was three, and the embellished Njal’s Saga alleged that the priest slew at least five people. The skalds, Thorvald Veili and Vetrlidi, were the two victims on which most sources agreed. About those two, Snorri Sturluson wrote, “Thorvald Veili and the skald Vetrlidi composed scurrilous verses about Thangbrand, and he killed both” (Heimskringla, Oláfs saga Tryggvasonar, chapter 73).

As soon as Thangbrand began murdering poets in Iceland—a land prone to bloody feuds at that time—it became no longer safe for him to remain on the island. Assassination plots began to form among the priest’s enemies, and, by 999, Thangbrand decided to flee back to Norway. The same year, Gizur the White and Hjalti Skeggason (both Icelandic converts of Thangbrand) also fled to Norway. The latter of the two Icelanders had outraged his countrymen with a crass poem of his own, one that called the gods Odin and Freyja a pair of dogs.

When Thangbrand reported his failure in Iceland to King Olaf Tryggvason, the monarch did not give up his quest to convert the Icelanders to Christianity. The king quickly sent a second wave of missionaries to Iceland, led by the aforementioned Icelandic exiles. About this second group of proselytizers, Snorri Sturluson wrote, “he [Olaf Tryggvason] sent Gizur the White and Hjalti Skeggjason to Iceland to proclaim Christianity there, and with them a priest called Thormod and several other ordained men, but kept with him as hostages four Icelanders that seemed to him noblest” (Heimskringla, Oláfs saga Tryggvasonar, chapter 95). This second party of missionaries was much more successful and, aided by the fact that the Norwegian king was holding the sons of four prominent chieftains captive, they convinced the Icelanders to accept Christianity by 1000. As for Thangbrand, he apparently did nothing of note after his peculiar trip to Iceland and faded into history.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (A scene depicting King Olaf Tryggvason of Norway, by Peter Nicolai Arbo (1831–1892), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• Heimskringla, by Snorri Sturluson and translated by Lee Hollander. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1964, 2018.
• The Book of Settlements (Sturlubók version) translated by Hermann Pálsson and Paul Edwards. Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press, 1972, 2006. 
• Laxdæla saga by an unknown 13th century Icelander, translated by Keneva Kunz. New York: Penguin Classics, 2008. 
• Íslendingabók (ed. Jakob Benediktsson) in The Viking Age: A Reader, edited by Angus A. Somerville and R. Andrew McDonald. Ontario: University of Toronto Press, 2010. 
• https://www.pitt.edu/~dash/njal100.html 
• https://www.britannica.com/topic/Germanic-religion-and-mythology/Beliefs-practices-and-institutions#ref533322  

The Life Of St. Magnus And His Supernatural Revenge

Around 1098, the Norwegian crown placed Orkney under direct royal control, but Hakon Paulsson, the son of a formal jarl of the region, was appointed to govern Orkney within a year or two after Sigurd the Crusader became king of Norway in 1103. Jarl Hakon Paulsson was portrayed as a willing retainer of the Norwegian kings in the Orkneyinga saga. Yet, Hakon had a cousin called Magnus Erlendsson who was less enthusiastic about being ordered around. Instead of behaving like Hakon Paulsson and serving his Norwegian liege, Magnus Erlendsson fled to Scotland and found shelter with King Edgar (r. 1097-1107). Magnus’ stay in Scotland, however, was only temporary and he decided to return home not long after Jarl Hakon Paulsson was appointed as jarl of Orkney.

Like Hakon, Magnus Erlendsson’s father was also a former jarl of the islands and he intended to press his claim. Multiple jarls coexisting in Orkney was nothing new—according to the Orkneyinga saga, the practice of dividing the governance of Orkney into halves and thirds was at least a century old by that time. When Magnus Erlendsson arrived in Orkney, he had powerful friends that flocked to back his claim, and the island population seemed accepting to the idea of a second jarl. Hakon Paulsson was undoubtedly less than enthusiastic about sharing power with his cousin, but he was convinced to accept the Norwegian crown’s decision on whether Magnus Erlendsson should become a jarl. The claimant sailed to Norway around 1107 and, to Hakon’s disappointment, Magnus Erlendsson was recognized as a rightful jarl of Orkney.

As Jarl Magnus was later considered a saint, it is not surprising that he was described as a tremendously virtuous man. He reportedly avoided war at all cost—his self-imposed exile to Scotland was allegedly done so that he would not be forced to go on Viking raids with his liege.  Yet, when it came to upholding law, Jarl Magnus was a staunch defender of the people, going to great lengths to hunt down thieves and murderers. He strove to help the poor and was never stingy with his wealth. As for Magnus’ personal life, he married a Scottish noblewoman, but he publicly behaved with such purity and restraint that the people of Orkney swore that he remained chaste during the entirety of the marriage.

After several years of joint rule, Jarl Hakon and Jarl Magnus found that they no longer could coexist. For unknown reasons, the faction of Hakon Paulsson began a civil war against the supporters of Magnus Erlendsson. Both sides eventually agreed to a peace meeting on Egilsay, which was set to occur just after Easter. Both jarls agreed to arrive on the island with only two ships. Magnus Erlendsson followed the prearranged agreement to the letter, sailing with a pair of ships and a limited amount of guards. Jarl Hakon, however, arrived with eight ships and captured Magnus without a fight. With his rival in his grasp, Hakon showed no mercy and ordered that Magnus be executed. According to legend, Hakon had a difficult time forcing his soldiers to carry out the order against such a virtuous man—one executioner was said to have refused the job outright and the replacement headsman allegedly began to cry as he prepared for his task. Nevertheless, Jarl Magnus, himself, was said to have consoled the executioner, forgave him for his sin, and encouraged him to swing true. In 1117, apparently with soldiers singing hymns in the background, Jarl Magnus Erlendsson was executed and Hakon seized the whole of Orkney. After the deed was done, Jarl Magnus’ body was brought to Mainland, Orkney, and entombed at Christ Church.

Magnus was proclaimed a saint in Orkney before the end of the century. Interestingly, although he had been a very peaceful man during life, the tales of St. Magnus’ postmortem miracles became quite vengeful, especially against anyone who mistreated him during life or neglected his shrine and relics after his death. Here are several accounts of St. Magnus’ supernatural payback that are mentioned in the Orkneyinga saga:

1) Although St. Magnus had forgiven his executioners during life, he apparently changed his mind after his death. According to the Orkneyinga saga, “the story goes that in general the men most deeply involved in the betrayal of the Holy Jarl Magnus died cruel and violent deaths” (chapter 52). Jarl Hakon Paulsson, however, must have been forgiven by St. Magnus, for he lived a long life and died of natural causes in his bed.

2) On another occasion, the spirit of St. Magnus apparently believed that his body was not being properly venerated and was disappointed that none of his relics had been displayed in the church. Therefore, Bishop William of Orkney was said to have been supernaturally stricken with blindness and he only regained his sight after swearing that he would prepare relics of Saint Magnus and place them in a prominent location in the sanctuary. St. Magnus even supposedly helped out the churchmen as they excavated his body: “When they started digging they found that the coffin had already almost reached the surface” (Orkneyinga saga, chapter 57). With the remains exhumed, Bishop William picked the choicest relics and placed them with honor above the altar in Christ Church.

3) A certain man of Shetland named Thord Dragon-Jaw reportedly refused to stop working on the day of St. Magnus’ Mass. When the over-achiever stopped for a while to have a drink, he went completely insane. Thord’s employer, Bergfinn, was convinced that the madness was St. Magnus’ doing. Therefore, dutiful Bergfinn donated silver to the shrine of St. Magnus on Thord’s behalf and also held a three-night vigil for his crazed employee. Eventually, the silver and vigils placated St. Magnus and Thord was cured after six or more days of insanity.

4) Another Shetlander named Sigrid made the same mistake as Thord Dragon-Jaw and St. Magnus once again retaliated. As the story goes, the dreaded St. Magnus’ Mass was approaching and poor Sigrid had not finished her daily allotment of sewing. She was convinced that she could finish before nightfall, but, alas, when the final string was sewn, it was already dark. St. Magnus struck her with madness as punishment for disregarding his holy day. Sigrid’s friend, Thorlak, brought her to the shrine of St. Magnus and cast lots to decide whether she should offer money to the shrine, free a slave, or go on pilgrimage to Rome in exchange for being cured. The cast determined that St. Magnus preferred the pilgrimage option and Sigrid was immediately cured. Once she had come to her senses, Sigrid immediately left for Rome.

5) St. Magnus did not abide theft in life and continued to despise thieves after death. According to the Orkneyinga saga, a man named Gilli and an unnamed accomplice from Orkney stole gold from the shrine of St. Magnus. In response, the saint unleashed his wrath on the thieves. Gilli reportedly drowned at sea, but the accomplice was attacked by St. Magnus’ signature holy madness. The madman, who uncontrollably mumbled confessions about his crime, was brought to the shrine of St. Magnus and vows were made on the man’s behalf that if he recovered, he would go on a pilgrimage to Rome. St. Magnus apparently accepted the promise and the man’s madness was lifted.

Written by C. Keith Hansley.

Picture Attribution: (A scene of Olaf Tryggvason, by Peter Nicolai Arbo (1831–1892), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• Orkneyinga Saga, written anonymously approximately c. 1200, translated by Hermann Pálsson and Paul Edwards. New York: Penguin Classics, 1981.
• http://www.orkneyjar.com/history/stmagnus/magnus2.htm 
• https://catholicsaints.info/saint-magnus-of-orkney/  

Imhotep—The Man Who Engineered His Own Divinity

In the 27th century BCE, there lived an incredible man named Imhotep. He was a commoner who arose to great prominence by impressing King Djoser, the second ruler of Egypt’s Third Dynasty, with his sheer genius in multiple fields of study. Imhotep was evidently a polymath who made groundbreaking discoveries and advancements in areas such as medicine, math, engineering, theology, and even art. The massive impact of his ideas on ancient Egypt was comparable in scope and importance to that of Aristotle in Greece and Confucius in China.

Leucothea—A Mortal Greek Woman Of Myth Said To Have Become A Goddess

Among the exclusive club of Greek deities that could claim to have originally been mortal humans was an interesting immortal named Leucothea the White Goddess. She began her days as a proud Greek princess in an important Boeotian city, but, after a life of tragedy and madness, she became a protective goddess of the sea.

The Life Of Saint Patrick And Nennius’ Extravagant Statistics About His Career

Saint Patrick is credited with spreading the Christian religion into ancient Ireland in the 5th century. The traditionally-accepted account of his life follows the Confessio, a brief autobiography supposedly written by St. Patrick, himself.

According to the Confessio, St. Patrick was the son of a Roman citizen named Calpurnius. His family had some wealth, as they lived in a home that could be described as a small villa, located in a settlement called Bannavem Taburniae, somewhere on mainland Britain. Patrick’s father, Calpunius, was a clergyman, as was Patrick’s grandfather before him. Yet, Patrick, like many preachers’ sons, confessed to having little to no interest in religion during his early years of life.

Everything changed when Patrick reached the age of sixteen. In a twist of fate that would change the world, the secular-minded Patrick was taken captive by a band of Irish raiders. The young teen was taken back to Ireland, where he was forced to work in the pastures. In the Confessio, Patrick claimed to have been forced to watch over his captors’ animals for six long years.