When you think of Vikings, you probably picture fearless warriors with axes, longships, and just enough personal hygiene to terrify the nearest monastery. Since you are a reader of Commonplace Fun Facts, you may also give some thought to the Viking who inspired Bluetooth technology. What you probably don’t imagine is a Viking chieftain squinting at a map, mumbling, “I think that’s Rome,” and proceeding to raid the wrong city. Yet here we are.

Join us for the story of Hastein (sometimes written as Hásteinn), a man who set out to sack Rome, but he had one little problem. His navigational skills were so questionable that he became famous for conquering the wrong capital. It’s the ninth-century equivalent of putting “Venice” into your GPS and ending up at Uncle Vinny’s Venice Pizza Buffet and Payday Loan.

Meet Hastein: The Viking With a Terrible Sense of Direction

In the 850s, Hastein was one of those Scandinavian overachievers who looked at a map of Europe and saw nothing but opportunities for plunder. He and his crew raided France, Spain, and North Africa before setting their sights on Italy. Somewhere between “Let’s go south” and “We’ll know Rome when we see it,” things went sideways—geographically speaking.

Hastein and, according to some chronicles, Björn Ironside, decided to go global—or at least Mediterranean. They terrorized the coasts of Spain, made a nuisance of themselves in North Africa, and took a scenic detour through the French Riviera. Then they aimed for the big prize: Rome itself, the Eternal City. You can practically hear the motivational speech over the crash of waves: “Men, we’re going to make history!” And he did, just not the kind he expected.

The Great Misfire: When “Rome” Turned Out to Be Luna

In 859, Hastein’s fleet found a fortified city gleaming in the sun. Marble ruins, Latin inscriptions—close enough. The Vikings, not exactly known for humility, declared it Rome and got to work. Unfortunately, it was actually Luna, a modest coastal town in Tuscany whose main export that day was confusion.

According to later sagas, Hastein pulled off one of the boldest scams in Viking lore. Pretending to be on his deathbed, he sent word to Luna’s bishop that he’d found religion and wanted a Christian burial. The bishop, touched by this alleged deathbed conversion, opened the gates. The “corpse” was carried to the altar… whereupon Hastein dramatically leapt up, sword in hand, and turned the funeral into a massacre. Historians suspect embellishment, but honestly, if you’re going to attack the wrong city, you might as well do it with flair.

Did Vikings sack Rome? Certainly not under Hastein’s leadership. Whether he truly thought Luna was the Eternal City or simply upgraded his résumé afterward is anyone’s guess. If he did lie about it, he was hardly the last man in history to fudge travel details for prestige. About a thousand years later, Gregor MacGregor made a fortune off of selling real estate and travel packages to a fictitious country, but that’s a story for another article.

How Do You Mistake Tuscany for Rome?

Let’s be fair: navigating the Mediterranean in the ninth century was no walk in the fjord. These men relied on the sun, stars, and hope. One wrong current, one overconfident helmsman, and your world domination tour ends in the wrong postal code. Luna looked ancient enough, had marble ruins, and probably smelled faintly of regret—easy mistake.

We also feel compelled to point out that all of Hastein’s crew were men, so we can confidently state that not one of them was willing to stop and ask for directions from the locals.

Besides, there’s every chance Hastein didn’t care. “Rome” sounded impressive. “Luna” sounded like a space camp for the spoiled children of Roman senators. Maybe he went with the version that would look better in the sagas. That’s not deception—it’s branding.

Saga or Spin? Separating Legend From Latitude Error

The “fake funeral” story shows up only in later chronicles—exactly the kind that turned history into a moral fable about barbarian cunning and Christian naiveté. The earlier records confirm the raid on Luna but skip the coffin theatrics. In other words, we may be looking at an early form of clickbait: “You’ll never believe the story of the Viking who invaded the wrong city!” or “Let me tell you about the Viking who faked his death to get past the city walls!”

But the legend endured because it’s irresistible. It has everything—trickery, irony, and one glorious misunderstanding. Even the monks who chronicled Viking atrocities couldn’t resist adding a little cinematic flair. The result? Hastein became the Norse equivalent of that overconfident traveler who proudly insists he doesn’t need directions—right up until he realizes that his plans to enjoy his vacation by going to Tahiti resulted in him going to Haiti.

The Aftermath: When Life Gives You Luna

Despite the mix-up, Hastein’s Mediterranean campaign was a roaring success. He looted, survived, and returned north richer than he’d left. In an age when half of every expedition ended with everyone dead or enslaved, “accidentally sacked wrong city” counted as a win. Back home, tavern storytellers were still spinning the tale long after the bruises faded.

Some historians think Hastein later hit England and Normandy, continuing his career as Europe’s most directionally challenged marauder. Others suggest the Luna story was entirely fabricated to explain scattered Italian accounts of Viking raids. Either way, the man became a legend—a reminder that ambition and confusion make excellent travel companions.

The Moral of the Story (Because There’s Always One)

History loves confidence. Facts? Less so. The story of Hastein’s wrong-city raid is really a parable about human optimism: the same force that drives explorers, inventors, and anyone who’s ever said “I know a shortcut.” We all think we’re heading for Rome, but more often than not, we end up in Luna—and we tell ourselves it was on purpose.

So if you ever take a wrong turn, remember Hastein. He mistook Tuscany for the Eternal City and somehow made it legendary. Not bad for a man without a compass. When life gives you Luna, call it Rome—and make sure someone writes it down as a win.

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