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Early Post-Roman Europe Synthesized

Chris Wickham, Framing the Early Middle Ages: Europe and the Mediterranean, 400-800. New York: Oxford University Press, 2006.

For those historians with the interest and the patience to closely explore the factors leading to the Medieval world, consider Oxford historian Chris Wickham’s Framing the Early Middle Ages. A massive book (at a whopping 831 pages of proper text – to say nothing of the 110 page bibliography – it is 138 pages longer than Dante’s Divine Comedy, 101 pages longer than Grimm’s complete fairy tales, 64 pages longer than the complete Chronicles of Narnia, and if compared to my copy of The Lord of the Rings, a comparative page count would land the reader somewhere around the Battle of the Pelennor Fields), it is as detailed as its breadth will allow, spanning four hundred years of Europe after Rome and looking at nearly every region from the Pillars of Hercules to the Nile Delta. Wickham’s take on the world is one of economics and social constructs, forsaking church councils and political history for the gritty world of peasants and aristocrats, markets and towns, charting the progression from Rome’s fall in the fifth century to the formulation of the early European kingdoms in the ninth.

By taking a broad look at the post-Roman world, Wickham seeks to avoid unsightly teleologies (arguments that history has an ultimate end, such as capitalism, the Reformation, or the European Union) that must – in his view – come about through too narrow an examination. Wickham divides the post-Roman world into three parts: the eastern and western halves of the Mediterranean, and the “North,” which includes the British Isles and Denmark, but occasionally Francia. Despite such divisions, the whole work is a look at the Big Picture. Wickham is very good at what he does, viewing such broad subjects as church growth, Viking raids, and the roller coaster ride of the aristocracy as large movements that shape his world, preferring these over individuals and events; written records, lives of prominent men, and archeological finds are all stitched into the survey canvas, never a one taken as the marker of world change. Yet while Wickham wishes to avoid teleologies, he ascribes to a sort of reverse-teleology: it all began with the decline of Rome.

Although nationalistic politics are not the focus of his work, Wickham takes his fellow historians to task whenever the opportunity arises. On the hotly debated topic of Decline and Fall, Wickham adheres most strongly to the continuity argument, encouraging historians to look beyond their teleologies and accept that Roman military defeat and loss of lands did not necessarily translate into political death. Wickham sees a great deal of continuity in the post-Roman world – while acknowledging its confusion – such as the “strikingly ordinary” will of an aristocrat in the 530s, whose holdings, though of no great size, nonetheless resembled that of earlier estates. As for when estates and villas did vanish, Wickham cites C.R. Whittaker as he argues for the “destruction” of the traditional villa only in the sense that it came to reflect local peasant values rather than those of the leisure senatorial class. Even population decline, to which Wickham admits, is turned around to bolster his continuity argument, pointing out that the areas in the West that lost population were largely peripheral and thinly peopled to begin with, and in cases of total transformation he argues for consistent habitation under merely new forms of material culture and language.

Wickham might be said to adhere to a “soft decline” model, observing the continuity of cities where the curial class simply abandoned its tax-raising role and town authority devolved into a hierarchy of “leading men” as imperial authority waned. In a similar vein, in his book Barbarians to Angels, Peter S. Wells criticized the notion that demonumentalization of cities bespeaks of European decline, arguing instead that the locals simply had other needs once monument-loving Rome receded from the West. Wickham agrees with this conclusion in his look at the Syrian town Scythopolis and later points out the ongoing presence of regional urban elites – to say nothing of Italian towns that have hosted populations up to the present day. Where Wickham does see substantial and total collapse of the Roman heritage is in England, a view that lines up nicely with that held by Bryan Ward-Perkins. However, despite the severe decline in Roman standards, Wickham notes that British “field systems have often been shown to pre-date even the Romans.” Indeed, the peasants seem to have experienced the smoothest ride of all Rome’s abandoned subjects.

Wickham defines peasants as settled cultivators and pastoralists who control a measure of their own resources and labor, as compared to slaves, who utterly lack any claim to land and liberty. Much of Wickham’s book might be considered an apology for peasants, who were not always the servile rustics one pictures from novels or Hollywood movies, but could be wealthy, contributing members of society, many donating land to the Church. They were also rather free in the period from AD 400 to 800: political fragmentation throughout the post-Roman world was a boon to peasants as the level of autonomy enjoyed at the local level was proportionate to fragmentation of the state. Such freedom came in varying degrees. In northern Italy, though dominated by the aristocracy, peasants still apparently had the ability to choose whom to approach for patronage, and Wickham cites a number of them exercising the right to testify in a court case involving their patron. Conversely, in the Ile de France peasants were almost completely under the domination of their landlords, working estates owned by the aristocracy. On the far opposite end of the spectrum are the towns of the Eastern Mediterranean, such as Aphrodito, which was completely in the hands of medium to rich land-owning peasants, and Jeme with its nearly omnipotent headman.

Control of labor is a prominent theme throughout Framing the Early Middle Ages and there were extremes of labor control: on the micromanaging end Wickham finds late-Roman Senator Palladius’ Opus agriculturae, a manual on the surveillance of one’s tenants for the purposes of improvement; on the opposite end of the spectrum rests a Bavarian law code that left tenants to their own devices, the lord simply providing the seeds for planting and reaping the rewards come harvest time. Wickham’s inner Socialist comes out in his glowing yet pragmatic description of (mostly) egalitarian villages where surplus wealth was shared out amongst the less fortunate so as to maintain social appreciation and cohesion. Such households often had un-free laborers attached to them, especially in England, Ireland, and Scandinavia, but unfortunately for his Marxist model, Wickham reports that the evidence supposes that class exploitation did not occur – at least not on a large-enough scale to matter. But despite this supposed lack of exploitation, the stress of free versus un-free makes frequent appearances throughout Wickham’s work, and though most of the un-free help – an amount left undefined – were merely tenants and arguably had the liberty to own possessions, they nonetheless had no public rights – indeed, mutilation by masters was a debatable topic amongst the seventh century Visigoths. Moreover, it would seem that the West was a less-free place than the rather autonomous East. But what autonomy existed in the whole of the formerly Roman world was eventually eclipsed by aristocratic rule as the aristocracy consolidated their hold, translated the peasant mode of production to that of a feudal society, and reduced the remaining holdouts of peasant freedom.

Crucial to Wickham’s reverse-teleology is the Roman aristocracy, having established itself in the empire as the rightful rulers and leisure class. A part of the Roman aristocratic pedigree was their advanced education, an anomaly, in Wickham’s eyes, in the history of the world’s otherwise violent rulers. However, the elites owed their power to the Empire. In the West, the fall of Rome precipitated a dramatic social alteration in the upper classes. Dislocated from their old power and abandoned by a receding empire, these worthies were forced to adopt increasingly militant lifestyles and identities, or else join the Church – though Wickham is careful to point out that militarization did not necessarily mean “Germanization,” as many Gallic aristocrats retained their Roman culture. More important for the European aristocracy was the ownership of land, which went towards furthering their militant, political, and ecclesiastical goals. Where the Roman senatorial class had held stupendous amounts of private land, in the post Roman world the aristocracy was largely divided between those who managed to continue the Roman model of land owning, and those whose land-ownership vanished, if ever it existed at all. In Gaul/Francia, there was general continuity, with some aristocrats lording over properties held across the realm and others restricted to within a district. This latter state was mirrored in Lombard Italy, a fractious region, where holding territories outside of a small area was almost non-existent. In the East, the picture was somewhat different. For a start, the political systems were consistently stable and as such allowed more options for the aristocracy, largely broken down into the categories of town and military, the latter becoming increasingly important, just as in the West.

Throughout his book, Wickham demonstrates a wise – if sometimes obsessive – drive to cover his tracks, examining every argument and heading off counterarguments so as to bolster his position. This has its pros and cons. On the one hand, it certainly serves to cement Wickham’s credibility. He admits to choosing to focus on subjects of personal interest and knowledge and professes respect and appreciation for other forms of research into the social sciences. Wickham seems to know his own limitations and is upfront when appropriate, admitting when he has no understanding of languages and pointing out his own hypotheses. He also takes his time to justify his opinions in light of rival research or insufficient evidence, and routinely directs the reader to other chapters that will further understanding of a subject. But however helpful Wickham may think it to work his way out of any corners in which his colleagues might wish to trap him, the sheer amount of ink wasted on such asides – many of them quite lengthy and pointless – derails the flow of the chapter, distracting the reader from the content.

But the most negative aspect of Framing the Early Middle Ages is its readability. Wickham is an outstanding historian and a fine author, yet his book reads with terrible monotony, the history devolving into sterile, fleshless survey. Of particular note amongst the few exceptions is an anecdotal portrayal of an admittedly fictional northern European town called Malling. Here Wickham tweaks his style by launching into a detailed examination of the evolving social patterns within the imaginary village, of headmen and patronage, and what the villagers hear of changes in other towns. Stuffed unceremoniously in between his more conventional – and factual – discussions of peasant social norms, the Malling episode is jarring, yet more enlightening and entertaining than the rest of the chapter and reveals to the reader the greatest weakness of the book.

For such a work, narrative may be considered an extraneous superficiality, yet Framing the Early Middle Ages badly needs one. Peter Heather, writing along similar lines in his Empires and Barbarians, somehow pulled it off. But more than narrative, what is especially left wanting in Wickham’s book is a more lively delivery – again, achieved stunningly in Heather. Though Framing the Early Middle Ages’s usefulness as an outstanding resource should not be ignored, the lack of vitality on the page runs the risk of numbing turning away readers less committed to battling their way through unforgivingly dull and often repetitive prose. To be more than a good book, a survey must be lively. In this, Wickham disappoints.

For better or for worse, Rome fell, yet from its collapse sprang the kingdoms of Christendom and the societies that shaped the world of today. Though hardly exhaustive insofar as each subdivision of early European history is concerned, there are likely few other works that can boast such expansive and well-organized synthesis than Framing the Early Middle Ages. Though dry, this book in invaluable for anyone who wants a clearer understanding of the building blocks of the Middle Ages.

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Lewis' Crucible

David L. Lewis, God’s Crucible: Islam and the Making of Europe, 570-1215. New York: W.W. Norton, 2008.

If ever a historian swooned over Islam, it was David Levering Lewis. In God’s Crucible, Lewis explores the rise of Islam in opposition to Europe and considers the possibility that the pivotal Battle of Poitiers in 732 was hardly a victory, but rather the lost potential of a Islamicized Europe, one where learning, sophisticated economies, and religious toleration would have sped up progress by several hundred years. Lewis strives to prove this thesis through a detailed history that demonstrates how Iberian Islam developed and influenced the budding medieval West and how, through the victory at Poitiers, Europe missed out on what he considers true greatness.

“Islam rose when Rome fell,” and so begins a high speed, yet detailed recounting of the declining Empire. The Rome of Lewis’ history is a monster with a troubled past, hell-bent on perpetuating a never-ending war with its equally hubristic neighbor, Persia. Together they dominate the known world, relegating the rather uninteresting Arabian Peninsula to the sidelines of trade and proxy struggles. Everything changes in the mid-seventh century when messengers arrive in the empires’ capitals, warning of the imminent arrival of Islam. The familiar story plays out in lively fashion until the reeling Constantinople is all that stands in the way of Islam’s advance.

Juxtaposed against the vivacious new empire is the badly declined West, a good two hundred years into barbarian domination. Beginning with reference to Belgian historian Henri Pirenne’s thesis of an Europe isolated by Arab domination of the Mediterranean, Lewis proceeds to outline the barbarian migrations into the Western Empire, paying especial attention to the Iberian Visigoths that are forerunners to the Islamic invasion of the peninsula. The same comes about in 711 as a disgruntled chieftain invites Muslim mercenaries over the straights of Gibraltar, whereupon they quickly subdue the peninsula for the Dar al-Islam.

Lewis looks upon the fallen West, its Roman institutions in shambles, and gives the very good impression that he envisions a land ripe for salvation at Muslim hands, an opportunity that it is not about to accept. Lewis unapologetically ascribes to the Brian Ward-Perkins school of Imperial decline and fall, viewing the careening descent of Rome as the death of a civilization. Europe by 476 has become a brutish land of hulking and feral barbarian warlords, its immigrant peoples best represented by the lawless and wild Saxons, “Allergic to civilization and immune to Christianity in their veneration of the gods of Walhalla.” In this harsh world, Clovis rises as king of his Frankish people, Salic Law in hand, breaking free of the old Roman mold to create a “European mindset.” But Lewis remains unforgiving, sniffing at the Merovingian dynasty, so lovingly detailed in Patrick J. Geary’s Before France and Germany, and pairing it down to “a succession of Chilperics, Dagoberts, Clothaires, and Sigiberts, as politically impotent in their final decades as they were symbolically indispensable.” Indispensable to their puppet-masters, perhaps, but not to Lewis. There is no mention of the complex and oft-violent hierarchy of episcopal politics that characterized Geary’s narrative; indeed, the church is left to flounder until the coming of Charles Martel and Charlemagne. The former Charles, Clovis’ descendant by politics and perhaps by blood, swiftly takes center stage just in time to intercept the first Muslim jihad into Francia. The first blow struck in Francia is actually turned away at Toulouse by a minor Frankish noble, Odo, but injured Muslim pride and a kind of Oriental Manifest Destiny assures a second invasion warranting pan-Frankish collaboration. Yet it is not famous Poitiers in 732, but Toulouse in 721 that saved Christendom, as it gave the nation-states the time required to become a military match for Islam. Nor is Poitiers the last battle for control of Francia: Odo gets a last hurrah in defeating the next assault sent to avenge Poitiers and thereafter the Franks engage in long defensive campaigns that result in the devastation of Gaul and the mutual bloodying of both powers. Yet Lewis doggedly adheres to his mantra that Islam can do no wrong by writing off the numerous Muslim defeats in France as the desultory bickering of neighbors, the real salvation of Europe being brought about solely by a distracting Berber uprising in Iberia and North Africa. By contrast, as the stupendous Carolingian crusade that Charlemange eventually leads into Iberia is similarly derailed by Saxon troubles back home, Lewis glibly asserts that it was Islamic martial prowess, not distraction, that turned back the first Christian counter-attack even before a proper war could be fought. To Lewis, all causation and agency is firmly in the Muslims’ hands.

The eventual withdrawal of the jihad marks the beginning of a power struggle that signals the rise of an Iberia independent of the Dar al-Islam where Lewis depicts the legendary convivencia that supposedly existed between Muslims, Christians, and Jews, a contrast with the violently intolerant Christian rulers whose mounting atrocities culminate in Charlemagne, who even goes so far as to invade Iberia in his abortive proto-crusade. After Charlemagne’s retreat, Europe strengthens itself – though Lewis ponders whether it would have been better to just capitulate – and Iberia goes on its utopian way of self-improvement. The Pyrenees become a boundary of intermittent and unending warfare between Muslims and the Christian mountain kingdoms. What follows is the Spanish Reconquista of Iberia, a time of “reciprocally reassuring ignorance and … an addiction to war as the substitute for the complexities of coexistence.” This assumes that “coexistence” – see “Islamic rule” – was preferable to Christian independence.

The doomed hero of God’s Crucible is not a man, but a nation: Andalusia, Islam in Europe, a caliphal state that is more than willing to share its cultural achievements if the Franks will but humble their overweening pride and submit to Islamic lordship. Within the hallowed urban halls, along the paved colonnades, and in the gentle shades of its imported palms the three monotheisms (Judaism, Christianity, and Islam) enjoy “interdependence that was to distinguish Islam in Iberia for several centuries. But for such a peaceful land of coexistence, one might wonder why the abortive Carolingian campaign of 770s stirred up “Unrest among the amir’s Christian populations.” This subtle contradiction is representative of a problem running throughout God’s Crucible.

Lewis permits himself a curious idealism regarding Islam, signaling his preference by calling the Christian calendar “presumptuous” – despite adhering to the Common Era designation that follows the exact same dating system – and almost religiously delivering his dates in pairs, first the Common Era and then the anno Hegirae (AH), dated from Islam’s founding exodus from Mecca. Much of the rhetoric is merely passing – Clovis and Charlemagne are cast in the “hulking” mold of their ancestral Odoacers, while the Muslim philosopher kings are descendants of astute businessmen – but Lewis goes to great broken-record lengths to prove his tolerance thesis, largely ignoring the fiscal tyranny of Islam, which results in a popular revolt when a Spanish ruler raises taxes. Indeed, Lewis takes great liberties with his assumptions, even claiming (without a footnote) that if one had taken a poll after an unusual Christian uprising in Spain, “all faiths would have shown an overwhelming disapproval.” What Lewis means is that he cannot fathom why Christians living under the yoke of Islam would ever dream of objecting.

To bolster his shaky claims, Lewis carefully juxtaposes Christian violence with Muslim tolerance, the latter allegedly made possible through the dhimmi system, a protection racket by which non-Muslim subjects faced extortion (the infamous jizya tax) and severe social constraints in exchange for religious freedom. Lewis cheerfully lists the strict proscriptions against religious expression, legal sanctions, and social restrictions, briskly passing over them all as “a considerable improvement” when compared to the way that Christians treated one another. Lewis expects his readers to believe that such restrictive living was preferable to that of Christian lands, yet vilifies the Christian Visigoths for committing nearly identical crimes against their indigenous Spanish Jews. It is indeed curious to note that, for all its supposed toleration, Islam oversaw speedy conversions across the empire (causing the rulers to worry about the loss of jizya income ), where just a generation before the people had been risking life and limb in avoiding conversion to merely a different form of Christianity. Ultimately, the rhetoric is shamelessly in favor of Islam: when the Muslims conquered half the known world and more besides, they simply brought unity and progressive society to a crumbling civilization. But when the Christians go a-crusading into Spain and Palestine, Lewis calls them “homicidal.”

Insofar as reading material is concerned, God’s Crucible is a brilliant book. Engaging, authoritatively delivered, and chatty, it makes strong claims with some reasonable arguments entering the picture even as Lewis wistfully imagines an Islamic world without Carolingia. Where it falls short in its central argument, it more than makes up the difference insofar as the condensation of seven hundred years of history is concerned. As for its more problematic declarations, few books on the subject are as likely to encourage further reading.

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Stranded Barbarians & Disjoined Angels

Peter S. Wells, Barbarians to Angels: The Dark Ages Reconsidered. New York: W.W. Norton &
Company, 2008.

The ongoing debate over Rome’s fall gained a new addition in 2008 in the form of Barbarians to Angels. Herein, author Peter S. Wells, a professor of archeology and expert on that which pertains to Europe, argues that the disappearance of Rome was due to changes rather than collapse and that the so-called Dark Ages was an era of vibrant cultural development and “was anything but dark.” Wells delivers a whirlwind tour of archeological sites and discoveries ranging from the early 400s to Charlemagne’s 8th century and reaching across northwestern Europe from Britain to Transylvania. Considering the volume of information covered, this book is a great overview of the evidence available to archeologists, but its very reliance upon archeology is also a weakness. Wells’ book is not so much history as an examination of evidence and after 202 pages of loosely categorical chapters the reader is left with an incomplete picture of what was really happening in the years after Rome.

The emphasis on “change” over “collapse” or “decline” is a phenomenon perhaps best demonstrated through the development of cities. Though Rome, Regensburg, Mainz, and Cologne get relatively brief examinations, London receives a whole chapter. The city grew up from humble beginnings and enjoyed a great deal of popularity as a trade center, especially after Roman improvement. Raided cemeteries allow archeologists to examine the lives of the early Londoners, and Wells reports that skeleton sampling shows how the city folk enjoyed good nutrition and a relatively safe environment. With the fall of Rome to Alaric in 410, London certainly seemed to collapse, yet Wells argues for a mere transformation rather than an out-and-out breakdown. He addresses the appropriation of monumental stonework for later building projects and the presence of “dark earth” that was supposedly laid down at that time and claims from the finds there that London was not truly abandoned but altered by the new needs of her occupants. Indeed, under Anglo-Saxon rule the city reveals a continuing trade and the presence of an upper-class, despite the new wattle-and-daub housing projects that characterized the town. Problematically, this calls into question Wells’ reasoning that London had not in fact declined: though the upper-class remained, as did the production of trade goods, does the rise of such rustic structures as found in the dark earth and the reduction of grand imperial edifices not suggest that Rome did indeed decline, at least in Britain? Wells’ counter is that modern critics are biased thanks to the large buildings of the present day.

Wells’ examination of the changing European cultures of the Dark Ages is just as enlightening, and just as prone to uncertainty. Contrary to what one might expect, it would seem that the Dark Ages was a time of relative plenty, a period both innovative and thriving. Agriculture dramatically improved after Rome’s fall as the 5th and 6th centuries saw the widespread use of the moldboard plow, which, along with the new horse collar and a crop rotation system, revolutionized European farming. In addition, new centers of commerce opened in the north between the 5th and 9th centuries, notably Gudme, off the coast of modern Denmark. Along with its neighboring port Gudme developed from the 1st century to become a vibrant trade center, importing pottery, glass, and Roman coin, while playing host to profitable ironworks. Within this bountiful new environment, Wells gives identity and wealth a great deal more attention than the Dark Age peasants; they get their face time in the chapter on agriculture, but throughout the book ornate brooches and similar adornments are examined in detail, as they are a means of telling how barbarians saw themselves. Brooches and other “pop” items depicted stylized humans and animals, what is called Germanic art today, and this style seemed to parallel the rise of new, post-Roman nations that made themselves known in the 5th and 6th centuries. Curiously, Wells does not seem concerned that the “flourishing” art of post-Roman Europe was only patronized by the elites. In his gushing examination of decorative metalwork, Wells introduces the reader to new designs that were prominent in the Dark Ages, picking out brooches from a “richly appointed grave,” the helm from the Sutton Hoo – a famous ship burial that gets a lot of attention in this book – and the ornate Ardagh Chalice from a church in Ireland. It certainly stands to reason that only the affluent of any society would be able to indulge in such finery, but the very nature of the new art leads one to wonder whether the Dark Ages really did see a decline in wealth at the middle-class level along with their cities. That is not to say that some of the upper middle-class were not well off; more graves yield information regarding the smiths of the era, including one fellow who dealt in silver and sterner weapons and had tools small enough to travel, fitting well with his dual role as a mobile warrior.

In what is perhaps the most intriguing aspect of Barbarians to Angels, change and vibrant culture come together in Christianity. Consistent with his strictly cultural approach, Wells’ handles religion in the context of how it changed over time – all politics aside. Wells demonstrates that Christianity merged and blended with the local traditions and customs of the newly converted lands, the discovery of another beloved grave pointing to such a blend. Items buried with the deceased show an interesting combination of Christian symbols with those of ostensibly pagan origin, notably stylized animals. Wells admits that the rise of animals in post-Roman iconography goes unexplained, though religious interpretations are applicable – perhaps the pre-historic association of the animals was a pagan reaction to the new Christian faith. While certainly possible, the alternative of mere identification seems to go un-addressed. After all, such association with animals is not strictly pagan – the Lion of Judah is a famous associate of the Jewish nation and the dove is often chosen to personify the Holy Spirit. More obvious religious blending appears in the appropriation of traditions directly into Christian practice. Roman votive offerings in the forms of silver plaques are suddenly endowed with Christian meanings in the Water Newton find, a British discovery that Wells neglects to date. Similarly, pagan practices involving water were carried over, a church being founded on a riverside religious site where the Christians continued lobbing weapons into the flow as their forefathers had done for thousands of years. But after all the curious asides and observations, Wells’ attachment to archeology at the expense of history leaves some glaring omissions. Much is made of pagan influence on Christian development, but there is no mention of Christian Arianism practiced by the barbarians or its associated stresses when brought into direct contact with the Catholic Church. By neglecting to include proper history in his examination of archeology, Wells commits his subjects to molds even as he attempts to prove how they evolved.

Throughout the book, Wells makes many reasonable claims – such as the likely proliferation of farmers – but these observations are hampered by the lack of notes on any of the pages. For the most part, Wells’ style is a good mix of historical backdrop and presentation, a somewhat winning combination considering the disproportionate attention paid archeology. However, his division of information into subjects rather than eras is rather troublesome – while understandable in light of the sheer volume of data, albeit hugely generalized, Wells’ argument remains that the Dark Ages were a period of development and thriving cultures, yet the rampant leaping about from brooches to dark earth to crumbled church foundations leaves the reader wondering just when these developments came about, and how they are connected. Yet Wells sometimes places a disconcerting amount of faith in archeology; in the case of the Anglo-Saxon invasion of Britain he brushes aside the violence-laden accounts of contemporaries like Gildas and declares that, in light of the archeology – or, more shakily, the lack of such – it may be said that what migration took place was miniscule, rather than the waves depicted by the historians. His proof: artifacts briskly written off as trade goods (based upon contexts not divulged in the text) and Dark Age pollination that supposedly shows how Anglo-Saxon graves actually hold local Britons. There is no mention of British defenders – Vortigern and Arthur – or Saxon invaders – Hengist and Horsa - or any of the events surrounding the men and their resultant legends.

As a standalone text, Barbarians to Angels leaves much to be desired. It is an excellent catalogue of materials and would be a useful resource for readers seeking a quick understanding of a certain field. But in purporting to offer history, Wells leaves the reader with an impression rather than a complete picture, a list of isolated facts with precious little chronology in which to place them. All that is clear is that: after Rome a lot happened; whether any of it constituted a continual progress and “flowering” is up to the interpretation of the reader.

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Bombastically Self-Assured

Walter Goffart, Barbarian Tides: The Migration Age and the Later Roman Empire. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2006.

Barbarian Tides, by University of Toronto professor Walter Goffart, takes a look at the themes surrounding the immigration and settlement of barbarians in late ancient Rome. Focusing in on the invasion years in the fourth to seventh centuries, and reaching a little to either side, this book is more an anthology than a proper text, its chapters standing alone with regard to subject matter, yet supporting one another’s materials. Goffart makes several claims in his book, primarily arguing that the Germans were not Germanic at all, that the Migration Age is not especially migratory, and that the so-called “invasions” were in fact a tale of accommodation and transferal of authority. While Goffart’s take on ethnicity rings true, his chapters dealing with migration and accommodation show a progressive deterioration of his argument due to a too narrow examination of the evidence.

The strong element in Goffart’s book is his attack on “ethnicity” and “ethnogenisis” that have no place in the study of Rome. Goffart questions the notion of a “Germany” alongside Rome, calling to attention the fractured tribal atmosphere of the late antique north. After setting up the Roman political “family” that begins in the third century and includes sundry barbarians, he suggests looking at the barbarians through their own family links and alliances. In an attempt to do the barbarians justice, Goffart launches into a case-by-case assessment of the lesser-known tribes, detailing the existing scholarship on the misunderstood Gepids, the ancient Sciri, the martial Herules, the transitory Spanish Sueves, the coastal Frisians, the horse-riding Thuringians, and the patchwork Bavarians – though where possible he does apply an ethnic connection to the tribe; in the instance of the Sciri, he offers evidence relating them to the Celts. An astute point is made with regard to the sheer variety of barbarian tribes, but Goffart turns nit-picky when it comes to grouping them by language, seeking to undo the work of comparative philology by brusquely remarking on the divisive nature of the warlike northerners. Thus, perhaps, the barbarians were not one ethnic group solely because they fought one another? This curious presumption aside, the scattered ethnicity of the barbarians is argued well, but it stands alone as Goffart’s sole strength.

A recurring theme throughout Barbarian Tides is over-generalization and application of isolated incidents to a larger scheme. Where he was going strong on ethnicity, Goffart loses some steam over the migration issue, mostly because it is so generalized. His case study for barbarian migration is the crossing of the Rhine in the early 400s. After building up the characters of the Alans and Vandals, Goffart launches then across the river to battle it out with the local Romans, eventually charging south to Spain, where they receive word from Rome that they might stay there, if they leave the locals alone. This did not last, as in 411 the Roman government drove the Vandals and Alans further south into North Africa. Though a rather detailed analysis of a handful of migratory marauders, it the only one of its kind, the other major incursions reserved for honorable mention and pertinent placement to augment other arguments. The strength of the invasion analysis really comes at the end, where the Migration Age is shown to be no more migratory than any age before it.

What is perhaps the most controversial element of Barbarian Tides is also the most problematic: the theory of Roman accommodation, wherein it is argued that the Romans did not lose to the barbarians, but allowed them to pass over the limes, establish themselves in suitable regions, and eventually take up proprietorship of their new home. Problematically, Barbarian Tides forgoes a great deal of history to set the key arguments in context. Goffart assumes that his readers are familiar with the timeframe in which he is working, thus allowing him to cut out the space-hogging chronology of the fall of Rome – this also allows him to ignore the greater events while lining out his own idyllic model for accommodation within the bounds of the collapsing West. For a start, Goffart’s case is limited to the Burgundians in Gaul and the Goths in Italy, yet he uses these isolated examples to flesh out a whole world of supposedly peaceful change, the bloody “period of disorder” in the early 400s notwithstanding. Goffart goes into terrific detail about the Burgunian laws and taxation, but besides these surviving codes the author is only aware of one historical source – that of Cassiodorus – that mentions grants to barbarians. This problem raises the specter of historical context against Goffart’s argument. While frolicking about in the technicalities of the law codes, Goffart seems to forget that the Burgundians were hardly a viable threat to the Romans. After a crushing defeat in 436, the settlement of the Burgundians in Gaul seven years later is lauded as a “comeback” wherein the Burgundians won out a legal land-grab. But Goffart does not explore their relationship with the Roman general Aetius, famous for leading the coalition of Romano-barbarian forces in defeating Attila at the Catalaunian fields. Having defeated the Burgundians, would it not make sense to salvage what was left of the tribe and plant it so as to supply a fighting force in the event of, say, a Hunnic invasion? Such an accommodation might indeed be legal, but hardly represents the settlement of other tribes, such as the Vandals and Alans above.

Italy, on the other hand, appears in a more hopeful light with the toppling of the old Roman Empire and the rise of a stable Gothic state in 476. But that date alone renders the rest of the chapter moot: it may be that the institutions of Rome continued on under Odoacer and Theoderic after him, but these are cases of barbarian rule of Rome, hardly accommodation of immigrants by any stretch of the imagination. Once again Goffart launches into a meticulous examination of taxes and land grants, but the whole world is set aside. Little mention is made of Odoacer’s overthrow of Romulus Augustulus and nothing is said about the Eastern emperor sending Theoderic to establish himself in a Rome that the Romans could no longer feasibly control. If that is accommodation, then it is such in only the strictest sense. What we have are two barbarian take-overs, the latter simply enjoying the imperial blessing. But Goffart seems unaware of this, happily humming along his merry way as Romans and barbarians go skipping hand-in-hand through fields of Italian flowers.

This book also suffers from several factors at the ground level. From the very beginning Goffart ignores archeology (perhaps annoyed by philologist Gustaf Kossinna, whose intricate web of archeology, linguistics, and other sciences deserves, in Goffart’s mind, to be “pilloried” ), officially protesting that it is outside his training and that it is too much subject to interpretation. That is ironic, since interpretation is what Barbarian Tides is about. The weakness of going without archeology crops up in the form of generalities that plague the book. Point blank statements such as, “The peoples to the north and east of the Roman frontier were no more ‘wandering’ than the Celts or Greeks or Thracians” are well said, but the lack of evidence does not help the reader to agree. But if generalizations were not enough, Goffart is also prone to making strange observations and pronouncements. He refers to Vandals living in their place on the Roman border from the second to the fifth century, loudly declaring, “they were totally unaware of having lived anywhere else.” No examples of Vandal traditions or legends are presented to back up this claim. He even remarks that barbarians were long past their wandering days and “were definitely not ‘going’ anywhere.” One wonders whether their Roman contemporaries were of the same opinion.

Goffart’s unabashed arrogance also does nothing to help his cause. When addressing a foreign historian’s reasoning about the fall of Rome to the barbarians, Goffart provides his own translation of the work, assuring the reader that, “only this version does justice to his case.” In other words, only Goffart is capable of understanding his fellow historians. By contrast other historians are largely incapable of understanding Goffart’s elevated ideas, as he calls criticisms of his previous book “sterile.” Similarly, a certain theory of accommodation with which Goffart disagrees is declared “untenable” based upon his own assertions in said book.

Goffart has done some good work and his claims are worthy of consideration. But some of his notions within the claims are curious at best and reek of bombastic self-assurance and pretentious pre-conception at worst. Worst of all is the lack of setting, the isolation of data that almost screams agenda. Goffart’s subjects live in a vacuum as they “march quietly into the Middle Ages.” After all his work, a little more detail could yet aid Goffart’s Barbarian Tides.

John H. Arnold. History: A Very Short Introduction. New York: Oxford University Press, 2000.

In his little book History: A Very Short Introduction, medievalist John H. Arnold seeks to present the audience with a concise and informative read on what history is, where it came from, and why it is worth studying. Drawing on the great historians and a few inquisitors, this book is written for readers from many disciplines, from ancient to modern, from political to social and economic historians. The whole book is entertaining, written in lively prose that energizes and encourages the reader, but hidden within is a curious cynicism, a contradiction that questions the purpose of history even as a simple love of the profession tumbles forth.

Rightly so, Arnold kicks off his book with the question: what is History? It is a number of things, most importantly a process that carries on, as well as what the past was and what historians write about it. The reader is drawn in with a riveting inquisition story that culminates in the murder of a priest named Dejean. Arnold is perfectly happy to speculate about the murder’s meaning, and even more pleased to use the mystery as a springboard into History. Arnold suggests three reasons for studying history: pure enjoyment, as a thinking tool, and to gain a greater understanding of ourselves – where we came from and how we might behave differently. These drives are explored through an examination of the historians throughout time: the politically minded king, Nabonidus, the Greeks Herodotus and Thucidides, Augustine and his Six Ages of Man, William Malmesbury, and the rise of the Antiquarians. Each player had something to add, be it attempted objectivity (Herodotus and Ranke), bombastic rhetoric and composition (Life of Edward the Confessor), criticism and suspicion (William of Malmesbury), fact-finding (the Antiquarian collectors, notably William Camden), and the desire for relevance (the Enlightenment); all brought together in the monolithic work of Edward Gibbon.

The structure of the book is straightforward and helpful. Moving from the “what” and the “history” of history, Arnold moves into the “how to,” wherein he walks burgeoning historians through the methods used to build simple questions into researchable titans. Although it is an unoriginal approach and will be familiar to the student of history, Chapter 4 does an excellent job of introducing the art of exploring sources to the new historian. Arnold is a skillful writer, building his case with greater complexity, eventually launching into the mentalité school of history, seeking to unravel, through seemingly simple and one-dimensional accounts, the mental state of the historical subjects. Finally, he tackles Truth and its place within the historical profession. The whole journey is made colorful by numerous well-chosen pictures and the occasional definition box that tackles important terms and ideas that, if so directly addressed, would interrupt the flow of the book.

It is in the examination of Truth that Arnold falters. Throughout the book is the optimistic claim that historians “never fabricate ‘the facts’” as opposed to literature. Arnold acknowledges that history will never be perfect, but admonishes the reader to not “discount histories, because they are imperfect, but to engage with them as the true stories they can only be.” One might write this off as simple good cheer, but its frequent appearance is unsettling. “Historians must stick with what the sources make possible, and accept what they do not. They cannot invent new accounts, or suppress evidence that does not fit with their narratives.” That may be true, but historians are people too, with human prejudices and the right to make their own decisions – to omit and invent. Historians have made up a great many accounts, some of them practical forgeries, and many also just fabricated lies. This has been happening ever since the Egyptians scratched out the names of unpopular pharaohs from monoliths. It occurred again in the greatest cover-up in history, when the Roman guards returning to the high priests after Christ’s resurrection were told to say nothing and propaganda was fed to the public at the first opportunity. Historians are fully capable of doing the same thing, in spite of the evidence.

In addition, Arnold finally gives his own opinion about the importance of history in a surprisingly sarcastic statement, that if history “presents us with lessons to be learnt, I have yet to see any example of anyone paying attention in class.” He qualifies this statement by suggesting that if history had a purpose and was composed of discernable patterns, then historians could predict the future. Very trite, this, and very uninformed. One need look no further than America’s Founding Fathers to see a group of men looking back to the best and the brightest of the ancient thinkers to craft the best government available to man. And in light of the present financial crisis, one need only consider America’s Great Depression and Germany’s Weimar Republic to get an idea about where the economy might be headed. Arnold expresses this understanding to a certain degree, but reinforces his own stand with “to imagine that there are concrete patterns to past events, which can provide templates for our lives and decisions, is to project onto history a hope for certainty which it cannot fulfill.” It would seem that Arnold is unfamiliar with Human Nature.

On the whole, Arnold’s History is a serviceable and engaging book. His own biases color the work, it is true, and the young historian must be on the lookout for these disconcerting opinions. But when it comes to educating oneself on the study of history, one could do worse than reading this very short introduction.

Image taken from Goodreads.com

Predatory Migrants - Another Survey of Change

Peter Heather, Empires and Barbarians: the Fall of Rome and the Birth of Europe. New
York: Oxford University Press, 2010.

If one has ever wondered just how the barbarian invasions of Rome might have actually happened, look no further than Peter Heather’s Empires and Barbarians, a comprehensive study of the patterns of migration and cultural development in late ancient Europe. Tackling the first millennium, Heather addresses a world of changing identities and migrating tribes that used the developed Roman Empire as a catalyst for growth in to nation states. This books strides the middle ground in the debate over whether the barbarians invaded or migrated, taking “full account of all the positive aspects of the revisionist thinking, while avoiding its traps.”

Heather objects the school of thought that the migrations were made by homogenous people groups and tribes, attributing the theory to faulty generalizations of Roman accounts and “runaway nationalism” amongst historians – notably the Nazis. Rather, he considers the “tribes” to be a loose and malleable confederation of different groups, forged together on the march. Though Jordanes offers a “textbook” opinion on the classic invasion theory, Heather takes the stance that the Germanic tribes were not one king and one people, but were rather very spread out and never united. He points out three major migrations into Roman territory in the West’s latter days: the initial flight from the Huns in the mid-300s; the dispersal of Attila’s subjects in the years following his death; and that of the Franks and Anglo-Saxons, the last simply hopping into the chaotic space left by the initial break-ins. Heather’s reasons for their sudden ability to defy Roman might are based around the concepts of political restructuring and development.

One of Heather’s favorite standards for the early stages of barbarian improvement is the military gathering at Strasbourg in 357. Unlike their regional ancestors living at the time of Christ, these fourth century Germans sported a stronger political system that allowed them to field more soldiers under kings. Heather turns to Ammianus’ account to establish that the Germans had revamped their leadership structure beyond simply organizing a good turnout, having evolved said kingships and a coordination within their confederations’ that substantially improved their political lifespan. Moreover, these kings came equipped with shiny new war bands that gave them enough clout to rise up above their people. Strasburg signals for Heather the early stages of a complete overhaul of the Barbarian tribe, a development that eventually had a direct impact upon the fall of Rome’s borders, as the barbarians fleeing their Hunnic enemies were far more suited for migration into hostile territory than their first century ancestors.

The arrival of the Romans is attributed as the catalyst to the dramatic changes experienced by the Barbarians. Initially, Roman soldiers policing the border turn to the locals for whatever materials they need, rather than relying upon the empire to provide them. Thus, trade with the locals begins almost at once, the wealthy barbarians – later kings – benefiting the most. Naturally the nearby wealth represents a surplus income for the enterprising barbarian and the stereotypical cross-border raids ensue, with routine Roman counter-expeditions following in short order, often ending with subsidy payments being made to those kings willing enough to grovel at Roman feet. This additional income stimulates further barbarian social development, and also encourages neighboring tribes to have a go at ousting those currently benefiting from Roman affiliation, and so the vicious cycle continues throughout the first half of the book. Heather’s raiders are drawn like moths to a flame as Rome creates a “two-speed Germania whose economy and society worked at higher and more intense levels of development the closer you got to the Roman frontier, and vice versa.” Even the Huns, from all the way across Asia, are eventually subjected to the gravitational pull of the Roman economy and come a-wandering in the direction of the goods. In Heather’s view, Rome ironically strengthened its neighbors through trade until they were strong enough to challenge the emperor’s authority.

So when the Roman Empire’s borders crumble, it is not so much a case of bloodthirsty raiders plunging into the imperial heartland intent on slaughter. Rather, it is a combination of the above elements: migrations away from danger – stimulated by a healthy fear of the Huns – and Roman proximity. But once the barbarians are in the empire, the formerly divisive tribes suddenly seem to behave with startling coherence. They are definitely still immigrants, Heather argues, albeit predatory. What the author sees are barbarians forced to undergo another cultural shift that forges them into stronger – yet malleable – political and martial bodies that provide protection and encourages the Romans to come to terms rather than commit to a costly war that might not even destroy the menace in the end. What this means for the author is that these survival-based affiliations eventually morph into kingdoms, made possible by the Roman socio-economic prosperity that raised up their barbarian neighbors in the first place. This process continues even once Rome is out of the picture: the Frankish kingdoms directly profit from this heritage so that, once Justinian removes the Ostrogothic kingdom of Italy, the northern Franks are allowed to expand unchecked. By the ninth and tenth centuries, the “barbarian” kingdoms in northern Europe are massive, and much more powerful than the petty chiefdoms that had bickered over Roman subsidies. They have come from building hill forts to constructing castles, maintaining professional armies, raising churches, and improving infrastructure. They remain rather rustic by comparison to Rome, failing to keep proper written records – and thereby forgoing the associated administration that accompanies such bookkeeping – and upholding old traditions of taxation, like itinerancy. But these new empires serve the purpose of furthering state development in the north: they share wealth (through economy and time-honored raiding) and their menacing presence encourages their comparatively tribal neighbors to solidify and build up confederations and states of their own.

The complex social history of Empires and Barbarians is woven from a multitude of sources. Heather is indefatigable in his examination of the evidence. He briefly states that “our ignorance of the Huns is astounding,” then launches into a nearly sixty-page chapter on their culture and impact upon the movements and politics in Europe. Heather does an outstanding job cross-referencing materials, drawing upon archeology, economic data, chronicles, and contemporary studies to produce a picture of what the world probably looked like. For instance, Roman frontier strategy – kill malefactors and devastate their lands, force their neighbors to kowtow, reward those who impress – is applied to archeology to determine that the Rhine/Weser region was a particularly violent area, given that there are less Roman imports discovered there, implying that the region was less prosperous – all evidence that lines up perfectly with the imperial records concerning that place. But Heather tries to not let his imagination run too wildly and remains considerate of his sources. One is tempted to wonder, though, if the author takes too many liberties at times. Though he remains ambiguous as best he can with words such as “may” and “could have,” Heather does take some questionable liberties with the data. Granted, the available information is scant in many cases, but he does not hesitate to use legal codes from sixth and seventh centuries to shed light on the social strata of the fourth century. Given that the gap between the texts and their hopeful application is similar to that dividing Strasburg’s war bands and kings from the first century raiders, the documents’ value in such a situation is questionable – though Heather is upfront about this.

As for readability, Heather is a master at conveying dense knowledge. Since the material is presented as a survey, its information offered in doses restricted to subjects, Heather does not follow a strictly chronological narrative, and he often makes odd reference to the more prominent events, such as Strasburg. This raises the difficulty of following the finer details. He moves in and around the innumerable barbarian tribes at blinding speed so that Alans, Ostrogoths, Marcomanni, and Seuvi only stand out from Huns because the latter are given their own chapter. His attention to detail is remarkable as well; taken as a whole, the sheer volume of information presented on a single page is mind numbing, though Heather is a talented author and makes such a tedious examination of the evidence engaging enough to render the average sentence reasonably painless.

Despite its nature as a survey, Empires and Barbarians is a very readable book, suitable for either the academic in search of details or for the casual student of history who simply wants some deeper answers to questions about early Europe. Heather’s approach has many winning characteristics, being engaging yet detailed, and carefully explaining his reasoning on any given topic. Weighing in at 618 pages, along with copious endnotes and maps, this book certainly adds a great deal to the ongoing debates concerning Rome’s fall.

Image taken from Sword and Sandal Gaming.'s review of the same book.

A Survey of Change - Peter Brown's "The World of Late Antiquity"

As a primer on the latter Roman Empire, Peter Brown’s The World of Late Antiquity is a succinct and informative read. Merely 203 pages, it covers a lot of ground and goes into great detail, but limits its subject matter to do so. The professed themes of the book are societal and cultural changes affecting the Mediterranean world, from the third century to the seventh, a period of change in which ancient institutions vanished. Where some authors on Roman history, such as Edward Gibbon, compile blow-by-blow accounts, Late Antiquity is a survey that serves as a quick introduction into a rapidly changing world. Brown’s work carries the narrative style of a novel, where a status quo exists in the first chapter, that status quo is disturbed by Christianity and the barbarian invasions, and then is finally restored.

The whole narrative is built around evolving social contrasts: the contrast between the rich and poor, the rulers and the ruled, and the struggles that defined each. At the outset there was the status quo of the empire, a world where the cities of the third century were islands of civility and culture in a sea of barbarism, both within and without the physical confines of the empire. This comfortable world of conservative rulers was upset in the crisis of the 240s, when those barbarians beyond Rome’s borders suddenly attacked in the 240s. War on every front led to the necessity of promoting men of action and this “aristocracy of service” came to dominate where before had been cultured elites. In this new climate the middle class flourished, but the fourth century revival also saw the consolidation of the local elites as some senators served out their office without ever visiting Rome. This trend solidified with the barbarian invasions, the loss of the West leaving it narrow in focus and ambition. In the West, the locals were now governed by the militant barbarians and church fathers, and while the East was reduced to governance by the church as Emperor Justinian cut the empire down to its bare bones, the locals turning to their bishops and clergy to replace the magistrates removed by the autocrat. At last, the rulers and the ruled of both the East and West shared the same cultures. The world of Brown’s narrative at last knew peace; in a sense, the world came full circle, back to an ancestral religion and a state of harmony. These changes came about thanks to the internal efforts of Christians and the external pressures of barbarians.

The conflict between the Christians and the pagans is another theme of change and contrasts. It is a curious theme, for though Brown attempts to cut the upstart Christians down to size whenever he gets the opportunity, he does give them their due with regard to their work in the changing fabric of the empire. Despite early pressures, the church filled a vacant hole in a changing world, where the “barbaric” peasants were suddenly socially mobile. Thus Christianity unexpectedly exploded in the third century and filled in where the pressured paganism receded, offering a home to the physically and spiritually homeless. But this new strength brought the church into direct conflict with the elite Hellenes, the representatives of pagan culture. Brown likes the Hellenes because, unlike the new Christians, they turned to the old ways to meet the new problems. At first he treats the Christians and pagans similarly, allowing that Christianity offered social bonds and salvation, and expressing quiet reverence for the twilight of the tenacious pagans. But Brown shifts tones as the story progresses, almost defensively building up the pagans, willing the reader to see that “The ‘Hellenes’ created the classical language of philosophy in the early Middle Ages, of which Christian, Jewish and Islamic thought, up to the twelfth century, are but derivative vernaculars.” He even grants to a Hellene, Plotinus, the honor of delivering the notion of connections between the seen and unseen to the “crude” monotheism of the Christians. Brown then depicts the Christians’ worship as “cold,” while describing the vigorous warmth associated with pagan sacrifice. As paganism finally died out, it bestowed its dramatic grandeur to its Christian successors: as the world risked growing “pale in the harsh light of the Christian Apologists’ call to the simple worship of a half-known high God” it “became suffused again with colour.” Where paganism had infected Gibbon’s pure Christian worship, Brown sees it as invigorating its successor. This bias for pagan things continues on as Brown makes it clear that Constantine was a poor Christian, his “conversion” a result of propaganda with which those Christians in his circles “besieged” him. Then, with the advent of the popular, empire-wide church, Brown’s rhetoric suddenly takes on heavily pro-pagan color as he takes the Christian elites to task for (sniff) only learning Homer for his literary value, even asserting that “Such men deserved the sudden fright of nineteen months of ostentatiously pagan rule” of Julian the Apostate, whom he favors with the note that he received a “proper” education. However, Christianity was there to stay and Brown moves on to acknowledge, like Gibbon, those formidable saints and abbots who moved their worlds – he is not favorable towards them, but cannot ignore the grave power of the pulpit.

Curiously, it is on the subject of barbarism that Brown pulls out all the stops in his rhetorical whipping of the Christians in his simplistic view of a complex time. Not only are the Christians made guilty of allowing the barbarians into the flourishing empire, they are also written up for alienating their conquerors. While he addresses the notion of barbarism in general terms, Brown largely ignores the invasions of the fourth and fifth centuries. Brown argued for a “barbaric” countryside, where the sensibilities of the senators and cultured elite were assaulted by an alien world of peasants, almost barbarians themselves: “bilingual aristocrats passed unselfconsciously from Latin to Greek; an African landowner, for instance, found himself quite at home in a literary salon of well-to-do Greeks at Smyrna.” Images of an empire united in opinion against the northern aggressors is attributed to the revival of the fourth century, where Brown has the divide between “us” and “them” fit the familiar mold: less of “city v. country,” more of “Romania v. the Outside.” Brown does not trouble himself too much with reasoning behind the causes for the fall, mainly asserting that it is complicated and related to economic and social weaknesses. But what he does think important is the reception of the barbarians by their Roman enemies. The subject of violence is abbreviated as much as possible here. After all, Brown is a busy man with a whole story of social change and restructuring to tackle in just two hundred pages, so he glosses over the invasions between 376 and 410, relegating them to a mere blip on the radar while quickly dropping the uncomfortable words like “invasion” and “campaigns” and casually asserting that “immigrants” from over the Rhine had come to seek a better living in Roman country. The above development of what Brown calls intolerance had a direct impact on his depiction of a newly barbarian world. In setting up his grand defense of the barbarians, Brown first makes the claim that the main problem with Rome’s weakened defenses was the disassociation of the Catholic Church and the senatorial aristocracy with the army. As the invasions continue and gain in strength, Christian distrust of soldiers goes on to divert blame for the fall of Rome back onto the Christians rather than those who overthrew them. The unbending Roman society could not handle the invasion and moreover the poor barbarian “settlers” were not welcomed by their Christian neighbors – described as “civilians” that could not stomach a soldier – who threw up “a wall of dumb hatred” at the presence of Arian heretics. Moreover, the formation of violent barbarian kingdoms is blamed upon the “intolerance that greeted the barbarian immigration.” Brown continues to ignore the violence of the era, preferring to note the discomfort felt by the Italian elites as their new equilibrium was upset by Justinian’s reconquest of the peninsula in 533.

Brown has offered us a short introduction into a deep subject. While doing a credible job of delving into the why of his subjects, much of history is left untapped. This book is perhaps a good starting place to get an idea of the world of the late antique and to be presented some new ideas that fit with politically correct molds, but its very brevity is more suited to recounting, in concise form, what is commonly held to be true. Brown has done a fair job with this, but the challenges he puts forth, most notably the nature of the barbarian “immigrations,” would require whole extra books to adequately address them.

The Epic Tragedy of Antique Rome: Gibbon’s Dramatic History, Part II

Where before I reviewed Gibbon's sources and his take on Decline and Fall, here I continue with the more entertaining aspects: his opinions!

Part II: Theory
Throughout the book, Gibbon shamelessly falls back on his Enlightenment past, focusing in on the exemplars of virtue and British manly vigor. All would be well if Gibbon did not launch off into biographical expose, building up favorite characters into minor deities. A case-in-point is Gibbon’s treatment of Julian the Apostate, ruler of the Empire for a mere year and a half before dying in 363, a somewhat controversial figure for his unorthodox views and actions. Lord Norwich wrote that he was highly intelligent but suffered from fanaticism and “a lack of sharpness and definition in his thinking.” David Potter branded him “Julian the schemer.” But to Gibbon, Julian was the epitome of the virtuous pagan, the perfect philosopher king. Here the reader is presented a man almost devoid of vices, overflowing with virtues, the sort of fellow whom slave girls would have fought over, though the careful abstinence of this pagan saint never allowed them the chance.

Gibbon devotes several chapters to Julian’s brief reign, bringing to life the faultless credulity that led the unscrupulous youth into the embraces of dying paganism, yet leaving him so virtuous as to dim the glories of the effeminate saints. Alarmingly, Gibbon turned to Julian’s own writings to vindicate the man. When the legionaries came to crown their beloved Caesar, Julian’s emotional distress over the prospect of betraying his rightful king inspired a recounting of the divine intervention by Jupiter that sapped Julian’s loyalty, prompting him to take the purple. What this gained from Lord Norwich was a quizzical, “Does Julian, perhaps, protest a little too much?” Forgoing all niceties, David Potter bluntly stated, “Julian saw his chance.” But Gibbon would have none of such unhealthy skepticism. Where he is willing to laud the clever hyperbole employed by Augustus, who amicably claimed to be the first among equals and the servant of Rome, here the author cheerfully glosses over the same prose when penned by Julian and calls it all humility and honest self-depreciation.

The entire life – as much of it as history allowed, that is – of Julian is one great apologetic argument. The rhetoric employed by Gibbon leaves only room for what is good and holy in the breast of Julian, and as though aware that his gushing appraisal might have the unfortunate side effect of irritating the credulity of his readership, the author pauses several times to once more recount for the benefit of the skeptical reader the many virtues and unsullied righteousness of his idol. To contrast this muse among men, Gibbon spares no details in building up a foe in the garrulous and grasping George the Cappadocian. Whether or not the churchman was as bad as Gibbon claims, it is fascinating to watch as George takes on the characteristic shades of pure evil that could have engendered in Procopius the sin of envy. This contrast only serves to magnify the faultless glory of the Apostate. Even the faulty and fated campaign into Persia is spun out like a Greek tragedy, wherein the willing and manly martyr advances, like the swift runner Achilles, on to his glorious end. At last, as the genial and virtuous emperor lies dying of blood loss and a ruptured liver, Gibbon assures us that, after a beatific gulp of water, he “expired without pain.”

But while Gibbon expresses his rapturous fixation upon the champions of stoicism and justice, he also inks copious pages with lamentations against his irritants. Fanaticism and superstition are the great evils of the Decline and Fall. After all, it was fanaticism, overriding his more virtuous notions, that drove Julian to rebel against his master. Likewise, the opponents of Justinian are reviled as superstitious. It may come to no surprise to most that the enemies of Julian – the Christians – are also the frequent bearers of ignorance. That is not to say that Gibbon is an enemy of Christianity; on the contrary, his pages detailing the early church positively glow with reverence. But the later church, with its bishops and its saints and its monks seems to turn Gibbon’s stomach, an understandable conclusion as he recounts, with sinister gravity, the fervor with which the more martially inclined Christians came to dominate Paganism in the years following Julian’s death. He reviles the “piously inhuman” praise of the Old Testament purges that comes from the clergy as the old things are pulled down and all things are made new by “those Barbarians” the Christians. He is alarmed by the rise of saint-worship and the degeneracy of once-pure Christianity. He rails against the ascetics and calls ecclesiastical legends “insipid.” All this in his animated distain for the superstitions of the age. With this in mind, it should come as no surprise that, from the pen of Edward Gibbon should flow the justification of the murder of emperor Valentinian III, not so much for his abject cruelty, but for his adherence to superstitious magics.

Rivaling his ire at the perceived ignorance of his subjects, Gibbon expresses a curious – one might even say “British” – irritation with effeminate trends in the Empire. By his estimation this was a disease that spelt doom for Rome, originating in the government and spreading to the army, thus furthering the decline and fall. The preoccupation with effeminacy and distaste for un-manful luxury seems to start with Constantine the Great’s application of Near Eastern cultural attributes and continues on from there, springing up at the oddest times. Often this takes a humorous bent, such as when the languid culture and moral corruption of the East is several times attributed to the heat index rather than to any relaxation of ethical duty. Herein is the argument that surroundings are what make the man: discomfort is basically good, while even basic comfort and luxury is evil – another theme that permeates the Decline and Fall. In another place, the unwillingness of an Armenian king, Arsaces Tiranus, to commit his forces to a war on Julian’s behalf is attributed to the unmanly decline and pusillanimity – a word of which Gibbon is overly fond – of that monarch. Gibbon goes to great lengths in support of he pet peeve, even pausing in the midst of his expose on Byzantine international trade to point out that Emperor Elagabalus “had sullied the dignity of an emperor and a man” by incorporating silk into his wardrobe. But the degeneracy of manly virtues appears to have been actually quite severe and the fears of Gibbon are justified as he references Vegetius, who noted the growing sloth and effeminate delicacy of the Roman legions.

After his own examination of the foibles of Edward Gibbon, historian Peter Brown sees Gibbon as a “sociologist of empire,” understanding human nature and the nature of power such that, by looking at Rome, the Achaemenid empire, and Tamerlane, he could craft a compelling interpretation of the character of the absolute monarchy of Cyrus. In particular, Gibbon adhered to a strict interpretation of knowledge, abandoning some of the most crucial and conventional evidence because it did not “materially” affect his story. Brown correctly points out that Gibbon chose to include in his work that which belonged in the real world, and some things that did not belong at one point in time might just do so eventually. Such metaphysical questions as filioque would be quite outside the realm of material value until someone died for it. Such was the case with Arianism, a set of beliefs that would have no value to Gibbon whatever, except for the fact that they directly impacted real-world events and inspired Julian to bait his Christian enemies against one another. Such was also the case with Julian’s personal faith. In what Brown would probably term “horrified fascination,” Gibbon took on the task of bringing the young philosopher’s paganism to life:

"A devout and sincere attachment for the gods of Athens and Rome, constituted the ruling passion of Julian; the powers of an enlightened understanding were betrayed and corrupted by the influence of superstitious prejudice; and the phantoms which existed only in the mind of the emperor, had a real and pernicious effect on the government of the empire.”

But pernicious as he saw them, Gibbon later asserted that the nocturnal visitations of the gods, no matter how imaginary, were contrasted with those of the monks; the holy spent their lives in “useless” pursuit of visions, while those of Justinian are lauded in Gibbon’s history as the driving forces that galvanized his actions.

So we see Gibbon as both the historian of detail and the impassioned orator, championing the heroes of old even as their bones molder in distant graves. In this light, our brave Englishman was not a perfect historian. He had his foibles, his prejudices, his own pernicious visions of antique glory that sometimes superseded the evidence. But where one might fault Gibbon’s partiality for Anglo-Roman Enlightenment, the man is somewhat vindicated by his works. The Decline and Fall is an epic prose poem of crumbling grandeur that will long stand outmatched against all comers.

The Epic Tragedy of Antique Rome: Gibbon’s Dramatic History, Part I

In his famous work, The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Edward Gibbon tackled a tremendous subject. It is an expansive work, reaching back to the very birth of the Empire under Augustus in the fine line between the first century B.C. and the first A.D. and then progresses through the ages, right past the infamous 476 A.D. and right up to the fall of Constantinople to the Turks in the fifteenth century. True to his title, Gibbon’s epic drama recounts in views both wide and narrow the incidents and personalities that influenced that span of history. But Gibbon was also a product of his time, and as a child of the Enlightenment, he passes severe judgment on the morals and actions of the Empire throughout his work, as well as expressing his own curious partialities and easing, through judgment, his own irritations.

The copy of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall that is subject to this review is the Penguin Classics abridged edition. Therein lies the inherent weakness with the book, where whole chapters have been cut out or reduced to a page or two, accompanied by the editor’s commentary. The reader is thus left at the mercy of Mr. Womersley, who might have edited whatever bits pleased him and that he deemed the least important. But to be fair, the editor has included some abridged entries that seem to reflect a willingness to represent Gibbon’s own views as faithfully as possible.

Part I: Empiricism
Naturally, Gibbon leans a great deal upon those writers contemporary to the events. Tacitus, Pliny, and others make repeated appearances, and some, like Ammianus and Procopius, are used a great deal within the chapters that deal closely with those authors’ areas of interest. Many of Gibbon’s own contemporaries and luminaries of Europe make an appearance in his footnotes, such as Le Clerc and Le Comte. Though Gibbon tends to like certain sources in particular and relies heavily on a few names when addressing complex subjects – he turns often to Mosheim to discover the history of the early church – he does display sufficient knowledge in other areas to make comment, such as the Hungarians on Attila.

One major shortcoming of Gibbon’s is that he is hardly objective and does falter somewhat when using sources with which he closely agrees. When he turns to Procopius to discover the truth of Justinian’s court, Gibbon does a credible job of warning the reader that Procopius is beyond biased, but argues that by reading between the lines, one might discern the truth of the matter. That being said, Gibbon launches into a series of chapters that seem to rely heavily upon Procopius’ opinions – perhaps due to Gibbon’s own strongly held beliefs in virtue and manly decency that are antithesis to the court at Constantinople. Tales of such corruption play a central role in Gibbon’s evidence for decline.

In the last chapter of the book, Gibbon helpfully lays out the four key reasons for the decay of the Roman city: “I. The injuries of time and nature. II. The hostile attacks of the Barbarians and Christians. III. The use and abuse of the materials. And, IV. The domestic quarrels of the Romans.” Although this list is intended to address the decay of the city itself, some circumstances regarding its fall are applicable to the empire at large.

The first argument is weak with regards to the fall of the Empire: the authority and eminence of Rome long survived the symphonic conflagration of Nero, and the swelling of the Tiber merely kept Augustus busy during his tenure as the first emperor. There is one outstanding exception, that of the dramatic sandstorm that undermined the defense of Jerusalem in A.D. 636 against the Muslims, whose capture of that city was supposedly reflective upon the poor morals of Emperor Heraclius. The fall of the imperial holdings from the Levant to Iberia followed shortly.

More worthy of Gibbon’s topic, warfare and strife is a combination of Barbarians thrashing both the frontiers and later the interiors of both the East and the West, as well as the dissentions among the Christians. There are many factors here, most appreciably those of corruption at home and failures at arms – and these are often closely interrelated. The Battle of Adrianople in 378 is an excellent example, wherein the corruption of the nobility led to martial disaster. The declaration of liberty by the Goths while in Thrace was effectively the first successful invasion. Following that war, and due to the constant perils that threatened everyday life, the morals of the Empire declined as a spirit of “eat, drink, and be merry” superceded the more temperate Roman virtues. In this climate of resignation and stagnation, the actions of Attila in the following century are easily seen as aiding in the destruction of Rome. In the midst of the horrors of Hunnish raids, one martially motivated town that successfully fought back against the Huns showed how the regular government and arms of the Eastern Empire had deteriorated.

Our author waxes eloquent on his dialogues regarding the use and abuse of resources. If armies may be called resources, then they earned the just ire of Gibbon. Loss of freedom and patriotism were the results of the legions becoming more and more mercenary in nature, thus starting a vicious cycle: as the legions threatened the Empire, the fearful emperors moved to weaken the army, thus sabotaging any attempts to overthrow the barbarian enemies that plundered the countryside at will. Finances were another frequent abuse, best put on display by Justinian’s riotous spending campaigns in the Sixth century, wherein the prodigal emperor engaged in building and lavishing moneys onto his favorites and leaving naught for his successor but debt, and what defenses he did build Gibbon deems pointless.

The domestic quarrels of the Romans were the final weakness that allowed for the avalanche of state to begin tumbling. Court intrigues abound, from the jealously of Canstantius II to the murder of the worthy general Aetius – fresh from his victory over Attila – by his liege. The problem was summed up well as Gibbon gravely pronounced that the Empire appeared “every day less formidable to its enemies, more odious and oppressive to its subjects.” As the first blows were succeeded by a storm of invaders, the imperial division into East and West allowed the factions that crippled any attempts to unify forces against common foes. Even after Rome was reduced to the seat of barbaric authority in Italy, further division is explored with regard to the Greens and Blues in the East, athletic-turned-quasi-political factions that haunted Justinian’s reign, leading to the Nikan Revolt.

Though whimsical and sprinkled with appreciated irony, Gibbon’s view of the fall of Rome is a gloomy one, well suited for comparison with The Fall of Rome and the End of Civilization, by Bryan Ward-Perkins. The differences of opinion are largely in focus: where Gibbon the epic historian examines the leadership and humor of the populace, Ward-Perkins the archeologist reads between the lines of ancient texts when not examining pottery kilns in Briton and Latin graffiti on the walls of Pompeii. Some of their conclusions are certainly different, at least in the means to the same end. The toppling of Rome was, for Gibbon, largely founded upon the abuse of power and the loss of the macho drive that invigorated the Republic and early Empire. In his view the coming of Christianity was a good marker for the decline, supposing that the religion “preached the doctrines of patience and pusillanimity” leading the once-manly Empire into a “servile and effeminate age,” as public wealth was redirected to the ecclesiastical institutions – though he does allows that the mollifying effects of Christianity helped to cushion the fall of Rome to the Barbarians. This is in contrast with Ward-Perkins’ largely religion-free opinion that Rome had long survived only precariously, as its legions liked to play defense and, while undisputedly superior to the swarming Gothic hordes, never enjoyed an edge so definite as that of the Gattling gun over African natives. In the composition of the military, too, Gibbon is more leery of mercenary loyalties than Ward-Perkins, who views mercenaries as a reasonable expenditure – as apparently did the Romans. Further differences arise when it comes to the decline and fall, since Ward-Perkins sees a government over-burdened with military upkeep – as opposed to the bellicose barbarians – and a society suddenly devoid of a tax base right when it needed one. Though Gibbon does address the social problems associated with monasticism and religious diversity, pollution of the army by mercenaries, and certainly the oppressive taxes, he usually sticks with the Great Men school of history, putting the blame of said diversity, pollution, and taxation upon the heads of the Roman elite, most often the emperor.

As one might suspect of these dour authors, Gibbon and Ward-Perkins agree on the level of violence that characterized the fall of Rome. But where Ward-Perkins focuses upon the Germanic invasions, Gibbon produced graphic depictions of Hunnish atrocities under Attila. But once hostilities subsided, these two historians also agree on the matter of Barbarian reverence – however imperfect – of the Roman tradition. The Germans were not necessarily bent on carnage and destruction for its own sake. But, having seen the glories of Rome and being trained in her armies, savvy with her weaknesses, they were able to turn that to their advantage and lay hands upon those portable spoils that suited them. That being said, much as Gibbon reminds us that the physical buildings were often spared, so too does Ward-Perkins offer the consolation that the institutions of Rome prevailed in some barbaric guise. But all means aside, the result of the fall is a point on which both men echo each other’s assessments of the contemporary implications. Writes Gibbon, “The Romans were ignorant of the extent of their danger, and the number of their enemies.” Ward-Perkins finishes the thought thusly: “Romans before the fall were as certain as we are today that their world would continue for ever substantially unchanged. They were wrong.” Though writing from different periods, they both agree that the threat of decline and overthrow at the hands of barbarians is a risk applicable to all great civilizations.

The Certainty of the Uncertain

Simon Schama, Dead Certainties (Unwarranted Speculations). New York: Alfred A.
Knopf, 1991.

History is a controversial subject and Simon Schama’s Dead Certainties (Unwarranted Speculations) certainly looks like a controversy waiting to happen. A collection of imaginative narratives mixed with winsomely rendered biographical accounts, it reads like a novel, but claims to be history. Finding a thesis in Schama is a bit of a trick, as the first chapter does not clearly stake a claim. But within said first chapter is a running theme of historical restructuring, the notion that, in the name of artistic license, it is possible to craft a “representative history” that eventually supercedes the truth.

The story of Dead Certainties goes something like this: “At the close of the French and Indian war, General Wolf died in battle. His memory was remembered in painting and even changed to something holy. Some years later, Francis Parkman, historian and world traveler, also died after writing a grand account of the Heights of Abraham. Meanwhile, back on those same heights, a tired and frightened soldier hurried up to tell the dying general that the battle was won for England. On a somewhat unrelated note, while Francis Parkman was traveling the world in his younger days, Governor George Briggs of Boston stressed over the responsibility to sign off on the death of a Harvard professor who had been implicated in the murder of young Parkman’s relative, Dr. George Parkman. There follows an examination of the victim and the villain and sundry others.”

What results is a bizarre and clever organization of chaos. This is no book for those interested in light reading that progresses from points A to B to C. The transitions from one set of stories to the next is more analogous to a plate of spaghetti; each chapter is like a noodle that is swerving and turning and contacting other noodles, meatballs, and the odd spice or diced tomato that’s been stirred into the mix. It is a masterful recipe, though some readers might find it hard to digest.

But very real problems arise throughout, thanks to Schama’s chosen means of narration. There is a great deal of story and a great deal of history to be seen, but what is what, which is which? The lack of notes means that the author could very well have written up an outline of the facts and then filled in the blanks willy-nilly, thumbing his nose as the reading public, daring them to trust his account. Indeed, Schama stresses in the afterword that the stories that he has told are just that, “works of the imagination, not scholarship.” So has Schama written fiction, or history? What is the reader to make of this?

Upon examination, Schama’s sources certainly appear to be sound. For the death of General Wolfe there are listed books written from the 1800s through the late 1900s, letters, journals, wartime memorabilia, and art. For the macabre murder in Boston, more letters, trial accounts, and contemporary news clippings are presented. A whole host of secondary sources – primarily books and news clippings – are also included. Schama certainly seems to treat his sources with respect, even pointing out how some were grossly inaccurate, but still useful for the purposes of establishing atmosphere and such. But the disturbing reality remains: Schama did not include footnotes or endnotes within his pages, so unless an intrepid investigator wishes to recreate Schama’s work, one must take the author at his word. Some will probably chafe at such a necessary evil, especially when in A Note on the Sources, Schama admits that, “The more purely fictitious dialogues (such as Marshal Tukey’s conversation with Ephraim Littlefield) are worked up from my own understanding of the sources as to how such a scene might have taken place.” What! The very idea of imagining history! And yet in such a confession is summed up the very beauty of the whole work.

By subtitling his book Unwarranted Speculations Schama seems to take a jibe at himself, pointing out that his book is naught but a collection of speculations that, in the greater scheme of things, are unwarranted, and will offer little by way of new knowledge. This thesis is summed up well in the developed martyrdom of Wolfe. Though seemingly at odds with a murder trial in Boston (the main story), the death of Wolfe lends the insight that, regardless of what really happened, history will remember the account told by the best author. Just as Benjamin West’s painting reshaped the way school children would remember their history lessons – even if they were actually taught the truth of the matter – so might narrative accounts, even Schama’s own, color the reader’s understanding of murder most foul in Boston.

If anything, Schama has succeeded in artfully blurring the distinction between History and Historical Fiction. His book may not be suitable as a secondary source, but it is highly informative as to how such a secondary source might turn out – it is thus both a discouragement to “serious historians” and an encouragement to authors of both camps. But it remains a warning to all: what is written may overcome what has transpired.

A Rebuttal: Bryan Ward-Perkins Defends the Fall of Rome

Did Rome really Fall? Having an interest in history doesn't make one an all knowing sage on the topic and I was startled to learn the other day that there is a school of thought that claims that Rome did not fall, but was actually "transformed" by the Germanic invasions - or perhaps the more PC term would be Migrations. I am new to the argument and was unaware that Rome did anything but topple, until I read The Fall of Rome and the End of Civilization, by Bryan Ward-Perkins. Interestingly, this is a book that backs up my own prior view, but in so doing, takes on the "new wisdom."

The following is a review of Ward-Perkins' book that I wrote for class. Comments welcome.

Bryon Ward-Perkins, The Fall of Rome and the End of Civilization. New York: Oxford University Press, 2005.

Everyone loves a good tragedy and there are few subjects more tragic that the fall from majesty. Such is the mystique of Ancient Rome, whose decline has filled countless minds and as many written volumes with visions of marbled colonnades, the ground shaking tramp of drilled soldiery, and thundering oratories voiced in a language fit for the gods. Here enters a new addition to the list of those volumes. With the tantalizing title, The Fall of Rome and the End of Civilization, author Bryan Ward-Perkins offers a dialogue on the causes of the crumbling of one of the world’s greatest empires, written and presented in straightforward prose that accomplish a multifold purpose: to educate the casual reader, to engage the history student, and to challenge the opposing party. For The Fall of Rome is not merely a book of history, it is an interpretation, an explicitly stated counter to the recent academic opinion that, in the face of Germanic migrations, Rome merely changed faces with little accompanying unrest or discomfort. In a witty and evenly-paced rebuttal Ward-Perkins deftly lays out a series of arguments that seek to prove that Rome did indeed fall, and that it fell hard, mixing records from the ancients with evidence gleaned from the latest archeology to form a compelling argument for barbarian invasion. The result is not a narrative, but a piece-by-piece dismemberment of the “accommodation” theory of the transformation of Rome.

An archeologist by training, Ward-Perkins was born in Rome to an archeologist father and grew up around the science, often helping with the movement and disposal of pottering shards. Pursuing Italian archeology as an adult, he now teaches as Trinity College in Oxford and has lent his skills as an editor to The Cambridge Ancient History. Ward-Perkins’ interest is in the transition of Rome, so his is a worthy voice to join the conversation about whether or not Rome did fall.

The Fall of Rome presents a reactionary argument against the new wisdom of the Germanic invasions. According to Ward-Perkins, the argument of the new school, prominent in recent decades, is that Rome gently transitioned from a state of Empire into a state of Germanic kingdoms, characterized by a “vibrant religious and cultural debate”(4). The new school has looked for a much more positive picture of the period, eliminating uncomfortable words like “decay,” “decline” and “crisis” – which, Ward-Perkins points out, carry the connotation of blame – and replacing them with the congratulatory “transition,” “change,” and “transformation.” Taking the argument a step further, one of the scholars of the new wisdom, Walter Goffart, has challenged the very idea of “invasions.” He argued that, rather that keep them out, the Romans decided to allow the barbarians within the imperial borders, granting them land and a share in the taxes. More than that, Goffart claimed that the “accommodation” followed a Roman plan of action, since the Romans used their own administrations and institutions to engage and govern the Germans, though he admits with good-natured humor that the fall of Rome was “an imaginative experiment that got a little out of hand”(9). Ward-Perkins sets about correcting the gross inaccuracy in a sweeping examination of the evidence that is a very readable 187 pages long.

The book kicks off with a pair of clear two-page-spread maps that illustrate the author’s claim as well as any written thesis. The first is a familiar depiction of the Empire at its height in 400 AD, its dashed borders reaching from Hadrian’s Wall in northern Britain to the upper cataracts of the Egyptian Nile, and from the foothills of the Caucasus mountains at the far end of the Black Sea to the deserts of Africa just south of the Pillars of Hercules. All of the provinces are neatly labeled while another dashed line divides the Empire as per the orders of Diocletian. The second map is stark in its contrast; the borders of the eastern empire remain intact, but the entire west has been deleted, all that remain are scattered labels declaring the presence of sundry Germanic tribes that came to call the regions home. It is chillingly dated 500 AD. Without even a sentence past the preface, the author draws in the curious reader with the near pressing need to know why. Ward-Perkins is more than happy to explain.

As would any reasonable historian, Ward-Perkins devotes several chapters to historical accounts of the fall of Rome. Respectable contemporary resources are consulted, such as Ammianus, Cassiodorus, Procopius, and Salvian, as well as letters, laws, and chronicles. Modern scholarship also figures heavily, such as books (Ancient Literacy by W.V. Harris), articles (Atlante delle forme ceramiche), and compilations (including Ward-Perkins’ own, Cambridge Ancient History, xiv.). Here it is shown that, despite his opponents’ best intents, the historical accounts alone prove that the transition from Rome to Medieval Europe was somewhat more uncomfortable than mutual accommodation. In his analysis Ward-Perkins does a fine job of trying to see both sides, allowing for Roman arrogance and for the barbarians’ simple desire for a better life. Most – if perhaps not all – of the barbarians are presented as more interested in claiming a place in, or the whole of, the Roman Empire for themselves. Unfortunately, through their actions the barbarians brought about the decline and fall of the empire, thus crushing the very society they wished to make their own.

In the second half of his work, Ward-Perkins devotes his energies to examining the archeological record of the late Roman era. Not surprisingly, his strongest argument – and perhaps his lengthiest treatment of any one subject – comes in the form of his near and dear Roman potsherds. These are apparently of such abundance as to be considered boring by archeologists. Familiar with the medium since childhood, he explains how the level of sophistication and distribution of potsherds across the known world shows the complexity of the society enjoyed by the Romans. Similarly, the data related to coin circulation, tiled roofs throughout most Italian demographics, and appreciable literacy all suggest that the economy and sophistication of society was booming to a near modern degree in Late Antiquity Rome. By contrast, the nearly stone-aged potsherds of post-Rome Europe, the disappearance of tiled roofs, and the declining coin, to say nothing of royal illiteracy, all point to a decline in sophisticated society, leaving the once “modern” land a depleted, even fractured, stone-aged mess, not at all the sort of mutually beneficial future envisioned by Goffart and his ilk.

Where Ward-Perkins runs into trouble is in exploring his speculative evidence. The first case is his use of “metallic pollution” to estimate that there was a great deal of smelting in the Roman world. The measurements are made possible by the snowfall of the sub-arctic collecting materials from the air and then depositing said materials in the ice as the new layer of snow freezes over. Such evidence is certainly worth investigation, but it remains unclear as to whether interpretations of the evidence and the data gleaned from any computer models related to the research are reliable. Where the potsherds could be identified through labels, stamps, and circumstantial evidence, such as their surroundings when discovered, the layering of ice leaves no craftsman’s device. Similarly does the argument for population decline suddenly lose force when the bones from a “Roman” cow suggest that it was more nourished and therefore fatter than both its predecessors and descendants. What evidence is there that the cow discovered was not an especially robust breed, or the best amongst its fellows, or that it was even Roman for that matter? The reader may be enjoined to rely upon archeological expertise on this issue, but the claim suffers from the same uncertainties that might be applied to the polluted ice flows.

If The Fall of Rome enjoys the measure of success as the works of Goffart and his party, then the history of barbarian invasions may be back on its feet. Ward-Perkins has a commanding and satirical voice that lends credibility to his assertions, both when he challenges the opposition and when he allows for positives arisen from their work. But if Ward-Perkins has made one great error – his cyclopean cattle and icecaps aside – it is in failing to point out the crucial sub-text of his own argument: just as the brutality of various American Indians has sometimes been mollified to fit into a politically correct mold, so too has Goffart exonerated the Germanic invaders of all guilt. The claim that the Romans experimented in accommodation, with unexpected and ironic results, removes blame for the destruction of a civilization from the barbarians and places it firmly in the Romans’ hands. Whether he knows it or not, Ward-Perkins has penned a winning argument against the political correction of the fall of Rome.