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.

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