Review- The Roman Revolution

The Roman Revolution(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1939).

With the publication of Ronald Syme’s The Roman Revolution, the history of the late Roman Republic and the transition to the Principate changed radically. Indeed, Syme sapped the basis of traditional arguments: the transition from Republic to Principate would no longer be dominated by the will of a few men, geniuses in their own right. Syme demoted Sulla, Pompeius, Caesar, Octavianus and Antonius to the realm of subjects, to an extent reactors to historical changes, rather than prime agents of change. For Syme, these great protagonists hid from historians two fundamental truths. The first is that behind any great regime, no matter the kind, there lurks in the background, the agency of an oligarchy, acting for their families, shuffling and reshuffling alliances so as to ensure their own successes. Octavianus’[1] revolution lay in his ability to masquerade his authority as part of the great republican ideals, as working with these oligarchs for the restoration of their privileges (p.2). The second prefigures the longue durée: it is the accident of history. Death, old age, and civil war were as much a part of the story as the agency of men.

                Syme’s articulated his greatest criticism of the history of the fall of the Roman Republic as linked to historical sources. Indeed, through the accident of history, the large majority of available documentation is loyal to the principate. The single averse source, Caius Asinius Pollio, does not survive.  Sallust died before the establishment of the principate, and Tacitus is a late source (p.4-6). Contemporary sources were intimately tied to the regime. As Syme demonstrates, Octavianus’ chief propagandist Maecenas had discovered Vergil and Horace. These two major authors owed everything to the new regime of Octavianus. Their patron, an equestrian, would not have risen through the ranks of the Republic, undoubtedly blocked by the interests of the oligarchs.[2]  Vergil and Horace themselves would have had little prospects in the republic. Both were of obscure origins. Vergil was born in Mantua, in Gallia Cisalpina, the son of a landowner, while Horace was the son of a wealthy freedman from Apulia, who had fought on the side of Brutus and Cassius at Philippi (p.252-254). Syme had already demonstrated the distaste of the oligarchy for these new-comers, whether foreigners (and especially Gauls) or equestrians in the senatorial reaction against Caesar (chapter 6). The Res Gestae Divi Augusti is of course skewed and biased, and should not be used as a guiding thread in the historical narrative of the time period (p.523). Syme tacitly, throughout the book, asserts Dio’s claim that “the task of the historian has been aggravated beyond all measure,” because “the great question of policy […] were now decided by a few men” (p.407). The sources, then, were wholly unsatisfactory: they were either skewed and unchecked by counter-narratives, or the mystery that shrouded governmental decisions obstructed the ancient historian in his task to acquire reliable information.

                Syme found his sources in the compilation and analysis of the lives of men in their historical contexts, in prosopography. This method allowed for Syme to reconstruct a history of the period, free from the biases of governmental histories, which, as we have seen, were wholly inadequate for a reliable history. Like Sallust, Syme begins his history of the fall of the Republic with Sulla. Sulla’s power, Syme shows rested largely on an alliance with the Caecilii Metelli. Indeed, Sulla had married a Metella, Q. Metellius Pius had been a general of Sulla, and in 79 B.C., the two consuls P. Servilius Vatia and Appius Claudius Pulcher were respectively son and husband of Metelli women. The Claudii and the Porcii were the other two families that controlled the senate (p.20-26), together with the more ancient Aemilii.  For the next half-a-century, the names of the families controlling the senate might change, but the concept remains. The political scene of the Roman Republic was dominated by a group of people. It is the nature and composition of that group that evolves.

                The composition of the senate under Pompeius was ostensibly the same as it had been under Sulla. Pompeius, himself the son of a knight, was of recent nobility. The accession of his family to the closed circle of consular families was largely due to an alliance with the Scipiones in the second century B.C, that is, his family was a client family, and their clientele was not based in Rome (p.30-31). He acquired his authority via a series of military successes, first as a member of Sulla’s party defeating the remaining supporters of Marius, and then through an extraordinary tribunician command to defeat the Pirates. Still, behind his achievements loomed the power of the Metelli and the Aemilii via marriage. Caesar’s own meteoric rise came from an alliance initially with Crassus, and subsequently with Pompeius.  These three men were able to exert influence over the politics of their time through a tight control of the consulate, and key military successes. The latter, though independent of the oligarchy, was crucial, as it gave the “dynasts”-as Syme calls them- auctoritas and the support of the army (chapter 3). Caesar’s senate was enlarged, but the powerhouses remained, since, unlike Sulla, Caesar chose not to purge the Senate of his enemies. The enlargement of the Senate to provincials from Gallia Cisalpina and Italy did not abate the power of the Fabii, the Claudii, the Cornelii, the Aemilii and the Servilii who retained control over the consulship (Chapters 5-7).[3]

                The first major break in the composition of the Senate occurred after Second Civil War, between the Triumvirs Octavianus, Antonius and Lepidus, and the Liberators, Cassius and Brutus.  Already in 43 B.C., in the absence of the Liberators (who had fled), the senate numbered a mere seventeen consulares (out of 900) (p.164). Because the Senate naturally turned to these consular men for authority and guidance, not to mention the administration of the wealthy provinces, the Senate appeared to lack any major form of authority. Their dependence on the major families, was further felt since some of the major players, Lucius Munatius Plancus, M. Aemilius Lepidus and C. Asinus Pollio, were either too far to be relevant, or to intelligent to play the game, and preferred to wait before choosing an allegiance. In other words, the first civil war had decimated the Senate, and deprived it of leadership (Chapter 12). This breach becomes more evident in buildup of the conflict between Antonius and Octavianus, and the subsequent victory of Octavianus.[4] The purges promulgated immediately before and continued after Philippi further exacerbated the Senate’s depletion of consulares. Cicero’s death in 43 B.C. was just a footnote in Syme’s narrative. Though Antonius emerged as the victor, the defeat of his partisans at Perusia, and his absence from Rome allowed Octavianus to replenish the Senate, much in the same way Caesar had, building on a coalition of men from obscure backgrounds but with great abilities (Agrippa, Maecenas), and the old families (chapter 17). The Galatian proconsuls during the early Principate show a clever mix of members of the old oligarchy and new men (chapter 26). Likewise, the party of Tiberius was composed of both “old” houses and new men, all of whom were either too young to owe much of their position to Augustus, or who had a vested interest in pursuing old familial glory (chapter 28).

                Syme’s greatest tour de force lays in his subtle comparison between discourse and prosopography, especially in the later chapters of the book. Indeed, Augustus’ position rested on a careful rhetoric that masked the larger revolution. If Caesar had renewed the Senate with rebel rousers from Gaul, and opened positions to the equestrians, and shamelessly restored the Marian party, when the Senators themselves were largely from the Sullan party (Chapters 5-6), Augustus carefully crafted a discourse around the continuity of the old republican order. The “settlement of 23 B.C.” Syme argues, buried the Republic, but was clouded by discourses of continuity. Augustus had almost died, and relinquished the consulate, and was replaced by L. Sestius, once a republican, now a devout servant to the state.  In exchange, Augustus obtained proconsular imperium over the Empire, and he began to exercise the powers of the tribune (as opposed to simply holding them).[5] The Senate had willingly given up: by removing the consular ornaments from the titulature of Augustus, the Senate had effectively removed itself from the basis of power of Augustus. Indeed, Syme argues,  “the new settlement” set up the two pillars on top of which the regime is based: the army (proconsular imperium) and the people (tribunicia potestas). In other words, Augustus had shown deference towards the senate and liberated its most prestigious office, all the while entrenching his position beyond the reach of the powerful, opportunistic familial dynasties that had plagued the end of the Republic (chapter 23).

In terms of control of discourse, Augustus was able to use patronage to his advantage: the men that he placed in positions of power had effectively become his clients. Some men, like for instance, Agrippa, had also acquired tremendous wealth from their service with Augustus. In the rebuilding program of Rome by his clients, Syme argues, Augustus had become omnipresent in the empire. Then, by securing advancements for the members of his party, Augustus was able to control the system he had created (chapter 25). Thus, Syme’s demagogue, through a careful manipulation of rhetoric and the accidents of history (war, death, and old age) was able to replace the old oligarchy with his own, thus establishing a monarchy and ending the Roman Revolution.

                The criticism of such a text is tricky. Firstly, Syme’s arguments have permeated any lecture on the Roman Republic, and in this way, have become somewhat canonical. Secondly, the benefits of the anthropological concept of cultural relativism, which tempered the way historians analyzed discourse, did not emerge until the 1970’s. One can hardly fault Syme on that ground.

                Still, one can see a limit to prosopography as displayed in Syme’s work. The purpose of the Roman Revolution was to completely reevaluate the discourse previous generations had crafted. Extreme views could and should be adopted. The heroes (Cicero, Caesar, Pompeius) have become, at the very least, shameless promoters. In the case of Cicero, Syme overplays his hand. It is true that Cicero was not consistent in his affiliations. He had opposed Pompei, but fought for him against Caesar (chapter 3); he had initially turned a blind eye to Octavianus, before pushing him forward as the savior of the Republic, even giving Octavianus’ illegal army of veterans Senatorial clearance and legality (chapter 10). The speeches are a special target of Syme, who shows that, from a philological perspective, Cicero was exceedingly vague, using words devoid of political sense. Indeed, the libertas of the Roman people carried no real actual significance (p.152-153). For Syme, Cicero was attached primarily to his own advancement (p.139). The argument is dangerous. That the words used in Cicero lacked precise meaning is not uncommon in general political discourses, and Cicero still shows remarkable consistency in choosing a side that would, in the end, help the salvation of the Republic. Was Octavianus the most dangerous threat to the Republic? Objectively, Antonius’ power base resembled Caesar’s. His authority was extensive (Gaul), and his army powerful. He also, in 43 had placed Hirtius and Pansa as consuls, probably because of their lack of auctoritas (p.149). Octavianus’ army was small in comparison, and only coupled with D. Brutus could Octavianus really pose a threat to Antonius. Is it a stretch to see Cicero as genuinely concerned, as seeing Octavianus as a little threat that could be controlled? In other words, perhaps Cicero’s loyalties did indeed lie with the Republic that he so desperately wished to save, and that his alliances reflect a genuine belief in the person who would save the republic.

                Prosopography, as displayed in the Roman Republic, really acts as a check on available sources. Like other non-literary checks, archaeology for instance, one runs the risk of transforming one type of source as a slave to the other. Syme wants his Cicero to be an opportunistic demagogue, therefore, he becomes one. His alliances seem to reflect a lack of consistency, so too should his speeches. Still, Syme’s work provided a complete reevaluation of a historical discourse that had become canonical. Syme’s analysis shattered the field, and his methodology has allowed for an objective use of information contained in the sources.

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[1] For the sake of clarity, Octavianus will remain Octavianus until the discussion of the principate.

[2] On the context for the rise of Maecenas and other kings, see p.235-238, chapter 18; on the politics of the oligarchs, see specifically chapter 2, where Syme exposes the machinations of the large families, especially the Metelli.

[3] Syme’s appendix is tremendously useful for corroborating his evidence.

[4] Syme struggles with this victory, since, as he demonstrated in chapters 7-9, Antonius clearly had the upper hand.

[5] From then on, Augustus would date his years from the acquisition of the tribunicia potestas.

Grafton Book Review

At the Crossroads of Arts and Science

A Review of The Footnote: A Curious History by Anthony Grafton

Reviewed by Laurent Cases



Monographs or articles of academic value contain some method of citation; it is natural for scholars to expect that any scholarly work should contain a way to assess a given statement, as well as assess its reliability. Students of pre-modern history are well aware that such methods as footnotes or endnotes are fairly recent. After all, the ancients did not use footnotes or endnotes. Herodotus, instead of citing his sources, would use the word φὰσιν to indicate divergent storylines in sources. This practice endured well into the byzantine period, as the historian Zonaras, when discussing the fate of the Palmyrene empress Zenobia, also citing the two main narratives, would also use that same word marker found in Herodotus (Zon 607). At the other end of the spectrum, historians began to collect documents and data in order that they might sustain a point. Eusebius of Caesarea is a case already mentioned in Grafton’s work. Optatus of Milevis, in Against the Donatists, attached to his manuscript a flurry of documents with the aim of demonstrating the validity of his position.

Yet, even as a student of this particular historical tradition, footnotes are in fact second nature when crafting a discourse about the time period, even if their purpose has remained largely unsought, their true nature unidentified. In Grafton’s own words, “most students of historiography, for their part, have interested themselves in the explicit professions of their subjects, rather than their technical practices, especially those that were tacitly, rather than explicitly transmitted and employed” (p.26). Still, footnotes have become an integral part of the tools of the historian, and their use, hence, is a vision of a certain kind of history. Grafton’s work traces the development of the footnote as a mirror of larger historical trends, and changes in the mentalités of scholars and authors alike.

Chapter one of Grafton’s work introduces the conundrum that he seeks to resolve. The historian, Grafton states, has two major tasks: to examine all of the sources relevant to a certain historical problem, and to create an original narrative from these sources. Footnotes, Grafton states, are the proof that both tasks have been carried out (p.4-5). Grafton extrapolates on the implications of this statement. First, footnotes are the marks of appurtenance to a professional fellowship. By writing footnotes, Grafton states, the apprentice stakes a claim at being a historian, and perhaps most important, at being a member of a group by engaging in a discussion with the members of that group (p.7-17). The inherent problem is that, though the young historian enthusiastically displays this membership, as the historian ages, the footnote becomes a hindrance: it breaks the narrative, and affects the accessibility of the text. That is, the writing of a historical narrative becomes a science rather than an art form.

Chapters two and three evaluate this hypothesis, that footnotes evolved (out of simple glossings on manuscripts) from the marriage between history (the art of narrative) with philology (the science of source criticism). At the center of this marriage, scholars have argued, is the figure of Ranke. Ranke, Grafton argues, had become obsessed with the recreation of the past, “as it was” after the cruel realization that the Louis IX and Charles of Burgundy of Walter Scott had not existed. Grafton does point out that footnotes had existed prior to Ranke: Gibbon (in chapter 1) and Gucciardini both acted as predecessors to Ranke with respect to the use of footnotes. However, as Grafton demonstrates, Ranke used his footnotes differently, that is, while Gucciardini used sources rather heavily to cite any and all sources, Ranke refined this model by viewing footnotes as the quotation and citation of proper sources. Chapter three is concerned with the establishment of this marriage between philology and history. Though a historian, Ranke’s fame had been in his criticism of Gucciardini, and specifically, Ranke’s demonstration that Gucciardini had invented certain speeches in his history (Chapter 2). Grafton shows further that the combination of philology and history changed the nature of history: “history should tell the double story of the historical past and the historian’s research” (p.67). Not only did Ranke reject that notion of history, but philology, as a method, had been around since the Renaissance. Then, the footnote did not originate with Ranke and the German academics of the nineteenth century.

The link established between footnote and scientific history holds, however, as Grafton demonstrates in chapter four, as he examines the attitudes of eighteenth century philosophes. Voltaire, on the one hand disliked foonotes as exhibition of pedantic knowledge that got in the way of the historical narrative, while Tissot on the other hand, viewed footnotes as a natural apparatus of historical research. Tissot’s point is exemplified further in the anecdote of a debate between Gibbon and Davis, as Davis argued that Gibbon’s footnotes were used as a clever artifice to avoid detection. The underlying point is that, by the time Gibbon was writing, academic historical works necessitated the use of footnotes.

Chapters five and six explore different ways in which footnotes predated the enlightenment. Again following that footnotes stem out of the philological tradition, Grafton focused on De Thou, the legal historian, who was instrumental in propagating the use of first-hand accounts as the best source for an event. These sources were largely quoted in footnotes. Most interestingly, Grafton uses the folios of Ben Johnson’s Sejanus, heavily annotated undoubtedly as a shield against potential repression in a tense political climate, to show essentially that footnotes were used in lieu of collection of sources. Chapter six looks to antiquarianism and antiquarian attitudes as the earliest archetypes of footnotes. Indeed, the desire to annotate texts to give them credence can be found in the Greek historical tradition of the fourth century B.C.E, and in the Judeo-Christian tradition. Greek historians and Jewish lawyers used heavy text collection as support for a wide range of problematic issues; for instance, the demonstration that Biblical codes predated Homer’s Illiad and Odyssey. The antiquarians, Grafton demonstrates, had a profound effect on the development of footnotes, in that “their [antiquaries] methodical criticism prodived the model for he analytical, though not the narrative, procedures that Robertson and Möser used” (p.187). However, antiquaries did not annotate: the sources were discussed in the text proper. Then, antiquarians might have provided the impetus for analytical history and have created an intellectual model for the footnote, but they clearly did not “invent” the footnote.

Chapter seven is the culmination of Grafton’s reasoning. In this chapter, he believes that he has identified the archetypal footnote, both in form and in spirit, of the modern footnote: Bayle’s Historical and Critical Dictionary. Perhaps forced by necessity to hide important data in his footnotes to avoid repression from censure, Bayle undoubtedly believed in full and appropriate citations. Grafton’s aforementioned quote about the duality of the historian that Ranke rejected is fully formed for Bayle who saw himself as a narrator and commentator (p.200). Bayle’s commentary arose from the criticism of Descartes, who had elevated mathematical knowledge and method as the pinnacle of truth. Footnoting arose out of Bayle’s belief that historical knowledge was more accurate and applicable than mathematical truth. The final step in the evolution of the footnote came with Jean Le Clerc, who crafted the footnote in its modern form: clear, concise and accessible. Then, according to Grafton, one can find the origins of the footnote in the Republic of Letters, in the reaction against Descartes and mathematical truth, and in the definition of history as a scientific endeavor.

Grafton’s masterful study has taken the form of the dialogue between history, and the art of historical writing, and the science of source criticism. Indeed, though the book purports to delve into the history of the footnote, Grafton instead takes his readers on a journey into the ways in which historians have conceptualized their craft. Why Grafton chose the footnote as his focal point is made clear in the first chapter. Indeed, the footnote is the way in which one expresses appurtenance to a certain intellectual group. It is the mark of the historian’s craft.

Grafton’s methodology is set forth in his preface when he states that “the footnote is not so uniform and reliable as some historians believe. Nor is it the pretentious authoritarian device that other historians reject.” This dichotomy in attitude between science (sentence 1) and the art (sentence 2) is at the core of the footnote. From Ranke’s rejection of the footnote as an ugly alteration of what is otherwise an art form (chatper 2) to Bayle’s extolling of the footnote as a necessary tool, Grafton’s book offers countless examples of scholars torn between the scientific approach to their craft (via source criticism) and the art of crafting a historical narrative. Gibbon’s footnotes are characterized as truthful and accurate but inaccessible, while Möser filled his pages with an extreme amount of footnotes, so as to make his discourse barely legible. Grafton’s clear and precise examples bring the wrenching conflict between the artist and the scientist in all historians to life.

Grafton’s book also exemplifies his belief that a history should show both the narrative and the historical inquiry. Indeed, Grafton begins with the end: Ranke and the evolution of the historical method in the German universities during the nineteenth century (a topic developed more fully in his other work Worlds Made by Words), and breaks down the ideology of Ranke and Niebuhr to its core components. Moving backwards, he then identifies the various influences of Ranke and Niebuhr: Voltaire’s remarks against the pedantic footnotes, the scientific dismantling of the Donation of Constantine by Valla, or the grand literary narratives of Gucciardini and Bruni. Grafton then states that these are but the components that lay behind the idea of the footnote, but that they do not explain the footnote itself (nor do they answer the deeper question on the nature of the Historian’s craft). He finally reaches the first formulation of the idea of the footnote in the response of the liberal arts (via Bayle and Le Clerc) to methodical science (Descartes).
Grafton’s method, traced along the lines of inquiry and discourse, is at the core of what is perhaps my only critique of this book. Grafton’s own training as an early modern Western historian comes to light in this work. Indeed, Grafton does not account for the Greek historical tradition. In chapter five, Grafton jumps from Herodotus to Eusebius of Caesarea, forgetting in the process to address the important historian Thucydides with any depth. Grafton reproduces the bias of Ranke and Le Clerc that the ancients did not have footnotes. This is in theory correct, but the Greeks’ use of the word φὰσιν as a means to distinguish between multiple accounts deserved to be investigated in this context. Lastly, Grafton forgets two important ancient historians: Tacitus and Ammianus Marcellinus. Both of these historians deserve attention as writers of grand narratives to be sure, but also as expositors of some historical truth.[1] While there are no footnotes in classical histories, the process of inquiry and the exposition of truth by sorting out sources deserved a greater place in the narrative, rather than what felt like a footnote in Le Clerc’s

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[1] Ammianus, for instance, made abundant use of primary eyewitness accounts, like imperial reports and possibly merchants. Guy Sabbah, La méthode d’Ammien (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1985), esp. the second part.

Establishing Royal Authority and Decreasing Papal Dependence: The Dialogues of Authority at the Besançon Affair

This essay seeks to demonstrate two aspects of imperial authority as evidenced by the documents pertaining to the Imperial Diet at Besançon. I hope to demonstrate two key aspects of Imperial government. First, Frederick I was well aware of the principles of communal governance. Second, Papal rhetoric and actions threatened the destruction of local communal ties to the imperial government. Most importantly, however, is that this situation arose from the consolidation of three different titles around a single person.

When the Imperial Diet met in October 1157, chancellor Roland read a letter from the pope, which stipulated that “the fullness of dignity and honor had been bestowed upon the emperor by the Roman pontiff, that the emperor had received from his hand the imperial crown, and that he would have regretted conferring even greater benefits upon him […].” The crowd then proceeds to go into “a great tumult and uproar (Tierney, doc. 51).

The reaction of the crowd is not altogether surprising. After all, this event takes place a mere thirty years after the Concordat of Worms (1122), which ‘ended’ the investiture contest. A key feature of papal policies during the Investiture Contest was the assertion that the emperor had derived his authority from the pope. Firstly, in 1075, the Dictatus Papae stipulates that “the Pope may depose Emperors” (Tierney, doc. 26). This particular point is reinforced when Henry opens his letter to the pope by stating that he is “King not by usurpation, but by the pious ordination of God” (Tierney, doc. 30). Then, not only does the presence of reliefs and iconography in Rome representing the pope handing down imperial authority and the kingdom of Italy to Emperor Lothar (Tierney, doc. 51; also doc. 52) become plausible, but the injunction from the legate that “from whom then does he have the empire, if not from our lord the Pope?” (Tierney, doc. 51) would infuriate the assembly. Subsequently, popes argued that, on account of the Donation of Constantine, the imperial dignity was theirs alone, and that they gave it back to Charlemagne (Tierney, doc. 80).

Imperial authority, indeed, does not appear to descend from the pope in the sources. The response of Frederick Barbarossa to the envoys of the City of Rome in June of 1155 attests to the fact that he holds imperial authority from the nobility of ‘the Frank.’ That is, ‘the Frank’ is the sole person who is fit to recover the Empire “clad with in its virtue”, and with “its adornments” (Tierney, doc 49). That is, the German emperors are the natural heirs to the Empire.

Then, the question becomes, who carries that dignity to confer imperial dignity upon a person? Obviously, as mentioned above, the pope believes it is himself who carries that dignity, while the emperor (and probably, by extension his lawyers and nobles)[1] states that: “through election by the princes, the kingdom and the empire are ours alone” (Tierney, doc.52). Frederick’s actions at the diet clearly shows that he supported the outburst, all the while maintaining the royal dignity Hadrian claims he lacked.[2] Indeed, he both saved the lives of the legates by removing them from the room, while responding to the outburst and supporting his nobles by exiling the legates, first to their rooms and then sending them back to Rome (Tierney, doc. 51). Then, there are two different ideas of authority at stake here: first, the pope claims sole authority to nominate emperors, while the emperors stated that they obtained their authority both from their being Franks and from their electors. In other words, papal rhetoric is at odds with the reality of the governance of the empire.

Susan Reynolds may have the key to understanding this problem. Indeed, in her discussion of German Imperial authority, she states quite clearly that there is a distinction between the three holdings of the Emperor, namely his kingdom of Italy and the Imperial government, both of which carry papal sanctioning and the kingdom of the Germans, which have been granted by the electorate.[3] Then, even if the individual parties involved (that is emperor, popes, and magnates) were well aware of the distinctions between the offices, the concentration of the offices around a single person creates a situation which allows for varied forms of legitimization.

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[1] Susan Reynolds, Kingdoms and Communities in Western Europe, 2^nd Ed (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), esp. pp.319-331. She argues that the theories of imperial kingship arose partially from laws, lawyers and scholars. This shows that the emperor would not have been the only one involved in defining his authority in this way.

[2] The circumstances are different, but Hadrian states twice that the emperor behaves in a different way than “behooved imperial dignity,” first in a letter of 1157, and then again in a letter of 1158. Tierney, docs 50, 53.

[3] Susan Reynolds, Kingdoms and Communities in Western Europe, pp.289-297.

Eudes Rigaud, the Pope and Ecclesiastical Reforms The Implementation of Universal Reforms in a Local Context

Adam J. Davis’ book The Holy Bureaucrat is filled with interesting anecdotes concerning life of the Franciscan archbishop of Rouen, Eudes Rigaud. It would be difficult to respond in a general manner to all of the topics proposed in the book, and so I will focus on the interactions between the papacy and Eudes.[1]

Papal reforms, as we have discussed in previous weeks, was met with varying success from the time of the investiture contest. One the problems clearly was the enforcement of papal policies by local bishops. As an oft quoted (by me) letter of Gregory to Otto of 1074, bishop of Constance, shows, papal orders were not always diligently followed (Tierney, document 25). There is no reason to believe that this was an isolated case. Bruce Venarde demonstrates that in terms of monastic reforms, the impetus for change was not motivated by the papacy but by local preachers, with papal support being ex post facto.[2]

One major problem with papal involvement in local politics stems from accepted papal ideology that the pope was a universal overseer in ecclesiastical matters, as the promulgator of canon law. Indeed, Gregory VII places himself as judge over the enforcement of canon law, while the defendant has the prospect of excommunication (Tierney, document 25). Perhaps more relevant is the opinion of Gregory IX (contemporary to Rigaud) that the pope received imperial dignity from Constantine, and that this authority was subsequently delegated to the emperors after Charlemagne (Tierney, document 80). This opinion is particularly relevant, especially if taken in the context of the revival of revival of Roman law. One key concept is that “whatever the Emperor settles by rescript, or decides in his judicial capacity, or ordains by edicts is clearly a statute” (Tierney, document 48). Hence, the popes claimed absolute authority with respect to Canon Law.

But this totalizing discourse betrays the local reality that, while a bishop was bound to papal judgment, he still could choose what to enforce and what not to enforce, sometimes being at odds with papal opinions. For instance, Eudes’ visitations to his parishioners, which, Davis says, were both uninvited and frequent, were in direct violation of the papal opinion (and hence law by the principle stated above) stated in Romana Ecclesia that the archbishop could not make uninvited visits within his province.[3] The pope tacitly confirmed the prohibition, but Eudes did not cease his visitations, preferring to focus instead on the juridical authority of the bishop in his own diocese over that of the archbishop.[4] Hence, even in the face of direct papal order, the local bishop retained certain liberties.

This last point is not as interesting as the fact that the bishop could choose, in addition to whether, how he would enforce papal orders. Eudes Rigaud highlights this particular point, especially in the context of monastic disciplines. Indeed, both Gregory IX and Innocent III confirmed legislations pertaining to the care of the sick. For them, this meant founding new hospitals.[5] Eudes’ proclivity for charity to the sick has already been demonstrated by Davis in preceding chapters, and indeed, he diligently enforced this particular piece of legislation. However, Eudes chose a slightly different path to enforce the rule. He did not as much found new hospitals as ensure that the hospitals themselves were in working order, providing proper care. That meant ensuring access to physicians, paying attention to the physical needs of the sick, and proper diet for the sick. Then, as Davis ably shows, Eudes’ policing actions and the way he enforced papal legislation were motivated by his Franciscan ideals.[6]

What the study of Davis highlights is the regionalism of reform. That is, the reform of one region is dependent on its own context. However,[7] the region is not isolated from the wider context, either of the French kingdom or of the Papacy. Indeed, papal reforms, though stemming from Rome, were universal in the sense that, according to Roman law, rescripts are equivalent to statutes (see above). Hence, rescripts, like the one solving the aforementioned dispute between Eudes and his bishops, shaped papal reform. Then, the universality of the reform is conditioned by a dialogue between general, and centralized, principles of law, and local circumstances.

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[1] Though there are some clearly fascinating topics that I would have loved to discuss, from his intellectual background in Chapter 1, and intellectuals parallels to Aquinas’ views, to his more general economic policies. One question worth raising, however, with respect to Eudes’ policies is this: Some like the archbishop of Canterbury were asked to answer for the alleged poverty vows of the Franciscans, but these criticisms seem to arise out of the necessity of the control Pecham’s spending. Hence, under appropriate expenditures, was there a criticism? In other words, was there a fundamental discrepancy between the handling of money and Franciscan poverty vows? Wasn’t there a distinction between ideal (rule) and practicality (glossing/interpretation)? At a more fundamental level, this begs the question of the integration of spiritual orders within society and the artificial distinction placed on the separation of church and state alluded to by Reynolds in her second edition to Kingdoms and Communities.

[2] Bruce L. Venarde, Women’s Monasticism and Medieval Society (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997), esp. chapter 3.

[3] Adam J. Davis, The Holy Bureaucrat: Eudes Rigaud and Religious Reform in Thirteenth-Century Normandy (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2006), pp.57-60. Davis’ initial points in Chapter 3 frame the issue in terms of shifting hierarchies within the church, and the ambiguous place of honorary titles (metropolitan, archbishop) within the church. One question Eudes and his bishops were attempting to answer was “what is the place of the archbishop in the diocese?”

[4] Ibid, p.60.

[5] Ibid, p.79. Davis frames this in the context founding new hospitals.

[6] Ibid, pp.79-82. Eudes’ implementation papal or local legislation was motivated by his intellectual formation. This is especially clear in chapter 1, when the debate over the way in which scholastics should apply their knowledge is discussed. On the one hand, Peter the Chanter argued that scholastic training served a pastoral purpose, whereas Aquinas viewed his intellectual pursuits as reaching the masses by way of clerks. In Chapter 5, there is mention of Guillaume de Saâne’s school in Paris to train clerics from Rouen to become part of the archbishop’s familia. Thus, there is a clear association between intellectual ability/pursuit and local administration.

[7] Davis does well to highlight this objection.

Investitures, Authority and the Consolidation of Royal Solidarity Evidence from Germany and Rome

Susan Reynolds’ work Kingdoms and Communities is a study of the various communal[1] ties that made medieval society a coherent whole. Indeed, in her introduction, she states that there was much greater interregional coherence in communal processes during the medieval period.[2] The corollary here is that, in spite of the criticism by various scholars, we can, in fact, speak of a coherent Medieval Europe.[3] One such process is that division or conflicts fosters bonds, not only at the local level, but also at the level of the realm. This response investigates this claim with the evidence provided by the investiture controversy.[4] Clearly, two polities are at work, Rome and the Holy Roman Empire, with a third group of polities, perhaps the most important, Italian cities.

In chapter 6 of her book, Susan Reynolds argues that the way towns grew was not primarily an economic necessity. This revolutionary argument brings to historical discourses, what was present in archaeology, that is, that there is no dual purpose (one military, the other economic) to towns. Rather, large settled, and most importantly fortified areas, became the foci for many communal activities, ranging from assemblies of magnates, to some primarily local trade.[5] The large markets, though, appear as a consequence of the size of these settlements, and were not a cause of urbanization.[6] Then, the main reason for urbanization is political. So too the bonds that tied together a community were, at least initially, political.[7]

Then, it becomes necessary to consider the creation of the towns in the context of political dynamics. Indeed, the towns were still part of a system, and were often dependent on a patron. Lübeck is one example, where the emperor is plays a major role. Indeed, the emperor guarantees not only the existence of privileges, but also that the privileges are to be enforced. In addition, the emperor is also able to grant privileges that extend beyond the city itself, that is “that the people of Lübeck should enjoy the right and conditions that the people of Cologne, Tiel […] and their members enjoy” (Lübeck is made an Imperial City, Class handout, p.50). The example of Laon provides another example: the bishop’s approval was necessary, even from a simply legal standpoint, for the privileges to be granted. Guillaume of Nogent states that after the oaths of association were broken, the people “such rage, such amazement seized the burghers that all the craftsmen abandoned their jobs and the stalls of the tanners and cobblers were closed […] ” (The Formation of the Commune at Laon, Handout, p.39). Two conclusions arise. First, the role of the lord or patron is still crucial for the existence of the commune, and second, crisis creates ties within these urban communities. Indeed, what in common would the tanners, cobblers, innkeepers and chapman have in common that they all decided to strike? Then cohesion is made at the local level in the context of crisis.

There is little doubt that the investiture contest polarized the constituencies involved, both at the local level and the level of the realm.[8] One letter of Gregory to Otto, bishop of Constance, from 1074, provides an interesting example of the way the contest divided loyalties, and by extension communities. Indeed, Gregory writes to Otto in order that Otto would enforce Gregory’s legislation on the priesthood. Otto’s actions show that, at least initially, he must have aligned himself with the emperor: “A report has come to us [royal we, refers to Gregory] with regard to Your Fraternity, which I have heard with grief and regret […]. Wherefore we command you to present yourself before us […] to give answer […] for this disobedience and contempt of the Apostolic See” (Tierney, p.48-49). It appears, then, that there were different loyalties at play that were more important that loyalty to the ecclesia catholica. It is worth noting also that, in the letter, it is not just the bishop who is in canonical wrong, but his community of priests. Indeed, Otto “presides over the numerous clergy and the widespread population,” chose not to punish “those who had taken concubines persisted in their crime, while those who had not yet done so had no fear of your prohibitions” (Tierney, p.50). In other words, the conflict does not involve just the bishop, but his whole community.

Finally, the Concordat of Worms (Sept 1122) can be seen as a compromise, much in the same light as the Magna Carta: it is a piece of collective activity, where two communities were unable to break the other, were asserting their rights. Focusing on the rights of the Holy Roman Emperor, it becomes apparent that the Emperor had sought to create with some cohesion a group of people bound to him in loyalty. Thus, the bishop-elect receives the regalia from the king, even if the latter promises “canonical elections and free consecration.” Thus, two communities are appearing in this document forms: the Holy Roman Empire, with ties to an emperor, and local communities, which retain the ability to elect their bishops. Frederick II, for all his troubles, retained sufficient authority and loyalty to raise armies.[9] Thus, the Imperial office did not lose loyalties in this contest (and in fact created new ones).

Thus, the investiture contest provides evidence that Reynolds’ view that contest divides in a way to strengthen communal bonds is a particularly shrewd and correct observation.

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[1] Intended here in the wider sense of the term, as the adjective of community.

[2] Susan Reynolds, Kingdoms and Communities in Western Europe, 2^nd Ed (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), p.7-8.

[3] For the criticism, see Dominique Barthélémy, The Knight, the Serf and the Historian (Ithaca: Cornell University Press): his main criticism of Duby is the enlargement of the study of the Macônais to the whole of Europe. While on the surface this appears coherent, after Reynold’s work, the historian should reconsider his position, and admit that there are interregional processes, though we must still account for the fact that these took place at different times, and, as a consequence, causality is dependent on context. Still the processes take the same shape.

[4] The primary documents are taken from Brian Tierney, The Crisis of Church and State 1050-1300 (Toronto: Toronto University Press, 1988), chapter 2. When noted otherwise, they come from class handouts.

[5] It is also worth noting that the large fairs of Champagne were not placed in a strategic location for long –distance trade, even if they eventually became hubs of international trade in the late-twelfth, early-thirteenth century.

[6] Susan Reynolds, Kingdoms, pp.155-158. The implicit reasoning is based on Braudel’s capitalism surveys, which consider that the city requires markets to supply it. That is, because town-folks often specialized their activities away from basic sustenance, there was a necessity for outsourcing basic needs. This duty fell on peasants. As towns grow, Braudel argues, so does the supply zone. Fernand Braudel,Les Structures du Quotidien (Paris: Armand Colin, 1979), see esp. chapter 1. Susan Reynolds uses this argument, Susan Reynolds, Kingdoms, esp. pp. 158-165.

[7] Susan Reynolds, Kingdoms, especially chapter 3, pp. 184-198. The main argument is that guilds, even if they become economic entities, initially began as common ‘interest groups’,’ which would take over some administrative duties (at times acting as electoral structures), or religious festivals (which cannot be dissociated from political life).

[8] I will focus primarily on the evidence from the Empire.

[9] Susan Reynolds, Kingdoms, p.295.

Mercantilism, Consolidation and Gifts: The Importance of the Fairs of Champagne.

I will not be concerned, in this response, with the important authority that the Fairs of Champagne conferred on the Counts. It suffices mainly to consider how the crisis with the Piacenza merchants. The fairs provided enough of revenue for merchants that the potentate of Piacenza engaged in a series of diplomatic exchanges with the count of Champagne, so as to avoid exclusion from the fairs (Evergates, Document 24).

Of greater interest to me is the importance of the wealth that was generated by the fairs, and the fact that they appear to have played an integral role in the development of Champagne as a rather unified county. In other words, the wealth that was derived from the fairs, being tremendous, was spread to various other institutions, including monasteries and vassals, which allowed for the counts to consolidate their county politically.

I have recorded, from document 51 in the source handout, the amount of wealth that the counts of Troyes would have been able to gather from two fairs, the first at Troyes and the second at Provins (the other two fairs, according Evergates (Evergates, p.28), were Bar-sur-Aube and Lagny), amounted to about 4000 pounds, for the years 1276 to 1278 (source packet document 51). It would be wrong to assume that they were this large in 1164 or 1174, in the time of Henry I.

We can, however, think that the amount of revenue from rents in the market (that is without rents from room OR from weighing taxes) to under ten percent of what the merchants would bring. Indeed, the value of the fair in Provins is given at 1000 pounds in 1275, for the fair taking place between June 24^th and September 8^th (source packet, doc 51). The first letter of Thibault, stating that merchants from Siena, Florence, Pistoia, Lucca and Pisa had been despoiled of 12,000 worth of good while they were on their way to the fair of Provins. The fact that the letter is dated to October would tend to show that the fair these despoiled merchants were travelling to had to have been the St Ayoul Fair, which takes place from September 14 to November 1. It is unlikely that we would be dealing with the May Fair, given the sum in question and the pace of responses. Indeed, letter two from February 1243, is a response to another letter. That means that in four months three letters had been exchanged, which gives us an average time of five weeks per letter. Then the merchants of Siena and the other cities would have left to go to the St Ayoul fair. Since their goods were estimated at 12,000 pounds and the revenue of the fair is estimated at 1,000 pounds, a figure of ten percent revenue is a large estimate for the ratio between the value of the goods exchanged and the value of the fair to the count.

It is not, however, a ratio that would out of place given the merchandises exchanged. The Italian merchants exchanged luxury goods like spices and silk (Evergates, p.28). The merchants from other cities citied by the third letter of Thibault (Toulouse, Marseille, Metz, Lyon) and local merchants would probably be selling cheaper goods, and thus their aggregate wealth would not amount to the wealth of the Italian merchants. I will proceed under the assumption that this ratio would have been somewhat constant, even if it fluctuated annually.

These fairs, then would have provided the count with an impressive margin to give out gifts to monasteries and to purchase lands from castellans. It is no wonder, then, that Thibault, in his testament of 1257, is able to bequeath such largesse on the monasteries. For instance, he gives 200 pounds to Clairveaux, or 1,000 pounds to the poor commoners of Champagne (document 53), given that he had some assurance that he would receive a large revenue stream from his fairs. His wealth is not limited to the fairs, of course, and would have also come from rents in fiefs.

There is some evidence that these fair money could have been used to purchase fiefs. In the purchase of the lands of Roger, lord of Rozoy-en-Thiérarche, it is stated that he receives 500 pounds, in addition to a rent of 60 pounds to be taken from the fairs at St Ayoul (document 7). Given the context, and though Roger becomes their vassal, he receives a great amount money for his fief. Given that, according to Evergates, 100 pounds invested in property and five pounds annual rent is sufficient for a simple lifestyle (document 28), the 60 pounds in rent (in addition to other rents Robert might have received from other fiefs) would have been plenty. That Robert chooses for this rent to come from the St Ayoul fair is not surprising, it would have been a sure stream of money.

Thus, the importance of the fairs for Champagne can hardly be overstated. Indeed, they provided the counts of Champagne with an insured revenue stream, which could be brokered against property, or even given as gifts. Thus, the wealth of the merchants of Italy reached many places, including the lower castellans of Champagne.

What's a Knight? Bisson, Duby and Barthelemy on the question of Knighthood and Nobility in the Central Middle Ages

Bisson’s view that “the historical study of nobility is little else but a matter of perspective,”[1] is problematic in the sense that, at its core, Bisson appears to believe that there can be no historical consensus on the nature of medieval nobility. The articulation of his paper is centered on the two major schools of thought, the French and the German, and their intellectual offspring. Inherent to the problem, initially set up by Bloch and Tellenbach are the questions of origin of this medieval nobility: are the nobles a new cast of people, or do they trace their origins back to an older group of privileged people?

To Bisson, the answer to this question is a matter of perspective. Bloch was a social historian, and, Bisson states, Bloch viewed the nobility as a creation of the 11^th century, when, essentially bloodlines are institutionalized by means of a juridical process.[2] That is, the nobiles are essentially a legal institution of the landowners of the eleventh century. Contra Bloch are the studies of the German school, put forward by Tellenbach and Karl Schmid. Using a prosopographical survey of the major families, Tellenbach attempted to demonstrate that the families traced their origins back to Late Antiquity, while Schmid identified the difficulties with tracing the origins to the difference of perception of families in the Frankish realm and in the 12^th century. Both of these studies were based on the German libri memoriales of monasteries.[3] Thus for the Germans, there is no “revolution”, but rather an evolution.

The harmonization of the two views is taken up by Georges Duby. The milites were magnates, whose origins can be traced to the Carolingians. But these magnates increasingly became interested in land-ownership, eventually managing their own wives’ property. Therein lies what Bisson calls the transformation of familial structures, from a large kin based system of horizontal allegiances (that is to say, the gens of the Romans), to a vertical familial system of inheritance by the direct bloodlines.[4]

It is from Duby’s studies (from the original Mâconnais study to its revision after the publication of Schmid’s work), that, according to an approbating Bisson, the study of nobility shifted to family ties. First, the American Andrew W. Lewis argued that such a pattern can already be seen in the succession of the Capetian nobles, and that this practice was developed between 860 and 960.[5] Applying this model to the nobles was tricky. While the Bouchard study appears to show that the high nobility (people “flying dangerously close to the sun”) used similar naming strategies to indicate dynastic continuity.[6]

In sum, Bisson, in what can only be described as a historiographical survey,[7] argues that the nobility essentially evolved out of a magnate class (which may or may not go back to the Merovingians), which essentially reformed the way it conducted its inheritance policies.

The criticism comes from Barthélémy. Barthélémy, in The Serf, the Knight and the Historian, does not criticize Bisson himself, but rather the foundational work on the Mâconnais of Georges Duby. For Duby, Barthélémy argues (at length), there is a revolution around the year 1000 in terms of the system that governed France. Indeed, from the year 1000 onward, the knighthood becomes a class in itself, evolving from the nobility.[8] Barthélémy views this particular problem in different terms, more in the juridical tradition of Bloch, looking primarily at legal documents. For Barthélémy Carolingian diplomatic documents denote two things, nobility and vassality, and that nobiles and milites are not substitute for one another. In a sense, the use of nobiles and miles is a way for a society to define itself in Roman terms.[9]

I would take this even further. The continuity between Merovingians and Capetians (in terms of nobility) can be linked to the fact that at its base, Frankish society did develop around Roman institutions. Michael Kulikowski, in Rome’s Gothic Wars,[10] does argue that the barbarian “tribes” are a product of the frontier. The inherent problem that this interpretation poses is that there is a lack of a “native” tradition in reality. But most importantly, the sources for the barbarians are profoundly Roman in their outlook; therefore, these early-medieval authors are explaining the Merovingian phenomenon in Roman/Christian terms (for instance, Theodoric was a protector Urbis, a consul etc…). Thus, the reality represented by the terms, Nobiles and especially milites are inherently Roman terms, used by “Roman” historians/chroniclers in order to show continuity with the Roman past.

Barthélémy’s most persuasive point does not necessarily relate to the absence of revolution in or around the year 1000 (though this is the main point of his book), but rather, and especially for the case of the Knights and the Nobles, that being a Knight is an activity-and to engage in this activity, one must go through the initiation Onorare Militum- while being a noble is a matter of birth.[11] The most important demonstration comes from the use of milites and nobiles. Here, Barthélémy argues, nobiles and milites can be used interchangeably, unlike what, Tellenbach et al. propose, namely that the synonyms of nobiles were potentes, illustrissimi, optimates and milites.[12] This particular point is relatively clearly expressed in the charters from Champagne. In 1190, Hagan can be both Lord of Evry and a knight (doc 51). Even as late as 1249, a testament shows that Lord Hugh is both noble-born AND a knight (doc 54). Thus, it does appear as though the words are not interchangeable, and that knight does not mean either noble or lord.

Thus, it appears that Barthélémy is correct, at least in expressing concern for the development of the knighthood, as evolving out of a nobility. The gradients of nobility are shown in a charter from 1249 or 1250, where Count Thibault IV writes to “all barons, castellans, knights and other feudal tenants ” (doc 10). This document would at least tend to imply that there are numerous layers to that “feudal” society.

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[1] T.N. Bisson, ‘Nobility and Family in Medieval France: A Review Essay’, French Historical Studies 16.3 (1990), p.597-613, p.599.

[2] Ibid, pp.597-99.

[3] Ibid: It is, however, worth noting that the perspective of Tellenbach and Schmid may yield erroneous results. Indeed, it would not be surprising IF nobles claimed an older ancestry to enhance their prestige. After all, the myth of continuity between the Merovingians and the Carolingians was “invented” by the Carolingian biographers of Charlemagne. Then, can’t this attitude be generalized? What other records are there that attest the continuity of the lines?

[4] Ibid, p.600-602.

[5] Ibid, p.603-604.

[6] Ibid, p.605-606. This is, after all, Philippe Buc’s argument, that an emphasis on continuity is very likely to represent an actual discontinuity.

[7] He unabashedly believes that this study of nobility is a study of perception, see above, note 1.

[8] Dominique Barthélémy, The Knight, the Serf and the Historian (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, p.640). T.N. Bisson, ‘Nobility and Family’, p.602.

[9] This goes well with the spirit of the Carolingian Renaissance. Dominique Barthélémy, The Knight, the Serf and the Historian, see esp. chapter 5.

[10] Michael Kulikowski, Rome’s Gothic Wars (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007)

[11] Dominique Barthélémy, The Knight, the Serf and the Historian, esp. Chapter 6-7.

[12] T.N. Bisson, ‘Nobility and Family’, p.598.