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Chapter 2.2: The
Rescript of Honorius
Fabio P.
Barbieri
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In Gildas' narrative, the second
Roman expedition leads directly to the Rescript
of Honorius, the document with force of law with
which the Western Roman emperor, Honorius,
directed Britain's local authorities (Ciuitates)
to take arms and defend themselves, in the course
of the turmoil of 410AD.
The story of the loss of Britain
is well known. By 406, the Western Roman Empire
seemed to have been restored. After firming up
various borders including Britain's, the hated
but able chief minister Stilicho had finally
managed (or so it seemed) to bring to heel
Alaric, king of the Visigoths and terror of the
Roman Balkans, while carefully avoiding the
destruction of this potentially useful man and
his potentially useful army.
Then winter came, and all hell
broke loose. Crossing the frozen Rhine, barbarian
tribes from the far interior of Germany, Alani,
Suebi and Vandals, smashed into Gaul to
apocalyptic effect; and it became clear that,
behind them, the horror of the Huns was on the
move. The fall of Stilicho, whose aura of
invincibility was now gone, quickly followed; the
emperor Honorius, who had reason to suspect that
he aspired to the crown, was now able to do away
with him. Alaric and his Visigoths, hungry and
feeling betrayed, revolted again, and began an
agonizingly slow pillage of Italy, which was,
after two years, to lead them - for the first
time in 800 years - to great Rome itself, while
the imperial government, safe in the protective
swamps of Ravenna, stubbornly insisted on no
negotiations with rebel barbarians.
The barbarian invasion of Gaul had
an electric effect on British Roman troops.
Desperate to attack the enemy on the continent
before they reached Britain, they proclaimed two
emperors in succession (one Marcus, and one
Gratianus), swiftly murdering each of them when
they were felt not to be eager enough to fight.
Their third candidate, a common soldier[1] with the auspicious name
of Constantinus (Constantine III[2]), got their drift, and
promptly and ostentatiously began to nominate war
commanders, a Romano-Briton and Frankish, for
Roman and allied forces respectively. He invaded
the continent, drafted large numbers of troops
and Germanic auxiliaries, and chased the invaders
into Spain[3]. He came to a nasty end,
betrayed by one of his own commanders (the Briton
Gerontius) and eventually captured and executed
by the representatives of Honorius. His brief
adventure had little effect on the ongoing
catastrophe in the West, and his death must have
been regarded as strictly a side-note when
compared with Alaric's seizure and pillage of the
City and his abduction of Galla Placidia, young
sister of two Emperors, who was soon to marry -
under whatever constriction - his successor
Ataulphus.
The fall of Rome in 410 rang
through the whole empire like a trump of Doom.
People simply could not imagine a world of which
the great city was not the impregnable centre.
Grim old St.Jerome, who knew Rome well and had
taken refuge from its worldly wickedness in
Palestine, was shattered by the news; in the heat
of his despair, but still in control of his
writing talent, he described the whole world as a
beheaded trunk, fallen after the fall of its
head, Rome - an image of startling, tremendous
rhetorical power, and a justly famous passage
quoted by every historian; the more telling since
the sombre priest, who had left the City in
anger, might be expected to regret its fall as
little as Isaiah regretted Babylon.
Other barbarians seem to have
taken it as a hint. Chronicles mention a
particularly savage Saxon raid in Britain and
north Gaul about 409-411. This is confirmed by
archaeological finds in the Netherlands and
western Niedersachsen, where a number of treasure
hoards were found all including coins datable to
407-411, which show that in that period a large
amount of Roman wealth entered the north-west
corner of Germany. The map of these finds is
significantly different from hoards from
immediately before - up to about 397 - or from
about 425, which extend along the middle and
lower Rhine as far Belgium in the west and
Thuringia in the east, and are obviously Frankish[4]. Perhaps the Saxons had
heard of the fall of Rome to fellow-Germans, and
thought their time had come - after all,
"these things were not done in a
corner".
When Gerontius' treachery made
Constantine's plans fall apart, most of his army
suddenly discovered that they had after all
always been loyal to the legitimate emperor. But
Honorius had had enough; ordinarily attached to
every shadow of prerogative and right of the
Emperor of Ravenna (it had been his insistence on
no negotiations with barbarians, drawn out over
three frightful years, that had caused Alaric's
revolt and torn the heart out of the West), his
actions with respect to Britain are so untypical
as to be startling. He wrote a Rescript or
imperial decree, addressed not to an imperial
governor but to local authorities (ciuitates;
in Zosimus, poleis), ordering them to arm
and defend themselves.
There is a general feeling among
historians that the Rescript was issued in
response to a British appeal for help (indeed,
that is the meaning of the word Rescript) but
Zosimus has nothing to say about that. All he
says is that such a document was issued. The only
historian who speaks of such an appeal is Gildas
- and the difficulties of relying on his word
should be obvious. However, one point seems
undeniable: by addressing the ciuitates,
the emperor derecognized at one blow any
surviving imperial representative in Britain[5]. The ciuitates or
poleis were the institutions of local
government, as opposed to representatives of the
imperial centre; they carried over into the
semi-federal system of the Roman Empire the names
and identities of pre-Roman groupings, and their
name could also mean "tribes" or
"city-states". According to modern
historians, it was more or less unprecedented for
an emperor to write to them: emperors wrote to
their own representatives.
The contents of the Rescript,
ordering the British ciuitates to take up
arms and defend their own island, were equally
unexpected. The Emperor was first and foremost
the Army commander, and defence had always been a
jealously guarded prerogative of his government,
with which civilians, let alone provincials, were
not allowed to meddle. (As a result, whenever
Roman government was helpless or distracted,
every border crisis tended to provoke an
usurpation, since the only way for threatened
provinces to make army troops respond to danger
or be allowed to levy extra drafts was to install
an Emperor of their own.) What Honorius was
saying was that the Roman structure of government
in Britain had collapsed or could not be said to
exist, since he had nobody to write to beside the
ciuitates; he addresses Britain as if it
was a leaderless province.
The Rescript came to be regarded
as a token of abandonment such as no other Roman
province had suffered. Rome (after 476,
Constantinople) never gave up its claim to rule
and defend any territory fallen in dicione
barbarorum; Visigoths, Ostrogoths, Vandals,
Swabians, Burgundians, were "accepted within
the borders" under the more or less
fictitious title of foederati, resident
allies; but Britain was simply given up, though
no barbarian nation had managed to seize it.
Whatever its actual legal value may have been,
the world, and Britain, took the Rescript for a
surrender of sovereignty[6]. Its effects can be
traced in many contemporary documents; an
orthodoxy soon developed that in the year 410
Britannia had been lost to Rome. More than one
contemporary chronicle entry repeats this
statement, and it turns up in Bede with no
obvious direct source, as testimony to an once
widespread tradition.
Gildas had read at least one such
entry, for its language found its way into his
storehouse of ideas. A minor chronicle-history
written between 423-450, the Narratio de
imperatoribus domus Valentinianae et Theodosianae,
describes "the Britains[7]" as being
"taken away from the Roman name for
ever" (Britanniae Romano nomini in
perpetuum sublatae). I find the influence of
this formula in at least two passages. First, it
reminds us of Gildas' puzzling distinction
between Britannia - the name of the patria
both before and after the Roman period - and Romania
- her name as long as the Britons were the slaves
of the Romans. Where had he got the idea that
Britain, and Britain in particular, of all the
lands subjected to the ancient race of heroes,
should take the name of its conquerors? For he is
speaking of Britain in particular: solo nomen
Romanae seruitutis haerere facturos...ita ut non
Britannia sed Romania censeretur, "[they
were] to make the name of Roman servitude cling
to the soil... so that it should be reckoned [or:
taxed[8]] not as Britannia
but as Romania."
The answer is to be found in The
ruin 17.1. Britain having been nearly
destroyed by the second Pictish invasion, British
ambassadors appear before Roman authorities a
second time, and, in a brief but powerful scene,
beg for help ne penitus misera patria
deleretur nomenque Romanorum - "that the
unfortunate fatherland should not be erased to
the end (penitus)[9], nor the name of
Romans". The deletion of the patria
as an entity - and notice that the name Britannia
is not used - would entail the deletion of
its Roman name. Gildas uses with lovely double
effect the verb delere, to cancel, to
erase, which could mean both, militarily,
"to destroy", and, in his own
professional writer's vocabulary, to delete or
erase, as you could erase the name of Romans from
a parchment. To the British heralds, the erasure
of their name of Romans would be one and the same
with the end of their island nation.
I cannot be sure that the Narratio...
is his source, since the expression nomen
Romanum is a fairly common one; but if Gildas
had come across something about Britannia
being lost to the nomen Romanum, this
would be the best explanation why he thought that
the island's name had been changed after
the Roman conquest. What a change of name could
mean to Gildas, in terms of his own ideology and
world-view, is not clear to us; that he made a
dramatic scene out of it suggests that the idea
had particularly struck him, and that it had
struck him suggests that it was not familiar. He
treats it no differently from the way a talented
modern, and shows no clear understanding of the
complex of Latin concepts involved. Nomen
Romanum means something like "the
entitlement to call one's tribe Roman, the
totality of the people who call themselves
Romans", but it also has a close connection
with nomen in the sense of "good
name, renown, glory". To be
"taken away for ever from the Roman
name" does not only mean to lose
administrative and political continuity with
Rome; it means to be cut off, rejected, from the
great Roman community, from the glory and pride
of the Roman name, to be told that Rome is
nothing to you and you nothing to Rome. The two
words in perpetuum underline the grim
seriousness and solemnity of the event. Gildas,
on the other hand, uses the word nomen
purely as we would; the verb deleretur
shows that he is thinking of writing down names
on a piece of paper. Nor does he speak of the nomen
Romanum, which is the technical term, as we
would expect him - given his luminous precision
of expression - if he was at all acquainted with
the idea; he speaks of a nomen Romanorum -
not "the Roman name", but "the
name of Romans", referring not to the
universal Romanhood, but to the entitlement of
single Britons to call themselves Romans. But the
echo is too strong and specific not to conclude
that he took this idea from an earlier item in
which the expression still had its Roman meaning.
Gildas has largely misunderstood what the
expression meant, but he has read it.
The writer of the Narratio de
imperatoribus... was not a great prose
stylist or a powerful mind; Gildas was both, and
what he did with this idea shows just how great.
Its very strangeness stimulated his imagination.
He invested it with the emotional power that the
best rhetoric ought to have: taking the bald
annalistic notice - whether from the Narratio...
or from some other source - he teased out of it
everything that the idea of losing the name of
Romans, nomini Romanorum, could mean, and,
disregarding year and circumstances, worked a
dramatic episode around this conceit of the name
begged for and lost, in whose name the legati
from the former Romania travel on their
humiliating and pathetic journey. He further
projected it back (creating another, fortunately
infertile, historical mistake) into the
beginnings of Roman rule, when the island turned
from Britannia to Romania. His
invention has great literary propriety:
everything the British ambassadors say and do,
everything that the Romans do afterwards, is
directly relevant to this idea of losing the name
of Roman. The response of the Romans to this plea
made "in" their name is the splendid
last expedition - and then the Rescript. The
Britons have had at one time what they wanted and
its very opposite, they have been saved from the
Picts - but erased from the name of Rome. Britanniae
Romano nomini in perpetuum sublatae.
Gildas does not quote the Rescript
verbatim, as he did with the Letter to
Agitius and at least four ecclesiastical writers
(in fact, we know nothing of the form in which it
was cast, since Zosimus does not quote it
directly either). But there is no need to suggest
that he had not read it: what he is doing is
editorializing, giving his own view of its
meaning. The Roman authorities, he says, were
unwilling to shed further blood for petty thieves
(latrunculi) who would not defend
themselves first. This is not the language of
diplomacy, and Gildas, the skilled rhetor, knew
it. So, surely, did his audience, Educated
Britain, composed of ecclesiastics, kings, and
kings' followers, people familiar with the
conventions of international correspondence (as
with Procopius' British embassies to
Constantinople). Even if they happened not to
know the terms of the original document,, they
would realize that this was Gildas himself
expounding his view of what it meant that the
emperors of the world would not fight for
Britain. The obvious editorial touch is, at any
rate, typical of his methods.
Gildas' image of Rome was
compounded of legendary native features and of
the Byzantine terror of his day; and he blithely
misapplies it to the events of 410. If Justinian
could send endless armies to Italy, Persia and
Spain in the 550s, Gildas seems to have felt that
"Rome" could have sent as many soldiers
as it pleased to Britain in 410. He seems unaware
of the division between Western and Eastern Roman
Empires, nor of the desperate straits to which
the Western monarchy was reduced in 410. This
raises a question: did Gildas not find the
catastrophe of the West in those church
historians he is known to have read, such as
Rufinus? Evidently not. Even granting that he
wrote not as an impartial historian but as a
public prosecutor of British kings and churchmen,
it is to me unimaginable that he could have
written as he did if he had actually seen a
detailed account of the fall of the West. Yet he
did read passages from Rufinus and Sulpicius
Severus.
The only explanation that makes
sense is that he only read excerpts. He does
mention that he sent for information overseas and
found it disappointingly thin (4.4); this may
account for the occasional elements of actual
history I have called B - they come from excerpts
from overseas correspondents. But these amount to
no more than patches in the essentially native
Welsh weave I have called A; Gildas may have set
out with the praiseworthy notion of probing
history as far as he was able, but it is clear
that the data received from his correspondents
were fixed in a frame of reference which he
regarded as so obviously true that it did not
occur to him to question it. This accounts for
his poor understanding even of Continental Roman
history, his apparent failure to distinguish
between Rome and Byzantium. Knowing nothing of
the context in which it was issued - and having
come across, perhaps, some of the anti-British
screeds issued in those days by authors as
diverse as Jerome and Ausonius - it is natural
that he should see the Rescript as what he
describes: a Roman refusal to shed their valuable
blood in the defence of those who would not
defend themselves.
The obvious editorial touch also
means that what he was describing was as familiar
to his listeners as that Queen Anne is dead. He
would not have presented a visibly twisted
version of a historical event, unless he was
intending to jolt them out of complacent
assumptions; and he would not have done that
unless the Rescript was a part of those
complacent assumptions. Wholly typical of his
methods! Just as he drove home with little
subtlety the message that the British are the
slaves and not the blood-brothers of the Romans,
so he delivered a devastating, insulting reading
of the document that the British may have
regarded as their charter of self-government.
In my view, therefore, Gildas'
account of the Rescript is, with the exception of
B, his first item of British history depending on
direct written evidence rather than on
proto-Welsh legend. The Rescript, and the single
idea that the Rescript had marked the loss of
Britain from the nomen Romanum, are at the
back of his whole contention, the written, Roman
authority for believing that the British would
not fight for themselves but would abase
themselves by begging for succour from distant
Rome; and Gildas is a writer who cares greatly
for writing and for Roman authority. He projects
it backwards into the early history of his
country, and forwards to his own day, working up
to it with his story of the two Roman expeditions
and down from it with his repeated attacks on
British cowardice and indiscipline.
Does he have any reason to think
as he does? On at least one occasion (26.4),
Gildas speaks of the evil fame of the British
among neighbouring nations. That evil fame
certainly existed, to the point where the poet
Ausonius of Bordeaux, offended at some critical
remarks from a Briton called Silvius Bonus,
indulges in an elephantine bit of professorial
whimsy, taking twelve lines of supposedly
satirical verse - about six times as many as
needed - to inform us that a Briton called Bonus,
Goodman, must be misnamed, because no Briton can
be a Good Man[10]; which is not funny in
the first place. If Gildas was sent a selection
of Continental entries about Britain and the
British, he is likely to have come across a few
such items. But is he justified in using them to
explain Honorius' action? I think he is. We may
assume that Honorius was to some extent helpless,
with several pretenders and four barbarian hosts
at large in his empire; but the fact that he
writes to the ciuitates, as if there were
no Imperial authority in Britain, shows a
different spirit. It is not even that Honorius
was quite without troops; the still considerable
remnants of Constantine's faithless army, with
its large drafts of barbarian allies, were yet at
large between Spain and Gaul, and they might have
been got rid of by ordering them back home, where
their own homes and families were being
threatened and overrun by barbarians.
What the facts suggest is that
Honorius was sick of Britain and that was that.
No Briton of rank for the last five years had
shown the least loyalty to anyone or anything;
two pretenders had been enthroned and murdered; a
third had been betrayed by one of his two own magistri
militum - the Briton; the Frank had stayed
loyal - who had in turn been betrayed by his own
army. Faced with this unclean tangle of corrupt
ambition and violence, Honorius, whatever his own
character, must have felt the same mixture of
anger and contempt that led his contemporary
Jerome to dismiss Britain as "a province
fertile of tyrants". It was Britain, and
Britain alone, that Ravenna wanted out of the
Empire[11]. In this respect Gildas
was perfectly right, though perhaps for the wrong
reasons. The Rescript was a rebuff.
Notes
History
of Britain, 407-597 is copyright © 2002, Fabio
P. Barbieri. Used with permission.
Comments
to: Fabio P.
Barbieri
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