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Chapter 6.1: The
attitudes to Vortigern and their causes
Fabio P.
Barbieri
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From 442, the past of Britain
seems to move from history, however tenuous, into
legend. Few historians have challenged the
historicity of Gildas' account of the Saxon war,
although archaeology asks certain questions
(where are all the destroyed cities and
slaughtered victims of the war? Even the
famous example of Caistor-by-Norwich, which seems
to afford the safest instance of a stormed and
slaughtered Roman town, has been challenged); on
the other hand, only the brass neck and tin ear
for legend of a John Morris has been up to the
task of taking the accounts of subsequent events
as history, rather than as the legend they so
obviously are. And it is as legends that we
will treat them, at least to begin with. Our
analysis will centre on the figure of Vortigern,
Gildas' superbus infaustus tyrannus, the
indubitably historical king of Britain who first
summoned the Saxons and who, from St.Gildas
onwards, is central to every account, whether
certainly legendary or dubiously historical; and
we will find that the evolution of his role,
personality and significance is revealing in the
extreme.
The Vortigern of Gildas - for we
need not doubt that his superbus infaustus
tyrannus is the same figure as the villain of
legend - is not the Vortigern
of Nennius, Geoffrey of Monmouth, or William of
Malmesbury, a black-hearted rogue as incompetent
as he is criminal, eventually ruined by a far
worse menace Hengist. Gildas says
nothing of poisoning, of complicity with Saxons
and Picts, of incest, betrayal, suborned murder,
and the sacrilegious assumption of a
Bishops robes. His Vortigern is, of
course, a usurper, but Gildas throws no other
charges at him; indeed, in a curious way, he
hardly blames him. It is not
Vortigerns personal character that is the
issue, so much as his whole country and
especially the upper classes. Our
Bible-soaked author compares him with the Pharaoh
of Isaiah 19 - the silly princes of Zoar, quotes Gildas, giving
foolish advice to Pharaoh. Surely the
princes of Zoan are fools, the counsel of the
wise counsellors of Pharaoh is become brutish
[i.e. as stupid as an animal's]. How say
ye unto Pharaoh, I am the son of the wise, the
son of ancient kings? [We notice that the
prophet seems to imply that, though the
counsellors of Pharaoh boast of their descent
from ancient kings, he himself does not; Gildas
might mean this to reflect on the usurping nature
of the superbus tyrannus' government.]
Where are they? Where are thy wise men?
and let them tell thee now, and let them know
what the Lord of hosts hath purposed upon Egypt.
The princes of Zoan are become fools, the princes
of Noph have deceived: they have also seduced
Egypt, even they that are the stay of the tribes
thereof. In other words, it is not
"Pharaoh" who is at fault so much as
his advisers; and even among them, Gildas prefers
to compare the usurper's Senate to the princes of
Zoan [stupid] rather than to those of Noph
[deliberately mendacious].
As a result, everything Pharaoh
does turns out wrong. This is a theme of
other parts of Isaiah, in particular ch.36, in
which the ambassador of the Assyrian king
Sennacherib describes the disastrous effect of
his meddling in Palestine with a vivid image
which passed into the stock of English metaphors:
Pharaoh is a reed from the Nile with a hidden
crack, and if a man (such as the king of Judah)
should put his weight on it for support, it will
break under him - and the jagged end will go
right through the hand. A broken reed;
"That is what Pharaoh, king of Egypt, is to
everyone who relies on him" (2Kings 18.21:
Isaiah 36.6).
Isaiah's economic picture may also
be relevant. To him, Egypt was the rich
kingdom. He seems to know nothing of the
wealth of Mesopotamia, only ever described by an
Assyrian ambassador (Is.36.17); everywhere else
the Assyrians are an army and only an army.
Babylon's distant splendour is sometimes glimpsed
over the horizon, but you might read all Isaiah's
first thirty-nine chapters without suspecting
that there was such a place as Nineveh, or that
the Euphrates and Tigris were just as busy and
rich as the Nile, whose economic importance is
absolutely unique in the prophet's eyes. The
same chapter (Is.19.5-10) from which Gildas
quoted on the foolish princes of Zoar, also
lists Egypt's various economic activities,
fishermen, weavers, flax-dressers and craftsmen
of every description, with doom impending over
each and every one of them. Gildas
envisages the superbus tyrannus as one
like Pharaoh in wealth and pride, surrounded by
economic activity and trying to extend the reach
of his power far beyond its sensible bounds...
and far away from him, from the ends of the
earth, the most terrible army in the world is
gathering. In 24.2, Gildas explicitly
compares the Saxons with the Assyrians.
It is to punish Egypt for its
luxurious idolatry that God is preparing the time
of trial. He does not mean to destroy the
rich country, but to purify it: In that day
shall there be an altar to the Lord of hosts in
the land of Egypt... And the Lord shall be known
to Egypt, and the Egyptians shall know the Lord
in that day, and shall do sacrifice and oblation;
yea, they shall vow a vow unto the Lord, and
perform it. And the Lord shall smite Egypt;
he shall smite it and heal it; and they shall
return even to the Lord, and he shall be
intreated of them, and shall heal them.
There can be no doubt that Gildas meant this
whole chapter to be implicit in his mention of
the silly princes of Zoan, since the element of the
Lord smiting Egypt and healing it is fully
present: ...ut in ista gente experiretur
Dominus solito more praesentem Israelem, utrum
diligat eum an non; "So that the Lord
should test, as he often does, the Israel of
today against this nation, [to prove] whether
they love Him or not" (26.1), is only one of
several passages reiterating the theme of
punishment and trial for Britain's faith, but it
follows straight on from the Saxon war and the
revolt of Ambrosius, which Gildas clearly
connects specifically with Isaiah 19. In
4.2, Gildas explicitly compares the paganism of
old Britain with that of Egypt; and it follows
that Britain, like Egypt, will be stricken and
healed, and become dedicated to the one true God.
Gildas probably knew that the Egypt of his day
was Christian.
Gildas' use of Isaiah 19 is
however curious in one respect - one in which the
prophet himself makes a quite extraordinary
statement. The chapter opens with a
militant vision of the Lord of Hosts at war
against Egypt's idols. The burden of
Egypt: behold, the Lord rideth upon a swift
cloud, and shall come into Egypt: and the idols
of Egypt shall be moved at His presence, and the
heart of Egypt shall melt in the middle of it.
In other words, the prophet's message is at heart
one of uncompromising hostility against Egyptian
paganism. This war in heaven, between true
and false gods, has a very practical terrestrial
side: And I will set the Egyptians against the
Egyptians, and they shall fight every one against
his brother... and the spirit of Egypt shall fail
in the midst thereof; and I shall destroy the
counsel thereof; and they shall seek to the
idols, and to the charmers, and to them that have
familiar spirits, and to the wizards. It
is after this destruction of the wisdom of Egypt,
proceeding from the annihilation of the magical
powers of the idols - which, in turn, is surely
due to the Lord coming down in wrath on the gods
of Egypt - that the Egyptians will I give into
the hands of a cruel lord; and a fierce king
shall rule over them, says the Lord, the Lord of
hosts. The obvious parallel with the
British being given into the hands of such cruel
lords as the Saxons does not need underlining;
but the point is that, if that parallel is
present, then so is that of the spiritual state
of Egypt before the disaster - a pagan country
ruled by evil spirits and their wizards and
familiars.
Is Gildas saying that Vortigern
was a pagan? I doubt it: had he wanted to,
he might have made the case far more clearly -
after all, the charge of apostasy is a dreadful
one. Besides, the point of Isaiah 19 is not
the spiritual state of Pharaoh, but that of his
whole people: it is they who are under the power
of charmers, wizards, men and women with
familiars, and evil spirits. More
remarkable is that the prophet says that, in the
future day of purification, Egypt shall return
to the Lord. This can only mean -
extraordinarily - that he understands the great
empire to have once fallen off from the
worship of the Lord of Hosts. Perhaps he
has somehow heard of Akhenaten's attempted and
terribly frustrated monotheistic experiment?
Certainly the picture of Egyptians against the
Egyptians, and they shall fight every one against
his brother does seem similar to that of the
confrontation and struggle which is well known to
have attended Akhenaten's monotheistic attempt:
Isaiah is saying that the struggle in heaven
between faith in the monotheistic God of Israel
and the polytheistic idols of Egypt is mirrored
by violent civil disorder in terrestrial Egypt -
in other words, by a war of religion; and where
else in Egyptian history, before the persecutions
of the Roman period, did such a struggle take
place, except in the reign of Akhenaten? And
Isaiah cannot simply have been making things up
out of ignorance or presumption: no Palestinian
in history can ever have been out of touch with
Egyptian realities, or not aware of the relative
power of Egypt as compared to his own land.
But whatever the case, the parallel with Britain
must be that, just before the Saxons came,
Britain was in what Gildas regarded as a state of
apostasy, having forgotten the Lord; and that the
Saxons were her punishment for having done so.
There is no evidence for any
return to pagan practices in fifth-century
Britain: temples tend to be demolished or turned
into private habitations around the turn of the
century, and while evidence of
Christian religious activity later is not dense,
it is constant. There may have been
continued pagan activity in places like Maiden
Castle, but largely in the
nature of a provincial or rural survival, not of
a vigorous and definite pagan revival such as
Augustine dreaded after 410 and such as actually
manifested itself under the usurper John in 425.
This is no reason to deny absolutely that such a
thing took place: if pagan revivals were possible
so late in Italy, and if the young Patrick took
part in one in Britain in the 390s, it is not
impossible to imagine them a generation or two
later. We do however know that a great deal
of relativism and religious indifference attended
the Mild King's fall, and that, while there is no
clear mention of paganism, there was a definite
anti-Church movement in the Pelagians, received
in Britain as friends, according to E: it may be
that it was to this particular apostasy that
Gildas was pointing - after all, his source E
regarded it as no less than turning from God to
Satan.
The evidence that Gildas meant to
use Isaiah's description of the plight of Egypt
not in bits, but as a whole, as a parallel to
that of pre-Saxon Britain, is in what the prophet
foretells as the final end of the Egyptian
crisis. Isaiah's God punishes Egypt for
being unfaithful to Him - the same charge Isaiah
so often and so resoundingly makes against
Israel, sounding rather out of place here. But
once Egypt has "turned", even
"turned back", to the Lord, then they
shall cry to the Lord because of the oppressors,
and he shall send them a saviour, and a great
one, and he shall deliver them. Do we
doubt that Gildas had these words in mind when he
spoke of Ambrosius - the saviour, the great one
who delivered the nation from the oppressors in
the name of the Christian God?
Ambrosius is Gildas' opposite term
to the luxurious, doomed picture of
Pharaoh-Vortigern and his stupid court. The
dichotomy should be clear to any Latin speaker.
Vortigern is the superbus tyrannus, the
proud usurper; Ambrosius is the uir modestus,
the modest hero. Of the two Latin words for
man, homo and uir, homo
(related to humus, earth) means man in the mass,
man with no moral distinction, and Gildas uses it
when speaking of man as mortal or sinful; uir (from which uirtus,
courage, virtue) is man as noble, dignified,
manly, as in the famous opening of the Aeneid, Arma
uirumque cano..., "I sing the weapons
and the hero...", as well known to Gildas as
to us. Uir is as much in opposition
to tyrannus as virtue to arrogance and
measure to madness; an opposition which
corresponds exactly to that between modestus
and superbus, cutting across Greek and
Roman, Platonic and Epicurean, Pagan and
Christian distinctions. Everyone respected
modesty, living according to modus, to
proper measure; everybody hated and, more to the
point, looked with superstitious dread upon, the superbus,
the man who puts himself above, super,
others. (It has been shown that this is
also the basic meaning of that much abused word hybris,
so often misinterpreted as defiance to the gods
when in fact it means arrogance towards one's
fellow men.)
It is much to the point that the tyrannus
is not only superbus but infaustus,
ill-starred: superbia, hybris,
always went with ill-fortune. And when,
within three chapters of each other, we find the
anti-hero of Britain's fall branded both superbus
and infaustus, and the hero of her
recovery defined as modestus, we should
not be in any doubt that this ancient and basic
idea was in charge. It still lives today:
"pride comes before a fall"; "the
bigger they come, the harder they fall";
"up like a rocket, down like the stick"
- dozens of popular sayings testify to the
ancient and universal connection between
excessive arrogance and sudden ruin.
While the Egyptian imagery of
Gildas, who inserted his comparison with Pharaoh
and his court as an editorial comment on the tyrannus'
decision to call in the Saxons, is clearly his
own work, as typical of his style as of his mind,
the dichotomy modestus/superbus is just as
clearly part of a store of accepted ideas. Gildas
delivers it in a bald and unadorned manner:
Ambrosius Aurelianus is simply uir modestus
- it could almost be a part of his name - and the
tyrannus is just as simply superbus
and infaustus. (The use of infaustus
crudelisque tyrannus in Muirchu, as we saw,
strongly suggests that the expression was
formulaic.) In the face of the proud
bejewelled lords of Vortigern's council, whose
Egyptian splendour carries a vague suggestion of
paganism, stands the single, modest figure of the
prince from a fallen dynasty, surrounded only by
the nameless ciues, the working bees of
the British earth, and by a few sturdy reliquiae
of dispossessed aristocracy - who, turning back
to the Lord, rescue the nation from the
catastrophe in which the "proud"
princes of Zoan had sunk it.
Not to misapply Christian
categories, Ambrosius is endowed not with the
religious virtue of humility, but with its
next-door neighbour modesty - a more Classical,
more universal virtue. He is modest like
Caesar was clement, Solomon wise, Trajan the best
of princes, Richard I lion-hearted;
"Vortigern" is the superbus tyrannus
just as other fallen sovereigns down the
centuries have been execrated. I feel
confident that the British man on the Clapham
omnibus would use these titles for these two
kings unselfconsciously as with John XXIII
il Papa buono (the good Pope), Louis XIV le
Roi Soleil, Attila the Scourge of God,
Demetrius the Besieger (son of Antigonus
One-Eye), Niall of the Nine Hostages, Harald
Fair-Hair, John Lackland, Bloody Mary, and, best
of all, the Byzantine emperor known as
Constantine V Kopronymos, an adjective I decline
to translate.
The names given to those royal
heroes and villains are a bit more than mere
propaganda. They may reflect actual
qualities: Caesar really forgave his enemies,
Richard Plantagenet really was the bravest of the
brave, Trajan really was an extraordinary mix of
brilliant general and able and kindly ruler,
Demetrius did besiege many towns, John
Plantagenet did lose an awful lot of territory,
and the name of Constantine V really was
execrated. The point however is that, while
the nickname of Constantine V was awarded after
death, and that of King John can only have been
whispered while he lived, those leaders known for
positive qualities were aware of them; that their
followers were aware of them (an ambassador for
Richard told Saladin that "if their good
qualities could be brought together, the whole
world would not contain two such princes"),
and that they made damn well sure that the
population at large was aware too.
By the same token, there is no
particular reason to deny that Ambrosius was
modest and manly. We may well believe that
he took no part in the country's politics until
his time came; after all, Gildas and his source
would not have condemned Vortigern's council so
unconditionally if their modest hero had had
anything to do with it. He stayed home -
abroad, probably in Gaul, where his family had
fled the Saxons - and, Voltaire fashion,
"cultivated his own garden". We
remember that later Welsh tradition knew a famous
and ancient Triad which praised the Three
Ungrasping Princes, who did not seize a
throne though it was theirs by right. He
modestly did not put himself forwards - until the
kingdom of his father, gripped by barbarians,
called to him in despair, and the modest hero
stepped forth to his country's rescue, as strong
silent British men have done ever since. He
cuts a very British, one might almost say
English, figure of a hero.
Seriously, though, the ideological
opposition between modesty and arrogance is
closely parallel to that between simplicity and
court ostentation. Court ostentation may
easily be seen as the social reflex of individual
conceit, so that the remembered splendour of
Vortigern's time came to seem as a material
reflection of their sin of pride. The
sources of Constantius of Lyons remembered the
gilded swagger of rich Britons with their courts
of flattering followers; a century later, to
their descendants, it had taken mythic qualities.
It is a clear psychological
compensation to be able to see in that wealth,
remembered in Gildas' time as incomparable,
hanging over latter days like a reproach, no more
than the corruption of wealth, and to take refuge
in the idea that our times are, at least,
outstanding for modesty and valour. The
gorgeous corruption of Vortigern's time, which
Gildas masterfully hints at with a few words and
a Biblical quotation, is parallel to the pride -
and, closely related with it, the relativistic
contempt for truth - that has eaten at Britain
and led it to destruction; and from that point of
view, the mighty ruins dotted all over the
British landscape come to signify, not the
nostalgia for a great age now lost, but the
terrible warning of what happens to rich, proud,
corrupt nations, made stiff and weak by their
very prosperity. Britain was fatally
weakened by a plague; but what Gildas describes
as the greater plague is nothing else than
prosperity itself, following upon the defeat of
the Picts. It was wealth itself that had
poisoned Britain.
Attributing past disasters to the
sins of the defeated - especially when the
defeated are our own ancestors - is so frequent a
phenomenon that I do not think we need doubt we
are in the presence of a universal human
attitude. It often happens that the last
ruler of a dynasty or a state, fallen under the
wrath of the gods, is remembered by his
successors as proud, superbus, hybristes,
especially if the state in question is of some
dimension and power and its fall is very sudden.
The last king of Rome was Tarquinius superbus,
Tarquin the Proud; Nabonidus, last king of
Babylon, was described as proud and irreligious,
by a stunned priesthood searching for the reason
of the fall of Babylon to Persian barbarians,
almost as soon as he had fallen; the mightiest Greek
tyrants were remembered for their pride - after
they had fallen.
This implies a more or less naive
moral positivism: the idea that, because
something has been visited by the wrath of the
gods, therefore it must have been punished
for something. But its real content is not
intellectual (since moral positivism is one of
the easiest things in the world to refute) so
much as emotional: it reflects the enormous
mental dislocation of people who had seen the
greatest reality in their lives borne down
suddenly and beyond recall. How could
something so great, so impressively splendid, so
apparently powerful, fall, and fall so fast, and
so irreparably? Why - the ideas rearrange
themselves, slowly or quickly - why, just because
it seemed so great and splendid. It was too
vast. It was arrogant. It challenged
the gods.
There can be no doubt that
Vortigern's age still exerted some residual
mental pull in Gildas' day. Across fifty or
seventy-five years of war, across a clearly
diminished culture that no longer could build in
stone and did not manage to re-people and rebuild
its own cities, across a country wretchedly
shared with barbarians, broken up by civil war
and sedition, threatened with Roman invasion,
people must have looked upon 410-440 as in some
ways a golden age. Its monuments were still
there to strike the eye, great stone walls around
ancient cities and forts, immense aristocratic
mansions now slowly falling to ruin, long stone
roads of phenomenal stoutness, which legend was
soon to ascribe to Elen or Marcella - all
reinforced the haunting memory of the wealth of
Britain in the time of the ancestors. Ambrosius'
descendants ruled over an ebbing country and a
shrunken people, and they knew it only too well.
To this depressing feeling of
inadequacy, as much as to dynastic hatreds, must
be due Gildas' particular portrayal of Vortigern.
The superbus tyrannus was a part, an
embodiment if you will, of a collective moral
failure. The British body politic, the
educated classes, were collectively responsible
for the evil of their days, and would be
collectively punished. This was the class
that was swept away by a blow of God's justice,
and the blow itself proves they were collectively
wicked. Had they not been wicked, God would
not have destroyed them (this particular sort of
moral positivism, though theologically unsound,
is often found in Church Fathers). When the
poorer ciues, who are not Roman (nota
bene!), are left without their
leadership, the image he uses for them is not
ugly or contemptous - it is that of small,
hard-working, golden bees, producers of precious
honey and useful wax, swarming home to take
shelter under the natural royalty of Ambrosius as
though to their hive.
At the heart of it - always
remember the basic racist doctrine of Gildas and
his contemporaries - lay a racial failure. The
rectores, the Roman-originated ruling,
military and landholding class, were lost when
Maximus took the army away; only lesser men were
left. And it is surely a related fact that
the wickedness Gildas condemns in the time of the
superbus tyrannus is essentially a
wickedness of the educated landholding classes,
those who live in luxury, get drunk on (expensive
imported) wine, try to legally steal land from
each other, and associate to threaten and
overthrow the king; the rot had already set in
then, long before his own age. Gildas, as I
said, has no contempt for the British ciues,
the ordinary working bees of Britain, so long as
they are just that: working bees. But his
culture despises the British in a position of
power. The Romans are natural rulers, and
the British are all right so long as they keep in
their place; and the net result of the Saxon war
is to make the ordinary British working class
resort to one of their last surviving natural
superiors, Ambrosius, "almost the last of
the Roman nation".
We are to assume that the moral
collapse of Vortigern's times is directly related
to this racial poisoning. Gildas seems to
have regarded the whole "native"
chieftain class as "tyrants", with all
the words negative connotations, merely by
virtue of their British blood; though the
exhibition they actually made of themselves can
hardly have improved his opinion. And when
he describes the usurper later known as Vortigern
as a tyrannus, he implies that Vortigern
is of British, not Roman blood. The name
found in later sources conveys the same insulting
message, redoubled: Vortigern translates into
proto-British the Gildasian title of superbus
tyrannus - Vor-Tigern,
"over-lord": a British name, as opposed
to Ambrosius' Graeco-Roman one, and one that says
that its holder is not even a gwledig, but
a teyrn, not the legitimate king, only the
over-kinglet, an underling among kings, a tyrant
set up by smaller tyrants tyrannically. Vortigern
is a racial and social insult, and the fact that superbus
tyrannus is apparently a translation of Vortigern
seems to show that it, with all that it implies,
was already in regular use in Gildas' time.
The overthrow of the Mild King is
therefore the defining moment when the native
class of tyranni gain power over Britain
against one of the last true-born Roman families
(for if Ambrosius was of good Roman blood, so a
fortiori was his father!). Gildas would
hardly need to make the point, since it would be
as much as ABC to them, as clearly implied, with
all its moral and racial connections, by the
simple word "tyranny", as the words baas
and kaffir would once have been enough to
evoke a whole world of Afrikaner racial ideas.
This attitude, shown to the full
in Gildas' view of the tyrannus' court,
clearly reflects a state of mind to whom the fall
of the British Roman state in 442 or so was the
central issue, one which looked at the end of the
awesome, rich, stone-building Roman civilization
as the supreme crisis of their history. In
Gildas, the Saxons are mainly hated for having
been, however long ago, the instrument of that
fall; the issue, that is, not so much the Saxon
invasion itself, as the fall of the great Roman
British world that it brought about. It is
only much later, when the British came to realize
that most of the island was lost to the English
for ever, and that their conversion and the
arrival of an archbishop deprived the British
even of their "Christian" sense of
superiority, that hatred for the man remembered
as having invited them grew and grew. Gildas
regarded Vortigern not so much as evil as
criminally stupid; but by the time we get to
Nennius, the Saxons are at the centre of the
picture, and Vortigern is no longer merely a
fool, but a traitor.
Notes
History
of Britain, 407-597 is copyright © 2002, Fabio
P. Barbieri. Used with permission.
Comments
to: Fabio P.
Barbieri
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