This work transports us a million miles from the expectation that individuals will have one fundamental identity that defines them for life, a notion that not only seemed unchallengeable in the era of nationalism, but was also the basic assumption behind the migration model that drove the Grand Narrative of European development in the first millennium (and, indeed, the deeper past as well). The billiard-ball view of migration absolutely assumed that migrants moved in complete social groups that were closed to outsiders, that replicated themselves by endogamy and that possessed their own culture, which was identifiably different from that of any other group they might encounter on their travels. This vision rested in part, as we’ve seen, on some historical texts, but mostly on prevailing assumptions about how human groupings were organized, since the historical texts were actually few and far between. Once nationalist assumptions about group identity had been undermined, it was open season on the old Grand Narrative that had rested so firmly upon them.
The New Millennium?
The lead in thinking again about the deep European past from a post-nationalist perspective has been taken by archaeologists. Traditional approaches to European archaeology worked by mapping patterns of similarity and difference in archaeological finds of broadly the same date across a given landscape, so that defined sub-areas – called ‘cultures’ – came to be marked out. Originally such definitions tended to be based almost exclusively on pottery types, since pottery fragments are both indestructible in themselves and relatively easy to find, but any kind of similarity, whether in burial customs, house types, metalwork or whatever, might have been used in principle, and has been since. The empirical fact that boundaries can sometimes be drawn between areas of archaeological similarity and difference emerged quickly in the nineteenth century with the rise of archaeology as a scientific discipline. In that intellectual and political context – again we’re talking the height of European nationalism – it proved irresistible to equate the cultures depicted on the maps with ancient ‘peoples’, who were, after all, each presumed to have had their own material (and non-material) cultures. If you were very lucky, and were working on a late enough period, you might even be able to name the bearers of the culture you had found in the ground on the basis of information from a historical text such as Tacitus’ Germania.
Now often called ‘culture history’, the development of this approach is particularly associated with the German scholar Gustav Kossinna, who was active from the late nineteenth into the early twentieth century. His approach was a touch more sophisticated than is sometimes appreciated. He did not say that all areas of archaeological similarity should be equated with independent ancient peoples. This was only true, he argued, in cases where sharp boundaries could be drawn between different archaeological areas, and where the similarities within the bounded area were marked and distinct. But terms such as ‘sharp’, ‘marked’ and ‘distinct’ were always made to be argued over, and the fundamental assumption of archaeological investigation in this era was that you would normally find your remains neatly packaged in distinct ‘cultures’, and that these cultures were the remains of ‘peoples’.
The key point for us is that Kossinna’s culture history underpinned much of the Grand Narrative. Thinking of archaeological cultures as ‘peoples’ carried within it a powerful tendency to explain major archaeological change in terms of migration. Where particular and distinct assemblages of material remains – archaeological ‘cultures’ – were each equated with ancient ‘peoples’, who were also viewed as the basic unit of human social organization, it was only natural to think any change to an existing pattern of remains represented the impact of a new ‘people’. Given that each people had its own ‘culture’, when you suddenly found a new ‘culture’ on top of another, you then might well think that one ‘people’ must have replaced another. Migration, particularly in the form of the mass replacement of one population group by another, thus became the characteristic means by which observable changes to archaeological remains were explained. In modern parlance, although the term had not yet been coined, the peopling of Europe was envisaged as being driven forward by one massive episode of ethnic cleansing after another, in what has been evocatively dubbed the ‘invasion hypothesis’ view of the past.14
The impact of new understandings of group identity on this old intellectual structure has been profound. Once the assumption was removed that the material remains of the past would present themselves in neatly packaged ‘cultures’ left by ancient ‘peoples’, it became much less clear that they did. As more material has come to light and existing finds have been subjected to closer scrutiny, many of the boundaries between supposedly distinct cultures have started to blur, while the identification of important local variants has often undermined the homogeneity of supposed cultures from within. Equally, and perhaps even more important, while patterns of similarity do nonetheless sometimes exist, and, where they do, usually mean something important, it has also become clear that no simple rule (such as ‘cultures’ = ‘people’) can be applied universally. The precise significance of any particular pattern of similarity and difference will depend in fact on exactly what is similar and different about it. An observable archaeological ‘culture’ might represent the physical remains of anything from an area of general social or economic interaction, to an area of shared religious belief (where, for instance, funerary rites are similar), or even, in some cases, an area of political association (as Kossinna essentially supposed). A good way to summarize the difference in approach, it seems to me, is that Kossinna thought of archaeological cultures as the remains of entities – ‘peoples’ – but modern archaeologists regard them as the remains of systems of interaction, and the nature of that interaction does not have to be the same in every case.15
Rethinking the nature of cultures in this way has allowed archaeologists to demonstrate that even major material cultural changes can have causes other than outside invasion. Since patterns of observable archaeological similarity can be generated for a variety of reasons – trade, social interaction, shared religious belief or anything else you can think of – then changes in one or more of any number of these areas might be responsible for an observable change. Changes do not have to reflect the arrival of a new social group but might be caused by any substantial alteration in the system that originally created it. Indeed, it was deep dissatisfaction with the intellectual limits of the invasion hypothesis, overemployed as a monolithic model of change, as much as the impact of the new understandings of group identity, that drove a whole generation of archaeologists in the English-speaking world to reject its tenets in the 1960s, and in many other parts since.
For very good reasons, therefore, archaeologists have increasingly looked beyond the invasion hypothesis to other types of explanation altogether, since the 1960s. These new approaches have been highly fruitful, and in the process undercut much of the broader sweep of the old Grand Narrative. Up to about 1960, European prehistory was envisaged as one population group after another using their new skills – in farming technology or metallurgy – to establish dominance over the landmass and expel their predecessors. Nowadays, much of the evolution of central-western European society between the Bronze Age and the Roman Iron Age (roughly the last two millennia BC) can be convincingly explained without recourse to mass migration and ethnic cleansing. Instead of one set of invaders after another overthrowing each other, the European past is now peopled with human beings who could learn new skills and, over time, develop new economic, social and political structures.16
There is one further element to this intellectual revolution that has had a huge impact on more recent approaches to the story being explored in this book. In the process of freeing themselves from the undoubted tyranny of culture history and the invasion hypothesis, certain (particularly British and North American) elements of the archaeological profession have come to dismiss migration almost entirely as an agent of significant change. Such has been their collective sigh of
relief at escaping from Kossinna’s conceptual straitjacket that some have resolved never to have anything to do with migration again. For these archaeologists, migration is associated with a previous, less advanced era in the intellectual development of their discipline, when in their view archaeology was subordinated to history. The billiard-ball migration model found some of its justification in historical sources, as we have seen, and when cultures were thought of as ‘peoples’ it was possible to write about prehistoric archaeological transformation as a quasi-historical narrative, with people X succeeding people Y, and so forth.
As a result, a basic equation has grown up in the minds of some archaeologists between any model of the past involving population movement, and simple-mindedness. As a recent introduction to early medieval cemeteries put it, avoiding migration in explanations of archaeological change ‘is simply to dispose of an always simplistic and usually groundless supposition in order to enable its replacement with a more subtle interpretation of the period’. Note the language, particularly the contrast between ‘simplistic’ and ‘groundless’ (the world dominated by migration) with ‘more subtle’ (any other kind of explanation). The message here is loud and clear. Anyone dealing with the geographical displacement of archaeologically observable artefact types or habits, who wants to produce an account of the past that is at all ‘subtle’ or ‘complex’, should avoid migration at all costs. The tables have turned. From a position of overwhelming dominance before the 1960s, migration has become the great Satan of archaeological explanation.17
Such a major intellectual U-turn was bound to have a profound impact on the way historians approached the first millennium, where archaeological evidence was always of vital importance, and, of course, historians had in the meantime been thinking about the significance of the great identity debate for themselves. The consequential landmark of change in historical thinking, the starting point for all subsequent approaches to identity and hence first-millennium migration, was a book published in 1961 by the German scholar Reinhard Wenskus. Entitled Stammesbildung und Verfassung (The Generation and Bonding of Tribes), it showed that you don’t have to read far even in the pages of the first-century Roman historian Tacitus to find some Germanic groups being totally exterminated, and other entirely new ones being created. And when you get to the great migrations of the fourth to the sixth centuries, the evidence for discontinuity only multiplies. As we will explore in more detail later, all the Germanic groups at the heart of the successor states to the Roman Empire in this era – Goths, Franks, Vandals and so on – can be shown to be new political units, created on the march, many of them recruiting from a wide range of manpower sources, some of which were not even Germanic-speaking. The political units formed by the Germani in the first millennium were thus not closed groups with continuous histories, but entities that could be created and destroyed, and which, in between, increased and decreased in size according to historical circumstance. There has been much discussion since of the details of how group identity might have worked among first-millennium Germani, and on its likely strength, and we will need to return to these arguments in due course. But all subsequent discussion has accepted and started from Wenskus’s basic observations.18
These observations have had a profound knock-on effect upon understandings of Germanic migration. Under the old view of unchanging closed group identities, if group X was suddenly encountered in place B rather than in place A, it was only natural to conclude that the whole group had moved. Once it is accepted that group identities can be malleable, then in principle only a few – maybe even a very few – of group X need have moved to provide a core around whom a population from disparate sources then gathered. The billiard-ball view has thus come to be replaced by the snowball. Instead of large, compact groups of men, women and children moving with determination across the landscape, many now think in terms of demographic snowballs: originally small groupings, probably composed largely of warriors, who, because of their success, attract large numbers of recruits as they travelled.
Such post-nationalist readings of the historical evidence for barbarian Europe in the first millennium had similar but independent roots to the new dawn that was sweeping simultaneously through archaeology. But the vehemence of the archaeologists’ new mindset has added further momentum to the evident potential for rewriting the story of barbarian migration from historical sources. So convinced now are some historians that large, mixed migration units could never have been a feature of the past that they have started to argue that the handful of historical sources that apparently report the opposite – the source of the invasion-hypothesis model of migration – must be mistaken. Graeco-Roman sources, it has been suggested, are infected with a migration topos, a cultural reflex that made Mediterranean authors describe any barbarians on the move as a ‘people’, whatever the real nature of the group. A European history composed of long-distance, large-scale population moves is being replaced by a history of small-scale mobile groupings, gathering in followers as they went. Migration – though the word is now scarcely used – remains part of this story, obviously, but with the scaling-down of the numbers of people envisaged as participating in those journeys, the key historical process is no longer the movement itself but the gathering-in of new recruits afterwards.19
There is a beautiful symmetry here. The old Grand Narrative subdued archaeology to the demands of history, with archaeological cultures that were understood as ‘peoples’ and a migration model derived from first-millennium historical sources which ordered the progression of these cultures into a historical narrative punctuated by episodes of large-scale migration and mass ethnic cleansing. Now, the credibility of these same historical sources has been undermined by a reaction against migration which started with the archaeologists’ ferocious rejection of culture history and the invasion hypothesis that was its natural corollary. History used to lead archaeology; now archaeology is leading history. In the process, a vision of early European history driven by outside emigration has given way to another characterized by few immigrants but by many people adapting to whatever stimuli were provided by the few who did move: a story largely of internal development. This is in its own right a beautiful pattern. We have now reached a point that is the mirror image of where we were fifty years ago. But while this is satisfyingly symmetrical as an intellectual progression, is it convincing history? Should migration be relegated to such a minor, walk-on part in the history of barbarian Europe in the first millennium AD?
MIGRATION AND INVASION
The invasion hypothesis is dead and buried. No longer would we even want to litter prehistoric and first-millennium Europe with a succession of ancient ‘peoples’ carving out their chosen niches via a lethal cocktail of large-scale movement and ethnic cleansing. Arguably, such a cocktail should never have existed. At least the ethnic-cleansing element of the old Grand Narrative finds little support that I know of in the sources. The demise of the invasion hypothesis does not mean, however, that migration has entirely disappeared from the story. Nor could it. Even if you accept that a migration topos operated among Mediterranean authors, their cultural fantasies would still have had to be underpinned by population movements of some kind, and some of the archaeological evidence is likewise suggestive of humanity somehow on the move. Two alternatives to the invasion-hypothesis model of mass migration have consequently come into use.
The first is the ‘wave of advance’ model. Applicable to small migration units, it provides an alternative view of how a group of outsiders might take over a landscape. It has been applied in particular to the spread across Europe of its first proper farmers in the Neolithic period, and shows how, even with individually undirected moves, farming populations might nonetheless have come to dominate all suitable points in that landscape. According to this model, Neolithic farmers did not arrive en masse and oust the hunter-gatherers in an invasion. Rather, the farmers’ capacity to produce food in much greater quantities meant that their population numbers grew
so much more quickly that, over time, they simply swamped the hunter-gatherers, filling up the landscape from the points nearest the first farming sites, as individual farmers grew to maturity and sought their own lands. It is a model for small-scale, family- or extended-family-sized moves and unintentional takeover, which, by virtue of these qualities, also allows for the possibility that some of the indigenous hunter-gatherers might have learned farming skills for themselves as the process slowly unfolded. What could be more attractive for scholars trying to free themselves from a world of mass moves and conquest?20
Even more popular among archaeologists, because of its greater range of potential applications, is the ‘elite transfer’ model. Here, the intrusive population is not very large, but does aggressively take over a territory by conquest. It then ousts the sitting elite of the target society and takes over its positions of dominance, while most of the underlying social and economic structures which created the old, now expelled or demoted, elite are left intact. The classic example of this phenomenon in medieval history is the Norman Conquest of England, where, because of the astonishing wealth of information surviving in Doomsday Book, we know that a few thousand Norman landholding families replaced their slightly more numerous Anglo-Saxon predecessors at the top of the eleventh-century English heap. Again the vision of migration suggested by this model is much less dramatic than that envisaged under the invasion hypothesis. It retains the latter’s intentionality, and some violence, but because we’re talking only of one elite replacing another, with broader social structures left untouched, this is a much less nasty process than the ethnic cleansing that was central to the old model. And because it is merely a question of swapping a few elites around, the outcome is likewise much less dramatic and in one sense less important, since all the main existing social and economic structures are left in place, as they were in England by the Norman Conquest.21
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