FinermanWorks

Imagine Dick Cheney with sex appeal: as mean, greedy, and dishonest as ever but now with a “come-hither” look that George Bush couldn’t resist. (I will give you a moment to stop retching.) In a previous and more sensuous life, Cheney may have been Hugh Despenser–one of the greatest scoundrels of English history.

Edward II (1284-1327) ruled England as if it were an audition for “A Chorus Line.” He picked out the most alluring–if otherwise untalented–young men to run the kingdom. The king was married–politics can make normal bedfellows–but his preference was quite obvious. Edward bestowed titles and treasures on his special friends. One flagrant favorite was even given the queen’s jewelry–but Mrs. Plantagenet evidently was the lesser queen of the two.

The nobles, embracing medieval family values, murdered that particular favorite. But Edward II did not seem to get the hint. He just found new boy toys and the worst was Hugh Despenser. Hugh was not content being lavished with estates; he stole them as well. He used the king’s infatuation as a royal license to embezzle and extort. If the nobility was already hostile about “the lifestyle”, it really resented being robbed. The nobles organized a coup in 1321 and forced Edward to banish Despenser.

In exile, Despenser found gainful employment as a pirate, and he had time to consider the errors of his ways. He should have terrorized or murdered his victims instead of just robbing them. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. All he needed was a second chance, and that occurred after one year.

The nobles be damned. Edward missed his Hugh and recalled him from exile, fully indulging his favorite’s greedy and vindictive whims. The nobles who had ousted Despenser now were hunted down. The Earl of Lancaster was beheaded; he was lucky enough to be a member of the Royal Family and was spared public disembowelment. The Queen herself had only looked askew at Despenser; so she was merely dispossessed of all her estates. She understandably resented that, went home to France and plotted a rebellion with exiled English nobles. (One of them, the Earl of March, even became her lover. Be fair: the woman was certainly entitled.)

The Queen, her Earl and their army landed in England in 1326. Their public intention was to rid the realm of Despenser. The rebellion also had a more discreet goal: to get rid of the King as well. If the lack of any resistance is any indication, the rebellion was more than welcome. Since Despenser was not of royal blood, his public disembowelment was permissible–and very popular. It occurred on this day in 1326. (The King’s death in 1327 was a private affair–except that his screams could be heard over a considerable distance.)

The throne passed to Edward III; somebody got the Queen pregnant. And the new King was said to look like a Plantagenet. (Perhaps Edward II had closed his eyes and made the effort for England.)

British historians recently compiled an interesting list: the worst Englishmen of the last thousand years. Of course, Hugh Despenser made the list. In fact, he made the top ten and was named the worst Englishman of the 14th century.

The fall of the Roman Empire was somewhat exaggerated. There was no massive barbarian offensive that overran and annihilated civilization; the fifth century Germans were more subtle than their modern descendants. Indeed, many of the tribes were invited into the enfeebled empire. Rome hoped that the barbarians might be better behaved as guests than invaders.

Given the Italian male’s increasing reluctance to leave an orgy to stand guard on the Rhine, Rome had to employ barbarians as mercenaries. If five centuries of mutinies, assassinations and civil wars give any indication, Roman armies were not conspicuously loyal. Now, however, they were not even Roman. The legions and the tribes became ethnically indistinguishable. Rome merely had the better dressed Germans.

In Western Europe the Empire simply succumbed to reality. Germanic armies had been ruling in the name of Rome, pledging their nominal allegiance to whichever powerless cipher was sitting on the throne that day. But the etiquette grew tiresome; the pretense was simply abandoned. It was not a cataclysmic end. The roads did not disappear or the aqueducts collapse overnight. With the exception of the Angles and Saxons–who destroyed Londinium before they decided that it might be a nice place to live, most barbarians genuinely admired Roman civilization. Looting was just their form of affection. The Germanic kinglets and chieftains actually tried to perserve the civilization they had conquered. The day to day administration of their realms was entrusted to Roman councilors; who else knew how to read and count?

The deterioration was gradual but unavoidable. Without the knowledge and resources to maintain aqueducts, cities dried up into villages. Provinces that had once been integral parts of an thriving empire now were insular and isolated. Furthermore, the Germanic invasions continued, and the semi-civilized Visigoths and Ostrogoths were supplanted by more barbaric tribes. (The Franks were especially notorious for their treachery, but after 1500 years you have to admire their consistency.)

A century after the Roman Empire had collapsed in Europe, so had civilization. A few vestiges would tenuously survive; the local mispronunciations of Latin would become Spanish, Portuguese and French. And there still was a church that identified itself with Rome. (The barbarians showed a superstitious consideration for other peoples’ religions; their religion would not receive the same courtesy.)

However, Europe was only half of the Roman Empire. The Mediterranean Sea was a little harder to ford than the Rhine, and the Germans had yet to invent the U-Boat. The Empire’s richest and most cultured regions–Anatolia, Syria and Egypt–were more threatened by Byzantine bureaucrats than barbarian tribes. The Dark Ages were Europe’s embarrassment. If the Byzantines felt superior, they had every reason to think so.

Yes, to answer that endemic question of  Thanksgiving, the main course was named for the country. Europeans of the 16th century thought the North American bird resembled a fowl common to Turkey.   

The Turks, however, never thought of naming the fowl for themselves. They call it the Hindi, which refers to India. (I have no idea what the real Indians call the bird but it might be something vindictive about Pakistan.)

Furthermore, but for a slight Byzantine miscalculation, we would be referring to that misnamed bird as the Anatolia.

Until the 11th century, there were no Turks in Turkey.  In fact, the peninsula then was known as Anatolia.  It was a nice, thoroughly Greek region, and one of the most lucrative parts of the Byzantine Empire. In 1071, however, a Greek aristocrat named Andronicus Ducas became the inadvertent founder of Turkey.

The Byzantine general simply wanted to kill his emperor Romanus IV but was too finicky for an assassination. Ducas waited until the imperial army was fighting Turkish nomads in eastern Anatolia, near the town of Manzikert. He then ordered a retreat, abandoning the emperor to the enemy. Ducas rushed backed to Constantinople to install his cousin on the now empty and available throne.

(In fact, the Emperor Romanus was captured alive. Under the circumstances, the Turkish Sultan could coerce a favorable treaty. Romanus was soon after released; but his return to Constantinople was unappreciated by his usurping successor. The Byzantine retirement package consisted of blinding and exile.)

Unfortunately, the Byzantine Empire was in just as miserable shape. Andronicus Ducas had overestimated the army’s ability to retreat. It disintegrated, leaving Anatolia–half of the empire– defenseless. The Turks weren’t nomads after that.

And we won’t be trying to digest an Anatolia on Thanksgiving.

Portfirio Diaz was the best President of Mexico that American business ever had. For just a reasonable–if continual–bribe, railroads, Standard Oil, and mining companies could exploit all that Mexico had to offer. Some of Diaz’s amassed fortune was trickling down to the populace, at least to his family, the crew of his yacht and the teenage girls who seemed to rejuvenate the elderly tyrant. However, that was not really a majority of Mexico’s population.

Diaz had been a war hero against the French in the 1860s; but 34 years of corruption seemed a sufficient veteran’s benefit. By 1910, Mexico was ready to overthrow the outrageous rascal, and the hopes and the grievances of Mexico would center around a most incongruous figure. As a revolutionary, Francisco Madero was the soul of well-mannered moderation. As a leader, he was innocuous rather than charismatic. The hope of Mexico’s impoverished masses was a wealthy aristocrat who had been educated everywhere but Mexico. But this education abroad had made him an admirer of societies that were neither feudal relics or shameless kleptocracies. Even if he did look upon Mexico from an Ivory Tower, it was with genuine compassion.

His liberal principles had earned him several bouts in a Mexican prison. However, having the advantage of being rich in the Diaz days, he could always bribe his escape. While in exile in Texas, Madero issued a call for the Mexican people to overthrow Diaz and reestablish democracy; it was on this day in 1910.

Rebellions began throughout Mexico, and even the army seemed loathe to defend the Thief-in-Chief. Six months later, Portfirio Diaz was on his yacht, cruising to Europe with his usual contingent of teenage girls; he lived happily ever after. Francisco Madero was the new President. On his private estates, he had genuinely improved his workers’ standard of living; he imagined that he could do the same with all of Mexico. Unfortunately, Mexico proved a little more difficult. Moderation seemed to please no one.

Revolutionaries wanted more drastic reforms than Madero was prepared to make. Conservatives wanted no reforms at all. Worse for Madero, his innocuous moderation terrified American corporate interests in Mexico. They evidently preferred paying bribes than taxes, and a scrupulous Mexican government might interfere with their business. The American Ambassador Henry Wilson, representing those business interests, initiated his own foreign policy: a military coup to overthrow Madero.

Assuming that everyone had his good intentions, Madero had not tried to purge the Mexican Army of Diaz’s cronies. Unfortunately, a number of generals proved quite nostalgic for the old kleptocracy and were eager to reestablish it. Ambassador Wilson had no trouble orchestrating the coup. Madero had entrusted his security to Gen. Victoriano Huerta. Huerta organized the firing squad.

If you have seen “The Wild Bunch”, “One Hundred Rifles”, or “Viva Zapata” you know what happened next. It was a free-for-all civil war. Any general could claim to be the President, and anyone could claim to be a general. The Conservatives fought the Revolutionaries, and the Revolutionaries fought each other. In hindsight, this probably was not the best environment for American businesses; it was impossible to keep track of whom to bribe.

By 1920, the civil wars had bled themselves dry, and Mexico had arrived at a political compromise that more or less has lasted to this day: a government of moderate thieves.

We all have the image of Henry VIII as that bloated bully in the Holbein portrait. Either fat had a higher aesthetic value in the 16th century or those English courtiers assured the tempermental King that he looked wonderful. Fortunately, Henry was easily convinced of his good looks. When a middle-aged blob, he certainly was self-deluded but at least he had an excellent memory.

The young Henry actually was handsome. His mother, Elizabeth of York, was considered a beauty. Her parents, Edward IV and Elizabeth Woodville, were regarded as the best-looking people in England. Elizabeth Woodville had to be gorgeous; to have her, Edward IV caused a civil war.

She was a widow, with children, and only from the minor nobility; worse, her late husband and her family had been supporters of the rival Lancastrian dynasty. The lusty Edward IV wanted her as a mistress; she refused his advances and insisted on marriage. At that very time, Edward had commissioned his chief supporter, the Earl of Warwick, to negotiate a marriage with the sister-in-law of the King of France. Warwick, the most powerful noble in England, had successfully negotiated that marital alliance when he learned that Edward had eloped with the Woodville widow. “The Kingmaker”, as Warwick was known, was humiliated and furious; he then switched his allegiance and considerable forces to the Lancasters. Warwick succeeded in ousting Edward and restored Henry VI to the throne in 1470. A year later, Edward returned. Warwick was killed in battle and Henry VI was imprisoned in the Tower of London. The deposed King apparently fell on several daggers while in chapel.

In any case, handsome Edward IV and beautiful Elizabeth Woodville produced seven children. (He also acquired a pack of greedy in-laws and two stepsons who could have been role models for Paris Hilton.) Edward died in 1483, thinking his young son Edward would succeed him. Unfortunately, the regent of England was Richard, Duke of Gloucester. Although the late King’s brother, he was also Warwick’s son-in-law and had always resented the Woodville queen and her upstart family. Uncle Richard had other plans.

And the war over Elizabeth Woodville so divided the Yorkist party that the illegitimate Welsh branch of the Lancastrian line would soon kill its way to the throne. When the illegitimate half-second cousin, once removed, Henry Tudor ascended to the throne, he required a legitimate princess for some resemblance to respectability. The eldest daughter of Edward IV sufficed quite nicely.

Her father declared her a bastard and beheaded her mother, her half-sister imprisoned her as a traitor and nearly ordered her execution.  Elizabeth I would seem entitled to a psychosis or two, but she seemed to regard these “episodes” as part of her job description. 

Aside from the obvious dysfunction, the Tudors were unique for a royal family:  they were intelligent and hard-working.  The Tudors actually earned the throne. 

After 85 years of civil war, the English throne had become quite democratic: anyone could seize it. Henry Tudor was a middle-class Welsh adventurer who even lacked the distinction of being legitimate. His claim to royal blood was as the half-second cousin, once-removed, of Henry VI. The successful usurper, proclaiming himself Henry VII, sought immediate respectability by marrying the eldest daughter of the rival royal house. (He then made sure that the rest of her family disappeared: in convents, the Tower of London, you get the idea) The crafty king took nothing for granted. He certainly didn’t trust the nobles, most of whom had better claims to the throne than he did.

To control a restless aristocracy, Henry VII created a force that remains as terrifying now as it was then:  the civil service.  His bureaucracy remorsely taxed the nobility into a passive stupor: nobles could still afford all of their vices but not an armed rebellion.  In dealing with his other subjects–townspeople and small landowners–Henry had a novel approach:  good government.  The King had a most solicitous attitude.   Any proposal or project that would resolve problems and nurture prosperity had his support.  (That’s how the nobles’ taxes were spent.) 

Henry VIII had his father’s political shrewdness.  He may have been a serial husband but he maintained a monogamous romance with Parliament.  That English institution had been founded in 1265 by English barons who realized that the Magna Carta had left a few loopholes. Its assembly of gentry, clergy, and burghers formed a permanent council: no law could be enacted without its consent.  For two centuries, however, the Parliament had acted only like a notary public: approving and filing the royal decrees.

But to the crafty Tudors, Parliament was more than a bureaucratic eccentricity. Its members represented constituencies; the town burghers and small landowners were potential allies against the aristocracy and even the Catholic Church.  Henry VIII applied his seductive skills to wooing Parliament.  If a serenade of Greensleeves was insufficient, a knighthood on a status-starved burgher  or the deed to an estate (freshly confiscated from the Catholic Church) usually proved irresistible.  Of course, Henry’s approach also had an element of menace.   Imagine the choice confronting a member of Parliament: the King’s munificent patronage or being publicly disemboweled. Under those circumstances, you, too, might agree that the King was entitled to a divorce and that Thomas More was just being obnoxious. 

If Elizabeth I could survive her family, she could easily contend with Spain, the Jesuits and her idiot cousin Mary.  She possessed all of the Tudors’ talents, few of their vices (just a bit of her father’s vanity), and a charm uniquely her own.  Unfortunately, a Virgin Queen is bad for a dynasty.

Her glorious reign began this day in 1558. 

What did the Byzantines do for fun? The eunuchs certainly indulged in wishful thinking, and everyone loved debating the correct prepositions in defining the Holy Trinity. But for pure hilarity the medieval Greeks had their own version of MadLibs: the Justinian Code.

The Emperor Justinian was a workaholic and he expected everyone else to be one, too. The legal department was ordered to compile 400 years of imperial edicts and publish them in one handy reference. Tactfully named the Justinian Code, it was a best seller. Every Byzantine bureaucrat bought a copy, if only to learn what laws he would have broken by not buying it.

Now the Byzantine magistrate knew all the legal precedents for judging a merchant who shortweighted anchovies on St. Halitosia’s Day. (That would be the St. Halitosia of Cappodocia, not the one of Epirus.) According to the Code, the correct punishment would be amputation of the right side of the nose. Furthermore, the Code would establish the cost of the surgery. If the amputation was performed by an in-network torturer, the government would cover the cost–after the victim’s initial co-payment. The government would cover only fifty percent of the cost for an out-of-network torturer.

Finally, establishing the definitive standard for government bureaucracy and human resource departments, the Code was in Latin and its audience read Greek.

Napoleon Bonaparte was history’s most aggressive liberal.  (Keith Olbermann is a distant second.)  Acting with a dogmatic humanism, the French Revolution and its chief champion swept away the laws that exalted one religion or persecuted another.  From France to Poland, from Italy to Germany, this spirit of Emancipation–supported by French bayonets–tore down the ghetto walls of a 1000 years. 

Of course, when Napoleon fell, the old prejudices and laws returned. The emancipation of the French Revolution and then the restoration of the Old Order had a profound effect on one family in Trier, Germany. When the French army conquered the Rhineland, it abolished the laws that had restricted where Jews could live and how they could earn a living. A rabbi’s son named Herschel Marx now had the freedom to become a lawyer. Unfortunately, when Napoleon fell, Prussia took control of Trier. Prussian law in the early 19th century did not permit Jews to be lawyers. Herschel Marx had a choice: he could abandon his career and return to the ghetto or he could convert. Since he was a lawyer, there is no reason to think that he had principles. He became a Lutheran named Heinrich. The newly christened Heinrich Marx was starting a family and, although his wife Rachel refrained from converting, their children were duly baptized.  But for that, Trier Germany might have had a very dyspeptic rabbi named Kalman Marx.  Instead, history ended up with a self-proclaimed prophet called Karl.

And today is his birthday…although I think that it now is only celebrated in Cuba.