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November 11, 1918:  Western Civilization gave itself a slight respite from self-destruction.

The Armistice lasted 20 years, allowing sufficient time for the toddlers of 1918 to grow into their boots and helmets. (And during that respite, corporals and sergeants promoted themselves to Fuhrers and Duces.)

We Americans did actually win the First World War simply because we still had a breathing generation of draft age men and we showed up in France at the right moment. Had the Chinese sent one million men to France in 1918, they could have won the war, too. Timing is everything.

America was barely involved in World War I. We entered the War in 1917, missing all the excitement of Gallipoli, the Somme and Verdun. More doughboys died from influenza than Krupp munitions. Our chief casualties may have been Mary Pickford and Lillian Gish, who were constantly escaping “a fate worse than death” from the Hunnish clutches (or whatever the pertinent organ) of Erich von Stroiheim in Hollywood’s depictions of the War. (It should be noted that in her long film career Miss Gish was also nearly raped during the French Revolution and the American Civil War.) Given our limited participation in the Great War, we commemorate November 11 as a catch-all day for all of our Veterans.

However if you really want to honor the veterans of the most futile war in history, you can do so any day on Turner Classic Movies. Just turn on a film from the Golden Age of Hollywood and look at the British actors. To a man, they served in a far more harrowing theater than all the terrors of working with Bette Davis. Many of them were left scarred. Herbert Marshall had the unique distinction of being a leading man with a wooden leg. Claude Raines was blind in one eye. When you see Ronald Colman’s fencing in “The Prisoner of Zenda” you wouldn’t know that he had a kneecap shot off. Lieutenant Nigel Bruce was machine-gunned in the buttocks; that is not the kind of wound that gets the Victoria Cross. If Leslie Howard seemed introspective and other-worldly, shellshock can do that. In fact, to save time, let me recite the British actors who somehow avoided being maimed in France. Well, Leo G. Carroll was wounded in the Middle East; at least, he had that originality. And Captain Basil Rathbone, decorated for courage, really should have been awarded for remarkable luck: not a scratch!

The most veteran of the British veterans was Donald Crisp, the kindly father figure in so many films of the Thirties and Forties. (He did have an incestuous interest in Lillian Gish in “Broken Blossoms”; but you know, I am starting to have my suspicions about Miss Gish. Did the woman gargle pheromones?) Crisp fought in the Boer War and then served again in the Great War.

If you want to see a microcosm of British history, watch the 1940 production of “Pride and Prejudice.” The middle-aged actors–Edmund Gwenn and Melville Cooper– had served in the Great War. The younger members of the cast–Laurence Olivier and Bruce Lester–were to have their turn. The Armistice was about to end.

And Erich von Stroiheim would threaten a new generation of actresses.

Herbert Hoover found himself in Purgatory, sentenced to 5000 years of reading books on economics, finance and civics. But, after just 44 years of torment, Hoover may receive clemency. Press Secretary Gabriel explained the possible change in policy, “As catastrophic as Hoover was, he still is better than George Bush.”

According to the Purgatory Parole Board, “Mr. Hoover was an oblivious ass whose dour personality alone could have induced a Depression. You would not have wanted a beer with him, especially if it led to your arrest for violating Prohibition. But however inept and exasperating his response to the economic collapse, he did not cause it. The 1920s had been a frenzy of financial speculation with a stock market propelled by wishful thinking. The madcap market could not sustain itself, and Hoover had the abysmal luck to be President–after only six months–when reality ruined the party.
Now, if Hoover had been President for seven years and had encouraged every irresponsible financial practice that led to an economic collapse, then 5000 years would have been too short a time here.”

The Parole Board also noted that Hoover had inherited, not started–his unnecessary war: Prohibition. And, to his credit, at least his administration captured Al Capone. Furthermore, Hoover had not escalated the war on alcohol by invading Canada, or rationalizing the existence of vodka to justify an attack on the Soviet Union.

In view of these extenuating circumstances, the Board is considering a reduction of Mr. Hoover’s torment to 1000 years or at least upgrading him to a private sulfur pit instead of the one he is currently sharing with Milton Friedman.

Meanwhile in Hell, the Emperor Caligula has applied for a promotion to Purgatory, asserting that at least he was better than George Bush.

On this day in 1066, William the Bastard won the battle of Hastings and improved his nickname. Ironically, the Conqueror could have done just as well in a probate court. William had a better claim to the English throne than the English king did. (Yes, possession is nine tenths of the law; but William’s one tenth included a better army.) The legal wrangling and the bloodshed all stemmed from the inability to the late Edward the Confessor to make up his mind. Who would succeed the childless monarch? Edward apparently promised everyone the throne.

He had promised both his cousin William and his brother-in-law Harold Godwinson. His half-greatnephew Edgar also thought he was in line to the throne. King Edward’s Christmas cards probably read, “You May Already Be a Winner.” Fortunately, few people could read at the time; otherwise there might have been some 200 claimants to the English throne. (That didn’t happen until the 15th century and the Wars of the Roses.)

When Edward died on January 5, 1066, the council of English nobles chose Harold to be the next king. Harold was the most powerful noble in England and he was a distinguished soldier; in fact, Harold had been the de facto ruler during the reign of his ineffectual brother-in-law–whose only real skill apparently was praying. Since he was already doing the work, Harold would seem entitled to the formalities and its perks; besides, why shouldn’t the English have an English king? That would be fair and democratic, and completely anachronistic and wrong.

The council of nobles did not have the right to choose a king. Besides, where did you get the idea that Harold Godwinson was English? Does the name Harold tell you anything? Do real Angle-Saxon names end with “son”? Remember, the Vikings did get around. Eastern England was inundated by the Norse invaders; York was originally pronounced Jorvik. In the 11th century, England already had three Danish kings: Knut, Harold I and Hardicanute. So Mr. Godwinson would have been the fourth.

Being Norwegian and French, William of Normandy felt that he had as much right to the English throne as a Dane. Furthermore, William actually was related to Edward the Confessor. A cousin outranks a brother-in-law, especially when the marriage probably was never consummated. (Edward did have something to confess.) Finally, William could claim to be the overlord of Harold Godwinson. When Godwinson had visited Normandy in 1064, he had received a complimentary knighthood from William. That turned out to be more than a friendly gesture; from a legal perspective, Harold had made himself William’s vassel. Of course, any graduate of Constantinople University (which was the nearest law school in the 11th century) would have found the loophole: Harold only would be a vassal in Normandy, so just stay out of France.

Unfortunately, Harold did not think of hiring a smart Greek lawyer. In fact, he was unrepresented when William went to court. The Norman duke sent a delegation to the Pope, hoping to wangle Rome’s endorsement. Pope Alexander II was very flattered. Few rulers ever showed the Pope any respect–certainly not those imperial thugs in Germany. Alexander was usually preoccupied trying to enforce celibacy on the clergy. But here was a chance to determine the fate of a kingdom. The Pope considered the weight of the Norman’s claims (and bribes); not hearing any English arguments, Alexander decided in William’s favor. So William invaded England, with the blessing and authorization of the Pope.

Having cavalry and God on his side proved decisive for William. While the cavalry was more useful at Hastings, the Pope’s endorsement stifled further opposition from the English.  Obedient to Rome, the clergy of London delivered the city to William.  Besides, the English were getting used to the idea that their kings would be foreigners.

And they now have had 1000 years of practice.

September 15, 1649:  The birthday of the “Worst Englishman of the 17th Century”

The Encyclopedia Britannica describes Titus Oates as a ‘professional perjurer’. Today the scandal-mongering clergyman would be a political consultant. In a poll of historians, Oates (1649-1705) was named the worst Englishman of the 17th century. He certainly was an enthusiastic liar, one whose allegations terrified the public, fanned religious bigotry and sent innocent men to prison or their death.

Yet, for a man who gulled Parliment and cowed King Charles II himself, Oates should not have withstood a moment of scrutiny. His life was the personification of scandal. His intelligence scarely better than his morals, he had been expelled from two colleges at Cambridge. Yet, somehow he managed to become an Anglican clergyman. Seeking a position as a schoolmaster, he was undeterred by the fact that the position was filled. To create a job vacancy, he accused the incumbent of sodomy. Either the accused was demonstrably innocent or a gay English teacher was not that interesting a scandal; the disgraced Oates found himself the subject of prosecution. He was forced to flee the country, and did so by joining the Royal Navy in 1675.

His naval career lasted little more than a year. Winston Churchill said that the traditions of the British Navy were “rum, sodomy and the lash.” Rev. Oates was not courtmartialed for rum or the lash; being a clergyman, however, he was simply expelled from navy. That–and all his other expulsions and scandals–was probably not mentioned on his resume. Somehow he managed to secure a position in the household of the Duke of Norfolk. The Duke was Catholic, and with his unique proximity Oakes would be able to discover any number of Papist conspiracies–even if he had to invent them himself.

To ingratiate himself with the Duke, Oates converted himself to Catholicism and cadged Norfolk’s financing to study in Europe. Oates enrolled in a Jesuit college in Spain in 1677–and within five months was expelled. He would later claim that in those five months he received his doctorate in divinity. He then enrolled in a seminary in France; within six months he was expelled. While he did not claim a second doctorate degree, he evidently learned every detail of the vast Catholic conspiracy that threatened England.

Such hysterical claims had an eager audience in England. The monarchy had been restored in 1660, but the Puritan disdain for the Stuarts and loathing of Catholicism had not died with Oliver Cromwell. This political faction–avoiding the Calvinist stigma by renaming itself the Whigs–constituted a formidable force in Parliament. If they had to reconcile to a monarchy, they insisted it be a Protestant one. Charles II was nominally Anglican but suspiciously tolerant of Catholics; worse, his brother and heir James was openly and abrasively Catholic. The Calvinists’ (oops Whigs’) apprehension and bias were easy to cultivate into hysteria; and Titus Oates did exactly that.

On September 28, 1678 Oates revealed a Jesuit conspiracy to assassinate Charles II and place his Catholic brother on the throne. It was exactly what the Whigs wanted to hear, and few seemed to willing to dispute the accusations. Anyone who did was obviously in league with the Jesuits and the Catholic Church. Oates’ word was as good as an indictment, and an indictment was tantamount to a conviction. Thirty-five men would be executed. Being Catholic had become a crime in itself. The Catholic members of the Royal Family could not be dragged away, but those without blue blood were in danger. Parliament enacted a series of Anti-Catholics laws. Catholics now were forbidden to be in Parliament–a law that would not be repealed until 1829. The King was coerced into ordering an investigation of this Catholic conspiracy. When he discovered it to be groundless and a malicious fraud, he ordered Oates to be arrested. But a defiant Parliament had their hero released, proclaiming him the savior of his country and granting him a generous yearly pension of 1200 pounds. (That would be about $ 300,000 today.)

But even Oates’ increasingly broad accusations could not sustain the hysteria. His word still merited an indictment, but by 1679 the indicted were being acquitted. In 1680, Oxford University declined his demand for an honorary doctorate. (Of course, the university then was condemned as part of the Catholic conspiracy.) Even his fan club in Parliament had become less devoted. His pension was reduced in 1681, and ended in 1682. If his friends had forgotten him, the still very Catholic Duke of York had not. The Duke sued Oates in 1684, and guess who won? Oates was fined 100,000 pounds and imprisoned until he could pay the damages. The following year, the Duke had become the King; and Oates was retried for perjury. Same verdict but a worse punishment: Oates was publicly flogged–nearly to death–and condemned to life imprisonment.

However, the Whigs in Parliament still hated the idea of a Catholic king, and James II was the type of person who could offend you discussing the weather. After three years of James, Parliament decided to fire him–supplanting him with a nice Protestant couple: William and Mary. The Whig-approved royalty released Oates from prison and Parliament provided him with a new pension. However his reputation was reflected by the amount: five pounds. Apparently, he did not starve. He died in deserved obscurity in 1705.

Today would be his birthday, and let’s hope that he is in a place where each of the candles is a blast furnace.

But his legacy and standards certainly live on.

It is unlikely that many of the English archers or their Scottish pin cushions at Flodden would have identified their battle as part of a war that begin in Italy. Yet, five years earlier–in 1508, Pope Julius II attempted to organize an alliance against Venice. France, Spain, the Holy Roman Empire and the Papal States were arrayed against the Venetian Republic. Venice discovered the disadvantage of being small and rich. Of course, all those riches did allow the Republic to field armies of mercenaries; so at least Venice was not completely defenseless. Nonetheless, the coalition was overwhelming–and Venice was losing ground–especially to France.

Now, the French wanted to keep all that they had won. They were not good at sharing, and considering that they were guests in Italy, the Pope was especially offended. So Julius decided in 1510 to switch sides and ally the Papal States with Venice. It took Spain and the Holy Roman Empire about a year to figure out which side that they were on, but they eventually joined the war against France. Of course, England never had any doubts–it was just Anti-French and young Henry VIII wanted to play soldier. So if England was on one side, then Scotland had to be on the other. And that led to Flodden…

The Italian alliances, however, lacked that kind of clarity. More of a soldier than a theologian, Pope Julius was able to maintain the Anti-French alliance despite the conflicting interests of the theoretical allies. (The Hapsburgs proved just as bad guests as the French). Unfortunately, in 1513 Julius was 69–and he acted his age. His successor Leo X was no soldier or diplomat (but he would have made a good host for an art series on PBS); he did not like the Hapsburgs but was too lethargic and maladroit to curb their expansion. A frustrated and endangered Venice had no alternative but irony; in 1513 it switched sides and allied with France.

(So, here is a summary of the alliances: first, everyone against Venice; then, everyone against France; finally, France and Venice against everyone else.)

Surprisingly, that last combination actually worked. The Hapsburgs were driven back–at least for a few years–and Northern Italy was left in the hands of the French and the Venetians. The Pope did not care; as it turned out, he was Pro-French, too. Besides, his Holiness apparently was preoccupied in organizing an alliance of Northern Europe against the Church; if so, that worked too.

James IV of Scotland created a job vacancy for James V. The battle of Flodden was a real boon to Scottish probate lawyers and undertakers. Of course, James IV had not planned on wiping out half of the Scottish nobility, along with 12,000 less socially prominent men. His last emotion would have been genuine surprise. He had invaded England, with 30,000 men, under the impression that the English were defenseless. His brother-in-law Henry VIII had taken England’s best men-at-arms to invade France. All England had left was its home guard led by the elderly Earl of Surrey.

So the carefree James took a leisurely approach to his invasion, rambling around the Northern shires, besieging a castle here and there. The Earl of Surrey was 70, but he proved very spry, amassing and organizing an army to meet the Scots. True, Surrey’s forces were the B-team of English long bowmen, which meant they were only the second best archers in the world.

When confronted by this English force at Flodden, James arrayed his army on the high ground to resist any cavalry attack. This would have been an excellent defense if he had been fighting the French. However, the English never squandered their knights on pointless frontal assaults. Their horsemen were used for flanking manuevers, cutting off retreats–tactics that actually were intelligent. So the Scottish troops stood their high ground and got to play “catch the arrow.”

Aside from their aerial vulnerability, the Scots’ defensive position was precarious. On the positive side, hey could only be attacked in one direction; however, they also could only retreat in one direction. Unfortunately, it was the same direction–where the English army was. So the Scots charged, and they did not do well. Now was the time for the English cavalry to outflank and cut off retreat. The battle became a trap and the trap became a slaughter. The Scots lost at least 12,000 men; the English at most 1,500.

For his victory, the Earl of Surrey was granted the title of Duke of Norfolk. In fact, he had been the Duke of Norfolk for a few minutes in 1485. His father had died at Bosworth Field–on the wrong side. The Earl did not have any time to exercise his inherited title. He had been on the wrong side, too; the captured Earl was brought before the victorious Henry VII–and given the chance to talk his way out of execution. The Earl said he loyally served whoever wore the English crown; since Henry now was king, Surrey would serve him too. Henry liked that answer; he dispossessed Surrey of his dukedom but let him live and prove his loyalty.

In 1513, his probation period ended with the victory at Flodden. Thomas Howard once again became the Duke of Norfolk, a title that the Howards still hold.

As for the Stuarts, they kept getting killed by the Tudors–James V and Mary–but still managed to outlast them.

September 5th

Today is the birthday of the most popular composer of his time: Jacob Beer. Of course, you do not recognize the name. Well, he may have been the first Jew in show business to change his name. He is better known as Giacomo Meyerbeer…and most of you still have not heard of him.

But in his day (1791-1864) he was indisputably the most popular composer. He put the grand in opera. Meyerbeer had a string of hits–“Robert le Diable”, “Les Huguenots”, “Le Prophete”–that would have made him rich…except for the fact that he was born rich into a banking family. (Envious composers accused him of bribing the music critics.) His friend Heinrich Heine quipped that Meyerbeer’s mother was the second Jewish mother in history to see her son proclaimed a God.

Rich, talented, and adored, he did have what turned out to be one disastrous flaw: he happened to be a generous and kindly fellow. He was always willing to help younger artists, both with his connections and with direct financial support. In 1840, one struggling composer, his debts far more impressive than his compositions, appealed to Meyerbeer. The young man had composed an opera entitled “Rienzi.” The work was highly imitative of Meyerbeer but showed genuine talent. Meyerbeer provided money to support the penurious composer and arranged for his opera to be produced.

“Rienzi” was the composer’s first success, and he never forgot Meyerbeer’s help–and he never forgave it. In fact, Richard Wagner demonstrated the nature of his gratitude by writing in 1850 the essay “Judaism in the Arts.” The self-anointed high priest of Holy German Kultur denounced Jews for their foreign, polluting influence on the arts. Of course, the most popular Jewish artist of the time was the greatest danger. Meyerbeer had incriminated himself by the fact that his operas had French librettos. In hindsight, Jacob should have called himself Thor instead of Giacomo.

Meyerbeer shrugged off the attack. He was still popular and was used to a certain degree of Anti-Semitism. Wagner was unusually shrill by the standards of the time, but this was 19th century Germany. How bad could things become?

(His friend Heine had a prescient suspicion. Sensing the direction of the nascent nationalism of Germany, the poet wrote, “Christianity has not converted the Germans. It merely constrains them. But the talisman of the Cross is weakening and it will break. Then we will see that the old Gods were not dead but sleeping. The day will come when Thor rubs the sleep from his eyes, reaches for his hammer and, with one blow, brings down a thousand years of civilization….What will happen in Germany will make the French Revolution seem like an idyllic day in the country.”)

Wagner’s growing reputation would eclipse Meyerbeer’s. The parasite and bigot is acknowledged as a genius, while Meyerbeer is relegated to the quaint. But Meyerbeer probably would not begrudge the judgment of history. After all, as both patron and victim, Meyerbeer was the first to recognize Wagner.

This was the way that Afghanistan and Iraq were supposed to end: the outnumbered but morally superior (and better armed) western army decisively vanquishes the fanatic Moslem horde. That was the rousing finale of the Mahdi War in the Sudan as well as the 47 or so film versions of “The Four Feathers.”

On this day in 1898, on the outskirts of Khartoum, a British and Egyptian force of 26,000 faced a Sudanese army of 50,000. Both armies were organized by caste and race; the enemies had snobbery in common. The British soldiers had artillery, machine guns and the most modern rifles; their Egyptian allies had old rifles but carried the latest in British baggage. On the Sudanese side, the Arabs had horses and rifles while the sub-Saharan Africans (yes, I am trying to find a euphemism for Black) had swords and their feet.

Ironically, the invading British were reluctant imperialists. Nothing in the Sudan was of interest or value; if the Islamic fanatics running the desolate region had behaved themselves, the British would have been happy to ignore them. But when have you heard of a subtle, discreet fanatic? The Sudanese thought that they were being led by an Islamic messiah–the Madhi–and they intended to spread their cult to Egypt. Now, there, the British had a cherished interest: the Suez Canal. To protect that Canal, Britain had usurped Egypt–relegating the reigning Khedive to be their pampered puppet while running the country.

Unfortunately, by taking over Egypt, Britain had also acquired the chronic problem of Sudan. It was not merely an annoying neighbor but a rebellious province of Egypt. In fact, the Sudanese were winning. One Egyptian army had been massacred in 1881; a second Egyptian army–with British advisors–was massacred in 1883; and a third Egyptian army–under the very British general (and celebrity) Charles Gordon was trapped in Khartoum in 1885. Knowing the Sudanese habit of using British officers’ heads as decorations, the English newspapers demanded the military relief of Khartoum. S-l-o-w-l-y acceding to popular demand, Britain finally sent  an expedition to the Sudan: it arrived to find the late General Gordon–if not his head–and his equally decomposing Egyptian army.

Not slowly, the British left Sudan and stayed out for 15 years. By 1898, however, the British found that they could no longer ignore the Mahdists. They were fomenting unrest in neighboring territories, and now the French were threatening to do something about it. It was bad enough that Sudan is a French name; it would be insufferable for it to be a French territory. If only to keep the French out, the British finally resolved to retake the Sudan. Of course, they offered all sorts of noble excuses–end slavery, suppress fanaticism and avenge General Gordon–all of which were true, if not really important.

In any case, Omdurman was a glorious British victory. The British and Egyptians suffered less than 500 casualties while killing or wounding more than 20,000 Mahdists. The rebellion was effectively crushed, and British would control the Sudan for another 50 years.

A young British cavalry officer expressed the sense of elation at Omdurman: “Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result.” This unusually articulate lieutenant was also moonlighting as a journalist. Check your 110 year-old copies of the Daily Telegraph for his byline: Winston Churchill.

On this day in 1819 Louisa, Duchess of Saxe-Coburg, gave birth to her second son. The infant did not look remotely like her husband, a fact observed by the Duke. A new-born brunet–in a fair-haired family–raised some questions as to how close the Duchess had been with the court financier. (The child turned out to be highly intelligent–which also seemed to incriminate the financier.) However suspicious the Duke might be, he needed the financier more than a scandal. So the Duke assumed the paternity of the infant in question. Besides, he was confident that his wife’s first-born–blond and dumb–was definitely his.

Nonetheless, the Duke was prepared to part with his wife. The miserable couple separated and, having the advantage of being Protestant, divorced. The price of her freedom, however, was the loss of her children. Both boys were to be raised by the Duke. The older boy seemed unaffected by the family discord; Teutonic obtuseness has its virtues. The younger boy–perhaps less Teutonic–was all too aware of the scandal and the rumors. His response was to make himself beyond reproach. He was diligent, studious, and puritanical. Ironically, it only proved that he was no Saxe-Coburg, but he was a most admirable young man. Fortunately, he also happened to be handsome.

The young Queen of England certainly thought so. Victoria proposed to the handsome, refined and exemplary young man–and being a second son he really had no other job prospects. He consented and became her Prince Consort. The young woman was so enamoured that she remade herself to be everything that her husband would want. A giddy, self-indulgent Hanoverian became…well…a Victorian. But all the self-contained, industrious, and (let’s face it) self-righteous traits that we call Victorian would more accurately be called Albertian.

Rome wasn’t built in a day, and it also took three days to sack. The Visigoths ended their rampage on this day in 410.

At the time, Rome was little more than a very rich mausoleum. The Eastern–more stable–half of the Roman Empire was ruled from Constantinople. The Western, reeling half was now tenuously ruled from Ravenna. The Roman Empire had dispensed with Rome. Nonetheless, the former capital contained the accumulated treasures of Rome’s past glories, and the Visigoths wanted to pay their respects.

But where was the Roman army to prevent the barbarian rampage? Well, the barbarian horde was the Roman army–although flagrantly A.W.O.L. For some 20 years, the Visigoths had served the Empire fighting other barbarians, but it had not been the most gratifying experience. Under Roman command, they found themselves expendable and unappreciated–the heaviest casualties but the last to be paid. So the Visigoths decided that being Rome’s enemy would be more fulfilling and lucrative.

Led by Alaric, the Visigoths rampaged through Greece, the Balkans and then Italy. Of course, Rome was part of the itinerary, and there really was nothing to stop them. Yet, the old capital was surrounded by stout walls and should have withstood the barbarian attack. The Visigoths actually lacked the manpower to completely surround and besiege Rome; they only managed to blockade Rome’s gates. They also lacked the siege equipment to breach Rome’s walls. Yet, those walls did lack the real deterrent: anyone to man them. The Romans now were so craven that treachery prevailed. Someone opened a gate to the Visigoths. There was some Roman resistance; it lasted a day.

The Visigoths sacked the city: looting and rape were wholesale, and the slaughter–more limited–but still an enthusiastic demonstration of long-held grudges. Yet, the Visigoths did adhere to one restraint. They were Christian–albeit Arians who confused Jesus with Thor–and so spared the churches, which only recently had confiscated the wealth of the Pagan temples. Nonetheless, there still were government buildings and palaces to loot, and citizens to rob. The Visigoths also qualified as liberals; they freed slaves–a considerable segment of the Roman society.

Alaric died soon after sacking Rome. Let’s face it, his life would have been anticlimactic after that. He was succeeded by his kinsman Ataulf (yep, that’s the fifth century form of Adolf) who led the Visigoths into Spain, which they conquered and ruled until the Moors dropped by. There are some traces of the Visigothic presence in Spain today. Juan Carlos certainly is one; the family tree has Visigothic roots. And there is a region of Spain originally named Gothalonia; the Spanish now mispronounce it as Catalonia.

And in 455, the Vandals sacked Rome. They refrained from rape and slaughter, but they did rob the Churches. So, Visigoth or Vandal: guess who has the worse reputation?