Beware of Geeks Forging Gifts

Donation of Constantine (unknown painter, 13th century)

This is a non-serious post.  Today I'm giving you a snippet of my unfinished (and probably abandoned) short story about the origins of this great medieval forgery.  If nothing else, this will prove that I do occasionally look up from Dante's Florence and notice other times and places; it may also prove that I should stick with Dante's Florence.  Howe'er that may be, let me first provide just a bit of background information for those who don't know about the Donation.

The Donation of Constantine purported to be an imperial decree in which Emperor Constantine I transferred authority over certain lands, as well as certain imperial privileges, to the papacy.  Supposedly, Pope Sylvester I had miraculously cured the emperor of leprosy, and Constantine, in gratitude, converted to Christianity and made this gift to the papacy in perpetuity.

Pope Sylvester baptizing Constantine:  fresco by Cristoforo Roncalli, 16th century

The decree, allegedly prepared in the early 4th century, presented the pope with "power and dignity of glory, and vigour, and honour imperial" (quotes from good old Wikipedia) over the four principal sees:  Alexandria, Antioch, Jerusalem, and Constantinople.  And oh, by the way, over all churches over the earth.  And over Rome plus the rest of Italy.  It also assigned the papacy the imperial insignia, including the tiara.  It was a pretty heavy-duty gift, all told.

As you can imagine, this caused no end of difficulty during the medieval centuries where the pope and the emperor were engaged in a constant tug-of-war for secular power.  Dante said (Wiki's translation):  "Ah, Constantine, how much evil was born, / not from your conversion, but from that donation / that the first wealthy Pope received from you!"  Of course, Dante was always harrumphing about something, but the Donation was widely accepted as authentic in his time, and it did fuel the imperial/papal conflict.

As it turned out, the document was a forgery.  Though some had suspected as much as early as the turn of the millennium, it wasn't definitively debunked until  1439-40, when Lorenzo Valla, a priest and humanist, proved that it could not have been written in the 4th century (anachronistic language, mistaken dates, etc.). The papacy was not happy, and Valla wound up on the banned-books list; it wasn't until the end of the 16th century that the Donation was generally accepted as a forgery.

 The current best guess is that it was written in the 8th century.  Many theories exist about when, where, and why; one, which I've used here, suggests that it might have come into being to assist Pope Stephen II in his negotiations with Pepin the Short, the Frankish Mayor of the Palace (but about to be anointed King by Pope Stephen), in 754.  (Pepin was also known as Pepin the Younger, and sometimes Pepin the Fat; his wife was called Bertha Bigfoot.  The Franks had a gift for nomenclature.)

Pepin the Short (miniature, 1112-1114)

Pepin was the father of the great Charlemagne, who in 754 was not yet "magne" but was in fact still a child.  Pepin was the son of Charles Martel, a great Frankish leader.  When Charles Martel died, Pepin and his brother Carloman shared the throne (until Carloman retired to a monastery); they did not, however, share it with their half brother Grifo, son of Charles Martel's second wife Swannahilde (also Swannhild, Swanahild, Swanachild, or Serenahilt), claiming that the pair was not legally wed and Grifo was thus illegitimate.  To make a long story short, Grifo rebelled, he was killed in battle, and his mother Swannahilde, who had supported his bid for power, was packed off to a nunnery (Chelles) to become abbess. 

In this story, the premise is that Stephen is on his way across the Alps to anoint Pepin.  Pepin's stepmother Swannahilde has - understandably - a bit of a chip on her shoulder about Pepin, and she'd really like to see the upcoming negotiations give the advantage to the pope, and not to the Frankish ruler.  To this end, she has managed to blackmail a couple of hapless, nerdy young clerics into creating this document.

And by the way, the document really did stipulate that the emperor had to lead the pope's horse.

Here's the excerpt:

 

"A lot of what you have will be fine the way it is. I like it that Constantine gives the Lombard lands to the pope. Pepin will hate that." Swannahilde drew a slender, caressing finger across the vellum. "But I want you to change just a few things, boy. Will you do that for me?"

Audulf gulped. He tried to speak, then settled for nodding vigorously.

"I thought you would. Now, as much as I enjoy the idea of Pope Sylvester healing the emperor's dysentery, I think it would be a bit more powerful if he had been healed of, let's say, leprosy. Don't you?"

"L-leprosy, my lady?" Audulf stammered.

"Yes. Let's say leprosy. It underscores the pope's holy powers, and it will make the people want to take a very close look at their own ruler, don't you think?" She waited courteously for a response, but Audulf's mouth was slack and his eyes round, and though his adam's apple pulsed, he emitted no sound.

"And while we're at it, let's have Constantine admit to something truly dreadful, shall we? Like - oh, let's say he planned to bathe in the blood of innocent children, only God stayed his hand just in time. Yes, I like that. Take notes, will you, boy?"

This time she was talking to me. Obediently I grabbed a wax tablet and a stylus from the writing desk. I scribbled "leprosy" and "bathe in blood," and then looked up, waiting for more.

"Keep all the parts about religion and penance. They sound very convincing, and besides, I like the idea of people thinking about a sinful monarch doing penance. But we do need to add a few more things. You can do that, can't you?" Audulf nodded vigorously again. He seemed to have figured out that eager agreement was the safest course. I scratched "keep religion" and "penance" on the wax tablet.

"Specifically, I'd like to make sure that Constantine acknowledges the Holy Father's right to all the same privileges the emperor claims for himself. The wearing of the purple mantle and the crimson tunic, and let's give him the right to the imperial sceptre, and the standards, and the collar--oh, and the crown."

Audulf looked at her, wild-eyed. "The c-crown, my lady?"

Swannahilde wrinkled her delicate nose at him. "Yes, the crown, boy. Why not?" She studied his panicked expression. "You don't like it, do you? Do you not think it will be believed?" Audulf by now looked rather as if he were choking. "Well, perhaps you're right. Say instead that the pope refused the crown and Constantine gave him the tiara instead." I wrote "No to crown. Tiara."

"So. Let's review. I'm happy to leave most of the details to you, but by the time we're finished here, I want everyone who hears this parchment read to know that the Lombard lands belong to the pope, not to Pepin, and that the Holy Father reigns supreme in Western Christendom. Have you got that?"

This time we both nodded. I wrote "Supreme. Western Christendom."

"Good. And one more thing. You must allow me my little jest, after all. Indulge me with this one. I want you to say that the emperor accepts responsibility, for his office and for all secular rulers in perpetuity, for cleaning up after the pope's horse." She chuckled at the thought. "Got that?"

I had gotten as far as "horse sh--" when Audulf finally managed to sputter out a few words.

"B-but Lady, n-nobody will believe it," he said, misery all over his face. "It's too much. We can't - we can't do that." Audulf was shaking all over, but he crossed his arms in front of his chest and faced her like a man. I was proud of him. I also thought he was completely mad, although perhaps not quite as mad as she was.

Swannahilde looked him up and down. "Well, boy, I see you have a tongue after all. Yes, I see your point. Instead, say merely that the emperor will lead the pope's horse. Is that dignified enough for you? I assure you, it's better than old Peep deserves."

Audulf, his brief foray into conversation at an end, went back to nodding. I wrote "leads horse."

End excerpt

Images in this post are in the public domain because more than 100 years have elapsed since the deaths of their creators.

The Last Lombard King: Kim Rendfeld Guest Post

I'd like to welcome Kim Rendfeld, author of The Cross and the Dragon, bringing us a guest post about the Lombard King Desiderius.  Kim's novel is receiving excellent reviews, and I'm delighted to feature an example of her in-depth research and its rich results.

Now, here's Kim:

 

The Last Lombard King

Lombard King Desiderius was in a good position in the spring of 771. Two daughters were married to dukes, and another had recently wed Charles, a king of Francia. Plus, two troublesome papal ministers were permanently out of the way.

A few months later, it would all start to fall apart with the death of Charles’s brother. And just three years after that, Desiderius would lose his kingdom in northern Italy and be imprisoned in a monastery. His son and heir, Adalgis, was in exile.

In a scene from Alessandro Manzoni's Adelchi, the title character is dying in the presence of Charlemagne and his father, Lombard King Desiderius.  Historically, the prince escaped from Charlemagne and caused trouble later. 

Alda, the Frankish teenage heroine of my novel The Cross and the Dragon, sees Desiderius as a madman who refused a bribe of gold in exchange for returning conquered lands. But the Lombard king’s story is much more complicated, a tale of power, intrigue, family honor, and revenge.


Intervening in Papal Succession

To understand Desiderius’s story, it helps to go back to 767, when Pope Paul I is dying. At this time, Desiderius had been king for 11 years, having seized power in a coup with Paul’s brother and predecessor as an ally. The alliance lasted only a few months, and the relationship between Rome and Pavia was uneasy because of a territorial dispute.

When Paul’s death was imminent in June 767, four aristocratic brothers from Roman Tuscany seized control of Rome, and one of them, Constantine, was elevated to the papacy, even though he was a layman (never mind canon law).

Papal minister Christopher and his son, Sergius, opposed this move but were forced to take refuge in the basilica of Saint Peter. They were allowed to leave when they asked to retire to a monastery, a common repository for political opponents. Instead of traveling to the monastery, they visited the duke of Spoleto and asked him to take them to his king, Desiderius. After hearing their case, Desiderius lent his support in the form of Spoletan soldiers and Waldipert, a Lombard priest.

The Lombard camp in what is believed to be an illustration to Alessandro Manzoni's Adelchi

The forces retook Rome and arrested Constantine. But Desiderius was not above installing a pope of his own liking. Waldipert and some Romans grabbed Philip, the chaplain at the monastery of Saint Vitas, and acclaimed him pope, with the intent of making him a figurehead. On Christopher’s bidding, Philip was quickly sent home and a cleric named Stephen was elevated to pope.

Eighth-century justice was brutal, even in Rome. Accused of plotting to kill Christopher and hand Rome over to the Lombards, Waldipert was blinded, and his tongue was cut out, the same fate as Constantine and some of his followers. Waldipert died of his injuries.


Vengeance

Desiderius probably wanted revenge, but he had to wait a few years. In the meantime, there was an opportunity to build an alliance with a Frankish king. King Pepin, who also had the title of patrician of Rome, died in September 768, and his sons, Charles and Carloman, succeeded him.

No one knows whose idea it was for Charles to marry one of Desiderius’s daughters, but it had the full support of Queen Mother Bertrada, even though Charles was already married. The Church saw itself as the protector of marriage, but it was not a sacrament in those days. (Desiderius also wanted Charles’s sister to marry Lombard Prince Adalgis, but that idea was nixed on the Frankish side.)

In 770, the pope was upset when he heard rumors of the Lombard-Frankish marriage, and a strongly worded letter that bears his name opposes the idea. Bertrada went on a mission to ensure peace between her sons, the duke of Bavaria who was also the kings’ first cousin and Desiderius’s son-in-law, the pope, and the Lombard king. She returned to Francia with the Lombard princess.

For Desiderius, Bertrada’s diplomacy had the added benefit of distancing the anti-Lombard Christopher from the pope. Around Easter 771, Pope Stephen sent a message that “the most abominable Christopher and his most wicked son, Sergius,” schemed with one of Carloman’s men to kill him. The intervention of “our most excellent son, King Desiderius,” saved the day. But the pope was also distressed to report that Christopher and Sergius were blinded. Because of the handiwork of Desiderius’s ally Paul Afiarta, Christopher died of his wounds while his son was imprisoned.


Downfall

King Carloman’s death at age 20 in December 771 changed Desiderius’s fate. Charles seized his brother’s lands, even though Carloman had two young sons. To solidify his place as king of all Francia, he repudiated the Lombard princess and married a young woman from an important family in Carloman’s former kingdom.

The divorce was an insult to Desiderius, and he must have seen an opportunity for revenge when Carloman’s widow, Gerberga, fled to his court with the boys.

But he had another problem to deal with. Pope Stephen died February 3, 772. While Stephen was sick, Paul Afiarta exiled or imprisoned enemies and for good measure, had the blinded Sergius strangled, but his efforts to succeed Stephen failed. Deacon Hadrian, Afiarta’s enemy, was made pope, freed prisoners and exiles, and ordered an investigation of Afiarta, who was later executed. Hadrian was no friend of Desiderius.

Two months into Hadrian’s papacy, Desiderius risked Frankish intervention and invaded papal territories, trying to pressure Hadrian to anoint Carloman’s sons as kings, one way to avenge the insult to his daughter. The pope refused. Even as Desiderius was conquering papal cities, Hadrian was reluctant to ask for Charles’s aid, wanting to preserve Italy’s independence.

The pope’s threat of anathema kept the Lombards away for a while, but the pressure got to be too much. Hadrian asked for Charles’s intervention. In 773, Charles, who had just fought his first war with the Saxons, tried diplomacy and offered gold in exchange for the conquered territory.

A 1493 miniature from the Chronicles of France, printed by Antoine Verard, depicts Pope Hadrian I meeting Charlemagne.

Desiderius refused, which at first seems baffling because he did not want a war with the Franks. His predecessor was forced to make territorial concessions when a Frankish king invaded Italy 17 years ago. Perhaps, Desiderius thought the pope would demand an invasion anyway. In that case, holding onto the territory would weaken his opponent.

Desiderius might also have thought that he would lose lands but not his whole kingdom. Charles’s father, Pepin, had been content with a treaty. Once the Franks’ backs were turned, Desiderius might have reasoned, he could reconquer lost territory, just as he did a few months into his reign. For details about Charles’s first war in Lombardy, see my Family Feuds post in Unusual Historicals.

In the end, things for Desiderius turned out far worse than he might have imagined. Perhaps Charles thought that if he didn’t removed Desiderius from the throne, he would continue to threaten Rome and distract the pope from praying for Francia, an important duty in age that believed in divine intervention.

To Charles, the prayers worked. After months of holding siege with Desiderius in Pavia, Charles went to Rome for Easter in early April 774. The Lombard city finally fell that June.

Images in this post are from Wikimedia Commons, public domain.


Sources

“Pavia and Rome: The Lombard Monarchy and the Papacy in the Eighth Century,” an excellent scholarly article by Jan T. Hallenbeck, published in 1982 by Transactions of the American Philosophical Society.

Charlemagne: Translated Sources, P.D. King

Carolingian Chronicles: Royal Frankish Annals and Nithard’s Histories, translated by Bernhard Walters Scholz with Barbara Rogers


Kim Rendfeld is the author of The Cross and the Dragon, a tale of love amid the wars and blood feuds of Charlemagne’s reign. Her novel opens on the eve of the Franks’ invasion of Lombardy. For more about Kim and her fiction, visit her website or her blog. 

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Tinney Heath says:  Thank you so much, Kim.  It never fails to amaze me how much we can learn about people who lived so long ago.  Desiderius's story is fascinating, and your research is an inspiration.