A Marxist History of the World: From Neanderthals to Neoliberals (Neil Faulkner)

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A Marxist History of the World: From Neanderthals to Neoliberals
Author	Neil Faulkner
Publisher	Pluto Press
First published	2013
Type	Book
ISBN	9781849648653
Source	Anna's Archive

This magisterial analysis of human history—from "Lucy," the first hominid, to the current Great Recession—combines the insights of earlier generations of Marxist historians with radical new ideas about the historical process. Reading history against the grain, Neil Faulkner reveals that what happened in the past was not predetermined. Choices were frequent and numerous. Different outcomes—liberation or barbarism—were often possible. Rejecting the top-down approach of conventional history, Faulkner contends that it is the mass action of ordinary people that drives great events. At the beginning of the 21st century—with economic disaster, war, climate catastrophe and deep class divisions—humans face perhaps the greatest crisis in the long history of our species. The lesson of A Marxist History of the World is that, if we created our past, we can also create a better future.

Introduction: Why History Matters

History is a weapon. How we understand the past affects how we act in the present. Because of this, history is political and contested.

All knowledge of the present – of its crises, wars, and revolutions – is necessarily historical. We can no more make sense of our own world without reference to the past than we can manufacture a computer without reference to the accumulated knowledge of many decades. Our rulers know this, and because they have a vested interest in defending their own property and power, they use their control of education and the mass media to present a sanitised view of history. They stress continuity and tradition, obedience and conformity, nationalism and empire. They purposefully underplay exploitation, the violence of the ruling class, and the struggles of the oppressed.

Their version of history has become more dominant over the last 30 years. Past empires, such as the Roman and the British, have been held up as models of civilisation by ‘neo-conservative’ supporters of imperialist wars today. Medieval Europe has been reinterpreted as an exemplar of the ‘new classical’ economics favoured by millionaire bankers. Attempts to construct grand narratives of history – that is, to explain the past, so that we can understand the present, and act to change the future – have been disparaged by fashionable postmodernist theorists who argue that history has no structure, pattern, or meaning. The effect of these ideas is to disable us intellectually and render us politically inert. Do nothing, is the message, because war promotes democracy, there is no alternative to the market, and history cannot be shaped by conscious human action.

This book stands in a different tradition. It is encapsulated in something the revolutionary thinker and activist Karl Marx wrote in a political pamphlet published in 1852: ‘Men [and women] make their own history, but not of their own free will, and not under circumstances of their own choosing.’ The course of history, in other words, is not predetermined; things can move in a different direction according to what people do. Nor is history shaped only by politicians and generals; the implication is that if ordinary people organise themselves and act collectively, they too can shape history.

This book has its origin in a series first published in weekly instalments on the Counterfire website (www.counterfire.org). It has been extensively revised for book-format publication. This introduction has been added, as has a rather longer conclusion. The short weekly web chapters have been grouped together as the sections of longer book chapters, and each chapter has been given a short introduction. A bibliography has been added so that readers can check my sources and search for further reading, and so has a timeline to help readers keep their bearings through the narrative.

The reorganisation and editing of the original web series should make this a book that can be read cover to cover, but it does not have to be read that way. It should work equally well as a volume of short analytical essays on key historical topics which can be accessed when needed. Either way, it is first and foremost a book for activists – for people who want to understand the past as a guide to action in the present.

Many changes are due to the following people, all of whom took time and trouble to read the text, in whole or in part, and offer invaluable critical comment: William Alderson, Dominic Alexander, David Castle, Lindsey German, Elaine Graham-Leigh, Jackie Mulhallen, John Rees, Alex Snowdon, Alastair Stephens, Fran Trafford, and Vernon Trafford. Needless to say, I have sometimes proved stubborn and rejected their advice, so the final result is entirely my own.

A common criticism was that I have neglected certain places and periods; that the book suffers from Eurocentrism, even Anglocentrism. This criticism is justified. I have done my best to correct it, but I have succeeded only in part. The reason is simple and obvious: I am a British-based archaeologist and historian with uneven expertise. Like all generalists, I can never wholly escape the constraints of my training, experience, and reading, and must therefore seek the indulgence and forbearance of readers who are neither British nor European.

Even on the ground I have covered, I suspect I leave a trail of errors and misunderstandings – inviting denunciation by diverse cohorts of specialists. That, too, is the inevitable fate of the generalist. There is only one defence. Would correcting the errors and misunderstandings invalidate the main arguments? If so, the project fails. If not – if the Marxist approach provides a convincing explanation of the main events and developments of human history irrespective of misconstrued details – then the project succeeds.

Hopefully, though, it will achieve something more: it will persuade some that, since humans make their own history, such that the future is determined by what each of us does, they need to get active. For, as Marx himself put it: ‘The philosophers have merely interpreted the world; the point is to change it.’

Neil Faulkner

December 2012

1. Hunters and Farmers (2.5 million—3000 BC)

Our story begins with a rapid survey of a vast span of time from about 2.5 million years ago to about 3000 BC. During this period, as a product of biological, cultural, and social evolution, four radical transformations took place. First, in East Africa, 2.5 million years ago, some apes evolved into the earliest hominids – animals that walked upright and whose hands were henceforward free to fashion tools. Second, about 200,000 years ago, again in Africa, certain hominids evolved into modern humans, creatures with larger brains and a greater capacity for tool-making, collective labour, social organisation, and cultural adaptation to different environments. Third, about 10,000 years ago, under the impact of climate change and food shortages, some communities made the transition from hunting and gathering to farming. Fourth, about 6,000 years ago, new techniques of land reclamation and intensive farming allowed some communities in favoured locations to increase their output substantially by moving from hoe-based cultivation to plough-based agriculture.

I call these transitions revolutions to signal the fact that they were relatively abrupt: moments in history when the steady drip-drip of evolutionary development suddenly tipped over into qualitative change – from walking on all fours to walking on two legs; from a hominid of limited intellect to one of exceptional ability; from a way of life based on foraging or hunting for food to one based on producing it; and from hoe-based to plough-based farming. By the end of this period, around 3000 BC, farming was supplying human societies with agricultural surpluses sufficient to support religion, war, and groups of specialists. From among the latter, who usurped control of the surplus, the first classes of exploiters would emerge.

The Hominid Revolution

A new form of ape roamed the Afar Depression of Ethiopia 3.2 million years ago: Australopithecus afarensis (‘southern ape of Afar’). Anthropologists recovered 47 fossil bones of one of these ‘australopithecines’ in 1974, some 40 per cent of a complete skeleton. From the slight, gracile form, they assumed she was female and dubbed her ‘Lucy’, but she may in fact have been male.

Lucy stood just 1.1 m tall, weighed around 29 kg, and was probably about 20 years old when she died. With short legs, long arms, and a small brain case, Lucy would have looked rather like a modern chimpanzee. But there was a crucial difference: she walked upright. The shape of her pelvis and legs, and the knee joint of another member of the species found a short distance away, proved this beyond reasonable doubt.

Lucy was probably one of a small foraging group that moved around gathering fruit, nuts, seeds, eggs, and other foodstuffs. As climate change reduced the forests and created savannah, natural selection had favoured a species able to range over greater distances in search of food. But Lucy’s bipedalism (walking on two legs) had revolutionary implications. It freed the hands and arms for tool-making and other forms of labour. This in turn encouraged natural selection in favour of larger brain capacity. A powerful dynamic of evolutionary change was set in motion: hand and brain, labour and intellect, skill and thought began an explosive interaction – one which culminated in modern humans.

We do not know whether Lucy made tools. None was found in association with her remains or with those of her companions. But 2.5 million years ago Lucy’s descendants certainly did. Choppers made from crudely chipped pebbles represent the archaeological imprint of a new family of species defined by tool-making behaviour: the hominids. Tools embody conceptual thought, forward planning, and manual dexterity. They reveal the use of intellect and skill to modify nature in order to exploit its resources more efficiently. Other animals simply take it as it comes.

The hominids, like the australopithecines before them, evolved in Africa, and for about 1.5 million years that is where they largely remained. Although 1.8-million-year-old fossil remains have been found in Georgia, near the Black Sea, these appear to represent only a brief foray into Western Asia. Not until about a million years ago did a species of early human, Homo erectus, migrate from Africa to colonise much of South and East Asia. Later again, a more developed hominid, Homo heidelbergensis, settled in much of Western Asia and Europe. But these populations were tiny and unstable.

Hominids are creatures of the Ice Age epoch which began 2.5 million years ago. Ice Age climate is dynamic, shifting between cold glacials and relatively warm interglacials. We are currently in an interglacial, but 20,000 years ago much of Northern Europe and North America was in the middle of a glacial and covered by ice-sheets up to 4 km thick, with winters lasting nine months, and temperatures below –20°C for weeks on end. The early hominids were not adapted to the cold, so they migrated north in warm periods and moved south again when the glaciers advanced. They first arrived in Britain, for example, at least 700,000 years ago, but then retreated and returned at least eight times. Britain was probably occupied for only about 20 per cent of its Old Stone Age (c. 700,000–10,000 years ago).

Homo heidelbergensis seems to have inhabited coastal or estuarine regions, where animal resources were rich and varied. The standard tool was either an ‘Acheulian’ handaxe – essentially a chopper – or a ‘Clactonian’ flake – a cutter. These general-purpose tools were mass-produced as needed. Excavations at Boxgrove in England recovered 300 handaxes and much associated flint-knapping debris dating to around 500,000 years ago. They had been used to butcher horse, deer, and rhinoceros on what was then a savannah-like coastal plain.

During the last glaciation, however, there was no wholesale retreat. Homo neanderthalensis was a cold-adapted hominid that evolved out of Homo heidelbergensis in Europe and Western Asia about 200,000 years ago. Neanderthal adaptation was a matter of both biological evolution and new technology. With large heads, big noses, prominent brows, low foreheads, little chin development, and short, squat, powerfully built bodies, the Neanderthal was designed to survive winters with average temperatures as low as –10°C. But culture was more important, and this was linked to brain power.

Hominid brains had been getting bigger. Selection for this characteristic was a serious matter. Brain tissue is more expensive than other kinds: the brain accounts for only about 2 per cent of our body weight but no less than 20 per cent of food-energy consumption. It is also high-risk. Humans are adapted for walking upright, which requires a narrow pelvis, yet have a large brain-case, which imposes a strain on the woman’s pelvis in childbirth; the result is slow, painful, and sometimes dangerous birth trauma. But the advantages are considerable. Large brains enable modern humans to create and sustain complex social relationships with, typically, about 150 others. Humans are not just social animals, but social animals to an extreme degree, with brains especially enlarged and sophisticated for this purpose.

Sociability confers enormous evolutionary benefits. Hominid hunter-gatherer bands were probably very small – perhaps 30 or 40 people. But they would have had links with other groups, perhaps half a dozen of similar size, with whom they shared mates, resources, labour, information, and ideas. Sociability, cooperation, and culture are closely related, and achieving them requires high levels of intelligence: in biological terms, brain tissue.

The Neanderthals were certainly clever. The ‘Mousterian’ tool-kit of the classic Neanderthals contained a range of specialised points, knives, and scrapers – as many as 63 different types according to one famous study of archaeological finds from south-western France. Intelligent, networked, and well equipped, the Neanderthals were superbly adapted to Ice Age extremes, building shelters, making clothes, and organising themselves for large-scale hunting on the frozen plains. Lynford in England is a hunting site dating from 60,000 years ago. Here, archaeologists found Neanderthal tools associated with the bones, tusks, and teeth of mammoths.

But natural organisms are conservative in relation to their evolutionary perfection. The Neanderthals, in adapting so well to the cold, had entered a biological cul-de-sac. Meanwhile, in Africa, the crucible of species, a new type of super-hominid had evolved out of the ancient erectus line. Such was its creativity, collective organisation, and cultural adaptability that, migrating from Africa 85,000 years ago, it spread rapidly across the world and eventually colonised its remotest corners. This new species was Homo sapiens – modern humans – and it was destined to out-compete all other hominids and drive them to extinction.

The Hominid Revolution, which began around 2.5 million years ago, had culminated in a species whose further progress would be determined not by biological evolution, but by intelligence, culture, social organisation, and planned collective labour.

The Hunting Revolution

Somewhere in Africa, 200,000 years ago, lived a woman who is the common ancestor of every human being on earth today. She is the primeval progenitor of the entire species Homo sapiens – modern humans. We know her as ‘African Eve’. It is DNA analysis that has revealed this, confirming and refining the conclusions reached by other scientists based on the evidence of fossilised bone.

DNA is the chemical coding within cells which provides the blueprint for organic life. Similarities and differences can be studied to see how closely various life forms are related. Mutations occur and accumulate at fairly steady rates. This allows geneticists not only to measure biological diversity within and between species, but also to estimate how much time has passed since two groups separated and ceased interbreeding. Mutations in our DNA therefore constitute ‘fossil’ evidence of our past inside living tissue.

The DNA date for African Eve matches the date of the earliest known fossils of Homo sapiens. Two skulls and a partial skeleton found at Omo in Ethiopia in 1967 have been dated to c. 195,000 BP (before the present; the usual term when discussing hominid evolution).

The new species looked different. Early humans had long, low skulls, sloping foreheads, projecting brow ridges, and heavy jaws. Modern humans have large, dome-shaped skulls, much flatter faces, and smaller jaws. The change was mainly due to increased brain size: Homo sapiens was highly intelligent. Big brains make it possible to store information, think imaginatively, and communicate in complex ways. Language is the key to all this. The world is classified, analysed, and discussed through speech. African Eve was a non-stop talker. Because of this, in evolutionary terms, she was adaptable and dynamic.

Homo sapiens had this unique characteristic: unlike all other animals, including other hominids, she was not restricted by biology to a limited range of environments. Thinking it through, talking it over, working together, Homo sapiens could adapt to life almost anywhere. Biological evolution was therefore superseded by cultural evolution. And the pace of change accelerated. Handaxe-wielding Homo erectus had remained in Africa for 1.5 million years. In a fraction of that time, the descendants of African Eve were on the move. Or some of them were. The genetic evidence appears to show that the whole of Asia, Europe, Australia, and the Americas were populated by the descendants of a single group of hunter-gatherers who left Africa about 3,000 generations ago – around 85,000 BP. South Asia and Australia were colonised by 50,000 BP, Northern Asia and Europe by 40,000 BP, and the Americas by 15,000 BP.

Why did people move? Almost certainly, as hunter-gatherers, they went in search of food, responding to resource depletion, population pressure, and climate change. They were adapted for this – adapted to adapt. Designed for endurance walking and running, they were capable of long-distance movement. Their manual dexterity made them excellent tool-makers. Their large brains rendered them capable of abstract thought, detailed planning, linguistic communication, and social organisation.

They formed small, tight-knit, cooperative groups. These groups were linked in loose but extensive networks based on kinship, exchange, and mutual support. They were, in the sense in which archaeologists use the term, ‘cultured’: their ways of getting food, living together, sharing tasks, making tools, ornamenting themselves, burying the dead, and much else were agreed within the groups and followed set rules.

This implies something more: they were making conscious, collective choices. You talk things through and then you decide. The challenges of the endless search for food often posed alternatives. Some groups will have made a more conservative choice: stay where you are, carry on as before, hope for the best. Others will have been more enterprising, perhaps moving into unknown territory, trying new hunting techniques, or linking up with other groups to pool knowledge, resources, and labour.

A dominant characteristic of Homo sapiens, therefore, was an unrivalled ability to meet the demands of diverse and changeable environments. Initially, they would have migrated along resource-rich coastlines and river systems. But they seem soon to have spread into the hinterland; and wherever they went, they adapted and fitted in. In the Arctic, they hunted reindeer; on the frozen plains, mammoth; on the grasslands, wild deer and horses; in the tropics, pigs, monkeys, and lizards.

Toolkits varied with the challenges. Instead of simple handaxes and flakes, they manufactured a range of ‘blades’ – sharp-edged stone tools longer than they were wide which were struck from specially prepared prismatic cores. They also made clothes and shelters as conditions demanded. They used fire for heating, cooking, and protection. And they produced art – paintings and sculptures of the animals they hunted. Above all, they experimented and innovated. Successes were shared and copied. Culture was not static, but changeable and cumulative. Homo sapiens met environmental challenges with new ways of doing things, and the lessons learned became part of a growing store of knowledge and know-how.

Instead of modern humans either evolving biologically or dying out when environmental conditions changed, they found solutions in better shelters, warmer clothes, and sharper tools. Nature and culture interacted, and through this interaction, humans became progressively better at making a living.

In some places, for a while, Homo sapiens coexisted with early humans. Between c. 40,000 and 30,000 BP, Europe was inhabited by both moderns and Neanderthals. There is DNA evidence for some interbreeding – and, by implication, social interaction – but the main story seems to be the slow replacement of one species by the other. The Neanderthals eventually died out because they could neither adapt nor compete as the climate changed, as Homo sapiens populations grew, and as the big game on which all hominids depended were over-hunted.

Stone-tool technology seems to shadow this species displacement. Neanderthal fossils are associated with Mousterian flakes. Cro-Magnon fossils (as Homo sapiens remains are known in European archaeology) are associated with a range of sophisticated Aurignacian blades. The terms reflect two tool-making traditions recognised in the archaeological record. But that is not all. The new culture was diverse and dynamic, producing, in the course of time, spear-throwers, the harpoon, and the bow, and domesticating the dog for use in the hunt. The Neanderthals had been at the top of the food chain, but the new arrivals engaged them in a ‘cultural arms race’ they could not win.

Gough’s Cave in Cheddar Gorge in England is a classic Homo sapiens site. It has yielded human remains, animal bones, thousands of stone tools, and artefacts made of bone and antler. These date to around 14,000 BP and belonged to a community of horse hunters. The cave offered shelter and a vantage point overlooking a gorge through which herds of wild horses and deer regularly passed. Here was a community of Homo sapiens adapted to a very specific ecological niche: a natural funnel on the migration routes of wild animals during the latter part of the last great glaciation.

The period from 2.5 million years ago, when tool-making began, to 10,000 BP is known as the Old Stone Age or Palaeolithic. Its last phase, the Upper Palaeolithic, is the period of Homo sapiens. It represents a revolutionary break with earlier phases. The Upper Palaeolithic Revolution was both biological and cultural. A new species of super-hominid emerged from Africa and spread across the world. In this first globalisation, the species adapted to diverse environments and opportunities by creating numerous distinctive ‘cultures’ – repertoires of tools, work methods, social customs, and ritual practices.

But by 10,000 BP there was a problem. The big game were dying out because hominids had been too successful: mammoths, giant deer, and wild horses had been hunted to extinction. At the same time, the earth was warming and the open plains were disappearing, overtaken by regenerated forest. The Upper Palaeolithic world had reached an impasse. The existing way of making a living could no longer ensure survival. Homo sapiens faced a supreme test of evolutionary fitness.

The Agricultural Revolution

Around 20,000 years ago the ice of the last glaciation began to melt. By c. 8000 BC global temperatures had stabilised at levels similar to today’s. By c. 5000 BC the world had assumed its current form. Europe, for example, took shape as rising sea levels broke through land bridges and flooded the Baltic, North Sea, and Black Sea. The result was a slowly evolving ecological crisis for the peoples of the world. In the North the open tundra gave way to dense forest, reducing the biomass of animals available to hunters by about 75 per cent. In Central and Western Asia the crisis was more serious: there climate change turned large areas into desert, and life retreated towards damp uplands, river valleys, and oases.

It was not the first time. During the 2.5 million years of the Ice Age, the glaciers had advanced and retreated many times. The difference now was the identity of the hominids faced with the challenge of a warming world. Homo sapiens was far better equipped than her predecessors, both intellectually and culturally, to cope with ecological crisis.

In the forested lands of the North, most humans settled by rivers, lakes, deltas, estuaries, and seashores, where food was both abundant and varied. Around 7500 BC, Star Carr in Yorkshire was the site of a seasonal camp used in late spring and summer each year. The Mesolithic (Middle Stone Age) people who used it hunted wild cattle, elk, red deer, roe deer, and wild pig, and also smaller animals like pine marten, red fox, and beaver. Stalking and close-range ambush was their chosen method. As well as scrapers, borers, and other stone implements, their toolkit included barbed spearheads made from antler.

The people of Star Carr had a fairly easy life. Refined techniques of hunting and gathering enabled them to exploit the new food resources of a wet and wooded landscape. But in the arid regions of Asia something more radical was necessary: not new variants of food gathering, but food production.

Hunters had long existed in a symbiotic relationship with their prey. They created clearings, channelled movement, provided food, warded off predators, and spared the young. For maintaining plentiful game close by was in their interests. The transition from hunting to pastoralism (the rearing of domesticated animals on pasture) could be gradual and seamless.

That plants grow from seeds is a matter of observation. That people should sow seeds in order to harvest plants was therefore not a giant leap. But it involved a choice – and not necessarily a welcome one. Farming is hard work: it involves long, repetitive, back-breaking toil – clearing land, breaking up the soil, hoeing the ground, scattering seed, weeding, warding off vermin, irrigating or draining the fields, harvesting the crop; and doing so with the ever-present danger of drought, flood, or blight. Then the same again, year after year after year. Farming is rarely an ideal option. Hunting and fishing, gathering and scavenging are much easier.

The Agricultural Revolution is therefore an example of human beings making their own history, but not in circumstances of their own choosing. They were driven to the hard labour of cultivation and animal husbandry by necessity in an increasingly desiccated landscape depleted of natural food supplies. El-Beidha near Petra in modern Jordan, for example, was home to a community of Early Neolithic (New Stone Age) farmers in c. 6500 BC. They lived in communal ‘corridor’ houses made of stone, timber, and mud, ground grain to make flour on saddle querns (grinding stones in the shape of a horse’s saddle), and manufactured many and varied flint-flake tools, including arrowheads, knives, and scrapers.

Geography and climate interacted with human ingenuity to produce different economies in different places. Farming developed in Western and Central Asia partly because it was drier and the pressure on food resources greater, and partly because wild varieties of key species were available for domestication – barley and emmer wheat, and cattle, sheep, goats, and pigs. But climate change was global and farming was invented independently at different times in widely separate places. In Highland Papua New Guinea, for instance, a Neolithic economy developed in c. 7000 BC based on sugar cane, bananas, nuts, taro, grasses, roots, and green vegetables. It remained essentially unchanged into the twentieth century.

The first European farmers were Asian pioneers who crossed the Aegean into eastern Greece in 7500–6500 BC. They brought the ‘Neolithic package’ with them – cultivated crops and domesticated animals; permanent settlements and square houses; spinning and weaving; hoes, sickles, and polished axes; pottery and quern-stones; and ceramic ‘Venus’ or ‘fat lady’ figurines representing fertility deities. It all appears suddenly in the archaeological record alongside the burials of people with a distinctive ‘Asian’ DNA.

The spread of farming took thousands of years, and even now is still not universal. Since c. 7500 BC, hunting-gathering, pastoralism, and cultivation have coexisted. Many Early Neolithic communities operated a mixed economy with elements of all three. Others resisted farming altogether. Not before c. 5500 BC did it spread from the Balkans, across the Hungarian Plain, to Northern and Western Europe. There it halted again. For a thousand years the Mesolithic hunters of the Baltic, the North Sea coasts, the Atlantic fringes, and the British Isles held out. Then, between 4300 and 3800 BC, they too went Neolithic. Others again, like the Australian Aborigines or the Kalahari Bushmen, retained a hunting-gathering economy into recent times.

Farming may always have been a reluctant choice, but once begun there was no going back. Because farming exploited the landscape more intensively, it could support much larger populations than hunting-gathering. This meant that if farmers were to abandon their work, their community would starve, for there were now too many people simply to live off the wilderness. Humanity was trapped in toil by its own success.

By c. 5000 BC Neolithic farmers (known to archaeologists as the Linear-bandkeramik culture) had settled across much of Europe. They lived in villages of two or three dozen timber longhouses, up to 30–40 m long and 5 m wide. Building them would have required collective effort. Each one would have accommodated an extended family group. Neither houses nor burials give any indication of social inequality; one assumes that everyone contributed and everyone consumed on an equal basis according to their ability. So Early Neolithic society had neither class divisions nor nuclear families. There is nothing ‘natural’ about either. Like hunter-gatherers, the first farmers were what Karl Marx and Frederick Engels called ‘primitive communists’.

But this was a communism of scarcity. Early agriculture was wasteful: land was cleared, cultivated, exhausted, and then abandoned. Fallowing and manuring to keep the land ‘in good heart’ were not yet common practice. And as the population expanded, so accessible and workable land began to run out. These contradictions of the Early Neolithic economy eventually exploded into warfare.

The Origins of War and Religion

The bodies of 34 people, half of them children, had been dumped in a 3 m-wide pit. Two of the adults had been shot in the head with arrows. Twenty others, including children, had been clubbed. The archaeologists were in no doubt that it was a massacre site. The Talheim death pit in south-west Germany revealed a gruesome truth about the Early Neolithic world of 5000 BC: humans had begun to engage in warfare.

In the beginning, there had been no war. For 2.5 million years, throughout the Old Stone Age, small bands of hominids had roamed the land in search of food by hunting, gathering, and scavenging. Meetings were few; clashes of any kind scarcer still. Only later, as the numbers of people increased, were there occasional conflicts over resources. Cave art shows hunters with bows shooting not only animals but sometimes each other. But this was not war as such. War is large-scale, sustained, organised violence between opposing groups. There is no evidence for this before the Agricultural Revolution which began around 7500 BC.

Farming was a much more efficient way of getting food than hunting, so the population increased enormously in the New Stone Age. Palaeolithic fossils number in the hundreds, Neolithic skeletons in the tens of thousands. But herein lay the problem. Technique was primitive, productivity low, surpluses small. People lived close to the edge, susceptible to natural disasters like crop blight, animal disease, and extreme weather. Early Neolithic farming communities were haunted by the spectres of famine, hunger, and death.

The problem was rooted in the very success of the Early Neolithic economy, for the population kept growing, but the land was finite. As the nutrients were taken from the soil and not replenished, new fields had to be hacked from the wilderness. As populations grew, existing villages could not feed everyone, and groups of pioneers headed off to found new settlements. As the last tracts of wilderness close to the earliest settlements were cleared, the wasteful Early Neolithic economy reached its limits. Land hunger and food hunger could then drive neighbouring groups into conflict.

Early farmers had communal property – fields, animals, store houses, permanent homes – to defend in hard times. This combination of poverty and property, scarcity and surplus, was the root cause of the first wars. The starving might eat by seizing the grain and sheep of their neighbours. The Talheim death pit seems to bear witness to just such a primeval struggle.

But if you want to wage war, you need warriors, allies, and defence works. Groups with more of these will defeat those with fewer. Groups that invest surplus in warfare will dominate those that do not. Archaeologists now see the decades around 3500 BC as the time of the first wars in Britain, for example, just a few centuries after the start of the Neolithic Revolution there. Great hilltop causewayed camps were built. Windmill Hill in Wiltshire, enclosed by three concentric rings of bank and ditch, is the size of 15 football pitches. It was probably used for political meetings, religious rituals, and defence. It symbolised a new order – one that united people from distant villages in a single tribal polity. At the same time, people were buried in communal tombs of monumental stone slabs and mounds of earth. West Kennet long barrow in Wiltshire is 100 m long and 20 m wide. Built to impress, it was an assertion of territorial control. That it was necessary shows that control was contested.

Causewayed camps like Windmill Hill were places of worship; long barrows like West Kennet were mausoleums. The larger polities of the Early Neolithic were being cemented together by collective belief and ritual. Magic and religion were taking on new functions, becoming mechanisms for creating stronger social groups, better able to compete with other groups for control of territory and scarce resources.

Magic (an attempt to get what you want by mimicry) and religion (an attempt to do so by supplicating higher powers) have long histories. Upper Palaeolithic hunters had painted game beasts on the walls in the dark depths of their caves. In the prehistoric mind, the symbol, the painted image, seems to have conjured the reality, the future kill. Not only in art, but through dance, music, and personal ornament, magic was performed. Choreographic movement, rhythmic noise, and costume embodied collective desires and hopes. Psychically charged by ritual, hunters then resumed the quest for food with renewed confidence.

The human group – its cohesion, fertility, and survival – was also a matter of cult. Totemism is a primeval amalgam of magic and religion: it equates the human group with an animal and then venerates that animal to secure the well-being of the group. Ancestor worship is equally ancient: it conceives dead kinsmen as benevolent spirits hovering protectively over living progeny. But full-fledged religion involves the worship of deities – the sun, the moon, the earth-mother. Alienation – lack of control over nature – then acquires its most elaborate expression. Humans seek to protect themselves from forces they cannot control through entreaties (prayers) and bribes (sacrifices and offerings) to those they imagine can.

Early forms of religion – totemism, ancestor worship, cults of the sun, the moon, and the earth – survive ‘fossilised’ in later cults. Much of what we know derives from this. Artemis, Greek goddess of wild nature, was worshipped in Ancient Athens by dancing girls dressed as she-bears. Lupercus, an Italian god of the countryside, was worshipped in Ancient Rome by young noblemen who feasted in a cave and then raced around the city wearing the skins of slaughtered goats.

Religion took on new significance as Early Neolithic villages were welded into tribal polities. Competition and war over territory forced small groups to seek security in larger units. Common worship of totems, ancestors, and deities created new social identities. Shared beliefs and rituals fostered solidarity. But the result could be murderous clashes between rival groups. The Early Neolithic causewayed camp at Crickley Hill in Gloucestershire was attacked and burned. Over 400 flint arrowheads were found around the perimeter. Many of the dead found in Early Neolithic long barrows were killed by arrowshot or by clubs, picks, axes, or stones.

A combination of radiocarbon determinations (based on the decay of carbon-14 in organic remains) and Bayesian statistics has produced new dates for these events. The construction of causewayed camps and long barrows and the advent of mass killing were broadly simultaneous. Between c. 3700 and 3400 BC, a new order, one based on territorial control, tribal groups, large-scale ritual, and warfare, was established in Britain. This order empowered a new social layer of war chiefs and high priests. From them, in the course of time, a ruling class would evolve.

The Rise of Specialists

The Early Neolithic economy, riddled with intractable contradictions, was doomed. Technique was primitive and wasteful. Society lacked reserves to see them through natural disasters and hard times. Virgin land ran out as old fields became exhausted and populations grew.

War was an expression of these contradictions. It offered some groups a way out of poverty by seizing the property of others. But it was not a solution, for it did nothing to increase productivity; it merely redistributed existing reserves of wealth in land, animals, and grain stores.

A defining characteristic of Homo sapiens is inventiveness. Modern humans respond to challenges by developing new tools and techniques. They are adapted to adapt. They flourish through cultural innovation. The economic impasse of the Early Neolithic was broken by revolutionary advances in agriculture, transport, and tool-making.

Plough-based ‘agriculture’ (the tillage of fields) replaced hoe-based ‘horticulture’ (the working of garden plots). An ox-drawn plough allows farmers to work large fields, to break up the soil, and to tap reserves of nutrients. Traction animals also produce manure to fertilise the soil.

Irrigation schemes brought water to arid land. When communities of farmers organised themselves to dig, maintain, and operate networks of dams, channels, and sluices, this compensated for the risk of irregular rainfall and brought fertile land into permanent cultivation. Drainage schemes, on the other hand, turned swamps into fields, bringing nutrient-rich land into cultivation where none previously had existed. Again, communal labour was necessary, both to dig the channels and to keep them clear.

Land transport was transformed by the invention of the wheel and the breeding and rearing of pack animals (oxen, asses, horses, and camels). Loads were no longer limited to what a human could carry or haul. Water transport was transformed by the sail. In this case, wind power was harnessed to replace (or supplement) the muscle power of the rower.

Tools made of stone, bone, and wood are limited. They can be fashioned only by hacking bits off. Once broken, they have to be discarded. Metals seemed magical by comparison. They could be melted, mixed, and moulded into countless different forms. On cooling, they became solid, hard, and durable. And there was no waste: scrap metal could be endlessly recycled.

Copper was the first metal to be worked. Later, it was mixed with others to make harder alloys. By 3000 BC it was being mixed with tin to make bronze. For the next two millennia, this was to be the preferred material for making weapons, ornaments, and prestige items.

Metalworking technology was altogether new. Ceramic technology was already established, but it now developed apace with the introduction of the potter’s wheel. A serviceable vessel – and, if desired, one of finer quality and decoration – could be formed on a wheel in a fraction of the time taken to mould one by hand from coils or slabs of clay.

In sum, between c. 4000 and 3000 BC, a series of innovations transformed the work of farmers in Western Asia. Land was reclaimed by irrigation and drainage, was more easily worked with the plough, and was improved by regular manuring. Metalworkers added to the range of artefacts, and potters used wheels to manufacture more and better containers. Pack animals, wheeled vehicles, and sailing vessels allowed heavy loads to be moved and goods to be traded.

Though many of the new ideas originated in Western Asia, some were imported from elsewhere. The steppe nomads of Central Asia may have been the first to domesticate the horse and construct carts. The metalworkers of Europe were in the forefront of their craft. Good ideas soon catch on. The improved farming methods of the Late Neolithic spread quickly from Western Asia to Europe. In more far-flung regions there was independent development at a later date. The Chinese, for example, invented the wheelbarrow, terraced hillsides, and pioneered the laborious cultivation and transplanting of rice seedlings.

The new techniques brought social change. The low-tech economy of the Early Neolithic did not require specialised labour: everyone participated. The high-tech world of the Late Neolithic, the Chalcolithic (Copper Age), and the Bronze Age depended on a range of specialists. Skilled carpenters were needed to make ploughs, carts, and boats. Potters mass-produced wheel-thrown vessels in exchange for a share of farm produce. Metalworkers served long apprenticeships to learn the mysteries of smelting and smithing.

Specialisation separated labour from the homestead. Traders travelled long distances with valuable loads of copper, obsidian, lava, ornamental shells, and semi-precious stones. Many prehistoric craft workers, like their historical descendants, were itinerants, selling their skills from village to village. As a result, ties of family, clan, and tribe weakened. In addition to social relationships based on kinship, there were now new relationships based on patronage and commerce.

Relations between the sexes also changed. If social groups were to survive and prosper, they required a steady supply of adolescents and young adults for economic labour. To provide this, and because of high mortality rates, young women had to spend much of their lives either pregnant or suckling. But whereas Palaeolithic gathering and Early Neolithic hoeing could be combined with child care, Late Neolithic ploughing could not.

In hunter-gatherer and early farming communities, women had performed different roles but had had equal status with men. There was a sexual division of labour, but no oppression of women. Men hunted, women gathered, and everyone discussed when to move camp. The nuclear family did not exist in its modern form. Early Neolithic long-houses accommodated extended families. Group marriage may have been common practice. Matrilocal residence (men living with their wives’ families) and matrilineal descent (tracing family membership through the female line) almost certainly were.

But the Late Neolithic was a man’s world. Herding, ploughing, long-distance trade, and itinerant craftsmanship could not be combined with carrying children. The plough, the ox-cart, and the forge created the social preconditions for male domination.

A second agricultural ‘revolution’ – more accurately, a slow accumulation of radical innovations – had transformed the Neolithic economy and subverted the Neolithic social order. The hoe and the temporary garden plot had been replaced by the plough and the irrigated and manured field. Because of this, matriarchal, family-based, and egalitarian communities were being transformed by new notions of authority and hierarchy.

2. The First Class Societies (3000—1000BC)

In certain parts of the world, from around 3000 BC, especially in the fertile river valleys of Mesopotamia, Egypt, Pakistan, and China, the first fully formed class societies emerged. Priests, war leaders, and civil officials used their positions to monopolise control over surpluses, impose their authority on the rest of society, and begin to exploit the labour of others in their own interest.

In this period, known to archaeologists as the Bronze Age, metals were used to fashion weapons, ornaments, and trinkets, but the main tools of everyday labour continued to be made of stone, wood, and bone. Because of this, productivity remained low and surpluses small, the spread of civilisation was limited, and, while empires rose and fell, most of humanity continued to live beyond their reach.

Owing to the conservatism of the Bronze Age elites, technical innovation occurred on the periphery of the world system rather than at its core, and, by c. 1000 BC, one such innovation was helping to topple the old empires and start an economic revolution: ironworking.

The First Ruling Class

Prehistoric Sumer, a tract of land in the Tigris–Euphrates delta of southern Iraq, was made up of swamp and desert. But here, by c. 3000 BC, Neolithic pioneers had created a real-life version of the mythic Garden of Eden.

They drained the swamps and irrigated the sandbanks between them. In doing so, they created fields of exceptional fertility. By 2500 BC, the average yield on a field of barley was 86 times the sowing. We know this from written records inscribed on baked clay tablets. The Sumerians had invented writing because the complex, urban, class-based society they created required them to maintain detailed records – especially records of tax and other dues.

Ancient Sumer was roughly the size of modern Denmark. Once its rich soils were under cultivation, it could produce massive agricultural surpluses. These made possible a qualitative shift from living in villages to living in towns. Sumer accomplished what the great interwar archaeologist Gordon Childe called the ‘Urban Revolution’.

The main archaeological markers of this revolution are the ‘tells’ of Sumer (and other parts of the Middle East) – flat-topped artificial mounds formed by thousands of years of settlement. Layers of soil representing levelled, mud-brick buildings tell the story of successive generations of inhabitants. They show Copper Age villages expanding into Bronze Age cities between the fourth and third millennium BC.

Excavations have revealed cities dominated by large temples and artificial mounds known as ziggurats. At Erech, a ziggurat of Early Dynastic date (c. 2900-2300 BC) was 10 m high, built of sun-dried bricks, faced with thousands of pottery goblets, and topped by an asphalt platform. The city as a whole, with its residential and industrial districts, covered 5 square km.

The temples, and the estates in the surrounding countryside that supported them, belonged to the gods. The territory of Lagash was divided among some 20 deities. The goddess Baü owned 44 square km. Some of this was allocated to individual families, and some was worked as Baü’s personal estate by wage-labourers, tenant-farmers, or ‘clansmen’ doing customary labour-service.

In the absence of Baü herself, the property was managed on her behalf by temple priests. Many of Baü’s people held only 0.32–1 ha of land. But one high temple official is known to have held 14.4 ha. So the priests formed a social elite, with both private wealth from their own estates and collective control over the wealth of temple estates.

Wealth made them powerful, and their power was used to accumulate more wealth. A decree aimed to restore the old order of Lagash ‘as it had existed from the beginning’; it records that priests were stealing from the poor, practising various kinds of extortion, and treating temple land, cattle, equipment, and servants as their private property or slaves.

From the ranks of the priests came city governors (later styled kings). At Lagash, the city governor was both high priest of the chief god and commander-in-chief of the citizen army. He enjoyed the use of 246 ha of Baü’s estate. The city governor of Lagash was one of many rulers, for Sumer was divided into separate city-states. These were often at war. The Standard of Ur – a highly decorated box from a royal tomb dating to around 2600 BC – depicts four-wheeled chariots trampling enemies, spearmen wearing helmets and metal-studded cloaks, and naked prisoners in front of the king.

Each polity lived in fear of its neighbours. Each had land, flocks, granaries, treasure, and a workforce to protect. Military power was imperative for defence. But military power, once acquired, could be used proactively. Pre-emptive aggression might be the best guarantee of future security. Predatory aggression might enhance the wealth and power of a ruler.

Military power also had an internal function. The state – the ruler, the priests, a bureaucracy of officials and clerks, and the armed bodies of men they commanded – was a mechanism for maintaining the new social order of the city. Bureaucracy was itself an instrument of class power. The complexity of urban society demanded writing for record-keeping, standardised weights and measures for trade, and geometry and arithmetic for land measurement. In an increasingly complex and class-dominated society, who owed what to whom needed to be measured, written down, and enforced.

New sorts of specialists were trained in these arts. Their education was esoteric and exclusive. The state hierarchy imbued them with authority and status. Older categories of specialists – traders and artisans – were also embedded in the new class structure. There was no free market. The economy of the ancient city was embedded in the political order. Rulers controlled what was traded, where it was sold, and by whom. In particular, they maintained a monopoly of metals, especially bronze and gold.

Early Dynastic Sumer, in short, was the world’s first fully developed class society. At the bottom were slaves. Above them were commoners of subordinate status. Above these were free citizens. One baked-clay tablet refers to 205 slave girls and children, probably employed in a centralised weaving establishment. Another describes the occupational hierarchy at the temple of Baü in Lagash. At the top were clerks, officials, and priests. At the bottom were bakers, brewers, and textile workers, many of them women, many of them slaves.

The houses excavated at Eshnunna reveal clear class differences. The larger houses on the main roads occupied 200 m² or more. But smaller houses, often only 50 m² and lining narrow alleys, were far more numerous.

Class inequality was resented and resisted. Sumerian tablets allude to the tensions. It was not based on consensus. It had to be imposed and maintained by force.

How had a minority acquired the power to elevate itself above the majority? What enabled the few to accumulate wealth at the expense of the many?

Class is both a social relationship between rich and poor, and an economic process of exploitation and surplus accumulation. It has to be continually reproduced. And because it is contested, it involves class struggle. The rulers’ drive for wealth and power gained traction from the combination of poverty and property – a combination that holds all pre-industrial class societies in a vice-like grip.

Poverty is a general condition. Traditional agricultural economies do not produce enough to provide abundance for all. Sometimes they do not produce enough to provide even the necessities. Property is a privileged, a priori claim to scarce resources. It allocates wealth to certain individuals, families, landowners, temples, tribes, or city-states. Property can be private or collective, but is never universal.

This contradictory pairing – poverty and property – gave rise to class inequality, state power, and warfare. The religious and military specialists of prehistoric Sumer had been granted control over the surplus so that they could carry out their functions on behalf of society as a whole. At first, their position had depended on public sanction. But control over surplus made them powerful, and as they consolidated their authority, they found that they could use it to enrich themselves further and maintain their position without public sanction. In this way, the high priests, war chiefs, city governors, and petty kings of urban Sumer evolved into an exploitative ruling class accumulating and consuming surplus in its own interest: a power over society, no longer a power of society.

The Spread of Civilisation

Something similar occurred at around the same time or somewhat later in several other places. Civilisation did not spread outwards from a single centre: it arose independently where circumstances made it possible.

In Sumer, priests formed the core of the ruling class, temple estates provided their wealth, and temple ziggurats their most imposing monuments. City governors and war leaders were recruited from the theocracy. In Egypt, the reverse was true. Menes, chief of the Falcon clan and legendary first pharaoh, united the Nile Delta (Lower Egypt) and the Nile Valley (Upper Egypt) by military conquest. Having created a centralised state, he proclaimed himself a god-king (pharaoh). Priests, officials, merchants, artisans, and peasants were all subordinate to the pharaoh. The ruling class – priests and officials – owed their estates and position to royal patronage. The pyramids, iconic monuments of Old Kingdom Egypt (2705–2250 BC), were not temples, but royal tombs.

Like the Sumerian priests and city governors, the pharaohs fostered the cultural prerequisites of the Urban Revolution: irrigation works, long-distance trade (especially in metals, timber, and stone), literacy and record-keeping, numerical notation and geometry, standard weights and measures, the calendar and timekeeping, and the science of astronomy.

This urban package reflected the needs of the state and the elite. Control of the waters of the Nile ensured abundant harvests, large surpluses, and a healthy workforce. Official trade missions secured the raw materials needed for arms manufacture, monumental architecture, and luxury consumption. A literate and numerate bureaucracy managed the tribute and labour services on which state power depended.

Independent Urban Revolutions occurred in several other places. This shows that all humans are capable of the highest achievements. There are no ‘superior races’ or ‘nations’ that give the lead to the rest. It is culture and circumstance – not biology – that determine historical differences.

Around 2600 BC, urban civilisation emerged in the Indus Valley in modern Pakistan. The great monuments and residential suburbs of Mohenjo-daro cover 2.6 square km. The walled perimeter of Harappa is 4 km long. Inscribed seal stamps and standard weights and measures indicate complex administration.

Ancient Anyang in the Yellow River region of northern China was an unwalled complex measuring almost 10 km in length by 4 km in width. It was probably the capital of the Shang Dynasty in the thirteenth century BC. Excavations have revealed rich royal tombs, great caches of decorated bronzes, and tens of thousands of cracked and inscribed ‘oracle bones’.

If we glance forward in time, we see the same pattern elsewhere. Teotihuacan in Mexico, at its peak between AD 450 and 650, was a city of 20 square km and around 150,000 people. At its centre was a monumental complex dominated by giant pyramids. The Pyramid of the Sun is 210 square m at the base and 64 m high.

Great Zimbabwe (AD 1100–1500) in the heart of Africa was a city of 20,000 people. Its wealth was based on cattle, crop cultivation, and trade in gold, copper, ivory, and slaves. Its territory extended over 100,000 square km between the Rivers Zambezi and Limpopo.

It was once believed that civilisation was exported from a single centre. Scholars wrote of ‘light from the Ancient East’. This fitted with nineteenth-century notions of the ‘White Man’s Burden’ – the ‘civilising mission’ of European imperialists. Archaeology has demonstrated something different: civilisation developed independently at different places at different times. The message is that all people share a common humanity and similar creative potential.

But the major centres of civilisation did have an impact on surrounding societies. There was interaction between ‘core’ – more advanced metropolitan areas – and ‘periphery’ – less-developed areas economically dependent on them.

The Egyptian pharaoh obtained wood from Lebanon, copper from Cyprus, and gold from Sudan. Sometimes this was a matter of peaceful exchange. The city of Byblos in Lebanon grew rich on the timber trade. Local merchants employed clerks who could read Egyptian. There was cultural interaction. But it could also be a matter of conquest. Northern Sudan was annexed and forced to pay gold tribute. The interaction between core and periphery was therefore multifaceted – it had economic, political, military, and cultural dimensions.

The demands of trade encouraged merchants, sea captains, and shipbuilders. Longboats powered by rowers were used in the Aegean from c. 3000 BC onwards. The citadel of Troy in 2700 BC (known as Troy II) was built to guard a harbour at the entrance to the Dardanelles in north-western Turkey. The Thalassocracy (sea power) of Minos rose to dominance in c. 1950–1450 BC on the basis of Crete’s central location in the Eastern Mediterranean and the islanders’ revolutionary design of deep-hulled, high-capacity, sail-powered cargo ships. The rulers of Minoan Crete lived in sprawling stone palaces decorated with frescos, and had storerooms packed with giant ceramic containers.

The Greek poet Homer, describing Odysseus’ travel-worn appearance, says he was like ‘some captain of a merchant crew, who spends his life on a hulking tramp, worrying about his outward freight, or keeping a sharp eye on the cargo when he comes home with extortionate profits’. Seafarers and merchants were familiar figures in many Bronze Age societies.

Trade drove change on the periphery of the great empires. So, too, did the threat of war. Sargon of Akkad united the cities of Mesopotamia some time after 2330 BC, forging an empire that eventually extended from the Persian Gulf to the Mediterranean. The Old Kingdom pharaohs conquered Sinai for its copper. Threatened by superpower militarism, the minor states and tribes of the periphery therefore organised for war. Warriors, weapons, and war fleets dominated the Bronze Age world. An arms race gathered pace through the centuries. Frescos depict merchant ships loaded with goods, but also warships filled with armed men.

Through trade and war, and by the movement of goods, people, and ideas, the societies of core and periphery influenced one another. The sharing and spreading of culture is what archaeologists call diffusion. It is one of the primary mechanisms by which knowledge and productivity advance. Progress is impeded by barriers and facilitated by bridges.

But a world of competing elites and rival armies also harboured the potential for waste and regression. As we shall see, the contradictions of Bronze Age civilisation repeatedly plunged humanity into crisis and barbarism.

Crisis in the Bronze Age

Bronze Age empires rose and fell. The 140-year Akkadian Empire, based in Iraq, collapsed suddenly around 2190 BC. Equally sudden had been the overthrow of the Old Kingdom pharaohs in Egypt a short time before, around 2250 BC.

Why did Early Bronze Age civilisation fail? Detail is lacking, but Egyptian sources record famine, a fragmentation of the state, and incursions by Libyan raiders from the west and Nubians from the south. What is not clear is why these events should have happened. Why was the once-strong centralised state of the pyramid builders no longer able to feed the people, enforce its authority, and defend its borders?

This pattern of rise and fall repeated itself. New empires emerged from the chaos of the Early Bronze Age crisis. Between 1600 and 1200 BC, the eastern Mediterranean was again divided among rival empires – New Kingdom Egypt, the Hittites of Anatolia (Turkey), the Mitanni of northern Mesopotamia (Iraq), and the Mycenaean Greeks. But this Late Bronze Age geopolitical system also collapsed amid storm and strife during the twelfth century BC. The embattled New Kingdom pharaohs record coordinated attacks by Libyans and ‘northerners coming from all lands’. The latter were the more dangerous. The multi-ethnic Sea Peoples amassed great pirate fleets. ‘All at once,’ declared Ramesses III, ‘these peoples were on the move ... No country could stand up to them.’

Pre-eminent as seafarers and warriors, Greeks were among these Sea Peoples. Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey are probably based on an oral record of real events that took place around 1190 BC. His epics have transformed them into tales of derring-do by legendary heroes. The kernel of truth about the Trojan War appears to be that it was a massive seaborne raid by Greek pirates out for plunder.

So the Late Bronze Age empires collapsed as the Early Bronze Age empires had done. And when we look beyond the Mediterranean, to places where civilisation developed at different times, we see the same pattern of rise and fall.

The Indus civilisation of Mohenjo-daro and Harappa in Pakistan collapsed around 1900 BC. Excavators found numerous unburied remains of people suddenly and violently killed in the uppermost levels of the great city of Mohenjo-daro.

Chinese history, from the Shang of the second millennium BC to the Manchu of AD 1644–1911, records the rise and fall of a long succession of imperial dynasties, with occasional periods, sometimes lasting centuries, of division and civil war. Throughout this epoch, despite impressive technical achievements and huge increases in output and population, Chinese civilisation remained essentially conservative. The socio-economic order simply replicated itself, from generation to generation, from dynasty to dynasty. China provides an extreme example of the cyclical trajectory of ancient civilisation.

So we have two historical problems. Why did ancient empires rise and fall? And why did this contradictory social form replicate itself over such long periods of time?

The ancient world was characterised by stagnation of technique. On several occasions, humans had escaped the contradictions of an existing ‘mode of production’ (an economic and social system) by transforming it. Climate change had destroyed the habitats of the big game on which Upper Palaeolithic hunters depended. The response – the Agricultural or Neolithic Revolution – had achieved massive increases in productivity, output, and population through the adoption of crop cultivation and stock raising. Soil exhaustion and population pressure had later created a crisis for this Early Neolithic mode of production. In the Urban Revolution, the contradictions were resolved with a second leap forward, based on land reclamation, irrigation schemes, and ploughing. But the Urban Revolution also erected an impediment to further progress: the existence of a ruling class. We have charted its emergence. We have noted its roots in specialised religious, military, and political functions, and in the shortages and insecurities inherent in a primitive economic system: the first rulers were those whose social roles gave them control over scarce resources.

Why should the ruling class have been a barrier to new ideas? Surely it was in their interest to improve techniques in order to increase surplus? Yes and no: as with all things in social life, there were contradictory pressures.

The new ruling classes sat uneasily on their pedestals. They were divided among themselves, family against family, city against city, tribe against tribe, empire against empire. To overcome domestic rivals, top families had retinues of loyalists and bodyguards. Against foreign enemies, they needed armies and fortresses. The rulers were also divided from the mass of the people, who, because they were exploited, were potentially rebellious and had to be cowed by a judicious combination of force and fraud.

Force meant the threat posed by aristocratic retinues and state forces. Fraud meant the ideological claim that the rulers played an essential role and acted in the public interest. Both were embodied in the great monuments that dominate the archaeological record. Take the pyramids of Old Kingdom Egypt. They were the royal tombs of god-kings who were expected to live for eternity: monuments to a false ideology by which the ruler was elevated into a figure of awesome and intimidating power. The pyramids were designed to teach people their place. They were ideological weapons in a class war.

So the Bronze Age elites did not invest the surplus they controlled in improved technique and higher productivity. Instead they squandered resources on military competition, prestige monuments, and, of course, luxury lifestyles. Power, propaganda, and privilege – not productivity – consumed the surpluses created by the labour of Bronze Age peasants.

Innovation, indeed, was more likely to be perceived as a threat than an opportunity. The ruling class itself did not get its hands dirty; productive labour was performed by the common people. For this reason, new inventions, in so far as they appeared at all, were likely to come from below, empowering ordinary people, disrupting established economic arrangements, and perhaps destabilising the social order. They were therefore viewed with suspicion.

Bronze Age rulers were rarely interested in new technology unless it had military applications. Their focus was on accumulating power in a competitive geopolitical system. That is why the greed of the rich was never sated. The grandeur of past monuments set a standard to be surpassed by those who followed. Rulers competed in the luxury of their palaces, the splendour of their tombs, the art and architecture of their great cities. But above all, they competed militarily as rival polities expanded and clashed. A slow-motion arms race can be detected in the Late Bronze Age world. There seem to be more soldiers, better armed, defending stronger fortresses in 1200 BC than there had been in 1600 BC. The world was becoming ever more militarised.

Technique was stagnant, therefore, but surplus consumption was rising. War, monuments, and luxury meant higher levels of exploitation were necessary, and over-accumulation at the top was mirrored by the degradation of society’s agricultural base. The proud warrior-lords of the Late Bronze Age were a parasitic social elite whose economic cost was increasingly unsustainable. That is the fundamental reason for the implosion of their world in the twelfth century BC.

But this was a problem without an internal solution. Stagnant technique meant socio-economic conservatism. There were no new forces developing inside the old society. The choice, therefore, was between the barbarism of invading hordes and a reincarnation of the old (failed) imperial civilisation. Humanity was again at an impasse. Only this time, the existence of classes and states had raised formidable barriers to human creativity and progress.

How History Works

The Bronze Age impasse provides a useful occasion to pause and take stock. All the elements of a complex society are now in place, so it is convenient to ask: how does history work?

Three engines drive the historical process. First, there is the development of technique. Progress can be defined as the accumulation of knowledge that makes possible better control over nature, increases in labour productivity, and a bigger store of economic resources available for the satisfaction of human need.

Progress in this sense is not inevitable. Entire generations of peasants in, say, Shang China, Mycenaean Greece, or Norman England might live out their entire lives without experiencing a significant innovation in either agricultural or domestic equipment. Only in modern capitalist society is the development of technique inherent in the mode of production. In making this point, Marx explicitly states: ‘Conservation of old modes of production in unaltered form was ... the first condition of existence of all earlier industrial classes.’

Progress in pre-capitalist society was haphazard, not intrinsic to the dynamic of the socio-economic system. In pre-class society, for example, ecological crisis threatening the survival of human groups was probably of critical significance. The Neolithic Revolution seems to have been a response to climate change and a sharp decline in game. In early class society, on the other hand, the development of technique was subject to a wider variety of influences, some of them catalysts of innovation, others barriers to progress. To understand this, we need to review the other two engines of the historical process.

The second engine is competition among rulers for wealth and power. This takes the form of conflict within ruling classes – among rival aristocratic factions, for example – and conflict between ruling classes, as in wars between rival states and empires.

In modern capitalist society, such competition has both economic and politico-military dimensions. The two world wars were essentially wars between rival national-capitalist blocs.

In pre-capitalist class societies, by contrast, competition between rulers was essentially political and took the form of competitive military accumulation. The world was divided into rival factions and polities. Political insecurity was a permanent condition. The result was military competition – a relentless drive to amass soldiers, fortifications, and armaments faster than one’s rivals.

The third engine of the historical process is the struggle between classes. In the ancient world, competitive military accumulation required the ruling class to increase the rate of exploitation and extract more surplus from the peasantry. But there were two limits to this process. First, the peasantry and the economic system had to be able to reproduce themselves: over-taxation would – and sometimes did – destroy the material foundations of the social order. The second was the peasants’ resistance to exploitation.

We know very little about the class struggle in the Bronze Age. One exception is provided by documents of the second millennium BC from Thebes (modern Luxor) in Egypt. They concern a community of skilled quarrymen, stonemasons, and carpenters who made the temples and tombs of the elite. These documents record class tension. Though the craftsmen were relatively well paid and worked moderate hours, bullying managers sometimes tried to tighten the screws. On one occasion, those deemed ‘surplus’ to requirements were made to undertake forced labour. But the exploited sometimes fought back. One of the documents records that, in 1170 BC, backed by their wives, the craftsmen went on strike – the first recorded example in history – when their rations were delayed and their families faced hunger.

So we see three engines of history at work: the development of technique, competition among rival rulers, and a struggle between classes. Each engine is very different. Each operates in a different register, at varying speed, and with intermittent effect. Because of this, the historical process is immensely complex. Not only is each engine itself a nexus of contradictions, but all three engines operate simultaneously, pulling sometimes in the same direction, sometimes in opposite directions. For this reason, each historical situation is unique. Each one is a distinctive conjuncture of economic problems, social tensions, political antagonisms, cultural differences, and personal influences. The conjuncture provides the context in which historical action takes place. But the context does not determine the outcome. It is the clash of social forces – of organised human groups – that decides history’s future direction.

Let us return to the successive crises of Bronze Age civilisation. Waste expenditure drained resources from productive technique and effectively choked off experiment and innovation. More than that: the advance of knowledge was blocked by magic, religion, and other forms of mystification, and by the ruling class’s innate suspicion of things they did not understand and feared might prove subversive.

Progress is contingent on ‘true consciousness’ – knowledge of the world which, because it corresponds with external reality, is an effective guide to human action. ‘False consciousness’ – belief in god-kings, divine inspiration, or the efficacy of ritual, for example – has the opposite effect: it is a barrier to knowledge, to practical work, and therefore to social progress. Instead of theory and practice interacting in the real world to improve technique and productivity, the two – mind and matter, literacy and labour – became separated in the imperial civilisations. Egyptian priests studied the stars, not the soil, and wrote manuals on mummification, not of natural science. The wealth produced by Egyptian peasants was wasted on monuments to mysticism. The skills of Egyptian artisans were despised precisely for being manual.

So progress was blocked in the old civilisations. No new forces capable of breaking through the impasse were fostered. History’s energy was wasted turning the wheel of imperial rise and fall.

But if the core of the world system in c. 1200 BC can be seen as a froth of geopolitical turmoil above stagnant depths of socio-economic conservatism, the periphery was more dynamic. Here, relatively free of the control of kings, priests, and bureaucrats, the nomads, farmers, and artisans of the wider Bronze Age world were pushing at the limits of knowledge and skill.

Many were the innovations, but one was to be of supreme importance. Bronze was expensive, aristocratic, and too soft to make strong tools and weapons. A metal that was cheap, hard, and available to all would conquer the world.

Into the storm and strife of the Late Bronze Age crisis came new invaders from the North: men of iron.

Men of Iron

Many revolutions occur on the periphery rather than at the core of global systems. Life on the periphery is less secure, less entrenched, and therefore less conservative.

Manual labour was both exploited and despised in the old imperial civilisations of the Bronze Age. Vast surpluses were extorted and wasted on war, monuments, and luxury. There was little left for investment in new technology and little incentive to use it for that purpose. Innovation involved thought, questioning, imagining new possibilities. So human creativity was not only denied the material resources on which to work; it was also mesmerised by the spells and mysticism of priests.

The occasional spark of ingenuity stands out against a backcloth of stagnation. The Egyptians invented glass-working, the Babylonians accounting, the Phoenicians the alphabet. The exceptions to the rule are revealing: a luxury commodity, a way of measuring wealth, and a script for recording it. Such inventions are of little use to farmers or artisans. They concern the consumption and control of wealth, not its production. They reflect a society in which the world of learning was divorced from the world of labour.

Not so in the periphery. Here, around 1300 BC, an industrial revolution had begun that was to transform the world. Where exactly it took place we do not know; but it was for sure beyond the reach of over-mighty rulers.

The archaeological record is unequivocal: from this time onwards, the quantity, range, and sophistication of metal objects exploded. Mining technology advanced to provide an ever greater supply of copper, tin, and gold. Smelting technique improved. And metalsmiths began to use multiple moulds and the lost-wax technique to produce objects of unprecedented complexity.

There are bronze figurines of warriors from Sardinia, bronze trumpets from Danish bogs, bronze breastplates moulded to look like pectoral muscles, bronze shields, swords, scabbards, spearheads, axes, horse harnesses, knives, and much more. Sometimes it is found in massive hoards. Thousands of Late Bronze Age hoards are known to archaeologists. One at Isleham in Cambridgeshire contained 6,500 pieces of metal.

Soon something even more momentous occurred: metalworkers started experimenting with ways of extracting iron from its stubbornly intractable ores.

Iron was not new. For centuries, crude implements of wrought iron had occasionally been used. But no technique had been developed for the mass production of quality ironwork at an economical cost. This may have been the achievement of a barbarian tribe living in the Caucasus mountains in remote antiquity. The new technology seems to have spread from there to the Hittite Empire of Anatolia (Turkey). Its further spread was then delayed by the determination of the Hittite imperial ruling class to monopolise iron weaponry.

Iron artefacts did not become widespread until after 1200 BC, when ironworking took off amid the collapse of the Bronze Age empires. As it did so, the greatest advances in technique, productivity, and output were registered on the periphery of, and in the interstices between, the great powers.

Ironworking launched a chain of economic, social, and political changes. Bronze was expensive and relatively soft, which is why most Bronze Age farmers continued to work with tools of wood and stone. Iron is abundant, cheap, and hard, but the barrier to its use until then had been its high melting point.

Smelting required specialised bloomeries – furnaces in which bellows were used to force air through iron ore and charcoal to achieve very high temperatures. Once the technique had been invented, ordinary farmers could build their own bloomeries and equip themselves with metal tools.

Anyone who doubts the increase in productivity made possible by iron should try digging with a wooden spade or chopping wood with a stone axe. Three thousand years ago, iron revolutionised agriculture, industry, and war. Its impact was as transformative as that of steam power in the nineteenth century. It also threatened to turn the social world upside down. Bronze was the prerogative of the aristocracy. The Bronze Age world was dominated by chariot-mounted warlords equipped with expensive arms and armour. They were supported by peasant masses bound to ceaseless toil with primitive tools.

Iron was the supreme chopper and cutter. Men with iron axes could clear thick forests and jungles to create new farms. Then, with iron ploughs, they could till heavy clay soils. Iron technology unleashed a new wave of agricultural pioneers and free peasants.

Iron was also democratic. The bronzesmiths worked for the palaces, the blacksmiths for the villages. Iron gave the common man a spear, even a sword. If he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with other men – if he formed a phalanx – he could stop a chariot charge. And if he could do that, he could kill the landlord. The ironworkers of 1000 BC, had they but known it, were smelting revolution.

Moving from settlement to settlement in zones ruled by petty chieftains, trading his wares and his skills, the metalsmith of the Early Iron Age was the unwitting agent of a new world order. Rival chieftains competed for his services, which raised his economic value, his social standing, and his own valuation of himself and his craft. This, in turn, gave him the rewards, independence, and self-confidence to be an innovator.

Homer captures something of this. The Iliad and the Odyssey span four centuries. They purport to describe events in the twelfth century BC, but, as they were orally transmitted, they achieved their final form only in the eighth. Sometimes Homer describes the Late Bronze Age, sometimes his own Archaic Age. When he says that ‘a soothsayer, a doctor, a singer, and a craftsman are sure of a welcome everywhere’, he tells us how things were in a post-imperial age, in the ‘Dark Age’ of the eighth century BC, in a world of petty chieftains and itinerant ironsmiths. The new class of free artisans that first emerged in the barbarian north had, by Homer’s time, been long established in the eastern Mediterranean.

In the twelfth century BC, the Late Bronze Age empires had collapsed, exhausted by military struggle against one another, and broken by resistance from within and attack from without. The geopolitical system that replaced them was a mosaic of smaller polities – shrunken imperial states like Egypt, mercantile city-states like Ugarit, and barbarian settlements like Palestine. Ironworking flourished in this new, more open, less top-down world. Cyprus, a centre of maritime commerce, pioneered the iron-based industrial revolution of the twelfth and eleventh centuries BC in the eastern Mediterranean. The old cycle of rise and fall, the recurrent rhythm of Bronze Age civilisation, was broken. A new technology was creating a new economy, new social relationships, and new political forms. History was carving out fresh channels.

3. Ancient Empires (1000—30BC)

Iron was the basis of humanity’s third great technological leap. It made possible a steep increase in labour productivity comparable with those achieved by the transition from hunting-gathering to farming around 10,000 years earlier, and then that from shifting hoe-based cultivation to intensive plough-based agriculture around 6,000 years earlier. One consequence of each of these technological leaps was that the scale of human social organisation was transformed.

The Bronze Age empires had been small and discrete. They were based on the great alluvial floodplains of the Nile in Egypt, the Tigris and Euphrates in Iraq, the Indus in Pakistan, and the Yellow in northern China. Vast tracts of desert, steppe land, and mountain had divided these early centres of civilisation. With tools made of wood and stone, productivity was low and surpluses small. Using Bronze Age technology, only the extraordinary fertility of the great river valleys had yielded sufficient wealth to build cities, sustain armies, and create empires.

This changed in the centuries after 1000 BC: the scale of civilisation and empire increased exponentially. Iron Age farmers hacked fields out of the wilderness and ploughed the heavy soils they exposed. Productivity and population soared, and the surpluses available to Iron Age empire-builders dwarfed those of their Bronze Age predecessors.

In this chapter, we analyse the great Iron Age civilisations and empires of the first millennium BC – Persian, Indian, Chinese, Greek, and Roman.

Persia: the Achaemenid Empire

In the mid to late sixth century BC, three great Persian conquerors, Cyrus, Cambyses, and Darius (the Achaemenid dynasty), built an empire that extended from Bulgaria in the west to Pakistan in the east, and from the Caucasus Mountains in the north to the Nubian desert of Sudan in the south.

The Persians were settled farmers of the rugged mountain valleys in south-western Iran. The Medes were nomadic horsemen of the great steppes in north-eastern Iran. In 550 BC, Persia and Media were united by conquest. Within two generations, Iraq, Egypt, Turkey, Pakistan, and Afghanistan had been added to the empire. The Persian Empire of the sixth century BC therefore encompassed three of the four original centres of civilisation – the Nile, the Tigris-Euphrates, and the Indus river valleys. These, and the territories between, were integrated into a single imperial polity and ruled as a patchwork of tribute-bearing provinces. There was no attempt to weld the provinces of the empire into a unified cultural whole. The Persian emperor was styled the ‘Great King’ and ruled over distinct subject peoples who retained their own ethnic and religious identities, their own economic and social organisation, their own political structures.

Stone relief-sculptures decorate the ceremonial stairway leading to the principal audience hall of the imperial palace at Persepolis. They depict delegations from 23 subject-peoples bringing gifts or tribute to the Great King, including clothing, metal vessels, gold, elephant tusks, horses and camels, and such exotic animals as antelope, lions, and okapi. Building inscriptions at Persepolis list the principal peoples of the empire, while thousands of inscribed clay tablets record disbursements of food or silver to royalty, officials, and workmen.

How was the collection of tribute from such a vast area enforced? The empire was divided into large provinces ruled by satraps (viceroys). A network of roads and an official postal system linked the satraps with the imperial capital. The Royal Road, for example, ran from the provincial capital at Sardis in western Turkey to the imperial administrative capital at Susa in western Iran. Satraps controlled large armies and fleets. But in the event of a major rebellion or foreign expedition, a grand army would be formed under the leadership of the Great King. Its composition would reflect the polyglot character of the empire: each separate ethnic component would fight in its own manner.

The wealth of the Great King is evident from the size of the royal palaces at Persepolis, Susa, Hamadan, Pasargadae, and Babylon. Persepolis was a vast complex of audience halls, reception rooms, royal residences, store-rooms for tribute, barracks for imperial guards, a walled hunting park, a huge ornamental lake, and a sprawling town of artisans, traders, and labourers. When Alexander the Great captured Persepolis in 331 BC, it contained treasure equal in value to the annual income of Athens, the richest of the Greek city-states, for 300 years.

Despite its wealth, the Persian Empire was relatively unstable and short-lived. Cyrus had created a powerful instrument of conquest when he united the Persians and the Medes. The Persians fought as infantry with spears and bows; the Medes were first-class light cavalry. This combination of mobility, firepower, and shock action produced a maelstrom of conquest. But military supremacy does not equate to political hegemony or social transformation. The Persians merely incorporated existing ruling classes and appropriated part of their surplus. Their empire lacked all cohesion save that imposed by force.

The sheer size and diversity of the empire weakened the centre. Native kings and provincial satraps wielded immense power. Rebellion was endemic, especially on the more remote frontiers. The Persian Empire was an attempt to cement together geopolitically separate and culturally alien entities – Turkey, Egypt, Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, and Pakistan. Because of this, its tendency was to disintegrate rather than cohere.

It was an external force, however, that shattered the fragile carapace. As it reached its fullest extent in the late sixth century BC, the Persian Empire collided with another civilisation on its furthest north-western fringes. This collision pitted the wealth of the greatest empire the world had ever seen against small communities of peasant-farmers. It tested to the limit two entirely different social and political orders. Both were products of the Iron Age. But while one was simply a replication of ancient imperialism on a global scale, the other was a new social order created in the storm and strife of revolution. It was in the tiny city-states of Ancient Greece that the Iron Age transformation achieved its most advanced social form. Before turning to it, however, we must chart the course of civilisation in India and China.

India: the Mauryan Empire

In the late fourth century BC, the Mauryan warlord Chandragupta founded the first Indian empire. Reaching its peak a century later, it eventually encompassed much of the Indus Valley, the whole of the Northern Plain, and also the Ganges Valley, Nepal, and a large part of the Deccan. This Iron Age empire of the late first millennium BC was about ten times the size of the Indian subcontinent’s Bronze Age civilisation of the late third millennium. Let us consider what had changed.

Farming began in India around 7000 BC in the Kacchi Plain west of the Indus Valley. Here, the wild progenitors of wheat, barley, cattle, sheep, and goats were available for domestication. These natural resources offered a way out of the ecological crisis represented by climate change and over-hunting.

The people of the Indus Valley, however, remained largely immune to the influence of the agriculturalists for three millennia. Until about 4000 BC, the continuing natural abundance of the alluvial floodplain made the toil of farming unnecessary. Thereafter, the spread of farming was rapid. During the fourth millennium BC, the Indus Valley filled with agricultural villages. In the middle of the third, the huge surpluses generated by river-valley cultivation sustained an Urban Revolution. The Indus became one of only four places where independent civilisations existed in the Early Bronze Age.

Around 1900 BC, after only half a millennium of existence, Mohenjo-daro, Harappa, and the other Indus cities were abandoned. Early Bronze Age civilisation in the Indian subcontinent collapsed under its own weight. Over-accumulation of surpluses by urban-based elites probably crippled the reproductive capacity of an agricultural economy based on wooden spades and stone sickles.

To the north, a very different culture developed among the nomadic pastoralists of the Central Asian steppes. This vast territory comprised grassland hundreds of miles deep, extending from the Carpathians in the west to Manchuria in the east: ideal for stock-raising. A combination of low rainfall, bitterly cold winters, and scorching summers impeded the spread of cultivation in this region.

The steppe nomads domesticated the horse, invented the horse-drawn cart, developed the composite bow (made from horn, wood, and sinew laminated together), and produced stunning artefacts of copper, bronze, silver, and gold. Formidable natural warriors, they were the world’s finest horse-archers.

Life on the steppes was precarious. The numbers of people, the size of herds, and the adequacy of pasture were in fine balance. If a hot summer burnt out the grasslands, war, displacement, and mass migration might follow. Then, the steppe peoples might impact on the wider world with devastating force. Periodically – but unpredictably – they poured out of Central Asia, heading west, south, and east, from desiccated grasslands to abundant plough-lands, in search of food and fodder, plunder and riches, and new territory on which to settle. Such were the Mongols of the thirteenth century AD, the Huns of the fifth century AD, and the Xiongnu against whom the Chinese built the Great Wall in the third century BC.

Long before, in the years around 1500 BC, a people we know as the Aryans left the steppes, crossed the mountain passes of the Hindu Kush, and entered the Indus Valley of Pakistan. They came first as nomadic pastoralist invaders, relatively few in number, and their lifestyle and culture seem to have continued as before. Over the centuries, however, they spread across the Northern Plain into the Ganges Valley, and later again, southwards into the Deccan.

By then, they had iron, which reached India around 800 BC, enabling the Indo-Aryans (a thoroughly mixed population by now) to hack down forests and jungles and settle northern and central India with farms.

The Aryans introduced horses, chariots, and the warrior culture of conquerors. As they imposed themselves, they created the rudiments of both a new social structure – the caste system – and a new ideological framework – Hinduism. By defining themselves as warriors (kshatriyas), priests (brahmans), or landowners (vaishyas), they formalised the social exclusion and domination implicit in conquest. Mixed-race peasants formed a fourth group – the shudras – and others were integrated into the social order as members of a growing mass of sub-castes, or, in the case of those deemed wholly outside the Aryan tribal system, as ‘outcasts’.

The beliefs that eventually coalesced into Hinduism – a religion notable for its conservatism, elaborate ritual, and fearsome power-deities – legitimised the caste system. The social order was natural, divinely approved, and advancement was an individual matter. The virtuous were those who conformed; they would be reincarnated in a higher caste. Dissidents, on the other hand, could expect relegation in the next life.

Iron technology filled the Ganges Valley with productive farms, powerful monarchies, and large armies. For some three centuries, rival states battled for supremacy. By 321 BC, when Chandragupta Maurya usurped its throne, Magadha had emerged as the strongest of these states. One Greek writer estimated its army’s strength to be 200,000 infantry, 20,000 cavalry, 3,000 elephants, and 2,000 chariots; an exaggeration, no doubt, but an indication of how impressed he was. Between 321 and 303 BC, Chandragupta conquered the Ganges Valley, the Northern Plain, and the Indus Valley. His immediate successors waged further wars of conquest in southern India, and by 260 BC the Mauryan Empire encompassed almost the whole of what is today India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh.

Mauryan conquest was violent. The Kalingans were the last to hold out, but the Mauryan emperor Ashoka crushed them totally: ‘150,000 people were deported, 100,000 were killed, and many times that number perished ...’ Exploitation of conquered territory was systematic. Slaves – usually war captives – were employed in mining, construction, industry, and household service. Peasants toiled on the land. The government maintained dams, reservoirs, and canals. Individual peasants paid rents on their plots and taxes on their produce. Merchants and artisans also paid taxes and tolls.

The Mauryan Empire was a military superstructure resting on a base of tribute-paying peasants and petty-traders. This is clear from the Arthashastra, a treatise on government and economics written in the reign of Chandragupta. All land was owned by the emperor and all peasants owed him tribute. The only intermediaries were state-appointed officials. The empire was divided into provinces. These in turn were subdivided into districts, these into groups of villages, and the smallest unit was the village. Each village had a headman. Each group of villages had an accountant and a tax-collector. And so on up the hierarchy, with subordinates accountable to those above them, not those below.

A network of informers reported dissidents to the authorities. Ashoka (269–232 BC), the emperor who completed the Mauryan conquest and then refined the imperial administration, attempted to achieve an overarching ideological hegemony by promoting the concept of Dhamma. A social ethic that stressed toleration and the suppression of differences in the interests of harmony, it was an attempt to fossilise the contradictions of Mauryan society.

It did not work. In the 50 years after his death, the Mauryan Empire disintegrated. There were tensions between Hindu and Buddhist sections of the ruling class, subjugated states rebelled, and external enemies seized fragments of territory.

The military superstructure had been huge: one Roman writer quotes figures of 600,000 infantry, 30,000 cavalry, and 9,000 elephants. But the Mauryan state remained a hastily assembled amalgam of smaller polities onto which an imperial apparatus had been imposed. The essential glue of a broad-based ruling class united by common culture, good communications, and effective mechanisms for social integration and political cohesion was lacking.

The Persian Empire was destroyed by foreign conquest. The Mauryan Empire imploded for lack of internal coherence. The Chinese Empire, by contrast, was destined to last for 2,000 years. It is to China that we now turn.

China: the Qin Empire

At the end of the third century BC, China was united by the Qin warlord Shi Huangdi. He ruled a territory five times larger than that of the Shang Dynasty of the Late Bronze Age. How had this been achieved?

China’s Agricultural Revolution had begun around 6000 BC. The first farming villages were in the Yellow River valley of northern China. Pigs were domesticated and millet (later wheat) was cultivated on irrigated hillside terraces. Farming spread southwards from here across the vast Central Plain over the succeeding millennia. Much later, starting around 2000 BC, China’s Urban Revolution produced a Bronze Age civilisation centred on ancient cities like Anyang. It culminated in the Shang Dynasty, which ruled north-eastern China for 400 years (1523–1027 BC).

Shang power rested on control of grain surpluses to pay for horses, chariots, and bronze. But it followed the trajectory of other Bronze Age civilisations: the dynamic of geopolitical competition caused Shang China to become over-militarised and overextended. Thus weakened, the Shang were overthrown by Zhou invaders from the west during the eleventh century BC.

Zhou China (1027–221 BC) was never effectively centralised; it remained divided into rival polities. In each state, the king appointed his own kinsmen, retainers, and officials to key territorial commands. These regional lords ruled from walled cities, extracting surplus from peasant cultivators in the surrounding countryside.

Civilisation advanced. Under the Zhou, rice was cultivated and buffalo herded in the Yangtze River Valley on the southern edge of the Central Plain. A network of canals was constructed for long-distance transport of surpluses and luxuries. The boundaries of agriculture extended into the mountains to the north, the west, and the south. But with only wooden and stone tools, surpluses were small. And with an infrastructure of walled cities and regional armies to support, the proportion creamed off by the Zhou elite was high. A peasant folk-song from Ancient China records the endless toil and political alienation of civilisation’s human ‘beasts of burden’:

Work, work from the rising sun,

till sunset comes and the day is done.

I plough the sod,and harrow the clod,

and meat and drink both come to me,

so what care I for the powers that be?

In the fourth and third centuries BC, regional violence reached a peak in ‘the Age of Warring States’. But as the Zhou states of the east fought one another, a new power was rising in the west.

From around 500 BC the Chinese began iron-casting on a large scale. Huge quantities of cast-iron tools – axes, ploughs, hoes, spades, sickles, chisels, and knives – appear in the archaeological record. Iron also facilitated a military revolution engendered by the intensification of warfare. By increasing productivity, iron tools guaranteed the surpluses needed to support armies; and iron weapons increased the killing power of those armies.

The chariot was the shock weapon of Ancient China. These could now be greatly increased in number. But the chariot was also the weapon of a narrow warrior elite. Iron, on the other hand, put powerful weapons in the hands of infantry. An iron-tipped bolt fired from a crossbow could pierce the armour of a great lord. The iron sword, with its hard, razor-sharp edges, could slice through harness and horses and send him crashing from his chariot.

As well as more chariots, and more and better armed infantry, there were also advances in fortification, war machines, and siege warfare. Finally, as important as any of these, there was the introduction of cavalry, making a Chinese army a truly combined-arms force.

For many centuries, along the northern frontier of Zhou China, the Xiongnu horse nomads of the steppes, ancestors of the Huns and the Mongols, had waged campaigns of raid and plunder. The Xiongnu taught the Chinese the value of light horse-archers, who represented an unprecedented combination of mobility and firepower. The lesson was learned best in the semi-barbarous north-western state of Qin. Other Chinese rulers regarded this mountainous frontier kingdom, ruled by warrior-kings, as beyond the pale of civilisation. Qin stood in the front-line against the Xiongnu. Military effectiveness was the sole priority. Tradition and conservatism could not be allowed to stand in the way. The Qin were innovators by necessity.

Local lordship was weak in the far north-west. Taxes, labour services, and military conscription were imposed directly on independent peasant-farmers. The tribute-levying parasitism of the walled cities was much less burdensome than elsewhere.

So it was in wild Qin, on the outermost fringe of Zhou China, that the Iron Age revolution in agriculture and war achieved critical mass. The architect of the new order was the King of Qin. In the bloody climax of the Warring States period, Qin chariots, crossbowmen, and horse-archers defeated their Zhou rivals one after another.

The cost in human life was colossal. After one victory, 100,000 prisoners were beheaded. And after the final victory, 120,000 of the ‘rich and powerful’ were deported. The King of Qin now adopted the title Shi Huangdi – Divine Emperor.

The victory created a centralised empire controlled by a military-bureaucratic elite. That it was five times larger than its Shang predecessor was due to the enlarged surpluses made possible by China’s new iron-based farming technology. The road system was longer than that of the Roman Empire. The canal system was unparalleled. Weights and measures, road and wagon gauges, even the forms of agricultural tools were standardised.

The Great Wall of China, the greatest construction project in human history, was built by the First Emperor as a barrier against the Xiongnu. Some 3,600 km long, the original wall was 7.3 m high and wide enough for eight men to march abreast along the rampart. Set at varying intervals along the length were around 25,000 projecting towers. The wall took just twelve years to build. Its construction required the conscription of hundreds of thousands of forced labourers and consumed the grain surpluses of millions of peasants.

Created by conquest and terror, the short-lived Qin Empire was characterised by extreme centralisation, military-style exploitation, and murderous repression. Shi Huangdi, the First Emperor, has been portrayed as a warlord and tyrant of exceptional brutality, paranoia, and derangement. Perhaps he was; certainly his enemies considered him so. The regime attempted to destroy the intellectual underpinnings of dissent by ordering all books to be burnt. Scholars who had hidden books were either beheaded or worked to death on the Great Wall. Political insecurity was expressed in an attempt to erase all previous history and start again from a new ‘year zero’.

The First Emperor’s mausoleum, guarded by the now celebrated Terracotta Army, represents waste on a scale that dwarfs even the Great Pyramid and the Tomb of Tutankhamen. (The mausoleum itself is known from ancient descriptions; it has not yet been excavated.)

The Qin Dynasty collapsed after Shi Huangdi’s death in 210 BC. A power struggle within the palace coincided with a series of aristocratic and peasant revolts across China. The eventual victor was a peasant revolutionary, Liu Pang, who became the first emperor of the new Han Dynasty (206 BC–AD 220).

The Han succession represents the consolidation of the Qin revolution. The centralised imperial superstructure was retained, but its ruling class of bureaucrats, officers, and scholars was no longer threatened by the arbitrary murderousness of an unstable dictator, and the exploitation of the masses was reduced sufficiently to quell popular discontent. The question was whether this new imperial order, the culmination of China’s Iron Age transformation, would facilitate or hinder subsequent social development. Was the Chinese Empire a starting-gate or a barrier?

The Greek Democratic Revolution

Iron technology made possible huge increases in the productivity of human labour and the size of the surplus. Appropriation of the new wealth by centralised ruling classes allowed them to construct the Persian, Indian, and Chinese Empires. But iron technology also made possible an alternative. Because the raw material was abundant and the production process simple, iron tools and weapons were available to all. While bronze empowered only the aristocracy, iron had the potential to empower the masses.

Whether or not this happened depended on the outcome of the class struggle. In one small corner of the world, it was the masses who triumphed. The landed aristocracy was defeated by revolution from below, a radical experiment in participatory democracy was launched, and the conditions were created for one of the greatest explosions of cultural achievement in human history. The epicentre of the democratic revolution was the Greek city-state of Athens. Between 510 and 506 BC, revolutionary class struggles inside the city brought about a transition from dictatorship to democracy.

The movement passed through three distinct stages. First, a 30-year-old dictatorship was overthrown and replaced by an interim aristocratic government. Second, attempts by conservative aristocrats to block reform provoked a popular uprising and installed a government of democrats. Third, a Spartan military intervention in support of aristocratic counter-revolution was defeated by a second popular uprising.

The Athenian democracy was to last for almost two centuries. It was copied in other city-states across the Greek world, so that by the mid-fifth century BC virtually every city-state in the Aegean was a democracy.

Athenian democracy empowered the small farmers who made up the bulk of the citizen-body. During the sixth century BC, big landowners had attempted to expand their estates through debt-bondage. This mechanism was so central to the class struggle in the ancient world that it requires explanation.

Small farmers in a traditional society have no protection against hard times. Sometimes, in order to survive, they must borrow from the rich. Their only security for a loan is their land and their labour. The big landowners’ main incentive to lend is the prospect of acquiring more land. If debts can be repaid, so be it. If they cannot, so much the better. Small farms can then be taken over, and small farmers may become debt-bondsmen, forced to work for the big landowner as serfs. The Athenian masses broke this chain of debt and debt-bondage through struggle. They emerged at the end of the sixth century BC secure in possession of their property and their freedom. The basic building-blocks of Athenian society were not great estates but peasant oikoi (singular, oikos): patriarchal households based on ownership of a small farm or workshop.

The small citizen-farmers formed a city-state militia. The rich peasants, perhaps a third of the total, fought as heavy infantry (hoplites). The poorer peasants fought as light infantry or as rowers in warships (triremes: essentially rams powered by three banks of oarsmen).

War between the city-states was rife. Greece was divided into a thousand or more miniature polities, each competing for land, resources, and mercantile advantage. Democracy united citizens within each city, only to turn them into a military force against other cities. Democracy was the political expression of a specific citizen-body, not that of a universal social class. Athens, for example, the premier city-state democracy, was at war three years out of every four during the fifth and fourth centuries BC.

Success in land warfare depended on the size and resilience of the city’s hoplite phalanx (a tight formation of spearmen). Success at sea depended on the number, speed, and manoeuvrability of the trireme fleet. Landownership and militia service made the small citizen-farmers of Athens into a revolutionary force. The democratic revolution of 510–506 BC was, on the one hand, a revolution of farmers, artisans, and petty-traders, and on the other, a revolution of citizen-soldiers and citizen-rowers.

Ancient Athenian democracy was both more limited and more profound than our own. Women, foreigners, and slaves had no political rights; only adult male citizens could vote. But a majority of the latter were working people, and the power they wielded was very real. The ten leading city officials (strategoi) stood for election every year. The Council of Four Hundred (boule), the main deliberative body, was selected by lot. The Popular Assembly (ekklesia), a mass, open-air meeting of all citizens, was the sovereign decision-making body of the state. Justice was administered by jury courts of up to 2,500 ordinary citizens. Ostracism was an election in reverse: anyone who secured 6,000 negative votes was expelled from the city for ten years.

The democratic constitution meant that small property was secure – only the rich paid taxes, and any decision to go to war was made by those who would have to fight. Anyone who has any doubts about the reality of Ancient Greek democracy should read the vitriolic opinions of its aristocratic enemies. The Greek world was bitterly divided between oligarchs and democrats – those who favoured the rule of ‘the few’ (oligoi) as against those who favoured the rule of ‘the citizen-body’ (demos). Hatred of democracy inspired much of Greek philosophy, history, and the arts. The work of intellectuals like Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle can be interpreted as in large part anti-democratic polemic.

In most ancient societies, education and culture were restricted to a tiny minority preoccupied with defending wealth and power. In Ancient Athens, 30,000 men shared political power. This created a huge mass base for education and culture. The result was an explosion of creativity. Much of the content of this was right-wing – a reaction against democracy more often than a celebration of it – but that does not alter the fact that it was democracy that made this possible and necessary. There were great architectural monuments like the Parthenon, and superb naturalistic representations of the human form in sculpture and painting. There was the history of Thucydides, the philosophy of Socrates, and the tragic drama of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. Not least, there was a working-out in theory and practice of democratic politics. This is how Pericles, the greatest of Athens’ democratic leaders, described the government of the city:

Our constitution is called a democracy, because power is in the hands not of a minority, but of the whole people ... everyone is equal before the law ... what counts is not membership of a particular class, but the actual ability which the man possesses ... No one ... is kept in political obscurity because of poverty... We give our allegiance to those whom we put in positions of authority ...

Equally impressive were the democracy’s military achievements. Twice, the mighty Persian Empire attempted to subjugate Greece. Twice, the Athenians led the Greek resistance, first on land at Marathon in 490 BC, then at sea at Salamis in 480 BC. Though heavily outnumbered, though farmer-amateurs fighting military professionals, on each occasion the Athenians were victorious. In the Persian Wars, an army of free men, representing the most advanced political order the world had ever seen, triumphed over the crude militarism of a traditional empire. Yet, as we shall see, Greek democracy proved to be an historical cul-de-sac.

The Macedonian Empire

As well as being the foremost democracy in Greece, the city-state of Athens was also the richest. Its wealth came from silver mines in southern Attica, from maritime trade, and from its leadership of an anti-Persian alliance of Aegean city-states which gradually mutated into an empire.

The democratic form of Greek society contradicted the division of the Greek world into rival city-states. The former promoted the empowerment and cultural development of the working population. The latter meant military competition, war, and imperialism.

To the more conservative city-states of mainland Greece, Athens was a double threat. Athenian democracy made oligarchs elsewhere fearful of revolution from below; and the growing wealth of the Athenian Empire threatened the delicate balance of power between the rival city-states.

By the middle of the fifth century BC, democratic-imperialist Athens appeared poised to achieve hegemony over Greece. The Peloponnesian War of 431–404 BC pitted a conservative alliance led by Sparta against a democratic confederation led by Athens. When Athens was finally defeated, her empire was dissolved, and the democratic cause overshadowed by a new Spartan supremacy. The war was, in effect, the first phase of a protracted counter-revolution by which Greek aristocrats, Macedonian kings, and Roman viceroys destroyed the democratic experiment which had begun with the Athenian Revolution of 510–506 BC.

The second phase centred on the Battle of Chaeronea in 338 BC, when the Macedonian army of King Philip II defeated the combined army of the Greek city-states. Thereafter, the Greek city-states came under foreign rule. Formal democracy continued in Athens and some other cities for a while, but real power henceforward lay elsewhere. When, in 336 BC, the city-state of Thebes defied Alexander the Great, it was attacked, captured, and razed to the ground.

The Kingdom of Macedonia was a hybrid state. The royal court was a centre of Hellenism (Greek culture), and Philip II (360–336 BC) had forged an army modelled in part on the heavy infantry phalanx of the Greek city-states. But Macedonia was also a confederation of feudal landowners and tribal chieftains loosely strapped together by a would-be autocratic monarch. This makeshift state was plagued by internal revolt. The central preoccupation of the Macedonian king was to keep his throne and prevent the state from falling apart.

Instability spawned imperialism. The king’s power rested on his ability to reward his barons for loyalty and service. The easiest way to fund royal patronage was through war and booty. Under Philip, the kingdom swelled into an empire in control of the whole of the southern Balkans. Conquest yielded booty and tribute, and these paid for soldiers. The Macedonian army expanded and became a fully professional force. Philip’s distinctive contribution was to mix three separate elements to create a combined-arms force.

The hill tribes on the frontiers of the kingdom supplied light infantry. The aristocratic retinues of Macedonian lords formed a feudal-type heavy cavalry. And the free peasantry provided a Greek-style phalanx. The royal state combined the traditional martial qualities of its human raw material with the methods and principles of Greek warfare. The result was a military machine of unprecedented power.

In 338 BC, the Macedonian army had destroyed the independence of the Greek city-states at the Battle of Chaeronea in central Greece. Seven years later, at the Battle of Gaugamela in northern Iraq, it destroyed the Persian Empire. The Athenians had defeated the Persians in 490 and again in 480 BC, and then liberated the Greek cities of western Turkey. But they later succumbed to the relatively backward Kingdom of Macedonia. And it was then the Macedonians, under Philip’s successor, Alexander the Great, not the Athenians, who conquered Western Asia. Why was this?

Only 15 per cent of Greece can be cultivated. The many, small, scattered agricultural plains are separated by mountain ranges. This was the basis for the independence of each city-state. In total, there were about a thousand city-states in the fifth century BC. Democracy was cocooned inside these tiny rival polities. Athens, the largest and richest, contained only about 30,000 adult male citizens. The total population – including women, children, foreigners, and slaves – was probably around 200,000. Greek democracy rested on a narrow and fragmented social base.

Geopolitical division meant endless local wars, and the struggle between the major states and their respective allies escalated into occasional full-scale wars. Greek society, always highly militarised, became more so as its surpluses increased and geopolitical rivalries intensified. The Peloponnesian War was the supreme expression of this tendency.

No state was ever strong enough to establish a lasting hegemony. Athens was defeated by Sparta in 404 BC. Sparta was in turn defeated by Thebes in 371 BC. The Greek city-states remained divided among themselves while Philip II, ‘the Lion of the North’, built the empire that would eventually subjugate them all.

At the same time, city-state democracy was eroded at home by growing militarisation. Long, distant, hard-fought campaigns saw the emergence of professional commanders, mercenary bands, and military specialists. Power in Greece was projected by hoplite spears. When these were wielded by citizen-farmers, democracy was strong. When wielded by professional mercenaries, it was undermined.

Ancient Greek civilisation was of unprecedented sophistication and dynamism, but it existed in sharp contradiction to the geopolitical and sociological framework within which it was set. Democracy was generalised neither within the city-state nor across city-states. The division of the Greek world into rival polities meant that, in the long run, military professionals gained ground at the expense of democratic assemblies. Macedonia, on the other hand, appropriated the advances of Greek civilisation and used them to create a military system capable of transforming a medium-sized royal state into a Balkan empire. Technique mattered, but so did size: only the King of Macedon controlled the territory and surpluses necessary to wage major wars of conquest and then to unite the Greek world.

Because Greece was united by force from above rather than by revolution from below, democracy was doomed. Greece became the logistical base for the conquest of Western Asia. Later, after the disintegration of Alexander’s empire, it became a mere province within a wider Macedonian ‘successor’ state. The appropriation of the territory and surpluses of the Persian Empire – representing wealth hundreds of times greater than that of Greece – enabled the transformation of Greek civilisation from a network of city-state democracies into a global imperial system.

Meanwhile, further west, a yet more dynamic form of military imperialism was rising. The ancient city-state of Rome was also being transformed into a global empire. In time, it would bring down even the mighty Macedonian kingdoms of the new world order in the East.

Roman Military Imperialism

Rome was a fusion of Greek-style citizenship with Macedonian-style militarism. The result was the most dynamic imperialist state in the ancient world.

Rome evolved from an Iron Age village in the ninth century BC into a Latin chieftain’s hill-fort during the eighth century BC. It was then re-founded as a small town by Etruscan invaders in the mid to late seventh century BC, and thereafter ruled by a dynasty of Etruscan kings until about 510 BC. The last of these kings was overthrown in an aristocratic revolution, and the next two centuries were characterised by both internal class struggle and external imperial expansion. These two processes were closely linked.

The internal struggle – ‘the Struggle of the Orders’ – pitted patricians against plebeians. The former constituted a hereditary landowning aristocracy who enjoyed exclusive control over the state apparatus. Only patricians were admitted to the Senate, the ruling aristocratic assembly, and only patricians could hold senior magistracies, the top government posts.

Most plebeians were ordinary citizen-farmers. As in the Greek city-states, small farmers, with no margin against hard times, frequently got into debt. The rights of creditors were protected by laws enacted by patrician senators and enforced by patrician magistrates. Debt was the primary mechanism by which big estates were enlarged at the expense of small farms.

A minority of plebeians were better-off. Some were even very wealthy. But they were still excluded from political power. The plebeian movement was therefore a class alliance between plebeian nobles and plebeian masses. Its principal weapon was secession – a military mass strike. Like the citizen-farmers of Greek city-states, the Roman plebs formed the city militia – the legio (‘levy’) – and their periodic refusals to fight were used to press social and political demands.

The Greek masses had taken revolutionary action and won full-blooded democracy. The Roman masses never succeeded in overthrowing the Senate. But they did make huge gains, the cumulative effect of which was a radical redistribution of power within Roman society. Rich plebeians were admitted to the Senate and senior magistracies. The mass of plebeians won effective veto powers. New laws had to be approved by the Assembly of the Plebs (a civic body), and any decision to go to war by the Assembly of the Centuries (a military body). Unpopular proposals could be blocked by new magistrates, the Tribunes of the Plebs.

The Struggle of the Orders ended with a class compromise and a mixed constitution. The ruling class was not overthrown, but its ranks were opened to newcomers, its political power was constrained, and its decisions became contingent on popular consent. This meant that the property of small farmers was protected against tax and debt. The ability of big landowners to enrich themselves at the expense of their fellow citizens was reined in. Instead, Roman aristocrats’ ambition was redirected against foreign enemies.

The Roman aristocracy was highly competitive. Top families competed for senior state posts, and the rewards were power, prestige, and rich pickings. Wealth was the means rather than the end: aristocrats required wealth in order to accumulate political power. Rival factions built up retinues of dependants and clients through patronage. They amassed supporters and consolidated voting blocs through bribery. Families that failed to accumulate power declined. Membership of the aristocratic classes – senators and equestrians – depended increasingly on wealth. Patronage, public office, and the political power struggle were essential to maintaining class status.

Plebeian resistance to exploitation determined the form of intra-aristocratic competition. On the one hand, plebeian support became essential to factional power. On the other, plebeian landownership limited opportunities to amass wealth by enlarging existing estates.

War and conquest offered an alternative. Victory over foreign enemies meant booty (especially bullion), captives (who became slaves), and land (to create new farms and estates). Some was shared with ordinary citizen-legionaries, who thus acquired an interest in voting for war and fighting effectively. But the lion’s share went to the state and its senator-generals.

Thus Rome became a predatory imperial system of robbery with violence. Instead of accumulating surplus by raising the rate of exploitation at home, the Roman ruling class seized by force the surplus, labour, and means of production controlled by foreign ruling classes.

During the fifth and fourth centuries BC, the Romans conquered peninsular Italy. During the third, they fought two major wars against the Carthaginian Empire for control of the Western Mediterranean. During the second, they fought two major wars against the Kingdom of Macedonia for control of Greece. The process of military accumulation was self-feeding. The surpluses seized in one war provided the resources to launch the next. Defeated ruling classes were ‘Romanised’: granted Roman citizenship, they were encouraged to adopt Roman elite culture and offered a share in future Roman conquests. This ensured a steady supply of new recruits for the expanding legions.

With the Struggle of the Orders resolved, Rome was stable at home but relentlessly aggressive abroad throughout the third and second centuries BC. The one depended on the other: social peace was funded by imperial surpluses. Thus Rome grew from a small Latin city-state in the late seventh century BC into the most powerful empire of antiquity by the late second century.

Iron Age technology had generated the massive surpluses necessary to construct the imperial polities of the first millennium BC – Achaemenid Persia, Mauryan India, Qin China, the Macedonian successor kingdoms, and the Roman Empire. But Roman imperialism had an exceptional dynamism and durability. At the Battle of Gaugamela in 331 BC, the culmination of a four-year lightning campaign, Alexander the Great destroyed the Persian Empire. At the Battle of Cannae in 216 BC, Hannibal of Carthage inflicted an equally shattering defeat on the Roman Republic. But Rome refused to surrender and eventually triumphed. The critical difference was the social base of Roman imperialism. Achaemenid Persia levied tribute on subject peasants to pay professional soldiers. The army of the Roman Republic was a militia of free citizens. The Roman peasantry was not only numerous, but, unlike the Persian peasantry, it had a stake in the system. The Romans lost 80,000 men at Cannae. But their reserves are estimated to have been 700,000 infantry and 70,000 cavalry; and both aristocracy and peasantry had an interest in continuing the struggle.

The superiority of the Roman imperial polity was to be tested again in the great crisis of the Late Republic (133–30 BC).

The Roman Revolution

In 133 BC, Tiberius Gracchus was elected Tribune of the Plebs on a radical platform of land reform. Because of aristocratic opposition, he bypassed the Senate and passed his land bill into law by taking it direct to the Assembly of the Plebs. The following year, he was assassinated by a right-wing mob. A new period of crisis had opened in Roman politics. It would last a century, passing through several phases of civil war, and at times threatening the survival of the empire. It eventually brought about a radical restructuring of the ruling class, a bureaucratic recasting of the state, and the military dictatorship of the emperors.

The crisis arose from the inability of the city-state form inherited from the past to accommodate the new social forces created by world empire. The patrician–plebeian nobility that controlled the Senate had ossified into an exclusive aristocratic caste hostile to ‘new men’. The senatorial elite’s monopoly of high office was resented by other sections of the aristocracy – minor senatorial families, second division ‘equestrian’ families, and many Italian provincial families now involved in the government and commerce of empire.

Inherited privilege was in contradiction with new social realities. After the mid-second century BC, the ruling class could not continue to rule in the old way. A minority favoured reform. Another minority were diehard reactionaries. The majority vacillated, but, preoccupied with the defence of property and privilege, usually favoured the reactionaries in a crisis. Because of this, the reformers looked to wider forces to defeat senatorial opposition.

Fighting wars of conquest on distant frontiers was ruinous for small farmers in Italy. The Third Spanish War (154–133 BC) required tens of thousands of soldiers. In a typical year, more than one in eight Roman citizens would be serving in the army. Many of those shipped to Spain remained there for years.

Farms were left uncultivated. Often they were bought up by big landowners. Roman citizens were then replaced by foreign slaves. The rich, explained one contemporary historian, ‘used persuasion or force to buy or seize property that adjoined their own, or any other smallholdings belonging to poor men, and came to operate great ranches instead of single farms. They employed slave-hands and shepherds on these estates to avoid having free men dragged off the land to serve in the army.’ The result was a double-edged social crisis. The decline of the Italian peasantry was draining the manpower pool on which the military vitality of the Republic depended. And a countryside populated with slaves posed a major security problem.

The new slave economy was centred in Sicily and southern Italy. Hundreds of thousands of captives were sold as slaves and sent to work on aristocratic estates. On three occasions slave revolts exploded across the region – in Sicily in 136–134 BC and again in 103–101 BC, and finally in mainland Italy in 73–71 BC. It is no accident that the crisis of the Late Republic began during the First Sicilian Slave War. The immediate concerns of Tiberius Gracchus and the reformist wing of the ruling class were army recruitment and internal security. The debates took place against a backdrop of burning Sicilian villas.

Many demobilised soldiers and ruined small farmers ended up in Rome. The fast-growing imperial city – fuelled by war booty, public works projects, and aristocratic patronage and consumption – sucked in impoverished ‘surplus’ citizens. The Roman mob became a factor in politics.

The growth of empire had also changed the relationship between Romans and non-Romans in Italy. At least half the legionaries were not Roman citizens, but ‘Latin’ or ‘Allied’ citizens. Increasingly, those who did an equal share of the fighting demanded an equal share in the spoils. The franchise became an explosive issue. The Social War of 91–88 BC was a full-scale civil war between Romans and Italians fought on the issue of equal political rights.

Italy was filled with combustible material: decayed senators, equestrian officials, and provincial gentry; small farmers ruined by debt; demobilised conscripts living in poverty after years fighting at the front; the swelling mass of the urban poor; and the many non-Romans who served the state but were excluded from its politics. But the Roman Revolution – for revolution it became – had this peculiarity. No single class among the discontented was able to dominate the movement. None was able to establish leadership over the others by offering a coherent vision of a world transformed and a strategy for achieving it. None was able to provide a revolutionary alternative. The aristocratic opposition feared the popular masses and threats to their property. Small farmers feared the landless poor. Free citizens feared the competition of slaves. Romans feared the dilution of citizen privileges with the mass enfranchisement of Italians.

The popular movement, therefore, was a multi-class alliance riddled with contradictions. It was this that made the Roman Revolution a complex, distorted, century-long process.

Reform through the Senate was blocked. The Populists (populares: those who favoured the rule of ‘the People’) remained a minority of the ruling class, unable to bring about a revolution from above against the entrenched opposition of the Optimates (optimates or ‘best men’: those who favoured the rule of the Senate). But without a revolutionary class able to break the impasse, only military force could decide the matter. The Roman Revolution became, therefore, a struggle of warlords.

Ambitious politicians sought prestigious and lucrative military commands. Booty and veterans became high-value counters in the game of Roman politics. The revolution was transformed into civil war between Populist and Optimate generals, Marius against Sulla, then Caesar against Pompey.

The decisive figure was Julius Caesar. A top-ranking aristocrat, single-minded careerist, and murderous imperialist, he was also a brilliant commander, politician, and reformer. Caesar embodied the contradictions of the Roman Revolution whose principal protagonist he was.

Caesar was victorious in the Civil War of 49–45 BC, but, being the leader of a popular movement rather than a revolutionary class, he was forced to seek an accommodation with the old order. In the short run, this proved impossible. The ruling class was too divided and embittered. Caesar attempted to straddle the contradictions through personal dictatorship – something that culminated in his assassination and a renewal of civil war.

The senatorial opposition led by Brutus and Cassius was quickly defeated by the leaders of Caesar’s faction, Antony and Octavian. But these two then divided the empire between them and set about building rival power-bases. The final struggle of the Roman Revolution was therefore a factional civil war between Antony and Octavian.

Octavian became Caesar Augustus, the first Roman emperor. He founded a military dictatorship based on ‘new men’, moderate reform, and imperialist war. His regime represented the final transformation of an Italian city-state into a bureaucratically administered global empire. But even this, the most successful of the ancient empires, contained the seeds of its own decay and eventual disintegration.

4. The End of Antiquity (30BC—650AD)

The decline and fall of the Roman Empire, which had embodied the greatest achievements of the Iron Age civilisations of the first millennium BC, was of global significance. From the disintegration of the imperial superpower emerged the new social forces and geopolitical order that would form the basis of medieval Europe.

The Iron Age empires, though writ large across the map, shared many of the weaknesses of their Bronze Age predecessors. Political unity was a function of military power, not of economic, social, or cultural homogeneity. Imperial rulers ratcheted up exploitation to accumulate surplus and waste it on war. Society was organised in rigid, top-down rankings of status groups. Creativity and innovation were suppressed, and the common people became mere hewers of wood and drawers of water. Technology stagnated, poverty festered, and alienation spread. The Iron Age empires eventually proved as conservative as the Bronze Age empires had been.

Because of this, though the collapse of the Roman Empire represented the passing of an entire social order, this process did not give rise to new forces capable of raising humanity to a higher cultural level. It merely resulted in what Marx called ‘the common ruin of the contending classes’.

In this chapter, we analyse the internal contradictions which doomed the Roman Empire, the character of the ruling classes (mainly Germanic, Gothic, and Arab) which displaced it, and the creation, in the context of Rome’s crisis, of the three great monotheistic religions, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam.

The Crisis of Late Antiquity

The Roman Empire represented a powerful fusion of citizenship and imperialism. Citizenship provided an expanding social base of stakeholders and soldiers. Conquered elites were slowly assimilated and acculturated: they were allowed to become ‘Roman’ and share the benefits of imperial rule. Imperialism, at the same time, provided a continual flow of booty, slaves, and land. This strengthened the state, enriched the ruling class, secured the allegiance of subject elites, and funded the patronage which bound client groups to the system.

But it came at a heavy price. Empire and civilisation are expensive. While some benefit, others lose. Roman rule safeguarded property and power. But the wealth of the army, the towns, and the villa-owners depended on a system of exploitation in which taxes, rents, interest payments, and labour services were extracted from the rural population.

The majority of the inhabitants of the Roman Empire worked on the land as peasants, labourers, serfs, or slaves. They were the beasts of burden on whose backs empire and civilisation were built. At first, the burden – the rate of exploitation – was relatively moderate and sustainable. Much was taken, but enough was left to enable peasant families to feed themselves, sow their fields, restock their pastures, and obtain the essentials of Iron Age rural life in local markets. This was possible because others paid a much heavier price. The empire was subsidised by wars of conquest. The defeated were robbed to enrich the victors. The victims paid the bulk of the cost of supporting the state, the army, and the rich. As long as the empire continued to expand, robbery at home was moderated by robbery abroad.

The system was inherently expansionist. It was fed by the military appropriation of foreign surpluses. Its vitality therefore depended on the continuing availability of such surpluses. After each imperial leap, another became necessary if the system was not to face stagnation and crisis. But foreign surpluses were a finite resource. By the first century AD, Roman military imperialism was running up against barriers to further expansion.

The limits of Graeco-Roman imperial civilisation corresponded with the limits of Iron Age agriculture. Iron Age technology had created an extensive plough-based agriculture stretching from southern Britain to Syria, from the Rhine and the Danube in Europe to the Atlas Mountains of North Africa. This was an opulent land, full of cultivated fields, villages, and hard-working peasants. Surpluses were large. Those who organised themselves to seize these surpluses could build armies and cities. But beyond the plough-lands lay wilderness: the hills of northern Britain, the forests of Germany, the deserts of Arabia and North Africa. And when imperial armies marched into the wilderness, they became mired in unwinnable guerrilla wars against scattered and elusive opponents who were too impoverished to yield a profit even if they could be subjugated.

In 53 BC, a Roman army of 30,000 had been destroyed by Parthian horse-archers at the Battle of Carrhae in Syria. In AD 9, another Roman army of 30,000 was annihilated by German tribesmen at the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest. In AD 208–11, the final Roman attempt to conquer northern Britain was defeated by guerrilla resistance. ‘Let no one escape utter destruction at our hands,’ was the chilling injunction of the Roman emperor Septimus Severus to his men. ‘Let not the infant still carried in its mother’s womb, if it be male, escape its fate.’ But they did escape. Severus died at York, and Scotland was never conquered. In the bogs and glens of the British North, the imperial leviathan, lashing out in the mist and drizzle, was reduced to despair by bands of blue-painted skirmishers.

The Roman Empire, then, had limits. Its foundation stone was Iron Age agriculture. It depended on cultivated land and abundant labour to yield the large surpluses necessary to support the army, the ruling class, and the essential infrastructure of roads, forts, and towns. War was profitable where the plough ran. But it was waste where it did not, and the empire became overextended when armies entered the wilderness.

Expansion peaked in the second and first centuries BC, slowed sharply after the early first century AD, and then ceased almost entirely after the early second century AD. The flow of war booty was cut off. External subsidy ceased. The Roman Empire became entirely dependent on internally generated resources.

Yet the cost of empire and civilisation did not diminish. A strong army and extensive fortifications were required to defend thousands of miles of open frontier. The cohesion of the imperial elite and the loyalty of its client groups, above all of the army’s rank and file, depended on luxury consumption and state largesse.

From the first century AD onwards, and with increasing intensity, especially from the late second century, the imperial state faced chronic financial crises. Its response – increased agrarian surplus extraction to maintain its politico-military infrastructure – led inexorably to a slow spiral of economic decline. Increases in taxation, forced labour, and military requisitioning ruined the marginal peasant farmers. This shrank the tax base – such that in the next round taxes had to be raised even further, pushing another tranche of farms over the edge. And so it went on. The Late Roman imperial state, increasingly militarised and totalitarian, ended up consuming its own socio-economic capital in its effort to maintain essential expenditure. The military predator had turned cannibal.

These pressures had three main political effects. First, the ruling class repeatedly fragmented along regional lines, each group attempting to retain control of its own surpluses and soldiers. Civil wars, usually between army factions led by rival emperors in different parts of the empire, became endemic.

Second, foreign invasions became more frequent and increasingly menacing. On the European frontiers they involved large barbarian tribal confederations, and in the East the dynamic Sassanian Empire, based in Iran and Iraq. Rome’s military decline is symbolised by two battles. At Adrianople in Thrace (Bulgaria) in AD 378, the entire field army of the Eastern Roman Empire was destroyed by the Goths. Sixteen years later, at the River Frigidus in the Julian Alps on Italy’s north-east frontier, the bulk of the reconstituted army of the Eastern Roman Empire was formed of Gothic mercenaries. Such was the internal crisis of finance and manpower that the Roman Empire had become dependent on ‘barbarian’ soldiers.

The third consequence of the empire’s financial crisis was a resurgence of class struggle. The local peasantry, squeezed by the demands of the military-bureaucratic state, reduced to serf status and subject to ever-harsher exploitation, found ways to fight back. Many farms were abandoned. Social bandits stalked much of the countryside. Resistance to tax-collectors, press-gangs, and bailiffs was widespread. And sometimes, discontent spilled over into peasant insurrection and the creation of rural communes.

Ancient aristocratic writers tell of mysterious rural rebels called bagaudae, under whose rule people lived by popular laws, peasants made speeches, death sentences were pronounced under an oak tree and recorded on pieces of bone, and ‘anything goes’. Apparently, under the bagaudae, ‘the Bretons were slaves of their own domestics’. Here, it seems, dimly understood and darkly described, we have a world turned upside down, a world without landlords and tax-collectors.

Fragmentation, invasion, and internal revolt: these symptoms of imperial decline reflected the rottenness of the system. Consequently, between AD 410 and 476 the Western Roman Empire disintegrated, with successive chunks of territory taken over by barbarian war-bands until eventually nothing was left.

By the end of the fifth century, Europe had been divided into a patchwork of independent proto-states. A new world order had been forged in the firestorms of Late Antiquity. The primary agents of this transformation were tribal confederations from Central and Eastern Europe and from Central Asia.

Huns, Goths, Germans, and Romans

The Eurasian steppe is a belt of land several hundred miles wide which extends from the Hungarian Plain to the Pacific Ocean. A grassland of climatic extremes, devoid of trees, it was, from earliest prehistory until medieval times, populated mainly by nomadic pastoralists.

The history of Europe, Turkey, Persia, India, and China is punctuated by military crises brought on by incursions of steppe nomads from their homeland. But it was the Huns who, between the 370s and 450s AD, precipitated the collapse of the Western Roman Empire.

The Huns combined hunting and gathering with the herding of horses, cattle, sheep, and goats. The barrenness of the steppe and the primitiveness of their way of life meant that numbers were few and scattered, social organisation loose and non-hierarchical. Specialisation was extreme. The Huns were first-class horsemen. They fought tribal wars as light cavalry armed with composite bow, lasso, and sword. The bow and the lasso were the equipment of the steppe; the sword was a prized trade good.

It is impossible to be sure why the Huns began to move west in the mid-fourth century AD. But their poverty meant that they had no margin of safety: drought meant death on the steppe. So probably they were set in motion by an ecological crisis. Violence, subjugation, and westward expansion were an escape route from an exhausted, overpopulated homeland.

When they reached the Ukraine, they overran the Ostrogoths (Eastern Goths). As they pressed further west, they drove the Visigoths (Western Goths) to seek refuge inside the Eastern Roman Empire. The tensions between Goths and Romans then exploded into war, and the army of the Eastern Roman Empire, based in Constantinople, was annihilated at the Battle of Adrianople in AD 378. The steppe nomads, indirectly, were beginning to remake the old world.

As they did so, they were themselves transformed. The Goths, like the German tribes further west on the Roman Empire’s Rhine and Upper Danube frontiers, were prosperous peasant-farmers. When conquered by the Huns, they were forced to pay tribute to their new masters. The steppe nomads were therefore enriched by agricultural surpluses, and they used these surpluses to increase their military retinues and thus their ability to make further conquests.

Yet greater prizes awaited them within the Roman Empire itself. And, as the Goths had proved at Adrianople, the empire was militarily much weakened. The Roman provincial peasantry had been turned into serfs. Exploitation and alienation had depleted the traditional manpower base of Roman military imperialism. Increasingly, instead of citizen-legionaries, Roman emperors relied on bribes and barbarian mercenaries to defend their frontiers. At times the Huns were hired as Roman allies. Sometimes they might be bought off. Either way, Roman treasure was added to Gothic tribute to complete the transformation of the Huns from tribal nomads into continent-straddling militarists: a transformation marked by the accession of Attila as King of the Huns in AD 434.

At its height, Attila’s empire extended from the Baltic to the Alps, from the Rhine to the Caspian. Into the Hunnic capital – half-permanent village, half-nomadic encampment – flowed tribute from within the empire and subsidies and bribes from beyond. Half a century earlier, the Huns had fought as tribal forces of a few hundred under elected war-chiefs. Now, war was a permanent condition, the militarisation of their social world complete, the power of their supreme commander absolute.

The Hunnic war-state fed off the decay of the Roman Empire, devouring the surpluses made possible by the Iron Age revolution in technique. In the heyday of Roman military imperialism, the Roman surplus had supported armies of free peasant citizen-soldiers. In its decline, a mercenary military imperialism evolved in which the surplus fed a monstrous nomad empire centred on the Hungarian Plain.

As a war leader, Attila controlled the military surpluses, and as war was now permanent, so too was his authority. The king was able to sever the anchor chain of tribal obligations and social constraints that had once limited the power of any single individual. But the vast network of patronage that bound Attila’s client-kings, subject-chiefs, and leading retainers depended on an unbroken flow of tribute and subsidies, plunder and prestige goods. So Attila was a robber-baron, a warmonger, a restless conqueror pushing ever onwards. Dynamism was inherent in the Hunnic state.

Attila was the ‘scourge of God’ to the Late Roman ruling classes. Many of the poor saw him differently. Huns and Gallic bagaudae sometimes formed alliances against the Romano-Gallic landlords in the 440s AD. But the kingdom of the Huns was too crude, predatory, and unstable to become a force for progressive social change. When Attila attacked Gaul (France and Belgium) in AD 451, his lunge westwards lacked diplomatic finesse. The bagaudae had been alienated and did not move, and Romano-Gallic landlords and Visigothic free peasants had joined forces. So the West, briefly united, inflicted a decisive defeat on Attila at the Battle of Châlons. He was forced to withdraw to his Central European heartland. Two years later he was dead, and his empire disintegrated, destroyed by territorial struggles between his successors and revolts from below among the subject peoples.

The intervention of the steppe nomads had been sudden and catastrophic, but they made no positive contribution to history. The Western Roman Empire fragmented into myriad barbarian kingdoms ruled by Germans or Goths. The Eastern Roman Empire ossified, becoming bureaucratic, conservative, and inert. But the Hunnic Empire simply vanished from the face of the earth.

Why was its collapse so sudden and total? In the space of a generation, the Huns had been transformed from nomadic pastoralists into military predators. They ceased to have any productive forces of their own, depending entirely on their ability to extort from others the tribute, subsidy, and plunder essential to sustain their polity.

They were few in number, but their domains were vast, so theirs was an overextended empire subject to extreme manpower shortage. Fear and force enabled them to sustain the system as long as it appeared powerful. But an end to expansion would have cut off the flow of extorted surplus necessary to sustain the state infrastructure of chieftains, retainers, and warriors. Thus was over-extension inherent in a dynamic system of robbery with violence which lacked its own productive base. There was no ballast, only an engine hurtling through history to its own destruction. Yet the violence of that engine’s motion had propelled the Germans and the Goths into the Western Roman Empire, ensuring the eventual collapse of the imperial state apparatus and its replacement by a patchwork of new states ruled by barbarian kings.

The change, however, was less than might appear. Much of ancient civilisation was embraced by the barbarian kings, so that Rome contributed richly to the making of the medieval world. The principal vehicle of cultural transmission was the Christian Church. To grasp the significance of this, we must backtrack to analyse the growth of monotheistic religion within the womb of an ancient pagan culture rooted in the prehistoric past.

Mother-Goddesses and Power-Deities

Myth, ritual, and religion are multifaceted. Their deepest root lies amid the insecurities of primeval hunter-gatherer existence. Anxiety about the food-quest was soothed by magical representations of the beasts of the hunt in art, dance, music, and personal ornament.

Early farmers, equally prey to the vicissitudes of nature, conceived of the earth as a mother-goddess, a fount of fertility and food, who could be petitioned and bribed into delivering her bounty. The fertility deities of early farmers were invariably female. The woman – menstruating, giving birth, lactating – was the obvious symbol of natural fecundity. But there was another reason she was female: women were powerful in pre-class societies. Descent was often matrilineal (through the female line), residence matrilocal (in the wife’s village, not the husband’s), and authority matriarchal (where women’s voices were predominant).

Why was this? Because women were the fixed points in simple societies based on cooperative labour and collective ownership. Their child-bearing and child-feeding functions made them less mobile, both geographically and socially, and the absence of private property and the privileges to which private property gives rise precluded alternative sources of social power. Women were society’s centres of gravity. Men orbited around them. The great earth-mother goddess of early farmers was the mirror image of a social reality.

Private property, class division, and state power came into being simultaneously, the one dependent on the others. Sharing and a rough equality were intrinsic to communal property. But the division of land into private farms, or of cattle into separate herds, allowed some to grow rich at the expense of others. The resulting tensions called for some sort of control if society was not to fragment. The state – armed bodies of men – evolved to defend the new property-based status quo. And now it was men who had power. For it was men, not women, who herded the stock and ploughed the fields. When stock and fields were held in common, everyone benefited. When they were in private hands, they enriched and empowered only those who worked them.

What Frederick Engels called ‘the world historic defeat of the female sex’ was represented in myth and ritual. The old mother-goddesses were cast from their thrones, replaced by a new generation of male power-deities. The Greek heaven was ruled by Zeus, the Roman by Jupiter, the Jewish by Yahweh, the Arab by Dushara, and so on, across the world. And just as the old earth-mothers symbolised the forces of nature, the new power-deities symbolised the force of tribes, city-states, and empires. A mythic superstructure was implanted in the mind as a military one was constructed in reality.

At Olympus, the holiest site in ancient Greece, the oldest cults were those of the mother-goddesses, Gaia, Rhea, Hera, and Demeter. But by the Classical Age, the fifth and fourth centuries BC, they had long since been displaced, and it was Zeus who was honoured with the richest offerings, the grandest temple, and the famous games. In the ‘War of the Giants’ myth, Zeus leads the new gods to victory over the Titans – his father Kronos and the other old gods. Zeus represents order, patriarchy, and civilisation. Kronos is the embodiment of barbarism: his is a world of chaos and matriarchy. Matriarchy became myth-code for a world of disorder. When the Greek hero Agamemnon returns home from the Trojan War, he is slain by his own wife, Clytemnestra, who has taken another man as her lover and king. The world is turned upside down and the moral order collapses. Then Agamemnon’s son Orestes slays Clytemnestra to avenge his father. Murder begets murder. A cycle of slaughter is the price of woman-power.

Misogynist myth sanctified Greek civilisation’s patriarchal order. The male-run oikos (a property-owning household) was the basic building-block of the social structure. The city-state was run by assemblies of citizen-men, of oikos patriarchs, of small property-owners. Not the least of the contradictions that doomed Greek democracy was the political exclusion, social segregation, and domestic oppression of women.

Other social tensions also found expression in the myth-worlds of ancient peoples. Myths are good to think with. They provide ways of describing, narrating, and analysing social contradictions. They represent and project social norms, but they also debate them when they are contested. Who are we? Where have we come from? Who are our friends, who our enemies? In a divided world, what is it that defines and unites us? Cultural identities are forged in struggle, and it was myth, ritual, and religion that give them form and expression in the ancient world.

Rome was a class-ridden, militaristic, imperial state. Little wonder that its supreme deity was a war-god. Jupiter Optimus Maximus – Best and Greatest – was the patron deity of the city-state of Rome. As such, in the totemic form of an eagle, he was carried into battle on the standard of every Roman legion. As such, he was worshipped at special altars in every army camp in the empire. And as such, he was the recipient of sacrifice and honour at the climax of every Roman triumph, when victorious troops and enslaved captives paraded through the city, and defeated enemy leaders were ritually strangled in the Forum.

But if the violence and exploitation of empire had their religious expression, so did the resistance of the oppressed. Myth could both legitimate the social order and inspire resistance to it. One ancient faith stands out in this respect. Over centuries of struggle it was fashioned into a cudgel of counter-cultural resistance – resilient, ineradicable, deep-rooted in the hearts and minds of the common people of Palestine. Later, it would produce two offspring, also weapons of ideological struggle, and between them, these three religious faiths would eventually conquer half the world. They are Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Though capable of endless recasting as deeply conservative ideologies, the three great monotheistic religions produced by the contradictions of the ancient world owe their extraordinary power to their origins in the myths and rituals of the oppressed.

Judaism, Christianity, and Islam

In 537 BC, Cyrus the Great, the Persian ruler of Babylonia (modern Iraq), granted the descendants of a group of Jewish aristocratic exiles permission to ‘return’ to their homeland. Cyrus wanted loyalists in control of newly conquered imperial territory. The Jewish exiles aspired to become a new ruling class.

The return from Babylonian captivity is one of the central events in Judaeo-Christian historical tradition. The reality was that the Jewish elite was planted in Palestine as the quisling administration of an imperial superpower. But they brought with them an ideological powder-keg. Forged in decades of disunity, defeat, and dispersal, the Jewish cult of a supreme power-deity, Yahweh, had been transformed into an intolerant monotheism that denied the existence of all other gods.

In the past, the Jewish prophets had railed in vain against false idols. Now, the frustrated nationalism of an exiled leadership found expression in Yahweh’s claim to worldwide dominion. Political impotence had its religious counterpoint in divine megalomania. If, instead of a pantheon of warring deities, there was one all-powerful god, then history moved to a single divine purpose, and those chosen for God’s special favour were bound to win out in the end – just so long as they remained loyal and obedient.

The myths of Abraham and Moses and the legends of Saul, David, and Solomon were largely constructs of the sixth century BC: a rewriting of Jewish history and the proclamation of a new set of religious ‘truths’ designed to legitimise the tenuous grip on power of a newly installed Jewish elite that claimed descent from these heroic founders. This was the belligerent myth-history of an embattled elite fighting for its place in the world.

Thus, the one and only god was Yahweh, the Jews were his Chosen People, and Palestine was their Promised Land. This, though, was the view of a marginal sect, a small exile group whose restorationist ambition took the form of religious fantasy. Alone, they could have done nothing but hope and pray. It was Persian imperialism that lifted them out of historical oblivion and placed them on a global stage. It was Cyrus the Great who planted the New Judaism in Palestine and allowed it to flourish.

It proved to be a complex hybrid. The Jews were overshadowed by greater peoples – the Persians, the Greeks, and the Romans. Palestine was a small country, occasionally capable of precarious independence, more usually subordinate to a foreign empire. The Jewish aristocracy was therefore torn between fighting for independence and collaborating with imperialism. The risks of fighting were high. Defeat could mean losing everything – but so could victory if mass mobilisation to fight for independence conjured a popular revolutionary movement from below. The Jewish peasantry was also torn – between fear of authority, a sense of powerlessness, and a deep-rooted hatred of the exploiter. So Judaism splintered into rival sects, some aristocratic and collaborationist, others popular, radical, and calling openly for resistance.

Religion welded the Jewish masses into a powerful revolutionary force on at least four occasions. When a Seleucid Greek king attempted to replace the worship of Yahweh with that of Zeus, he provoked nationwide resistance, and the Maccabaean Revolt of 167–142 BC eventually secured an independent Jewish state.

As Roman rule tightened, the Jews rose in revolt three more times, in AD 66–73, 115–17, and 132–6. Each time, the fighting was long, hard, and bloody. Each time, tens of thousands were killed, hundreds of thousands displaced. The final revolt was suppressed with such genocidal ferocity that the Jewish population was reduced to a rump. Thereafter, the ten million Jews of the ancient world were almost entirely a people of the diaspora, living mainly in towns across the eastern Mediterranean.

Among those involved in the Jewish anti-imperialist movement was a preacher from Nazareth called Jesus. A charismatic radical, he attracted a growing following among the village poor, so he was arrested, tried, and executed. The group he had founded survived as a small sect, but it soon split into two distinct tendencies. One remained committed to the Jewish national-revolutionary movement. This group was destroyed in the defeat of the First Jewish Revolt of AD 66–73. The other, led by Paul of Tarsus, a Greek-educated Jewish merchant, adopted a conservative ideology of spiritual – not material – redemption. And this, the Pauline Christians argued, was a message not just for Jews, but for all of humanity.

The New Testament, which records the mission of Jesus and the early history of the Church, is a work of revisionism, written by Pauline Christians of the Jewish diaspora in the aftermath of the defeat of the First Revolt. Jesus, it turned out, was both a man and a god, his kingdom was not of this earth but of heaven, and his message was universal and spiritual rather than revolutionary. The Gospel writers created a depoliticised and de-nationalised Jesus capable of surviving the ‘war on terror’ which swept the Roman Empire in the wake of the revolt.

Yet something of the original remained. In a way that the awesome power-deities of the pagan pantheon could not, the all-powerful and supremely benevolent Christian god offered what Marx called ‘a heart in a heartless world’ – a message with a strong appeal to the oppressed of the Roman Empire.

Pauline Christianity was a potent synthesis. It represented a fusion of Jewish prophecy and popular preaching with an essentially Greek tradition of salvation cult. Jesus the Jewish prophet was transformed into Jesus the universal saviour-god. To this were added two distinctively Christian elements, both derived from the religion’s roots in the Jewish revolutionary movement: in contrast to the rigid class hierarchies of Roman society, the idealisation of an egalitarian and democratic community; and, in place of the greed and violence legitimised by mainstream paganism, an emphasis on compassion and cooperation.

The exploitation and oppression of the Roman Empire inflicted misery on millions, but the violence of the state usually prevented effective resistance. This was the contradiction that allowed the Christian Church to grow and grow. Recruiting among slaves, women, and the poor, the Church was viewed with deep suspicion and was repeatedly battered by repression. It did not work. The men and women burnt, eaten by animals, or nailed to wooden crosses provided the Early Church with a roll call of martyrs as impressive as any in history.

By the early fourth century AD, the Church had become the most powerful ideological apparatus in the Mediterranean world, with an underground network of priests, congregations, and meeting places extending across the empire. Many army officers, government officials, and wealthy landowners eventually converted, and in AD 312 the Emperor Constantine the Great decided to adopt Christianity himself, to legalise the religion, and to make the state the protector and patron of the Church. Before the century was out, his successor, Theodosius the Great, would make paganism illegal and hand over the temple estates to the Church.

Judaeo-Christian monotheism was now recast as an ideology of state power, empire, and war. The Roman emperor became at once a defender of civilisation against barbarism, a crusader for the Church against paganism, and a champion of Christian orthodoxy against heresy. In consequence, Christianity became as fragmented as Judaism by the social contradictions it encompassed. Competition between rival factions and states, and tensions between antagonistic classes, destroyed the ideal of a single, universal Church.

The growing political division between an Eastern Roman Empire based on Constantinople and a Western Roman Empire based on Rome – a division which became complete and permanent after AD 395 – was mirrored in the separation of the eastern Orthodox and western Catholic traditions. The class struggle between landlords and peasants similarly found expression in the split between the more conservative Catholic and more radical Donatist Churches in North Africa. Every group, pursuing different and sometimes conflicting aims, claimed the one all-powerful god as its ally. At its most extreme, the ideological ferment could produce entirely new offspring, just as Judaism had brought forth Christianity. One such development was destined to produce another great world religion.

Out of the cultural crucible of two Arabian caravan-cities, where ancient pagan traditions from the desert mingled with versions of the Jewish and Christian faiths, emerged a new synthesis of monotheism: Islam. This faith would bind together the traders and tribal nomads of the Arabian Desert and turn them into a revolutionary force capable of bringing down the ancient empires of the Eastern Romans and the Persians in a whirlwind military campaign of a few short years. These conquerors would then build a new civilisation which fused the language and religion of Arabia with the cities, techniques, learning, and arts inherited from antiquity.

Arabs, Persians, and Byzantines

Turmoil is intellectually fertile. It created each of the great religions. Judaism was forged in the struggle of an embattled ruling class to establish itself in Palestine in the sixth century BC. Christianity has its origins in the bitterness of the oppressed under Roman imperial rule during the first century AD. Islam was a third branch from the same stem. Its early growth, in the 620s AD, took place beneath the gaze of history, a matter of minor squabbles in two remote desert towns in the Hijaz region of western-central Arabia. But its violent eruption would change the world forever.

The Huns had been nomads without any leavening of towns, merchants, and urban culture. Cut adrift from the lifeways of the steppe, they were weightless. Because of this, their military onslaught streaked across dying antiquity and, equally suddenly, was extinguished without a trace. Not so the Arabs. The desert nomads, herders of sheep and goats, breeders of camels and horses, were much like the Huns. But the camel, first domesticated in about 1000 BC, could cross great expanses of desert carrying heavy burdens, and many of the camel breeders had become merchants. Luxury goods arriving at the coastal ports of Iraq, southern Arabia and the Red Sea were then carried overland northwards and westwards by Arab traders. Mecca, Medina, and other Arabian towns grew rich on this trade. The towns, along with the oasis villages on the desert routeways, were also home to communities of artisans and cultivators.

In Arabia, in short, in contrast to the Central Asian steppe, there were complex settlements, social classes, and urban culture. In particular, coexisting with the tribal customs, oral traditions, and polytheistic beliefs of the desert nomads, there was the written Arabic and Judaeo-Christian religion of traders and townsmen.

Often, too, there was conflict. Long-distance trade cut through ties of kinship and tribal allegiances. The desert raid was booty to the tribesman, but robbery to the trader. The tribal blood feud offered protection to local kin, but none to a trader in a distant town.

In places like Mecca and Medina, where nomads and peasants bartered, tribesmen and traders squabbled, and the traditions of desert and town collided, men and women discussed how the world worked – or rather, how they felt it should work. When they did this, they viewed matters in a religious frame. For, in the early medieval world, to consider such things was to reflect on God’s purpose.

Amid this ferment, and experiencing it as inner mental anguish, was a young man of a minor Meccan merchant family. He had visions and believed that God – Allah in Arabic – spoke directly to him. He persuaded a small group of followers that this was true, and some of them began to write down the words he reported Allah as saying to him. His name was Muhammad and his reports of Allah’s words became the Koran.

Islam retained many of the Judaeo-Christian myths and traditions. Abraham and Moses are prophets for Jews, Christians, and Muslims alike. Also common to all three religions is their universalism. Islam cut through both tribal codes and class differences. In place of the many competing gods of rival tribes, there was now one supreme deity. Where clan loyalty and the blood feud had reigned, there were now universal rules of conduct. Instead of abuse of the oppressed – women, slaves, the poor, the marginal – being a matter of indifference, compassion, charity, and protection became moral imperatives. The Muslims formed a community (umma) based on formal equality, universal rights, and a single code of laws. Islam was an attempt to create order in a fractured world.

Little wonder that Muhammad encountered fierce opposition. His mission began around AD 620, but he was driven out of Mecca in AD 622 and forced to find refuge in Medina. There, he built the nucleus of what was to become a mass movement. To his growing politico-religious cadre of eager young men and women, he joined traders seeking commercial advantage, tribal leaders bent on plunder, and townsmen and peasants longing for peace and civil order. Returning to Mecca with an army in AD 630, he was victorious, and the Muslims took control of western-central Arabia.

When Muhammad died in AD 632, his movement might have disintegrated, torn apart by the traditional raiding and feuding of the desert tribes. But it did not, for the first two caliphs (successors), Abu Bakr and ’Umar, chose to direct the violent energy of Arabia against external targets: the Persian and Byzantine (Eastern Roman) Empires.

When the Arab-Islamic armies struck, the old empires shattered. The great cities of antiquity fell like dominoes – Damascus in Syria in AD 636, Ctesiphon in Iraq in AD 637, Babylon-Cairo in Egypt in AD 639, and Alexandria in Egypt in AD 642. Within ten years of his death, the followers of Muhammad had created a huge Middle Eastern empire.

Just as the Huns and Goths had done in Europe two centuries before, the Arabs had found the old empires, for all their pomp and pageantry, to be hollow. Persia and Byzantium had engaged in massive, and ultimately inconclusive, wars for centuries. The most recent, between AD 613 and 628, had left both exhausted, their treasuries depleted, manpower decimated, and populations made resentful by taxation, conscription, and forced requisitions.

The empires had fortifications, armoured warriors, and sophisticated weaponry. The Arabs had the desert and the camel. The Arabian Desert projects northwards, a tongue of sand and gravel, between Syria in the west and Iraq in the east. In these wastes, the camel is supreme, and armies mounted on camels can move like ships at sea. From the desert, suddenly, anywhere, the Arabs would emerge. When they did, lightly equipped and highly mobile, they would destroy the ponderous armies of tight-packed foot and heavy horse deployed against them in a dust cloud of swirling manoeuvres.

The sullen peasants of Syria and Iraq cared nothing for the defeat of their masters. Often they welcomed the Arabs as liberators. Many of the old landlords left. Taxes were lower. Judaism, Christianity, and Persian Zoroastrianism were tolerated; and many soon converted to Islam. Arab rule usually meant a marginally better life.

The Arab conquests continued. Their armies swept along the North African coast, taking Libya, Tunisia, Algeria, and Morocco, before finally crossing the Mediterranean and invading Spain, which was completely overrun by AD 711. Other armies pushed east; Kabul in Afghanistan fell to Islam as early as AD 664.

It had been one of the most extensive, sudden, and transformative campaigns of military conquest in history. But in transforming the world, the conquerors had also transformed themselves; and both processes were highly contradictory and contested. The people of the desert – nomads, traders, and raiders – first exploded across the Middle East and North Africa, and then, having inherited the riches of antiquity, imploded into acrimony, murder, and civil war.

5. The Medieval World (650AD—1500)

Modern capitalism was created in Europe. It first emerged in the fifteenth century, but its origins went back far further in time. Understanding why this was so will require a full chapter in itself. But before we get to it, we must pose another question: why did capitalism not develop at this time in other parts of the world?

In this chapter, we review events in the Middle East, India, China, sub-Saharan Africa, and the Americas in the millennium from about AD 500 to 1500. Despite great cultural achievements, all the civilisations in these regions ran into insuperable barriers to their economic and social development.

Like the Bronze and Iron Age empires of antiquity, the non-European empires of the Middle Ages remained under the control of powerful ruling classes able to monopolise control of surplus and channel it into unproductive expenditure. Technology was harnessed to war, not work, and human creativity was blunted, if not suppressed. Because of this, when they encountered the dynamic forces of expanding mercantile capitalism from about AD 1500 onwards, Asian, African, and American societies would succumb to the ‘guns, germs, and steel’ of the Europeans.

The Abbasid Revolution

The Arab conquests eventually gave Arab rulers and their warrior retinues control of territories that extended from the Atlantic to Afghanistan. They inherited the wealth of Byzantine Syria, Sassanid Iraq, and Visigothic Spain. Such accumulations of power and wealth made a social order based on desert tribes and the caravan trade unsustainable.

The Islamic Empire remained united immediately after Muhammad’s death under the leadership of the first caliph, Abu Bakr, but the second caliph, ’Umar, was murdered in AD 644, the third, ’Uthman, in AD 656, and the fourth, ’Ali, in AD 661.

The crisis of AD 658–61 marked a crucial turning point. ’Ali was overthrown after a full-scale civil war, and not only was he murdered, but so too, some 19 years later, was his son Husayn. The victor in the dynastic struggle was Mu’awiya, who founded the Damascus-based Umayyad dynasty in the year of ’Ali’s murder.

These apparently obscure events are important. ’Ali was the son-in-law of the Prophet. Mu’awiya was a cousin of the murdered caliph ’Uthman, a onetime intimate of Muhammad. The Islamic politico-religious elite was tearing itself apart. The rift has never been healed. There is a direct line from ’Uthman and Mu’awiya to today’s Sunni Muslims, and from ’Ali and Husayn to today’s Shi’ites. The Umayyads wanted to enjoy the fruits of empire. The followers of ’Ali and Husayn wanted to preserve the purity of early Islam. It was, in part, a class split, and the Sunni/Shi’ite division still has something of this character even today.

For a century, the Umayyads retained power, held the empire together, and exploited the wealth and skills of the old civilisations. The Arab world enjoyed rich irrigation agriculture, sophisticated urban crafts, a dynamic banking system, and a strong tradition of scholarship, literature, and art. The Western world, by contrast, was living in the ‘Dark Ages’.

Two contradictions undermined the Umayyad Empire and eventually brought it down. First, the geography of the Arab world contained several natural economic units, in which separate ruling classes with interests of their own rapidly developed. Distance limited the effectiveness of Umayyad rule. How could armies in Damascus expect to control Baghdad, Cairo, Tunis, and Fez?

Second, the Umayyads represented the Arab warrior aristocracy which had carried out the original Islamic conquests and then settled in the ancient cities of Syria. This elite built palaces and spent lavishly on architecture and luxury goods. They were supported by the Arab rank and file, who were settled in garrison towns, exempt from taxation, and supported by pensions paid for out of booty and tribute. The Umayyad ruling class was small and parasitic, and it rested on a narrow base of military freeloaders.

The economy, though, was booming. War between the old empires had devastated farms, disrupted trade, and drained away taxes and manpower. The Pax Islamica meant that agriculture and trade again flourished, ancient towns hollowed out by decay were transformed into commercial powerhouses, and the merchant and artisan classes grew in number, prosperity, and assertiveness. Here were the social roots of a new revolution.

Many converted to Islam and this created a fiscal problem for the Umayyad state, since Muslims were exempt from taxation. The state’s solution was to create a new category of second-class Muslims: new converts were designated mawali and excluded from Arab privilege. A barrier to social advancement within Arab-Islamic society was being constructed.

By the middle of the eighth century AD, the Arabs were a small military aristocracy living off the tribute paid by a growing mass of urban-based Muslim merchants and artisans. The latter provided a ready audience for Islamic dissidents like the Shi’ites, the yet more radical Kharijites, and various messianic mahdis (guided ones). None of the dissident movements was strong enough to break the power of the Umayyad state. What was decisive was an opportunist split in the Arab ruling class itself.

Abu’l-’Abbas, a descendant of Muhammad’s family, built an underground network of supporters in Iraq, placed himself at the head of the various dissident groups, and then launched an insurrection to overthrow the ruling dynasty. The Umayyads were defeated and a new Abbasid dynasty was founded in AD 750, with its capital in Baghdad. Power passed to a broader-based and more inclusive urban elite of officials, merchants, and Islamic scholars and clerics. Arab ethnicity and warrior status lost much of their significance. Agriculture, trade, and towns continued to develop.

Even so, the two contradictions of Early Islamic empire were soon reasserted, now on a higher level. The towns were the centres of Islamic life, but they were largely self-sufficient and independent, the urban elites preoccupied with agriculture, trade, craft production, religious observance, and the maintenance of order. Their concerns were parochial.

The Abbasid caliphs, on the other hand, were threatened by secession on the fringes of their empire, coups by disaffected elite factions, and revolt from below by religious sectarians or sections of the exploited rural masses. The Early Islamic state was therefore compelled to operate over and above society, becoming little more than a mechanism for accumulating the military resources necessary to perpetuate the ruling dynasty. A wide gap separated the mass of Middle Eastern society from the Early Islamic state that ruled them.

The Umayyads had already removed themselves from civil society by building palaces and consuming luxuries. The Abbasids took this much further. To free themselves from subordination to the Baghdad urban elite, they built a magnificent new palace-city on the River Tigris at Samarra. This first palace, built in AD 836–42, was far bigger than any of the palaces of medieval Europe. Yet two more palaces on the same scale were built in the next 40 years.

The Abbasid state was further de-anchored when it replaced the old Arab tribal host with a new army of mercenaries, mainly Turks from Central Asia, who were quartered at Samarra.

The court and the army were sustained by taxes, especially those levied on non-Muslims. The tribes and towns of Islamic society, meanwhile, developed strong local identities and ideologies. Though Islam created a single, overarching allegiance throughout the Arab-ruled world, no strong ties of any kind bound state and society. This explains the instability of the Abbasid state.

During the ninth and tenth centuries, the unity of the Islamic Empire disintegrated: the Abbasid caliph soon faced a rival Fatimid dynasty in Cairo, an Umayyad one at Córdoba in Spain, and numerous independent and semi-independent minor rulers elsewhere. Conflicts between and within these polities increased the cost of state power, drained national treasuries, and further weakened the Early Islamic rulers. During the eleventh century, the Abbasid caliphate effectively collapsed. The caliph’s Seljuk Turkish mercenaries, reinforced by drafts from Central Asia and legitimised by their conversion to Islam, seized power for themselves.

It was a measure of the state’s lack of social roots that it could be usurped by its own mercenaries. Among the population at large, worn down by taxes to pay for palaces, soldiers, and dynastic warfare, there was little enthusiasm for any of the ruling regimes. The region, moreover, remained a mosaic of minorities, so that political tension easily turned into resistance based on ethnic and religious difference.

By the end of the eleventh century the Middle East was a divided region of weak and unpopular regimes. For this it would pay a terrible price, when, in November 1095, Pope Urban II, speaking at Clermont in France, issued a call to the Western feudal elite to ‘hasten to carry aid to your brethren in the East’. The Crusades were about to begin.

Hindus, Buddhists, and the Gupta Empire

More than half a millennium separated the fall of India’s Mauryan Empire in the late third century BC and the rise of the Gupta Empire in the early fourth century AD. Economic and social change in the interim altered the foundations of imperialism.

Agriculture prospered: there were more crop varieties, the systematic use of irrigation, and highly organised and regulated village communities. The village was a key administrative unit. It included the homes of the villagers, their plots, irrigation works (mainly water storage-tanks or wells), cattle enclosures, waste lands, the village common, woods around the village, streams passing through village lands, the village temple and its lands, the cremation ground, and, of course, the cultivated fields themselves, both ‘wet’ (irrigated) and ‘dry’. Local affairs were managed by a village council, a village court, and occasional village assemblies.

Trade also expanded. Indian merchants were integrated into a global market, with links to Arabia, Western Asia, and the Mediterranean in one direction, and China and South-East Asia in the other. Textiles, metals, precious stones, spices, salt, and exotic animals were among the commodities exchanged. There was work for potters, weavers, metalworkers, architects, engineers, bricklayers, and dealers in every imaginable tradable commodity, from corn to ivory. Coins were minted in large quantities. Banking and money-lending became common practice. Ports and towns flourished. Just as village communities were highly organised, so too were merchants and artisans. Guilds, corporations, and cooperatives set rules of work, regulated the quality and prices of goods produced, and provided for the welfare and security of their members.

The growth of commerce both facilitated the spread of Buddhism and provided a mass audience for its apostles. Hinduism, the religion of the elite – the rulers, landowners, priests, and soldiers associated with the dynasties – upheld an essentially static, traditional order based on caste and state. It was the religion of a class-ridden and militaristic society divided into rival polities. Commerce, by contrast, cut across social boundaries, dissolved social distinctions, and created new social realities. Its imperatives contradicted those of caste and state. The spirit of commerce found its ideological expression in Buddhism.

The Buddha (‘Enlightened One’) was a Hindu warrior-prince called Siddhartha Gautama (c. 563–483 BC) who had broken with his caste, undergone a profound religious experience, and spent the rest of his life preaching a new philosophy. The essence of his teaching was that true happiness and contentment arises when one accepts the natural and social orders, recognises that everything is in a state of flux, and achieves a spiritual peace of mind above the froth of everyday life.

Buddhism’s radicalism lay in its universalism and its relative marginalisation of such features of the status quo as property, rank, and status. It enjoined a way of life that was purposeful, morally upright, and equally open to all. As with all great religions, the original message of Buddhism was later corrupted by contact with intractable social realities. Yet it would retain its appeal, not just to merchants, artisans, and townspeople, but to many among the class victims of ancient and medieval India’s mainly Hindu elite.

The villages, urban guilds, and Hindu and Buddhist temples gave Indian civil society a form and substance it had lacked under the Mauryans. This new socio-economic order of what is sometimes called the Classical Period (c. AD 300–700) shaped and limited the Gupta Empire erected on it.

The empire was constructed by three successive warrior-kings, Chandra Gupta I (c. AD 320–35), Samudra Gupta (c. AD 335–75), and Chandra Gupta II (c. AD 375–415). Like the Mauryan Empire, it originated in the rich Ganges Valley, with its capital at Patna, from where it spread first across the plains of northern India, then to the Deccan of central India, and finally to southern India.

The Gupta polity was parasitic. The state infrastructure was a hybrid of landholding and tribute payment. Many officials were paid in land: they did administrative or military service in return for their estates, which were often held tax-free. Peasant villages, on the other hand, paid a land tax of between a tenth and a sixth of their produce. This surplus supported the Gupta state’s militarism. From the point of view of the peasants, of course, it was waste expenditure.

On the other hand, the strength of civil society meant that state surplus accumulation was limited. Local princes and chieftains enjoyed considerable autonomy under Gupta rule. State officials functioned as feudal estate-owners. The peasants had their village councils and assemblies, the merchants and artisans their urban guilds and temples. Gupta centralisation, therefore, was incomplete. The empire’s administrative infrastructure was shallow, the arteries of state accumulation clogged. Consequently, the carapace of Gupta militarism shattered easily under pressure.

The Gupta dynasty held its vast domain for only a century. Then, relatively quickly during the sixth century AD, the empire dissolved. The second attempt to unite India under an imperial dynasty had proved as fragile and short-lived as the first. The catalyst of collapse was an incursion of steppe-nomads – the Huns – entering north-western India down the traditional invasion route from Central Asia, through the Hindu Kush, into the Indus Valley. But the fact that the Gupta Empire fragmented so easily exposed its lack of substance.

India again broke up into separate polities. For a millennium, it remained a shifting mosaic of rival powers, permanently at loggerheads, often at war. Throughout this period, there was little connection between the rival dynastic states and the world of village, production, and commerce. The states floated above society, parasitic on it, creaming off surplus, yet otherwise detached. Military competition forced the states to accumulate and made them oppressive. But none could accumulate enough to achieve sufficient military power to defeat their enemies and establish a new empire. The resistance of landowners, merchants, and villagers was too great.

On the other hand, the weight of military infrastructures bore down on civil society. Trade declined and the pace of progress slowed. There was a ‘feudalisation’ of society. The caste system hardened. Elite culture became mystical and scholastic. Villages became inward-looking and conservative. The cyclical theories of time, which the major Indian religions shared, expressed an historical reality. The separation between state and society, and the contradictory demands of each, trapped the Indian subcontinent in an economic impasse.

Chinese History's Revolving Door

The construction of the Qin Empire, the first in Chinese history, had been a revolutionary act. The Bronze Age Shang Dynasty (1523–1027 BC) had ruled only in the Yellow River region of north-west China. The Iron Age Zhou elite (1027–221 BC) had never ruled an effectively centralised empire. During the Warring States Period (403–221 BC) any semblance of unity had been lost as nine or ten separate states competed for power. It was therefore the achievement of the King of Qin, Shi Huangdi, one of history’s greatest and most brutal conquerors, to impose real national unity on the Chinese for the first time. The dynasty he founded did not long survive his death in 210 BC; but the empire, under one dynasty or another, was repeatedly reconstructed. In India, empire was exceptional and division into rival polities the norm. In China, after 221 BC, the opposite was true. Why was this?

India and China were both mixed feudal-tributary systems in which the elite was supported in part by landholding and in part by state salaries paid for out of tax revenues. But the balance was different in each case. In India, the imperial state was weak relative to local rulers, landowners, and merchants; consequently, it collapsed easily under pressure. The Mauryan (c. 321–180 BC), Gupta (c. AD 320–550), and Mughal (AD 1526–1707) Empires were imperial interludes separated by long periods of ‘warring states’. In Chinese history, it is the succession of imperial dynasties that dominates the sequence: Han (206 BC–AD 220), Sui (AD 581-618), Tang (AD 618-907), Song (AD 960–1126), Yuan or Mongol (AD 1279–1368), Ming (AD 1368–1644), and Manchu (AD 1644–1912). In the two millennia before 1800, India was united for only a quarter of the time, China for three-quarters: a decisive difference.

In China, the central imperial state was a much more ruthless, powerful, and successful exploiter. This had three consequences. First, more secure, it was less militaristic. Second, with a large share of the available surplus and only modest military needs, it could invest in public works to raise productivity and increase the tax base further. Third, with its power unchecked by other social forces, it tended to become over-exploitative.

China is blessed with many navigable rivers. These were linked by massive canals to create a network of waterways 80,000 km long. This opened China up to both internal and overseas trade, giving merchants easy access to a vast market. This in turn stimulated agricultural and industrial production. Shipbuilding flourished, boosted by a host of technical innovations. The Chinese produced ships large enough to carry 1,000 people. Iron production in the eleventh century was greater than that of Britain in the eighteenth. China possessed gunpowder 240 years before the Europeans, printed books 500 years before, and manufactured porcelain 700 years before.

Medieval China spawned mega-cities. The Song Dynasty capital of Kaifeng enclosed an area twelve times the size of contemporary Paris. The city of Hangzhou housed at least a million and a half and perhaps as many as four million people at a time when the population of London was well below 100,000.

Towns could be huge, but they did not evolve into independent power-centres, and remained dominated by central state officials. The Tang Dynasty capital of Chang’an was the economic and cultural centre of the empire at the time. It was a great trading city of a million people. But it was overshadowed by its imperial palace and government offices, and its hundred or so walled residential wards, laid out in a grid of rectangular blocks, were locked at night.

Merchants as a class did not seek power. They aspired to personal advancement by educating their sons and entering the exclusive class of mandarins, the literate state officials who formed a highly privileged bureaucratic elite. Mandarins in turn aspired to ownership of country estates. The social ideal of the Chinese ruling class was the gentry official, not the merchant bourgeois. This is a measure of the central imperial state’s dominance over civil society.

The ideological supremacy of Legalism and Confucianism also testifies to the power of the state. Legalism argued that the smooth functioning of the state was the basis of the general good and that state officials were therefore its embodiment. For many, this was too crude. What guarantee was there that administrators would not be corrupt and incompetent? The Chinese philosopher Confucius (c. 551–479 BC) supplied one answer. The son of a nobleman who became a leading official and philosopher of the state of Lu in the Warring States Period, Confucius taught respect for tradition and the social order, but stressed the importance of honesty, conscientiousness, and self-control.

Nevertheless, as elsewhere, the contradictions and oppression of an imperial society gave rise to more radical philosophies. Taoism advocated withdrawal from a world tainted by the excesses of greed, violence, and luxury. Harmony and contentment depended on keeping the opposing forces of yin and yang in balance. Buddhism was also influential and eventually made more converts in China than in India. To subordinate social classes it seemed to offer richer spiritual succour than the barren ideologies of self-satisfied state officials. For China was far from enjoying the harmony idealised by the mandarins. The life of peasants was one of endless drudgery in the grain fields of northern China or the rice paddies of the Central Plain. State officials and local landlords took up to half the produce. The margin of safety was almost nil. A bad harvest meant millions starved.

The Great Wall, the thousands of kilometres of canals, the imperial palaces, the huge walled cities – all depended on exploiting the peasantry. Since they were unorganised, peasants’ voices went unheard, and bitterness accumulated in the depths of the Chinese countryside. Chinese history is punctuated by a succession of massive peasant rebellions. The Qin, Han, Tang, Yuan, Ming, and Manchu were all brought down by popular revolt.

Revolts were frequent, though most were unsuccessful. When a dynasty actually fell to revolt, it did so as part of a wider crisis, sometimes involving foreign invaders, always active opposition by groups of officials, landowners, or merchants. But it was peasant revolt that typically provided the main destructive force.

Destructive; but not constructive. The peasants, driven to desperation by poverty and bullying, could form a militia to overthrow the tax-collectors. But they would then disperse to their villages. As a class, scattered across the length and breadth of the countryside, dedicated to their family and farm, largely ignorant of, and isolated from, the wider world, they could not create an alternative state in their own image. Thus the limit of peasant ambition was to replace a ‘bad’ emperor with a ‘good’ one. And in the absence of an urban class – a bourgeoisie, intelligentsia, or proletariat – able to provide revolutionary leadership, peasant revolt could go no further.

Political revolution did not lead to social transformation, merely to the replacement of one dynasty by another. For two millennia Chinese history was a revolving door. This did not change until contact with another world subjected it to a series of shocks sufficient to bring down the entire imperial system. But that did not happen until the twentieth century.

Africa: Cattle-Herders, Ironmasters, and Trading States

Eurasia is a gigantic east–west thoroughfare extending over 9,600 km. For thousands of years, people and ideas have moved along this thoroughfare and its many branches. Because Eurasia is aligned east–west, routeways are formed by its uniform climatic zones. In particular, the Eurasian steppes run almost unbroken from the Carpathian Mountains in Central Europe to the Pacific Ocean. Along this great corridor came the Aryans, the Huns, the Turks, and the Mongols. Down its byways spilled Greeks, Celts, Goths, and Slavs.

Traders, invaders, and settlers carried ideas along Eurasia’s many routeways. When they did, because of uniform climate zones, what worked in one place also worked in others. All the great domesticates of the Agricultural Revolution – barley, wheat, and rice; cattle, sheep, goat, pigs, and chickens – were transferable.

Africa was different. Africa runs north–south for 6,500 km. As it does so, it passes across great barriers and through several climatic zones: from north to south, coastal plain, desert, savannah, tropical forest, savannah, desert, and coastal plain again.

The desert and the forest are barriers to movement and not amenable to farmers. There is also disease, especially that borne by the tsetse fly, which feeds on the blood of humans and animals. And, for all its variety and exoticism, African fauna does not include a disease-resistant traction animal strong enough to pull a plough. Geography determined that Africa would develop differently from Eurasia. Constraints were greater, opportunities fewer. Africans were as capable of great art, architecture, and engineering as Romans, Arabs, and Chinese; but physical barriers prevented them establishing great imperial civilisations.

The advance of farming was slow and patchy. Sub-Saharan Africa had no equivalent of the Nile Valley or Mesopotamia, the Indus or the Ganges, the Yellow River or the Yangtze; no giant bread baskets able to sustain an empire. On the other hand, ancient rock carvings in the Sahara depict men herding cattle and driving two-wheeled chariots – introductions from the north. From about 1000 BC to AD 600 the trans-Saharan trade routes linked West Africa to the Mediterranean and began its transformation. Sub-Saharan Africa traded gold, iron, slaves, salt, and ivory, all in growing demand in the Mediterranean. Back down the trade routes came knowledge of ironworking and cattle husbandry.

In developing West Africa, the Niger was a vital line of communication for the movement of trade goods and ideas. Running from west to east, it describes a vast curve through the whole region, flowing through savannah and forest to the coast, while its many large tributaries spread the influence of river-borne culture deep into the West African hinterland.

Iron, cattle, and the trade along the Niger were the basis of the Nok culture of Nigeria (c. 500 BC–AD 200). Ironworking began there as early as c. 450 BC, and African smiths were soon pioneering new techniques and forms. At the same time, African potters were demonstrating exceptional skill in the fashioning of life-size terracotta heads.

Mediterranean civilisation continued to act as an indirect catalyst of West African development, and as the demand for high-value commodities grew, larger surpluses could be accumulated. These created the basis, first, for trading towns, and later, for trading states.

Jenne-Jeno, a major trading town on an island in the Niger between AD 400 and 800, was surrounded by a 2 km-long wall made of cylindrical blocks. The interior was filled with round and rectangular mud-brick houses. Jenne-Jeno was part of the Kingdom of Ghana, a trading state which controlled the Niger Delta and, at its height, extended across 800 km of West Africa. The Arabs called it ‘the Land of Gold’.

Elsewhere other regions of Africa had created their own civilisations. The Kushites or Merowites controlled much of the Upper Nile (modern Sudan) between c. 900 BC and AD 325, maintaining their independence against Egyptian, Hellenistic, and Roman threats. The Kushites were finally overthrown by the Ethiopians. The small Red Sea trading state of Axum had grown from c. AD 50 into the Horn of Africa’s major regional power. Later, though contained by the Arabs, the Ethiopian state would survive as an Early Christian enclave in an otherwise Muslim region, notable for its spectacular rock-hewn churches.

But West Africa was the continent’s cultural powerhouse. It was from here that iron and cattle were traded across the continent. The agents of transmission were Bantu-speaking migrants. Their folk movements reached into East Africa and the Lakes during the half millennium after 500 BC, then deep into southern Africa during the subsequent half-millennium.

Ancient and medieval Africa was an extreme example of what has been called ‘combined and uneven development’. Hunter-gatherers, cattle pastoralists, and slash-and-burn cultivators coexisted, for Africa’s geography prevented the dominance of any one way of life. Furthermore, under the influence of foreign trade, Africa made the leap straight from the Stone Age to the Iron Age: there was no intermediate Bronze Age.

Between the eighth and twelfth centuries AD, Arab influence spread. Arabs traded with West Africa both north–south across the Sahara and east–west across the savannah belt. Towns like Timbuktu grew rich on Arab trade. The Arabs also established a string of trading settlements such as Kilwa along the coast of East Africa.

Again, Africa changed in response to foreign impact, and again, in responding revealed the creativity and dynamism of its own people. Between AD 1200 and 1750 a succession of trading states rose and fell in West Africa – Mali, Hausa, Benin, Kanem-Borno, Songhai, Akan/Ashanti, and others – while in Central-East Africa, the stimulus provided by coastal trade produced the civilisation of Great Zimbabwe.

The Benin civilisation of the Niger Delta produced bronzework of the highest standard, its famous bronze heads reminiscent of the Nok’s terracotta sculpture; they are recognised today as among the greatest masterpieces of medieval art. Great Zimbabwe is renowned for its architecture. The Great Enclosure was the largest building in sub-Saharan Africa at the time, comprising a wall some 250 m long, 5 m thick, and 10 m high.

The wealth of the rulers of Great Zimbabwe was based on cattle and the trade in gold, iron, copper, and tin. The pattern was the same as in Benin and other West African states. Geographical constraints limited the surpluses that could be accrued from agriculture. All of Africa’s many Urban Revolutions depended on trade.

From 1000 BC until the arrival of the Europeans from the fifteenth century AD onwards, the main lines of African social development were contingent on the activities of others. Geography condemned Africa to dependent status.

New World Empires: Maya, Aztec, and Inca

Hominids first evolved in Africa about 2.5 million years ago, modern humans about 200,000 years ago. But they may not have reached the Americas until as recently as 15,000 years ago.

Africa is the oldest continent, America the youngest. Yet the civilisations of sub-Saharan Africa and the Americas share key characteristics that set them apart from those of Eurasia. Both were constrained in similar ways by geographical barriers.

The Americas run north–south for almost 16,000 km through all the climatic zones. Because of this, what works in one part of the Americas often does not work in others. Different ecosystems require different subsistence strategies, so the value of cultural exchange between climatic zones is less than its value within a climatic zone.

The Americas were well endowed with plant staples – maize, potatoes, squash, beans, and manioc – but not with animal domesticates. Eurasia was home to the wild progenitors of cattle, sheep, goats, pigs, hens, oxen, horses, mules, donkeys, and camels. These provided meat, milk, wool, leather, traction, and transport. The Americas, by contrast, had only the llama, the turkey, and the guinea-pig.

In one key respect, Africa and the Americas were different. Africa is not cut off from Eurasia, and African civilisation developed under the influence of Egyptian, Roman, and Arab traders. Crucially, Africa received cattle and iron from Eurasia, and its own production of metals and other commodities was substantially a response to external demand. The Americas received no such cultural endowment. They were cut off from the global exchange of knowledge and techniques that is responsible for most advances in labour productivity. Consequently, the Americans had no wheel, no iron, and no plough.

These constraints limited the development of civilisation in North America. When the Europeans arrived, most North Americans were either Upper Palaeolithic hunter-gatherers or Early Neolithic hoe-cultivators. The proto-urban civilisations of the Pueblo farmers of the South-West (AD 700–1350) and the temple-mound builders of the Middle Mississippi (AD 700–1450) had already disappeared.

In Central and South America, on the other hand, the Europeans encountered extant civilisations that were both fully urbanised and representative of much older traditions – the Olmecs, Maya, Toltecs, and Aztecs in Mexico (1200 BC–AD 1521) and the Chavin, Nazca, Moche, Chimú, and Inca in Peru (900 BC–AD 1532).

The fact that American civilisation developed entirely independently of Eurasia is the ultimate proof of the common biological identity of humanity: all ‘races’ are equally capable of cultural creativity. On the other hand, American civilisation faced severe limitations. Its technology was Stone Age. Gold, silver, and copper were used only for ornaments. Its agricultural method was Early Neolithic, and because productivity was low and the surplus small, American civilisation tended to be brutal. Successful accumulation often required extreme exploitation and violence.

The Mayan civilisation of southern Mexico and Guatemala lasted from c. 300 BC to AD 900. It was divided into rival city-states under hereditary dynasties of kings who identified themselves with deities. The Mayans built monumental ceremonial centres consisting of plazas surrounded by stone-built pyramids crowned with palaces, temples, and altars. A true Urban Revolution occurred in the Classic Maya period (c. AD 300–800), when ceremonial centres like Tikal swelled into jungle cities of up to 50,000 people.

Architecture, sculpture, and painting were developed. Obsidian and jade were worked into objects of quality. Writing, astronomical observation, and calendrical calculation were advanced. But it was the religion and ideology of the ruling class – not the needs of farmers – that underlay these cultural achievements. Art and science were at the service of militaristic god-kings and a theocracy. Wars were fought in part to obtain captives to sacrifice to Mayan gods. Art depicts victims being tortured in the presence of Mayan lords. Despite intensive agriculture, including the cultivation on raised fields of maize, beans, squash, chilli peppers, and root crops, Mayan technique was primitive. Without ploughs or animal fertiliser, soil exhaustion must have been a constant problem.

Against the odds, an Early Neolithic economy had given rise to an Urban Revolution and a network of royal city-states. But the Mayan kings and priests were parasitic, creaming off precious surplus and wasting it on war, pyramid building, and the religious mysticism that legitimised their existence. Like other ancient and medieval civilisations, the Mayan eventually collapsed under its own weight, the cost of the elite and the state bearing down ever more heavily on the economic base of the system.

Waves of barbarian invaders from the north entered the geopolitical space left by Mayan decline. The Toltecs eventually established dominance in central Mexico from c. AD 950 to 1170. This was followed by another period of fragmentation and warfare. The Aztec civilisation which emerged from this chaos bore the preceding period’s hallmarks. It appears to have been an exceptionally brutal consequence of the contradiction between primitive technique and imperial ambition (though we must be cautious, for the Spanish writers who supply much of our information were deeply hostile to native civilisation).

The Aztecs founded their capital and ceremonial centre at Tenochtitlán in AD 1345. Between AD 1428 and 1519 they built an extensive empire. The Aztec state was a centralised autocracy, with a warrior and high-priestly ruling class and a large professional army. There appears to have been no attempt to assimilate subject-peoples or develop productive technique. Tribute – gold, cotton, turquoise, feathers, incense, and vast quantities of food – were sent to Tenochtitlán. Huge numbers of war captives were also taken there to be sacrificed at the Great Temple, their hearts torn out as an offering to the Aztec sun-god, their bodies then tipped down the steps.

The Aztec Empire was a crude military imperialism. Its brutality and futility express in an extreme form the limitations of an Urban Revolution based on Early Neolithic technique. The rate of exploitation, and the terrorism necessary to maintain it, is proportional to the inadequacy of the available surplus. The violence of the Aztec state and the poverty of its subject-people are two aspects of a single contradiction.

The Inca Empire of Peru began to expand in AD 1197, two centuries before the Aztec Empire of central Mexico. But it achieved its greatest extent at the same time – in AD 1493–1525 – and shared some of the Aztec Empire’s essential characteristics. The Inca state was a centralised military autocracy, with a large professional army, and an administrative bureaucracy which attempted to control the daily life of every subject. At the heart of the empire were great monumental complexes, such as the capital at Cuzco, the fortress guarding it at Sacsahuaman, and the ceremonial centre at Machu Picchu.

The Incas controlled an area some 3,200 km long and 515 km wide comprising a mix of coastal plain, high mountains, and dense forests. They constructed a network of roads totalling an estimated 40,000 km, incorporating numerous tunnels, bridges, and causeways, with official rest-houses at intervals of a day’s journey.

Both the Aztec and Inca Empires were anomalies. In central Mexico and the Peruvian Andes, ancient empires, with their ruling elites, professional armies, and monumental complexes, were constructed on a Stone Age economic base. The prodigious waste expenditure of the ruling class required ruthless surplus extraction. Imperial rule, therefore, depended on terror. Aztec and Inca rulers were hated by their subject-peoples. Rebellion was rife.

In consequence, when the Spanish arrived in the early sixteenth century, the Aztec and Inca imperial states shattered. This was not simply a function of the superior military technique of a more advanced social order: it was also because the common people either welcomed the defeat of their masters or even participated actively in the struggle to bring them down.

6. European Feudalism (650AD—1500)

Having summarised developments in the rest of the world over a millennium, this chapter turns exclusively to Europe in the same period. Why? Because capitalism and industrial society have their origins in medieval Europe. This great transformation – matched in scale and significance only by the Agricultural Revolution – was pioneered on the north-western fringe of the Eurasian landmass.

That this was so was the result of complex interactions between geography, politics, and society over several centuries. It depended on the economic connection between Europeans and the sea; on the social relationships between lords, vassals, and peasants; on the role of merchants, towns, and trade; on the endless wars waged by feudal magnates; on the eternal fragmentation of Europe into a patchwork of warring states; and on the class struggles mounted by ordinary men and women to improve their lot.

Understanding these interactions and the series of conjunctures that gave rise to capitalism has been one of the central preoccupations of Marxist historiography for almost two centuries. We must give the problem the attention it deserves.

The Cycles and Arrows of Time

In Chapter 2, we discussed ‘how history works’. It may be useful to pause to review some more of the general lessons of the narrative so far.

History is formed of cycles and arrows. History’s cycles reflect Nature, a cycle of life, growth, death, and new life. The production cycles of farmers and the reproduction cycles of families are examples. History’s arrows, on the other hand, are the linear progressions of innovation, evolution, and sometimes revolution by which the social world is periodically transformed.

History consists of both. Nature, society, and humankind must at all times reproduce themselves; the only alternative is extinction. Much of what we do is unavoidably repetitive and predictable. But history never repeats itself exactly. Each historical conjuncture is unique. (By conjuncture – or state of affairs – I mean a specific moment in historical time and geographical space in which related economic, social, and political events take place.) What accounts for the uniqueness of each conjuncture is the combination of continuity – history’s cycle – and change – history’s arrow. But there are critical differences of degree from one conjuncture to another. When history’s cycle is dominant, change is quantitative and limited. When the arrow is dominant, it is qualitative and transforming.

Let us recall the three engines of history: the accumulation of knowledge, technique, and productivity; the struggle between rival ruling classes for control of surplus; and the struggle between classes over the size and distribution of surplus. It is the interaction of these three engines that drives the historical process.

Iron tools transformed ancient agriculture, bringing new land into cultivation, increasing the productivity of labour, and massively enlarging the social surplus. Technology was the prime mover. Human labour, after all, has its own dynamic. No worker chooses a blunt tool when there is a sharp one to hand.

The rise of the Roman Empire, on the other hand, though based on iron technology, was powered by military struggle between rival ruling classes and rival factions within the Roman elite. Here, struggle at the top for control of surplus was the prime mover.

The flowering of Classical Greek civilisation in the fifth century BC – another Iron Age culture – is an instance where the struggle between classes was decisive. It was the hoplite revolution of the sixth century BC that created city-state democracies and the context for naturalistic art, classical architecture, drama, and the academic disciplines of natural science, philosophy, and history.

The engines always operate in specific natural and social frameworks. Geography both provides opportunities and imposes constraints, and the tradition of social institutions, practices, and customs inherited from the past constitutes the context for further historical development.

Here is an example. The geography of Eurasia spread people, resources, tools, and ideas much more effectively than did that of Africa. But the strength of the centralised state prevented the development of an independent urban bourgeoisie in medieval China at the eastern limit of this landmass; whereas the weakness of the feudal states of Europe allowed one to develop at its western edge. This is a key part of the explanation as to why capitalism first arose in Europe.

Sometimes the interaction of history’s three engines produces only a repeating cycle; sometimes it produces gradual change; and sometimes revolutionary crisis and radical social transformation. Among the Arabs, Indians, Chinese, Africans, and Americans, history’s cycle was dominant through the long centuries from antiquity to modernity. There was change, but it was slow. Change was quantitative rather than qualitative.

The lives of peasant-farmers, who made up the overwhelming bulk of the population in ancient and medieval times, were dominated by history’s cycle. Even when they rebelled, as they sometimes did if exploitation intensified, they merely installed new leaders and then went back to their farms.

The lives of merchants were more changeable. Some were lucky and became rich. Some simply kept going. Others failed and went bankrupt. But their individual fates did not affect how society as a whole worked. Merchants oiled the wheels of the production process; they did not power it. They occupied the interstices of society, not its commanding heights.

The lives of rulers were more changeable still, with the rise and fall of dynasties, empires, and civilisations. But this made little difference to the lives of those they ruled. The identities of the rulers – personifications of the competitive logic of military imperialism – were a secondary matter. One king was much the same as another.

Only in one part of the world did a unique combination of circumstances and forces arise that was sufficiently powerful to generate a dynamic of change capable of producing radical social transformation. It had happened once before: the first great transformation was the Agricultural Revolution, which occurred in different parts of the world between about 7500 BC and as late as the twentieth century AD. All ancient and medieval civilisations were essentially the result of this revolution. The great majority of the population worked on the land and the great bulk of the social surplus took the form of agricultural produce. But in the last 250 years, the social world has been transformed again, with the development of industrial capitalism. This second transformation has created the social world we inhabit today. Because it began in Europe, and from there spread to the rest of the world, we must from this point onwards focus disproportionate attention on events in this relatively small part of the globe.

The Peculiarity of Europe

At first, the predominance of Europe in world history since c. 1500 can seem surprising. Europe is but an outgrowth of Asia, and the great civilisations of both Bronze Age and Iron Age arose elsewhere – in Egypt, Iraq, Persia, India, and China. Even Greek and Roman civilisation were centred on the Mediterranean rather than Europe as such. By comparison, prehistoric and ancient Europe appears peripheral and backward.

Yet Europe has a unique geography. The relationship between Europe and the sea is more intimate than that of any other continent. Europe is a small continent formed of fingers and fists of land that project into the seas surrounding it on three sides – the Baltic, North Sea, Atlantic, Mediterranean, and Black Sea. There is no great expanse of continental interior. No European is ever far from the sea. As Socrates put it, Europeans cluster like ‘frogs around a pond’.

Europe’s deeply indented coastline is 37,000 km long – equivalent to the circumference of the earth – and the interior is penetrated by numerous long, highly navigable rivers. The Volga, Dnieper, Vistula, Oder, Elbe, Rhine, Seine, Loire, Garonne, Ebro, Po, Danube: these and others have been Europe’s great thoroughfares for thousands of years.

Though great mountain ranges extend across much of the continent, there are ways round. The Middle European Corridor runs from the steppes of south Russia, through the Danube’s Iron Gates, across the Hungarian Plain, and on into Western Europe. The North European Plain is an open expanse extending from Moscow to Paris. Both have been routes of mass movement across Europe from the Neolithic to the Nazis.

North to south movement is harder, but the rivers make it possible, as do the numerous mountain passes. None of the ranges constitutes an impenetrable barrier. In any case, north–south movement matters less than movement from east to west: Eurasia is aligned east–west, and that is generally the way in which people, goods, and ideas have moved.

European topography harbours a greater variety of eco-zones than that of any other area of comparable size. The Gulf Stream, originating in the tropics and sweeping around the western, northern, and eastern fringes of the Atlantic, moderates the European climate and shapes a series of distinct zones. There is the frozen tundra of the far north; the cold forests of the taiga belt of northern Russia and Scandinavia; the wide temperate zone of deciduous woodland in Western Europe; the open steppes of Central and Eastern Europe, and the warm Mediterranean littoral between the mountains and the sea in the far south. This has had a decisive impact on the development of economy, society, and culture. To grasp its significance, we must distinguish between a single event, a conjuncture (or state of affairs), and what some historians call the longue durée (long duration).

The Battle of Naseby in 1645 was a single event. The English Revolution of 1640–60 was a conjuncture. But the rise of a ‘middling sort’ of minor gentry, yeoman farmers, and prosperous urban artisans and traders – the people who made the revolution – was a longue durée spanning three to four centuries.

Particularly in the context of the longue durée, geography matters. It does not drive history – history is driven by the decisions and actions of people – but it helps create the context within which history takes place. Geography both imposes constraints and provides opportunities. Because humans are part of nature, geography determines what is possible.

Because of its geography, Europe is pre-eminently a continent of communication, conflict, and interaction. People, goods, and ideas are able to move rapidly. The weak, the sluggish, the conservative are vulnerable. Europe’s openness places a premium on dynamism and innovation.

In a world of roads, railways, and airlines, we struggle to grasp the centrality of water transport before the Industrial Revolution. An ox will consume the equivalent of its own load in a month of haulage work. In the same period, the crew of a river barge or a seagoing merchantman will travel much further and consume only a tiny fraction of their cargo. It is no accident that the most advanced parts of early modern Europe – and of the world – were also the most watery. The world’s first bourgeois revolution took place in a country of islands, estuaries, reclaimed land, and drainage dykes: the Netherlands. Its second took place in one surrounded by the sea: Britain.

Only once in its history has even half of Europe been united in a stable imperial polity. The Roman Empire of the first to the fifth century AD included the whole of Europe west of the Rhine and south of the Danube. Other comparable imperial projects – those of Charlemagne, Philip II, Louis XIV, Napoleon, and Hitler – proved abortive. Europe is a continent of warring states. Europe’s would-be imperial hegemons have been frustrated by geography. The continent’s easy east–west communications, its seaways and inland waterways, and its diversity of eco-zones and ethnicities have combined to prevent the construction of mega-polities.

Empires, especially long-lived ones, are inherently conservative. The petty polities of medieval and early modern Europe, on the other hand, could not afford to be. Europe was a continent of conflict and, therefore, a continent of change. On the Nile, Euphrates, Ganges, and Yangtze, history’s cycle predominated throughout medieval history. But on the Rhine, it was history’s arrow.

The first great transformation in the history of Homo sapiens – the Neolithic or Agricultural Revolution – was pioneered in the Middle East and Central Asia in the eighth millennium BC. The second – the Industrial Revolution – was forged in Europe between the fourteenth and eighteenth centuries AD. We must now seek out the roots of that transformation in the European feudal system that preceded it.

The Rise of Western Feudalism

The end of the Roman Empire was neither uniform nor sudden – it was a complex process rather than a single event. First, the empire split in two. Then, between AD 395 and 476, the western half disintegrated and was replaced by a patchwork of Germanic kingdoms. The eastern half, the Byzantine Empire, survived more or less intact for almost 250 years and, in an increasingly truncated form, for a further 750 years after that.

Four landmark events mark the long decline of Byzantium. At the Battle of Yarmuk in AD 636 the Arabs took control of Syria. At the Battle of Manzikert in 1071, the Seljuk Turks seized eastern Anatolia (now eastern Turkey). By these two defeats, the Byzantine Empire lost half its territory. In 1204, the Crusaders sacked the city of Byzantium itself. The city never recovered: the population, it is said, was reduced from 500,000 in 1203 to 35,000 in 1261. And in 1453, with most of its remaining territory already overrun, the city was finally captured by the Ottoman Turks.

The Byzantine Empire was an attempt to fossilise the social order of Late Antiquity. A decaying form of ancient military imperialism, it was highly exploitative and deeply conservative. Despite this, it endured for more than a millennium after AD 395, whereas its western counterpart, with a similar social structure, lasted less than a century. Why the difference?

Byzantium had shorter frontiers to defend and richer territory. In AD 395, when the final division occurred, it had only a third of the Late Roman army, but produced two-thirds of the empire’s tax revenues. The Byzantine Empire was repeatedly able to fend off invasions by deploying large, well-equipped, professional armies on relatively narrow fronts. Western Europe, by contrast, became a politically fragmented region of warring states. This was the geopolitical context for the rise of feudalism.

A digression is in order here. The rulers of complex class societies in ancient and medieval times had essentially two ways of mustering military forces. They could levy tribute on their subject populations and use the proceeds to hire soldiers. Or they could grant land in return for military service. The former was usually found in a strong centralised state; it was an ideal to which kings and emperors might aspire, since it meant they were not dependent on men who had rights as well as obligations. The latter implied a polity in which power was more diffuse, perhaps extending to a militia of citizens with electoral rights (the Greek and Roman model) or to a retinue of lords with seats in the council chamber (as in medieval Europe). In reality, elements of the two systems often coexisted; many polities were both tributary and feudal, and the army therefore a mix of professional soldiers and knightly retinue. But the balance between the two could be critical in determining the coherence and stability of the polity.

Between the fifth and ninth centuries AD, most Western European states were essentially tributary in character. The state collected taxes from which it paid soldiers under the direct command of the king. But these same states acquired some feudal characteristics as rulers sought to control territory more effectively by parcelling it out to their kinsmen and retainers in return for military service. This feudal element became more important over time. This was partly because the states were small, unstable, and relatively weak. It was also because heavily armoured cavalry increasingly dominated the battlefield.

The ninth and tenth centuries were a period of particular turmoil. Kings were deposed and civil wars raged. Urban life virtually ceased to exist. Long-distance trade declined. Vikings, Magyars, and Arabs mounted deep and devastating raids. In response to this crisis, without the dead weight of strong imperial elites and infrastructures, the way was open to forge a radically new social, political, and military order.

To crush domestic rebels, defend borders against raiders, and fend off the armies of rival kings, early medieval rulers made a virtue of necessity and turned embryonic feudalism into a fully-fledged system. They thereby created immensely strong bodies of armed men by rooting the state in private landlordism.

At first, when control of estates was still dependent on royal favour, the position of medieval rulers was greatly strengthened. Over time, however, as estates became hereditary assets, the balance of power shifted in favour of the king’s landholding vassals.

The Duchy of Normandy, a state created by tenth-century Viking settlers, was an extreme example. Initially, power was highly centralised. The ruler was the legal owner of all land, and his appointees held all the great estates. These men were his vassals, his tenants-in-chief, liable to be ejected if they earned their master’s disfavour.

Under them, land was further subdivided into fiefs, each able to support a knight, each sufficient to free a man from the need to labour, allowing him to devote himself fully to war and training for war, and to provide him with the horses, chainmail armour, and weaponry of a heavy cavalryman. Here was the core of the Norman state: several thousand armoured horsemen, organised in lordly retinues, bound by ties of personal loyalty and dependence, and rooted in control of landed estates.

The armoured knight was the tank of the eleventh-century battlefield. A frontal charge by several hundred knights, in close formation and several ranks deep, was virtually unstoppable on open ground. Heavy horse was as central to early medieval warfare as heavy foot had been to the wars of the Greeks and Romans. Feudalism was the most effective socio-economic mechanism available for providing it.

By linking landholding and military service, feudalism forged a tight bond between the state and the ruling class. It also ensured that the agrarian base of the system was carefully tended, since maintaining rank depended in part on the good management of estates. But there were dangers. The system was inherently unstable. State power was directly related to the number of fiefs and knights controlled by the ruler, exacerbating the struggle between rival polities for territory. Moreover, to avoid fiefs being subdivided and becoming unable to support a knight, primogeniture prevailed, whereby the eldest son inherited the entire estate. Younger sons therefore had to fight for their place in the world. Denied an inheritance and threatened with loss of rank, they survived through mercenary service or by winning a new fiefdom. This was true of knights, nobles, and princes – the younger sons of all ranks of the feudal aristocracy could maintain caste only through military force.

There were plenty of opportunities. Civil and foreign wars were frequent. Competition for territory ensured that feudal ruling classes were internally divided and rival feudal polities always at loggerheads. Younger sons, in the quest for booty, pay, and land, were the cutting edge of these conflicts.

Feudalism was therefore unstable, dynamic, and expansionist. During the mid-eleventh century, for example, the Normans conquered much of northern France, the whole of England, and virtually the whole of southern Italy and Sicily.

Feudal violence was contradictory. It was essential to the survival of the feudal states: the warrior host defended the homeland, conquered new territory, and maintained internal order. But the violence had a dynamic of its own and the potential to blow the feudal order apart.

Pressure valves were needed to vent the system’s surplus violence. This was the bloody logic that led to the Crusades. The 200-year history of the Crusades represents the most extreme expression of the futile violence inherent in Western feudalism.

Crusade and Jihad

When Pope Urban II launched the First Crusade at the Council of Clermont on 27 November 1095, he is recorded as saying:

Let those ... who are accustomed to wantonly wage private war against the faithful march upon the infidels ... Let those who have long been robbers now be soldiers of Christ. Let those who once fought against brothers and relatives now rightfully fight against the barbarians. Let those who have been hirelings for a few pieces of silver now attain an eternal reward ...

The Church, with estates across Western Europe, was a vast feudal corporation. It competed for power and wealth with secular feudal princes. Anything that enhanced the Church’s prestige, such as the wave of religious zeal and activity unleashed in 1095, was an advantage. And, like other feudal potentates, the bishops were keen to maintain peace at home by exporting violence overseas.

The response exceeded all expectations. Thousands answered the call. A great feudal army entered Syria in 1097, captured Antioch in 1098, and took Jerusalem in 1099. Wherever they went, the Crusaders committed massacres and robberies and wreaked destruction. Men, women, and children were slaughtered in the streets of captured cities. Prisoners were routinely decapitated. Mosques, synagogues, and ‘heretic’ churches were ransacked. Carts were loaded with plunder.

Four Crusader states were formed. The tactical dominance of feudal heavy cavalry on the battlefield made this possible. But the Crusaders remained a tiny military elite: just 500 knights defended the Principality of Antioch. To survive, therefore, they needed to invest in military power. This required intensive surplus accumulation. The result was extreme exploitation of the Arab peasantry, routine plunder of trade caravans, and a hostile relationship with neighbouring Islamic states.

The Crusaders had broken into the Middle East with great ease because it had become divided into rival states ruled by unpopular, palace-based autocrats propped up by mercenaries and largely divorced from civil society. Many of these Islamic rulers sought an accommodation with the Crusaders. But no lasting peace was possible. Two contradictions were at work. First, the weakness and insecurity of the feudal settler-states made them annexationist – they needed more land to support more knights – and this was a direct threat to the Islamic rulers. Second, within the Crusader states, the imperative of military accumulation required onerous taxation, rents, and labour service. Consequently, the Crusaders were hated by their Muslim subjects and there was little prospect of raising reliable native forces to fight in their defence.

The ‘shock and awe’ of the First Crusade broke Muslim resistance for a generation. But the Crusader threat to the rulers of the Islamic states triggered a process of political centralisation. Northern Syria and northern Iraq were united in 1128. Then the nearby Crusader-ruled County of Edessa was recaptured and annexed in 1144. The Second Crusade of 1146–8, organised in response to the Islamic resurgence, was a disastrous failure, shattering the myth of Crusader invincibility. Damascus and southern Syria were added to the new Islamic state, and the Crusader Principality of Antioch reduced to a small coastal enclave. Finally, in 1183, Egypt was fused with Syria under the leadership of Saladin, an event that gave the Muslim resistance critical mass. Saladin answered the feudal Crusade with a call for popular jihad, and now Muslim forces went onto the offensive.

On 4 July 1187, at the Battle of Hattin, Saladin, at the head of 30,000 men, destroyed the entire army of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem. The capture of the city of Jerusalem itself followed soon after. Despite further expeditions, the Crusaders never recovered. Though it took a century to complete the process, their castles were reduced one by one, their territory gradually stripped away.

The Crusader states contributed nothing to the Middle East. Their rulers were simply brutal exploiters who ruled by force and fear. They lasted as long as they did only because of the fragmentation and decadence of the Islamic ruling class. Their violent incursion had, however, been the catalyst for an Islamic revival, with new unities and identities forged in the struggle.

The Crusades had also revealed the limits of Western feudalism. Knights and castles were expensive. Super-exploitation was therefore necessary to sustain them. Despite the cost, the violence of the warrior caste constituted a permanent threat to the property and security of the common people. The bitterness this created could be contained by fear of feudal violence, but it could not be eradicated. Feudalism was incapable of giving rise to a stable social order based on consent.

At home, these contradictions contributed to the rise of new social forces within the old order. Kings were elevating themselves above the feudal host. The central state was reining in over-mighty subjects. Gentry and yeomen (as the English called them) were rallying to the cause of royal order against baronial anarchy.

New social forces ushered in new ways of war. Common men armed with pikes, bows, and guns started challenging the battlefield supremacy of feudal chivalry.

Lord, Burgher, and Peasant in Medieval Europe

The medieval world can appear conservative, stagnant, and unenlightened. Ever since the end of antiquity, European elites have tended to model themselves on the ‘glory that was Greece’ and the ‘grandeur that was Rome’. What followed has been depicted as an age of ignorance, poverty, and violence.

The opposite is true: the Roman imperial ruling class was a barrier to innovation, and the medieval world, in Europe at least, was far more dynamic than the ancient. The reason is simple enough. As the stock of knowledge, skill, and resources accumulates, humanity’s capacity for further social development increases. The more advanced the know-how and equipment, the easier further improvements in the productivity of labour become. The pace of progress therefore tends to accelerate.

Technology, however, can determine only what is possible; it cannot guarantee that the potential will be realised. That depends on the other two engines of history: the struggle for control of surplus within the ruling class and the struggle over the distribution of surplus between the classes.

Feudalism was a system of competitive military accumulation. Warfare – the most extreme form of competition – is never conservative. Those who do not adopt the latest technology and tactics are defeated. Military technique was therefore an especially dynamic sector of the medieval social order. Plate armour superseded chainmail. Firearms replaced bows. Timber castles were rebuilt in stone. Small feudal retinues gave way to large professional armies. To adapt was to survive.

But the new methods of war were more expensive, and demand for better arms, armour, and fortifications triggered economic growth and social change. So did the demand for the increasingly elaborate trappings of lordly power – grand houses, tapestries and wall hangings, fine furniture, fashionable clothing, jewellery and ornaments, tableware, quality wines, and much else. This, too, received impetus from the relentless competitive struggle for wealth and position among the magnates.

Feudal competition therefore created work for artisans and markets for traders. These congregated in the towns, where they organised themselves into guilds, and girded the perimeters of the settlements with walls, allowing them to maintain their independence. Kings granted urban charters. Townsmen favoured a strong state that could maintain law and order. Monarch and burghers found themselves in alliance against feudal anarchy.

In the countryside, even more important changes were under way. Increased demand for armaments, luxuries, and pageantry could be satisfied only by purchases in the market: the lords needed money. Labour services were therefore commuted to cash payments, and serfdom evolved into a more impersonal, less burdensome commercial contract. This strengthened the village and the peasant entrepreneur. Serfdom, in any case, had never been universal. In medieval England – a society about which we are especially well informed because of the Domesday Book and a wealth of land charters and manorial records – most of the peasantry had always remained formally free: not serfs, but ‘sokemen’ or ‘free men’. Though subject to various feudal payments, most English peasants worked as independent farmers on land they rented, held by custom, or owned freehold.

After the Norman Conquest, the Anglo-Saxon village, with its grades of peasant, its collective organisation, and its centuries-old custom and practice, remained largely unchanged. At the level of the individual manor, Norman England was a compromise between feudal authority and village traditions.

In parts of Europe where the village was strong, as in England, peasants were able to exploit the imperatives of feudal competition to advance their own position. And it is in the micro-relationship between manor and village that we find the germ of the transition from feudalism to capitalism.

European agriculture had made a giant leap forward between the seventh and twelfth centuries. The heavy wheeled plough was the key to this. Drawn first by yoked oxen, and later, once suitable harness had been developed, by horses, the medieval plough could cut through the most intractable soil, turn it over in great clods, and thereby tap fresh stores of nutrients. Much new land, previously unworkable, could be brought into cultivation. Old land, kept in good heart by crop rotation, fallow years, and manure, could be endlessly revitalised by plough-churned stubble and dung. Historians estimate that grain yields doubled.

Many other innovations contributed to increasing labour productivity. Watermills, with complex cranks and flywheels, mass-processed grain and powered blacksmiths’ forges. Rivers were canalised to accommodate barges, and rudders replaced steering oars on seagoing ships. Wheelbarrows eased rural labour, and eyeglasses extended the working lives of clerks, copyists, and scholars.

The social surplus steadily increased. Europe in the thirteenth century had a rising population and increasing prosperity. On the land, beneath the level of the feudal elite – and largely beyond the gaze of history – minor gentry and better-off peasants were driving a process of economic advance.

The feudal lords had an interest in raising revenues from landholdings, but also an interest in waste expenditure on a colossal scale – building cathedrals and castles, paying and equipping soldiers, and competing in displays of pageantry, luxury, and grand living. The dynamic of feudalism – competitive politico-military accumulation – was in contradiction to economic improvement, which required investment of surplus in land clearance, drainage, enclosure, agricultural equipment, and so on.

Recent research has revealed that the improvers tended to be the middle section of medieval rural society. Their aim was to create more efficient and productive farms geared to the market. They paid close attention to the business of farm management, husbanding resources, investing with care, seeking to increase economic profit and their own social standing.

Put simply, between c. 1350 and 1500 many of the minor gentry and better-off peasants in the most economically advanced parts of Europe became capitalist farmers. And it was this ‘middling sort’ that powered the explosive social struggles that erupted across Europe in the late fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries.

The Class Struggle in Medieval Europe

Let us sum up what has been argued so far. Western feudalism, apparently so dominant in the eleventh century, was undermined by five dynamic processes.

First, the productivity of the medieval economy meant an accelerating rate of increase in both labour productivity and aggregate output. One consequence was rapid technological advance in the means of destruction. Military expenditures escalated.

Second, the fragmented political landscape and the intense competition for land, revenue, and manpower between rival feudal magnates compelled the ruling class to seek cash to hire soldiers, purchase equipment, and build fortifications. Feudal obligations were therefore commuted to cash payments.

Third, the resilience and resistance of the peasant village imposed limits on feudal landlordism in many parts of Europe. The peasants formed a collective powerful enough to defend customary rights and sometimes to make substantial gains.

Fourth, the growth of the market created opportunities for the economic and social development of the middle sections of society. At the top were feudal magnates wasting resources on war, display, and luxury. At the bottom were poor and middle peasants eking out a living as subsistence farmers. Between them were those who would come to be called ‘the middling sort’. These minor gentry, rich peasants, and prosperous urban artisans and traders formed the most economically enterprising sections of medieval society. As markets expanded and social relations were increasingly commercialised, the middling sort emerged as the petty-capitalists at the forefront of social change.

Fifth, undermining feudalism was the rise of the centralised monarchical state. In some parts of Europe, kings failed to assert their power and warring regional barons remained politically dominant. In others, the state, despite occasional setbacks, grew steadily stronger.

England provides a clear example of the latter process. Over time, medieval English kings relied less on their feudal retinue and more on buying the services of professional soldiers or trained militia. The English royal state marginalised hostile regional barons and minimised the risk of feudal anarchy by forming a political alliance with loyalist magnates and the middling sort. This alliance explains England’s astonishing battlefield supremacy in the fourteenth century. At Crécy, Poitiers, and Agincourt, heavily outnumbered English armies of dismounted men-at-arms and longbowmen (the latter recruited from the English and Welsh yeomanry, the rich-peasant class) destroyed French armies composed largely of feudal knights.

The forces of change were propelled by the great crisis of the fourteenth century. Feudal waste expenditure continued to rise in contradiction to the demands of population growth and general prosperity. Society faced a choice between war and grandeur on the one hand, and investment in estates, industries, and trade on the other. By the middle of the fourteenth century, the medieval European economy was seriously out of kilter. Many faced poverty and starvation. When, in 1348, the continent was struck by the Black Death, up to a third of the population perished. Depopulation and impoverishment threatened the incomes of lords and the very survival of the peasants. The crisis spawned bitter struggles.

In 1358, peasant revolts erupted across northern France, and in Paris, Etienne Marcel led 3,000 urban artisans to the royal palace and forced the Dauphin (the heir to the throne) to put on the colours of revolt. In 1381, the English peasants, led by Wat Tyler, entered London, forged an alliance with sections of the urban population, and confronted the King and the Lord Mayor. ‘When Adam delved and Eve span,’ asked the radical ex-priest John Ball, ‘who was then the gentleman?’

In the towns and villages of Flanders, too, and in the city-states of northern Italy, the common people rose up against the oppression of landlords, merchants, and bishops. In 1378, the Florentine ciompi, the ordinary artisans of the woollen trades, overthrew the mercantile elite, seized power, and held the city for two months.

In distant Bohemia, when the radical preacher Jan Hus was burnt at the stake as a heretic in 1415, the Czech population rose in revolt. Armed with hand-guns and formed in defensive wagon laagers, the Hussites resisted suppression by the forces of feudal Europe for 20 years. ‘All shall live together as brothers,’ declared the democratic-egalitarian Taborite wing of the Hussite movement; ‘none shall be subject to another.’ Fighting to win such freedom in the face of ruthless counter-revolutionary violence, the Taborites were uncompromising about their struggle: ‘All lords, nobles, and knights shall be cut down and exterminated in the forests like outlaws.’

The anti-feudal revolutionary wave generated by the fourteenth-century crisis was eventually defeated everywhere. It had been a revolution of the middling sort. It was in some of the most economically advanced regions of Europe that it had achieved its greatest momentum – in northern France, Flanders, England, northern Italy, and Bohemia. It was a premature eruption of social forces not yet fully formed. Feudalism was still powerful enough to contain the revolution in its early heartlands. Petty-capitalism and the middling sort were not yet hegemonic.

Even in the rebel movements, radical visions of the world transformed jostled for attention with the primitive prejudices of the past. From the biological horror of the Black Death arose the political horror of the pogrom. Bishops and kings denounced the Jews for poisoning the wells, and anti-Semitic mobs rampaged through the ghettoes.

But the old order could not be restored. Acute labour shortages in the wake of the Black Death tilted the balance of class forces sharply in favour of the peasantry across much of Europe. The rebellions were crushed, but the commercialisation of social relations continued to erode the feudal order from within.

The new social forces – minor gentry and rich peasants producing for the market, small traders and artisans in the towns, the entrepreneurs of new industries, the seafarers, boatmen, and dockers – were not yet strong enough to break through politically. But ‘market feudalism’ – as it has been called – meant rising demand for urban crafts, industrial enterprise, long-distance trade, and money-lenders. That in turn created demand for the agricultural output of market-oriented farmers.

Ever more goods and services were commoditised. Social relations were recast in the form of commercial contracts. Gold-lust dissolved the personal retinues of the feudal order. The economic advance of the middling sort continued. A spectre of revolution stalked late medieval Europe.

The New Monarchies

The coming storm was heralded by the lightning flashes of the Renaissance. Old ideas could not explain new social realities. The ancient dogmas of the Church, encrypted in the Latin of scholars and monks, seemed increasingly irrelevant. Through enterprise and invention, through skill and hard work, through their own solid efforts, people were remaking the world.

The humanist movement expressed a renewed confidence in humanity’s capacity for improvement. A renaissance in scholarship and the arts developed in the hothouse atmosphere of booming fifteenth- and sixteenth-century towns. To the pedantic scholasticism of medieval theologians was counterposed the learning of the ancients embodied in Greek and Latin texts. To the predictability of traditional religious images was counterposed an innovative naturalistic art filled with energetic figures bursting with vitality and creativity.

The Renaissance was epitomised by three great Italian masters: the artist and inventor Leonardo da Vinci (1452–1519), the painter and sculptor Michelangelo (1475–1564), and the painter Raphael (1483–1520). But the Renaissance affected the whole of Europe. The acknowledged leader of the humanists was the Dutchman Desiderius Erasmus (1466–1536), the greatest novel of the period was written by the Frenchman François Rabelais (1494–1553), and the scientist who worked out, contrary to the doctrines of the Church, that the planets revolved around the sun was the Pole Nicolaus Copernicus (1473–1543).

The Renaissance was all-embracing. It provided the cultural language of an entire epoch. Both Protestant revolution and Catholic reaction would clothe themselves in Renaissance trappings during the ideological turmoil of the later sixteenth century. Above all, the Renaissance became the style of the new monarchies forged in its midst.

In 1491, Charles VIII, King of France, married Anne, the heiress of the Duchy of Brittany, and thereby completed the unification of the country. His successors, in particular Francis I (1515–47), went on to build a strong, centralised, absolute monarchy. Nobles were forbidden to possess cannon or raise troops. The Paris Parlement ceased to be a deliberative assembly and became simply a court of law. The Concordat of 1516 subordinated the Church to the Crown. The royal state employed 12,000 officials to carry out its orders. Both secular and clerical aristocracy became courtiers dependent on royal favour.

In 1489, the marriage of Queen Isabella of Castile to King Ferdinand of Aragon prepared the way for the unification of Spain. Here, too, a royal absolutism was constructed. Nobles and towns lost power to royal agents, and the Cortes was restricted to mere statements of grievances. The Holy Inquisition was raised into a ruthless instrument of state terror. ‘Heretics’ were fined, imprisoned, flogged, tortured, strangled, and burnt alive. In time, with the unification of Germany and Spain under Charles V (1519–56), and in the face of the challenge of the Protestant Reformation, the Inquisition would become a pan-European system of repression.

In England, the Wars of the Roses (1455–85) proved to be the last civil war of the feudal period. The Tudor monarchs who ruled from 1485 turned barons into courtiers, nationalised church property, ruled in alliance with Parliament, and laid the foundations of English naval power. Mass national consciousness developed under the Tudors. People increasingly thought of themselves as English rather than as members of either a county community or a feudal retinue. Shakespeare’s plays often echo the new mood. Henry V and his soldiers were ‘a band of brothers’ made equals by patriotic blood sacrifice.

Military competition between the new monarchs gave urgency to the nascent nationalism of their respective states. Between 1494 and 1559 Europe was convulsed by conflict between the Valois, who ruled France, and the Habsburgs, who ruled the Holy Roman Empire (essentially Germany and Central Europe) and Spain. Northern Italy was the principal battleground. These were wars between mass armies of cannon, cavalry, musketeers, and pikemen – wars which only large states could afford.

Regional magnates and small states succumbed. Backward states had to adapt to survive under the imperative of military competition. The more backward the economy, the more brutal the absolutism. The Muscovite Tsar Ivan the Terrible (1533–84) employed foreign mercenaries to build his empire and crush internal opposition from the traditional boyar aristocracy. The backwardness of the Russian economy meant that the absolutist state had no real base of social support. Civil society was simply cowed from above by sadistic terror.

The new monarchies spanned a period of transition. Feudalism was fast decaying, but the emergent bourgeoisie of market-oriented farmers, merchants, and industrialists was not yet strong enough to take power and remodel society in its own image. Neither one thing nor the other, early sixteenth-century society was fluid and unstable. State absolutism was the result. Usually with strong support from the middling sort, the state was powerful enough to suppress feudal anarchy. But having transformed over-mighty subjects into compliant courtiers, it resisted the more radical demands of parliamentary assemblies and popular rebels.

The new monarchies balanced between weakened and increasingly dependent feudalism and embryonic capitalism. That is why the Italian Wars were multifaceted, with feudal, dynastic, national, and, finally, politico-religious dimensions. They were the wars of a period of transition.

Through the dynamic of competition, the new model – unified states, centralised government, royal armies, the crushing of internal dissent, the waging of national-dynastic wars – imposed itself in one form or another on the whole of Europe. Nor was the impact of the new monarchies confined to Europe. The economic forces erupting across the continent were simultaneously engulfing the world in a wave of colonial violence.

The New Colonialism

Europe was changing rapidly from the late fifteenth century onwards. The rest of the world was not. In Asia, Africa, and the Americas, empires rose and fell, but the socio-economic order remained essentially the same.

After the defeat of the Mongols in 1368, China was relatively unthreatened. The security of the Ming Dynasty (1368–1644) rested on the extreme conservatism of the Confucian bureaucrats who ruled it. India was more turbulent. Between 1526 and 1529, Babar the Tiger, a Muslim invader from the north-west equipped with cannon, conquered most of the subcontinent and established the Mughal Empire. But this did not alter the basic character of Indian society. Life and labour continued much as before in India’s hundred thousand villages. The same was true of Safavid Persia and Ottoman Turkey. There were conquests, changes of dynasty, and new political and religious allegiances at the top of society, but the fabric of everyday life was barely touched. The dynastic states, some relatively stable, others less so, which floated above each of Asia’s geopolitical units – Turkey, Persia, Central Asia, India, China, Japan – remained essentially rootless and parasitic.

Africa and the Americas were no different. The empires of the Songhai in West Africa, the Aztecs in Mexico, and the Inca in Peru were predatory systems of robbery with violence. There was no organic relationship between state superstructure and socio-economic base. The former simply siphoned surplus from the latter and consumed it in wars, monuments, and luxuries. Such states were like panes of glass liable to shatter at the impact of a small stone.

The new monarchies of sixteenth-century Europe, by contrast, were firmly rooted in their respective societies, and European gold-lust and gunpowder were poised to transform the world.

The Portuguese were the pioneers of European colonialism. Portugal is a mountainous country on the western fringe of Europe with a long Atlantic coastline and good natural harbours. The Portuguese were therefore pre-eminent among European seafarers. Crucial to the European ‘voyages of discovery’ was the development of large, sophisticated sailing vessels. One early innovation was the sternpost rudder. A more gradual and complex process was improving the rigging. By the late fifteenth century, the medieval cog – square-rigged with a single mast and sail – had evolved into a larger vessel with up to three masts and mixed sails, enabling it to sail closer to the wind and to use wind power more economically. Relatively fast and safe, oceangoing voyages became possible for the first time.

Between 1492 and 1504, Christopher Columbus led four expeditions to what came to be called the New World. Though Portuguese, he was funded by the King and Queen of Spain, so the colonies he established on Cuba and Haiti were Spanish possessions.

Between 1497 and 1499, Vasco da Gama sailed round Africa from Lisbon to Calicut. Within 20 years, the Portuguese had a trading empire extending along 20,000 km of coastline from Cape Bogador on the Atlantic coast of North Africa to the Moluccas Islands in the Pacific, with outposts in West Africa, Persia, and India.

Between 1519 and 1522, Ferdinand Magellan circumnavigated the globe and revealed the basic shape and location of its major continents. This Portuguese navigator thereby drew the map for the Spanish conquistadores who subjugated much of Central and South America in the early sixteenth century.

Columbus had found very little gold in the West Indies. He had tried to make the new colonies profitable by turning the natives into slaves and serfs. Instead, the combination of colonial barbarism and foreign diseases reduced the population of Haiti from over a million to just 200 in the space of 50 years.

The gold-lust was undiminished. So, in 1519, a force of 660 men, 18 horses, and ten cannon set out from Spain’s Cuban colony under Hernan Cortés bound for the mainland. Within two years, they had conquered the Aztec Empire of Central America. In 1532–5, with just 106 infantry and 62 cavalry, Francisco Pizarro replicated Cortés’ achievement by destroying the Inca Empire of Peru.

These were victories of steel, gunpowder, and horses over Stone Age technology. Equally important, however, were divisions among the Aztec and Inca rulers and the alienation of their subject peoples. Because of the murderous brutality of the Aztec imperial elite, more native Americans fought on the side of the Spanish than with the Aztec rulers at the decisive Battle of Tenochtitlán.

Spain was one of the least developed parts of Europe. The Spanish monarchs were engaged in dynastic wars against geopolitical rivals and religious wars against the Protestant Reformation. They needed gold to pay soldiers. Consequently, the exploitation of ‘New Spain’ was ruthless. Natives not killed by guns, disease, or famine were often worked to death in the mines and on the estates of their new colonial masters. The Laws of Burgos of 1512–13 decreed that Indian men were to work for Spaniards for nine months of the year, that their wives and children would be enslaved and their property confiscated if they refused, and that tithes must be paid to the Catholic Church.

The population of the Lima area in Peru collapsed from 25,000 to just 2,000. The population of Mexico fell from ten million to three million. The mining town of Potosi in today’s Bolivia, on the other hand, was swelled to 150,000 by forced labour. ‘I moved across a good portion of the country,’ wrote a Spanish noble to the King in 1535, ‘and saw terrible destruction.’

The transformation of the world by European colonialism had begun. The Portuguese and Spanish overseas empires founded at the beginning of the sixteenth century were soon followed by Dutch, English, and French empires. At the very dawn of European capitalism, the system was already extending bloody hands across three continents.

But why did relatively backward, feudal, absolutist, Church-dominated Spain – the Spain of the Holy Inquisition – lead the way? The Spanish kings needed New World gold and silver to fund their geopolitical ambitions in Europe, and an accident of geography had given them privileged access to Portugal’s maritime tradition. Europe was to pay a high price for this.

A new wave of revolution began in 1521. Revolts by townsmen, peasants, and lesser gentry engulfed Germany throughout the 1520s and into the early 1530s. Religious civil war soon raged across the country. A generation later, this spread to France. Above all, in 1566, full-blooded revolution broke out in the Low Countries. War would continue there between Protestant Dutch and Catholic Spanish until 1609.

It was bullion from the Americas that underpinned the power of Imperial Spain and sustained its armies for two generations in their attempt to drown the world’s first bourgeois revolution in blood.

7. The First Wave of Bourgeois Revolutions (1517—1775)

By the beginning of the sixteenth century the new forces growing inside medieval European society had achieved critical mass. Yet that did not guarantee the triumph of mercantile capitalism. Powerful vested interests, rooted in long-standing social and political structures, might have caused it to be stillborn. Revolutionary action was necessary to clear away history’s clutter of decayed social classes and antiquated ideologies. Only in this way could the old order be overturned and space made for the explosion of trade and accumulation that the productive capacity of humanity had now made possible.

This, in the first phase of world capitalism, during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, was the inner meaning of the Reformation, the Dutch Revolution, and, of greatest significance, the English Revolution of 1637–60. These events made mercantile capitalism the dominant economic form across large tracts of north-western Europe. The consequences during the eighteenth century would be slavery, colonialism, and global wars.

The Reformation

Before the eighteenth century, religious belief was almost universal, and theology provided the language in which men and women discussed their relationships not only with God, but also with each other. When they conformed, they did so because it was ‘God’s will’. When they rebelled, that was also ‘God’s will’. And when they moved from conformity to rebellion, it was not because God had changed his mind; it was because the world had changed. Theology provided the vocabulary of political discourse.

The Catholic Church had dominated Western Europe for a thousand years. Challenges to the authority of its prelates and dogmas had always been crushed. A succession of so-called heretics and infidels had been broken on the rack and burnt at the stake. Only undercurrents of resistance remained. There were secret networks of religious radicals like the Waldensians in European cities, the Hussites in Bohemia, and the Lollards in England. Each had once been a mass popular movement. But none had come close to doing what the Reformation was to do after 1521 – tear apart Church and state. What now made this possible was the maturity of the new social forces that had been growing inside late medieval Europe.

The crisis began at the ideological level. The Church was rotten with corruption. The papacy had become a prize fought over by rival Italian aristocratic families. Cardinals and bishops enriched themselves by holding multiple appointments. ‘Indulgences’ (forgiveness for sins) were sold like commodities. Many monks lived in luxury. Priests were often ignorant and lazy.

The Church owned vast tracts of land, and abbots and bishops were immensely rich. But this was also true of kings and secular nobles. What made the ecclesiastical section of the feudal ruling class especially vulnerable was the hypocrisy implicit in the corruption of the Church – the contradiction between wealth and mission.

When in 1517 a minor German cleric and scholar called Martin Luther (1483–1546) posted his Ninety-Five Theses on the door of Wittenberg Cathedral, his attack on the sale of indulgences and other abuses gained widespread support. This gave him the confidence to continue. When the Pope threatened him with excommunication in 1520, he burned the ‘Bull of Antichrist’ in Wittenberg town square. And when the Holy Roman Emperor summoned him to appear before the Diet of Worms (the parliament of the local state) in 1521 and threatened to burn him as a heretic, he refused to retract.

What made Luther’s message revolutionary was his rejection of priestly authority. Protestants – as they came to be called – were encouraged to read and interpret the Bible for themselves. According to Luther, salvation depended not on church attendance, obedience to the priest, or charitable donations, but on a personal relationship with God. That explains why a printing press could be found at the centre of every religious storm. Medieval books were written in Latin, copied by hand in monasteries, and then stored in ecclesiastical libraries to be read only by a cloistered few. Books contained ideas, and ideas could be subversive; they were not for general use.

The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer (c. 1343–1400) was a case in point. Written in English in the late fourteenth century, its unflattering portrayal of friars, priests, and church officials had attracted a readership among religious radicals. It was later published by William Caxton (c. 1420–92), the pioneer of English printing, putting copies into the hands of a yet wider reading (and listening) public.

That was bad enough. More subversive still was the English-language Bible, popularised by John Wycliffe (c. 1320–84), the leader of the Lollards, whose doctrines anticipated the Reformation. Possession of an unlicensed copy incurred the death penalty: God’s word was not to be heard in a language the common people could understand. The first edition had to be printed in Germany and then smuggled into England in 1526. Its author, the English Protestant William Tyndale (c. 1492–1536), was later executed for heresy. The Reformation was a battle of ideas in which vernacular translations and printed copies of the Bible were primary weapons.

The second phase of the Reformation was led by John Calvin (1509–64), a Frenchman who settled in Geneva in Switzerland and imposed a theocratic dictatorship on the city. He carried the rupture with the Catholic Church to its logical conclusion, rejecting the entire hierarchy of bishops, and advocating in its place self-governing congregations ruled by elders – in effect, a church run by the local middle class.

The essence of the Reformation, therefore, was a break with the main ideological prop of feudalism – the Catholic Church – and a (controlled) explosion of free enquiry and debate.

Protestantism was, above all, the religion of the middling sort, the people who, across the most developed parts of Europe, were pioneers in capitalist farming and the growth of commerce and industry.

The German towns were immediately thrown into turmoil by Luther’s message. The town guilds – resentful of feudal dues, church tithes, and the social dominance of mercantile elites – rallied to the new religion. Many towns embraced Lutheranism in the initial wave of enthusiasm (1521–2). Eventually, two-thirds of the German towns were to follow them.

The impoverished knights of southern Germany also launched a revolt (1522–3). They, however, were defeated by the ruling princes. The Reformation was already meeting resistance from above.

The far more serious revolt of the German peasants in 1524–5 was also defeated. Coming from the lowest stratum of society, it represented a challenge to the entire feudal order. The ‘Twelve Points’ of the Memmingen Charter – effectively the manifesto of the revolt – demanded an end to feudal dues, encroachments on common land, arbitrary justice, and serfdom. As the radical Protestant leader Thomas Müntzer put it, ‘Our sovereigns and rulers are at the bottom of all usury, thievery, and robbery ... They oppress the poor husbandmen and craftsmen.’

But Luther and other mainstream Protestant leaders denounced revolt and preached obedience to social elites. ‘Better the death of all peasants,’ declared Luther, ‘than of princes and magistrates.’ He wrote a tract entitled Against the Murdering, Thieving Hordes of the Peasants in which he encouraged feudal lords to kill peasant rebels ‘just as one must kill a mad dog’.

Many German princes were rallying to the Reformation. Luther himself had been rescued and given refuge by the Elector of Saxony in 1521. The popular Reformation from below was countered by an aristocratic Reformation from above. The princes had several reasons for supporting the Reformation. It was very powerful and many felt it better to try to ‘ride the tiger’ than to confront it head on. Aristocratic leadership might stem the tide of more radical developments. But the Reformation was also useful in furthering noble ambition. Protestantism became a mechanism for throwing off the authority of secular and ecclesiastical overlords, mobilising support against aristocratic rivals, and taking over church property.

The German princes became Lutherans because they were hostile to both the Pope and the Holy Roman Emperor – but they employed fierce reactionary violence against more radical Protestants who appeared to threaten their wealth and power. And when this happened, the Lutheran leaders backed them.

Something similar happened in France. Many nobles became Protestant as part of a bitter struggle between rival families. The Calvinist leaders backed this Reformation from above. The result, in both Germany and France, was that the struggle between Catholics and Protestants devolved into a war of religion between opposing alliances of magnates.

But Protestantism lost momentum once it ceased to be an expression of popular, anti-feudal revolt and became little more than the badge of allegiance of an aristocratic faction. Southern Germany was recovered for the Emperor and the Church. The French Protestants remained a permanent minority in a mainly Catholic country ruled by an absolute monarch.

The defeat of the German Anabaptists symbolised this sharp break between the popular and aristocratic Reformations. For nearly two years (1534–5) Münster was controlled by Anabaptist radicals led by Jan van Leyden, a young Dutch tailor’s apprentice. The Catholic and Lutheran elite was ejected, an egalitarian commune was established, and the Anabaptists prepared for the Day of Judgement. It never came. Instead, the local prince-bishop starved the city into submission, then tortured the captured Anabaptist leaders to death.

The disjuncture between conservative and radical reformers destroyed the revolutionary potential of the Reformation in both Germany and France and gave the gathering forces of feudal-absolutist reaction an opening.

The Counter-Revolution

‘He who half makes a revolution merely digs his own grave’ – so said the French revolutionary Louis de Saint-Just. The socialist historian R. H. Tawney made the same point slightly differently when he wrote that you cannot skin a tiger claw by claw. That was the danger inherent in the defeat of the popular Reformation.

Just as the bourgeois revolution had begun as an ideological movement of religious reform, so the counter-revolutionary response involved a dogmatic reassertion of Catholic orthodoxy: the Counter-Reformation.

The Council of Trent, meeting between 1545 and 1563, issued a series of decrees with two main aims: to weed out corruption in the Church and to reassert Catholic dogma.

Absenteeism, the holding of multiple posts, and the buying and selling of ecclesiastical positions were banned. New training seminaries were established. Thus were the quality and attentiveness of the priests and bishops who formed Catholicism’s ideological front-line to be improved. At the same time, the Council was uncompromising in its reassertion of the medieval doctrines that distinguished Catholicism from Protestantism: the veneration of saints; salvation through good works; observation of the Seven Sacraments; the real presence of Christ in the holy Eucharist (a wafer of bread); and the infallibility (ecclesiastical dictatorship) of the papacy.

The Council of Trent shored up the Church’s defences. Two other features of the Counter-Reformation involved going onto the offensive.

In 1540, Pope Paul III gave his approval to the Society of Jesus, a religious order founded by Ignatius Loyola, a Spanish soldier turned ascetic, mystic, and theologian. Carefully selected, highly trained, and tightly disciplined, the Jesuits became the ‘special forces’ operatives of the Counter-Reformation. As well as being active in the Catholic heartlands and as missionaries in the Americas and the Indies, they formed an underground network of subversion in the Protestant-ruled states of Northern Europe.

The second offensive arm was the Inquisition. This sinister organisation had first taken shape during the Church’s Albigensian crusade against the heretic Cathars of southern France in the early thirteenth century. But it had survived only in Spain, first as an arm of the feudal struggle against the Moors (Spanish Muslims), then as a prop of the new absolutist monarchy. It was only with the unification of Spain, Austria, and Germany under Charles V (1519–56), and with the decision of the Pope in 1542 to re-establish the institution in Italy, that the Inquisistion was transformed into a pan-European agency of repression.

Run by six cardinals in Rome, the Holy Office of the Inquisition became a permanent counter-revolutionary tribunal from which there was no appeal. Inquisitors could enter any Catholic country with the power to arrest and torture heretics, confiscate their property, and hand over the condemned for execution. The Inquisition also enforced the Index, a regularly updated list of books which should be burnt. Where the writ of the Inquisition ran, it threatened art, science, and freedom of thought and enquiry. The humanist culture of the Renaissance was transformed into a celebration of traditional authority. Art and architecture were fossilised in the Baroque’s glorification of power, wealth, and mysticism, while scientists might be burnt at the stake along with their books. To think out loud could be dangerous in Counter-Reformation Europe.

The contrast between cultural potential and political reaction – between Renaissance and Counter-Reformation – was at its starkest in Italy. The city-states there had emerged as early as the twelfth century as major independent centres of commerce and power within the wider feudal world. In the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries they played host to many of the greatest artistic, architectural, and scientific achievements of the Renaissance. Yet the embryonic mercantile capitalism within each of these states was suffocated at birth. The new socio-economic forces failed to break through traditional politico-military structures. Commercial wealth remained under the control of old elites. In due course, the Renaissance was subordinated to the service of the Counter-Reformation.

Two factors proved decisive. First, the economies of the city-states were bound by a framework of feudal guilds and regulated markets. This framework was dominated by powerful mercantile oligarchies, in many cases by single families. Merchants and bankers thus evolved into urban-based potentates who used their control of city government and the guilds to shore up their own position and provide launch-pads for wider political ambitions. The Medicis of Florence, for example, eventually entered the highest levels of feudal society – two of them became popes and one a queen of France.

Second, because Italy remained divided into a plethora of rival polities, warfare between feudal factions was endemic and the territory was exposed to foreign intervention, becoming a battleground of the great powers. The struggle between Guelphs, who supported the papacy, and Ghibellines, who supported the Holy Roman Emperor, continued throughout most of the medieval period. Similarly, between 1494 and 1559, northern Italy became the principal arena in the long military confrontation between France and the Emperor.

So Italy remained in thrall to merchant-princes, mercenary captains (condottieri), and foreign armies. Protestantism made few converts, and those few were soon crushed by the Counter-Reformation crusade emanating from Rome.

Spain, on the other hand, was a unified national state. Here, the Counter-Reformation triumphed as an instrument of royal despotism. Philip II (1556–98) was the archetypal Catholic ruler – gloomy, ponderous, bureaucratic, bigoted, life-hating. He asserted the divine right of kings. Everyone addressed him on bended knee. The Cortes was deprived of power, the nobility reduced to a caste of sycophants. Local powers were curtailed, authority centralised. The King himself presided over the horrific autos-da-fé (acts of faith) – the Inquisition’s rituals of public execution – by which Spanish Protestantism was destroyed in the space of just ten years. The Moors were subject to extreme oppression: they were forbidden to speak Arabic, wear native dress, or follow traditional marriage and funerary customs. When they rebelled in 1568, order was restored by wholesale extermination.

France was different. Spanish feudalism had achieved a higher degree of centralisation during the Middle Ages because of the internal struggle against the Moors. The French monarchy had always been weaker. Parts of France were also more economically developed than Spain. The Protestant Reformation had therefore been able to make greater inroads, becoming established over about a third of France. Some 2,500 churches held synods (councils). As elsewhere, the French Reformation had been pushed from below by the middling sort. But sections of the French nobility had converted and placed themselves at the head of the Protestant community (the Huguenots) in order to advance their dynastic interests.

In 1562, soldiers in the pay of Francis, Duke of Guise, carried out a massacre of Protestants. Louis, Prince of Condé, a leading Protestant noble, immediately called his supporters and co-religionists to arms. For almost 40 years, France was wracked by religious wars between rival aristocratic factions. Then, in August 1572, these Wars of Religion took the extreme form of pogroms. The St Bartholomew’s Day Massacre in Paris was followed by a series of similar massacres in other major French towns. The Inquisition had destroyed the weak popular Reformation in Spain. Catholic death-squads performed the same role in France.

The war continued, however. The massacres made it more bitter, but also strengthened aristocratic control, as ordinary people sought the protection of local nobles. The radical potential of the Reformation was further distorted by the logic of aristocratic faction and religious warfare.

The war finally ended in compromise. The Protestant leader Henry of Navarre succeeded to the French throne, becoming King Henry IV (1589–1610), but in order to reunite the fractured state, he renounced his faith and proclaimed his reconversion to Catholicism (1593). Once the last centres of resistance had been reduced, he issued the Edict of Nantes (1598), which granted freedom of conscience and worship to the Huguenots.

The wars had inflicted huge economic damage, and the degeneration of the Reformation into aristocratic factionalism had halted its advance. These consequences of the Wars of Religion would determine the course of French history for the next 200 years. A powerful absolute monarchy would emerge during the seventeenth century. Aristocratic castles, the regional power bases of the great feudal landowners, would be destroyed by royal cannon, and the nobility reduced to mere courtiers. A state-feudal regime would freeze social relations, retard economic development, and impose a massive military burden on French society. The triumph of the absolutist state over civil society would be symbolised by the revocation of the Edict of Nantes in 1685, which turned the Huguenots into a persecuted minority. The final result of the defeat of the popular Reformation would be the accumulation of contradictions that produced the Great French Revolution of 1789.

The Counter-Reformation was triumphant in Spain and Italy, and made major advances in Germany and France. But the Reformation survived in Northern Europe – and that is why this region now became the powerhouse of world history.

The Dutch Revolution

In the sixteenth century, three million people lived in the Low Countries – the same as in the whole of England and Wales. Of these, about half lived in towns. Bruges, Ghent, Brussels, Antwerp, Utrecht, Leiden, Haarlem, Amsterdam, and other Flemish and Dutch towns were among the foremost trading centres of Renaissance Europe. At least 25 of these towns had populations of more than 10,000. The region was dominated by its waterways – rivers, estuaries, canals, and dykes. Several great river systems – the Rhine, Meuse/Maas, and Scheldt – rise in the European hinterland, then flow through the Low Countries into a maze of estuaries, islands, and mudflats on the North Sea coast.

As the feudal order was transformed by money and the market, the geography of the Low Countries made it one of most economically dynamic parts of Europe. Flemish and Dutch society became dominated by merchants and artisans. Culture and civic organisation flourished. Powerful guilds dominated urban life. The defence of traditional liberties and privileges was robust.

The Reformation swept across the Low Countries like an electric storm. Here, above all other places in Europe, feudal overlords and church corruption were not tolerated. But the Low Countries were ruled by Imperial Spain, and taxes on Flemish and Dutch mercantile wealth were being increased to fund the 150,000-strong Spanish army and support the dynastic ambitions of a distant Catholic Habsburg king.

The Flemish and Dutch nobility who ruled the Low Countries found themselves squeezed between the demands of the imperial state and resistance from Calvinist and Anabaptist urban populations. In 1564 they forced the dismissal of the Spanish viceroy Cardinal Granvelle. But this failed to appease rising opposition.

An attempted crackdown on heresy by the Catholic authorities two years later met unprecedented resistance. Mass open-air meetings of armed Protestants were held across the Low Countries. One Ghent patrician and chronicler marvelled that four or five sermons were sufficient to reverse beliefs that people had held for 30 or 40 years.

In August and September of that year, revolutionary crowds overturned the old order in town after town. Catholic churches were attacked in an ‘iconoclastic fury’. Conservative municipal oligarchies collapsed. Ruling princes were forced to grant freedom of worship to Lutherans and Calvinists. Anabaptists simply took it for themselves. A section of the Dutch nobility led by William of Orange placed itself at the head of the revolutionary movement. The majority either withdrew into passivity or supported the counter-revolutionary violence now unleashed by the King of Spain.

Determined to hold together his far-flung empire by driving back the forces of Reformation and revolution that threatened it, Philip II turned the Low Countries into Europe’s principal battleground. For more than 40 years, with wildly fluctuating fortunes, the Dutch Revolution took the form of a protracted popular war of national defence. Tens of thousands of Spanish troops were deployed and vast amounts of treasure consumed. Full-scale terror was unleashed by foreign soldiers and the Inquisition. During several days of ‘Spanish Fury’ in Antwerp after the capture of the city in November 1576, 1,000 houses were destroyed and 8,000 people killed. Military terror defeated the Flemish movement and restored Spanish rule in Belgium. The Dutch Revolution proved far more intractable.

The approaches to Holland from the south contract into a relatively narrow corridor dissected by a succession of major rivers. The land generally is low-lying, boggy, and criss-crossed by countless drainage dykes. The rivers and dykes provide natural defence lines. The effect was compounded by the density of settlement in Holland. There were many walled towns, and even villages could be turned into strongholds by improvising ramparts, barricades, and blockhouses. The result was what military theorists call ‘complex terrain’ – a contested landscape where movement and supply are difficult and invading armies get bogged down amid natural obstacles, concealed positions, and defended strongpoints. The invaders’ difficulties were compounded by the growing professionalism of the urban militia who formed the core of the Dutch forces, by the operations of a powerful fleet of ‘Sea Beggars’ (a confederacy of Dutch Calvinist nobles), and by the increasing numbers of foreign volunteers rallying to the aid of their co-religionists.

Members of Calvinist and Anabaptist congregations functioned like the activists of a revolutionary party. The war radicalised the revolution. The United Provinces (as Holland came to be known) soon had the highest proportion of Anabaptists in Europe – up to half the population in some districts. Anabaptists were advocates of political democracy and social equality.

At the same time, Calvinist churches in Germany, France, England, and Scotland – boosted by Dutch exiles – functioned as a sort of revolutionary ‘international’, raising support for the resistance. The foreign contingents fighting in Holland were the most tangible result – effectively a Protestant ‘international brigade’, for the Dutch Revolution had become the front-line in the struggle against the Counter-Reformation.

When a third Spanish offensive brought the Dutch to the brink of defeat in 1584, Elizabeth I of England declared war. The safety of the English Protestant state would have been compromised by a victorious Spanish Empire in secure control of the Channel coast. It was in England’s interest to keep the Dutch fighting. What is more, the policy was popular with the Protestant middling sort, who formed the bedrock of the Tudor dynasty.

English intervention spurred Philip to his greatest effort: the Spanish Armada of 1588. The defeat of his fleet by a combination of bad weather and the English navy was the turning point. The Spanish Empire was overextended. It was supporting its Catholic Habsburg cousins in Germany, safeguarding its interests in Italy, fighting the Ottomans in the Mediterranean, intervening in the French Wars of Religion, and defending its vast territories in the Americas and the treasure fleets plying the Atlantic trade-routes. Again and again, Spanish troops mutinied and ran riot on the Dutch front because they had not been paid. Again and again, despite herculean efforts by the imperial power, the Dutch resisted, the Spanish fell back exhausted, and the revolution renewed itself. The Spanish finally gave up in 1609. The United Provinces of Holland became the world’s first bourgeois republic.

Even Marxist historians sometimes miss the significance of the Dutch Revolution of 1566–1609. The revolution was long, complex, and dominated by war. It comprised three distinct surges of politico-military resistance – in 1565–8, 1569–76, and 1576–81. Each was followed by a Spanish counter-offensive. The last was repulsed with English support, and after that the revolution proceeded as a conventional military struggle.

The aristocratic leadership of the House of Orange, increasingly dominant in the later phases, distorted but did not alter the revolutionary character of the war. The mercantile bourgeoisie was victorious. The urban petty-bourgeoisie of small traders, artisans, and labourers had made victory possible. The Calvinist and Anabaptist churches had provided the essential revolutionary leadership.

In contrast to regions where the Counter-Reformation triumphed, the seventeenth century was a Golden Age for the Dutch. Their trade, navy, and overseas empire became pre-eminent. Their towns boasted grand buildings and their art was the finest in Europe.

But Holland was very small. This, in the long run, proved an insuperable constraint on the new state’s economic growth and political power. If there was to be a decisive breakthrough to a new world economic order, the bourgeois revolution would have to win victories on a larger stage. This it was to do in the course of the seventeenth century.

The Thirty Years War

By 1609 Imperial Spain had been defeated in its effort to crush the Dutch Revolution, and Holland was able to flourish as a Protestant bourgeois republic. But the end of the Dutch War freed the Catholic Habsburg rulers of Spain for action elsewhere.

The Holy Roman Empire was ruled by another branch of the Habsburgs. The Emperor’s power-base was Austria, where the family estates were concentrated, but his authority extended across Germany, Silesia, Bohemia, Moravia, Hungary, and parts of northern Italy. The Empire was a dynastic super-state encompassing most of Central Europe. But it was deeply divided. In Germany and Bohemia especially, the Reformation was dominant. The authority of the Emperor had been cast off by local princes and the wealth of the Church appropriated by new secular landowners.

In the early seventeenth century, the Habsburgs of Spain and Austria launched a feudal absolutist counter-revolution against the German Reformation. The unintended results of the conflict – the Thirty Years War (1618–48) – transformed Continental Europe more radically than any subsequent event until the French Revolution (1789–1815).

The crisis broke in Bohemia (today the Czech Republic). The independence and wealth of the Czech nobility was threatened by the centralising and Catholicising policy of Vienna. The nobles responded by throwing three imperial officials out of a castle window (‘the defenestration of Prague’); they landed in a dung-heap. The following year, 1619, the nobles refused to recognise the new Catholic Habsburg Emperor Ferdinand II, instead granting the crown of the Kingdom of Bohemia to one of the leading Protestant princes of Germany, Frederick V, the Elector Palatine – in feudal dynastic terms, a declaration of independence from both Empire and Church.

Bohemia was one of the most economically advanced parts of Europe. Though still dominated by feudal magnates, society was in transition as markets and money recast relations between lords, merchants, and peasants. It was in Bohemia that the proto-Protestant Hussite ‘heresy’ had flourished in the early fifteenth century. Protestantism and a tradition of religious toleration reflected the changing character of Bohemian society.

But at the Battle of the White Mountain near Prague in 1620, the Catholic League defeated Frederick. Imperial government was restored, Czech liberties were abolished, the Bohemian crown was declared hereditary in the Habsburg family, and the Counter-Reformation was unleashed in all its fury. The Bohemian nobility could have attempted to build resistance by turning the conflict into a popular war like the Hussite Revolt two centuries earlier. Class interest prevented this – they had no wish to resurrect the spectre of social revolution. Instead, they appealed, unsuccessfully, to other Protestant princes for support.

The North German Protestant Union had no forces to spare. The Emperor and the Catholic League were on the offensive, and the war quickly spread, drawing in Holland, Denmark, Sweden, and eventually France. The other powers intervened to prevent a Catholic victory and the domination of Europe by the Habsburgs. A religious war therefore turned into a geopolitical conflict. The transformative potential of the Reformation was deflected by princely leadership and transformed into a conventional military struggle between rival states.

Each time the Catholic League seemed poised for victory in Germany, a new defender would appear – the Elector Palatine, the Dutch Republic, King Christian of Denmark, King Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden, and finally Cardinal Richelieu, the chief minister of King Louis XIII of France. Because of this, the war was protracted; and it devastated Germany. What had been one of the most advanced economies in Europe was wrecked by insecurity, depopulation, disruption to trade, the destruction of property, and the plundering of armies. The population may have been reduced by half between 1618 and 1648.

The Habsburgs were fought to a standstill, their attempt to create a pan-European absolutism defeated. Germany was left a mosaic of petty states, often at war with one another, separated by customs barriers, divided by religion.

Where the Catholic League triumphed outright, there was unbridled reaction. The screws of feudal exploitation tightened on the Bohemian peasantry, many of whom ended up handing over half their produce to the landlords, draining the countryside of the surpluses needed to improve farms and raise productivity. The towns were depopulated. The Czech language went into decline.

The nations of Central Europe were either fragmented or agglomerated without regard to linguistic, ethnic, or cultural boundaries. Only in 1871 was Germany finally unified. Not before 1918 would the subject peoples of the Habsburg Empire break free. This was the price paid for the ‘deflected’ Reformation – its transformation from popular revolution into aristocratic factionalism.

No less momentous was the impact of the war on Spain and France. Habsburg Spain, funded by its European and New World empires, had been the most formidable military power of the sixteenth century. But geopolitical pre-eminence had masked socio-economic stagnation. The feudal landowning class still dominated the Iberian peninsula. Trade and towns remained underdeveloped. Science and culture wilted under the dual pressure of Habsburg absolutism and the Holy Inquisition.

The sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were an age of transition. Mercantile capitalism and bourgeois revolution were elevating some societies at the expense of others. In this context, Imperial Spain’s politico-military ambition was in contradiction with its socio-economic backwardness. During the Thirty Years War, the law of political gravity was reasserted. After a century-long struggle to crush the Reformation in Northern Europe, the drain on its resources between 1618 and 1648 caused Imperial Spain’s military power finally to collapse. When it did so, geopolitical hegemony on the Continent passed to France.

With the late sixteenth-century Wars of Religion settled by compromise, during the 1620s and 1630s the French monarchy became a powerful absolutism under the political leadership of Cardinal Richelieu. The Huguenots lost their strongholds and ceased to be a state within the state. The nobles were brought to heel: castles were demolished, duelling outlawed, and plots crushed. The nobles became courtiers, the local parlements lost effective power, and royal intendants (administrators) and travelling commissioners ruled in their place.

Loyalists were rewarded with offices and privileges, and the French aristocracy evolved into a caste of pampered state functionaries and dependants. A combination of the feudal exactions of local nobles and state taxation to support the monarchy’s war machine condemned the peasantry to grinding poverty, the pervasive hopelessness of village life punctuated only by occasional doomed uprisings.

Between 1635 and 1648 absolutist France intervened in the Thirty Years War to prevent a Habsburg victory. The result was French supremacy in Europe.

Over the next seven years, the monarchy was challenged internally by the Frondes – a popular revolt against war taxes, followed by an aristocratic revolt against absolutism. The Frondes were, in a sense, an abortive revolution by disparate, ill-defined, uncoordinated forces. The new monarchy weathered the storm.

Absolutist France would dominate Continental Europe for more than a century, such were the national resources at the command of the monarchy. But in that time, Britain would prove to be France’s most enduring and increasingly effective rival; and in the long run, Britain would triumph, both in the struggle for empire and in the effort to build a modern economy.

To understand why, we now turn to events in Britain during the seventeenth century. For there the outcome of the struggle between Reformation and Counter-Reformation, between bourgeois revolution and absolutism, was very different from that in France, Spain, and Germany. There, in a medium-sized island on the north-western edge of Europe, the revolutionary promise of the Reformation was most fully realised.

The Causes of the English Revolution

In Central Europe in the first half of the seventeenth century, counter-revolution ended in what Marx called ‘the common ruin of the contending classes’. The Habsburg Catholic juggernaut was halted only after 30 years of war. The effort broke the power of feudal-absolutist Spain, but also wrecked the advanced economy of Germany.

In England, on the other hand, attempted counter-revolution led to the downfall of feudal absolutism, the execution of the king, and the establishment of a bourgeois republic. This very different outcome was a consequence of the resolute action of tens of thousands of revolutionaries at a succession of key turning-points during the 1640s. But the mass movement in which they were embedded had its roots in the English Reformation a century before.

During the 1530s, Reformation from above had brought about a break with the papacy, royal control of the English Church, and the Dissolution of the Monasteries (the nationalisation of monastic estates). In explaining these events, most historians focus on the dynastic needs of the Tudor regime. It is true that Henry VIII (1509–47) wanted a divorce so that he could remarry and sire a legitimate male heir. But two other factors were of equal importance.

First, the Tudor regime rested partly on the support of the middling sort of small farmers, traders, and artisans. These were the pioneers of England’s relatively advanced economy, and many were early and enthusiastic converts to the new religion. Central to the dynamism of the English economy at the time – and therefore to the prosperity of commercial farmers, merchants, and ship owners – was the wool trade.

Thomas Cromwell (1485–1540), Henry VIII’s chief minister from 1532 to 1540, was from this class and a staunch Protestant. Anne Boleyn, whose marriage to Henry was engineered by Cromwell, was also a Protestant. Henry himself was a religious conservative, but during the reign of his son, Edward VI (1547–53), the English Church was radically reformed.

Second, nationalised monastic land was rapidly sold off or given away. It was the biggest transfer of landownership since the Norman Conquest. It enlarged and enriched the English gentry and thereby created a strong base of support in the landowning class for both the Tudor dynasty and the Protestant religion.

The English Reformation from above was therefore a deep-rooted process of religious, political, and social change. That is why attempted Catholic restoration during the reign of Henry’s daughter Mary (1553–8) was doomed. It is also why the Protestant regime of Elizabeth I (1558–1603) was popular and resilient. The defeat of the Spanish Armada in 1588 was only the most notable measure of the regime’s strength.

But the old order had not suffered a decisive defeat. Regional magnates, especially in the north and west, often retained considerable power. Leading aristocrats used their position at court to secure honorific titles, appointments to high office, grants of land, business contracts, and monopoly rights. Feudal competition, once a matter of military force, now depended on court intrigue.

The Reformation of the 1530s had left the central contradiction in English society unresolved. Indeed, by strengthening the new economy, it caused it to deepen over subsequent decades. The old aristocracy became increasingly dependent on court patronage and sought to buttress its privileges. Meanwhile, the lesser gentry, the yeomanry (rich peasants), industrialists, and burghers (townsmen) developed their farms and businesses.

The population of England more than doubled between 1500 and 1650, by which time one in twelve people were living in towns, and hundreds of thousands were employed in rural industries. The rural gentry and burghers represented in Parliament became increasingly resentful of barriers to enterprise. Royal taxation, customs duties, and trade monopolies seemed designed to enrich idle courtiers.

The first two Stuart kings, James I (1603–25) and Charles I (1625–49), who succeeded the Tudors, clashed repeatedly with their Parliaments. A turning-point in relations between ‘Court and Country’ was reached in 1629, when Charles dissolved Parliament and attempted to rule without it. The ‘Eleven Years Tyranny’ (1629–40) was an attempt to establish Continental-style absolutism in England. The experience triggered all the class anxieties of England’s gentry and burghers. Arbitrary taxation, requisitioning, and billeting threatened their property. Political centralisation undermined the traditional authority of local elites. Alignment with Catholic powers abroad conflicted with city trading interests. Catholic influence at Court cast a long shadow over the security of titles to confiscated church lands. An Irish Catholic army formed by Charles’ chief minister, the Earl of Strafford, had the appearance of a coercive force, capable of being deployed to impose royal absolutism on England.

The crisis broke in 1637. The issue was religion. Archbishop Laud’s High Church Anglicanism was a conservative brand of Protestantism barely distinguishable to many from Catholicism. Religious conformity had become synonymous with political obedience. The main line of division was between Calvinists on the one hand – ‘Puritans’ as they were known in England – and High Church Anglicans and Catholics on the other.

In Lowland Scotland, nobles, burghers, and Calvinist ministers had united to carry out their own Reformation long before. Charles, King of Scotland as well as England, was attempting to assert his authority on both sides of the border. Laud’s attempt to impose the Anglican Book of Common Prayer on Scotland provoked a riot. When the Dean of St Giles in Edinburgh began to read from the new prayer book on 23 July 1637, Jenny Geddes, a market trader, threw her stool at him, shouting, ‘Dare you say the Mass in my ear?’ The service broke up in chaos, and shortly afterwards a huge crowd of Calvinist Scots assembled at the foot of Edinburgh Castle to sign a Solemn League and Covenant to defend their religion. Jenny Geddes sparked the English Revolution. (Scotland was heavily involved throughout, and ‘British Revolution’ would be the more appropriate term, but ‘English Revolution’ is too firmly embedded in the literature.)

The King attempted to suppress the Scottish Covenanters by force. But the mutinous militia of the northern English counties were no match for the Scots and the ‘First Bishops’ War’ petered out inconclusively in 1639. The following year a much larger English army was recruited, but the Covenanters crossed the border and swept their enemies away with artillery fire. The Scots – with covert encouragement from the English Puritans with whom they were in contact – occupied the three most northerly English counties pending payment of the £400,000 indemnity they were due under the terms of the Treaty of Ripon signed at the end of the ‘Second Bishops’ War’.

To pay the bill and see the back of the Scots, Charles was left with no choice but to summon Parliament. The extraordinary tax-raising measures of his Eleven Years Tyranny were legally dubious, increasingly contested, and hopelessly insufficient to pay the indemnity. The proto-absolutist Stuart state had collapsed. Its rupture with the propertied classes of Scotland and England had left it insolvent in the face of revolt. But the Long Parliament which assembled in November 1640 was in no mood to grant the funds to create a royal army or pay off the Scots. Its aim was nothing less than a dismantling of the entire apparatus of embryonic absolutism. And this, it turned out, could not be achieved without civil war.

Revolution and Civil War

Royal absolutism threatened the powers, privileges, and property of local elites. A victory for the Court would have been a victory for arbitrary authority, state monopolies, and countless restrictions on freedom of trade. Laud’s High Church Anglicanism was the ideological spearhead of this political project and its target was the radical Protestantism of the opposition ‘Country’ party. That is why Laud’s attempt to impose the mass on Scotland had provoked revolution.

The same issues now agitated the London Parliament’s resistance to the King’s request for new taxes to pay the Scots. Parliament demanded ‘redress of grievances’ before the granting of funds. This included the abolition of arbitrary taxation; the dismantling of the royal courts of justice; an end to the King’s power to dissolve Parliament without its consent; the removal of the bishops from the House of Lords; and the prosecution for treason of the Earl of Strafford.

The members of the Long Parliament were conservative property-owners. They acted in a revolutionary way for two reasons. First, they regarded absolutism as a direct threat to their property. Second, they were variously buoyed, cajoled, and pressured by extra-parliamentary mass mobilisations of London’s middling sort, the urban poor, and working women.

During the December Days (27–30 December 1641) huge crowds converged on Whitehall and Westminster after the King appointed a court loyalist as Lieutenant of the Tower of London. This new appointment, the most important military post in the capital, implied that Charles was preparing an internal coup to suppress Parliament and cow London.

In the face of demonstrations, the appointment was overturned. But it was not enough. The cry went up, ‘No bishops! No bishops!’ The bishops were the most reactionary members of Parliament. Many were physically prevented from taking their seats, and at least one was thrown into the river.

Royalists attacked the crowd with swords. The crowd fought back with bricks, tiles, and cobblestones. As word of the fighting spread, London as a whole mobilised and Parliament was put under siege by 10,000 armed apprentices. The London Trained Bands – the city militia – refused to disperse them.

On 30 December, the House of Commons impeached twelve leading bishops and the House of Lords dispatched them to prison. Church bells pealed across the City and bonfires blazed in the streets. The revolution had been driven forward by mass action from below.

Less than week later, the King attempted to launch his coup. On 4 January 1642 he entered the House of Commons with an armed guard of 100 officers, intent on arresting five leading oppositionists. Forewarned, the five members had fled to the City. Gates were shut, portcullises lowered and chains put across streets. For several days, thousands stood ready, armed with halberds, swords, staves, whatever came to hand. Women brought stools and tubs from their homes to build barricades and boiled water ‘to throw on the cavaliers’.

But the cavaliers did not come. London, it was clear, had passed to the side of the revolution. It was not to be recovered with the forces to hand. On 10 January the King fled. The following day the five members returned to Westminster through cheering crowds.

Charles now set up a rival capital at Oxford and was soon raising an army. Revolution was transformed into civil war. The urban insurrection in the capital was followed by hundreds of local struggles between Royalists and Parliamentarians for control of arsenals, strategic points, and militia units across the country.

Because Parliament represented the economically advanced sections of society, it controlled not only London but also the Home Counties, the South-East, East Anglia, and most ports and walled towns elsewhere. It therefore had the financial, manpower, and strategic resources to wage an effective war. But that was not enough. One problem was amateurism and parochialism. Local wars were fought across the country, but only a fraction of the men involved were willing to be amalgamated into large field armies with national strategic reach. Many refused to leave their own counties.

A second problem was the conservatism of Parliamentarian leadership. One third of the Lords and two-thirds of the Commons had remained loyal to Parliament in 1642. But the majority were Presbyterian property-owners who feared that the war might unleash ‘the many-headed hydra’ of social revolution. (Presbyterian was the term used for Calvinist Protestants in England and Scotland.) Only a minority favoured all-out war by whatever means necessary. Most of these were minor gentry. Because they wanted more decentralisation and democracy in church government than the Presbyterians, they were known as Independents.

As a politico-religious tendency, the Independents merged on their left with the increasingly important Sectaries, radical Protestant groups who gave expression to the democratic and ‘levelling’ aspirations of many ordinary Parliamentarian supporters. The Independents became dominant among army officers. The army was the concentrated expression of revolutionary force. Here, the contradiction between conservatism and military necessity was an immediate life-and-death matter. Here, too, the pressure from below – from an armed rank and file – was most keenly felt.

Oliver Cromwell, a middle-aged squire who was MP for Cambridge and a Parliamentarian cavalry commander, emerged as a leading Independent among the officers, a protector of Sectaries in the ranks, and the foremost advocate of all-out revolutionary war. To his own regiment of ‘Ironsides’, he recruited ‘men of a spirit’, for, Cromwell believed, ‘he who prays best will fight best’.

A few honest men are better than numbers ... If you choose godly, honest men to be captains of horse, honest men will follow them ... I had rather have a plain russet-coated captain that knows what he fights for, and loves what he knows, than that which you call a gentleman and is nothing more.

The aim was clear. Presbyterian lords and generals sought a compromise peace between the propertied classes ranged on either side. Cromwell, on the other hand, declared, ‘If the King chanced to be in a body of the enemy I was to charge, I would as soon discharge my pistol upon him as at any other private person.’

On 15 February 1645 the conservative opposition in Parliament was defeated and the Self-Denying Ordinance passed into law. At a stroke, all members of both Houses of Parliament were debarred from holding military commands. The existing army structure – rooted in conservatism, parochialism, and vested interests – was swept away. In its place arose the New Model Army.

The New Model was a revolutionary army of the middling sort. Though many recruits were newly pressed men, they were grouped around a revolutionary spine of veterans and radicals. The tone was set by the sermons of preachers like Hugh Peters, by the broadsheets and pamphlets circulating among the soldiers, and by the role of political and religious enthusiasts in debate.

At Naseby, on 14 June 1645, the New Model Army defeated and destroyed the main Royalist field army. The King was never able to raise another. The Army never gave him the chance. Within a year, all Royalist military resistance had been suppressed.

The revolution had triumphed. But what sort of revolution was it? What vision of a new society was to guide its future work?

The Army, the Levellers, and the Commonwealth

The Presbyterian gentry who formed the majority in Parliament had always regarded the New Model Army as a regrettable necessity. Their immediate priorities in 1646 were to disband it, reach a settlement with the King, crush politico-religious dissent, and thereby end the revolutionary process. As big property-owners, they feared radicals more than Royalists.

The soldiers faced either deployment to fight a dismal colonial war in Ireland or immediate demobilisation without a pension or other provision. Their pay, moreover, was months in arrears. These economic grievances meshed with hopes for greater democracy. Each regiment elected two ‘agitators’ to voice its demands and coordinate political action with other regiments. The Army activists also formed close links with the Levellers, a radical democratic party with a strong base in London and other towns. The most prominent Leveller leader was a former soldier called John Lilburne.

Army leaders like Cromwell were torn. As property-owning gentry themselves, their social instincts were conservative and their inclinations towards reaching an accommodation with the King if possible. But they were also successful revolutionaries determined to defend the gains they had won on the battlefield, and, as Army officers, were subject to direct pressure from the radicals among the rank and file in a way that MPs were not.

The political conflicts of 1646–9 therefore involved four distinct forces. The Royalists wanted to reverse the outcome of the Civil War. The Presbyterians wanted a settlement with the King to create a conservative regime of big property-owners. The Independents – the Army leaders and a small minority in Parliament – vacillated between compromise and revolutionary action. The Levellers – backed by the London crowd and much of the Army rank and file – were pushing for thoroughgoing democratic change.

By October 1647 the Levellers were strong enough to force a public debate (known as the Putney Debates) with the Army leaders. ‘I think that the poorest he that is in England has a life to live as the greatest he,’ explained the radical officer Colonel Thomas Rainsborough. ‘The poorest man in England is not bound in a strict sense to that government that he hath not a voice to put himself under.’

‘No one,’ replied Henry Ireton, speaking for the generals, ‘has a right to ... a share ... in determining of the affairs of the kingdom ... that has not a permanent fixed interest in the kingdom ... that is, the person in whom all land lies, and those in the corporations in whom all trading lies.’

What was England to become? A radical democracy of small property-owners, or a conservative constitutional monarchy dominated by big landowners and merchants?

The matter was unresolved when the King escaped from captivity and launched a second civil war. The Royalists were now joined by Presbyterians in Scotland, Wales, and many parts of England, reacting against the radicalism unleashed by the revolution. But the New Model Army crushed all its enemies in a whirlwind campaign in the summer of 1648.

In the face of attempted counter-revolution, and under continuing pressure from below, Cromwell and the Independents now swung over to revolutionary action. In December 1648 the Army carried out a second revolution. Colonel Pride deployed a unit of cavalry to exclude leading conservatives from the House of Commons. The Presbyterian-dominated Long Parliament was transformed into an Independent-dominated ‘Rump’. The King was then tried, condemned, and publicly executed in Whitehall on 30 January 1649 as a traitor to the English people.

Having crushed the Right with the support of the Left, the Army leaders – whose position amounted to a precarious wobble between the two – now moved against the Levellers. ‘I tell you, sir,’ proclaimed Cromwell at a meeting of the ruling Council of State, ‘you have no other way to deal with these men but to break them or they will break you.’

The Leveller leaders in London were arrested and imprisoned in the Tower, a mutiny of rank-and-file soldiers was crushed, and four of its leaders were shot in the churchyard at Burford in Oxfordshire.

The repression of spring 1649 broke the back of the mass movement which had powered the English Revolution ever since Jenny Geddes threw her stool at the Dean of St Giles in July 1637. The action of the middling sort had been decisive at several national crises of the Revolution and in hundreds of local struggles between Royalists and Parliamentarians across Britain. Again and again, either as urban crowds or New Model soldiers, the common people had acted collectively to drive the struggle forward. The defeat of the popular movement was therefore a turning-point – the point at which the Revolution’s forward momentum was frozen by military dictatorship from above.

The Army leaders’ rule after 1649 rested on a narrow social base of minor landowners, merchants, and officers. The majority of big property-owners were hostile. The majority of small property-owners lapsed into passivity and obscurity after the defeat of their party. The Army even fell out with the purged Rump Parliament. But new elections failed to produce a tractable assembly. So the military dictatorship was formalised: in 1653 Cromwell became Lord Protector of the Commonwealth; and in 1654 England was divided into military districts ruled by major-generals.

The new system became increasingly unpopular and unstable, especially after Cromwell’s death in 1658. The Army was unable to broaden its social base because the propertied classes were resentful of military rule and suspicious of the radicals it harboured.

When General George Monck, a relatively conservative Army commander in Scotland, launched a coup in early 1660, resistance melted away. He entered London and invited Charles I’s elder son to assume the throne as Charles II. The Restoration was, in effect, a coup of the New Model Army against itself. What made it possible was the hollowing out of the revolutionary movement of which the Army was the supreme expression.

Bourgeois revolution is a highly contradictory process. The bourgeoisie is a property-owning minority. It can overthrow the state by revolutionary action only if it succeeds in mobilising wider social forces. But these forces have interests of their own and revolution is an empowering process, such that expectations and demands rapidly exceed what bourgeois revolutionary leadership is willing to concede. The problem is then that the democratic and ‘levelling’ aspirations inherent in mass popular mobilisation trigger deep-rooted fears among big property-owners. This often causes would-be bourgeois revolutions to abort. This had been the case in Germany in the 1520s and again in the 1620s: on both occasions, conservative Protestant grandees had recoiled when confronted by radical Protestant movements of the common people.

The size and character of the mass movement are decisive. Revolutions are punctuated by successive crises. At each crisis, revolutionary and counter-revolutionary forces engage in a direct clash. Whether the revolution goes forward or retreats depends on the outcome. At some point, however, even the most radical bourgeois, if they are to preserve their property, must halt the momentum of the mass movement from below which has swept them to power. When they do, they expose themselves to resurgent counter-revolution. That is why the Restoration of 1660 proved not to be the final settlement that England’s men of property hoped for.

Colonies, Slavery, and Racism

The bourgeois revolutions in Holland and Britain unleashed tremendous socio-economic power. The medieval economy had been harnessed to political authority. Traditional feudalism – like that of Western Europe at the time of the Crusades – had siphoned surplus into waste expenditure on knights, castles, and lordly display. State feudalism – Philip II’s Spain or Louis XIV’s France – wasted it on royal armies, frontier fortifications, and court pageantry.

The Dutch victory over Spain in 1566–1609 and Parliament’s victory over the English King in 1637–60 made a new world possible, one dominated by the market, the profit motive, and a class of gentry and merchants eager to accumulate capital through productive investment.

The second half of the seventeenth century was the Golden Age of the Dutch. Land was reclaimed and new farming methods introduced. The Zaanstreek zone north of Amsterdam boasted 128 industrial windmills. A series of Dutch trading stations linked South Africa, India, and the Far East.

Such was the pace of development that commercial rivalry led to three naval wars between the Dutch and the English between 1652 and 1674 – until a common interest in resisting Louis XIV’s France brought the two bourgeois states into alliance. Had the Anglo-Dutch conflict continued, Holland would have lost. The home base was too small to sustain a long-term challenge to Britain.

British history is shaped by the fact that it is a large island, rich in resources, and on the edge of a dynamic continent. The seas around Britain are both a defensive moat and a commercial highway. The seventeenth-century revolution unlocked the economic potential inherent in Britain’s geography. It made possible a development of maritime trade, naval power, and overseas empire sufficient to make Britain a global superpower.

Coal production grew from 500,000 tons in 1650 to 15 million in 1800. The rate of industrial growth rose from 0.7 per cent a year in 1710–60 to 2 per cent a year in 1780–1800. The proportion of the population living in towns increased from 9 per cent in 1650 to 20 per cent in 1800.

Only towards the end of this period did an industrial take-off occur. During the late seventeenth and throughout the eighteenth centuries, virtually all industrial production took the form of craftwork by artisans in small workshops. Mechanisation and factory production were still embryonic as late as 1800. Capital accumulation was achieved through the control of distribution and exchange rather than of production. Eighteenth-century capitalism was mercantile capitalism, not yet industrial capitalism. The supreme expression of this was the so-called ‘triangular trade’.

In the sixteenth century, the precious metals of the Aztecs and Incas had been the richest of imperial prizes. In the eighteenth century, it was the sugar plantations of the West Indies. In both cases, there was a problem: a shortage of labour. The native population of the Americas had been virtually exterminated by the guns and diseases of the first European settlers. But the settlers themselves – including indentured servants imported in their thousands as labourers – were annihilated by tropical diseases. What was needed was a new labour force resistant to malaria, yellow fever, and other tropical diseases. The solution was to import slaves from West Africa.

To supply London, Bristol, Liverpool, and Glasgow with sugar, and to make the men who supplied them very rich, millions of Africans were enslaved, transported, and worked to death. Around twelve million Africans made the Atlantic passage between the late seventeenth and early nineteenth centuries. Of these, around 1.5 million died on the voyage. It was more profitable to pack them in slave ships and accept these losses than to accommodate them in conditions that enabled more to survive. Life was no better for the survivors in the West Indies. Underfed, overworked, and disciplined by the lash, the death rate on the plantations was extremely high.

Compared with these twelve million African migrants, only around two million Europeans migrated to the New World in this period. Yet the white population was roughly twice that of the black in 1820. The Europeans had survived and reproduced. The Africans had simply died.

The annihilation of the native peoples of the New World was one of the greatest crimes against humanity in history. The slave trade was another. Both crimes were compounded by the racism deployed to justify them.

Racism of one sort or another exists in all class societies. There are three reasons for this.

First, ruling classes compete for control over surplus and they need to mobilise ordinary people in pursuit of these struggles. During the Crusades, for example, Muslims were demonised as infidels to justify wars of genocide, plunder, and conquest in the Middle East.

Second, class society pits ordinary people against each other in a struggle to survive. The ruling class exploits this to foster divisions which make it less likely that people will unite against their exploiters. The Roman aristocracy, for instance, allowed certain privileges to the citizen poor and enrolled them in networks of patronage; they were at the same time encouraged to despise foreigners and slaves as ‘barbarians’.

Third, imperialism – the use of military force to seize the territory, resources, and manpower of other people – is easier to justify if the victims are portrayed as culturally or racially inferior. Imperialism can then be justified as a ‘civilising’ mission.

Rapid European colonial expansion and equally rapid growth in the slave trade during the eighteenth century combined to reconfigure racist ideology and magnify its historical significance. The new racism was developed in the context of the triangular trade. Ships carried trade goods to West Africa and were exchanged for black slaves. Local chiefs waged wars of enslavement to supply the market and gain access to imported prestige goods. The slaves were transported across the Atlantic and sold to plantation-owners in the slave markets. The ships returned to Europe with cargoes of sugar, tobacco, and later cotton.

Racism justified colonies and slavery on the grounds that the native people were inferior. At worst, they were seen as sub-humans fit only for heavy labour. At best, they were benighted and backward, in need of help to become civilised and Christian.

Capitalism has always been highly contradictory. On the one hand, its economic dynamism has dramatically increased our capacity to provide the goods and services people need. On the other, control of the world’s wealth by a minority has condemned the mass of humanity to continuing deprivation.

This contradiction was expressed in the eighteenth century in the contrast between the wealth of the merchant-capitalist class of Britain’s port cities and the misery of the Atlantic passage and the West Indian plantations. Nor was this the only human cost of the bourgeoisie’s rise to global dominance. Britain’s rulers were ruthless in their pursuit of the dazzlingly rich prizes to be won in the colonies. Other rulers, sensing the balance of power tipping against them, felt compelled to contest domination of the world. In consequence, Europe erupted repeatedly into war, and, increasingly, Europe’s wars went global.

Wars of Empire

The English Revolution was one of the most decisive events in world history because it made Britain the springboard for a new capitalist economy with global reach. Once launched, it was unstoppable.

The dominant European power at the end of the seventeenth century was France. Its population was three times greater than Britain’s, and the output of the French economy was correspondingly larger. Because of Britain’s dynamic capitalist economy, however, its population and output grew more rapidly than those of France during the eighteenth century. France, moreover, as a continental power, had to maintain a large army to defend its land frontiers. Britain, by contrast, was a maritime power and an island fortress, so the policy of its rulers was to keep the army small and the navy strong.

The British state was also financially robust. Though the merchants and landowners who dominated Parliament favoured low-cost government and avoidance of continental warfare, Britain’s growing capitalist economy meant that resources were available to support the military when vital interests were at stake. The Bank of England, for example, which quickly attracted funds after it was set up in 1694, was able to provide the loan finance for the expansion of the Royal Navy. Booming trade and modern banking conferred major advantages on Britain.

The conflict between Britain and France was the dominant global fracture-line between 1688 and 1815. At the beginning, it overlapped with the struggle against the English Revolution; at the end, with that against the French Revolution.

It is pertinent here to recall that Europe’s geography has made it a continent of warring states. Its easy east–west communications and its seaways and navigable waterways facilitate movement. At the same time, its many peninsulas and distinct eco-zones have fostered a diversity of ethnicities and ‘nations’. Since the fall of the Western Roman Empire, no continent-spanning imperial project has succeeded in Europe. Would-be imperial masters have invariably confronted too powerful a coalition of hostile forces.

Since the sixteenth century, traditional British policy has been to prevent any single power from dominating Europe and, in particular, gaining control of the Channel ports and threatening the security of the island fortress. This has been achieved by a combination of alliances, subsidies, and expeditionary forces. Throughout the eighteenth century, the British took a leading role in building a succession of alliances against France, provided subsidies to the rulers of minor German states to pay for military contingents, and regularly dispatched small armies of ‘Redcoats’ to fight alongside European allies.

At first, the British appeared weak. The destruction of the popular revolutionary movement between 1649 and 1660 had made possible a resurgence of Royalism after the Restoration, and this was exploited by the French monarchy. Charles II was succeeded by his brother James II in 1685. James was Catholic, pro-French, and committed to absolute monarchy. Supported by French subsidies, he was able to build up an Irish Catholic army as a potential instrument of Royalist counter-revolution. Initially, he had the backing of England’s men of property. When Charles’ illegitimate son, the staunchly Protestant Duke of Monmouth, landed in the West Country to claim the throne in 1685, Parliament and the army backed James. They feared a revival of the popular revolutionary movement of 1641–9, and the ‘Good Old Cause’ went down to defeat at the Battle of Sedgemoor.

But Royalism was a serious threat to the property, power, and religion of Protestant landowners and merchants. Once James’s intentions became clear, and with the danger of popular revolution reduced after Sedgemoor, leading parliamentary and army leaders planned a coup. The Glorious Revolution of 1688 was a reassertion of the victory of 1645 and the compromise of 1660. William of Orange, the ruler of Holland, and his wife Mary Stuart, James II’s elder daughter, were invited to accept the thrones of England, Ireland, and Scotland. The army mutinied in William’s interest, and James fled to France.

The Jacobites, as they became known, remained a threat until 1746. With French backing, they launched a series of attempts to overturn the Protestant succession to the throne of the ‘three kingdoms’ of England, Ireland, and Scotland, notably in 1689–91, 1715, and 1745–6. The Jacobite revolts were part of a wider global conflict between Britain and France. These two states fought six major wars against each other between 1688 and 1815. They were formally at war for a full half of this entire period.

This struggle for supremacy between Britain and France was a predominant contradiction in all of the following conflicts: the Nine Years War (1688–97), the War of the Spanish Succession (1701–14), the War of the Austrian Succession (1740–8), the Seven Years War (1756–63), the American Revolutionary War (in which the French were involved against the British from 1778 to 1783), and the French Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars (during which the British and the French were almost continually at war from 1793 to 1815). The conflict was global. It was centred in Europe, but there were major struggles on land and sea in India, the West Indies, North America, and elsewhere.

Britain had three major advantages from the outset. First, a new army and a new way of war had been forged during the English Revolution. Under the absolute monarchy, the French army fought slow, cautious, heavily defensive ‘wars of position’. By contrast, in the tradition of the New Model Army of 1645–60, British military doctrine stressed mobility, firepower, and aggression.

Second, Britain’s economic wealth and robust financial infrastructure enabled it to subsidise the military contributions of its continental allies.

Third, the British could devote far greater resources than could the French to naval operations and colonial campaigns. The British were protected by the English Channel. The French had to prioritise the defence of their extensive land frontiers.

These advantages, combined with the fact that Britain’s population and output were growing faster than those of France, meant that French power was contained in Europe and the French empire overseas lost.

Britain’s century of geopolitical triumph is bracketed by two decisive battles. The Duke of Marlborough’s victory at the Battle of Blenheim in 1704 ended the continental hegemony of Louis XIV’s France. The Duke of Wellington’s victory at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815 ended that of Napoleon’s France. Britain then remained the dominant global superpower for most of the nineteenth century. It did not fight a major war in Europe between 1815 and 1914. This dominance was made possible by its geopolitical victory over France and its pioneering of the Industrial Revolution. Both achievements were rooted in the revolutionary transformation of British society in the mid-seventeenth century.

Britain’s ascendancy contributed substantially to a second wave of bourgeois revolution. The absolutist and state-feudal monarchies of Europe were incapable of matching the achievements of Britain’s dynamic capitalist economy. The French fell ever further behind, and the growing pressure of geopolitical competition was a major factor in the explosion of 1789.

Before that, however, the Americans had performed a spectacular dress rehearsal. A new age of revolution opened in 1775 with a blaze of musket fire at Lexington and Bunker Hill in far-off Massachusetts.

8. The Second Wave of Bourgeois Revolutions (1775—1815)

The English Reformation created a strong centralised state and a new aristocracy of courtiers and estate-owners. The English Revolution then created a constitutional monarchy which vested governmental authority in the property-owning classes. These two developments reconfigured the British ruling class into an elite dominated by bankers, merchants, and commercial farmers. The effect was to unleash the full potential of British mercantile capitalism.

The transformation of the world that had begun around 1450 could then accelerate rapidly. As British armies and fleets created a vast colonial empire in India, North America, and the West Indies, wealth flowed back to Britain and turned it into both an economic powerhouse and a geopolitical superpower.

One outcome was that military competition with Britain wrecked the finances and the reputation of France’s absolute monarchy. At the same time, the development of capitalism and a prosperous merchant and professional bourgeoisie within France created social forces with the potential to overthrow the monarchy and remodel society. The result – the French Revolution – shook the world. Nothing afterwards was ever quite the same.

This chapter presents a detailed analysis of this key event in modern world history. We begin, however, with the Enlightenment, the revolution in ideas leading up to 1789, and with the American Revolution, the great colonial revolt which provided the French with a model of ideas in action.

The Enlightenment

Eighteenth-century Europe was divided into three. One part – much of southern and eastern Europe – was trapped in a feudal-absolutist past, where royal autocrats ruled traditional societies of landlords and priest-ridden peasants which had barely changed since the Middle Ages.

The second – north-west Europe – was being transformed by a dynamic, fast-growing capitalist economy based on commercial farming, maritime trade, new industries, and modern banking. London’s growth is a measure of this change: its population, which had stood at just over 100,000 in 1560, grew to 350,000 in 1640, 630,000 in 1715, and 1.4 million in 1815.

The third part was formed by an intermediate group. Here, feudal-absolutist survivals were interlaced with burgeoning commercial capitalism. France was the supreme example. It had a growing merchant navy, an expanding colonial empire in India and the Americas, and an increasingly wealthy and assertive urban bourgeoisie. But France also had a royal autocracy, a powerful Catholic Church, a parasitic class of state-subsidised courtiers, an equally parasitic class of ancient titled landowners, a peasantry weighed down by feudal dues and tithes, and an internal trading system hampered by tolls, duties, and petty regulations.

The growth of French capitalism meant that the contradictions could not be contained indefinitely. What brought them more rapidly to crisis point was the state’s struggle for global supremacy with Britain. The population of Paris trebled between the mid-sixteenth century and the early nineteenth: this was a measure of the French economy’s expansion. But in the same period London’s population grew twelve-fold. Whereas Paris had been twice the size of London in the mid-sixteenth century, it was only half the size in the early nineteenth: this was a measure of the greater dynamism of the British economy.

The cutting-edge of the problem was military competition between the two nation-states. During the Seven Years War (1756–63), France lost its empire in India and the Americas to the British. Military defeat was the external expression of a growing crisis in French society. A revolution in ideas was its internal expression. Long before its overthrow in the Revolution of 1789–94, France’s feudal-absolutist ancien régime had been intellectually deconstructed.

The inability of the ancien régime to maintain its ideological defences exposed its reactionary character. A new wave of Enlightenment thinking so completely swept away the accumulated ideological detritus of the past that even despots and dukes embraced ‘rational’ and ‘scientific’ ways of viewing the world with the enthusiasm of new converts.

The price of seventeenth-century counter-revolution – which corresponded more or less with the Counter-Reformation in Austria, Italy, Spain, and (to a degree) France – was that Holland, England, and Scotland had become the focal points of intellectual, scientific, and artistic advance by the end of that century. The received wisdom of holy texts was discarded in favour of observation, experiment, and reasoning. Isaac Newton, for example, now had the freedom to solve the problems in physics that had puzzled Copernicus, Kepler, and Galileo in earlier attempts to explain how the universe worked.

But the new realm claimed by ‘Reason’ extended far beyond the natural sciences. The Dutch and English Revolutions had rejected the divine right of kings in favour of the rights and privileges of elected representatives. But if the political order was not ordained by God, if humans created their own political order, what form should it take?

The Putney Debates of 1647 had revealed the dangers: in the absence of divine authority, people were liable to disagree about how power should be exercised. At Putney, those of a ‘higher station’ had taken the view that none should have a say in the management of public affairs who had no ‘permanent fixed interest’. Others, speaking for ‘the lower sort’, had argued that no one had an obligation to obey ‘that government that he hath not had a voice to put himself under’. Little wonder that revolutionary England had spawned political philosophers like Thomas Hobbes and John Locke to grapple with these issues.

In the event, the debate subsided with the settlements of 1660 and 1688. England’s fractured elite struck a deal and closed ranks against the lower orders. During the eighteenth century, as Whigs and Tories, the two main parties in Parliament, they may have continued squabbling over the spoils of office – becoming to the satirists of the day ‘Old Corruption’ – but to the rest of society they presented a united front. By the end of the century, some 200 crimes against property carried the death sentence in England.

Unreformed French society, on the other hand, found no such resolution of urgent political questions. It was here, therefore, that the Enlightenment blossomed. Its greatest achievement was the Encyclopédie (1751–72), a 35-volume compendium of human knowledge and thought to which hundreds of leading intellectuals contributed and which sold some 25,000 copies.

What gave the Enlightenment its subversive, politically corrosive character – irrespective of the relatively conservative intentions of many of its exponents – was its critique of institutions and practices that appeared irrational in the light of contemporary thinking. And what appeared irrational was usually that which was against the interests of the mercantile and professional bourgeoisie.

Commerce and market-based relationships were breaking down networks of patronage, privilege, and influence. Monetary exchange was replacing entitlement based on inherited rank and estate. What seemed irrational to the new thinkers, therefore, was the Church and its theology, the divine right claimed by kings, and the political supremacy of a decaying class of titled place-seekers.

What of private property itself? Was this rational? Some thought not. Here is Jean-Jacques Rousseau:

The first man who, having fenced in a piece of land, said ‘this is mine’, and found people naïve enough to believe him, that man was the true founder of civil society. From how many crimes, wars, and murders, from how many horrors and misfortunes might not anyone have saved mankind, by pulling up the stakes, or filling up the ditch, and crying to his fellows: ‘Beware of listening to this impostor; you are undone if you once forget that the fruits of the earth belong to us all, and the earth itself to nobody.’

The Enlightenment was a multidimensional intellectual movement, but its essence was radical critique, and anything and everything in human affairs that could not give an adequate account of itself in the court of free enquiry was open to challenge. And this, in the context of late eighteenth-century Europe, riddled as it was with contradictions, filled with hallowed institutions that seemed to many monuments to superstition, was an ideological powder-keg – especially so when the spirit of Reason reached the lower sort. Then thrones might totter.

‘A French bastard landing with an armed banditti and establishing himself king of England against the consent of the nation,’ announced one of the Enlightenment’s most radical pamphleteers in reference to William the Conqueror, ‘is in plain terms a very paltry rascally original.’ He continued: ‘Monarchy and succession have laid ... the world in blood and ashes ... Freedom hath been hunted around the globe. Asia and Africa have long expelled her. Europe regards her like a stranger, and England hath given her warning to depart.’

This was January 1776. The voice was Tom Paine’s. His pamphlet, Common Sense, had turned the pompous language of salon intellectuals into the everyday talk of alehouse ‘mechanics’ (artisans). It sold a record-breaking 150,000 copies immediately, and half a million within a year. Little wonder. Hundreds of thousands of ordinary men and women were embracing radical ideas and engaging in a struggle to remodel the world.

Nine months before the publication of Common Sense in the New England city of Philadelphia, militiamen in neighbouring Massachusetts had opened fire on British Redcoats at Lexington and sparked the American Revolution.

The American Revolution

In 1764, Americans living in the 13 colonies along the eastern seaboard of North America thought of themselves as British subjects of George III. By 1788, by their own decisions and actions, they had made themselves free citizens of a new republic forged in revolution and war.

Many other things also changed. The 13 colonies became an independent federal state. King and Parliament had been swept away, and in their place were a President, Senate, and House of Representatives.

Some men of wealth – loyalists who had backed the King – lost their fortunes. Others, who might once have run their affairs in the manner of feudal barons, found that their tenants were no longer deferential. Women – some at least – had become more forthright. They read newspapers, established schools to educate their daughters, conducted themselves with a ‘reverence of self’, and asked their ‘patriot’ husbands, ‘Why should I not have liberty?’

For some black people, too, things were very different. The states of Massachusetts and Vermont had abolished slavery altogether. Others would soon follow. The few thousand free blacks along the Chesapeake River in 1776 would number 60,000 by 1810.

The change was not as great as it might have been; far less, in fact, than many had hoped. For the American Revolution (1775–83) was not just a struggle for national independence between the American colonies and the British Empire. It was also a struggle between different sorts and conditions of Americans, a struggle to determine what sort of republic they were fighting for.

The problems began at the end of the Seven Years War (1756–63). The British had beaten the French and taken over their empire in India and Canada. In this the Americans had played their part, colonial militias fighting alongside Redcoat regulars to secure the western frontier of the colonies. Victory ended the French threat; and with it, American dependence on British military support. It also left the British government saddled with war debt; and in need of tax rises to pay it off.

British taxes on American trade were triple-pronged. They were intended to: avoid levying higher taxes on British landowners; protect British commerce against foreign competition; and help pay off British debts. In a nutshell, the Sugar Act (1764), the Stamp Act (1765), the Townshend taxes (1767), and the Tea Act (1773) were designed to siphon off American wealth in the interests of the British ruling class. Had the Americans continued to pay, economic stagnation and underdevelopment would have been the consequence. That was the danger countered by the famous slogan ‘No taxation without representation’. Threatened with taxes not in their interests, Americans demanded the right to decide.

Between 1764 and 1775, British efforts were frustrated by direct action. Though there were only three million Americans spread across the 13 colonies, and only one in 20 lived in a town, they came together in a mass movement of resistance that made British taxes unenforceable.

The movement was built by meetings, parades, the burning of effigies, and the erection of liberty poles. Crowds confronted customs men and soldiers. Would-be collaborators were intimidated. Official events were disrupted. In some cases property was destroyed.

Boycotts were enforced by a militant urban crowd of artisans (‘mechanics’), small traders, local farmers, and dissident intellectuals. Leading activists organised themselves as ‘Sons of Liberty’. There were branches in at least 15 towns, and they were knitted together in an inter-colony ‘correspondence’ union.

The pattern was for resistance to flare up, sometimes leading to bloody clashes, and for the British then to back down. But in 1773, after an entire cargo of East India Company tea was dumped in the sea by 100 activists disguised as Native Americans – the ‘Boston Tea Party’ – the British decided that a crackdown was in order. General Gage was sent out as Governor of Massachusetts, troops were dispatched to enforce his authority, and new laws (the ‘Intolerable Acts’) were passed, decreeing that American activists could be transported to Britain for trial.

A Continental Congress attended by representatives of all 13 colonies agreed to continue the tea boycott. Local committees were authorised to enforce this decision and colonial militias were mobilised to back the civil power. The Continental Congress was dominated by big landowners and merchants. So too, at first, were most local committees. But ‘the revolution of the elite’ soon gave way to ‘the revolution of the middle classes’.

Revolution requires mass action to support radical demands. Men of property have much to fear. Many are tied into the existing economic system and profit from it. All fear that the common people, once roused against political authority, may be prompted to ask deeper questions about the social order as a whole. The strategy for many men of property was to keep pace with the movement in order to channel its energies. For the New York landowner and lawyer Robert Livingston, it was a matter of ‘swimming with a stream it is impossible to stem’ and of yielding ‘to the torrent’ in order to ‘direct its course’.

Pushed into revolution by mass action from below, Congress had, in effect, sanctioned the construction of a new state apparatus. Every town now faced a choice between recognising the authority of the councillors, judges, customs men, and militia officers of the King, or that of the boycott committees empowered by Congress. Revolution turns on such choices. ‘Dual power’ – two rival authorities both laying claim to political allegiance – forces everyone to make a choice, since they cannot give their allegiance to both.

The first shots were fired at Lexington on 19 April 1775. British Redcoats killed eight American militiamen and wounded ten more while on their way to seize rebel arms stored at Concord. When the Redcoats arrived there, they found the arms had been removed. As they fell back to Boston, they were harassed by swarms of militiamen and were then besieged in the city itself. The war had begun.

The colonial militias were soon supplemented by a Continental Army. Funded by Congress and commanded by its appointee, George Washington, it became the military expression of the embryonic United States. The militiamen defended their localities, but the Continentals waged a national war.

The British won most of the battles – the major exceptions were Saratoga in 1777 and Yorktown in 1781 – but they lost the war. There were three main reasons for this. First, geography favoured the revolutionaries, for the American colonies comprised vast tracts of wilderness, which imposed a heavy logistical burden on the British and provided ideal terrain for embedded guerrilla resistance.

Second, the Americans enjoyed strong and growing French support – at first this took the form of supplies of arms, but later involved full-scale military intervention on both land and sea. The British were left struggling to keep operations going at the end of a long and vulnerable maritime supply-line.

Third, the revolutionaries organised themselves politically and militarily to wage all-out war. The core of the resistance was supplied by the mechanics, small traders, and backcountry farmers who came to dominate the local committees and militias. The British controlled only the territory their soldiers occupied. The rebels, however often they were beaten, could always retreat, recuperate, and return to fight again.

The common people were empowered by their role in the struggle. They fought for what they considered to be ancient, inherited ‘rights’ and ‘liberties’. They fought for a ‘moral economy’ in which each had a role that commanded respect and each worked more for the community than for personal gain. And they fought for a voice in public affairs – for a radical democracy where the poor voted as well as the rich.

In the event, the heady ideals of 1776 were diluted by the final settlement of 1788. The Declaration of Independence of 1776 had asserted that all men are created equal, that they have inalienable rights, and that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. But the Constitution of 1788 enshrined not radical democracy and moral economy, but the rule of property, free markets, and a gilded elite of landowners, merchants, and bankers. So America’s bourgeois revolution, in this sense and in others, was left unfinished. Above all, slavery remained in place, and in the decades to come it would expand into an immensely profitable economic system. Less than a century after the Revolution, more than 620,000 Americans would die in a yet greater conflict, the Civil War, to establish the proposition proclaimed in 1776 that ‘all men are created equal’.

The Revolution had therefore set the benchmark against which future generations of Americans – men and women, white and black, rich and poor – would measure their standing. Not only that: in its own time, it proved to be the curtain-raiser on a new epoch of world revolution. For, in the year following ratification of the US Constitution, the people of Paris stormed the Bastille, defeated a military coup, and unleashed the French Revolution.

The Storming of the Bastille

The Bastille was an ancient fortress and state prison in eastern Paris. A symbol of absolute monarchy, it loomed menacingly over streets inhabited by the city’s working population of artisans, small traders, and general labourers. Like the monarchy, it seemed an immovable presence.

On 14 July 1789, the people of Paris, who had been seizing arms wherever they could find them for two days, massed outside the Bastille and demanded its surrender. The defenders opened fire. During three hours of fighting, 83 people were killed. But the determination of the assault broke the defenders’ morale and the gates were opened.

The Bastille had been stormed to thwart a military coup by the French King against his own people. The insurrection broke the back of the absolute monarchy and transformed the self-declared National Assembly into the effective government of France. The National Assembly immediately abolished ‘feudalism’, passed a ‘declaration of the rights of man’, and created a new ‘National Guard’. Towns across France followed the example of the capital and created new revolutionary authorities.

When the news reached the countryside, it inspired an elemental rising of the peasantry – the Great Fear. Hundreds of thousands marched on the chateaux of their landlords and burnt the title deeds to feudal dues. In scores of local towns, the poor demonstrated against food shortages, price rises, and unemployment.

The world had been turned upside down. An absolute monarchy unchallenged for 140 years had been overthrown in three days of urban insurrection. The French Revolution had begun.

For the next 25 years, counter-revolutionary forces at home and abroad would attempt to destroy the achievement of 1789. Again and again, the Revolution would have to mobilise mass popular forces in its own defence. As early as October 1789, a royalist plot was being hatched. Its epicentre was the court of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette at the Palace of Versailles outside Paris. So 20,000 market-women marched to Versailles, their menfolk trailing behind them, broke into the palace, and forced the King to return to Paris, where he and his followers would be under popular surveillance. The victory of the market-women consolidated the constitutional monarchy and ended the first phase of the French Revolution. Let us therefore pause to take stock.

Between 1688 and 1783, Britain and France had fought five long wars, lasting in total 42 years. The locations of these conflicts had ranged from the forests of North America to the plains of India, though they had usually been centred in Europe. Because the British economy was growing faster than the French, and because the French usually had to fight the British at sea and their European allies on land, the French had lost their empire and ruined their economy. Even the cost of occasional victories had been too high: the French state had been bankrupted by its role in the American Revolutionary War. In its aftermath, the absolute monarchy was forced to attempt to reform the tax system.

These basic facts must be placed in a wider context. Capitalism is a dynamic economic system whose competitive edge threatens traditional societies and states. Britain grew much faster than France during the eighteenth century because of the forces unleashed by the English Revolution. The French economy certainly grew – at an estimated 1.9 per cent a year throughout the eighteenth century. Textile output increased 250 per cent, iron 350 per cent, and coal 750 per cent. By 1789 a fifth of the French population worked in industry or handicrafts. But this was not enough to keep up with Britain, so that the absolute monarchy failed the test of war, and by the 1780s France’s imperial crisis had become a financial one too. Louis XVI was forced to attempt to modernise the state under the pressure of military competition from a more powerful economy.

War taxation was already a massive burden on the working population, but the nobility and the clergy paid no tax at all. The key to reform was to make them pay their share. But when the King appointed a ‘reforming’ ministry to rationalise the tax system, the parlements – aristocrat-controlled supreme courts in Paris and the provinces – rejected its proposals. Many leading aristocrats even called for mass demonstrations against the government. The central demand was that an Estates-General should be called to resolve the crisis.

The Estates-General of 1789 was the first to be convened since 1614. It was formed of three chambers representing the three ‘estates’: nobility, clergy, and commons. The election campaign for the commons (the Third Estate) reached every small town and village, drawing the masses into political action and releasing a torrent of grievances and demands. The Third Estate represented the overwhelming majority of the people, but it was dominated by the professional middle classes, especially lawyers, mainly because they had the necessary political skills.

The Estates-General met from April to June 1789 at Versailles. The result was a political stand-off. The King’s ministers demanded tax reform. The delegates demanded redress of grievances. The Third Estate refused to recognise the superiority of the nobility and the clergy.

When the Third Estate proclaimed itself a National Assembly and invited the nobility and clergy to join it, the King locked them out of their hall. The delegates then convened in a nearby tennis court and swore an oath not to disperse until a constitution was granted. In response, the King sacked his leading reformist minister and summoned 20,000 troops to Paris.

The capital was already a ferment of political clubs and meetings, the streets awash with news-sheets, pamphlets, and street-corner orators. Some 400 of the middle-class ‘electors’ who had taken part in the selection of delegates to the Estates-General met in the City Hall and formed themselves into a council or commune. But it was the intervention of the Paris crowd – predominantly young artisans, petty traders, and general labourers – that brought down the absolute monarchy. The crowd fraternised with the soldiers and won them over. The King did not dare send more soldiers into the city. The Bastille was successfully stormed. The peasant revolution, following the example of Paris and other large towns, was then decisive. France was a predominantly agricultural country and most soldiers were peasants. When the villages attacked the chateaux, there was no chance that the soldiers would fight for the landlords.

The Third Estate had been joined by a minority of aristocrats and clergy to form the National Assembly. The relatively conservative majority favoured a constitutional monarchy that would halt the revolution and safeguard property and privilege. It was led by the Marquis de Lafayette, a general who had served in the American Revolutionary War.

At first, during the Revolution’s honeymoon period, the more radical revolutionaries were marginalised. But their strength was growing amid the continuing ferment of propaganda and agitation. Some 250 newspapers were launched in the last six months of 1789 alone. Soon to emerge as the most popular was the former doctor Jean-Paul Marat’s L’Ami du Peuple (‘The Friend of the People’).

Numerous radical clubs provided opportunities for debate about the way forward. The most famous were the Jacobins, dominated by the lawyer Maximilien de Robespierre, and the Cordeliers, dominated by another lawyer, George Jacques Danton.

In June 1791, the King attempted to flee to join the counter-revolutionary armies massing across the border. He was captured and brought back to Paris. But when, in the following month, ordinary Parisians queued up to sign a republican petition in the Field of Mars, Lafayette’s National Guard opened fire and killed 50 of them.

In the same place, exactly a year before, people had gathered on the anniversary of the storming of the Bastille in a carnival-like Festival of Federation. Now, a river of blood flowed between conservative constitutional monarchists like Lafayette and radical republicans like Marat, Robespierre, and Danton. The Revolution was entering a new phase.

The Jacobin Dictatorship

In the summer of 1792, the constitutional monarchy created by the urban insurrection three years earlier collapsed. On 10 August, tens of thousands of sans-culottes and fédérés surrounded and attacked the Tuileries, the King’s Paris residence.

The sans-culottes (‘those without breeches’) were the trousered working people of Paris. They were organised in 48 sections. These were local assemblies which functioned as electoral wards for the city council or commune. The sections had become organs of participatory democracy for the artisans, small traders, and general labourers of Paris. The fédérés (‘federals’) were volunteer soldiers from the provinces on their way to the front, for war had been declared earlier that year. They represented the cream of the revolutionary activists from the rest of France.

The National Guard, instead of defending the King, joined the insurrection. But the Swiss Guard (foreign mercenaries) stayed loyal, and some 600 royalists and 370 revolutionaries were killed in the fighting. The palace was overrun and the King arrested.

The insurrection of 10 August 1792 was as decisive as that of 14 July 1789. The constitution agreed in 1791, with voting rights tied to property ownership, was overturned. The Legislative Assembly elected on this restricted franchise, the successor to the National Assembly of 1789, was dissolved, and a National Convention was elected on the basis of adult male suffrage to frame a new constitution. The Convention, when it met, was dominated by republicans, who abolished the monarchy and declared a republic. The King was then tried and executed in January 1793.

Three insoluble contradictions destroyed the constitutional monarchy of 1789–92. First, the majority of the nobility and clergy remained deeply hostile to the Revolution and were intent on reversing it. The royal court became a centre of intrigue. Emigré armies were forming. The counter-revolution was a real and present danger.

Second, popular expectations, encouraged by the events of 1789, had been disappointed. Hopes of political empowerment and social reform had been dashed. Instead, there were food shortages, inflation, and unemployment. The result was rioting in Paris and elsewhere.

Third, in a desperate attempt to paper over growing splits within the regime, an unholy alliance of political forces had agreed to declare war against the Revolution’s foreign enemies. The King and his supporters hoped the counter-revolution would prevail. Lafayette and the constitutional monarchists hoped to lead a crusade that would unite the nation. The Girondins – moderate republicans – hoped to be swept to power on a wave of national enthusiasm.

All were disappointed. The war backfired. Conservative generals defected to the enemy. The French suffered serious defeats. The enemy commander declared that he would impose ‘exemplary vengeance’ and ‘hand over the city of Paris to soldiers and punish the rebels as they deserved’.

These tensions culminated in the insurrection of 10 August. The wave of popular enthusiasm that made it possible then flowed into the new volunteer army being formed. ‘Audacity, audacity, and still more audacity,’ proclaimed Danton, a newly elected member of the National Convention, and now a leading member of the revolutionary government.

On 20 September 1792, at Valmy in north-eastern France, the French Revolutionary army halted the advance of the invaders. It was on the following day that the Convention abolished the monarchy.

But the new Girondin government was now as eager to halt the Revolution as its predecessor had been. The central contradiction of the bourgeois revolution reasserted itself. Once in power, the moderate republicans prioritised the defence of property against the popular movement. ‘Your property is threatened,’ declared one of the Girondin leaders. A ‘hydra of anarchy’ is at large, proclaimed another. Unless ‘recurrent insurrections’ were stopped, warned a third, ‘Paris would be destroyed’.

But the counter-revolutionary threat had not been expunged. On the contrary, by spring 1793 Britain had joined the war against France, there were royalist risings in the western Vendée region, foreign armies were again advancing on Paris from the north-east, and the Girondin general Dumouriez had deserted to the enemy.

On 26 May 1793, Robespierre called on the people to revolt again. On 29 May, the Paris sections met and elected a new commune. On 31 May and 2 June, mass demonstrations surrounded the Convention and compelled it to arrest 29 Girondin leaders. From then on, the purged assembly was dominated by the Jacobins.

The Committee of Public Safety – a body of twelve men elected by the Convention – now became the effective government. The Committee reported to the Convention once a week and was subject to re-election once a month. Three prominent Jacobins – Robespierre, Louis de St-Just, and Georges Couthon – became its guiding figures. The Committee established a total-war economy, with mass conscription, nationalised war industries, and progressive taxation. Forced loans were imposed on the rich. The estates of émigrés and the Church were confiscated, divided into small plots, and distributed to the peasantry. Price controls were imposed and speculation became a capital crime.

A policy of ‘terror’ was employed to deter counter-revolution. The guillotine, erected in the Place de la Concorde in central Paris, became a symbol of revolutionary justice. Jacobin authorities, in the capital and elsewhere, executed several thousand between September 1793 and July 1794.

Why was this necessary? The Terror was a product of two factors. First, the threat from the counter-revolution was extreme and ever-present. In the towns and villages they captured, counter-revolutionaries carried out wholesale massacres of republicans; they almost certainly killed far more than the Jacobins. Had they been victorious, they would have drowned the revolution in blood. The death penalty was necessary to discourage counter-revolutionary activism.

The second factor is peculiar to the highly contradictory character of the Jacobin regime. The regime wobbled on a narrow and unstable base, because the Jacobins did not so much represent a specific class as a specific historical moment when opposing class forces were finely balanced. Most of the bourgeoisie – former royalists, constitutional monarchists, and moderate republicans – had now gone over to the counter-revolution. Only the most radical minority supported the Jacobin dictatorship. Its leaders were mainly professional men of modest means. Their rule rested largely on the support of the sans-culotte popular movement.

The revolutionary emergency demanded radical measures which most of the property-owning classes feared and resented. This strengthened the counter-revolution. At the same time, the Committee of Public Safety was an elected body of the Convention, and the Jacobin leaders remained strong defenders of private property as the basis of society. This put a strain on the government’s relationship with its most radical supporters.

In the politico-military emergency of the Republic’s Year II (1793–4), with the survival of the revolutionary regime at stake, the guillotine became the arbiter of these contradictions. As well as outright counter-revolutionaries, the Terror ‘devoured its own children’, striking down revolutionaries hostile to the dictatorship. In March 1794, the left-wing ‘Hébertists’ were executed. The following month, it was the turn of the right-wing ‘Indulgents’. In this way, the centrist Committee of Public Safety sought to maintain its increasingly precarious political balance.

The effect was to paralyse resistance for a few months, but only by shrinking the regime’s mass base. The social-democratic promise of the regime was disappointed and the popular movement declined. ‘The Revolution has frozen over,’ declared St-Just.

Meanwhile, on the frontiers, the remodelled French Revolutionary armies had driven back the invaders. The emergency that had given rise to the Jacobin dictatorship was coming to an end. Those sections of the bourgeoisie that had supported it out of necessity now drew back. The Convention was turning against the Committee. The Revolution was about to go into reverse. The crisis broke in July 1794.

From Thermidor to Napoleon

Gratitude is not a political attitude. With internal revolt suppressed and the French Army occupying Brussels, the revolutionary bourgeoisie turned on its Jacobin saviours. Sensing that power was slipping away, Robespierre called for another mass purge. But on 27 July 1794, his enemies in the Convention howled him down and then issued an arrest warrant against him and his political allies.

The Jacobins retreated to the City Hall and called for a revolutionary journée (insurrection). But support was patchy. The regime had attacked its own supporters, executing left activists, lifting a ban on food speculation, and imposing wage cuts. Only 16 of the 48 Paris sections sent armed men to City Hall. These dispersed after several hours standing around without leadership. The Jacobin leaders were then arrested, tried, and executed. Robespierre, St-Just, Couthon, and 18 others were guillotined on 28 July. Another 71 Jacobins followed the next day.

Some left-wingers had participated in the coup of Thermidor (the name of the month when it occurred according to the revolutionary calendar). This was a mistake. Their mass base had crumbled, so that the destruction of Robespierre’s centrist dictatorship shifted power decisively to the right, not the left. Thermidor was a reactionary coup.

The streets filled with gangs of rich young thugs (jeunesse dorée: gilded youth). A mob shut down the Jacobin Club. A property qualification for voting was introduced. A ‘white terror’ raged. Desperate risings of the sans-culottes were crushed in April and May 1795 (the revolts of Germinal and Prairial). The balance tipped further to the right and resurgent royalists attempted a coup in October 1795 (the revolt of Vendémiaire). This was crushed by a young artillery officer called Napoleon Bonaparte with ‘a whiff of grapeshot’. But its occurrence revealed the instability of the Thermidorian regime.

Thermidor had not been a counter-revolution. It had been a bourgeois reaction against radical democracy within the Revolution. But by demoralising and demobilising the mass movement, the bourgeoisie had made royalist counter-revolution more likely. The Thermidorians therefore concentrated power in the hands of a five-man Directory – a strong-arm executive that would deal equally firmly with popular uprisings and royalist counter-revolution.

But the Directory was unable to secure an electoral mandate, so in 1797 it was transformed into an effective dictatorship dependent on the support of the army. This anomaly was resolved in November 1799, at the coup of Brumaire, when Napoleon, the Republic’s most illustrious general, seized power. The new First Consul had himself crowned Emperor in 1804.

The coup of Brumaire ended the French Revolution, but it did not reverse it; on the contrary, it consolidated and defended its essential gains. Napoleon, like Cromwell, was the soldier of the Revolution, not its nemesis. Feudal dues had gone for good and the peasants kept their land. The economy remained free of internal customs. A national system of administration had been established, there was equality under the law, and the Church had been separated from the state. Even in 1815, when the monarchy was restored by foreign bayonets, the ancien régime could not be reconstructed.

The armies of the Directory, the Consulate, and the Empire, moreover, carried the revolutionary tradition abroad, abolishing serfdom, nationalising church land, and removing internal customs. And some of these changes – in parts of Germany, Austria, Italy, and elsewhere – proved irreversible. Not only that. The example of the Revolution was infectious. Intellectuals and activists across Europe were inspired by its ideals and victories. Some welcomed the armies of Napoleon. Others mounted their own copycat revolutions.

One of these was a young Protestant lawyer called Wolfe Tone, who founded a radical organisation, the United Irishmen, to fight for independence from British rule. The movement began in Belfast among the Protestant middle class and then spread to many of the Catholic peasants across the rest of the country. But a premature rising in 1798, prior to the arrival of French troops, was crushed and some 30,000 were killed in the reprisals that followed – a number that dwarfs those executed in the French revolutionary terror of 1793–4.

The French Revolution inspired revolt on a far larger scale on the other side of the world, in Latin America. In 1810, risings against Spanish rule in Mexico and Venezuela were crushed, but they gave rise to a new national revolutionary movement which culminated, under the leadership of Simon Bolivar, in the independence of the Latin American states.

The bourgeois revolution, as so often, was left half-finished. The conservative owners of the great estates (latifundia) remained in full possession of their land. Regional oligarchies assumed control of the newly independent states. More radical visions – of land reform to end the poverty of the peasants, or of a ‘United States’ of South America to rival that of the North – were stillborn. Bolivar, ‘the Liberator’, and many of his former comrades-in-arms died disappointed men.

The outcome was different on the Caribbean island of Haiti, where 500,000 black slaves laboured to enrich a few thousand plantation-owners on the island and the merchant capitalists of French ports like Bordeaux and Nantes. When squabbles broke out between different groups of whites and ‘mulattos’ (free people of mixed race), the slaves took the opportunity to rise in revolt on their own account. Forged into an army under the leadership of Toussaint L’Ouverture, the slaves first overthrew the plantation-owners, then defeated an invading British army, and finally crushed a French army sent against them by Napoleon. Through 15 years of war, they won their freedom.

In February 1794 the Jacobins had passed a decree abolishing slavery; in 1801 Napoleon dispatched an army to Haiti to restore it. The contrast encapsulates the contradictory character of the bourgeois revolution: the empowerment of the masses necessary to drive the revolution forwards is a threat to a social order based on private property. The contradiction was writ large in Napoleon’s empire and eventually brought it down.

The French Revolution created a new military system based on mass mobilisation, popular enthusiasm, and promotion from the ranks. Mobility, aggression, and mass were used to overwhelm the ponderous armies of ancien régime Europe. At the Battle of Austerlitz in 1805, the combined armies of Austria and Russia were destroyed in a victory that made Napoleon master of Central Europe.

But Napoleon’s huge armies were forced to live off the land through which they marched, and they milked the territories they conquered to provide the substance of war. The French posed as liberators, but were experienced as oppressors. Robespierre had predicted that few would welcome ‘armed missionaries’; bitter experience proved him right.

By overturning the balance of power in Europe, Napoleon made implacable enemies of the continent’s ruling classes. By imposing taxation, conscription, and requisitioning, he also made enemies of the common people.

A French invasion of Spain in 1808 turned into an intractable war against British regulars and Spanish guerrillas which drained away French military strength over the following six years. The 1812 invasion of Russia turned into a disaster when Napoleon’s capture of Moscow failed to end the war and he was forced into a long winter retreat in which most of his army perished.

The Battle of Leipzig in 1813, against a combined Russian, Austrian, and Prussian army, reversed the result of Austerlitz. The following year, France was invaded and Napoleon forced to abdicate. His ‘Hundred Days’ comeback in 1815 ended in defeat at Waterloo and a second, this time permanent, exile.

But Waterloo could not return the world to 1789. The restored regimes were reactionary and repressive – regimes of ‘throne and altar’. But conservative form obscured dynamic content. The French Revolution had cleared away the clutter of ages and unleashed the energy of a new capitalist economic order. The genie could not be put back in the bottle.

9. The Rise of Industrial Capitalism (1750—1850)

10. The Age of Blood and Iron (1848—1896)

11. Imperialism and War (1873—1918)

12. The Revolutionary Wave (1917—1928)

13. The Great Depression and the Rise of Fascism (1929—1939)

14. World War and Cold War (1939—1967)

15. The New World Disorder (1968—present)

Conclusion: Making the Future