Louis the Pious and the Cynocephalus

As all learned folk of the Middle Ages knew, monsters were warnings, their twisted forms messages from a nature at war with itself, a dread portent of the evil men do writ large in their debased flesh. Hybrid beings such as cynocephali, men with the heads of dogs, broke down all the safe barriers that made life secure, unsettling the hierarchy that placed humans above their beasts. But warnings prompt the wise to observe what needs to be noticed. The writers of the middle ages found instruction in these unnerving transgressions. In the stories they told about people with the heads of dogs we can hear the echoes of their thoughts on those with the heads of apes. The land that lies between human and animal, fact and fiction, is often fertile, even if it produces curious fruit. It is in this country that I find myself walking with this post.

In the year 814, the recently crowned Carolingian Emperor Louis the Pious was presented with a dog-headed man.  That this extraordinary incident is not better known is entirely due to an error in our primary source, the Treatise of Signs, Prodigies, and Portents Old and New of Jakob Mennel, which is a historical survey of portents and omens produced in 1503 for the Emperor Maximilian I.:

In the year 914, a monster having the head of a dog and other limbs like a person was presented to Louis. And well could it represent the monstrous state of that time, when people without a head wavered in their loyalties hither and yon barking like dogs.

Mennel reported the incident faithfully, but accidentally dated it to 914, a time when there were no monarchs called Louis. As the previous portent in Mennel’s catalogue refers to the age of Charlemagne, we can reasonably assume that the jurist intended to refer to Charlemagne’s son before an accidental slip of the pen made the very idea of Louis the Pious encountering a dog-headed man seem ridiculous.

A visual depiction of Louis’ meeting with the cynocephalus illustrating Mennel’s Treatise of Signs, Prodigies, and Portents old and new, Vienna, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek cod.4417 f.9v, also containing the text quoted above [Ed: the source won’t let us link directly to the page, so if you’re curious it’s image number 27/60]. Note also the evidence that Louis the Pious invented vaping.

Establishing that the emperor met a cynocephalus is thus trivial. The hard part is determining what this encounter meant. Mennel was well aware that monsters are messengers, delivering signals from the heavens. As Isidore of Seville tells us in his Etymologies (11.3.15):

omens (monstrum) derive their name from admonition (monitus), because in giving a sign they indicate (demonstrare) something, or else because they instantly show (monstrare) what may appear.

Mennel interpreted the cynocephalus as a prediction of the vacillating character of the people of the age. Anyone who has ever had to study the twisted accounts from the Field of Lies in 833 will feel some sympathy for this assessment of the reign of Louis the Pious.

However, if we are to truly understand this moment, we need to go a little deeper into the nature of the dog-headed man. Charlemagne had been widely celebrated when in 802 he had received an elephant from the ‘Abbasid Caliph, Harun al-Rashid. Likewise, as I may have mentioned once or twice, Louis’ son Charles the Bald was to receive camels from the Emir of Córdoba. It’s not hard to imagine that Louis was aiming to continue that tradition. Exotic animals provided rulers with an opportunity to demonstrate their power over nature and the respect held for them by far off peoples. By demonstrating their special relationship with distant lands, kings built a sense of magic and glamour about themselves.

That the cynocephali were beasts is attested by a number of authorities. Isidore of Seville said of them that ‘their barking indeed reveals that they are rather beasts than humans’ (Etymologies 11.3.5). The Liber Monstrorum, composed in the late seventh or early eighth century in a southern Anglo-Saxon context, tells us that they ‘do not imitate humans but the beasts themselves in eating raw flesh’ (1.16). Classical authorities placed the cynocephali in the far east, with Ctesias and Pliny locating them in India. The dog-headed man might therefore have been a gift from the ‘Abbasid Caliph, the follow-up to the elephant.

There are problems with this hypothesis. First, it is difficult to attribute an eastern origin to the cynocephalus. In these years the Caliphate was in the midst of a civil war between the sons of Harun al-Rashid, who all had better things to think about. Further, our sources from the Carolingian period strongly suggest that the cynocephali population of the period were more strongly concentrated in Scandinavia. The Cosmographia of Aethicus Ister locates them in the well-known island of Munitia, which lies in the North Sea, where they traded with German merchants. Likewise, the letter written by the missionary Rimbert to Ratramnus of Corbie places the cynocephali in Scandinavia, close to the people Rimbert was attempting to convert.

The correspondence between Rimbert and Ratramnus raises a further issue for the assumption that Louis was attempting to compete with Charlemagne’s elephant, because they clearly demonstrate the humanity of the cynocephali. Rimbert provided Ratramnus with an ethnographic description of the dog-headed people as reported to him. Ratramnus used this to demonstrate that the cynocephali must be rational, thinking beings, organised in cities with laws, crafts and a sense of morality. This rationality was the key factor in deciding whether the cynocephali were humans. As Augustine noted in City of God (6.18), evidence of rationality would reveal even those ‘Cynocephali, whose dog-like head and barking proclaim them beasts rather than men’ to be human beings. As Ratramnus commented, by these criteria the dog-heads of Scandinavia were clearly rational and therefore human. This is reinforced by the evidence that St Christopher was in fact dog-headed, something traditionally downplayed in modern accounts (in yet another example of the erasure of the cynocephali community from history).

Understanding this gets us a little closer to what was happening in 814. Far from being a present from Baghdad, the cynocephalus brought to Louis the Pious was clearly an ambassador sent by the dog-headed people of Scandinavia. Relations between Charlemagne and the cynocephali had been strained. As Notker the Stammerer tells us (2.13), the dog-heads allied with the Danish king Godfrid (r.804-810) when he invaded Frisia in 810. Following Godfrid’s retreat, Charlemagne is said to have bemoaned that he ‘was not thought worthy to see my Christian hands dabbling in the blood of those dog-headed fiends’. We know that Louis was much concerned with northern affairs at the start of his rule. His earlier career had been primarily based in Aquitaine, but in 815 he visited Saxony for the first and only time in his reign. The death of Charlemagne provided an excellent opportunity for Louis the Pious to reset Frankish relations with the cynocephali.

The same year that the dog-headed man made his appearance, Harald Klak, one of the struggling contenders for the Danish throne, also came to the court of Louis the Pious. Having been driven out of Denmark, Harald sought Louis’ aid in order to be restored to the throne, which Louis agreed to, helping him return to power in 819. Given the Scandinavian location of the polity of the cynocephali and their past association with Godfrid, it seems plausible that the dog-headed man may have been connected to Harald, although in what capacity is unclear. Perhaps the cynocephalus was a supporter of Harald.

Alternatively, the collapse of the Danish polity into warring factions at this point may have convinced the cynocephali that they needed to find new allies in a wider world. Aachen could be extremely generous to northern peoples who made themselves useful. The Slavic Abodrites in modern Pomerania had been rewarded with land and gifts for supporting Charlemagne in his wars against the Saxons. Louis may have had ambitions of converting the cynocephali. Much of his diplomatic activity in the northern lands was aimed at making things easier for his missionaries. Certainly, the interest of later writers such as Rimbert and Ratramnus lay in their desire to know whether they should attempt to bring the word of God to the dog-headed men.

This seems to me to be the best way to understand the material presented by Jakob Mennel. One could of course tell a different story, in which dog-head, signifying cruel stupidity, was an ethnic slur applied to Scandinavians, which over the years was taken increasingly literally, until a Danish prince at the court of Louis the Pious lost any vestige of being a human, and instead joined a menagerie of curiosities intended for the amusement of a much later emperor. Perhaps that was the tale I should have told in this post, the story of how a man became a monster. But I must confess I have never had much patience for such accounts. So instead, I shall walk a little further into the strange country, looking for men within monsters.

Being Human in the Early Middle Ages

In the middle of the ninth century a Frankish monk named Ratramnus was given an interesting problem. Ratramnus was a member of the monastic community of Corbie, in what is now northern France, but the conundrum that he was presented with demanded that he direct his attention north, beyond the relative safety of Carolingian kings and the authority of Christian bishops, to the mostly pagan lands of Scandinavia. According to Ratramnus (and there may be some space for scepticism here, but we’ll indulge him on this point), this puzzle came to him as a letter from his friend Rimbert, future Bishop of Hamburg-Bremen, then a missionary in Scandinavia. Rimbert wrote that his contacts in the region had informed him of the presence of cynocephali, creatures with the bodies of humans and the heads of dogs, who apparently lived close by. This troubled him, for he was not sure whether these dog-heads were human or not, so he wrote to Ratramnus for advice. The decision was important, for if they were mere beasts Rimbert could leave them to it, but if they were fellow humans then it was Rimbert’s duty to try to save their souls for Christ. This was the challenge that Ratramnus had to solve.

Today, as crude moderns, we determine species by blood and sex, organising life by DNA sequence and capacity to produce fertile offspring. Linnaeus and Darwin ensured that we were obsessed by genealogy long before Foucault arrived on the scene. As DNA sequencers are only brought to the very best of parties, we approximate this by appearance, determining if someone is human by whether they look human. The definition of what it means to look human is of course often sadly narrow, and prone to unexpectedly and sharply tightening, with tragic results.

In his City of God, Augustine of Hippo (d.430) offered his readers an alternative approach. In Book 16, chapter 8, he argued that:

whoever is anywhere born a man, that is, a rational, mortal animal, no matter what unusual appearance he presents in colour, movement, sound, nor how peculiar he is in some power, part, or quality of his nature, no Christian can doubt that he springs from that one protoplast.

For Augustine, the crucial features of a human were that they were mortal (and therefore not an angel) and possessed of reason. Appearance didn’t come into it. It is striking that the Bishop of Hippo was also thinking of cynocephali when he wrote this. The dog-heads were a perfect problem to inspire such philosophising.

Ratramnus was inclined to follow the good bishop’s lead, but this raised further difficulties. As the users of modern dating apps can attest, it is very difficult to determine if someone is rational just by looking at them. He was having to play a sort of medieval version of a Turing test. His primary solution was to adopt an anthropological approach, insofar as that was possible from hundreds of miles away with no personal experience of the people being discussed, while being entirely dependent on someone else’s account. Ratramnus’ analysed Rimbert’s description of the cynocephali, looking for behaviour that suggested to him rational planning and organisation.

A number of features of cynocephali life caught Ratramnus’ attention. He wrote to Rimbert:

They follow some laws of society, to which their dwelling in villages bears witness. They cultivate fields, which [can be] inferred from their harvesting of crops. They do not reveal their private parts as animals do, but cover them with modesty in the way humans do, which is an indication of their sense of decency. As you wrote, they possess not only hides for use as coverings, but even clothes. All these things seem to bear witness in a way that there is a rational soul in [these dog-headed ones].

[translated by Dutton.]

The cynocephali hard at work, in this fifteenth-century illustration of the travels of Marco Polo: Paris Bibl. Nat. fr.2810, fol.76v

It’s worth going through Ratramnus’ thinking with some of these characteristics. For example, he argues that in order to live together in villages, the cynocephali had to have a shared set of laws. Such a legal system would imply a communal identity, making them a city (by which Ratramnus meant a political and social community rather than an urban centre) rather than a mere agglomeration of beasts, like a pack of dogs or badgers living in setts.. The existence of law also points to the existence of a moral code on which the law would be based. Laws, a civic community and morality were all evidence of reason. On the basis of observations like this, Ratramnus therefore argued that the cynocephali were indeed humans.

Naturally this account tells us nothing about the dog-headed people themselves because dog-headed people aren’t real (no matter what the Goofy-truthers will tell you). That there aren’t any Scandinavia is demonstrated by their absence from award-winning crime dramas wearing really nice knitwear. This description does however tell us an awful lot about Ratramnus, what he thought it meant to be human and what he felt was natural about the society he lived in. The assumptions he made when he reasoned about the implications of the cynocephali having villages are instructive here, that such a thing would require the existence of a formal law code, and that a sense of morality would also manifest in a legal code being just two of them. These are logical steps we might not necessarily make ourselves.

But this passage also gets at the deeper ideas Ratramnus had about being human. For Ratramnus, living in permanent settlements, participating in cereal agriculture and wearing clothes weren’t individual decisions or the contingent result of societies interacting with their environments and past patterns of behaviour over multiple centuries. Instead they were the natural outgrowth of rationality, which would be expected from a rational being, any rational being, no matter where they were or what their context was.

There is something intuitively appealing about a definition of humanity that doesn’t get stuck on ‘surface’ questions of body but rather cares about the ‘really important’ issue of our minds. There’s a reason we immodestly named ourselves Homo sapiens. We like to think that our intelligence is our most important characteristic. The fact that this allows someone in the middle ages to extend the branch of fraternity to a group of people who look nothing like him is worth noting. Similar patterns of thought would be really important for the Europeans who defended the humanity of American Indians in the Spanish Empire by reference to the cities and art of Pre-Colombian civilisation.

But Ratramnus also reveals the drawbacks of this way of thinking. One is that it ultimately devolves to what the beholder believes rational behaviour to be. Ratramnus believed that villages populated by cereal agriculturalists who wore clothes was a natural human state. But in his lifetime, large numbers of people across Eurasia very happily got on with their lives while only following some or none of these patterns of behaviour. The pastoral nomads of the steppe, who were by no means unheard of in the Carolingian world, are an obvious example. By Ratramnus’ logic, their ‘irrational’ way of life would render them not human. This wouldn’t just apply to external groups. Within the past century, we can list numerous examples of marginal groups defined by behaviour deemed unusual by the rest of society, such as homosexuals, being labelled as ‘irrational’ and suffering as a consequence.

Another, more insidious problem is the potential difficulties for people whose minds genuinely do work differently from whatever the assumed normality is. Very few of us are obviously rational in our first year of life. Many of us will develop medical conditions in our lifetime which may impair our ability to reason as we age. It seems profoundly unsatisfactory to have a definition of humanity that one can acquire and then lose. Further, this type of definition can have potentially disastrous consequences for people with conditions such as Down syndrome, which may leave them vulnerable to having their humanity stripped from them, only deepening the ableism they already face in society.

‘Ninth-century writer believed things we don’t anymore’ is hardly headline news. The point here isn’t to browbeat Ratramnus for being stupid, something he most certainly wasn’t. Instead, I’d like to close with a couple of thoughts. The first is that definitions of humanity are the products of the time in which they emerge. They are contingent upon the intellectual resources available to the people doing the defining and the place in which they decide to draw the line between natural and learned behaviour. The second is to observe that the middle ages often gets a bad rap as an age of intolerance and narrow-minded persecution. That’s a reputation that has something behind it (although I’m not convinced that its notably more so than in most periods of history before the mid to late twentieth century). But Ratramnus was not alone in his expanded definition of humanity, which allowed him to see himself in the dog-headed people. This vision of being human that depended on what a person thought rather than what they looked like, speaks to a rather more open middle ages than its image might suggest.

[Editor’s note: Sam was too modest to mention it in his post, but he has in fact written a whole article about cynocephali, rationality, and urbanism, which you can find by clicking this fine and well-crafted hyperlink.

How is the Emir of Cordoba like the Queen of Sheba?

When in 865 Emir Muhammad I of Cordoba (r. 852-886) sent back the Frankish envoys he had received from Charles the Bald (r. 843-877) the previous year, he entrusted them with a number of gifts, which they conveyed to Charles at his capital at Compiegne. According to Archbishop Hincmar of Rheims, writing in the Annals of St-Bertin, these included ‘fine cloth of various kinds’, ‘many perfumes’ and ‘camels carrying couches and canopies’.

To say that I have been interested in these camels is perhaps to slightly underplay it [No kidding – Ed.].

Your long-suffering editor experiencing your correspondent’s camel fixation once more

Unwary scholars in half a dozen countries and two continents have had the experience of listening to me talking about these camels. What was meant to be a paragraph in my PhD thesis rapidly escalated into an article, (‘The Camels of Charles the Bald’, Medieval Encounters, 25 (2019), 263-292), and I acquired a healthy quantity of camel-related memorabilia along the way.

Part of what fascinated me about these camels was trying to work out what Charles would have made of them. Camels were decidedly thin on the ground in ninth-century Francia and although some of his courtiers may have encountered them on pilgrimage in the Holy Land, Charles himself had no personal experience with them. Being somewhat pungent and prone to spitting, a close encounter with a camel can be an ambiguous experience for the inexperienced. It is not obvious whether getting a camel as a present is a good or a bad thing.

In order to understand Charles’ response to these camels, I tried to reconstruct the intellectual context by which he would have understood them. Even in the modern world, the way we think about animals is shaped by the culturally-induced associations we have with them. Thus, for instance, a white-headed fish eagle has become synonymous with the United States; and a black-and-white bear with a digestive system that is poorly adapted for its diet has ended up as the symbol of wildlife conservation. This is particularly the case when it comes to diplomatic gifts, which come imbued with meaning (some readers may remember the uproar when in 2009 the newly elected American President Barack Obama presented Prime Minister Gordon Brown with 25 DVDs, a gift widely viewed by the British press as a snub).

Here we can see Joseph being sold by his brothers to a Midianite merchant, complete with camel. Illustration from the Stuttgart Psalter, Württembergische Landesbibliothek Stuttgart, Bibl. fol. 23.119r (source).

The range of potential meanings the camels could have had for Charles is large and I discuss them in my article. He and his advisers had access to a huge range of classical and biblical sources of knowledge that refer to camels, and I want to illustrate this point by using this blogpost to talk about one of my favourite readings of the camel, which comes from the Old Testament. Saying that the Bible was important in the medieval world is not exactly a hot take. In addition to its religious significance, Carolingian rulers read the historical books of the Old Testament both as a record of the past and as an example of what it meant to be a king. They drew moral and practical lessons from what they read. Knowledge of scripture was something they shared with both religious and lay elites, meaning that the ideas and stories that a king like Charles encountered in the Bible were familiar to many of the powerful people whose support and participation gave his kingdom its substance.

Charles the Bald’s favourite Biblical king was Solomon, prompting Hincmar to write at length on the monarch in response to Charles’ questions about him. Charles was repeatedly described by his courtiers as ‘our Solomon’ and he seems to have actively encouraged this identification. Famously wise, powerful and successful at bringing about peace, Solomon was a popular model for medieval kings to aspire to. Solomon had additional advantages for Charles, being famous for culture and learning, something that Charles was interested in, while not being famous as a warrior-king. Charles’ military career was decidedly chequered, so Solomon provided a useful archetype for a peaceful king. Charlemagne had been compared to David, so by becoming the new Solomon, Charles could portray himself as the heir to his revered grandfather’s glory.

Camels feature heavily in various contexts in the Old Testament, but one of the most spectacular moments comes when the Queen of Sheba visits Solomon. Both 1 Kings 10:2 and 2 Chronicles 9:1 describe the Queen coming ‘with a very great train, with camels that bare spices, and very much gold, and precious stones’. The land of Sheba itself was also associated with camels because of the words of the Prophet Isaiah [60:6]:

The multitude of camels shall cover thee, the dromedaries of Midian and Ephah; all they from Sheba shall come: they shall bring gold and incense; and they shall shew forth the praises of the Lord. 

Carolingian intellectuals commented on these camels from Sheba, identifying Sheba as the land of the Queen who visited Solomon. The camels represented the gentile souls coming to God, barbarian peoples brought to the light. More prosaically, the camels of Sheba represented a righteous king being recognised for his wisdom by distant and fantastically wealthy foreign rulers, demonstrating his importance and authority.

There were other ways that Charles could and probably did read his new zoological presents. But given his interest in Solomon and that his teachers and advisors associated camels with Sheba, it’s hard to imagine that the comparison didn’t cross his mind. It would also have been fantastically useful as yet another way of convincing his followers that they were participating in something special, and that their king was indeed a good one, who was guided by the wisdom of Solomon.

Connections like these are why I’m so interested in the role played by animals in medieval diplomacy (see also my ramblings on Charlemagne’s elephants). They bring out the importance of spectacle at court, as well as the significance of sources of knowledge of distant lands. For Emir Muhammad, the camels he sent had a completely different cultural significance and meaning. Yet despite the fact that he and Charles had minimal common ground in their comprehension of the camels, they could both understand their giving and receiving as a sign of good will and amity. Although we are allowed to suspect that it would probably have been for the best if Muhammad never found out that Charles had cast him as the Queen of Sheba in this spectacle.