Building an Archaeology of Maya Urbanism: Planning and Flexibility in the American Tropics 1646424085, 9781646424085

Building an Archaeology of Maya Urbanism tears down entrenched misconceptions of Maya cities to build a new archaeology

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Building an Archaeology of Maya Urbanism: Planning and Flexibility in the American Tropics
 1646424085, 9781646424085

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[128.104.46.206] Project MUSE (2024-03-01 18:26 GMT) UW-Madison Libraries

BUILDING AN ARCHAEOLOGY OF MAYA URBANISM

BUILDING AN ARCHAEOLOGY OF MAYA URBANISM Planning and Flexibility in the American Tropics EDITED BY

Damien B. Marken and M. Charlotte Arnauld

UNIVERSITY PRESS OF COLORADO

Denver

© 2023 by University Press of Colorado Published by University Press of Colorado 1624 Market Street, Suite 226 PMB 39883 Denver, Colorado 80202 All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America The University Press of Colorado is a proud member of the Association of University Presses. The University Press of Colorado is a cooperative publishing enterprise supported, in part, by Adams State University, Colorado State University, Fort Lewis College, Metropolitan State University of Denver, University of Alaska Fairbanks, University of Colorado, University of Denver, University of Northern Colorado, University of Wyoming, Utah State University, and Western Colorado University. ∞ This paper meets the requirements of the ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper). ISBN: 978-1-64642-408-5 (hardcover) ISBN: 978-1-64642-409-2 (ebook) https://doi.org/10.5876/9781646424092 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Marken, Damien B., 1977– editor. | Arnauld, Marie-Charlotte, editor. Title: Building an archaeology of Maya urbanism : planning and flexibility in the American tropics / edited by Damien B. Marken and M. Charlotte Arnauld. Description: Louisville, CO : University Press of Colorado, [2023] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2022062234 (print) | LCCN 2022062235 (ebook) | ISBN 9781646424085 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781646424092 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Urban Mayas. | Mayas—Antiquities. | Urbanization—Central America. Classification: LCC F1435.3.U72 B85 2023 (print) | LCC F1435.3.U72 (ebook) | DDC 307.7609728—dc23/eng/20230113 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022062234 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022062235 Cover illustrations: Original lidar digital elevation model by National Center for Airborne Laser Mapping. Red-relief image and drawings (bottom) by Damien Marken.

Contents

List of Figures    |    ix List of Tables    |    xv Introduction 1.

Building an Archaeology of Lowland Maya Urbanism Damien B. Marken and M. Charlotte Arnauld    |    5

Part I: Community Formation 2.

The Roots of Urbanization: Early Middle Preclassic Transformations to a Sedentary Lifestyle at Ceibal, Guatemala Daniela Triadan and Takeshi Inomata    |    53

3.

Kaj and Kingdom: Conurbation, Memory, and Landscapes of Mobile Maya Authority Thomas G. Garrison    |    72 |

v

4.

A City in Flux: The Dynamic Urban Form and Function of El Perú-Waka’ Keith Eppich, Damien B. Marken, and Elsa Damaris Menéndez    |    105

5.

Urbanizing Paradise: The Implications of Pervasive Images of Flower World across Chichen Itza Travis W. Stanton, Karl A. Taube, José Francisco Osorio León, Francisco Pérez Ruíz, and María Rocio González de la Mata, Nelda I. Marengo Camacho, and Jeremy D. Coltman    |    148

Part II: Household Decisions, Mobility, and Connectivity 6.

Spatial and Social Contraction in Late-Terminal Classic Río Bec Neighborhoods M. Charlotte Arnauld and Sara Dzul Góngora    |    177

7.

Classic Maya Neighborhoods: Diversity and Inequality in Southern Belize Amy E. Thompson and Keith M. Prufer    |    213

8.

Households, Growth, Contraction, and Mobility at the Classic Maya Center of Naachtun Julien Hiquet, Julien Sion, and Divina Perla-Barrera    |    249

9.

Walking through the Urban Maze of Mayapán Timothy Hare and Marilyn Masson    |    280

Part III: City- Scale Resource Use and Management 10.

The Living Landscape: Livelihoods and Opportunities in the City and Region of Ancient Tikal Timothy Murtha    |    315

11.

Urban Planning at Caracol, Belize: Governance, Residential Autonomy, and Heterarchical Management through Time Adrian S. Z. Chase    |    349

12.

Urban Planning through the Prism of Infrastructure at Palenque, Chiapas: An Assessment of City Function and Local Decision-Making during the Late Classic Rodrigo Liendo Stuardo and Arianna Campiani    |    377

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Contents

13.

Shaping an Agrarian Maya Town: Settlement Pattern and Land-Use Dynamics at Naachtun Philippe Nondédéo, Eva Lemonnier, Julien Hiquet, Louise Purdue, Cyril Castanet, Lydie Dussol, and Marc Testé    |    398

Part IV: Agrarian Urbanism in the American Tropics 14.

The Death and Life of Agricultural Cities John H. Walker    |    437

Index    |    461 List of Contributors    |    475

Contents

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vii

Figures

1.1.

Map of the Maya Area    |    9

1.2.

Hierarchical analytical methodology of urban dimensions    |    15

2.1.

Map of Ceibal, Guatemala    |    55

2.2.

Group A of Ceibal    |    56

2.3.

Str. Ajaw, Ceibal    |    58

2.4.

Str. Xa’an, Ceibal    |    58

2.5.

First E-Group plaza floor, scraped and leveled bedrock at Ceibal    |    59

2.6.

Olmec-style foundational cache, dug into bedrock    |    59

2.7.

Olmec spoon pendant    |    60

2.8.

Str. Katal, A-24 platform    |    61

2.9.

A-24 platform    |    61

2.10.

Operation 201F in the East Court showing the series of residential structures    |    62

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2.11.

Str. Fernando, the earliest residential structure in the East Court    |    62

2.12.

Platform K’at, East Court, unmixed basket loads of the construction fill    |    63

2.13.

Str. Cha in the East Court    |    63

3.1.

Map of the Buenavista Valley    |    74

3.2.

Map showing the locations of the five seats of authority in the Buenavista Valley    |    77

3.3.

Map of El Zotz highlighting the four (numbered 2–5) Classic period seats of pa’ka’n authority    |    78

3.4.

PLI lidar coverage over El Zotz and Tikal    |    80

3.5.

The palimpsest of about 3,000 years of human activity impacting the landscape of the Buenavista Valley    |    81

3.6.

The first seat of authority at El Palmar    |    87

4.1.

Map of El Perú-Waka’ and associated hinterlands    |    108

4.2.

Proposed urban division of El Perú-Waka’    |    112

4.3.

Ceramic sequence of El Perú-Waka’    |    115

4.4.

Late Preclassic Kaq occupations in the El Perú-Waka’ hinterlands    |    117

4.5.

Protoclassic occupations in the El Perú-Waka’ hinterlands    |    119

4.6.

Early Classic occupations in the El Perú-Waka’ hinterlands    |    120

4.7.

Late Classic Q’eq’ occupations in the El Perú-Waka’ hinterlands    |    122

4.8.

Late/Terminal Classic occupations in the El Perú-Waka’ hinterlands    |    123

4.9.

Terminal Classic occupations in the El Perú-Waka’ hinterlands    |    125

4.10.

Map of the Tres Hermanas District, El Perú-Waka’ hinterlands    |    127

4.11.

Cenotaphic spaces of Tres Hermanas    |    130

4.12.

Shell tools and ornaments from the T19-1 workspace    |    131

5.1.

DEM/Hillshade image of Chichen Itza    |    151

5.2.

(a) A ceramic sello or seal attributed to Teotihuacan; (b) a stone block from the pretemple of the Feathered Serpent Temple at Teotihuacan; (c) a stone block of a polychrome frieze from the Temple of Warriors    |    153

5.3.

Photo of a Middle Preclassic Olmec-style jade pendant    |    159

5.4.

DEM/Hillshade image of the Initial Series Group    |    162

5.5.

Drawing of the dais found behind the Initial Series Temple    |    163

6.1.

Changes in housing system, from Early to Late Classic    |    179

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Figures

6.2.

Models of spatial contraction through time within one Classic neighborhood    |    183

6.3.

Floor plans of Classic Maya residences    |    185

6.4.

Monumental residences of Río Bec    |    187

6.5.

Map of the Río Bec settlement core    |    190

6.6.

Floor plan and profile of Structure 6N2, Group B, Río Bec    |    192

6.7.

The neighborhood of Group B, Río Bec    |    195

6.8.

Construction sequence of residential units in Group B neighborhood, Río Bec    |    196

7.1.

Map of southern Belize    |    219

7.2.

Map of the Uxbenká settlement system    |    221

7.3.

A typical southern Belize residential platform    |    222

7.4.

Map of the Ix Kuku’il settlement system    |    223

7.5.

Stacked bar graph of settlement group type percentages at Ix Kuku’il and Uxbenká    |    227

7.6.

Neighborhoods and districts map of Uxbenká    |    228

7.7.

Neighborhoods and districts map of Ix Kuku’il    |    230

7.8.

Neighborhood foundation date based on the earliest settlement group in the neighborhood    |    232

7.9.

A spring (cuxlin ha’) maintained by a modern Mopan Maya kin group    |    237

8.1.

Map of the urban core of Naachtun    |    251

8.2.

Map of Group B    |    252

8.3.

View of the main entrance to Patio 6, West Complex, Group B    |    254

8.4.

Balam I (grey) and Balam II (hatched) occupation/construction in the Naachtun Urban Core    |    257

8.5.

Balam III (grey) and Ma’ax I/II (hatched) occupation/construction in the Naachtun Urban Core    |    261

8.6.

Ma’ax III (grey) and Muuch (hatched) occupation/construction in the Naachtun Urban Core    |    265

9.1.

Rendering #1 of paths traced through Mayapán    |    286

9.2.

Rendering #2 of paths traced through Mayapán    |    287

9.3.

Close-up of a portion of downtown Mayapán east/northeast of the monumental center    |    291

9.4.

Grid-like sections of houselot clusters    |    292

Figures

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9.5.

Extended quasi-rectangular and polygon-shaped spaces    |    293

9.6.

Large groups of settlement clusters (rendering #1)    |    295

9.7.

Smaller settlement clusters identified at Mayapán (rendering #2)    |    297

9.8.

Cenote names known within Mayapán’s city walls    |    301

10.1.

Cross section of forest types and representative species in the Tikal region    |    316

10.2.

Maya cities are not eggs    |    330

10.3.

(a) Map of the Tikal region; (b) remote sensing image of the Tikal National Park region    |    334

10.4.

(a) Settlement densities and architecture in the Tikal region; (b) settlement densities in the Tikal region; (c) settlement regions or zones defined by the author    |    336

10.5.

(a) LandSAT image of the Tikal region; (b) map of Tikal comparing settlement densities and results of soil analysis    |    338

11.1.

Map of districts at Caracol, Belize    |    351

11.2.

The 22 monumental nodes within modern Belize    |    353

11.3.

Urban levels framework    |    355

11.4.

Three-day marching distance of direct control potential for Caracol    |    359

12.1.

Digital elevation model of Palenque’s plateau    |    379

12.2.

Map of Palenque showing infrastructural works    |    380

12.3.

The Picota aqueduct    |    381

12.4.

Map of Palenque showing architectural groups and features    |    382

12.5.

Proposed “distribution area” for Palenque and Chinikiha    |    383

12.6.

Map of Palenque showing the proposed west-east route and the northeast entrance from the plain    |    385

12.7.

Palenque epicenter    |    386

12.8.

Group IV    |    389

12.9.

Three-dimensional model showing the altar found inside Group IV’s Building J7    |    392

13.1.

Map of the central Maya Lowlands with the location of Naachtun    |    400

13.2.

Map of the Naachtun urban area    |    401

13.3.

Map of the Naachtun hinterland    |    404

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Figures

13.4.

Location of reservoirs and farming lands during the Balam I subphase    |    407

13.5.

Location of reservoirs and farming lands during the Balam II subphase    |    408

13.6.

Geoarchaeological test pit dug in the epicenter of Naachtun    |    409

13.7.

Map of the Naachtun hinterland    |    412

13.8.

Distribution of seats of power and residential agglomerations in the Naachtun hinterland    |    413

13.9.

Kunal Sur    |    415

13.10.

El Cantaro    |    416

13.11.

La Bacinilla 1    |    418

13.12.

Terraces, walls, and field limits in the Naachtun hinterland    |    420

13.13.

Sector north of Tepan    |    421

13.14.

Canals and wetland features identified in the Naachtun hinterland    |    422

Figures

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xiii

Tables

1.1.

Chronological chart of the Maya Lowlands    |    10

1.2.

Bottom-up urbanization processes emphasized in this volume    |    23

2.1.

Preclassic chronology of Ceibal    |    57

6.1.

Social subunits in household units of Río Bec Group B    |    193

6.2.

Radiocarbon dates used in the figure 6.8 graph    |    197

7.1.

Units of Analysis    |    215

7.2.

Southern Belize Chronology    |    223

7.3.

Settlement data for Uxbenká and Ix Kuku’il    |    225

7.4.

UAP settlement group typology    |    226

7.5.

Uxbenká settlement group types and foundation dates    |    229

7.6.

Ix Kuku’il settlement group types and foundation dates    |    231

7.7.

Average number of settlement group types within neighborhoods    |    235

8.1.

Ceramic complexes and chronological phases for Naachtun    |    255

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8.2.

Occupation rates of SUT and PCT compared with the total volume of public construction from the Epicenter, during each subphase    |    256

8.3.

Surface area of the Naachtun’s plazas    |    263

11.1.

The major chronological periods and known dates for Caracol, Belize    |    350

11.2.

Presence/absence data of urban service facility features    |    354

11.3.

Gini inequalities for roughly contemporary Mesoamerican cities    |    358

13.1.

Seats of power and residential concentrations in the Naachtun hinterland    |    414

xvi

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Tables

BUILDING AN ARCHAEOLOGY OF MAYA URBANISM

Introduction

1 Building an Archaeology of Maya Urbanism DA M I E N B . M A R K E N

Commonwealth University of Pennsylvania–Bloomsburg M . C H A R LOT T E A R N AU L D

CNRS-Université de Paris 1 Panthéon-Sorbonne

After decades of debate, most scholars accept Classic Maya centers as the hearts of spatially expansive, low-density urban settlements. The recent incorporation of models derived from comparative urban research is a positive step for Maya archaeology, since it confronts the view that Maya cities were not only political capitals but also true urban phenomena, and must be treated as such. This volume seeks to explore the dynamics of Maya cities primarily as socioeconomic agglomerations that emerged out of politico-religious centers. Although a worn-out paradox, the now largely acknowledged existence of numerous Preclassic (400 BCE–150 CE) and Classic (150–950 CE) cities and towns of remarkable size was not expected in the forested tropical lowlands, an environment considered by several generations of scholars to be unfit for supporting large population concentrations. Nor can one deny that most Classic cities in the southern and northern lowlands were indeed abandoned in perhaps less than one hundred years during the ninth and tenth centuries CE. This “extraordinary” occurrence of Classic urbanization deserves wide-ranging, yet tightly focused research efforts to elucidate this paradox and its seemingly logical https://doi.org/10.5876/9781646424092.c001

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outcome, the Terminal Classic (800–950  CE) urban collapse. However much attention has been directed to the emergence of Classic Maya civilization, its sociopolitical hierarchy, sacred kingship, and monumental elite architecture, less has been given to the formation and disintegration of their urban context. For decades many, if not most, Classic Maya cities and towns were investigated, one by one, as individual archaeological sites, frequently with little consideration for their hinterlands and the hierarchized settlement systems from which they emerged. Although now acknowledged for some of its formal aspects, Classic Maya urbanization as a process is still poorly understood. This, in turn, has inhibited an accurate perception of the post-collapse, Postclassic (950–1520 CE) city systems that developed in the lowlands and that proved remarkably resilient until the sixteenth-century Spanish conquest and beyond. The emerging paradigm views the lowland Maya as an urbanized society that created and re-created monumental urban cores and settlement forms within its tropical environment. The present volume aims at expanding the limited knowledge of Maya lowland urbanization processes. It explains how religious, political, and socioeconomic processes continued to modify multiple interdependencies among settlements of diverse sizes located in particular regional contexts. The evolutive history of ancient Maya cities combined diverse modes of land-use, sedentarizing mechanisms, and mobility practices. Various community services and constraints emerged, were managed, and consolidated at distinct levels. Over the years, discussion of lowland Maya urbanism has shifted from a focus on largely demographic factors to one that examines the design and planning that underpinned Maya urban layouts. Although a welcome advance for the field, the application of urban design theories to the Maya Lowlands has tended to emphasize top-down processes of dynastic intent and meaning within monumental cores to the near exclusion of bottom-up processes of settlement and community adaptation (see Murtha, Walker, this volume). Maya cities and towns were not only central places created by “place-making” regal policies but were also urban settlements with a range of variable socioeconomic activities and interactions that developed alongside their primordial political and religious functions. The emphasis on epicentral planning versus “generative planning” (M.  E. Smith 2011b:179) and patterning is problematic for several reasons. Not all formally shaped complexes with nucleated populations should necessarily be thought of as “fully” urban, beyond belonging to a broadly urbanized society. Some were simple population clusters around elite compounds, which did not necessarily result in true urbanization—that is, multiscalar socioeconomic interactions developed beyond localized elite-subordinate relationships. Urbanizing entities had more than formally planned cores; they also depended on scale (quantity and density of population) and qualities of urban life. Another reason is that even the most “planned” urban environments in Mesoamerica and 6

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beyond (e.g., Teotihuacan, Indus cities, or even Brasilia) had city dwellers who continued to modify urban spaces to meet their changing domestic and community needs. By ignoring the impact of the daily practices and mobility of urban and hinterland inhabitants on the ultimate layout and design of Maya cities, investigators risk misinterpreting the remains they recover and their diachronic evolution. Urban design theorists long ago recognized that city dwellers often ignore the intent behind institutional planning when they transform designed urban spaces through their use, or non-use, and inscribe them with new meanings and functions (e.g., Kostof 1991, 1992; Whyte 1980). “We now know that informal neighborhoods were the norm for ancient cities, where the predominant planning policy was one of neglect by the authorities” (Smith et al. 2012:7619; see also York et al. 2011). The chapters in this volume are intended to advance an urban archaeology of the Classic Maya that embraces the generative role long-term demographic and adaptive inertia (shaping and shaped by individual and communal household choices) in creating place. Authors offer a broadened perspective of Maya urban patterns by viewing bottom-up and self-organizing processes as integral to the form, development, and dissolution of Classic lowland cities vis-a-vis centralized civic design and planning. By exploring the diverse, yet intertwined, agents and processes that modified Maya urban landscapes, this volume highlights the adaptive flexibility of urbanization in the tropical Maya Lowlands. It calls for the importance of applying multiple scalar perspectives to better explore the diverse aspects of Maya cities in their entirety, viewing their hinterlands and cores as sectors within an urbanized regional settlement system. Such approaches emphasize that urbanism (most easily identified by its physical remains, the architectural forms that spatially circumscribed social spaces and interactions) is primarily a feature of society, not of individual settlements (M. E. Smith 2008a:5). This viewpoint enables more empirical and regionally grounded comparative settlement analyses (Canuto et al. 2018; Drennan et al. 2015; Drennan and Peterson 2004; M. E. Smith 2011b:182). While informing comparative discussions of tropical, non-Western cities worldwide, assessment of the urban flexibility of Classic Maya societies improves interpretations of lowland Maya culture history and political organization. The diverse volume chapters demonstrate that although Classic Maya cities did share certain common settlement, architectural, and even developmental trajectories, individual cities and towns were often unique in their ecological setting, history, composition, and, ultimately, spatial organization. Appreciating and embracing this variability is imperative for the contribution of Maya urban studies to discussions of modern urban issues. To build a better archaeology of Maya urbanism, this introduction offers a brief review of past and present perspectives on lowland cities within the context of recent theoretical developments in the archaeological study of ancient Building an Archaeology of Maya Urbanism

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urban and tropical landscapes. Next, we propose a conceptual framework for collecting, organizing, and interpreting the variable lines of archaeological evidence available to study long-term regional urban traditions. Recognizing that most archaeological assemblages can inform multiple dimensions of urbanism, we then point to four key processes in urbanization that too often remain underexamined when interpreting past urban forms and designs. A brief outline of the chapters also appears. Overall, the cases encompass the span of lowland Maya urbanism, though a majority of chapters focus on cities and regions that witnessed their “heights” during the Classic period. Nevertheless, the volume assembles an impressive regional ensemble of Classic Maya cities and towns, from Chichen Itza and Mayapán in Yucatán to Uxbenká and Caracol in Belize, Tikal and Naachtun in Petén, and Palenque in the west (figure 1.1). PA S T A N D P R E S E N T P E R S P E C T I V E S

For much of the twentieth century, Mayanists conceived of lowland Maya centers as sites with clearly defined epicenters and limits. The University of Pennsylvania maps of Tikal best exemplify this concept by depicting how the monumental epicenter was surrounded by an extensive residential area bounded by earthworks to the north and south with large wetlands to the east and west (Carr and Hazard 1961; Culbert et al. 1990; Haviland 2008:259, figure 1.1). Driven to test Childe’s (1950) characterizations of Maya centers as barely urban, early surveyors emphasized concentrations of monuments and attempted to define settlement limits. Primarily focusing beyond the city centers, Gordon Willey’s settlement archaeology approach built upon earlier observations by the Ricketsons and Robert Wauchope at Uaxactun and helped define and divvy up what was later to become the three characteristics of “Maya urbanism”: 1. An expansive, low-density settlement pattern, a feature that necessitated a broad, regional survey outside of monumental centers (Willey 1965) 2. Multiple tiered networks of “centers” (Bullard 1960) 3. High numbers of small, visible mounds, arranged to form patio/plazuela group and quadrangle compounds, which—by virtue of the principle of abundance—were thought to constitute “residential areas” (Ashmore 1981)

Early surveyors noted that the settlement surrounding lowland Maya monumental centers was dispersed, had a low overall density of dwellings, and lacked many streets, which gave the impression of an unpatterned configuration of residential zones. This perception sparked a controversy over the existence of true cities in the Maya Lowlands (e.g., Marcus 1983; Sanders and Webster 1988). Most famously outlined by Louis Wirth (1938), demographic definitions have been widely and effectively applied to ancient and modern cities across the globe. Their applicability to Western and most Asian forms of urbanism 8

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FIGURE 1.1.

Map of the Maya Area showing major Maya cities and centers mentioned

in the text.

has unfortunately led to their reification as the only means of identifying a city, which resulted in the long exclusion of Maya centers from the category. Based on the archaeological data available at the time, Maya centers simply lacked the requisite overall populations and densities—combined with the perceived Building an Archaeology of Maya Urbanism

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Chronological chart of the Maya Lowlands indicating the time units used by the chapter contributors (drawn by Sylvie Eliès, CNRS/ArchAm). In the case of some sites, more precise placement of subphases are given in the corresponding chapter.

TABLE 1.1.

inability of tropical environments to support large populations (Meggers 1954)— to be considered true cities by many scholars (e.g., Sanders and Webster 1988). Since then, however, the assumed low productivity of tropical environments has been largely refuted. The “semitropical” forested lowlands are now defined by high ecological diversity, low individual species density (Fedick 1996; Gomez Pompa et al. 2003; Scarborough 2005; Scarborough and Burnside 2010:335–46), and high potential for varied agroecosystems (e.g., Beach and Dunning 1997; Beach, Luzzadder-Beach, Guderjan et al. 2015; Dunning 1996; Killion 1992a). Tropical forest ecosystems are extremely heterogeneous per surface unit with high species diversity, which induces cultivators to reproduce this same heterogeneity in multiple ways. Even though maize was (and still is) the basic staple, maize monoculture (a specialized cultivation) would have been an undesirable option. This is not to say that varied cultivation strategies could only sustain sparse populations, but it means that, in ways not yet fully determined, they necessarily constrained the population density aspect of urban scale. 10

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Beginning in the late 1970s, some archaeologists began to recognize the inadequacy of strict demographic definitions of urbanism. Derived from earlier central-place and core-periphery economic models, functional definitions of urbanism recognized that cities need to be defined in terms of their regional context (Blanton 1976; Fox 1977; Hirth 2003; Marcus 1983; M. E. Smith 1990; Trigger 1972; Webster and Sanders 2001). Several Mayanists accordingly borrowed urban models from the Chicago School of Urban Sociology (Burgess 1925) to depict the spatial organization of lowland Maya settlement (Chase and Chase 1987; Marcus 1983). These idealized “concentric ring” models were subsequently modified to fit documented settlement distributions and topography, features still familiar in the site maps used today. The rings could then be assigned demographic or functional attributes, which tended to “flatten” lowland Maya urban diversity. Wirth (1938:1) himself admitted that “the urban mode of life is not confined to cities.” Cities do not exist in isolation; they are part of larger settlement systems that also include towns, villages, and hamlets, as well as vast tracks of agricultural lands and other resources. Thus, there is no “urban” without the “rural” or “rural” without the “urban” (M.  E. Smith 2008b:457). This aspect of early functional definitions in Maya archaeology was bolstered by ambitious and, by the early 1990s, systematic completion of terrestrial settlement surveys at Copan (Baudez 1983; Willey and Leventhal 1979), Caracol (Chase and Chase 1987), and, later, Chunchucmil (Hutson et al. 2008). The demographic/functional distinction, in a sense, resolves the debate over the “authenticity” of Maya cities. In the words of Michael Smith (2007:3), “This functional definition allows the classification of a wider range of nonwestern settlements as urban than does the more common demographic definition of urban settlements as large, dense, socially heterogeneous settlements.” It nevertheless leaves us with very broad functional categories—religious, political, and economic, more or less equivalent to the “regal-ritual,” “administrative,” and “mercantile” categories of Fox (1977; see Marcus 1983; Sanders and Webster 1988), in which a number of Classic Maya examples can be placed. Some debate has arisen concerning the degree of entrepreneurial activity and spirit (thought typical of European medieval cities) that existed in ancient administrative or regal-ritual cities (Cowgill 2003:6–7). Recent evidence tends to reflect a more significant degree of economic activity than previously acknowledged (Cap 2015; Carrasco Vargas et al. 2009; Demarest 2013; Foias and Emery 2012a; King 2015; Masson and Freidel 2012), suggesting the “economic” nature of many Classic Maya “political” centers or cities (a dichotomy highlighted by M. E. Smith [2016]). Nevertheless, most, if not all Maya cities were primarily agrarian cities (Arnauld 2008; Arnauld and Michelet 2004; Chase and Chase 1998; Graham 1999; Isendahl and Smith 2013; Stark 2003). Two decades before Roland Fletcher (2009, 2012) defined low-density agrarian urbanism, Robert Drennan (1988:284–85) proposed that the dispersed nature Building an Archaeology of Maya Urbanism

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of lowland Maya settlement patterns should be correlated to intrasettlement intensive agricultural activities. This view is strongly supported by recent large-scale lowland lidar surveys in Belize, Guatemala, and Mexico (Canuto et al. 2018; Chase and Chase 2017; Chase et al. 2014; Golden et al. 2016). In both large and small agglomerations, most Maya were farmers primarily involved in staple crop production in their infields, as well as their milpa outfields (Killion 1992b; Murtha 2015; Netting 1993; Wilk 1991; Wilk and Netting 1984), even as they were simultaneously engaged in crafting and trade activities. Three decades ago, Marcus (1983:206–7) remarked that scholars paid insufficient attention to emic Mesoamerican conceptions of cities, particularly the absence of the urban/rural dichotomy so central to Western concepts of urbanism (Marken and Fitzsimmons 2015b:5–6; see also M. E. Smith 2008b:457, n2, commenting on Nahuatl terms for city and town). We will return to this topic of rurality versus urbanity, but it is important to posit that Classic Maya societies were as rural as they were urbanized (e.g., Garrison et al. 2019), meaning that they were “characterized by being inherently linked, under any technology known, to specific geographical spaces” (Leeds 1980, cited by M. E. Smith 2008b:477). Recent models of ancient urbanism tend to emphasize the spatial diversity and organizational complexity of the city and its hinterlands. It is the urban fabric generated by the countless simultaneous and heterogeneous daily activities, interactions, and identities that give cities their life and uniqueness ( Jacobs 1969; M. L. Smith 2003b, 2019). In the first collective synthesis published on the archaeology of Mesoamerican urban entities (Mastache et al. 2008; Sanders et al. 2003), a similar perspective on “scale” combined with “socioeconomic heterogeneity” emerged in several case studies apart from considerations of “planning,” “morphology,” and “configuration” in other chapters of these volumes. In Maya archaeology, such views were supported by the florescence of household archaeology from the 1980s to the present, which continues to demonstrate the economic, political, religious, and social complexity of life across lowland settlements (Robin 2003). Household-scale studies did not, however, hinder simultaneous in-depth research in epicentral monumentality and functional complexity (Fash and Lopez Luján 2009; Inomata and Houston 2001), leading to the detection of multipolarity in some cities with several distinct civic-religious complexes, often described as “multiple nuclei” (Bazy 2013; Fitzsimmons 2015; Marcus 1983:203–306; Martin 2001). Attention to the internal divisions of urban settlements led to defining “neighborhoods and districts” (Arnauld et al. 2012; Cowgill 2003:9; M. E. Smith 2010b, 2011a; York et al. 2011) that recognized the influence of land-use factors, given that the extent of lowland cities could not be defined on form alone (Lemonnier 2009). Vacant or “empty” spaces also earned consideration, with a dual focus on agricultural dynamics (Beach, LuzzadderBeach, Cook et al. 2015; Beach, Luzzadder-Beach, Guderjan et al. 2015; Dunning 12

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1996; Dunning and Beach 1994, 2010; Dunning et al. 2018; Dunning, McCane et al. 2015; Dunning, Griffin et al. 2015; Dunning et al. 2006) and visibly “built” epicentral open spaces—plazas, reservoirs, and markets (e.g., Cap 2008, 2015; Dahlin et al. 2007; Inomata 2006; Scarborough and Gallopin 1991; Scarborough et al. 2012; Tsukamoto and Inomata 2014). Monica Smith (2008:217) reminds us how “empty spaces are created just as deliberately as the architecture itself.” In order to adapt to the effects of past land use, as well as to the consequences of earlier economic and political decisions (e.g., Webster and Murtha 2015), lowland Maya urbanism had to be highly flexible. Like cities elsewhere, lowland Maya cities were always in flux and continually evolving. As the urban designers Maurice Mitchell and Bo Tang (2018:4) remind us, cities “are never finished in the sense that they will not change. They are subjected to partial demolition and extension over and over again, then copied and reinterpreted.” One of the goals of this volume is to begin the construction of a “middlerange” analytical framework for an archaeology of Maya urbanism that links the empirical data collected by researchers in the field and lab to the higher-order interpretations of political, economic, and religious meaning and change. As the collected chapters illustrate, such an endeavor must be multifaceted, while also requiring close attention to baseline parameters such as size, density, scale, chronology, ecology, and place. We consider these as “baseline” because they provide a vital context for the study, interpretation, and comparison of individual urban function and development, whether from the top down or bottom up. In addition, as several chapters in this volume discuss, Maya cities also had degrees of accessibility and connectivity. They promoted diversity and interaction, what Hutson (2016:21) calls “multiplicity,” and hence were developing some functions of socioeconomic agglomeration (Gyucha 2019) beyond their well-established roles as political and religious centers and, not least, as marketplaces (e.g., King 2015; Masson and Freidel 2012). Building from this general recognition, the following section outlines a framework for the study of Maya urban flexibility. T H E D I M E N S I O N S O F M AYA U R B A N I S M

Urban theorists can describe and contextualize the dynamics of contemporary inter- and intraurban experiences in ways that archaeologists can only envy (e.g., Hubbard 2006; Parker 2010). Nevertheless, over the past few decades several archaeologists have developed theoretical concepts that enrich scholarly conceptions of ancient cities (Cowgill 2004; M. E. Smith 2007; M. L. Smith 2003a). While some of this literature attempts to modernize neoevolutionary perceptions of the link between urbanism and statehood (Marcus and Sabloff 2008; Marken 2011; Trigger 2003), much of it aims to bridge the limits of earlier single-variate definitions of urbanism, described previously, to create a more encompassing comparative archaeological urban theory. For instance, Monica Smith (2006:107) Building an Archaeology of Maya Urbanism

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distinguishes between quantitative and qualitative measures to employ “a combination of demographic, Childean (internally specialized), and functional (externally specialized) criteria” to evaluate whether a settlement should be considered “urban.” Expanding on Smith’s criteria, Hutson (2016:9–15) identifies seven “components of cities” that also span the demographic, functional, and experiential aspects of urban landscapes. In a separate vein of ongoing research, inspired by complexity theory (Bettencourt 2013; Bettencourt and West 2010; Bettencourt et al. 2010), preindustrial urban scaling studies have identified patterned cross-cultural correlations between demographic and social variables across entire synchronic regional settlement systems (Cesaretti et al. 2016; Gyucha 2019; Ortman et al. 2013; Ortman et al. 2014; Ortman et al. 2015; Ortman et al. 2016; M. E. Smith 2017, 2019; Smith et al. 2020). One of the most prolific current writers on the archaeology of urbanism, Michael Smith (2008a:8–10; 2008b) identifies four “dimensions” of Mesoamerican urbanism—urban form, urban life, urban function, and urban meaning—which we view as an excellent foundation upon which to build a theoretical framework to study the processes of lowland Maya urbanization. Although derived from functional perspectives, Smith’s dimensions “cross-cut the physical functional and communal roles of cities” (Marken 2011:73) to incorporate consideration of demographic factors, such as size, density (urban form), and heterogeneity (urban life), as well as potential economic and politico-religious variables (urban function and meaning). Each dimension can be potentially informed by both quantitative and qualitative measures and thus enable rather nuanced intersettlement comparisons even in the face of uneven data sets. Smith’s dimensions of urbanism are recursive analytical comparative categories, in that new data or interpretations informing one dimension often have implications for the other dimensions. We suggest two modifications to the framework originally outlined by Smith (2008a, 2008b). First, like many functional perspectives, Smith’s dimensions are overly urban-centric, reducing urban hinterlands and rural areas either to zones of resource extraction or to passive recipients of urban benevolence since “urban settlements” are defined as “centers whose activities and institutions affect a larger hinterland” (M. E. Smith 2008a:4; see also M. L. Smith 2003b:10). As chapters within this volume illustrate, a “multidimensional city” perspective benefits from a spatial expansion that recognizes hinterland areas as important loci for urban change (Marken 2011:79). There is empirical justification for including a rural facet to interpretations of urban form, life, function, and meaning. As mentioned, ethnohistoric accounts from Mesoamerica (as well as sub-Saharan Africa) indicate that Indigenous ideologies did not make the same conceptual distinctions between the urban and rural environment as Western European sociological models (Ferguson and Mansbach 1996; Marcus 1983:207–8; M.  L. 14

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Hierarchical analytical methodology of urban dimensions based on M. E. Smith 2008a, 2008b. FIGURE 1.2 .

Smith 2003b:4; see also Berdan 2008; Fletcher 1995; Krapf-Askari 1969; Kusimba et al. 2006; Redfield and Singer 1954; M. E. Smith 2008a; Trigger 2003; Tozzer 1941; Wheatley 1971). With this spatial expansion in scope, the dimensions of urbanism gain the potential to encompass all aspects of urbanized regional settlement systems more fully. The second modification we advocate is a rearrangement of the four dimensions for analytical purposes. It accounts for the archaeological accessibility of data typically collected to inform each dimension as well as the recursive nature of the data. Such a reconfiguration is justified by the fact that while the four dimensions of urbanism are nominally analytical equals, when it comes to field data recovery and interpretations, they often are not. It may seem redundant, but within any functional definition of urbanism, where cities are large settlements with many urban functions and towns are smaller urban settlements with fewer functions (as noted by M. E. Smith 2008a:6), the dimension of urban function is or should be privileged. Our reframing is thus both hierarchical and recursive, with the privileging of urban function made explicit. Urban form contextualizes urban life but is also re-created and modified by urban life, which, in turn, creates and reinforces urban meanings. Those meanings and the forms and life that generate them define urban functions (figure 1.2). Physical changes in the urban landscape can lead to new social configurations of the urban community and vice Building an Archaeology of Maya Urbanism

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versa. With this rearrangement, these new dimensions better capture what Spiro Kostof (1991:52) calls the “urban process,” the recursive duality of ancient cities as fluid, yet cohesive social communities, along with the physical landscapes that underwent alteration. The following sections briefly summarize the features of each urban dimension to highlight their recursive nature and interpretive interdependence, as well as to identify the methods often employed for their study.

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Urban Form

The archaeological study of a particular city begins by documenting its urban form, typically accomplished through a terrestrial or remote sensing survey. One goal is to answer basic questions about the size of the city, the location of its buildings, and the way they are arranged in relation to each other to create urban spaces and direct or restrict access to those spaces. Archaeological investigation of urban form is descriptive in nature, often with its focus on the built and nonbuilt environment in its final form. Excavation is usually necessary to add a diachronic aspect to the study of urban form. Michael Smith (2008a:8) cites urban form as the most archaeologically accessible urban dimension, one that includes the overt physical characteristics of a city: its size, population, density, traffic systems, and the size and distribution of residential and public architecture (see also Kostof 1991, 1992). Regionally, it also includes standardization in urban layout and monumentality, along with coordination between buildings and space (M. E. Smith 2007:6–8). Despite its apparent accessibility, even these baseline parameters can be difficult to assess archaeologically, as ongoing debates over lowland Maya population estimates and densities illustrate (Canuto et al. 2018; Culbert and Rice 1990; Webster 2018). Even defining the absolute limits of many Maya cities remains problematic considering the extended nature of lowland urban landscapes (Fletcher 2009:12; Wilkinson 2014). This raises the issue of the definitional breadth of urban form. Size, density, layout, and scale receive considerable attention from scholars studying ancient urban form, yet local geological, topographic, hydrological, as well as historical conditions are equally fundamental to understanding the opportunities and challenges to urbanization for individual cities (Castanet et al. 2016; Marken and Murtha 2017). Urban ecologists have long understood the central role of resource distributions (soils, potable water, extractable raw materials) and land-use practices (including “landesque” modifications or capital) in framing the development of urban form not just within the city proper, but across its hinterlands (e.g., McHarg 1971; Steiner et al. 2016). By incorporating ecology and hinterland development as fundamental components of urbanization, urban form becomes embedded within a greater regional landscape that materializes the environment/settlement and rural/urban relational link. Moreover, recognizing that regional settlement and land-use patterns were vital to processes of 16

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Maya urbanization significantly augments the comparative value of the investigation of lowland urban forms. Although a consensus had been building for years (e.g., Arnauld 2008; Arnauld and Michelet 2004; Chase and Chase 1998; Graham 1999; Roland Fletcher 2009), defining low-density agrarian urbanism as a comparative type marked a turning point in scholarly opinion regarding the urbanity of Classic Maya society. This urban type, formally labeled “tropical low-density, agrarian-based urbanism,” highlights specificities of precisely the rural/urban link across the tropical belt, even though its parameters appear oversimplified for the needs of a worldwide comparison (Fletcher 2012; Isendahl and Smith 2013; Lucero et al. 2015; Marken, Ricker et al. 2019; see comments by Wilkinson 2014). The timing of Fletcher’s publication coincided with the expanding acceptance of functional definitions of urbanism and the introduction of lidar surveys in the Maya area (e.g., Chase et al. 2011). In many ways, this volume, with its emphasis on the physical and social foundations of Maya urbanization, is a product of these three research advances. A recent trend in analyzing Classic Maya urban form is an emphasis on “planning” as the deliberate actions of the builders, particularly dynastic rulers (e.g., Houk 2015; Rice and Pugh 2017). But the degree to which Maya rulers were able to direct the residential patterns of urban inhabitants remains unknown. The possibility does exist that they could direct the location of individual households or neighborhoods, but certainly not the housing, that is, the form and structure of physical residences that evolved in a bottom-up fashion as an answer to the needs of residents, particularly in terms of their beliefs and prospects (Sion 2016). This process in turn gradually produced patterns, including planning on the household/neighborhood scale, often referred to as “generative planning” (M. E. Smith 2011b:179). In a related yet distinct vein, several scholars draw upon architectural communication theory to examine city layouts and designs more broadly (see M. E. Smith 2007, 2011b; Smith and Hein 2017; see also Kostof 1991; Moore 1996; Rapoport 1988; Vis 2014, 2016). By incorporating the full range of urban architecture, these studies recognize the fact . . . that no city, however arbitrary its form may appear to us, can be said to be “unplanned.” Beneath the strangest twist of lane or alley, behind the most fitfully bounded public place, lies an order beholden to prior occupation, to the features of the land, to long established conventions of the social contract, to a string of compromises between individual rights and the common will. (Kostof 1991:52)

While the search for intent in urban design is more appropriately encompassed by the dimension of urban meaning, it is only through the recursive intersection of form with the dimension of life that places and spaces become inscribed with meaning through which archaeologists can perhaps ascertain design intent. Building an Archaeology of Maya Urbanism

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Considering the potential of archaeological evidence, we are content with the task assigned by our broad definition of the dimension of urban form concerning landscaping and planning. As mentioned, landscaping refers to the spatial boundaries of urban entities, which entails not only settlement patterns and land use but also the circulation and mobility of people, whereas planning involves people’s decisions reflected in their housing patterns and community design. These issues are sufficiently complex that only an empirical intersection of urban form and life offers the best approach. Urban Life

If urban form describes a city’s physical make-up, urban life seeks to capture the dynamic social mosaic that is the city, the interactions and obligations that divide and/or integrate individuals, households, civic communities, and institutions (M. L. Smith 2019). Form and life, however, are intrinsically related since “urban form is never innocent of social content: it is the matrix within which we organize daily life” (Kostof 1992:8). Urban life itself refers more broadly to the parameters influencing the overlapping spatial and social divisions within a city. Intersectional topics of investigation include social diversity within urban environments (ethnicity, class, gender, and occupation); social organization (household and neighborhood composition); and the economic, religious, and public life of urban residents (M. E. Smith 2008a:8–9; M. L. Smith 2003b). Archaeological data informing urban life are best accessed through excavation programs that sample multiple households within a city at diverse socio-spatial scales, coupled with comparative analyses of their artifactual and architectural inventories (e.g., Keith 2003). While this facet of urban life studies necessitates a descriptive inventory of urban social diversity—Wirth’s (1938) third demographic variable of social heterogeneity—interactions within and between differing social groups are what generate the types of intersecting identities and activities commonly associated with city living (e.g., Jacobs 1969; M. L. Smith 2019). This is what recent settlement scaling studies refer to as “energized crowding” or a “social reactor” (Bettencourt 2013; M. E. Smith et al. 2021). Agency perspectives (Dornan 2002) are thus most useful at this analytical level through quantitative interpretation of variations in several parameters of urban form and life, such as scale, social inventories, and spatial distributions, as well as stratigraphic and construction sequences through the lens of “structured deposition” ( Joyce and Pollard 2010) and “social stratigraphy” (McAnany and Hodder 2009; see Arnauld et al. 2017). Interactions are not easily accessible to archaeologists, yet at least concrete conditions for cooperation (or lack of ) in urban construction, craft, circulation, regular meetings, and other activities can be assessed. And beyond the spatial frame the city components provided, practices and use of urban spaces created the social memories that imbued those spaces with meaning. 18

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Urban Meaning

Amos Rapoport (1988:318) suggests that the relationship between meaning and the urban landscape is regulated by three interrelated topics: “the human propensity to impose meaning on the world; the built environment as influencing behavior through meaning; meaning as an important mechanism linking environments and people.” The study of urban meaning seeks to provide rationales for the expression of the previous dimensions of form and life—how cities are organized, constructed, and experienced, while concurrently creating the conditions and traditions regulating social behavior. In this sense, urban meanings imbued into the built environment are generated through urban life and experience, while simultaneously tying social memories to place (Rapoport 1993; A. Smith 2003). For Rapoport (1988:325; see also M. E. Smith 2008a:10–15), meaning is communicated at three distinct levels: (1) “high-level” meanings encoded in the symbolism of buildings and cities within religious or cultural traditions; (2) “middle-level” meanings that signal messages of identity, status, and power; and (3) “low-level” everyday meanings that concern the influence of the built environment on individual thought and behavior. A popular tendency in archaeology is to equate urban meaning with “the symbolic role of cities as human replications of the cosmos” (Fash and López Luján 2009:3), Rapoport’s “high-level” meaning. This “cosmovision” or “cosmogram” approach attempts to interpret the symbolic and religious meaning and intent expressed in the arrangement, orientation, and layout of monumental and public urban spaces (Ashmore 1991; Ashmore and Sabloff 2002; Carrasco 1990; Houk 2017; Malville and Gurjal 2000; Schele and Mathews 1998; Wheatley 1971). Critiques of Maya “cosmograms” are numerous (e.g., M. E. Smith 2008a:9; see also M. E. Smith 2003; Smith and Schreiber 2006:14, 21–22), with little need for their reevaluation here beyond suggesting that for nearly all urban centers the meaning(s) behind urban form was/were contingent upon local and historical circumstances. Even if their specific messages may be difficult for us to assess today in the absence of written records or extensively documented sculptural programs, we must not downplay or devalue the importance of institutionalized conflation and materialization of ideology, tradition, ritual, and authority in the integration of many early urban societies. In the Maya Lowlands, even though rarely acknowledged, Rapoport’s middlelevel meaning approach has perhaps gained greater acceptance due to the preponderance of epigraphic and iconographic studies of inscriptions, sculptures, and paintings revealed by archaeological excavations of certain monumental building types. This “conjunctive research” is applied less to entire city layouts than to specific public units, plazas, and/or configurations, such as E-Group complexes (e.g., Freidel et al. 2017). Each of them is correlated with particular historical moments or circumstances in the epicenter’s developmental trajectory—usually Building an Archaeology of Maya Urbanism

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dynastic events materialized in architecture (Bazy 2013; Jones 1991; Webster and Houston 2003), though astronomical events as well (Aveni 2003). Planning is thus often attributed to the conscious strategies of dynastic rulers from what appears to be a historical perspective (Hiquet 2019). Thus, the developed form of each city is commonly qualified as “organic,” not “planned” (Fash 2008:203; Haviland 2008:273; see Kostof 1991 and M. E. Smith 2007 on both terms). A more institutional perspective might be emerging out of this conjunctive approach when complemented by Rapoport’s lower-level meaning. Based on his behavioral-environmental theory, this level considers messages conveyed by buildings through their monumentality, accessibility, and visibility in a way that affects the senses of participants in performances held in such settings (Inomata 2006; Liendo Stuardo 2003; see also Ossa et al. 2017). Considering specific inventories of buildings (e.g., types of temple-pyramids, palaces, ballcourts) and their public assemblages in terms of durable institutions set in urban contexts—beyond individualistic, legitimizing royal strategies—probably improves our knowledge of Maya political structures. The Classic Maya were part of a true interconnected urbanized society at a wide spatial scale articulating many settlement systems across the Yucatán peninsula and beyond. The concept of a “city-state culture” (Hansen 2000; Grube 2000; Lacadena and Ciudad-Ruiz 1998; M.  E. Smith 2008b) supposes that epicenters were planned in a complex balance of top-down strategies and shared ideological institutions driven by higher-rank dynasties but also under pressure from local supporting social groups (Schortman 1989; see also Marken et al. 2017). Urban Function

At the top of the analytical hierarchy, the dimension of urban function incorporates the basic characteristics that define the functional city: a central place where activities and institutions cluster that affect a wider hinterland (Kostof 1991:38; M. E. Smith 2008a:4; M. G. Smith 1972; Trigger 1972; Wheatley 1972). Rooted in central place theories borrowed from the “New Geography” (Lösch 1954; Wallerstein 2004), urban function integrates recursive interpretations of urban form, life, and meaning to identify the potential administrative, economic, ritual, and ideological (e.g., religious) services cities provided populations within a regional settlement hierarchy (Blanton 1976). The materialization of these functions through regional settlement hierarchies and distributions of material culture is also often seen as indicative of political structure (Marcus and Feinman 1998; Marken 2015:145–46). Interpretation of urban function(s), however, should emphasize what Monica Smith (2003b:7) calls the “cognitive formulation of urban centers,” the social relations and networks that integrate urban and hinterland residents and institutions. As argued earlier, urbanization is not a process that only affects urban dwellers; “rural” folks are equally affected. Rural areas were not simply the recipients 20

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of urban services and administration; they too were functional parts of the “urban-rural community” (cf. Marken 2015:145). Hinterland functions had to be adapted to fluctuating subsistence and social requirements of local populations while mitigating potential demands on localized labor and production by civic institutions. The variable extent to which urban institutions were involved in inter-rural settlement interactions informs the hierarchical and heterarchical arrangement of local and regional social networks and enables more comprehensive understanding of how cities operated. Gaining a better handle on the functional role of rural areas in urban development is a significant step to identifying alternate sources of urban integration and degrees of flexibility. At this point, it should be clear that the four dimensions of the proposed theoretical framework intersect in several ways that lead to structured empirical correlations appropriate to resolve issues of growth/decline and organization in cities and towns. To be more precise, the bottom-up perspective we advocate tends to center on the recursive intersection(s) between urban form and urban life, due to the direct accessibility of corresponding archaeological evidence, as well as the fact that both dimensions more significantly reflect the bottom-up agency of commoners as participants in the communities that constitute the social building blocks of polities (Marken 2015). This is not to say that meaning (civic design and layout) and function (urban “central places”) were out of reach for ancient commoner agents. Indeed, the paradigm we offer and advocate for, with its emphasis on bottom-up and rural/urban perspectives, promises a fresh approach to Maya urban meaning and function. However, advances along those lines will only be possible through robust analyses of contexts, conditions, and chronologies at the analytical levels of urban form and life, as we have broadly defined them, and particularly at their intersections. L O W L A N D M AYA B O T T O M - U P A G E N C Y I N U R B A N C O N T E X T S

In building an urban archaeology of the lowland Maya, we have proposed a hierarchical analytical framework derived from functional approaches to urbanism that pays close attention to demographic and ecological factors such as size, density, scale, diversity, and place. Specifically, we have argued that the actions and experiences of individuals and local groups, both within and outside urban centers, create and re-create urban form and meanings through daily practice and community-level events vital to understanding processes of urbanization on a regional scale (see figure 1.2). This perspective owes considerable debt to several bodies of urban theory (or aspects of them), primarily generative planning (Kostof 1991, 1992; M. E. Smith 2011b), tropical low-density agrarian-based urbanism (Fletcher 2009, 2012), and structured deposits/social stratigraphy ( Joyce and Pollard 2010; McAnany and Hodder 2009). What is generally lacking in Maya scholarship, however, is a developed body of “middle-range theories” Building an Archaeology of Maya Urbanism

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that connect the higher-order dimensions of urbanism to the quantitative and qualitative patterns in our archaeological data sets (cf. Hutson 2016:71–90; Isendahl 2012; Masson and Peraza Lope 2014; M. E. Smith 2011a; Webster and Murtha 2015). In this volume, chapters contribute methods and case studies that help elucidate and reconstruct the impact of four cross-culturally recognized settlement processes upon the temporal and regional flexibility of Maya urbanization: dynamics in housing, mobility across rural/urban landscapes, local community organization and diversity, and resource management (table 1.2). Data informing these various factors fortunately often overlap, or are at least complementary, and therefore can often be collected simultaneously. They not only focus on the “city” as a physical entity but also investigate the relations between the regional settlement system, its environmental and technological context, and the types of politico-religious and socioeconomic institutions (if possible, with their practices) present in the city under study (Cowgill 2004). Required by the data that reflect them, these relationships ought to be examined at multiple analytical and spatial-temporal scales in order to track their dynamics and evaluate diachronic or even historical trends. Household Decisions

The potential variety in individual household decision-making best epitomizes the fact that bottom-up urban organization “is not chaotic,” but planned “at the household or neighborhood level” (M. E. Smith 2011b:179). Wilk and Ashmore (1988) long ago suggested that basic Maya kinship and nonkinship groups were autonomous, in that they made their own decisions about their degree of sedentariness, mobility across hinterlands (temporally, socially, spatially), in situ growth, desertion, or involvement in broader social networks (see also Arnauld, Beekman and Pereira 2021; Inomata 2004). It is important to remember that “even in the most advanced states and empires . . . most decisions about quotidian events continued to be made at the individual and household level, away from the control—or even perception—of elites” (M. L. Smith 2011:57). In the Maya Lowlands, “settlement pattern archaeology,” along with “household archaeology,” comprises enormous bodies of data at this planning scale (e.g., Robin 2003; Sheets 2006; Willey et al. 1965). At their simplest, individual household decisions are either proactive or reactive, though in reality they are much more complex because members weigh an array of internal and external challenges and opportunities, such as changes in family structure, available economic strategies, and/or community and ritual obligations against social and ecological circumstances that factor in their determinations (Robin et al. 2015; Yaeger 2003). In terms of their archaeology, household decisions become most easily detectable through modifications in domestic architecture and layout, 22

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Community Dynamics, Organizational Definition

Regional, urban, and neighborhood-scales of attraction, clustering, dispersal; Contraction into new housing; Local and civic identity creation Internal and Mobility, Circulation, core-hinterland relaConnectivity tionships; Boundary definition; Social/ ecological/economic/ political push-pull factors Household Residential-scale building and rebuilding; growth/ Decisionstasis, temporary/ definiMaking tive abandonment

Resource Local and urbanManagement scale public/private infrastructure

General Process

Broad Socio-Material Impact(s) of Each Process

Vernacular construction modes; Rates of construction; Demographic cycling; Diachronic settlement distributions (4, 6, 8)

Diachronic settlement distribution; Changes in housing styles; Comparative and spatial analyses of household inventories (6, 8)

Urban Form Urban Life Settlement clustering near Resource distribution; local and centralized management local and regional resources and management features; features; landesque features Residential inventories of (fixed plots; 10, 11, 12, 13) resource-specific artifacts; Landscape planning (10, 11, 12) Settlement density analyses; Household provisioning; Spatial distribution of household Neighborhood histories; Size and distribution of local artifact styles/traditions; Intraneighborhood variation; Area/ public spaces; Monumental chronologies (2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8) volume of neighborhood centers and city epicenter (4, 7) Access patterns; Household Household occupational chronologies; Inter and intra cycling; Field housing/urban settlement pathways; Settle- housing (6, 7, 8, 9, 11, 12) ment density analyses (3, 4, 6, 8, 9, 11, 12, 13)

Material and Semantic Data Sets Informing Urban Dimensions

Freedom of movement; Periodical congregation; Trade and craft specialization (11, 12)

Location options regarding travel/transportation, water, land; Constrictions on population growth/ settlement expansion (4, 7)

Local provisioning networks; Marketplaces; Raw/finished crafts; Traffic; (7, 9)

Middle- and low-level symbolism; Treatment of the dead; Aggregation degree and forms; Social stratigraphy (6, 8);

Multiple nuclei; Factional negotiation/ competition; Household related to districts (2, 4, 5, 6, 8)

Urban Function Local and/or centralized management/ provisioning of the polity (11, 13); Regional settlement system and hierarchy; Public services and goods (3, 11, 12, 13) Civic institutions; Regional public, ritual and market space distributions; Public services and goods (2, 3, 5, 11);

Urban Meaning Exports; Epigraphic toponyms; Dynastic records; Court architecture and ritual; High-level planning (3, 5)

Bottom-up urbanization processes emphasized in this volume with specific archaeological correlates for the Maya Lowlands. For a treatment of units (household, neighborhood, district, polity, and settlement system), see table 7.1. Numbers in urban dimension columns represent chapters in this volume.

TABLE 1.2.

such as opening or dividing preexisting spaces and architectural expansion or abandonment, as well as through intrasettlement comparisons of household artifact inventories that may indicate the principle economic and social activities in which members engaged. Over the long term, decisions made by individual family units gradually create the global patterning of the city (form), as households configure their residential architecture, houselot orientation, and layout; modify access patterns and the visibility of buildings; and select particular plants and trees to cultivate (Hanks 1990). Across tropical lowland landscapes, fixed plots were a prominent feature of intrasettlement agricultural intensification (made possible by soils composted with domestic refuse) that allowed for multigenerational investments in household gardens (Chase and Chase 2016; Killion 1992b; Lemonnier and Vannière 2013; Murtha 2015). Mobility, Circulation, Connectivity

Distinct from “social mobility” as a diachronic index of socioeconomic inequality, residential mobility processes across city hinterlands and settlement systems have received less attention due to the archaeological difficulties in tracking prehistoric population movements. The recent proliferation of new isotopic proxies, however, now enable more detailed exploration of subsistence mobility in relation to urban sedentary ways of life (Arnauld et al. 2021; see also Cucina 2015; Hodell et al. 2004; Inomata et al. 2015; Price et al. 2014; M. E. Smith 2014). Inner circulation within cities has also been the subject of innovative research in Copan and elsewhere (Richards-Rissetto and Landau 2014; see also Hare et al. 2014; Hare and Masson, this volume; Liendo 2003). Lidar images informing field surveys can now detect many connective features, not only causeways but also nonbuilt pathways and streets (Canuto et al. 2018:13; see also Robin 2002). Nonetheless, limitations of transport technology across low-density urban landscapes severely constrained the rapidity and intensity of both local and long-distance interactions (Smith et al. 2021). Worthy of deeper analyses, city life, mobility, inner circulation, and connectivity processes may have induced specific variations in vernacular architecture (field housing versus urban housing) and yielded particular domestic microstratigraphies (i.e., on exterior floors less disturbed by rebuilding episodes), including refuse disposal, storage, burial patterns, and resource curation, against the possible backdrop of neighborhood planning (Hutson 2016). To those who are reluctant to view sedentism as the only popular settlement option well into the Classic period, one only has to recognize mobility as a key attribute of lowland Maya urbanism (e.g., most essays in this volume). Remaining doubters need to recall the mobility patterns that emptied most cities by the end of the Classic period and match that with the well-known mobility of Maya farmers in colonial times. 24

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Communities and Neighborhoods

Due to demographic conditions, community formation and reproduction were mainly the result of population movements—urban in-migration related to hinterland mobility. Once in the city, people with a shared origin either tended to cluster or disperse among local inhabitants, creating specific spatial arrangements of people with distinct perceptions of their alterity or commonalities to other urban groups. Artifact distributions, with their visible/invisible attributes reflecting communities of practice in production, distribution, and/or consumption (full- or part-time crafting, marketplaces), are also indicative of urban composition and internal interaction. As new housing styles (vaulted multiroom residences) developed in cities, spatial contraction appears to have transformed some neighborhoods as dependent people opted to (or were forced to) move into more prestigious palace-type residences. Other investigated aspects of co-residence are specialization in economic activities, social heterogeneity, and hierarchy, including potential presence of administrative delegates directed by epicentral authorities. Resource Management and Infrastructure

Maya central authorities created ceremonial plazas, causeways, ballgame courts, and assembly buildings, all built spaces in which they featured as the main protagonists of ceremonies, parades, games and assemblies. They may have also commandeered water reservoirs and marketplaces, even though it has been demonstrated that nonelites were able to reproduce like infrastructures for themselves (e.g., Chase 2016). Their respective role is now debated concerning intrasettlement agricultural terrace systems (Murtha 2009; Wyatt 2008), as well as intra-bajo canals, drainage, and field systems—all landscape features now more widely detected through large-scale lidar surveys. These infrastructural components of Classic Maya cities help define their functions within each settlement system and raise the issue of whether some notion of public goods existed in the Maya Lowlands. Moreover, there is no reason to discard the same notion of public goods on the neighborhood scale in an approach that would firmly distinguish divergent strategies of political centralization in an urban capital from those of urban integration modes on different scales of the settlement system. Several of the chapters that follow attempt to deal with this complicated divergence. B U I L D I N G A N A R C H A E O L O G Y O F L O W L A N D M AYA U R B A N I S M

After this introduction, the volume comprises four parts. Chapters have been grouped according to the particular general process they best exemplify. However, it must be stressed that all the contributions demonstrate the interconnected and simultaneous nature of each. In other words, since the four processes already described overlap in a variety of potential means, each chapter Building an Archaeology of Maya Urbanism

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incorporates aspects of them to inform each of the four dimensions of urbanism. Ultimately, the goal of this volume is to begin an interdisciplinary journey that explores the richness of Maya urban built form, social life, cultural meanings, and regional functions more thoroughly. Part I: Community Formation

The four case studies in part I, chapters 2–5, collectively encompass nearly two thousand years of urban community formation and transformation across the Maya Lowlands. Starting that comprehensively is intentional, as these cases do not purport to be fully representative. A robust research tradition has revealed the localized nature of numerous aspects of collective and institutional community formation processes, even if not often from an explicit urban perspective (e.g., Fash and López Luján 2009; Marken and Fitzsimmons 2015; Martin and Grube 2008; Tokovinine 2013; Walden et al. 2019). Still, a common theme of the chapters in part I is a consideration of factors that either attracted or drove people either to aggregate at or disperse from particular locations on the landscape. Triadan and Inomata, with chapter 2, open part I by exploring the beginnings of lowland urbanism, the Preclassic practices and settlement decisions of the semisedentary groups that first built and joined the inchoate spaces and communities that became Classic Maya cities. As is true for Ceibal, Guatemala, many Maya urban traditions were established in these early stages. Their excavations of deeply buried public spaces and monuments, in particular, highlight the foundational role of collective ritual action in building the physical and social spaces of an unfinished and incomplete urban community. As Triadan and Inomata demonstrate, the collective repetition of these practices built upon contemporary (and earlier) Mesoamerican traditions, while also engaging these broad regional forms to create localized urban meanings. Although not a focus of this chapter, the dispersed and semisedentary nature of early regional populations also demonstrates the considerable time depth of settlement mobility as a viable adaptive strategy in the lowlands (see Inomata et al. 2015). The next two chapters (chapter 3 by Garrison and chapter 4 by Eppich, Marken, and Menéndez) build upon the extensive literature on Classic Maya sociopolitical organization mentioned so as to develop novel approaches for assessing the development of lowland urban communities. El Zotz and El Perú-Waka’, near-adjacent subregions of the Central Petén, illustrate how differences in circumstance can lead to distinct processes of urbanization. Despite their differences (and in many ways because of them), these case studies demonstrate the persistence of mobility and aggregation as complementary lowland adaptive strategies, even when subregional processes and their outcomes differ. Whereas the Buenavista Valley experienced a series of subregional shifts 26

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in political centers influenced by the potential military threat of neighboring Tikal, the ceremonial center of El Perú-Waka’ was rather stable once established. Nevertheless, urban form at El Perú-Waka’ was also in constant flux, changing as hinterland life adapted to the dynamics of ecology and history. These cases serve as reminders of the importance of place and history to understanding the dynamics of form and mobility that created the landscapes archaeologists investigate today. Local and extralocal resources and social memories are rarely evenly distributed, often leading to variable developmental trajectories for individual cities within an urban tradition. Chapter 5, the final chapter of part I, considers external influences in the evolution of Maya urbanism, which built upon earlier Maya traditions, after the ninth-century “collapse” of the highly urbanized southern lowlands. In this chapter, Stanton and his colleagues argue that in the wake of the turmoil marking the end of the Classic, Early Postclassic lowland cities underwent a profound reorganization in urban meaning and function, most clearly represented at Chichen Itza. There, they argue, this change manifests itself in the reinterpretation of established Maya symbols and ideologies to support a more corporate Central Mexican style of governance (see also Carballo 2013). This recombination of familiar Maya ideologies and newish institutions central to the constitution of communities led to both a reconfiguration and a reinterpretation of Chichen Itza’s urban landscape. Traditionally, questions about how communities are formed, maintained, and transformed have been central to nearly all investigations of ancient urbanism. That said, the chapters here are not to be taken as fully representative of studies treating this topic. What sets these four chapters apart is that they each take fresh approaches to traditional neoevolutionary questions, backed by robust and unique combinations of diverse data. Maybe most important, they collectively demonstrate the disciplinary benefits of building diachronic datasets not only to compare regional urban traditions but also to interpret individual urban settlement system dynamics. Part II: Household Decisions, Mobility, and Connectivity

In building an archaeology of Maya urbanism as advocated in this introduction, the chapters in part II in many ways form the foundation. In contrast to themes of dynastic design, planning, and community creation, explicit investigation of the interplay between urban form and life as expressed through diachronic analyses of settlement decisions in housing, location, and mobility have tended to be underrepresented in assessments of Classic Maya cities. While the contributions here incorporate the potential impacts of localized top-down processes, they center the dynamics and choices of local households and communities as driving forces in the continual evolution of urban form, life, meaning, and function. Building an Archaeology of Maya Urbanism

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As seen throughout this volume, these bottom-up generative processes are at the heart of what an archaeology of Maya urbanism must become. Arnauld and Dzul Góngora, in chapter 6, examine spatial, social, and morphological changes in housing systems during the Late-Terminal Classic in the Río Bec region to model the decisions and mobility of local populations within a process of “residential contraction.” Their findings bolster arguments that the Terminal Classic collapse was not uniformly experienced across the Maya Lowlands. The rhythm of urban abandonment in fact could, and often did, play out differently for different cities, with hinterland mobility providing lesser groups with an adaptive buffer that centrally located households lacked—even though contraction in large residences may have created resilience for those social groups even in the moment of their final relocation. In chapter 7, Thompson and Prufer explore internal inequality within spatially defined neighborhoods at the small Classic period centers of Uxbenká and Ix Kuku’il, Belize. Whereas Arnauld and Dzul Góngora focus on the last periods leading to abandonment to examine household decisions and mobility, Thompson and Prufer track the size and longevity of individual settlements from their foundation dates to assess the degree of inequality both within and between neighborhoods, as well as between the two contemporary centers. Their results demonstrate that, as seen across cities then and now, urban residential neighborhoods, even at relatively small centers such as Uxbenká and Ix Kuku’il, were not, as is often assumed, monolithic. The authors make a valuable contribution by proposing a simple terminology, “local dominants” as inhabitants of “district seats,” also inhabitants of “neighborhood seats,” both forming “intermediate elites”—which easily blend into the concepts of other authors (e.g., “neighborhood central compound” in Liendo and Campiani, this volume). Hiquet, Sion, and Perla-Barrera, in chapter 8, compare the chronological histories of rather large samples of residential units from two sectors of Naachtun, Guatemala’s urban core. Based on detailed stratigraphic and ceramic analyses, these sequences are then examined within the context of the historical trajectory of the Naachtun polity. Comparing the settlement trends of these two sectors, the relatively dispersed residential zone and the compact Group B, the authors argue that the distinct patterns of contraction and expansion of each sector reflect more than simple changes in urban form—as they more accurately signify the distinct dynamics in life, meaning, and function. In this way, their study highlights the multiplicity of both individual and collective actors within lowland Maya cities, the myriad residents and local social groups. In the final chapter of part II, chapter 9, Hare and Masson expand the volume’s chronological and interpretive breadth by examining how household decisions and their impact on movement was a fundamental factor in processes 28

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of urbanization at Late Postclassic Mayapán. Unlike most of the urban landscapes described in this volume, Mayapán was one of a number of northern lowland cities where many households were rather clearly delimited by low limestone walls, called albarradas, to form houselots. As Hare and Masson detail, the diachronic aggregation of houselot walls created an internal “maze” directing the traffic of Mayapán urban life. Even as it describes city-scale planned features such as city walls, gates, monumental sectors, markets, and the large thoroughfares that linked them, their chapter also recognizes that much of the experience of urban life occurs and is internalized as residents navigate smaller neighborhood streets and alleys. Part III: City- Scale Resource Use and Management

The increasing availability of lidar survey data has revolutionized how archaeologists can investigate and interpret regional land use and resource management across the lowlands, as well as how it has led to the overdue recognition that the ancient Maya thoroughly modified the lowlands. It is tempting to automatically equate highly visible (in lidar bare-earth models) large-scale “landesque” features—particularly those associated with intensive agriculture—with centralized political and economic control of the hinterlands. Yet it is worthwhile to remind ourselves that in reconstructing these regional landscapes, what we are often witnessing is the cumulative effect of localized adaptive management practices that are not always spurred by top-down managerial imperatives (e.g., Robin et al. 2015). Moreover, surface identification alone will not be sufficient to understand how diachronic development and urban infrastructural potential possibly contributed to the reorganization of urban life, meaning, and function across an urbanizing landscape. A more dynamic perspective acknowledges the power of dynasts and elites, while drawing inspiration from recent theoretical explorations into the social dimensions of infrastructure that emphasize the necessity of effective, yet flexible local personnel and knowledge for civic initiatives to function and succeed (Ertsen 2010; Halperin, LeMoine, and Pérez 2019; Yoffee 2016). The chapters in part III reflect this tension between bottom-up and top-down perspectives of lowland Maya resource management. Introducing this section, Murtha, in chapter 10, advocates for Maya land-use and resource management studies to center the agrarian nature and tropical environment of lowland urbanism more explicitly. To that end, ecological and settlement data from the region of Tikal, Guatemala, are presented through a lens of landscape urbanism. Among other things, this perspective requires a regional interpretive scope, while recognizing the often-localized nature of intervention, management, and resource distribution (Waldheim 2010). This approach to the broader Tikal data highlights the fact that extensive urban landscapes, such as those of the lowland Maya, were quite internally varied, Building an Archaeology of Maya Urbanism

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the combined result of centralized civic programs and localized management opportunities and challenges, along with ecological factors, all potentially operating at different scales and rates. Urban ecology was anything but static; people modified their landscaping in response to imminent challenges/opportunities, though not always in ways that considered the long-term consequences their actions would have on the landscapes their descendants would inherit. Chase, in chapter 11, also considers the interplay between urban landscape processes operating at different scales on Caracol, Belize, where he measures the success of neighborhood and city-level urban servicing strategies in attracting and maintaining residents. Building from the implications of the Preclassic beginnings of Caracol’s integrative causeway system, he examines the use of causeway nodes and termini by civic and neighborhood leaders to extend access to particular urban services across the city. Diachronic intrahousehold and neighborhood comparison of excavation data demonstrates that at individual nodes/termini, and their associated households, the fortunes of neither elites nor commoners were static—or even entirely entangled. This fruitful blending of top-down and bottom-up data and analyses highlights the rich potential longterm, systematic archaeological investigations of an urban settlement landscape can offer. Shifting to the lowlands’ western periphery, Liendo and Campiani, in chapter 12, differentiate infrastructural works (resource management features and landscape modifications that make collective life possible and attractive within an aggregated settlement) from political and ideological agendas more directly related to dynastic fortunes, even as they readily admit that both endeavors were intricately entangled. Infrastructure is described on the city scale in relation to urban accessibility, inner circulation, and the availability and control of water resources. The specific Palencano layout of immense stepped terraces above the floodplain (not dissimilar from Tonina, another western site) does favor this approach. On the other hand, purposeful archaeological investigations in Group IV have patiently discovered the sectorization of Palenque neighborhoods, where local life depended on the relation of the group’s “central compound” and its dominant family to the rulers. How this particular affiliation transmitted through generations of neighbors becomes vividly patent through the local treatment of the dead interred in the central compound of Group IV. Rounding out part III, Nondédéo, Lemonnier, and colleagues, in chapter 13, return to Naachtun in the Petén, where recent lidar surveys document a heavily populated and managed regional landscape. Combined with a decade of on-theground archaeological and paleoenvironmental investigations, they are able to reconstruct the development of Naachtun as an agrarian city embedded within a broader “micro-regional” settlement and land-use system parallel to the urban core occupational sequence (see Hiquet et al., this volume). The abundant data 30

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from Naachtun reveal a diverse and complex agrosystem that endured for centuries. According to Nondédéo and colleagues, intensification of land-use and resource management practices in the Naachtun region began early in the Early Classic period, establishing the basic socioeconomic parameters for later landuse decisions and urban planning. Capitalizing on these early modifications to the landscape, the agrosystem was sufficiently flexible to adapt a variety of cultivation strategies that were extended into new resource zones as populations increased and the political fortunes of the Naachtun dynasty waxed and waned throughout the Classic period. Part IV: Agrarian Urbanism in the American Tropics

The final chapter of the volume, chapter 14, ventures outside the Maya Lowlands to Amazonia in search of broader patterns of urbanization in the American neotropics. Highlighting the immensity of greater “Amazonia,” Walker argues archaeology in the region has only recently overcome similar interpretive and logistical challenges that hindered the study of Maya urbanism. Scholars now recognize Amazonia “as a place where populations were higher, agriculture was older,” and occupations were more diverse than many thought possible less than a generation ago. Moreover, despite obvious differences in culture and environment, settlement aggregation across both regions was agrarian in nature, even sharing several domesticates and cultivation practices. Although Amazonian archaeology is still in its relative infancy, Walker provides an illuminating review of agrarian development and settlement aggregation for four Amazonian regions. More often than not, recent advances in documenting agricultural (and aquacutural) innovations and infrastructure have generated more questions regarding regional settlement mobility and sociopolitical organization. Nevertheless, the implications of these discoveries are profound for better understanding tropical urbanism in the Americas and beyond. In this way, Walker’s concluding chapter is an important reminder to scholars of Amazonia and the Maya of what can be gained from greater communication and cross-pollination. FINAL THOUGHTS

Characterizing the “nature” of any one city, much less long-abandoned cities such as those of Maya Lowlands, is not really possible. Any characterization of a city, even one where you personally grew up and lived your entire life, suffers inherent limitations. The experiences of countless individuals and communities are inevitably excluded or downplayed in any attempt at universal generalization (e.g., Scott 1998). Nevertheless, comparative urban studies can potentially reveal cross-cultural and cross-temporal patterns in human settlement decisions and organization (e.g., Bettencourt and West 2010; Bettencourt et al. 2013; Ortman et al. 2013; Smith et al. 2021, concerning demographic size Building an Archaeology of Maya Urbanism

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and connectivity; see also Lucero et al. 2015, concerning tropical low-density urbanism). Recent large-scale lidar surveys of the Maya Lowlands have stimulated an ongoing empirical and theoretical revolution in Maya archaeology (Canuto et al. 2018; Chase et al. 2011; Garrison et al. 2019; Inomata et al. 2018). All current and future archaeological investigations of bottom-up urban processes will greatly benefit from lidar data (when available), due to its ability to “pick-up” large-scale landscape features that only present low-surface visibility, such as causeways, terraces, reservoirs, canals, paths, and fence-type structures. Critical for the relative evaluation of baseline estimations of Late Classic demographics is increased residential excavation across Classic urban landscapes, and, for that reason, we should be prepared to design bold residential sampling programs to complement lidar survey data (e.g., Chase and Chase 2017; Inomata et al. 2018). Tracking “household action sequences” across neighborhoods and their correlated landscapes is also needed. This will be a massive endeavor, but if we want to understand the temporal and spatial particulars of Classic Maya urbanization in its tropical forested environment, it is the price we must pay. Monica Smith (2014:315) warns: Some of the most heavily urbanized areas in antiquity, such as Mesopotamia, continually cycled through periods of population dispersals and coalescence such that their inhabitants were likely to have conceptualized cities as fluid entities in both space and time. Although archaeologists tend to assess urban centers as places of steady occupation because they produce such large sites, it might be more appropriate to see the agglomeration of urban architecture and infrastructure as an accretionary but staccato process in which some decades saw relatively low population densities within the urban shell. (emphasis added)

In other words, urban spaces, architecture, and layout were never finished. Rather, they were subject to constant physical modification and social reinterpretation by their inhabitants. In that spirit, we should refrain from labeling Maya urbanism prematurely as so much remains to be done and documented. With the broadened view Building an Archaeology of Mayan Urbanism advances, we can begin to more fully uncover the temporal and regional dynamics of lowland Maya urban landscapes as key comparative examples of tropical, agrarian urbanism. REFERENCES

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Smith, Michael E. 2011a. “Classic Maya Settlement Clusters as Urban Neighborhoods: A Comparative Perspective on Low-Density Urbanism.” Journal de la Société des Américanistes 97:51–73. Smith, Michael E. 2011b. “Empirical Urban Theory for Archaeologists.” Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 18:167–92. https://doi10.1007/s10816-010-9097-5. Smith, Michael E. 2012. “The Role of Ancient Cities in Research on Contemporary Urbanism.” UGEC Viewpoints 8:15–19. Smith, Michael E. 2014. “Peasant Mobility, Local Migration and Premodern Urbanization.” World Archaeology 46 (4):516–33. Smith, Michael E. 2016. “How Can Archaeologists Identify Early Cities: Definitions, Types and Attributes.” In Eurasia at the Dawn of History: Urbanization and Social Change, edited by Manual Fernández-Götz and Dirk Krausse, 153–68. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Smith, Michael E. 2017. “Why Settlement Scaling Research Is a Good Fit for Archaeology.” Paper presented at the 82nd Society for American Archaeology Annual Meeting, Vancouver, BC. Smith, Michael E. 2019. “Energized Crowding and the Generative Role of Settlement Aggregation and Urbanization.” In Coming Together: Comparative Approaches to Population Aggregation and Early Urbanization, edited by Attila Gyucha, 37–58. Albany: State University of New York Press. Smith, Michael E., Ashely Engquist, Cinthia Carvajal, Katrina Johnston-Zimmerman, Monica Algara, Bridgette Gilliland, Yui Kuznetsov, and Amanda Young. 2015. “Neighborhood Formation in Semi-Urban Settlements.” Journal of Urbanism 8 (2):173–98. Smith, Michael E., Gary M. Feinman, Robert D. Drennan, Timothy Earle, and Ian Morris. 2012. “Archaeology as a Social Science.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 109:7617–21. Smith, Michael E., and Carola Hein. 2017. “The Ancient Past in the Urban Present: The Use of Early Models in Urban Design.” In Routledge Handbook of Planning History, edited by Carola Hein, 109–20. New York: Routledge. Smith, Michael E., Scott G. Ortman, José Lobo, Claire E. Ebert, Amy E. Thompson, Keith M. Prufer, Rodrigo Liendo Stuardo, and Robert M. Rosenswig. 2021. “The Low-Density Urban Systems of the Classic Period Maya and Izapa: Insights from Settlement Scaling Theory.” Latin American Antiquity 32 (1):120–37. https://doi.org/10.1017/laq.2020.80. Smith, Michael E., and Katherina Schreiber. 2005. “New World States and Empires: Economic and Social Organization.” Journal of Archaeological Research 13 (3):189–229. Smith, Michael E., and Katherina Schreiber. 2006. “New World States and Empires: Politics, Religion and Urbanism.” Journal of Archaeological Research 14 (1):1–52. Smith, Monica L., ed. 2003a. The Social Construction of Ancient Cities. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press.

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P A

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Community Formation

2 The Roots of Urbanization Early Middle Preclassic Transformations to a Sedentary Lifestyle at Ceibal, Guatemala DA N I E L A T R I A DA N

University of Arizona TA K E S H I I N O M ATA

University of Arizona

In many parts of the world, the transition to a more sedentary lifestyle is eventually followed by urbanization and the formation of cities. The tells of Mesopotamia, for example, demonstrate these changes and emphasize the importance of place and social memory during transformational intervals (see, e.g., Adams 1966; Algaze 2008; Yoffee 2005). Although clearly much more dispersed, Maya settlements often also have long occupations that indicate a similar preoccupation with the landscape and specific places that are socially and ideologically important (e.g., Hammond 1991a; McAnany 1995, 2004a). Many scholars, accordingly, are interested in better understanding the processes that led to the formation of Maya cities. In this chapter, we will go further back in time to look at the formation of the first established Maya communities and thus at the roots of urbanization in the Maya Lowlands. The first ceramics and permanent constructions in the Maya Lowlands occurred around 1000  BCE in the early Middle Preclassic (Inomata et al. 2013, 2015). To date, however, early Middle Preclassic occupations have been found only at a relatively small number of sites. Ceibal is one of the earliest sites and https://doi.org/10.5876/9781646424092.c002

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was also one of the latest to be abandoned during the so-called Maya “collapse” (Inomata et al. 2013, 2015; Inomata, Pinzòn et al. 2017; Triadan 2012; Triadan et al. 2017). Ceibal is located on an escarpment overlooking the Pasión River in the southwestern Petén, Guatemala (see figure  1.1, figure  2.1). Excavations by a team from Harvard in the 1960s (Willey 1990) revealed an early Middle Preclassic or Pre-Mamom occupation in the Central and South Plazas (figure 2.2), but the extent and nature of this occupation were not very clear because these occupation levels were reached mostly in small-test excavation units. We have been working at the site since 2005 (Inomata, Triadan, and Aoyama 2017) and finished our last field season in 2017. Although Sabloff (1975) had established a solid ceramic chronology, we were able to refine it based on more than 170 new AMS radiocarbon dates and our ceramic analysis (table 2.1). Based on this chronology, Ceibal had an occupation of about two thousand years and clearly became an important urbanized settlement as well as the center of a powerful polity in the late Classic. Melissa Burham (Burham 2019; Burham et al. 2020) is currently investigating the processes of urbanization at the site. But our research at Ceibal also adds important new data about the formation of the earliest Maya communities in the lowlands. The Preclassic occupation at Ceibal is centered on Group A (figure 2.2) and had an E-Group surrounded by several large rectangular platforms laid out on a north-south axis. As Inomata (2012) has pointed out, this site layout is similar to layouts in sites of the Grijalva basin in Chiapas, called the Middle Formative Chiapas (MFC) pattern by Clark (Clark and Hansen 2001, 4–5), and different from many Preclassic sites in the Maya Lowlands (Estrada-Belli 2011, 67–74). Many of the sites in the Grijalva basin also had Olmec-style greenstone axe caches on the center lines of their E-Groups (e.g., Bachand and Lowe 2012; Lowe 1981). We concentrated our excavations in Group A and specifically targeted the large platform in front of Str. A-24, the central axis of the E-Group in the Central Plaza, the East Court, and several other platforms because we wanted to explore when the first version of the E-Group was constructed and how old the Grijalva pattern was (Inomata, Pinzòn et al. 2017; Triadan et al. 2017). We placed several operations in the central axis of the E-Group, including a tunnel under Str. A-20, the western pyramid of the E-Group (figure 2.2). These excavations revealed substantial bedrock modifications that constituted a small platform (Str. Ajaw) carved out of a low natural rise of the decaying limestone bedrock on the west side (figure 2.3); a low, long platform carved out of bedrock on the east side (Str. Xa’an) (figure 2.4); and leveling and scraping of the sascab into the first plaza floor (figure 2.5), all dating to about 950 BCE (Inomata et al. 2013). This configuration thus is one of the oldest plaza-mound complexes found in Mesoamerica and one of the oldest Maya E-Groups. New data from early 54

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FIGURE 2.1.

Map of Ceibal, Guatemala. Courtesy of the Ceibal-Petexbatun Archaeological Project.

Group A of Ceibal. Excavation units shown in red were excavated by the CeibalPetexbatun Archaeological Project (2005–2017); units shown in blue were excavated by the Harvard Project (1964– 1966). Courtesy of the Ceibal-Petexbatun Archaeological Project. FIGURE 2 .2 .

Middle Preclassic sites in the middle Usumacinta River basin show that the oldest E-Group may have been built at a site called Aguada Fénix, where we found an enormous rectangular monumental platform with an E-Group that dates to about 1100 BCE (Inomata 2019; Inomata et al. 2020; Triadan 2019). This may have been the prototype for all subsequent E-Group arrangements, and this concept may have spread from there to Ceibal and then to the Grijalva basin. We also found a series of Olmec-style caches along the central axis of the Ceibal E-Group (figure  2.2) that contained greenstone celts and other Olmecstyle objects (Inomata and Triadan 2015), including a foundational cache that had been placed in a pit in the bedrock (figure 2.6; Inomata and Triadan 2015:63). The general site plan and these caches suggest interactions with the Grijalva basin, 56

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TABLE 2.1.

Refined chronology of Ceibal based on new radiocarbon dates and ceramic

analyses. Period

Phase

Early Middle Preclassic

Real-Xe 1 = 1000–850 BCE Real-Xe 2 = 850–775 BCE Real-Xe 3 = 775–700 BCE

Late Middle Preclassic

Escoba-Mamom 1 = 700–600 BCE Escoba-Mamom 2 = 600–450 BCE Escoba-Mamom 3 = 450–350 BCE

Late Preclassic

Cantutse-Chicanel 1 = 350–300 BCE Cantutse-Chicanel 2 = 300–150 BCE Cantutse-Chicanel 3 = 150–75 BCE

Terminal Preclassic

Xate 1 = 75 BCE-50 CE Xate 2 = 50–125 CE Xate 3 = 125–175 CE

Early Classic

Junco-Tzakol 1 = 175–300 CE Junco-Tzakol 2 = 300–400 CE Junco-Tzakol 3 = 400–500 CE Junco-Tzakol 4 = 500–600 CE

Late Classic

Tepejilote-Tepeu 1 = 600–700 CE Tepejilote-Tepeu 2 = 700–750 CE Tepejilote-Tepeu 3 = 750–810 CE

Terminal Classic

Bayal = 810–950 CE

Postclassic

Samat = 1000–1200 CE

perhaps even the Gulf Coast. In some cases, valuable personal ornaments were cached (figure 2.7; Inomata and Triadan 2015:79–80), indicating that persons who already may have had an elevated social status were conducting or contributing to the rituals that were performed in the E-Group plaza. The E-Group underwent a series of modifications until the final Late Preclassic configuration that is visible in the site plan today. The western pyramid was gradually enlarged and raised in height, while the eastern long structure was moved toward the east and widened in several stages, which led to the increase of the plaza space. During the same time, more of the large rectangular platforms were added to the settlement plan until the full MFC pattern was reached (figure 2.2). As mentioned, we also excavated in several of the large rectangular platforms. Especially interesting are the A-24 platform and the platform that is called the East Court (figure 2.2). It is in these two platforms that we found the first residential The Roots of Urbanization

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FIGURE 2. 3. Str. Ajaw, the earliest western structure of the E-Group, carved out of the bedrock. Courtesy of the Ceibal-Petexbatun Archaeological Project.

FIGURE 2.4. Str. Xa’an, the earliest version of the eastern long structure of the E-Group. Courtesy of the Ceibal-Petexbatun Archaeological Project.

FIGURE 2.5. First E-Group plaza floor, scraped and leveled bedrock. Courtesy of the Ceibal-Petexbatun Archaeological Project. FIGURE 2.6. Olmec-style foundational cache, dug into bedrock. Courtesy of the Ceibal-Petexbatun Archaeological Project.

FIGURE 2.7.

Olmec spoon pendant. Courtesy of the Ceibal-Petexbatun Archaeological Project.

structures (Triadan et al. 2017). Of interest, they date after the Real 1 phase (ca. 1000–850 BCE; table 2.1). We have no evidence for residences before about 850 BCE. In the A-24 platform, we found the first low platform that may have been the base for a perishable dwelling, even though that interpretation is not confirmed (figure 2.8). It dates to the Real 2 phase (ca. 850–775 BCE; table 2.1; Triadan et al. 2017:238–42, 257). Associated with later iterations of this building were two caches that contained small greenstone axes (Inomata and Triadan 2015:66–68), indicating an elevated status of the people who lived there or used these buildings. We should note that this structure was built on top of a substantial extensive platform that was built during the Real 1 phase (figure 2.9). In fact, most of the bulk of the A-24 platform dates to the Real-Xe period. In the East Court we found a series of residential structures that were built one after the other in exactly the same location, which indicates the importance of place and social memory (see figure 2.10; Triadan et al. 2017:244–53, 257–59). The earliest structure was carved out of the bedrock (figure 2.11), like the first version of the E-Group, and dates to the Real 3 phase (ca. 775–700 BCE; table 2.1). This first building was covered by a substantial platform (Platform K’at) that was built without homogenizing the individual basket loads of different fill materials (figure 2.12), showing a communal effort that emphasized the participation of 60

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FIGURE 2.8. Str. Katal, A-24 platform. Courtesy of the Ceibal-Petexbatun Archaeological Project. FIGURE 2.9. A-24 platform. Courtesy of the Ceibal-Petexbatun Archaeological Project.

FIGURE 2.10. Operation 201F in the East Court showing the series of residential structures of a patio group. Courtesy of the Ceibal-Petexbatun Archaeological Project.

FIGURE 2.11. Str. Fernando, the earliest residential structure in the East Court. Courtesy of the Ceibal-Petexbatun Archaeological Project.

FIGURE 2 .12 . Platform K’at, East Court, unmixed basket loads of construction fill. Courtesy of the Ceibal-Petexbatun Archaeological Project.

FIGURE 2.13. Str. Cha in the East Court, dating to the Escoba 1 phase. Courtesy of the CeibalPetexbatun Archaeological Project.

individuals or groups in its construction. The platform was truly monumental in extension and measured minimally 28 × 50 m. As in the E-Group and the A-24 platform, subsequent floors and buildings of the Real-Xe phase were constructed predominantly of clay. The sequence continues in the Escoba-Mamom phase until about 400 BCE (figure 2.10). The Escoba phase buildings are much larger and were now made of stone and stucco or sascab (figure 2.13), a typical lowland Maya building pattern. Ceramics show that the residents participated in the widespread Mamom sphere. Similar to the A-24 platform, the majority of the construction in the East Court is Middle Preclassic (figure 2.10). We interpret these Middle Preclassic structures in the East Court as low basal platforms that supported perishable domiciles (Triadan et al. 2017). Our interpretation is based on the relatively modest size of these platforms and some trash deposits that we found in pits in the exterior areas. We have not found any extensive middens, though. We have similar but larger structures in the A-24 platform, but whether they were residential is less clear. We also have evidence that the structures in the East Court formed part of a patio group, beginning at least with the construction of the first structure atop the basket load platform, but this pattern may have existed from the beginning. The continuity of the layout of space over multiple generations in the East Court is remarkable. Starting around 750 BCE, the layout of the patio group is perpetuated in every subsequent building phase until late Escoba-Mamom times for about 250 years (Triadan et al. 2017:257–58, figure 2). As mentioned, none of the residential buildings dates to the Real 1 phase. This pattern is confirmed through excavations in more outlying groups. In the Karinel Group, Jessica MacLellan found a burial dug into bedrock that dates to the Real 3 phase, but the first structure there dates to the Escoba 2 phase (Burham and MacLellan 2014). And in the small satellite site of Caobal, Jessica Munson (Munson and Pinzón 2017) found some postholes in the bedrock that may date to the Real 3 phase, so we are very confident that the first formal and communal constructions at Ceibal were the E-Group and its plaza, and the initial platform of the A-24 Platform—all public ceremonial buildings—and that these were probably built by populations that were still predominantly mobile. It seems that only a small group of people became sedentary circa 750  BCE, almost two hundred years after the construction of the first E-Group, while the majority of the population in the region was still living a mostly mobile lifestyle. Those now sedentary people were most likely of a higher social status. We should emphasize that, based on our refined ceramic typology, Ceibal seems to be the only site that had any Real 1 phase constructions in the area. Altar de Sacrificios, where Pre-Mamom ceramics were first found in the Río Pasión drainage (Willey 1973; Willey and Smith 1969), does not seem to have any ceramics that date to before the Real 3 phase. To date, no other sites with Pre-Mamom 64

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occupations are known in this area. Thus, the initial building of the E-Group may have involved people coming together from a large region. Based on the excavations by the Harvard Project and our own operations, we can reconstruct the growth of Ceibal through time. Group A was clearly the epicenter of early Middle Preclassic occupation. During the Real 1 phase, the first phase of the E-Group and the A-24 platform were built. During Real 3 times, the East Court became an important place for the residences of emerging elites, and we have evidence that people were using places around Group A in the form of burials and ceramics. We do not have, however, evidence for any substantial structures in those areas. Only with the start of the Escoba-Mamom period, around 700  BCE, do we begin to see residential structures in groups outside of Group A. Incidentally, around 400 BCE, the latest Escoba structure in the East Court patio group was covered by a platform, and that space was converted into a public space, which stayed that way until the Protoclassic. A similar transformation took place a little earlier in the A-24 platform (Triadan et al. 2017:259). So during the Escoba phase, Ceibal started to have a larger sedentary population and ceremonial precinct as well as the whole settlement grew substantially in size. Full sedentism may only have developed during this time. This trend continued in the Cantutse-Chicanel phase, during which Ceibal experienced substantial population growth and expanded into a sizable urban center. Like at other lowland sites, during this time the cores of most of the impressive pyramids that we see today were also built. We would like to emphasize that the general patterns laid out around 950 BCE persisted until Ceibal’s abandonment around 950 CE. The E-Group in particular remained the focus of public ritual activities, as can be seen by the continuing deposition of caches on its central axis for about a millennium (Inomata and Triadan 2015; Inomata, Pinzòn et al. 2017). Obviously, momentous changes in social, political, and ritual organization took place over this long time period, but we think that we can still trace, in spatial terms, the roots of many of the later architectural patterns typical of Classic Maya cities. CONCLUSIONS

Our research at the Maya site of Ceibal, Guatemala, has contributed to new insights into processes involved in the transition of mobile hunting and horticultural populations to a more sedentary lifestyle and emergent social inequalities. It has also shown that the basic building blocks of Maya cities have deep roots and originate in the early Middle Preclassic. Ceibal seems to have undergone similar social processes as sites in other parts of the world that date to the transition from Archaic to Neolithic adaptations, such as Watson Brake in the lower Mississippi valley (Saunders et al. 2005), Caral in Peru (Solis et al. 2001), and Göbekli Tepe in southern Anatolia (Schmidt 2010), among The Roots of Urbanization

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others. Like at those sites, at Ceibal the space, layout, and construction of monumental ceremonial complexes seemed to have been conceptualized or imagined before building actually began. The symbolic importance of the place of the original E-Group is exemplified by the Olmec-style axe cache that was placed on the centerline of the E-Group (figure 2.6; Inomata and Triadan 2015:63). As mentioned, the axes were buried in a pit dug into the bedrock marl and then covered with the same material. Once they were covered, only people who participated in the ritual would have known where they were buried. This knowledge was clearly passed on through generations, as the center axis of the E-Group continued to be the focus of dedicatory rituals for almost a millennium until the Protoclassic. Although the natures of the deposits changed through time (Inomata and Triadan 2015), none of the caches was disturbed by later deposits. Ceibal must have had symbolic significance before the first E-Group and plaza complex was built around 950 BCE. Burham (2019) found four individuals interred into bedrock in the outlying Amoch Group. Direct dates on three of the individuals go back to circa 1100 BCE and one to about 1000–955 BCE; all seem to have been Preceramic (Palomo 2020). That several individuals were interred in the same place suggests that people who may have been still living a more mobile gathering and hunting (Archaic) lifestyle were regularly coming to this place. This is similar to the finds of Prufer and colleagues (2017) in rock shelters in southern Belize where they uncovered a sequence of burials of individuals from Paleo-American to Late Classic times. Of note, isotope analyses show that at least one of the individuals in the Amoch Group may have been born away from Ceibal but later spend time in the Ceibal area (Palomo 2020). We are planning to expand Burham’s original excavations to investigate whether that locality was an Early Preclassic burial ground. Because Ceibal is the only site in the Pasión region that has constructions dating to the Real 1 phase (ca. 1000–850 BCE), we have argued that it was a central place during this time and that people who were probably still adhering to a fairly mobile hunter-gathering lifestyle from all over the region may have congregated there to build the first E-Group and platform (Inomata et al. 2015). But why was Ceibal such a central and symbolically important place since the early Middle Preclassic? We suspect it has something to do with the availability of resources and connectivity, though the latter may be more important. Ceibal is located where the Pasion River changes course from flowing northward to flowing westward toward the Mexican Gulf. As mentioned, the site is located on the limestone escarpment overlooking the river. The escarpment itself is not the best place for abundant wild resources. Soils are shallow, and the only water source, the river, is about 1 km away. Getting drinking water entails an arduous descent and subsequent climb up from the escarpment. On the other hand, there are abundant freshwater springs at the foot of the escarpment and on the east 66

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side of the river are seasonal and perennial swamps that would have provided a variety of aquatic resources in addition to river fish and mollusks. However, the location where Group A is built was a relatively flat space, which would be a requirement for building the E-Group plaza complex. And the escarpment would have provided a good lookout over a wide area; from that vantage, people at Ceibal could have kept track of the movement of others. Ceibal sits at a crucial point that connects the highlands with the lowlands to its south, upriver. To the east and north, it connects to the central Petén, and to the west the river leads downstream, eventually to the Gulf Coast. Rivers were undoubtedly very important traffic arteries, especially during the rainy season. The location of Ceibal would have facilitated canoe travel southward toward the highlands and westward toward the Gulf Coast.1 Thus, the site is located at the nexus of potential trade routes that people may have traveled relatively easily, whether on foot or by canoe. As mentioned, at Ceibal more permanent residential structures were not built until about two hundred years after the first E-Group was carved out of the bedrock, suggesting that the people who contributed to these communal labor efforts were probably still adhering to a somewhat mobile lifestyle and subsistence practices that still relied heavily on nondomesticated foods. Recent isotopic analyses by Palomo (2020) confirm that maize consumption was still relatively low in individuals from the Real period. The first more permanent house platforms, however, may have been the residences of individuals with some higher social status. In the A-24 platform, the greenstone axe caches may support this view. In the East Court, the base for these structures was an extensive platform consisting of unmixed basket loads. This fill indicates that the construction of this platform was a suprahousehold, probably even a communal effort for a relatively small group of people. In addition, these first house platforms are close to the ceremonial center, the E-Group. Our excavations have revealed that in the East Court (and possibly also in the A-24 platform), these first more permanent residences formed a patio group. In fact, this may be one of the earliest examples of a patio group in the Maya area. That this configuration is quintessential in the imagination of domestic space for the early Maya is supported by similar evidence for a contemporaneous patio found at the Belizean site of Cuello (Cartwright Gerhardt and Hammond 1991a:98–117; Hammond 1991b:240; Hammond et al. 1991:23–55; Hammond and Cartwright Gerhardt 1990). But it should be noted that in contrast to Ceibal, the structures are either circular or apsidal and close to the ground level. Other sites in Belize, such as Cahal Pech (Healy and Awe 1995, 1996; Healy et al. 2004), Blackman Eddy (Garber et al. 2004), and San Estevan (Rosenswig 2008), also have early Middle Preclassic probable residential structures, but it is not clear whether they formed patio groups. The Roots of Urbanization

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We want to emphasize the remarkable continuity of these patio groups. As at Cuello and later K’axob in Belize (McAnany 2004b), at Ceibal newer versions of houses were built one on top of the other for around four hundred years, more than ten generations of households. These are the footprints of Maya communities dating back to at least the early Middle Preclassic. They are materializing social memory and “history making” (Hodder 2007). At Ceibal, we see the roots of later Maya cities. As in other areas of the world, the first architectural constructions at Ceibal were public-ritual configurations that, around 950 BCE, were built communally by people who were probably still predominantly mobile but who also had specific ideas about how this complex should be laid out. More formal sedentism seemed to have developed gradually and may have first involved people with higher social status, who may have been involved with carrying out public ritual performances. These early ritual constructions, often in the form of an E-Group assemblage, as well as the configurations of the first domestic buildings into patio groups, set the stage for the first settlements, the accelerating urbanization of Maya settlements in the Preclassic, and the typical Maya architectural residential group pattern that persisted for thousands of years. NOTE

1. Incidentally the somewhat earlier monumental site of Aguada Fénix is situated at a very similar location on the Río San Pedro where that river makes its sweeping bend from north to west (Inomata et al. 2020). REFERENCES

Bachand, Bruce R., and Lynneth S. Lowe. 2012. “Chiapa de Corzo’s Mound 11 Tomb and the Middle Formative Olmec.” In Arqueología reciente de Chiapas: Contribuciones del encuentro celebrado en el 60o aniversario de la Fundación Arqueológica Nuevo Mundo, edited by Lynneth S. Lowe, and Mary E. Pye, 45–68. Papers of the New World Archaeological Foundation 72. Provo, UT: Brigham Young University. Burham, Melissa. 2019. “Defining Ancient Maya Communities: The Social, Spatial, and Ritual Organization of Outlying Temple Groups at Ceibal, Guatemala.” PhD diss., University of Arizona. Burham, Melissa, Takeshi Inomata, Daniela Triadan, and Jessica MacLellan. 2020. “Ritual Practice, Urbanization, and Sociopolitical Organization at Preclassic Ceibal, Guatemala.” In Approaches to Monumental Landscapes of the Ancient Maya, edited by Brett Houk, Barbara Arroyo, and Terry G. Powis, 61–84. Gainesville: University of Florida Press Burham, Melissa, and Jessica MacLellan. 2014. “Thinking Outside the Plaza: Ritual Practices in Preclassic Maya Residential Groups at Ceibal, Guatemala.” Antiquity 88 (340): http://journal.antiquity.ac.uk/projgall/450.

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Cartwright Gerhardt, Juliette, and Norman Hammond. 1991. “The Community of Cuello: The Cermonial Core.” In Cuello: An Early Maya Community in Belize, edited by Norman Hammond, 98–117. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Clark, John E., and Richard D. Hansen. 2001. “Architecture of Early Kingship: Comparative Perspectives on the Origins of the Maya Royal Court.” In Royal Courts of the Ancient Maya, vol. 2, Data and Case Studies, edited by Takeshi Inomata and Stephen D. Houston, 1–45. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Estrada-Belli, Francisco. 2011. The First Maya Civilization: Ritual and Power before the Classic Period. London: Routledge. Garber, James F., M. Kathryn Brown, W. David Driver, David M. Glassman, Christopher J. Hartman, F. Kent Reilly III, and Lauren A. Sullivan. 2004. “Archaeological Investigations at Blackman Eddy.” In The Ancient Maya of the Belize Valley: Half a Century of Archaeological Research, edited by James F. Garber, 48–69. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Healy, Paul F., and Jaime J. Awe, eds. 1995. Belize Valley Preclassic Maya Project: Report on the 1994 Field Season. Peterborough, Ontario: Occasional Papers in Anthropology, vol. 10, Department of Anthropology, Trent University. Healy, Paul F., and Jaime J. Awe, eds. 1996. Belize Valley Preclassic Maya Project: Report on the 1995 Field Season. Peterborough, Ontario: Occasional Papers in Anthropology, vol. 12, Department of Anthropology, Trent University. Healy, Paul F., David Cheetham, Terry G. Powis, and Jaime J. Awe. 2004. “Cahal Pech: Middle Formative Period.” In The Ancient Maya of the Belize Valley: Half a Century of Archaeological Research, edited by James F. Garber, 103–24. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Hammond, Norman, ed. 1991a. Cuello: An Early Maya Community in Belize. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hammond, Norman. 1991b. “Cuello Considered: Summary and Conclusions.” In Cuello: An Early Maya Community in Belize, edited by Norman Hammond, 235–48. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hammond, Norman, and Juliette Cartwright Gerhardt. 1990. “Early Maya Architectural Innovation at Cuello, Belize.” World Archaeology 21:461–81. Hammond, Norman, Juliette Cartwright Gerhardt, and Sara Donaghey. 1991. “Stratigraphy and Chronology in the Reconstruction of Preclassic Developments at Cuello.” In Cuello: An Early Maya Community in Belize, edited by Norman Hammond, 23–55. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hodder, Ian. 2007. “Çatalhöyük in the Context of the Middle East Neolithic.” Annual Review of Anthropology 36:105–20. Inomata, Takeshi. 2012. “La Fundación y el desarrollo político durante el periodo Preclásico en Ceibal.” In La Cuenca del Río de la Pasión: Estudios de arqueología y epigrafía

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Maya, edited by Maria Elena Vega and Lynneth S. Lowe, 33–57. Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. Inomata, Takeshi. 2019. “Overview of Archaeological Investigations in the Middle Usumacinta Region.” Paper presented at the 84th Annual Meeting of the Society of American Archaeology, Albuquerque, NM. Inomata, Takeshi, Jessica MacLellan, Daniela Triadan, Jessica Munson, Melissa Burham, Kazuo Aoyama, Hiroo Nasu, Flory Pinzón, and Hitoshi Yonenobu. 2015. “The Development of Sedentary Communities in the Maya Lowlands: Co-Existing Mobile Groups and Public Ceremonies at Ceibal, Guatemala.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 112 (14):4268–73. Inomata, Takeshi, Flory Pinzón, Juan Manuel Palomo, Ashley Sharpe, Raúl Ortíz, María Belén Méndez, and Otto Román. 2017. “Public Ritual and Interregional Interactions: Excavations of the Central Plaza of Group A, Ceibal.” Ancient Mesoamerica 28 (1):203–32. Inomata, Takeshi, and Daniela Triadan. 2015. “Middle Preclassic Caches from Ceibal, Guatemala.” Maya Archaeology, edited by Charles Golden, Stephen Houston, and Joel Skidmore, 3:56–91. San Francisco: Precolumbian Mesoweb Press. Inomata, Takeshi, Daniela Triadan, and Kazuo Aoyama. 2017. “After 40 Years: Revisiting Ceibal to Investigate the Origins of Lowland Maya Civilization.” Ancient Mesoamerica 28 (1):187–201. Inomata, Takeshi, Daniela Triadan, Kazuo Aoyama, Victor Castillo, and Hitoshi Yonenobu. 2013. “Early Ceremonial Constructions at Ceibal, Guatemala, and the Origins of Lowland Maya Civilization.” Science 340:467–71. Inomata, Takeshi, Daniela Triadan, Verónica A. Vázquez López, Juan Carlos Fernandez Diaz, Takayuki Omori, María Belén Méndez Bauer, Melina García Hernández, Timothy Beach, Clarissa Cagnato, Kazuo Aoyama, and Hiroo Nasu. 2020. “Monumental Architecture at Aguada Fénix and the Rise of Maya Civilization.” Nature 582:530–33. Lowe, Gareth W. 1981. “Olmec Horizons Defined in Mound 20, San Isidro, Chiapas.” In The Olmec and Their Neighbors: Essays in Memory of Matthew W. Stirling, edited by Elizabeth Benson, 231–55. Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks. McAnany, Patricia A. 1995. Living with the Ancestors: Kinship and Kingship in Ancient Maya Society. Austin: University of Texas Press. McAnany, Patricia A., ed. 2004a. Kaxob: Ritual, Work, and Family in and Ancient Maya Village. Monumenta Archaeologica 22. Los Angeles: Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, University of California. McAnany, Patricia A. 2004b. “Domiciles and Construction Histories.” In Kaxob: Ritual, Work, and Family in and Ancient Maya Village, edited by Patricia A. McAnany, 23–62. Monumenta Archaeologica 22. Los Angeles: Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, University of California. Munson, Jessica, and Flory Pinzón. 2017. “Building an Early Maya Community: Archaeological Investigations at Caobal, Guatemala.” Ancient Mesoamerica 28 (1):265–78.

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Palomo, Juan Manuel. 2020. “Local Community and Foreign Groups: Political Changes in the Ancient Maya Center of Ceibal, Guatemala.” PhD diss., University of Arizona. Prufer, Keith M., C. R. Meredith, A. Alsgaard, T. Dennehy, and Doug Kennett. 2017. “The Paleoindian Chronology of Tzib Te Yux Rockshelter in the Rio Blanco Valley of Southern Belize.” Research Reports in Belizean Archaeology 14:321–26. Rosenswig, Robert M. 2008. “Recent Excavations at San Estevan, Northern Belize.” Research Reports in Belizean Archaeology 5: 261–68. Sabloff, Jeremy A. 1975. Excavations at Seibal, vol. 13, no. 2: Ceramics. Cambridge, MA: Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology, Harvard University. Saunders, Joe W., Rolfe D. Mandel, C. Garth Sampson, Charles M. Allen, E. Thurman Allen, Daniel A. Bush, James K. Feathers, Kristen J. Gremillion, C. T. Hallmark, H. Edwin Jackson, Jay K. Johnson, Reca Jones, Roger T. Saucier, Gary L. Stringer, and Malcolm F. Vidrine. 2005. “Watson Brake, a Middle Archaic Mound Complex in Northeast Louisiana.” American Antiquity 70 (4):631–68. Schmidt, Klaus. 2010. “Göbekli Tepe—the Stone Age Sanctuaries: New Results of Ongoing Excavations with a Special Focus on Sculptures and High Reliefs.” Documenta Praehistorica 37:239–55. Solis, Ruth Shady, Jonathan Haas, and Winifred Creamer. 2001. “Dating Caral, a Preceramic Site in the Supe Valley on the Central Coast of Peru.” Science 292 (5517):723–26. Triadan, Daniela. 2012. “El Resurgimiento Político de Ceibal en el Clásico Terminal.” In La Cuenca del Río de la Pasión: Estudios de arqueología y epigrafía Maya, edited by María Elena Vega and Lynneth S. Lowe, 155–70. Mexico City: Instituto de Investigaciones Filológicas, Universidad Autónoma de México. Triadan, Daniela. 2019. “The Origins of Maya Civilization: New Evidence from Ceibal and Sites in the Middle Usumacinta Basin.” Paper presented at the 84th Annual Meeting of the Society of American Archaeology, Albuquerque, NM. Triadan, Daniela, Victor Castillo, Takeshi Inomata, Juan Manuel Palomo, María Belén Méndez, Mónica Cortave, Jessica MacLellan, Melissa Burham, and Erick Ponciano. 2017. “Social Transformations in a Middle Preclassic Community: Elite Residential Complexes at Ceibal.” Ancient Mesoamerica 28 (1):233–64. Willey, Gordon R. 1973. The Altar de Sacrificios Excavations, General Summary and Conclusions. Cambridge, MA: Papers of the Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology, vol. 64, no. 3, Harvard University. Willey, Gordon R. 1990. Excavations at Seibal, Peten, Guatemala: General Summary and Conclusions. Cambridge, MA: Memoirs of the Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology, vol. 17, no. 4, Harvard University. Willey, Gordon R., and A. Ledyard Smith. 1969. The Ruins of Altar de Sacrificios, Department of Peten, Guatemala: An Introduction. Cambridge, MA.: Papers of the Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology, vol. 62, no. 1, Harvard University.

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3 Kaj and Kingdom Conurbation, Memory, and Landscapes of Mobile Maya Authority THOMAS G. GARRISON

University of Texas at Austin

INTRODUCTION

When we consider how to make sense of urbanism among the Maya, typological frameworks of settlement forms have, for the moment, lost their utility for comparative analysis. Large-scale lidar surveys are revealing palimpsests of over three thousand years of settlement, infrastructural investment, and other impacts on the landscape that are transforming interpretations of the Maya Lowlands (Canuto et al. 2018; Chase et al. 2014). At the same time, scholars are being intellectually overwhelmed by these data, and there are currently no methodological standards for data processing, ground verification, defining temporality, or data sharing—all necessary developments before undertaking meaningful typological definition and outside comparison. Terms such as city, town, village, hamlet, and homestead become relative to one’s own geographical research area rather than contribute to a functional vocabulary of comparative analysis. Even before some of these large lidar acquisitions, some dissatisfaction with typological analysis of Maya urbanism emerged, with the pitfalls of “analytical anachronism” too often biasing purportedly objective studies (Houston and 72

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Garrison 2015:52–54). The 2016 Pacunam Lidar Initiative (PLI) survey of over 2100 km2 of forested lowlands shows clear variability in structure density across ten different areas of the Petén, Guatemala (Canuto et al. 2018:figure 7), but there is no linear correlative pattern between, for example, mound density and relative political power (as inferred from textual references to hegemonic dominance [Martin 2020:figure  75]). What these data do reveal is a continuous conurban ancient landscape, collectively reflecting the physical impact of the totality of a complex cultural system (Garrison et al. 2019; cf. Lucero et al. 2015:1140 for a similar conceptualization, but limited to an assumption of low-density urbanization). Lidar-derived images, however, due to their palimpsestic nature, occlude the punctuated growth of Maya landscapes that saw shifts in centers of power (both intra- and interpolity), settlement concentrations, modes of subsistence, and other spatially patterned aspects of the ancient Maya world. These processes were not random but, instead, were contingent upon the broader historical and environmental milieu of the Maya area. At present, lidar studies do not adequately identify these temporal trends through comprehensive accuracy assessment and chronology building. Until the field goes through the growing pains of methodological standardization that might welcome a neotypological approach and lowlands-wide comparisons, it is useful to consider Maya urbanism from more localized perspectives. Here I will limit my discussion to a specific set of related urban settlements that exhibit concentrations of nonresidential monumental architectural forms and investment in landesque capital, which, for the Classic period, were the seat of an ajawlel or “lordship” (derived from Bricker 1986:162; see Martin 2020:109–10), as evidenced in the epigraphic record. Urban Maya settlement may be considered sociopolitically from either a bottomup or top-down approach. The former seeks to identify the attractions offered to individuals and groups, while the latter examines the motivations behind urban settlement locations and their component architectural and infrastructural investments that rulers and other elites had commissioned (Houston and Garrison 2015; Hutson 2016). In this chapter, I will use the case of a specific conurban landscape, the Buenavista Valley of northern Guatemala, to show how a centuries-long antagonism between two dynasties motivated physical shifts in one side’s seat of authority as an adaptive response to the other’s much denser urban footprint (figure 3.1). These shifts, which require royal authority to be re-instantiated for each move, are referred to glyphically by the verb kaj, literally meaning “to settle,” but employed in cases of dynastic reconstitution (Martin 2020:129–32). Looking at conflict (or its potential) as the principal motivation for a mobile “kaj strategy” of dynastic rule runs counter to more common invocations of warfare as a contributor to the collapse of settlements in the Maya Lowlands. The pa’ka’n dynasty at El Zotz (and its likely Preclassic precursor at El Palmar) existed in the shadow of the mutul dynasty at Tikal. Yet, despite the great Kaj and Kingdom

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FIGURE 3.1.

Map of the Buenavista Valley showing sites mentioned in the text (map by T. Garrison).

disparity in settlement density (Canuto et al. 2018:table 4) and geopolitical influence (Houston 2008a, 2008b; Houston, Garrison, and Román 2018; Martin 2003) between these two kingdoms, the strategies of the smaller El Zotz settlement proved, ultimately, successful. The pa’ka’n dynasty endured about as long (and perhaps longer) than its mutul counterpart, and the El Zotz population inhabited the immediate urban core for centuries longer than the Postclassic inhabitants of Tikal. This chapter will present the archaeological evidence for five separate locations where royal authority was constituted (or attempted to be constituted) in the environs of the Buenavista Valley. These data are then reinterpreted within the context of the conurban landscape revealed by lidar and as defined by its most prominent characteristics. To bridge the divide between the archaeological record and the remotely sensed landscape, I employ concepts of social memory from the work of Alcock (2002). The central assertion of this exercise is that conflict and contested spaces could motivate strategies of dynastic innovation and adaptation (like kaj) capable of fostering an enduring legacy for a dynasty and its people, regardless of absolute metrics of mounds or their densities. S H I F T I N G S E AT S O F A U T H O R I T Y I N T H E A R C H A E O L O G Y O F T H E B U E N AV I S TA VA L L E Y

The Buenavista Valley (figure 3.1), a broad east-west depression in the northern Petén of Guatemala with Tikal situated at its eastern terminus, represented a major travel corridor through the southern lowlands (Doyle et al. 2012) as the area north of the valley is defined by the rugged limestone hills that characterize that portion of the Petén Karst Plateau (see Beach et al. 2015:258–60 and Beach et al. 2018:164–66 for detailed descriptions of the valley’s geomorphological context). Research beginning in the 1950s made it clear that the Maya lived in denser aggregations than previously imagined, and Tikal was one of the greatest in documented expanse and density of mounds (Carr and Hazard 1961). Because the Buenavista Valley is located at a key point in lowland geography, all its drainages east flow to the Caribbean, and all to the west eventually reach the Gulf of Mexico. As such, Tikal was strategically located (certainly unintentionally) to be at the literal center of overland trade routes. Just 21 km west of Tikal, down the Buenavista Valley, lie the ruins of El Zotz, the monumental architectural core of what was once a small independent kingdom known as pa’ka’n. Research by the Proyecto Arqueológico El Zotz (PAEZ)1 began by considering how such a diminutive polity could exist “in the shadow of a giant” (Houston 2008a). The strength and independence of the kingdom during the Early Classic is signaled by the rich royal tomb of the local dynastic founder and his lavishly ornamented mortuary temple (Houston et al. 2015), while the monumentality of nearby Preclassic El Palmar suggests an even earlier Kaj and Kingdom

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origin for local royal authority (Doyle 2017:103–6). Investigations in the region since 2006 evince inconstant activity, with periods of rapid construction and expansion punctuated by times of cultural and developmental stagnation over the course of more than two millennia (Garrison and Houston 2018a). Within this framework, there are five different locales across the broader Buenavista Valley landscape that likely served as the center of authority for urban populations (figure 3.2). These are temporally preceded and followed by smaller, less hierarchical settlements clustered around features that provide substantial natural resources. Prior to the 2016 lidar acquisition by PLI, our understanding of the settlement patterns in the region derived from eleven PAEZ field seasons of total station survey and excavation at multiple ruins in and around the Buenavista Valley, today incorporated into the San Miguel la Palotada-El Zotz Biotope. This section reviews the archaeological evidence for the different seats of authority in the valley, before introducing new data from lidar that both alter some details and contextualize the identified shifts within a more complex conurban landscape (Garrison et al. 2019). The first colonizers of the Buenavista Valley settled on the western margin of a large wetland in the valley center, possibly as early as the Archaic (LuzzadderBeach et al. 2017). Situated among abundant natural resources, the settlement expanded and eventually grew into the Preclassic center of El Palmar (Doyle 2017; Doyle and Piedrasanta 2018). Likely the first seat of royal authority by 200 BCE (Doyle 2017:103–6), El Palmar and its local dependent, La Avispa (Garrison et al. 2011), declined toward the end of the first century BCE, as seen in the cessation of monumental construction, as well as in large-scale abandonment evidenced by forest recovery and reduced erosion (Luzzadder-Beach et al. 2017). Doyle (2017:129–39) noted that there remained persistent evidence of minor occupation and ritual activities among the degrading Preclassic structures, though with a clear abandonment lens in excavation profiles separating monumental construction from the later ephemeral presence. After almost three centuries (1–300 CE) devoid of monumental constructions, the next major activity in the Buenavista Valley occurred around the start of the fourth century when a charismatic individual established a new dynasty (or perhaps reconstituted an ancient one) by building a palace compound, known today as the El Diablo Group, located on the edge of the escarpment defining the valley’s northern edge (figure 3.3; Houston et al. 2015; Román et al. 2018). This palace served as the second seat of authority and would continue as such for almost two centuries. The long-reigning royal founder (whose name is unknown) oversaw a period of florescence as the upstart pa’ka’n dynasty displayed artistic innovation in architecture that culminated in the founder’s burial and included a pot lid with Teotihuacan iconography (Newman et al. 2015:figures 3.19, 3.20, 3.21). This is significant because the tomb likely predates the so-called Entrada of 76

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FIGURE 3.2 .

Map showing the locations of the five seats of authority in the Buenavista Valley (map by T. Garrison).

FIGURE 3. 3. Map of El Zotz highlighting the four (numbered 2– 5) Classic period seats of pa’ka’n authority (map by T. Garrison).

Teotihuacanos at Tikal in 378 CE (Stuart 2000), suggesting an existing association between pa’ka’n and central Mexico. The modest kingdom expanded across the karst hills north of the valley to Bejucal, where monuments were erected, including one declaring the subordination of the pa’ka’n kings to the “New Order” in the region following the Entrada (Garrison et al. 2016; Houston 2008b; Martin and Grube 2008:29–31; Stuart 2000). Within a century of this regionally transformative event, the center of power at El Zotz shifted with the construction of a new palace at the base of the escarpment on the valley’s edge below El Diablo (Garrison and Houston 2018:370–71). This new palace, known as the El Zotz Acropolis, established the third seat of the local ajawlel, and likely continued as such for over two hundred years. The urban core of El Zotz expanded after this relocation with new architectural programs during the fifth and sixth centuries, including an elaborate platform dedicated to kingship and royal accession in the East Group and the establishment of a royal necropolis in the Five Temples Group. However, after this early growth, El Zotz was quickly outpaced by surrounding kingdoms and began to conform to macroregional architectural traditions in lieu of earlier innovation. This display of conservativism coincides with El Zotz’s incorporation within the 78

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Snake Kingdom’s hegemony (Carter et al. 2018; see Martin 2020 for an updated study of the Snake Kingdom), as well as the possible direct influence of the El Perú-Waka’ dynasty for a time (Houston et al. 2018:25–26). In the early eighth century, major construction programs restarted, and the pa’ka’n dynasty likely shifted its seat of authority once again. An unknown ruler commissioned a new hilltop palace complex and associated pyramid at the Las Palmitas Group, situated on the escarpment above the East Group (Carter et al. 2018:figure  4.11). This compound, reminiscent of the earlier El Diablo Group with its perched location (albeit at a lower elevation), lacks any textual evidence to prove that this was the fourth seat of authority in the valley. However, the only Late Classic mention of the El Zotz pa’ka’n dynasty (not to be confused with the same Emblem Glyph’s frequent appearance in connection with Yaxchilan) is on Uaxactun Stela 2 and refers to a local king “ascending” to El Zotz (Houston 2008b:3). Carter and colleagues (2018:112–13) note that while t’abayi, the “ascend” verb (Stuart 1998:409–17), is frequently associated with rulers heading into exile, the lack of a military context for the Uaxactun inscription suggests that the lord in question may have literally had to “ascend” to reach the hilltop royal court of the El Zotz king. The Las Palmitas Group is the only viable candidate for an elevated palace complex in the area that coincides with the 751 CE date of the visit. Therefore, a combination of indirect lines of evidence suggests that Las Palmitas was the fourth seat of authority for perhaps a century. A final attempt to relocate the seat of authority at El Zotz occurred sometime in the ninth century but was aborted. A ruler, ?-Chan Yopaat, bearing the full k’uhul pa’ka’n ajaw (“holy El Zotz lord”) title, dedicated Stela 4 to commemorate the completion of the tenth bak’tun in 830  CE (Newman, Garrido, and Carter 2018:122, figure 5.2b), a momentous event that went notably unrecorded at Tikal (Martin and Grube 2008:52–53). An extensive deposit across the El Zotz Acropolis suggests that the dynasty reconsecrated this prior seat of authority with a scattering ritual sometime during the ninth century, but that construction of a new royal palace was abruptly abandoned. So the scattering ritual indicates that a fifth seat of authority, though never fully constructed, was dedicated but never occupied. Even as the pa’ka’n royal family disappeared (ca. 900 CE), local elites continued to exert influence and control resources for another century, albeit at a reduced scale, and some of the most powerful of these families were concentrated immediately west of the Acropolis (Newman 2015), suggesting that the abandoned construction effort still symbolized authority even though there was no longer an ajaw to rule. A substantial Postclassic community (relative to other parts of the northern Petén) continued to reside in the South Group, near the artificial reservoir at El Zotz (Beach et al. 2018), until as late as the fourteenth century. Evidence suggests that this settlement (though hardly urban) engaged in persistent long-distance Kaj and Kingdom

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FIGURE 3.4. PLI lidar coverage over El Zotz and Tikal. The PAEZ data includes the western block over El Zotz and El Palmar and the narrow strip extending east to Tikal (map by T. Garrison/Pacunam).

exchange networks. It is unclear whether this population moved in after a brief abandonment or whether it gradually transitioned from Terminal Classic groups as sociopolitical and economic networks were renegotiated (Kingsley and Gámez 2018). Like the initial colonizers on the margins of the wetland by El Palmar, the final community in the region situated itself close to a substantial water source and endured for centuries. L I D A R A N D M AYA C O N U R B AT I O N

In 2016, PLI contracted the National Center for Airborne Laser Mapping (NCALM) to capture more than 2100 km2 of multispectral lidar over ten discrete areas of the Petén in northern Guatemala (Canuto et al. 2018). The survey included important sites with longstanding research programs, such as El Perú-Waka’, Holmul, La Corona, Tintal, and Xultun, among others. This collaborative project revealed landscape-scale features that articulated with specific local settlements. Data over the El Zotz project area was acquired using an OpTech Titan multiwave lidar sensor that collected multispectral information concurrently with elevation readings (Fernandez-Diaz et al. 2016). The data PAEZ is responsible for covers 150 km2, including a 4×10-km strip linking El Zotz to Tikal, and encompasses all of the loci of authority in the Buenavista Valley discussed earlier (figure 3.4). 80

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FIGURE 3.5. The palimpsest of about 3000 years of human activity affecting the landscape of the Buenavista Valley (map by T. Garrison).

The lidar data present a stunningly clear picture of ancient impacts on the landscape, as well as detailed views of the geomorphology undetectable to earlier remote-sensing technologies (see Garrison 2020a for a history of remote sensing in Maya settlement pattern research). The Buenavista Valley, previously depicted as points on a map (e.g., Houston et al. 2018:figure 1.2), now, thanks to lidar data, has been profoundly altered. What were once dots appear today as a palimpsest of human activity, at once textured and continuous, that spans a millennium. It includes the blended boundaries between urban and rural, cities and villages, the political and natural (Garrison et al.2019). This continuity of settlement and infrastructure between places originally distinguished as cities, towns, or villages is how Patrick Geddes (1915:25–45) first coined the term conurbation early in the twentieth century so as to understand the complex population maps in England that defied typological deconstruction. The palimpsest of cumulative human impact in Maya landscapes causes a similar distortion as described in this chapter’s introduction (figure 3.5). Therefore, it seems prudent to embrace the complexity of the conurban landscape, employing it as a tool to contextualize the totality of hard-earned archaeological evidence, which may then reveal, elaborate, or refute potential explanations for cultural processes. This section presents details of the broader conurbation of the Buenavista Valley and its Kaj and Kingdom

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palimpsestic accumulation through time in order to understand more fully the five identified seats of authority and each of their roles in shaping the ruined landscape revealed by lidar. The scale of the 2016 PLI survey revealed great regional variability in the density and totality of the ancient Maya impact on the landscape (sometimes further complicated by more recent human activity; Canuto et al. 2018). All regions showed an increase in structure density from what was previously known through archaeological mapping and reconnaissance, but that density was not uniform across the Petén. Similarly, other features such as agricultural field systems, causeways, and defensive earthworks varied in their distributions, reflecting the unique circumstances of cultural and historical developments associated with each Maya settlement. In the Buenavista Valley, the conurban pattern revealed temporally distinct settlement fluctuations in both density and distribution, as well as an intense concentration of defensive features on the valley’s northern escarpment and into the hills beyond (Garrison et al. 2019; Houston et al. 2019). Of great importance is how lidar changed our perception of the center of El Palmar itself (Garrison 2020a:259–63). We originally conceived of El Palmar as a small Preclassic settlement of modest local influence, but the new data revealed that its structures extended across an area forty times larger than previously thought. In fact, it had radiating causeways that tied in more distant groups distributed on numerous hillocks interspersed among the complex drainage system that flowed toward the wetland and initially attracted colonizers to the area. La Avispa, once considered a minor dependency of El Palmar (Garrison et al. 2011), can now simply be included as a dense residential area for this sprawling city (as characterized by Hutson’s [2016:16] definition). Doyle (2017:103–6) believed that El Palmar was a seat of Preclassic kingship even before the lidar survey, but this reassessment of the extent and density of settlement at El Palmar provides greater support for the importance of this center in the Preclassic. As such, this necessitates a revision of El Palmar’s relationship with Preclassic Tikal. Rather than being a harmless neighbor, Tikal likely viewed the sprawling valley kingdom as either a threat or a competitor. Lidar in the Buenavista Valley permits a crude temporal assessment of settlement based on structure form. Preclassic structures and platforms have a rounded “melted” quality, doubtless from two millennia of erosion and bioturbation combined with a more earthen construction fill. This contrasts with the sharper edges of Classic period constructions (Garrison et al. 2019:figure 4; see Yaeger et al. 2016 for a method to try to quantify formal differences). Unlike in other areas of the PLI, there is little evidence of Classic period overburden on Preclassic structures. In fourteen seasons, we have only found one such construction, in which a round shrine, likely dating to 250 CE, was covered by later construction at Bejucal. This 82

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means that we can be fairly confident in our remote sensing–based assessment of broad settlement change but must also work on our explanation as to why El Palmar was never reoccupied as a Classic kingdom’s seat of authority. Density analysis (Garrison et al. 2019:137–39) shows that Preclassic settlement was greater than 350 structures/km2 around the La Avispa residential group and at nearly that level in the El Palmar core. El Palmar was thus a sprawling city in a landscape otherwise sharply delimited in settlement extent at the time. The Classic period density analysis, however, exhibits a totally different pattern. Bejucal (200–225 structures/km2) and El Zotz (175–200 structures/km2) have the greatest densities but fall well short of the concentrations achieved at Preclassic El Palmar. Even so, the sprawl of Classic-period settlement spreads over a much wider area, with focused concentrations in the cave-riddled rolling karstic hills between the two densest zones. If the first seat of authority in the Buenavista Valley did indeed emerge at El Palmar, the settlement that grew around it was organized in a very different pattern than the more extensive but less dense distribution of the Classic period structures associated with the subsequent four seats. The second notable characteristic of the Buenavista Valley’s conurban landscape is the concentration of defensive earthworks and watchtowers, especially in comparison to other regions covered by PLI, such that its landscape ranks as the heaviest defended (Canuto et al. 2018:figure 10, table 14; Houston et al. 2019). The lidar coverage over El Zotz represents only 6 percent of the 2016 PLI data, but it contains 28 percent of all constructed defensive features. The adjacent Tikal coverage ranks second in most defensive metrics, including the well-known Tikal earthworks (Puleston and Callender 1967; Webster et al. 2007), the west wall of which cuts clear across the Buenavista Valley. What really stands out, though, are the fortified hilltop citadels distributed along the northern escarpment. Archaeologically well-known groups such as El Diablo and El Tejón at El Zotz are situated on hills with massively terraformed slopes defined by steep defensive terraces. More surprising was a large citadel distributed across two adjacent hilltops northeast of El Palmar. This fortress, named La Cuernavilla, is protected by a variety of defensive systems, including terracing, ditch-and-rampart, and, in front of a palace at the base of the eastern hilltop, multiple moat-and-rampart systems (Houston et al. 2019). Finally, a series of isolated masonry structures, occasionally fortified and situated on prominent hilltops, appear to be part of an interconnected system of watchtower surveillance, which may have served as protection against external threats and as a way to manage the production of resources with economic value to the kingdom (Garrison et al. 2019:141–43). These elements of the Buenavista Valley conurbation provide a broader context to the shifting seats of power for the Pa’ka’n dynasty observed in the archaeological record. Kaj and Kingdom

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WA R FA R E A N D C O N F L I C T I N M AYA A R C H A E O L O G Y

Giles Healey’s (1946) photographs of the Bonampak murals in 1946 provided some of the clearest evidence of violent conflict among the Classic Maya. Originally dismissed by scholars attached to an interpretation of the Maya as peaceful stargazers (see Martin [2020:197–200] for a more detailed summary), the vivid depictions in the murals of a chaotic battle in the night forest soon changed that. Adding support to this new reading were the monumental depictions of individuals being captured in conflict and the eventual decipherment of a number of hieroglyphic terms for violent acts, perhaps most notably the description of the “piling of skulls and the pooling of blood” (an unpublished decipherment circulated by Stuart [2003]). Physical evidence of warfare is also available to archaeologists in the form of a range of defensive features, some well planned, others hastily constructed, at settlements of varying size. These combined epigraphic and archaeological data relating to warfare, partially influenced by the areas where such topics have been most intensely researched, have led to a generally shared narrative on the role of violence in ancient Maya society. Scholars commonly think of two peaks in ancient Maya warfare. First, toward the end of the Late Preclassic, evidence exists for broad environmental changes and landscape degradation, resulting from slope erosion and the silting in of perennial wetlands, which had served as important resources for large settlements such as El Mirador (Dunning et al. 2002; Hansen et al. 2002). This stress, likely combined with a prolonged drought, coincided with the emergence of defensive features at a number of sites. These range from the substantial fortification of places that include Edzna (Forsyth 1983:220, 223; Matheny et al. 1983:191) to hastier stone walls at places such as Cival (Estrada-Belli 2011:131–32, figure 4.2; for a more complete list see Houston et al. 2019:14). The century between 200 and 300 CE, prior to the rise of Classic dynasties, also saw widespread site abandonments across the Maya Lowlands. The second traditionally cited peak of violence comes during the Late and Terminal Classic. In this model, the epigraphic instances of large-scale conflict, indicated by the so-called “Star War” glyph and a number of other verbs associated with violence and destruction, rapidly increased during the rise of the Snake Kingdom in the seventh century (see Martin 2020:figures 50a and 50b for temporal distribution of warfare events). The western lowlands gradually descended into chaos, with endemic conflict not showing any clear correlation to environmental factors such as drought (Demarest 2006; Scherer and Golden 2014). In this scenario royal authority dissipated as a burgeoning nobility engaged in escalating conflicts that eventually led to societal collapse.

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M U S I C A L T H R O N E S : P O L I T I C A L M A C H I N AT I O N S O F A M AYA C O N U R B AT I O N

Neither of the standard temporal peaks of warfare accounts well for the emerging evidence for conflict and dynastic mobility in the Buenavista Valley. Warfare, or perhaps simply the threat of conflict, has left a physical imprint on this landscape, even though the epigraphic record is sparse in comparison with other known antagonisms during the Classic period. Rather than resulting in collapse, the threat of violence motivated the rulers living in the shadow of Tikal, just as it directly influenced settlement choices and political decisions for the kingdom of El Zotz that contributed to its long-term survival. What follows is a reconsideration of the archaeology of the valley within the context of the conurban landscape revealed by lidar, with the aim of identifying motivations for shifts in the royal seat of authority through time within that context. Particular emphasis is given to the second seat of authority, the narrative of which is substantially enriched using this method. This contextualization makes abundantly clear that lidar palimpsests cannot be interpreted as monolithic settlements reflecting urban growth and influence, but rather they are a summary of the spatiotemporal variability of political authority and settlement over millennia. Appreciation of chronological nuance in lidar data is required prior to engaging in broader spatial comparisons across the Maya Lowlands. Seat 1: Late Preclassic El Palmar as the First ajawlel

El Palmar grew from a small group of early settlers living on the margins of a wetland into an expansive Preclassic kingdom that covered about 12 km2. Elements of the monumental center exhibit signs of urban planning based on the geometry of the Late Preclassic Triadic Group (Doyle 2017:90–103), but lidar makes it clear that areas outside the center were settled more organically based on available uplands, with some of the larger groups tethered to that center by causeways. Doyle (2017:103–6) asserted that El Palmar was the seat of a Preclassic ajawlel by 200 BCE, which he based on survey and excavation in the monumental core. The drastic increase in the known extent of the settlement revealed by lidar lends credence to Doyle’s argument, and recent probing of earlier phases of the Triadic Group suggests that the monumentality associated with dynastic formation may have appeared a century earlier (figure 3.6; Garrison 2020b). After eight centuries of growth, monumental construction ceased at El Palmar by 1 BCE, with only minor resurfacings of some of the largest structures before the traces of human presence became ephemeral by the end of the first century CE. About three hundred years passed between the last monumental amplification of El Palmar and the establishment of the second seat of authority at El Diablo. Evidence from soil cores suggests some climatic drying in the Late

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Preclassic (Beach et al. 2015; Luzzadder-Beach 2017), but the resolution of the paleoenvironmental data does not permit a clear correlation with cessation of activity at El Palmar. Furthermore, nearby Tikal certainly was not abandoned, calling into question the local severity of a drought that clearly had a drastic effect at Preclassic centers outside the region. The abandonment of El Palmar represents a gap in elite activity in the Buenavista Valley that only resumes with a concerted shift away from the valley floor and the resource-rich wetland to the less forgiving karstic hills, an area that does not lend itself well to large-scale agriculture but does afford natural defenses. The question is whether this settlement shift was motivated by an actual event. Lidar does not reveal defensive features around El Palmar such as those seen at other Late Preclassic settlements. Situated in the open valley, the early kingdom would have been ripe for a preemptive attack originating from Tikal. If such an invasion did occur, it did not leave a clear archaeological signature. A possible clue in favor of some form of deliberate destruction comes from the excavation of the front stairway of the main pyramid in El Palmar’s Triadic Group. Here, the finalphase staircase was covered by a thick cap of seemingly melted plaster (Garrison 2020b:figure 4.22). This compact detritus, eventually chiseled off by the excavators, now begs the question of whether its presence is due not to mere taphonomy but to a destruction event that precipitated site abandonment. An alternative view has it that a strategy of attrition may have produced the same result (Damien Marken, personal communication 2021), but with even less material evidence. It is tempting to attribute El Palmar’s demise to an initial conflict with Tikal (decisive or prolonged) that defined the antagonistic relationship between the mutul and Pa’ka’n dynasties throughout the Classic period, but there is simply not enough evidence to confirm or deny this assertion. Points in favor of the theory are the later militarization of the Buenavista Valley conurbation, and ritual acts and burials performed at El Palmar in the Early Classic. A point against some original sin perpetrated by Tikal that would impact political relationships for centuries is the fact that the well-documented mutul dynasty is estimated to have been established at the end of the first century CE (Martin 2003:5), a hundred years later than the cessation of monumental construction at El Palmar. However, that dynastic founding date is based on an estimate derived from average reign lengths of later Tikal kings, and it would only take a few of the unknown early reigns to have lasted longer than the 22.5-year average to push the dynastic origins back further into the Preclassic. Seat 2: Fortifying the Sky at El Diablo

The next monumental construction in the region did not occur until the fourth century, when a new ruler commissioned a hilltop palace at the El Diablo Group. What occurred in the intervening centuries between El Palmar’s abandonment 86

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FIGURE 3.6.

The first seat of authority at El Palmar (map by T. Garrison).

and this dynastic founding (or perhaps reestablishment) is unclear, but there is compelling, though incomplete evidence of a connection between the first and second seats of authority. Of interest are El Zotz’s dual Emblem Glyphs, both of which also served as titles for the Yaxchilan dynasty along the Usumacinta River, a connection first identified by Stuart (see Houston et al. 2018:23–24, figure 1.11 for the epigraphic history of the identification and examples of the dual Emblem Glyphs at El Zotz). An appealing interpretation might be that sometime between 100 and 300 CE refugees from El Palmar moved to the Usumacinta, taking with them ancient dynastic titles from the Buenavista Valley, but the timing is too early for the current evidence from the Usumacinta (Golden et al. 2008). A more likely scenario is that the dual Emblems reflect different parts of the physical territory claimed by El Zotz lords in the Classic period (Martin 2020:74). This is a tempting interpretation, especially given possible direct ties between the most common Emblem and the physical setting of the second seat of authority in the Buenavista Valley. This is the pa’ka’n, “fortified-sky or split-sky” title. The “fortified-sky” reading conforms well with the defensive contouring of the El Diablo hill where a royal palace was constructed at the start of the Early Classic; it is literally a citadel in the sky. The less commonly employed second Emblem takes the form of an earspool, though it currently remains undeciphered. Could this second Emblem identify the Preclassic kingdom at El Palmar? If this were the case, the dynastic rupture and relocation were severe enough to merit the adoption of a new Emblem, pa’ka’n, but the second title was retained as a statement of the dynasty’s claim to the broader valley that it had once possessed and controlled. Because no texts with calendar dates or any retrospective inscriptions referring to dynastic origins are known, the dating of the second seat of authority is not as precise as desired. Radiocarbon dates for the royal palace and the founder’s tomb lie on a large plateau in the atmospheric calibration curve, but the stratigraphic context, the advanced age of the tomb’s occupant, and a clear textual reference to a subsequent pa’ka’n king acceding to the throne in 381 CE all indicate that the ruler that established the second seat of authority reigned for a large portion of the fourth century (Garrison and Houston 2018b:367–68). This is also a time when attempts appear to have been made to reconnect with the physical place of El Palmar, if only from the standpoint of creating or reinforcing social memory (Alcock 2002), which accords well with the dual Emblem narrative argued earlier. Direct evidence for connections between the Classic pa’ka’n dynasty and the Preclassic seat of authority at El Palmar comes from both material and behavioral similarities. Instrumental Neutron Activation Analysis (INAA) of ceramic composition suggests that both the Preclassic and Classic populations of the Buenavista Valley shared the same clay source, and at least one sherd found at El Palmar is a 100  percent compositional match for a vessel offered in the 88

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founder’s tomb at El Diablo (Doyle 2017:139). Perhaps a less secure link comes from the shared practice of offering multiple infant sacrifices in lip-to-lip dedicatory caches, both at the El Palmar Triadic Group in the Late Preclassic (Garrison and Houston 2018b:364, figure  13.1) and in and around the founder’s tomb at El Diablo (Scherer 2015). Doyle (2017:129–39) made a number of near-surface discoveries in his excavations that show not only an ephemeral reoccupation of the abandoned settlement but also evidence of elite rituals that could have plausibly been commissioned by the El Zotz founder. The precise chronology of these Early Classic activities at El Palmar is uncertain, but I believe that two major ritual events likely occurred prior to a residential reoccupation of the site. The first involved the ritual smashing and burning of many ceramic vessels, including a number of polychromes, on the sides of a small pyramid at the wetland’s edge, nicknamed the Water Temple. This offering, which also included faunal remains of large animals (tapir, crocodile, deer) and other artifacts, was deposited in a single ritual event with a radiocarbon date that coincides well with the time of the establishment of the El Diablo palace in the early fourth century CE. Doyle (2017:132–34) sees the deposit as evidence of a termination ritual, which he interprets within the context of resilience theory. In this model, the ritual event functioned as part of a “remember cycle” (Redman 2005) prompting a new phase of social reorganization. Conversely, I see the Water Temple offering as a renewal event, linking the Early Classic pa’ka’n dynasty to its ancestral past at El Palmar (the source of the earspool Emblem?) prior to the ephemeral reoccupation of some of the residential areas. In a thorough critique of the assumptions underlying the archaeological classification of “termination” rituals, Newman (2019:831–34) cites a number of Mesoamerican examples where the combination of refuse and fire in ceremonial depositions can be attributed to acts of ritual renewal, including well-documented Postclassic examples of their connection to the renewal of political authority. A second major Early Classic elite ritual involved the construction of a substantial tomb (El Palmar Burial 3) as an aboveground monument at the base of the Triadic Pyramid Group, the likely physical seat of authority in the Late Preclassic (Doyle 2017:135–39). Recent excavations show that the tomb was physically appended to the ruined pyramid as an adosado (architectural attachment), a pattern seen in Early Classic burials in El Zotz’s East Group (Román et al. 2018:90) and at Bejucal (Garrison et al. 2016:540). The only remains left by looters plundering the El Palmar tomb were a handful of fragments from a jade and shell mosaic mask that likely formed part of a belt assemblage, but these artifacts, combined with the tomb’s form and placement, all point to the burial of an elite individual, possibly a member of the royal family. In a pioneering study of the archaeology of social memory, Alcock (2002:30–31) stresses the importance of landscapes to a population’s sense of place and, by Kaj and Kingdom

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extension, being. She also notes that dispossession of a group’s lands is an attack on its memories of that place and impairs the ability to maintain social memory. I see the El Palmar Water Temple deposit as a ritual of renewal and the construction of the Triadic Group tomb as the erection of a monument in the landscape, linking the Classic settlement at El Zotz to its Preclassic progenitor. Alcock (2002:18) argues that ritual practice and the viewing of artistic representation are what “activated links to the past” for a community. Evidence of elite ritual at Early Classic El Palmar bespeaks a similar connection: how El Zotz hoped to preserve communal memory of the settlement’s origins. Of note, in terms of artistic representation, the corner Sun God masks (Mask 3 and hypothesized Mask 13) on the pa’ka’n founder’s mortuary temple at El Diablo are sculpted in a deliberately archaic Preclassic style even though there is no evidence of monumental Preclassic architecture in the El Zotz center (Houston and Taube 2015:217). This intentional archaization of select symbols is similar to how oral and, later, written lore not only is anachronistic in nature but also possesses structural amnesias when employed to foster social memory (Alcock 2002:18). Establishing connections with the past at El Palmar was likely an early priority for the pa’ka’n founder at El Diablo, but dealing with the immediacy of threats in the present probably presented a similar urgency. Lidar has revealed that the builders of El Diablo did not just take advantage of its natural setting but also physically reinforced its hillside defenses. The precise date of these fortifications is unknown. If they date to the time of El Diablo’s initial occupation, they would demonstrate a clearly perceived threat, with Tikal as its likely source based on size, proximity, and probable historical antagonisms. If the defenses date to the group’s later occupation in the fifth century, they would factor into different processes that unfolded in a different political milieu. El Diablo was the pa’ka’n seat of authority in 378  CE when the aforementioned Entrada of Teotihuacan occurred at Tikal, likely passing right through the Buenavista Valley eight days after a stop at El Perú-Waka’ (Stuart 2000). This well-documented invasion, which saw the death of Tikal’s king and the subsequent inauguration of a lord of Teotihuacan descent to the Tikal throne, had a long-term impact on Classic Maya geopolitics. At the local level, one wonders how El Zotz perceived this foreign intrusion against a nearby kingdom. Was it welcomed as an act of revenge against a centuries-old rival? Was it a case of “the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” causing the pa’ka’n kings to see the Teotihuacan incursion as a step toward greater independence in a crowded landscape? Or was it a combination of these views? The Entrada is often the main focus of the scholarly discourse on Early Classic Maya warfare, though because epigraphic accounts of the event do not explicitly invoke Mayan verbs for war (Martin 2020:204–15), it is not always framed as such. Assuming Stuart (2000) is correct that this was a violent encounter at Tikal, the 90

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subsequent events generally follow a fixed narrative, just as the interpretations of Late Preclassic and Late/Terminal Classic warfare discussed earlier do. In most accounts, following the deposal of Chak Tok Ich’aak I at Tikal, Sihyaj K’ahk’, “Born-from-Fire,” rapidly pacified large portions of the Maya Lowlands on behalf of his Teotihuacan patron, Spearthrower Owl. The installation of a number of loyal regents led to about 150 years of relative peace as Maya civilization thrived in what Martin (2003) has called the New Order. However, the seemingly peaceful events following the Entrada in the Buenavista Valley belie underlying tensions. Just three years after the Entrada, a new El Zotz ruler acknowledges his subordinate status to Sihyaj K’ahk’ at Bejucal, though notably not to anyone with a mutul title. Over the next century or so, the Buenavista Valley underwent a period of intense fortification. Individual defensive systems are difficult to date, but there is enough indirect evidence to place the Buenavista Valley earthworks in the Early Classic. Most of the relevant defensive systems were only discovered using the 2016 lidar data, with the notable exception of the long-known and intensely scrutinized Tikal earthworks. During regional mapping, Puleston (1983; Puleston and Callender 1967) discovered large sections of earthworks to the north and southeast of Tikal’s urban core. They fall into a category of “long walls” most commonly built in ancient regions where there are competing polities of similar size and development, or where there is a desire to keep out perceived “barbarians” (McGuire 2020:34–37). Puleston consistently stated that he believed these features were defensive in nature and dated to the Early Classic. Webster and colleagues (2007) revisited the Tikal earthworks in the early 2000s with additional survey and excavation; there they identified a western wall but no southern wall. Because of this seemingly incomplete coverage, they questioned whether the features were in fact defensive at all, suggesting, instead, that they served as community boundary markers. Test excavations called the Early Classic date into question, though they noted that no direct evidence refuted it either. The west wall, clearly visible in lidar, crosses the Buenavista Valley on the other side of a large swamp east of El Palmar. Moreover, lidar displays faint traces of the wall that were missed during ground survey, indicating that the Tikal earthworks were more contiguous than shown on maps and that processes of erosion, particularly in seasonal swamps, have masked the true horizontal and vertical scale of these features. This does not contradict the assertion that the earthworks were also a community boundary (see chapters in McAtackney and McGuire [2020] for the ways walls promote both collective identity and division). Within the context of the Buenavista Valley conurbation, however, it likely only served this function for a brief time, just as Wall Street, once a physical barricade defining the northern boundary of seventeenth-century Dutch New Amsterdam (Geisst 2004:10), was absorbed into New York’s conurbation. Nonetheless, the Tikal wall Kaj and Kingdom

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system could still have retained its function of providing a line of defense for the urban core even after political control and population expanded beyond the earthwork’s limits. The valley’s multiple defensive systems seem mostly to emanate out of postentrada Tikal, with the possible exception of the El Diablo hillsides. The most prominent citadel, the La Cuernavilla fortress, was likely a Tikal stronghold that served as a vanguard for territorial expansion. For one, the form and sloping of the La Cuernavilla ditch-and-rampart systems are more similar to Tikal earthworks than they are to the defensive terraces seen at El Diablo. There is also evidence that the escarpment was fortified from east to west, expanding out from Tikal. The hilltop just west of the ravine that delimits La Cuernavilla’s West Group was leveled and fortified, though not built up with settlement, which suggests a change in plan. Furthermore, in the drainage north of the fortress, just at the edge of the lidar data, a clear segment of a Tikal-style earthwork exists that seals off access from that valley—again suggesting expansionistic tendencies from the east. The most direct link between Tikal and La Cuernavilla comes from a hilltop temple that sits alone above a lower palace complex in the Upper East Group, a causeway carved into the escarpment base linking the two. The ditch-andrampart system protecting the temple’s western flank is eight meters high in some places. During a 2017 visit, researchers who were cleaning a large looter trench unearthed the cut facades of a three-tiered talud-tablero platform (Garrison et al. 2018:112–14). The slightly inclined tableros replicate similar “Mayafied” examples of this traditional Teotihuacan architectural form from Group 6C-XVI at Tikal, including the Marcador Platform, which held one of the clearest texts relating the events of the Entrada (Laporte Molina 1989:figures 47, 51, 53, cuadro 2). The fact that the talud-tablero temple in the La Cuernavilla Upper East Group is the only structure protected by the ditch-and-rampart defenses around it provides an indirect Early Classic date for the defenses themselves. At Tikal itself, lidar revealed a compound south of Mundo Perdido that is oriented and shares formal characteristics with the Ciudadela Compound at Teotihuacan. Excavations by Román in 2019 confirmed multiple versions of a talud-tablero structure and artifacts directly connected with a central Mexican presence at Tikal (Houston et al. 2021). The fortifications at Tikal and La Cuernavilla may have first been built as a part of local subordination efforts following the Entrada. The El Diablo terraced defenses and the intervisible watchtowers in the hills between El Zotz and Bejucal may have served to resist the New Order at Tikal. In this scenario, the Tikal earthworks would have briefly served the dual function of defending the dynastic center (and quite a bit of its hinterland population), while also defining the initial community boundary from which expansion would commence. 92

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However, within three years of Sihyaj K’ahk’’s arrival, the new pa’ka’n king had pledged fealty to the New Order. The sheer length of earthworks in the valley and on the escarpment necessitates that they in large part postdate any brief resistance by El Zotz, meaning that they were mostly constructed collaboratively between pa’ka’n kings and their new overlords to fortify the most vulnerable western point of ingress to the New Order’s court. The specific timing of events is too murky to confirm all of the detailed processes that unfolded in the valley in the century after the Entrada, but two results of that time are certain. First, the landscape of the Buenavista Valley conurbation had become irrevocably militarized with fortresses, watchtowers, and earthworks that would become part of the fabric of settlement in the region, even if they fell into disuse or were abandoned. Second, the pa’ka’n dynasty shifted its seat of authority back to the valley floor for the first time in over four hundred years. Seat 3: Growing from the Bottom

One of the benefits of the pa’ka’n dynasty’s submission to the New Order at Tikal was that the seat of authority could move down to the valley floor where there was freedom to expand the monumental core of the kingdom. The new court was established in a large palace near the edge of the escarpment, while a new symbolic center was dedicated in the nearby East Group. There a massive royal tomb was encased within a platform (Román et al. 2018:figure  3.7) bearing monumental masks iconographically linked to a god associated with rites of royal accession and the jade hearth at the world’s center (Stuart 2012; Taube 1998), making this the de facto axis mundi for the kingdom’s third seat of authority. Again, there was a deliberate effort to symbolically link the new seat to its predecessor at a landscape scale. This time the royal tomb and platform were constructed with a precise orientation to the pyramid at El Diablo that encased the founder’s tomb and mortuary temple in its entirety (Houston et al. 2015). The two tombs of royal ancestors defined west and east termini for the center, while the new royal palace lay just north of this axis at the head of a great plaza around which a larger monumental core could develop. This shift in the royal seat occurred sometime between 450 to 500  CE, but other than for the continued remodeling and expansion of the East Group and possibly the damming of the El Zotz Reservoir (Beach et al. 2018), construction was limited. By this time the kingdom’s population was expanding (Garrison et al. 2021). There should have been sufficient resources to build up the monumental center, but this did not occur. It is possible that limits were obtained on what the pa’ka’n lords were allowed to do, given their subordination and close proximity to Tikal. Unlike other kingdoms that were established or subdued by the New Order, El Zotz was actually incorporated into the territory of the superpower, rather than simply vowing its political fealty. Kaj and Kingdom

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This submissive position may explain why the pa’ka’n lords, once relieved by the arrival of the Teotihuacanos at Tikal, chose to betray the New Order and ally itself with the rival Snake Kingdom. Even though no lengthy texts detail this betrayal or explicitly state El Zotz’s allegiance to the Snake kings, patterns elicited by Houston from an assortment of looted pots and text fragments strongly confirm this narrative (Houston 2008a; Houston, Garrison, and Román 2018, 21–27). Notably, it is in association with the Snake Kingdom that El Zotz lords begin using the k’uhul, “holy” prefix with their Emblem Glyph, suggesting that their shift in political allegiance successfully brought about some of the independence they sought. However, there is also evidence of dynastic disturbance, with a flurry of royal names appearing on pots, and the possible temporary ceding of the local throne to long-time dynastic allies at El Perú-Waka’ (Houston, Garrison, and Román 2018:25–26). Nevertheless, the period from Tikal’s defeat by the Snake Kingdom in 562 CE until the mutul lords got their revenge in 695 CE (Martin 2003) was one of monumental growth in the urban center of the El Zotz kingdom. The third seat of authority at the Acropolis grew, and large construction programs reshaped the landscape. This included the construction of a royal necropolis consisting of seven pyramids (all with looted royal tombs) and the further elaboration of pyramids in the East Group. Tikal’s defeat of the Snake Kingdom did not spell immediate doom for the pa’ka’n turncoats—perhaps still secure under the patronage of the El Perú-Waka’ dynasty—and in the early eighth century, the largest pyramid at El Zotz (Str. L7-11) was constructed in a single phase. The analysis of material sampled from the thousands of structures dotting the landscape around El Zotz is ongoing, but preliminary evidence suggests that much of the kingdom’s growth likely occurred while the seat of authority lay in the Acropolis (Garrison et al. 2021). This means that the structure density that defines the Buenavista Valley conurbation largely came into being in the century prior to and while Tikal was at a political nadir. However, no clear boundary delimits pa’ka’n and mutul during this period (spanning from about 450–700 CE), which raises a number of questions about the nature of the conurbation. Was La Cuernavilla still an active fortress at this time, and, if so, who controlled it? Were the watchtowers active, and, if so, were they used to monitor subject populations as much as they were to warn against external foes (Garrison et al. 2019)? Were seemingly landesque agricultural systems seen at El Palmar constructed during this time, and does the bisection of Preclassic causeways by agricultural canals imply a loss of sacredness for this place that was once painstakingly revered by the dynastic founder? Further research is necessary to address these issues, but it is clear that pa’ka’n kings relocated the royal seat of authority a fourth time in the early decades of the eighth century.

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Seat 4: Avoiding Wrath at Las Palmitas

The archaeological arguments for Las Palmitas as the fourth seat of authority, including the lone foreign Late Classic reference to pa’ka’n from Uaxactun Stela 2, were laid out earlier. El Zotz’s connection with El Perú-Waka’ likely protected it from retribution during Jasaw Chan K’awiil’s reign, but when his son Yik’in Chan K’awiil took the mutul throne in 734 CE, he began an aggressive campaign of conquest and vengeance (Martin and Grube 2008:44–50). There are no explicit references to El Zotz’s falling victim to a direct attack, but the move into the hills seems at least to acknowledge the threat of such violence. After the palace and pyramid were constructed at Las Palmitas in the early eighth century (Carter et al. 2018), no further completed monumental construction at El Zotz occurs. One thing notably absent from this relocation is the lack of any construction or ritual activity directly linking the Las Palmitas seat of authority to its predecessor in the Acropolis. However, seeing as the East Group’s main pyramid may have been the conceptual center of the community, the presence of large quantities of smashed and burnt ceramics in front of its adosados could be related to this relocation, replicating the Water Temple ritual at El Palmar centuries earlier. Another possibility is that the move occurred in such haste that no deliberate connection with the prior seat was made. This would be consistent with the general weakening of royal authority that appears to have played out while the throne was seated at Las Palmitas. There are definitely residential structures in the hills that date to this time and presumably would have been loyal to pa’ka’n, but preliminary interpretation of regional chronological data suggests that the weakening of royal authority at its fourth seat coincided with a contraction in the kingdom’s settlement in the Late Classic (Garrison et al. 2021). Ceramic data from a test pitting program at household groups in the immediate vicinity of El Zotz’s monumental core provide evidence that this contraction trend continued with a drastic influx of Terminal Classic population toward the pyramids on the valley floor (de Carteret 2017:156–59), even as the seat of authority remained up at Las Palmitas. Nor does any physical evidence of Late Classic warfare exist of the sort the Petexbatun adduces and signifies (Demarest 2006). Instead, the pa’ka’n rulers seemed to have accepted their subordinate status as Tikal grew to is apogee, staying ensconced in their hilltop palace just as they had done at the start of the dynasty. Only when Tikal showed signs of dynastic instability and regional unrest in the early ninth century did the pa’ka’n dynasty attempt a final relocation of the royal court. Seat 5: A Final Gasp

The fifth and final shift of the royal court was never fully realized. The dynasty was still powerful enough to commission a monument for the tenth bak’tun in 830  CE, and the ruler still used a full k’uhul pa’ka’n ajaw title (Newman et al. Kaj and Kingdom

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2018:122). But the attempt to revitalize the kingdom with another relocation failed. In the wake of the mutul dynasty’s destabilization at the start of the ninth century (Martin and Grube 2008:52–53), the pa’ka’n ruler tried to recapture the kingdom’s former glory by revitalizing the third seat of power in the El Zotz Acropolis. Newman (2015, 2019) convincingly argues that the large deposit of refuse that was burned throughout the surface of the Acropolis was a ritual of rejuvenation with cross-cultural analogies in Mesoamerica. So why was this process interrupted, which signaled the end of the pa’ka’n dynasty that could likely trace its origins back 1200 years to Late Preclassic El Palmar? The answer likely lies in our ability to continue to extract nuance from the conurban backdrop as we refine field and analytical methods for dealing with the cultural palimpsest revealed by lidar. By the ninth century, most of the cumulative impact of the ancient Maya was present in the landscape. The Terminal Classic population would have contended with ancient pyramids in ruin that the jungle was recapturing, scars of defensive trenches and decaying fortresses from conflicts that may or may not have been memorialized in bark paper books, remnants of neighborhoods only marked by low stone platforms and piles of discarded waste, and a host of other imprints accumulated over the centuries. Returning to Alcock’s (2002:19) conceptualization of social memory, she argues that “the physical world and tangible objects prompted and guided the course of memory.” By 900 CE, the physical world of the Buenavista Valley conurbation would have been loaded with such tangible objects, paving the way perhaps for a “countermemory” to subvert the royal family of pa’ka’n that had served as “masters of memory” for over a millennium (Alcock 2002:16–17). Maybe the encroachment of Terminal Classic residents on the Classic period urban core, as the seat of authority lay removed in the hills at Las Palmitas, forged new memories with the architectural environs of El Zotz, ones that were devoid of a royal presence. What exactly prevented the fifth seat of power from being established after the Acropolis’s ritual consecration is unknown at present. Texts do not record the ends of Maya dynasties. However, it is clear that the Terminal Classic residents mutilated and repurposed monuments erected by the pa’ka’n kings (Newman et al. 2018:122). These acts simultaneously rejected and appropriated the earlier founts of authority as part of a renegotiation of sociopolitical hierarchies in the wake of the collapse of the institution of Classic Maya kingship across the southern lowlands and the depopulation of a landscape that presented new opportunities to groups that could adapt. K A J I N A C O N U R B A N L A N D S C A P E : A S T R AT E G Y F O R P O L I T I C A L S U R V I VA L I N T H E S H A D O W O F A G I A N T

This chapter began by calling into question the appropriateness of broad typological comparisons and assessments of Maya urbanism until new methodological 96

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standards for data processing, ground verification, definition of temporality, or data sharing are established for lidar. It instead posits that a thorough consideration of more localized spatiotemporal trends in both settlement patterns and seats of authority is a necessary precursor to lowlands-wide interpretations of such phenomena. By focusing on a specific landscape, the Buenavista Valley of northern Guatemala, it explores one civic community’s motivations for local shifts in the dynastic seat of authority, exemplified by the archaeological and historical records of the pa’ka’n kingdom. This landscape is so dense with remnant features of ancient Maya impacts that they blend into a continuous, inseparable human whole better characterized as conurban (Garrison et al. 2019:143). In this chapter then, the arguments it presents are as much concerned with methodology as with interpreting the past. Presented as such, they mainly try to devise a meaningful way to integrate the comprehensive understanding of settlement patterns and dynastic history, acquired through archaeological and epigraphic methods, with the vastly expanded knowledge of the regional context thanks to lidar remote sensing. In the Buenavista Valley, which has an ancient architectural history of over 2,100 years (and likely an even longer presence of undetectable human settlement), the lidar data are so full of ancient features and their impacts that the resultant palimpsest is better defined as a conurbation. Rather than attempt to parse every individual element from the conurbation, I argue that it is more fruitful to accept its complexity and instead try to identify its defining characteristics based on an understanding of how it accumulated throughout the variegated history of an individual civic community, one whose collective identity resonates with its physical experiences and memories of different spatiotemporal configurations of a shared landscape. In the case of the Buenavista Valley conurbation, the most prominent characteristics are its extensive and massive defensive fortifications and its settlement density. Other landscapes that might not necessarily be conurban may still be characterized in this fashion. For example, a landscape could be best described based on the dominance of agricultural systems in proportion to structures or another for its lack of settlement density (both rough assessments of other regions covered by PLI [Canuto et al. 2018]). The key then is to reexamine the existing archaeological and epigraphic narrative in light of the landscape’s character. In the present case study, this involved considering local shifts in the seat of dynastic authority within the context of a densely settled, heavily fortified conurbation. To bridge the divide between the archaeological data and the landscape data, I have used concepts from Alcock’s (2002) study of social memory in ancient Greece. Together, a more robust rationale emerges for relocating the seat of dynastic authority, the mechanics of enacting these shifts and maintaining continuity of memory for those dependent upon the dynasty, and the consequences of these shifts. Kaj and Kingdom

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The resulting narrative is not perfect. Sometimes speculation is the only option if or when more research is needed to fill in gaps. In general, however, the interpretation is faithful to the existing archaeological data and the evidence of warfare—or at least the threat of violence so typical of landscape conurbation, a phenomenon that factors heavily into dynastic motivations for changing seats of authority. The pa’ka’n rulers were not prolific producers of monumental texts, but the interpretation of a shifting royal court within a conurban landscape seems to conform to events documented glyphically as kaj, “to settle” (Martin 2020:129–32). Rather than referring to dynastic foundings, the verb is used when royal authority is reinstantiated, which would be necessary each time a king changed the location of the court. If this is indeed the correct verb, the Buenavista Valley data suggest that a key part of kaj relocations is establishing continuity with the previous seat through ritual acts of remembrance. The use of a “kaj strategy” of mobile rule by the pa’ka’n dynasty of the Buenavista Valley was adaptive to the circumstances of its geopolitical and physical landscape. The strategy was so successful that the small kingdom endured in the shadow of the mutul kings of Tikal for centuries and may have even outlasted them, if only by a decade. NOTE

1. PAEZ has been directed over the years by Stephen Houston (2006–2011), Héctor Escobedo (2006–2007), Ernesto Arredondo (2008), Edwin Román (2009–2015), Thomas Garrison (2012–2023), Yeny Gutiérrez (2016–2019), and Elizabeth Marroquín (2020–2023). REFERENCES

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Auld-Thomas, Cyril Castanet, David Chatelain, Carlos R. Chiriboga, Tomáš Drápela, Tibor Lieskovský, Alexandre Tokovinine, Antolín Velasquez, Juan C. Fernández-Díaz, and Ramesh Shrestha. 2018. “Ancient Lowland Maya Complexity as Revealed by Airborne Laser Scanning of Northern Guatemala.” Science 361:eaau0137. https://doi.org/10.1126/science.aau0137. Carr, Robert F., and James E. Hazard. 1961. Map of the Ruins of Tikal, El Peten, Guatemala. Tikal Report 11. Philadelphia: University Museum Monograph 21, University of Pennsylvania. Carter, Nicholas P., Yeny M. Gutiérrez Castillo, and Sarah Newman. 2018. “Border Lords and Client Kings: El Zotz and Bejucal in the Late Classic Period.” In An Inconstant Landscape: The Maya Kingdom of El Zotz, Guatemala, edited by Thomas G. Garrison and Stephen Houston, 93–115. Boulder: University Press of Colorado. Chase, Arlen F., Diane Z. Chase, Jaime J. Awe, John F. Weishampel, Gyles Iannone, Holley Moyes, Jason Yaeger, Kathryn Brown, Ramesh L. Shrestha, William E. Carter, and Juan Fernandez Diaz. 2014. “Ancient Maya Regional Settlement and Inter-Site Analysis: The 2013 West-Central Belize LiDAR Survey.” Remote Sensing 6:8671–95. https://doi.org/10.3390/rs6098671. de Carteret, Alyce M. 2017. “Building Communities: The Craft of Housebuilding among the Classic Maya.” PhD diss., Brown University. Demarest, Arthur A. 2006. The Petexbatun Regional Archaeological Project: A Multidisciplinary Study of the Maya Collapse, vol. 1. Vanderbilt Institute of Mesoamerican Archaeology. Nashville: Vanderbilt University. Doyle, James A. 2017. Architecture and the Origins of Preclassic Maya Politics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. https: //doi.org/10.1017/9781107145375. Doyle, James A., Thomas G. Garrison, and Stephen D. Houston. 2012. “Watchful Realms: Integrating GIS Analysis and Political History in the Southern Maya Lowlands.” Antiquity 86:792–807. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0003598X0004792X. Doyle, James A., and Rony Piedrasanta. 2018. “Monumental Beginnings: The Preclassic Maya of El Palmar and the Buenavista Valley, Petén, Guatemala.” In An Inconstant Landscape: The Maya Kingdom of El Zotz, Guatemala, edited by Thomas G. Garrison and Stephen Houston, 46–69. Boulder: University Press of Colorado. Dunning, Nicholas P., Sheryl Luzzadder-Beach, Timothy Beach, John G. Jones, Vernon Scarborough, and T. Patrick Culbert. 2002. “Arising from the Bajos: The Evolution of a Neotropical Landscape and the Rise of Maya Civilization.” Annals of the Association of American Geographers 92:267–83. https://doi.org/10.1111/1467-8306.00290. Estrada-Belli, Francisco. 2011. The First Maya Civilization: Ritual and Power before the Classic Period. New York: Routledge. Fernandez-Diaz, Juan Carlos, William E. Carter, Craig Glennie, Ramesh L. Shrestha, Zhigang Pan, Nima Ekhtari, Abhinav Singhania, Darren Hauser, and Michael Sartori.

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Geisst, Charles R. 2004. Wall Street: A History. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Golden, Charles, Andrew K. Scherer, A. René Muñoz, and Rosaura Vasquez. 2008. “Piedras Negras and Yaxchilan: Divergent Political Trajectories in Adjacent Maya Polities.” Latin American Antiquity 19:249–74. Hansen, Richard D., Steven Bozarth, John Jacob, David Wahl, and Thomas Schreiner. 2002. “Climate and Environmental Variability in the Rise of Maya Civilization.” Ancient Mesoamerica 13:273–95. https://doi.org/10.1017/S095653610213209. Healey, Giles G. 1946. “Noticia sobre descubrimientos arqueológicos realizados en el Valle de Lancanjá, Edo. de Chiapas.” Diario de Yucatán 12 June. Mérida, Mexico. Houston, Stephen D. 2008a. “In the Shadow of a Giant.” http://www.mesoweb.com /zotz/articles/Shadow-of-a-Giant.pdf. Houston, Stephen D. 2008b. “The Epigraphy of El Zotz.” http://www.mesoweb.com /zotz/articles/ZotzEpigraphy.pdf. Houston, Stephen, and Thomas G. Garrison. 2015. “The Dedicated City: Meaning and Morphology in Classic Maya Urbanism.” In Early Cities in Comparative Perspectives, 4000 BCE–1200 CE, edited by Norman Yoffee, 48–73. Cambridge World History, vol. 3. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. https://doi.org/10.1017/ CHO9781139035606.005. Houston, Stephen, Thomas G. Garrison, and Omar Alcover Firpi. 2019. “Citadels and Surveillance: Conflictive Regions and Defensive Design in the Buenavista Citadels of Guatemala.” In Contributions in New World Archaeology, vol. 13, edited by Christophe Helmke, Harri Kettunen, and Jarosław Źrałka, 9–36. Kraków: Institute of Archaeology, Jagiellonian University. https://doi.org/10.33547/cnwa.13.01. Houston, Stephen, Thomas G. Garrison, and Edwin Román. 2018. “A Fortress in Heaven: Researching the Long Term at El Zotz, Guatemala.” In An Inconstant Landscape: The Maya Kingdom of El Zotz, Guatemala, edited by Thomas G. Garrison and Stephen Houston, 3–45. Boulder: University Press of Colorado. https://doi.org /10.5876/9781607327646.c0001. Houston, Stephen, Sarah Newman, Edwin Román, and Thomas Garrison. 2015. Temple of the Night Sun: A Royal Tomb at El Diablo, Guatemala. San Francisco: Precolumbia Mesoweb Press. Houston, Stephen, Edwin Román Ramírez, Thomas G. Garrison, David Stuart, Héctor Escobedo Ayala, and Pamela Rosales. 2021. “A Teotihuacan Complex at the Classic Maya City of Tikal, Guatemala.” Antiquity 95:E32. https://doi.org/10.15184/aqy.2021.140. Hutson, Scott R. 2016. The Ancient Urban Maya: Neighborhoods, Inequality, and Built Form. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Kingsley, Melanie J., and Laura Gámez. 2018. “In the Wake of ‘Collapse’: The PostDynastic or Early Postclassic Period at El Zotz.” In An Inconstant Landscape: The Maya Kingdom of El Zotz, Guatemala, edited by Thomas G. Garrison and Stephen Houston, 140–59. Louisville: University Press of Colorado. https://doi.org/10.5876/9781607327 646.c0006.

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Webster, David, Timothy Murtha, Kirk D. Straight, Jay Silverstein, Horacio Martínez, Richard Terry, and Richard Burnett. 2007. “The Great Tikal Earthwork Revisited.” Journal of Field Archaeology 32:41–64. https://doi.org/10.1179/009346907791071700. Yaeger, Jason, M. Kathryn Brown, and Bernadette Cap. 2016. “Locating and Dating Sites Using Lidar Survey in a Mosaic Landscape in Western Belize.” Advances in Archaeological Practice 4:339–56. https://doi.org/10.7183/2326-3768.4.3.339.

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4 A City in Flux The Dynamic Urban Form and Functions of El Perú-Waka’, Guatemala KEITH EPPICH

TJC–The College of East Texas DA M I E N B . M A R K E N

Commonwealth University of Pennsylvania–Bloomsburg University E L S A DA M A R I S M E N É N D E Z

Universidad de San Carlos, Guatemala

After a century, scholarly consensus now characterizes Classic Maya civilization as fully urbanized. However, Maya urban form differed so significantly from familiar Old World patterns that, to some, the extensive conurbations of the Classic period hardly seemed like cities at all. Their very nature fueled stiff scholarly resistance to the idea of Maya urbanism starting with V. Gordon Childe (1950; e.g., Chase and Chase 1998; Sanders and Webster 1988; Webster and Sanders 2001). Building an archaeology of Maya cities therefore requires a shift in the concept of urbanism itself, with greater appreciation of the recursive interplay between urban form, life, meaning, and function. Such interplay manifested in different ways at different times and in different places (see Marken and Arnauld, this volume). This conceptual shift is well underway especially with the proliferation of regional lidar surveys in combination with archaeological investigation across entire urban landscapes (e.g., Arnauld and Dzul Góngora; Chase; Hiquet et al.; Thompson and Prufer, this volume; see also Masson and Pereza Lope 2014). This shift is further supported by continued advancement in identifying and describing regional and local land-use practices (e.g., Beach et https://doi.org/10.5876/9781646424092.c004

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al. 2015; Chase 2016; Dunning, Beach, and Luzzader-Beach 2006; Dunning and Beach 2010; Dunning et al. 2015; Dunning et al. 2018; Murtha 2009, this volume; Nondedéo et al., this volume; Scarborough et al. 2012; Seefeld 2018). Many Mayanists have traditionally embraced, at least implicitly, functional definitions of urbanism. One such definition identified the Maya “city” as a monumental center possessing clusters of ritual architecture and inscriptions (Sanders and Webster 1988). It is evident that monumental cores housed civic institutions that served a variety of functions for their inhabitants, the most obvious of which were politico-religious in nature (e.g., Andrews 1975; Culbert 1991; Freidel et al. 1993; Houk 2015). Evidence from the Early Preclassic argues for civic components to ritual-religious communities as a facet of ideological power (Triadan and Inomata, this volume). From early on, ideology played an integral role in creating and maintaining civic communities and urban meanings (Demarest 1992; Freidel 1992; Stanton et al., this volume). Classic cities have deep roots in these ancient traditions of ritual, religion, and ceremony. The collective investment in monumental architecture and ritual performance appears to have been a major impetus toward sedentism and urban societies, not just in the Maya Lowlands, but across Formative Mesoamerica (e.g., Inomata et al. 2020; Inomata et al. 2015; Triadan and Inomata, this volume; see also Flannery and Marcus 2015). However, individual centers can be visualized as more than simply religiouspolitical entities, but as networked clusters of sociospatial, economic, and ritual functions serving as “the building blocks of polity” (Marken and Fitzsimmons 2015b:4). This emphasizes how the internal make-up and articulation of these centers changed through time—and varied in space—tracking fluctuations in the scope of centralized dynastic power (Foias and Emery 2012; Golden and Scherer 2013; LeCount and Yaeger 2010; Marken and Fitzsimmons 2015a). In many ways, the data emphasized in these internal models mirror the bottom-up approaches to urban community advocated throughout this volume. Although their terminologies differ, scholarly studies of urban form and polity involve both settlement patterns and ecological processes. The data produced by such studies become critical in interpreting Maya urban traditions within local contexts of dynastic history and civic community (Foias and Emery 2012; LeCount and Yaeger 2010; Marken 2015). Isolating specific urban functions allows for the interpretation of the formation, articulation, and dissolution of communities that coalesced into larger civic identities. This includes the overlapping factors of politics, religion, commerce, security, and industry that draw a people toward one another. It is the interplay between such factors that fuel urbanization and not necessarily the dense populations that they may or may not produce (M. L. Smith 2003, 2019). Over the course of a city’s occupation, urban processes created and re-created its form, its communities, and its demographics. Urban functions both defined 106

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and drove these developments. As functions shifted, the overall urban composition reflected this dynamism, and the city itself changed shape (e.g., Jacobs 1969; M. L. Smith 2019). The research here views the practices and traditions that contribute to creating civic communities and institutions as particular urban functions, which acted as inducements for urban settlement (see Marken and Arnauld, this volume). In the following case study of El Perú-Waka’, these urban functions are primarily identified from the archaeological investigation of monumental architecture, elite residential excavations, and epigraphic studies, all within the bounds of a Classic urban center. Their interpretation here is filtered through a lens of shifting hinterland residential patterns to illustrate how tracking changes in urban form on a spatiotemporal scale can reveal the success or termination of urban functions (see part II, this volume). The chapter documents the dynamism of form and function for a longlived city of the Classic period. El Perú-Waka’ stood as a city for at least eight centuries. Yet, like cities today (e.g., Mitchell and Tang 2018), it was a city that constantly changed shape. As settlement shifted across the landscape, social and civic requirements developed recursively, processes that repeated themselves and changed with each repetition. Over the course of its occupation, the Maya citizens of El Perú-Waka’ made different demands on their city. Exactly how these demands were met, or not, substantially affected the city’s form through time. This created a dynamic urban settlement pattern, a city in flux. There was not a single El Perú-Waka’, but a succession of cities, each developing from its predecessor. The research presented here combines what is known of the civic core—including factors or functions that could have acted to draw migrants, to encourage residents to stay, or to justify their departure—with the results of an extensive survey and test-pitting program across the urban periphery. This is a data-driven effort to document the flexibility of urban settlement, as well as to better contextualize the factors that influenced these broad settlement dynamics through time. The test-pit investigations are compared to a set of excavations from one of the city’s outlying areas, the Tres Hermanas district. The Tres Hermanas information serves as an important complement to the expansive test-pit data. Although test-pit ceramic chronologies excel in documenting broad settlement trends, the Tres Hermanas excavations provide vital detail about life in the El Perú-Waka’ hinterlands and an important reminder of the limitations of test-pit excavations. T H E C I T Y O F WA K A ’

Today El Perú-Waka’ consists of a patch of ruined structures covering some 16 km2 in the rainforest of northwestern Guatemala, near the junction of the Ríos San Juan and San Pedro Martir in the Laguna del Tigre National Park of A City in Flux

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FIGURE 4.1.

Map of El Perú-Waka’ and associated Hinterlands (map by D. Marken, courtesy

of PAW).

Guatemala’s Department of Petén (see Marken and Arnauld, this volume, figure 1.1). It is a natural treasure of biological diversity, featuring populations of endangered macaws, Morelet’s crocodiles, and the park’s namesake, the Central American jaguar. The urban core of El Perú-Waka’ lies at the edge of the Central Petén Karst Plateau, a raised geological tabletop of limestone, locally standing some 60–80 meters over swampy terrain to the south and west (figure 4.1). The Proyecto Arqueológico Waka’ (PAW) consists of a team of Guatemalan and foreign researchers who, for the better part of two decades, have focused on the documentation, preservation, promotion, and investigation of the ancient city (e.g., Freidel et al. 2007; Navarro-Farr and Rich 2014). Physically, El PerúWaka’ consists of a monumental epicenter designed around two large-open areas, Plazas 1 and 2, which are surrounded by tall pyramids and large palatial compounds. The largest of these residences is the royal Northwest Palace, 108

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which anchors a corner of the urban core. The epicenter is physically connected by a causeway to a second monumental complex, which hosts the city’s grandest pyramids, Structures O14-02 and O14-04. This is the Mirador Group, named after its pronounced elevation. It occupies a hilltop at the edge of the limestone escarpment, towering 100–120 meters above the Río San Juan. Throughout the city’s occupation, the two pyramids would have dominated the urban skyline. Scattered across the urban core are fifty-one documented stelae, bearing what is known of the local dynastic history (Guenter 2014; Kelly 2020; see also Navarro-Farr et al. 2020). The hieroglyphs reveal a long and complicated sequence, from the dynasty’s foundation in the first few centuries CE to its participation in the major events of the Classic period. These include the city’s deep involvement in the Entrada of Sihyaj K’ahk’ in the fourth century, the city’s revival under the auspices of Calakmul in the seventh century, its military defeat by Tikal in the eighth century, and the efforts of the final kings to revive a fading dynasty in the ninth century. The records even give the city’s original name, Waka’, named for the tropical, multilegged scolopendra insects. It was the City of the Centipede (Guenter 2007). Waka’ was not the largest, most potent, or wealthiest Classic city, yet it rested at a crucial nexus of trade and diplomacy, the place where a significant overland route intersected a major waterway. Waka’ stood on the “crossroads of conquerors” (Freidel, Escobedo, and Guenter 2007). Indeed, the city may have even formed around its riverine port. The city lasted for some 1,300 years, stretching from the Late Preclassic to the Terminal Classic, from 300 BCE to at least 1050 CE. This includes its urban formation in the Protoclassic and Early Classic periods as the Maya arranged their city around the public spaces of Plazas 1 and 2. It includes the possibility of a significant discontinuity in occupation in the sixth century (cf. Ball 2014). This likely coincides with a known gap in the epigraphic record, a hiatus in monumental history that lasted from 564 to 657 (Guenter 2014; Kelly 2020). The city appeared to recover in a broadly prosperous period in the Late Classic, the period of its alliance with Calakmul. That came to an abrupt halt in the mid-eighth century with the city’s defeat by Tikal in 743. That event triggered a likely crisis of political identity for city residents, ending with the apparent dissolution of the ruling dynasty in the early ninth century (Eppich 2017). The last-known dated stela bears a likely date of 801, with the abandonment of much of the royal palace following not long afterward. The city itself lived on for another two hundred years, well into the eleventh century. The lengthy occupation documented by PAW marks Waka’ as one of the longer-lived Classic cities, possibly even surviving Calakmul and Tikal by one or two centuries (Braswell et al. 2003; Haviland 2003). The City of the Centipede serves as an excellent place to study the urbanizing factors present in Classic civilization and the manner in which they changed through time. A City in Flux

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U R B A N I S M A N D T H E U R B A N F O R M O F WA K A ’

As Marken and Arnauld note (this volume), the emergent paradigm on Maya urbanism views these settlements as extensive, low-density constructions, highly adaptable and highly flexible. Urban form shifted to meet the requirements of the natural environment, pressures from external forces, and the internal demands of the city’s own population. While this likely involved some sort of central management, the main foci of such dynamism originated from the inhabitants themselves. Urbanism, Marken and Arnauld indicate, is an expression of society. As society shifts to accommodate pressures from inside and out, so too will the urban form. Neighborhoods rise and fall, whole urban districts will flourish or lie fallow, and even once-glorious public architecture can fall into ruination as local society leaves it behind. Overall, the result appears to have been a dynamic pattern modern scholars have termed the “garden-city” (Chase and Chase 1998; Graham 1999). This pattern consisted of a managed mosaic of residences, public works, temples, and palaces mixed in among reservoirs, gardens and corn fields, swampy internal bajos, and curated forests (e.g., Fedick 1996; Fletcher 2012; Isendahl 2012; Isendahl and Smith 2013; Lentz et al. 2015; Lemonnier and Vannière 2013; Marken 2011; Marken and Murtha 2017; Smith 2011). Such a patchwork likely developed as a result of maximizing environmental stability. Adjacent to dense forests, exhausted cornfields or even entire deserted districts would rapidly return to nature, the rainforest closing over abandoned areas (Arnauld 2008; Eppich 2015; Marken, Ricker et al. 2019). The Classic Maya urban tradition blended city and landscape together and deeply involved surrounding rural hinterlands (Murtha, Nondedeo et al., this volume). The novel perspective of this volume is to focus on the dynamism present within the lowland urban tradition. Urban form changed to meet the changing needs of urban society as the population made different demands on a settlement’s functions. People asked their cities to do different things at different times. From this perspective, urban functions can then be defined as the things that people want their cities to do; otherwise population would not be drawn to the urban environment, it would not flourish there, nor would it stay for very long. Cross-culturally (e.g., Fox 1977), it is common for cities to house regal-ritual performances (Stanton et al., Triadan and Inomata, this volume); administer political power (compare Hiquet, Sion, and Perla-Barrera and Liendo and Campiani, this volume); buy and sell in quantities large and small; follow designs of regional and resource extraction (Chase, Murtha, Nondedeo et al., this volume); and produce goods, services, and crafts for a larger world (Masson and Freidel 2012, 2013; M. L. Smith 2019; Stanish 2010). To these, there remains an additional and necessary function, simple security (see Garrison, this volume). It is well documented that political instability, military strife, and civil insecurity are major contributing factors to urbanization (Ades and Glaeser 1995). During 110

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such instability, the state cannot guarantee safety or security in large portions of the countryside. The result tends to be that the rural poor move toward urban areas of relatively greater safety, which, in turn, fuels large-scale urban growth. When cities succeeded in these six broadly defined urban functions, they grew and changed. When they failed to fulfill all, or even most, of them they died or never even existed in the first place. C O M M U N I T I E S AT E L P E R Ú - WA K A ’ : NEIGHBORHOODS AND DISTRICTS

The dynamism of urban form, in order to meet changing urban functions, is mostly felt in the residential sectors of a city. Michael Smith (2010; Smith and Novic 2012) has proposed a two-tiered hierarchy for these residential zones. This consists of large administrative districts and areas with some manner of administrative or social identity, which, in turn, contain smaller neighborhoods. Neighborhoods themselves possess distinctive physical or social characteristics and considerable face-to-face interaction between their inhabitants. Important features are residential proximity with a high degree of interpersonal knowledge and interaction with a sense of shared identity (Smith 2011). Neighborhoods in the Classic Maya Lowlands share many of these characteristics and are the likely urban manifestations of rural Maya communities (Yaeger and Canuto 2000).1 They are composed of a number of constituent households with a strong basis in kinship structures (Ensor 2013; Eppich 2011). Indeed, kinship structures likely underlined much of the organizational elements of both neighborhoods and districts, as they did in the Postclassic period (Annereau-Fulbert 2012). Within the neighborhood, the frequency and personal nature of daily interactions created alternate opportunities for creating community within the city—ones potentially distinct from the larger civic community fostered by dynasts. Neighborhoods and districts were also affected by the constraints imposed and opportunities offered by local physiography. At Waka’, settlement was largely restricted to well-drained upland areas, both atop and near the base of the escarpment (Marken 2015). Defined by decreasing settlement density away from the epicenter, the mapped settlement as a whole can be divided into three broad zones: an urban core, a near periphery, and a far periphery (figure 4.2). Zones are most clearly distinguished by settlement density drop-off, often dictated by the physiographic characteristics of each zone. The urban core is a largely congruous level area tucked into the elevated corner of the escarpment, while the near periphery physical geography is instead both generally linear and more varied. The narrow upland ridges north and east of the core atop the escarpment are rather steep, with a significant proportion of upland top spoil accumulated in the seasonal drainage systems that run east-west. In contrast, the near periphery settlement below the escarpment occupies an upland A City in Flux

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FIGURE 4.2 .

Proposed urban division of El Perú-Waka’ (map by D. Marken, courtesy of PAW).

strip between the escarpment and the Río San Juan floodplain. As elaborated later, access to traffic along this currently seasonal floodplain (a tributary that connects the northern Chocob hydrological system to the larger San Pedro Martír River) played a prominent role in the city’s development. As one wanders beyond the near periphery, settlement becomes more dispersed, evidenced in a diverse array of small to medium residential clusters that typically occupy small elevated areas across the eroded limestone landscape. The urban core extends across a broad, relatively level area where the southern edge of the Petén Karst Plateau briefly curves north and contains ritual-religious structures, substantial palace compounds, and packed clusters of residential architecture. Structure density in the core is high for the Maya Lowlands, with at least 1,216 structures packed into 1.38 km2, yielding a density of 881 structures per km2 (Marken, Pérez et al. 2019; Marken and Ricker 2024). The urban core also includes large open plazas, the swampy remains of reservoirs, and even potential 112

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areas of cultivation (Marken, Ricker et al. 2019). A number of bounding features delineate the core, one of which is the steep 80-meter escarpment edge to the south and southwest. The northern edge is defined by an enigmatic but clearly present ditch feature (Canuto et al. 2018; see Marken, Cooper and Pérez 2019; Marken, Cooper et al. 2020). The core contains scores of residential compounds, patio groups, and isolated domiciles often piled one on top of the other. They can be grouped in sixteen proposed neighborhoods loosely organized into six core districts (Marken and Ricker 2024). Outside the urban core, the near periphery consists of settlement clusters beyond the identified boundary features. They can be considered the city’s “fauxbourgs” or periurban communities. Current data suggest that these populations were organized into three expansive districts on the northwest, southwest, and southeast, which collectively contain at least eleven distinct periurban neighborhood clusters of their own (Marken 2015:figure 5.6). These divisions are markedly more distinct when compared to the tangle of structures in the core, and, even when spatially proximate, the groups are typically topographically isolated. Indeed, topographically, the Southwestern District lies below the edge of the limestone escarpment adjacent to the riverine bottomlands along the Río San Pedro. This district may represent something of a “low-town,” an under-thehill community connecting the larger city to riverine port facilities. As described later, the Southwest District may actually be one of the oldest portions of the city itself. To the northeast are four widely separated neighborhoods perched on isolated karstic hilltops. They are too distant from one another to be considered as any manner of residential district. Outside of that, the far periphery contains widely dispersed clusters of residence compounds and patio groups. They group into seven large districts, each containing more than a dozen of these clusters. The districts range from the series of patio groups atop karstic hills east of the core to the low-lying bajo-margin communities of Tres Hermanas and North Bajo, south and north of the core, respectively. Some, such as Tres Hermanas, contain multiple settlement clusters or, like the Chakah District, a single dispersed neighborhood. The settlements of the far periphery appear to be the most dynamic, as they appear as singlephase, fairly short-lived communities, especially when compared to the longevity displayed in the core. Beyond the far periphery is the rural hinterland proper. Regional reconnaissance identified scattered satellite settlements arranged in a 20 km arc to the north and east of Waka’ (Marken and Castelleña 2014). Only a single one of these, the Early Classic center of Yala, has been mapped and tested in any capacity (Marken 2008; Menéndez 2008; Quiroa Flores 2007). Scattered throughout the periphery are several large residential compounds with elaborate, impressive architecture. They are generally located toward the centers of their respective neighborhoods and likely represent elite social units A City in Flux

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(see Arnauld and Dzul Góngora; Hiquet et al.; Thompson and Prufer, this volume). While most of the periphery awaits investigation, it can be determined that the elites at Waka’ were not limited to the urban core. A full range of social class seems distributed through all the zones of the city, although both elites and the overall population are concentrated in the core. M E T H O D O L O G Y I N T H E E X P L O R AT I O N OF AN URBAN PERIPHERY

To reconstruct the urban forms present at Waka’, PAW initiated an ambitious program of survey, mapping, test pitting, and intensive excavation in the peripheries of the city. This included a full-coverage pedestrian survey (e.g., Marken 2011, 2013, 2014a, 2014b; Pérez and Marken 2017), confirmed and augmented by a recent lidar scan and ground-truthing program (Canuto et al. 2018; Marken, Cooper, and Pérez 2019; Marken, Cooper et al. 2020). The survey was accompanied by a wide-ranging strategy of test pitting across the urban peripheries (Arroyave 2010; Menéndez 2008, 2009; Menéndez and Cuyán 2015; Ramírez 2006; Ramírez and Marken 2007). Altogether, this involved 122 test-pitting operations in 103 periphery patio groups. From these, investigators recovered over 60,300 identifiable ceramic sherds. Early analysis of this material suggested a dynamic urban landscape (Marken 2011, 2015), indicated by a slow build of settlement throughout the periphery, followed by a sharp contraction at the beginning of the Terminal Classic. However, there was considerable uncertainty in much of the data, and it lacked a finely tuned chronology available for some of the assemblages in the urban core (e.g., Eppich 2011). In 2016, PAW completed a re-analysis of the ceramic typology of Waka’ (Eppich 2017). It included a re-calibration of the known ceramic sequence into early and late facets. Ceramic complexes were then dated using excavated stelae, known ceramic markers, and funerary assemblages. With sufficiently large and sensitive assemblages, even twenty-year periods became discernible. To date, the ceramic sequence for Waka’ consists of six large ceramic complexes, named after K’iche’ color terminology (figure 4.3). The Kaq Complex comprises Late Preclassic ceramic types and is associated with the period 300 BCE to 200 CE. It is followed by the Q’an Complex, associated with Late Preclassic ceramics and the addition of well-known Protoclassic types (see Brady et al.1998). Q’an Complex ceramics appear between 1–250  CE. They segue into Early Classic ceramics, organized into the Saq Complex, and are attached to the dates 250–550. A brief transitional phase occurs between the Early and Late ceramic traditions in the sixth century. The Q’eq’ Complex follows. It comprises well-documented Late Classic types and appears between 550–800. An unusual ceramic complex emerges toward the end of the eighth century. The Morai Complex consists of ceramic types distinct to the 114

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FIGURE 4. 3.

Ceramic sequence of El Perú-Waka’ (drawings by K. Eppich, courtesy of PAW).

transitional period between the Late and Terminal Classic potting traditions. It dates from 770–820 and runs contemporaneous with both the Q’eq’ and the succeeding Rax Complex. That final complex contains the distinct ceramics of the Terminal Classic and dates from 800–1050. All of these complexes possess early and late facets, except for the Rax Complex, which also possesses a very rare final facet attached to the eleventh century. With this newly refined ceramic chronology, the authors have determined that a re-appraisal of testpit ceramics was necessary in order to better determine the overall patterns A City in Flux

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present in the urban periphery. Indeed, the application of the new ceramic chronology to the test-pit ceramics will continue, and the urban sequence presented here will undergo further refinement. To understand residence in the periphery more fully, we selected one of the outlying districts, the Tres Hermanas District, for intensive exploration (figure 4.2). Over the course of three field seasons, investigators placed a number of excavations across three of the larger compounds and three of the smaller patio groups of the settlement along the uplands east of the Río San Juan (Eppich and Austin 2015; Menéndez and Dakos 2017; Marken, Menéndez et al. 2020). Tres Hermanas is not representative of the urban periphery, but it does provide an important perspective on life in that periphery. This is especially vital in light of subsequent excavations currently planned for these peripheral districts. It also gives a critical corrective for the test-pit data by comparing interpretations from the test pits against the more intensive archaeology of Tres Hermanas. The result of this comparison is the affirmation that test-pit material can successfully predict the occupation of patio groups, although with certain provisions. One, the test pits tend to be placed directly into construction fill, either in the center or on the edges of a group. As such, they tend to oversample earlier ceramics. For the Tres Hermanas material, some test pits contained substantial ceramics from the Saq Complex, thus suggesting an Early Classic occupation. Broader excavations there revealed a settlement that was almost entirely late facet Late Classic and early facet Terminal Classic. Construction fills simply contained remains of a few earlier structures that were demolished and used as foundations for later architecture. Two, the test pits tend to undersample the occupation prior to abandonment, as material from the final phase of occupation tends to be horizontally distributed. The test-pit data from Tres Hermanas contained only 14–49 percent early facet Terminal Classic material. The intensive excavations, on the other hand, consisted of 50–60 percent early facet Terminal Classic ceramics. This can be offset in future investigations with the addition of surface collections or broad shallow excavation units. Three, the test-pit data rarely show evidence for hiatuses in occupation. The test pits from Tres Hermanas seemed to indicate continuous usage from throughout the Early Classic through to Terminal Classic. Yet the excavations revealed two very distinct phases, a quite modest Early Classic occupation followed by a substantial Late-Terminal Classic community. At least two centuries separate these phases, the only likely connection between the two being that the later inhabitants used the earlier structures as construction fill. Four, test-pit assemblages do not necessarily reflect occupation, only deposition. Test pits cannot distinguish between a fully inhabited patio group and a sheet midden covering an abandoned one. Nevertheless, the test pit data provide a unique view of the broader occupation in the urban periphery. A sample of 103 outlying patio groups, supplemented by 116

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FIGURE 4.4. Late Preclassic Kaq Complex (300 BCE–200 CE) occupations in the El Perú-Waka’ hinterlands (map by D. Marken and K. Eppich, courtesy of PAW).

a selected intensive excavation, forms the basis of a dataset unavailable to many projects and one that enables a novel perspective on a Classic city in flux. E L P E R Ú - WA K A ’ : A C I T Y I N F L U X

From the materials recovered from the test-pitting operations, at least six different versions of Waka’ existed, each corresponding to the known ceramic complexes (Eppich 2017). The first of these is the settlement pattern associated with Kaq Complex ceramics. Preclassic Waka’ is not so much a city as a series of widely separated patio groups (figure  4.4). Nor did excavators recover these ceramics from large compounds, but from rather modest clusters of housemounds (Arroyave 2010; Menéndez 2008, 2009). The groups are roughly equidistant from one another, scattered along the edge of the limestone escarpment. To date, little evidence exists of Late Preclassic construction in the urban core or, for that matter, much activity at all. There are a number of Kaq Complex structures A City in Flux

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and deposits associated with shrines on the Mirador Group, thus establishing the sacred nature of the prominence long before the Maya built pyramids there (Rich 2011). Late Preclassic Waka’ appears to consist of scattered farmsteads along karstic hills overlooking the Río San Juan. The Protoclassic Q’an Complex itself exists as an addition to the Late Preclassic elements as the potting tradition shifted into the Early Classic (Eppich 2017). As such, it supplements rather than replaces the existing material from the Late Preclassic. Mapping this material reveals the emergence of Waka’ as a coherent settlement with the first appearance of urban elements. The result may not be strictly “urban” (see Hutson 2016:16–17) as such, but it does indicate a small nucleated community located around and below a Protoclassic core (figure 4.5). The same scattered farmsteads dot the karstic escarpment to the north and east. However, a distinct clustered settlement appears just to the south of this core. This is the unusual Southwest District, a line of compounds and patio groups stretching east-west between the floodplain of the Río San Juan and the escarpment. To the west, it ends at a shoreline group named Bakxulcar, the site of limited excavations (Rivas 2017). Survey and excavation in the vicinity document the ruins of a poorly understood waterfront area containing numerous faunal remains of wetland species, predominantly fish (Rivas 2017). Bakxulcar was most likely a location for the exploitation of wetland resources or a docking area for riverine transport, if not both. Ceramics recovered from Bakxulcar place its initial usage in the early facet of the Q’an Complex, but the Maya made use of it throughout their occupation of the city. In fact, the whole of the Southwest District strongly, albeit superficially, resembles riverine port facilities (cf. Demarest et al. 2014; Moriarty 2012; Powis et al. 2009). The Protoclassic also sees the earliest solid evidence for large-scale activity in the core. A ceremonial center existed at that time, one currently buried underneath and serving as the foundation for Plazas 2 and 3 (Castañeda and Freidel 2013). Based on the orientation of the old Protoclassic core, David Freidel has suggested the possibility of an E-Group located at the eastern end of Plaza 2 (see Freidel 2017). As of yet, no evidence confirms large residential compounds around the Protoclassic core, but such compounds could also be undetected, deeply buried, or effaced by later construction. In addition, the Protoclassic epicenter is connected to the hilltop shrines of the Mirador Group by a causeway, which was likely constructed around this time (Eppich 2019; Eppich and Haney 2017; Marken, Pérez et al. 2019). If still not fully “urban,” Q’an Complex Waka’ resembles a riverine port town. There is a long series of patio groups along the river’s floodplain, a ceremonial core on the heights above it, and a series of scattered farmsteads to the north and east. As best as can be reconstructed, even the Protoclassic “river-town” of Waka’ developed a number of urban functions that fueled a growing community. The Protoclassic core contains obvious evidence of ritual-religious activity. The 118

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FIGURE 4.5. Protoclassic Q’an Complex (1– 250 CE) occupations in the El Perú-Waka’ hinterlands (map by D. Marken and K. Eppich, courtesy of PAW).

Southwest District suggests the possibility of riverine commerce and a potential mercantile function, drawing population toward the growing town. Settlement shifts significantly in the Early Classic (ca. 250–550  CE). The pattern associated with Saq Complex ceramics is quite clearly urban. The settlement possesses a dense core and thickly settled hinterland with residences and patio groups clustered in its near periphery (figure 4.6). Yet the Early Classic city is not merely an enlarged version of the Protoclassic town. There appears to be a diminution of settlement in the far periphery or, at least, a considerable reorganization there. In the center, the Maya demolished the Protoclassic core and used the structures as the foundation for large open plazas (Castañeda and Freidel 2013). They organized the city around these open spaces, creating an alignment that lasted for the duration of the city. They built the initial stages of the royal palace, they raised the first carved stelae, and they constructed large pyramids on top of the Mirador’s hilltop shrines (Guenter 2014; Peréz Robles et al. 2017; Rich 2011). They thickly settled the core in a wave of new groups that extended A City in Flux

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FIGURE 4.6. Early Classic Saq Complex (250– 550 CE) occupations in the El Perú-Waka’ hinterlands (map by D. Marken and K. Eppich, courtesy of PAW).

into the near periphery, particularly in the areas northeast and northwest of the urban center. The Southwest District, the old riverine “low-town,” increased in size and population, and the Bakxulcar platform was significantly expanded. If it already signifies a Protoclassic river port, then the city’s mercantile functions grew more important in the Early Classic period (Eppich and Freidel 2015). One of the unresolved issues regarding Early Classic Waka’ remains the rapidity of its urban transformation. Currently available data cannot refine this process of urbanization beyond a 150-year window. The city formed around the new epicenter between the end of Protoclassic ceramic traditions, around 250 CE, and before the height of the Early Classic traditions, around 400. This formation could have been either drawn out over the entire period or quickly realized over a few decades. There is some evidence, however, that supports a rapid urbanization. The demolition of the Protoclassic core, the cosmologic alignment of the central plazas, and the deliberate placement of the palaces and pyramids suggests a central design, one likely executed within a single 120

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generation. If so, Waka’ strongly resembles the eastern lowland city of Río Azul. There, as Richard Adams (1999) argued, a planned monumental epicenter was imposed upon a smaller, older settlement to control an important commercial route. Río Azul even possessed large, planned plazas and ritual architecture on elevated heights overlooking a riverine settlement. Adams even suspected large port facilities along the riverside. The apparent construction and occupation of Yala, 18 km to the east, further supports this idea, that an Early Classic satellite community anchored the city’s position and control on the San Pedro Martir River. Nevertheless, Waka’ was clearly an urban center by the fifth century, possessing many of the urban functions described and enough importance to attract the attention of Sihyaj K’ahk’ in 378 CE. The city’s rulers and royal court indicate administrative functions. Large, prominent pyramids on a natural elevation with royal figures on stelae indicate a regal-ritual function. Economic functions are likely present in the suspected riverine port. If the situation of the city’s founding resembles that of Río Azul, the whole urban form may be designed by a governing authority with powerful interests founding a new city on a critical commercial route. However, the relative importance of any of these urban functions remains unknown. As mentioned, the possibility does exist of some manner of discontinuity in the city’s sixth-century occupation as the Early Classic city became the Late Classic city. Regardless, in the seventh century, Waka’ emerged as a fully realized Maya urban center, one clearly identifiable by association with Q’eq’ Complex ceramics. The city possessed a densely inhabited urban core, a continually occupied river district, and a far-flung and wide-ranging occupation of both the near and far periphery (figure  4.7). This period represents both the largest extent of the city as well as the moment of its maximal population. The Southwest District, the old “low-town,” continued to be occupied and utilized. In the core, the Late Classic Maya continued to build onto earlier structures, adding to the size and elaboration of the administrative and religious architecture (Eppich 2019; Eppich and Haney 2017; Escobedo and Meléndez 2005, 2006; Peréz Robles et al. 2017; Pérez Robles and Pérez 2016, 2018). The royal lineage raised a large number of carved stelae prominently featuring themselves (Guenter 2014; Kelly 2020). Beyond the urban core, settlement was dispersed across the entire periphery. Material from the test pits suggests that the Maya moved into the districts of the far periphery, particularly on the karstic uplands, prominences, and hilltops to the north and east. This was apparently at the expense of the neighborhoods of the near periphery, which diminished when compared to their earlier occupations. Following the floodplain’s edge, settlement also spread along the lowlands, specifically along the base of the escarpment. These settlements include two distinct districts, Tres Hermanas and Chakah. PAW intensively excavated Chakah, as the ruin’s proximity to the river had A City in Flux

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FIGURE 4.7. Late Classic Q’eq’ Complex (550– 800 CE) occupations in the El Perú-Waka’ hinterlands (map by D. Marken and K. Eppich, courtesy of PAW).

facilitated destructive looting. Looters placed dozens of opportunistic trenches and pits into the structures there before, during, and after archaeological investigations, finding little for the antiquities market but heavily damaging the district’s structures. Fabiola Quiroa Flores and Griselda Pérez Robles led investigations there between 2003 and 2006 (Quiroa 2004, 2007; Quiroa et al. 2005; Quiroa et al. 2006). Excavations focused on the main group but ranged widely; they included placing trenches, units, and additional test pits across the district. Chakah consists of a large rectilinear main group of ritual and residential structures surrounded by a loose collection of smaller compounds and patio groups. It most likely represents the remains of a single community, a neighborhood that focused on exploiting the nearby swampy lowlands and taking advantage of alluvial soils (Kunen 2004; Kunen et al. 2000). Chakah contains ceramics from the early and late facets of the Late Classic Q’eq’ Complex. It was founded at some point in the early seventh century, the inhabitants making use of abandoned platforms left over from the Late Preclassic. Most of the structures possess only 122

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FIGURE 4.8. Late/Terminal Classic Morai Complex (770– 820 CE) occupations in the El PerúWaka’ hinterlands (map by D. Marken and K. Eppich, courtesy of PAW).

a single construction phase. In the main group, the deliberate rectilinear placement adduces an original intent of a planned settlement. Chakah flourished throughout the Late Classic, as the established patio groups across the district attest. Tres Hermanas, presented in detail later, appeared midway through the Late Classic; artifacts from its settlement contain ceramics associated with the late facet of the Q’eq’ Complex from the early eighth century. The Morai Complex includes ceramic types associated with the Late-toTerminal transition (Eppich 2017), as well as a number of Late Classic ceramic types and forms. As such, the Morai Complex is similar to the Protoclassic Q’an Complex; that is, it adds to the existing ceramic tradition rather than a chronologically distinct replacement. The cityscape, during this period, begins to shift significantly (figure 4.8). The urban core and the Southwest District continued to be densely inhabited, but the peripheral settlements changed. Chakah was abandoned completely by 800—apparently all at once. At the same time, the neighborhoods immediately north of the urban core saw increased activity. A City in Flux

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The assemblages recovered from the test pits there contain substantial Q’eq’ Complex ceramics. However, it is unknown whether this represents a reinvigoration or complete resettlement of the old Early Classic neighborhoods there. Politically, it is this period that sees the dissolution of the royal court at Waka’ (Eppich and Van Oss 2017). The apparent contraction of the settlement migration to the core that began in the late eighth century not only continued but also looks to have accelerated into the ninth century. This is the final stage of the city and the last known portion of the ceramic tradition, the Rax Complex (figure 4.9). This is a period of highly dense occupation of the urban core, especially for the ninth century. From the excavations there, virtually every residence is inhabited, every space is used, and every new structure is built in previously unoccupied areas. The one exception appears to be the royal palace itself, which was still inhabited in the early ninth century but apparently was falling into ruin (Peréz Robles et al. 2017; Pérez Robles and Pérez 2017, 2019). The Southwest District, as always, mirrored the core, inhabited as it had from the beginning. The hinterlands saw considerable change as well, though it is change that is difficult to interpret. There is a considerable diminution of activity in the periphery, reflected in much smaller ceramic assemblages. This could represent diminished settlement, abandonment of the residences but continued usage of the land, or some combination of the two. The outlying district of Chakah, clearly abandoned by the ninth century, possesses Terminal Classic ceramics and some degree of activity. People were returning to that area, but not residing there. Indeed, investigators documented ninth-century votive deposits placed on abandoned structures, including a large, three-dimensional full-figural incensario (Quiroa 2004). Its existence could well signify that the descendants of Chakah had settled in the core and used it to honor their ancestors, whose land descendants continued to work. Chakah is only an hour walk from the urban core, so that continued usage of the land, though inconvenient, would not have been impossible. Tres Hermanas, on the other hand, was inhabited through the ninth century and possessed the large ceramic assemblages demonstrating such occupation. For the remainder of the peripheral settlement, based just on test-pit investigations, the situation is much more difficult to interpret. Some areas, such as those in the near periphery, diminish so significantly as to appear to have been abandoned. Other areas, particularly the northeast neighborhoods in the far periphery, possess significant assemblages of Rax Complex ceramics. This argues in favor of continued occupation. Interestingly enough, those neighborhoods with quantities of Terminal Classic ceramics also possess unbroken test-pit ceramic sequences dating back to the Early Classic. These groups, located on elevated karstic ridges and hilltops, appear to have exceptionally longlived occupations, if the test-pit data are taken at face value. Perhaps inhabitants 124

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FIGURE 4.9. Terminal Classic Rax Complex (800– 1050 CE) occupations in the El Perú-Waka’ hinterlands (map by D. Marken and K. Eppich, courtesy of PAW).

were simply reluctant to depart their long-held ancestral homes in the face of peripheral abandonment. An alternative scenario, proposed by Arnauld and Dzul Góngora (this volume; Hiquet, Sion and Perla-Barrera, this volume), suggests a relocation of people into existing communities and elite households in the urban core. The hinterland population could have resettled in the core but continued to use the lands in the periphery. They may not have so much fully abandoned their land as simply changed address. One potential explanation for this nucleation lies in the defensibility of the urban center. Situated on a limestone tabletop with an 80-meter escarpment on one side and broken karstic hills on the other, the core of Waka’ possesses formidable defenses (cf. Garrison, this volume). Arthur Demarest, Matt O’Mansky, and their colleagues have proposed over the years an increase in the intensity and frequency of warfare in the eighth and ninth centuries (Demarest 2014; Demarest et al. 2016, 2020; O’Mansky 2014). The result was a “landscape of fear” where open movement on the countryside became such a perilous enterprise A City in Flux

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that populations shifted to nucleated defensible centers (Dunning and Beach 2010; Dunning et al. 1997; O’Mansky and Dunning 2004). Scholars have evidenced these changes archaeologically, uncovering skull pits and mass graves, massive termination deposits, increases in the epigraphic mentions of warfare, and the widespread construction of fortifications (Aldana 2005; Demarest 2004; Houk 2016; Inomata 2003, 2016). This “landscape of fear” recalls a similar development in post-Roman European history. In 1973, Pierre Toubert coined the term incastellamento, “encastlement,” to describe the widespread construction of fortifications in the post-Roman world. Borrowing the term from chess, he describes the abandonment of open settlement patterns, historically documented destruction of cities and towns, and the flow of survivors into fortified towns and heavily defended hilltops (see also Hodges 1997). As argued by Eppich (2015), the eighth- and ninth-century relocation of population seems to have been a Classic encastlement, the Maya leaving behind their extensive, low-density cities in favor of defensible terrain in the form of stout walls, deep crevasses, and elevated karstic plateaus. One urban function mentioned is simple security. The diminution and partial abandonment of the urban periphery is potentially a reflection of insecurity across the landscape: external threats driving people toward the city center. There is a final stage of Waka’ not depicted in this chapter’s figures. The last version of Waka’, its tenth- and eleventh-century occupation, is largely confined to the urban core. By the year 1000, virtually the entire urban periphery lay abandoned, as did most of the city center. It is unlikely that Waka’ functioned as a city by this time. Rather, it was as a series of impoverished communities living inside urban ruins. This was a patchwork occupation, with inhabited compounds and patio groups inside the core surrounded by swaths of abandonment (Eppich 2011, 2019; Eppich and Haney 2017; Navarro-Farr 2016). Over the last two hundred years of Waka’, the occupied areas grew smaller and the zones of abandonment larger. The final abandonment came at some point in the mid-eleventh century in the form of votive deposits, which were carefully placed above elite burials and in the old hilltop shrines of the Late Preclassic (Eppich 2019; Marken, Pérez et al. 2019; Rich 2011). Whatever urban functions Waka’ possessed drained away from the city in the late facet of the Terminal Classic and so, too, did its people. THE TRES HERMANAS DISTRICT

The Tres Hermanas District lies approximately 2 km southeast of the central urban plazas and consists of ninety-nine structures organized in seventeen patio groups occupying a 1.4 km stretch of uplands along the Río San Juan floodplain (figure 4.10). The district is marked by a set of three roughly equidistant temple patios aligned to Maya north (Marken 2014a). The temple patio groups are 126

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Map of the Tres Hermanas District, El Perú-Waka’ hinterlands (map by D. Marken, courtesy of PAW). FIGURE 4.10.

situated half a kilometer apart, each occupying space on an elevated topography extending from the escarpment’s base to the edge of the floodplain. The district was targeted for more intensive investigation after topographic mapping identified rather modest architecture, indicating inhabitants of middling and lower status, combined with artifactual assemblages suggestive of a diverse set of crafting activities and potential workshops (Marken 2015; Menéndez 2008). Over the course of three subsequent field seasons, investigators explored the A City in Flux

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district more intensively. Their work uncovered evidence of the district’s occupational sequence, architecture, social status of inhabitants, and workshops, which hinted at its place within the framework of a wider urban economy (Eppich and Austin 2016; Marken, Menéndez et al. 2020; Menéndez and Dakos 2017). Settlement in the Tres Hermanas District is loosely arranged around the aforementioned three larger ritual-residential compounds, the titular “three sisters” (figure  4.10). These large compounds contain a ring of likely residences and at least one ritual-religious structure, itself a 4- to 5-meter pyramid. Groups R18-1 and T22-1 possess a formal rectilinear design, aligned to Maya North, with a formal entrance on the northeast. Group S20-1 is less formally organized in layout, even though its pyramid also possesses an orientation to Maya North. The ritual structure in Group T22-1 is virtually identical to the one in R18-1, a central pyramid with extended wings on either side. These are most likely raised performance platforms for musicians, dancers, or the reception of visiting dignitaries. The open spaces in the compounds are not heavily plastered and are made of either rammed earth or laid cobblestones. The smaller and more humble Tres Hermanas patio groups usually consist of three to six structures placed around a small private space. The patios themselves are generally just densely packed earth, but in at least two, Groups S21-1 and S20-1, the Maya removed the soil and leveled the limestone bedrock underneath as an activity area (Eppich and Austin 2016). Investigators documented cut postholes in these leveled bedrock surfaces. An unusual group, T19-1, differs from the others and was the site of an extensive shell and lithic workshop (Horowitz et al. 2022; Marken, Menéndez et al. 2020). All of these groups are located on the upland areas at the base of the limestone escarpment, generally following the edge of the riverine floodplain. During the rainy season, the plain floods and forms a broad swampy forest. In the dry season, the river retreats, leaving behind a dense and muddy scrub woodland. Most of these small groups are posed at the edge of this hydrologically active area. Virtually all excavated Tres Hermanas structures are single-phase constructions, although many possess floors with replastering episodes. Even the pyramids, the ritual structures, show one major construction phase with only minor subsequent modifications. These initial occupations often contain ceramics in their construction fill that date to the late facet of the Late Classic Q’eq’ Complex. The excavated ritual structures contain either burials or cenotaphic deposits in their foundations with whole vessels of some quality; these vessels also belong to the late facet of the Q’eq’ Complex. This suggests that the entire district springs into existence at roughly the same moment, either in the late seventh or early eighth century. Inhabitants lived in the area for approximately the next two hundred years. However, they are not the earliest inhabitants. The Late Classic Maya moved onto much older platforms and long-ruined structures abandoned by previous 128

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occupants. These consisted of scattered groups from the Late Preclassic and Early Classic. It is difficult to study the earlier occupation, as many of those structures were either wholly demolished for fill or partially demolished and used as foundational cores for Late Classic buildings. This is similar to the settlement of the Chakah District described above. The occupants of Tres Hermanas were humble. The ruins there are marked by a certain paucity in the material culture. This is most evident in their middens. After three field seasons across six groups (who occupied the area for two centuries), investigators recovered only seventy-eight small fragmentary faunal bones, primarily from one group, T19-1. It is highly unlikely that the Maya of the district consumed terrestrial animal flesh on a regular basis; instead, they harvested considerable local shellfish from the adjacent floodplain to supplement their diet. There is also a scarcity of obsidian, the Maya here apparently choosing to make many of their own stone tools in the T19-1 workshop from locally available chert. These were not affluent people. Two factors stand out in the archaeology of the district. One, the presence of cenotaphic deposits placed into foundations of ritual structures and, two, the multicrafting workshop of Group T19-1. Two of the ritual structures were heavily excavated, Structure Q18-1 in Group R18-1 and Structure S20-2 in Group S20-1 (Eppich and Austin 2016; Menéndez and Dakos 2017). Both are ritual structures built in a single phase with foundational burial cists placed deep into their foundations prior to their construction (figure 4.11). These are lined cists: shaped, prepared, and covered with large flat roofing stones. They contained no skeletal material, only large stones with polychrome vessels placed upside-down on them with a kill-hole in the base. The burial space in Structure S20-2 possessed copious burned earth placed in and above the empty cist and was capped with a 20 cm layer of white marl. The burial space in Structure Q18-1 was a repurposed chultun from the Early Classic converted into a cist, roofed with stone slabs, and then covered with a half-meter of powdery white marl. The polychromes from these spaces date to the late facet of the Q’eq’ Complex, thus indicating initial construction. These findings have been interpreted as cenotaphic burial spaces, much like the empty tombs Wendy Ashmore described at Quirigua (Ashmore 2007, 2013; see also Fitzsimmons 2009:141). Such spaces in the foundations of ritual structures would normally be reserved for lineage founders or honored ancestors (see Fitzsimmons 2009; McAnany 1995). That such spaces were created prior to the construction of the buildings and were empty suggests the inhabitants did not possess the bones of their ancestors, since even poorly preserved burials in the region contain some skeletal material. This raises the possibility that the inhabitants of Tres Hermanas migrated to this area from elsewhere. After all, local migrants would still have access to old, abandoned structures to conduct ancestral veneration, as the abandoned places at Chakah evidence. Yet, A City in Flux

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FIGURE 4.11. Cenotaphic spaces of Tres Hermanas (drawings by K. Eppich, courtesy of PAW).

FIGURE 4.12 . Shell tools and ornaments from the T19-1 workspace (drawings by D. Menéndez and K. Eppich, courtesy of PAW).

given the known political convulsions taking place in the eighth century, they might also have been some type of impoverished refugees (cf. Inomata 2004). However, this requires additional evidence to confirm or reject. Group T19-1 seems to have been a relatively large multicrafting household within the district that specifically produced shell tools and ornaments for extradomestic distribution (Horowitz et al. 2022; Marken, Menéndez et al. 2020; Menéndez and Dakos 2017). Constructed atop a filled and buried Early Classic limestone quarry, T19-1 possessed a broad central platform for the working of shell and chert. The chert seems to have been for local usage and consumption, particularly focused on producing tools to work shell (Horowitz et al. 2022). The crafting of simple shell tools and jewelry of both local freshwater and imported marine species took place at a significant scale. Even modest excavations A City in Flux

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recovered more than seven thousand artifacts of worked shell (figure 4.12). In this respect, Tres Hermanas resembles the household industries documented at Chan in Belize (Hearth 2012; Keller 2012; Robin et al. 2015). There, domestic workshops in a rural setting produced stone tools for local usage as well as shell artifacts for wider consumption. At T19-1, they produced materials for everyday usage and, perhaps, local exchange while maintaining and replenishing the necessary tools to manufacture shell items and ornaments. The high number of complete but broken shell tools recovered from the group, most notably perforators, also suggests that the inhabitants may have engaged in craft activities using perishable materials. While the details of T19-1’s crafting industries are still to be worked out, it does appear that peripheral residents participated in the commercial economy operating within the city at the time (Eppich and Freidel 2015). In summation, the people of Tres Hermanas were decidedly low-status Maya, possibly impoverished migrants arriving without their remains of their ancestors. They settled long-abandoned lands between the Southwest District and Chakah and incorporated the ruins of much older buildings into their structures. They farmed and worked the wetlands to the west. They produced local chert tools for themselves and shell artifacts, possibly for the local market. The district itself comprised three loose neighborhoods, clustered around each of the three ritual-residential compounds. Perhaps they sought the security projected by Waka’, perhaps they moved to access the local markets, perhaps they were granted land by the generosity of local rulers, perhaps all of the above. Whatever urban functions drew them to this place kept them there for two centuries. Then, they did not. There are no markers for tenth-century ceramics in the district at all. At some time in the early part of that century, they moved on, apparently all at once, the attraction of other places drawing them away. The Tres Hermanas District should not be considered as typical or representative of the peripheral communities of Waka’. Rather, it is one community among the many that made up the larger civic settlement. Each neighborhood and district possessed its own distinct occupational sequence, history, and place within the wider urban society and economy. The archaeology of Tres Hermanas, however, provides a perspective vastly distinct from the homogenous hinterland communities commonly attributed to the Maya lowlands (Fletcher 2012). CONCLUSION

Cities are many things at the same time (M. L. Smith 2019). Like polities, they are a place—the home to institutions, a civic community, and the people who choose to live there for whatever reason (Hansen 2006; Marken and Fitzsimmons 2015b). They are also much more (Hubbard 2006). While urban civic communities have an obvious political dimension, polities are more clearly political entities, ones (at least in Maya archaeology) often defined by their external politics (e.g., Ek 132

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2020; Martin and Grube 2008). The investigation of Classic Maya civic communities similarly tends to emphasize the dynastic materialization of a citywide cult of polity—an ideological and hierarchical community too large for face-to-face interaction between all members. The Maya created an ideology and hierarchy through ritual and monumental planning that was exported to secondary and tertiary centers (e.g., Fash and Lopez Luján 2009; Houk 2015). Emphasizing epigraphic, iconographic, and monumental planning data, these types of studies provide vital information about specific urban meanings, their development, and political employment (Stanton et al., this volume). Yet the top-down nature of such research only provides a partial view of the experience of civic identity by city residents. A complementary perspective views Classic Maya polities as urban civic communities from the bottom up (Foias and Emery 2012; LeCount and Yaeger 2010; Marken and Fitzsimmons 2015a). Instead of focusing outward to understand “polity,” this perspective looks inward, to the social groups whose participation was necessary to create the greater community that generated shared civic identity. Occupational patterns across Classic Maya urban hinterlands provide an archaeological view of the city that differed considerably from the archaeology of great pyramids, elaborate palaces, and royal courts. In contrast, this chapter has instead approached Classic Maya civic community creation and stability from the perspective of hinterland inhabitants, whose agency was often tied to their potential for mobility (part II, this volume). Still, was the creation of a “centralized” civic community, of the sort monumental excavations and inscriptions document, successful or not? How did it change through time? The hinterland settlement trends at Waka’ suggest that some civic strategies, in the form of accessible urban functions as settlement attractors, were rather successful during some periods, particularly the Late Classic. At other times, they were less so. This study provides an independent and alternative perspective to evaluate the success (or failure) of the strategies that inform the creation of civic community. The variability in occupation suggests a semisedentary population (see Arnauld et al. 2021; see also Feinman and Neitzel 2019), and the view it implies proposes a less “rural” spatial continuity than the one outside scholars sometimes assume (Fletcher 2012). The hinterland communities of Waka’ were not uniform, and the relationships between them were likely often built upon negotiations and traditions with considerable historical depth. With the increased availability of lidar data, scholars can now explore the ways in which dynastic authorities encouraged civic membership or fostered additional settlement in their low-density city. Such explorations, though, must be accompanied by an extensive and targeted hinterland settlement excavation program. Such disciplinary-wide commitment is necessary to capture, even if incompletely, how the ancient Maya created and experienced their cities in flux. A City in Flux

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Acknowledgments. The authors would like to thank Charlotte Arnauld for providing invaluable support and guidance in organizing this volume. Settlement research at El Perú-Waka’ was made possible by permits from Guatemala’s Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia and grants from the GeoOntological Development Society and the National Science Foundation (Dissertation Improvement Grant #0813733 to Marken). The lidar survey was funded by PACUNAM, and the digital elevation model was produced by the National Center for Airborne Laser Mapping at the University of Houston. Over the years, numerous scholars and students have contributed PAW research; they all have our thanks and gratitude. Finally, we thank our local Maya workers, without whom none of our research would be possible. NOTE

1. Additional comment on communities as neighborhoods: Smith (2015:6) argues that Canuto and Yaeger’s (2000) emphasis on the “imagined” aspects of community (cf. Anderson 1983), a theoretical perspective of “community” often applied in Maya archaeology, is inappropriate if archaeological research is to align itself more effectively with current empirical advances in the social sciences. He is to a large degree correct. But to urge that the “imagined” aspects of community are not fundamental to how people experience community is a mistake. Such communion, especially in larger settlements, affects how individuals balance their experiences of the multiple communities to which they belong and view members of other communities with whom they interact (e.g., Barth 1969; Cohen 1985; Ferguson and Mansbach 1996). First documenting communities through a capabilities-type approach, as advocated by Smith (2015:7), is in fact a fundamental starting point for the conception of community applied here (Eppich 2011; Marken 2011), which also includes a greater role for kinship in creating different types of Maya communities. A final reason for an outsider aversion to “imagined communities” in Maya studies is perhaps a perception that it is inconsistently applied. This is understandable because it too often is. Yet this inconsistency is more often a recognition of the multiscalar nature of the concept as developed in Maya ethnography and ethnohistory (e.g., Zogt 1969, 1993; see also Maya polity literature previously cited). As a basis for identity, individuals are members of many social groups, not all of which are necessarily empirically or spatially equivalent in terms of membership, but each would nevertheless be considered some form of “community,” even if membership in groups overlaps. Moreover, membership may wax or wane over time through spatial proximity or intensity of interaction. REFERENCES

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Aldana, Gerardo. 2005. “Agency and the ‘Star War’ Glyph: A Historical Reassessment of Classic Maya Astrology and Warfare.” Ancient Mesoamerica 16 (2):305–20. Anderson, Benedict. 1983. Imagined Communities. London: Verso. Andrews, George F. 1975. Maya Cities: Placemaking and Urbanization. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Annereau-Fulbert, Marie. 2012. “Intermediate Settlement Units in Late Postclasssic Maya Sites in Highlands.” In The Neighborhood as a Social and Spatial Unit in Mesoamerican Cities, edited by M. Charlotte Arnauld, Linda R. Manzanilla, and Michael E. Smith, 261–85. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Arnauld, M. Charlotte. 2008. “Maya Urbanization: Agrarian Cities in a Preindustrial World.” In Urbanism in Mesoamerican, vol. 2, edited by Alba G. Mastache, Robert H. Cobean, Ángel García Cook, and Kenneth G. Hirth, 1–36. México, DF/University Park: Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia /Pennsylvania State University. Arnauld, M. Charlotte, Christopher Beekman, and Grégory Pereira. 2021. “Mobility and Migration in Ancient Mesoamerican Cities: An Introduction.” In Mobility and Migration in Ancient Mesoamerican Cities, edited by M. Charlotte Arnauld, Christopher Beekman and Gregory Pereira, 3–19. Boulder: University Press of Colorado. Arroyave, Ana Lucia. 2010. “Excavaciones de sondeo en los alrededores del epicentro del Perú-Waka’.” In Proyecto arqueológico Waka’, Informe no. 7, temporada 2009, edited by Mary Jane Acuña and Jennifer Piehl, 56–126. Guatemala City: Fundación de Investigación Arqueológica Waka’. Ashmore, Wendy. 2007. “Settlement Archaeology at Quirigua, Guatemala.” Quiriguá Reports, vol. 4. Museum Monographs, 126. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum. Ashmore, Wendy. 2013. “Mobile Bodies, Empty Spaces.” In The Dead Tell Tales: Essays in Honor of Jane Buikstra, edited by Maria Cecilia Lozada, and Barra Ó. Donnabháin, 106–13. Los Angeles: Cotsen Institute of Archaeology Press. Ball, Joseph W. 2014. “Rethinking the Becán Ceramic Sequence—Disjunctions, Continuities, Segmentation, and Chronology.” Latin American Antiquity 25 (4):427–48. Barth, Fredrick. 1969. “Introduction.” In Ethnic Groups and Boundaries, edited by Fredrick Barth, 9–38. Boston: Little, Brown and Company. Beach, Timothy, Sheryl Luzzadder-Beach, Thomas Guderjan, Samantha Krause. 2015. “The Floating Gardens of Chan Cahal: Soils, Water, and Human Interactions.” Catena 132:151–64. Brady, James E., Joseph W. Ball, Ronald L. Bishop, Duncan C. Pring, Norman Hammond, and Rupert A. Housley. 1998. “The Lowland Maya Protoclassic: A Reconsideration of Its Nature and Significance.” Ancient Mesoamerica 9 (1):17–38. Braswell, Geoffrey E., Joel D. Gunn, María del Rosario Domínguez Carrasco, William J. Folan, Laraine A. Fletcher, Abel Morales López, and Michael D. Glascock. 2004. “Defining the Terminal Classic at Calakmul, Campeche.” In The Terminal Classic

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Quiroa Flores, Fabiola. 2004. “CK-01 y CK-02: Excavaciones de sondeo en las plazas 1 y 2 de Chakah.” In Proyecto arqueológico el Perú-Waka’, Informe no. 4, Temporada 2006, edited by Héctor L. Escobedo and David A. Freidel, 299–338. Guatemala City: Fundación de Investigación Arqueológica Waka’. Quiroa Flores, Fabiola. 2007. “Investigaciones en chakah y reconocimientos en yala’ y paso caballos.” In Proyecto arqueológico el Perú-Waka’, Informe no. 4, Temporada 2006, edited by Héctor L. Escobedo and David A. Freidel, 397–430. Guatemala City: Fundación de Investigación Arqueológica Waka’. Quiroa Flores, Fabiola, and Griselda Pérez Robles. 2005. “Investigaciones en chakah: Reconocimiento de área, Excavaciones de sondeo y registro de saqueos.” In Proyecto arqueológico el Perú-Waka’, Informe no. 4, Temporada 2006, edited by Héctor L. Escobedo and David A. Freidel, 251–82. Guatemala City: Fundación de Investigación Arqueológica Waka’. Quiroa Flores, Fabiola, and Guillot Vassaux. 2006. “Investigaciones en chakah: Sondeo e intervenciones en las estructuras J4-11, J4-12 y O3-35.” In Proyecto arqueológico el Perú-Waka’, Informe no. 3, Temporada 2005, edited by Héctor L. Escobedo and David A. Freidel, 329–90. Fundación de Investigación Arqueológica Waka’, Guatemala City. Ramírez, Juan Carlos. 2006. “ES: Excavaciones de sondeo.” In Proyecto arqueológico el Perú-Waka’, Informe no. 3, Temporada 2005, edited by Hector L. Escobedo and David A. Freidel, 299–328. Guatemala City: Fundación de Investigación Arqueológica Waka’. Ramírez, Juan Carlos and Damien Marken. 2007. “ES: Excavaciones de sondeo.” In Proyecto arqueológico el Perú-Waka’, Informe no. 4, Temporada 2006, edited by Hector L. Escobedo and David A. Freidel, 317–56. Guatemala City: Fundación de Investigación Arqueológica Waka’. Rich, Michelle. 2011. “Ritual, Royalty and Classic Period Politics: The Archaeology of the Mirador Group at El Perú-Waka’, Petén, Guatemala.” PhD diss., Southern Methodist University. Rivas, Alexander E. 2017. “Operación Wk23-Grupo bakxulcar.” In Proyecto arqueológico el Perú-Waka’, Informe no. 15, Temporada 2017, edited by Juan Carlos Pérez, Griselda Pérez Robles, and David A. Freidel, 255–72. Guatemala City: Fundación de Investigación Arqueológica Waka’. Robin, Cynthia, Laura Kosakowsky, Angela Keller, and James Meierhoff. 2015. “Leaders, Farmers, and Crafters: The Relationship between Leading Households and Households across the Chan Community.” Ancient Mesoamerica 25 (2):371–87. Robles, Griselda Pérez, and Juan Carlos Pérez. 2017. “Operación Wk18: Excavaciones in la acrópolis de Waka’.” In Proyecto arqueológico el Perú-Waka’, Informe no. 14, Temporada 2016, edited by Juan Carlos Pérez, 61–83. Guatemala City: Fundación de Investigación Arqueológica Waka’.

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Robles, Griselda Pérez, and Juan Carlos Pérez. 2019. “Wk18: la Acrópolis de Waka’, el palacio real.” In Proyecto arqueológico el Perú-Waka’: Informe no. 16, Temporada 2018, edited by Juan Carlos Pérez, Griselda Pérez Robles, and Damien Marken, 83–126. Guatemala City: Fundación de Investigación Arqueológica Waka’. Robles, Griselda Pérez, Juan Carlos Pérez, Damaris Menéndez, and David Freidel. 2017. “Operación Wk18. Excavaciones en la acrópolis y el palacio real de Waka’.” In Proyecto arqueológico el Perú-Waka’, Informe no. 15, Temporada 2017, edited by Juan Carlos Pérez, Griselda Pérez Robles, and David A. Freidel, 84–129. Guatemala City: Fundación de Investigación Arqueológica Waka’. Sanders, William T., and David Webster. 1988. “The Mesoamerican Urban Tradition.” American Anthropologist 90 (3):521–46. Scarborough, Vernon L., Nicholas P. Dunning, Kenneth B. Tankersley, Christopher Carr, Eric Weaver, Liwy Grazioso, Brian Lane, John G. Jones, Palma Buttles, Fred Valdez, and David Lentz. 2012. “Water and Sustainable Land-Use at the Ancient Tropical City of Tikal, Guatemala.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 109 (31):12408–13. Seefeld, Nicolaus. 2018. The Hydraulic System of Uxul: Origins, Functions, and Social Setting. Oxford: Archaeopress. Smith, Michael E. 2010. “The Archaeological Study of Neighborhoods and Districts in Ancient Cities.” Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 29:137–54. Smith, Michael E. 2011. “Classic Maya Settlement Clusters as Urban Neighborhoods: A Comparative Perspective on Low-Density Urbanism.” Journal de la société des Américanistes 97 (1):51–73. Smith, Michael E. 2015. “Quality of Life and Prosperity in Ancient Households and Communities.” In The Oxford Handbook of Historical Ecology and Applied Archaeology, edited by Christian Isendahl and Daryl Stump, 486–505. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Smith, Michael E., and Juliana Novic. 2012. “Neighborhoods and Districts in Ancient Mesoamerica.” In The Neighborhood as a Social and Spatial Unit in Mesoamerican Cities, edited by M. Charlotte Arnauld, Linda R. Manzanilla, and Michael E. Smith, 1–26. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Smith, Monica L. 2003. “Introduction: The Social Construction of Ancient Cities.” In The Social Construction of Ancient Cities, edited by Monica L. Smith, 1–36. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Books. Smith, Monica L. 2019. Cities: The First 6,000 Years. New York: Viking. Stanish, Charles. 2010. “Labor Taxes, Market Systems, and Urbanization in the Prehispanic Andes: A Comparative Perspective.” In Archaeological Approaches to Market Exchange in Ancient Societies, edited by Christopher P. Garraty and Barbara L. Stark, 185–205. Boulder: University Press of Colorado. Toubert, Pierre. 1973. Les structures du latium médiéval: Le latium méridional et la sabine du IXe siècle à la fin du XIIe siecle. Rome: École Française de Rome.

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Webster, David, and William T. Sanders. 2001. “La Antigua ciudad Mesoamericana: Teoría y concepto.” In Reconstruyendo la ciudad Maya: El urbanismo en las sociedades Antiguas, edited by Andrés Ciudad Ruiz, M. Josefa Iglesias Ponce De León, and M. Carmen Martínez Martinez, 34–64. Madrid: Sociedad Española de Estudios Mayas, Pub. 6. Yaeger, Jason, and Marcello A. Canuto. 2000. “Introducing an Archaeology of Communities.” In The Archaeology of Communities: A New World Perspective, edited by Marcello A. Canuto and Jason Yaeger, 1–15. London, Routledge.

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5 Urbanizing Paradise The Implications of Pervasive Images of Flower World across Chichen Itza T R AV I S W. S TA N T O N , K A R L A . TA U B E ,

University of California, Riverside

University of California, Riverside

JOSÉ FRANCISCO OSORIO LEÓN, FRANCISCO PÉREZ RUIZ,

Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia

Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia

M A R Í A R O C I O G O N Z Á L E Z D E   L A   M ATA ,

Instituto Nacional de Antropología e

Historia N E L DA I . M A R E N G O C A M AC H O, J E R E M Y D . C O LT M A N ,

University of California, Riverside

University of California, Riverside

INTRODUCTION

As has been extensively discussed among archaeologists working in the Maya Lowlands, the processes implicated in the “collapse” of Classic period urban centers considerably affected the social, political, ideological, and economic fabric of Maya societies (Aimers 2007; Culbert 1973; Webster 2002). Yet urban life did not end during this period. Rather it underwent still enigmatic transformations that shaped the Postclassic Maya world in ways we are still trying to understand. Even as we acknowledge that lowland Maya urban centers exhibit a wide range of formal variability from their early Preclassic beginnings (e.g., Inomata and Triadan 2016; Stanton and Collins 2021; Triadan and Inomata, this volume) through the eve of the conquista (e.g., Masson and Peraza Lope 2014; Sierra Sosa 1994), there are particular patterns that we can identify at the transition to the Postclassic period. They suggest specific radical changes in how urban centers were conceived and organized as the “collapse” period concluded. These changes are most clearly manifested at Chichen Itza, which, we argue, represents a new kind of city for the Maya, but one that in some ways was all too familiar (Taube et al. 2020). 148

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As this chapter makes clear, the inhabitants of the Early Postclassic phase of Chichen Itza moved away from the social, political, and economic structures that had served as the fabric of Classic Maya society for centuries in order to reimagine these structures as they existed at the great Central Mexican city of Teotihuacan. Chichen Itza, accordingly, represents an idealized, visionary expression of Maya urban design in not only the central monumental zone of the site but also the architectural features nearer its edges. To be specific, Chichen Itza was created in the image of Flower World, an eastern solar paradise, in which warriors’ souls would go and be transformed into beautiful fiery birds and butterflies who sipped the nectar of flowers (Hill 1992; Taube 2004, 2006, 2020). While the concept of Flower World had deep roots in Maya society and the whole of Mesoamerica (Hill 1992; Taube 2004, 2010), the inhabitants of Chichen Itza embraced the Teotihuacano version of it, which linked the warrior cult to paradise to reflect a new kind of social contract first developed at Teotihuacan around the transition from the Preclassic to Classic periods (Stanton et al. n.d.). In contrast to the more inflexible social systems of the Mesoamerican eastern lowlands (e.g., Formative Olmec, Classic Maya), this new social contract allowed certain members of society, those who participated in warfare and commerce, the ability to gain a degree of wealth and prestige as well as greater opportunities for social mobility. While we believe that significant inequalities certainly existed at Chichen Itza, as at Teotihuacan, the adoption of a Flower World model affected urban design in a way that celebrated the warrior image rather than dynastic rulers both in public settings and those more private settings among social groups that could afford to patronize artisans. In this chapter we examine the interplay between urban design and ideology, with a focus on iconographic and architectural data, to argue that these two material ways of expressing ideology suggest complexities in urban power dynamics. Marking that change is a movement away from more centralized narratives at this important Tollan center, which takes into account both secondary elites and the role of warriors. THE ARCHAEOLOGY OF CHICHEN ITZA

One of the greatest enigmas in Maya archaeology is the formation and development of Chichen Itza, a very uncharacteristic and massive Maya urban center that rose to a position of unequaled influence across Mesoamerica at the very time Classic Maya cities were collapsing. The ruins of this critical center boast the largest corpus of carved reliefs in all of Mesoamerica. Interpretations of both the iconography and architecture of the site have, in turn, led to extensive discussions of foreign influence in the Maya region, in particular from Central Mexico. Undoubtedly, Chichen Itza was a multicultural center. However, despite its being one of the first sites to be systematically researched by archaeologists (Morley 1926) and being the locus for relatively sustained research over the past Urbanizing Paradise

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century (e.g., Cobos 2003, 2004, 2015, 2016; González de la Mata et al. 2006, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2014; Osorio León 2004, 2006; Schmidt 2011), many of the interpretations of the material and visual data remain contentious. Archaeologists working in Yucatán have entirely abandoned the Toltec conquest model that Charnay (1885) and other Carnegie Institution archaeologists working at Chichen Itza inspired (see Gillespie 2011; Thompson 1941; Tozzer 1957; see also Acosta 1954; Andrews 1990; Cobos 2006, 2015; Kristan-Graham and Wren 2018:4, 10). Despite this, the chronological legacy of an “Old” Chichen and “New” Chichen continues to be prominent in academic discussions (for treatments of the ceramic chronology of the site see Chung 2009; Lincoln 1986; Osorio León 2004, 2006; Osorio León and Pérez de Heredia 2001; Pérez de Heredia 2010, 2012). While we treat the question regarding the chronology of the site in more detail elsewhere (Taube et al. 2020), the argument can be summed up in several brief points. Most important, despite mounting evidence for contexts dating prior to the Early Postclassic Sotuta Complex (see Chung 2009; Osorio León and Pérez de Heredia 2001; Pérez de Heredia 2010, 2012), they are, to date, neither extensive nor found on the surface. Thus, they have little to no bearing on the “Old” versus “New” Chichen model—in essence, a horizontal spatial division of the city (Great Terrace versus large groups to its south) that was argued to have a chronological component. These early contexts are clearly important but in our opinion do not represent urban occupations of the site. A century of research demonstrates that contexts of architectural construction at the site overwhelmingly date to the Sotuta Complex (800/850–1100/1200 CE). This is not to say that Chichen Itza is not a stratigraphically complex site that experienced profound changes over time (see Braswell and Peniche 2012; Volta and Braswell 2014). It clearly did. However, no real evidence supports the “Old” and “New” Chichen division of surface features or invading Toltecs to warrant it. Thus, like others (see Braswell and Peniche May 2012; Cobos 2016; Taube et al. 2020), we view Chichen Itza as a populous urban city corresponding to one general ceramic phase (much like Mayapán [see Hare and Masson, this volume]). Although more work needs to be done teasing out the changes in Sotuta Complex ceramics that occurred, currently it is difficult to break the period when Sotuta-like fabrics and forms are found into smaller units. With that said, our data come from several sources. First, we draw heavily upon previous work undertaken in the monumental core of Chichen Itza, primarily by the Carnegie Institution and INAH (Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia) projects (figure 5.1). These projects generated a wealth of architectural and iconographic data that bear on the topic of Flower World. Second, we adopt data from several mapping and reconnaissance efforts, in particular total station and GPS data collected by the INAH project, as well as lidar data collected in 2014 and 2017 by the INAH and PIPCY (Proyecto de Interacción Política del Centro de Yucatán) collaborations (see Magnoni et al. 2016; Stanton et al. 2020 for the methods used 150

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FIGURE 5.1. DEM/Hillshade image of Chichen Itza generated from lidar data flown in 2014 and 2017, current INAH-map of the site structures superimposed. The causeways in red, we believe, make up the quadripartite division of the city. The red circles represent major pyramids or radial temples (image created by Travis Stanton).

for the different lidar collections). Third, we draw from previous (e.g., Schmidt 2011) and ongoing excavations from the Initial Series Group by the INAH project. Located in the southern part of the site, the Initial Series Group provides a detailed understanding of the situation away from the better-known core of Chichen Itza. FLOWER WORLD AND THE URBAN PHENOMENON

First identified by Jane Hill (1992), Flower World is a place of origin closely tied to the sun and to heat and brilliance. The idea of Flower World has a striking pattern of appearance among Uto-Aztecan speaking peoples of the Mesoamerican and the Greater Southwest, including the Aztec, the Huichol, the Yaqui, as well as the Urbanizing Paradise

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Hopi of northern Arizona (Hill 1992). In subsequent research, Taube (2004, 2005, 2006, 2010, 2020; see also Mathiowetz and Turner 2021) noted that Flower World is a very ancient ideological complex in Mesoamerica, which probably extends to the Formative Olmec, as well as the origins of maize agriculture. It includes the portrayal of humans with butterfly wings as well as four-petaled floating flowers in Olmec jades (see Guthrie 1996:nos. 68–69, 72; Taube 2004:90). One of the basic themes of this ancient complex is Flower Mountain, with one of the earliest scenes of this mountain appearing on the North Wall at San Bartolo, dating to the first century BCE (Saturno et al. 2005). For millennia, Flower World was clearly a central element of religious belief systems in Mesoamerica and beyond. Following the Formative period, however, something drastic happened with the conceptualization of Flower World at Early Classic Teotihuacan. Presaging later Aztec beliefs concerning the transformation of warrior souls into fiery butterflies and birds, Teotihuacanos merged this paradisiacal realm with a warrior cult, featuring the souls of warriors as butterflies (Berlo 1983; Headrick 2003, 2007; Taube 2000, 2005, 2006). This complex also included funerary censers and used the chrysalis of butterflies to signify the bundled corpses of warriors (see also Nielsen and Helmke 2018:91). In addition, we find at Teotihuacan human figures that marry aspects of the butterfly with attributes of the quetzal and macaw, which recall Aztec accounts of warrior souls (Taube 2005, 2006). The pivotally important Feathered Serpent Pyramid also pertains directly to the cult of war and sacrifice. Dating to the third century CE, the foundations of this pyramid contained dedicatory mass graves, with the majority as armed warriors (Sugiyama 2005). Along with some of the earliest portrayals of the quetzal-plumed serpent, later known as Quetzalcoatl to the Aztec, all sides of this pyramid also feature the platelet helmet of a being Taube (1992) identifies and names the “War Serpent.” Although the identity of this image from the Feathered Serpent Pyramid continues to be a subject of debate, it was explicitly referred to in Classic Maya texts as a serpent—more specifically, Waxaklahun Ubah Chan, which means “eighteen heads of the serpent” (Freidel et al. 1993:308–12). It is probably no coincidence that in reconstructions of the principal façade on the western side of the structure there are eighteen heads of this being flanking each side of the stairway. In other work, Taube (2004, 2005, 2006) notes that the feathered serpents are probably emerging out of massive open blossoms, which makes the Feathered Serpent Pyramid a preeminent Flower Mountain. In support, a ceramic sello or seal attributed to Teotihuacan features the plumed serpent emerging from an explicitly sculpted flower (figure 5.2a). For the contemporaneous Classic Maya, the concept of a floral paradise inhabited by precious birds was also obtained (Taube 2004). However, it is striking indeed that butterflies were not part of this complex of belief, quite possibly as they considered them noxious skeletal beings, a view consistent with the 152

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(a) A ceramic sello or seal attributed to Teotihuacan that features the plumed serpent emerging from an explicit flower (redrawn by Karl Taube from Enciso 1953, 1971); (b) a stone block from the pretemple of the Feathered Serpent Temple at Teotihuacan that has a sun disk carried on back of the plumed serpent as the Road of Flowers (drawn by Travis Stanton from Gazzola:44); (c) a stone block of a polychrome frieze in the fill inside the Temple of Warrior platform that portrays an odd composite of a butterfly and avian beings among flowering plants (redrawn by Karl Taube from Morris et al. 1931). FIGURE 5.2 .

depiction of insects in the canons of Classic Maya art. In fact, the only portrayals of butterflies at the time in the Maya area were squarely in the context of Teotihuacan-style iconography. Among the Classic Maya, the War Serpent is featured prominently. It is also clear—especially during the Late Classic period—that they frequently evoked Teotihuacan in relation to warfare, such Urbanizing Paradise

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as the “warrior stelae” of Late Classic Piedras Negras. However, although the Classic Maya were aware of many aspects of Teotihuacan war symbolism, they also had their own concepts concerning the ideology of war, including the close relation of the bellicose sun god to warfare, who is frequently depicted armed with lances and other weaponry (Taube 2001a, 2011, 2015). While the Classic period Maya were well aware of the reworking of Flower World at Teotihuacan and, in some instances, adopted the symbol system associated with the conflation of Flower World with the warrior cult at Teotihuacan, we argue that the new way of doing things at this great central Mexican city was a threat to the established social and political orders in the eastern lowlands. To sum up the argument, presented in more detail elsewhere (Stanton et al. n.d), evidence suggests that the Classic Maya were a fairly rigid society in terms of social mobility. Current models paint the origins and development of sociopolitical systems in the broader eastern lowlands as having emerged out of practices associated with the conflation of religious activity and political power. The researchers who make that case emphasize growing class differences through the active prestige building and legitimation practices associated with divine/shamanic rulership (e.g., Brown et al. 2018; Clark and Blake 1994; Freidel et al. 1993; Reilly 1995). By the Classic period, evidence from texts and imagery does not suggest much room for social mobility among the Maya. On the contrary, data indicate a more rigid and quite hierarchical social system that centered on courtly life as a critical nexus of political power (e.g., Inomata and Houston 2011; Martin and Grube 2008). At Teotihuacan, however, the lack of extensive texts (Langley 1986; Taube 2001, 2002, 2011) and the more anonymous nature of the pictorial system (Headrick 2007; Pasztory 1997; Taube 2003) have made understanding the social and political structures of this important city more difficult—including, for that matter, the nagging issue of strong rulership there (Manzanilla 2002; Millon 1993; Nichols 2016; Pasztory 1997; Sugiyama 2005). Unlike Manzanilla (2002), we do not believe that the lack of clear iconography of individual rulers and their tombs indicates an absence of “kingship.” In fact, we think that the materiality associated with governance at Teotihuacan is not that different from what is found at Tenochtitlan centuries later. The Aztec phenomenon is often described as an empire headed by strong rulers from Itzcoatl to Moctezuma Xocoyotzin. Yet, with a few exceptions, Aztec rulers were chosen from a group of very highranking nobles, though they are not materially visible in the archaeological record. There are no clear tombs (although they would have been cremated [Chávez Balderas 2007; see also Headrick 2018:212]), few monumental representations, and a scarcity of historical texts, which is not the case for the Zapotec of Oaxaca or the Classic Maya. While a reference exists to Aztec rulers being named at Chapultepec (McEwan and López Luján 2009), without our knowledge of the post-Conquest historic record, it would be near impossible to associate mentions 154

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and depictions of specific historical individuals with rulers. We believe that great social, political, and economic inequality existed at Teotihuacan, as it did with the Aztec, but that the political and social narratives surrounding this inequality were quite distinct from that of the eastern Mesoamerican lowlands during the Preclassic and Classic periods. Still, it is not just the narratives that were distinct. We contend that Central Mexican societies, from at least the time of the reimagining of Teotihuacan as the broadly influential Terminal Formative/Early Classic city, provided greater opportunities for social mobility within their societies than did contemporary societies in the eastern lowlands (see Sugiyama and colleagues [2013, 2018] for more recent dating of Teotihuacan; for social mobility in Central Mexico see Dennehy et al. 2016; Smith et al. 2014). Perhaps societies in the Central Mexican highlands were always distinct in this way. While images of rulers on carved stone monuments are found in places such as the Gulf Coast (e.g., Reilly 1995), the Maya area (e.g., Estrada-Belli 2011), and Oaxaca (Bernal 1973) during the Preclassic, such imagery was not ever popular in the altiplano region. Yet at Teotihuacan there was a radical rethinking of how society should work centered on a merging of the warrior cult with Flower World, a change that marks a profound difference from the ways of performing governance, economy, and religious practice, among other things, prior to the end of the Formative period. We believe that this new model of the floral paradise originated at Teotihuacan in a particular form but was then reimagined by later societies such as those centered at Chichen Itza and Tenochtitlan (Stanton et al. n.d.; see also Baudez and Latsanopoulos 2010). The roots for such a reimagined narrative can be found at Teotihuacan where images of rather anonymous warriors are found on distinct forms of media. Its influence, for instance, even reached into Aztec accounts of heart sacrifice, which, they held, began at Teotihuacan following the fiery immolation of the humble Nanahuatzin (Taube 2000). It is also clear that the imagery of the butterfly complex traced its origins to Teotihuacan and extended into the theatre censers in the cacao-rich region of Esquintla, Guatemala (Berlo 1983; Headrick 2003; Taube 2000, 2005); a workshop for such incensarios was aptly found within the Ciudadela itself (Múnera Bermudez 1985). The Feathered Serpent fits prominently into this complex, but we believe that the central element revolves more around the sun and paradise than it does the feathered serpent. While no sun god has been identified in the visual culture at Teotihuacan, the sun was a, if not the, preeminent feature in the architectural design at certain parts of the site, particularly the Temple of the Feathered Serpent and the Pyramid of the Sun (Fash et al. 2009; Stanton et al. n.d.; Sugiyama 2016). In addition, a monument found in a secondary context, but thought to be from the pretemple of the Feathered Serpent Temple, has a sun disk carried on the back of a plumed serpent as the Road of Flowers (figure 5.2b; Gazzola 2017:44). Urbanizing Paradise

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In terms of the merging of Flower World and the warrior cult at Teotihuacan, it is also important to mention the distinct urban design at this central Mexican city. Much has been made of its apartment compounds. Linda Manzanilla (2011) has argued that they housed corporate groups that took it upon themselves to secure access to trade goods by organizing armed caravans—perhaps the first iteration of what might be called a pochteca system. Some of these apartment compounds also appear to have been loci for specialized production (Manzanilla 2017; Spence 1981) as well as, it could be argued, places where wealth was generated. Of importance to our arguments here, they were also places where specialized art was produced in a particular style associated with the city (de la Fuente 1995). We suggest that this pattern at Teotihuacan resonates well with what we know from Aztec society, in which wealthy merchants organized armed caravans and controlled production in a booming Aztec economy expanded through the work of warriors. While we do not argue that the systems centered at Tenochtitlan and Teotihuacan were the same, we do suggest that they show some important parallels and that the Aztec modeled themselves on a reimagined Teotihuacan way of doing things and achieved in practice that included innovations occurring in cities such as Chichen Itza and Tula. If we are correct in our assessment that Teotihuacan created a new social contract allowing for a higher degree of social mobility based on a belief that certain members of society were deemed critical to the success of the state and that this innovation led to new ideological expressions having to do with the sun, paradise, and warriors, what implications, then, does that have for understanding Chichen Itza? First and foremost, as stated, it is important to acknowledge that the Classic Maya were well aware of the social, economic, and political innovations at Teotihuacan. It is clear that contacts between the Maya Lowlands and Teotihuacan existed prior to the Entrada (see Clayton 2005; Laporte 2003; Sugiyama et al. 2016). Yet after the arrival of Sihyaj K’ahk’ at Tikal, we can see a plentiful use of Teotihuacan symbolism, including important concepts such as the War Serpent (Taube 1992) in the Maya Lowlands. Despite this familiarity with Teotihuacano ways of expressing governance, the Maya appear to have rejected using the Teotihuacan sociopolitical and economic models until the ninth-century founding of Early Postclassic Chichen Itza during the thick of the Maya collapse. Maya rulers continued to use the same program of individualistic self-aggrandizement that they had for centuries, until things began to fall apart. Regardless of the complex processes likely behind the collapse phenomenon (e.g., Aimers 2007; Webster 2002), we hold that this prolonged crisis in Maya society opened the door for the consideration of new models and that some Maya in the north embraced the Teotihuacan model as a legendary example of how to create wealth and power, the disproportions of which produced substantial inequalities even as—or because only—certain actors, thought necessary to 156

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the success of the state, could thrive sufficiently to enjoy some degree of social mobility as their dividend. There is little doubt that Teotihuacan was considered a Tollan, if not the original, of particular kinds of urban centers in Mesoamerica, at least in the Postclassic period (López Austin and López Luján 2004). To suggest that Chichen Itza was a Tollan is nothing new (e.g., Ringle et al. 1998). We do, however, think that in addition to ancestral origins, the idea of Tollan as a paradise ties it deeply with the Flower World complex. U R B A N I Z I N G PA R A D I S E AT C H I C H E N I T Z A

As with many sites across time and space in Mesoamerica, Chichen Itza appears to have been founded with a plan in mind. The text of the Chilam Balam of Chumayel describes the city as having been divided into four wards (Roys 1933), a common trait shared by other Mesoamerican cities, including Tenochtitlan, Izamal, and Mayapán. The four corners and center model relate to the quincunx and has been documented as a structuring principle for establishing communities during rituals of foundation (García-Zambrano 1994). There are, ideally, several elements in the center that include a central mountain, cave, fire, and water hole. At Chichen Itza, we believe the center of the city is the Great Terrace; Braswell (n.d.) recently argues that the Castillo has a second substructure most likely dating to the Late Classic Yabnal Complex. Despite the reporting of earlier architecture in places like the Initial Series (e.g., Pérez de Heredia 2012), as mentioned earlier, we do not believe that these early structures were necessarily part of urban Chichen, but they may represent a different kind of community, much as the Patlachique-phase occupation of Teotihuacan is representative of a settlement distinct from the Tlamilmilolpa-phase occupation. More important, much like de Anda and his colleagues’ (2019) cogent argument that the Castillo was the focal point for a quadripartite cosmogram with four cenotes (Sacred Cenote, Cenote Xtoloc, Cenote Holtun, and Cenote Xkanjuyum) delimiting the four quarters, we suggest that the causeways system converges on the Great Terrace in such a way that is suggestive of a quadripartite division of the site (figure 5.1). In examining an image of the site plan, we can see the main western causeway (Sacbe 3) leaving the site and extending past the community of Cumtun (Taube et al. 2020; see also González de la Mata et al. 2006). This causeway has roughly the same orientation as the Castillo and other major architecture on the Great Terrace. Along its length, Cenote Cumtun and Cenote Holtun are aligned with the Castillo (figure 5.1). Perpendicular to this causeway, we can see Sacbe 22 extending from the Great Terrace to the north, arriving at the Sacred Cenote. People in procession could have descended the Castillo and walked past the Venus Platform to cross Sacbe 1, which would have ended in two monumental feathered serpent heads at the cenote: one literally processes on the back of the feathered serpent and Urbanizing Paradise

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is reminiscent of the Late Preclassic north wall mural at San Bartolo (Saturno et al. 2005). Past the cenote, another causeway continues to the north to the San Francisco Group and to the location of the only other radial temple (other than the Castillo and Osario). This appears to be the north axis of the site and is reinforced by Sacbe 23, a parallel causeway that extends to the Poxil Group, which we suspect may postdate the San Francisco Group (a hypothesis to be tested). To the south and west are a number of additional causeways (more than one hundred causeways are now documented at the site). However, we argue that the original southern axis of the site is likely Sacbe 33. This causeway is in alignment with Sacbe 1, continuing to the north, and creates an axis uniting the “Old Castillo” with the Osario, Castillo, the Sacred Cenote and Cenote Xtoloc, and the San Francisco Group. Although the Old Castillo is not a radial structure, it is a large temple facing north, and its plaza is the second largest at Chichen Itza (only the Great Terrace is larger). To the east, the situation is a bit more confusing, as three major causeways lead away from the Great Terrace. However, because of the palimpsestic nature of settlement that occurs in urban environments, it is not surprising to see this element of “messiness” in the final site plan. Any one of the causeways may have originally marked the eastern axis of the site. So if we can establish the Great Terrace as the center of the city, what are the themes discernable in its architecture and monuments? Because of the considerable amount of data available for this area of the site, this is a difficult question to answer in a short space. However, we do believe that several important patterns can be gleaned. Although much has been made of the presence of the Feathered Serpent in this and other areas of the city, we do not believe that this figure, while important, is the main focus of the visual narrative. In fact, we contend that the broader narrative revolves around a solar paradise and that the principal figure is the Sun God. Even though de Anda and his colleagues (2019) have made a strong argument that the center of the Great Terrace is the Castillo, other important alignments should figure into understanding the cosmological narrative of the largest plaza at Chichen Itza. In particular, our view is that the alignment of the Temple of the Warriors to the Upper Temple of the Jaguars represents the narrative associated with the Teotihuacan cult of war and its role in the sun’s journey. As has been noted by Šprajc and Sánchez Nava (2013:48; see also Galindo Trejo et al. 2001; Milbrath 1988), the line of sight of the centerline of the Temple of the Warriors to the staircase leading up to the Upper Temple of the Jaguars on the western side of the plaza has a solar association because its sunset alignments fall on May 13 and August 1 (two dates separated by four periods of twenty days), which we can calculate by using the southern wall of the Upper Temple of the Jaguars. Another important factor is the paved walkway that leads away from the 158

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Photo of a Middle Preclassic Olmec-style jade pendant depicting the maize god found in association with a pyrite mirror in 2019 just behind the chak mool at the Temple of the Warriors along the centerline (photo by José Francisco Osorio León). FIGURE 5. 3.

Atlantean throne on the Temple of the Warriors and heads straight toward the staircase to the Upper Temple of the Jaguars. This walkway, heavily disturbed over the centuries, does not currently continue across the plaza It does, however, pick up again at the base of the Upper Temple of the Jaguars. Of note, the serpents at the Temple of the Warriors descend, while those on the balustrades on the Upper Temple of the Jaguars ascend. That creates the impression that the walkway itself forms a road, which we posit to signify the Feathered Serpent. Contributing to that view is the fact that the Feathered Serpent as the road of the sun was a widespread convention in Late Postclassic Mesoamerica, including the Huastec and Aztec (Taube 2015). This concept of the plumed serpent as a solar road continues among the Zinacanteco Tzotzil of highland Chiapas, where it is believed that a great feathered serpent as Venus serves as the celestial vehicle of the sun: “At dawn the sun rises in the east preceded by Venus, the Morning Star, a large plumed serpent called Mukta ch’on” (Vogt 1969:89). Of course, this contemporary Tzotzil account pertains directly to highland Mexican sources of Quetzalcoatl, who was summoned to the east by the sun and by warrior souls following the sun at dawn. And so it is likely no coincidence that the line of sight between the Temple of the Warriors and Upper Temple of the Jaguars passes the Venus platform. The primary iconographic theme at both the Temple of the Warriors and the Upper Temple of the Jaguars (Coggins and Shane 1984; Morris et al. 1931) thus Urbanizing Paradise

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anchors this notion that warriors accompanied the sun along its daily journey. In that light, even though Chichen Itza is often discussed in terms of its militaristic art, the great majority of images pertaining to warriors are actually found in the vicinities of the Upper Temple of the Jaguars and Temple of the Warriors, with exceptions: a carved dais at the Initial Series Group (Taube et al. 2020) and, among others, mural fragments at the Monjas complex (Bolles 1977). Pyriteand turquoise-backed mirrors, representing solar disks worn by warriors, have also been found much more frequently along this axis, including the turquoise mosaic encountered in the Temple of the Chak Mool and a pyrite disk found just behind the chak mool on the Temple of the Warriors in 2019 in association with a jade pendant (figure 5.3). Although more could be detailed about the solar and warrior associations with this axis (the role of eagles, pumas, and jaguars, for instance), it is sufficient to say that this “solar road” is of primary importance to understanding the broader significance of the Great Terrace. We urge, in fact, that it represents the main theme of the center of Chichen; the sun’s journey to and from the solar paradise, engendered by the work and sacrifice of warriors. The importance of this east-west axis is emphasized by the fact that Tula has a similar central plan to Chichen Itza, minus the Castillo (see also Cobean 1976:55; Coe 1962; Lombardo 1973). Its Pyramid C, which Healan has notably compared to the Pyramid of the Sun at Teotihuacan (2012:60; see also Mastache and Cobean 2000), accordingly has its equivalent in the Temple of the Warriors at Chichen (likewise the tzompantli [skullrack] found at Tula). Both Tula and Chichen also have chak mool figures (possibly reclining warriors used for placing sacrificial offerings or sun disks). These figures also appear in the Templo Mayor, which has a similar plan given the placement of the tzompantli, warrior images, ballcourt, and other features (López Luján and López Austin 2009). The fact that the Aztec replicated this basic arrangement of architecture and iconography speaks volumes to its importance. In short, we argue that the axis from the Temple of the Warriors to the Upper Temple of the Jaguars relates to the sun’s journey across the sky and is thus a key theme for understanding the Great Terrace. Elsewhere we have argued in detail that this arrangement is a replication of the Ciudadela at Teotihuacan (Stanton et al. n.d.), in all probability the original Tollan (meaning “place of reeds”). The replication of the pattern at subsequent Tollan urban centers such as Chichen Itza, Tula, and Tenochtitlan indicates a concerted effort to link these urban centers to the ideology and ideals of the city of the place of reeds. The iconographic elements of the Great Terrace, including those along its solar axis, also have much to do with a solar paradise that abounds in vegetation and floral elements. For example, the inner portal of the Temple of the Warriors is framed with blossoming vines, much as if one were entering the eastern portal of this solar realm. A stone block of a polychrome frieze in the fill inside the Temple 160

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of Warrior platform portrays an odd composite butterfly and avian beings among flowering plants, again a clear allusion to the floral paradise (Taube, in press; figure  5.2c). For the immediately adjacent House of the Big Tables to the north, another portal with floral adornments on its entry jambs provide eastern access to the superstructure (see Schmidt 2011:figure 11). In addition, on the same eastwest axis of the Great Terrace, the North Temple of the Great Ballcourt features a massive pair of columns as flowering plants with precious birds and butterflies, which are rare in earlier Classic Maya traditions (Taube 2020). PA R A D I S E I N T H E P E R I P H E R Y : T H E I N I T I A L S E R I E S G R O U P

In comparison to Classic period Maya cities, Chichen Itza has a much larger amount of carved sculpture in areas outside of the monumental core. Although the majority of these groups have yet to be systematically investigated, all of those that have been mapped have relief carvings in surface contexts. Groups deeper into the periphery, such as Halakal and Yula, also contain carved monuments and texts. While the iconographic programs of most of these major groups have yet to be well documented, we argue that the extensive distribution of such art shows more similarity with Teotihuacan than with Classic period Maya sites. Our reasoning is this: wealthier corporate groups not only had the means with which to reproduce such art (in the state style, it appears) but also the approval of the governing body of the city to do so. Using one systematically excavated example of one of these complexes, the Initial Series Group, we can get a sense that the ideological themes of the solar cult and paradise present in and around the Great Terrace were also replicated at peripheral groups. The Initial Series group is located in the far southern reaches of the city, in the area known as “Old Chichen,” about 1.5 km south of the Castillo and about 0.8 km north of the Three Lintels Group, the last of the southerly monumental groups (Schmidt 2011). Recent lidar surveys indicate, much as at Coba (Stanton et al. 2020), settlement frequency and size substantially decline past the causeway termini. Thus, the Initial Series Group is much closer to the edge of the city than the center. While an enigmatic substructure platform exists there that dates to the Late Classic Cehpech Complex (Pérez de Heredia 2012), as do some relatively minor Hocaba and Tases Complex deposits and rearranged stonework, practically all surface architecture and iconography dates to the Sotuta Complex. The main group at the site is the House of the Phalli, with a second structure above on the north and south sides featuring an early form of the duck-billed wind god known as Ehecatl, which in later Central Mexico flanks a central image of K’awiil, the god of abundance (figure 5.4). The avian wind gods are dancing and playing music amid a rain of precious articles; the east and west sides of this same superstructure feature richly dressed felines with avian attributes dancing with flames, clearly an allusion to the solar flower paradise. In addition, the west Urbanizing Paradise

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DEM/Hillshade image of the Initial Series Group generated from lidar data flown in 2014, current INAH-map of the site structures superimposed (image created by Travis Stanton). FIGURE 5.4.

side of this same complex—a structure known as the House of the Shells—has elaborate facades decorated in the motifs of this floral paradise, replete with flowering vines and precious birds (Taube et al. 2020). Although the concept of a “west side” suggests negative connotations of darkness and the underworld, it is quite the reverse for a viewer who would look to the east to the façade. That same perspective is true, too, at the Feathered Serpent Pyramid at Teotihuacan, as well as the Late Classic Temple 16 at Copan, which features the foundational ruler K’inich Yax Kuk’ Mo’ in a solar war shield (Taube 2004b). 162

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Drawing of the dais found behind the Initial Series Temple (redrawn by Travis Stanton from Schmidt 2003). FIGURE 5.5.

Although few explicit images of warriors exist at the Initial Series Group, they do occur, most notably on a disassembled dais, potentially from the House of the Moon, that was found behind the Initial Series Temple (figure  5.5). This feature is similar to another found in the Mercado at Chichen Itza (KristanGraham 2018) and has strong similarities to the one at the House of the Eagle Warriors at Tenochtitlan and the Friso de los Caciques at Tula (Mastache et al. 2002:110). The dais has seventeen figures that include several warriors carrying Urbanizing Paradise

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atlatls (spearthrowers), two individuals surrounded by feathered serpents facing a cuauhxicalli (heart bowl) filled with human hearts, and a figure who appears to be Mictlantecuhtli with a flint blade protruding from his nasal cavity. Although several other figures carved in Atlantean style at the group appear to be dancers rather than warriors, the theme on the dais is clearly related to warrior heart sacrifice. Of note, the dais was found in a secondary context behind the Initial Series Temple, where the lintel bearing an initial series date was recovered, also out of its original context. Like the Temple of the Warriors, this temple faces west, in this case across a plaza toward a tomb that contained the cremated remains of several individuals and thousands of stucco beads painted blue (cremation was an important transformative process for the bodies of dead warriors at Teotihuacan and contact period Aztec society [for cremation and warrior souls at Teotihuacan, see Taube 2000]). In front of both the Initial Series Temple and the tomb are chak mool sculptures, also referencing warrior sacrifice. Finally, at the top of the staircase to the Initial Series Temple is a trapezoidal sacrificial altar; it is the same in size and dimensions to the one found in the Temple of the Warriors, just to the south of the staircase at its base. Although the form of these altars appears to be Late Postclassic, the example from the Initial Series Temple was found in situ on a version of the temple that is clearly Early Postclassic. In any event, they provide another link between these two structures and their focus on the warrior cult. FINAL THOUGHTS

The iconography of Chichen Itza is permeated with imagery related to the paradisiacal realm of Flower World, a solar floral domain of brilliance, music, and color. One notable pattern, however, is that the themes related to paradise, the sun, and the Teotihuacan inspired warrior cult not only show up in the public contexts of the Great Terrace, a place that could have easily fit over one hundred thousand visitors, but also appear in much more private settings in groups such as the Initial Series, which likely housed secondary elite. Just as at Teotihuacan, where state art was reproduced in mural painting in apartment compounds across the urban zone, many of the inhabitants of Chichen Itza were able to create, or pay to create, their own takes on the prominent ideological narratives of the city. At the Initial Series in particular, inhabitants even appear to have been able to have enacted warrior heart sacrifice ceremonies along an east-west axis, much like those that occurred at the Great Terrace in the heart of the city. As we mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, we believe that the pattern we see here at Chichen Itza is related to an attempt by some Maya at the turn to the Postclassic period to reinvent the political, social, and economic structures of Teotihuacan that had been part of the collective memory of numerous 164

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generations of Maya during the Classic period. The Collapse period opened up the door not only to a rejection of the divine kingship model of rulership but also to new ways of rethinking about how wealth and power could be accessed. This reworking of Teotihuacan ideals and the re-creation of Tollan irrevocably affected the structure and perception of urban spaces such as Chichen Itza. The Maya of the Postclassic period never really looked back after these changes, and the idea of the city, while familiar, became something different. Acknowledgments. First, we express our gratitude to Damien Marken and Charlotte Arnauld for the invitation to participate in this project. We also thank the Consejo de Arqueología of the Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia for granting the permits to conduct this research; all data are cultural patrimony of Mexico. This research was generously supported by the Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia, CULTUR, Gobierno del Estado de Yucatán, the Selz Foundation, and Jerry Murdock. The chapter benefitted from comments from the editors as well as two anonymous reviewers. REFERENCES

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[128.104.46.206] Project MUSE (2024-03-01 18:26 GMT) UW-Madison Libraries

6 Spatial and Social Contraction in LateTerminal Classic Río Bec Neighborhoods M . C H A R LOT T E A R N AU L D

CNRS-Université de Paris 1 Panthéon-Sorbonne SARA DZUL GÓNGORA

Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia, Mexico

INTRODUCTION

The royal capital of Angkor in Cambodia was abandoned in the fifteenth century, and in the nineteenth century early French visitors recorded eight small villages on the surface of the ancient city (cited in Lucero et al. 2015:1148). The ultimate fate of this large city was its transformation into eight separate small villages. In Mesoamerica, the large city of Teotihuacan went through a similar process during the Metepec phase (550–650 CE) as its population contracted “especially in the outer parts of the city” (Cowgill 2013:133, figure 4). As for Classic Maya urbanism, the mechanisms that deurbanized most cities from 800 to 1050 CE are still to be delineated. Household archaeology has produced remarkable advances in Maya Lowland studies (e.g., Robin 2003), yet at the intermediate scale of neighborhoods, social houses, or lineage groupings (Arnauld et al. 2012; Yaeger and Canuto 2000:3–5; Smith 2010, 2011), the coresidential dynamics that would have undermined internal interactions on the city scale also await clarification. Basically such dynamics resulted from bottom-up intricated household strategies, decisions, and actions on a local scale that archaeologists must explore in https://doi.org/10.5876/9781646424092.c006

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the field (Arnauld et al. 2017b; Henderson 2012; Thompson et al. 2018; Walden et al. 2019). This chapter deals with “residential contraction” as the process of a spatial, social, and morphological change in housing systems resulting in a segmentation of the urban fabric and a possible loss of urban connectivity, or capacities for interaction (sensu M. L. Smith 2003; see also Blanton and Fargher 2012:31–34, and Smith 2019). The city would have been ultimately transformed into small separate communities. At the outset, we specify the changes in housing forms that can be traced on the household scale through the architectural history of most Maya Lowland settlements. Then we define the contraction process as a model derived from the interpretation of neighborhood-level extensive excavations that we have carried out mostly in the last twenty years in the Maya Lowlands. After that, we briefly point to some effects of the contraction as seen in a few specific evolutions well-documented in Classic Maya architecture. The closing two sections of this chapter are dedicated to the empirical study of the construction and abandonment sequence of residential units in the Group B neighborhood at Río Bec, Campeche, Mexico (see map in introduction:figure 1.1, this volume), based on the results of intensive and extensive excavations (Río Bec Project). Due to limited political institutions as reflected by public architecture at Río Bec in the absence of an epicenter (Nondédéo et al. 2013), this site offers a unique opportunity to explore bottom-up dynamics in the formation and transformation of large urbanized settlements. Construction sequences of monumental residences are described and used to model a Late-Terminal Classic case of “progressive incremental construction” that leads to a spatial and social contraction of the neighborhood settlement. We conclude by briefly discussing possible comparisons across the southern lowlands and the hypothesis that contraction may have resulted in a loss of urban connectivity. HOUSING FORMS IN URBAN CONTEXTS

The emergence of urban life has to do with both aspects of urban form: the nucleation of resident population and subsequent changes in residential architecture (Murakami 2019a, 2019b; Rapoport 1969; Smith 2010:242–44). In the Maya case, those changes involve new materials, building techniques, and styles (Gillot 2018; Halperin 2017; Hiquet 2020; Ringle et al. 2020; Schwartz 2017; Wauchope 1938) that together resulted in increasing heterogeneity and differentiation in housing within urban settlements. Sociopolitical hierarchy accounted for a good part of those differences (Fash 1983; Hutson et al. 2016; Lemonnier 2009), yet urban space-time constraints specific to the clustering process also produced systemic differences in housing. In space, the most elaborate system was frequently concentrated either in the epicenter or in some districts of elite mansions, and 178

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FIGURE 6.1. Changes in housing system from Early to Late Classic: (a) pole and thatch one-room house on a stone platform (drawing by National Geographic); (b) intermediate system with masonry-walled, palm-roofed, multiroom houses and one vaulted (ritual) edifice, Xcochkax, Mexico (drawing by Nicolas Latsanopoulos, CNRS, ArchAm); (c) vaulted multiroom range structures, La Joyanca, Guatemala (restitution drawing by Tristan Saint-Dizier).

this urban redistribution in turn influenced the myriads of decision-making by households when rebuilding their old dwellings. In time, as stated by Yaeger and Canuto (2000:6), “a community is defined not just by spaces, people, and their synchronized interaction, but also by its historical context.” After the Preclassic period, the high platforms that supported several houses made of perishable material—or, for the elite, of precious hard wood—were gradually replaced by individual house platforms, lime-mortared stone walls, and vaulted roofs (figure 6.1). Those changes signaled a shift to a new housing system that encompassed more diversified housing forms. After 600–700 CE, living in a so-called “range structure,” that is, a narrow, vaulted building with several rooms or apartments, represented a significant change in way of life, in social perceptions and projections, and in community interactions compared to those associated with perishable material houses (see Ringle et al. 2020, also Ringle and Bey 2004). Housing represents extremely high stakes for people of many ancient and modern societies in Mesoamerica, and worldwide, as changes in residence style reflect prosperity or prestige and can deliver messages to society members (e.g., Blanton 1994; Elias 1994; Smith 1987; Terraciano 2001). In preindustrial societies, the shift from one system to another was generally achieved gradually, and fortunately the gradual change often left traces that can be interpreted archaeologically. In tropical agrarian urbanism (Arnauld 2008; Arnauld and Michelet 2004; Fletcher 2012; Isendhal and Smith 2013), homebuilders were also farmers so that housing and subsistence were managed on the household level with decisions and actions closely meshed together. Frequently what people invested in residential construction was diverted from growing and improving crops (see Hanks 1990). Through traces of changes in housing and spatially related agrarian features (e.g., terraces, field walls, water tanks), archaeologists can focus on household decision-making and strategies. During the last few decades, full horizontal excavations of several neighboring residential groups at a number of Maya sites have allowed us to construct precise sequences of actions and mobility within and beyond the neighborhood scale (for a summary, see Arnauld et al. 2021a). As a result, we have been able to explore the entirety of structures horizontally in their built components and vertically in their stratification of layers associated with architectural elements. Inevitably such fieldwork studies evince variability, yet several patterns emerge that have validity within one site due to specific environmental conditions and local cultural practices. Repetitive practices of fill and floor making, as well as midden depositing, formed what could be called an “urban stratigraphy.” For instance, at Río Bec, intentional deposits in construction fills of earlier ceramics brought in compact loads from some proximate place (“basket loads,” Haviland 2003:116 at Tikal) are the remnant of some earlier occupation invisible to the archaeologist (but those fills are dated by their latest identifiable sherd). Another 180

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practice consisted in piling domestic refuse mixed with construction materials in prevision of future building projects. In La Joyanca (Guatemala), the stratigraphy of exterior floors sometimes includes interstitial (natural) soil formation that might indicate occupational hiatus in particular pedogenetic contexts (Lemonnier 2009:138–39, 157–58). Puuc sites (Mexico, figure  6.1b), in contrast, have easily eroded thin soils leaving superficially degraded vestiges of simple platforms from which construction stages are difficult to retrieve (Arnauld et al. 1989). In turn, “architectural stratigraphy” is clearer in Río Bec large residences, which include features signaling planned enlargements, some never achieved. “Progressive incremental construction” of the same building appears typical of Río Bec (Arnauld 2011; Arnauld et al. 2007, 2010; Carrasco and Boucher 1985). This is not to say that all decisions and actions of inhabitants left traces—many of them have indeed cancelled some previous achievement. But giving formal attention to those particulars of urban and architectural stratigraphies is a good way to track habitus (as a normative, common, and shared practice) in vernacular/monumental construction of housing ( Joyce and Pollard 2010; McAnany and Hodder 2009) and to elucidate how housing systems evolved in any given city. It also makes chronological assignments more robust. Based on those methods, neighborhood-level construction sequences were obtained in residential zones of Puuc sites, La Joyanca, and Río Bec pointing to unexpected correlations among neighboring household groups that can be interpreted in terms of interactions linking those groups. Several sequences in particular show that abandonment and reconstruction of neighboring groups with shifts in housing systems appear synchronized in time and space, with evidence, in some cases, of materials from dismantled buildings recycled in adjacent groups (Arnauld 1999:219; see Abrams 1998:137). In one case, it has been possible to stratigraphically detect the path linking the old house to the new vaulted one (Lemonnier 2009:139). In those sites, the earlier system (perishable-material housing) consists of medium-sized houses (20-25 m2) frequently rebuilt (every 15 years) in the same group, and easily duplicated, to provide each newly formed nuclear family with separate space (figure 6.1a and b). The later system (range vaulted house) was more prestigious and more durable but less flexible and with less privacy, as it offered narrower rooms (7–12 to 30 m2) with all entrances to/from the same patio (figure 6.1c). As noted by Adams long ago (1974), such masonry houses accommodated people differently compared to the traditional system. As will be seen in this chapter, where and when more families adopted the masonry housing system (as “urban form”), their private domestic space was reduced (“life”), but their symbolic status and projection were enhanced (“meaning,” see Introduction, this volume), and they used somewhat larger infields. This counterintuitive urban dynamic suggests that the shift increased density on the household scale but decreased density on the neighborhood-city scale, either Spatial and Social Contraction in Late-Terminal Classic Río Bec Neighborhoods

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“perforating” the urban fabric or “sprawling” its components (affecting the urban form, but also its functions). It was not generalized in Classic Maya cities given that a proportion of Maya urban populations never built vaulted houses, but it frequently developed during the Late-Terminal Classic, especially north of Calakmul, where masonry vaults were relatively common in Río Bec, Chenes, and Puuc settlements. S PAT I A L C O N T R A C T I O N

Based on our La Joyanca and Río Bec research, we devised a dynamic model we call “residential contraction” (Arnauld et al. 2017; Hiquet 2020:456–62; Hiquet et al., this volume; Michelet et al. 2013:428; Nondedeo et al. 2013:379, 392). It articulates four sequent or successive stages, schematized in figure 6.2, model a. First, a nucleated neighborhood forms in which people live in coresidence. Second, differentiation and heterogeneity in residential architecture develop on the neighborhood scale as one of the household units starts elaborating aspects of its residence, whereas the neighborhood continues attracting new residents who settle building simpler houses (see Thompson and Prufer, this volume). Third, the elaborate residential unit goes through a major construction phase: some of the neighbor units are abandoned, others rebuild their houses, and, all the while, new units are founded. Fourth, most or many units are abandoned, and the largest unit persists isolated amid a vacant area. In brief, the first stage involves densification of the neighborhood, but the other stages correspond to spatial contraction as the number of residential units either decreases or stabilizes, even as the total number of residents may still be increasing. The spatial contraction process refers to the decrease in number and density in residential units on the neighborhood scale, not necessarily in population. The result is vacant space in the urban settlement as the distance between units increases. The process is related to deeply interwoven subsistence and social factors. If residents were producing most of their subsistence (locally on infields or further away on outfields), then their land-use practices depended on the labor force available locally. That variable, in turn, depended on available dwelling conditions shaped and structured by social constraints (kinship, marriage, and residence rules; modes of group affiliation; degree and extent of hierarchy; among others). Those constraints may have been modified by needed changes in subsistence, but basically they respond to cultural daily practices, habitus, cognitive assessment, and conscious strategies in local situations for which the main determinant is the availability and access to land (concerning the modern Maya, see Collier 1975; Fishburne 1973; Hanks 1990; Hayden and Canon 1982:150; Wilk 1991; see chapter by Thompson and Prufer, this volume). These are very complex dynamics, and the archaeologist cannot do better than trace the results through material vestiges of housing and land use vis-à-vis their changing intricated relations. 182

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FIGURE 6.2 . Models of spatial contraction through time within one Classic neighborhood; each column schematizes the stratigraphic sequence log of a residential unit. In model a, contraction indicated by abandonments of small units earlier than large units and attraction by new foundations; in model b, contraction without attraction; model c shows stability.

In the Río Bec case study presented, we summon contextual evidence, which helps view the spatial-contraction process in terms of the socioeconomic incorporation of lower-rank people into the higher-status social unit. This corresponded to a pooling of work capacities, which allowed for the improvement of houses and the cultivation of infields— perhaps hinterland outfields as well. Given conditions of relative land shortage regionally due to sprawling settlements (Nondédéo et al. 2013:374; Turner 1983), expulsion or voluntary emigration of lower-rank units out of the neighborhood should be considered an unlikely outcome as it would have deprived higher-rank units of a labor force. Admittedly, Classic Maya households were originally free to make the decision of staying or leaving (Inomata 2004). But in cases where contraction can be shown to develop along with a steady degree of attractiveness, expulsion would be unlikely since a neighborhood pushing out people would not pull in new residents (either foreign immigrants or locally splitting households). Three variant patterns are illustrated in a simple graphic way: the first one (figure 6.2, model a) reflects contraction within the neighborhood along with Spatial and Social Contraction in Late-Terminal Classic Río Bec Neighborhoods

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attraction; the second pattern (figure 6.2, model b) schematizes intraneighborhood contraction without attraction; and the third pattern illustrates stability (figure 6.2, model c). The Río Bec case pertains to the first variant, yet with a low degree of attraction (see sections that follow). To briefly comment on the two alternate models, the third one (model c) shows little spatial dynamics since settled farmers do not move, immigrant or splitting households do not create new units, and no contraction occurs under any pooling of labor capacities. This is a perspective with a strong historical and cross-cultural basis in ethnography (e.g., Chayanov 1986; Killion 1992; Netting 1989), and it is deeply rooted in Mesoamerican studies through the popularity of household archaeology and its “lineage” correlate (Ashmore and Wilk 1988; Santley and Hirth 1993). Farming households are frequently presumed to have been independent stable decision-making agents. Caracol is a good case in point to discuss those notions (A. Chase and D. Chase 2016; D. Chase and A. Chase 2017; but see A. Z. Chase, this volume). As for the second pattern of spatial contraction without attraction (model b), it ideally represents a local network of farmers in the process of closing access to local land and consolidating their segregated corporate groups. McAnany (1993:78) proposed to apply an “absorption” model to the Classic Maya settlements as it explains the longevity and social heterogeneity of Maya residences: The examples of large socially heterogeneous compounds provided by Carrasco (1976) for sixteenth-century Morelos and by Smith (1959) for seventeenth-century Japan suggest that large successful households did, in effect, absorb some portion of the underclass who otherwise might have been excluded from access to arable land. . . . The powerful heads of households are able to increase their labor force and productivity and thereby maintain control of a disproportionate amount of prime agricultural land.

The supporting empirical evidence McAnany (1993:78–80) cites from Kaxob, the Belize Valley River, the Tikal-Yaxha transect, and also Ceibal (as studied by Tourtellot, 1988) clearly indicates that what she had in mind as “compounds” are what we now call neighborhoods—spatially separate house groups forming clusters. In her terms, the absorption model is aptly defined in a relation to labor, land use, and land tenure, reflecting a long-term trend amply documented at many sites where residential zones sprawled on fertile lands throughout Classic times (e.g., see Thompson and Prufer, this volume). What we attempt to isolate in the present study is the latest outcome of this same process throughout LateTerminal Classic times when some neighborhood parts contracted into newly designed architectural compounds.

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FIGURE 6. 3. Floor plans of Classic Maya residences: (a) pole and thatch two- room houses (modified from Lemonnier 2009:figure 5.1); (b) large vaulted range houses with one bench in each room, La Joyanca, Guatemala (drawing by Tristan Saint-Dizier, Projet PNO-La Joyanca); (c) large multiroom residence with appended towers, Group A of Río Bec, Mexico (drawing by D. Michelet and P. Nondédéo, Projet Río Bec); (d) C-shaped structures (modified from Rice 1986:figure 9e)

E F F E C T S O F S PAT I A L C O N T R A C T I O N I N L AT E T E R M I N A L C L A S S I C M AYA R E S I D E N T I A L Z O N E S

Coupled with the shift in housing systems, contraction resulted in the formation of large social groups living within localized elaborate residential compounds (figure 6.3). Amply documented in Late-Terminal Classic Maya residential architecture, a number of architectural changes make sense in light of this process: (1) minor modifications subdividing inner space to increase the number of subunits Spatial and Social Contraction in Late-Terminal Classic Río Bec Neighborhoods

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under the same roof; (2) enclosure of the entire compound to ensure segregation; and (3) new residential designs innovatively articulating vaulted residences into monumental mansions or compounds with heightened collective identity. Architectural changes (1) and (2) represent subdivided interior spaces, which thereby increased the number of housing subunits, and enclosed the entire compound (Hiquet et al., this volume; Sion 2016). Also, adding inner walls and masonry benches restricted entrance to the rooms, and adding new structures did the same on the compound scale (e.g., Hermes and Martinez 2005; Laporte and Mejía 2002; Sion 2015, 2016; Valdés 2005:58; Zralka 2008; Zralka and Hermes 2012; see Hiquet et al., this volume). Such a creation of new lodging spaces was technically uneasy since the vaulted system was poorly versatile—in contrast with the perishable housing system adapted to the needs of social enlargement (figure 6.1a). Of note, a new housing system appeared in Late Classic times, the masoned but unvaulted “C-shaped structure” (figure 6.3d). The C-shaped concept offered a long unique room with a long unique bench that was easily partitioned with light walls when needed (Tourtellot 1988). At Ceibal, where vaulted houses are scarce, after 650 CE this concept gained considerable popularity since 70 percent of the houses are C-shaped structures (Rice 1986:334; Tourtellot 1988:101). It also became very popular in Postclassic times in the Central Petén Lake region (Rice 1986:334) and in the northern lowlands (Bey et al. 1997), being versatile enough to encompass differing functional buildings such as residences and meeting halls (Arnauld 2001:381–84). Along with the adoption of wooden-carpentry roofs, which ultimately replaced masonry vaults, the least-cost subdivision of inner spaces allowed more people to live under the same roof—apparently a crucial need for Maya social units during late times. Such compact residences with modular additions in the form of agglutinated patio rooms have also been found at Balamku (Becquelin et al. 2005:324, figure 14). All these changes signal a need for social cohesiveness expressed by “the house” that concretely knitted urban life, form, and meaning together. Architectural change (3)—adoption of innovative new designs—responded to a desire for prestige, visibility, and segregation. Closed patio quadrangles (figure  6.3b) and large multiroom residences (figure  6.3c), as well as multistored palaces (pyramid-palaces labelled “acropolis”) are well-known at Calakmul, Becan, Edzna, Santa Rosa Xtampak, and Ek Balam, including edifices in late Río Bec styles (figure  6.4). Those compounds form massive, elevated, segregated, and modular-shaped residences that embodied a strong sense of collective existence, which stimulated, in turn, group identity and cohesiveness among their residents through daily face-to-face interaction. The mere fact that other simpler housing systems were still in existence nearby gave these residents a sense of superiority that helped them tolerate living in packed conditions. With similar results, a distinct, even later trend was the agglutination of heterogeneous cells 186

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Monumental residences of Río Bec: (a) Structures 6N1 (the famous Building B) and 6N2 in Group B— note the linear layout (nonpatio) of the neighboring houses; (b) the south façade of Structure 5N2, Group A, before consolidation (2005); (c) Structure 7N1, Group D, during consolidation (note one-fourth of the façade never received its cut-stone veneer, indicating a wing was planned for this side). (Photos of Projet Río Bec) FIGURE 6.4.

on earlier royal acropolis, such as Calakmul late Structure II or El Mirador’s La Danta (Braswell et al. 2004; Hansen et al. 2008:45; Morales-Aguilar 2013). By the ninth and tenth centuries, diversely configured compounds were more and more frequent. Yet this innovative trend was perhaps more specific of the northcentral and northern lowlands. In the southern lowlands, from the Early Classic on, the most elaborate residences may have been restricted to royal courts by some sort of sumptuary laws (as in Cancuen, Demarest 2013; and Nakum, Zralka 2008; see location on figure 1.1). The case study of Río Bec presented in the next section illustrates how the building of many more complex residential compounds characteristic of the 650–900 CE Río Bec styles (Gillot 2018:263; Taladoire et al. 2013:figure 8) must have led to the gradual formation of larger social units segmenting the overall settlement (see Hiquet et al., this volume, for another example) as a prelude to the city’s final desertion during what can be considered an “urban collapse” (ninth and tenth centuries CE; Arnauld et al. 2021b). Diversity of Residences in the Río Bec Group B Neighborhood

As shown by the 74 monumental “groups” so far registered and described in the Río Bec microregion (100 km2, Nondédéo et al. 2013), local architecture is almost entirely residential in function. But due to size, elaboration, and morphology—including zoomorphic entrances or appended towers supporting pseudo-temples (figure 6.4)—those truly monumental residences were long considered to have been temples (Thomas and Campbell 2009:139). Careful surface surveys in a 160 ha area revealed that they are surrounded by scattered smaller residential units forming neighborhoods, each in association with the largest residences (Arnauld et al. 2012; Lemonnier and Vannière 2013; Nondédéo et al. 2013). The latter were the result of particular techniques of construction (Gillot 2018), among which “progressive incremental construction” was the prominent one (Arnauld 2011; Arnauld et al. 2007, 2010; Arnauld et al. 2014; Carrasco and Boucher 1985; see also Abrams 1998; Webster and Kirker 1995; and Zaro and Houk 2012). This particular construction mode accounts for a chaine opératoire, which produced large Río Bec late-style residences built by the residents themselves, who were also farmers intermittently engaged in crop tending in addition to building activity, generation after generation (Arnauld et al. 2014). Río Bec lacks an epicentral component that would express the existence of centralized authorities, since Group II, Group V, and Kajtun—the three groups showing public architecture—are too small and distant in space and with activity too erratic in time to have embodied any longue durée coherent centralized authority. Local communities were not subject to any corvée to build public monumental edifices (at least beyond the few late public buildings of Kajtun and Group V; see Nondédéo et al. 2013:381–84). Río Bec thus offers a case study in strong contrast 188

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with those sites with monumental public architecture rapidly built by many people through corvée or the communal cooperative/obligatory labor Murakami describes (2019a, 2019b; see also Hiquet 2020; and Abrams 1994). Río Bec private residences must have been built slowly, by few people, who themselves planned and used the achieved edifices. We suggest that even forms of very local communal labor recruitment would not have been employed until the building process was sufficiently advanced to consolidate the local hierarchy. This is why Río Bec provides us with a unique opportunity to explore bottom-up cooperative processes on the neighborhood scale (Carballo 2012). The detection of local construction rhythms allows us to model some of the decisions and actions taken by inhabitants to achieve (or “to unachieve”) their project, while also cultivating infields and possibly hinterland outfields. Although the household decision-action sequences were reconstructed for Río Bec Groups A, B, and D (figure 6.5), in the next section we focus on the sequence of Group B, which consists of one main unit coded 6N1-6N2 (after its largest pair of residences) and of ten lesser neighboring units, all including one to five structures each (see Carrasco and Boucher 1986; and Thomas and Campbell 2009 for previous excavations). Instead of one temple (the famous “Building B,” figure 6.4a left), Group B was a neighborhood of a dozen households bounded by natural drainage channels with strong annual discharge (Arnauld et al. 2012). The nearby neighborhoods are those of monumental Units J and H (west), C (east), A (north), and D (south), which are 150 to 500 m distant from Unit 6N1-6N2. Within Neighborhood B, the lesser units are located 60 to 100 m from 6N1-6N2. Early in time, Units B, J, and H were probably part of the same neighborhood, but during the period considered in this study, they had transformed into distinct and competing social groups, with intermediate 6N14 and 6N19 as buffer units partly surrounded by low walls or stone ridges (camellon type) that defined their infields. Among the remaining units in Neighborhood B, only one unit, 6N60, has boundary walls on its side toward 6N1-6N2. All eleven residential or household units were neither closely packed nor dispersed but were, instead, separated by their associated infields as in most Classic Maya urban settlements (Drennan 1988). The overall settlement reflects an evolving landscape of cultivated fields, some of which were terraced with stone piles (chich) left over as remnants of construction activities, ruins of earlier occupations, or the result of soil stone cleaning (Lemonnier and Vannière 2013; see also Carmean, 1991:160). Cultivation was intensive, but it excluded extensive swidden or “slash-and-burn” due to fire hazards. Neighborhood B has a total of twenty-eight structures, discounting the stone piles (19 in total). The neighborhood surface is estimated at 8 ha, with a density of 3.5 structures per ha, and 1.4 household units per ha (11 units/8 ha) or 0.72 ha per unit. Among the twenty-eight structures, ten were ultimately vaulted (35%), a relatively high rate pointing to a vigorous trend toward the new vaulted housing Spatial and Social Contraction in Late-Terminal Classic Río Bec Neighborhoods

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FIGURE 6.5. Site map of the Río Bec settlement core (P. Nondédéo, E. Lemonnier, D. Michelet, Céline Gillot, Projet Río Bec).

system, even though four units lacked any vaulted structures. Neighborhood B is thus a mix of the new system with the old one. Beyond vaults, which required particular techniques of thick wall building, multiroom structures defined the new system. The typology of Río Bec structures that we developed (Nondédéo et al. 2013:table 6) combines both the criteria of roof quality and room quantity. 190

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Unit 6N1-6N2 had nineteen rooms total in its five structures, with sixteen rooms clustered in the 6N1 and 6N2 residences, which pertain to the most complex structure type (though other Río Bec residences are even more complex [figure 6.3d]). Other local houses have one to three rooms each. The nec plus ultra was for everyone to live together under the same roof of a large stone house, even though it was quite complex to build. With its two beautiful “towers” appended to the front façade, Structure 6N1 (the so-called Building B) demonstrates excellent technical construction and a magnificent preservation, in marked contrast with the adjacent residence, Structure 6N2, 15 m away (figure  6.4a, right), which is the same size but has more rooms, fewer decoration, no towers, and was so poorly preserved before our restoration that only one mound remained, albeit one much higher than all others in the group (see figure 6.6). The contrast reveals much about the technical differences that can discriminate categories in a continuum of masonry houses (Gillot 2018) and even between closely associated residences. In this study, however, techniques and materials have not been quantified to assess energetic costs. Instead, we compare the construction rhythm between these and other neighborhood-level lesser units. It is worth noting that the structures were located in space according to the quality of limestone materials that could be obtained from quarries excavated on the spot to avoid transport costs. As detailed elsewhere (Arnauld et al. 2013; Nondédéo et al. 2013), room counts, access analysis, symmetry assessment, masonry quality, and decoration (including appended towers), all point to a strong hierarchy among residents even within residential units as indicated by the 6N1 and 6N2 structures. Building a grand Río Bec mansion such as 6N1 (with towers) probably aimed to achieve prestigious exogamic alliances. In turn, the adjacent 6N2 was a less elaborate residence where nuclear families—the product of endogamic (neighborhood?) marriages—lodged in less grandeur, despite their proximity to higher-rank families. Arguments in favor of this basic exogamic/endogamic principle have been outlined elsewhere (Arnauld et al. 2013). Lower-rank people might have benefited in several ways from this proximity, which granted them a prestigious affiliation in intimate coresidence, even though not exactly under the same roof (Hutson and Welch 2019). With such strong dynamics in shifting systems on the neighborhood scale, counting structures is not the best adapted proxy for estimating local demography. Instead, rooms in vaulted structures must be counted separately, or by pairs in “tandem apartments,” that is, one front room and one rear room with a sleeping bench for more privacy, although some front rooms also have benches. Avoiding intricate room and bench counts and kitchen identification (most were excavated), table 6.1 summarizes the demographic potential of Unit 6N1-6N2—twelve social subunits—and of the entire Group B neighborhood—twenty-eight social Spatial and Social Contraction in Late-Terminal Classic Río Bec Neighborhoods

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Floor plan and profile of Structure 6N2, Group B, Río Bec (drawing by M. Charlotte Arnauld, Nicolas Latsanopoulos, Alfonso Lacadena, and Tristan Saint-Dizier, Projet Río Bec). FIGURE 6.6.

Maximum total of social subunits in all eleven household units of Río Bec Group B, based on room counts (following project structure typology, Nondédéo et al. 2013); one kitchen per unit is excluded.

TABLE 6.1.

Components household units

Single rooms (in structure)

Total of social subunits or dwellings

3 (6N1) 5 (6N2)

2 (6N2) 1 (6N3N) 1 (6N3S)

12

6N4

0

2

2

6N5

0

1

1

6N6

0

4

4

6N9

0

1

1

6N1-6N2

Tandem apartments* (in structure)

6N14

1

0

1

6N19

0

2

2

6N22

0

1

1

6N23

0

2†

2

6N60

0

1

1

7N72

0

1

1

Total

9

19

28

* Tandem apartments provide either one or three dwellings, depending on the subdivision of rooms. † The largest structure in this unit is a platform on which no house was ever built (Type M4). Note: In demographic terms, the total population can be obtained applying an index figure to the total social subunits (e.g., 5.6 inhabitants if each subunit is considered to have been a nuclear family). As ancient Maya extended family households consisted not only of nuclear families but also of concubines, old parents, and widowed or single adults, an index of 4 persons seems more realistic (Hiquet 2020). Adams’s (1974) 2.37 figure is interesting, but how it was calculated based on bench surface and room count in Uaxactun palaces is not entirely clear.

subunits in eleven household units including 6N1-6N2 in conditions that greatly differed. Figures are approximate, due to noncontemporaneity of units and that probably not all residents lived permanently in those mansions, as some would have spent periods on their outfields (Arnauld et al. 2021a). Regardless, small rooms were only dormitories; whereas front platforms and kitchen areas provided ample space shared for daily activities. As noted, people had incentives to tolerate high densities in those compounds. In terms of maximal labor force (men only), twelve subunits might have ideally provided twelve men in the 6N1-6N2 unit. It is clear that this large unit potentially represented a large part of the neighborhood labor force. Given the rhythm of construction and abandonment episodes detailed in the next section, the recruitment mode for construction through reciprocal labor exchange, perhaps with some degree of neighborhood-level labor cooperation/obligation (Murakami 2019a), is plausible to a degree. Spatial and Social Contraction in Late-Terminal Classic Río Bec Neighborhoods

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SEQUENCING DECISIONS-ACTIONS IN RÍO BEC GROUP B N E I G H B O R H O O D T H R O U G H S PA C E A N D T I M E

Modeling the dates and rhythm of construction events at Río Bec is based on the chaîne opératoire of progressive incremental construction in sequent building episodes. First, this process added segments laterally rather than vertically (Carrasco and Boucher 1985; see also Arnauld 2005; Michelet et al. 2013:figure 11). Second, the construction rhythm resulted in a marked chronoceramic distance between lower and upper fill layers (typically platform versus inner benches; see figure 6.6). And third, anticipated planning sometimes left details in foundations or façades (see figure 6.4c), indicating projected additions that were never completed. In fact, there are buildings unfinished at all stages in Río Bec (Gillot 2018:259–63; Gillot and Arnauld 2009). In an excavation strategy that took place from 2003 to 2009, which gave priority to adjacent units (at the neighborhood scale), twenty-two structures in Río Bec Groups A, B, and D were entirely cleaned, including the most monumental residences (figure  6.5; for a brief synthesis of the evidence, see Arnauld et al. 2014; and details in Arnauld 2011; see also Gillot 2018:259–63; Michelet et al. 2013; Nondédéo et al. 2013). In Neighborhood B, this included all structures in Units 6N1-6N2, 6N4, 6N5, 6N6, and 6N9 (figure 6.5, figure 6.7, excavated by the first author with Angela Cantero, Laure Déodat, Chloé Andrieu, and Astrid Huser). All neighboring lesser units were test-pitted, save for 6N22 and 6N60. A good resolution (50–100 years) chronology of foundation, construction, modification, and abandonment episodes was produced that was based on the ceramic analysis by Sara Dzul Góngora (2008), along with radiocarbon dates (table 6.2) and one calendrical date included in an inscription painted on a bench in 6N2 (figure 6.6; Arnauld and Lacadena 2004; Taladoire et al. 2013:table 3). Comparison of unit sequences indicates that locally some lesser units were abandoned just before, others during, and most after the building of the largest residences. Our diachronic narrative is framed spatially to account for, in short order, many significant components of the landscape (figure 6.7), before we turn to comment on temporal rhythms (figure 6.8, a graph similar to models a–c in figure 6.2). In the neighborhood center, stratigraphy suggests that the construction of 6N1 (the residence with towers) started a little earlier than 6N2, but both can be seen as long contemporaneous building episodes that lasted from approximately 675 to 775 CE. The mentioned hieroglyphic date, 15 tuun 9 ahau, 805 CE, may have inaugurated the 6N2 north bench (figure 6.6, room b), but by this time 6N2 had ten rooms, with some probably occupied well before 805 CE. Then Structure 6N1 had six rooms, yet it still lacked towers, and one tandem room had neither a masonry bench nor an access stairway. All those features were added during the last episode, which possibly lasted an additional twenty-five-year generation. The entire process appears to span four to five generations. The closest structures 194

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FIGURE 6.7. The neighborhood of Group B, Río Bec (see key for figure 6.5; drawing by Céline Gillot, Projet Río Bec).

occupied before the building of 6N1 and 6N2 were 6N9 to the south and 6N3 to the north (figure 6.7). Their residents are likely candidates for having launched the monumental project. The earliest vaulted structure in the neighborhood, Str. 6N9, was almost entirely dismantled, with most of its cut stones possibly recycled in the proximate 6N1 building; the quarries that extend south and north of 6N9, with piles of leftovers, are disproportionate in relation to 6N9 itself and certainly serviced the building of 6N1. Similarly, around 6N3 to the north, among and within large quarry excavations, we recovered remains of occupation contemporary with the 6N2 platform infilling and superstructure building. This is apparently where the people lived during the long process of progressive construction. In the same area, just before the great residences were completed, 6N3N was vaulted, and adjacent 6N8, a masonry unvaulted kitchen was built (Déodat and Arnauld 2008; Sion 2010; also vaulted 6N3S was built later). Founded early, the nearby 6N4 unit may have contributed to the great project, and its 6N4 dwelling was then vaulted. In sum, an alliance between the 6N3 and 6N9 people, likely also with 6N4, succeeded in constructing and settling two multiroom residences in the intermediate area Spatial and Social Contraction in Late-Terminal Classic Río Bec Neighborhoods

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FIGURE 6.8. Construction sequence of nine dated residential units in Group B neighborhood, Río Bec (6N60 and 6N22, neither excavated, are excluded); each column schematizes the stratigraphic sequence log of one household unit; due to their size, 6N1- 6N2 unit structures are kept separate; most sequences based on the results of full- exposure excavations.

over four generations. Early in the process, the south 6N9 unit had been abandoned. This was also the fate of the nearby small 7N72 unit. To the east, the sequence of neighboring 6N6, the main competitor to 6N16N2, proves interesting. This apparently autonomous unit was founded very early somewhere in the neighborhood as indicated by basket loads of Preclassic-Early Classic ceramics in 6N6 and 6N7 fills. Its residents launched the construction of a sizable tripartite vaulted house (Str. 6N6) slightly before the 6N1-6N2 major construction episode began (by 650–675 CE). On the east side, they built a separate masonry kitchen (6N7), and on the southwest side they began piling construction material, mostly gravel with many ceramic sherds, forming two large mounds that we excavated without detecting any previous structure. Instead, those ceramics cover a time span longer than the building of 6N6, pointing to some projected 6N6 enlargement that was never achieved before the unit was 196

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TABLE 6.2.

Radiocarbon dates indicated in figure 6.8 (Chronomodel: Lanos and Dufresne

2019) Lab ref. (GIF, CNRS)

Archaeo. Reference

CALIB Intcal 13.14c Reimer et al. 2016 HPD 95%

CHRONOMODEL 2.0.18 HPD 95%

δ13C

Age BP

Stand error

001809

789-3 Gr. B-6N8sub occup.

-22,00

1425

±45

552–667

551–669 MAP 635

001810

732-1 Gr. B-6N2 construction

-24,90

1370

±45

595–719 (88%) 742–766 (7%)

749–801 MAP 755

001814

694a2 Gr. B-6N4c kitchen abandon.

-25,10

1250

±50

668–884

759–891 MAP 825

001815

659 Gr. B-6N4 construction

-26,50

1245

±45

673–882

742–893 MAP 762

abandoned. This happened roughly when Unit 6N1-6N2 expanded its capacities (6N1 tandem rooms “furnished” and 6N3S built). The sequences of both units signal emulation and rivalry, yet the slight time discrepancy in their large construction episodes suggests labor exchange in reciprocity and plausible final absorption of 6N6 by 6N1-6N2 people. Among the remaining units, those of the north side must be distinguished from the west side, the latter being the buffer units in relation to the nearby distinct Group H and J neighborhood (figure 6.5). On this west side, following an earlier occupation unit (so far unlocated), 6N14 acquired a vaulted residence just before 6N1 and 6N2 were built. It was abandoned six generations later, not much later than 6N6 and 6N4 were. In this buffer zone, the pattern of ridges enclosing infields helps detect unit affiliations to neighborhoods (Lemonnier and Vannière 2013:406, figure 8). Unit 6N14 seems to have been affiliated to 6N1-6N2 (instead of being part of the adjacent neighborhood). Logic suggests that it was absorbed by 6N1-6N2, perhaps as 6N6 was, when 6N1-6N2 had enough dwelling capacity. In contrast, the other western unit, 6N19, has a much shorter history with one vaulted construction episode contemporaneous with the 6N1-6N2 major episode, as well as an early abandonment during the same episode. The ridge surrounding 6N19 suggests that this unit might have denied affiliation to 6N1-6N2. As for the north side, the ridge around the quite small Unit 6N60 (not excavated) suggests resistance to affiliation with the B neighborhood. Close to the small (undated) 6N22 unit, northern 6N23 marks another failure: its residents settled in a small perishable house, then started piling material to form a large platform that lacked a superstructure; it was deserted as early as 6N14 and 6N6 Spatial and Social Contraction in Late-Terminal Classic Río Bec Neighborhoods

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were. Also abandoned at the same time, 6N5 was the last foundation event in the then unattractive Group B neighborhood. Until perhaps 975–1000 CE (subphase Xpuhuk 3 with Tohil Plumbate ceramics), only one unit was still occupied, 6N16N2. The last generations lived in the monumental unit. TIME RHYTHM

At no time do all nine dated local units appear occupied simultaneously, the maximum being seven contemporaneous units by 650 CE (figure 6.8; 6N9, 6N3, 6N4, 7N72, 6N6, 6N23, 6N14). By 675–700 CE, at least five sizable construction projects were underway (6N1, 6N2, 6N6, 6N23, 6N14). During this major building episode (roughly Kanlol 2-Makan 1), the corresponding units were occupied by a maximum number of seven social subunits (6N3, 6N4, 6N9, 6N6, 6N23, 6N14, with 6N19 possibly occupied), which together could not contribute many more than seven, perhaps ten adult workers, a weak labor force to carry out five contemporaneous projects. We therefore argue for one collaborative effort developed by the central, eastern, and western units (6N9-6N3-6N4, 6N6, and 6N14). Working on several projects during the same relatively long period would have favored local labor exchange in communitarian reciprocity. But this apparently did not involve every neighboring household given that in the north independent projects met with very limited success (6N23, 6N60), and no project was carried out in the south (6N19, 7N72). The several failures (in achieving a project or enlarging it) and subsequent abandonments point to absorption into the 6N1-6N2 social group or expulsion. The five household units newly rebuilt during the major episode had room enough for potentially twenty-one social subunits (table 6.1; 6N1-6N2, 6N4, 6N6, 6N14, 6N23). Yet natural reproduction could not ensure a threefold increase from seven to twenty-one subunits in a hundred years (700–800 CE) at a time when neighborhood attractiveness was very low—6N5 is the only foundation event. This apparent local growth (in terms of dwelling space) reflects, instead, a redistribution of people, and it is likely that the dominant 6N1-6N2 unit ended up absorbing the remaining households after centuries of competition, negotiation, and labor exchange.1 This was spatial and social contraction—fewer household units, fewer structures, and more dwelling units under each roof. In the end, the enduring units would have still (ideally) totaled fourteen subunits. Progressive incremental construction required time—but could be achieved with a reduced work force and relatively limited technical specialization (Gillot 2018:434–42), even though the 6N1 towers were difficult to build. Neighborhood B successfully carried out good-quality monumental construction, but this had been to the detriment of several autonomous projects in units whose people were eventually integrated into the main unit as husbands and workers or, less plausible, were expelled from the neighborhood. 198

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The most resilient units ended up using a large part of the surrounding lands together (Lemonnier and Vannière 2013:table 6.2). They were apparently able to terrace the fields around the central units, but those features have yet to be dated. Thus the contraction model must be envisioned from a double perspective—people tended to live under the same roof in large dwellings, and this deeper degree of coresidence entailed collective land use, including the capacity to carry out landesque investments that could modify land property (Arnauld et al. 2014; LeCount et al. 2019). This contrasts with the evidence of buffer households (6N19, 6N60) that preferred, at least during some time, to enclose their infields and avoid agrarian cooperation or submission to 6N1-6N2. The contraction process developed in Group B as early as 650 CE but reached its full result only by 800/850 (possibly even later) once most units had been abandoned. According to the current notions of the Late-Terminal Classic in the Maya Lowlands, this interval is late enough for such abandonment episodes to fall within the generalized urban desertion process characteristic of the Lowland Maya collapse during and after the dynastic fall (Okoshi et al. 2021). It might have been so. But if one keeps the time-space framework formulated in this case study, what it points to is a rather distinct mechanism: spatial and social contraction, bolstered by upward social mobility, which might have delayed the complete desertion even into the Early Postclassic period. DISCUSSION AND CONCLUDING THOUGHTS

Bottom-up processes in urbanization must be viewed heuristically as distinct (in logic and scenarios) from top-down processes. In the late lowland Maya case presented here, the example used looks at bottom-up spatial-social contraction vis-à-vis top-down dynastic collapses that resulted in urban desertion. We advocate that bottom-up processes form a specific domain of research using proxies sensitive to concrete agency in urban life, form, and meaning, that is, urban and architectural stratigraphy, multiscale chronological sequences, and precise landscape mapping. Also needed, but untouched in this chapter, is energetic cost quantification, along with the study of abandonment practices (termination rituals) and postabandonment visits. Traces of such visits are multiform at Río Bec—especially ancient, postdesertion graffiti (Patrois 2013). Their Postclassic patterns help clarify whether Maya people still lived around and visited their old houses frequently (e.g., Michelet et al. 2013:428) or had a rather impoverished relation to their ancient urban dwellings once they had returned to the more distant old housing system in the hinterlands. Among these diverse proxies, landscape mapping is now greatly enhanced by lidar technologies—as shown by several chapters in this volume—so that we should be ready to improve our more conventional proxies to balance advances in landscape knowledge. Concerning the case study presented here, it is worth Spatial and Social Contraction in Late-Terminal Classic Río Bec Neighborhoods

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mentioning that high-resolution mapping carried out in 2006–2007 (Lemonnier and Vannière 2013:398–400, figure 2) on 8 ha in the Group D neighborhood of Río Bec revealed a landscape that differs significantly from the landscape evoked in this chapter for Group B. The contrast is due in part to mapping techniques, but also to differing ancient land management related to the local social changes and subsequent land tenure evolution that we have attempted to delineate here. Diverse bottom-up dynamics do make a difference (Lemonnier 2022, lidar in progress). Maya household dynamics were deeply determined by agrarian strategies. In most Classic cities, the context was neither rural hinterland nor urban epicenter; it was “urban sprawl” (Smith 2010) under land-use constraints (see Garrison et al., this volume). In cases of multiple mobility modes and rhythms (Arnauld et al. 2021a), serious competition for land would have developed among those social units settled in urban contexts over long periods of time. The mansion in which as many workers as possible lived together represented some sort of physical insurance anchoring the social group to local lands and waiving property rights, that is, what the house properly held, rather than the patriline—even though social house and lineage tended to merge in the end. Moreover, increasing house-level density mitigated occupational density on lands preserved for subsistence cultivation. This logic (of property and density) pertains to the existence mode of the farming household (Wilk 1988, 1991) rather than to the city-dweller mode from which intense crafting and trading emerged and developed. Yet a number of Terminal Classic Maya cities probably have experimented with the logics of both modes at some point, and their integration is being explored (see Marken 2011, 2015; see also Eppich et al., this volume). Inter-regional comparison might inventory potential cases of contraction— increasing density on the house scale instead of the neighborhood scale—across the southern lowlands during the ninth and tenth centuries (Arnauldet al. 2017:49–50). In several sites, the dynamics explicitly inferred from the evidence suggest a late “concentration” of peripheral residents into epicentral compounds, or at the least a decrease less marked in the epicenter than in the periphery (e.g., Marken 2011:239–40; 2015:141). In other cases, the “relocation” of Terminal Classic settlements is said to reiterate local Preclassic settlements (either for water resource or for defense; for Tikal see, e.g., Puleston 2015:141). Also of interest is what Iannone and colleagues (2014) describe at Minanha, Belize, as a process of “societal compression,” through which intermediate groups, mostly those controlling local water resources, survived the demise of kings and the dispersion of commoners (a comparison to Dos Pilas and Xunantunich is mentioned). “Compression,” “relocation.” and “concentration” processes seem to be observed on the scale of an entire city, not the neighborhood scale. In the northern lowlands, innovative residential morphologies (acropolis and other large complex compounds) are generally interpreted as late processes in settlements. 200

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This suggests that housing contraction may have been among the earliest symptoms of city disintegration through the loss of density among neighborhoods. Osborne observes “that if population decrease made settlement contraction inevitable, it did not make the particular pattern of settlement contraction also inevitable, and that exploring the sorts of forces which seem to have determined which settlements did and which did not survive this crisis, should help to suggest what the determinants might be of settlement mobility in response to crises of different sorts also” (1991:237, emphasis added). Again, exploring bottom-up dynamics makes the difference in the study of flexible cities. The contraction model helps formulate an “urban collapse” specific to some cities following concrete mechanisms distinct from sudden chaotic desertion by a vanishing population. The brutal scenario certainly applies to some Maya cities, but in many others the evidence suggests the formation of large social houses that would have given resilience to urban population through the ninth and tenth centuries, if not later. This is one side of the process we emphasize in this chapter. Another side is that those cohesive houses would have weakened urban interactions and resulted in a loss of urban connectivity, as each house would have reduced interests and strategies to its proper domain (Chase and Chase 2017:218: “the great divide between the elite and the commoners”; for a non-Mesoamerican case study, see Cesaretti et al. 2016). A new line of research might be explored in this direction. Terminal Classic decreasing density may ultimately have destroyed the cities themselves, transforming them into the small villages of the sort that have survived in abandoned Angkor, Cambodia. It is interesting to observe that Maya Postclassic cities were smaller and denser settlements than their Classic counterparts, with neighborhoods difficult to discern (Hare and Masson 2012; Hare and Masson, this volume). Even more telling, the largest city in Postclassic Yucatán, Mayapán, was likely the most compact city in the system, whereas in the Classic Maya Lowlands, oddly enough, capitals did not have population densities higher than their smaller counterparts (cf. Chase and Chase 2016:table 1, figure 4; Webster 2018:table 1). Measurements required by the study of urban connectivity deserve to be assessed. Lidar mapping and field surveys will, we hope, bring new data on neighborhood dynamics during Classic times to light. The evidence is now growing about population density, the frequency of built causeways or visible paths, and the repeated morphological features over wide areas that could be interpreted as collective facilities, marketplaces, and other institutions (Canuto et al. 2018; see Nondédéo et al., this volume). This approach helps envision connectivity on different spatial and social scales. However, we are still left with agrarian cities where sustainable infield agriculture required some extent of intraurban vacant areas for the needs of cultivation. Contraction of long-held Maya commoner houses into agglutinated patterns within “elite” mansions produced monumental architecture Spatial and Social Contraction in Late-Terminal Classic Río Bec Neighborhoods

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analogous to the well-known collective houses, malocas, of Amazonia, which still exist (see Walker, this volume). But Maya contraction and this particular architecture were late in the history of Maya urbanization and may have contributed to the destruction of Classic cities. Acknowledgments. We would like to thank Damien Marken for his initiative to assemble this volume on topics relevant to a research field still relatively underexplored. The first Río Bec Project, Société et Economie de  Río Bec à son apogée, was developed by ArchAm (Archéologie des  Amériques) researchers under the direction of Dominique Michelet and M. Charlotte Arnauld (2002–2010). We thank project members for sharing some of the evidence with us, and Julien Hiquet for modeling radiocarbon dates. We are indebted to the INAH authorities (Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia de México) for permitting the project field studies. The project benefited from financial support and annual grants from Centre national de la recherche scientifique, Université de Paris 1 Panthéon-Sorbonne, French Ministère des  Affaires Etrangères et Europénnes, INAH-Centro Regional de  Campeche, Centre d’études mexicaines et centraméricaines (CEMCA, Mexico), the State of Campeche, and a group of French corporations operating in Mexico. We acknowledge the essential support of the local authorities of the Veinte de Noviembre ejido. NOTE

1. Well after construction was achieved in 6N1 and 6N2, several rooms were still not ready to be settled as they lacked access or bench. One room was closed in 6N2 during the ninth century apparently due to collapse risk. In Group A, the northern rooms of the large 5N2 residence (figure 6.3d) never had their floor, bench, and stairway built. It seems that, for the sake of demographic evaluations, generally an adjustment should be made in consideration of some built spaces that were never settled. REFERENCES

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Michelet, Dominique, Philippe Nondédéo, Julie Patrois, Céline Gillot, and Emyly González G. 2013. “The Structure A: A Río Bec Paradigmatic Palace?” Ancient Mesoamerica 24 (2):415–31. Morales-Aguilar, Carlos. 2013. “Viviendo entre las ruinas: El Área central de el mirador, Petén, Guatemala, durante el período clásico tardío.” In XXVI Simposio de Investigaciones Arqueológicas en Guatemala, 2012, edited by Barbara Arroyo and Luis Méndez Salinas, 773–86. Guatemala: Museo Nacional de Arqueología y Etnología. Murakami, Tatsuya. 2019a. “Labor Mobilization and Cooperation for Urban Construction: Building Apartment Compounds at Teotihuacan.” Latin American Antiquity 30 (4):741–59. Murakami, Tatsuya. 2019b. “Towards a Multiscalar Comparative Approach to Power Relations: Political Dimensions of Urban Construction at Teotihuacan and Copan.” In Architectural Energetics in Archaeology: Analytical Expansions and Global Explorations, edited by Leah McCurdy and Elliot M. Abrams, 265–88. New York: Routledge. Netting, Robert McC. 1989. “Smallholders, Householders, Freeholders: Why the Family Farm Works Well Worldwide.” In The Household Economy: Reconsidering the Domestic Mode of Production, edited by Richard R. Wilk, 221–44. Boulder: Westview Press. Nondédéo, Philippe, M. Charlotte Arnauld, and Dominique Michelet. 2013. “Río Bec Settlement Patterns and Local Socio-Political Organization.” Ancient Mesoamerica 24 (2):373–96. Okoshi, Tsubasa, Arlen F. Chase, Philippe Nondédéo, and M. Charlotte Arnauld. eds. 2021. Rupture or Transformation of Maya Kingship? From Classic to Postclassic Times. Kyoto/Gainesville: Kyoto University of Foreigh Studies/University Press of Florida. Osborne, Robin. 1991. “The Potential Mobility of Human Populations.” Oxford Journal of Archaeology 10 (2):231–52. Patrois, Julie. 2013 “Public and Private Art at Río Bec: Outside and Inside the Residences.” Ancient Mesoamerica 24 (2):433–47. Puleston, Olga Stavrakis, ed. 2015. Settlement and Subsistence at Tikal: The Assembled Work of Dennis Puleston. Paris Monographs in American Archaeology 43; Oxford: British Archaeological Reports International Series 2757. Rapoport, Amos. 1969. House Form and Culture. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall. Reimer, Paula J., Edouard Bard, Alex Bayliss, J. Warren Beck, Paul G. Blackwell, Christopher Bronk Ramsey, Caitlin E. Buck, Hai Cheng, R. Lawrence Edwards, Michael Friedrich, Pieter M. Grootes, Thomas P. Guilderson, Haflidi Haflidason, Irka Hajdas, Christine Hatté, Timothy J. Heaton, Dirk L. Hoffmann, Alan G. Hogg, Konrad A. Hughen, K. Felix Kaiser, Bernd Kromer, Sturt W. Manning, Mu Niu, Ron W. Reimer, David A. Richards, E. Marian Scott, John R. Southon, Richard A. Staff, Christian S. M. Turney, and Johannes Van der Plicht. 2013. IntCal13 and Marine13 Radiocarbon Age Calibration Curves 0–50,000 Years cal BP. Radiocarbon, 55(4), 1869–1887. doi:10.2458/ azu_js_rc.55.16947.

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Robin, Cynthia. 2003. New Directions in Classic Maya Household Archaeology. Journal of Archaeological Research 11(4): 307–56. Rice, Don. 1986. “The Peten Postclassic: A Settlement Perspective.” In Late Lowland Maya Civilization: Classic to Postclassic, edited by Jeremy A. Sabloff and E. Willy Andrews, 5:301–46. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Ringle, W. M., and G. J. Bey III. 2004. “The Decline of the East: The Classic to Postclassic Transition at Ek Balam.” In The Terminal Classic in the Maya Lowlands: Collapse, Transition, and Transformation, edited by Arthur A. Demarest, Prudence M. Rice, and Don. S. Rice, 485–516. Boulder: University Press of Colorado. Ringle, William, Tomás Gallareta, and George Bey. 2020. “Stones for My House. The Economics of Stoneworking and Elite Housing in the Puuc Hills of Yucatán.” In The Real Business of Ancient Maya Economies: From Farmers Fields to Rulers Realms, edited by Marilyn A. Masson, David A. Freidel, and A. A. Demarest, 98–116. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Santley, Robert S., and Keith G. Hirth. 1993. Prehispanic Domestic Units in Western Mesoamerica: Studies of Household Compound and Residence. Boca Raton, FL: CRC Press. Schwartz, Lauren, E. 2017. “Vernacular Architecture of Southeast Mesoamerica: An Evaluation of Design Variations and Identity Expression from the Late and Terminal Classic Middle Chamelecón-Cacaulapa, Northwest Honduras.” In The Archaeology of Vernacular Architecture in the Pre-Columbian Americas, edited by Christina T. Halperin and Lauren, E. Schwartz, 69–86. London: Routledge. Sion, Julien. 2010. “La Structure 5N2bis, Río Bec (Campeche, Mexique): Caractérisation fonctionnelle et étude de son mobilier céramique. Une cuisine chez les Mayas des basses terres au classique récent/terminal.” Master 2, Université de Paris 1 Panthéon-Sorbonne. Sion, Julien. 2015. “Crisis y prosperidad: El clásico terminal en Naachtun.” In XXVIII Simposio de Investigaciones Arqueológicas en Guatemala, 2014, edited by Barbara Arroyo, Luís Méndez Salinas, and Lorena Paiz, 65–80. Guatemala: Museo Nacional de Arqueología y Etnología. Sion, Julien. 2016. “La caractérisation socio-économique des élites Mayas au classique terminal (830–950 apr. J.C.): Le groupe B-sud de Naachtun (Guatemala).” PhD diss., Université de Paris 1 Panthéon-Sorbonne. Smith, Michael E. 1987. “Household Possessions and Wealth in Agrarian States: Implications for Archaeology.” Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 6:297–335. Smith, Michael E. 2010. “Sprawl, Squatters and Sustainable Cities: Can Archaeological Data Shed Light on Modern Urban Issues?” Cambridge Archaeological Journal 20 (2):229–53. Smith, Michael E.2011. “Classic Maya Settlement Clusters as Urban Neighborhoods: A Comparative Perspective on Low-Density Urbanism.” Journal de la Société des Américanistes 97-I:51–73.

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Smith, Michael E. 2019. “Energized Crowding and the Generative Role of Settlement Aggregation and Urbanization.” In Coming Together. Comparative Approaches to Population Aggregation and Early Urbanization, edited by Attila Gyucha, 37–60. Albany: State University of New York Press. Smith, Monica L., ed. 2003. The Social Construction of Ancient Cities. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press. Taladoire, Eric, Sara Dzul Góngora, and Mélanie Forné. 2013. “Chronology of Occupation at Río Bec: Sequences and Datation.” Ancient Mesoamerica 24 (2):353–72. Terraciano, Kevin. 2001. The Mixtecs of Colonial Oaxaca. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Thomas, Prentice, and L. Janice Campbell. 2009. “Excavations at Río Bec Group B, Structure 6N1, Campeche.” Estudios de Cultura Maya 31:123–48. Thompson, Amy E., Clayton R. Meredith, and Keith M. Prufer. 2018. “Comparing Geostatistical Analyses for the Identification of Neighborhoods, Districts, and Social Communities in Archaeological Contexts: A Case Study from Two Ancient Maya centers in Southern Belize.” Journal of Archaeological Science 97:1–13. Tourtellot, Gair. 1988. “Developmental Cycles of Households and Houses at Seibal.” In Household and Community in the Mesoamerican Past, edited by Richard R. Wilk and Wendy Ashmore, 95–120. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Turner, Billie L., II. 1983. Once beneath the Forest: Prehistoric Terracing in the Río Bec Region of the Maya Lowlands. Boulder: Westview Press. Valdés Gómez, Juan Antonio. 2005. “El periodo clásico terminal y el ocaso de la cultura maya en Petén, Guatemala.” In La Blanca, arqueología y desarrollo, edited by Gaspar Muñoz Cosme and Cristina Vidal Lorenzo, 53–64, Valencia: Ministerio de Cultura. Walden, John P., Claire E. Ebert, Julie A. Hoggarth, Shane M. Montgomery, and Jaime J. Awe. 2019. “Modeling Variability in Classic Maya Intermediate Elite Political Strategies through Multivariate Analysis of Settlement Patterns.” Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 55:101074. Wauchope, Robert. 1938. Modern Maya Houses: A Study of Their Archaeological Significance. Washington, DC: Carnegie Institution of Washington, Pub. 502. Webster, David. 2018. The Population of Tikal: Implications for Maya Demography. Oxford: Paris Monographs in American Archaeology 49, Archaeo Press. Webster, David, and Jane Kirker. 1995. “Too Many Maya, Too Few Buildings. Investigating Construction Potential at Copan, Honduras.” Journal of Anthropological Research 51:363–87. Wilk, Richard R. 1988. “Maya Household Organization: Evidence and Analogies.” In Household and Community in the Mesoamerican Past, edited by Richard R. Wilk and Wendy Ashmore, 135–51. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Wilk, Richard R. 1991. Household Ecology: Economic Change and Domestic Life among the Kekchi Maya in Belize. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Spatial and Social Contraction in Late-Terminal Classic Río Bec Neighborhoods

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Yaeger, Jason, and Marcello A. Canuto, eds. 2000. “Introducing an Archaeology of Communities.” In the Archaeology of Communities. A New World Perspective, edited by Marcello A. Canuto, and Jason Yaeger, 1–15. London: Routledge. Zaro, Gregory, and Brett A. Houk. 2012. “The Growth and Decline of the Ancient Maya City of La Milpa, Belize: New Data and New Perspectives from the Southern Plazas.” Ancient Mesoamerica 23 (1):143–59. Zralka, Jaroslaw. 2008. Terminal Classic Occupation in the Maya Sites Located in the Area of Triangulo Park, Peten, Guatemala. Prace Archeologicze N°62. Krakow: Monographs Jagiellonian University Press. Zralka, Jaroslaw, and Bernard Hermes. 2012. “Great development in Troubled Times: The Terminal Classic at the Maya Site of Nakum, Petén, Guatemala.” Ancient Mesoamerica 23:161–87.

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7 Classic Maya Neighborhoods Diversity and Inequality in Southern Belize AMY E. THOMPSON

University of Texas at Austin KEITH M. PRUFER

University of New Mexico

INTRODUCTION

Inequality and status differentials exist to some degree in all human societies and create structural differences important for the maintenance of hierarchical institutions (Boone 1992; Feinman and Marcus 1998; Kohler et al. 2017; Kohler and Smith 2018; Mattison et al. 2016; Price and Feinman 1995, 2010; Smith et al. 2010). While variations in status inequality are often discussed at the level of the political center with a predisposition to study the top-most slice or the 1 percent of society, variations in inequality are less frequently assessed within and between districts and neighborhoods through a bottom-up approach of the 99 percent. Such analyses require robust settlement datasets collected through pedestrian survey and settlement archaeology. In the Maya region, settlement archaeology has become more sophisticated in recent decades as archaeologists seek to understand the 99  percent of ancient communities (Ashmore 1981; Sabloff 2019). While settlement inequality—variations in the size of residential spaces and structures—has been examined at regional and political center-level scales, continued assessments of the intra- and inter-neighborhood inequality within https://doi.org/10.5876/9781646424092.c007

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a single center’s settlement system will elucidate the heterogeneity, flexibility, diversity, and larger patterns of Classic Maya social organization (Fitzsimmons and Marken 2015; Hutson and Welch 2021; Marken and Arnauld, this volume; Robin et al. 2014; Walden and Cervantes Quequezana 2023; Yaeger 2003). The fundamental corporate unit of society is the household (Lévi-Strauss 1965). We discuss it, not the individual, as the most basic social unit. Beyond the household, the larger-scale units of analysis such as neighborhoods, districts, and political centers considered here vary widely in terms of power, resources, and political status (table 7.1). We define four key terms and use them throughout: despots, local dominants, neighborhood seats, and settlement groups. We define as despots the apical elites or households that maintained intergenerational power and authority over the population living in a political center who could extract labor and resources in exchange for concessions, such as land, protection, or access to cultural beliefs. They likely oversaw the population through local dominants or district seats, which were households that acted as intermediate elites, overseeing districts, residing in district centers, and extracting resources from subordinate households (Thompson and Prufer 2021). Corporate neighborhood seats are higher-ranked households within a neighborhood and are referred to as “neighborhood heads” by Walden and colleagues (2019). Neighborhood seats managed local, spatially clustered populations composed of one or several lineage groups. Finally, the smallest spatial scale is the settlement group. It has traditionally been used in archaeological survey during the identification of residential spaces. A settlement group consists of one or more plazuelas (also called patio groups) and represents a spatially bound analytical unit that overlaps with households as kin or extended kin groups. A settlement group may also include attached economic dependents and kin. Within these hierarchical and lateral relationships, despots, local dominants, neighborhood seats, and settlement groups maintained a variety of interactions with each other (Marken and Fitzsimmons, 2015:figure  1.1; also, Chase 2023; Chase, this volume). The spatial distribution of both local dominants in district centers and neighborhood seats reflects the heterarchical dispersal of power across the landscape as local dominants acted as intermediaries between subordinates and despots (Walden et al. 2019). Ultimately, the spatial analyses of neighborhoods and districts can inform the distribution and variation of inequality across ancient communities (Hutson and Welch 2021; Marken 2015). Inequality within a settlement system is best understood through an analysis of the 99  percent, including the location, construction, size, and material goods of ancient households of all socioeconomic spectra. Within many ancient Maya political centers (henceforth, centers), smaller settlement groups clustered around larger settlement groups (Leventhal 1981:206). On a regional scale, settlement group size and inequality varied between centers, indicating 214

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Units of analysis.

Geographic and unitary politcal unit. Polity/ Political Center (Center) Descriptive Only All places people lived or geographic extent Settleof where people lived within a polity. Defined ment by spatial borders such as decrease in density System or bounding geographic topographic features.

Management of core public works, public security, macro economic decisions.

All of the above functions.

Macro group identity, boundary control, extraction, and control of concessions.

Extent of households in the polity. Descriptive only.

Unit of Analysis Description Function Activity Individual Actor Agent – Productive. Constantly interHouseKin group, one or more buildings as a family Social. Corporate/reproductive. active and economic. Children hold unit. May be spatially defined by a central directly integrated into plazuela or discrete hilltop. Aligned with production. plazuela (see Chase, this volume). Unknown without more Spatial and analytical. Overlaps One or more households on a single conSettlewith households as kin or extended information about each group. tiguous landform (ridge or hilltop). May be ment Possibly ecomonic corporate kin groups. Cluster of households affinal or consanguinial kin. May have lowGroup group. status labor subordinates. Most ambiguous. that may include attached economic dependants and kin. Social mixing, multiNeighSpatial cluster of households and settlement Face-to-face daily interaction. Less borhood groups. hierarchy in relation to supporting household. Composed of households of varying status labor groups. (dominant and subordinate houses): both kin and non-kin. Economic extraction and District Cluster of neighborhoods with economic, Social. Public ceremony, large redistribution, local authority. political, or ceremonial public center. group cohesion. Control local Clearly defined hierarchy. concessions.

TABLE 7.1.

Ambiguous

Visible? No Yes



Yes

Modeled Ranking neighborhood household or neighborhood seat (household or extended households) Modeled Local dominant or district seat (household or extended households) Despot (individual) Yes



Leadership (Smaller Unit of Analysis) – –

multiple levels of regional power and authority (Walden et al. 2019). Following these frameworks, we examine variability and diversity in household sizes and durations of occupation within spatially defined neighborhoods at two Classic Maya (250–800 CE) centers in southern Belize, Uxbenká and Ix Kuku’il, to assess putative ranking neighborhood households through the heterogeneity of neighborhood composition, the variability in development and inequality within corporate households in a neighborhood and between neighborhoods, and comparisons of neighborhood inequality between low-density urban centers. In this chapter, we expand on previous studies (Prufer et al. 2017; Thompson et al. 2018, 2021a; Thompson and Prufer 2021, 2023) to examine multiscalar inequality by specifically addressing diversity of inequality within neighborhoods, the variations in neighborhood inequality within a larger settlement system, and neighborhood inequality between low-density urban centers (Fletcher 2009). We use bottom-up approaches, including systematic settlement survey and assessments of hinterland populations, to holistically investigate social organization and household decision-making, including the development and distribution of the Classic Maya periurban communities of Uxbenká and Ix Kuku’il. Following the elite strategies outlined by Walden and colleagues (2019), we identify what were likely higher ranked households within neighborhoods—neighborhood seats—to assess multiscalar inequality at Uxbenká and Ix Kuku’il. Our welldocumented settlement data are ideal for this comparative analysis; more than ten years of pedestrian survey data resulted in the identification of more than 230 settlement groups at Uxbenká and Ix Kuku’il. In addition to pedestrian survey, household excavations inform the size and foundation dates of settlement groups and neighborhoods at Uxbenká and Ix Kuku’il and reflect diversity and inequality within their settlement systems. Our findings suggest that, as in modern cities today, socioeconomic inequality varied greatly at the scales of the neighborhood, district, and center within these ancient communities. All neighborhoods contained diverse communities, represented by differing degrees of inequality. Generally, through inherited land-tenure systems (McAnany 2013), the earliest settlement groups developed into the largest settlement groups through time and controlled a disproportionate share of resources (Prufer et al. 2017; Thompson et al. 2021a; Thompson and Prufer 2021). One consequence is that neighborhoods with the oldest settlement groups may contain higher degrees of inequality by the Late Classic (600–800 CE) due to wealthier households requiring the labor and services of subordinates living and farming within their neighborhoods. However, these trends can vary between different centers; Uxbenká’s neighborhoods have more diversity in settlement group size than the neighborhoods at Ix Kuku’il. Furthermore, neighborhoods exhibit spatial patterns in the distribution of inequality, as neighborhoods closer to the administrative areas and along 216

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transportation routes were both settled earlier and display greater diversity than neighborhoods located in the hinterlands of these ancient cities. This study assesses household decision-making in the development and distribution of multiscalar settlement inequality in ancient complex communities, the findings of which are applicable to archaeologists working in global contexts and modern society (Kintigh et al. 2014; Smith et al. 2015). ASCRIBED INEQUALITY IN AGRARIAN SO CIETIES

Inequalities between individuals, based on disparities in power, wealth, and status within a population, are present to some degree in all human societies (Mattison et al. 2016). This is generally a consequence of complex dynamics often driven by population density, competition for resources, or economic ideologies. Inequalities exist along continua, usually correlated with subsistence economies and residential mobility. There are, to be sure, lower levels of overall within-group inequalities in mobile foraging groups and higher levels in sedentary farming populations (Boone 1992; Mattison et al. 2016; Smith 2003). Among agriculturalists, as in Classic Mesoamerican societies, the emergence and maintenance of inequality have been studied through multiple models (Price and Feinman 1995), including through time with group corporate-network continuums (Blanton et al. 1996), transitions from ideal free to ideal despotic distributions (Bell and Winterhalder 2004; Prufer et al. 2017), and as autocratic versus collective forms of governance (Blanton and Fargher 2008). One characteristic of social inequality that is repeatedly institutionalized in agrarian systems is the intergenerational transmission of wealth (Borgerhoff Mulder et al. 2009; Gurven et al. 2010; Kaplan et al. 2009). This is a continuous process whereby wealth is acquired through differential access to and control over resources and is transmitted via kin selection in the form of land rights, goods, the right to corvée, and control of social networks and embodied knowledge (Bowles et al. 2010; Shennan 2011). Furthermore, in many agricultural societies, these processes may be nested with varying degrees of inequality present at differing spatial scales, including the political center, district, and neighborhood (Hutson and Welch 2021; Thompson et al. 2021a). In many agricultural societies the intergenerational transmission of wealth enables kin groups to increase control over density-dependent resources over time (Mattison et al. 2016). This may be especially true when market economies are considered, as has been proposed for the Classic Maya (Thompson et al. 2021a). As market economies grow, there is evidence to suggest that overall risk may be buffered but that inequality increases (Gurven et al. 2015). In the Maya region, the historical presence of lineal descent groups is suggestive of intergenerational transmission of wealth (Hage 2003) legitimized by land tenure (McAnany 2013). Ultimately, in southern Belize, evidence for these processes Classic Maya Neighborhoods

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may be reflected in the oldest households developing into the largest households that persist across centuries (Prufer et al. 2017). NEIGHBORHOODS, DISTRICTS, AND PERI-URBANISM

Multiscalar social communities, such as neighborhoods, districts, and centers, are composed of economically unequal households within a population. The household forms the fundamental and most common unit of social reproduction and economic decision-making (Blanton 1994; Wilk and Rathje 1982). For the ancient Maya, a household unit is usually defined as a cluster of houses and related structures with some common space likely used for interaction by a consanguineal and affinal family unit (Ashmore 1981; Bullard 1960); this is also known as a corporate group. Spatially clustered households form settlement groups and neighborhoods, in which people likely interacted regularly (Arnauld et al. 2012; Smith 2010). More recent studies have refined quantitative methods to identify archaeological neighborhoods based on geospatial analyses to measure variations in architecture, including style and size of houses, as well as analyses of material goods, such as ceramic styles and/or artifact classes (Cervantes Quequezana and Walden 2023; Chase 2016, 2021; Houk and Zaro 2015; Hutson 2016; Hutson and Welch 2021; Jordan et al. 2020; Jordan and Prufer 2017; Lemonnier 2012; Thompson et al. 2018; Thompson et al. 2022; Walden et al. 2019). Districts are composed of multiple neighborhoods and households but also contain public and civic-ceremonial architecture, including plazas, ballcourts, shrines, and temples. Districts are functionally also a type of neighborhood, but with expanded economic or political resources and increased power differentials. These power differentials are reflected in some households showing higher levels of wealth through larger buildings and prestige goods and are located closer to public architecture (Chase 2016; Smith 2010, 2011). High-status descent groups associated with district seats and minor centers are linked to the control and distribution of resources (Prufer et al. 2017; Walden et al. 2019). Ultimately, district centers acted as local hubs or focal nodes that provided the immediate surrounding community with access to social, political, religious, and economic commodities (Hutson 2016). Among hinterland districts, temples and public architecture may have been used as leveraging strategies to integrate subordinate households into the larger community (Inomata 2006; Walden et al. 2020; Yeager 2003). CONTEXTUALIZING UXBENKÁ AND IX KUKU’IL

Southern Belize is situated in the southern foothills of the Maya Mountains in the eastern Maya Lowlands. Numerous bedrock types, soil suites, topographic features, and associated flora and fauna characterize the inland portions of the region, which is divided into three distinct geographic zones: the southern Maya Mountains, the foothills, and the coastal plains (Hammond 1975; King et al. 1986; 218

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FIGURE 7.1. Map of southern Belize showing Classic period Maya centers (black triangles), topography, major rivers (gray lines), and transportation corridor (black dashed line). Maya centers that are mentioned in the text are labeled with Uxbenká and Ix Kuku’il emphasized.

Wright et al. 1959). More than thirty Classic Maya centers have been identified in the region, nearly a dozen of which contain hieroglyphic texts alluding to connections with Copan, Quirigua, Tikal, and Altun Ha (Helmke et al. 2018; Wanyerka 2009). Within the foothills, many of the ancient centers are situated near large rivers and dispersed along a southwest to northeast axis (figure 7.1). The Classic centers in southern Belize contain several characteristics that set them apart from the others discussed in this volume. In general, southern Belize civic cores and residential areas lack vaulted architecture and masonry superstructures. Natural hillslopes are often incorporated into architectural features, and many southern Belize centers have monuments with hieroglyphic texts (Braswell and Prufer 2009; Leventhal 1990, 1992). While the urban cores containing monumental architecture are smaller than many other Maya centers, the density of stelae compared to monumental construction is higher than elsewhere in the eastern lowlands (Houk 2015:table 10.2). In addition to architectural differences within the civic core, many of the centers in southern Belize exhibit low-density urbanism characterized by dispersed settlement systems and decentralized civic cores, especially when compared to Classic Maya Neighborhoods

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other Classic Maya centers. Within the foothills of southern Belize, the settlement system of Ix Kuku’il has an average of 15.5 structures/km2, Uxbenká has an average of 23 structures/km2, and Lubaantun has an average of 89 structures/ km2 (Thompson 2019:table 1.4). Pusilha, which is in southern Belize but is not on the foothills, has a denser settlement system akin to those seen elsewhere in the Maya region, with an average of 275 structures/km2, including civic core architecture (Thompson 2019:table 1.4). For comparison, other centers discussed in this volume have much higher settlement densities than Uxbenká and Ix Kuku’il: Palenque has 673 structures/km2 (Golden et al. 2020), Río Bec neighborhoods have 350 structures/km2 (Arnauld and Dzul Góngora, this volume), Bejecual has 220-25 structures/km2, El Zotz has 175–200 structures/km2 (Garrison et al. 2019; Garrison, this volume), and the hinterlands of Nachtun have 160 structures/ km2 (Hiquet et al., this volume; Nondédéo et al., this volume). The density of structures within the Uxbenká and Ix Kuku’il settlement systems are even lower than the peripheral settlement systems of El Perú-Waka’ (65 structures/km2), the Copan Pocket (84 structures/km2), and the Caracol Cohune Ridge (87 structures/ km2) (Marken 2015:table 5.2), highlighting the heterogeneity of Classic Maya centers while emphasizing the difference in scale of Uxbenká and Ix Kuku’il compared to the other Maya centers discussed in this volume and elsewhere. Uxbenká is located on the Toledo Uplands, which is characterized by interbedded sandstone and limestone that results in rapid pedogenesis and rich agricultural soils. Uxbenká was likely founded due to productive agricultural lands, abundance of freshwater springs and rivers, and access to a transportation corridor connecting the eastern Pasión region of the southeastern Petén to the Caribbean Sea (Hammond 1978). The civic ceremonial core of Uxbenká consists of eleven areas of monumental architecture spread out across several hilltops (figure 7.2). The Stelae Plaza, or Group A, houses twenty-three stelae that are situated in front of a northernly inline triadic pyramid (stylistically similar to an E-Group); one of which has been linked to Tikal around 378 CE (Prufer et al. 2011; Wanyerka 2009). Group B is a restricted plaza with a small ballcourt and a temple on the northern end of the plaza. Groups C–E are larger public plazas; Group D has a market and public ballcourt. Groups F, I, and L, and Settlement Group (SG) 25 are high-status residential groups that are connected to either ceremonial plazas or contain ceremonial architecture. More than 130 settlement groups surround the Uxbenká civic core. This settlement system covers an area of 21 km2. Settlement groups vary in size from a single residential platform to more than thirty platforms situated around multiple plazuelas on modified hilltops (figure 7.3; Kalosky and Prufer 2012; Prufer and Thompson 2014; Prufer et al. 2015). Residential architecture is often small, consisting of low platforms (less than 0.5 m high) constructed from local sandstone that would have supported perishable superstructures (Hammond 1975; Prufer 220

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FIGURE 7.2 . Map of the Uxbenká settlement system. Civic ceremonial core architecture (light gray) is emphasized among the residential settlement groups (black). Uxbenká’s civic ceremonial groups are decentralized and dispersed along a transportation corridor (black dashed line).

et al. 2011; Thompson 2020). Uxbenká’s settlement groups are spatially clustered into twenty neighborhoods and three districts (Prufer et al. 2017; Thompson et al. 2018; Thompson and Prufer 2023). Ix Kuku’il is located approximately 7 km northwest of Uxbenká, deeper in the southern foothills of the Maya Mountains. Ix Kuku’il is also situated on the intermixed sandstone and limestone bedrocks of the Toledo Uplands, and streams and freshwater springs are abundant across the landscape. Ix Kuku’il’s ten administrative and public groups are spatially decentralized and surrounded by residential settlement groups (figure  7.4). A single 3 m tall uncarved stela is located in Group A in front of a 10 m tall inline eastern triadic pyramid, or E-Group. Other public architecture at Ix Kuku’il includes hilltop shrines (Groups Classic Maya Neighborhoods

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FIGURE 7. 3. A typical southern Belize residential platform in a settlement group consists of cut stones from locally available sandstone bedrock and is less than 0.5m high (left, above and below). The diversity in size of six Ix Kuku’il settlement groups in comparison to Ix Kuku’il Group A (right).

I and E), a ball court (Group F), possible receiving rooms (Groups C and F), stacked platforms (Group D), and outlying temples (Groups B, J, and K) that may not be residential in nature (Thompson and Prufer 2016, 2021). Nearly one hundred settlement groups are dispersed across the hilltops, some of which also house small shrines and hinterland public buildings (e.g., SG 61, SG 90). These settlement groups with public architecture likely acted as district seats for surrounding populations. Most settlement groups are composed of two to four buildings situated around a central plazuela on a discrete hilltop (Thompson 2020:table 3). The dispersed monumental and public architecture surrounded by residential zones at Ix Kuku’il is comparable with the settlement patterns described by Arnauld and colleagues (2012) at Río Bec (see also Arnauld and Dzul Góngora, this volume), rather than the highly centralized monumental cores typical of Classic Maya centers such as Palenque (Liedno and Campiani, this volume) and Naachtun (Hiquet et al., this volume). Uxbenká and Ix Kuku’il follow the same general chronology (table 7.2). Although other Maya centers exhibited monumental constructions during the Early and Middle Preclassic (Ebert 2017; Horn 2020; Inomata et al. 2015, 2020), southern Belize maintained a sparsely populated farming landscape until the end 222

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Map of the Ix Kuku’il settlement system. Civic ceremonial architecture (light gray) is emphasized among the hinterland settlement groups (black). Ix Kuku’il’s civic ceremonial groups are highly decentralized. FIGURE 7.4.

of the Late Preclassic. Population growth and most monumental constructions occurred during the Early Classic and Late Classic followed by gradual declines in populations throughout the Terminal Classic and into the Early Postclassic (table 7.2). However, Uxbenká’s location along a transportation corridor resulted in larger and wealthier populations than at Ix Kuku’il, especially for the earlier occupants who settled closer to the corridor (Prufer et al. 2017; Thompson et al.

TABLE 7.2.

Southern Belize chronology.

Period

Dates

Late Preclassic

300 BCE–250 CE

Early Classic I

250–400 CE

Early Classic II

400–600 CE

Late Classic

600–800 CE

Terminal Classic

800–1000 CE

Postclassic

1000–1519 CE

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2021a). Likewise, the monumental core architecture at Uxbenká is substantially larger than that of Ix Kuku’il, suggesting nuanced differences in socioeconomic and political power vis-à-vis the ability to mobilize labor for public works (Smith et al. 2021). THE DEVELOPMENT OF INEQUALITY AMONG SETTLEMENT GROUPS AND NEIGHBORHOODS

We used survey and excavation data as well as previously conducted spatial analyses to assess how settlement groups vary within neighborhoods. All settlement groups analyzed were ground-truthed using tape and compass mapping in conjunction with higher-resolution spatial data (i.e., total stations, handheld GPS units, and LiDAR-derived visualization models; see Prufer et al. 2015; Thompson 2020; Thompson and Prufer 2015). To evaluate community growth over time and mechanisms for integration and inequality, settlement groups were dated using established ceramic typologies ( Jordan 2014; Jordan and Prufer 2014) and radiocarbon dates (Prufer et al. 2017; Thompson and Prufer 2021). We previously identified neighborhoods and districts at Uxbenká and Ix Kuku’il using spatial analyses and discussed status differentials within districts (Prufer et al. 2017; Thompson et al. 2018, 2021a; Thompson and Prufer 2021, 2023). Here, we assess the diversity of intra- and inter-neighborhood inequality and power dynamics. We examine differences in wealth between corporate households, in this case settlement groups, belonging to the same neighborhood and between neighborhoods. As a result of ancestral veneration and land tenure, the earliest settlement groups commonly developed into the largest settlement groups due to differential access to resources and the intergenerational transmission of wealth (McAnany 2013). Therefore, we assess the location and size of settlement groups in relation to each other, within neighborhoods, and between neighborhoods. For simplicity, labor inputs and architectural volume are not included in this analysis, although the ability to muster corvée for public works conveys information on political and economic status (Abrams 1994; Smith et al. 2021; Yeager 2003). Settlement Group Chronologies

Here we summarize the development of chronologic sequences of settlement groups at Uxbenká and Ix Kuku’il, which is discussed in detail elsewhere (see Prufer et al. 2017, 2022; Thompson 2019; Thompson and Prufer 2021, 2023). Uxbenká has fifty-seven dated settlement groups, and Ix Kuku’il has thirty-one dated settlement groups. Settlement groups were dated using surface finds collected during survey, as well as artifacts and organic materials collected during excavations. Artifacts and features encountered during survey often record the last phase of occupation, which in southern Belize commonly dates to the Late Classic. Early Classic ceramics may also be found during survey, often near 224

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Settlement data with number of settlement groups and dated settlement groups for Uxbenká and Ix Kuku’il.

TABLE 7.3.

Total Households Ix Kuku’il

98

Ix Kuku’il % Uxbenká Uxbenká %

134

Total Datable Households

Late Preclassic

Early Classic I

Early Classic II

Late Classic

Terminal Classic

31

1

9

11

31

2

31.63

3.23

29.03

35.48

100.00

6.45

57

7

26

34

53

2

41.91

12.28

45.61

59.65

92.98

3.51

looter’s pits, indicating a longer occupation of the settlement group.1 Settlement group occupations were also assessed through excavations, which occurred in an array of settlement group types to explore variations and diversity in status based on household size and location. Within a settlement group, excavations typically occurred within the largest platform in the group, allowing for consistency and comparability among the excavations. The largest platforms often contain multiple construction phases and thus provide greater insight than smaller platforms into the occupational history of settlement groups. Although Uxbenká’s population expanded centuries earlier than Ix Kuku’il, the settlement chronologies of Uxbenká and Ix Kuku’il follow the same general trajectory. Small populations speckled the landscape during the Late Preclassic (300 BCE–250 CE). During the Early Classic I (250–400 CE), however, Uxbenká’s population expanded. By 400  CE, more than 45  percent of the datable settlement groups were already established (table 7.3). In comparison, during the Early Classic I, fewer than 30 percent of Ix Kuku’il settlement groups were occupied. The oldest settlement groups, or those established before 400 CE, commonly developed into the largest settlement groups due to differential access to resources that were passed down through intergenerational inheritance and land tenure (Prufer et al. 2017; Thompson and Prufer 2021). During the Early Classic II, from 400–600 CE, both centers experienced population growth, although growth was more pronounced at Uxbenká. By 600 CE, 60  percent of the dated settlement groups at Uxbenká and 35  percent of the dated settlement groups at Ix Kuku’il were founded. Populations peaked during the Late Classic, with 93 percent and 100 percent of all dated settlement groups at Uxbenká and Ix Kuku’il, respectively, containing a Late Classic occupation, which was followed by a gradual decline during the Terminal Classic (Prufer et al. 2017; Prufer and Kennett 2020; Thompson and Prufer 2019, 2021). These chronologies were used for the foundation date of settlement groups wherein earlier settlement groups were often neighborhood seats. If several settlement Classic Maya Neighborhoods

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TABLE 7.4. UAP settlement group (SG) typology (Kalosky and Prufer 2012; Prufer and Thompson 2014).

Attributes

Type 1

Type 2

Type 3

Type 4

Type 5

N/A

Total

Number of platforms, arrangements, and plazas

Single isolated platform

2–3 platforms; lack formal arrangement

4–6 structures; arranged around a central plaza

7–9 buildings; often situated on a raised platform or modified hilltop around an open plaza

10+ platforms; arranged around at least two conjoined plazas

Only hilltop location recorded during survey; number of structures not recorded

Ix Kuku’il SG count

18

46

25

5

3

1

98

Ix Kuku’il %

18.4

46.9

25.5

5.1

3.1

1.0

100.0

Uxbenká SG count

31

42

35

12

6

8

134

Uxbenká %

23.1

31.3

26.1

9.0

4.5

6.0

100.0

Total SG count

49

88

60

17

9

9

232

groups dated to the same time period, settlement group type was used to identify neighborhood seats. Settlement Group Type

Settlement groups are diverse and vary in size and complexity. It is common that larger and more architecturally complex settlement groups contain higherstatus occupants (Ashmore 1981). Archaeologists in the Maya region often classify residential spaces within centers or regions into settlement group types based on size and complexity of residential spaces (Ashmore et al. 1994; Robin 2004, 2013; also see Thompson and Prufer 2023:table 2). The Uxbenká Archaeological Project (UAP) settlement group typology (table 7.4) is based on the number of structures and plazas present, spanning from Type 1 to Type 5 settlement groups. On one end of the spectrum, Type 1 settlement groups are composed of a single household platform, and, on the other end, Type 5 settlement groups consist of more than ten household platforms with structures situated around multiple plazuelas, likely representing extended kin groups (Kalosky and Prufer 2012; Prufer and Thompson 2014). Most settlement groups fall into a “commoner” category, with more than 90 percent of settlement groups at Ix Kuku’il and 80 percent of settlement groups at Uxbenká classified as Types 1–3. Fewer than 10 percent and 226

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FIGURE 7.5. Stacked bar graph of settlement group type percentages at Ix Kuku’il and Uxbenká representing diversity in settlement group size across the settlement system. Ix Kuku’il contains more commoner settlement groups (approximately 91% commoner, 8% high status, and 1% unknown settlement groups), while Uxbenká contains more high-status settlement groups (approximately 80% commoner versus 14% high status and 6% unknown).

15 percent of settlement groups at Ix Kuku’il and Uxbenká, respectively, are classified as Type 4 or 5 (table 7.4; figure 7.5). Settlement group types were used as a second proxy to identify neighborhood seats. NEIGHBORHO OD DIVERSITY AND INEQUALITY

In our study, all neighborhoods contain settlement groups of varying size and complexity; however, some neighborhoods exhibit greater intra-neighborhood diversity and inequality than others. For example, at Uxbenká, Neighborhood 5 (N5) contains settlement groups of all types (1–5), while N7 and N13 only house Type 2 settlement groups (figure 7.6; table 7.5). Other neighborhoods, such as N2, contain two significantly larger settlement groups surrounded by many smaller settlement groups, reflecting the heterogeneity of neighborhood composition (Thompson et al. 2021a). Similar trends hold true for Ix Kuku’il, although, in general, Ix Kuku’il settlement groups are smaller and less diverse in settlement Classic Maya Neighborhoods

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FIGURE 7.6. Neighborhoods and districts map of Uxbenká. Settlement group foundation date is designated by the color of the point (lighter colors are older; darker colors are younger); settlement group type is designated by the size of point (larger points are larger settlement groups; smaller points are smaller settlement groups). Neighborhood seats are indicated by the star. District seats are designated by the larger yellow star. Older settlement groups and neighborhoods were established near the transportation corridor (black dashed line).

group type, and thus neighborhood seats were, at times, more difficult to identify (figure 7.7; table 7.6). In addition to the size of settlement groups, we evaluate neighborhood diversity and inequality through time. Early and Late Classic Neighborhoods at Uxbenká

At Uxbenká, twenty-six settlement groups were established by 400  CE (table 7.3) and are dispersed across the landscape (figures 7.6 and 7.8). Previous studies of Uxbenká suggest early settlers elected to live closer to a documented transportation corridor that runs east-west through the south-central portion of the 228

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N19

N20

Uxbenká

Uxbenká

N14

Uxbenká

N18

N13

Uxbenká

N17

N12

Uxbenká

Uxbenká

N11

Uxbenká

Uxbenká

N10

Uxbenká

N15

N9

Uxbenká

N16

N8

Uxbenká

Uxbenká

N7

Uxbenká

Uxbenká

N6

2

5

3

1

3

1

7

3

1

1

2

2

2

3

1

2

2

2

1

3

1

1

4

1

3

1

1

2

3

1

1

1

1

1

1

1

2

1

2

1

1

1

3

2

3

6

9

5

4

6

3

2

5

3

12

4

2

3

12

5

11

2

3

4

2

2

3

2

1

2

4

2

3

3

1

3

5

3

4

2

2

2

1

N5

3

4

5

4

Uxbenká

1

3

21

9

Uxbenká

1

3

1

N4

1

1

1

2

1

2

1

1

1

3

2

2

5

2

1

1

1

1

1

1

1

1

1

1

3

2

2

2

5

2

3

4

7

5

3

6

2

9

1

7

1

7

10

6

Unknown

N3

1 4

Late Classic

Uxbenká

3

10

Early Classic II

Uxbenká

5

4

Early Classic I

N2

Number of SG Types

N1

Total

Uxbenká

Type 5

Uxbenká

Type 4

Late Preclassic

Type 3

Type 1

Neighborhood

Center

Type 2

Number of Settlement Groups within the Neighborhood with Foundation date of:

Number of Settlement Groups

Uxbenká settlement group types and foundation dates in each neighborhood.

Location Information (See Figure 7.6)

TABLE 7.5.

FIGURE 7.7. Neighborhoods and districts map of Ix Kuku’il. Settlement group foundation date is designated by the color of the point (lighter colors are older; darker colors are younger), and settlement group type is designated by the size of point (larger points are larger settlement groups; smaller points are smaller settlement groups). Neighborhood seats are indicated by the yellow star. District seats are designated by the larger yellow star.

center (Prufer et al. 2017). The earliest settlement groups and neighborhoods were founded before 250 CE and were near the transportation corridor, providing occupants with access to rich agricultural lands, water, and imported goods (Thompson et al. 2021a). Of the twenty neighborhoods, thirteen (65%) were established by 400  CE. By 600  CE, an additional neighborhood was founded, indicating the neighborhood heads had largely been established by the beginning of the Late Classic. Throughout the Late Classic, population expansion resulted in the infilling of the landscape. New settlement groups continued to develop within established neighborhoods, and two new neighborhoods formed 230

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N14

N15

N16

Ix Kuku’il

Ix Kuku’il

Ix Kuku’il

N12

N11

Ix Kuku’il

N13

N10

Ix Kuku’il

Ix Kuku’il

N9

Ix Kuku’il

Ix Kuku’il

N7

N8

Ix Kuku’il

Ix Kuku’il

N5

N6

Ix Kuku’il

N4

Ix Kuku’il

Ix Kuku’il

N2

N3

Ix Kuku’il

Ix Kuku’il

N1

Ix Kuku’il

1

1

1

2

3

2

3

1

1

2

Neighborhood

3

2

1

1

1

3

7

1

2

3

1

4

3

2

2

1

2

1

2

2

2

1

1

1

1

3

2

1

1

1

2

Type 4

Center

Type 3

Type 1

Type 2

Number of Settlement Groups

1

Type 5

3

6

3

3

4

4

3

8

10

4

3

6

3

8

3

7

Total

1

4

3

2

3

3

2

3

3

3

2

2

3

3

1

4

Number of SG Types

Ix Kuku’il settlement group types and foundation dates in each neighborhood.

Location Information (See Figure 7.7)

TABLE 7.6.

1

Late Preclassic

1

2

Early Classic I

1

1

Early Classic II

1

1

1

1

1

2

1

2

3

3

Late Classic

3

5

3

2

2

3

3

7

8

2

2

4

3

3

3

3

Unknown

Number of Settlement Groups within the Neighborhood with Foundation date of:

FIGURE 7.8. Neighborhood foundation date based on the earliest settlement group in the neighborhood (table 7.5). Many of Uxbenká’s neighborhoods were established by 400 CE, while most of Ix Kuku’il neighborhoods were founded during the Late Classic. Earliest founded neighborhoods may have been established near freshwater springs (cuxlin ha’, triangles), which are distributed across the landscape and at Uxbenká, also near the transportation corridor.

north of the civic core. Four neighborhoods in the far northern and southern periphery of Uxbenká remain undated. Early and Late Classic Neighborhoods at Ix Kuku’il

Ix Kuku’il’s Early Classic settlement system reflects the dispersed nature of neighborhood seats and inherited inequality. The earliest settlement groups and neighborhoods are generally located in the western portion of the settlement system, closer to Group A, or along the southeastern side of the settlement system near the boundary with Uxbenká (figures  7.7 and 7.8). The early establishment 232

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of neighborhoods near civic ceremonial architecture suggests community integration associated with local dominants (Thompson and Prufer 2023). The earlier settlement groups along the southeastern areas of the settlement system may have been established due to their proximity to Uxbenká, for ease of movement between the communities or as early territory or boundary markers, similar to the function of outlying stelae at Copan (Leventhal 1981). In contrast to Uxbenká, where most of the neighborhoods were founded during the Early Classic, only four (25%) of the sixteen neighborhoods at Ix Kuku’il were founded by 600 CE, the end of the Early Classic. Throughout the Late Classic, the landscape became increasingly populated as twelve more neighborhoods were established as new settlers infilled the landscape and expanded the settlement system to the northeast. N E I G H B O R H O O D S AT U X B E N K Á A N D I X K U K U ’ I L

Diversity in the residential areas of the built environment exists across the Maya region, including the presence of larger households/settlement groups and outlying civic ceremonial architecture (Ashmore 1981; Hutson 2016). Within modern Maya settlement systems, neighborhoods and extended households are not always egalitarian and can vary in socioeconomic status (Boremanse 1998; Fash 1983). These modern examples provide a framework for intra-neighborhood diversity and inequality among the Classic Maya, as well as household decision-making. Neighborhoods at Uxbenká and Ix Kuku’il contain between two and twentyone settlement groups that often vary in size. Extended households of putative neighborhood seats, or wealthier settlement groups within a neighborhood, are present in southern Belize, highlighting the heterogeneity of neighborhood composition. Using the earliest founded settlement groups, which were also usually the largest settlement groups, we found that most neighborhoods contained one or two settlement groups that were larger and older than the other settlement groups within the neighborhood. Variation in house size likely reflected status differences within and between neighborhoods at Classic Maya centers (Thompson et al. 2021b; Thompson et al. 2021a). At Uxbenká, more than half of the neighborhoods contained a high-status settlement group (Type 4 or 5). However, three neighborhoods—N7, N13, and N16—contained only Type 1 and Type 2 settlement groups. This indicates that diversity existed, and inequality varied within and between neighborhoods. Most of Ix Kuku’il’s settlement groups have been classified as Type 1–3 and, overall, fewer than 30 percent of neighborhoods contained Type 4 or 5 settlement groups. On average, each neighborhood at Uxbenká contained 2.9 (out of 5) Settlement Group Types, while Ix Kuku’il contained 2.6 Settlement Group Types, suggesting that inequality and diversity in household composition existed among the settlement groups of Ix Kuku’il; however, it was slightly more subdued than at Uxbenká. Classic Maya Neighborhoods

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Clear evidence for inequality within and diversity among neighborhoods is present and is likely linked to land tenure. The variations in inequality across the entirety of the settlement system reflect diversity among hinterland populations. The dispersed populations at both Uxbenká and Ix Kuku’il were largely agrarian; however, Uxbenká is located along a major transportation corridor (Hammond 1978; Prufer et al. 2017). Within the varying degrees of wealth inequality, strictly agrarian communities with internally produced revenue tended to have lesser degrees of inequality than communities in which despots gained power through external revenue via prestige goods economies or long-distance trade (Feinman and Carballo 2019). While both Uxbenká and Ix Kuku’il were agrarian communities, due to its proximity to the transportation corridor, Uxbenká may exhibit greater inequality and diversity in settlement group size than Ix Kuku’il, as such proximity allowed the local dominants and despots to monopolize access to the trade corridor and the prestige goods passing through it. Compared to Ix Kuku’il occupants, some residents of Uxbenká had increased access to long-distance trade and prestige goods via the transportation corridor (Thompson et al. 2021a). Within Uxbenká, less diversity in settlement group size is present among hinterland neighborhoods farther from the transportation corridor, just as greater diversity in settlement group size is present among neighborhoods near the transportation corridor. Ix Kuku’il exhibits slightly less diversity in settlement group size overall, possibly due to the largely agrarian community with an emphasis on locally produced goods under the pretenses of endogenic wealth. Through time, neighborhood composition changes. Notably, the Settlement Group Types reflect the Late Classic landscape, but looking at changes through time informs the growth of earlier versus later neighborhoods. Neighborhoods initially settled during the Late Preclassic, or before 250 CE, contain an average of 3.3 Settlement Group Types. Neighborhoods founded during the Early Classic I average 3.2 Settlement Group Types (table 7.7). More than half of the neighborhoods were founded by 400 CE (figure 7.8), which coincides with major landscape modifications in the Uxbenká civic ceremonial core (Prufer and Thompson 2016). Neighborhoods established later—after 600 CE—contain fewer Settlement Group Types. An average of 2.0 and 2.5 Settlement Group Types are present among neighborhoods founded after 400 CE during the Early Classic II and Late Classic, respectively. This means that the older neighborhoods founded during the Late Preclassic had more diversity in neighborhood composition based on household size than neighborhoods founded during the Late Classic. The number of Settlement Group Types within a neighborhood reflects diversity in socioeconomic status and inequality. This trend indicates greater diversity in settlement group size within earlier established neighborhoods and less diversity among neighborhoods founded during the Late Classic. Many of the settlement groups founded during the Late Classic are in the northern and southern portions 234

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Average number of settlement group types (out of 5) within neighborhoods based on neighborhood foundation date.

TABLE 7.7.

Number of SG Types by Neighborhood Foundation Date

Center Uxbenká

Ix Kuku’il

Foundation Date

Average Number of SG Types per Neighborhood Founded during Time Period

Number of Neighborhoods Founded

Number of SGs Founded

Late Preclassic

3.3

4.0

7

Early Classic I

3.2

9.0

12

Early Classic II

2.0

1.0

6

Late Classic

2.5

2.0

9

Late Preclassic

3.0

1.0

1

Early Classic I

3.0

2.0

3

Early Classic II

4.0

1.0

2

Late Classic

2.7

7.0

10

of the settlement system, on more marginal lands far from the trade corridor. Longevity of occupation directly correlates with the growth and size of settlement groups and neighborhoods, with older neighborhoods containing more diverse settlement groups representative of inherited inequality over time. As in Uxbenká, residential and ceremonial architecture is dispersed across the Ix Kuku’il settlement system. Settlement groups and neighborhoods founded before or during the Early Classic are generally located in the northwestern or far southeastern portions of the settlement system, with later settlement groups infilling the central and the northeastern sections of the extant settlement system. A single neighborhood arose during the Late Preclassic, which by the Late Classic was composed of three different Settlement Group Types (Type 1, Type 3, and Type 4). Two neighborhoods were founded during the Early Classic I and one during the Early Classic II. Most settlement groups within neighborhoods at Ix Kuku’il were established during the Late Classic (figures 7.7 and 7.8). The neighborhoods founded during the Early Classic I and Early Classic II contain three and four different settlement group types, respectively; neighborhoods founded during the Late Classic average 2.7 Settlement Group Types. With fewer settlement groups and neighborhoods dating to the three earlier time periods, there is generally less diversity at Ix Kuku’il. The decreased variation in settlement group size within Ix Kuku’il’s neighborhoods is likely a result of the shorter occupational sequence, where fewer than 35 percent of settlement groups were established before 600 CE; whereas at Uxbenká, more than 60 percent of settlement groups were founded by 600 CE. Classic Maya Neighborhoods

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Our results show the gradual expansion of the settlement system and the establishment of new neighborhoods. True of other political centers in this volume such as Naachtun, Río Bec, and El Perú-Waka’, the extensive settlement survey and excavations at Uxbenká and Ix Kuku’il inform shifts in population inequality and diversity over time. In this chapter, we note that people gradually moved away from the earliest settlement groups and dispersed across the landscape. The decision to move may have been encouraged by despots who were seeking to maintain control over the transportation corridor. Nonetheless, there is clear evidence of later settlers moved into the peripheral areas of Uxbenká and Ix Kuku’il, infilling the landscape. Given the proximity of these two centers and their occupation chronologies, as well as considering that Uxbenká is the founding center in the region, it is possible that Ix Kuku’il started as a successful group of neighborhoods or a district of the Uxbenká political center. For reasons that are unclear, it would have seceded to form its own center. Sometime after 500 CE, Ix Kuku’il is clearly a separate political entity with its inline eastern triadic pyramid and stela, which recalls Uxbenká and other nearby centers to the west, including Sacul, Ixtonton, and Suk’ Che’ (Carter 2016; Laporte et al. 1999). Ix Kuku’il’s stela is the second largest monument in the region (after Nimli Punit). One key function of political centers is to prevent emigration and defend boundaries, and, in that regard, the loss of the northern foothills leading into the resource-rich Maya Mountains could be considered a failure of the Uxbenká state. This time period corresponds with a cessation of monumental landscape modifications that occurred in the Uxbenká public core around 400 CE and the expansion of the Ix Kuku’il settlement system (Prufer and Thompson 2016; Prufer and Kennett 2020; Thompson 2019). However, based on archaeological evidence, it is not clear that Uxbenká was weakened at this time; the population continued to expand, and dynastic ruling families continued to erect new carved monuments unabated until circa 800 CE. After 500 CE, there was likely an unoccupied boundary between Uxbenká and Ix Kuku’il. We believe this boundary correlates with a large tributary river surrounded by lower flatter lands less suitable for farming. Survey data indicate a decrease in settlement groups along this boundary. As with other chapters in this volume, we use temporal data to assess the spatial development of settlement systems through time and the household decision-making and mobility of newly founded settlement groups. A transportation corridor that passes through Uxbenká’s settlement system near the civic ceremonial core facilitated the movement of people along an east-west axis. This corridor links the Pasión region of the southeastern Petén to the Caribbean Sea and is still used today by Q’eqchi’ merchants (cobaneros) traveling from the Alta Verapaz of Guatemala to San Pedro Columbia, Belize, near the Classic Maya center of Lubaantun (Hammond 1978). Access to roads that provide economic, 236

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FIGURE 7.9.

A spring (cuxlin ha’) maintained by a modern Mopan Maya kin group.

ideological, and political commodities is valued today and likely was in the past (Haines 2018; Wilk 1997). At Uxbenká-dominant households, including the political center leadership, there was controlled access to resources near to the transportation corridor, including a number of freshwater springs (or “living water” called cuxlin ha’ in Classic Maya Neighborhoods

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Mopan Maya) and some high-quality agricultural lands, while other springs and farmlands were not directly controlled by dominants due to their ubiquitous distribution across the landscape. Freshwater springs and perennial streams are abundant within the Toledo Uplands. While springs and perennial streams were not the only sources of water, they were highly valued, more so than seasonally available water, such as smaller streams without springs. The earliest neighborhoods at Uxbenká, as well as the civic core, were established along the transportation corridor and near several springs. Based on ethnographic examples and archaeological evidence of neighborhoods that formed around waterholes (Hutson 2016; Vogt 1965, 2004), it is possible that access to freshwater springs may have been restricted to particular lineage groups. The investment in cleaning a spring (figure 7.9) ensured year-round access to clean water and helped form part of the identity of the families who maintained the spring. Neighborhoods contain distinct characteristics, including social or ethnic identification or physical variations (Hutson 2016; Smith 2010). However, these are often difficult, if not impossible, to identify within the settlement system, in which residential platforms often consist of little more than a 50 cm high pile of cut stone now overgrown with tropical foliage (figure 7.3). Therefore, we primarily relied on spatial data and limited temporal data for the identification of neighborhoods. Spatial and survey data have allowed us to assess the variation in settlement layout and construction materials within neighborhoods. While most settlement groups are located on a modified hilltop and are composed of residential platforms situated around a central plaza, several neighborhoods contain settlement groups with unique characteristics. For example, many of the settlement groups in N8 at Ix Kuku’il have faced hillslopes creating a small artificial platform on the hilltop. In a similar vein, most of the Classic Maya construction in the region used the softer sandstone bedrock of the Toledo Uplands formation (Hammond 1975; Prufer et al. 2011). Some of the northern settlement groups at Ix Kuku’il, such as those in N7, N14, and N16 (figure 7.7), used a mixture of sandstone and limestone in residential platform construction, taking advantage of local limestone bedrock outcrops within the transitional zone on the northern extent of the Toledo Uplands. These construction methods, in large part due to local geology, allowed some neighborhoods to maintain unique architectural and construction characteristics compared to others. Different construction materials, access to and maintenance of resources— such as springs (cuxlin ha’)—and settlement inequality suggest heterogeneity and diversity in the composition of neighborhoods. Most neighborhoods exhibit variations in settlement group size and foundation date, which makes it possible to identify wealthier settlement groups or neighborhood seats. Inequality varies at multiple scales within both political centers and neighborhoods. In part, that was due to the longevity of occupation among settlement groups, 238

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resulting in diverse communities. Some neighborhoods are more diverse than others and, generally, Uxbenká’s neighborhoods are more diverse in settlement group size than those at Ix Kuku’il, possibly due to exogenic versus endogenic wealth and the early foundation of Uxbenká. As our case study of southern Belize demonstrates, inequality and diversity gradually develop over time, in part due to differential access to resources, including land tenure, springs/water, and trade opportunities. CONCLUDING REMARKS

Differential access to density-dependent resources is one mechanism for maintaining inequality (Boone 1992; Smith et al. 2010). Our assessment of settlement groups and neighborhoods indicates diverse scales of community based on measures of inequality. Previous work has examined the distribution of settlement groups across the landscape (Thompson et al. 2018, 2022), household status (Prufer and Thompson 2014; Thompson et al. 2013), and differential access to resources (Prufer et al. 2017; Thompson and Prufer 2021). This chapter incorporates results from our previous studies to assess spatial and temporal inequality and diversity within neighborhoods using settlement group size and foundation date. We found that settlement group diversity and inequality vary within and between neighborhoods but that neighborhoods were diverse, often containing one settlement group that was larger than the others (Thompson et al. 2021a). We also found that earlier established neighborhoods were closer to civic core architecture, district centers, and transportation corridors. Neighborhoods founded during the Late Classic were in the hinterlands or infilled the landscape. Finally, as documented at Chunchucmil by Scott Hutson (2016), we note that springs (cuxlin ha’) may have acted as focal nodes or social gathering spaces within neighborhoods where corporate lineage groups may have maintained water resources. Neighborhoods form a more intimate scale of community within a political center. The distribution and variations of diverse settlement groups within neighborhoods and centers in ancient contexts are applicable to political centers and urban landscapes today, so often defined by multiscalar neighborhoods and social units (Smith et al. 2015). Future research will expand on this discussion using quantifiable analyses of construction, architectural features, and material goods to assess multiscalar settlement inequality at the household level. Acknowledgments. We thank D. Marken and C. Arnauld for the invitation to contribute to this volume. We extend an appreciation to the Belize Institute of Archaeology and to its director J. Morris, who provided permission to conduct research at Ix Kuku’il and Uxbenká. The support of the local communities and leadership of Santa Cruz (Uxbenká) and San Jose (Ix Kuku’il), as well as the contributions of numerous members of the Uxbenká Archaeological Project, facilitated field work and lab analyses. Helpful feedback and comments on Classic Maya Neighborhoods

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this chapter were provided by J. P. Walden, D. B. Marken, and M. C. Arnauld. Research at Uxbenká and Ix Kuku’il was supported by grants from the National Science Foundation (BCS-DDIG-1649080, Prufer and Thompson; BCS-0620445, Prufer; HSD-0827305, Prufer), the Explorer’s Club of New York Exploration Fund (Thompson), the UNM Roger’s Research Award (Thompson), and the Alphawood Foundation (Prufer). NOTE

1. Looting activity often occurs in larger structures and can therefore potentially bias an underrepresentation of early households.

[128.104.46.206] Project MUSE (2024-03-01 18:26 GMT) UW-Madison Libraries

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8 Households, Growth, Contraction, and Mobility at the Classic Maya Center of Naachtun JULIEN HIQUET

CNRS/UMR 8096 JULIEN SION

CNRS/UMR 8096-CEMCA DIVINA PERLA-BARRERA

Universidad Autónoma de Yucatán

INTRODUCTION

The residential complexes that appear on the archaeological map of Naachtun are the result of a long history, one that may have lasted over a thousand years of growth, contraction, and mobility at multiple settlement scales. What we see today are the visible surface Late and Terminal Classic settlement patterns, which mask earlier occupation traces across the city. Extensive excavation data of the North Petén Naachtun Archaeological Project allows for the identification of settlement fluctuations and transformations of urban spaces over time. It is through the analysis of stratigraphic and ceramic data recovered from numerous excavation contexts that we illustrate the population and urban dynamics that developed through the history of the Naachtun polity, which recognized pivotal episodes and articulated the deeds of different actors. On one hand, it is always tempting to rely on epigraphic and royal-elite data to explain occupancy dynamics (Houston et al. 2003:214) as these are often the most historically detailed fluctuations to which the archaeologist can cling, particularly in our case, since so much of our archaeological information comes https://doi.org/10.5876/9781646424092.c008

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from the urban core of Naachtun. On the other hand, the strength of our data is that they include all settlement scales in the area from isolated structures to epicentral compounds. This enables us to reconstruct settlement trends at all levels of society, both in terms of elite strategies and commoners’ agency. In practice, beyond political strategies, a whole universe of more or less conscious, reciprocal, or conflictive interests explains the actions of people ( Joyce et al. 2001:347–49). Although elite artifacts may provide more solid clues with more accessible meanings than the less tangible remains of commoners, they do not necessarily better explain the reasons for trends and fluctuations in settlement patterns. For Michael Smith (2014), mobility is a normal part of urban life that is best explained by individuals and groups of commoners in search of better economic conditions and opportunities. One example of the validity of such a bottom-up approach is perhaps found in funerary practices. At Naachtun, Goudiaby (2018) observed that burying ways were more diverse in remote residential groups than in the epicenter, suggesting that the commoners had more freedom in their everyday practices than elites. Similar flexibilities likely held for patterns and development choices of residential spaces (see Marken and Arnauld, this volume). But admittedly a bottom-up focus is not adequate when many people’s actions result from the inertia of more or less explicit traditions and habits, which has led some scholars (e.g., Webster 2018) to avoid agencybased approaches to commoner behavior. Garrison and colleagues (2019:134) go as far as warning against that “almost populist” archaeology. This chapter attempts to avoid overprivileging a bottom-up model of settlement dynamics by offering a balanced point of view on the settlement phenomenon. Our concepts are basic tools primarily used in geography, such as urban contraction and expansion, which can help to describe and identify settlement dynamics (see Marken and Arnauld, this volume). Both mitigate simplistic analyses of occupancy rates, as they indicate trends not necessarily in the number of inhabitants but instead in the urban form (i.e., more people may live in fewer settlement units). This is relevant in the case of Naachtun where the size of settlement units was highly variable. Contraction processes have been archaeologically identified in the Late/Terminal Classic sites of Río Bec and La Joyanca, where they imply short distance mobility as dwellers abandoned a residential group to settle in the main unit of the same neighborhood (Arnauld et al. 2012, 2017; Michelet et al. 2013). Applying those concepts helps formulate working hypotheses, all the while without reaching the comprehensive conclusions of geographers who use modern datasets. After nine field seasons (2010–2018), the North Petén Naachtun Archaeological Project, directed by Philippe Nondédéo (CNRS) and Lilian Garrido (USAC), has obtained a wealth of data about the occupancy dynamics in the site core, showing clear spatial and chronological variations of the settlement, in addition to 250

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FIGURE 8.1. Map of the urban core of Naachtun showing the residential zone with plausible neighborhood limits during the Late Classic period; each neighborhood encompasses several settlement units (courtesy of the Naachtun Project; map modified by Sion, Hiquet, and Perla-Barrera).

changes in residential architecture practices and related socio-political dynamics. Here we present and discuss the most updated narrative of those changes and dynamics (Hiquet 2020; Nondédéo et al. 2020b; Sion 2016; see Nondédéo et al., this volume, for environmental and agricultural issues). N A A C H T U N : A N A P P R O A C H T O P O P U L AT I O N M O V E M E N T S

Naachtun lies in the northeast of the Petén Department, Guatemala, near the Mexican border. The city is located atop limestone hilly zones bordered to the north by the remnants of a dried freshwater cival (shallow lake) and limited by seasonal swamps as well as deep seasonal streams (figure  8.1). Covering approximately 200 ha, the city Urban Core consists of a monumental Epicenter surrounded by a “Residential Zone.” The Epicenter has three large groups organized along an east-west axis, Groups A, B, and C. Including a funerary acropolis along with a triadic platform, Group C is the westernmost group with monumental buildings. A built causeway, or sacbe, connects Group C to Group Households, Growth, Contraction, and Mobility at the Classic Maya Center of Naachtun

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FIGURE 8.2 . Map of Group B with plazas and compounds (courtesy of the Naachtun Project; map modified by Sion, Hiquet, and Perla-Barrera).

A, which consists of the North, South and West Plazas, a large E-Group, pyramidal buildings, a ball court, and a walled compound. On the eastern flank of the Epicenter, Group B includes two main plazas, the East and Río Bec Plazas delimited by pyramidal and public buildings, as well as three large compounds named the West, Center, and South Complexes (figure  8.2). Those compact complexes include some forty patio compounds with a majority of vaulted residential structures and ancillary spaces. The relatively dense Residential Zone surrounds the Epicenter. This area of about 170 ha is limited by natural topography and contains at least 603 mounds, that is, a density of 3.5 mounds per ha. These structures are organized into 119 identifiable settlement units (hereafter SUs). The SUs are variable in size and composition, ranging from 1 to 55 mounds and from 1 to 15 patios each. Every unit is defined as a “discrete concentration of mounds organized around one or more patios” by Lemonnier and colleagues (2014), who also identify several 252

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possible neighborhoods composed by a “primary” unit surrounded by lesserrank groups (figure  8.1; cf. Thompson and Prufer; also Liendo Stuardo and Campiani, this volume). Both the Epicenter and Residential Zone correspond to the Urban Core of the city defined by demographic, architectural, and functional characteristics. Beyond the zone, an unoccupied strip of land extends a few hundred meters wide. Residential density rises again in the periphery, particularly to the west of Naachtun. In fact, for several kilometers almost all uplands are more or less densely settled. This hinterland settlement outside the Urban Core was recently revealed by lidar coverage, and only a very small portion has been archaeologically tested (Canuto et al. 2018; see Nondédéo et al., this volume). The Naachtun Urban Core occupation spans a long sequence from the Late Preclassic into the Early Postclassic periods, that is, from 350  BCE to 1150  CE (Perla-Barrera and Sion 2019). Site inscriptions suggest that the Suutz’ dynasty settled at the beginning of the fourth century (Nondédéo et al. 2018:346). The city reached its last demographic and political apogee during the eighth century, before a slow, gradual, but definitive abandonment beginning by 800 CE (Sion 2016). Epigraphic studies and archaeological materials document important relationships between the Naachtun polity and the major centers of Calakmul and Tikal through the Classic period, reflecting the site’s geopolitical position in northeast Petén (Nondédéo et al. 2020b; Sion et al. n.d.). The present chapter is based on evidence from the Naachtun Core, as excavated contexts from the Naachtun hinterland with secondary centers are still under study (see Nondédéo et al., this volume). We barely know anything of the chronology and sociopolitical dynamics of the hinterland where the majority of the polity population was settled. This does not help in assessing “urban/rural” differences or, even less, in capturing the emic meaning of the dichotomy (see Marken and Arnauld, this volume). As is frequently the case in studies of Maya urbanism, we know much more about the local development of the royal dynasty than about the rest of its inhabitants. Not only near-central residential areas but also hinterland occupancy rates through time should be documented before we try to envision intrasettlement mobilities through time (Arnauld et al. 2017; Inomata 2004; see Arnauld and Dzul, this volume), since it is known that these various zones experienced occupation and abandonment dynamics at different paces (Lamoureux-St-Hilaire et al. 2015; Robin et al. 2012). However, the interest of the present analysis stems from the strong contrast to be seen between the Naachtun’s Residential Zone, made up of scattered settlement units (single- or multiple-patio groups), and Group B, a compact aggregation of relatively monumental closed patio compounds. Beyond the fact that they were not built and inhabited in the same time periods (Group B was formed during the Late-Terminal Classic period, and this sector was surely part of the adjacent Residential Zone during the Early Households, Growth, Contraction, and Mobility at the Classic Maya Center of Naachtun

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FIGURE 8. 3. View of the main entrance to Patio 6 on the right, West Complex, Group B; note drainage canal on the left side (courtesy of the Naachtun Project; photograph by Perla-Barrera).

Classic because of its likely low occupational density and the absence of public constructions), both sectors present diverging urbanism trends that might reflect distinct changing lifeways, meanings, and functions (Sion 2016). Since 2010, the Naachtun project has engaged in a multiscalar program investigating an array of physical and social aspects of Naachtun as an example of tropical urbanism (see also Nondédéo et al., this volume). A series of intensive test-pit programs have been carried out across the Urban Core, targeting SUs of different sectors and resulting in the construction of an elaborate set of occupational sequences. The first author conducted a testing program across a broad sample of the Residential Zone, generating fifty-six settlement units tested (SUT), which represent 47 percent of the total 119 SUs universe from all neighborhoods (Hiquet 2020). In epicentral Group B, the second author and colleagues tested thirty-four (77.3%) out of the forty-four patio groups making up these compact elite compounds, here designated as patio complexes tested (PCT), and they also carried out an extensive horizontal excavation program in five selected patio groups within Group B (Sion 2016; figure 8.3). Other useful datasets originated from horizontal and stratigraphic excavations done in Unit 5N6 located close to Group A in the Residential Zone (Goudiaby 2018). 254

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TABLE 8.1.

Ceramic complexes and chronological phases for Naachtun.

Ceramic Complex/ Phases Muuch Ma’ax

Balam

Ceramic Facet/ Subphases

Period

Date Ranges

II

Early Postclassic

900/950–1100/1200 CE

I

Terminal Classic

830–900/950 CE

III

Late Classic

650–750 CE

I

550–650 CE

III

Early Classic

II –

400–550 CE 300–400 CE

I Kuts’

750–830 CE

II

150/200–300 CE Late/Terminal Preclassic

400/350 BCE–150/200 CE

Table 8.1 presents the site sequence based on ceramic studies and a series of radiocarbon dates, along with epigraphic references and crossed with stratigraphic data. Four chronological phases, Kuts’, Balam, Ma’ax, and Muuch, were defined, and three of them were subdivided into distinct subphases (Perla-Barrera and Sion 2019). The fine-grained chronology has short phases and subphases spanning 80 to 150 years, allowing us to avoid problems of contemporaneity in population assessment, even though Ma’ax I and Ma’ax II distinctions remain uneasy to operationalize in occupation dating, which results in our provisional combining both into a Ma’ax I/II subphase. Our narrative and interpretations of Naachtun settlement change are based on raw counts of SUT for the Residential Zone and PCT for Group B calculated on the total of units firmly dated. The sampling is sufficient to warrant significant trends in occupation rates without more statistical refinement.1 Raw counts in Naachtun occupation rates and corresponding curves presented in table 8.2 reflect the sequence of changing occupancy in Residential Zone SUT and Group B PCT. Obviously since settlement units are not differentiated according to size, the counts do not exactly reflect trends in the number of inhabitants. Nevertheless, without incurring complex demographic evaluations (Hiquet 2020), the occupational and constructive sequences provide enough information to characterize both the city history and the varied settlement decisions and movements involved. As will be seen, these dynamics are best understood by embedding bottom-up processes of urbanization within the context of local-regional political and dynastic strategies. These last ones are partially enlightened by the volumes of public construction carried out in the Epicenter. Households, Growth, Contraction, and Mobility at the Classic Maya Center of Naachtun

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Occupation rates (raw counts) of SUT and PCT compared with the total volume of public construction from the Epicenter during each subphase.

TABLE 8.2.

Residential Zone—SUT (n=56) Phase

Subphase

Group B— PCT (n=34)

Raw counts— Rates

Epicenter Volume of public construction (m 3 )

Muuch

II

1–1.8%

0–0%

I

27–48.2%

30–88.2%

0

Ma’ax

III

32–57.1%

32–94.1%

4,289

I/II

17–30.4%

27–79.4%

14,475

III

16–28.6%

3–8.8%

8,743

II

27–48.2%

13–38.2%

51,682

I

23–41.1%

2–5.9%

112,000



7–12.5%

1–2.9%

0

Balam

Kuts’

0

P R E C L A S S I C - E A R LY C L A S S I C C O M M U N I T Y F O R M AT I O N

Ceramic and paleoenvironmental data indicate a human presence at Naachtun with agricultural use of the adjacent bajo areas since at least the Late/Terminal Preclassic (Dussol 2017:252). This is the Kuts’ phase (400/350 BCE–150/200 CE). But much earlier environmental clues point to a deeper history starting in the Early Preclassic, even though still undetected archaeologically (Nondédéo et al. 2020). Poorly understood, the Preclassic occupation seems to have been very dispersed and devoid of monumental construction, as units typically show simple dirt floors on paleosoils, but also, in some cases, plaster floors on limestone pebble fills. The most securely identified Preclassic sectors are found to the west and northeast of the Residential Zone where only seven of the fifty-six SUT (12.5%) have occupation remains dated to this phase. In Group B, a single structure (platform in the South Complex) has been identified, that is, 2.9% of the thirty-four PCT. In fact, Groups A, B, and C did not exist at this time, even though Kuts’ sherds are scattered within many later Classic fills (for a similar distribution at Waka’, see Eppich et al., this volume). Likewise, the most complex settlement units of the Residential Zone (as seen in figure 8.1) did not exist during the Early Classic period, and multipatio SUs were either scarce or perhaps even nonexistent. Yet the beginning of the Early Classic period is marked by a notable population arrival into the future Urban Core. Residential contexts clearly increased (figure 8.4, table 8.2), but not evenly across the landscape. The Balam I subphase (150/200–300 CE) has at least twenty-three SUT firmly dated in the Residential Zone (41.1%), whereas, in contrast, the sector of the future Group B has only two patio groups (5.9% of the 256

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FIGURE 8.4. Balam I (grey) and Balam II (hatched) occupation/construction in the Naachtun Urban Core (courtesy of the Naachtun Project; map modified by Sion, Hiquet, and Perla-Barrera).

PCT). Most of the dwellings consist of thatched houses localized on high parts. A vast sector surrounding the Epicenter was probably dedicated to agriculture, as indicated by thick anthropic deposits of black organic soils (Nondédéo et al. 2013:127). Given the probable absence of multipatio clusters, heads of neighborhoods did not exist as such, even if some families might have already begun their rise to prominence. However, a few SUs occupied since the Kuts’ phase, such as SUs 6L13 and 5O182 (figure 8.4), would continue to grow in Balam I through the entire Naachtun sequence. Hiquet (2020) suggests that the Urban Core settlement expansion in Balam I could only be the result of processes of residential mobility, on a still undefined spatial scale, and not simply from local population growth. This demographic increase could be explained by both a relocation of Naachtun’s hinterland inhabitants (e.g., Arnauld et al. 2017) and a migration from another preexisting polity. The latter would have to do with the El Mirador crisis and loss of population identified during this period (Hansen et al. 2008). Closer Preclassic settlements also probably contributed, such as Kunal located less than 5 km east of Naachtun (Morales-Aguilar et al. 2018; Perla-Barrera and Sion 2019). In the Preclassic/Early Classic transition such short-scale population shifts are known between San Bartolo and Xultun (Garrison and Dunning 2009) and El Palmar and El Zotz (Garrison et al. 2019; see Garrison, this volume). Regardless of the geographic origin of the new inhabitants and even though the population had grown significantly in comparison to the Preclassic period, Naachtun remained a small low-density settlement in Balam I. However, the period also witnessed a major social innovation, the first monumental public structures that became focal points around which the Residential Zone would then grow. The Epicenter began to take form before the recorded installation of the local Suutz’ dynasty. Demonstrating continuity with regional Preclassic architectural traditions (Hansen 1998), large plazas for collective ceremonies were defined by the construction of monumental buildings in Groups A and C (figure 8.4). By then, several of these edifices reached a considerable size, which can be considered the first apex in monumentality at Naachtun (Hiquet 2020). The best example is the modification of one of the highest hilltops to create the North Plaza supporting the earliest version of the city E-Group, the geographical heart of the Epicenter and a common feature in many contemporary lowland settlements (Doyle 2013:155–56). E-Groups were built from the Middle Preclassic until the Early Classic periods to enhance social collectivity through agricultural and calendrical rituals rather than to celebrate particular rulers (Chase and Chase 1995; Estrada-Belli 2012; Freidel et al. 2017; Inomata et al. 2015a, 2015b, 2020). This pattern would soon change at Naachtun and other sites with E-Groups by becoming the loci of elite funerary practices to anchor local dynasties (Hiquet 2020; see Laporte and Fialko 1995; and Źrałka et al. 2017 for the examples of Tikal and Nakum). 258

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Monumental construction may have played a role in the dynamics of population attraction (see Triadan and Inomata, this volume). Balam I per capita cost of public monumental construction was the highest in Naachtun history (Hiquet 2020:621–22). It is highly likely that the decision to launch massive architectural campaigns emanated from putative predynastic elites whose elaborate burials, unfortunately looted, have been found in some of Group C structures—in any event, evidence that advances the existence of political leaders as early as Balam I. Commoners from the hinterland may have found it in their interest to settle within the burgeoning settlement and chose to do so themselves (as argued by Inomata 2004). According to Hiquet’s calculations (2020:624), the construction of the Naachtun E-Group required more human labor than the Urban Core could provide at this time. Workers from the hinterland eventually settled down with their families. Abrams (1994:94) similarly envisions monumental architecture as a tool used by local elites to attract new population into their place. T H E E A R LY C L A S S I C A P O G E E

During the fourth century, Balam II subphase, local population grew to reach its early demographic peak, with 48.2 percent of the SUT and 38.2 percent of the PCT occupied (figure 8.4, table 8.2). Balam II is the subphase with the highest number of construction and remodeling episodes in the Residential Zone of the Urban Core. This Early Classic apogee of the city is also manifest through the significant expansion of the Epicenter, where numerous monumental buildings were erected or modified, such as the Group C Acropolis and Group A pyramidal structures. Although most do not match the size of the Balam I monumental architecture (table 8.2), they are more numerous (Hiquet 2020; Hiquet et al. n.d.). The noticeable Balam II dynamism partly resulted from the Naachtun new status as a regional capital after the installation of the Suutz’ dynasty sometime during the early fourth century; at the time, the local k’uhul ajaw played his role in the Entrada of Sihyaj K’ahk’ (378 CE) as well as its probable alliance with the new rulers of Tikal (Nondédéo et al. 2019; see Garrison, this volume). Urbanization at Piedras Negras would have been due to the strategies of the early rulers (Houston et al. 2003); whereas, in contrast, at Naachtun the apex of monumental construction spans Balam I and Balam II, and the beginnings of its urbanization predate the dynastic installation (as currently documented in the epigraphic record) under the leadership of predynastic rulers buried in Group C. Nevertheless, the location of the Early Classic royal residential compound is unknown. The Residential Zone shows a clear increase in population and settlement densification with the creation of new SUs (table 8.2). Again, we highlight the number of construction stages (successive floors and fills) identified in Balam II SUTs and within the monumental core. The residential settlement then Households, Growth, Contraction, and Mobility at the Classic Maya Center of Naachtun

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tended to aggregate around the Epicenter with newly shared ritual practices as suggested by the many offerings linked in majority (64%, 11/17) to Balam II construction episodes in the Residential Zone. This frequency of construction stages and offerings is unmatched during the Early Classic or even the entire history of Naachtun (Hiquet 2020). As well, the oldest identified small pyramidal shrines were built on the east side of some patios following the characteristics of the Tikal Plaza Plan 2 (Becker 1982). These buildings definitively anchored the social groups on the landscape, and some of them continued to receive sepultures and offerings until the end of the Naachtun’s occupation (6L-21 in SU 6L13; Hiquet et al. 2014). However, several of the longest-lived and complex multipatio clusters (6L13, 6M22, and 6N124; figure 8.4) must not have yet reached their later extents and were still distinct smaller residences during Balam II. C I T Y S PAT I A L R E O R G A N I Z AT I O N D U R I N G T H E E A R LY – L AT E C L A S S I C T R A N S I T I O N

In contrast, the Balam III subphase (400–550  CE) witnessed a steep decrease of occupation with only sixteen SUs exhibiting a distinct Balam III occupation (28.6% of the SUT), pointing to the likely abandonment of many small residential groups (figure 8.5, table 8.2). In Group B, episodes of construction were identified in only three patio groups (8.8% of the PCT). During the subsequent Ma’ax I/ II subphase, which corresponds to the first half of the Late Classic (550–750 CE), the rate of occupation in the Residential Zone around the Epicenter was stable with only seventeen units occupied (30.4% of SUT). It appears that several small SUs were abandoned while others were founded or extended. In contrast, the epicentral Group B experienced a burst of residential and public construction (as reflected by the curves in table 8.2), in particular within the West Complex close to the monumental East Plaza then established (figure 8.5). This occurred when the earliest elite patio compounds developed with twenty-seven patios, some of them exhibiting the first multiroom buildings with stone vaults and stucco floors (79.4% of the PCT). Clearly the Early–Late Classic transition is characterized by a marked reorganization of the Urban Core settlement pattern, with new architectural dynamics reflecting a drastic spatial shift of the dynasty toward Group B. Although the political situation at Naachtun during Balam III remains uncertain, a series of significant events related to this period suggest a moment of political crisis. Stelae from other centers indicate the potential presence of dynastic members outside the Urban Core. The nearby secondary center of El Juilín exhibits an Early Classic monument (Stela 1) bearing the Suutz’ emblem glyph (Morales-Aguilar et al. 2014; personal communication Morales-Aguilar, 2015). Intriguingly, there is a child burial linked with the erection of this stela in Balam III (according to associated ceramics), which matches the characteristics of Maya royal burials, including the deposits of chert bifacial production flakes 260

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FIGURE 8.5. Balam III (grey) and Ma’ax I/II (hatched) occupation/construction in the Naachtun Urban Core (courtesy of the Naachtun Project; map modified by Sion, Hiquet, and Perla-Barrera).

(Andrieu 2016a, 2016b). The best-known example of this kind of “exile” of royal family members to minor centers exists in the vicinity of Tikal (Martin 2000; Martin and Grube 2008). Furthermore, there are mentions of the Suutz’ dynasty at Calakmul during the fifth century, which may imply the movement of at least a fraction of the royal family to that city (Pallan 2009:187; Vázquez López et al. 2016:1102). These data perhaps testify to a confused political situation, with a possible splitting of the dynasty or its installation in another city (Nondédéo et al. 2021). The settlement dynamics of the Epicenter also suggest some sort of crisis: public monumental building may have been at its lowest level ever at Naachtun, mainly limited to the Acropolis and the Walled Compound (figure 8.5, table 8.2), reinforcing that idea of troubled times (Hiquet 2020). Data are lacking to fully understand Naachtun Balam III political history and the impact of a possible dynastic withdrawal from the urban settlement. How had the inhabitants dealt with the weakening of any centralized institutional authority? In the Residential Zone, considerably fewer residential units were occupied during the Balam III and Ma’ax I/II subphases than before. Does it mean that the Naachtun people experienced the same waning as their rulers? This option is plausible, but alternative interpretations exist. Of note, some inhabitants left the Urban Core to settle in the hinterland or beyond, yet many of the SUs that remained occupied started to grow in scale in Balam III. In some residences, thick fills and platforms covered preexisting structures, and the first vaulted houses were built (Hiquet 2020). In fact, it is not certain that the occupancy drop in SUs corresponds to a demographic decrease. Instead, it might correspond to a contraction process with intrasite mobility leading to a concentration of inhabitants in fewer but bigger and more complex multipatio SUs. This dynamic process would have resulted in strengthening the social groups that headed these large new SUs, who thus competed with each other during the apparent dynastic crisis (Arnauld et al. 2017:33–34; Bazy 2013). Lesser elites may have taken advantage of the dynastic situation to divert part of the workforce of the residential area—energy and resources from commoners’ work—for their own profit. This drastic reorganization of the city continued developing during Ma’ax I/ II. Whatever may have been the problems faced by the dynasty during Balam III, possibly related to Tikal’s loss of influence and the subsequent Kaan rise in the region, Naachtun never experienced the Middle Classic hiatus of the inscriptions observed at some central lowland cities (Martin and Grube 2008). It remains that the treatment of Naachtun stelae during the Late Classic may be indicative of regional changes in political affiliations, and it seems that during the seventh century Naachtun was quickly integrated into the domination system of the Kaan dynasty (Nondédéo et al. 2021). In the Residential Zone where the early Late Classic Ma’ax I/II evidence lacks the needed resolution (i.e., chronological data from horizontal excavations are 262

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more reliable than test pits), the TABLE 8.3. Surface area of the Naachtun’s plazas rate of inhabited SU indicates a Surface stable occupation of the sector Sector Plaza area (m2) between the Balam III and Ma’ax Epicenter: Group A West Plaza 10,650 I/II subphases (figure  8.5; table Epicenter: Group A North Plaza 7,400 8.2), even if these raw numbers Residential Zone 6L13 Plaza 6,700 reflect a diversity of situations. Epicenter: Group C Acropolis Plaza 6,000 In the southern and western Epicenter: Group B East Plaza 5,750 parts of the Urban Core, Ma’ax Residential Zone 6M74 Plaza 3,550 I/II levels are found in the largest Epicenter: Group C Triadic Plaza 3,500 multipatio residential complexes. Epicenter: Group B Río Bec Plaza 3,200 Once again, it is tempting to enviResidential Zone 6M22 Plaza 2,950 sion a contraction process with Epicenter: Group A South Plaza 2,850 people moving in from smaller units. Indeed, during Ma’ax I/II, we have noted a decrement of constructive events in the nearby smaller groups surrounding the bigger ones, particularly around Units 6M74 and 6M22 (figure 8.5). In the latter, noteworthy constructive efforts were invested in truly monumental buildings and the formation of genuine plazas with dimensions comparable to those of epicentral public spaces (also in Unit 6L13, table 8.3). A new imposing cluster, 6M10, was then created. These dynamics concern units that became the nodal foci of formally defined neighborhoods (sensu Lemonnier 2012). They might have been the seats of non-noble (or lesser noble) economic and administrative elites that appeared during the Late Classic, such as the lakam tax collectors who served the sovereign. Jackson (2005), Lacadena (2008), and Adánez Pavón and colleagues (2017) have studied the Late Classic rise of administrative titles and offices and linked them to the main units of neighborhoods. The new relays of political and social power may have attracted and mobilized the workforces of lesser units through population concentration and the development of co-residence in larger groups (Arnauld et al. 2012, 2017; Smith 2011:53). Political and social processes would have interacted accelerating urbanization, with plausibly simultaneous reverse effects. Close to Group B, after a notable occupation during the Balam II subphase, many of the SU located in the eastern and northeastern parts of the Urban Core present a general constructive decrement. This can be interpreted as a consequence of the primary core of Naachtun sociopolitical life developing in Group B during the Late (then also Terminal) Classic period. During the Ma’ax I subphase (550–650 CE), the Group B East Plaza and its monumental Structure 5O-5, with associated seventh-century stelae, were built (figure  8.2), whereas Group A seems to have been deserted. Clearly, this shift in the spatial organization of the Urban Core corresponds to considerable architectural investment by Households, Growth, Contraction, and Mobility at the Classic Maya Center of Naachtun

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the (returning?) dynasty aiming to legitimize its political authority. This is also reinforced by the creation of vaulted residential buildings directly integrated into the new public space (sensu Bazy 2013), which correspond to the early patio compounds of the West Complex. In the next Ma’ax II subphase, the West Complex architectural development continued, though driven by a different dynamic after Naachtun was formally integrated into the political dominion of the Kaan dynasty (Nondédéo et al. 2021; Sion et al. n.d.). If this sustained construction program was indeed carried out under the influence of the Kaan, it would explain the similarity between the Naachtun West Complex and the Calakmul Great Acropolis Group (Sion 2016:238–39; the latter built during the reign of Yuknoom Ch’een II between 636 and 686 CE; Vázquez López 2014:139–40). The Naachtun multipatio elite compounds could reflect a new plan established for the possible arrival of dignitaries from Calakmul (Dussol 2017:258–59), as well as denote the dynastic oversight of parts of the local nobility (see Bazy 2013; and Grube et al. 2012). The architectural expansion of Group B can explain the decline in residential construction of the neighboring SUTs. Although the specifics of this contraction process remain unclear, it seems probable that the social and economic networks developing in Group B attracted some inhabitants of adjacent units (see Arnauld and Dzul, this volume). In sum, at the transition between the Early and the Late Classic periods, sharp shifts are evidenced in settlement patterns, marking the diversity of a social structure increasingly complex. They reveal the differing strategies of adaptation by the inhabitants of the city to what may be the local consequences of regional upheaval, which started largely beyond the Naachtun realm. T H E F I N A L L AT E C L A S S I C A P O G E E

During the late Late Classic Ma’ax III subphase (750–830 CE), occupation increased across the entire Urban Core of Naachtun and represents its demographic apogee (figure 8.6; table 8.2). In the Residential Zone, at least thirty-two residential units were occupied (57.1% of the SUT). In Group B, all the patios continued to be in use, and new patios were established (in total 32 patios, or 94.1% of the PCT). A significant investment was made in monumental buildings, reflected by the East Plaza and the Río Bec Plaza expansion (Sion 2016:224–25, table 8.2). With the end of the Calakmul Kaan domination and a renovated alliance with Tikal, the royal power of Naachtun experienced a new period of independence from the beginning of the eighth century (Nondédéo et al. 2021; Sion et al. n.d.). New monuments were erected, particularly Stelae 18 and 19, that show Naachtun rulers with a captive from Ox Te’ Tun, a toponym related to Calakmul. Also significant is the desecration and recycling of a fragment of the clear Kaan-style Stela 27 as a block on the access stairway of the Walled Compound (Nondédéo et al. 2021). Chase and Chase (2016:4) stress the impact of major military victories 264

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FIGURE 8.6. Ma’ax III (grey) and Muuch (hatched) occupation/construction in the Naachtun Urban Core (courtesy of the Naachtun Project; map modified by Sion, Hiquet, and Perla-Barrera).

and defeats on the attractiveness of cities and on settlement dynamics in linking Caracol Middle Classic population growth to a military victory over Tikal in 562 CE. At Naachtun, success over Calakmul may have also enabled a new population impulse. A burst of residential and public construction took place in the Urban Core, especially a series of new architectural campaigns in Groups A and B. However, as is true at many Maya sites, the Late Classic demographic rise of Naachtun concomitant with its political apogee and new economic dynamics lasted only a short time during the Ma’ax III subphase, ending with the first half of the ninth century. It is during this apogee when most of the Residential Zone neighborhoods took their final spatial configuration and reached their demographic peak (figure 8.6). We have observed high occupation rates associated with the construction of many structures and extensions of numerous SU, both large and small. Additionally, a sort of revitalization was documented in some SU that had been previously abandoned and were subsequently reoccupied in this final Late Classic period. It is plausible that all these dynamics reflect a notable attraction process drawing inhabitants into the Urban Core, as well as implying substantial mobility from the hinterland at least (Arnauld et al. 2017; Inomata 2004:184–86). But the high-density settlement observed in the Urban Core seems to spread into the hinterland as well, and paleoenvironmental records indicate quick and drastic changes in forest management around Naachtun (Dussol 2017:260–66). Meanwhile, the political apogee in Group B is reflected in the creation of the Río Bec Plaza with Structures 6O-3 and 6O-5 in the first half of the eighth century (end of Ma’ax II, figure 8.6). Simultaneously in association with the creation of this public space, successive internal shifts of existent structures occurred in the West Complex, while in the Central and South Complexes the first vaulted buildings emerged in the future compounds (Sion 2016:226–27). Subsequently, the dynamics of Group B not only continued during Ma’ax III but also accelerated. Standouts were the Río Bec and East Plaza with their new monumental buildings, but also an added plaza built at the northeast of the Urban Core, possibly a market plaza connected to the Río Bec Plaza by a sacbe. Easily the most important constructive investment concerned the notable extension of the West Complex and the setting of most of the new compounds that form the Central and South Complexes (figure  8.6). These compact compounds developed rapidly in a single monumental constructive effort of large vaulted range structures. In most cases these were constructed with a tripartite ground plan, occasionally in double rows. Architectural modifications marked changes in the functions of existing structures, particularly additions or extensions of internal benches and subdivisions of inner spaces by means of sealing doorways (Sion 2016; see Gómez 2007 for an example in Tikal). 266

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The planning of those elite residential compounds intentionally created many rooms for the co-residence of a large population. Comparable high-density configurations of rooms are known for the same period at Calakmul and El Mirador (Braswell et al. 2004; Hansen et al. 2008). But instead of being directly attached to monumental structures, the Naachtun patio compounds were designed as separate quadrangles similar to those at Naranjo, Xunantunich, or La Joyanca (Aquino 2006; Barrientos Quezada 2014; Lemonnier 2012). Many inhabitants moved into those hierarchically organized compounds due to their attractiveness as private segregated space. These compounds were under the dominance of a few families and situated close to the royal court in the West Complex and allied noble groups in the Central and South Complexes (Sion 2016). This process of mobility was spatial (from the Residential Zone, and maybe hinterlands), but it was also social, as it reflected the “pull” of opportunities offered by large aggregated elite groups housed in separate compounds (see Arnauld and Dzul Góngora, this volume). THE GRADUAL ABAND ONMENT OF THE CITY DURING THE TERMINAL CLASSIC

The Terminal Classic Muuch I subphase (830–900/950 CE) has firmly dated occupations in twenty-seven settlement units (48.2 % of the SUT, table 8.2) in the Epicenter surroundings. In Group B, where thirty patio compounds remained inhabited (88.2% of the PCT, figure 8.6), a clear reduction in architectural investment occurred, interrupted by only minor constructions and refits (Sion 2016). In public spaces, no new monumental structures were built. Gradual depopulation of the city continued throughout the ninth and tenth centuries, with the remaining Urban Core population concentrating in Group B and nearby SUs, as well as in some larger SUs located in the southern and western Residential Zone. Even before Muuch I began, the royal Group B West Complex and the East Plaza were largely deserted (Sion 2016:495–96). This had resulted from the departure of the local dynasty and royal court to other cities, a movement indicated by several stelae that describe ceremonies supervised by a Suutz’ ruler for this period (741–830 CE), not at Naachtun, but at Calakmul and Oxpemul (Nondédéo et al. 2021). Identified in both Naachtun residential and public spaces linked to the royal power, such as the Walled Compound and the Acropolis, several remains of rituals carried out by 800  CE testify to their abandonment (Perla-Barrera and Sion 2019). Of interest, similar deposits dating to this period were found in Residential Zone SUTs in the vicinity of abandoned monumental places (5N6, 6N10, and 6N20) and in more distant locations (6L30 and 5M34; figure 8.6). After the demise of the dynasty, no new stelae were erected and no large-scale collective construction projects were carried out in the Epicenter. In the Río Bec Plaza, some monumental structures (6O-3 and 6O-4, figure 8.2) even remained unfinished or were partially dismantled (Sion 2016). Households, Growth, Contraction, and Mobility at the Classic Maya Center of Naachtun

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The Naachtun Urban Core experienced a gradual depopulation during the first half of the ninth century with at least eighteen SUT abandoned. As far as we understand it, the Terminal Classic in Naachtun seems to be an example of “urban” contraction. This process covers a mix of settlement dynamics—the gradual abandonment of the Urban Core and the concentration of the remaining inhabitants in or around some large compounds, especially long-lived units like 6L13, 6M22, and 5O182 (figure 8.6; for comparison with Minanha, see Lamoureux-St-Hilaire et al. 2015; see also Thompson and Prufer, this volume) and in Group B around the Río Bec Plaza. There, postdynastic powerful groups continued to attract people into (and around) their compounds during part of the Muuch I subphase, as the evidence of modifications and enlargements continued from Ma’ax III times (Sion 2016). Of note, the latter represented limited investments, often with cut stone recycled from earlier buildings (see Hansen et al. 2008). The lower standards reflect a change in priorities of inhabitants and in the importance given to the vaulted masonry architecture rather than a loss of know-how (Sion 2016; see Arnauld and Dzul, this volume; and Halperin and Garrido 2020). The changes allowed their segregation and even enclosure from the rest of the Naachtun settlement, while also internally separating compounds and isolated neighboring houses. This situation may reveal that housing forms likely made living conditions tense, if not intolerable for many people huddled in such small spaces (Sion 2016). Another explanation could be the increased insecurity and warfare, as in Petexbatun for example (Demarest 2004), yet no evidence of violence has been found in Naachtun for this period (Sion 2016). The Central and South Complexes were the most densely inhabited sector in this period, and the attractive power of these compounds was evident in the surrounding area. Indeed, evidence suggests the possible reoccupation of dwellings in abandoned patios (Ma’ax III) in the northern part of the West Complex, shortly after the royal family left, and in the Residential Zone west of Group B in Units 6N10/6N20. Even a few units that had been abandoned for centuries were then reoccupied (6O99, 6M42; figure 8.6). We interpret this evidence as the signature of limited internal movements in Naachtun, typical of late dynamics in settlement reorganization (Marken 2015:141), rather than a migration of people from distant areas as proposed for late cities such as El Zotz and Nakum (De Carteret and Newman n.d.; Źrałka 2008). These two sites exhibit Terminal Classic discontinuities in ceramic and architectural traditions associated to a significant population increase, changes not observed at Naachtun. With regard to the rest of the Residential Zone, Terminal Classic activities in small scattered units were frequently identified by nothing more than a fistful of sherds. As mentioned about the largest units. we observe a possible contraction process. It is worth mentioning that Units 5L1 and 6L13 (figure 8.6) present evidence of a wealthy and active Muuch I occupation. Perhaps not a coincidence, 268

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these two units are the most distant ones from Group B. They reflect increased intraurban segregation and a lower degree of urban interaction between the social groups still present in Naachtun (see Chase and Chase 2016 for a similar evolution at Caracol; also Arnauld and Dzul Góngora, this volume). In identified cases, architectural modifications are minor, similar to patterns in Group B, but on a smaller scale. In any case, depopulation is the main process of the period, and one that continued through the tenth century and somewhat later. Most of the Urban Core was definitively abandoned before 950 CE. The gradual desertion was accompanied by a series of rituals and postabandonment deposits in the residential patios of Group B (Dussol et al. 2019; Sion 2016), as well as in the long-lived Residential Zone units such as 6L13. In the absence of reliable archaeological data from beyond the city Urban Core, the interpretation of the abandonment sequence lasting into the Early Postclassic period may point to a large-scale departure from “greater” Naachtun or, alternatively, resumed mobility across the region or, third, both behaviors alternating within many remnant families (see Arnauld and Dzul, this volume). The recent discovery of a Postclassic C-shaped building and possible ancillary structures west of the Group C Acropolis confirms that a residual occupation persisted in Naachtun at least during the Muuch II subphase (Sion 2019; figure 8.6). The analysis of ceramics associated with Unit 5M22 dates its construction/occupation to 900/950‒1100/1200  CE, while also demonstrating considerable continuity with earlier ceramic traditions (PerlaBarrera and Sion 2019). Worth noting, this C-shaped structure violates the local civic-ceremonial organization as other similar contemporaneous structures do at Ixlu or Actuncan (Mixter 2019; Rice 1986). To this day, this is the only reported Postclassic reoccupation of public space at Naachtun. No other clear Early Postclassic occupational locus was identified in the urban area despite extensive field surveying, except for the remains of ritual visits to Group B dated between the eleventh and twelfth centuries (Dussol et al. 2019). FINAL DISCUSSION

The Naachtun occupational sequence is expressed in a nonregular, nonlinear growth curve from Late/Terminal Preclassic to Early Postclassic times (table 8.2). Based on variation in occupation/construction rates derived from our excavations in the Residential Zone and epicentral Group B of the Urban Core, we have identified settlement and planning dynamics that testify to the reactivity of this urban society to a succession of circumstances, variations in sociopolitical context, putative environmental conditions, and other contingencies. The inhabitants elaborated strategies to gain socioeconomic advantages, cooperation, protection, and access to resources (Smith 2014), not least, some prestige and perhaps liberty. Their decision-making was sometimes autonomous, sometimes Households, Growth, Contraction, and Mobility at the Classic Maya Center of Naachtun

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guided (or forced) by powerful social groups and exclusive elites, including the royal dynasty. With this in mind we briefly discuss the ascending and descending segments of the curves in table 8.2. The succession of Naachtun settlement dynamics began during the long Preclassic Kuts’ phase with a sparse occupation of farmers using the bajos. Probably in relation with the regional crisis of the Preclassic end (Hansen et al. 2002, 2008), the local population grew abruptly at the Terminal Preclassic/ Early Classic transition, that is, the Balam I subphase (150/200–300  CE). The density remained relatively low, but in Balam I, the first monumental construction program was launched, which may represent the most grandiose enterprise in Naachtun history in terms of built volume. The need for labor and the intensification of social interactions linked to these predynastic public constructions probably accentuated the dynamics of settlement expansion. The first ascending moment in the curves (table 8.2) corresponds to the Balam II notable urban expansion before 400 CE, promoted by both local population natural growth and continued in-migration. Numerous small units were established in the whole Urban Core, resulting in the earliest high occupation rate. Inhabitants participated in the increased monumentality and size of public spaces orchestrated by the newly implanted Suutz’ dynasty, with the construction of new buildings and the renovation of others from the previous period. The second ascending moment in the curves corresponds to the Late Classic expansion in Ma’ax III (750–830 CE) after Naachtun regained its autonomy from the Calakmul Kaan dynasty. The new Late Classic rulers further developed Group B through the construction of a new plaza and monumental buildings, along with the Central and Southern Complexes to accommodate noble groups allied to the dynasty in prestigious co-residence compounds. In contrast, moments when the occupation curves descended were those of crisis. The local sequence gives us the opportunity to explore Classic Maya urbanization asking whether drastic decline in occupation, planning, and mobility were systematically accompanied by a weakening of political rulership. In Naachtun, the Urban Core inhabitants opted for two simultaneous strategies during the crises of the Balam III/Ma’ax I transition (450–600 CE) and the Ma’ax III/Muuch I transition (by 800–830 CE). Some decided to leave the city, perhaps taking advantage of a lack of political coercion, and they abandoned their urban homes to disperse in the hinterlands or beyond. Other social groups stayed and grew, developing their own attractiveness in dense co-residential units led by dominant families, which may have absorbed neighbors. Balam III is illustrative of such a contraction in occupation in a period when the dynastic experienced a crisis that interrupted monumental construction in the Epicenter and probably weakened its authority over the city. In the Residential Zone, fewer units were occupied, but some of them underwent growth and formed intermediate social 270

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groups able to benefit from the demise of the royal power. The importance of these intermediate groups is visible in their ability to attract new inhabitants around elite residences and the increased monumental scale of their units. Because of Ma’ax I/II, the power of the Suutz’ dynasty regained visibility in Naachtun and may have validated the social development of some factions in the Residential Zone. Several settlement units began to distinguish themselves with the construction of their plazas, demonstrating their capacities of workforce mobilization and neighborhood formation. Interestingly, those large units and neighborhoods with plazas are located far away from Group B. Ma’ax I/II intricate dynamics suggest a degree of autonomous development of local social groups in relation with the dynasty, yet simultaneously they also point to a strong attractiveness of the dynasty as expressed in the rapid formation and occupation of the Group B West Complex. In effect, the renewed influence of the royal family is visible in the expansion of Group B’s creating a new epicentral sector that definitively changed the spatial configuration of the city. Aggregation in the West Complex even affected nearby small units. Actually, the only Residential Zone units showing Ma’ax I/II growth are those with new large plazas distant from Group B, suggesting local interactions (in marketplaces, for example), but also possibly decreasing interactions on the city scale. Thus the emergence of new social entities was not necessarily directly tied to the economic and administrative elites associated with royal power. In any case, with the waning or rapid demise of the dynastic regime in the final part of the Late Classic period (750–800  CE), new sociospatial relationships developed around several groups, illustrated by large and cohesive houses in competition with one another. The Ma’ax III urban development dynamic (ascending curves, table 8.2) only lasted a short time. Again, the crisis dynamic resumed: inhabitants began leaving the city while members of the royal court abandoned Group B. The renewed contraction process probably corresponds to the beginning of an intrasite reorganization marked by the strong attractiveness of the dominant groups and the concentration of the remaining inhabitants in the neighborhoods with plazas in the Residential Zone, as well as the CentralSouth Complex patio compounds in Group B, a dynamic that will also continue in the next Muuch I subphase. The Terminal Classic Epicenter was in large part deserted, and the rest of the Urban Core was gradually abandoned. This was the time of new ways of life requiring very limited architectural investments and the stronger segregation of social groups in the city. With city-scale interactions still decreasing, the Urban Core definitely ceased to be attractive during the ninth and tenth centuries. Although we are still not able to identify the relations and population mobility that existed between Naachtun and the hinterlands, with their centuries of occupation, extant data sets indicate expansion and contraction dynamics of this Households, Growth, Contraction, and Mobility at the Classic Maya Center of Naachtun

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flexible urban entity, along with its ups and downs in socioeconomic and political interdependencies among sectors. Spatial mobility is an adequate model to explain at least part of such fluctuations that occur as urban forms change, but social mobility (also discussed by Stanton and colleagues, this volume) was logically involved in those movements, with both improvements in and damage to urban life. Those contradictions deserve to be explored further, especially as they indicate how social change is deeply modified by urban forms in cities both past and present. NOTE

1. The “Chronophage” software measures the probability of occurrence of ill-dated events within determined time spans (Desachy 2018; for the Naachtun case study: Hiquet, 2020:439–4220-2; for two different approaches of this issue, see Culbert et al. 1990:105, and Tourtellot 1990:94). Including undated lots in the estimation of occupancy rates avoids underestimating counts and, in our case, smooths the trends without changing their direction. Thus, the trends observed in modeled rates for 56 SUT sample are slightly different from raw counts (table 8.2): Kutz: 15 (26.8%); Balam I: 28 (50%); Balam II: 35 (62.5%); Balam III: 31 (55.4%); Ma’ax I: 24 (42.9%); Ma’ax II: 25 (44.6%); Ma’ax III: 39 (69.6%); Muuch I: 38 (67.9%); Muuch II: 1 (1.8%).

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Timothy Beach, Clarissa Cagnato, Kazuo Aoyama, and Hiroo Nasu. 2020. “Monumental Architecture at Aguada Fénix and the Rise of Maya Civilization.” Nature 582:530–33. https://doi.org/10.1038/s41586-020-2343-4. Jackson, Sarah. 2005. “Deciphering Classic Maya Political Hierarchy: Epigraphic, Archaeological, and Ethnohistoric Perspectives on the Courtly Elite.” PhD diss., Harvard University. Joyce, Arthur, Laura Arnaud Bustamante, and Marc Levine. 2001. “Commoner Power: A Case Study from the Classic Period Collapse on the Oaxaca Coast.” Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 8 (4):343–85. Lacadena, Alfonso. 2008. “El título lakam: Evidencia epigráfica sobre la organización tributaria y militar interna de los reinos Mayas del clásico.” Mayab 20:23–43. Lamoureux-St-Hilaire, Scott Mcrae, Carmen McCane, Evan Parker, and Gyles Iannone. 2015. “The Last Groups Standing: Living Abandonment at the Ancient Maya Center of Minanha, Belize.” Latin American Antiquity 26 (4):550–69. Laporte, Juan Pedro, and Vilma Fialko.1 995. “Un reencuentro con mundo perdido, Tikal, Guatemala.” Ancient Mesoamerica 6 (1):41–94. Lemonnier, Eva. 2012. “Neighborhoods in Classic Lowland Maya Societies: Their Identification and Definition from the La Joyanca Case Study (Northwestern Petén, Guatemala).” In The Neighborhood as a Social and Spatial Unit in Mesoamerican Cities, edited by. M. Ch. Arnauld, L. Manzanilla, and M. Smith, 181–201. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Lemonnier, Eva, Julio Cotom-Nimatuj, and Julien Hiquet. 2014. “La periferia sur de Naachtun: Patrón de asentamiento y secuencia de ocupación en una extensa zona residencial.” In XXVII Simposio de Investigaciones Arqueológicas en Guatemala, 2013, edited by B. Arroyo, L. Méndez Salinas, and A. Rojas, 921–34. Guatemala City: Museo Nacional de Arqueología y Etnología. Marken, Damien. 2015. “Conceptualizing the Spatial Dimensions of Classic Maya States: Polity and Urbanism at El Perú-Waka’, Petén.” In Classic Maya Polities of the Southern Lowlands: Integration, Interaction, Dissolution, edited by D. Marken and J. Fitzsimmons, 123–66. Boulder: University Press of Colorado. Martin, Simon. 2000. “At the Periphery: The Movement, Modification, and Re-Use of Early Monuments in the Environs of Tikal.” In The Sacred and the Profane: Architecture and Identity in the Maya Lowlands, edited by P. R. Colas, K. Delvendahl, M. Kuhnert, and A. Schubart, 51–61. Markt Schwaben: Verlag Anton Saurwein. Martin, Simon, and Nikolai Grube. 2008. Chronicle of the Maya Kings and Queens: Deciphering the Dynasties of the Ancient Maya. London: Thames and Hudson. Michelet, Dominique, Philippe Nondédéo, Julie Patrois, Céline Gillot, and Emyly González Gómez. 2013. “Structure 5N2 (‘Group A’): A Río Bec Paradigmatic Palace?” Ancient Mesoamerica 24 (2):415–31.

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Mixter, David. 2019. “Community Resilience and Urban Planning during the Ninth-Century Maya Collapse: A Case Study from Actuncan, Belize.” Cambridge Archaeological Journal 30 (2):219–37. https://doi.org/10.1017/S095977431900057X. Morales-Aguilar, Carlos, Ignacio Cases, and Alfonso Lacadena. 2014. “Operación III.5b: Rescate de la estela 1 del sitio el juilín, Petén, Guatemala.” In Proyecto PeténNorte Naachtun 2010–2014, Informe final de la cuarta temporada de campo 2013, edited by Philippe Nondédéo, C. Morales-Aguilar, J. Sion, D. Michelet and Ch. Andrieu, 405–17. Guatemala City: UMR 8096 and CEMCA. Morales-Aguilar, Carlos, Philippe Nondédéo, and Julien Hiquet. 2018. “Operación V.8b: Naachtun en su contexto regional: Exploración preliminar de kunal.” In Proyecto Petén Norte Naachtun 2015–2018, Informe de la octava temporada de campo 2017, edited by Philippe Nondédéo, D. Michelet, J. Begel and L. Garrido, 473–80. Guatemala Ciy: UMR 8096 and CEMCA. Nondédéo, Philippe, Cyril Castanet, Louise Purdue, Eva Lemonnier, Lydie Dussol, Julien Hiquet, Aline Garnier, and Marc Testé. 2020. “Archaeological and Paleoenvironmental Reconstructions in the Tropical Maya Area: The Case of Naachtun (Guatemala).” In Different Times? Archaeological and Environmental Data from Intra-Site and Off-Site Sequences: Papers Presented in a Session Organized in the 18th UISSP International Congress Paris, June 8, 2018, edited by Z. Tsirtsoni, C. Kuzucuoğlu, Philippe Nondédéo, and O. Weller, 94–110. Oxford: Archaeopress. Nondédéo, Philippe, Alfonso Lacadena, and Ignacio Cases. 2019. “Teotihuacanos y Mayas en la ‘entrada’ de 11 Eb’ (378 d.C.): Nuevos datos de Naachtun, Petén, Guatemala.” Revista Española de Antropología Americana 49:53–75. Nondédéo, Philippe, Alfonso Lacadena, and Alejandro Garay. 2018. “Apuntes epigráficos: La temporada 2015 del Pproyecto Naachtun.” In Tiempo detenido, tiempo suficiente: Ensayos y narraciones mesoamericanistas en homenaje a Alfonso Lacadena García-Gallo, edited by H. Kettunen, V. A. Vázquez López, F. Kupprat, C. Vidal Lorenzo, G. Muñoz Cosme, and M. J. Iglesias Ponce de León, 329–50. Couvin, Belgium: Wayeb. Nondédéo, Philippe, Alejandro Patiño, Julien Sion, Dominique Michelet, and Carlos Morales-Aguilar. 2013. “Crisis múltiples en Naachtun: Aprovechadas, superadas e irreversibles.” In Millenary Maya Societies: Past Crises and Resilience, edited by M. Charlotte Arnauld and A. Breton, 122–47. www.mesoweb.com/publications/ MMS/ 9_Nondedeo etal.pdf. Nondédéo, Philippe, Julien Sion, Alfonso Lacadena, Ignacio Cases, and Julien Hiquet. 2021. “Between Nobles and Kings: The Political and Historical Context of Naachtun at the End of the Classic Period.” In Maya Kingship: Rupture and Transformation from Classic to Postclassic Times, edited by Tsubasa Okoshi, Arlen F. Chase, Philippe Nondédéo, and M. Charlotte Arnauld, 86–105. Kyoto/Gainesville: Kyoto University of Foreign Studies/University Press of Florida.

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Pallan, Carlos. 2009. “Secuencia dinástica, glifo-emblema y topónimos en las inscripciones jeroglíficas de Edzna, Campeche (600–900 d.C.): Implicaciones históricas.” PhD diss., Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. Perla-Barrera, Divina, and Julien Sion. 2019. “Operación IV.1: Análisis cerámico de la temporada 2018.” In Proyecto Petén-Norte Naachtun 2015–2018, Informe final de la novena temporada de campo 2018, edited by Philippe Nondédéo, D. Michelet, J. Begel and L. Garrido, 137–62. Guatemala City: UMR 8096 and CEMCA. Rice, Don. 1986. “The Petén Postclassic: A Settlement Perspective.” In Late Lowland Maya Civilization, edited by J. Sabloff and W. Andrews V, 301–44. School of American Research Book. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Robin, Cynthia, Andrew Wyatt, Laura Kosakowsky, Santiago Juarez, Ethan Kalosky, and Elise Enterkin. 2012. “A Changing Cultural Landscape. Settlement Survey and GIS at Chan.” In Chan: An Ancient Maya Farming Community, edited by C. Robin, 19–41. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Sion, Julien. 2016. “Caractérisation socio-économique des élites Mayas au classique terminal (800–950 apr. J.C.): Le Groupe B-sud de Naachtun (Guatemala).” PhD diss., Université Paris 1 Panthéon-Sorbonne. Sion, Julien. 2019. Operación V.4a: “Sondeos en el grupo C, la UH 5M22.” In Proyecto Petén-Norte Naachtun 2015–2018, Informe final de la novena temporada de campo 2018, edited by Philippre Nondédéo, J. Begel, D. Michelet, and L. Garrido, 257–302. Guatemala City: UMR 8096 and CEMCA. Sion, Julien, Alejandro Patiño-Contreras, and Divina Perla-Barrera. Forthcoming. “Exchanges between Naachtun and the Western Lowlands during the Late and Terminal Classic Period: A Look through Its Ceramic.” In Ceramics and Society among the Classic Maya Cities of the Western Petén, edited by K. Eppich. Boulder: University Press of Colorado. Smith, Michael. 2011. “Classic Maya Settlement Clusters as Urban Neighborhoods: A Comparative Perspective on Low-Density Urbanism.” Journal de la société des Américanistes 97 (1):51–73. Smith, Michael. 2014. “Peasant Mobility, Local Migration and Premodern Urbanization.” World Archaeology 46 (4):516–33. Tourtellot, Gair. 1990. “Population Estimates for Preclassic and Classic Seibal, Peten.” In Precolumbian Population History in the Maya Lowlands, edited by P. Culbert and D. Rice, 83–102. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Tsukamoto, Kenichiro. 2014. “Politics in Plazas: Classic Maya Ritual Performance at El Palmar, Campeche, Mexico.” PhD diss., Tucson: University of Arizona. Vázquez López, Verónica. 2014. “Social Units in the Sociopolitical Structure of the Late Classic Maya: The Case of the Kanu’l Dynasty.” In Socio-Political Strategies among the Maya from the Classic Period to the Present, edited by V. Vázquez, R. Valencia, and E. Gutiérrez, 127–45. BAR International Series 2619. Oxford: Archeopress.

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9 Walking through the Urban Maze of Mayapán TIMOTHY S. HARE

Morehead State University M A R I LY N A . M A S S O N

The University at Albany SUNY

In this chapter, we present new information on the organization of Mayapán from a settlement and pedestrian perspective, complemented by a lidar-aided reconstruction of the city’s full mazeway of dwellings, clustered houselot groups, and thoroughfares. The Postclassic (1150–1450 CE) city of Mayapán has long been hailed as an impressive urban Maya city, based on its residential density within the city wall. The city’s population density is calculated, on average, to equal thirty-three people per ha (pph), but reached 126 pph in parts of the downtown zone (Masson et al. 2014:266). The wall’s circumference is 9.1 km, and it has twelve formal gates. The site is also one of several northern Maya cities with a tradition of houselot boundary walls and lanes of limestone boulder alignments known locally as albarradas. Prior to this survey, the albarradas of just a few sections of the city were mapped (Hare et al. 2014a). These features partition the cityscape into residential, open, and public spaces. Lidar-aided survey of greater Mayapán encompassed an area of just over 40 square km, including the walled city (Hare et al. 2014b), and now allows for a fuller analysis of albarradas and residential clustering. https://doi.org/10.5876/9781646424092.c009

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Mayapán’s city wall encloses an area of 4.2 km2, but we now know that Postclassic residences extended beyond this wall to a distance of at least half a kilometer in all directions, thanks to Russell’s (2008, 2021) transect surveys and our lidar-aided analysis (Hare 2014b). Ten settlement centers with Postclassic occupations dot the periphery of greater Mayapán within one to three kilometers of the city wall. Marked by temples, shrines, and, often, cenotes, these minor centers include Tichac, Jabah, K’i Kal, K’ochola, Mateya, Santa Cruz, Chan X-Tohil, Aktun Tzabcan, San Angel, and one locality without a local name. Low-density residential settlement sprawls from the city wall to these localities in the outskirts of greater Mayapán. Compared to the urban zone, Postclassic period residences outside of the city wall were more dispersed (Hare et al. 2014b; Russell 2008, 2021). We focus here on the urban zone, within the city wall, where density allows for detailed consideration of private and public use of city space, including pedestrian thoroughfares. P R I O R W O R K O N M AYA PÁ N ’ S A L B A R R A D A WA L L S A N D R O A D S

Albarrada walls were identified by William Bullard (1952, 1954) during the Carnegie Institution of Washington’s investigations of Mayapán. He made several prescient observations that stand the test of time. Clifford Brown subsequently published a detailed dissertation on Mayapán’s social organization (1999). Brown also realized the importance of albarrada houselot walls at the city and advanced their study significantly by recognizing larger units termed “houselot clusters.” He defined clusters as groups of adjacent houselots that share albarrada walls (1999:78–79, 143), and recognized that this unit has much potential for studying larger social units. From 2001–2003, the Economic Foundations of Mayapán project, for which we served as codirectors with Carlos Peraza, mapped additional houselot walls in thirty-six cleared milpa fields that supported a more extensive analysis (Hare 2021; Masson et al. 2014). Houselot size, as represented by albarrada enclosure area, does not correlate with location within the city or other metrics of status, such as dwelling size or elaboration (Bullard 1952:39, 1954:240; Masson et al. 2014:243–44). Fletcher and Kintz report similar results from Coba (1983), but at Chunchucmil, there is evidence to the contrary (Magnoni et al. 2012:325). Brown (1999:136–43) also worked with comparative data on houselot size, concluding that yard sizes (solares) were likely a matter of cultural preference. Another key finding of Bullard’s was that cenotes, the essential water sources for the city, were in open shared spaces and not contained within private houselot walls (Bullard 1952:39, 1954:244, 1962:210). These results indicate that residential property ownership was more complex compared to some of today’s real estate standards, in which square footage or acreage helps to determine land value. At Mayapán, enclosed residential groups are often near open spaces or enclosed fields, some of which may have been Walking through the Urban Maze of Mayapán

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the proprietary domain of nearby residents and others of which may have represented common space or open thoroughfares. This type of land ownership is difficult to quantify, despite the likelihood of household ownership of cultivation spaces, as there is no staightforward way to tie these spaces to specific dwelling groups. It is not our intent to address here the debate regarding land ownership for Pre-Columbian Maya society; we refer the reader to detailed treatments of the topic by Kepecs (2003:259) and Batún et al. (2020). Some have argued that landuse rights were held in common and granted by elites, as claimed by Spaniards in the early Colonial period (e.g., Quezada 2014:21). Most scholars seem to agree that residential property would have belonged to those who built and occupied houselots and dwellings. For fuller arguments demonstrating Maya ownership of landesque capital in the form of orchards, gardens, and other developed resources, see Batún et al. (2020), Freidel and Sabloff (1984:84–90, 181–83), McAnany (1995), and Roys (1972:37). Mayapán, while representing a crowded urban environment, was also a garden city, full of green spaces, shade trees, orchard trees, gardens, tethered and penned deer, peccary, and turkeys. These resources filled enclosed houselots and tracts of walled or open nonresidential spaces nearby (Masson and Hare 2020). Naturally, as has been proposed for most Pre-Columbian Maya cities, cultivation would have also occurred in the city’s periphery, beyond the wall, and dispersed dwellings in this vicinity were likely the homes of farmers (Antonelli 2022; Masson et al. 2020; Russell 2018, 2021). Like most late premodern urban places, it is unlikely that Mayapán would have been self-sustaining in terms of subsistence, given the local nature of routine smaller scale seasonal climatic impacts (Masson and Peraza 2014:274). The city had a well-developed commercial economy that included food trade (Carr 1996; Masson and Peraza 2008, 2013, 2014:401; Pollock and Ray 1957:650). Food exchange buttressed periodic shortfalls and augmented the city’s inland resources of game, fowl, and fruit, as did coastal goods such as fish and salt (Landa 1941:40, Masson and Peraza 2014:278, 401). Food and animal product trade was widespread across the peninsula during the Postclassic and Contact periods (Masson and Peraza 2014:figure  6.1; Piña Chan 1978), even if local resources were the most important staples, such as terrestrial animals and turkeys at Mayapán (Carr 1996; Masson and Peraza 2008). Other sites defined by houselot walls, stone-marked pedestrian thoroughfares, and enclosed fields include Early Classic Chunchucmil (Dahlin and Ardren 2002; Hutson 2010, 2016; Hutson and Magnoni 2017; Magnoni et al. 2012), along with the Late to Terminal Classic sites of Coba (Fletcher 1983a; Fletcher and Kintz 1983) and Dzibilchaltun (Kurjack 1974). Additional sites display such features in the Yucatán peninsula, though they exhibit them to a lesser extent (Magnoni et al. 2012:316). Pathways of Chunchucmil formed by pairs of parallel albarradas 282

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(and other features) are more common than at Mayapán. Chunchucmil’s houselot walls tend to enclose more dwellings, and their average area is larger than that of Coba and Mayapán (e.g., Magnoni et al. 2012:318-19, 323, figure 3). Conjoined field walls at Cozumel were initially analyzed by Freidel and Sabloff (1984:181–83) and more recently at the site of Buena Vista on this island by Iván Batún and colleagues (Batún 2009; Batún et al. 2020:220, figure  12.1). Simple albarradas identified by Batún at Buena Vista were made of dry laid stones, much like the boulder walls of Mayapán’s albarradas. Batún identified wider, more complex walls made of larger stones, similar to the construction of Mayapán’s city wall. At Buena Vista, rectilinear matrices of conjoined stone walls were found across a mapped study area of 4 km2 that represents a sample of an extensive network (Batún 2009:figure 15; Batún et al. 2020:figure 12.1). Other tighter clusters of walls were more asymmetrical. Walking lanes were marked in some of these by parallel wall alignments (Batún 2009:figures 23–26). Our prior analysis of Mayapán’s residential and field wall albarradas presented some key findings, many of which, such as size ranges and related statistics, will need reevaluation with new data from the full lidar map. Little correlation exists for houselot size and status, as we have discussed. This pattern may derive, in part, from processes of urban growth. For example, fissioning social groups located in the more densely occupied downtown zone may have been prone to dividing existing albarrada spaces into smaller units (Masson et al. 2014:243–46). Toward the outskirts of the city, smaller hilltop albarradas affording privacy were preferred; occasionally, the city wall itself was chosen as one edge of walled domestic groups (246–47). Field walls at the city took several forms. Most notably, some were bounded by houselot walls on all or most sides, while others were independently enclosed (or partially so) in areas of relatively open space (2014:247–50). Pens for animals and, perhaps, storage were also common. Walled fields inside the city wall provide primary evidence for the cultivated appearance of the cityscape. Thoroughfares through Mayapán that were previously identified were limited to three sources of data: (1) features mapped by Bullard; (2) segments of parallel albarrada lanes detected in our milpa sample area maps or shown to us by local assistants; and (3) trajectories of old foot trails mapped by the Carnegie project in the mid-nineteenth century (Hare 2020; Hare et al. 2014a:figures 4.1, 4.10). R E L E VA N T T H E O R E T I C A L A P P R O A C H E S

Our earlier analysis of Mayapán’s urban cityscape was inspired by Kevin Lynch’s landmark work The Image of the City (1960). Spaces and features (“city images”) he identified as important in modern urban built environments are relevant for understanding the Postclassic urban center, such as nodes, paths, landmarks, edges, and districts (45; Hare et al. 2014a). Movement through cities by residents Walking through the Urban Maze of Mayapán

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or visitors, in Lynch’s thesis, was mediated by such features visible in viewsheds, made feasible by thoroughfares, and made meaningful by destinations (practical or symbolic) that lent order to large places (Lynch 1960:8; Shaw 2001; Smith 2007:36–37). In agreement with Lynch, historians considering the organization of late premodern towns such as Norman Pounds (1973:347) observe that smaller plazas and religious buildings replicate functions of city centers and help to define neighborhood identities (see also Rapoport 1990). In Lynch’s (1960) words, they serve as “cues” for “wayfinding” in cities (3–4). We have argued previously that Mayapán’s outlying monumental groups, some located by city gates, were nodes that especially served this function. For a full exploration of Lynch’s city images at Mayapán, see Hare et al. (2014a), and for cenotes in particular, see Brown (2005, 2006). At this city, buildings, neighborhoods, roads, the city wall, its gates, public buildings, the marketplace, and cenotes were key navigational devices and would have contributed significantly to definitions of place within and beyond the urban environment. Snead et al. (2006:4) argue compellingly that classificatory terms such as trail, path, or road should not hamper an analysis of movement through archaeological sites, and we adopt this approach in this chapter by using such terms interchangeably. Paths, like other features considered by Lynch, provide a “medium” through which social relations are formed and maintained because the spatial experience of moving through the built environment reinforces memories of place (e.g., Tilley 1994:31). The phenomenology of landscape represents a growing field of study, as is ethnogeography, particularly in cases where ethnographic, ethnohistorical, or linguistic information is available (Snead et al. 2006:14–16). Similarly, Magnoni et al. (2012:327, 330) suggest that spatially bounded households shared social identities at Chunchucmil through proximity and continuous interaction. It is interesting that clusters of houselots sharing walls or bound together by lanes at the Chunchucmil site included groups of different status and wealth (Magnoni et al. 2012:327, 330), a pattern that also characterizes Mayapán (Masson et al. 2014:240). As Michael Smith observes, conceptualizing cities as planned versus unplanned represents a false dichotomy (2007:6), as cities bear the imprints of the actions and designs of multiple groups with different purposes in mind. Or, as Lynch states, cities are “the product of many builders who are constantly modifying the structure for reasons of their own” (1960:2), which incorporates the bottomup perspective considered throughout this volume. Smith advocates for studying the degree of different types of planning principles, including the replication of standardized features such as public architecture outside of monumental centers (2007:8). Such features, especially those situated at junctions of features (focal points), have high degrees of “imageability,” that is, the capacity to evoke familiar messaging to viewers in practical or symbolic terms (Lynch 1960:8–9). 284

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Spatial organization represents the organization of people (Hutson 2010:143; Hillier and Hanson 1984:2). At Chunchucmil, Hutson and Magnoni (2017:39) also consider the importance of linear features for channeling access by facilitating or impeding movement. Chunchucmil has callejuelas, lanes formed by pairs of albarradas, as well as sacbeob (Hutson and Magnoni 2017:39, figures 2.4, 2.5) in greater abundance than observed at Mayapán. Callejuelas at Chunchucmil determined movement in and out of residential areas from the city center, forming a “hub and spoke pattern” (Hutson 2010:143, 2016:102–4, figure 4.2). Ordinary people likely assisted with their construction and organization, given that these features intersect and border houselot boundaries (Hutson et al. 2017:111). As Hutson observes, “The callejuela is a pedestrian text—a spatial story”—and those living along these boundaries would have interacted more with each other than those who did not (Hutson 2010:143). Methodological Considerations

We emphasize that this effort to reconstruct movement through Mayapán is a work in progress. Our principal data derive from Timothy Hare’s efforts in digitizing albarrada enclosures (residential and nonresidential) via the lidar data for urban walled Mayapán. More work is necessary to trace minor trails through neighborhoods and to analyze the implications of albarrada features for the organization of the settlement zone. To emphasize this point, we provide two versions of potential paths through Mayapán, each rendered in an independent effort by the two authors (figures 9.1, 9.2). These maps correspond well with one another in terms of major routes and underscore two points: pedestrians had choices in terms of minor routes, and more minor routes are evident on the new map than are shown in figures 9.1 and 9.2. Minor routes frequently connect the interiors of settlement clusters to major routes. Three objectives, as this chapter explains, have guided the reconstruction of pedestrian thoroughfares. The main objective is to identify major roads by which pedestrians entering through the city gates might have reached the site center or by which residents may have departed. The second goal is to identify secondary paths into (but not necessarily through) residential areas. The third objective is to explore the meanings of paths, as edges, in neighborhood organization at the city. In tracing routes, we have adhered as closely as possible to several rules. First, pathways should not enter individual residential groups, enclosed or partially enclosed by albarradas (or enclosed fields). Despite this guideline, however, routes pass by dwelling groups and apparently freestanding architectural features that were not enclosed. Second, defined pathways are produced by the interactions among freestanding albarradas, residential albarradas, or combinations of the two. Third, pathways do not cross over freestanding albarradas. Walking through the Urban Maze of Mayapán

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FIGURE 9.1. Rendering #1 of paths traced through Mayapán using lidar evidence of albarradas within the city wall (with enclosed houselots shaded in gray).

FIGURE 9.2 .

Rendering #2 of paths traced through Mayapán using lidar evidence of albarradas within the city wall.

Fourth, pathways respect topographic variation by following relatively level areas and avoiding extremely high altillos (hillocks) or altillos with elite or residential architectural groups across the summit. Timothy Hare digitized the albarradas shown in the figures of this chapter and attempted to eliminate those that showed signs of modern construction; Bullard also attempted to filter out recent walls in his renderings of Mayapán albarradas (1954:236). Bullard distinguished pre-Hispanic from contemporary albarradas in his unpublished sketch maps of two areas. Nonetheless, it is likely that stones in albarradas were removed, entire segments of albarradas might have been moved or shifted, and some sections may be obscured in the lidar dataset by dense vegetation. We tentatively classify identified pathways in two ways. First, we define categories based on the nature of boundary features. Some of the routes show examples where parallel sets of albarradas form stone lanes (double albarradas), or where paths cross through restricted openings in albarradas (open spaces) or follow linear wall segments (open). Some routes are defined by sets of residential albarradas (residential) or mixes of residential albarradas and freestanding albarradas (mixed). Second, we define pathways by function. Minor paths (dashed lines on figure 9.2) are not as long as major routes (solid lines) and do not always connect to major destinations such as gates, the site center, or monumental buildings present in the residential zone. Major roads have been identified as relatively unimpeded thoroughfares across open spaces, along linear nonresidential stone walls, via double albarrada-marked lanes, through limited access points in otherwise blocked off areas, and combinations of these characteristics. Major paths were assumed to follow a reasonably linear trajectory from one of the city’s gates toward the downtown vicinity. By downtown, we mean the site’s monumental center and 500-meter grid squares on the site map lying adjacent to the monumental center (in all directions except north, which is not as densely settled). The downtown zone includes the area around the monumental center, Gate D in the city wall (northeast of the site center) and a probable market plaza (figure 9.2), as well as a concentration of high-status dwellings (Hare et al. 2014a:figures 4.1, 4.4). Bordering the site center were the largest elite residences of Mayapán to the west, south, and east of the monumental zone (Hare et al. 2014a:170–77, figure 4.1). The downtown zone was likely a destination for visitors and residents alike. This methodology expands our prior attempts at reconstructing prescribed routes through the city. We use Bullard’s published maps, as well as his unpublished archival albarrada maps provided courtesy of Harvard’s Peabody Museum. In the archival maps, Bullard recorded albarrada configurations for two additional tracts of the city, centered on Carnegie map Grid Squares D and K (south of Gate D) and Grid Squares AA and EE (Hare et al. 2014a:figure 4.3). Our prior efforts also considered the paths of historical trails through the city still in use 288

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when the Carnegie project mapped the site in the 1950s ( Jones 1952, 1962; Shook 1952). The latter were likely of ancient derivation, especially when they were marked by stone walls, avoided houselots, and passed through (or near to) one of the city gates (Hare et al. 2014a:177–84, figure 4.6). These old roads are among those shown in figures 9.1 and 9.2. Trails are not always marked by albarradas; sometimes they cross through linear swaths of easy-to-walk-upon exposed and flat limestone bedrock or flat, low-lying swale zones between hillocks that cover the region (altillos). Bullard (1954:243) excavated a double albarrada lane and discovered that beneath shallow topsoil, flat bedrock was present between the stones. He suggested that such bedrock was purposefully cleared for use as roads when the city was occupied; Hare et al. (2014a:180) observed more examples of these bedrock pavements. Mayapán residents utilized bedrock surface outcrops to their full advantage in residential or public spaces (Brown 1999; Delgado Kú 2004; Smith 1962; Weeks 2009). More field investigation is needed to explore the extent to which such outcrops were incorporated into routes and to what extent they may have influenced the trajectory of routes. It is worth noting that Mayapán has three sacbeob (figure 9.1) that the Carnegie project identified ( Jones 1962; Pollock 1954, 1956; Smith 1962:209). Two of these were ceremonial in function, given that they lead to or connect elite and public buildings. Pedestrians may have used them informally for transportation. Two are relatively short, and a third, the longest segment, connects one of the city’s largest palace groups (Structures R-95 to R-99) to a colonnaded hall ceremonial group to its southwest (Group Z-50). A shorter sacbe lies in grid square E. It leads to outlying temple E-11 and extends northward to a small, relatively open space near the city wall and Gate D (Hare et al. 2014a:158). A third is in a residential area and connects Structures Y-52 to Y-105. M AYA PÁ N ’ S M A Z E WAY

The mapped albarradas of Mayapán’s mazeway presented here offer important breakthroughs in understanding the organization of the urban residential zone. In the following subsections we review new insights with respect to the interrelated sets of linear features, houselot clusters, neighborhoods, routes, open spaces, city gates, and cenotes that helped order city space. Linear Features, Settlement Clusters, and Fields

A surprising finding in this phase of the project was the presence of numerous extended linear albarrada walls in the residential zone. Prior efforts, including those of Bullard, emphasized locating parallel double albarrada walls that defined lanes that were largely independent of houselot walls (1952:39, 1954: 242). For the first time, with this new map, we see that pedestrian movement, Walking through the Urban Maze of Mayapán

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residential clusters, fields, and neighborhoods were delineated by extended linear features consisting of single rather than double albarrada walls. These features suggest a higher level of neighborhood planning than previously supposed. Bullard, to his credit, observed that some longer albarrada walls enclosed sides of more than one houselot (1954:239), and this pattern is now more broadly recognized. Aside from this type of feature, independent walls also divide open spaces or edges of houselots only partially enclosed. Freestanding walls would have guided pedestrians moving through these spaces and demarcated fields, as well as more open residential zones. Extended linear walls at the site often run east-west (usually at angles just east of north). The maps show that shared linear walls help to form a surprisingly high number of clustered houselots, and when they do, residents often constructed additional walls more or less perpendicular to their shared elongated wall. Sometimes the perpendicular north-south walls (also often a few degrees east of north) are themselves shared by more than one houselot. When this occurs, houselot clusters assume a modular, almost gridded appearance. Examples may be viewed in figures 9.3 and 9.4. Previously, houselot walls were described as having rounded or rectangular shapes (with rounded corners) by A. L. Smith (1962:209), and our new data show the ubiquity of these shapes. Rounder (not rectangular) albarrada enclosures are also common, as indicated in figures 9.1 and 9.2, but these often connect to longer linear walls that help form other groups, cross open spaces, or delineate paths. Neighborhoods in portions of Mayapán planning used extended linear features to line up horizontal and vertical rows of houselots. This grid-like organization represents an efficient use of space. It is also true that the prevailing winds come from the east and northeast in this part of the peninsula and that the alignment to the east of north would have taken advantage of the breeze. In figures 9.3–9.5, single and paired houselots in more open spaces also sometimes approximate a rectangular form, with their walls aligned with those of clustered houselots nearby. Freestanding linear features formed edges along which pedestrians would have traveled (figures  9.3–9.5). Some of these features may have represented the boundaries of neighborhoods conceptualized at the city, while others are embedded within neighborhoods as they do not separate crowded housing zones (figures 9.3, 9.4). To the south and west of Gate B (figure 9.5), individual walled houselots are less common. In this area, at least six areas of housing are enclosed by larger, nearly rectangular sets of extended walls (marked as A–F on figure  9.5). Other similarly sized areas are enclosed by polygons (not rectangular); such areas are marked as G–I on figure 9.5. Within these enclosures most individual house groups are not self-contained, though some examples have short, incomplete wall barriers. Mayapán’s residential settlement organization has been described, in terms of fractal principles, as chaotic (Brown 1999:190) or otherwise poorly organized 290

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FIGURE 9. 3. Close- up of a portion of downtown Mayapán, east/northeast of the monumental center (grid squares D, E, J, K, R, S), showing linear albarrada features associated with houselots or fields or that are freestanding. Enclosed fields are marked with an “X.”

(Bullard 1954:238, 244; Smith 1962:210, 265). These grid-like, rectilinear, and modular features of albarradas that the full map reveals thus indicate a greater degree of settlement planning beyond the level of the individual dwelling group. Walking through the Urban Maze of Mayapán

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FIGURE 9.4. Extended linear features, sometimes perpendicularly and nearly rectangular (with rounded corners), create modular, grid-like sections of houselot clusters. Additional freestanding linear features that form boundaries and edges in open spaces are also indicated.

In some cases, linear wall segments enclose or partially enclose fields (a term we use for nonresidential spaces) that have no architecture (figures  9.3, 9.4). Some independent walled houselots at the site are situated in open space and, for that reason, lack clear association with a cluster (figures 9.3–9.5; see also Brown 1999:143). Other independent residential groups have no walls. 292

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FIGURE 9.5. Extended quasi-rectangular (A–F) and polygon-shaped (G–H) spaces enclose larger swaths of house groups and open spaces at the northwest corner of the walled city (south and west of Gate B).

Additional linear features, whether extending from a houselot wall or freestanding, divide field space that is not fully enclosed and would have guided pedestrian traffic across relatively open areas. Similar linear walls extended from houselot walls at Coba. Fletcher suggests they were multifunctional and were important “boundary maintainers” that served to direct or impede pedestrian passage (1983b:96, 100, figures 6.6, 6.9). Such features are present at other northern sites (see Fletcher 1983b:90; Hutson and Magnoni 2017:39). Some houselots used Mayapán’s great wall for part of their enclosures (Bullard 1954:238). Residents’ choices to construct their houses along this wall suggests Walking through the Urban Maze of Mayapán

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appropriative behaviors with regard to a defining public feature of the city. The domestic use of the city wall was apparently not prohibited. Alternatively, some residents near the city wall may have been employed in defense of the city (Masson et al. 2014:216). The wall was at least in part a defensive feature, given that parapets exist along certain segments (Russell 2013; Shook 1952:9). Houses built along the wall’s interior or exterior are relatively uncommon (figures 9.1, 9.2). Some sections of the inner margin along the wall were relatively clear of housing and albarradas, enabling paths from Gates O-AA, from Gate EE-minor Gate EE, minor Gate EE-X-T, Gates G-H, and Gates G-D. Other spaces between gates were congested with habitation and lack clear routes, for example, from Gate AA-EE, Gate B-D, and Gate T-U-H (figures 9.1, 9.2). Brown’s concept of the “houselot cluster” pertains to smaller units than those we consider here, which we refer to as settlement (or residential) clusters. Brown was working at a finer scale of resolution within neighborhoods, suggesting that clusters often correspond to single landforms on or near to altillos (1999:146). A lingering question for research at Mayapán is how to define neighborhoods and districts (Hare and Masson 2012). We present two maps that delineate grayshaded settlement clustering that might represent neighborhood organization at the city, with the caveat that these are exploratory and hypothetical renderings. Figure 9.6 groups larger settlement areas together, divided more broadly by major routes or zones of more open space in the city. This map compares favorably to an earlier rendering published by the authors, in which Timothy Hare generated “10 K means clusters” to detect density clustering in the city’s settlement zone (Hare and Masson 2012:figure 11.10). From figure 9.6, we glimpse that portions of Mayapán exhibit a spoke-and-wheel type of organization, although not as neatly as Chunchucmil where raised sacbes, chichbes (low, rubble paved routes), or double albarrada lanes are more prevalent (Hutson 2010). This radial configuration of routes from the gates toward the center is better displayed in the western portion of the city (extending from Gates B, O, AA, and EE), in the eastern portion (extending from Gates T, U, H, G), and to a lesser extent in the south-central area (north of Gate X). The zone to the south of Gate D is so dense and extensive that it represents an exception. The area south and west of Gate B is also different, with its sprawling low-density house groups organized into large shared albarrada enclosures (figure 9.5). Were these two larger areas districts? We think this likely, given that we have previously proposed that the area to the south of Gate D was a district based on the concentration of the marketplace and high-status houses (Hare et al. 2014a:186–87). Figure 9.7 presents a more fine-grained attempt at delineating clustered settlement, emphasizing houselots that share contiguous sets of albarrada walls (which was not the primary criterion for figure  9.6). Smaller units appear in figure 9.7, as well as more isolated sets of dwellings. The denser areas of the 294

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FIGURE 9.6. Large groups of settlement clusters (rendering #1), marked by mostly contiguous, adjacent sets of houselot walls, with an emphasis on divisions determined by open spaces or paths at Mayapán.

city, as for figure 9.6, are harder to visually separate. We are mindful that paths did not necessarily divide social groups and in fact may have bound them more closely by offering greater opportunities for interaction. In figure 9.7, settlement clusters vary in size, with at least nine larger ones, with smaller clusters located between them or alongside the city wall. The groups shaded in figure 9.7 hold the most promise for neighborhood-level analysis at the city. Open Spaces, Gates, and Routes along the Wall

Open spaces through which pedestrians may pass unimpeded represent obvious choices for thoroughfares (e.g., Shaw 2001). Bullard also has suggested that open routes traversed major portions of the city (1954:244). They may also have served as “commons” spaces for a variety of public uses (e.g., Dahlin et al. 2010:206). Relatively open spaces extend inside some of the city’s gates, such as Gates O, H, X, T, U, G, minor Gate EE (marked as “ee” on figures 9.1, 9.2) and, to a lesser extent, B and D (figures 9.1, 9.2). In contrast, pedestrians entering other city gates encountered routes involving some detours, some moving laterally along the city wall and others traversing through particularly densely packed residential zones. Some of these routes have sections of relatively clear, open, and linear space that become narrower in congested settlement areas closer to downtown Mayapán (figures  9.1, 9.2). The modern highway (figure  9.2) may obscure some of the more direct routes that previously existed from eastern gates south of Gate H. Three forms of open spaces are observed within the cityscape. The first, just described, extends alongside the city wall’s interior. The second involves interior spaces through which pedestrians could have passed unimpeded by houselot walls. They would have walked past open or partially enclosed domestic groups and fields or orchards, with freestanding alignments, double albarrada segments, and settlement cluster edges to guide them. The third form of open space is more formal as it is linear and clearly separates sets of dense houselot clusters. The best example is found in grid square AA, where the breadth and clarity of its thoroughfare not replicated elsewhere in the city. Another example may be the linear space extending westward from Gate U. Lanes, marked by double albarradas, are best defined in square I, just to the west of the Itzmal Ch’en group (Bullard 1954; Smith 1962:209, figure 1). Unlike open thoroughfares, these lanes are narrow but may have served to demarcate residential clusters to either side. At the same time, lanes and paths afforded residents living along these edges enhanced opportunities for interaction (Magnoni et al. 2012). It is thus too simple to infer that residents living within clusters were socially more intimate than those in close proximity across a lane or path, especially for large clusters within the city where families living at opposing ends may not have had regular face-to-face contact. 296

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Smaller settlement clusters identified at Mayapán (rendering #2). In this image, boundaries were determined more specifically by sets of continuous albarrada walls that are often bounded by open spaces or paths.

FIGURE 9.7.

Major and Minor Roads

Evidence for some ancient routes closer to the monumental center, especially to its northeast, may have been obliterated due to the construction of Rancho San Joaquin in this vicinity (figure 9.2; Bullard 1954:242). The most direct roads heading inward from city gates are those extending from Gates B, O, minor Gate EE, H, and D (figures 9.1, 9.2). The path that extends south from Gate B and north from Gate EE passes the west side of the monumental center and is the only route that continues all the way through Mayapán; it is also the location of a historical trail in use at the time of the Carnegie Institution project. A relatively straight road heads east from Gate O, currently a dirt road still used today, that parallels a historical hacienda rail track just to its north. This route was recognized by Smith (1962:210). It is possible that historical disturbances have augmented the relatively straight trajectory of this route. The route extending westward from Gate H is also relatively linear, and it branches into two lanes originally identified by Bullard (1954; Smith 1962:figure 1). The route from Gate D southward crosses the hypothesized main market plaza of the city and continues toward the monumental center. Other routes include those from gates that require lateral detours (along the city wall) or that involve combinations of major and minor paths such as those drawn from Gates G, T, EE, X, U, and AA (figures 9.1, 9.2). For the purposes of this exercise, we consider Gate T and “Blocked Gate T” as the same entrance, given that they are nearly adjacent. Minor routes through houselot clusters and neighborhoods are numerous. We have not traced all of them in figures 9.1 and 9.2. Their trajectories often connect to major routes. In figure 9.2, they are shown as dashed, rather than solid lines that traverse residential clusters, follow the city wall, or offer alternative paths to major junctions. It is not possible to determine whether Mayapán residents distinguished between “minor” and “major” routes, and for this reason, coding of routes is subjective in figure 9.2. Perhaps the necessity of winding through tightly knit residential zones was not a deterrent for pedestrians at the city. Major routes heading toward the site center were not obvious in the area extending north of Gate X or west of Gate U. Perhaps they originally existed but were closed off in the process of residential growth. The trajectory of major routes is important for many reasons in analyzing the settlement organization of Mayapán. We have already discussed their roles as avenues of interaction and communication, and as features defining potential neighborhoods or other meaningful socially clustered residential units. Major routes also tend to connect key focal nodes and activity areas in the city. Hare et al. (2014a:177–84, figure 4.1) reveal that Mayapán’s principal paths thread together gates, cenotes, and monumental groups that punctuate and define the walled settlement. These features served as visual landmarks and “way finding” devices (Lynch 1960:125), which gave names to places within the residential zone by 298

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embodying social memory and aspects of symbolic meaning. We elaborate on the connection of cenotes, routes, and neighborhoods in the next subsection. Cenotes: Shared Resources

Cenotes were one of the most important defining features in the cityscape (Brown 2005:384). Considering residents’ cenote access is a tentative process in the settlement zone for two reasons. First, there are more cenotes in the urban zone than are shown on the map, and an unknown number were sealed by ranchers to protect their cattle from hazards in the 1940s (e.g., Brown 2005:381; Bullard 1954:254; Smith 1962:210–11). Second, cenotes at Mayapán vary in terms of water quantity, quality, and accessibility (Brown 1999:155–56; Luzadder-Beach et al. 2008). Some are dry caves that may have suffered roof collapse after the city’s abandonment but may have offered water access in the past. Some have water pools easily accessed via walk-in caves; others are deep pools visible from openings in the surface caprock that would have required ladders to allow people to descend or ropes for the lowering of water vessels. More work is needed to evaluate the qualitative differences of cenotes within the city wall, as well as those easily within reach just beyond this boundary. Some cenotes were shunned due to belief in their malevolent properties (Brown 1999:184–85; Russell 2016). Given their variable features, a hierarchy of cenotes may well have existed, preferencing those perceived to have cleaner, deeper water or to have symbolic and sacred associations (Brown 2005:390–93; Luzadder-Beach et al. 2008). Cenotes were important, but living in close proximity to one was not guaranteed in the urban environment. Elite residences cluster around the west, south, and east of the site center. Another elite cluster is located between the center and Gate D, near the marketplace, and others are dispersed as isolates in localities farther from downtown. Yet generally these most elaborate dwelling groups are not adjacent to known cenotes. Presumably, servants were available to transport water to their residents. Cenotes within the city wall concentrate in an east-west band across the southern portion of the city (figure 9.8). The density of residential clusters in this area (grid squares AA, EE, Z) is likely due to this ample water supply (Brown 1999:156–57; Smith 1962:210–11). Cenotes are also abundant south of the city wall in mapping grid squares adjacent to those inside the urban zone. Fewer cenotes are distributed in the northwest and northeast portions of the city. That said, most Mayapán urban residents could access cenotes within 500 meters from their dwellings (Russell 2008). Figure 9.8 provides the names of cenotes mentioned in the text. Since we began our investigations in 2001, we learned that some cenotes have multiple openings, which is why there is sometimes more than one cenote symbol listed next to a name. Walking through the Urban Maze of Mayapán

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Prior investigators observed that cenotes were publicly accessible. They were not owned or restricted within the properties of individual houselots (Brown 1999:72; Bullard 1952:39, 1954:244; Smith 1962:20). Figures 9.1 and 9.2 confirm these prior findings in terms of general availability of cenotes. Some cenotes are near gates, along major roads, or in open spaces that would have invited public use and easy access to individuals other than nearby residents (figures 9.1, 9.2). One of the most obvious examples is Acambalam in Square I, located at an intersection of major thoroughfares, including double albarrada lanes that lead inward from Gate H (figure 9.8). The nearby Itzmal Ch’en cenote, next to an outlying ceremonial group and Gate H, also lies convenient to roads, as well as open and public spaces. Other cenotes near gates include Calac Copo (by Gate G), X-Coton (by Gate T), Ch’en Carro (by minor Gate EE), Ch’en Kulu (by Gate EE), Ch’en Max and Polbox (by Gate AA), and Nac Che Burro (by Gate D and Temple E-11). Cenotes that lie along path intersections closer to the site center include Yo Dzonot Ch’en Pie, Yaxnab, and X-Te Toloc in (Square Z north of the EE gates; figures 9.1, 9.2, 9.8). A row of five cenote openings exists along paths close to the gates in Square Y (north of minor gate EE and X). Cenote Chacsikin is located next to a dense settlement cluster in Square S (north of Gate X) but could have been reached by a straightforward path from the city wall (figure 9.8). DISCUSSION

In summary, our chapter explores the implications of albarrada configurations within Mayapán for deciphering the city’s bottom-up processes of urban design. Themes of this volume that we consider here for Mayapán include household decision-making, mobility, community and neighborhood organization, and resource management. Household decision-making is a key process behind most of the patterns identified in this chapter from the new albarrada data of the Mayapán Lidar Project. Linear wall segments reflect aspects of neighborhood organization, including larger (figure 9.6) and smaller (figure 9.7) settlement clusters. Pedestrian routes that we reconstruct reveal potential avenues of movement by which residents and visitors crossed through the urban landscape. Both linear features and open thoroughfares represent “edges” within the city (in Kevin Lynch’s sense), and these help to define discrete clusters. Larger and smaller clusters suggest the structure of Mayapán’s neighborhoods through spatial and social proximity. These findings build on prior efforts to examine settlement clustering, routes, and focal nodes (Hare et al. 2014a; Hare and Masson 2012). Resource management is reflected by the relationship of cenotes to settlement, routes, and city gates. Cultivation spaces within the city also reflect key subsistence resources. Our previous efforts at deciphering Mayapán’s urban planning emphasized the importance of landmarks and wayfinding features, including cenotes, outlying monumental buildings, and gates. Here we add a more 300

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FIGURE 9.8.

Cenote names known within Mayapán’s city walls.

comprehensive (if preliminary) look at the city’s structural organization from the perspective of albarradas. Linear wall segments, often perpendicular to one another, connected multiple houselots. These reflect planning beyond the single houselot scale. Shared linear wall networks planned for simultaneous or sequential houselot construction. Whether by consensus, costumbre, or practicality, such alignments and the dwellings within houselots often favor a slight northeastern orientation toward the prevailing winds. Mobility, along with circulation and connectivity, is hypothetically reconstructed between major destinations. Mayapán was maze-like within certain residential clusters, but many crowded housing zones were structured by major roads, open thoroughfares, and minor paths that provided baseline orientations and boundaries. Mayapán’s major roads and larger settlement clusters create a composite pattern that loosely conforms to a hub-and-spoke model, though not so neatly as at Chunchucmil (Hutson 2016:103–6). At both sites, alternative routes were available to residents within the settlements. Chunchucmil’s residential zone also featured open spaces between paths (Hutson 2016:figure 4.6) and the sharing of water sources (wells at Chunchucmil) in accessible spaces (Hutson 2016:117). Streets funneled people to destinations within these cities, including the site center (Hutson et al. 2017:111), as is the case for cities crossculturally (e.g., Lynch 1960). Linear, rounded, or asymmetrical arrays of adjacent houselot walls define the small houselot clusters as originally identified by Brown (1999:143). The new data considered here provide a more comprehensive opportunity to identify houselot clusters with a full rendering of albarrada alignments across the city. At least some enclosed or partially demarcated nonresidential spaces represent cultivated fields belonging to adjacent houselots (figure 9.3). Other open spaces within houselot clusters may also have been cultivated, or they may have served as commons spaces. Spaces between settlement clusters, especially thoroughfares (broad or narrow), raise questions of affinity, familiarity, and sociability across routes, perhaps at a level greater than might be expected for houselots located at opposing ends of larger neighborhoods with conjoined houselot walls. Did Mayapán residents routinely walk through each other’s yards? We think this likely, especially in cases where adjacent dwelling groups housed intermarried families or friends. The lidar data are not fine-grained enough to determine small gaps between boulder walls that would have served as yard entrances, though larger gaps do appear (figures  9.1–9.5). It is also clear that open (nonwalled) house groups dot the city in all locations. Passersby would likely have respected the boundaries of these domestic groups and nearby gardens where possible. Smith (2011:53) describes neighborhoods in ancient cities as characteristically small, defined by a single street segment, proximity to an intersection, 302

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or some shared resource. The idea that linear features (including thoroughfares and cluster boundaries) helped to define neighborhoods matches well with the patterns shown in figures 9.6 and 9.7. Yet some settlement clusters are not particularly small at the city and, in this respect, do not fit Smith’s expectations. Perhaps large units developed at Mayapán due to its status as the largest political capital of its time, or perhaps urban density knitted houselot clusters together due to the confining nature of the walled city. The linear, quasi-gridded aspect of some of the residential zones indicate, however, that larger swaths of housing clusters were planned and that incremental growth was not haphazard. The criteria of clustering of residential units, and their distinction from one another by vacant space, have long been applied to settlement studies in the Maya area, including quests to identify neighborhoods (for a full review, see Smith 2011:54–56). Neighborhoods are well defined by spoke-like paths into and out of Chunchucmil’s center (Hutson 2016: 104), for which the term spoke cluster is employed to describe them. Mayapán’s organization is less clear, but some clusters have a similar appearance. In the densely inhabited zone to the east/northeast of the site center, it is difficult to determine boundaries that might distinguish clusters. Identifying primary east-west paths through this zone is also challenging. This area was a hub of the city where growth processes may have overtaken any initial clustering earlier in the site’s history. It houses a concentration of larger, more elaborate dwellings to the east of the market plaza, extends to the north gate, and abuts against three large palaces and the northern end of the city’s principal sacbe (Hare et al. 2014a: figure 4.1). Hutson suggests that some Chunchucmil clusters combined to form districts (2016:108); the same inference may apply to some of Mayapán’s residential zones. Smaller clusters at Chunchucmil are considered better candidates for neighborhoods (Hutson 2016:106), and Mayapán exhibits some of these discrete units as well, especially the wedge-shaped cluster between Gates AA and EE, as well as smaller units along the city wall. At the northwest corner of the city, south and west of Gate B, settlement is more dispersed, yet it is ordered by more expansive, often rectilinear boundaries that contain multiple houselots (figure 9.5). What of field walls? In our original milpa survey, we identified numerous enclosed fields (Masson et al. 2014:250–53; Masson and Peraza 2014:403–5). We have yet to retabulate this number based on the fully mapped albarrada data. Some fields are enclosed by their location amid walled houselots on all sides. Others are distinct spaces that were purposefully marked, presumably for cultivation. The latter most closely resemble household scale field walls and call to mind the walled fields of Cozumel. However, fields at Cozumel were contiguous and extensive, unlike the individual fields that lie adjacent to houselots at Mayapán (Batún et al. 2020:figure 12.1; Freidel and Sabloff 1984). Walking through the Urban Maze of Mayapán

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Cenotes have long been recognized as way finders in Mayapán’s environs, especially given their importance as navigational points today for local residents of Telchaquillo (Brown 1999:525–27). As Brown suggests, cenotes would have been important location identifiers for any of the city’s residential zones in which they are situated; neighborhoods may have been named for their cenotes. Cenotes were sometimes boundary features between residential zones, at intersections of paths, or near city gates. Public access to cenotes would have made them important gathering places for socializing and communication. Some were easier to reach for visitors to Mayapán, given their location near gates or along major routes, and others lay deeper within crowded residential zones. Future work may shed light on the quality of cenotes as water sources and their complete distribution within the city walls. Such data would nuance our understanding of their distribution and relative importance to residents. We cannot currently determine the degree to which residents of Mayapán accessed water from cenotes beyond those closest to them, but in some cases, sweeter or symbolically sacred water next to monumental groups may have been worth the walk. Beyond the city walls, cenotes would have loomed large in the cognitive maps of hunters and agriculturalists, as they continue to do today.

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CONCLUSION

This volume emphasizes the consideration of bottom-up processes in urban design. In our view, the walled configurations of residential and nonresidential space at Mayapán address this question well. Urban planning efforts by governing authorities are visible in such features as the city wall, its gates (including their proximity to major cenotes), outlying monumental features, and, perhaps, some major roads, such as the lanes heading inward from Gate H (through Square I). Secondary pathways and connections between major routes, in contrast, are likely to represent the will of the city’s residents imposed on the landscape. Decisions as to whether to build a new enclosed houselot that would block or lie adjacent to a common thoroughfare—or to permit that thoroughfare to remain open—would have been made at the household or neighborhood scale. Freestanding features also directed pedestrians away from city gardens and open dwellings. Visitors to the city would have represented a mixed blessing. On one hand, some nonlocal persons who did not belong to the community of Mayapán were outsiders and viewed, accordingly, with suspicion. On the other hand, regular visitors, or those with affiliations to city residents, would become known and trusted. Mayapán was a confederation that united lords of ten northwestern Yucatán polities (Roys 1962), and it was allied with several east-coast polities as well. Friends and relatives would have traveled to and from these home territories with some regularity, either attracted by urban events or opportunities or called upon to perform corvée service to the state. 304

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Traders would have also been among regular visitors to the city and would have brought opportunities for exchange of information or clandestine trade outside of the marketplace, which was technically forbidden by the state (Tozzer 1941:96, n424). Some Mayapán residents likely housed and fed visitors as a means to supplement household income or as a courtesy to relatives. For such hosts, visitors would have been reasonably welcome. Despite the relatively restricted access to residential clusters, regular visitors would have learned how to navigate the secondary thoroughfares of the city and would likely have had the consent of residents to do so. How did residential clusters form? They likely grew in the way that residential zones grew in many Mesoamerican and other premodern urban places. Growth would have arisen from household expansion when sons married and established a houselot near their parents. Some clusters were likely built by multiple families that had migrated. The official tale of Mayapán’s founding states that lords of the city’s council called for the migration of their subjects to the urban zone “to provide services” (Landa 1941:23–26). Ancient cities required ongoing migration to replenish their numbers (Paine and Storey 2006). The linear walls connecting multiple houselots within settlement clusters suggest that multifamily residential zones were both planned and possibly established simultaneously. Rural-to-urban chain migration was likely important at Mayapán, as it was for other historical cities and remains for their modern counterparts (Smith 2011:53). There is little evidence for ethnic differences among commoner houselots at Mayapán. This finding is attributed to rapid assimilation of a minority of outsiders said to have come to the city from outside of the Maya area (Masson and Peraza 2010). It is also true that the northwest peninsula had a relatively homogenous material culture (e.g., Cruz 2010; Masson and Peraza 2014), and the household assemblages of families from Sotuta, Maní, or other confederated polities would appear archaeologically similar to those of Mayapán. Settlement clusters likely housed significant numbers of families related by birth or marriage and would have been populated by migrants of northwestern peninsular townships or their descendants. As components of the built environment, paths represent more than transport routes. Their construction and use involved engineering and other systems of knowledge, aesthetics, social memory, and, occasionally, cosmology (Snead et al. 2006:1–2). Paths serve as metaphors, cross-culturally (Snead et al. 2006:2). Local farmers have been moving and adjusting walls in the area since Mayapán was abandoned, and in that regard, descendant populations continue the process of restricting and directing access with stone boundaries across the landscape. Future analysis of these data will surely improve upon this initial effort, especially if they devote greater attention to minor paths, settlement cluster characteristics, and the differential potential of cenotes and caves. By the time Walking through the Urban Maze of Mayapán

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this chapter is published, we will make the lidar albarrada data on urban Mayapán publicly available on our tDAR site and invite others to explore patterns of interest. And while the title of our chapter refers to Mayapán as a maze, we have demonstrated an appreciable degree of order and structure within the city. Acknowledgments. This project owes a scholarly debt to William Bullard and Clifford Brown, who analyzed albarrada configurations of houselots and clusters before us. The authors are also grateful to Bruce Dahlin, whose enthusiasm for albarrada study at Mayapán was closely related to his own project at Chunchucmil. Our team benefitted from many brainstorming sessions with him in the early years of the project’s inception. This project was supported by a National Science Foundation grant (BCS-1144511) to its authors (Timothy Hare PI, Marilyn Masson, Co-PI), and we wish to thank NCALM for all of its assistance with obtaining the lidar data. The authors also thank our project codirectors Carlos Peraza Lope and Bradley W. Russell for their assistance and support with the 2014 lidar project and all other seasons of research at the site. REFERENCES

Antonelli, Caroline E. 2022 The Subsistence Economy in Urban Mayapán: Sustainability and Resiliency through Diversity. Ph.D. dissertation, University at Albany SUNY. ProQuest Dissertations Publishing, Ann Arbor. Batún Alpuche, Adolfo Ivan. 2009. “Agrarian Production and Intensification at a Postclassic Maya Community, Buena Vista, Cozumel, Mexico.” PhD diss., University of Florida. Batún Alpuche, Adolfo Ivan, Patricia A. McAnany, and Maia Dedrick. 2020. “Land and Labor in Yucatan during Pre-Conquest and Colonial Times.” In The Real Business of Ancient Maya Exchange: From Farmers’ Fields to Rulers’ Realms, edited by Marilyn Masson, David Freidel, and Arthur Demarest, 210–23. Boulder: University Press of Colorado. Brown, Clifford T. 1999. Mayapán Society and Ancient Maya Social Organization. PhD diss., Tulane University. Brown, Clifford T. 2005. “Caves, Karst, and Settlement at Mayapán, Yucatán.” In In the Maw of the Earth Monster: Mesoamerican Ritual Cave Use, edited by James E. Brady and Keith M. Prufer, 373–402. Austin: University of Texas Press. Brown, Clifford T. 2006. “Water Sources at Mayapán, Yucatán, México.” In PreColumbian Water Management: Ideology, Ritual, and Power, edited by Barbara Fash and Lisa Lucero, 171–85. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Bullard, William R. Jr. 1952. “Residential Property Walls at Mayapán.” Current Reports no. 3:36–44. Washington DC: Carnegie Institution, Department of Archaeology. Bullard, William R. Jr. 1954. “Boundary Walls and House Lots at Mayapán.” Current Reports no. 13:234–53. Washington DC: Carnegie Institution, Department of Archaeology.

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Carr, H. Sorayya. 1996. “Precolumbian Maya Exploitation and Management of Deer Populations.” In The Managed Mosaic: Ancient Maya Agriculture and Resource Use, edited by Scott L. Fedick, 251–61. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. Dahlin, Bruce H., and Traci Ardren. 2002. “Modes of Exchange and Regional Patterns: Chunchucmil, Yucatan.” In Ancient Maya Political Economies, edited by Marilyn A. Masson and David A. Freidel, 249–84. Walnut Creek, CA: Altamira Press. Dahlin, Bruce H., Daniel Bair, Tim Beach, Matthew Moriarty, and Richard Terry. 2010. “The Dirt on Food: Ancient Feasts and Markets among the Lowland Maya.” In Pre-Columbian Foodways: Interdisciplinary Approaches to Food, Culture, and Markets in Mesoamerica, edited by J. E. Staller and M. Carrasco, 191–232. New York: Springer-Verlag. Delgado Kú, Pedro C. 2004. “Estudio de la arquitectura pública del núcleo principal de Mayapán, Yucatán.” Tesis prof., Universidad Autónoma de Yucatán. Delgado Kú, Pedro C., Barbara Ojeda Escamilla, Marilyn A. Masson, Carlos Peraza Lope, and Douglas J. Kennett. 2021. “Commoner and Elite Houses Investigated at Mayapán, Yucatan.” In Settlement, Economy, and Society at Mayapán, Yucatan, Mexico, edited by Marilyn A. Masson, Timothy S. Hare, Carlos Peraza Lope, and Bradley W. Russell. Pittsburgh: Center for Comparative Archaeology, University of Pittsburgh. DeMarrais, Elizabeth. 2001. “The Architecture and Organization of Xauxa Settlements.” In Empire and Domestic Economy, edited by Terence N. D’Altroy and Christine A. Hastorf, 115–53. New York: Kluwer Academic/Plenum. Fletcher, Laraine A. 1983a. “Coba and Mayapán: A Comparison of Solares, Household Variation, Sociopolitical Organization, and Land Tenure.” In Coba: A Classic Maya Metropolis, edited by William J. Folan, Ellen R. Kintz, and Laraine A. Fletcher, 121–31. New York: Academic Press. Fletcher, Laraine A. 1983b. “Linear Features in Zone I: Description and Classification.” In Coba: A Classic Maya Metropolis, edited by William J. Folan, Ellen R. Kintz, and Laraine A. Fletcher, 89–102. New York: Academic Press. Fletcher, Laraine A., and Ellen R. Kintz. 1983. “Solares, Kitchen Gardens, and Social Status at Coba.” In Coba: A Classic Maya Metropolis, edited by William J. Folan, Ellen R. Kintz, and Laraine A. Fletcher, 103–19. New York: Academic Press. Freidel, David A., and Jeremy A. Sabloff. 1984. Cozumel: Late Maya Settlement Patterns. New York: Academic Press. Hare, Timothy S. 2021. “Surveying Mayapán.” In Settlement, Economy, and Society at Mayapán, Yucatan, Mexico, edited by Marilyn A. Masson, Timothy S. Hare, Carlos Peraza Lope, and Bradley W. Russell. Pittsburgh: Center for Comparative Archaeology, University of Pittsburgh. Hare, Timothy S., and Marilyn A. Masson. 2012. “Intermediate-Scale Patterns in the Urban Environment of Postclassic Mayapán.” In The Neighborhood as a Social and Spatial Unit in Mesoamerican Cities, edited by M. Charlotte Arnauld, Linda R. Manzanilla, and Michael E. Smith, 229–60. Tucson: University of Arizona Press.

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Hare, Timothy S., Marilyn A. Masson, and Carlos Peraza Lope. 2014a. “The Urban Cityscape.” In Kukulcan’s Realm: Urban Life at Ancient Mayapán, edited by Marilyn Masson and Carlos Peraza, 149–92. Boulder: University Press of Colorado. Hare, Timothy S., Marilyn A. Masson, and Bradley W. Russell. 2014b. “High-Density LiDAR Mapping of the Ancient City of Mayapán.” Remote Sensing 2014 (6):9064–85. Hutson, Scott R. 2010. Dwelling, Identity, and the Maya: Relational Archaeology at Chunchucmil. Lanham, MD: Altamira Press. Hutson, Scott R. 2016. The Ancient Urban Maya: Neighborhoods, Inequality, and Built Form. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Hutson, Scott R., and Aline Magnoni. 2017. “The Map of Chunchucmil.” In Ancient Maya Commerce: Multidisciplinary Research at Chunchucmil, edited by S. R. Hutson, 27–50. Boulder: University Press of Colorado. Hutson, Scott R., Aline Magnoni, Traci Ardren, and Chelsea Blackmore. 2017. “Chunchucmil’s Urban Population.” In Ancient Maya Commerce: Multidisciplinary Research at Chunchucmil, edited by S. R. Hutson, 107–38. Boulder: University Press of Colorado. Jones, Morris R. 1952. “Map of the Ruins of Mayapán, Yucatan, Mexico.” Current Reports no. 1:2–5. Washington DC: Carnegie Institution, Department of Archaeology. Jones, Morris R. 1962. “Map of the Ruins of Mayapán.” In Mayapan, Yucatan, Mexico, edited by H. E. D. Pollock, Ralph L. Roys, Tatiana Proskouriakoff, and A. L. Smith. Washington DC: Carnegie Institution, Pub. no. 619. Kepecs, Susan M. 2003. “Chikinchel.” In The Postclassic Mesoamerican World, edited by Michael E. Smith and Frances F. Berdan, 259–68. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. Kurjack, Edward B. 1974. Prehistoric Lowland Maya Community and Social Organization: A Case Study at Dzibilchaltun, Yucatan, Mexico. New Orleans: Middle American Research Institute Publication 38, Tulane University. Landa, Diego de. 1941. Relación de las cosas de Yucatán [1566]. Translated by A. M. Tozzer. Cambridge, MA: Peabody Museum of American Archaeology and Ethnology. Luzadder-Beach, Sheryl, Cifford T. Brown, and Fernando Flores. 2008. “Estudio hidrológico en Mayapán.” In Proyecto los fundamentos del poder económico de Mayapán: Informe final de las temporada 2001–2004 para el Consejo de Arquelogía, Instituto Nacional de Antroplogía e Historia, México, edited by Marilyn A. Masson, Carlos Peraza Lope, and Timothy S. Hare, 905–8. Albany/Mérida: Department of Anthropology, SUNY–Albany/Centro INAH Yucatan. Lynch, Kevin. 1960. The Image of the City. Cambridge, MA: Technology Press and Harvard University Press. Magnoni, Aline, Scott R. Hutson, and Bruce H. Dahlin. 2012. “Living in the City: Settlement Patterns and the Urban Experience at Classic Period Chunchucmil, Yucatan, Mexico.” Ancient Mesoamerica 23 (2):313–43.

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Masson, Marilyn A., and Timothy S. Hare. 2020. “The Structures of Everyday Life in the Postclassic Urban Setting of Mayapán.” In The Maya World, edited by Traci Ardren and Scott R. Hutson, 794–812. London: Routledge. Masson, Marilyn A., Timothy S. Hare, and Carlos Peraza Lope. 2014. “The Social Mosaic.” In Kukulcan’s Realm: Urban Life at Ancient Mayapán, edited by Marilyn Masson and Carlos Peraza, 193–268. Boulder: University Press of Colorado. Masson, Marilyn A., and Carlos Peraza Lope. 2008. “Animal Use at Mayapan.” Quaternary International 191:170–83. Masson, Marilyn A., and Carlos Peraza Lope. 2010. “Evidence for Maya-Mexican Interaction in the Archaeological Record of Mayapan.” In Astronomers, Scribes, and Priests: Intellectual Interchange between the Northern Maya Lowlands and Highland Mexico in the Late Postclassic Period, edited by Gabrielle Vail and Christine Hernandez, 77–114. Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks. Masson, Marilyn A., and Carlos Peraza Lope. 2014. “The Economic Foundations.” In Kukulcan’s Realm: Urban Life at Ancient Mayapán, edited by Marilyn Masson and Carlos Peraza, 269–424. Boulder: University Press of Colorado. Masson, Marilyn A., Carlos Peraza Lope, Timothy S. Hare, Bradley W. Russell, Pedro Delgado Kú, Bárbara Escamilla Ojeda, and Luis Flores Cobá. 2020. “Rural Economies of Agrarian Houselots before and after the Rise of Urban Mayapán.” In The Real Business of Ancient Maya Exchange: From Farmers’ Fields to Rulers’ Realms, edited by Marilyn Masson, David Freidel, and Arthur Demarest, 79–97. Boulder: University Press of Colorado. McAnany, Patricia A. 1995. Living with the Ancestors: Kinship and Kingship in Ancient Maya Society. Austin: University of Texas Press. Paine, Richard R., and Glenn R. Storey. 2006. “Epidemics, Age at Death, and Mortality in Ancient Rome.” In Urbanism and the Preindustrial World: Cross Cultural Approaches, edited by Glenn R. Storey, 1–26. Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press. Peraza Lope, Carlos, and Marilyn A. Masson. 2014. “Politics and Monumental Legacies.” In Kukulcan’s Realm: Urban Life at Ancient Mayapán, edited by Marilyn Masson and Carlos Peraza, 39–104. Boulder: University Press of Colorado. Piña Chan, Román. 1978. “Commerce in the Yucatec Peninsula: The Conquest and Colonial Period.” In Mesoamerican Communication Routes and Cultural Contacts, edited by T. A. Lee and C. Navarrete, 37–48. Papers of the New World Archaeological Foundation 40. Provo, UT: Brigham Young University. Pollock, Harry E. D. 1954. “Department of Archaeology.” Carnegie Institution of Washington Yearbook, no. 53:263–67. Pollock, Harry E. D. 1956. “The Southern Terminus of the Principal Sacbe at Mayapán—Group Z-50.” Current Reports 37:529–50. Washington, DC: Carnegie Institution, Department of Archaeology.

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Pollock, Harry E. D., and Clayton E. Ray. 1957. “Notes on Vertebrate Animal Remains from Mayapan.” Current Reports 41:633–56. Pounds, Norman J. G. 1973. An Historical Geography of Europe: 450 BC–AD 1350. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Quezada, Sergio. 2014. Maya Lords and Lordship: The Formation of Colonial Society in Yucatán, 1350–1600. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Roys, Ralph L. 1962. “Literary Sources for the History of Mayapan.” In Mayapan, Yucatan, Mexico, edited by Harry E. D. Pollock, Ralph L. Roys, Tatiana Proskouriakoff, and A. L. Smith, 25–86. Washington, DC: Carnegie Institution, Pub. no. 619. Roys, Ralph L. 1972. The Indian Background of Colonial Yucatan [1943]. Reprint ed. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Russell, Bradley W. 2008. “Postclassic Settlement on the Rural-Urban Fringe of Mayapán, Yucatán, Mexico.” PhD diss., SUNY–Albany. Russell, Bradley W. 2013. “Fortress Mayapan: Defensive Features and Secondary Functions of a Postclassic Maya Fortification.” Ancient Mesoamerica 24 (2):275–94. Russell, Bradley W. 2016. “All the Gods of the World: Modern Maya Ritual in Yucatan, Mexico.” Ethnoarchaeology 8 (1):4–29. Russell, Bradley W. 2021. “Life and Work in Mayapán’s Periphery.” In Settlement, Economy, and Society at Mayapán, Yucatan, Mexico, edited by Marilyn A. Masson, Timothy S. Hare, Carlos Peraza Lope, and Bradley W. Russell. Pittsburgh: Center for Comparative Archaeology, University of Pittsburgh. Shaw, Justine M. 2001. “Maya Sacbeob: Form and Function.” Ancient Mesoamerica 12:261–72. Shook, Edwin W. 1952. “The Great Wall of Mayapán.” Current Reports no. 2:7–35. Washington DC: Carnegie Institution, Department of Archaeology. Smith, A. Ledyard. 1962. “Residential and Associated Structures at Mayapán.” In Mayapan, Yucatan, Mexico, edited by Harry E. D. Pollock, Ralph L. Roys, Tatiana Proskouriakoff, and A. Ledyard Smith, 165–320. Washington, DC: Carnegie Institution, Pub. no. 619. Smith, Michael E. 2007. “Form and Meaning in the Earliest Cities: A New Approach to Urban Planning.” Journal of Planning History 6:3–47. Smith, Michael E. 2010. “The Archaeological Study of Neighborhoods and Districts in Ancient Cities.” Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 29:137–54. Smith, Michael E. 2011. “Classic Maya Settlement Clusters as Urban Neighborhoods: A Comparative Perspective on Low Density Urbanism.” Journal de la société des Américanistes 97:51–73. Snead, James E., Clark L. Erikson, and J. Andrew Darling. 2006. “Making Human Space: The Archaeology of Trails, Paths, and Roads.” In Landscapes of Movement: Trails, Paths, and Roads in Anthropological Perspective, edited by James E. Snead, Clark

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L. Erikson, and J. Andrew Darling, 1–19. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology. Tilley, Christopher Y. 1994. A Phenomenology of Landscape: Paths, Places, and Monuments. Oxford: Berg. Tozzer, Alfred M., ed. and trans. 1941. “Notes.” In Relación de las cosas de Yucatán, edited and translated by A. M. Tozzer. Cambridge, MA: Papers of the Peabody Museum of American Archaeology and Ethnology, vol. 18, Harvard University. Weeks, John, ed. 2009. The Carnegie Maya II: Carnegie Institution of Washington Current Reports, 1952–1957. Boulder: University Press of Colorado.

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10 The Living Landscape Livelihoods and Opportunities in the City and Region of Ancient Tikal TIMOTHY MURTHA

University of Florida

INTRODUCTION

One of the most thoughtful and informative publications about Tikal’s landscape is not written by an archaeologist, but by forest ecologists Mark Schulze and David Whitacre (1999), who examined the structure and spatial distribution of tree species in the Tikal National Park. At the time, Schulze and Whitacre (1999) were reintroducing the importance of the niche diversification paradigm for understanding the structure and distribution of tree species in the tropics. Loosely, they were also curious about some of the associations between ramón trees and the distribution of architectural remains at Tikal. Dennis Puleston (1968), early on, posited that the preponderance of ramón trees could have signaled a legacy of past arboriculture of the ramón for consumptive use. Schulze and Whitacre (1999), in their analysis of the relationship between forest types and the distribution of archaeological remains, concluded that human disturbance was potentially a factor in ramón distribution, but that past arboriculture was likely not responsible. While not the only factor, topographic position and edaphic conditions greatly influence the distribution of tree species consistent https://doi.org/10.5876/9781646424092.c010

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FIGURE 10.1. Cross section of forest types and representative species in the Tikal region derived from Schulze and Whittacre 1999 and fieldwork (see Balzotti et. al 2013).

with a niche diversification paradigm at Tikal. In identifying this relationship, they offered an important perspective about past settlement ecology, land use, and contemporary Maya forests. In the Tikal region, settlement conforms to some clear patterning of topography and edaphic conditions, a view similar to assertions by Ford (1986). If we consider that past human action significantly transformed the distribution and composition of soil (Beach et al. 2006), the niche diversification paradigm has a lot to tell us about settlement in the ancient city of Tikal. Throughout the Classic Period, households and communities in the Tikal region responded to the changing patterns of available resources, primarily land and water. Settlement and land-use decisions appear to be driven by these changing patterns and ultimately were influenced by changing decisions about land use, a classic case of niche construction (Olding-Smee et al. 2003). Comparing forest observations with the distribution of settlement became an important organizing principle as several colleagues and I devised a plan to study the coupled natural and human system history and dynamics at Tikal. With 316

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the guidance, grit, and assistance of several colleagues, including Christopher Balzotti, Richard Terry, Richard Burnett, and Adam Parker, we leaned on Schulze and Whitacre’s (1999) forest model of Tikal’s forest to sample, process, and analyze Tikal’s landscape and integrated settlement system. Over the course of several years, we focused on documenting settlement patterns and soil properties, including trace element analysis, as evidence of past agrarian activities and linked these to previous studies at Tikal, including remote sensing (Balzotti et al. 2012; Burnett et al. 2012; Murtha et al. 2016; Webster and Murtha 2015). We used the sections of forest type (a sample shown in figure 10.1) as a sampling and analytical framework to survey and study Tikal’s landscape. The forest model provided a detailed ecological framework to think about land-use zones and ultimately regions that would have been differentially cultivated, modified, and intensified by the Maya at varying social scales (from the household to the central political authority), through various demographic regimes (population growth and decline), and in a variety of time periods (early Classic through Terminal Classic). Our hypothesis was that these core factors not only influenced tree distribution but also influenced key resource opportunities throughout the The Living Landscape

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Classic Period. In turn, these resource opportunities influenced the settlement and land-use patterns of the Maya (Murtha et al. 2016; Webster and Murtha 2015). I refer to the results of our efforts here as a living landscape because, in many ways, our studies offered a new perspective of the Tikal landscape. We documented a landscape with diverse agrarian potential and a variety of evidence for past landscape transformation (Murtha 2015; Murtha et al. 2016). Prior to this, much of the research in Tikal’s region was focused on defining city boundaries and hardscapes and, by doing so, defined areas separate from and outside of the city that could have served to provision Tikal’s residents. Conversely, we observed agriculture almost everywhere on Tikal’s landscape (Balzotti et al. 2012; Murtha et al. 2016). Unlike prior research that focused on clearly defined areas of intensification in the core of the city or relegated these activities to outside the city boundaries, ours documented changing patterns of settlement densities and changing patterns of evidence for past maize production in a variety of regional ecological contexts. TWO CHALLENGES FOR ARCHAEOLO GISTS STUDYING CITIES

In archaeological studies of design, planning, and urban form, we face a couple of interpretive challenges. These challenges derive from both the limitations of urban design theory and the discriminations needed to determine those physical features that best offer information about the full design process, which includes design, planning, construction, and, ultimately, the lives of the people who navigate, shape, and modify built form after construction. We have not, however, developed the important middle range theory that links these stages of design to specific archaeological data (Marken and Arnauld, this volume). The material remains we study are a palimpsest of design, construction, and planning, similar to Pierce Lewis’s observations about reading landscapes (Lewis 1979). Additionally, archaeological research, like design, operates at a diversity of scales and is focused on a variety of material contexts. The scale and class of data influence the reach and the limits of our interpretations, especially as related to the design process. Some archaeological data are a better fit for interpreting design across this continuum, while some data are best for studying specific aspects and scale of the design and planning of past settlements. For example, regarding what I call first-order models in this chapter, information about design and planning may be best studied through detailed analysis of monumental architecture and public works, such as temples, palaces, causeways, and reservoirs. These data lend themselves to analysis of the design of the built environment because they provide a lasting and formal expression of ideas and values through physical construction. The great reservoir systems of Tikal coupled to the central urban form are excellent examples of how these data can be leveraged by archaeologists to interpret the past. Thanks to almost a decade of research by Scarborough and 318

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colleagues (e.g., Lentz et al. 2015; Scarborough et al. 2012), we now know a great deal about the design, planning, and, ultimately, the construction and potential use of the reservoir system. We know that the urban form was designed to convey water away from plazas in a multibasin reservoir system. The reservoirs are engineered similar to storm water management systems in place today, even though modern systems are focused on collecting water for infiltration and recharging aquifers. At Tikal, water was conveyed for storage, consumption, and even overflow use for agriculture (Scarborough and Grazioso 2015). Because of the targeted effort by Scarborough and colleagues, we can also begin to interpret some of the intent behind the reservoir system or, at least, the outcome of its design, which entails defining important power relationships in central Tikal (Scarborough et al. 2012). This is a critically important contribution to our understanding of Tikal’s functioning as a city, but it does not inform a narrative of the greater community of Tikal and how this urban system integrated with the regional hydrological systems through time. If we were to rely on just these data and only focus on similarly formal expressions of design and planning, we would be limited in our interpretation of many, if not all of the detailed lifeways and human actions that were experienced in the context of these reservoirs and the greater Tikal regional system. This is not levied as a specific critique of this important archaeological work, yet it is an observation that figures in considerations of community-engaged planning (Hester 2010). Similar interpretive issues have been raised in other disciplines studying the design, planning, and lived experience of urban systems at similar scales. Formal approaches to urban design and planning often overlook or obscure the diversity of human action that intersects urban form (see Eakin et al. 2016; Hester 2010). Focus on public architecture and built environment is foundationally important and opens the door for us to expand our attention to the potential ways communities and households interact with, shape, and are shaped by urban systems. It opens the door to work focused on second-order models, or how built urban systems positively or negatively influenced or were influenced by lived experience, spatial control of resources, households, and settlements. But second-order models are limited in their own ways. For example, if we focus on second-order models and study lived experience exclusively, we can peel back diverse narratives of how communities and households navigate the urban system through time. It can be challenging to scale up broader interpretations from this work that reflect on or contribute to urban design and planning theory, especially at the building, city, or regional scale. To study second-order models, the data archaeologists’ need comes from households, settlements, and landscape. In design, studies of this nature are often incorrectly categorized as studies of the unplanned, informal, or vernacular. Some might even consider this work as more relevant to discussions of public engagement, community, The Living Landscape

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and democratic design rather than urban design. Increasingly, designers are creatively documenting cases that bridge these perspectives (see McGuirk 2014). I only focus on second-order models in this chapter, but I am not advocating for an approach that relies on one model to the exclusion of the other. It is my contention that these are both relevant and necessary arenas for archaeologists to investigate and contribute to discussions of design and planning. We simply need to be explicit about what we are investigating. We are not all studying “the city” exactly the same way. Even though it might be difficult, understanding the limits of these perspectives will benefit our collective efforts by contributing more holistic narratives about past cities. Combined approaches, in the end, should help us develop more sophisticated models useful for contemporary urban design theory. Unfortunately, we can become trapped by one model or even one discussion and transpose assumptions from one model and uncritically assign it to the other. For example, we might analyze the water management system at Tikal and assume that the reservoirs were functionally more important for the Tikal regional system than they were (Murtha et al. 2016). Or we could look at bottom-up water management and regional availability of water at Tikal and ignore the importance of the centralized water management system at critical moments in Tikal’s political history (Scarborough et al. 2012). The important and imperfect interaction of these perspectives is not unique to archaeology. These are long-standing interactions in urban geography, in which (unlike in archaeology) significant critical theory has even challenged reliance on the concept of the city as a unique form rather than a process embedded in a settlement (Harvey 2008). These critiques are important and are aligned with emergent discussions in design (Waldheim 2016). Ecological urbanism, previously called landscape urbanism, has challenged a vertical and architectural approach to urban design over the last ten to fifteen years (Waldheim 2016). Regardless of how we might feel about some of the ideas in ecological urbanism, the critiques are valid precisely because traditional urban design does not address the lived experience and cultural ecology of the urban systems they attempt to plan and design. Here, similarly, I explore a second-order model about lowland Maya cities and, specifically, what these models tell us about the urban system of Tikal, Guatemala. To frame this work, I review first-order models that have been central to our understanding of Maya cities and Tikal, though not as a counterpoint or challenge to these perspectives. I use them to frame what we are learning about Tikal as a living landscape and to better navigate these studies across the continuum of design, planning, and construction. T H E M AYA M O S A I C

To date, the major focus of urban inquiries related to Maya settlement, resources, and environment almost exclusively focus on what I have referred to as first-order models, that is, provisioning, urban authority, and power derived 320

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from public works projects and expressed through monumental architecture or landesque capital. The territory beyond core settlement in these models is reserved or assumed to be reserved for the provisioning of resources (Marken and Murtha 2017). It has been called a wild or rural landscape, where warfare and walls negotiate social, political, and ecological boundaries (Murtha 2015; Webster et al. 2004, 2007). Because of this, even questions of sustainability and resilience become tightly coupled to state-based provisioning activities, and we do not fully recognize how these systems were integrated and experienced by households. The scale of archaeological inquiries has addressed urbanization and urban provisioning from the perspective of the state or its polity. But in the case of the Maya, I would argue that a majority of provisioning activities occur at the household or within clusters of households (Murtha 2002, 2015) and that urbanization models don’t capture households well. Trying to discuss urban design at such a different scale is important for two key reasons: (1) such analyses and studies offer important information to bridge critical studies of urban and regional design and planning; and (2) archaeologists themselves have pioneered settlement-pattern research and household studies, which are the springboard to integrating these diverse scales in our broader questions. Studies from Western Belize, specifically Caracol, illuminate how useful bridging these approaches can be (see Chase and Chase 1998, 2004, 2016). Researchers at Caracol have studied the state, provisioning, and sustainability at a macro scale for decades (Chase and Chase 1998, 2004, 2016). This work has shown to be particularly useful when compiling site-specific cultural historic narratives or when comparing the scale and intensity of one site to another (Chase and Chase 1998, 2004). But these rich narratives have been transformed by new data and new perspectives (Chase et al. 2010, 2011, 2014a, 2014b, 2017). Regional lidar has provided an important new perspective and foundation to navigate years of prior settlement research on the Vaca Plateau (Chase and Chase 1987, 1994; Murtha 2002). These new lidar data have also provided the necessary spatial context to link first-order models about Maya cities and information from the bottom up, from which a slowly developing regional understanding of Caracol is taking form. This is a regional and comparative perspective we have been attempting to achieve in Maya archaeology for decades (Sanders and Webster 1988). Sometimes described as a mosaic, archaeological sites in the Maya Lowlands offer a rare opportunity to investigate an important settlement form in human history and how it relates to ideas about urban and regional design and planning. What is unique is that we can do this with important information about individual households and communities of households, which introduces a different scale for questions about design and planning. Dennis Puleston (1983:33) once mused artfully about Maya settlements and their relationship to regional systems by writing, “Surely the brilliance and The Living Landscape

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magnitude of ancient Maya achievements are a reflection of an entire network of stable and harmonious adjustments to the special conditions found in the tropical forest environment.” While I agree with the enthusiasm that Puleston offered several decades ago, and I am confident that Maya settlements offer important information about urbanism, resilience, and the inhabited landscape, current research demonstrates that we are less certain whether all of those adjustments he generalizes were, in fact, “stable and harmonious.” That is to say, clear evidence exists that some decisions disrupted or shifted ecological systems. But the spirit of his quote is important and reflects much of the positive ideas that derive from design thinking when considering regional and urban planning. For example, Ian McHarg (2007:24), considered the key figure in modern approaches to landscape architecture and regional planning in the US, has in a lecture referred to regional design as a creative process: “The ability to find of all environments the most fit, and to adapt that environment and oneself, is in fact a creative process.” Combining the spirit of these ideas, the purpose of this paper is to discuss Maya cities and Tikal specifically as a creative response to ecological systems and region. Building on the ideas of Puleston and designers such as McHarg, I conclude that we should always spend some time investigating households, the region, and the ecological setting from which these cities emerge (see Marken and Murtha 2017; Murtha 2015) to compare these perspectives with the largely first-order models that archaeologists have been working on for decades. Relying on recent regional archaeological science of Tikal, I discuss these ideas here. Accordingly, I emphasize household livelihoods, opportunities, and landscape. My purpose is 1. to shift discussions in the Maya Lowlands from a generalized theory of urbanization and decouple discussions of urban from population size estimations, centralized intensification, and bounded settlements; 2. to eliminate discussions of “rural” in descriptions of the Maya; 3. to focus on the diverse spatial dimensions of household provisioning of food, localized resources, and regional ecosystem services at Tikal; 4. to consider what we learn from Maya settlements that is relevant to modern design and planning theory, including work framed around concepts such as geodesign (Steinitz 2012), landscape and ecological urbanism (Waldheim 2006, 2016); land systems architecture (Turner 2016); and modern efforts of landscape ecological planning (Steiner et al. 2011).

From this perspective, landscape, urban design, and planning are presented as spatially heterogeneous expressions (or patterns) of household and community interaction operating through time and at a variety of scales. Whether these patterns met the demands or needs of the state or the urban system is not considered at this scale. What is considered is what households and land use tell us 322

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about the broader systems as a living system and, by extension, about sustainability and resilience as related to urban and regional design. In reality, this chapter is an effort to talk about Tikal as a living landscape without having to refer to Tikal as a city or even a particular type of city. Twenty-five years ago, David Harvey (1996:53) articulated a need to shift focus away from studying cities as objects and to recognize them as physical expressions of a process: “While the production of these spatiotemporalities may see the light of day as distinctive things of a particular physical form (like an ‘edge-city’ environment, for example), it is the process and its relational attributes of space and time that must be the fundamental focus of enquiry.” He added, “Urbanization must then be understood not in terms of some socio-organizational entity called ‘the city’, but as the production of specific and quite heterogeneous spatio-temporal forms embedded within different kinds of social action” (Harvey 1996:53). The challenge presented by Harvey is one that rings true for archaeological inquiries of urbanism today. It is critically important that we separate our expectations about cities from the processes we aim to study. A first-order model-based approach (e.g., edge cities) interprets the city as an evolutionary outcome, while a process-based approach interprets the city as a series of overlapping networks operating at different scales through space and time. I borrow much language from Harvey, but twist it for archaeology: “The issue for us is then not gazing into some misty crystal ball to make those always risky and usually erroneous predictions of what the future will look like [or retrodictions of what the past looked like], but enlisting in the struggle to advance a certain mix of spatio-temporal production processes [to study a mix of spatio-temporal production processes] rather than others in pursuit of certain interests and goals rather than others” (Harvey 1996:54). Linking these ideas to design makes it increasingly clear that space and place are not entirely controlled by formal institutions, even under the intense pressures of urbanization. In the past, there are periods where highly centralized top-down institutions attempt and sometimes successfully control the production of space. But history, along with modern research, tells us that it is not universal. For me, the more interesting study involves the many spaces and times when centralized institutions had almost no centralized control over the production of space. From those spaces, we can target questions of resilience and sustainability. The discomfort of this approach is that it relegates the centralized authority to the role of a semitransparent veil overlaying a more enduring and permanent pattern of humans, household, community, and landscape. Even though we are talking about the past, we should also be mindful of the relevance of the “idea” of urban and urbanization at this critical moment in human history. Brenner and Schmid (2015:155) caution against using the privileged lens of the city, “Whether in academic discourse or in the public sphere, the urban has become a privileged lens The Living Landscape

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through which to interpret, to map and, indeed, to attempt to influence contemporary social, economic, political, and environmental trends.” In archaeology, if our role is to contribute relativistic cross-cultural and cross-temporal empirical studies of cities and settlements (Fox 1977; Sanders and Webster 1988), we need to be especially careful not to overly embrace our traditions of the city. Again, Brenner and Schmid write that the “triumphalist reassertion of a traditional, universal totalizing and largely empiricist concept of ‘the city’ [forgets] what cities are and how their constitutive properties and geographies are changing . . . black boxed” (Brenner and Schmid 2015:155). If we are not careful, the ancient city might become the force through which an otherwise slow-yielding natural environment is engineered and conquered much in the manner of our own modern urban history. We are not quite there yet, but it is all the more reason to find some new perspectives for studying urban form in the lowlands. M AYA U R B A N I S M A N D P O P U L AT I O N S

If we begin with the earliest representations of Maya cities, there has been changing narrative of what characteristics Maya cities express and a particular emphasis on population size. Concealed today by acres of subtropical forest, Maya cities have been visually portrayed and presented in diverse ways. Early explorers portrayed hidden and largely empty ceremonial centers (Stephens and Catherwood 2013). Some artists focused on the ruinous elements of cities, while more recent reconstructions illustrate these places as forest and garden cities. These evocative drawings are critically important as representations of how we think about Maya cities, but too few exist. We commonly turn to Tatiana Proskuriakoff (2002) and her incredibly rich perspectives of Maya cities. Her architectural and city drafting brought Maya cities to life and inspired many archaeologists to consider different perspectives of Maya centers. What we know today about Maya cities is heavily influenced by two dimensional maps and five decades of related research focused on three key topics: population density, intensive agriculture, and city boundaries. While it is not important to rehash all of those perspectives, it is important to describe the changes in perspectives, especially as they relate to Tikal, Guatemala. This starts with ideas that closely linked estimates of ancient populations with urban definitions. Population and Maya Cities

Ideas about past population estimates and prehistory obviously aren’t unique to the Maya. Many early theories of cultural evolution relied on some general notion about population size, growth, and density as influential variables when studying culture change (Carneiro 1970; Spooner 1972). In the Maya region nonarchaeologist explorers such as Catherwood and Stephens did not consider population numbers. Their portrayals, descriptions, and representations focused on Maya ruins as depopulated centers shrouded by the lowland forest. 324

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Calculation of population estimates and associated field research in the lowlands began in earnest with the Carnegie Institute of Washington, a substantial scientific effort that included studies of Maya households, historical demography, and ecology, in addition to major excavations at Chichen Itza, Uaxactun, and Mayapán. Ideas about Maya populations were paired with studies of carrying capacity, agriculture, and historical ecology of the tropical forest. Regional surveys of the Petén and Uaxactun were coupled with a series of complementary ethnographic studies on the Yucatán, which provided the first real study of household remains, population, environment, and agriculture. The Carnegie studies were also a part of a broader trend of mapping research away from site centers, including Thompson’s discussion of residential sites in the Vaca Plateau, surrounding Mountain Cow (Thompson 1931), and Lundell’s (1937) observations on the Cohune Ridge. Discussions about population size elevated to new heights as a topic as the results of the University of Pennsylvania’s Tikal Project, reported in the 1960s. Like the Carnegie Period work at Uaxactun, the Tikal Project integrated a number of perspectives for studying the Lowland Maya beginning in 1956 and ending in 1970 (Culbert and Rice 1990). The project was heavily influenced by Gordon Willey’s Viru Valley and Barton Ramie projects and grounded in anthropological theory. A core set of anthropological inquiries developed around population and agriculture (i.e., the Tikal Sustaining Area Project) and investigated the relationship between regional settlement and the environment. Researchers focused on how and where Tikal’s residents made a living in the lowland landscape. Dozens of scholars contributed to the project, but Haviland, Puleston, and Culbert offered the most comprehensive studies for reconstructing Tikal’s population history. Their work expanded and enhanced techniques first developed by the Carnegie researchers. Haviland, in particular, changed the prospects of Maya archaeology by linking population estimates to broader anthropological discussions about population size, density and distribution, urbanism, and social complexity. The Tikal Project was not just about big numbers. While Haviland (1965, 1966, 1969, 1975) systematically investigated house mounds and the central 16 km2 Tikal map to better develop core population estimates along with a better understanding of households, Puleston (1973) took to mapping the park transects and investigating the boundaries of the site, the sustaining area, and earthwork feature. First estimates confirmed Carnegie ideas about densely occupied site centers, for example, 10,000–11,000 inhabitants in the central 16 km2. The numbers were larger than expected, but they were still much smaller in scale to estimates derived for highland Mexico, such as Teotihuacan (about 100,000). While discussions at the time framed Tikal as a genuine Maya city, it was still perceived different or less urban than its highland Mexican counterparts for its want of population density. The Living Landscape

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Early on, Puleston recognized a creeping problem of specific numbers used as benchmarks for measuring up Maya civilization. In his dissertation, he (Puleston 1973:28) writes, “The problems which will receive primary attention here, as already indicated, concern demography, environment, and subsistence. I will not be directly concerned with the definition of ‘urbanism’ or ‘city,’ nor will I be concerned with the degree to which Tikal meets these definitions.” And yet despite Puleston’s concerns, much of the subsequent work influenced by the Tikal Project, including copious citations of Puleston’s publications, have been tightly tied to urbanism and a rejection of the early theories about the Maya, including a challenge to the notion of a vacant ceremonial center, which produced lingering doubts about subsistence and agriculture. Today, nearly every Maya project includes settlement surveys, and most offer some element of population reconstruction. The investigative approach first defined by the Carnegie period and modified by researchers at Tikal became the standard for settlement research in the lowlands. Now population research is at the core of most active projects, fueled, for instance, by a broad database of surface mapping and spatial information about settlement form and density of household remains in various regions of the lowlands. And those population estimates of urbanism stood firm for decades until a new generation of scholarship on low-density urbanism appeared (see, e.g., Marken and Arnauld, this volume). Intensive Agriculture and Maya Cities

With rising population estimates, archaeologists’ perception of Classic Maya agriculture shifted considerably over the same period. Early researchers such as Lundell (1937) and Thompson (1931) recognized evidence for intensive agriculture, but neither spent time systematically evaluating these landesque features. Early ecological studies, along with ethnohistoric and ethnographic research, all assumed that the Maya carried out some form of swidden (slash-and-burn) agriculture. After the Tikal Project, this picture of Maya agriculture was challenged mainly because of new insights derived from settlement maps, which resulted in high-population estimates for many Maya sites. High-population estimates inspired a flurry of research and scholars to investigate every possible agricultural alternative in order to understand the carrying capacity of the lowlands. Influenced by Boserup (1970) was a firm belief that the Maya could have overcome the newly developed population problem along with many of the welldocumented environmental constraints to long-term sustainable agriculture by any means necessary. But as more data surfaced on these perceived alternatives, it became increasingly clear that no agricultural system or technique was universal throughout the entire Maya Lowlands and that many of the “alternatives” were likely not employed by the Maya during the Classic Period (e.g., Puleston’s Ramón hypothesis). Even within regions, a diversity of agricultural techniques 326

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was likely employed to meet the subsistence demands of their inhabitants—and that those techniques varied spatially and temporally from year to year (Flannery and Kirkby 1973; Murtha et al. 2016). Again, lowland cities failed the urban test. Unlike highland cities, Maya centers did not exhibit a standardized or centralized intensification strategy tha engineered the environment to combat the effects of population pressure on the urban core. After the initial elevated population estimates were published, decades of complex research into Maya agrarian systems were undertaken, and a great deal of evidence about Maya agriculture has emerged (Beach et al. 2006, 2011; Chase and Chase 1998; Fedick 1996; Hammond 1978; Murtha 2002). This work clearly demonstrates a diverse pattern of intensification and not a centralized system. When Maya cities are stripped of a normative urban test, it is easy to understand these variable patterns of intensification and land use (Murtha 2015; Murtha et al. 2016). A clear dissonance exists about our urban expectations for the Maya and the complex patterns of their agrarian activity through space and time. Recent efforts to frame Maya cities as low-density urbanism go a long way toward aligning population with agriculture, but decades of normative ideas about Maya urbanism persist. Boundaries and Maya Cities

Also influenced by the Tikal Project, a bounded perspective of Maya settlements emerged alongside these questions about Maya agrarian activities designed to support urban populations. As reflected in maps, largely focused on monumental architecture, the Tikal earthworks served as the first possible emic expression of city boundaries. For example, Chase, Chase, and Haviland (1990:500) have written about Tikal, “Boundaries were clearly demarcated by the Maya themselves, who constructed dry moat and earthwork complexes to the north and south, which run for several kilometers between two swampy regions (bajos) that form natural boundaries to the east and west (Puleston 1983:24). These features delineate an area about 120 km2, within which settlement density was three times that of the surrounding, rural region (Puleston 1983:24). The number of people living in the surrounding countryside who were under the control of Tikal is not known, but there must have been many.” The simple outcome of this was that Maya cities were now not only viewed as dense and intensive but also nucleated and surrounded by intensified agrarian or rural communities outside of Tikal’s walls. Dozens of formal, normative, and functionally economic models were advanced in order to interpret how ancient-city form expressed administrative authority and control over people and resources at the time. The Mesoamerican Urban Tradition

While some comparative debate had existed about urbanization in the Americas prior to publication, William Sanders and David Webster’s 1988 article The Living Landscape

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in American Anthropologist ignited a firestorm of reactions about the nature and character of cities in broader Mesoamerica. In the article, Sanders and Webster adapt aspects of Fox’s 1977 Urban Anthropology to compare and contrast some of the key city forms found in prehistory throughout Mesoamerica. Relying on three of Fox’s five urban types (regal-ritual, administrative, and mercantile, but excluding colonial and industrial), they compare what was known about city form and in general from the archaeology of Mesoamerican cities, such as Copan, Teotihuacan, Tenochtitlan, Kaminaljuyu, and Cholula. And while other aspects of their analysis invited some critique, most of the reaction that emerged from this article focused on their summary and application of Fox’s regal-ritual type to lowland Maya cities. Summarizing Fox, they described the city type as that of an expanded household of the elite with functions extended from household administration. One key feature that Fox and hence Sanders and Webster (1988:525) point to in city form is the lack of a clear distinction between “the urban population and those living in the rural countryside.” This important observation from three decades ago cannot be emphasized too much, as it offers a prescient view on the emerging observations about the Maya from recent regional lidar surveys. Two years after their article was published, Diane Chase, Arlen Chase, and William Haviland responded in American Anthropologist. Their challenge specifically focused on what they perceived as a mischaracterization of lowland Maya cities. Using the Fox model to assert the administrative function of Maya cities and express the urban achievements of the Maya, they relied on available archaeological data from Tikal, Guatemala, and Caracol, Belize. Their commentary was informative then. Today it reads like a misdirected critique of Sanders and Webster’s article and misrepresents their conclusions. For the Chases and Haviland, the suggestion that Maya cities were compared to Fox’s Regal-Ritual type was an affront to the exceptionalism of Maya civilization. But the problem really was not with Sanders and Webster’s (1988) interpretation of Fox; rather, it shined a bright light on how limited our comparative models of urban form were just three decades ago. Simply put, the critical reaction did not particularly advance new ideas about urban form; instead, it confirmed Maya cities as real cities. This continued for more than two decades. As an example, Magnoni and colleagues write (2012:152), “The settlement layout and architectural design of Chunchucmil suggest that it was not a typical regal-ritual city (Fox 1977; Sanders and Webster 1988), but an urban center that relied on commerce for its livelihood.” Unfortunately, most of relevant depictions of Maya cities for two decades emphasized first-order models focused on formal and monumental architecture, power, and authority. What it did not do was capture in any full sense how the majority of Maya society was integrated into these systems. Just as important, these models also do not embrace the spatial and temporal messiness that must have played out in Maya settlements and landscapes. From 328

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a methodological and an interpretative standpoint, archaeological research in the lowlands started at the city center and at the tallest building, inherently leaving the rest of the region in a supporting role. And so interpretations started at the tallest building. For example, Maya population estimates are traditionally calculated from a very simple formula. Counts of architecture from surveyed areas with intensive mapping are converted into “per-kilometer” structure estimates. Estimates for structure use are distributed relatively, based on ceramic phases, and a number of people are assigned to each estimate (Murtha 2002). The approach is simple. But on their own, the derived estimates are little more than a number. However, thinking back to Puleston’s early concern, the estimates became tightly linked to theories and interpretations of social, economic, and city organization. Perhaps more important, the reliance on population models led to a series of second-order assumptions about Maya cities. For example, many scholars argue that Maya cities must have had bureaucratic administration and markets for the exchange of basic goods because such large estimates necessitate bureaucracy. If we peel back the argument, however, big estimates cannot be enough. A “dense population” does not provide the evidence necessary to support these interpretations, and, more important, it obscures the adaptive and sometimes sustainable strategies employed by the Classic Maya (Chase et al. 2016; Murtha 2002). One of the key shortcomings out of all of the urban talk that occurred in the last decades about the Maya Lowlands is the notion of a particularly bounded center with secondary assumptions about the rural character outside of the well-bounded urban areas. Many scholars outside of archaeology have begun to question the utility of such a characterization, be it from a food security standpoint (Lerner and Eakin 2011) or from a political ecology perspective. Certainly for preindustrial cites of the Maya, there was no inverse of urban or rural that can or should be defined. It is an unnecessary and nonexistent dichotomy (or perhaps as Lerner and Eakin 2011 state, an “obsolete dichotomy”). A Transformative Era

As seen, three key topics influence many of our modern perceptions of Maya cities and urban centers. First, population, especially population pressure and changing estimates of just how many Maya lived in cities, has transformed what we interpret as Maya cities in the last five decades. Second, agriculture, or how the Maya supported these populations, has also changed substantially in the last half century, partly to meet the demand of increased population estimates. Finally, perspectives on the dense nucleation or boundedness and urban character of Maya cities have shifted completely. Maya cities today are thankfully viewed as lived in and urban, so the debate is no longer about population, agriculture, and bounded definition. But that legacy remains. We find it hotly debated in The Living Landscape

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FIGURE 10.2 .

Maya cities are not eggs. Figure drawn by Murtha after Weller 2016.

interpretations about the degree, form, character, and dynamics of what “urban” means, particularly when site centers and site-specific interpretations are at stake. New low-density models acknowledge the qualitatively different character of Maya cities, but not even that has fully repositioned most discussions of urbanism (see Magnoni et al. 2012). What exactly does it mean to be a low-density city? With all this new information and its bearing on a landscape perspective, the act of describing Maya cities remains complex. They are, for one thing, not uniformly dense as they have been described. Nor do they do uniformly exhibit landesque capital or formal intensified agriculture. And boundaries are not clearly defined. I recently redrew a 1982 diagram by Cedric Brown that was originally redrawn by Richard Weller (2016), a noted landscape and ecological urbanist, for his critique of urban design titled “The City Is Not an Egg.” My point in the figure (see figure 10.2) is that sometimes we look at Maya cities and settlements constrained through definitions of urban models, as if all Maya cities were either hard-boiled, fried, or scrambled. Our perspectives about Maya cities have evolved, as have our perspectives on urban design. The more important point from Weller (2016) is that urban design and planning are entering a transformative era. Advancements in GIS, modeling, and big data are revolutionizing what we know about cities and settlements. And this information is challenging the last 40–50 years of thinking, designing, and planning cities. Waldheim (2016) has been advocating over the past two decades for a new approach to urbanism, termed landscape urbanism. Deemphasizing vertical form and the built environment, these designers and scholars have put forward a creative emphasis on horizontal and productive space through design. Similarly, but from a far different intellectual tradition, Billie Lee Turner (2016) has put forward some compelling ideas about systems design and the future sustainable planning of settlements that he terms land architecture 330

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and land-systems architecture. These are big, complex ideas, but their usefulness here is intellectual leverage so that we can turn our attention from the city as an outcome to focus on regional process. To approach region and process in this chapter, I borrow concepts from recent literature in political ecology that emphasize sustainable livelihoods. Batterbury (2001) calls it the productive bricolage, but it simply is the pattern of diverse productive activities practiced by households in and around settlements. Batterbury (2001:32) writes about the imperative to see the evolving human and natural landscape as the result of a true combination of processes and decisions. For example, mid-slope soils in south-western Niger are farmed by people exposed to the ebb and flow of the seasons, attuned to nature and wishing to adapt cultivation and farming styles to the microconditions of soils and water regimes. But what makes a viable farm in these locations is also a function of political realities, labour allocation and land access. Tenure regimes, forestry and farming practices result in a heterogeneous pattern of clearance, seeding, growth and death of different land covers. Labour availability, regional non-farm opportunities, tools, personal choice and decisions, soil quality and climatic factors all help give rise to these patterns.

In a general sense, these were likely the consistent influential processes operating in households throughout the Maya Lowlands during the Classic Period. And until recently, these ideas about smallholder diversification had no place in the study of cities. But Lerner and Appendini (2011) and Lerner and Eakin (2011) have recently documented extensive, intensive, and incredibly pervasive productive spaces in peri-urban contexts, once perceived by planners as unproductive urban space inside of the shell of the expanding urban form. They have documented clear patterns of smallholder diversification in the rapidly urbanizing context of Toluca, Mexico, with a municipal population of over 800,000 persons, a population density of 1,800 persons per km2 and population growth rate of 1.34 percent per year (112,000 persons every 5 years). Most urban theories or models do not account for that sort of agency, household activity, and landscape diversity. Despite gaps in theory and even in the face of heavily institutionalized processes, Toluca households seek out sustainable livelihoods that result in landscape diversity. And the range of reasons for those decisions run from risk aversion to food preference (Lerner and Appendini 2011). These opportunities must have existed in the urban regional context of ancient Tikal. T I K A L , G U AT E M A L A

Tikal is located in the Central Petén, north of the modern cities of Flores and Santa Elena, Guatemala. The city center is composed of thousands of structures, including palaces and temples. Our project has been focused on studying the The Living Landscape

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region from both a cultural and ecological perspective, relying on traditional settlement pattern survey and soil sampling and analysis coupled with forest monitoring and hydrological modeling. Settlement beyond the center is not evenly dispersed but fragmented and clustered around upland soils. Household remains are distributed in fragmented clusters throughout the Tikal region. Less space immediately surrounds each household, which is not the case in more uniform settlement areas such as the Río Bec or even nearby Caracol. But that leaves large tracts of uninhabited and prime agricultural areas interspersed between settlement clusters. Large regional sites are often coupled to high densities of households, indicating an important intraregional variation in densities. There are no significant long-distance causeways, but a fragmented defensive earthwork or a physical boundary marker has been documented throughout the region (Murtha et al. 2016; Puleston and Calendar 1967; Webster et al. 2004, 2007; Webster and Murtha 2015). Prior to recent studies, the earthwork and large bajos flanking the site center were recognized as definitive boundaries of Tikal’s polity and urban settlement. As described by William Haviland (1981:89), “[Tikal] was bounded on the east and west by bajo and on the north and south by artificially constructed earthworks running between the bajos. There is a direct and significant correlation between these two boundaries and settlement density.” But our work in the past twelve years has documented a far more complex regional arrangement. The earthwork exhibits significant variance in form from place to place that cannot simply be explained by differences in preservation. It appears that construction was unfinished, and though possibly planned centrally, the feature itself was constructed locally. As currently documented, the earthworks are as fragmented in their distribution as settlement clusters are in the region. For example, with our added surveys, it becomes evident that no consistent drop off in settlement density occurs outside of the earthwork as presumed in most of the literature concerning Tikal (Webster et al. 2004, 2007, 2008). We acquired three very different potential dates for the earthwork (Murtha et al. 2017). But, based on our recent studies, Tikal’s landscape should be seen regionally as a fragmented and negotiated space where clear boundaries between the beginning and ending of the polity were not static and where the line between residential and agrarian areas was not clearly defined. We also observed no evidence of substantial terracing at Tikal, despite substantial evidence of erosion. Recent soil studies (Burnett et al. 2012) confirm other recent work by Scarborough and colleagues (2012) that the earliest residents of the Tikal region had the most significant impact on their landscape through erosion. This transformation shifted a rather well-distributed natural resource (productive soil) to large contiguous tracts of productive land at the bajo margins, footslopes, and toeslopes (Balzotti et al. 2013). At Tikal, then, 332

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evidence suggest that the Classic Period was spent managing this regional landscape; that is, the earthworks were introduced into the system after particular patterns of regional settlements had been well established. In terms of the reservoirs, regional water surveys from 2015 coupled with hydrologic modeling further emphasize the availability of water throughout Tikal’s landscape. The city of Tikal has been consistently described by impressive vertical architecture, but when reviewed from the region, a complex mosaic similar in diversity to the modern tropical forest comes into focus (figure 10.1). Whether it is the earthworks, densities of households, or natural features such as bajos, the Tikal data suggest that the settlement and land-use patterns of the past, including patches of dense settlement throughout the region, were highly adapted and responsive to topographic position, soil, and water availability. This regional or bottom-up view reveals a more highly dynamic and complex system (or network) of household integration than portrayed previously and is potentially more useful from an urban design perspective. The arrangement of larger local sites, households, gardens, agrarian landscapes, reservoirs and even the earthwork (as incomplete as it is) suggests a narrative pattern of negotiation and household-/community-driven landscapes. We used the sections of Tikal’s forest type (figure 10.1) to provide a detailed ecological framework to think about land-use zones and, ultimately, sampling regions that would have been differentially cultivated, modified, and intensified by the Maya at varying scales (from the household to the region), through various demographic regimes (population growth and decline), and in a variety of time periods (Early Classic through Terminal Classic). Our hypothesis is that these core factors influenced not only tree distribution but also key resource opportunities throughout the Classic Period. In turn, these resource opportunities influenced the changing patterns of settlement and land use through Tikal’s history. Tikal’s Households and Settlement

Prior publications have examined Tikal’s settlement patterns from a quantitative perspective (Murtha 2015; Murtha et al. 2016; Webster and Murtha 2015). Here I would like to briefly describe some of the new samples we surveyed and the overall shape of settlement. Beginning in 2003, David Webster, Jay Silverstein, Kirk Straight, Horacio Martinez, and I added distant regional surveys to the work of the Penn Project and Ford’s dissertation. The discussed samples are shown in figure 10.3 and include the following: 1. A transect survey of households north and south of the northern earthwork 2. Block regional surveys: a. West of Tikal

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FIGURE 10. 3. (a) Map of the Tikal region illustrating surveyed areas with domestic architecture in black. (b) Remote sensing image of the Tikal National Park region illustrating archaeological settlement pattern surveys.

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b. A block to the southeast of Tikal that intersected Ford’s transect c. A block to the north adjacent to the transect and earthwork

All of these data have been organized in a regional geospatial database of households. Most of our field observations are consistent with the findings of Ford (1986) and Puleston (1983) in a general sense, that is, that Tikal’s region can be characterized best by a clustered pattern of households in the uplands. Our approach, based on compiled data, however, evinces greater fidelity to the factors that influenced settlement patterns within the region. To that end, landform and landscape (illustrated here as density of household per ha) are better predictors of settlement patterns and settlement density than proximity to the earthwork and city center. Tikal’s settlement is a regional mosaic reflecting multifunctional landscapes (see Waldheim 2016 for modern discussion and Stone 1996 for cross-cultural comparative examples). Settlement distributions vary within the region, evidencing how local ecological patterns contribute to household patterns. In the process of exploring quantitative methods, I have loosely demarcated some of these regions shown in figure 10.4, including the following: 1. Tikal’s Central Plateau; 2. The Southeastern Region (Arroyo Negro); 3. The Northern Uplands; 4. The Uaxactun Uplands; 5. The Southwest Lowlands; 6. The Western Uplands.

Each of the regions offers differing patterns of densities, agglomeration, and dispersion of households. To link these observations of settlement to the agrarian landscape, we collected, analyzed, and evaluated 255 soil profiles from the Tikal region over the years (Balzottie et al. 2013; Burnett et al. 2012; Parker 2015). These samples were both intensive and extensive samples, with the purpose of 1. understanding the current distribution of soils by quantifying and qualifying the influence of erosion on past land-use (intensive sampling); and 2. developing a regional perspective of land use by coupling the soil samples to remote sensing and environmental modeling (extensive sampling).

Working at more than 8 km from central Tikal, we gridded our survey area into 1-ha samples (see Burnett et al. 2012). Each hectare was surveyed for vegetation, tree species, and forest type; we also extracted a stratified sample of soil profiles. The usefulness was twofold:

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[128.104.46.206] Project MUSE (2024-03-01 18:26 GMT) UW-Madison Libraries

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FIGURE 10.4. (a) Settlement densities and architecture in the Tikal region; (b) settlement densities in the Tikal region; (c) settlement regions or zones defined by the author from field observations and a qualitative analysis of Tikal’s landscape.

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1. It provided a detailed picture of landscape and settlement far outside of central Tikal and its earthworks. 2. It allowed empirical environmental observations that could then be applied to regional remote sensing (Murtha et al. 2016).

We also completed an extensive survey by sampling strategic ecological soil transects adjacent to key landform features in a cooperative effort, initially intended to be forest observation plots, with CONAP. For all of the samples, Dr. Richard Terry prepared and analyzed the soil for basic chemistry and available P and C3/C4 enrichment studies, briefly described here. The most significant findings of this combined work were twofold: 1. Displaced soils were widespread, but the ground itself provided a stable landscape that was heavily relied on during the Classic. 2. Maize agriculture was pervasive.

For example, we targeted Tikal’s bajos and their immediate uplands, once highly scrutinized for evidence of past agrarian activity. The results of these studies are discussed elsewhere in great detail but offer a fascinating picture of multifunctional landscapes at Tikal. Using remote sensing, Parker (2015:41) characterized four types of large regional bajos, with each offering different evidence of past land use (see figure 10.5; see also tables 1–5 in Parker 2015). He collected seventy pedons, of which forty-one are in or adjacent to regional bajos. y Landsat Bajo Type 1: Twenty-two samples were located in or adjacent to these bajos. Seven of the samples exhibited evidence of ancient maize cultivation. In the bajos, four samples exhibited some evidence of maize production (change in δ13C between 2.5% and 4.0%), while two samples provided particularly strong evidence (change in δ13C greater than 4.0%). y Landsat Bajo Type 2: Six samples were located in or adjacent to these bajos. Three of the six showed strong evidence of ancient maize agriculture. The highest change in δ13C was identified at the lowest point of the Bajo de Chikin Tikal (Parker 2015). y Landsat Bajo Type 3: Thirteen samples were located in or adjacent to the type 3 bajos identified by Parker (2015). Two of the samples displayed changes in δ13C consistent with maize production (change in δ13C between 2.5% and 4.0%), while one sample provided strong evidence (change in δ13C greater than 4.0%). y Landsat Bajo Type 4: Six samples were located in or adjacent to the type 4 bajos. Two of the samples exhibited strong evidence (change in δ13C greater than 4.0%).

And so, when we compare these data to settlement patterns, the picture of Tikal’s agrarian mosaic is clear. We had already hypothesized how pocket bajos

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FIGURE 10.5a. LandSAT image of the Tikal region illustrating bajo types (three types) and the location of soil samples discussed in the chapter.

and bajo margins were utilized by the Maya for maize cultivation (Balzotti et al. 2013a; Burnett et al. 2012a, 2012b). These new samples not only confirmed ideas about the edges of bajos but also showed that some portions of the floors of large bajos and areas throughout the bajos may have been useful to the Maya, but not in the way they have been considered previously. In context, the evidence for past production cannot be interpreted as a massive public works agricultural intensification project to feed the city. Simply put, 338

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FIGURE 10.5b.

Map of Tikal comparing settlement densities and results of soil analysis.

agriculture was everywhere, including in the many spaces between houses in the central 16 km2 of architecture. Beyond the site core (16 km2 out of 576 km2 or 2% of the region) are clear landscapes of diversity with the agrarian mosaic tightly linked to the immediate settlement pattern. Today, the spatial arrangement of fields and shifting landscapes of maize production respond to the annual variability of precipitation, household provisioning, and complex decision-making or are simply the productive bricolage of households. Surely it was no different in the past. From these approaches we can best describe Tikal’s agrarian landscape as a patchy mosaic. By reviewing the Lowland Maya city through the lens of Tikal, several key substantive design principles, elements, and strategies are potentially relevant for application in contemporary urban design and landscape architecture.

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Region and Scale

Maya cities are regional responses to topography and hydrology. Maya cities express region at a variety of scales and in a variable distribution. For example, the formal reservoirs of Tikal are networked with smaller-scale regional reservoirs. Varying densities of households respond to the system of water along with agrarian resources. At Caracol, terrace form and distribution respond to topography but also create a networked landscape that ties households and communities of households to the landscape (Murtha 2015). In other words, settlement and landscape are integrated networks. They evoke the patterning expressed in deep ground (Waldheim 2006) where settlement metrics (urban form, setbacks, and building height) are balanced by ecological measures. Adaptive and Fallow Landscapes

Even under the highest density, Tikal required a diversity of active and fallow landscapes. The fallow landscapes that no doubt span time periods would have been variably distributed and responsive to annual changes in climate and availability of resources. The value of fallow landscapes within and throughout cities is another design element not often considered when we study past urbanism. It certainly was important not only to recharge soil but also to allow for adaptive changes to the landscape. Fuzzy Boundaries

Sanders and Webster (1988) note in their comparative study of Mesoamerican urban centers that one of the key aspects of Maya centers was that they lacked clear boundaries between what would normally be termed the city and the rural. As Lerner and Eakin (2011) discuss, the boundaries within and around cities are not as clear on the ground as they appear in aerial photos and through maps. Peri-urban densities can often be as high as urban densities and thereby necessitate a shift to focusing not on designing urban spaces but designing settlements and spaces through landscape. Household and Community

Finally, although Maya cities are centered around monumental architecture and large-scale “public works,” they reveal a networked balance to the scale of the built environment. Perhaps no other feature demonstrates this better than the famed earthworks of Tikal that were once thought to be clear boundaries delimiting the city of Tikal from the rural countryside, which are now understood as locally negotiated and implemented. Four decades ago, Ian McHarg argued that the key to sustainable planning and design begins and ends with regional analysis of physical environmental factors. Puleston, quoted earlier, implied that Maya settlements reflected that 340

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relationship between regional understanding and networked adaptations. From my perspective, this resonates even more so with the ideas expressed by landscape urbanists. For example, in his critique of urban design, Waldheim observes that it “most often comes in the form of overstating the environmental and social benefits of urban density while acknowledging the relative autonomy of architectural form. I would argue that urban design ought to concentrate less attention on mythic images of a lost golden age of density and more attention on the urban condition where most of us live and work” (2010:22). The very same can be stated for anthropological evaluations of urban society. When we reflect on this, what jumps out as the impressive quality of Maya cities is the diversity of horizontal spaces and how tightly coupled those spaces are to households and community. Several points are in order. First, preindustrial and nonwestern cities are urban forms best studied through the lenses of landscape and region. Landscape urbanism is a means to that end because, as a conceptual framework, it not only examines the present but investigates the past. Second, these settlements and their surrounding landscapes should not be interpreted as solutions to a population density or an urban problem. These are multiscale adaptive settlement systems anchored to regions and responding to changing cultural and natural issues and opportunities. Third, studying the past does not offer specific analogies or direct design strategies and solutions for the population and sustainability challenges we face globally; however, there are multiple design principles, elements, and strategies that can be derived from the past and keenly from the lowland Maya. As new information becomes available, perhaps the vertical and top-down perspective of Maya cities will be transformed into one that more effectively describes the mosaics of architecture, agrarian space, and landesque features. Recently, Charles Golden and I, along with other colleagues (Golden et al. 2016; Schroder et al. 2020), have started to investigate the spaces between documented Maya cities. We, like Lemonnier and Vannière (2013), are observing variable and responsive densities of households, agrarian space, and landesque features far from known and documented site centers, a finding that further challenges us to reconsider the form, variability, and definition of preindustrial urbanism in the lowlands. These are horizontal cities and places first. Perhaps, then, the vertical should not be the focus of our efforts and interpretations at all? SUMMARY AND DISCUSSION

Let’s turn back to a broader discussion of urbanization and urbanism for a moment. As Lerner and Eakin (2011) have demonstrated, there is no linear rural-to-urban transformation even under intense population growth and pressure. Agrarian livelihoods and smallholder production are critical elements of The Living Landscape

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urbanization throughout settlements (Lerner and Eakin 2011). In the context of the Classic Maya, we have to consider that population growth and pressure associated with urbanization may not have set all or even most households in some evolutionary path toward modernization and a market economy. We have much to learn from Maya cities. From my perspective, the spatial and temporal complexities of land use in the Classic Period in this urban context reflect household provisioning, risk aversion, traditions, and food preferences, not some overwhelming process of urbanization. As we think back on the fascinating ideas that Fedick (1996) and GomezPompa and colleagues (2003:624) have advanced about the lowland Maya ecology, a division doggedly persists. That is, if our absorption is wholly with the Maya Lowlands, then the lowland region appears at once set apart and homogeneous. Or if our focus remains fixed on the polity of Maya cities, then, to be sure, wars are waged and relationships established against an urban evolutionary backdrop and some engineered landscape. A regional perspective removes those blinders because only then does a greater fidelity to landscapes emerge. Gomez-Pompa and colleagues put it this way: “As the landscape comes into focus at increasingly detailed scales, the mosaic of diversity is revealed” (Gomez-Pompa et al. 2003:625). From that diversity and through the lens of landscape, we can potentially better understand the coupled natural and human dynamics influencing household decision-making, land use, and settlement patterns in the context of urbanization during the Classic Period. From this perspective, Maya cities and settlements are multifunctional landscapes, a concept not captured by traditional urban design and planning. What then will be our story about Maya cities? What do these settlements tell us about urbanization and urbanism? Will it be about how the Maya, because of technological advancement and engineering, overcame the limitations of their environment in the face of massive population growth and pressure? Or will it be about the enduring patterns that take shape from the interlocking pieces of households, communities, and landscapes capable of incredible permanence and resilience in the face of local environmental conditions, regional climate, and the changing dynamics of political power and authority? I see great potential in the latter for informing the bigger discussions facing humanity. REFERENCES

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Batterbury, Simon. 2001. “Landscapes of Diversity: A Local Political Ecology of Livelihood Diversification in South-Western Niger.” Ecumene 8 (4):437–64. Beach Timothy, Nicholas P. Dunning, Shery Luzzadder-Beach, Duncan Cook, Jon C. Lohse. 2006. “Impacts of the Ancient Maya on Soils and Soil Erosion in the Central Maya Lowlands.” Catena 65:166–78. Beach, Timothy P., Sheryl Luzzadder-Beach, Richard Terry, Nicholas Dunning, Stephen Houston, and Thomas Garrison. 2011. “Carbon Isotopic Ratios of Wetland and Terrace Soil Sequences in the Maya Lowlands of Belize and Guatemala.” Catena 85:109–18. Boserup, Ester. 1970. The Conditions of Agricultural Growth: The Economics of Agrarian Change under Population Pressure. London: Allen and Unwin. Brenner, Neil, Peter Marcuse, and Margit Mayer. 2012. Cities for People, Not for Profit: Critical Urban Theory and the Right to the City. London: Routledge. Brenner, Neil, and Christian Schmid. 2015. “Towards a New Epistemology of the Urban?.” City 19:151–82. https://doi.org/10.1080/13604813.2015.1014712. Burnett, Richard L., Richard E. Terry, Marco Alvarez, Christopher Balzotti, Timothy Murtha, David Webster, and Jay Silverstein. 2012a. “The Ancient Agricultural Landscape of the Satellite Settlement of Ramonal near Tikal, Guatemala.” Quaternary International 265:101–15. Burnett, Richard L., Richard E. Terry, Ryan V. Sweetwood, Timothy Murtha, David Webster, and Jay Silverstein. 2012b. “Upland and lowland soil resources of the ancient Maya at Tikal, Guatemala.” Soil Science Society of America Journal 76 (6): 2083–2096. Carneiro, Robert. 1970. “A Theory of the Origin of the State.” Science 21 (August):733–38. Chase, Arlen, and Diane Z. Chase. 1987. Investigations at the Classic Maya City of Caracol, Belize: 1985–1987. San Francisco: Pre-Columbian Art Research Institute Monograph 3. Chase, Arlen F., and Diane Z. Chase. 1996. “A Mighty Maya Nation.” Archaeology Magazine 49 (5):66–72. Chase, Arlen F., and Diane Z. Chase. 1998. “Scale and Intensity in Classic Period Maya Agriculture: Terracing and Settlement at the ‘Garden City’ of Caracol, Belize.” Culture and Agriculture 20 (2):60–77. Chase, Arlen F., and Diane Z. Chase. 2016. “Urbanism and Anthropogenic Landscapes.” Annual Review of Anthropology 45:361–76. https://doi.org/10.1146/annurev-anthro -102215-095852. Chase, Arlen F., and Diane Z. Chase. 2017. “Detection of Maya Ruins by LiDAR: Applications, Case Study, and Issues.” In Sensing the Past: From Artifact to Historical Site, edited by Nicola Masini and Francesco Soldovieri, 455–68. Cham, Switzerland: Springer. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-50518-3_22. Chase, Arlen F., Diane Z. Chase, James J. Awe, John F. Weishampel, Gyles Iannone, Holley Moyes, Jason Yaeger, and M. Kathryn Brown. 2014a. “The Use of LiDAR in Understanding the Ancient Maya Landscape: Caracol and Western Belize.” Advances The Living Landscape

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in Archaeological Practice: A Journal of the Society for American Archaeology 2:208–21. https://doi.org/10.7183/2326-3768.2.3.208. Chase, Arlen F., Diane Z. Chase, James J. Awe, John F. Weishampel, Gyles Iannone, Holley Moyes, Jason Yaeger, M. Kathryn Brown, Ramesh Shrestha, William E. Carter, and Juan C. Fernández-Díaz. 2014b. “Ancient Maya Regional Settlement and InterSite Analysis: The 2013 West-Central Belize LiDAR Survey.” Remote Sensing 6:8671–95. Chase, Arlen F., Diane Z. Chase, Christopher T. Fisher, Stephen J. Leisz, and John F. Weishampel. 2012. “Geospatial Revolution and Remote Sensing LiDAR in Mesoamerican Archaeology.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 109:12916–21. https://doi.org/10.1073/pnas.1205198109. Chase, Arlen F., Diane Z. Chase, and John F. Weishampel. 2010. “Lasers in the Jungle.” Archaeology 63 (4):27–29. Chase, Arlen F., Diane Z. Chase, John F. Weishampel, Jason B. Drake, Ramesh L. Shrestha, K. Clint Slatton, Jaime J. Awe, and William Carter. 2011. “Airborne LiDAR, Archaeology, and the Ancient Maya Landscape at Caracol, Belize.” Journal of Archaeological Science 38:387–98. Chase, Diane Z., and Arlen F. Chase, eds. 1994. Studies in the Archaeology of Caracol, Belize. San Francisco: Pre-Columbian Art Research Institute Monograph 7. Chase, Diane Z., and Arlen F. Chase. 2004. “Archaeological Perspectives on Classic Maya Social Organization from Caracol, Belize.” Ancient Mesoamerica 15 (1):139–47. https:// doi:10.1017/S0956536104151080. Chase, Diane Z., Arlen F. Chase, and William A. Haviland. 1990. “The Classic Maya City: Reconsidering the Mesoamerican Urban Tradition.” American Anthropologist 92:499–506. Corner, James. 2006. “Terra Fluxus.” In The landscape Urbanism Reader, edited by Charles Waldheim, 21–33. New York: Princeton Architectural Press. Culbert, T. Patrick, and Don Stephen Rice. 1990. Precolumbian Population History in the Maya Lowlands. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Dahlin, Bruce H., Timothy Beach, Sheryl Luzzadder-Beach, David Hixson, Scott Hutson, Aline Magnoni, Eugenia Mansell, and Daniel E. Mazeau. 2005. “Reconstructing Agricultural Self-Sufficiency at Chunchucmil, Yucatan, Mexico.” Ancient Mesoamerica 16 (2):229–47. Donkin, R. A. 1979. Agricultural Terracing in the Aboriginal New World. Tucson: Published for the Wenner-Gren Foundation for Anthropological Research by the University of Arizona Press. Eakin, Hallie, Amy M. Lerner, David Manuel-Navarrete, Bertha Hernandez Aguilar, Alejandra Martinez-Canedo, Beth Tellman, Lakshmi Charli-Joseph, Rafael Fernandez Alvarez, and Luis A. Bojorquez-Tapia. 2016. “Adapting to Risk and Perpetuating Poverty: Household’s Strategies for Managing Flood Risk and Water

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Scarcity in Mexico City.” Environmental Science and Policy 66 (December):324–33. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.envsci.2016.06.006. Fedick, Scott L. 1996. The Managed Mosaic: Ancient Maya Agriculture and Resource Use. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. Flannery, Kent V., and Anne V. T. Kirkby, eds.1973. The Use of Land and Water Resources in the Past and Present Valley of Oaxaca, Mexico. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. https://doi.org/10.3998/mpub.11396189. Ford, Anabel. 1986. “Population Growth and Social Complexity: An Examination of Settlement and Environment in the Central Maya Lowlands.” Tempe: Anthropological Research Papers 35, Arizona State University. Foster, Robert. 1991. “Making National Cultures in The Global Ecumene.” Annual Review of Anthropology 20:235–60. https://doi.org/10.1146/annurev.an.20.100191.001315. Fox, Richard G. 1977. Urban Anthropology: Cities in Their Cultural Settings. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall. Griffin, Robert Edwards. 2012. “The Carrying Capacity of Ancient Maya Swidden Maize Cultivation: A Case Study in the Region around San Bartolo, Petén, Guatemala.” PhD diss., Penn State University. Hammond, Norman. 1978. “The Myth of the Milpa: Agricultural Expansion in the Maya Lowlands.” In Pre-Hispanic Maya Agriculture, edited by Peter Harrison and B. L. Turner II, 23–34. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Harvey, David. 1996. “Cities or Urbanization?” City 1:1–2, 38–61. https://doi.org/10.1080 /13604819608900022. Harvey, David. 2008. “The Right to the City.” New Left Review 53 (September–October):23–40. Haviland, William A. 1965. “Prehistoric Settlement at Tikal.” Expedition 7:14–23. Haviland, William A. 1966. “Maya Settlement Patterns: A Critical Review.” New Orleans: Middle American Research Institute Publication 26:21–47, Tulane University. Haviland, William A. 1969. “A New Population Estimate for Tikal, Guatemala.” American Antiquity 34:316–25. Haviland, William A. 1975. The Ancient Maya and the Evolution of Urban Society. Greeley: Museum of Anthropology, University of Northern Colorado. Hester, Randolph T. 2010. Design for Ecological Democracy. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Houk, Brett A. 2015. Ancient Maya Cities of the Eastern Lowlands. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Lemonnier, Eva, and Boris Vannière. 2013. “Agrarian Features, Farmsteads and Homesteads in the Río Bec Nuclear Zone (Mexico).” Ancient Mesoamerica 24 (2):397– 413. Lentz, David L., Nicholas P. Dunning, and Vernon Scarborough, eds. 2015. Tikal: Paleoecology of an Ancient Maya City. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Lerner, Amy M., and Kirsten Appendini. 2011. “Dimensions of Peri-Urban Maize Production in the Toluca-Atlacomulco Valley, Mexico.” Journal of Latin American Geography 10 (2):87–106. Project MUSE. Lerner, A. M., and H. Eakin. 2011. “An Obsolete Dichotomy? Rethinking the Rural–Urban Interface in Terms of Food Security and Production in the Global South.” Geographical Journal 177:311–20. Lewis, Pierce. 1979. “Axioms for Reading the Landscape: Observations from the American Scene.” In The Interpretation of Ordinary Landscapes: Geographical Essays, edited by D. W. Meinig, and John Brinckerhoff Jackson. New York: Oxford University Press. Lundell, Cyrus Longworth. 1933. “Archeological Discoveries in the Maya Area.” American Philosophical Society 72:147–79. Lundell, Cyrus L. 1937. “The Agriculture of the Maya.” Southwest Review 19: 65–77. MacHarg, Ian L. 1971. Design with Nature. Garden City: Doubleday, Natural History Press. Magnoni, Aline, Scott R. Hutson, and Bruce H. Dahlin. 2012. “Living In the City: Settlement Patterns and the Urban Experience at Classic Period Chunchucmil, Yucatan, Mexico.” Ancient Mesoamerica 23 (2):313–43. Marken, Damien, and Timothy Murtha. 2017. “Maya Cities, People and Place: Comparative Perspectives from El Peru and Tikal.” In Research Reports in Belizean Archaeology 14:177–87. McGuirk, Justin. 2014. Radical Cities: Across Latin America in Search of a New Architecture. London: Verso. Meinig, D. W., and John Brinckerhoff Jackson. 1979. The Interpretation of Ordinary Landscapes: Geographical Essays. New York: Oxford University Press. Murtha, Timothy. 2002. “Land and Labor: Classic Maya Terraced Agriculture at Caracol, Belize.” PhD diss., Penn State University. Murtha, Timothy. 2015. “Negotiated Landscapes: Comparative Settlement Ecology of Tikal and Caracol.” In Classic Maya Polities of the Southern Lowlands, edited by Damien Marken and James Fitzsimmons, 75–98. Boulder: University Press of Colorado. Murtha, Timothy, David Webster, K. French, C. Duffy, R. Terry, A. Parker, and C. Balzotti. 2016. “Tikal’s Landscape: Four Decades of Soil, Settlement and the Earthworks.” Research Reports in Belizean Archaeology 13:181–89. Odling-Smee, F. John, Kevin N. Laland, and Marcus W. Feldman. 2003. Niche Construction: The Neglected Process in Evolution (MPB-37). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Parker, Adam. 2015. “Evidence of Ancient Maya Agriculture in the Bajos Surrounding Tikal, Guatemala.” Master’s thesis, Brigham Young University. Proskouriakoff, Tatiana. 2002. An Album of Maya Architecture. New York: Dover Publications.

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Puleston, Dennis Edward. 1968. “Brosimum Alicastrum as a Subsistence Alternative for the Classic Maya of the Central Southern Lowlands.” Master’s thesis., University of Pennsylvania. http://www.famsi.org/research/thesis_dissertations/PulestonD _thesis.pdf. Puleston, Dennis Edward. 1973. “Ancient Maya Settlement Patterns and Environment at Tikal, Guatemala.” PhD diss., University of Pennsylvania. Puleston, Dennis. 1983. The Settlement Survey of Tikal. Philadelphia: Tikal Reports no. 13, University Museum Publications. Puleston, Dennis, and Donald W. Callender Jr. 1967. “Defensive Earthworks at Tikal.” Expedition 9 (30):40–48. Puleston, Dennis Edward, and Kent V. Flannery. 1982. Maya Subsistence: Studies in Memory of Dennis E. Puleston. New York: Academic Press. Sanders, William T. 1991a. “The Cultural Ecology of the Maya Lowlands, Part 1.” Estudios de Cultura Maya 2:79–121. Sanders, William T. 1991b. “The Cultural Ecology of the Maya Lowlands, Part 2.” Estudios de Cultura Maya 3:203–41. Sanders, William T., and David Webster. 1988. “The Mesoamerica Urban Tradition.” American Anthropologist 90 (3):521–46. Scarborough, Vernon, Nicholas P. Dunning, Kenneth B. Tankersley, Christopher Carr, Eric Weaver, Liwy Grazioso, Brian Lane, John G. Jones, Palma Buttles, Fred Valdez, and David L. Lentz. 2012. “Water and Sustainable Land Use at the Ancient Tropical City of Tikal, Guatemala.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 109 (31):12408–14413. Scarborough, Vernon, and Liwy Grazioso. 2015. “The Evolution of an Ancient Waterworks System at Tikal.” In Tikal: Paleoecology of an Ancient Maya City, edited by David L. Lentz, Nicholas P. Dunning, and Vernon Scarborough, 16–45. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Schulze, Mark, and David F. Whitacre. 1999. “A Classification and Ordination of the Tree Community of Tikal National Park, Petén, Guatemala.” Bulletin of the Florida Museum of Natural History 41 (3):169–297. Spooner, Brian. 1972. Population Growth. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Steiner, Frederick R. 2011. “Landscape Ecological Urbanism: Origins and Trajectories.” Landscape and Urban Planning 100:333–37. Steinitz, Carl. 2012. A Framework for Geodesign: Changing Geography by Design. Redlands, CA: Esri. Stephens, John L., and Frederick Catherwood. 2013. Incidents of Travel in Central America, Chiapas and Yucatan. Vol. 1. New York: Dover. Stone, Glenn Davis. 1996. Settlement Ecology: The Social and Spatial Organization of Kofyar Agriculture. Tucson: University of Arizona Press.

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Thompson, J. Eric S. 1931. “Archaeological Investigations in the Southern Cayo District, British Honduras.” Field Museum of Natural History. Publication 301. Anthropological Series 17 (3): 216–361. http://catalog.hathitrust.org/api/volumes/oclc/3779214.html. Turner, Bill L., II. 2016. “Land System Architecture for Urban Sustainability: New Directions for Land System Science Illustrated by Application to the Urban Heat Island Problem.” Journal of Land Use Science 11 (6):689–97. https://doi.org/10.1080/1747423X .2016.1241315. Turner, Bill L., II, and Jeremy A. Sabloff. 2012. “Classic Period Collapse of the Central Maya Lowlands: Insights about Human–Environment Relationships for Sustainability.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 109 (35):13908–14. https:// doi:10.1073/pnas.1210106109. Vayda, Andrew P. 2009. Explaining Human Actions and Environmental Changes. Lanham, MD: AltaMira Press. Waldheim, Charles. 2006. The Landscape Urbanism Reader. New York: Princeton Architectural Press. Waldheim, Charles. 2010. “On Landscape, Ecology, and Other Modifiers to Urbanism.” Topos: The International Review of Landscape Architecture and Urban Design 71:20-24. Waldheim, Charles. 2016. Landscape as Urbanism: A General Theory. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Webster, David, and Timothy Murtha. 2015. “Fractious Farmers at Tikal.” In Tikal: Paleoecology of an Ancient Maya City, edited by David Lentz, Nicholas Dunning, and Vernon Scarborough, 212–37. London: Cambridge University Press. Webster, David, Timothy Murtha, Kirk Straight, Jay Silverstein, and Richard Terry. 2007. “The Great Tikal Earthworks Revisited.” Journal of Field Archaeology 32:1–19. Webster, David L., Jay Silverstein, Timothy Murtha, Kirk Straight and Horacio Martinez. 2004. “The Tikal Earthworks Revisited.” Occasional Papers in Anthropology 28. University Park: Department of Anthropology, Penn State University. Weller, Richard. 2016. “The City Is Not an Egg: Western Urbanization in Relation to Changing Conceptions of Nature.” In Nature and Cities: The Ecological Imperative in Urban Design and Planning, edited by Frederick R. Steiner, George F. Thompson, and Armando Carbonell. Cambridge, MA: Lincoln Institute of Land Policy. Wybe, Kuitert. 2013. “Urban Landscape Systems Understood by Geo-History Map Overlay.” Journal of Landscape Architecture 8 (1):54–63. https://doi.org/10.1080/18626033 .2013.798929.

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11 Urban Planning at Caracol, Belize Governance, Residential Autonomy, and Heterarchical Management through Time A D R I A N S . Z . C H A S E

University of Chicago

INTRODUCTION

Archaeological investigations at Caracol, Belize, have been carried out within this ancient Maya city for almost four decades. This research trajectory has resulted in an initial, but still incomplete, understanding of the urban administration and city planning that occurred at Caracol during its thousand-plus years of occupation (see table 11.1). Here I examine two aspects of ancient urban life at Caracol. The first focus is at the level of households that resided in groupings of mounds located around a common plazuela (e.g., a patio group as per Ashmore 1981:48–49). Multiple groupings of these plazuelas can be aggregated into neighborhoods (sensu Hutson 2016; Smith 2010) consisting not only of the multiple plazuela housemound groups but also of residential reservoirs and agricultural terraces. In fact, the management of agricultural terraces, where dozens of fields drain downslope one into the other, means that neighborhoodlevel planning would have been required to mediate the construction of new fields with owners of existing fields. Moving upwards from the scale of the residential plazuela and associated neighborhoods, I also examine the integration https://doi.org/10.5876/9781646424092.c011

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TABLE 11.1.

The major chronological periods and known dates for Caracol, Belize.

Period

Start

End

Feature

Notes

Preclassic

-600

250

Monumental reservoirs

-300 start for epicenter, older date near Monterey, and preconurbated.

Early Classic 1

250

400

End of E-Group construction

End date could be 380 instead; date indicates appearance of cylinder tripods.

Early Classic 2 400

550

Expanding the E-W causeway system

May potentially relate to ballcourt construction pattern.

Late Classic 1

550

680

Population boom

End date indicates defeat of Caracol by Naranjo.

Late Classic 2

680

800

Expansion into peripheral areas (i.e., suburbs)

Final construction of new monumental nodes.

Terminal Classic

800

900

Slow abandonment and emptying of the city

End date is the end of occupation at Caracol.

of these areas into a broader spatial framework. This second focus is at the level of city administration and can be demarcated by public and integrative architecture within the city; the downtown and its outlying districts are defined by nodes of monumental architecture and plazas that provided urban services; a built road or causeway system linked these nodes to the city’s epicenter and also provided an overland route between the Macal and the Mopan Rivers. The organizational aspects of both the public architecture and the causeways can be temporally sequenced so as to understand how the city developed. Urban form shifted from multiple centers in the Late Preclassic, each individually controlling its own EGroup, and constructed monumental reservoirs to an Early Classic (ca. 250 CE) of unified settlement with the construction of the primary east-west causeways that connected downtown Caracol to both Cahal Pichik and Hatzcap Ceel (figure 11.1). The causeway system and settlement expanded further in both the Early and Late Classic Periods before the start of the Terminal Classic (800 CE). However, urban planning at Caracol involved not simply bottom-up or topdown processes but also lateral and heterarchical aspects of these processes along various spatial scales over time. Within a single metropolitan area, Caracol, the city unified and occupied a large nearly 240 km2 territorial extent (cf. about 200 km2 in modern Belize and about 40 km2 in modern Guatemala) at its height. This was accomplished by situating nodes of monumental architecture throughout the landscape, nearly all of which were connected by a dendritic causeway system to the downtown area (see figure  11.1). That Caracol functioned as a single city, and not as several, can be seen in the primacy and centrality of the epicenter, the dendritic nature of the causeway system, and the continuity and density of residential 350

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FIGURE 11.1. Map of districts at Caracol, Belize, focusing on the highest-order urban service present. These service tiers are cumulative (i.e., every monumental node with a ballcourt also has a formal plaza). This map also demonstrates the dendritic nature of Caracol’s causeway system.

settlement and agricultural terraces (A.  F. Chase and Chase 2001, 2017a). A Guttman-like scale of urban service facility features exists at monumental nodes (A. S. Z. Chase 2016b:25–26), and no boundaries exist in agricultural terracing or settlement between these monumental nodes. In addition, the hieroglyphic and archaeological records also support treating Caracol as a single city, not several (D. Z. Chase and Chase 2017c). Caracol exhibits a landscape covered with residences, built reservoirs, and especially agricultural terraces, making it a true garden city. As a polity, Caracol spanned a far larger spatial extent that incorporated specific locations of interest. The historical aspects of this spatial unit (above the city level)—how the polity came to its extent and how its area and connections varied over time—would have played a part in the planning evident in the archaeological record. These factors also likely influenced the degree to which Caracol the city exhibited a strong sense of categorical identity of group similarity (see Nexon 2009:48 and Tilly 1978:62–69 for general theory; Peeples 2018:8–9, 27–28 for archaeological operationalization) that is visible in the archaeological record of the city’s living groups through similar residential ritual practices of both caching and burial, Urban Planning at Caracol, Belize

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material accessibility beyond simple market interaction, and relative (for the time) wealth equality. These shared practices helped build intracity cohesion while creating and reinforcing the nature of the “Caracol” categorical identity (above person-to-person relational identity) across the large spatial expanse covered by this ancient city (D. Z. Chase and Chase 2004). Archaeological research at Caracol has also documented diachronic changes in urban planning and settlement. Construction, maintenance, and modification of specific types of monumental architecture occurred over the course of the site’s existence, leading to both older and newer expressions of E-Groups and monumental reservoirs within the urban matrix. The monumental nodes that are connected by causeways dendritically to downtown Caracol exhibit both diverse histories and variability in design (see figure 11.2, table 11.2). Three architectural concentrations—downtown Caracol, Hatzcap Ceel, and Cahal Pichik—were initially independent centers that conurbated into the singular city of Caracol during the transition from the Late Preclassic to the Early Classic (i.e., by 250 CE). Some earlier nodes (e.g., Chaquistero and Cohune) were never formally incorporated into the causeway network, but some preexisting centers (e.g., Ceiba, San Juan, Retiro, and New Maria Camp) were connected by causeway to downtown Caracol. Other nodes (e.g., Conchita, Ramonal, and Puchituk) were purposefully constructed in areas of higher settlement, ostensibly to provide needed services. And some other late outlying monumental nodes (e.g., Terminus A and Terminus C) appear to have been built to facilitate urban sprawl with a formal causeway connection, but little supporting proximal residential settlement and agricultural terracing. In general, the average resident of ancient Caracol could have constructed the garden city aspects of the landscape without requiring top-down coordination except at the neighborhood level, even though adjudication of some disputes may have required district-level intervention (see Murtha 2009). However, the monumental construction efforts required to facilitate the distributed nature of Caracol settlement and agriculture have implications both for its urban planning and governance. Additionally, archaeologically observed changes over time highlight the relative equality of residents at the city and the loss of this equality at the end of the city’s history—just before its depopulation in the Terminal Classic (see A. F. Chase and Chase 2021). TOP-D OWN AND BOTTOM-UP PRO CESSES

Caracol exhibits a mixture of top-down and bottom-up processes at multiple scales that include the plazuela level, the neighborhood level, the district level, the citywide level, and the polity level (see A. S. Z. Chase, 2023); and these same intraurban and political scales appear in multiple Mesoamerica and Andean cities despite differences in size and complexity (see Thompson and Prufer, 2023 and Walden and Quequezana, 2023). Each of these scales exerted both 352

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FIGURE 11.2 . The 22 monumental nodes within modern Belize shown over a sky-view factor to highlight the urban services present at each. Three other nodes exist (for a total of 25) in modern Guatemala but not included in the lidar data (after A. S. Z. Chase 2016b:19, figure 3).

Presence/absence data of urban service facility features present within monumental nodes. Less information is known about the three potential nodes in Guatemala, which are not covered by the Caracol or Western Belize lidar datasets. TABLE 11.2.

District Name

Formal Plaza

Ballcourt

Monumental Reservoir

Large Reservoir

E-Group

Causeway

Service Feature Tier 1: Uaxactun E-Group, Cenote E-Group, Ballcourts, Formal Plaza Epicenter

Present

Present

Present

Present

Present

Present



Present

Present

Service Feature Tier 2: Cenote E-Groups, Ballcourts, Formal Plazas Cahal Pichik

Present

Present

Present

Hatzcap Ceel

Present

Present

Present



Present

Present

Ceiba

Present

Present



Present

Present

Present

Cohune

Present

Present





Present

Present

Service Feature Tier 3: Ballcourts, Formal Plazas Retiro

Present

Present



Present



Present

Terminus D

Present

Present



Present



Present

Terminus E

Present

Present







Present

San Juan

Present

Present







Present

New Maria Camp

Present

Present







Present

Terminus F

Present

Present







Present

Midway

Present

Present







Present

Monterey

Present

Present









Terminus G

Present

Present







Present





Present

Service Feature Tier 4: Formal Plazas Chaquistero

Present





Conchita

Present









Present

Puchituk

Present





Present



Present

Ramonal

Present









Present

Round Hole Bank

Present





Present



Present

Terminus B

Present









Present

Terminus A

Present









Present

Terminus C

Present









Present

Potential Districts in Guatemala La Rejolla

Present

?

?

?

?

Present

San José

Present

?

?

?

?

Present

Las Flores Chiquibul

Present

?

?

?

?

?

Urban levels framework for investigating top-down and bottom-up processes. FIGURE 11. 3.

bottom-up and top-down pressure through interactions with the other scales in what may be viewed through a system of urban levels (figure  11.3). The existence of these varied levels, as a device for the interpretation of urban planning, means that the simplified conflation of bottom up with households and of top down with elite does not provide the most nuanced social insights for all of the mid-level interactions. In general, discussing both top-down and bottom-up processes and using heuristic frameworks such as urban levels help Mayanists move away from the prevailing models concerning the existence of either omnipotent rulers or the independence of autonomous residents. Within the first hundred years of the Late Classic Period (specifically between 562 and 658  CE), the city of Caracol grew to be far too large for any single individual to have micromanaged everything that occurred within its boundaries, meaning that the ancient rulers of Caracol could not have administered the city without the use of bureaucrats and other people in the middle (e.g., D. Z. Chase and Chase 2017c; Murakami 2016; M. L. Smith 2018). Although the iconographic and epigraphic records are interpreted as presenting accounts of all-powerful rulers (Martin and Grube 2000), the hieroglyphic texts and portraiture on the Maya stone monuments also show the official constraints placed on leadership positions—the rituals, performances, and other Urban Planning at Caracol, Belize

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requirements that need to be carried out in practice. Both the images and texts on Caracol’s Late Classic monuments indicate that rulers carried out standardized rituals and actions, showing that there were restrictions on their autocratic power. This interpretation is in line with understandings of governance more broadly (Blanton and Fargher 2008; Feinman 2018), and it also indicates a direct limit on their ability to do only as they pleased. Collective action theory posits situations in which autocratic rulers in multiple societies tend to seek outside revenue and use fewer internal taxes; it also shows that increasing internal taxation generally leads to increased requirements to gain the consent of the governed within ancient states (Blanton and Fargher 2008; Levi 1988). Increasing internal taxation thus creates a positive feedback loop whereby internal taxation leads to agitation for or provision of additional social services to justify the increased revenue—over time, this can then loop back on itself. Because of an ever-increasing need for revenue, governing systems tended to gravitate toward more collective societies over time (at least as outlined by Blanton and Fargher 2008). This system of collective action leads to processes that can affect urban planning in ways that are visible archaeologically, especially through the built environmental remains of any structure erected or created to provision urban services. As a comparative aside, in the grand scheme of collective, as opposed to autocratic cities in Mesoamerica, Caracol likely existed as an intermediate point along the autocratic to collective continuum (see also Feinman and Carballo 2018). If we assume that more collective societies experience less wealth inequality (sensu Boix 2015:table 2.1; Carballo 2020:78), then we can use Gini indices as a quick but incomplete comparative metric (see table 11.3). However, other relationships also exist between Gini values, settlement size, and agricultural forms (see Kohler et al. 2018:figure 11.2). Gini indices are used in the field of economics as a statistical measure of the distribution of wealth and inequality in a given society (Gini 1912), but fundamentally they represent a measure of a distribution’s unevenness (Peterson and Drennan 2018:39). At first glance, this appears to be a separate issue from that of social inequality; however, inequality in society represents unequal access to and ownership of resources—whether those resources are material, social, or embodied (see both Bowles et al. 2010; Munson and Scholnick 2021). Historic and archaeological investigation of inequality and its change provide narratives that shape modern understandings of social inequality and suggest, in equal measure, overarching preferences for fairness (e.g., Jennings 2021) amid everpresent inequality, even in “egalitarian” societies (e.g., Flanagan 1989). In this case, the academic discussion of Gini data, society, and governance by archaeologists and other social scientists has direct implications about how we view inequality today. 356

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At first glance, the Gini Index for Caracol is 0.34. It neither exhibits the relative equality of Teotihuacan at 0.12 (M. E. Smith et al. 2014:319–20) nor the extreme inequality present at Tikal at 0.62 (Kohler et al. 2017). However, these base indices are not necessarily comparable or completely accurate (see A. F. Chase 2019); I derived Caracol’s index from the area contained in extended family plazuela groups. Tikal’s method simply states household area without specifying the method used in the supplemental table (i.e., based on structure or plazuela; see Kohler et al. 2017). The Teotihuacan Gini uses apartment compounds evenly divided by the number of residential units within each apartment by status class, which thus artificially flattens the resulting curve with these average values (M. E. Smith et al. 2014:319–20). This means that these Gini indices are not directly comparable because the underlying data types used for analyses differ. Instead, if Teotihuacan is divided by the actual residential subunits within apartment compounds, instead of average areas, or Tikal is expanded to include similar residences of plazuela or patio groups, then these numbers may become more similar to those from Caracol. To return to urban planning, these Gini indices may have implications for interpreting government systems (Boix 2015:table 2.1; Carballo 2020:78), which in the context of an autocratic to collective continuum influence the urban planning present in a given society. Still, other factors including settlement size and agricultural system also need to be considered (Kohler et al. 2018:figure 11.2). In terms of the practical application of collective action on the urban services available to the inhabitants of Caracol, these actions are likely mirrored in the construction and maintenance of formal plazas distributed throughout the urban area; these plazas functioned as marketplaces and loci for civic administration at monumental nodes (A. F. Chase et al. 2015; King 2015). Revenue may have been primarily collected from taxation on market transactions (see D. Z. Chase and Chase 2020d). If so, then this would partially explain (along with other social factors) the dispersed nature of Caracol’s nodes of monumental architecture as practical locations to ensure market access (see figure 11.1). The creation of such market nodes near the city periphery likely encouraged future settlement (see D. Z. Chase and Chase 2014c). Assuming that taxation occurred in the markets at Caracol’s dispersed nodes, the causeway linkages ensured direct connection with the city center of downtown Caracol, which meant that citywide top-down planning was possible. While we think that the dispersed monumental plazas definitely served as spaces for local administration and market transactions, these formal plazas also provided space for ceremonies and other activities that could encourage social cohesion (Inomata 2006; Tsukamoto and Inomata 2014). In addition to these plazas, other urban service facility features identified at Caracol include ballcourts, monumental/large reservoirs, and E-Groups (A. S. Z. Chase 2016b). The ballcourts at some of Caracol’s outlying architectural nodes Urban Planning at Caracol, Belize

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Gini inequalities for roughly contemporary Mesoamerican cities of similar population sizes along with potential governmental interpretations of those inequalities (from Boix 2015 and Carballo 2020, but see also settlement size and subsistence trends in Gini data from Kohler et al. 2018:figure 11.2). In addition, sample sizes differ widely for these data. TABLE 11.3.

Site

Gini

Data Type

Boix 2015 (cited in Carballo 2020) Gov’t Type

Source

Caracol

0.34

Plazuela group

Unknown

A. S. Z. Chase 2017, 2021

Teotihuacan 0.12

Apartment compound*

Republic

Smith et al. 2014

Tikal

Household area†

Monarchy

Kohler et al. 2017

0.62

* Unexcavated apartment compounds were divided into residential units based on the existing sample of 39 residential units to generate this Gini; artificially flattens the overall inequality curve. †

Household area methodology remains undefined in both the article itself and supplemental data on the 762 households analyzed. Reanalysis of residences at Tikal may produce different results.

permitted individuals either to watch or to participate in the Maya ballgame (Scarborough and Wilcox 1991; Stark and Stoner 2017), again promoting positive social cohesion. E-Groups also occur at many of Caracol’s monumental nodes; this architectural complex would have served to tie the local inhabitants to a deep past and also have facilitated a separate type of ritual and social cohesion through its formal structure (Freidel et al. 2017). Gallery and range structures that may be found scattered throughout the city (but usually associated with outlying formal plazas) may have served a separate purpose, similar to the meeting rooms on Caana (A. F. Chase and Chase 2017a). However, top-down processes may be seen in the ultimate focus on the downtown Caracol E-Group over other E-Groups after the Early Classic Period (A. F. Chase and Chase 2017b). However, we do not necessarily know the exact ways in which ancient peoples used these spaces, and the archaeological record shows that these relationships changed over time. Both the landscape and the governance structure likely contributed to Caracol’s immense size. The landscape contained karstic hills and valleys, as well as rich soils, and the governance structure sought to integrate the overlying settlement. Caracol’s populations dispersed over this landscape and enabled a system of sustainable agriculture. The importance of widely placing the architectural nodes to facilitate their use by a dispersed population, and yet maintain central control through a causeway system, is what likely led to Caracol’s eventual size and spatial extent (see A. F. Chase and Chase 2016a). This settlement form of intensive urban agriculture, employing terraces and dendritically connected monumental nodes, ensured that Caracol the city was and still is an anomaly among many urban systems (see Barthel and Isendahl 2013; A. F. Chase and Chase 1998b; Fletcher 2009; Graham 1999). 358

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Warfare theory–based three-day marching distance of direct control potential for extent of known Caracol territorial control after its conquests (see A. F. Chase and Chase 1998a, 2020c, 2021). This is not a direct territorial boundary but the effective zone where military force could easily have been employed and active administrative control would have focused on important resource nodes within this region. FIGURE 11.4.

Caracol also existed as a polity beyond the scale of a single city. Based on marching distance and warfare theory (A. F. Chase and Chase 1998a; Hassig 1991) and least cost-area allocation (see method in A. S. Z. Chase 2016b:24), at its maximal extent, Caracol the polity would have been able to control points of interest militarily within a broad area (figure  11.4) previously estimated at encompassing between 7,000–12,000 km2 at 650 CE (A. F. Chase and Chase 1996:808). No evidence exists to treat this as a firm territorial boundary (e.g., A. F. Chase et al. 2009:181), and the actual nodes of control (e.g., M. L. Smith 2005) could differ from those of a three-day march—especially if researchers consider riverine Urban Planning at Caracol, Belize

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canoe travel. Significantly, Caracol the polity influenced the urban planning at multiple cities, including both Naranjo and Tikal in Guatemala. At Tikal, Caracol buried two of its Late Classic rulers in pyramids on the north side of Tikal’s main plaza, appropriating that sacred space as a result of successful warfare in the early part of the Late Classic Period (A. F. Chase and Chase 2020a, 2020c, 2021). But Caracol did not modify the nature of Tikal’s settlement; instead, it likely used Tikal for extractive tribute (A. F. Chase et al. 2022). Tikal, in fact, exhibits a separate concentrated urban form that is unique and distinctive from that seen at Caracol (A. S. Z. Chase and Cesaretti 2019; A. F. Chase et al. 2020a; Murtha 2015). Together, this seems to indicate that urban planning over time occurred at the citywide scale within Maya societies, while at the polity level governing elites focused specifically on erecting monuments and monumental architecture in specific nodes (see also Liendo and Campiani, this volume), thus having less of an impact on overall city plans. These inferences also suggest that the degree or form of internal revenue collected at various cities could differ within a single polity. RESIDENTIAL AUTONOMY

Three specific archaeological features exist at this garden-city scale, and each would have required distinct levels of planning to construct and maintain: extended family plazuela groups (A. F. Chase and Chase 2014a; D. Z. Chase et al. 2020:116–18), built residential reservoirs (A. S. Z. Chase 2016a), and constructed agricultural terraces (A. F. Chase and Chase 1998b). Although monumental construction efforts appear to facilitate a higher degree of top-down urban planning, the basic fabric of the garden city of Caracol, which consisted of extended family plazuela groups and neighborhoods, would not have required top-down planning to manage. In truth, many combinations of processes could operate at multiple scales and exhibit equifinality in their formation; however, it is likely that this more basic residential scale utilized bottom-up processes by residents within neighborhoods or adjacent plazuela groups to engage in collective action—but only as necessary. This inference supports ideas about the relative independence of ancient Maya residents within their respective cities (Murtha 2009, 2015). Plazuela groups existed as extended family units with a central plaza often surrounded by three or more cardinally located structures; even though as many as a dozen structures can crowd the edges of a single residential plaza, in general, the majority of Caracol’s plazuela groups averaged four structures (A. F. Chase et al. 2023, forthcoming). Of equal importance to this discussion is the fact that the overall household plan centered on the plazuela existed along the entire spectrum of residences from the ruler’s residence atop Caana down to the smallest plazuela group at Caracol. However, the number and types of these structures could vary widely, as could the kinds of buildings incorporated within 360

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a given residential group; outbuildings included sweat baths, storage areas, shrines, and kitchens (A. F. Chase and Chase 2014a). In addition, these residences grew through accretion and expansion across generations. Archaeological excavations in Caracol’s residential groups exhibit intricate stratigraphic sequences that suggest these structures and plazas underwent complex accretional growth and urban renewal over time. Outside help in their construction would not have been required, but it would have expedited the process at each step. The city of Caracol exhibits three types of built reservoirs (by size): residential, large, and monumental (A. S. Z. Chase 2016b:table 2), and the focus on constructing each type shifts over time (A. S. Z. Chase 2019). Residential reservoirs were sometimes built into residential plazuelas themselves but were more often built into the landscape near residential groups. They were usually formally constructed and stone-lined, often rectilinear in shape and sealed with clay or limestone to store rainfall runoff for use during the dry season. I distinguish “reservoirs” from aguadas, which form natural concavities for the storage of rainwater on the landscape. While aguadas are not common at Caracol, some reservoirs appear to be modified aguadas (e.g., Crandall 2009), making this distinction tenuous. The location of Caracol on a karstic plateau away from standing bodies of potable water (e.g., rivers and lakes) highlights the use of all reservoirs for their potential to store water during the dry season. At the same time, as standing bodies of water, reservoirs could have had diverse uses that possibly included aquaculture. Excavated deposits at Caracol contain the remains of whole and partial saltwater fish, which would have required substantial effort to bring from the coast (Cunningham-Smith et al. 2014). While specific cultural practices and the use of water lilies and fish would have been required to mitigate mosquito populations, parasites, and disease (Lucero et al. 2011:483–84), freshwater fish would also provide an additional protein source (as they did at other Maya sites; see Coyston 2002; Powis et al. 1999; Scherer et al. 2007). In addition, since watery imagery has long been associated with the underworld and ritual power by the ancient Maya (Lucero and Fash 2006; Stross 1994), it suggests that local aquaculture practices would have deeper meanings than simple food provisioning for a plazuela’s residents. Either way, no clear evidence currently exists to support this type of aquaculture at Caracol—especially given the poor preservation of materials within the reservoirs themselves—but the data do not preclude the possibility either. Within the city of Caracol, the ratio of residential reservoirs to plazuelas could be as low as 1:1, with no plazuela more than 120 feet from a reservoir (A. S. Z. Chase 2016a:892). This value varies over the city as a whole, and the current lidar data provide an overall ratio of about 1:3.5 within the city of Caracol; future resampling would likely lower this ratio. From a planning perspective, these smaller built reservoirs remained instrumental as a provisioning source of Urban Planning at Caracol, Belize

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water during the dry season. Large reservoirs exist as a size class between smaller residential and larger monumental reservoirs, possessing a surface area of over 120 m2 but well under the 1000 m2 at monumental nodes. Their construction does appear to have occurred in the Late Classic 2 monumental nodes or in the three Preclassic nodes (aside from the B Group reservoir in the epicenter). Their construction likely fades in conjunction with the proliferation of residential reservoirs. Monumental reservoirs only occur at the three Late Preclassic monumental nodes that conurbated into the metropolitan framework of Caracol by 250 CE. By the start of the Late Classic Period, planning for monumental nodes distributed within the urban matrix no longer required the construction of even large reservoirs; they are not in evidence at either the Conchita or PajaroRamonal Termini. This indicates not only a system of formal planning based on the temporal pattern of reservoirs but also diachronic change in the use of these features. In addition, labor would have been required to maintain and remodel reservoirs in the interstitial time between the dry and wet seasons, concentrating labor requirements into a smaller window of time. But even as residential reservoirs do not appear to exhibit top-down planning, those associated with monumental architecture would likely have had top-down purposes. In contrast to plazuela groups and reservoirs, constructed agricultural terraces would have utilized planning at least at the neighborhood level due to the large labor investment in construction, the physical extant of some of these terraces, and the flow of water from one field into another (see also discussion on agricultural terraces by Nondédéo et al., Walker, this volume). Terrace soil was manipulated down to bedrock within ancient Caracol due to both the lack of small stones and a missing soil horizon (Healy et al. 1983:406). This matches other examples of the ancient Maya spending large amounts of effort on soil management (Turner 1978:170). On top of the physical labor required for terraces, their construction was also undertaken to encourage the flow of water across fields instead of directly downslope (A. S. Z. Chase and Weishampel 2016). The requirement for neighborhood-level planning is primarily due to the need for some kind of management of these systems of terraces, especially as dozens of these fields drain into each other downslope, meaning that any construction of a new field had to be mediated with the owner of any existing fields. While the issue of ancient land tenure remains difficult to ascertain through archaeology alone, some researchers have attempted to determine parameters for land ownership in the Belize Valley (LeCount et al. 2019) and Southern Belize (Thompson and Prufer 2021). The long time span of Caracol’s field system and the lack of evidence for system subdivision indicates that some form of land tenure existed but does not explicitly argue for any particular system. For Caracol, communication and interaction through the planning and construction process would have been required for these features, even if they were 362

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managed by individual households or held as community land. While prior arguments have been made for some top-down management of agricultural terraces (A. F. Chase and Chase 1998b:72–73), it seems more reasonable to advocate for a lower-level system of organization at the plazuela or neighborhood levels and to acknowledge that the system of land tenure present could adjust the level of administration required (see also Netting 1993). For all three of the feature classes listed, planning would also have been required at some level of community interaction. Individual plazuelas or residential reservoirs may not have required any support from additional households; however, given the density of the terracing on the landscape by the Late Classic Period, if not earlier, the agricultural terraces would have likely required neighborhood or community-level organization. In addition, the interconnected nature of terraced fields could have created a potential for disputes over agriculture or land tenure within Caracol that required an outside force to help adjudicate. While the actual construction of these features would not have required labor from beyond that community and, while it is likely that the neighborhood could have handled internal disputes, it is possible that the range or gallery structure meeting rooms (see example on Caana in A. F. Chase and Chase 2017a:18-19, figure 2) found in the monumental nodes at the level of districts could have hosted administrators who facilitated the adjudication of arguments that could not be resolved at the local level—with one caveat. The argument for semi-autonomous residential groups managing most of their daily life, local construction, and planning seems likely—but these groups were still interconnected to a larger economic system through the market plazas for many of their needed goods (e.g., A. F. Chase and Chase 2015; D. Z. Chase and Chase 2020). M O N U M E N TA L A R C H I T E C T U R E A N D C O H E S I O N

In contrast to the plazuelas, reservoirs, and terracing, the organization of the more monumental architecture at Caracol leaves little room for formal community management below the district level. Causeways facilitated formal movement and connectivity among monumental nodes, and all transit and transport within the city was done on foot. These causeways existed at the citywide scale and connected public architecture back to the primary node of downtown Caracol (figure 11.1). This dendritic system enhanced movement from, to, and through the downtown instead of between other monumental nodes (A.  F. Chase and Chase 2001). This indicates formal top-down, city-scale planning of road construction and intentional avoidance of most district-to-district connections, but there are occasional neighborhoods, plazuelas, or acropoleis that are directly connected to these linear roads by means of a formally constructed causeway spur. These connections appear only infrequently, seemingly more often near older monumental nodes, and may reflect the vagaries of time in Urban Planning at Caracol, Belize

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terms of wealth, community needs, and political connections. What is important is that the longer causeways facilitated movement to the monumental buildings and plazas found throughout Caracol amid the garden cityscape. Both the administrative and the garden aspects of Caracol the city required the other to function, but their management allowed plenty of room for heterarchical governance in the planning for and administration of specific features, including E-Groups, monumental or large reservoirs, and formal monumental plazas. E-Groups provided for community-oriented spaces with cosmological and astronomical purposes that would have required formal planning to construct (Freidel et al. 2017). Although the exact nature of their use(s) can be debated, these features appear to have a limited distribution in the Maya region and a clear temporal origin in the Middle to Late Preclassic Period (BCE 900—CE 250) in the southern lowlands (A. F. Chase et al. 2017:figure 1.4) with broader ties to deeper Mesoamerican traditions (Inomata et al. 2021). Caracol contains multiple E-Groups, but only downtown Caracol sees a “modernization” to a Uaxactunstyle E-Group from a Cenote-style E-Group (A. F. Chase and Chase 1995, 2017b). In addition, evidence points to the use of E-Groups until the end of occupation at Caracol (A.  F. Chase and Chase 2020b), probably as part of top-down processes of community integration. Monumental and large reservoirs provided for bulk rainwater storage; however, the question of use between an autocratic (Lucero 2006a, 2006b) and a more collective (A. S. Z. Chase 2016a; Johnston 2004) water management system remains open to debate (see also Murtha; Liendo and Campiani, this volume). It is likely that this debate has temporal aspects that can be difficult to disentangle from the final urban form present on the landscape, especially as these systems of water management remain on the landscape leading to path dependence, even if the system of management appears to change over time. For example, there is a focus on monumental reservoirs early in Caracol’s Preclassic history that shifts by the Late Classic toward smaller reservoirs attached to residential compounds. The function of monumental reservoirs may have also changed over time from part of a water management system necessary to provision water to a less necessary and more ornamental feature over time (see A. S. Z. Chase 2019; Klassen and Evans 2020). Regardless of how the Maya used these rainwater storage features, a clear aspect of time superintends their construction. And once built, they remained embedded within the urban framework. Monumental reservoirs occur only at the three formerly independent centers that conurbated to form Caracol’s urban core of the largest monumental nodes—downtown Caracol, Hatzcap Ceel, and Cahal Pichik—all connected by the first causeways built by the end of the Preclassic Period (e.g., D. Z. Chase and Chase 2017c:figure 6). Large reservoirs occur at a smaller subset of monumental nodes, and the latest nodes contained no associated reservoirs (A. S. Z. Chase 2016b:table 2; 2019). 364

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Large monumental plazas provided formalized space for rituals, political events, administration, market exchange, or anything else that needed a formal plaza floor to host. Evidence points to exchange and market use within these spaces of quotidian, ritual, and prestige items, as well as intrasite trade in materials that derived from household production (A. F. Chase et al. 2015; D. Z. Chase and Chase 2014a; Johnson 2016). The distribution of these monumental nodes across the landscape seems to be linked to a desire for the nearly equidistant spacing of these features amid Caracol’s settlement. In addition, materials such as obsidian, polychrome ceramics, jadeite, marine shell, and other exotic goods appear not only to have been exchanged at these markets but also to have been kept at costs low enough to allow nonelite residents to acquire them (D.  Z. Chase and Chase 2017:188–89, 213–16; see also Masson and Freidel 2012). This pattern fits into the market-exchange model in terms of the distribution of goods (Hirth 1998). However, the distribution of goods may also indicate that some level of price control and market management was in place to facilitate a more equitable distribution of goods (A. F. Chase and Chase 2009). In addition, these spaces likely served as centers for other activities (Inomata 2006; Tsukamoto and Inomata 2014). Still, expanding these locales to accommodate future growth and more people would have proved challenging given the spatial constraints obtained in ancient urban planning (see Ossa et al. 2017). At Caracol, the monumental plazas expanded laterally beyond the basic plaza and four-structure unit of urban planning, leading to some monumental nodes having large associated plazas or multiple sets of plazas linked together, as in downtown Caracol. This provides some evidence that the initial plaza planners had not expected such significant growth and could only carry out limited remodeling because of the initial positioning of the monumental architecture within these plazas. The formal plazas, E-Groups, and causeways served as integrative features tying the city together both physically and socially. In addition, the basic unit plan of four structures around a plaza seen at the residential level in plazuela architecture reflects monumental forms around large plazas and even the arrangement on the top of Caana. Ritual activity related to caching and burial maintained a high degree of similarity across social scales. Roughly 70 percent of residences utilized the eastern structure as a ritual building and placed caches and burials within these structures (A. F. Chase et al. 2020:355). Lower-status residences frequently had tombs and burials that have yielded face caches, jadeite, polychrome ceramics, and marine shell. Elite burials at Caracol are not as elaborate as those in some other Maya cities—in fact, they appear “poorer” than their counterparts. The two burials at Tikal that can be identified as Caracol rulers were in fact cited repeatedly by the Tikal researchers for the relative paucity of grave goods in the chambers (A.  F. Chase and Chase 2020c:39; Coggins 1975:372–80; Coe 1990:539–40). This suppression of elite wealth, combined with relatively strong Urban Planning at Caracol, Belize

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signs of wealth among the rest of society, which included dental modifications involving jadeite and hematite inlays, would have helped to build a cohesive and strong categorical identity of shared features among residents of Caracol (A. F. Chase and Chase 2009:figure 2; D. Z. Chase and Chase 2004:figure 1). This categorical identity and focus on more wealth sharing encouraged a form of collective action that likely led to the dispersed nature of the urban planning that is present on the Caracol landscape. TIME AND URBAN PLANNING

From these different scalar data, it becomes evident that diachronic change in planning principles repeatedly emerged. Some monumental features such as E-Groups and monumental reservoirs occur only at the earliest (i.e., Preclassic and Early Classic 1) monumental nodes, while the latest (i.e., Late Classic 2) nodes tend to have neither large nor monumental reservoirs present in association with their formal plazas. These formal plazas themselves exhibit the constraints of population growth. That much is clear, for instance, when the expansion of plaza space kept earlier monumental structures in place and simply extended beyond the basic plaza unit of four structures around a central plaza. In addition, this fundamental plaza unit occurs at multiple spatial scales—from the residential to the monumental—and occasionally exhibits a nested scale (i.e., B Group plaza and the summit of Caana). Other evidence points to indications of potentially purposeful design that facilitated urban sprawl (see also D. Z. Chase and Chase 2014b). Three of the latest (Late Classic 2) monumental nodes constructed (Terminus A, Terminus B, and Terminus C) all exist toward the urban periphery (see figure 11.1). The causeway system ties them into the formal structure of Caracol, but the lack of population and their smaller sizes indicates something odd about these nodes (see figure 11.2). They appear to be constructed tactically in order to place a formal plaza and associated structures—and the connecting road—near peripheral areas in a way that would have encouraged population to follow a well-used strategy in many urban landscapes (A. F. Chase and Chase 2016b:364). These three termini potentially show urban planning with an eye toward population growth and the management of urban sprawl at Caracol. The administrative structures had been built in Late Classic 2 to encourage settlement that would never peak due to the eventual depopulation of the entire city during the Terminal Classic. Excavations at Caracol have also yielded information about extensive urban renewal in some residential groups of various sizes throughout the Caracol metropolitan area. In the area of public architecture known as “Monterey,” indications are that ancient Maya removed earlier architectural layers from several groups and rebuilt new structures in the Late Classic period (see also Eppich, Menéndez, and Marken, this volume). In a residential group east of the Machete 366

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Terminus, evidence exists for the complete removal of earlier remains to bedrock and then the construction of elaborate residential architecture during the Late Classic Period. Another residential group to the south of Machete appears to have had its structures demolished to expand the plaza. In yet another residential group, the remains of at least eight individuals, forty ceramic vessels (dating from 480 through 850 CE), and smaller artifacts had been jumbled together in a small tomb in an eastern building, which bears all the hallmarks of a Terminal Classic ritual deposit that likely resulted from the intentional redeposition of burials disturbed during the urban renewal process (A.  F. Chase and Chase 2014:8; A. F. Chase et al. n.d.). Most excavations at Caracol show evidence for building atop prior structures, leading to a slow accretion of architectural volume and structure size over time; however, as seen from these examples, the potential for completely removing existing structures also existed (see part II, this volume). In this context, the importance of excavation to test the surfacelevel palimpsest visible in survey becomes even more important to investigations of settlement dynamics. This also means that at times and for places within this city, we cannot always know what urban form was previously present because it has been stripped away. CONCLUSION

Both extensive survey and excavated archaeological data are necessary to be able to discuss the various aspects of urban planning of Maya cities. At Caracol, planning exists in the urban palimpsest; the intermixing of processes at multiple levels affected both the built environment and the resulting urban form in multiple ways that we are only now beginning to sort through. The framework developed here showcases an overlapping heterarchical system of urban planning that is influenced by the feature in question, the time period of construction and use, and the urban scale considered. Based on current information, residential plazuelas, it appears, managed to maintain a great deal of autonomy at a local level. In addition, urban planners seem to have both constructed and spatially placed specific features within the city of Caracol so as to provide services to residents. The interpretation for such construction practices derives from collective action theory and indicates sufficient internal taxation to warrant service provisioning. The archaeology of Caracol also exhibits built remains, artifactual distributions, and ritual practices that helped to facilitate the adoption of a categorical identity by the city’s residents; this adoption can be seen in the presence of eastern household shrines, caching and burial practices, accessibility of otherwise prestige goods such as jadeite and polychrome ceramics, and widespread dental modification patterns. Together, these features and practices would have acted to reduce the barrier to collective action and increased social cohesion (see also Baldassarri Urban Planning at Caracol, Belize

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2011; Bethany and LeCount 2017; A. F. Chase and Chase 2009; Normark 2004; Peeples 2017; Tilly 1978). The large spatial scale of Caracol the city—with its multiple administrative nodes built around formal plazas and its causeways dendritically connected to the downtown/city center—meant that the integration of the garden cityscape aspects of plazuelas, residential reservoirs, and agricultural terraces required civic administration and an active means of increasing social cohesion. Based on collective action theory (combining the distinct uses in Blanton and Farger 2008 and Peeples 2018), the city would have provided urban services—seen in its formal plazas, monumental reservoirs, ballcourts, and E-Groups—as well as arbitration in exchange for taxation. The last of these was likely carried out within the monumental nodes that hosted those services and likely managed by bureaucrats and other people in the middle (e.g., Murakami 2016; M.  L. Smith 2018). In the case of formal plazas and planning, evidence points toward their potential use to facilitate urban sprawl, which encouraged both population growth and agricultural terrace construction. While the focus on specific features may have changed through time—as for E-Groups and monumental reservoirs—the importance of these features to the overall urban structure is attested to by the fact that they were still maintained through several hundred years of occupation and urban renewal projects, despite the fact that their original purposes had faded. Finally, urban residents could have constructed their daily landscape of plazuelas, residential reservoirs, and agricultural terraces without citywide top-down administration, but neighborhood or district level administration was required for their agricultural terraces and produced their garden cityscape. The urban form of the ancient city of Caracol resulted from a variety of heterarchical and hierarchical processes at multiple social levels that, when taken together, reveal a long-term, complex pattern of urban planning. Acknowledgments. Thank you to both Damien Marken and Charlotte Arnauld for organizing this volume and providing useful recommendations to improve previous versions of this text. Thank you to Alanna Ossa and Krista Eschbach for comments and suggestions on this research. Thank you to Arlen F. Chase and Diane Z. Chase for encouragement, comments, and suggestions for this research. And thank you to Michael E. Smith, Ben Nelson, Abigail York, and Matthew A. Peeples for introducing me to many of the theoretical concepts employed here. Finally, this data is based on research supported by the National Science Foundation under Grant no. 1822230. REFERENCES

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12 Urban Planning through the Prism of Infrastructure at Palenque, Chiapas An Assessment of City Function and Local DecisionMaking during the Late Classic R O D R I G O L I E N D O ST UA R D O

Instituto de Investigaciones Antropológicas, UNAM ARIANNA CAMPIANI

Marie Curie fellow, IIA-UNAM and Università di Roma-La Sapienza

How did ancient Maya cities grow? Was this a process of urban transformation guided by the top-down efforts of a selected group of individuals geared toward the well-being of their communities, or can the final city layout be conceived as the sum of a myriad of random and individual decisions taken at the household level without centralized planning? Obviously this either-or oversimplifies a much more complex phenomenon. Nevertheless, the dichotomy is an interesting one and highlights an important methodological issue: archaeologists involved in understanding the social logic of ancient Maya urban settings should be able to differentiate between urban infrastructure (needed to maintain the necessary minimum conditions for human populations to thrive) and urban programs aimed to satisfy personal agendas (political or ideological in nature). We should also be able to frame the problem of ancient Maya urban growth as a collective enterprise, an arena of conflicting interests and unforeseen results, because only then can we begin a genuine comparative study of Maya urbanism and its lessons for contemporary societies. With this aim and using our ongoing investigation into one of the main household groups within the city of Palenque, Group IV, https://doi.org/10.5876/9781646424092.c012

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we examine in this chapter some key aspects of Palenque urban development and the trajectories leading to its final Late Classic form. We know Palenque’s intriguing history in some detail thanks to the translations and interpretations of the written narratives that its original inhabitants left in stone and other media. Archaeological research has complemented this interpretive work by documenting long-term processes with improved temporal definition. Our archaeological explorations at the Palenque urban core has been carried out in conjunction with systematic regional studies conducted over the last twenty years. This comprehensive approach allows a better interpretation of the political and economic context in which this important city developed and thrived for so many centuries. By focusing on concepts like accessibility, centrality, infrastructural work, and sectorization, we seek to outline the social logic of urban development at Palenque. T H E U R B A N F O R M O F A N C I E N T PA L E N Q U E : R E S O U R C E S , ACCESSIBILITY, AND THE INFRASTRUCTURAL M O D I F I C AT I O N O F T H E E N V I R O N M E N T

The study of the ancient Maya city of Palenque offers a unique opportunity to address urban planning in pre-Hispanic times and to think about its extent. The city developed on a 2.2 km2 plateau in a strategic position, visually dominant and, at the same time, geographically restricted, where nine permanent streams that cross the plateau in a south-north direction made the location ideal for settling (figure 12.1). To the north, Palenque overlooks the plains of Tabasco toward the Gulf of Mexico; to the south, the plateau is geographically limited by the elevations of the Sierra Madre de Chiapas. Three characteristics of the surrounding environment need to be considered when discussing Palenque urban form: first, the defensive possibilities and transport potential provided by the characteristics of local topography; second, its location with respect to permanent water sources; and third, its position adjacent to an ecotone of great biological diversity with plenty of lands suitable for cultivation. These different environmental zones provided the ancient Maya population with both highland and lowland resources (Stuart and Stuart 2008). The seasonal and perennial swamps that characterize the Tabasco plains would have, in addition, increased productive variability of the flora and fauna that characterize the wetland ecosystem (Varela Scherrer 2019). Archaeological excavations of agricultural fields in the lowlands north of Palenque reveal that intense maize cultivation happened in the eighth century; prior to that, crops were probably harvested directly on the plateau (Liendo Stuardo 2006). Peripheral sites are also thought to have provided the capital with fresh fish; this assumption is based on the abundance of fish remains excavated within Group IV in contrast with the absence of net weights or hooks reported from Classic Palenque (Varela Scherrer 2019:11). However, it 378

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Digital elevation model of Palenque’s plateau as seen from the north. (Source: A. Campiani, after López Mejía 2005) FIGURE 12 .1.

has to be considered that other tools, such as spears and baskets, could have been used to catch fish. The perennial and seasonal watercourses and pools within the city would have then provided a host of water products at a comfortable distance from consumers year-round: river shells (xutes), fish, turtles, and fresh water itself. The large amount of water available at Palenque was probably a major reason in the earliest selection of this place for the city location. As a rough indicator of the importance of this feature, Palenque is the only place in an area of 650 km2 we have explored that has permanent and easy-access surface water sources. As the sustaining physical network that allows a city to function in the long run, infrastructure can be subdivided into streets, canals, water or waste conduits, retaining walls, terraces, and specific elements designed to serve multiple households (Smith 2016:168). Smith (2016:172) mentions that the significance of infrastructure can vary according to its purpose or symbolism, and thus it is possible to identify certain features as a direct expression of authority’s design, for example ramparts, gateways, or, as in our case, specific containing walls and bridges. Labor force investment in city design and functioning is expressed in the layout, network, density, and sheer size of infrastructural works visible throughout Palenque, a “manifestation of multi-user physical networks” (Smith 2016:165; see also Chase, this volume). For example, the leveling of terrain, demanding skill, discipline, and design, is a pervasive feature of the urban landscape and perhaps the single feature that required the heaviest investment of labor (figure 12.2). It was necessary almost everywhere in order to create spaces of even terrain. Ubiquitous over the archaeological cityscape as well are the containing walls of artificial terraces, which offer evidence of repetitive programs of urban transformation. The best known of all infrastructural investments is the city epicenter itself. There, several plazas were shaped on different levels that allowed these consecutive open spaces to be used for collective rituals or diverse purposes as occasion demanded (Liendo Stuardo et al. 2014). Water management Urban Planning through the Prism of Infrastructure at Palenque, Chiapas

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FIGURE 12 .2 . Map of Palenque showing infrastructural works associated with terraces and platforms (red) and water management features (yellow). (Source: A. Campiani, after Barnhart 2001 and French 2001).

solutions also stand as another major investment at a city level, as hydraulic infrastructure is present in association with every watercourse. Depending on location, the management of water flow and control of fresh water assumed different forms and, thus, entailed different degrees of complexity. As part of the investigation of the Palenque Mapping Project (Barnhart 2001a), hydraulic system features have been differentiated into aqueducts, pools, drains, bridges, walled channels, and damns (French 2001). Although these features are ubiquitous throughout the ancient city, the aqueduct built to deviate the Otulum River represents an outstanding example of a sophisticated engineering solution adopted to enlarge the monumental platform of the palace while also expanding plaza size (French et al. 2012). Another remarkable hydraulic feature bespeaking the technical expertise of the ancient Palencanos is the Picota aqueduct, located at the western edge of the city, which Kirk French and his team have explored (2019; figure 12.3). Because of its location and the complexity of this water management system, we think that this network of aqueduct and pools is a clear example of a top-down planning process. The Picota water system marks the entrance to the city for people coming from the west. The flat area created by the canalization of natural streams is the starting point of an informal circulation path leading to the city core 380

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FIGURE 12 . 3.

The Picota aqueduct. (Source: E. Mirón Marván)

(figure  12.4). Even today this circuit is easily recognized by the existence of empty areas of flat terrain and the containing walls of artificial terraces. In addition to preventing people from moving freely from one area to another, these infrastructural works functioned as lateral references directing people’s movement within the city (Campiani 2015:230; Lynch 1996:47). It is evident that Urban Planning through the Prism of Infrastructure at Palenque, Chiapas

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FIGURE 12 .4. Map of Palenque showing architectural groups and features mentioned in the text. (Source: A. Campiani, after Barnhart 2001)

the sound of water would have given a rhythm to the city, as it flowed from one neighborhood into the next. The sound would diminish when the main west-east route emptied into a big open area (occupied today by the parking lot of the archaeological site). We believe this huge space functioned as a distribution area for people gathering at Palenque prior to their entrance into the public and religious area. The “distributional space” was an urban design solution to direct the flow of people, a trait shared with other urban settings in the Palenque hinterland as well. For example, we identified a similar layout at Chinikiha, the only first-rank site of the region located 45 kms to the east of Palenque (figure 12.5). There, a huge “distributional space” adjacent to the city core would have led visitors and inhabitants to the monumental sector of the city. At Palenque, stairways covering the elevational differences between the “distributional space” and the epicenter suggest that people would have been directed sinuously into the city core and then entered in front of the Group Encantado. They would have subsequently proceeded toward the palace by following a narrow terrace that eventually led them to flank the sequence of mausoleum basal platforms (Temple of the Calavera [XII], Temple XIII, and Temple of the Inscriptions) just before entering the main plaza (Campiani 2015:233; see also Hare and Masson, this volume). 382

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FIGURE 12 .5. The “distribution area” proposed for Palenque and Chinikiha (same scale). (Source: A. Campiani, after Barnhart 2001 and Palenque Regional Project 2011)

Further proof of the importance of the west-east route and of the possibility that the main entrance to the city was located close to the Escondido Group is represented by a series of freshwater pools associated with the Picota aqueduct Kirk French and his team excavated (2019). After an ethnographic comparison with a San Juan Chamula pool used for ritual purposes and the association of Urban Planning through the Prism of Infrastructure at Palenque, Chiapas

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the Picota pools with the only standing stelae of the site, the authors suggest the main pool was a ceremonial feature (French et al. 2019:20). At the moment, we cannot say whether this was its only purpose or whether, possibly, Palencanos also used it for medicine and recreation. Under the canopy, the magnificent color and freshness of water would have been an invitation—or at least encouraged people to pause on their way. Without being certain of its end purpose, we argue that the connection between this kind of feature and the city entrance can be inferred from another artificial pool at the base of the escarpment in the northeast sector of the city. Close to this location, as we have suggested, a series of consecutive terraces might correspond to a stairway connecting the plain with the Murciélagos Group (Campiani 2019:181). Two other artificial pools located roughly 300 m east of the Picota pools and close to the base of the Templo Olvidado’s escarpment might reinforce the ritual usage of pools within the city, as well as their connection to the main path and to important ritual buildings located along its way (figure 12.6). For instance, it has been suggested that Templo Olvidado was the funerary building of Pakal’s parents (de la Garza et al. 2012:84). However, we still lack the critical archaeological data needed to assess with certainty whether the infrastructural works described so far belong to different chronological periods or are the result of a vast top-down architectural program that entailed a partial modification of the whole plateau marking the beginning of the city’s development. Such modifications, needless to say, would have involved Palenque elites in their planning and execution. Monica Smith (2016:165) suggests that infrastructure, as a highly planned and intentional focus of investment, includes the participation of multiple actors involved in ongoing processes of dialogue and negotiation. Central authorities are generally considered in charge of the initial design, but the increment and maintenance of infrastructure are subject to negotiation between providers and end users (Smith 2016:167). In the case of Palenque, though current knowledge about its early occupation history is still scant, archaeological work and epigraphic data narrow down the sequence of some major architectural programs and their associated infrastructural works. In this regard, the chronology established through ceramic analysis (López Bravo and Venegas Durán 2012) suggests that the west and east edges of the plateau were occupied before the sixth century BCE by two small and separated communities. No architecture has been found in association with this Preclassic-Early Classic phase, however. These two hamlets, west and east, were part of a system of early settlements present along the first escarpments of the Sierra de Chiapas and described by our regional survey (Liendo Stuardo 2011). On the plateau, they were eventually engulfed by Palenque’s later urban sprawl. We believe that the area that later became the city epicenter was used 384

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FIGURE 12 .6. Map of Palenque showing the proposed west- east route and the northeast entrance from the plain. The artificial pools associated with informal paths are highlighted. (Source: A. Campiani, after Barnhart 2001)

FIGURE 12 .7. Palenque epicenter, where huge construction works are visible in the leveling of open areas and in the religious and public buildings. (Source: Nicola Lercari)

by the two communities for communal activities, interchange, or rituals. The conditioning of the city epicenter happened later, in a single major construction effort during the fifth century CE. That effort involved the leveling of a natural terrace and the canalization of water streams geared toward the creation of a flat and dry surface where most of the civic-ceremonial buildings of the city were erected in later times. This first moment of architectural burst is exemplified by the construction of several small shrines at the northern edge of the newly created Palenque central plaza (modified and covered by the later buildings belonging to Grupo Norte), a small substructure buried by the Ball Game Court and the first platform of the Palace (Tovalín Ahumada and Ceja Manrique 1996). It was at the beginning of the seventh century and over the next two hundred years, under the ruling of K’inich Janaab’ Pakal and his two sons K’an Balam and K’an Hok’ Chitam (Liendo Stuardo 2014; Stuart and Stuart 2008), that the Palenque civic-ceremonial sector took the shape we see today, with most of its main buildings and plaza layout already in place (figure 12.7). It is not difficult to envision how the construction of Palenque temples, with their sophisticated architectural design and the selection of their specific locations, denotes the capacity to modify a place and manifest the necessary technical knowledge associated with urban planning and the organization of collective constructive efforts (Lynch and Hack 2000). It is less clear, though, how the initial design and the execution of its architectonic program conditioned subsequent minor adaptations to the original design. Changes and additions to the initial conditioning of the city epicenter 386

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are evident in the archaeological record over almost four hundred years of city history. However, it is interesting to notice that these alterations did not necessarily imply a profound transformation of either the meaning or the function of this locus as the civic-ceremonial core of the city. This means that once decided, the original program stayed nearly the same throughout Palenque’s history (compare with Eppich et al., this volume). S E C T O R I Z AT I O N A N D N E I G H B O R H O O D S W I T H I N PA L E N Q U E

An initial morphological approach helps in highlighting the characteristics of the urban form: the city epicenter occupies a vast area (about 8.5 ha) toward the east of the plateau, delimited on its south and east sides by natural elevations and to the north by the plateau’s escarpment. Because of the fracture in the terrain east of the epicenter, most of Palenque’s buildings are located toward the west of the core where flatter areas exist. The topographical characteristics of the plateau, along with the containing walls of the terraces, help in subdividing the city into different sectors that could have corresponded to urban neighborhoods or districts. Inside each of these well-defined areas, it is possible to recognize diverse architectural compounds often sharing artificial terraces. These clusters gravitate around a “central” compound, which stands out for their formal characteristics or for the labor investment visible in their two-story buildings with masonry-vaulted gallery-type rooms (Campiani 2015). We believe that for the moment it is justified to call these clusters neighborhoods. The central compounds in these discrete urban sectors might also correspond to the dwelling place of prominent families who lived and buried their ancestors in the neighborhood’s bigger and most elaborate architectural compound (Arnauld and Dzul Góngora, Hiquet et al., this volume; see also see Marken and Arnauld, this volume). These could also be considered the center of ritual and economic neighborhood life. For the great majority of city dwellers in preHispanic times, neighborhoods constituted the main area of residence, where the activities necessary for the existence of their community were carried out (Smith 2011; Lemonnier 2011). Despite our current lack of precise information relative to the internal organization of the majority of these neighborhoods, excavated samples of such “central compounds,” especially from the residential area of the “Cross Group,” and Groups B, C and IV, are highly suggestive (figure 12.4). That is to say, the Cross Group and its residential area, the Group Otolum, evidence direct ties to the ruling lineage of Palenque. The constructive volume, the dimension of the open spaces, the quality of its monuments, as well as the importance of the texts and images associated with its buildings, are of a scale greater than that found in any other group of the city, other than the Palace and Temple of the Inscriptions. The texts and images provide information about transcendental events in the life Urban Planning through the Prism of Infrastructure at Palenque, Chiapas

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of the rulers, and, above all, they are the vehicles through which the undeniable attributes of their leadership status unfolded. A comparison of the material obtained from the excavations in Groups B, C, and IV suggests that certain parallels might be established regarding the general distribution of buildings, the apparently ritual functions of certain architectural contexts present in all household compounds, and evidence of economic activities carried out within them. In Group C, for example, Buildings 1 and 3 have parallel vaulted galleries subdivided into rooms with materials associated with domestic activities, while Building 2 looks to have a ritual purpose. This construction is a stepped platform that measures 30 m long, 8 m wide, and 7 m high. The remains of staircases are present at the north and south ends of its western facade. In this structure, three cist burials were located, along with the remains of several censer stands (López Bravo 1995). All the buildings excavated in Group B present evidence of domestic activities except Buildings 2 and 3, the central rooms of which have a sanctuary similar to the sanctuaries of the temples of the Cross Group and the niche of House F of the palace, though, as we would expect, of much smaller dimensions and qualities (see Child 2007). Inside the sanctuary, a limestone sculpture was found with similarities to the ceramic incense burners so characteristic of the site. The central motif of the sculpture was a human face intentionally destroyed. Under the room that contains the sanctuary of Building 3 was located the most important burial chamber of Group B. The same domestic and ritual activities reported for the Cross Group and Groups B and C are also present in Group IV. GROUP IV

Group IV is located directly northwest of the city epicenter, its eastern limit defined by a series of huge terraces that, at the top, feature the Temple of the Count on the western border of the North Group. We believe Group IV is considerably larger than the actual sector identified with this name and that the modern road leading to the archaeological site cuts it into two (Barnhart 2001b:23; figure  12.8). Almost all the constructions in the neighborhood share artificial terraces of diverse sizes adapted to the local topography. Modest-size platform groups are located toward the east; to the west are huge terraces with considerable open spaces and a few buildings associated with a big L-shape construction. The central area of the complex (figure 12.8, inset) is occupied by a central patio delimited by several residential buildings and others with ritual and funerary functions, as demonstrated by our excavations in Building J7. The west and south sides of the patio are occupied by elegant two-story buildings, J1 and J2 and, to the north, two delimiting pyramid structures, the funerary buildings J4 and J6. To the east, another pyramid structure, J7, has been identified as an east temple ( Johnson 2018a; López Mejía 2005; Marken and González Cruz 2007:140) 388

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FIGURE 12 .8. Group IV (top left) and its central location within the surrounding neighborhood. Seasonal and perennial springs and the Takin Ha stream are emphasized. (Source: A. Campiani, after Barnhart 2001)

related to the Plaza Plan 2 arrangement proposed by Becker for Tikal (2014). A similar architectural arrangement is visible in another large neighborhood closely associated with the epicenter of the site, Group C (López Bravo 1995; Marken and González Cruz 2007). Other than for a few similarities observed in the architecture of J1 and structure C2 (Marken and González Cruz 2007:140–41), we lack archaeological data to fully compare the two groups. Nonetheless, a unique characteristic currently stands out for Group IV: under the patio floor of and in association with the structures of J6, J7, and J4 are numerous excavated remains of ceramic incense burners and formal burials deposited in cists (67 burials) that, if added to those found by Robert Rands and López Bravo in previous archaeological seasons, total eighty-five (Liendo Stuardo et al. 2017; López Bravo 1995; Rands and Rands 1961). Epigraphic records inscribed on a carved panel and a stone incensario stand found in Structure J1 confirm the relation between prominent members of Group IV and Palenque’s ruling family. One of the stone incensarios identifies two people, Aj Sul, who acquired a military title in 610 CE, and another individual with a different title given by Pakal I, whose name is still unclear (Izquierdo and Bernal Romero 2011). The Tablet of the Slaves, also found in Structure J1 in a small room on the second floor, depicts the accession of K’inich Ahkal Mo’ Nahb flanked by his parents. The presence of a carved tablet in a residential building within Group IV emphasizes the existence of ties between the inhabitants of this neighborhoods and the ruling family ( Johnson 2018a:68; Marken and González Cruz 2007:142; Schele 1991). Carved tablets are generally found in palace contexts, but Group IV residents obviously had the opportunity to solicit the services of Palenque’s artisans. The text refers to the life of a Palenque lord or sahal, Chak Sutz, whose family and life events were entrenched in the political circles of the city. According to the text, on several occasions during the eighth century, Chak Sutz was involved in military events, and he dedicated the stone after the completion of his third katun, making him roughly sixty years old ( Johnson 2018a:68; Marken and González Cruz 2007:142). Excavations within J7 and J6, in association with micromorphological analyses and radiocarbon dating, trace the history of ritual events carried out at a neighborhood level and unveil the modification of the local environment to accommodate the construction of the eastern mausoleums and their associated open space ( Johnson 2018a, 2018b; Liendo Stuardo et al. 2017). Both these buildings and the patio floor were designed to become the burial location for ancestors and the inhabitants of the Group IV central compound. The surprisingly high number of burials found in this sector probably exceeds the number of people who resided permanently in this residence. To date, about eighty-five burials of men, women, and children have been recovered from the only known “cemetery” in the city (Liendo Stuardo et al. 2017; Lopez Bravo 1995; Rands and Rands 1961). It is quite 390

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probable, then, that this unusual number of burials might indicate that the central compound was indeed the residence of the leading family of an extended social group, some of whose members returned there for burial. The mausoleums J7 and its almost identical pyramid J6 to the north are distinguished by a central solid square-shape construction with no apparent entrance. Its sides are composed by buttress-like elements that seem like later additions to the central platform construction. This also happens in the main J7 west facade where three later irregular stepped elements project toward the plaza to create inset corners at the plaza level. We think that such spaces, also present in J6, were used to accommodate burials at the plaza level. J6 has the same layout as J7, but the frontal stairway (looking south) is characterized by regular steps with balustrades on each side. Excavation of J7 contained the earliest documented deposition, dating to the mid-500s CE, to which water jars, whistles, animals, and food remains testify. Around 576–651 CE, the earliest plaza and underlying bedrock were excavated to bury an individual, with that person’s head oriented to the north and dressed with shell and jade ear plugs, all within a cruciform-shaped crypt ( Johnson 2018b:71, 74). The burial was later sealed with three layers of plaster alternated with limestone slabs, and an altar was built atop the final floor, which was completed around 583–654 CE. The occupants living in Group IV between 636–710 CE buried the altar within a pyramidal building, which became a mausoleum (figure  12.9). During this period, while K’inich Janaab’ Pakal was at the height of his reign, Chak Sutz would have been a child ( Johnson 2018a:89). Another individual was placed inside a cruciform crypt in J6 almost two hundred years after the earliest burial in J7 in the eighth century. According to carbon dates, this burial happened between 768–905  CE. The J6 mausoleum was erected in a single constructive event following the burial ( Johnson 2018a:97–98). A large frontal chamber was designed under the stairway to bury another individual; this tomb was probably disturbed in pre-Hispanic times, as we found it empty. The use of the frontal space under the stairway of J7 to place still another burial has also been detected. As unveiled by excavations, related analyses, and the epigraphic record, the building of the central part of Group IV underwent a process that lasted four hundred years and encompassed several generations whose political influence expanded and wealth increased. J6 and J7 in their main architectural layout correspond to the eighth century. Our excavations have revealed the modification of the natural hill took place in order to bury significant individuals and, later, build their mausoleum. The same plaza floor was also modified to locate more than eighty burials, mostly in formal crypts in superimposed layers. All these actions entail the transgenerational design of a significant place for a growing community closely connected in political terms with the ruling group of the city. The importance of Group IV residents is also evident in their proximity to the city epicenter and in resource availability within Palenque. However pervasive Urban Planning through the Prism of Infrastructure at Palenque, Chiapas

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FIGURE 12 .9.

Three-dimensional model showing the altar found inside Group IV’s East mausoleum, building J7. (Source A. Campiani after Palenque Regional Project 2016)

water is at Palenque, access to it varied among groups, which suggests it was tied to social differences underscored by residential place selection. It is likely no coincidence, then, that Group IV is the only compound in Palenque with a watercourse originating within a residential group, the Takin Ha stream (French 2001:15). The modification of the environment at Group IV entailed diverse stages of planning, starting with the design of the general layout of the central compound: a central patio with an eastern shrine that corresponds to what Marshall Becker has designated Plaza Plan 2 (Becker 2014). Beginning in the mid-500 CE, construction efforts implied the organization of community labor for the filling and leveling of the hillside. We believe that this architectural program was planned since the beginning and that the J7 shrine, dedicated to the memory of an important neighborhood ancestor, was probably contemporaneous with the main buildings of its central area, J1 and J2. Once this architectural program was established, the use of this building as a familial mausoleum remained unaltered for four hundred years. FINAL COMMENTS

Palenque is the central node of an urban system composed of 609 discrete settlements, ranging from isolated platforms to complex civic ceremonial centers that encompass three environmentally diverse morphogenetic systems. From north to south, these are the Pleistocene fluvial terraces, the intermediate plains, and the tertiary formations of the Sierra de Chiapas (Culbert 1973; Rands 1973; West 1969). Palenque’s location, at the foothills of the Sierra de Chiapas (145 m.a.s.l), is a privileged natural setting and overlooks, to the north, the vast flatlands of the Tabasco plains. The location itself imparts to the city and its surroundings certain special qualities in terms of its general settlement pattern. To the north, the city dominated a narrow valley of 180 ha with highly productive soils where the 392

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cultivation areas and their produce served the survival needs of city residents (Liendo Stuardo 2006). Settlements sparsely occupied this zone close to the city, leaving large areas for other daily activities. Farther to the north, a system of small hills with settlements remains and dates primarily to the end of the eighth century, the last Balunté period (750–850 CE). Our current knowledge of Palenque history is unfortunately skewed toward its latest moments of occupation with only sparse glimpses of earlier moments in its sequence. Nevertheless, we are confident that by the middle of the eighth century, regional occupation underwent great innovation and growth in several ways, not least by the colonization of unoccupied territory via new settlements. This filling-in process shows signs of a highly structured top-down decisionmaking effort geared toward more efficient territorial control close to Palenque. This new spatial order is characterized by the regular distribution of second-rank centers similar in size (20 ha average) and architectural layout (Temple-Pyramid, plaza, range structures, and ball game court) every 6 km (Liendo Stuardo et al. 2014). This new eighth-century regional arrangement corresponds nicely with changes within the Palenque urban core. With the ascent to power of Ahkal Mo’ Naab III, major architectural programs were initiated: the refurbishment of older buildings in the palace; the rebuilding of the Southern Acropolis with the construction of Temples XIX, XXI, and XXII; and several sectors of the Central Plaza (Stuart and Stuart 2008). This new wave of construction took place over previous architectural investments and did not necessarily imply a total reformulation of older major projects in the central sector of the city. What we observe in the architectural history of Palenque’s epicenter is a process of gradual addition in size or extent that is unimpeded by radical programs of architectonic renewals or complete overhauls of previous urban layouts. Once the main characteristics of the central plaza and associated buildings were established very early in the history of the city, they had a profound and lasting effect on future urban building programs. Furthermore, since the seventh century, the modification of the environment in the city center, along with the morphological characteristics of the topography, was part of a top-down planning program that sought to establish a meaningful dialogue between city and hinterland through the strategic positioning of symbolic buildings. In fact, the visual dominance of Palenque within its surrounding region implies that significant buildings placed in specific locations would have been seen from faraway, acting as a constant presence on the landscape or a directional reference for people approaching the city from the periphery (Campiani 2017). In order to attract attention and to function as a visible landmark, not only the location of Palenque’s built environment but also the clarity of its forms and their contrast with the background would have been crucial. Apparently these urban design strategies were adopted at Palenque where the summit of every elevation Urban Planning through the Prism of Infrastructure at Palenque, Chiapas

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defining the south edge of the epicenter was occupied by massive buildings atop of huge stepped pyramidal platforms (as is true of Temples XXIII and XXIV). Their sequence and clustering made them strong reference points even within the city limits (Lynch 1996:101). In fact, these constructions would have been visible from multiple places and thus useful spatial indicators of the epicenter. At a city level, other minor constructions likely served as key focal references within the urban environment when positioned alongside other physical elements such as paths, edges, and nodes (Campiani 2019; Lynch 1996:47). Altogether, these elements would have guided an observer through the city while informing them of the permeability of urban areas (Campiani 2015). At the ancient city of Palenque, most of the features that communicated to inhabitants how to move within the urban environment, through neighborhoods or into public spaces, were the fruits of infrastructural works. In that vein, the containing walls of artificial terraces are the material evidence of repetitive programs of urban transformation, as are the important engineering works needed to counteract the effects of erosion and the constant danger of overflow posed by torrential rains. All these major investments required the direction and planning of individuals with experience, as well as the coordination of considerable labor. These collective and directed actions hold important keys to better understanding the mechanisms of social control and cohesion in ancient times. Even if some scholars have argued that only the civic-ceremonial core of the Mesoamerican city was carefully designed whereas residential areas were not (Smith 2017), our investigation at Group IV has shown a different view. As Edwards (2003) and Smith (2016:166) have urged, infrastructure is an incremental accumulation that involves multiple generations; hence it is rarely maintained by the people who constructed it (see, likewise, Marken and Arnauld, Nondédéo et al., this volume). Nonetheless, Palenque demonstrates a transgenerational continuity of design programs, evident in both the civic-ceremonial core of the city and at the neighborhood level. Acknowledgments. The funds necessary to conduct the research on which this chapter is based were granted to Rodrigo Liendo (LS) by PAPIIT (Programa de Apoyo a Proyectos de Investigación e Innovación Tecnológica, Universidad Nacional Autónoma de  México), grant no. IN404820. Arianna Campiani’s (C) research was funded by the European Union’s Horizon 2020 research and innovation program under the Marie Skłodowska-Curie grant agreement no. 839602. The authors used a division of labor in composing this chapter. REFERENCES

Barnhart, Edwin L. 2001a. “The Palenque Mapping Project: Settlement and Urbanism at an Ancient Maya City.” PhD diss., University of Texas. Barnhart, Edwin L. 2001b. The Palenque Mapping Project, 1998—2000 Final Report. FAMSI. 394

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Becker, Marshall Joseph. 2014. “Plaza Plans and Settlement Patterns: Regional and Temporal Distributions as Indicators of Cultural Interactions in the Maya Lowlands.” Revista Española de Antropología Americana 44 (2):305–36. https://doi.org/10.5209/rev_ REAA.2014.v44.n2.50719. Campiani, Arianna. 2015. Arquitectura de la arqueología: Análisis de la estructura urbana de Chinikihá y Palenque entre los siglos VIII y IX. Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. Campiani, Arianna. 2017. “Una proposta di lettura integrale della città Maya antica: La morfologia urbana di Chinikihá e Palenque (Chiapas, Messico) nel periodo classico.” Restauro Archeologico (Monografico 2017):114–27. https://doi.org/10.13128/RA-20530. Campiani, Arianna. 2019. “El entorno construido y su capacidad comunicativa: Las ciudades Mayas de Chinikihá y Palenque en el clásico tardío.” In Culturas visuales indígenas y las prácticas estéticas en las Américas desde la antigüedad hasta el presente, edited by Sanja Savkic, 165–89. Berlin: Mann Verlag. Child, Mark. 2007. “Ritual Purification and the Ancient Maya Sweatbath at Palenque.” In Palenque: Recent Investigations at the Classic Maya Center, edited by Damien B. Marken, 233–64. New York: Altamira Press. Culbert, Patrick. 1973. The Classic Maya Collapse. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Edwards, P. N. 2003. “Infrastructure and Modernity: Force, Time and Social Organization in the History of Sociotechnical Systems.” In Modernity and Technology, edited by Thomas Misa, Philip Brey, and Andrew Feenberg, 185–225. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. French, Kirk D. 2001. The Waters of Lakam Ha. A Survey of Palenque’s Water Management. FAMSI. French, Kirk D., Christopher J. Duffy, and Gopal Bhatt. 2012. “The Hydroarchaeological Method: A Case Study at the Maya Site of Palenque.” Latin American Antiquity 23 (1):29–50. https://doi.org/10.7183/1045-6635.23.1.29. French, Kirk D., Kirk D. Straight, and Elijah J. Hermitt. 2019. “Building the Environment at Palenque: The Sacred Pools of The Picota Group.” Ancient Mesoamerica:31 (3): 409–30. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0956536119000130. Garza, Mercedes de la, Guillermo Bernal Romero, and Martha Cuevas García. 2012. Palenque-Lakamhá. Fideicomiso Historia de las Américas. Serie: Ciudades. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica-El Colegio de México. Izquierdo, Ana Luisa, and Guillermo Bernal Romero. 2011. “Los gobiernos heterárquicos de las capitales Mayas del clásico: El caso de Palenque.” In El despliegue del poder político entre los Mayas, edited by Ana Luisa Izquierdo, 151–92. Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. Johnson, Lisa M. 2018a. “Tracing the Ritual ‘Event’ at the Classic Maya City of Palenque, Mexico.” PhD diss., University of California.

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Johnson, Lisa M. 2018b. “Siguiendo los rastros de los depósitos rituales: Esbozo de un marco arqueológico para el estudio de las prácticas rituales en Palenque.” Estudios de Cultura Maya 52:51–76. Lemonnier, Eva. 2011. “Des quartiers chez les Mayas à l’époque classique?” Journal de la société des Américanistes 97 (1):7–50. Liendo Stuardo, Rodrigo. 2006. La organización de la producción agrícola en un centro maya del Clásico: Patrón de asentamiento en la región de Palenque, Chiapas, México. Pittsburgh: INAH, University of Pittsburgh. Liendo Stuardo, Rodrigo, ed. 2011. B’aakal: Arqueología de la región de Palenque, Chiapas, México, Temporadas 1996–2006. Vol. 2203. Oxford: BAR. Liendo Stuardo, Rodrigo. 2014. “Una revisión arqueológica de la historia de Palenque durante los siglos VIII y IX (fases Murciélagos-Balunté).” Cuicuilco 60 (May-August):67–82. Liendo Stuardo, Rodrigo, Arianna Campiani, Lisa M. Johnson, Nicoletta Maestri, Roberto Vilchis Silva, Alejandra Chávez, Verónica A. Vázquez López, and Felix Alexander Kupprat. 2017. Primer informe parcial de excavaciones, Grupo IV, Palenque, Chiapas, Temporada 2016. Mexico City: Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia. Liendo Stuardo, Rodrigo, Javier López Mejía, and Arianna Campiani. 2014. “The Social Construction of Public Spaces at Palenque and Chinikihá, Mexico.” In Mesoamerican Plazas, edited by Kenichiro Tsukamoto and Takeshi Inomata, 108–20. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. López Bravo, Roberto. 1995. “Grupo B de Palenque, Chiapas. Una unidad Maya del clásico tardío.” Tesis de Licenciatura, Escuela Nacional de Antropología e Historia (Mexico City). López Bravo, Roberto, and Benito Venegas Durán. 2012. “Continuidad y cambios en la vida urbana de la antigua Lakamhá (Palenque).” Arqueología Mexicana 19 (113):38–43. López Mejía, Javier. 2005. “Los Grupos arquitectónicos de Palenque. Una propuesta de clasificación.” Tesis de Licenciatura, Escuela Nacional de Antropología e Historia (Mexico City). Lynch, Kevin. 1996. The Image of the City. 24th ed. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Lynch, Kevin, and Gary Hack. 2000. Site Planning. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Marken, Damien, and Arnoldo González Cruz. 2007. “Elite Residential Compounds at Late Classic Palenque.” In Palenque: Recent Investigations at the Classic Maya Center, edited by Damien B. Marken, 135–60. New York: Altamira Press. Rands, Barbara, and Robert Rands. 1961. “Excavations at a Cemetery at Palenque.” Estudios de Cultura Maya 1:87–106. Rands, Robert. 1973. “The Classic Maya Collapse: Usumacinta Zone and the Northwestern Periphery.” In The Classic Maya Collapse, edited by Patrick Culbert, 165–205. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press.

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Schele, Linda. 1991. “The Demotion of Chac-Zutz’: Lineage Compounds and Subsidiary Lords at Palenque.” In 6th Palenque Round Table, ed. Merle Green Robertson and Virginia Fields, 6–11. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Smith, Michael E. 2011. “Classic Maya Settlement Clusters as Urban Neighborhoods: A Comparative Perspective on Low-Density Urbanism.” Journal de la société des Américanistes 97 (1):51–73. https://:10.4000/jsa.13456. Smith, Michael E. 2017. “The Teotihuacan Anomaly: The Historical Trajectory of Urban Design in Ancient Central Mexico.” Open Archaeology 3 (1):175–93. https://doi .org/10.1515/opar-2017-0010. Smith, Monica L. 2016. “Urban Infrastructure as Materialized Consensus.” World Archaeology 48 (1):164–78. https://doi.org/10.1080/00438243.2015.1124804. Stuart, David, and George Stuart. 2008. Palenque: Eternal City of the Maya. London: Thames & Hudson. Tovalín Ahumada, Alejandro, and Gabriela Ceja Manrique. 1996. “Desarrollo arquitectónico del grupo norte de Palenque.” In Eighth Palenque Round Table_Electronic Version, edited by Martha J. Macri and Jan McHargue, 1–10. San Francisco: Pre-Columbian Art Research Institute. Varela Scherrer, Carlos. 2019. “Los peces en el registro arqueológico del grupo IV de Palenque: Una aproximación a las artes de pesca durante el clásico tardío.” Lakamhá 58 ( June):3–19. West, Robert. 1969. The Tabasco Lowlands of Southern Mexico. Coastal Studies 27. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press.

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13 Shaping an Agrarian Maya Town Settlement Pattern and Land-Use Dynamics at Naachtun PHILIPPE NONDÉDÉO,

Université Paris 1 Panthéon-Sorbonne

E VA L E M O N N I E R , J U L I E N H I Q U E T,

CNRS/UMR8096

CNRS/UMR8096

LOUISE PURDUE ,

CNRS/UMR7264

C Y R I L C A S TA N E T ,

CNRS/UMR8591 and Université Paris 8 Vincennes Saint-Denis

LY D I E D U S S O L , MARC TESTÉ,

Université Côte d’Azur/UMR7264

CNRS/UMR8591

INTRODUCTION

Maya settlement pattern studies are closely linked with key concepts such as central place theory, urbanism, or agrarian cities, to name just a few, that have been used to define the form, life, function, and meaning of Maya cities. The urban phenomena in such monumental centers have been much debated in the past and was not largely accepted until recently (see Arnauld 2008; Marcus 1983; Sanders et al. 2003; Sanders and Webster 1988; Smith 2011). The result is that the urbanization processes of Maya cities remain poorly understood, as does their economic organization in terms of subsistence (i.e., A. Chase and D. Chase 1998). In this chapter, we will study the case of the Maya center of Naachtun, in northern Petén, and attempt to thoroughly explain the role played by agriculture and land use in the city planning of this urban core, not only regarding its epicenter but also its surrounding residential area. As we shall see, Naachtun can reasonably be considered an agrarian city, as from its very formation the urban core area included the presence of permanent and multigenerational infields interspersed among residential and public constructions. We analyze urban https://doi.org/10.5876/9781646424092.c013

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settlement formation along with the management of local resources from two different and complementary perspectives: a local scale, at the level of the urban core, and a micro-regional scale that encompasses most of the Naachtun hinterlands. In that sense, we align perfectly with M. E. Smith (2008:457) when he states that cities do not exist in isolation but are part of much larger settlement systems that require analyzing populations at different scales and across variations in landscape and resource distribution. Located on the Mexican-Guatemalan border, since 2010 Naachtun has been the subject of an interdisciplinary program centered on the history of this important regional capital of the Classic Maya Lowlands. Archaeological research was carried out in order to reconstruct its sociopolitical and economic organization over the long term and across space through the study of the construction, occupation, and abandonment sequence of buildings composing the epicenter, and residences spread throughout the surrounding residential area (Nondédéo 2017; Nondédéo et al. 2013; see also Hiquet et al., this volume). A paleoenvironmental and geoarchaeological program was carried out in a 2.5 km2 area within the urban core of Naachtun and its periphery, as well as in the Bajo El Infierno (seasonal swamp) located north of Naachtun. This program aims to reconstruct the management of local resources, namely water, wood, fauna, and soils (Castanet et al. 2016, 2021; Dussol 2017; Purdue et al. 2019), and has come to provide a second sequence, based on the use of these resources, and parallel to the occupational sequence of the city (Nondédéo et al. 2020a). The data gathered so far cover a time span of 2,700 years from the Preclassic to the Early Postclassic periods (1500 BCE–1000/1200 CE), in the course of which the city of Naachtun flourished for more than eight centuries (150–950  CE). During this period, Naachtun experienced several phases of expansion and reached its occupation peak during the Late Classic period (600–830 CE). The comparison of archaeological and paleo-environmental data enables us to better understand the foundation, rise, and dynamic of the city and its territory in relation with key agrarian, political, and socioeconomic factors. Since 2017, our investigations have been complemented by a 135 km2 lidar survey that covers part of the Naachtun hinterland (Castanet et al. 2019; Nondédéo, Lemonnier et al. 2019). This significant change in scale led us to reconsider some of our previous hypotheses, particularly in terms of farming and political strategies (Garrison et al. 2019). Moreover, it implies a comparative examination of the morphology and spatial distribution of farming features along with residential occupation between the Naachtun urban center and its countryside, in order to identify bottom-up versus top-down processes.

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[128.104.46.206] Project MUSE (2024-03-01 18:26 GMT) UW-Madison Libraries

Map of the central Maya Lowlands with the location of Naachtun. (Map by JeanFrançois Cuenot, ArchAm, CNRS) FIGURE 13.1.

G E N E R A L D ATA : S PAT I A L L AY O U T , C H R O N O L O G I C A L SEQUENCE, AND POLITICAL HISTORY

The site of Naachtun is a major Classic period center located in northern Petén, adjacent to the Mexican border (figure  13.1). It was first reported in 1922 by Sylvanus Morley; later, Karl Ruppert and John Denison Jr. (1943) drew the first map of the epicenter in 1934 (see figure 13.2). They identified three main groups, labeled Group A, B, and C, settled east-west on two hills bordering a seasonal swamp, located to the north of the urban core. The first map of Naachtun 400

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FIGURE 13.2 . Map of the Naachtun urban area (with location of the settlement units mentioned in the text). In white, the epicenter; in light gray, the residential area; in dark gray, the periurban zone. (Map by Eva Lemonnier)

consists of about 115 buildings distributed over 65 ha. Seventy years later, in 2004, Kathryn Reese-Taylor (Rangel and Reese-Taylor 2005) started a project in Naachtun and mapped more buildings, including monumental structures in the epicenter, such as the La Perdida pyramid (Morton 2007) and eight patio groups south of Group A in the residential area (Morehart and Rochaix 2013). In 2010, the Naachtun Archaeological Project was initiated, and one of its primary goals was to define the extension of the residential area around the epicenter and to understand the management of local resources. After five field seasons of pedestrian survey (2011–2016; Lemonnier et al. 2014) and with nearly one hundred test pits in half of the patio groups mapped (Hiquet 2020), we now have a better idea of the spatial organization of the city over the long term within a study area of approximately 2.5 km2 (figure 13.2; see also Hiquet et al., this volume). Three main sectors were defined according to density, size, and arrangement of buildings (Nondédéo et al. 2019): the epicenter or urban monumental core extends over 33 ha and has a high density of 8.6 structures per ha (285 structures); the residential area spreads over 170 ha around the epicenter, mainly to the south, east, and west, and shows a density of 3.54 structures per ha (603 structures); and finally a periurban zone, scarcely explored to date, is characterized by a lower density of structures (1.6 structure per ha), a less complex arrangement of patio groups, and a decrease in the size of residential structures. These features were confirmed through lidar imagery analysis, even though parts of the Naachtun hinterland appear densely populated close to the limits of the city. Along with these criteria, geo-topographic limits were identified all around Naachtun core. The presence of wetlands to the north and south, along with deep and narrow drainage systems to the east and the west, helps separate residential areas from rural ones and act as natural borders of the Naachtun urban settlement. The analysis of the lidar imagery has revealed that the eastern and western borders of the urban area, where we observed a virtual “structure vacuum,” correspond to thalwegs unsuitable for human settlement. We used these topographic features as the limits of the Naachtun urban area. As mentioned, we must admit that they are really misleading, particularly in the southwest of Naachtun. Indeed, once we cross these drainage channels, the density, complexity, and characteristics of the settlement patterns are similar to those of the urban area (Nondédéo et al. 2020b). This high-population density outside of the urban area could be an anomaly within Maya urbanism studies and their models (Canuto et al. 2018; Michelet and Nondédéo 2019). Like many Maya lowland cities, Naachtun reached its demographic peak during the second half of the Late Classic period (740–830 CE), but its chronological sequence was longer (see Hiquet et al.:table 8.1, this volume; see also Nondédéo et al. 2020a:103, table 3). The first traces of occupation detected by archaeology date from the Late Preclassic period (ca. 350 BCE–150 CE), during which no 402

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public structures existed in the epicenter and only a few dispersed patio groups were founded in what would later become the residential area of Naachtun (Hiquet 2020; Nondédéo et al. 2020a). At the other end of the sequence, very few permanent occupations postdating the Terminal Classic period were identified. They consist of dwellings built during the Early Postclassic period (950–1150 CE) in an abandoned public plaza in the epicenter (Dussol et al. 2019). What is important to stress is that Naachtun became a regional capital during the Early Classic period, in the Balam phase (150–550  CE), with the setting of the Bat dynasty circa 325 CE (Nondédéo, Lacadena, and Garay 2019) and its alliance with Sihyaj K’ahk’ and Teotihuacan. The then-powerful kingdom of Naachtun subordinated important centers, such as Uxul and Calakmul in southern Campeche (Nondédéo, Lacadena, and Cases 2019; Nondédéo et al. 2021). Its role as a regional actor is further reinforced by new lidar data that revealed the existence of a dendritic network of long-distance causeways that connected the city with secondary and subordinated centers (see also Chase, this volume, for similar networks): Chicanticaanal to the northwest (Šprajc 2008), Kunal—a significant Preclassic center—to the east, and an unlocated city to the south (see figure 13.3). Compared with those of El Mirador (Hernández et al. 2013), the morphology and dimensions of these long-distance causeways (up to 10 km long, 1–2 m high, and 10 m wide) rather suggest an Early Classic period date. Late Classic causeways are much shorter (less than 500 m long), built on the ground level, and were only delineated by parapet walls (Morales-Aguilar and Castanet 2016). The Early Classic network of long-distance causeways, probably designed to connect populations within the Naachtun political entity, coincides with the political apogee and major regional influence of this capital. After a period of decline probably linked with the collapse of Teotihuacan, the loss of Tikal influence in the Maya Lowlands, and the rise of the Kaan kingdom, Naachtun witnessed a political renewal at the beginning of the Late Classic period. The city was refounded through the construction of a new seat of power materialized by the East Plaza in Group B and its West Complex, a residential compound intended to host the royal court (see figure 13.2). Shortly after, Naachtun fell under Kaan domination for a period of nearly a century (ca. 645–734  CE) that is still poorly documented and understood (Nondédéo et al. 2021). After Naachtun emancipated itself from the yoke of Calakmul (ca. 740 CE), the city prospered and, as noted, reached a demographic peak around 750–800 CE in the epicenter and residential area (Hiquet 2020; Hiquet et al., this volume). From this Ma’ax III subphase onward (750–830  CE), Naachtun fully participated in long-distance trade networks that fostered this new prosperity (Sion 2016). Through the impetus given by the restored local dynasty, the Río Bec Plaza was built as the new seat of power, along with two compact residential compounds for the local elite (Central and South Complexes in Group B). Shaping an Agrarian Maya Town

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FIGURE 13. 3. Map of the Naachtun hinterland showing (in black) the microregional networks of long-distance causeways (Alt.: 254– 333 m). (Map by Philippe Nondédéo, and Carlos Morales-Aguilar)

However, recent epigraphic readings and archaeological data indicate that the recovery of the local dynasty was short-lived, as a strong branch of it moved northward to ascend to the throne of Calakmul (Nondédéo et al. 2021). As a result of this scission, noble families at Naachtun progressively appropriated power over the remaining weakened branch of the royal dynasty and initiated a social, political, and economic reorganization that allowed the city to maintain its prosperity and delay the effects of the political collapse until 950 CE. NAACHTUN: A STORY OF URBAN SETTLEMENT AND LAND-USE

While the chronological framework of agricultural and hydrological features is still in progress, the occupational sequence of the Naachtun residential area is robust enough (Hiquet 2020) to propose a preliminary scenario of land organization, settlement pattern dynamics, and resource management. This allows us to evaluate the social and agricultural factors involved in the urbanization process from a somewhat different perspective than the demographic one applied by Hiquet and colleagues to Naachtun (this volume). Settlement dynamics such as “expansion” and “contraction” will not be addressed here. Complementing Hiquet et al.’s perspective, we propose a long-term history of settlement and land-use patterns in the Naachtun urban area and integrate our socioenvironmental results with those identified in a 135 km2 zone (lidar coverage) considered as a part of the Naachtun hinterland. Five field and laboratory methods were combined: (1) pedestrian surveys that identified “settlement units” (SU), that is, discrete concentrations of mounds organized around one or more adjacent patios across 100 percent of the urban residential area (1.7 km2); (2) an archaeological test-pit program sampling 47 percent (56 tested SU) of the total of 119 SUs recorded, from which a detailed chronoceramic sequence has been developed, now framed with thirty-four radiocarbon dates (Perla-Barrera and Sion 2018, 2019; Perla-Barrera, Sion, and Patiño 2016); (3) paleoenvironmental and geoarchaeological surveys and test-pit digging to identify and describe agricultural and hydrological strategies within the residential area and within the North Bajo; (4) a lidar survey of settlement and land-use patterns in the Naachtun hinterland; and (5) a ground-verification survey program of more than seventeen hinterland settlements that recorded looters’ trenches and anthropogenic features (reservoirs, terraces, and wetland features), along with preliminary excavations and materials analysis. The Early Classic period is key to the history of Naachtun since in this period the city rapidly developed from a small Preclassic village (Patiño 2016). Indeed, at the very beginning of the period, circa 150  CE, population attraction and labor mobilization processes impelled by elites were probably needed for the construction of public buildings and spaces in the epicenter (Hiquet 2020:643). Agricultural and hydrological technologies already established by that time were Shaping an Agrarian Maya Town

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continuously improved until the Late Classic period. The base for Naachtun urban planning and probably for its agrarian economy was already laid by 150 CE. Although still dispersed at the beginning of the Early Classic period (Balam I subphase: 150–300  CE; see Hiquet et al.:figure  8.4, this volume), the households of the residential area were almost twice as abundant as during the Late Preclassic period (Hiquet 2020:450–53). The first monumental platforms were built in the epicenter, where plots of lands for farming have been located (figure 13.4). Urban agriculture was practiced on dark organic soils directly overlaying the substratum in low-lying areas, but also on natural clays with probable irrigation by water reservoirs (Castanet and Purdue 2014; Purdue 2014). Indeed, at that time, large reservoirs were dug in different parts of the city (figure 13.4): in the epicenter (Méndez Quiñones and Michelet 2019; Parry 2007), probably in the residential area (Purdue 2018), and on the banks of the North Bajo, which was in use early by the Preclassic period for freshwater supply, agricultural purposes, and others dietary resources (Castanet 2018; see also Dunning et al. 2019, 2020 for Tikal and Yaxnohcah especially). Charcoal studies have revealed the management of a mosaic of successional forests, suggesting the practice of extensive rotating agriculture close to Naachtun (Dussol 2017) following initial land clearance during the Preclassic period (Castanet et al. 2016). During this subphase, in which many people lived in the residential area, the agrosystem would have combined traditional milpas, located not so far away from the settlement (rainy season upland agriculture); farming on bajo banks (dry season wetland agriculture); and a new technique of very localized intensive plots within the most important political space that were probably highly efficient or specialized (permanent “organic” agriculture). During the Balam II subphase (300–400/420 CE, see Hiquet et al.:figure 8.4, this volume), as a result of the development of a huge architectural program in the epicenter, with the erection of the first stelae therein (Nondédéo, Lacadena, Cases 2019), some cultivated areas were abandoned, particularly beneath Group A. Meanwhile other spaces in the epicenter, below what later became the West Complex of Group B (figure 13.5), were used for intensive agriculture on dark organic soils and linked to small reservoirs (figure  13.6). In other words, new spaces were selected to relocate and diffuse a previously successful agricultural technique. Furthermore, on the edges of the epicenter, the first agricultural terraces were built on the slopes of Group C and the North Bajo (Castanet and Purdue 2014:figure 13.5; Purdue 2014). Part of the wetland features (canals, dikes, and raised field systems) identified in the same North Bajo built during the Preclassic period (figure  13.14; Castanet et al. 2019, 2021) might have been expanded and improved during Balam II as spaces and techniques seem to have been structured and improved. Structuring spaces within and around the epicenter, improving and diversifying farming techniques, and investing in the 406

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FIGURE 13.4. Location of reservoirs and farming lands during the Balam I subphase (150– 300 CE) in the Naachtun urban area. All these features have been tested and securely dated. (Map by Philippe Nondédéo; Data: Louise Purdue, Cyril Castanet, Eva Lemonnier, and Julien Hiquet)

FIGURE 13.5. Location of reservoirs and farming lands during the Balam II subphase (300– 420 CE) in the Naachtun urban area. All of the features in dark grey have been tested and securely dated, excluding the infields in very light grey. Only the Late Preclassic and Early Classic settlement units spatially associated with the three tested infields are indicated. (Map by Eva Lemonnier and Philippe Nondédéo; Data: Louise Purdue, Cyril Castanet, Eva Lemonnier, and Julien Hiquet)

FIGURE 13.6. Location, picture, and lithostratigraphy of a geoarchaeological test pit dug in the epicenter of Naachtun (Group B, Patio 2) that revealed Early Classic black organic cultivated soils and a small reservoir, possibly dug for agricultural purposes. (Figure and data: Louise Purdue)

construction and maintenance of agricultural features underline the key role of agrarian systems as a critical parameter for urban planning, possibly with a degree of management and coordination by the new installed dynasty. In the residential area, most of the Balam I SUs were still occupied (and probably still growing) as new patio groups were bui